Debt of Ages (17 page)

"You've the right of it, Gwen; I could have found out how it fared with my Gwenhwyvaer. Tertullian here could have found out for me. And I never let him." She took a sharply indrawn breath. He hurried on. "You ask why? It wasn't because my love for you had died. Indeed, I don't think it ever truly died."

"Don't lie to me, Artorius," she said in a voice almost too small to be heard. "Not that."

"It's no lie, Gwen. I sometimes wish I had lost my love, or never had it at all. Either would have been more merciful than feeling it but never being able to give it as much of myself as it deserved and needed."

"What do you mean?"

"In Constantinople I told the Emperor of Rome, who is my own self, that he gave Rome back to the world while I gave a legend to a world that had to do without Rome. But in both worlds, my life has been what posterity required it to be, not what I might have wished."

"I married a man, not a Purpose!"

"Did you, now?" Artorius's eyes hardened. "Don't
you
lie to
me
Gwen, nor to yourself! You fell in love with what you saw in me. And you knew—or should have known—that the man you saw could never be purely yours. Be honest: could you have loved a man who would have been satisfied with a life which held you and naught else?"

"I was just a girl!" she stormed. "I understood nothing of such things."

"Oh, I think you did . . . and do. For we're alike in this, Gwen. Remember what I just said, about the legend people in my own world will make of me, when they think I'm gone? Well, you're in it too. You reign forever in men's minds as Guinevere, queen of a wondrous city called Camelot where, for just a little while, men attained the unattainable." His gaze gentled. "So we're both caught in the same doom, Gwen my love. We were put in this world to fill not our own needs but those of unborn generations."

She slumped into the chair again and ran a hand through hair that had once been the color of flame. "I understand none of this," she muttered. "I'm old and tired and lonely, and anyone who believes I reigned over some ideal kingdom conjured up by bards from hot air and heather beer will be an even greater fool than I am for continuing to love you all these years! All I understand is that you never sent this Tertullian to inquire after me in a world where I might have been dead, or some barbarian's slave. . . ."

"Don't you see? That's the very reason I couldn't ask how you fared! If I'd learned my Gwen was in peril or in want I'd not have been able to do otherwise than come to her aid—which wouldn't have been possible. You asked what I've been doing in my world in the years since I . . . departed from men's knowledge. Well, all I can tell you is that I've been in a kind of indenture, working off the debt I owe for my rescue from death. And I won't pretend that I haven't enjoyed the work, for I've seen things that make all the legends of magic and wizardry seem insipid. But it carries a curse: I can't take any action that would change the appointed course of my world's future. If I'd learned that Gwen must die, I'd have had to stand by and let it happen."

She crossed herself. "This has a pagan ring to it, Artorius—like the Fates of Roman myth and the tapestry they weave, or the Norns the Saxons tell of. I like it not."

"No more do I, Gwen, for I've always held that men make their own destiny. But now I've learned that things aren't always so simple. I've accepted that . . . but I couldn't face the possibility of having to let you die. For it
would
have been you, Gwen, in whatever world."

"Ah, Artorius!" Again she reached out and touched his cheek. "Is that truly the reason?"

"Truly, Gwen. The bards will lie about your having been queen of an enchanted many-towered city, but they'll speak the truth about one thing: you were always queen of my soul."

She smiled, allowing them all an instant's glimpse of what the young Artorius had once seen. "You always did have the power to move me with words, you scoundrel! Like the time . . . But no, I'll not let myself recall that which lies beyond the veil of years. For its all done with now, isn't it? Oh, Artorius, what a waste! All those years of living, as you say, the lives the future required . . ."

"Gwen," Artorius cut in gently, "I've come to you this night to tell you that we're not through doing it." She stiffened. "I must ask you to believe what I asked Artorius the Restorer to believe: that I've been vouchsafed a vision of the future, and—"

She rose abruptly. "You ask too much of me . . . at least without further explanation in private, without these others. Come." She led the way toward her inner chamber. He followed.

* * *

Left to their own devices in the antechamber, Sarnac, Tylar and Tiraena sat down on whatever was available. Sarnac squirmed uncomfortably on a stool obviously intended for a lady-in-waiting, his bruised kidneys protesting. After a time he spoke.

"Well, er, Tylar, I suppose they're, uh . . ."

"I'm sure they're discussing the possible geopolitical options," Tylar stated blandly.

"No doubt! All in pursuit of whatever your objective is here in Britain—about which you've never been 'entirely candid,' as usual!"

"It's straightforward enough. We need to make Gwenhwyvaer aware that The Restorer has only a few years left to live, and that when he dies a usurping tyranny will seize power at Constantinople. The time will then be ripe for her to make her bid for British independence."

"Huh! But why? I thought you were betting on Ecdicius to set up a separate Western empire. Won't a British rebellion just be an extra headache for him?"

"All will become clear in good time," Tylar intoned. Sarnac was about to wax sarcastic, but Tiraena spoke up.

"Tylar, does he mean it? Or is he just bullshitting her?"

"Oh, he means it. I've heard him on the subject often enough over the years. And I've come to know him very well. He's quite capable of 'bullshitting,' as you so elegantly put it. But I can tell when he's not."

"Then he never really stopped loving her." Tiraena shook her head slowly. "I suppose I should be glad that we gave this night to her, but I can't help thinking about the
other
Gwenhwyvaer, who may still be alive. . . ."

"She's not." Tylar's flat declarative took them both by surprise. "In point of fact, she died two years ago in our reality, and now lies buried on Glastonbury Tor, in a tomb beside which the abbey will one day stand. And Artorius lies beside her."

The last sentence didn't even register at first. When it did, Sarnac spoke cautiously. "Uh, Tylar, I think I must have misunderstood you . . ."

"Artorius will live quite a long time on your standards," Tylar said obliquely. "But not very long on mine. He was introduced to civilized medical care only after having spent his first forty-two years among . . . this." Tylar's gesture encompassed fifth-century Earth. "Eventually, he'll grow old. And when he does, I'll take him back to the early 480s of our timeline, while he and Gwenhwyvaer still have life in them. The monks of Glastonbury will lay them to rest together. Their tomb will be rediscovered in the twelfth century. Later it will be generally written off as a hoax, despite certain annoying facts that will stubbornly defy explanation." He blinked. "Dear me, I must be growing garrulous with age! I must, of course, insist that you not mention any of this to . . ." He gestured at the door through which Artorius had passed.

Tiraena spoke while Sarnac was trying to find his tongue. "Tylar, how can you know you'll do this?"

"Oh, my! The problem of tenses again! You see, in terms of my own subjective consciousness I've
already
done it. Just another bit of historical policing, you know; history required that those bones be found in the abbey graveyard at Glastonbury. But there's no regulation that prohibits me from sometimes enjoying my work—or from doing a good turn for a valued associate." He settled back with a faint smile and composed himself to wait, politely ignoring the other two's expressions.

Presently, the door opened. Artorius and Gwenhwyvaer emerged in mid-sentence. ". . . but it still can't work," she was saying. "It comes to grief on the same hard reality that defeated Carausius two centuries ago."

My God
. Sarnac thought,
they really
did
find time to talk politics!

"You mean the inability of Britain to survive a serious attempt at reconquest?" Artorius said—Artorius whose corpse lay beside his Gwen's on a hill twelve miles northwest of here this very night in his native reality. It was, Sarnac thought, like looking at a ghost.

"Yes. Any usurper who arises in Britain must either conquer the Western Empire or be conquered by it. Maximus tried and failed. Constantine the Great succeeded. But Britain can't remain aloof in a state of . . . of . . ."

" 'Splendid isolation'?" Tylar offered with a smile. "The situation will be different this time, Lady."

"In what respect?" Gwenhwyvaer asked, gazing at him narrowly. "I don't know who you are, Tertullian, but there's clearly more to you than I can see, or understand. Speak!"

"Artorius has already told you that after the Restorer dies his designated heir Ecdicius will be prevented by usurpers from coming into his inheritance and will lead the West into separation. In exchange for your recognition of his legitimacy as Augustus of the West, he will acknowledge Britain's independence."

Mighty free with Ecdicius's commitments, aren't we Tylar?
thought Sarnac. Gwenhwyvaer looked thoughtful. "Ecdicius," she said with a slight frown.

"You can rely on him, Lady. And without his guarantee, your dreams of an independent Britain are only dreams." Tylar looked Gwenhwyvaer unflinchingly in the eyes. "Don't hold it against him that he's the Restorer's heir in place of the son you never had."

The Regent's eyes flashed blue fire, but Tylar's continued to hold them. The flames subsided, and she said only "How can you know this?"

"As to that, Lady, I can only ask you to trust me. As you yourself have admitted, there are mysteries here that are beyond ordinary understanding. But . . . he will vouch for me." Artorius nodded. "And this much is no mystery: the Restorer cannot live forever. Even if I'm wrong about the nature of the storms that will follow his passing, you'll want to prepare against some such storms. During the next few years, Lucasta will visit you from time to time with counsel concerning those preparations."

Sarnac started, for he hadn't been told about this part of the plan. But Tiraena evidently had, for she showed no surprise. She and Gwenhwyvaer regarded each other levelly.

"So you are in truth Lucasta. Indeed, there is a mystery here that I cannot fathom." Gwenhwyvaer spoke with the fatalism of all the ages before humankind had begun to
expect
to be able to fathom mysteries.

Abruptly, the outer door swung open. "Oh, am I interrupting? Your pardon, Lady, but I was anxious to know if the messenger had assured my men that I'm all right within these walls. My son Cynric is out there, and he's only seen eight winters . . ."

"They have been informed,
ealdorman
," Tylar said smoothly while everyone else wondered how to handle the new arrival. "By the way, I am Tertullian, employer of Bedwyr, who I believe is already known to you."

"He is indeed!" Cerdic stepped all the way into the room, walking a little stiffly and beginning to show a spectacular mouse under one eye but managing a certain raffishness. "And this gentleman?" He indicated Artorius.

"My associate Gerontius." Tylar spoke quickly and firmly, forestalling everyone else. "And now,
ealdorman
, I suggest you close the door, for we are discussing matters which are not for every ear. I believe, however, that they are for yours."

Cerdic gave Gwenhwyvaer an uncertain look. "Lady . . . ?"

"Do it, Cerdic," she sighed. "I don't know how Tertullian finds things out, but since he knows so much else he probably knows how deep you are in my counsels regarding the future of Britain."

Sarnac took his first close look at Cerdic of the West Saxons. He was in his mid-twenties, dressed in a version of his people's standard tunic-and-trousers garb that was less drab than most. He was darker than most Saxons—Sarnac recalled hearing that he was half-British—but had the sturdy build and sweeping mustaches that typified them. And his quietly thoughtful expression would have surprised most of those who knew him.

"Well, Tertullian," he finally said, "however you may have learned it, it's true. The Regent has tried to smooth my people's path in this island, so that we may perhaps—" he seemed amused at the thought "—become a new sort of Britons ourselves. And I'm with her." He grinned in his usual public way. "If all my thoughts were widely aired, I know not whether my own people or the Britons would bellow the loudest. At least it would give them something to agree on!"

"No," said Gwenhwyvaer. "It would just give them one more thing to fight over: the right to hang you! And it would probably serve you right. But I have no heir, and the Britain that is to be will need leaders. Sooner or later you're going to have to become a Christian, of course—and spare me that pained look! Quite a lot of your people have been receiving baptism. It has to come, you know. We need all the sources of unity we can get. All the more so given Tertullian's news. I'll call for some wine, then you can hear it yourself."

The wine level was a good deal lower by the time Tylar finished his account of what was to be, carefully hedged about with "in all probability" and "I have reason to believe." Cerdic silently sipped his wine. ("Don't tell my men I've turned traitor to ale!" he'd joked.) Then he cocked one eyebrow at Gwenhwyvaer.

"I don't suppose I need to ask what
your
course will be, do I?"

"The question is," she retorted, "what will
yours
be?"

Instead of answering, he turned to Tylar. "What if the East reconquers the West and then turns on us?"

"That could be," Tylar admitted. "And even if Ecdicius wins in the end, you may well suffer an invasion in the course of the war that's bound to come. I can't promise you that these things won't happen. But I
can
promise you this: you'll never see a more auspicious moment to make your bid for British independence. Such an opportunity will not come again."