Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn

  The youth ran out of the cave and threw stones after them, mocking them as he did so, then went back to kneel by the girl, pulling away the ragged clothing of skins and feathers, shocked by the wound he saw. Outside, the sea was still raging, the wind howling, but inside this place there was only calm, and the dying girl.

  ‘Has she gone?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the unnamed youth. ‘And I don’t think the Good Christ is in her heart, but only the dark lady of the crossroads.’

  ‘Hecate. Didn’t you recognise her? That was Vivyane. And Hecate flavours her bile.’

  He could hardly take his gaze from the blood on her breast. ‘I would think so. There was an old man with her, but when I looked at him I had a strange thought: that he is either a young man pretending to be old, or an old man who would be young, because as God is my witness, he seemed ageless and frightening.’

  ‘Merlin,’ the girl whispered. ‘He is training a new protégée. Vivyane. But he doesn’t trust her and would prefer to be instructing me, having met me at my father’s court, before it was destroyed. The protégée will not hear of it. She wants me dead. Merlin watches. Vivyane and I are pitted against each other in this cold-hearted young-old man’s scheme. And do not mention God in the same breath as his name, because it is Hecate’s Master that guides him, and all the Hounds of Hell.’

  She looked at the youth gently, her eyes still alive with light, though she was slipping into darkness.

  ‘My name is Issabeau,’ she said.

  ‘Well, well. Are you half boy, then?’

  ‘I am not!’ she chastised him as loudly as she could. ‘I was christened Yzabel. But I was called Issabeau by my parents, and now that they are both dead, I wish to remain as they thought of me, in that fond way, that softer name. And there is nothing of the boy in it!’

  ‘Issabeau it is.’

  ‘I’m dying of that young hag’s magic.’

  The youth glanced furiously at the sea beyond the cave. ‘She is dying of her own magic, though she doesn’t know it.’

  ‘You’re very confident, to condemn a sorceress so easily.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Issabeau, gently amused, ‘since it’s only bravado that makes you say what you say. But thank you for trying. And I hope you’re right. She didn’t manage to guess your name.’

  The youth sat back on his haunches, gazing through the mouth of the cave to the violent sea. ‘By the Virgin’s Prayers, she tried. She certainly tried. I felt her magic in my head. I felt stripped and beaten. I felt exposed and naked, with crows pecking at my eyes and ears and heart. The Cruel Saracen could not have inflicted more pain on me than did that hag as she sought my name.’

  Issabeau was impressed. ‘Then how did you hide it?’

  The youth stared at the girl for a long time, a twinkle in his eye. ‘There was nothing to hide, Issabeau. I was never named.’

  ‘Everyone is named.’

  ‘Someone was not! That someone was me. My father died before the name could be given.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘The truth of that is lost with my name.’

  ‘If he knew your name, then the name is still there, but in the heart of a dead man.’

  ‘The Good Christ Knows, Issabeau, I have clung to that hope. But there is a good reason to never find it. Five reasons, in fact.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Because I was not named, I was given five gifts.’

  ‘That’s generous giving.’

  ‘I agree. One gift for each limb: one each for my arms, one each for my legs …’ he stared at the girl, a mischievous look on his face. ‘And one for the smaller limb that is speaking to me even as I look at you.’

  Issabeau smiled knowingly and tossed a pebble at her companion. ‘Put winter in that limb! I’m still too young.’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll do my best. My very best. But as to the other gifts, the four that I can show you are as follows: that I can give back a life to one who has died. But this will cost me the strength of my right arm, which will be my sword arm, so it will be a gift given carefully.’

  ‘A wise comment.’

  ‘Secondly, I can give a kiss that will bring freedom. That’s my left arm gone, though I can live with that. Thirdly: I can hold the Holy Grail of Christ as long as I fast from all things physical while I carry it. My left leg is the price for this privilege, when it’s done.’

  ‘When it’s found!’

  ‘Indeed. But the Grail has to be somewhere in the heart of the land.’

  ‘But which land?’

  ‘Indeed. A wasteland, apparently.’

  ‘Among the many that we hear of.’

  ‘Some knight will find it. Some day.’

  ‘Much good may it do him.’

  ‘I agree. The knights I meet often wonder what will be done with the Grail once its hiding place has been revealed.’

  ‘Tales will tell, no doubt,’ said Issabeau. ‘And the fourth gift?’

  ‘I can confuse sorcerers as long as my True Name is lost.’

  ‘Amply demonstrated,’ said the girl. ‘Vivyane’s head will ache tonight!’

  ‘Indeed. But if I find my name, I lose a leg. So I think I’ll continue to confuse. And as regards courtesy, you can call me whatever comes to mind.’

  Issabeau sighed. ‘Since I’m dying, none of your gifts are of use to me except the first, the bringing back of life, and you should save that gift for a greater friend than me.’

  The youth smiled at her. ‘I will save that gift, though I have no greater friend than you at this moment. But the kiss will suffice, I think, and I’ll give it gladly.’

  He leaned down to Issabeau, pulled aside the tunic over her small breast to expose the bleeding wound from Vivyane’s staff. The blood was still flowing. He lapped at it, licked the wound, then put his lips against the torn edges, kissing fiercely.

  Issabeau watched him, then reached a finger to touch his glistening lips. ‘I feel stronger for that kiss.’

  ‘And I feel a chill in my left shoulder.’

  The left side of his body froze, became gleaming stone. They both marvelled at the transformation. Fingers flexed, wrist flexed, arm bent at the elbow, but this was a stone arm, now, white marble shot through with streaks of green and red; and yet he could feel with it, and was strong with it.

  ‘God’s Truth, by kissing you I’ve made myself invulnerable to attack from the left.’

  ‘That’s because the kiss was given gladly.’

  ‘It was a True Kiss.’

  ‘And stopped the wound to a True Heart.’

  The youth leaned towards Issabeau, his brow creasing with love and desire, his crimson, rose-bud mouth soft with need. ‘Issabeau, I feel so much older than I am …’

  ‘And soon you will be,’ she whispered, brushing her lips on his. ‘And that will be good for us both.’

  Then she pushed him back firmly, shaking her head, half smiling. ‘But for now, I think I’ll stay intact.’

  ‘Must you?’

  ‘Yes! I must! I wish I knew your name, though.’

  ‘It will find me soon enough, no matter how fast I run.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it will.’ She sounded forlorn. ‘And then you’ll be prey to Sorcerers.’

  ‘But the Good Christ is in my Heart, Issabeau. His Enduring Cross will be my strength! And no one can kill me from the left.’

  ‘Bravely said, stone-knight,’ murmured Issabeau. ‘And I think you must be of noble birth, with gifts such as yours; and also by your clothes and your confident look.’

  Suddenly she was fighting back tears. The boy put his arms around her and hugged her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hell has just drowned my mother and is on our tails. I will miss her dreadfully. She had such wisdom. This will be a desperate time.’

  ‘A desperate time indeed,’ said the youth. ‘But if Hell has taken her, Hell can give her back. I will do what I can for you to make her liv
e again, and protect you from Hell in the process!’

  * * *

  The seascape faded and I emerged from the dream, dizzy with the images and heady with the scent of salt air. There was a weight on my belly and I became aware that Issabeau was straddling me, her hands resting on my chest. My mouth ached from the prolonged contact that had induced the memory.

  She sat there, dark against the bright sky, staring down at me.

  ‘Did you see?’

  ‘Yes. What happened next? Between you and the youth?’

  She sighed. ‘We had different paths to follow. But we agreed to meet at the sea cave in a year’s time.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I was there. He was not. And I never found him again.’

  But in a way she had, I thought to myself.

  ‘Haven’t you found him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m confused because …’

  ‘Because of Someone son of Somebody? That proud Celt with his drooping moustache and golden hair?’

  ‘The barbarian,’ she said wistfully, repeating, ‘barbarian!’

  ‘But you think you recognise him. He’s a good few years older …’

  ‘He is not the same boy grown into a man!’ she insisted. ‘He is nothing like him. When I met him in Legion for the first time, I was frightened of him. Something about him was familiar. All I could think of was that it was Merlin, disguised to trap me. Or Vivyane, tricking me into complacency.’

  Her sudden look at me was innocent and lost.

  ‘But I am in love with him, and I feel I am betraying the Sea-Cave Boy I promised to find. Do you have an answer for me, Christian? Tell me what is happening to me!’

  ‘I have an answer,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  Issabeau’s body was tight against my loins and I was aroused and embarrassed. She wriggled on me, her fingers clawing at my breast, her eyes wide with anticipation.

  ‘But I think I should talk to Someone first,’ I went on. ‘I need time to think. And if Guiwenneth finds us like this …’

  ‘It will be bad for us both. I know. This isn’t love, Christian. It’s comfort. And very comfortable too. You make a good chair,’ she added with a mischievous laugh before rolling off me, standing and brushing at her clothing.

  I needed time to think.

  I hadn’t lied to her. How could I explain to her what was obvious to me: that she and Someone were part of the same story, but a story in two versions, hers from mediaeval France, his from a Celtic land hundreds of years before the Romans had conquered northern Europe, from before Christ, as she would have understood it. A story had been told generation after generation, and it had been adapted by the telling over fifteen hundred years.

  What would happen next? I had no way of knowing. But perhaps it could help the love between these two people if I could find out Someone’s version of events.

  Were these to be star-crossed lovers? Or would they live happily ever after? I was amused and alarmed by the thought. If the story they represented ended sadly, it would be too bad for them. But if one version of the story was agreeable, they would need to push themselves in that direction, as long as they stayed inside this forest.

  Distantly, a horn was sounding, but it came from the direction of the Long Person and not Legion. Issabeau shuddered noticeably.

  ‘We are close,’ she said. ‘You find Guiwenneth and the jarag. I’ll find Kylhuk.’

  Eighteen

  I found out quickly enough that the Long Person was a river, her ‘parted legs’ the place where twin streams joined, each flowing from the heart of the wildwood but bringing very different boats and travellers.

  In the months that I had journeyed with Kylhuk’s Legion, we had crossed many rivers. The Long Person was something different, however, and Issabeau, like all the enchanters, could ‘smell’ that difference since the river flowed not out of the hills of the world, but from the forgotten past of the world. And though Issabeau could not describe to me the smell of time, it was clearly something pungent and exotic to her, and that smell clung to the Scaraz, as it would soon cling to Legion.

  Issabeau, small staff in her mouth, transformed into a fast runner and went back to the garrison, urging me to be cautious as I probed onwards towards the river itself. She whistled for Someone, who answered from a distance. Guiwenneth was scouting elsewhere with the jarag and I tried to call for them.

  In the six months I had been marching with Kylhuk I had taken a turn at the Silent Towers, behind the column, watching that terrible darkness follow us, seeing men die by sword and spear and by unseen hands, or claws that snatched them into the black sky, shredding them like paper. There were always fires burning in that darkness, and to pass beyond the Silent Towers was to enter a realm of eerie sound, calls and cries, screams and howls, sounds that are beyond description, but which suggested primitive, angry language. And above all, the steady gallop of horses, an endless ride towards Legion, neither encroaching, nor receding, but someone keeping pace, the steady drumming of hooves, riders biding their time.

  I had spent time as well in the centre of the train, dispatched on several small quests.

  But in the end, something drew me back to the Forlorn Hope, and my companions from that first encounter. Kylhuk was certainly aware of the bond between us, and though Gwyr was often called away to help with interpreting the language of captives, or acquisitions to the garrison, the six of us worked well together, Issabeau and Jarag using magic as a defence against danger, Someone and I using brute force. I had taught Someone simple martial arts; he had taught me to use the leaf-blade sword, the shield, the chariot and the javelin. He didn’t believe in bow and arrow, a dishonourable weapon. Gwyr, of course, used his wits, his newly acquired trumpet, its mouth like a grinning bronze boar (which, though it sounded a piercing and terrifying bellow when used as warning, could also be played with delicacy, a sort of vertical horn with a range of seven or eight notes), and his speed – in retreat!

  No fool, Gwyr, but a shadowed man, often to be found alone, silent and melancholy, his cheeks glistening until a sleeve wiped the sheen away and a quick smile broke through his beard at the approach of a friend.

  It was Gwyr, now, who rode up behind me as I trotted along a rough track that had appeared within the greenwood, still calling for my companions. A river flowed ahead of me, out of sight, but not out of smell, though its odour was a familiar one to me from my boating trips along the Avon and the Thames.

  I heard his horse thunder towards me and turned defensively, relaxing as the Interpreter jumped from the bare back of his mount, hauling on the reins to stop it grazing as he led the animal across to me, his gaze over my shoulder.

  ‘Kylhuk is following,’ he announced. ‘Issabeau says this is the place …’

  ‘I can smell a river ahead of us. Issabeau told me she can smell time itself.’

  Gwyr was elated. ‘We’ve found her,’ he said in a delighted whisper. ‘The Long Person. Now it begins, Chris. Now it begins.’ And, with a quick glance at me, he added, ‘And for some, it ends.’

  We ran on, Gwyr’s horse trotting behind us, glad to be unburdened. The woodland opened out; the way ahead became dazzling with reflected light. Soon we came to the tree-fringed, gravel bank of the Long Person and gazed at the broad ribbon of water and the crowded forest on the far side.

  Gwyr looked to the left, towards the setting sun, to the source of the river where the forest was in gleaming, ruddy twilight. ‘That’s the direction we are headed. It will be hard rowing!’

  At that moment, the forest shifted, the land heaved, Gwyr’s steed reared in alarm. Legion’s outer wall had arrived and as we turned, the wildwood opened and Kylhuk himself galloped through. He jumped from his horse’s back, letting the beast walk free, reins dangling. He strode past me, prodding me painfully in the stomach.

  ‘You should have kept me company!’ he barked.

  Kylhuk had not broken his fast, except to eat an occasional fish, game-b
ird and loaf of bread, since his diet of plums had soon given him diarrhoea. But he was lean and hard, now, wearing nothing but a dull green war-kilt and a short cloak, pinned over his heart. His sword was slung from its belt across the other shoulder, and his sandals were Roman, taken from a corpse.

  He dropped to a knee on the gravel by the river’s edge, put his hand out and tentatively touched the flow, trailing his fingers for a while and looking thoughtfully upstream.

  Then he called to me.

  ‘Touch the water,’ he said as I crouched beside him. I obeyed and felt a strange flow of life from the fluid to my skin and up my arm, not a tingle, not a charge, but a breath of presence.

  Kylhuk extended his hand and I took it, and the river mingled in that grip, and there was a look in his dark eyes that I couldn’t fathom. ‘You have come a long way,’ he said to me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have come a long way too. Of all the tasks I was set, finding the Long Person was going to be the most difficult. Sailing her will be the most strenuous. What we achieve at her source will be the hardest. I had only the omens of my seers and Cleverthreads to get here: Issabeau could smell her; Ear son of Hearer could bury himself in the ground and hear her – he can hear an ant walk on a leaf when he is quiet like that – and Falcon died at the claws of the Scald Crow, ascending to let his Far Look gaze across this wilderness. All of them were right. And here we are.’

  ‘Here we are,’ I agreed. ‘What happens now?’

  He stood, slapped me painfully on the shoulder and barked, ‘We build a boat, of course. By Olwen’s Hands, you’re getting fat, slathan! You’re no good to me carrying such weight on your shoulders.’

  ‘If I knew the full meaning of the word, perhaps I’d agree with you.’

  He didn’t respond. He had told me only that a slathan was the ‘sharer of his burden’. He returned to his horse reached into a pouch and tossed me an apple, grinning before he rode furiously back into Legion.

  I had seen no boats in the garrison. I had assumed that a period of tree-felling, carpentry, nailing and rigging would now occur, but I was wrong. I had forgotten the carts and wagons. And indeed, as these vehicles were dismembered like wooden puzzles, and rearranged to form a wide-hulled, low-masted ship, even the wicker chariots were pressed into use, to form rowlocks, hatches and store-houses.