Prince of Dreams

  Percival stepped forward and took Essylte firmly by the shoulders. But she would not move. “I was never in your bed. Not once. A marriage unconsummated is no marriage at all.”

  Color washed Markion’s face. “Someone was in my bed! Someone with your voice, your body, and your scent! If not you, you Welsh witch, who was it?”

  No one spoke. Branwen moved slowly to the wide, unshuttered window and stood facing out to sea. After a moment she turned back to the king. “It was I, Markion.” She watched indignation swell his features and smiled bitterly. “You are not as dishonored as you think. I, too, am Percival’s daughter. A moment ago I was good enough to wed your nephew. Whether you believe it or not, marriage to me would have brought you your heart’s desire. Marriage to Essylte never will.” She paused. “I am the one who has listened to your dreams, your plans, your regrets. I am the one who has given you advice worth more than gold. In your heart, you know my value. You have spoken words of love to me that came from your soul. Yet now you regard me as if I had snakes growing from my head. Can true birth mean so much?” She lifted a silver winecup from the window ledge and turned it slowly in her fingers. “I will give you one last word of advice, my royal lover, because I honor you. Whatever happens now, you have lost your dynasty. If you put Essylte away, you lose Percival’s alliance and thereby the kingdom. It will take time to form another alliance with another lord and win another bride, and you are not young. And this time, Tristan will not be your giant-slayer. He stands to gain so much more if you do not wed. I advise you to keep Essylte and the alliance with Wales. You will be High King of Britain to the end of your days. And if it’s Tristan’s sons who sit in Camelot after your death and not yours, well, they are Meliodas’s heirs, and it is fitting that they should. Don’t you agree?”

  “Whore!” Markion croaked, pale as death.

  “As for Tristan, whether he likes it or not, I am the one who shall determine his fate.” She beckoned to the guards. “Let him come to me.”

  The guards looked at one another. The only doors in the hall were behind them, and well guarded. They looked at Markion, who shrugged. Tentatively, they withdrew their daggers. White-faced, Tristan approached Branwen, his eyes on the silver cup. He recognized it.

  “Tristan!” Essylte sobbed. Percival pulled her roughly away.

  Tristan looked down at Branwen. “My life has been in your hands from the beginning,” he said slowly.

  Branwen smiled. “You don’t regret it, do you? I’ve given you everything you wanted.”

  “I acknowledge it.”

  “Will you—could you bring yourself to marry me, Tristan?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I ought to. I owe it to you. But I cannot. And I believe you would come to regret it if I did. My heart would always be Essylte’s.”

  Branwen looked up at him calmly and kept her voice low. “He will not harm her. Did you see his face? He wants the Kingship more than anything. You must trust me. I know him. He will not harm her. Percival will not let him harm the children. But you, Tristan, you must go. Forever. Now.” Her eyes slid toward the window. “Dinadan guards the coast road and Pernam waits by the boat. Go now.”

  His eyes widened. “Then the cup is not for me?”

  A brief smile touched her lips. “Never you. I love you.”

  “Blessed Branwen,” he breathed, bending down to kiss her cheek. “May I not take her with me? Is there no way?”

  “Not now that she has told the truth. He would follow you to get her back. He will want his own son from her.”

  “I can’t leave her to Markion.”

  “You must.” She drew his head down and softly kissed his lips. “She will be safe. She will bear your son. One day you will see her again. Don’t ask for more. But go now, my dear, before they suspect. Go now.”

  “God grant you long life!” He looked back once at Essylte, put his knee to the window ledge, and leaped.

  Markion gasped, guards started forward, Essylte saw the silver cup in Branwen’s hand and cried out, “My sister! Don’t!”

  Branwen turned, met her eyes with a sad smile, and raised the cup to her lips.

  Essylte screamed.

  PART VI

  30 RYOL THE GIANT

  Hot sun glittered hard on the tranquil sea. From horizon to horizon nothing moved on the burning deep but a single square of bleached canvas. The sail flapped from its spar as the boat rose and sank on the sea’s swell. Tristan lay curled in the shadow of the sail, his eyes bloodshot from sun, his head splitting from thirst, his arm hot and swollen, his body shivering with fever. As he lay he slept, and as he slept he dreamed. Sometimes he was a flying fish, arcing upward toward the great light in the sky that beckoned him to eternity with his father’s voice. Sometimes he was an eel, writhing toward a giant maw at the bottom of the sea, enchanted by the siren’s song that sang with his mother’s voice. But most often he was an eagle flying high above the great blue waste of ocean, swooping down to the dying man in the lonely boat, talons outstretched, ready and eager for the kill.

  Now and then in moments of lucidity, memory returned. Dinadan on the coast road with Tristan’s sword, his dagger, and, God bless the loyal fool, his crown. How heavy they had seemed to carry; how utterly useless in a boat. Pernam in the sea cave where the keel was hidden, holding a basket of food, a cloak, a tunic, and skins of fresh water. He had frowned at the cut in Tristan’s arm, kissed him on both cheeks, and bade his God go with him. The keel, slipping across the sea in the bright of early morning, the sail filled with the offshore breeze, while gulls wheeled overhead and a shower of arrows fell into the water far astern.

  Tristan groaned. Squinting hard, he opened his eyes and shut them again at once, blinded by the sea glare. Reason returned long enough to whisper a prayer for rain. Send me a storm wind. Send me a blessed storm! He looked down and was an eagle again, seeing between his outstretched talons the burning, fevered body of a lone sailor, drifting on the sinking swell toward eternity. . . .

  He awoke with a jolt. It was dark, but stars shone overhead and there, against the darker shadow of the shore, a line of breakers glimmered on a beach. With the scrape of wood on stone the boat lifted, swung landward, and jolted a second time against the unseen rocks. Shoals! Tristan pushed himself up and reached for the stowed oars, amazed at how little strength he had. In the time it took him to set the oars and pull himself off the shoal, a fitful breeze sprang up, rain pelted lightly on his back, and the stars disappeared behind a great, silver-edged cloud. He slid out of the boat when he felt the keelrib scrape the pebbled beach, but he found he had not the strength to pull the craft to safety on the shore. He took down the sail and used the stays and steering ropes to tie the bow to the nearest stout tree, anchoring the stern with the heaviest stone he could lift. Exhausted, he sat sweating on the beach to catch his breath. How long had he been at sea? He remembered little of it. His throat ached with a desperate thirst, but he seemed always to have lived in that condition. He rose shakily, retrieved his sword from the listing keel, strapped it on, hooked his dagger in his belt, placed his crown on his head, wrapped his cloak under his arm, and started up the beach to look for a stream or a spring.

  An hour later he staggered across a small stream and fell to the ground. He buried his face in the cool water, thanking God. He lay there, trembling, unable to drink more, his raging thirst still unsatisfied. After a while he felt better, drank more, and pushed himself to his knees. He smelled woodsmoke. Struggling to his feet, he followed his nose to a clearing in the thick woods where a group of men huddled around a cooking fire. At the smell of roasting meat he hunched over, clutching his stomach. They had posted no lookouts, for, unsteady as he was, he got close enough to hear their conversation. When he looked around at their firelit faces, he understood. They were only boys.

  “We’ve got to wait for reinforcements, Kaherdyn. Have some sense. We can’t storm the place ourselves.”

  “We have to try. If she never reached Brittany
, then she’s been there days already—a week, even!” This voice sounded desperate, close to tears.

  “We’ll only die ourselves unless we get some help,” a third voice pleaded. “What good will that do her, to be the cause of her brother’s death?”

  “She isn’t the cause!” The boy called Kaherdyn spoke in bitter anger to keep tears at bay. “None of this is her fault. She didn’t go there willingly—she was abducted!”

  None of the young men looked at him. “Why won’t your uncle Gallinore loan us men? Brittany’s not at war.”

  “I’ve sent to him. He will, he will, I know he will. But until then, I can’t just sit in Benoic and wait while Iseulte—” He gulped hastily. “While my sister lies a prisoner in the giant’s lair. For all we know, every single hour we delay is an hour of torment to her!”

  Tristan stared at the boy who spoke so bravely and so eloquently. His head ached as he straightened. He staggered dizzily and put out a hand to a nearby tree to steady himself. Then he squared his shoulders and thrust through the shadows into the circle of light. The boys shouted and scrambled for their weapons.

  “Do not fear me!” Tristan cried, swaying on his feet. “I’ve come to help you. Let me do it. I will save the fair Essylte.”

  A circle of bright sword tips wheeled across his vision, his knees buckled, and he fainted.

  When he awoke he found his headache gone, his throat dry but no longer afire, and the fierce pain in his arm dulled to a steady ache. He pushed himself up from his bed of leaves and bracken and looked around. He lay in a clearing of grass and scrub surrounded by towering pines and hardwoods just leafing out. The golden light of late afternoon slanted through the branches, casting dappled shadows over the uneven ground. Within the circle of firestones banked embers still burned. He shut his eyes, opened them and stared again. He recognized nothing.

  His sword, his dagger, his crown, his cloak, and his tunic lay beside him, the clothes neatly folded, the crown placed carefully on top. His arm was freshly bandaged and bound with a leather thong. He flexed it carefully. It was sore enough, but the throbbing pain had gone. A waterskin lay beside his clothes, and he drained it thankfully. No water had ever tasted so sweet. Scanning the trees for movement, he rose, donned his tunic, and buckled on his swordbelt. A twig snapped. Tristan whirled, sword up, as a group of boys appeared at the edge of the clearing, all of them dressed for battle. They stopped when they saw him. One of them pushed forward from the others, a fair-faced lad with thick chestnut hair and a beard just beginning.

  “Who are you, sir, and why do you draw your weapon? We do not threaten you.”

  “I told you, Kaherdyn! I told you not to leave him his sword,” another muttered. “But you wouldn’t listen.”

  Kaherdyn signaled to the boys, who fanned out right and left around the clearing and drew their swords.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Tristan’s mouth. “Never mind who I am just now. Who are you?”

  The chestnut-haired boy regarded him solemnly. Alone of them all, he had not drawn a weapon. “I am Prince Kaherdyn of Lanascol,” he said quietly. “We saved your life. We fed you and gave you water while your wits were wandering these two days past. Why do you threaten us now? We mean you no harm.”

  “As if you could do me any. Tell your lads to keep their distance. They don’t know much of swordsmanship, and I’ve no wish to hurt them.” He stood perfectly still, facing Kaherdyn. The boy met his gaze steadily. Tristan’s lips spread in a slow smile. Without warning, he whipped around. Metal clashed, sunlight glinted off a flying sword as it fell, spinning, in a great arc to the forest floor. The black-haired youth who had crept up behind him now stood weaponless, holding his wrist, Tristan’s sword point at his throat. “You mean well,” Tristan said to them all, looking at their frightened faces, “but you’re untrained. Put up your swords, and I will mine.” He sheathed his first. One by one, they all obeyed. The black-haired youth ran to tug his weapon from the ground. Tristan turned back to Kaherdyn. “A trick, prince? I thought more of you than that.” He paused, and when he spoke again there was awe in his voice. “Lanascol, did you say? I’ve heard of Lanascol before. . . . Are you kin to Sir Lancelot of Lanascol, who served King Arthur?”

  Kaherdyn inclined his head politely. “His grandson.”

  Tristan fell to one knee. “A thousand pardons, Prince Kaherdyn. I wish I’d known. But I’ve been wandering witless, I don’t know how long. My past is gone, and my future with it. Let me serve you however I can, and I will be content to live out my days in the kingdom Lancelot himself once called home.”

  Kaherdyn looked down at him in confusion. “But my lord,” he said plaintively, “who are you?”

  The dark head came up. The man’s brown eyes met the boy’s gray-green ones. “My name is Tristan. My father was Meliodas, King of Cornwall. Markion the High King is my uncle.”

  Kaherdyn’s jaw dropped. “Tristan of Lyonesse?”

  “At your service.”

  Kaherdyn raised him quickly. “Don’t kneel to me, my lord. You are a king, and the savior of Britain besides.”

  The boys crowded around him. “You slew the giant Marhalt!” they cried eagerly. “King Markion owes his crown to you!” “How many Saxons have you killed, my lord?”

  Tristan laughed. “Thank you, young lords, for your praises. I will answer all your questions in good time. But first—where are we? How long have I been here? How did I get here? Who healed my arm?”

  “I will answer your questions,” Kaherdyn offered as his companions quieted, “if you will answer two of mine.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We are hard by the stronghold of a murderous brute known as Ryol the Red. He’s a giant. He used to serve my father until—” The boy gulped and hurried on. “He betrayed my father’s trust. His lands, such as they are, run with ours. At the present moment, we are still in Lanascol, on the outskirts of the forest of Broceliande. As for you, you came ashore two nights ago. You probably blew in with the storm—”

  “Storm? There was a storm?”

  The boys nodded, wide-eyed.

  “Oh, yes,” Kaherdyn replied. “A very great storm. We were nearly killed. Three ancient father-trees came down in the forest near our camp. And the sea! Breakers above the height of a man’s head! How you survived it in that shallow craft I’ve no idea.”

  “And yet,” Tristan mused, “I believe I prayed for that storm.”

  “We’ve found your boat and stowed her safely, but”—Kaherdyn’s chestnut brows met in a light frown—“she looked to us like a Saxon craft. It gave us a start at first.”

  “You were right. I built her myself along the lines of a Saxon keel I sailed once. She’s quick as a knife through water.”

  “That explains it.” Kaherdyn eyed him curiously. “You sailed her all the way from Lyonesse?”

  Tristan shrugged, half smiling. “I must have.”

  The boys looked at one another. “You were ill with fever,” Kaherdyn continued, “and we could get no sense from you. As for your arm, the worst was already over. I only sealed the wound.”

  “How?”

  Kaherdyn pointed to the circle of stones. “With fire.”

  “I thank God I do not remember that!”

  The other boys grinned, but Kaherdyn gazed at Tristan solemnly. “Why are you here, Tristan of Lyonesse?”

  Tristan gazed down at the strong young face, the clear-eyed virtue of youth too young to know sin. “Kaherdyn of Lanascol,” he said softly, “that way lies madness. Do not ask me that. What is your second question?”

  Kaherdyn straightened. All the boys went still. “A moment ago you offered me service. I would take help gladly from any man at all, but from such a man as you, it would be a gift from God. But I must know, before I accept your offer, how you knew my sister’s name.”

  Tristan frowned. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  Silence followed. The boys stared gravely at Tristan.

  “You s
poke her name,” Kaherdyn said evenly. “You stepped into this clearing wearing a crown upon your head and offered to rescue the fair Iseulte. I only want to know how you knew her name.”

  Tristan blanched. “Essylte? Is that what you said? Essylte?”

  The boys glanced furtively at one another.

  “My sister, the Princess Iseulte,” Kaherdyn repeated quietly. “Three weeks—no, a month ago she was abducted by Ryol on a journey through Broceliande to my uncle Gallinore in Brittany. If—if she is still alive, we must get her back.” Tears rimmed the boy’s gray-green eyes, and he did not bother to wipe them away. “Whatever has been done to her, it—it matters not to us, to Mother and me. We must have her home again at any cost.”

  Tristan began to tremble. One of the boys reached out a hand to support him.

  “Your sister’s name is Iseulte?”

  “Yes,” Kaherdyn replied patiently. “She’s nineteen and unwed. Ryol—Ryol had the gall to—to send a message to my mother that he had—saved her from spinsterhood.” The boy’s eyes swam, but he faced Tristan bravely. “He’s only raped her, not married her. I know her well—she’ll kill him if she gets a chance. If she does, if she even tries, they’ll kill her. We must get to her before that happens.”

  Tristan stared at him blankly. “Her name is Iseulte?”

  Again, the boys glanced at one another. Kaherdyn frowned darkly. “I’ve told you twice. Her birth name was Elen, but since childhood everyone’s called her Iseulte because she was so fair. She’s known throughout Less Britain for the beauty of her hands.”

  Tristan made an effort to collect himself. “And why are boys sent to rescue her? Where are your fathers? Uncles? Brothers? Where are the men?”

  “A hundred men have already died trying,” one of the boys piped up. “Kaherdyn’s sent to his uncles for help, but no one’s come yet.”

  “Uncles? Where is your father, Kaherdyn? Does he live?”

  Quick pride flashed in the boy’s eyes. “Indeed, my lord, I daily pray he does. He’s on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He’s been gone two years.”