Gawen wondered what had happened to the Agravaine who had been awed by the king. The Agravaine who was the kings own man.
His mother has happened to him, Gawen thought suddenly. He wants to please her more than he wants to please Arthur. Gawen wondered what this said about power and who controlled it now, and worried that there was no way to tell Merlinnus immediately.
“To the beauteous Morgause, mother of sons and dowager queen of the north,” Arthur said, his cup held high.
A low murmur fluttered around the room, which was almost—though not quite—a protest, as if some of the knights did not want to praise the North Queen. Then everyone drank down a draft as a toast. They drank not so much to the queen—whom most hated and feared in equal measure—but because their king asked for it. And because the beautiful cooing women among them seemed to be demanding it, too.
Morgauses sons drank to her as well. Agravaine, with his stolen cup, and the twins, sharing a single vessel. Gawaine—who sat far from any of the May Queens—drank, too, though he did not look happy at the thought of the toast.
Of all in the room—king, mage, princes, waiting women, boys, servers, and servants—only Gawen did not drink to the queen’s health. Gawen no longer had a cup to drink with.
33
Curses
THAT NIGHT, everyone in the castle slept deeply and with a single dream, a dream of the North Queen sitting behind the High King’s great throne.
All slept except Morgause, who got up, leaving her five waiting women abed. Draping a red cloak across her shoulders, she crept down the stairs and into the courtyard. There she stood, gazing at the stone with its sword pointing hilt upward toward the stars, saying nothing and making no sound.
All in the castle slept more deeply still, and with a single dream, now a dream of King Lot astride the High King’s throne, his bones showing through his skin.
All slept except Gawen, who alone had not drunk the toast because of the goblet Agravaine had taken from him, along with his trencher. So Gawen alone of Cadbury had not been ensorcelled by the magic potion that had been poured into the Malmseyn by one of the cooing women at the behest of her queen. A potion that, as it was only a deep-sleeping draft, had not been deflected by Merlinnus’ vast protection spell.
Standing rock still, hidden in a doorway across from the churchyard, Gawen watched as Morgause went around and around the stone, looking at it from every conceivable angle. She stood on tiptoe and crawled on her knees. She examined the stone top and bottom, side to side.
Twice she put her hand out toward the hilt of the sword as if preparing to pull it out herself. Twice she drew her hand back. The third time, she dared. But when her hand touched the hilt, sparks flew up, bright embers of magic, and she could not take hold.
“Well, well, well,” she said, loud enough for Gawen to hear her.
Then she picked up the cloth that Gawen had dropped and wiped her right hand with it. Scrubbed away at her palm, as if to erase any of the mage’s fire there. Finally, she held out that hand and something snaked from her fingers, some dark nimbus, some twisted, smoky thing. It curled up and over the stone, crawled to the sword, embraced the hilt, erased for a moment the runes along its face. Then it ran along the underside, the sharp edge of the blade, as if trying to blunt the thing. But the blade held its edge, and the smoke was halved, cut in two, lengthwise.
At the cut the North Queen shivered and let out a cry, like some small animal—a coney or a shrew. She lifted her hand higher, and the smoke reformed, left the blades edge, crept down from the stone, and crawled up the front of her black dress till it found her hand again. There it settled and disappeared into her palm.
All this Gawen saw but was careful not to move or to make a sound. And the queen was so sure of her magicks that she did not think anyone was awake to watch, so she did not look around to see. Instead she did a strange little dance, a kind of dark exaltation, her arms waving over her head, and her feet drumming the ground. Then she turned and went back into the keep.
Watching still, Gawen saw triumph and exhaustion warring on her face and wondered which one would win.
WAITING UNTIL the queen was many minutes gone, Gawen finally ran up to the tower room, boots off so there would be no noise.
The old man was still asleep.
Plucking a candlestick from the table and lighting the beeswax candle from the embers of the hearth fire, Gawen went over to the mage’s pallet and stared down at him. Merlinnus was never such a quiet sleeper. Normally the old man snorted and sighed and snored throughout the night; he kicked off his coverlet and drooled.
Either Merlinnus was ensorcelled, or he was dead. Gawen touched the old man’s hand.
It was warm.
Not dead, then.
So Gawen backed carefully through the door and ran down the stone stairs to the king’s chamber, expecting any minute to be challenged.
But the guards were asleep on their feet, and as deeply as the mage had been, like characters in a children’s tale. Gawen passed the candle before their closed eyes. Pinched their cheeks. Tweaked their noses. Still they did not move.
“Forgive me, sire,” Gawen whispered, and pushed through the chamber door. The terrible groaning of the hinges wakened neither the standing guards nor Arthur, asleep on his canopied bed.
Going over to the bed, Gawen held the candle over the king’s face. Arthur’s sandy hair was ashen in the light, his cheeks the color of carved stone. The shadows the candle threw made him look as if he lay on a draped catafalque, hands crossed over his broad chest, ready for a king’s funeral.
Gawen passed a finger beneath Arthur’s nose, reassured by the breath of life there. Yet not fully reassured. Arthur stilled was not Arthur, for his power lay in movement, his beauty in the mobility of his face. Without motion he was a stranger.
In this bed, in this light, Gawen thought, he looks... ordinary. It hurt to think so, for Gawen had known, from the moment of meeting the king, that Arthur was anything but ordinary. That he was larger than life. That he was life itself. And that to serve him, to be part of his story, was to be in both a whirlwind and a safe harbor, at one and the same time.
Yet here Arthur was, dreaming what everyone else was dreaming. At least that was what Gawen guessed. And if one dreams what every man dreams, that is the very definition of ordinary.
“What should I do?” Gawen whispered to the sleeping stranger. “If this were not magic, I would shake you and you would wake and ask me what I was doing in your chamber. I would tell you of the queen’s treason, and you would leap from the bed and grab up your sword and strike her head from her shoulders.” Gawen was not certain of this last. Arthur had too good a heart to strike without warning, certainly not to strike a woman. He was known to be a just king, a kind man, and honorable. There would surely be a trial, a wise judgment on the kings part; possibly Morgause would be put into a prison, in a nunnery perhaps. She would hate it there, of course, which would be the point.
“But this is magic,” Gawen went on. “And I do not know if this enchantment needs a potion, a powder, a spell, or...” A small hesitation. “Or a kiss to end it.”
The king slept on.
His guards slept on.
Gawen stood, candle in hand, watching over the sleeping king till the first cock crowed. At the sound, Arthur suddenly began to stretch and mutter. Gawen blew out the stub of the candle and raced from the room, leaving a tail of smoke behind.
GAWEN RAN BACK up to the tower where Merlinnus, too, was waking.
“Magister...”
Merlinnus stared at him, muzzy and unfocused. Then, when the wizard was wholly awake, the whole nights adventure tumbled from Gawen’s lips.
The old man was strangely unmoved by the story. “Only a sleeping potion? That makes no sense,” he stated bluntly. “And am I not awake? Is not the entire castle awake? No, boy, what you have seen is the triumph of my protection spell. As to the deep sleep, why, we just drank too much wine last night and
celebrated too much, and far too long and...” He rubbed his hand over his white cockscomb hair and held out a hand that trembled like a leaf in the fall.
“But, Magister, celebrated what?”
“Why, we celebrated...” Merlinnus stopped, looking puzzled. Then he shut his eyes firmly. “I must be getting old.”
“Too old to remember, Magister?” Gawen asked. The shuttered eyes snapped open and they were an icy blue. “Too old to recognize an ensorcellment when it lies as heavy on my shoulders as a besom’s shawl,” the mage said. He went to his cupboard and brought out a vial of a green liquid. Holding his nose, he gulped the contents down noisily, then went over to the slops closet, where he knelt by the basin. “Boy,” he whispered hoarsely, “the gods were right to send you here.”
“Which gods do you mean?” Gawen asked mischievously.
Not having retched up the liquid, Merlinnus stood, then ran a hand down his robe to smooth it out. “All of them.” He snapped his fingers and his hair fell back into place without need of a comb. “Come, boy, we have much work to do.”
“Again,” Gawen said, but was quietly delighted that the old man seemed to have recovered his wits and his humor.
34
Confessions
THEY HAD JUST begun to gather the proper herbs from the cupboard—much mugwort and rowanberry juice—when they were interrupted by the king’s entrance.
“By the gods, Merlinnus, I slept well. And I am minded to do what we discussed last night.” Arthur looked hearty enough and his eyes seemed bright, even overbright, but Gawen could not forget the vision of the dead king on the catafalque.
“And what was that, my king?” the old man asked carefully.
“Why, that I make Morgause queen.”
Ignoring Gawen’s gaping mouth, Merlinnus said carefully, “She is already a queen, my lord.” The old man’s face looked as if it had been set in stone. “She needs nothing of your making.”
“Do you mean a May Queen, sire?” Gawen asked, gaping jaw closed at last. “Like the list the men gave you.”
“I mean my queen!” Arthur said. “As she was Lot’s.”
“You cannot,” Merlinnus told him.
Arthur’s face got dark, his brows beetling. He did not look like the king Gawen knew. “I can do anything I wish, old man. Have you not made me the High King of Britain?”
“A king who does not know his ancestry.” Merlinnus reminded him, then pursed his lips. “How would you know you are not marrying... a cousin?” His voice got low and hard. “Or a sister?”
Arthur threw his head back and roared with laughter. “You listen to too many ballads from the Continent, Merlinnus. Morgause and I are old friends, that is all.”
And older enemies, Gawen thought.
“First things first, Arthur,” Merlinnus cautioned. “The sword. The stone.”
“Ah, yes,” Arthur said, “and the lady after.”
Long after.
WHEN AT LAST the king left, Gawen said, “You did not mention the North Queens sorcery.”
Merlinnus shook his head. “What good would it have done with him still bespelled? He would have put me aside, not her. No, boy, I have a much more difficult job ahead of me than I thought.”
“Can I help?”
Merlinnus ruffled Gawen’s fair hair. “You will have to. I have no other I can trust.”
“Will it take magic?”
Nodding, Merlinnus said, “Magic and diplomacy. I have the first—and you must have the second.”
Something like a chill ran down Gawen’s backbone. “What makes you think I have such skills?”
“I have been watching you carefully,” Merlinnus said. “So now I will send you to speak to Gawaine that we may know his mind.”
“Not Gawaine, Magister. He is the queens son.” Gawen’s voice was curiously flat.
“And the very reason we must seek him out.” The old man had turned and was washing his hands in the basin, drying them on his wrinkled robe.
“Can we not start elsewhere? With the king perhaps? I can always speak to the king.”
Merlinnus turned and stared at Gawen. “The king? Whatever for? He is clearly bespelled and will not believe. At the worst, he will take a dislike to you and send you away.”
“But Gawaine—”
“Now, now, he is not like his brother, that hard-hand Agravaine,” Merlinnus said. “Are you afraid of that one? If so, you have every right to be. Agravaine is a bully and a coward, a combination that is difficult to combat. He needs to be ruled by power, of which you have none. But Gawaine is different. He is a kind young man, courteous, and never willful. He is the perfect knight. It is often remarked upon at court, but I see it to be true.”
Going pale, Gawen took a step back, trying to think what to say, but Merlinnus had suddenly stopped speaking. His eyes became slits and his head moved forward. He looked for all the world like an old turtle intent on a fly. “But you mentioned something about Gawaine that very first day we met. What was it?”
Gawen looked down, not able to meet the mages eyes. “It was nothing, Magister.”
“Nothing is usually something,” the old man mused. “Especially with boys your age.” He pulled at his beard, then looked up and snapped his fingers. “I remember! You said, ‘Fearless at least with the ladies’ and called him ‘Gawaine, the Hollow Man.’ And not long ago, before he went out hunting with Gawaine, you cautioned the king about him. Said you knew him from some other time or place.”
“There is certainly nothing old about your memory, Magister,” Gawen said sourly.
“Ah, yes, but something is very wrong with you, my lad.”
Gawen’s face was suddenly shuttered.
“You have a connection with Gawaine, more than the simple conjunction of your names. I have thought so before and I will have it now. Out with it.”
Gawen’s face was now not only shuttered but locked and bolted as well.
“Tell me,” Merlinnus said, leaning toward him and holding up a forefinger to draw Gawen’s eye. “What is your connection with Prince Gawaine?”
Gawen tried to look away and could not. “He... he...”
“Go on.” The mage’s voice was soft, cozening.
“He...” Gawen stopped, though it was painful to do so.
“Go... on.” This time there was steel in the mage’s voice.
“He... compromised my sister, Mariel, Magister. He took her love and then left. Without a reason why.” Gawen’s voice cracked on the final word.
Merlinnus did not smile, but something like a twinkle shone in his eye. “And so that is the reason you came here to learn to be a knight? To challenge him?”
Gawen nodded.
“Did you know, before the king told you, how long any such lessons would take?”
Gawen nodded miserably. “I knew it.”
“And were willing to spend that much time?” He put his finger down, as if realizing there was no need to bewitch Gawen.
“Willing to spend my whole life if need be,” Gawen said.
“Or all of his,” Merlinnus added.
“You did not see her face, Magister. You did not hear her cries in the night. Every night for weeks and weeks. You did not see her wasting away, her beauty eaten by grief and a splattering of boils, till she who had been lovely was loathly to look at.” Gawen’s own face looked pocked by the memory.
“So when you met me, you considered that magic might be faster than a sword,” Merlinnus said. “Though perhaps not as satisfactory.”
Gawen nodded.
“When did you know?”
“When you called me yours.”
“So that is why you have become the perfect mage’s apprentice.”
Gawen nodded again. “Though I do it now for the king as well as my sister.”
Merlinnus set his forefinger on Gawen’s forehead and whispered in a dire voice, “And what kind of magic would you learn with a heart set on such destruction?”
Gawen closed
both eyes. Tears squeezed out. How can I say the words? The words Merlinnus wants? Blacky magic.
“I am sorry, Magister.”
“No sorrier than I, my boy,” said Merlinnus, and clearly meant it from the very depths of his heart.
For a minute neither of them spoke, then, voice breaking, Gawen said, “I will speak to Gawaine, Magister. Today.” There was an agonizing pause. “But tell him what?”
“Tell him that his mother has bespelled the king.” Merlinnus said it bluntly.
“Will he believe me?”
“He knows his mother,” Merlinnus said. “He will believe.”
GAWEN WORRIED all that day how to effect a meeting with the North Queens son, but there never seemed a time when Gawaine was alone. Either he was surrounded by friends, by brothers, or was shadowed by Hwyll, who hovered over him like a hen with chicks.
Since it was the day before the Solstice Eve, the halls of the castle were filled with busy servants and bustling tradesmen, and out in the forecourt and down in the village it was the same. Merchants had come from miles around to set up their stalls for the Solstice fair.
A cart of traveling players was preparing an entertainment, and several musicians were already blowing and sawing away at their instruments.
Gawen followed Gawaine and his friends around for hours as they teased the girls and dropped coins in the musicians’ caps and helped carters unload their wares. When at last the friends had departed, and the other sons of Lot were off squabbling at dice, and Hwyll was dancing attendance on Morgause herself, it was already night.
And Gawaine was suddenly nowhere about.
Gawen searched the keep high and low looking for him, from Merlinnus’ tower down to the kitchens and back again. He asked Cook, who grunted an answer that was less than helpful.