Under Camelot's Banner (42 page)

Colan Carbrea dreamed.

He dreamed he pressed through a great wood to an open place. A broad meadow surrounded a lake that lay like a still, dark jewel in the autumn brown grass. All about, the tall dark trees stood guard, and the trees were filled with mighty ravens, their keen eyes and their sharp beaks gleaming. There were so many that it seemed that each leaf in the forest had turned into a great, black bird. They all looked at him, and the clamor of their croaking was like raucous laughter.

Then, the grey surface of the lake quivered. It trembled and it broke, and a mare as black as the ravens charged forth. Panic surged through Colan and he tried to run, but the mare made straight for him, tossing its gleaming black mane and baring its white teeth. The ravens shouted their carrion cries, urging the wild beast on, and no matter how Colan ran he could not reach the shelter of those terrible trees. At last, he tripped and sprawled into the grass. The mare reared over him, and all the ravens laughed to see him throw up his hands as a feeble guard against the hooves that flashed so brightly.

But the hooves came down beside him, and as if this were some signal, the ravens all took flight, rising up in a cloud to darken the sky. The clapping of their wings deafened him, and in their blur of motion they stretched and changed, turning the grey sky to midnight black. The peaceful stars shone down as if through the gaps in the ravens wing feathers.

Colan gaped, his heart hammering hard in his chest, and beside him, a familiar voice spoke.

“Do you know me, Colan?”

Colan scrambled backward on all fours. The mare had spoken, and in the way of dreams, the mare was Morgaine, was the mare, was Morgaine. She was both and neither and he could not make a single sound.

At last, he croaked. “Yes, my lady, I know you.”

“And do you know why I am come to you?”

“No, my lady.”

“Because last night I saw you boldly try to prove yourself to me, and I accept that deed.” She was Morgaine alone then for a moment, and he saw her smile.

“I failed,” he whispered.

“You were sore prevented.”

The ghost. He saw it again, his father's bloody shade standing before him, its great hands spread wide. Fear stabbed through him, but Morgaine reached out her hand and touched the ghost with one brown finger.

The shade shrank, shrivelled, and changed, and it was Lynet who stood before him. Just Lynet, and all the fear was gone.

Slowly, Colan sat up. “How can this be?”

Morgaine sighed and lifted her hand away. The image of Lynet melted away. “Your youngest sister has done more than I thought. It was the elder I feared, but the younger I passed over.” She shook her head in annoyance. “She found you out, and she moved as she could to save her sister's life.”

Anger flooded him, the sharp and sudden emotion of one who has been lied to.

Morgaine smiled on him and he felt bathed in warmth. All would yet be right if she could still smile on him. “It is she you must kill, Colan.”

And for all the anger in him, for all he had been ready to murder Laurel who was so much stronger than he would ever be, the idea of striking Lynet down with the same blow repelled him. It was reasonless and he knew it. He'd been ready for the morverch to take her, but she had survived to fight back, as he had. She was so much like him, his little sister. He remembered her as an infant toddling after him as soon as the nurse loosed her from her leading strings. She had frightened him, that was all. Of course she had, for she also loved Laurel. But was that any reason to turn on him yet again? He shook his own head now, unable to reconcile to two colliding needs boiling up within his breast.

“Why? Why must I kill her?”

For the first time, something like pity crept into Morgaine's voice. “Because, Colan Carnbrea, it is the path you have started down. There was a moment when you could have chosen otherwise, but you did not. Now death is the only choice you have.”

“Why me?”

“Because your sister moves to bar me from this place. Soon I will not be able to enter here. Indeed, I may not be able to touch a one of you. It must be done, and it must be you.”

Colan bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to spill down. He had thought himself protected against her because he was no longer amazed. He did not know how long he had been snared in this web, nor how much he had spun himself.

“How?” he asked. “I cannot leave this room.”

She showed him. She poured the knowledge into him like wine, and it was heady and bitter and it filled him with a reeling drunkenness of power that in turn filled him with fear of her and of himself and of all that must come after.

Colan woke.

The mattress ticking was soaked with his sweat and more poured down his icy skin. He lay there, his eyes straining to see in the absolute darkness. For a dozen heartbeats, he tried to pretend his dream had not been a real thing.

But it was, and he knew it. He also knew that he would do as Morgaine commanded, and that by the time he came to it, thought would have driven the fear and regret away, and he would understand it was the only right way.

For that understanding yet to come, Colan Carnbrea began slowly and painfully to weep.

Pain throbbing in her arms woke Lynet. She lifted her head, gazing about her. She lay on her pallet in the queen's pavilion, dressed in a dry shift of white linen. Both her arms rested atop the bed coverings, swathed to the elbow with white cloths.

“She wakes, Majesty!” called Daere, coming into Lynet's range of vision. “God be praised!” The maid laid a rough hand on Lynet's forehead and gazed with real concern into her eyes.

Lynet tried to speak, but her raw throat seized shut, and she could only cough. Daere at once lifted a cup to Lynet's lips. A few drops of watered wine dribbled into Lynet's mouth. It felt like the balm of Heaven as it moistened her parched mouth, and Daere gave her a little more.

“You frightened us so, my lady,” she admonished gently. “I think the Holy Mother must be getting tired of the sound of my voice and your name by now.”

Lynet gave the maid a wavering smile, but still could not find her voice. Daere tipped the cup for her once more and she drank a little more of her dose. While she sipped, Queen Guinevere came up beside the serving woman.

The queen's face was bland. She felt Lynet's head for fever. Finding none, she lifted first one of Lynet's arms, then the other, examining the bandages and Lynet's hands, presumably for signs of swelling, puss, or corruption of the flesh. When satisfied there were no signs of these dangers either, Queen Guinevere glanced at Daere, who set down the cup and hurriedly brought a stool that the queen might sit, and then withdrew.

Lynet tried to ease herself up into a sitting position, but it was of no use. The least motion of her arms was painful and there was no strength left to her. She gazed down at her own distant hands. Between the pain and the tension that filled her, it was all Lynet could do to maintain the silence that courtesy required. She wanted to explain, or to have the queen start to shout. Anything, so long as it began now so it could be over with that much sooner.

“So,” said Queen Guinevere at last. “You come to me, demanding my help and protection for you and yours, as your right. Then when I give you that protection and help, I find you've lied to me, that you carry with an object of mystical power about which you've said nothing, and that you willfully leave my protection so that I must risk more of my own to find you.”

“I am sorry, Majesty,” Lynet murmured. “I …” She lifted her gaze just long enough to see the depth of the anger burning behind the queen's eyes.

“Well?” inquired Queen Guinevere coldly.

“I could not stand and wait,” Lynet whispered. She tried to put some strength into her voice, but her voice failed her. “I knew something was wrong and that I must try to help him any way I could.”

“Him,” the queen repeated the single word. “Your lover?”

“No! No. He isn't … he hasn't …”

The queen rubbed her brow. “I'm glad of that at least.” She regarded Lynet for another long moment, but the tide of her anger had ebbed a little. “Why did you not tell me what you meant to do?”

“I did not think you would permit it.”

A corner of the queen's mouth twitched. “Perhaps not,” she said calmly. “But had I all the facts in the matter, perhaps I would have decided differently. You did not consider that.” It was a flat statement, and, Lynet could not deny, a true one.

“No, Majesty.” But even as she spoke the words, Lynet bridled at them. She had faced so much that it seemed suddenly insupportable to have this woman, whatever her rank, harangue her. “I did what I felt I must to save a good man.”

Queen Guinevere was not impressed. “And in so doing, you risked your life as well as Gareth's, and your life at the moment, is infinitely more valuable. Did you stop to think what your sister would do if I came to her bearing your corpse and a strange story of losing you in the fog?”

Lynet's mouth closed. “Who will listen to my judgment over another dead Carnbrea?” The queen continued. “What vengeance would be sworn in your name? Your person is of great worth, and it is not for you to risk it! God's legs, girl!” she cried. “I would think you'd had enough of starting wars!”

Lynet could say nothing. She just bowed her head.

“Why did you not tell me of your magics?”

“I was bound to secrecy,” said Lynet to her finger ends where they protruded from her bandages. “By my sister and my mother's memory.”

“Do you think your mother meant that you should keep this secret from your queen?”

“I do not know.”

“Nor do you. What else have you not seen fit to tell me?”

Lynet bit her lip, hesitating. She did not want to speak, but in the pit of her soul she knew she risked all with her silence. If one more omission were discovered, Guinevere would not forgive. To lose the aid and succor of Camelot was to lose everything. “Morgaine the sorceress has been to Cambryn.”

While Lynet watched, the blood drained from Guinevere's cheeks until she was as pale as one of the moor's daughters. Behind her, the women who had been pretending not to listen raised their heads. One, Mavis, crossed herself hastily.

Guinevere ignored all this. Her hands knotted in cloth of her skirt. She held her silence, her jaw working itself back and forth. The moment stretched out until Lynet felt as taut as a bowstring.

“Is she there now?” asked Queen Guinevere.

“No.”

“What reward did she offer for helping her?”

“None. She returned my brother to us, she says for justice.”

“Justice.” The queen gave one, hard laugh. “It is an at least original reason.”

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Lynet managed to sit up a little straighter. Daere saw her efforts and came forward with another pillow. The queen watched impassively, waiting until Lynet could gasp out her words. “I ask you to understand, Majesty,” Lynet pleaded. “We did not know if Camelot would aid us, or what form that help would take.”

“You did not know if you could trust me after so long an absence, you mean,” replied Queen Guinevere, her bland tone returning. She rubbed her brow once more. “Ah, God of Mercy, there are so many …” she cut herself off, waving away her own words. “Very well, you have told me what I asked. Is there anything more?”

“No, Majesty.”

They sat in silence again. The queen, Lynet was sure, was giving her time to carefully consider that answer. In the midst of this though, a new sound broke the air. Outside the pavilion, a mighty cheer shook the air. Men's voices rose up not once, but again and again in praise and ringing laughter. All the women left their places, running to the pavilion entrance to see.

The queen rose more slowly and joined her ladies, peering over their heads. Lynet tried briefly to crane her neck, but she saw nothing except the folds of their gowns.

Queen Guinevere looked back and nodded to Daere. The maid slipped her arm under Lynet's shoulders. With difficulty, because Lynet could not grip anything, and her legs were weak as water, Daere stood her up and supported her to the doorway. The other ladies made way for her so she could stand beside the queen and look out.

On the sloping green, the men of the encampment had gathered in a great crowd, and clearly they had been busy. The monster must have been carried back with her and Gareth, for now its head stood on a pike planted in the ground, and Gareth, pale and blood streaked, but grinning ear-to-ear all the same, was hoisted up on burly shoulders. He held aloft a great black drape of fur that, Lynet realized a moment later, was the beast's skin.

As they watched, the cheering men set Gareth on his feet, and the crowd of them parted. Up the aisle they made strode Sir Lancelot. He stood, hands on his hips, smiling, just a little, every inch a golden, noble figure. Gareth, his face shining, knelt before his knight and lifted the skin up. The knight received it from him, ignoring how the blood stained his hands. With a nod, he gave Gareth permission to rise, and Gareth did. Lancelot, Gareth, and the whole encampment marched toward the queen's pavilion. The cheers and the shouts of Gareth's name filled the air and for all she wanted to be glad for him, the whole cacophony made Lynet's head throb.

With great and stately ceremony, Sir Lancelot and Gareth both went down on their knees before the queen. Together, they laid the skin at her feet. Its black fur shimmered in the sunlight. Lynet could smell the fresh blood and her hands twitched as she remembered that hot blood spattering on her arms and her face.

“I beg Your Majesty to accept this trophy won by my squire Gareth in great battle with the beast of the moors,” boomed Sir Lancelot.

Lynet looked over the knight's shoulder at Gareth. His hands and battered tunic were red, his face as flushed and triumphant with the praise of his fellows. His head was bowed, but all the same he stole a glance at her. He saw the bandages on her arms and his face twisted into a mask of concern.