Kingdom of the Grail (30 page)

CHAPTER 35

D
eath was a swift fall of dark and a slow return of light: cool white light and a breath of wind scented with snow. There was pain—dim, distant, but startling; had he not left the body behind?

It would seem he had not. The wind blew unhindered across it. There was stone beneath it, cold but not unpleasantly so. All about him was sweet unearthly singing.

Voices of angels. Angels bent over him, nine ladies clad in white. And foremost, as beautiful as he ever remembered, but higher and stronger and far more powerful, stood his beloved, his lover, Sarissa.

She lifted his head in the curve of her arm. Her warmth was human, and her strength, but her face was unreachably remote. She set a cup to his lips. He sipped blood-red wine, or wine that was blood, or blood that was fire. Or it was all of those things. It seared his throat. It coursed through his veins. It drowned him in light.

Death in darkness, death in light. His third death was silence and walls of stone, and Turpin sitting near him, chin on breast, snoring softly.

It was just as it had been so often before: waking from a long sleep or a wound, to find himself in a soft bed, with his friend watching over him. Roland lifted a hand that felt and looked like his own, and touched a face that surely was his, though there was an oddity to one cheek: a faint
interruption, as of healed scars. A dim memory dawned, of battle and blood and the rake of claws. Would his beauty be marred, then, though this was heaven?

Truly he seemed to be in his body, with a new count of scars, but all old, all healed. He was not weak as he should have been; once dizziness had passed, he felt hale enough. He could stand, walk. His bare feet trod carpets of Eastern richness, woven in the colors of heaven: red and blue and purple and gold.

This seemed to be a room in a palace, or perhaps a castle. It had a window, set deep in the stone of the wall. He leaned into it and looked out across infinite space. Clouds drifted below, tattering on the jagged teeth of mountains.

“This is not the heaven I expected,” he said.

The voice that answered him was not Turpin's, though the archbishop's snoring had stopped some little while since. “Not heaven, though not earth, either. This is the castle of Carbonek, in the kingdom of Montsalvat.”

The names rang like bells. Roland turned. Turpin was awake indeed, but silent. And Sarissa was standing just within the door.

Here in what must be her own place, she was more beautiful than ever, more truly and splendidly herself. Roland, naked and chilled and confused, stood as straight as he could. When he spoke, it was not to her. “Turpin. I thought you had died. Are the others—is Olivier—?”

Turpin's face was stark. “Olivier died at Roncesvalles. Thibaut, Milun, Ogier, the rest—gone. Anselm and Eggihard from the king's own household fell beside them. I was left for dead, but these kind folk found me and brought me here.”

Roland swayed against the wall. It was cold against his back, and hard, and as grimly real as the truth Turpin had spoken. Dead, all dead but they two. “And the king? The army?”

“The king is safe in Francia,” said Turpin. “He heard your horn; he came back. It was too late by far for any of us, but he took vengeance on those rebels whom he found, gathered the dead and marched over the mountains. All the baggage was lost, all the gold and treasure of Spain.”

“But we are not—”

“You were brought here,” Sarissa said, “before you
could be killed. I grieve for Olivier and for the others. We came as swift as we could, but we were too slow.”

Roland pressed his hands to his forehead. His head was throbbing. “We should be in Francia or laid in tombs. Why are we here? How did we come here?”

Sarissa beckoned. Servants entered, laden with a copper basin and jars of water and the rest of the accoutrements of a bath. They were men, mortal enough to look at, dark and slight and sharp-featured like Romans or Spaniards. Their long tunics were of linen undyed, their mantles of deep clear blue, each held at the shoulder by a brooch in the shape of silver swan.

They bowed low before Roland, set down the basin and filled it, and gently but irresistibly coaxed him into it. He could not but remember the last time he had had such service, in the king's tent before the ascent to Roncesvalles. He nearly broke down and wept; but he would not do that in front of these strangers.

They washed him with an air almost of ritual, moving in unison, without a word spoken or a glance exchanged. When he was clean, his body dry, his hair damp on his shoulders, they clothed him in a long white garment like a monk's habit, then took the bath and went away, as silent as they had come.

New servants came behind them, bearing cups and bowls and jars: a light feast, with wine and new bread, cheese and fruit and lentils stewed in spices, but no meat. He began to wonder if this was an abbey that he had come to, though she called it a castle—Carbonek, in the kingdom of the Grail.

He could not eat, though his stomach growled. Sarissa sat by the bed, poured a cup of wine, gave it to Turpin. The archbishop seemed at ease; he smiled at her. She smiled in return. One would think, thought Roland, that they were friends of long standing.

“Tell me,” he said. “What must I be strong enough to know? What is worse than the death of all my friends but one, and my king's bitter defeat?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Your king is safe in his own kingdom—I promised you that, and I kept my promise.”

“Did you?” Roland set his back against the wall again, as if it could protect him from he knew not what. Grief was
darkening in him, turning to anger.
Olivier,
his heart mourned.
O my brother!

“You asked me,” she said, “whose champion you had been chosen to be. This is the answer I could not give you then. You are the champion of Montsalvat.”

Time was when Roland's heart would have swelled to hear such a thing; when he would have been dizzy with joy and pride. But he had fought in the slaughter of Roncesvalles. He had seen those he loved cut down one by one. When he closed his eyes, he could see that battle still, and the hordes of devils swarming down upon his people.

“Was there need for that?” he demanded of Sarissa. “Was it necessary that so many die? They were aimed at me. They struck for me. Because they knew what I was. If I had known—”

“You were not their only purpose,” she said. “Our enemy—your enemy, my lord—sought to seize the Frankish army and twist it to his own ends. That, we were able to prevent. We saved the great bulk of your king's army, so that it was free to escape. The rearguard . . .” She paused. “Come,” she said abruptly. “Come with me.”

He might have refused, but she had seized his hand. He could not break free.

He could walk, or he could be dragged. He chose to walk. She drew him out of that room, down a long winding stair in what must be a tower, along a passage lit with lamps that burned with a pale and steady light, and across a courtyard open to the aching blue of the sky.

The wall that bounded the far edge of that courtyard was the outer wall of the castle. Twin towers warded its gate. Sarissa led him to the summit of that on the right hand, and stood with him on the battlement, looking down into a fair green valley.

It was beautiful, that valley. Yet he hardly saw it. His eyes were caught and held by what lay just below the walls.

A camp was pitched there, tents enough and fires enough for a fair army. There were horselines, though most of the horses grazed at liberty in wide pastures. Men watched over them, and tended campfires, and practiced exercises both mounted and afoot. He saw no idlers, though there were men sitting still, fletching arrows or mending shields.

He knew those men, those tents and that order of encampment. The rearguard of Charles' army camped below the walls of Carbonek. From the count of tents, the full ten thousand of them must have come through the battle in the pass, or near enough to make no matter.

“This is not possible,” he said, leaning on the parapet, gripping it till his fingers ached. “I saw what came against us. It was red slaughter.”

“That was all for you,” said Sarissa. “The others, he wanted for himself. Those forces of his were only sent to kill you. For the rest, they were herdsmen. These men were to pass through the gates of hell, and so be enslaved.”

He heard the ring of truth in her words. And yet his anger made his sight far too clear. It showed him another thing, a thing that set his heart in stone. “You, too. You wanted my king's army—and my king—to fight for you in whatever war you see before you. He escaped, didn't he? You didn't let him go. The enemy confounded you, even as you confounded him. You only won the rearguard because I was in it. He wanted me dead. You needed me alive. You sacrificed the van and the center, but won this much. Ten thousand Franks, mourned for dead. And still you let the Companions die. Why? Why could they not have lived, too?”

“We came too late,” she said. It sounded as if she honestly grieved—but he would not believe honesty of her. Not any longer. “We made all speed we could. First we had to shut the hellgate. And when we had done that—”

“That's why you couldn't tell me, isn't it? Because you needed the army. Not to conquer Spain. To come here. If you had needed me alone, you could have persuaded me to come. But to bring so many of my king's men—all of them, if you could—that needed a degree of treachery. Of deceit. Of—”

“You see clearly,” she said, “but your understanding is clouded.”

“What is there to understand but that you conspired to steal an army? If you had asked—if you had even begun to trust either me or my king—”

“We dared not,” she said. “The stakes were too high.”

“So high that you risked losing all at the last? Men are not children, my lady, nor animals, to do as they are told
without regard for their will or their wishes. You should have spoken with my king. You should have asked. He would have given himself gladly, if he had reckoned the cause just.”

“And if he had not?”

“He rode into Spain at the behest of an infidel Caliph. Do you honestly believe that he would refuse to aid your kingdom?”

“We could not take that risk,” she said. “We had to be certain. To take, and not to ask.”

“Then you are fools,” he said. “Arrogant, and fools.”

He turned his back on her. Anger built a wall between them, raised it high and guarded it well. Olivier was dead. Ten thousand Franks snatched away into captivity were no recompense. No, not even a hellgate broken and a king escaped. Olivier was dead.

He abandoned it all—grief, rage, even the bonds of flesh. In falcon's form, with falcon's spirit, he hurtled into the sun.

CHAPTER 36

“Y
ou should have told him,” Turpin said mildly. Sarissa unknotted her fists. Her palms ached and stung where the nails had pierced flesh. Her throat was tight. Still she managed to get the words out. “And have him do what he just did, before we had brought him here?”

“Olivier would have been a useful ally,” Turpin said. “It's an ill thing for you that he died.”

“We can't bring him back,” she said.

“Did I ask that?” He shook his head. He looked weary suddenly, worn with his own grief. “I know how close to death I was when I was brought here, and how far I had to come before I walked again in the daylight. Roland came farther still. The third of us had gone over the river. I would that I had gone in his place—for your sake and for Roland's.”

“No,” she said. “It was meant to be so. As ill as it seems, as grievous as it is, this is the gods' will.”

He raised a brow at her mention of gods, but did not question it, just then. “Suppose you tell me precisely what you need of Roland. Why you had to steal a royal army, and snatch it away by means both magical and secret.”

She leaned on the parapet. Her eyes looked out across the wide valley of Montsalvat, but they barely saw its green rolling fields or its deep woodlands. Trust came hard. He was an outlander and a Christian; and though the Grail
had belonged to his Christ, it was not a Christian thing. But she had failed once in failing to trust. “Come,” she said.

She led him through the castle. Rather deliberately, she took the long way about. He was no fool: he could well encompass the size and strength of the fortress, and the richness of its appointments. People of rank were few this day; most were out and about, performing duties and preparing for the war. Still there were servants enough, quiet and rather shy in the presence of a stranger, but watching him closely under cover of sweeping or scrubbing or standing guard. Many had never seen an unfamiliar face, still less a Frankish one. There was much chatter in the servants' quarters, she was sure, and she did not doubt that many of those she saw had no pressing need to be where they were just then.

She pretended not to see any of them. At length she came round to the long dim hall with its lofty vault. Shafts of sun slanted through the high louvered windows, casting bars of light upon the floor. Artisans out of Byzantium had laid that pavement long ago, a mosaic of wondrous work, glimmering with gold. Gold gleamed on the pillars and in the mosaics of the vault, images of glory and splendor: all the earth spread out on the floor, rising in trunks of trees and golden vines, up to the blue dome of heaven with its myriad stars.

Turpin's step faltered. His breath caught. Sarissa, who had known this hall for years out of count, paused to taste of his wonder. It was beautiful indeed. But they had not come to marvel at the great hall of Carbonek. She passed through it with him trailing slowly behind her.

He stopped again before the dais on which stood the throne. It was rather startling amid such splendor: a simple chair of wood that had gone dark with age. No jewel, no carving adorned it. All its beauty was its simplicity.

She opened the door behind the dais. The chamber beyond was empty, but its lamps were lit. The passage that led from it was deserted but illuminated, waiting for them to pass. It ended in another door and a stair winding steeply upward.

There was nothing here for Turpin to stare at, no beauty, no richness, only the bare plain stone. Yet for her there was more awe in this stark unornamented tower than in any
work of mortal hands. The great high singing thing before her was reaching, seeking, drawing her to itself.

She did not enter into its presence, but halted in the antechamber. Even there, its power thrummed in her bones.

This room had been bare once, a simple space for waiting, or for testing initiates before they came into the presence. Now it was furbished as a monk's cell, with narrow hard bed and wooden stool.

Nieve was attending the man on the bed. Sarissa breathed somewhat of a sigh of relief. Of the nine, Nieve was the eldest. Her sweetness and her calm strength had comforted Sarissa often and often; and so it did now, as she looked up smiling. “He sleeps,” she said in her gentle voice, “but he'll wake soon.”

Sarissa nodded. She would have loved to rest here, to know a few moments' peace, but there would be none of that until the war was over.

Nieve withdrew to the inner chamber—fortunate, to take that nourishment, to renew her body and spirit. Sarissa sat in the chair that she had left, and took the hand that lay slack upon the coverlet.

He had declined even in the day since she had taken her turn on watch. His hand was thinner, his skin more transparent. The bones of his face were stark, his eyes sunk deep. Yet there was no pain that she could see, and neither fear nor sorrow, only a deep peace.

Turpin's broad shadow fell across her. Beside the sleeper he seemed heavier and more bearish than ever. And yet, she thought, his eyes were clear and full of compassion. “Is that . . . ?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

He sank to one knee, half for comfort, half for awe. “He looks so young,” he said, “even so close to death. He looks—like—”

“Roland's foremother was his sister,” she said.

She watched Turpin understand the meaning of that. “So that's why—”

“Yes,” she said.

“But has he no sons—grandsons? No heirs?”

“Only one can be chosen,” she said.

Turpin tugged at his beard, frowning. She let him ponder at his leisure. He might mourn Olivier's absence and insist
that only Olivier could make Roland see reason, but she could well see why the gods had taken that one of the three, and left this big shambling man with his clear eyes and his swift mind.

The hand in hers did not move, but it changed slightly. Life had come into it, a little. She met the calm grey eyes of her king, and bowed her head in greeting and respect.

He smiled at her. “Little one,” he said, his voice the merest thread of a whisper—the old jest, the old endearment. “Why so troubled? He'll come back.”

“Are you sure of that?” she asked him.

He nodded. His hand tightened for a moment on hers. His gaze had shifted to Turpin. Turpin met it without fear. “My lord archbishop,” said the king of the Grail.

“My lord king,” said Turpin.

“You are welcome in Montsalvat,” Parsifal said.

“It is a great honor,” Turpin said, “and a great wonder, to wake from death into this kingdom.”

Parsifal's smile was almost wry. “So I said once, when I was young. Do you wish to see the Grail?”

Turpin blinked as if taken aback. Sarissa, who was accustomed to her king's directness, was somewhat disconcerted herself.

“I . . . doubt that I am worthy,” Turpin said after a moment.

“You may doubt,” said Parsifal. “The Grail cares nothing. Little one?”

Sarissa kissed his hand, laid it on the coverlet and rose. Turpin seemed astonished when she raised him to his feet. He was trembling. “I truly am not worthy,” he said.

“Do you fear that it will blast you for your sins?” She drew him forward. He did not want to come, but she saw to it that he could not resist her.

There was no great gate before them, no fanfare of trumpets. Only the stair and the door, and the white chamber beyond, round like the tower it was built in. There was the altar in its circle of clear light, and the shrine with its four winged guardians. Their eyes glittered as Sarissa entered with Turpin.

The Grail was singing softly in its shrine. Nieve knelt before it, deep in contemplation. Their presence disturbed her not at all.

Turpin had fallen to his knees just within the door. The trembling had left him. He looked as he must in battle, stern and still, but with a fierce light in his eyes.

Sarissa bowed before the shrine. Here always, all trouble left her, all doubts and fears. There was only the light and the singing, and the high white power of the Grail.

She opened the silver doors. The Grail was wrapped in its cloth that had been a Roman legionary's cloak: heavy wool well woven, red as blood. She lifted the cup from its wrappings, cradling it in her palms. It was as light as air and as heavy as the world, as it had always been. Sometimes it brimmed with blood, sometimes with light. Today it was full of blood-red wine, the sweet Falernian, wafting its scent through the gleaming air.

Turpin was rapt before the Grail. She brought the cup to him and set it to his lips. He drank as if in a dream. The Grail's singing was supernally sweet.

She did not drink from it herself. All the nourishment it could give, it gave her by its simple presence. She could feel it in her blood, in her flesh and bone. The burden of years slipped away. The weariness of grief, anger, guilt, all shrank and faded. The Grail brought healing; that was its gift and its power.

It healed her as it healed Turpin; as it had healed Roland, who had been near death. As it had lost power to heal Parsifal.

“I refuse it,” he said.

She had laid the Grail back in its shrine, and left Turpin kneeling there near Nieve, lost as she was in holy trance. Parsifal was awake still, drifting half in a dream, but rousing to Sarissa's presence.

“It's time for me to go,” he said. “The Grail would hold me to this life for a thousand years; but I was born and raised a mortal man. I was never meant to live the life of a god.”

“Is it a curse?” she asked, not precisely of him. “Amfortas also denied the Grail—though his cause was guilt and great shame, for the sin that he committed, and his betrayal of the oath that he had sworn. Are all the Grail-kings doomed to turn their backs on the power they serve?”

“There is a doom on us,” said Parsifal, “but so is there on all kings. With great power comes a great price.”

“That I know,” said Sarissa who was the chief of the ladies of the Grail. And who was older than this man, too, though perhaps not wiser. If she had been wise, she would not have lost Roland.

“Nothing is ever lost,” Parsifal said. He read her as easily as Roland had. Perhaps it was a gift of that blood. “When the archbishop comes out, gather your courage. Tell him the truth. It will armor him when the champion comes back—when we all face the consequences of your choice.”

Sarissa bore the rebuke in silence, as she should. “Shall I tell him everything, then? All of it?”

“All,” said the Grail-king.

“And if he rises up in revolt?”

“Then that is God's will,” said Parsifal. “Little one, you cannot make choices for all the gods. Sometimes they're bound to make their own.”

That was difficult. Sarissa was not certain she believed in it. But he was wiser than she. He always had been, even when he was a simple fool. She stooped and kissed his brow, pressed his hand to her heart, and left him to guard what strength he had.