Prince of Dreams

  Tristan paled. When he found his voice, he was annoyed to hear it quaver. “He was Meliodas’s son, was he not, whom Markion banished? He died at sea, I heard.”

  “That’s as may be, my lord. No one knows his fate. But it’s known all over Britain that he loved our Essylte with a passion undeniable and true. And she him. But the maid was already promised to the old goat of Cornwall, may Percival of Gwynedd roast long in Hell!”

  He spoke emphatically and the villagers thumped their cups on the table in assent. “Old Markion shut her up in Tintagel to keep her away from Tristan. Indeed, he’s spent so much time keeping young Tristan off he’s let the Saxon terror creep halfway across Britain!” Rufus nodded knowingly. “But you can’t gainsay a true love, my lord. It can’t be done. There’s those of us in Wales think those boys of hers are Sir Tristan’s and not Markion’s. And if what I hear is true, there’s those in Camelot that think so, too.”

  Tristan stared at him, struggling to keep his panic from his face. “Surely you exaggerate. Markion’s no fool, whatever his other faults. He wouldn’t raise the bastards of an adulterous wife as his own heirs.”

  “Indeed,” Rufus whispered, “he would not, and he is not.”

  “What!”

  Rufus looked gratified at Tristan’s shock. “This is news to my lord Marcus, eh? He’s tried twice to take the boys from her, but each time she hid them from his envoys, and the men had not the nerve to beat the truth from her. So a month ago Markion sent the Queen word that as soon as the Saxons give him leave, he will go to Tintagel and take the boys away himself. I wouldn’t give a fig for their chances then.”

  “Dear God!”

  One of the villagers raised his head and nodded. “He’ll kill ’em,” he said with relish.

  “Aye,” agreed his neighbor. “They’re in his way.”

  “But why?” Tristan gasped. “Has the Queen borne him no other sons since Tristan’s exile?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “No,” supplied Rufus, “although it’s said she’s miscarried twice.”

  “On purpose.”

  “Drank a potion.”

  “Witch’s brew.”

  Tristan stared at them all in horror. “Percival wouldn’t stand for it! They’re his grandsons.”

  “He’s got troubles of his own.”

  “Gaels on his coast.”

  “By the time he hears of it, the deed’ll be done.”

  “The King of Cornwall don’t care two straws for us Welsh and never did. That’s a fact.”

  “And he don’t care to raise a pair of Welsh boys as his heirs, God curse him,” the landlord finished triumphantly.

  Tristan was breathing fast. “This can’t be true. These are rumors, the kind that run rampant and feed on their own wind. Who told you these things?”

  Rufus straightened. “I got it from young Cadoc,” he said defensively, “at the equinox, when he was home to bury his father. He’s stationed at Caerleon under Sir Bruenor, another Cornish dog.” Rufus hawked, turned his head, and spat.

  Bruenor at Caerleon! Tristan’s head reeled. “And where is King Markion now?”

  “Fighting Saxons. West of Vindocladia, if you can believe it.”

  “So close? How is it possible? What is Britain coming to?”

  The men nodded in agreement. “Dog days,” a villager asserted.

  Rufus drained his tankard and rose. “They say Markion’s a madman. They say he kills whatever’s in his path and asks questions later. And they try to blame his vile temper on our Essylte. They say she refuses to do her duty by him, out of love for Sir Tristan. They say she bloodies him well when he forces her and makes him pay for his pleasure. It has put him out of temper with everyone. She’ll not bear him sons, and he’ll not have the ones she bore. A pretty kettle of fish, that’s what Britain’s in.” Rufus strode to the door and opened it wide to the golden light of the westering sun. “What we need, what all Britain needs,” he finished devoutly, “is another Arthur.”

  The villagers drained their tankards and thumped them on the table. Rufus pointed north toward the gold-green hills. “Up there, that’s where the old folk be sending their prayers, tonight and every night. The old folk who remember Arthur.”

  Tristan rose unsteadily. “To the monastery?”

  “No, no. The good sisters are holy women and generous with alms, but they have no power. No, Sir Marcus, here in Wales we pray to the source of Britain’s strength. To that hill they call the heart of Britain, where Merlin lies imprisoned in the rock until Arthur comes again and calls him out of his long sleep.”

  Tristan sighed in relief. He recognized both words and cadence; it was the end of “The Lay of Arthur,” long a favorite among the Welsh. But the landlord’s next words left him speechless.

  “Caer Myrddin. It lies up yonder beyond the mill.”

  Tristan stood on guard outside the wattle shed where Galahad lay abed. Queen Dandrane rested in a chair by her husband’s side, and Iseulte and Kaherdyn curled on pallets on the floor. The furnishings were mean by any standards, but at least the bedsheets were clean and the place well swept. There had been a moment of awkwardness when Kaherdyn offered to take the night watch, on the grounds that, as a married woman, Iseulte’s rights took precedence over his. Tristan smiled wryly to himself. With his upcoming nuptials postponed until his return, Kaherdyn could think of little else but weddings and beddings. On shipboard he had been overly careful to allow Tristan privacy with his sister, and every time she so much as hiccoughed he wondered aloud if she was with child. Tristan assured him, as politely as he could manage, that he preferred to stand guard over the royal family than make love to Iseulte at the foot of her dying father’s bed. Kaherdyn finally took the point.

  But the young man’s concern annoyed him. He hoped fervently that once he was married to Lionors, Kaherdyn’s persistent interest in his sister’s marriage would die a peaceful death.

  The door behind him opened and Dandrane reached out. Her eyes were huge. “He’s awake!” She clutched his arm. “He wants to go. Now.”

  “Now? But it’s past midnight. The escort is asleep on the ship—”

  “We need no escort. You and Kaherdyn can carry the litter. Can you fetch us a torch or a lantern, do you think, to light our way?”

  “But my lady, it’s dangerous. To be abroad at night in a country we don’t know—”

  Her shadowed smile stopped him. “But we do know it, Galahad and I. We know it well. I will guide you. Iseulte will light the way. Go now. Hurry. There may not be much time.”

  When he returned with the lantern he found Galahad already on the litter, swaddled in blankets against the cold spring night. Two bright blue eyes glittered in his haggard face.

  Iseulte held the lantern and led the procession while Kaherdyn carried the head of the litter and Tristan the foot. Dandrane walked beside her husband, holding his thin hand, out onto the shore road, across the stone bridge and onto the dirt track that wound uphill beside the river. It was a moonless night and very dark, with patchy clouds across the stars, and so cold that the ground crunched underfoot. No one spoke, except the queen to direct her daughter, and they met no one on the road. They passed by the sleeping monastery at a bend in the river, and a burned-out farmhouse, long abandoned. Once a dog barked in the distance, and Tristan fancied he heard the echo of sheep bells from the hills, but nothing moved in the solemn night but the gentle bobbing of the lantern.

  Suddenly Dandrane spoke. “Halt there.”

  Iseulte raised the lantern high, and out of the gloom rose the spectral shape of a dilapidated building, the roofing gone, the walls showing gaps where wood and stone had been burned or torn away. Iseulte moved closer, and by torchlight they all saw the great wheel of a millstone tilted drunkenly against a pile of rubble.

  Dandrane pointed to a sheep track that wound uphill past the mill. “Up there.”

  The path twisted through sheep meadows, hardwood copses, and rough brambles, win
ding around the hill as it climbed, up and up, narrowing with each turn. Iseulte stopped when the path forked at her feet, the larger trail to the right descending gently into a meadow, the animal track to her left twisting uphill between blackthorn nettles into a dark wood.

  “Let me guess,” Kaherdyn grumbled. “We go left.”

  “Yes,” Dandrane whispered. “Yes. Like your father, you know the way without knowing how you know it.”

  Kaherdyn shot Tristan a doubtful look over his shoulder but trudged on in his sister’s wake.

  Iseulte went twenty paces and stopped again. She raised her lantern and pointed ahead. In a natural shelter under the budding trees they saw a lean-to, and within, a pile of fresh hay and a tub of water.

  “A stable!” Kaherdyn exclaimed. “Then someone lives here.”

  Dandrane looked unsurprised. “A stable it is, but no one lives here.”

  “But the hay is fresh, and the water, too.”

  “The locals keep it so. They dream that Myrddin, like Arthur, will return to them someday, and they want to be ready for him. Come, give me the lantern, Iseulte. I will light you the rest of the way.”

  They struggled up a narrow track beyond the trees, through a cleft of rock and at last came out on a grassy ledge before a low, rounded cave mouth. Without hesitation Dandrane walked inside. Sweat beaded Tristan’s brow as they followed with the litter. Anything at all could be in that cave—wolves, bears, boars, mountain cats, even bandits—yet the woman took possession of it as if it were her home.

  “There,” Dandrane said, pointing to a level stretch of flooring along the wall. “Put him down there.” Tristan and Kaherdyn lowered the litter gently and gingerly flexed their arms. Dandrane knelt down next to Galahad.

  “We are here,” she said breathlessly. “See? This is Caer Myrddin. The villagers have left meal cakes and a skin of wine.”

  Startled, Tristan saw by the lantern light that this was true. On a cairn built just inside the cave was a clay platter piled high with homely offerings. The cave itself was small, six strides by three, but high enough for a tall man to stand upright. The hard dirt floor had been recently swept, and the old brazier, half rusted, had been heaped with fresh coals. Someone tended this place, that was certain.

  “Cover the lantern.”

  He jumped. Everyone stared at the pallet, recognizing the voice. Galahad watched them, his face immobile but his eyes alive. Iseulte obeyed and dropped the cover over the lantern. Darkness sprang at them. They stood blind and powerless, hardly daring to breathe, until gradually their eyes adjusted and their night sight could discriminate between shapes and shadows.

  “Take me inside,” the voice commanded.

  “Inside where?” Kaherdyn wondered. “We are inside.”

  “There’s another cave behind this one, deep in the hill,” Dandrane said in a low voice. “Take the lantern, Iseulte, and follow me.” Kaherdyn and Tristan lifted the litter and followed her into a dark fissure at the back of the cave. Iseulte clung to Tristan’s tunic, holding back as far as she dared, shaking so hard the lantern rattled in her hand.

  The procession halted almost at once. “It’s gone!” Dandrane’s panicked whisper echoed off the damp stone that enclosed them. “Galahad, it’s gone! I can’t find the entrance! Iseulte, the lantern.”

  “No,” came the reedy voice from the litter. “No lantern. You will find it only in the dark.”

  Silence descended. The effort of speech had taken its toll; harsh, shallow breathing came from the litter. It was the only sound. No one dared move. Their fear was a palpable presence among them.

  Dandrane’s whisper hovered on the edge of sound. “Then how—?”

  “Elen,” the voice breathed. “Elen can.”

  Iseulte’s fingers clutched Tristan’s arm. She shook her head wildly.

  “Elen,” the voice repeated, “found it before.”

  Tristan stared down at the shadow of her face. “You have been here before?” Again she shook her head wildly.

  “Yes, she has,” Dandrane said quietly. “She was three years old. She found the inner cave all by herself. Come up here with me, Iseulte. I’ll take the lantern. Now stand where I am standing.”

  Trembling, Iseulte obeyed. It was so dark she could not tell whether her eyes were open or closed. Quaking, hardly able to stand, she put her hands out for support and felt the cold, moist stone under her fingers. It beckoned to her.

  Elen. She heard Tristan’s whisper through the whirling blackness of her terror. A calm soul.

  She drew a long breath and emptied her mind of thought. Her hands slid over the rock with a will of their own, exploring every hollow, every crevice, every cleft—there! A chasm, a hole, just big enough to hold her body. As she inched forward, holding her breath, she had the sudden, uneasy sensation that the rock itself was parting to let her through. The absurdity of the notion made her stumble. She lost her grip on the stone and fell forward, not into rock, but into nothingness.

  “Father!” she cried out, and her voice rebounded, ringing and hollow, from the depths of the hill.

  “Iseulte.” They were there beside her, they had followed her through. She could hear their steps on the ringing stone and their shallow breaths echoing about her ears. She pushed herself up from the rock floor and stared blankly into the engulfing blackness. Even with night sight, she could not see a single thing.

  “Now.” Galahad’s voice came out of the dark, the voice of a king. “Light.”

  Dandrane drew off the lantern cover, and they all cried out together in amazement. Before them yawned a great cavern, pillared in stone and shimmering with light. From cave floor to vaulting roof, slender columns of pale stone rose, glistening with damp, hundreds of them, marching as far into the shadows as the eye could see. A pool of still water encircled the columns, throwing back the lantern light in a thousand, iridescent colors, flashing brilliant as the facets of a crystal, filling the very air with light.

  Tristan blinked, half blinded by the dazzle. “The Hall of the Otherworld,” he breathed, and made the sign against enchantment. His words echoed around the cavern, resounding like a dreadful pronouncement.

  “Or the Gate of Heaven.” Tristan looked down to see Galahad’s eyes narrowed in amusement.

  “Sir,” he breathed, “Christian or pagan or godless heathen, this is a sacred place.”

  They stood a long time in silence, taking in the wonder of it. From beyond the reach of the light the sound of dripping water reached them, and from somewhere far above them, from some hidden fissure in the hill itself, blew a draft of sweet air, light as a cat’s-paw touch upon the cheek.

  Galahad’s lips worked stiffly in his wasted face. “Take me to the ledge.”

  It was only then that Tristan saw a limestone ledge protruding from the water, half hidden by the gleaming pillars. Dandrane’s hand began to shake, and the quivering light danced and flashed off something sitting atop the ledge, but at that distance Tristan could not see what it was. He nodded to Kaherdyn, who gulped audibly. “Let’s go.”

  The water was only ankle deep but so cold it was instantly numbing. The ripples they made shattered their reflections into a thousand splinters of light. Tristan caught his breath as he got near enough to see the objects on the ledge. He recognized them: a wide krater of beaten silver set with gems, and a long spear with a tip of forged steel honed deadly bright. These were the Grail and Spear that Galahad had searched for all over Britain, the fabled treasures of an ancient king that had the power, the sages said, to keep Britain whole forever. No wonder the locals called Merlin’s Hill the heart of Britain!

  In awed silence, they set the litter down on the ledge beside the treasures. Tristan saw the whites of Kaherdyn’s eyes as he crossed himself with a badly shaking hand. Dandrane had gone perfectly still. Tristan reached for Iseulte and held her close. Her lips were blue with cold, and she was so numb with emotion that she barely breathed.

  “Elen.” Galahad’s voice was clear and
resonant. “Elen. Daughter. Come here and touch the Grail.”

  Iseulte shrank back into Tristan’s arms, but Tristan led her forward against her will. To the astonishment of all, Galahad’s hand lifted and reached for hers. “Don’t be afraid, Elen. Nothing can hurt you here. God is with us, can you not feel it?” She nodded slowly. “You are a brave child. But since your abduction you have lived every day with fear in your heart.” She nodded again. “Marriage to Tristan has brought you peace of a sort, but it has not healed you of your fear. It is a companionship of friends, not a union of lovers.” Iseulte lowered her eyes and nodded again.

  Kaherdyn shot a swift look at Tristan. “I knew it!” he breathed.

  “When you were a child,” Galahad continued gently, “you took this krater in your hands and brought it to me. It did you no harm. It will not harm you now. Lift it and look at the writing etched around the rim.”

  Iseulte hesitated, then slowly reached out to the gleaming Grail and lifted it between her hands. Hundreds of tiny amethysts set in delicate gold chasing glittered in the light. Around the rim ran antique, formal Latin lettering. “Whoso thirsts, drink ye and be restored. Whoso wanders, hold me and find rest.” She jumped at the sound of her own voice, so calm and steady, and stared unbelieving at her father.

  Dandrane wept to hear her daughter speak. She set the lantern down and pressed Galahad’s hand to her wet cheek. “Bless you.”

  “Kaherdyn,” Galahad commanded, “take the spear.”

  Forcing himself forward against his fear, Kaherdyn reached out and raised the spear, hefting it in his hand, amazed at the perfect balance of the ancient weapon. Here, too, ancient Latin etchings ran along the length of the polished shaft. “Whoso trembles, take this and fear not. Whoso is lost, by my strength shall be preserved.”

  A smile touched Galahad’s lips. “This is my legacy to you both. You have seen the heart of Britain. Live long, and preserve the land of your forefathers.”

  Iseulte placed the Grail between Galahad’s hands. “Father, can you not be healed as well?”