In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) (11 page)

And the king’s nephew, the heir to Camelot would not, could not marry the dowerless daughter of a minor liegeman.
It was only a kiss
, she tried to tell herself.
It was nothing more. Just a kiss for celebration and thanks. If it was more, it was only so in your mind, fool girl
.

Just a kiss, for joy and celebration and all the rest that she only suspected, given and taken among the dead men. The men she had slain. Risa’s stomach churned suddenly and for a moment she feared she might be sick.

“Lady Risa?”

Risa jerked her head up to see Gawain standing there.

“Lady, I truly am most sorry. I should not have presumed. It was a liberty and I ask that you forgive me.”

“Of course,” she said, ashamed at how weak her voice sounded. “There is nothing to forgive. It was not … I didn’t …”
Save that it was and I did, even with the dead lying at my feet. My dead
.

Gawain knelt beside her. “Death has been too much with you these past days, has he not?”

Risa nodded, grateful to be spared the necessity of speech.

“It is a hard thing to know that a man has died by your hands. It must be even harder when you never imagine you must do such a thing.”

“My father has high and low justice in his lands,” she murmured, although she didn’t quite know why. “He once sentenced a man who had murdered his wife. They hanged him from the oak on the green. His face went blue. Everyone cheered. There was no blood then.” She wondered why she wasn’t crying. She felt too hollow for tears. “They left him there.”

Gawain nodded in understanding. “When I was a boy and still at home, the Pictish men attacked us. We weren’t in the fortress at Din Eityn then, just one of the lesser halls. They’re a dark people, with eyes like flint. They meant to loot and burn us, saying we had stolen their lands. I stood on the earthworks and watched the men ride out to meet them. Even then, I heard the noise of the screams and the clash, and saw the circling crows and smelled death …” He shook his head. “I had to go off and be sick, and I hadn’t even struck a blow. Battle is never easy, and glory only comes when you’ve cleaned hands and sword and had time to understand that you are still alive.”

He touched her shoulder. “We are still alive, Lady Risa, but we will not remain so if we do not hurry away.”

Risa nodded again. His hand was warm on her shoulder, heavy and strong. It brought back memories of his kiss.

God and Mary, why could she not stop shaking?

“I will get the horses,” said Gawain. “Come as quickly as you are able.”

He stood and left her there. She did not look back to see him go.

The congress of ravens flew north and east until well after noontime. Kerra flew with them, wholly as one of their own, enjoying the freedom of the wind and the sky. When they caught sight of a deer’s ravaged corpse, she feasted as greedily as her companions and they gossiped together about the ways of the forest and the great changes wrought by spring’s blossoming.

It was when she flew as a raven that she understood why her mother had kept to a wanderer’s life. There were times she also wished to stay forever in motion and forever free.

But to do that would be a betrayal of the one who had saved her life, and her soul.

Sated, Kerra flapped her wings, and imagined flying alone on one of her strange errands, casting off what her companions considered her true shape, and walking the world as a human again. They protested, as they frequently did, but she also imagined bringing them dainties such as the forest could never provide. They shrieked their approval, and she rose alone to catch the winds.

Alone, it was easier to concentrate on her errand. No longer sporting, Kerra flew due north. There was not far to go. The hills rose steeply here, and fertile land grew scarce. The grey bones of the earth began to poke through its tattered green cloak.

Nestled deep within the folds of that threadbare cloak waited a lonesome hall. Kerra could have flown directly into one of its windows and been welcome, but that lacked respect. Instead, she lighted down just inside its wicker fence and in her raven’s voice she spoke a certain word three times. Pain coursed through her as she grew long and human again, and her feathers once more became the feathered cape. If any witnessed the transformation, it did not matter. She had come home.

Unlike Euberacon’s home, this place was what it seemed — a long and low house, its stone tightly mortared, its roof well thatched. If it needed to be otherwise, its mistress would make it so, but not until then.
The truth is stronger than any lie
, she said frequently to Kerra.
Use it whenever you can
.

Those who lived and served here did so willingly and well. Boys and old men tended herds of fat sheep and pigs. Young men sat around their fires in the yard, yarning with each other, repairing clothing or cooking in iron pots. The swirls and crosses tattooed on their skins marked them as following the true and ancient ways. They watched Kerra walk between them, but she felt no menace from them. She also served their mistress, and none would any more raise a hand against her than they would against a beloved sister.

Since the weather was fair, the hall doors stood open. White-haired Talan waited just inside, playing the porter, but not with the greatest diligence. Kerra found him digging his knife into a blue-veined cheese that smelled so strong she was surprised it didn’t set his eyes watering. Her shadow fell across him where he sat and he leapt at once to his feet.

“Lady Kerra,” he said with a smile and a respectful bow. “She said you’d be coming today. She’s waiting in the hall for you.”

“Thank you, Talan.” She had thought she might talk with the old man about how things were here, but if their mistress was already waiting, there was no time for other news.

A second pair of stout doors, deeply carved with sigils for watchfulness and strength, led to the hall. It was no grand place, but its darkness was warm and if there was smoke, there was also an abundance of fires to welcome a traveler with the scents of boiling, brewing and baking. Strong-armed women, mates and matches for the men outside, moved between the fires. Their dark hair hung loose about their shoulders, with only one or two slender braids confining a few of their tresses. Their clothes were of the plainest stuffs, with simple embroidery. Nearly all of them had a nod and a warm smile for Kerra as she passed, but none tried to delay her with talk. They knew her time was precious.

At the far end of the hall sat another group of women, engaged in the endless task of making cloth. The oldest women supervised the youngest children teasing burrs and chaff from the heaps of shorn wool. Others spun, or wove at the standing looms, drawing the shuttles back and forth between the weighted threads. Still others sewed the finished cloth with ivory needles.

One woman sat in a great, carved chair. Her hair was black, streaked with white. Beneath its cloud her face was strong and still beautiful, for all it was lined with care. She wore her simple cloud-grey dress as well as any queen could wear her finery. Her black eyes, ever-alert, darted back and forth, first watching the women working around her, next attending to the drop spindle and the pale thread twisting through her own long fingers, as fine and strong as a spider’s spinning, then noting the activity of the great hall around her.

Kerra approached silently, and dropped into a deep curtsey.

“Daughter,” Morgaine smiled, and Kerra warmed to the approval of her voice. “Rise. Let me see you.”

Kerra obeyed. Morgaine looked her up and down, not blinking, drinking in every detail. Kerra suddenly felt ashamed of the broad, burgundy cloth of her dress and the twisted silver of her trims and jewelry. Who was she to appear in this place dressed more finely than her mistress? These gauds were nothing. True nobility, true power came from within, and all her lusting after gold and scarlet cloth was sheerest vanity. She was certain Morgaine’s eyes discerned this folly clearly, and she wanted to apologize at once. Even her cloak of feathers seemed a covering for empty pride. Her power was nothing. She had not learned one tenth of what Morgaine could have taught her. Before this woman she was scarcely a child.

But then Morgaine smiled at her, and the sun came out again. Kerra was a child, but she was a dutiful child. She served with her whole heart. Morgaine knew this and accepted her service, and that was all Kerra could ever ask.

Morgaine wound her thread and passed her spindle to one of the waiting women. “Come, Kerra.” She rose. “Walk a little with me and tell me what you have seen.”

There was no place to be alone in a hall such as this, but none would dare speak a word of anything they overheard from their mistress. Nonetheless, Morgaine led Kerra to the shadows, where they would be hidden from any who entered as well as from most of those who worked there, but none would be hidden from the mistress’s bright, sharp gaze.

Morgaine listened attentively while Kerra told her all the news of Euberacon’s doings, of his going to claim Risa of the Morelands and of Gawain’s intervention. Gawain’s name made Morgaine frown with an old and bitter fury. Kerra cringed before that rage, although none of it was for her. Morgaine gestured impatiently for her to continue. Kerra did, but her tongue stammered and stuttered for a time before she could recover herself. She told Morgaine of the task Euberacon had set her to, and how she had seen only peaceful land between his fortress and Morgaine’s hall, which told her that if Arthur suspected the Saxons were on the rise, he was not yet sure, for none of his men were massing or moving.

She fell silent, waiting to see how Morgaine received her news. Morgaine watched her hall for a time, noting the ebb and flow of its people, their smallest motions, to whom they spoke and whom they passed by. No detail escaped her, even while she mulled over the full import of Kerra’s message. Morgaine the Unsleeping, the men outside called her, and Morgaine the Goddess. No one here called her Morgan the Fae, and no one ever would.

Morgaine’s restless gaze caught on a small, slender boy, and her face lit up in a smile such as even Kerra seldom saw. The child stood a solemn and polite distance away, waiting to be acknowledged. His hands were clutched across his chest, concealing something.

“Mordred,” said Morgaine, the name filled with a mother’s pride. “What is it you have there?”

The boy ran forward and opened his hands, displaying his treasure. It was a tiny rabbit, so small a man’s fist could have closed around it.

“The dogs found its warren,” he said quietly, his eyes wide with what he had seen. Kerra could imagine the small bodies tossed into the air, and the blood on the hounds’ muzzles.

Morgaine crouched beside her son. “That is their duty,” she said quietly. She extended one finger and gently stroked the rabbit’s fur. The tiny creature trembled, but its fear had removed the ability to struggle.

“I know.” Her son moved a little closer to her. “But he’s alone now, and he’s so little …”

Morgaine nodded. “Go to the dairy and soak a rag in milk for him, and then you may make a nest for him in the stables to keep him warm. You will have to feed him often. Speak with Ahern. He will be able to tell you much of what you need to know.”

Mordred nodded happily. “Thank you, mother!” he said, and snuggled his new pet close against his chest again, making to run at once to the kitchens. But Morgaine caught his chin, and turned him firmly to face her again.

“He has come to you in need, Mordred,” she said. “It is now your duty to care for him and not neglect him. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded, all solemnity again. “Yes, mother.”

“Good boy.” She smiled again, ruffled his hair and gave him a push toward the hall door. The boy scampered happily away with his treasure. Morgaine looked after him, sighing and shaking her head. The shadow of anger crossed her face as she watched her son vanish into the daylight, and something of sorrow.

But whatever she was thinking, Morgaine kept it to herself. When she turned her attention again to Kerra, her thoughts were all on their business and the work yet to be done.

“You have done well,” said Morgaine. “But he is a busy one, Euberacon, and he is making still more work for you.” She smiled almost apologetically at Kerra. “I fear I must keep you from home awhile longer yet.”

“What would you have me do, mistress?” asked Kerra immediately.

“This Easterner plays too many games. There are too many reverses. He should learn the value of simplicity.” Her long fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh. “I think you should do just as he has told you. Have your men capture this Risa, separating her from Gawain.” Morgaine’s gaze grew distant then, filling with memories and the deep, burning pain that never left her. “But should they be a little too zealous and kill both her and Gawain, that can hardly be your fault.” She smiled a fresh smile then, one that made Kerra’s heart quail within her.

It was a long moment before Kerra could make herself speak again. “He clearly wants them alive, mistress,” she ventured. “Should we not try to discover why that is?”

Morgaine considered this, her fingers still tapping out the rhythm of her thoughts. “That much is quite plain. He wants Gawain and, by extension, Arthur, confused and weakened at a critical time, and if one wishes to weaken Gawain, one could do far worse than to play on his heart. As for the girl …” Morgaine’s mouth tightened in disapproval, even as her eyes looked to the future. “As a slave, such powers as hers could be useful in many circumstances. If he returns to Constantinople with her and claims she was bought in a slave market while he was abroad, who is to say differently? Certainly not she. No,” she sighed as a woman might seeing the number of chores that must be performed in a day. “I think they are both better off dead. Gawain’s death will strike Camelot at its core, and at the girl’s death will at same time weaken Euberacon and set back his plans, so that he must stay and shield our own work from prying eyes that much longer.”

“Then it shall be as you say, mistress.” Kerra bent her knee in reverence and in recognition that the audience was over.

Morgaine laid her hand on Kerra’s head in approval and blessing. “Take care, daughter. His is half blind, that sorcerer, but he is no fool. He will kill you as soon as he can.”

“Then he had best learn to sprout his own wings and quickly, mistress, or my friends will have something to say about it,” said Kerra with perhaps too much solemnity.

Her bold jest earned her one of Morgaine’s rare laughs, and Kerra left the hall in high spirits. Night was coming, but there was perhaps an hour or two of light left. She could make some progress. There was no time to waste if she was to complete her work and return before Euberacon grew suspicious.

Kerra lifted the hood of her cloak and raised her eyes. A raven once more, she launched herself into the sky.

It was not even noon before the Saxons found Risa and Gawain again.

It had been a cold night. They had kept to the track until the light and the horses were exhausted. No shelter offered itself, so they had been forced to sleep in the open, with only their cloaks and the horses for warmth. Dinner was crumbling and overripe cheese and hard bread. Breakfast was the same, livened by the eggs of a quail and their parent roasted overnight in the coals of a minuscule fire and washed down by the last of Gawain’s watered wine. The only consolation was that the rains seemed to be staying away for the present.

Gawain looked tired, though hale. Risa wondered how much of the night he had spent in watching over their small camp, but could find no way to ask. She wanted the world to begin again with the morning, and was content to leave the night and previous day behind. The visceral discomforts of a cold night and nagging hunger made it strangely easy for Risa to set aside her discomforts of mind. Guessing how much farther it was to Pen Marhas — where there would be a much larger fire, and bowls of stew and roast meats and the day’s fresh baking — pushed back memories of the dead, and unconsidered kisses.

She found herself humming under her breath as she shifted her weight back and forth on Thetis’s back, trying to ease the pain from the constant riding. The tune gave a little vent to her feelings and her hungers. To her surprise, Gawain took up the words.

He had a good voice, rough but pleasant, and it seemed he enjoyed the act of singing, or perhaps he just hoped to put her once more at ease. Risa was more than willing to let him.