Under Camelot's Banner (46 page)

As he had so many times before, he took her arm, and led her on, away from the rain and the storm of his own life. He swept the shadows before them, a thousand colored blurs of light and life that sought to wind their tendrils around her and pull her from the path, but she clung tightly to her guide, and somehow remained whole. At last she saw the queen's pavilion become strong and solid about her. With the unnatural clarity of her night vision, she saw herself lying upon her pallet as if she had been laid upon lay on a bier.

“What must I do?”

“You must want,” said Ryol. He hovered just beyond the edge of her vision, looking on her as she looked on herself. “You must want your life and self again.”

Want? Want what she had rejected so many times, the confines she had raged against. Anger billowed out of her, and the pavilion and her other self on its pallet began to recede.

Stop. Stop, Lynet. You will be lost.

She wanted to close her eyes, to fold her hands in prayer, to make some other gesture, but she had neither eyes nor hands nor knees.

I want my eyes,
she told herself desperately.
My heart. My body wrapped around me. I want my hands so that I may tend my patient again. I want my voice so that I can speak to my sister, and my queen and to Gareth.

Gareth. I want to look on Gareth again with my own eyes. I want to feel his hand brush mine and hear his jests again.

I want to go home. Please. I want to go home.

She felt the leaden, aching self that she hated. She felt the broken feet and the wounded arms and the isolating flesh, and she cringed and it faded, and she knew what she must do.

I want to go home.
She pulled herself closer to that clay-cold mortality that was also herself, and she embraced it with all the warmth she could summon.
Home. Home and self. This is mine and I accept it. I let it bide.

I accept.

The darkness rushed up again. Ryol was gone. Clay and earth and pain encased her, and she felt blood and breath and heart. Her eyes flew open, and reflex tried to sit her up, but she fell back onto her pallet, her mouth gaping and gasping but unable to form any word.

“Lynet?” whispered a voice. “Are you awake? Lynet?”

Gareth. Gareth was there beside her but she could not see him. Her weak, bandaged hand flailed out and found only the canvas pavilion wall. But then she felt it, the pressure of his palm, flat against hers. Understanding came. He was outside the pavilion, on the other side of the cloth wall. Waiting for her to wake.

She saw him then, clear as day, crouched on the grass, his face drawn and white with worry. He was thinking of her, not believing she had simply fallen asleep, he was thinking also of other women, of one named Morgause and another named Talia, and how he had lost them and lost his father and could not bear to lose her as well and how she must come back.

With a shock, Lynet realized she knew all these things though she could feel the weight of her own flesh all around her. Then, that knowing was gone, and there was only the press of his palm and his voice. “Lynet? Speak to me, Lynet. Please.”

“I am … I am here,” she managed to say.

“Thank God,” he said fervently. “What happened?”

What happened? The urge to laugh tickled her throat. “I tried to reach the mirror,” she said.

Silence. She felt his hand tremble through the cloth that separated them. “Lynet, why?”

Because I am a frightened fool, Gareth. Because I would not listen. Because I do not want my sister to die and my home to fall.
“It is done, Gareth. I will not do it again.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“You must go,” she told him, and it took almost as much strength to form those words as it did to return to her aching body. “You cannot be found here.”

“I will not be the one who takes any harm if I am,” he answered simply. “For that reason I will go. I'll come to you in the morning.” His hand pressed once more against hers, and she heard the shuffle and rustle as he stood and walked away. She bit her tongue hard to keep from calling him back.

Carefully, Lynet lay back down. She felt as if she was made of both stone and glass. She was too heavy to move, and so fragile that if she did she would shatter in an instant. Thirst nagged at her and she could not seem to make herself close her eyes. She'd had enough of darkness, and although the moonlight filtered only dimly through the canvas, it was better than blindness.

As she stared, she thought she saw images in the thin sheen of the moonlight. She saw rain, and walls, and the tangled selves of lovers, she saw brown eyes and blue, the flash of swords and a long, green trail that lead to nowhere but urgency. And she understood what these were, but she still could not make herself close her eyes.

Watching the dreams of other women, Lynet lay on her pallet and waited for daylight.

Laurel woke to the spring dawn. She sat up in her bed, and breathed deep. The world opened before her eyes and her heart rejoiced. Her sleep the night before had been sound, deep and dreamless. Her defences had proven true. She was not safe, not completely, but she had shelter for her soul now, and Morgaine could trouble her there no more.

The knowledge that she held that much secure made the thought of yet another day's confinement easier to bear. Or perhaps it was only that she no longer had an outside will eroding her patience. It did not matter. It was so, and she was grateful.

In token of that gratitude, she crossed herself and bowed her head in thanksgiving to all the powers that come to aid those in need. She would have to find some good gift for Father Lucius when all this was over. She regretted that she could not go to the watchtower this morning and take what news was to be gathered from the sea winds, but she could not expose herself. If she opened the door of herself wide enough to take in that knowledge, Morgaine could easily slip in.

Laurel swung her feet out of bed.
And I will have to explain to Lynet too. She will be stung by this.
Worry touched her.
What if it was more than that? There is nothing I can do for her, not and keep our home safe. I must trust her to find her way. I have left too many things undone here.

Now that she could reason clearly once again, she saw the one thread she had dropped from the pattern, and the weight of that one thread that had almost unravelled all the rest. She had been focusing her frightened, envious, halting planning on Master Peran, as had been Morgaine's desire. She had not seen that the time had come and past to trust Master Mesek.

Laurel dressed herself in her green overdress and plaited a green ribbon in her hair, making herself plain but presentable. She had sent Meg and the other waiting women out of the chamber last night, carrying with them the basin she had bathed in. Clearly, they had obeyed her strange orders to sprinkle the water over the hall's various thresholds. She would also have to find a way to thank them.

Her guards, as ever, waited outside her door. She noted that Peran's man was not the same one who had been there the night before, and she wondered at that.

Down in the new hall, the boards were laid, and the breaking of the fast begun. The scents of bread and pottage, meats and cheeses rose invitingly. She was able to meet the eyes of her people easily this morning, stopping to talk and answer such small questions as had arisen overnight. She knew those around her saw the worry lifted from her, and felt the hope it sparked in them. Perhaps this thing would be over soon, they all thought. Perhaps they would be free of the strangers watching their lady, and squatting outside the walls of their
castell
, and it would all end in a return to peace.

She found Meg fetching another crock of cider and spoke to her about the state of the cellars, and thanked her for her patience.

“You should know what is left in the cellars, my lady,” said Meg abruptly. “Jorey is most concerned.”

“As he has been for days.” Laurel saw an urgency in Meg's eyes and worry crept in to her. “But tell me what we have left in the cellars.”

Meg began a litany of casks and tubs and loaves. Satisfied Laurel was engaged in domestic concerns, her guards split off, with two heading to the pottage kettles and the third, Peran's new man, hurrying to join his fellows.

As soon as they were gone, Meg said, a little more loudly than necessary, “Here is my tally.” And unlooped her wax and wooden tablet from her belt, and opened it to show Laurel.

There had been written a few words. CAMELOT COMES TODAY TO TINTAGEL.

Laurel read the words, and read them again, and again. She did not lower the book until she was certain she could school her face into the properly banal expression and hand the closed tablet back to Meg.

“Tell Jorey I'll be with him after breakfast, and tell our other cellarers that we have received the tally and will give out what is needed, as it is needed.”

Meg made her curtsey. “I will do that, my lady.”

They stood side-by-side there for a moment, Meg giving her time to think if there was anything else that needed to be done in regards to the message she had just been given. Laurel surveyed the scene before her without really seeing it. Camelot comes to Tintagel? Why there? They were supposed to come here, to relieve her, and save their home.

What is the queen playing at?

Playing at securing the greatest power here,
she answered herself.
Betting it will be easier to take back Tintagel then Cambryn, rather than the other way around.

Oh, Lynet, you must be going mad with impatience.

Laurel looked at her people, her guests and her captors. She saw Mesek, sitting back at the table, wiping his moustaches while he reached out to spear yet another hunk of white cheese on his knife. But his opposite was nowhere to be seen.

“And where is Master Peran?” she asked Meg.

“He was talking to his men there.” Meg nodded toward the huddled dispirited group that held their places at the end of one of the long tables. Mesek's men on the other side of the hall eyed them, grinning as they chewed their mouthfuls of bread and pottage. “Then he up and left. I have not seen him since. They say one of his men crept off in the night. Perhaps Peran's gone to find him.”

“Perhaps,” nodded Laurel, keeping her thoughts to herself. Peran's madness would not let him leave so easily, not before he had gained Morgaine her victory and shown himself to be her true servant. No. There was danger in Master Peran still, especially if he was talking to his men who camped outside the earthworks, and if one of these had thought to set watch on the heights. The path of a queen's progress from Camelot would not be hard to track. By noon, it would be common knowledge where that procession was going. She had but a little time to use this. “Find some of our men to keep him in sight. I do not want him to lose his way wandering about the
castell
, nor getting into the cellars.”

“I understand, my lady,” said Meg sagely. Laurel took the crock from her, and Meg made her curtsey and went off to find those who could be trusted with Laurel's errand. Laurel took the cider to the high table, and without a word re-filled Mesek's cup. The chieftain watched her with raised brows, stroking his long moustaches thoughtfully.

“And to what do I owe this courtesy, Lady Laurel?” he inquired as she took her seat.

“My need to speak with you, Master,” she replied conversationally as she helped herself from the platter of salted beef and fresh bread.

His brows shot up again. “And here I thought that was a privilege you were reserving for Master Peran. Shall the two of us lock arms and venture up to your tower?”

“I would as soon spare us both.” Little Ama ran up to fill her cups, one with beer and one with cider. Laurel waited until she was gone to speak again. “If nothing else, we will attract far less notice as we are.”

“This is the truest thing you have said since the beginning of this mummery.” Mesek took a healthy swig of his cider and stared down the hall, seeing his own men, and his enemies and all those in between, Laurel was certain. Seeing too, his own plans, and wondering about what was happening back among his own kindred. “What is it then, my lady?”

Where to begin?
she wondered briefly. “You are being used Mesek.”

Mesek tipped up his cider cup, considering the dregs of it. “That is where you are wrong, my lady,” he said softly. “I and mine will not be used anymore.” He spoke firmly, and with a conviction that was absolute. Laurel found herself wondering what she would have seen had it been him she called to the tower rather than Peran.

“You think you are rebelling, even against the Sleepless One, but you are doing what she wants,” Laurel told him flatly. “You are staying here and maintaining this show of an appeal to the law. You are helping keep me trapped here. Peran lied to you, Mesek. He is coaxing you along so that you will stay and continue to play their game. When the judgment comes, if it comes, it will be made to fall apart.” This last was intuition alone, but given all that had happened, she did not doubt it.

“How?”

“I do not know,” she admitted. “Yet.”

Mesek sat his cup down and pushed his chair back, sticking one broad thumb into his worn leather belt. “How is it you know any of this?”

Laurel felt a small and mirthless smile form. “You are bribing and interrogating my people about my powers, and yet you do not believe I might have my own ways to know and see?”

Mesek considered this, fingering his moustache. “I think you fear me, lady,” he said. “I think you want to keep your place and your power, and let no person save yourself hold these things.”

He waited to hear her denial, to find what bluster or anger she had in her. She gave him none of these things. “Yes, Mesek, I fear you,” she replied calmly. “No, I do not want to lose this fight. But listen to me carefully.” She leaned forward, stabbing the board with her finger. “The Sleepless One is not gone, Mesek. She is here, now, with us, giving her orders and positioning her powers. All is built around you failing to see what is happening.”