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And the horror of what she heard was not the worst of it. The true horror was that from a corner of her heart came a gentle whisper:
Peran was made a fool of by his grief. Colan by his ambition. I will not be a fool when I bargain with her. I know better than they.

Laurel shot to her feet, startling the whole table, herself included.

“Something amiss, Lady Laurel?” inquired Mesek with his usual wry complacency. “Or has Peran resorted to putting frogs under your chair?”

Laurel glared at him, hatred rising like gall within her. But at least her tongue remained under her control. “I go to the chapel, Master Mesek,” she said calmly. “Would you care to join me?”

“Not if you intend to jump to Heaven,” he said, ignoring the frosty stares of all the Cambryn folk around him.

As he did not mean to prevent her, Laurel strode from the hall, her guard trailing behind. She entered the wooden door, took the water from the fountain, crossed herself, kissed her hand, went to the rail and knelt, folding her hands. For a long time she stared up at the carved scene of death and redemption, but she could only see Peran's hungry eyes, looking for his own dead son.

Mother of God, what did I think I was doing?

She did not think. That was the problem. Not really. She had not thought properly for days. Not since Morgaine had left behind the lure of Tintagel.

Tintagel. Even now, even with Peran's words still ringing in her ears, it came to her again — the crash of the sea that shook the cliffs, the wind never without the comforting tang of salt. When it had come time for her to be sent for fostering, there had been a question as to whether she, as the eldest, should go to distant Camelot, or to create closer ties with their nearest and most important neighbor. When her father told her he would consider the matter carefully, she had seen a flicker of something in his eyes. Had it been fear? It had been there again when he told her she would go to Queen Guinevere at Camelot. He saw the disappointment she tried to conceal and laid a hand on her head and whispered. “It is for the best, my child.”

Why the best? What did he fear she would do at that place of sea and stone? What did he fear she would be able to do?

No. No.
Lynet rubbed her brow.
I must not think this way. I must remember all that has happened. If not what has happened to Peran, then what has happened to Colan, and to father, and to Lynet. I must not forget.

But her mind would not clear. She felt as if there was a weight pressing on her thoughts. The stones of her home were suffocating. Even her morning journeys to the watchtower, to feel the winds and see the birds were not enough anymore. She could not stay here, not for the rest of her life.

No. Not like this. It is only this time. It will be over. Lynet will be here in a matter of days. The queen will come, and it will be over.

She told herself that now as she had told herself before. But she did not feel it, not in the pit of her heart, not as she looked up at Mary, who looked up at her son. She only felt lost and denied.

But how could it be that after all her heart still wished desperately to believe that the salvation she could not seem to find from the Christ above her might come from Morgaine?

Mother, why? Mother what is happening to me?
she wailed with the whole of her being, not sure whether she prayed to the Mother of All, or to her own mother, dying beside the fire, holding her hand and trying so hard not to let go. She understood well how Peran felt, for at that moment, she knew she would have given anything, done anything to have her back.

That realization brought with it a world of understanding, unfolding before her startled thoughts like the wings of some brilliant butterfly.

The temptation that so tormented her was not Tintagel, and it never had been. The temptation was Morgaine herself. That fleeting moment, when she understood there was another being who understood what it was to carry the division between the visible and the invisible within herself, who might teach her what her mother could not, who might help her make peace within herself at a time when all else was threatening war. Who might help banish the feel of Colan — locked in his room staring out his window, pacing his floor, waiting for her to order his death — that never left her, not even in sleep.

Colan had said it. He had warned her with his musings.
I thought I had risen above the need I have of her,
he had said. She had thought the same, and like her brother, it had trapped her.

Morgaine had brought Laurel to this moment, paralyzed by her own doubts and impotence. Tintagel was only meant to push her over the edge. The real promise was that Morgaine would stand by her and to enable her to embrace her own self wholly.

Above her, the Holy Mother looked up at her Son, who looked up to Heaven. Both in agony, both facing the final loss, the last sacrifice. Had that mother ever extracted a promise from her Son? Made Him swear to protect another? Perhaps those brothers who had waited down below while He sat with his apostles? What did she tell those other children, Laurel wondered, about their oldest brother — their half brother, she supposed — the one who was both more and less than they? What did she tell them when she found out what it truly meant that He was the Way and the Door?

The Door. The open door.

And all at once, Laurel understood. She knew what she must do and what she should have done days ago. It was simple, but it was the one thing she had said she could not do. She needed Lynet's ways of seeing, she had told herself. It was necessary to know what their enemies were doing and thinking.

In leaving open the door for Lynet, Laurel had left open the door for so many other things as well, and the result had nearly been disaster.

“Lady Laurel?”

Laurel spun on her knees, her chest heaving with the force of her breath. Behind her stood Father Lucius, his face made white by the violence of her reaction.

“Forgive me, lady,” he said, coming forward hastily. “I did not mean to startle you. It is only …” he stopped, plainly abashed, and she knew what he would say next. “You have been so long about your prayers, those … men … have sent me to find you.” He stopped, and then said, far more softly. “Is there any way I can help you, my lady?”

“Thank you, Father,” she said and she stood, a little stiffly. He was a young man, with a scholar's gentle face and ink-stained hands. His manner was earnest and devout and when Laurel thought of him at all, it was as a kindly, competent servant.

Now she had to hope he was a little more.

“I am glad you are come. There is some help I need Father. I have an urgent task for you.”

He blinked his round, brown eyes, but said at once. “How can I serve, my lady?”

“I need for you to go to Saint Necturn's well and bring me back a jar full of the holy waters.”

He considered this, glancing up a moment at the crucifix and running his tongue over his lips. “Should I ask why, my lady?”

She smiled a little at this. He was a fine diplomat, their priest. “No, Father, you should not. I ask you to be content with the knowledge it is water of a blessed place I need. But if anyone else asks you, say you are going to the monastery at Tintagel.”

He blinked at her several more times, and for a moment she feared he might refuse. But in the end, he nodded, his face seeming a little less soft than it had a moment ago. “I am praying for you, daughter.”

“Thank you, father.”

“I will go as soon as a horse can be saddled.”

“Thank you, Father.” Laurel stood. Peace took hold in her for the first time in days. Now all that remained was to tell Lynet she must shut the door between them, and pray that Lynet was not so far adrift in that other country that she would understand.

Please dear Mother, be with her.

But both the Mother and her mother, remained as silent as ever, and Laurel had no choice but to smooth her sleeves, and return to her weaving.

The next evening brought the Queen's procession to the edge of Bodmin Moor; mile after mile of rolling, open country with ragged, lonely heights and deep bowl-like valleys. In fair weather, it could be deeply beautiful, an unspoiled meadow without end. Once this was part of the great wood that had surrounded them for so many days, but generations had gnawed away at the forest's reach and left this open, treacherous land behind. Even in the clear light of day the moor could not be trusted. What looked to be solid ground could swallow men and horses whole and leave no trace. In foul weather, the mists rose sometimes for days at a time and there were no land marks or any other means to find direction. A traveller could wander lost in the openness until they died of cold, exhaustion, or the hidden bogs dragged them down.

But on its opposite side waited Cambryn and home. Another day away, perhaps two, since they must go carefully. Three at most. Three days to home, and Laurel, and an end to all this struggle. Three more days.

Lynet had ridden all day beside Brendon's litter. Sir Lancelot had clearly struggled with the decision to bring him. If they had been more certain of the Rosveare they left behind in the valley, the knight would have shed this latest impediment to their progress. There was, however, no guarantee he would not simply become hostage again, and the Rosveare were not kind to their hostages. She felt a pang about moving him at all, but the twin necessities of making all speed to Cambryn, and getting the queen away from an untrustworthy place removed the choice. She did note that Sir Lancelot spent a great deal of time at the rear of the procession rather than the fore today.

So, she trotted along beside Brendon, who, thankfully, spent much of the day asleep, despite the jolting. The fever stayed low, the swelling receded, and as often as she was able she gave him bread sopped in watered wine, and it was all staying down. That, as much as his ability to speak the names of those around him those brief periods when he woke, told her he'd no unseen hurt.

She wore her relief like a cloak all that long day. Since she had left Iseult, she had done such healing as was required in Cambryn. She had closed wounds, set bones, nursed illness, but each recovery caused this astonishment in her, and each death raised the fear that her skills had been tainted by her sins. She could still feel her father's blood on her skin, and his belly heaving under her hands as she tried to staunch his wound in the moments before she helped end his life. To know that at least she would not be punished for that act, that her skills were not gone from her was priceless.

She even regained enough humor to realize Brendon was probably not happy about being the instrument chosen to restore her confidence in her physician's learning.

The other good the day brought, she told herself over and again, was Squire Gareth's silence. She saw him as he rode up and down the length of the procession, making sure all stayed relatively together, and assisting with any problems, but he did not stop to speak with her. Once, she caught his eye as he passed, and he only made her a solemn and silent salute, and rode on.

He had heard her. He had understood. Good. One of them at least understood. She had no business dallying with any man, for man was a safe companion for her, most especially one of Camelot. He was at least honorable enough to see that.

Such reasoned and goodly thoughts, though, did nothing to ease her heart ache each time she saw him ride past, tight-lipped and looking straight ahead.

It will be over soon. We will be home. Matters will be settled. He will go back to Camelot, and I will go about my life.

What life would that be though, with her and Laurel? What did the queen mean to do? She would have to appoint a new steward, and what would happen to them? Marriage was the most likely possibility, to strengthen the ties between Cambryn and Camelot. Marriage for Laurel anyway. Perhaps there was a man of the north who would take Lynet, or perhaps she would finally be allowed to take the veil.

None of these thoughts brought more comfort than Gareth's silence did. Yet she could not make herself approach the queen and ask what was in her mind. Lynet could not ask difficult questions of the woman whose appraising grey eyes seemed to know she was concealing so much.

It does not matter. I am doing as I must. I cannot leave Laurel alone. I cannot leave my home unguarded.
She touched her purse. The light was fading in the leaden sky. She would be free again tonight, and she would know what was happening. Something nagged at her, something more than the silence and suspicion around her, or even the knowledge that they would be spending the night on the edge of the great moor. It dried out her mouth and made her skin creep under the touch of the gentle wind. She had to get to Ryol, had to leave her confining flesh and know.

Soon.
She told herself.
Soon.

Camp was made on the rise above the empty moor. Lynet saw Brendon, more awake now, a little hungry and very blasphemous, installed in the squire's tent. Lionel swore faithfully to watch over him and to give him only thin pottage and well-watered wine. Stronger food would only strengthen the fever he still carried. Gareth was nowhere to be found, which pleased Daere, and should have pleased Lynet. Instead, it only added to the nagging that grew stronger the closer the sun sank to the horizon.

Something was wrong. Something at home. She was certain of it. Ryol was trying to reach her, to warn her, and she had to sit still under the eyes of the queen and all her ladies in the pavilion. She had to listen to the light gossip and small complaints, trying to be interested and quiet, and concentrate enough to answer their questions. She wanted to scream. She wanted to snatch up the mirror and shout for Ryol to bring her to his side immediately.

She wanted the queen to stop looking toward her.

At last, however, the light began to fade, and the beds were laid out. Daere relieved her of her overdress, and handed her back her girdle so she could bind it about her, reclaiming her purse and her keys. As soon as her fingers brushed the leather purse, a flood of urgency filled her, rocking her back on her heels.