On his way back from the stables Galahad met Sir Brastias in the corridor. That noble knight, who had spent the winter snugged down with his bride or bent over his scrolls, looked suddenly ten years younger. His step was springy, his color fresh, his smile benevolent.
“Well, well, Knight of the Shield! Good day to you. Your handsome horse must be quite recovered now.”
“Yes, thank you, Sir Brastias. He is. I don’t need to ask how you do. Yours is the only even temperament in all of Dunpeldyr.”
Brastias laughed and slung an arm around his shoulders. “I’m a young man today, Galahad! You’re a man of discretion—I’ll tell you why. My lovely wife has just told me she’s with child! My child, Galahad! Can you imagine it? I feel like an emperor this morning!”
Galahad congratulated him because he obviously expected congratulations, but he did not understand the older man’s joy. He wondered what Kynor would think of it.
“Come with me,” Brastias said suddenly. “I’ll show you a room of wonders, right here in Dunpeldyr.” He began walking toward a spiral stair at the end of the passage, pulling Galahad along with him. “Valvan gave me the keys to this room during the first snowstorm. Why he keeps it locked is beyond me, but without books I promise you I should have gone mad cooped up here this long winter.”
“Valvan has books?”
Brastias laughed. “I was surprised, too. He has no use for them, of course. He believes everything he needs to know he can learn by doing himself. When he took over Dunpeldyr he piled all the books and old belongings of his predecessors into this one storeroom, locked it shut, and forgot about it.”
They came to a small, curved door halfway up the tower and Brastias struggled with a great iron key. “There’s a lot of junk,” he said, pushing the door open and beckoning Galahad to precede him, “but some of the scrolls are priceless. He told me to help myself to whatever was here. Perhaps you’d like to do the same.” He smiled again, that wide smile of joy. “It’s a day for sharing.”
The room was small, with curved walls and a round window facing east. The morning sun, still low in the sky, lit the small space like a beacon. Every dust mote, every cobweb stood out in bright detail. Trunks, boxes, sacks, and piles of junk lay everywhere. Dust lay thinnest on two old trunks closest to the door, and it was to these that Brastias led him.
“See?” He lifted the lid of the nearest one. “All the classics are here! Virgil, Ovid, Tacitus, Cicero, Herodotus, Homer, Plato, to name just a few. Histories, metaphysics, poetry, politics, books on healing, on magic, on mathematics! With these added to my library at Castle Noir I shall be the wealthiest man in all Britain!”
Galahad surveyed the piles of discarded boots, coils of rotting rope, rusted weapons, and broken crockery that littered the floor. He moved closer to the window, peered into a loosely bound sack, saw only a bundle of old, stained clothes, and knelt down to a small chest which lay full in a shaft of sunlight. Besides being smaller than the others, this chest was bound with an iron strap etched with strange runes along the top, and locked. “What’s in here?”
“That? I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far. It’s taken all winter just to read my way through these. Go on and open it up. Perhaps there’ll be some clue to its owner. For the life of me I can’t imagine who collected this treasure. None of the kings of Lothian in my lifetime has even been able to read. Nor did they employ scholars. Use your dagger. I tell you, Valvan has no interest in any of these things.”
The lock was brittle with age and rust, and yielded to the persistent pressure of Galahad’s dagger. Sir Brastias came over as he swung the lid up and peered inside. There appeared to be only one object within, wrapped in oilcloth: a thick collection of parchments, cut square and pressed flat between two heavy squares of leather, all of it sewn together along one side so that everything lifted out as one.
Brastias took it gently from Galahad’s hand. He lifted one edge of the leather cover and fingered the separate pages with great care.
“What is it?” Galahad wondered.
“I don’t know. But look! There’s writing on every parchment. It’s a woman’s hand, I believe. These are recipes, yes, and chants. Directions for . . .” Brastias looked up, and his voice rose in pitch. “These are spells! My God, Galahad, this is the property of an enchantress! Do you know what that means? There was ever only one witch in Lothian worth the name, and she’d have had access to the king’s house—Morgause, King Lot’s wife. King Arthur’s sister!” He began thumbing through the pages, reading quickly. “Most of it’s in Latin, but some of it’s in a tongue I do not know. Aye, here’s the spell against seasickness. That’s fairly harmless.”
“Will you add it to your library?”
Sir Brastias shuddered. “Heavens, no. Morgause was a mistress of the black arts. I’m not interested in her kind of power.”
Galahad turned back to the chest. It was not empty, after all. Something long and dark lay at the bottom. He lifted it out carefully. It was an ancient leather scabbard, cracked and dry, the stitching that held it together half rotted away. But as he held it across his hands in the brilliant light, a queer feeling of awe stole over him and he sat back on his heels, staring at it.
“Look at this,” Brastias said softly, absorbed in his reading. He pointed to a scrawled verse beneath a set of symbols. “This is her curse for barrenness. Look at the name at the bottom. It’s for Queen Guinevere.” His voice began to tremble. “Is it possible the Witch of Lothian was responsible for that poor woman’s fate? It makes sense, doesn’t it? Since Queen Guinevere bore the King no children, he made Mordred his heir. Mordred, his only son, who was his doom. Mordred the bastard, begot on Morgause herself. She stood to gain so much if Guinevere did not bear! My God, Galahad! Do you see what this means? We have uncovered the root cause of the whole disaster.”
But Galahad did not hear him. His head was spinning with rhymes and his eyes could see nothing but blazing light. One is empty . . . One for fighting . . . In shadow, in light . . . The thing in his hands was empty, but he could almost feel the weight of the living blade it had sheathed and protected for so many years.
“Sir Brastias.” Galahad looked up, dazed. “What do you know about the King’s sword, Excalibur?”
He did not speak loudly but something in his voice stopped Sir Brastias cold at the height of his excitement.
“That it was Maximus’s sword which Merlin found for Arthur and fixed in the stone of Lludyn’s Hill by magic arts so that none but he who was rightwise born King of all the Britons could pull it out. Also, that it disappeared at Arthur’s death.”
Galahad nodded slowly. “And what do you know of the scabbard which held it?”
“Why, that it was made for the sword by the Ancients themselves, who were on friendly terms with Maximus then. They wove their power into it, and so long as the king wore it, no blade could touch him in battle. Had Maximus taken it with him to Rome, he might have triumphed, who knows? But he was drunk on his own successes by that time and had a jeweled scabbard made to take on that campaign.”
“What happened to the old one?”
“It was buried with the sword, I believe. And raised with the sword from the stone. Arthur wore it during the Saxon wars. But afterward, in the years of peace . . .” Brastias stared at him blankly. “I’ve no idea. I’m not sure anyone knows. It just disappeared.”
Galahad lifted up his hands so he could see the cracked leather sheath. “This is it.”
Brastias opened his mouth to protest, then came closer and peered at the leather. Symbols had been burned into the scabbard along its length. Even in the strong light they were barely discernible.
“Runes!” he whispered. “Wait . . . let me see . . . this one is for strength . . . here is eternity . . . faith . . . kingship . . . protection . . . and here, my God, here it is: ‘To the One Unconquered’.” He stared at Galahad. “That was Arthur’s epithet. He was the only unconquered king.”
Galahad nodde
d.
“Of course!” Sir Brastias cried. “His witch-sister stole it from him. Should he fall in battle, her son would become High King. And she so nearly succeeded, for Arthur didn’t have it to take to Autun against the Romans!”
Sir Brastias trembled violently, but Galahad was filled with a serene calm. He rose, holding the scabbard carefully.
“I have found what I came to Dunpeldyr to find.”
23
DINAS BRENIN
Lady Niniane, Queen of the River Isles and former high priestess of Avalon, once the most powerful woman in Britain during her years as King Arthur’s chief advisor and Lady of the Lake, paced back and forth across her chamber in ill-controlled impatience. Her pale face still retained the lineaments of beauty. Her dark hair showed not a single strand of gray. Her bearing had lost none of its arrogance, her personality none of its force. She paused once in her pacing to pick up the bright green crystal on her worktable, polish one of its facets, and set it impatiently down.
“Where is that good-for-nothing dwarf? What can be taking him so long? Hurry, Naceyn! They are coming and we must be ready for them!”
She strode to the window and gazed out at the river, swollen and churning brown with the spring flood. They were coming, those two wandering boys; they were nearly within the reach of her power. She resisted the temptation to go down to the still pool and call up their images once more. They couldn’t be more than ten leagues closer than they had been at dawn, when she had seen them last. In another five days, if they kept heading west, they’d be in Guent and within her grasp at last. Three years! What in the Goddess’s name could they have been doing for three interminable years so far from Wales? What could have driven that tormented son of Lancelot out of Gwynedd without her knowing? She smiled bitterly. Time was, her power could have reached across the length of Britain to find him and draw him back.
Angrily she turned and strode back across the chamber, nearly colliding with a small, squat figure who came in at the door. “Naceyn!”
The dwarf bowed low. “Lady Niniane. Your servant.”
“It’s about time. What kept you?”
“Beg pardon, lady. I came as swiftly as I could.” The little man had silver hair and a silver beard, and blue eyes made for laughter. But he did not laugh now. He kept his large head demurely bowed and watched her from the corners of his eyes. She was always chancy to cross, but in these moods even her smiles were dangerous.
“I sent for you because the time is upon us—nearly past, unless your donkey has wings. Galahad and Percival are in Logris and heading west. In five days they’ll be here.”
Naceyn’s silver eyebrows shot up. “Here, my lady?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Galahad would never come here of his own will. That’s why I need you: to bring him here. In five days they’ll be in Guent. I believe they’re headed for Gwynedd, but I will direct them to Dinas Brenin. Do you know the place?”
“Aye, lady. I was born there.”
“Were you, indeed? Born in the Wolf’s lair?”
“Near enough. But no one remembers old Vortigern now.”
A glimmer of a smile touched Niniane’s lips and her voice softened a trifle. “Vortigern’s ruined stronghold is a perfect place for your meeting. It was no coincidence I chose it.”
She turned to her worktable and picked up a small linen bag bound with a black cord. “You will leave at once for Dinas Brenin. You must get there before them. Build yourself shelter. Pretend it’s your home.” She placed the bag in his hand. “Put this in their food. It will prepare them for the dreams I will send them, and in the morning they will part. Let Percival go home to Gwynedd. Bring Galahad to me.”
“On what pretense?”
“He is looking for some sort of sign. That is all I have been able to discover.” She laughed. “What imbeciles they are! They have been three years looking for a sign, but have they once gone to a wise woman or a seer? No. They have been to Elmet, and York, and Logris, fighting Saxons, Anglii, and bandits. There’s no apparent pattern to their wanderings. They befriend kings and fight for them. When the slaughter is over, they move on.” She paused and her eyes grew brittle. “Time was, I could have closed my eyes and seen into their minds. Or looked into a candle flame and told their future . . . Bring Galahad to me, Naceyn, and I will show him such a sign he’ll be back on his quest like a dog after a sausage.”
She laughed suddenly, a buoyant laugh Naceyn had not heard in years. “We are almost there, Naceyn! We are so close, at long last! How wise I was to have Arthur nurture the boy’s thirst for glory! A word whispered here and there, a hint, a suggestion, and then, when Arthur sent him to me at Avalon and I had him under my roof, a powerful dream to send him mad with ambition! I will drive him to his destiny, Naceyn. I will do all but lead him to the Grail. And when he finds it”—her eyes widened, although she stared at nothing—“then all Britain will be in my debt. Forever.”
“You foretold his destiny, as I remember,” Naceyn murmured. “At the Sacred Speaking. Or was that not the Goddess, but your own invention?”
A shadow passed across Niniane’s face. “Of course that was not my own invention. What She prophesied for Galahad will no doubt come to pass. But She said nothing about the Grail of Maximus. I am the one who discovered how his destiny was to be fulfilled.” She frowned at the dwarf. “Do you doubt me? Believe me, Naceyn, I have seen farther into the future than even Merlin. There is more at stake here than defeating the Saxon kings. Britain’s very future hangs in the balance. If we succeed, we preserve our homeland for eternity. If we fail, she goes down into the savage dark and all our names will be forgotten, even Arthur’s. For time without end.”
Naceyn bowed low. He tucked the linen bag into his tunic and put his hand to the door. “Then the sooner I am off, the better our chance for success.”
Niniane watched him go. She picked up the emerald crystal from her worktable, held it up to the window, and saw the river outside roaring by, yellow-green, the color of oak buds. Show me, she commanded, bringing her concentration to bear, how soon Arthur will return!
A fitful March wind blew cold from the east, throwing dark clouds against the high Welsh hills in uncertain fury. In a narrow valley a rain-bloated stream slashed through its bed in a fierce torrent, filling the valley with the roar of its passing. At the head of the valley stood a tower of rock, treeless and steep, glistening with wet. Atop this tower the ruin of an old stone wall meandered around a jumble of quarried building stones amid deep pools of mud, and skirted a small stone hut, domed like a hive, sitting beside a cairn. Behind the hut a wooden lean-to sheltered a pair of horses from the pelting rain. At the low, curved mouth of the hut a sullen fire hissed and spat, smoked wickedly, and went out.
“Well, so much for warmth and a decent meal,” Percival grumbled, poking viciously at the embers. “What shall we do? Eat the fish raw or go back to the jerky? Damn, but I’m tired of jerky.”
Galahad huddled in his bedroll, for although the hut was well wattled and perfectly dry, it was wretchedly cold. “I don’t care. I’m not hungry.”
Percival cursed under his breath. It was suddenly too much—his cousin’s black temper, the five days of storm that had slowed their progress through Wales, the incessant cold that had crept into their bones and refused to leave. “I’ll be damned if I eat another piece of jerky. I’ll eat this fish raw. At least it will be a change.”
Percival pulled out his dagger and split open the two fat trout the swollen stream had thrown up on the bank that afternoon. They had no money, they were nearly out of food, it was horribly cold and damp, and for weeks now they had had little to say to each other. He scowled. Two long years ago they had left Dunpeldyr in such high hopes! They had accompanied Talorc to Elmet, sure that somewhere in that noble king’s domain lay the sign they were awaiting. But all that had awaited them were swarms of Anglii, battle-ready and desperate for land. It had taken six months of nearly constant fighting to subdue them. True,
his arm had strengthened and his skill improved under such constant use. But nothing had happened that Galahad recognized as the sign he sought.
Nothing had happened in York, either, where they fought the following year, nor in the rich lands of Logris after that. This past winter Galahad had begun to grow sullen and aloof. He had snapped at Percival’s suggestion that perhaps the tokens they’d found were not the right ones after all, and once had stormed off in cold fury at Percival’s suggestion that he would never accept anything as the sign because he did not want to be tested and found wanting by three women. Since then, Percival had not ventured any more of his opinions, had not crossed his cousin in any way. Galahad had said little enough in return. Neither of them mentioned the Grail anymore, or asked after anyone called the Fisher King. It made for dull companionship, but at least they could tolerate traveling together.
But it could not go on like this much longer. Percival’s fifteenth birthday was days away and he was ready to go home. This time he did not want Galahad to go with him. Winning back his kingdom was something he must do alone if it was to have any value, but although he knew in his heart he had the courage to face Peredur, he doubted he had the courage to tell Galahad of his decision. Savagely he sliced the head off a fish.
“I think you’d better go home.” Galahad’s voice startled him, coming firmly out of the gloom behind him.
“What?”
“Go back to Gwynedd. It’s time. I’ve taught you everything I know about swordplay. You’re good enough to defeat Peredur. Go back home and claim your birthright.”
“Of course,” Percival said bitterly, furious that his cousin should have the courage he himself lacked. “After accompanying you for three years, I’ll just up and leave you to fend for yourself in a land you don’t know.”
“I can fend for myself,” Galahad retorted. “Wherever I am.”
“You’re a lousy cook.” Percival turned around to look at him. All he could see in the dark was the liquid blaze of eyes. “Are you going to continue the . . . quest?”