Prince of Dreams

  “No one is safe forever.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

  “I’ll protect you as long as I live, Essylte.”

  “I know you will.” She turned to him, her eyes dark in the moonlight. “That’s not what I’m afraid of. And I’m not afraid of death. But I don’t want to outlive you, Tristan. Whatever happens, I don’t want to live in this world without you.”

  His hands pressed gently against her belly. “If it comes to that, you must go on. For our children. I don’t want my sons to lose you.” He touched his finger to her lips to still her protest. “We have grown, you and I, beyond just ourselves. We’ve made ourselves a family, sweet Essylte. Let Lyonesse serve as a nursery for the future of Cornwall, whatever becomes of us.”

  “Is that why you sent for Esmerée?”

  “Partly. I want her children here. They will not be safe outside the gates of Lyon’s Head once Mark arrives. That’s why I sent for Pernam, too. But I must speak with Esme about Segward before I take my vengeance on him.”

  “And when will Mark come?”

  Tristan shrugged. “A fortnight. A month. Two, perhaps, if he’s smart. Why should he hurry? We’re not going anywhere.”

  They stood together and listened to the sighing of the sea. The castle walls were invisible in the dark, but sea foam glimmered phosphorescent around the roots of the fortress, licking into crevices and swirling into eddies far below.

  “With how many men?”

  “More than I have. But not as many as he thinks. There will be deserters to my cause. After his cruel treatment of you, half his army would defend you against him, if it came to that.”

  She turned her head and looked up into his eyes. “Will it come to that? Tell me the truth.”

  Tristan shrugged. “I don’t know. That depends upon Mark.”

  “You won’t fight him, Tristan, will you? Promise me you won’t. That will bring my father down upon your head.”

  “I will do whatever it takes to protect you.”

  “And if I can’t be protected?”

  Tristan shivered and pointed out to sea. “Less Britain is that direction. It shouldn’t be more than a two-day sail in the boat I’ve built. You must see her to believe her, Essylte. I built her myself, along the lines of a Saxon keel I once commandeered. And I copied the rigging, too, for better maneuverability. She’s sweet to sail; I’ve practiced all summer. In the next two weeks, while we gather stores from all over Lyonesse, I’ll fit her out with provisions. If it comes to a war I know I can’t win, we’ll sail away. All of us. But if we do, we can’t come back.”

  Essylte embraced him. “I don’t care. You are all that matters. I loved living in Ogrin’s hut with only rags to wear. I don’t need to be a queen, Tristan. But I need to be with you.” She pulled his head down and kissed him fiercely.

  Tristan bent and lifted her in his arms. He carried her inside, where the warm breeze stirred the lamp flames and threw their shadows shimmering on the wall. Above the bed hung an old silk banner with the Eagle of Lyonesse on a field of blue. Time passed, the moon swung westward, the shadows of the lovers quivered on the wall, moving, entwined, to the beat of life that gripped them. The banner lifted in the light wind and rippled once; the eagle stretched its talons and raised its wings, straining toward the stars.

  “Don’t kill him, Tristan, I beg you.”

  The great hall echoed the whispered words. Floored in stone, pillared in marble, hung with tapestries and banners, adorned with twelve double-flamed bronze lamps, man height and burning sweet oil, the king’s audience chamber at Lyon’s Head stretched the breadth of the fortress, from the north face to the south. Narrow windows looked north over the causeway and the gates. To the south, morning sun fell in great shafts through wide windows open to the sea, flooding the hall with light and throwing the dais, the king, and the kneeling supplicant into sharp relief.

  No one looking at Tristan now could call him a boy. Stern, grave, and still, his face was the visage of a king. His glittering crown, his ring of office, his golden torque etched with eagles, his robe, his tunic, his sword—all were regal, but nothing proclaimed his sovereignty so much as the carved solemnity of his face.

  All around him his men fidgeted in suppressed excitement. Soldiers crowded at the door and thronged in a semicircle around the dais. Their air of expectation was a living presence in the room, a great hawk restless in its jesses, waiting for the moment when the hood was drawn.

  Tristan looked down at the kneeling woman at his feet, whose hands were raised in supplication. He sighed heavily. “In God’s name, Esme, why not? After what he’s done to you, again and again? And to Essylte? He’s as much as admitted that he put Mark up to the trial by fire. How can I not?”

  “Please,” she whispered, raising her eyes to his. “He does not deserve your mercy, my lord, but I beg you for it on his behalf. It is beneath you to kill him.”

  Tristan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “How can you say that? Do you love him, then? Can you love the man who has treated you—and your daughters, too—worse than I treat my dogs?”

  Esmerée began to tremble. “No, my lord,” she breathed. “I do not love him. I loathe him.”

  “Then how—”

  “None of his schemes have come to fruition. He is banished from King Mark’s presence forever. He is without power. Let that be his punishment.”

  “Banished to live freely in Lyonesse? To stay safe at home under my protection—dear God!—where he is free to beat anyone he chooses? It is not punishment enough!”

  “He values public status and the King’s favor above all else, because he could not come by them by birth. He will suffer cruelly from banishment. Eventually, he might take some action that would justify your vengeance, but until that time, Tristan, my lord king, I beg you to spare his life. I do not want his death upon your hands.” She glanced quickly at Essylte, sitting beside Tristan in the queen’s chair of Lyonesse, and lowered her eyes. “And he is the father of my children.”

  Tristan paused. When he spoke his voice was low and grave. “Even so, Lady Esmerée. He has already taken action against me. He has put the Queen’s life in jeopardy. He cannot go unpunished.”

  “That was an action against the Queen—against Markion’s wife,” she breathed, her gaze nailed to the floor. “Not against you.”

  Tristan reached down and grabbed her hands. “Esme! If you had seen it! A public bonfire on the cliffs of Tintagel—a public burning if she had not passed the test! It was an affront to her honor, and to the honor of all Cornwall.”

  The soldiers nodded to one another and murmured their assent.

  “Yes, my lord. It was an evil thing he did. But—” Esmerée raised her eyes to his and looked at him directly. “Whatever his intention, he has not harmed you. It is not your right to punish him. It is Markion’s.”

  Dinadan, at Tristan’s elbow, drew breath sharply. The room went still. Essylte looked at Guvranyl, at Grayell, at the gathered courtiers, at the soldiers standing at attention by the doors. Every one of them looked away.

  Tristan spoke formally and rather stiffly to Esmerée. “Very well. If you think that I, as the High King’s nephew, have no right to protect the woman he calls his Queen, the woman I myself brought out of Wales for him—if you think that Markion has any right to call himself her husband after the way he has treated her—then I will do as you wish. Markion is coming. I will leave him to Markion.”

  A light flush spread across the pale cream of Esmerée’s complexion, and she bowed her head. “I thank you, my gracious lord. You are generous indeed.”

  Tristan regarded her sadly. “No, no, lady, it is you who have been generous to me, and to Essylte. Many times. If you would let me, I would repay you by ridding you of this scourge of a husband, but I will do your bidding. I owe you that much. You have pleaded so eloquently on his behalf.”

  Color flooded Esmerée’s face until it was crimson. When she could speak, her voice
shook. “Repay me, Tristan, by being careful of your honor.” She sank stiffly into her reverence and turned away without looking at the king. All eyes followed her as she left the chamber.

  Essylte said bitterly, “Even in Lyonesse they think I shame you.”

  Unsmiling, Tristan took her hand. “Not so. Here you are the Lady of Lyonesse. Esme has a tender conscience, and it pains her.”

  Dinadan coughed lightly. “My lord, Sir Grayell informs me your uncle Pernam has arrived. Will you see him here?”

  Tristan’s gaze swung to the door and met the carefully neutral stare of the guards. “No. Let him rest from the journey and bide a while. I’ll see him at my leisure. Guvranyl, how stand the shore defenses? Have the people been informed? Are many seeking shelter in Lyon’s Head?”

  “Aye, my lord, the word’s got about. Most folk are hiding their valuables and preparing to shelter here at the first signal of Markion’s approach. As far as I can tell, they are behind you, Tristan, man, woman, and child. They are proud you’ve rescued the High Queen. They feel, as I do, that Markion usurped your place when your father died. It is your crown he wears. You are Meliodas’s son. You ought to be High King, and Lyonesse first among the kingdoms.”

  Guvranyl did not trouble to lower his voice, and the cheers of the gathered warriors filled the chamber at his words. Tristan looked around at the faces of his men. Without exception, he saw hope, pride, and banked excitement in their eyes.

  “So.” He exhaled slowly. “Is this what you want? Shall I fight my own uncle, kill my own kin, dishonor my name for the crown of Britain? Shall I sink to the level of barbarian? Is that what you have come to see?”

  One of the older soldiers cleared his throat. “My lord, it has long been known among us that it was on account of Markion that our lord King Meliodas died. You carry the true strain of the noble House of Cornwall, Sir Tristan. We would rather follow you.” Heads nodded eagerly. All the soldiers muttered in agreement.

  Tristan rose and faced them. His features hardened, but his eyes grew sad. “Markion did not kill Meliodas. Irish raiders did. No one forced my father’s hand. Do not forget I have knelt at Markion’s feet and sworn him fealty. I do not take that oath lightly. And neither should you. We are men of our word in Lyonesse. I am sworn to Markion, as you are sworn to me.” One by one they lowered their eyes or looked away. He paused. “But before Markion, I am sworn to Lyonesse.” Instantly he saw hope rekindled in their faces. “Markion may banish me from every corner of Britain but this. He has no right to rob me of Lyonesse. Here I am, and here I mean to stay, and the Queen with me.”

  All eyes turned to Essylte. A few men cheered; gradually others joined; soon the hall was filled with shouting. Tristan lifted a hand for silence. “I will raise no hand against him. But if he comes to me looking for war, well then, we shall give him what he wants!”

  A great cheer rose to the raftered ceiling. Soldiers yelled wildly, grinning, stomping their feet and raising paeans of victory. “Tristan the High King!” they cried. But Tristan’s face, when he turned to raise Essylte and lead her out, was as cold as slate.

  Pernam crouched beyond the seawall below the postern gate, gathering kelp stranded on the rocks by the receding tide. Tristan, coming upon him unawares, watched in silence for a moment, then pushed up his sleeves and joined him. When the healer’s basket was full of the dagger-edged strands of blistered, green-brown weed, and Tristan’s unpracticed hands were sliced and bleeding, Pernam straightened.

  “Enough. I thank you, Tristan. You have saved me an hour of toil.”

  “What do you want these slimy things for, anyway?”

  Pernam smiled. “With a little preparation, they yield a powerful medicine. They’re also nutritious.”

  “You eat them? Ugh. Will they heal my hands?”

  “A soak in the sea and a night’s rest is all you need to heal your hands.”

  Tristan rinsed his hands in the sea, wincing at the sting of salt water, while Pernam swung his basket over the wall. They sat together on the seawall, watching in silence as the warm wind slid over the cooler sea, drawing from its heaving surface a thickening shroud of mist.

  Pernam stared thoughtfully into the moving fog. “So, nephew, why did you summon me? What is this all about?”

  “Do you have to ask? He tried to burn her. Alive. In public.”

  “I heard.”

  “He dares to call himself a Christian and her husband. He’s gone too far this time. I will not forgive him for it.”

  “Forgiveness is a tricky thing. So difficult to come by when it’s wanted. You abducted her to rescue her?”

  “Be more careful of your tongue, Uncle. I love you well, but those are treasonous words.”

  Pernam’s face remained impassive. “But treason is the issue, surely.”

  “It is not. I don’t want his crown. God knows I have none of his ambition, even though everyone in Lyonesse seems to think I ought to. They would have me break my oath and kill my uncle—do they believe they could follow a man capable of such treachery? I told the men I would not do it. If Mark strikes the first blow, I’ll fight him. I’ll have no choice. But I’ll not attack a man I’ve sworn fealty to.”

  Pernam exhaled slowly. “Tristan, you don’t know how glad I am to hear you say that.”

  Tristan shook his head angrily. “And I did not abduct her. But, dear God, Pernam! I couldn’t let her stay penned in Tintagel after the monster tried to burn her! You’d be closer to the truth if you said she ran away with me. After such humiliation, she would throw herself into the sea before she’d spend another hour under his rule.”

  “So this is not about the Kingship, then, but only the woman?”

  “Of course it is. That and his order banishing me from Britain. Lyonesse is mine.”

  Pernam regarded him gravely. “Leave aside the banishment for the moment. Would you wage war, and risk your future, Essylte’s future, and the futures of Lyonesse and Britain, for one woman?”

  Tristan picked up a pebble and hurled it into the sea. “Over this woman. Yes. I would and I will.”

  “Then you are no king.”

  Tristan shrugged. “I told you that myself once before.” He looked up at his uncle swiftly. “And would you not, for Jarrad? Or for Arthur?”

  Pernam’s nostrils flared. “The case is not the same and you know it. I am no warrior. They cannot bear the High King’s heir. Even so, Tristan, the answer is no. I would not. A man’s honor, and certainly a kingdom’s, is more important than the satisfaction of desire.”

  “And is that all they are to you?” Tristan said softly.

  Pernam turned away. For a long moment he gazed into the oncoming mist. “Of course not. Even so. Britain comes first.”

  “For Britain, then, he must give her up to me. That’s all that matters, now. It’s the only way there can be peace between us.”

  “Mark cares less about peace than you do.”

  “She is mine, Pernam. In body and in soul. She has never been his.”

  Pernam looked at him gravely. Tristan flinched at the steady stare of those still, gray eyes. “In the eyes of your own God they are man and wife. If you are a Christian, Tristan, you must hold that vow holy.”

  “She is his wife in name only,” Tristan whispered. “Not in the way that matters. They have no union. Her heart and soul are one with mine. She is the breath of life to me, flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, for she carries within her—” He broke off, too late, and watched Pernam’s eyes widen.

  “Nephew, what have you done? You are not such a fool!”

  Tristan managed a small smile. “Three months in the Morois Wood is a long time.”

  Pernam looked away, breathing audibly. “Even Markion can count on his fingers. How can you deny the charge of treason?” Pernam pushed back his hood. The bones of his skull showed beneath his close-cropped silver hair. In profile he looked lean and predatory as an eagle. “Ours is a family cursed with essential flaws. Even back to Gorlois o
f Cornwall, an old man driven by vanity to marry the girl Ygraine, who betrayed him with Uther Pendragon. My father was ambitious beyond his station. Markion is greedy beyond his means. You are no different, Tristan. You have betrayed your kinsman and shamed your name. Worse, you have led that pretty child down the same dark road. She is Queen, and she has committed treason against her King. You are responsible for that.”

  “He is not her king.”

  “Markion is her lord by all the laws of Cornwall. Tristan, Tristan.” Pernam’s head slowly sank into his hands. “What has happened to your honor? Have you lost all sense of proportion in your love for this woman? You would have done better to let her be.”

  “I couldn’t,” Tristan whispered. “God knows I tried. Again and again. I could not. It is—it is like trying to do without one’s breath. You can stop it for a while, but then the body’s need for air and the spirit’s need for life overrule the will. You may grow faint, you may fall senseless to the ground, but you will breathe again.”

  Pernam rose and picked up his basket. His face was cold. “Why did you bring me here?”

  Tristan rose to stand beside him. “To keep you behind the fortress walls so Markion can’t burn you out and take you hostage to use against me.”

  Pernam snorted. “I can handle Markion without your help.”

  “And to—to get your advice.”

  “My advice is to give him back his wife.”

  “And to comfort Esmerée—and her children.”

  “They are here?” Pernam asked quickly. “In Lyon’s Head?”

  “Yes. And Segward is in the dungeon.”

  Pernam set down the basket with careful deliberation. “Then I will stay. You’ll kill him, I suppose.”

  “God knows I want to. The burning of Essylte was his plan from the beginning. But I have this very morning agreed to abide by Esme’s wishes, and she has begged me for his life.”