The Legend of the King (19 page)

"Initial gifts?" asked a quavering voice. It might have been Laudine.

"The gift you chose after your training," Ganscotter explained. "A love potion, a healing potion, or great beauty."

"Do you mean"—this time Luneta was certain it was Laudine—"that if we stay, we'll look
ordinary?
"

"You will look as you looked before your training," Ganscotter said, adding, "but older, of course." Laudine made a muffled quacking noise, but Ganscotter gave her no time to reply. Instead, he waved his arm at the great stone doorway again and said, "But you will
want
to look ordinary if you stay," he said. "Because this is what will happen to those accused of sorcery."

Again, the doorway turned black and images began to appear. Luneta saw crowds of screaming men and women dragging struggling figures toward gallows. She saw women tied to posts amid roaring fires. She saw men and women in dungeons, being stretched and torn on cruel racks, crushed beneath stones, and forced to drink poison. She saw women being mutilated by leering men in black robes, then weighted with stones and thrown into rivers.

Then the images ceased, and Ganscotter said, "For you, enchantresses, the danger of remaining is greatest of all. It doesn't matter if you use your powers only for good; in years to come, anyone who uses her powers at all will be subject to torture and death.

"And so, again, I say: it is time for you to leave."

For several seconds, no one moved. Then the green man whom Ganscotter had called Jack stood and said, "It's been a good home, and I've loved it. But time has its end. Where shall I go?" Ganscotter took him by the arm and walked him to the same structure through which they had seen the future. Jack stepped forward into the doorway and disappeared. A moment later, Piers and the young lady Ariel stepped through the gateway after him, followed by a young man who wore a heavy bearskin over his body and whose human head—if he had one—was concealed within the head of the bear. A slow but steady stream of Other-Worlders began shuffling forward, leaving this world for one where they would be safer. Luneta noticed several couples—mixed pairs, like her and Rhience—putting their heads together in urgent discussion, then joining the procession.

"Excuse me, Lord Ganscotter," called Ywain's clear voice.

"Yes, Sir Ywain?"

"You say that good magic has been withdrawn from this world as well."

"Much of it, yes."

"What does that mean for King Arthur?"

For the first time, Ganscotter's face lost its serenity, and a bleak expression took its place. "He will have to fight his battles by his own strength, and by the strength of those who stand at his side."

"Will he be victorious?"

Ganscotter did not reply, and Ywain said, "You've shown all these what will happen to them if they stay. Show us what will happen to the king."

Ganscotter shook his head. "Nay, Sir Ywain. I have only shown what
might
happen, not what
will.
What
will
happen always depends to some degree on your own choices. The future is never seen clearly, only in pieces, but I will show you what I can."

Then the enchanter waved his arm to where a different set of stones formed a gateway, and as before, the opening darkened and began to show different scenes, one following another in flickering succession. There were villages burning, then towns. A great castle—was it Camelot? Luneta wasn't sure—was torn down and left in rubble. A town filled with corpses—a small girl, perhaps three years old, gazing large-eyed at her father's and mother's dead bodies. A frantic nighttime fight on a beach. A field covered with slain soldiers. Then the images disappeared.

The procession heading through the gate to the Other World sped up. Now only a few were left at the Henge. One of them was Morgan, who hesitated and started for the doorway, but Ganscotter stopped her. "Lady Morgan, I have already asked much of you, but I wonder if you would stay with me for a while. You, alone, have a third choice."

Morgan looked severe, but she said, "As you wish, my lord," and walked over to stand beside the Lady of the Lake. Now only Ywain and Laudine stood with Luneta and Rhience.

"Come, Ywain," Laudine said, tugging at his arm.

Ywain shook his head. "I'm sorry, my love," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I have to go to Arthur."

"You might be killed!" she shrieked. Ywain nodded. Laudine's eyes grew hot. "This is just like you, with no thought for anyone but yourself! You heard what Lord Ganscotter said. I
can't
stay here!"

"My love," Ywain said slowly, "the man you married was a man of honor. What would you want with him if he threw his honor away?"

Laudine hesitated, and for a moment Luneta saw a glimpse of indecision in her eyes. At that moment, she saw a beautiful woman, but then the indecision was snuffed out. Laudine stamped her foot and said, "All right then!
Be
selfish!" and ran through the doorway into another world.

Ganscotter's eyes, as they rested on Ywain, seemed to hold equal parts of compassion and respect. Then he turned toward Luneta. "My dear?" he said, holding his hand toward the gateway.

"May I ask one question?" Luneta asked.

"Of course."

"That little girl we saw, the one standing by her dead parents: will she be all right?"

"That I cannot see," Ganscotter said.

Luneta stared at the ground. There had been so many people dead in the scenes that Ganscotter had shown them, but that little girl was alive.

Beside her, Rhience cleared his throat. "Er, do you think you could tell us how to find her, sir?"

Luneta caught her breath and looked up quickly into Rhience's face. "Do you mean—?"

Rhience grinned. "Of course I do, goose."

Ganscotter smiled, then dropped to one knee before them, bowing his head with reverence. "It would be my honor to serve you, my lord and my lady."

Guinglain's hermitage was silent, which normally would have been fine with him. The little forest clearing usually echoed with the shouts of children at exhausting play, which was an excellent noise in its own way, but was still noise. Some days Guinglain felt as if he would do anything for an hour of silence. Today, though, the silence was heavy and oppressive. Three days before, word had come to the nearby village that the White Horsemen were heading their way, and all had fled into hiding. Guinglain sighed. He preferred the silence that meant the presence of God to the silence that meant the absence of joy.

He had just settled himself in a chair in a sunny spot—taking advantage of the goodness and warmth that no army could frighten away—when a man rode out of the trees and stopped in the yard. He was a large man on a massive horse, and although he wore a penitent's hair shirt, Guinglain easily recognized him as one of King Arthur's knights. Guinglain had visited Arthur's court at Camelot once, before he had settled down to a hermit's life, and though he didn't remember this knight's name, he knew the face. Rising, Guinglain stepped forward and said, "Good morning, sir knight."

"How do you know I am a knight?" the rider replied.

Guinglain chuckled. "It occurred to me that a fishmonger might not be riding a warhorse." The knight's rigid expression relaxed, and he bowed in acknowledgment. "Besides," Guinglain went on, "I've seen you before. You're Galahad's father, aren't you?"

The knight blinked. "I am. But how did you know that?"

"I'm a friend of Galahad's—was with him when he appeared at court, in fact, and when he left this world, too," Guinglain explained. "I was younger then, going by the name Beaufils."

Sir Lancelot nodded. "I remember. 'Fair Son.' You were looking for your father, as I recall. Did you find him?"

"Every day," Guinglain replied, smiling. "Now I live here, in this hermitage, under my true name: Guinglain."

Sir Lancelot's eyes brightened, and he dismounted. "Are you a holy man?" he asked.

Guinglain chuckled. "You do realize what a silly question that is, don't you?"

Sir Lancelot looked confused. "No, I ... why do you say silly?"

"There's no answer. If I say 'yes, I am a holy man,' then I've just proven I'm not. No one who
is
holy believes it of himself; no one who believes it of himself really is."

"Oh," Sir Lancelot said, puzzling over this. "I only wondered if you are the hermit here, at this sanctuary. You're wearing a monk's cowl, after all."

"That one's easy, anyway. Yes, I'm the hermit here."

Immediately, Sir Lancelot knelt at Guinglain's feet. "Brother Guinglain, I am on pilgrimage. I seek absolution from my sins."

Guinglain nodded. "All right, you're forgiven."

Sir Lancelot looked up, startled. "But you haven't heard my confession yet."

"Must I? God accepts all repentance, no matter what the sin. So it doesn't really matter. Now if you'd done something bad to
me,
that would be different. Then it would be best for you to tell me your sin. But you haven't, have you?"

"My sin was against King Arthur and against God."

"Well, have you spoken to both of them about it?"

"Er, yes," Sir Lancelot said. Guinglain raised his eyebrows and waited. Sir Lancelot frowned. "But that is too easy."

Guinglain sighed. "Forgiveness
is
easy. The hard thing is convincing people of that. Men have such high opinions of their own sins, you see."

Sir Lancelot looked grave. "But my sin is indeed vile beyond that of most men."

With an effort, Guinglain kept from smiling. He didn't think it would be well received. Instead he said, "Really? For my part, I've found sin to be rather routine, even boring. Now, being righteous—that requires imagination! But sin? It's a dull business."

Sir Lancelot considered this, then nodded. "I perceive that you may indeed be a holy man," he said at last. "But still I must confess. I've taken a vow. Because of my sin, I must travel through England, confessing to every holy man I encounter, then I must leave England forever."

"All right," Guinglain said, returning to his chair. "If you said you would do it, then you must."

Sir Lancelot bowed his head. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

Guinglain decided not to tell Sir Lancelot that he wasn't a priest, that he had just settled in an empty hermitage to lead a life of simplicity and prayer and had no official status in the church. Sir Lancelot needed to talk, and Guinglain didn't mind letting him.

"My sin goes back twenty years," Sir Lancelot began. "I was a young knight, newly arrived at King Arthur's court, determined to be the greatest knight ever. I sought glory and fame and applause from men. And women. I hoped to make the most beautiful woman in England my lady, as an ornament to my knighthood."

Sir Lancelot paused, as if waiting for a response, so Guinglain said, "That
was
very bad of you, wasn't it?"

Sir Lancelot shook his head. "I haven't gotten to my sin yet."

"You were trying to glorify yourself, and you were willing to use others to do so. You don't consider that a sin?"

"I ... yes, it was, wasn't it? In fact, I suppose that was the little sin that led to my great sin."

"Then it wasn't so little, was it?"

Sir Lancelot shook his head and gave Guinglain a speculative look, as if wondering what sort of priest he was. Guinglain remained silent, and after a moment Sir Lancelot went on. "So I seduced the most beautiful woman in England. For many years, I carried on an illicit love with the wife of King Arthur."

Guinglain felt a heavy sadness descend on him. He had met the king and queen once, and he remembered them with fondness.

"Because of our betrayal, King Arthur was driven to sin himself, and he conceived a son who now threatens the kingdom."

"Mordred," Guinglain said softly. He had met the young man years before and well remembered how Mordred's soul glowed with hatred.

"You know him?" Sir Lancelot asked. Guinglain nodded. "Do you still think my sin ordinary?"

"Nothing is more ordinary than vanity and lust," Guinglain replied. "But I'll grant that yours were ... badly placed." He extended his right hand and laid it on the kneeling knight's head. "But you've been forgiven, you know. Lift your chin."

Sir Lancelot raised his eyes and met Guinglain's gaze. Guinglain tried to will strength from his own soul to the knight's. He didn't know if that ever worked, but he didn't think it would hurt. At any rate, after a moment, Sir Lancelot blinked, then stood. "You are an extraordinary holy man," he said at last. "I wish I could spend more time with you."

Guinglain smiled. "Shall I go with you? It sounds agreeable to me, too. I'm at loose ends just now, since all my neighbors have run away from the White Horsemen."

"The White Horsemen?"

"Should arrive tomorrow, I understand."

"And you're still here?"

"I didn't have anywhere else to go. Now I do. I'm going on pilgrimage with you. Just a minute while I saddle my mule. You don't mind mules, do you? Clover's not very pretty or very sweet tempered or very comfortable, but I love him."

They rode north, at first choosing trails through dense forests and swamps so as not to cross paths with the White Horsemen. They passed through stretches of England that had been plundered and left in ruins and other areas that were untouched, in which the inhabitants lived in contented ignorance of the war that surrounded them. On the third day, they came to their second holy man, a rosy-cheeked priest who lived beside a country church far off the main roads. Father Balimbus was bluff and good-humored and welcomed them to his stone cottage. He insisted on showing them his garden and serving them a cup of hot cider before letting them explain the purpose of their visit. Lancelot said, "I am on a pilgrimage, fulfilling a vow."

"Lovely!" Father Balimbus exclaimed. "A gentleman's word is his bond, what?"

"What?" asked Lancelot.

"A gentleman's word is his bond!"

"No, not that. You said 'what.' What did you mean?"

"What? Oh, what! It's just what you say, what?"