End of the Century (8 page)

Come
.

The last thought was urgent, but more an imperative than an entreaty. It was a command.

“Flowers?”

Galaad blinked, and the floral scent again pervaded his nostrils. And as quickly as it had come, the sense of bliss fled from him, and with it the sudden certitude. The woman was gone, as was the scent, and the bliss, and the certitude, leaving behind nothing but a cold, creeping confusion.

“Galaad?”

He felt strong hands on his shoulders, shaking him, and looked up into the face of Artor.

“Oh,” Galaad said senselessly. “It's you.”

And then he collapsed into a heap on the cold tile floor.

A short while later Galaad found himself before a hearth, the warmth of the flames licking at his bare feet. Artor had sent for wine, and poured strong undiluted cups for himself and for Galaad. Then the servants had been sent away once more, and the two men sat facing each other, made ruddy in the red light of the hearth's flame.

Galaad studied the cup in his hands, self-consciously. It was glass, and stamped with images of men in chariots driving horses and with the names of long-dead charioteers. A souvenir of some departed procurator's trip to Rome, perhaps, a prized possession for generations of his family, now all fled and gone. Galaad sipped the strong, heady wine and tried not to think of how easy it would be to smash the glass against the bronze of the hearth, and all those lingering memories of empire dashed into fragments.

Across from him, Artor drank from a simple clay cup. There was some irony in that, the man who was bringing order back to this farthest outpost of a dead empire drinking from a workman's vessel while Galaad drank from glass fired in the heart of empire itself.

“You have had a vision,” Artor said at last, breaking the long silence. It was a statement, not a question, but Galaad could not help but answer.

“Yes, majesty,” he said, his own voice sounding far away in his ear.

“But it happened between one moment and the next. You said something about smelling flowers, and then a glassy look came into your eye as you paused, and in the next moment you were talking again.”

Galaad nodded, wincing. “Sometimes they last longer, I am told, but in the main they take no more time than that.”

“What could you possibly have seen in so short a time?”

Galaad shivered, and tightened his fingers around the glass. “Time seems to run more slowly in my visions. Or with more speed. I'm not sure how best to say it.”

“The duration seemed longer for you than it was in reality?” Artor suggested.

“Something like that,” Galaad answered with a nod.

Artor leaned forward and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “And you say that you have never been to Dumnonia?”

“No, majesty. I've never been further south than Corinium, and then only briefly.”

Artor leaned back in his chair and ran the tip of his finger around the rim of his clay cup, thoughtfully. A long silence stretched out between them, and Galaad was grateful to have the dancing flames of the hearth to watch, to give him something to occupy his attentions.

“You do not seem mad,” Artor said at length.

“No?” Galaad could not help but smile. “I thank you for saying so, majesty.” His smile wavered, and he struggled to keep it in place. He remembered the citizens of Glevum, and his own wife. “Though there are many who might take issue with that.”

“Hmm.” Artor nodded. “I don't doubt.” He paused, reflecting. “I had a friend once who went mad. We fought together against the Saeson, when Ambrosius still lived and was Comes Britanniarium. When we were younger than you are now, our cohort suffered a terrible loss to the Saeson, and my friend and I were among the few who survived the retreat. I was shaken, having never before seen so many of my fellows fall before the enemy's iron, but my friend…It was as if he could not fit everything he had seen and
heard inside of his head, and so had to force out things like reason and sense to make room. He seemed to dwell always in those short hours of battle, even when days and weeks had passed, fighting the skirmish over and over again in his thoughts. In the end, he threw himself from a high rampart, dashing his brains out against the flagstones, and that was an end to it.” Artor took a sip of his wine, his eyes half-lidded. “Who knows? Perhaps he felt that was the only way to get the memories out of his head, to open up his skull and knock them loose.”

Galaad tensed in his chair, trying not to see any parallels to his own situation, and failing. Like the High King's lost friend, Galaad too found himself living the same remembered incident again and again, and like him the memories threatened to drive out every other thought from his mind, if he would but let them.

“My friend was mad,” Artor said. “I have seen the strange light which flickered in his eyes again, and again, over the long years since. But in your eyes…”

The High King trailed off, regarding Galaad.

“You see nothing in my eyes, majesty?” Galaad was reluctant to ask, afraid what the answer would be.

“It isn't that.” Artor shook his head. “But it is a different look I see on your face. No, you are not mad. You are…” He paused, searching for the right word. “You are…haunted.”

Galaad's breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed loudly.

“Yes, that is it,” Artor said, nodding. “Haunted.”

Galaad's sleep, when it finally came, was thankfully dreamless, and it was late in the morning before he woke. In the relative warm and proximate comfort of his small room, he found it nearly impossible to resist the temptation to remain abed and settled on lying for a short while longer beneath the thin wool blanket. He intended to rise momentarily, but despite his best intentions he drifted once more to sleep. This time, though, his slumber was not so dreamless.

Galaad dreamt that he was on horseback, riding across the Powys countryside. It was a clear spring morning, the sun just pinking the sky to the east, and the rolling green hills were flocked with clover and cinquefoil, marigold and vetch, all flowering, all in bloom. In the hazy logic of dreams, Galaad realized that the flowers weren't on the hillsides, but were in his arms. He clutched a huge bunch of flowers. They were heavy and unwieldy in his arms, so that he had to shift on the saddle constantly and struggle to hold them to him. But for some reason, in the dream this unwieldy bunch of flowers were to him an endless source of joy and contentment, and he was happy just to have them near him.

He rode on, through the hills, laughing, spurring the horse to speed. But their course carried them away from the gently rolling hills and into an area pocked with rock outcroppings, the ground grown more rugged. And it became harder and harder to hold the flowers in his lap, though his laughter continued unabated. And just when he thought the horse could go no faster, and that he could laugh no louder, it all came to a crashing halt. The horse turned its ankle on a rock, cartwheeling forward and sending Galaad and the bunch of flowers flying through the air.

Galaad hit the ground headfirst, the pain setting off bursts of lightning behind his eyes, and he felt the side of his head go numb with pain. He reached up and his hand came away wet. He felt dizzy, nauseated, and only then did he think what had become of the flowers.

Gripped with sudden terror, he scrambled up onto his knees, looking around. And there, a short distance away, he saw the flowers scattered across the sharp rocks, the red clover bright in the morning sun against the gray stone.

And then he woke.

But the nightmare didn't end. It never did.

“Flora,” Galaad said, his cheeks wet with tears.

It was only later, after the sobs that racked his body finally subsided a bit, that he was able to climb to his feet, dress, and meet the day.

The High King's council was gathering again in the audience chamber, and Galaad quietly found a place in the back, out of sight. He had been in the kitchen, breaking his fast with a simple meal of bread and thin stew, when a servant came with word that he was wanted in the audience chamber. Galaad wasn't sure why he'd been summoned but saw no reason to refuse.

Caius, the tall, fair-haired captain and self-styled eques, greeted Galaad with a smile from across the room, while on the opposite side of the marble table the Gael Lugh treated him to a raised eyebrow, no doubt as curious about the reasons for Galaad's presence as he was himself.

Galaad was eager to find out and didn't have long to wait. Shortly after he settled himself on the bench, the room fell silent as the Count of Brittania, High King Artor, strode into the rear of the hall.

“God give you a good day, gentles,” Artor said, animatedly. He smiled as he sat in the gilt chair and drummed his fingers on the scabbarded sword he laid across his knees.

Caradog leaned forward, examining his tablet, on which were recorded the names of all the day's petitioners.

“Not today,” Artor said, waving his chief counselor silent before he'd even had a chance to speak. “We have other business to attend, instead.”

The captains seated around the marble circle glanced back and forth at one another in confusion, while around the room the various dignitaries, representatives, traders, and other plaintiffs grumbled their discontent.

“And what is this business, majesty?” Caradog asked, his tone perhaps a trifle too unctuous.

Artor smiled, seeming filled with a vigor that had been lacking the day before. “I come today to announce a new enterprise, gentles. A foray. An…expedition, if you will.”

The murmurs rippling around the room increased in volume and intensity, and the looks of confusion deepened.

“An expedition, majesty?” Caius asked.

“Just so,” Artor said with a nod. “To Dumnonia, by sea.”

Scowls appeared on the faces of some of those around the room, amusement on others, while not a few cast glances in Galaad's direction, suspiciously.

Galaad couldn't help but remember Artor's repeated queries about Dumnonia, and whether he had ever been.

“Your pardon, majesty,” Lugh said, waving a hand for attention, “but you don't suggest that you believe the tadpole's story, do you?”

Artor smiled, though Galaad noticed that the lines around his eyes deepened as he regarded the Gael. When he answered, it was in measured, even tones. “I cannot say, Long Hand. Or rather, I cannot say that I believe every jot and tittle. But neither can I escape the feeling that there is some truth to what he has described.”

“And the purpose of this expedition would be…?” asked another captain, short and compact, who spoke Britannic with a Demetian accent.

“To see the truth of it for ourselves, whatever truth there may be.”

The grumbles from those gathered in the audience hall intensified in volume, and dark looks passed back and forth.

“Perhaps it would be best to adjourn the council for today,” Caradog said quickly, seeking to sooth raising tempers. “To allow the High King time to…formulate how best to present his thoughts.”

Artor's eyes flashed as he glared at his chief counselor, thin-lipped, but in a moment his white-knuckled fists relaxed on his knees and he drew several slow breaths, steadying himself. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again and contented himself with a curt nod.