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Four Hundred Twenty-six

James rode as quickly as he could, deviating only when he reached the Deva-Eboracum Road. He planned to approach an older knight, an old family friend, who guarded the bridge over the river Irwyll, but instead ran across an even better intermediary.

“Tuir!” James called out with exuberance. “Tuir! It is I! James!”

The young man James called to had, prior to James’ arrival, dismounted to fight and slay two brigands, and was now surveying the corpses of his foes. He reacted to the call first with alarm, but upon gazing on the new arrivals face he let loose a toothy grin.

“Why, tis Joyeux-Giant-James! Tis a shame I wasted my blade-arm strength on this villains, when you could have kicked them aside with your bare feet!”

“Och, ye needed the practice,” James replied as he dismounted and the two young men hugged. “How is your da?”

“Oh, still minding his flock. Which is more than I can say for yours, I should say.” Tuir’s blunt commentary made James wince. He liked not hiding truths from his childhood friend, but verily there was a reason for his rebuke. He was about to reply when Tuir spoke first.

“Oh, but who am I to speak ill of the family of my goode friend and such a renowned knight? But tell me of this court of High King Rokk.”

“I would very much like to have such fortune to tell you of all the wonders I have seen, but I hurry and may not tarry long. I would say that you would make a fine addition to the court, should you so choose.”

Tuir blushed. “Nay, I am but the son of a shepherd.”

“There are many with such humble beginnings at court. You-”

“-Will give my troth to be your errand-boy,” Tuir replied. “I can see it in your eyes. You have that look about you, when you must be in two locales at once.”

“Aye,” James reluctantly let on.

“So give unto me my quest, that you may make haste upon yours.”

“Tis but a simple feat,” James handled him the scroll King Rokk had given to him. “Merely get this to my father’s court.” He saw Tuir’s eyebrow raised; his friend was always intuitively one ahead of him.

“And?” Tuir demanded.

“And, if I am not there within the week, you must lead Cumbria’s armies to Exeter in my place, that they may join Rokk’s forces ere this war commences in earnest.”

Tuir’s jaw slackened at the prospect of leading an army, even if only to deliver troops to another’s command. King Wynn had allowed him, as a childhood friend of Cumbria’s prince, much leeway as an immature knight who evaded such responsibilities. Perhaps now his moment had come despite it all.

He contemplated his new mission as James rode away. “Good luck, my friend,” he said, knowing the young man was out of earshot. “I pray that whatever dark task it is that weighs on your soul is lifted soon.”

Four Hundred Twenty-seven

Sussiah awoke yet again, and yet again fought the urge to surrender to the blissful intoxication that surrounded her.

The bed was softer than a morning mist, smoother than the silks the Persian traders carried, more soothing than the meads of Cymru or the sweetened breadstuffs served only to the Iberian princesses. Platters of exotic fruits, smoked fish, hearty breads, dried meats, and Roman cheeses drifted around them like hummingbirds in the gardens of Florentia. All the glitter, all the splendour, all the grandeur of this castle still overwhelmed her, days (weeks?) after her arrival. Verily, time, hunger, need, thirst… all of these had fallen to the wayside as unnecessary burdens, just as her very garments had been.

This must be what tis like, to be trapped in the faerie realms, she realized, and the thought alarmed her into fully waking at last.

Carbonek. That was what Pelles had called it. Carbonek, not like the old nurse’s rhyme – it verily was the magick castle of the old nurses’ rhyme brought to life! Brought to life by the Cauldron. The Chalice. The Grail.

Sussiah slowly got out of bed, taking great care not to wake Pelles. Even in his sleep, his thoughts leaked like a poorly thatched roof. Pelles, whose magickal gifts allowed him to peer into the hearts of others, had reduced himself to spewing all his own thoughts out instead.

She had first been enamoured by the pain, guilt, and secrets he carried, his ‘cross to bear’ in his own words. Later, she had actually been taken with the man himself, and not merely because of the sensual bliss they had shared. But now, he did naught but sicken her – he was but a weeping pile of flesh unable to come to terms with all he had wrought upon himself and upon so many others.

While quietly gathering her clothing, Sussiah made her way toward the window, in hopes that fresh air would strengthen her new sense of waking, but not so much as to stir Pelles. It was still summer, or maybe early autumn, at least. It was not like a fae realm, so it must still have been within the month of her arrival here.

Was it the sort of divine providence which Vidar had spoken of, that had led her to the window at this very moment? For down below, far below the castle walls, far below the bluffs those walls stood upon, down along the small but fierce river that wound its way out of the hills, was an intruder to this secluded, fortified valley: a woman!

If it was a knight, Sussiah could seduce him. If it was a villager, she could dismiss them. But this young woman below was no mere peasant.

The woman knelt at the pond, a pond Sussiah had observed on her own entry to the castle, but had also since seen time and again within the cherished memories that Pelles could no longer contain merely within his own mind’s eye. At this pond, Pelles the young boy would fish alongside his sire and brother, before the dark times came. These waters were so plentiful with fish than none who lived along its banks would ever be hungry, should thy so much as cast the simplest of nets into its bountiful waters.

This newcomer, too, was fishing with naught but a short blade, and was catching them. She was swift, and caught two fish with a single thrust. Just as swiftly, she skewered them with sticks and placed them over a fire with such precision that she must have done this a thousand times over. And as the fish began roasting, the stranger was gone! In the blink of an eye, she had gone to the forest edge gathering more wood!

This was no mere villager or wanderer; this was the Moorish scout who served King Rokk. Vidar had warned of her. It was said she could easily outrun a prize stallion, and Sussiah could well believe it. King Rokk had no doubt sent her after the Cauldron. What to do?

The scout had not yet entered the castle. Would she? Already she was dangerously close to the lower gate – if she had even spied it beyond the shrubs and vines. If she did, all the magicks afoot would draw her in further. No, that was not acceptable; Pelles alone she could handle. The interloper brought uncertainty, an uncertainty the thief could do without.

Sussiah instantly knew what her plan must be, even though Pelles might (intentionally or not) alert the scout. Still, it had to be done. She clenched her fist, and tried her best to dispel any lingering attachments to Pelles she might yet harbour.

Pelles was starting to stir, and Sussiah’s heart skipped a beat. She had to act now! She calmed herself and walked towards the bed, trying to choose her move before he was awake enough to read the thoughts and fears that wanted to race through her heart. But surely he felt the same enticements to remain a-slumber that she had?

She calmly lifted the spear off the wall. It felt good in her hands; it felt right. Could she feel its memories? How Pelles’ father crafted and enchanted it himself? How Ambrosius had thrust it into Vortigern’s chest? How Pelles’ father entrusted the spear to the doomed Sir Balin? How Sir Jonah used it to dispatch the sorceress Glorith? Nay. Sussiah perceived none of these moments, nor in truth would she have cared if she had.

Sussiah, my love? Pelles again spoke without words, the only way she had ever heard him.

“I am here,” she whispered, feeling the compassion that she could end his lifetime of pain, once and for all.

Something else else is different this morn, is it not?

“Aye, my love, it is.” She raised the spear overhead, ready to strike.

Suddenly Pelles was wide awake and staring at her. No, not just at her, but through her very heart as well. Suddenly he knew all the dark thoughts she had harboured, all the thoughts of greed to make off with the treasures of Carbonek and to profit from the dark secrets of his very soul. And she in turn saw the depth of the pain that her betrayal gave him, just as she plunged the spear into his torso. One last betrayal, and ye may rest at last.

Pelles screamed with all his mind, and the shriek nearly drove Sussiah to the brink of the blind madness of pain itself. She pulled back the spear and struck again, missing her target and hitting the bed.

Suddenly it was no longer a bed that was the envy of Persian merchants, but a ragged, worn bed of rotting fabrics. Gone were the floating platters of foodstuffs, the gold and the glitter and very aura of magic. It was now a drab, dingy old castle; it was Carbonek no more.

Pelles was stumbling to his feet, bleeding profusely, and stumbling towards her. She would have easily evaded him if she could bring herself to let go of the spear, but then letting go of any treasures had never been her forte. Just as she pulled it free, he had snared her by her long, thick, red mane of hair.

“Sussiah!!!!!” It was the first time she (or virtually anyone alive) had ever heard him speak aloud, and so rusty and raspy was his voice that it sounded more like thin metals scraping each other than anything else. Moreover, his mental scream continued unabated; Sussiah was bleeding from her nose from his intensity.

She swung the spear again, maneuvering it behind her. This time, she struck his arm, and she was free.

She lifted the Cauldron from the floor, where it had collapsed once the wonders ceased, and she made for the stairwell, hoping its magicks would heal her even without drinking from it. The cup was dry; the magicks did nothing.

Pelles caught her one last time at the top of the stairs, but she whirled and thrust the spear deep through his upper thigh (possibly his very loins?) and into the wooden beam that supported the landing.

He screamed anew in her head and she shoved him backward. The railing gave way and Pelles seemed about to plummet to the ground floor.

He didn’t.

The spear, still lodged in both his thigh and the wooden beam, kept Pelles dangling above the stairwell, and he shrieked as loud as lungs, vocal chords, and mind would allow, twisting in mid-air and writhing in torment.

Sussiah herself was about to pass out from both psionic shrieks and the light-headedness of blood-loss. Stumbling down the stairs she looked down into the Cauldron again in hopes it could aid her.

Some of her nasal blood had been accumulating in it, and the Cauldron had turned the blood into an almost milky, glowing water. She drank, and found the strength to stand anew and to depart.

From a side window she spied the Moorish scout, struggling with the pain that broadcast into her head and no doubt wondering whether to enter. At length, she departed and phenomenal speed, no doubt to return with Druidic assistance.

Sussiah smiled; her gamble had paid off. She was off into the woods and would never see Castle Corbonek nor its mundane version, or for that matter Pelles, ever again.

The trick now was to remain unfound and un-followed, and find her way back to Paris. But for that, she first needed to head north; if war had commenced there would be no direct passage to Frankish soil.

Four Hundred Twenty-eight

High King Rokk was happy to return to Tintagel Castle alongside Cador, its new regent. Verily, over the past few days he had little chance to talk with the man who would hold his sister’s throne – and no time at all to talk in private.

Tintagel’s longtime sage, counselor, and teacher awaited them. Governal was pleased to see both men, yet also sad, and not only because their arrival meant that neither of Gorlois’ daughters, not Nura nor Mysa, would sit on the Cornish throne anytime soon. It also meant his lord of the past decade and a half was truly gone.

A sense of mourning and relief was palpable throughout Cornwall, and especially so here, at its capital. Marcus had been an able duke, a good defender, and initially a passable king, but his madness in recent years made him a poor father-figure for a people as fiercely proud as any in all the lands of Britain.

Cador was welcomed as regent out of expediency and necessity by those loyal to Marcus, Nura, and Mysa alike. He was of respected lineage, but none would further any claims he could possibly make to be king. And those who had been loyal to the traitor Geraint would be satisfied that Sir Thom would not succeed his father – at least not immediately.

The staff, guards, and townsfolk at Tintagel showed ceremonial acceptance for the regent whom they had already known and worked under whilst Marcus’ madness had worsened, yet he was not greeted by the warmth that Nura had on her recent visit.

Cador would have it no other way. He was a Teacher who belonged in Avalon, not a monarch. He was here as naught but a favour to both of Cornwall’s royal sisters – and to its people, whom he yet loved.

After a less-than-spirited feast with a gathering of Cornish nobles commemorating the transition, Rokk had the chance to meet with Cador in his dwellings. The royal chambers of Nura and Marcus were not his; he preferred to remain in the simple rooms that had been his grandfather’s, when that man had been seneschal to Duke Gorlois.

“I remember little of my mother. She was of Cornwall, as you know,” Rokk began. “I am told you are her kin. I see some resemblance, I must confess.”

Cador smiled. “You are too kind. Igraine was quite a woman. In beauty and wit, courage and spirit. Twas no wonder two kings went to war for her.”

Rokk nodded. At least two kings, he thought but did not say, recalling his interrogation of Mordru a few years agone. She was Uther’s bride, once Gorlois was slain. One of the Uther’s brothers also sought after her, too. But was it Ambrosius – or Mordru?

“I confess I know little of her, or of her lineage.” Rokk had long ago gleaned that his aunt Morgause knew far more than she was willing to say, yet he had still not gotten a word on such from her.

“Igraine descended from the grand old house of Llyr. Not the line of Pellam, of course. But another line, all the same,” Cador began. “There were, of course, three lines. From three daughters, as we all well know.”

“Verily it seems that half of Britain is of at least one of those lineages, one way or another,” Rokk laughed.

“Mayhap,” Cador replied with a smile. “But Cornwall values its own royal line immensely. It has been interrupted in Roman times, of course, but even rulers of Roman blood had to at least marry into it to gain legitimacy in the eyes of the people.”

Rokk nodded. “A king without that is no king at all.”

Yet the bear inside him grumbled as if to say, Nay! Kings are born in blood and fire, not the acquiescence of the weak. Since he had defeated the giant bear-king Ursuik in the Pict islands north-west of the isle of Britain proper, he felt as though its spirit wrestled yet with him. Yet he was still himself, was he not?

Rokk fought the sensation, but did not escape it. “And Igraine herself?”

“She was reared in the Cornish court in exile, in Eiru, just as Nura would later be. No warrior was she, but she knew the harp like no other, and sang like a goddess. She knew the herbcraft of olde, and tended to many a wounded warrior in her time. Tis how she and Uther met, during the wars against Vortigern.

“When I first met her, whilst I was scarcely older than you are now, twas at her wedding to Gorlois. Just like Nura was with Marcus, Igraine was pledged from afar to keep the peace – and to keep the royal line in Cornwall. As I was a kinsman of hers on my own mother’s side and also kin of Gorlois’ seneschal through my father, I was Avalon’s most frequent emissary here. Gorlois would not welcome Druid nor Priestess. At least not until much later…”

Cador set his mead down and looked away. “I… should probably not say so much. But mayhap I will. I was already at Avalon when she became queen of Cornwall. And later of Britain, of course. She… I am told…”

Rokk waited with a mixture of curiosity and dread. What was this dark secret his kinsman so hesitated to speak of?

“You… had a brother,” he said at last. “Igraine was already Uther’s lover whilst her husband King Gorlois yet lived. Almost since Mysa was born, so she told me. Uther, Ambrosius, Gorlois, Lot, Zendak, and the rest, they were all allies against Vortigern. At one point, many of them had to retreat to here. This very castle was a sea of the wounded, the maimed… the dying, mayhap not so different from the fields of war you have likely seen so much of lately. Yet this was mostly an internal feud amongst peoples of this isle. With two thousand troops besieging her and nary a handful defending her, Tintagel keep proved her worth those days and nights, until Ambrosius and Wynn broke the siege.

“I was helping tend the wounded, when Igraine came upon Uther, lying so near to death. Among his many wounds, his chest gushed blood from a gash below and gash above,” Cador gestured onto his own body. “Thick globs of blood, and they spurted with the rhythm of a heart-beat. We tended him together, though all said he’d be dead within the hour. She could not bear to put the torch to his gashes to stop the deadly blood-flow, so twas I who did. All else in his care, that was her craft. Even as we tended to the other wounded all night long, she revisited him again and again till we knew he would live on. I saw it then. She loved him from then onward.

“Gorlois was no longer welcome in her bed, though he still took her by force. Still she bore him not the son he craved to be his heir. She paid a wise-woman to gain her husband’s ear, and that crone in turn told him his bride was barren, that Mysa would be her only child ever. So then and only then did Gorlois seek Avalon’s aid. Upon returning to Igraine for her payment, that same wise-woman told her that she was pregnant – and not with Gorlois’ child!

“Whilst Gorlois made arrangements for the Great Marriage with Kiwa, our beloved and dearly missed Lady of the Lake, for a union that would give us Nura, Igraine lived in fear – she was almost a shadow of herself. She knew not whether her husband or her lover was father, and could not risk the scorn of either.

“Twas then that Mordru first came to Tintagel, and offered her comfort and assistance. Whilst Gorlois was off with Kiwa, he spirited Igraine away to some fae realm where she could grow large in belly, bear the son that was probably Uther’s, and return with but a few days passed in our world, and neither king any the wiser.”

“My… brother… grew up in some faerie realm?” Rokk could scarcely believe it – if not for his own time as a captive in the realm of Annwyn Annowre.

“Nay. He returned to the world we know ere he was a week old. I… know this, as I was his guardian. At first.” Cador paced uncomfortably. “Later, one of the nobles took him on. Somehow, several years later, Uther eventually found out. But by then, the lad was dead, Mordru told us. Uther was enraged. He-”

“-attacked and slew Gorlois,” Rokk concluded. “Uther and Igraine were involved longer than I had kenned.” And Mordru, he bitterly thought. Only for Igraine could he so act without his brother’s counsel. Or could he? What truly happened to my brother? “Which noble took him on?”

“I know not. One of the northerners or Cymry, most likely.”

“Tis no wonder you so despise statecraft,” Rokk said at last, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Aye,” Cador replied with a chuckle. “I have been witness to so many troubles, all for so little, when all is said and done. I… seek the greater meanings to the world. In Avalon, I study the lost magicks of Hybrasil. At least those we may ken.”

Rokk put his hand on the shoulder of his kinsman. “When duties are thrust upon us, we must face them as men. For if we do not, how can we ask others? You will be a fine regent, my friend and kinsman.”

Hi Sean, really love your writing - I must admit that I've forgotten much of what I read when you first started this so it's like reading a brand new story all over, which is great!

A couple of years ago I finally go around to reading the Mists of Avalon by Marion Bradley Zimmer and your story reminds me of that, not just the era but the how inter-related all the sections are and the scheming and plotting that's going on between the characters.It's fabulously entertaining stuff! When I have some more time I'll go back to the start are re-read it all.

Need I say it?

More, more, more!

Thanks!

MZB's Mists of Avalon was definitely an influence, and certain early elements were particularly close to hers, although if I were starting this project from scratch today far less would be.

I've opted to slow down the story a little and add reminders of backstory to facilitate catching up, as I realize for many people who read this years ago it would not be fresh in memory anymore.

As always, feedback along the way is encouraged from one and all. I like to be reminded there are people checking this out every once in a while.

Four Hundred Twenty-nine


Saihlough had not been at court since she returned from Paris with Imra’s ill-fated delegation to King Clovis, and although the entire summer had passed since then, few had actually noticed her absence. Between Jormangund, Queen Imra’s face-saving tour to all the courts of the isle, the Macedonians, the Franks, the Mysa imposters, Cornish politics, and now the missing Grail/Cauldron, at very few times had many of the court been assembled in any one place for long. Moreover, many faces had long been missing without explanation: Saihlough, Sir Reep, Querl, and Errol were gone with no explanation, whether off on secret quests or assumed to be travelling with others. Even the jester Carolus had vanished for two weeks after his brief adventure with Sir Garth, during which they were captives of Duke Aivillagh.

Many knights were, of course, seeing to war preparations and raising troops, and both the exiles of Sir Thom and Queen Nura and the ailments of Laoraighll and MacKell were well-known enough. Sir Uland’s initiation into the Temple of Isis was known and approved of, and his duties had taken him away from combat while making stronger ties with the Teachers of Avalon.

Queen Imra supervised matters of state from Londinium as best she could to aid her husband whilst he was in Cornwall, and she presumed that she would do the same once he had landed in Gaul.

She had been busier than she had ever imagined even when Sir Dyrk (or ‘Apollo’ as he now called himself) had made his recent visit, and he had been a disturbance enough that weeks later matters were still not caught up on. There were supply routes to plan and maintain, communications and spies (Oh, where was Reep? This was his forte, after all), nobles to satisfy, spats to resolve, and the confusing matter of the eastern navy. Ira drafted Sir Lucan away from his regular duties to aid her, especially in taking over on matters Reep usually was three steps ahead on.

In the morn, Iasmin’s cavalry finished its final preparation exercises and departed for Exeter. Luornu interrupted to update the queen on young Amhar’s rash; the Druids insisted it was a normal childhood ailment, not any sort of poisoning or evil magicks.

In the after-noon, the bard Taliesin brought word from Avalon: Laoraighll and MacKell had both wondered off and were both missing, and Querl was confirmed to be staying with the Priestesses, recovering from an unspecified injury. Sir Berach returned from Corinium as well; as of several days ago Genni reported no success in finding the Grail. Three more kitchen-boys under Tenzil’s watch had petitioned to become knights; Imra ordered them assigned to the city guard. Imra also had to support Luornu in getting her own ladies in waiting to stop gossiping about the very secret the entire court was ordered to keep silent on: the hostage that could sabotage Rokk’s entire strategy.

Sir Brandius arrived in late afternoon, and refused to be treated as an honoured guest but rather dove in to help on logistics. Before the evening meal, he, Lucan, and Imra had forged a feasible defense plan to forward to the allied Kentish Khunds in anticipation of the expected Frankish landings.

Three evenings later, the trio collapsed for a rest, amazed by the quiet of the great hall that had buzzed with activity foe untold days and weeks. For the first time in a dozen evenings, the queen felt that all urgent matters were tended to, all questions answered, and all plans in place. Until the next crisis, at least.

The great hall had not served as a feasting hall in months, save for the eve of Dyrk’s miraculous return. Tenzil and his staff had become adjusted to individual members of the court stopping by the kitchens only when bellies grumbled too loudly; the passageways to and from the kitchens were littered with stew bowls hastily gulped and cast aside. Siobhan and Virginia, overwhelmed by the war activities of even the maidens older than they were, made themselves useful in assisting the overwhelmed kitchen staff.

But on this eve, the palace seemed at peace for once. Imra knew it would not last, but savoured the moment nonetheless. Tenzil himself cleared their plates and refreshed their wines. Clearly he was letting his own staff rest this eve, even when he himself was probably far wearier than they.

“By damnation, tis a busy matter, planning a war,” Brandius said at last, noticing a lone dragonfly ply its way among the rafters high above them. “You should have sent for me ere now.”

Imra nodded. Too many obvious ideas and details had slipped by. What else had?

“Have you heard from Reep?” she managed at last.

“Nay, not a word,” Brandius tried to sound nonchalant, but she knew he was concerned about his missing son. “No-one has seen him since before Jonah’s defeat of the Macedonians. He was supervising the construction of the new castle, at Camulodunum, from whence he just vanished.”

“Sir Reep would not do so without good cause,” Lucan vouched. “There must have been reason, even if he could not send a message.”

Imra nodded. No one wanted to acknowledge the possibility that Reep had met a foul end. Clever he was, and a decent enough warrior, but on his own he was not the fighter James or Dyrk were – let alone Garth, MacKell or Jonah.

Brandius guessed her thoughts. “Khunds leftover from the invasion? I have heard of some about, but Sirs Hesperos and Palomides have done well at scouring them out and ending them.”

Lucan let out a slow exhale.

“What weighs on thee, lad?” Brandius asked. Tenzil had left them a large carafe, and the elder poured the younger another goblet of wine.

“Rough days, tis all. Even Carolus is glum now-a-times,” he replied. Imra and Brandius chuckled.

“Aye, what has become him?” the latter asked.

“He took it upon himself to ferret out the burden that lies upon Sir James’ heart. He feared our James was neglecting Rokk’s very orders!” Imra answered.

“How fortunate we have a jester who delves into state-craft!” Lucan guffawed. “Mayhap I should remind him of his true duties. We so sorely need his wit a-now.”

“Tis done already,” the queen said. “I have sent him for a rest at sir Derek’s villa, and not to return until his laughter does.”

“He mourns her yet,” Brandius offered, pouring himself another wine. “Laurentia.”

“Aye,” Imra replied. “Of the three sisters, the jester was closest to the one with the sharpest wit and even sharper tongue. And she perished within these very castle walls,” she trailed off into a sigh.

There was nothing more to add, and the three sat in silence. The dragonfly circled around high above them, and the rattling of its wings was the only constant sound. It reminded Imra of the court faerie; where had she been of late?

“Saihlough would say we are all being too silly, dwelling on things that do not matter,” she said at last. “With Carolus not yet lifting our spirits, we could use her around here.”

“Be careful of what you wish for. That little fae can be kind, but she can be quite mischievous, too,” Lucan reminded her.

“Aye,” Imra chuckled, recalling the times the little one had filled Lucan’s boots with a magickal porridge that clung to his feet like hard-cement yet was soft to the touch. And of the time she turned Reep’s notes for a new bridge into a nest for a giant sparrow that laid eggs that in turn hatched giant orchids; both bird and eggs/flowers vanished when they touched iron, but Imra still had one of the flowers in her apartments. “Still, I would wish her back with us.”

The dragonfly whizzed lower, yet there was another of its kind still above them in the rafters. With more than one of them now, the queen could no longer half-fancy that the lone bug was really Saihlough disguising herself.

“We avoided the Pharoxx problem again today,” Imra changed the subject. Seeing Brandius’ confusion, she explained. “Voxv’s nephew Pharoxx, you may recall, aided us and the Irish in the battle against Saraid. As a reward, Rokk made him admiral of the western navy, in hopes it would keep him from scheming against Jecka.”

Seeing Brandius’ nod, she continued. “Pharoxx’ half-sister Elyzabel was a paramour of Lucius, the duke of Neustria, a vassal of Clovis. We have word that she is being held as a hostage against us, but Rokk does not want Pharoxx to know, else he rashly attack before Rokk is ready. Virginia was gossiping about this today.”

Brandius whistled. “A strategy reliant upon a man I’d not trust with anything more valuable than a bag of salt. I dare say Rokk may have erred on this appointment, and that error might just cost us the war.”

“Aye, but revoking his appointment on the eve of war? Even Voxv would have to side with his nephew against us,” Imra said, resisting the urge to tell him the rest. Instead, she reached for the wine, but acquiesced when Lucan interceded to pour for her.

“A new rebel king battle?” Brandius mused. It seemed unlikely, but even the unity of one day could shatter the next with ease; Vortigern was a lesson in that.

“One day, we shall have a break from war after war,” Imra told them. “Or so Nura has told me. The Khunds will not again be a significant menace until children like Galahad and my Amhar are young men.”

“And the Franks?” Lucan asked.

“She told me not of them, nor this war. Remember, I have not seen her since midwinter.”

“Mayhap you changed the very flow of the future events she foresaw, when you went to Paris?” Lucan regretted the words as soon as they were let loose, not having intended a rebuke.

The elder of the trio stepped the conversation back to its prior direction. “An end to all our wars… I am sure our young men will find some other way to keep their sense of adventure,” Brandius said, thinking back upon his own youth. “Tournaments only go so far. There must be an annual quest to keep their hearts in this magnificent camaraderie,” he said.

Lucan laughed. “Let us first keep their heads in this coming war!”

OH MY GOLLY GOODLINESS!!! It's back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I be happy now

Thanks, Karie!

Note to all: I only just noticed that there is a chronology discrepancy between the new and the most recent older stuff. The newer is basically set in early September, but some of the other stuff suggests later (into October, even). Ignore. I will be editing those into late August/September as needed, once I have time to sort through them all. There is also a sort of duplicate about Laoraighll waking up; it does not necessarily contradict the more recent chapter, but it was accidental (if anyone is wondering).

apologies, but some of the big-name pros sometimes make such errors - and they are both paid, and have paid editors who miss their errors too.

so there.

Four Hundred Thirty

Imra slept late in the morning for once, and was surprised to find her assistants managing well in her absence. She was content to ease off and let others carry the workload, offering only commentary on earlier decisions and the working context that she had lived and breathed but they had not.

The new day had brought fresh word. Rokk has sent our word far and wide for Genni to leave her current quest to the Druids, and to return to his camp at Exeter. The small navies of Queen Ayla, Duke Aivllagh and King Zendak of South Cymru had begun troop transport to Armorica, but were sorely in need of Pharoxx and Rokk’s Western Navy. On Rokk’s order, Zendak had sailed for Portus Magnus to seek the reasons for his delay.

“Tis not a wonder that Rokk seeks to redirect Genni,” Lucan commented. “She could be there and back ere Zendak is halfway there in one direction.”

Imra was distressed that Rokk seemed to have given up on the search for the Cauldron; it had been an irreplaceable asset in wartime, and would be sorely missed in the coming fight. But yes, the needs of the moment made sense.

Luornu came by before mid-day, bringing young Prince Amhar by to see his mother and to let her know that Taliesin had already returned from Avalon; Uland had led him directly to the queen. A master bard and one of the Teachers, Taliesin would not have come back so quickly without reason; the otherworldly Path of Isis between Londinium and Avalon was a direct route, but its dangers made it no trifling journey, even for a Teacher.

Unlike his visit a few days ago, the bard looked worried. He offered the customary greetings, and presented the queen with a scroll.

Imra studied the message. “Doth this prophesy come from Queen Nura? This is hardly the time for me to leave the capital, on the very eve of war.”

“Not from Queen Nura,” the emissary said. “We have a new seer, one whose gifts rival both Nura and her mother the blessed Kiwa.”

Imra’s interest was piqued. “I knew of no such initiate when I was in Avalon,” she replied.

“He has come to us only of late,” Taliesin replied.

Uland’s surprise was second only to that of Imra; the Sight was a rare gift, and one almost exclusive to women. Only one man had been known to have it in any significant degree, and even his gift was but a shadow of Nura, Kiwa or the seers of olde.

“Beren himself recruited him, and vouches for him,” Taliesin continued.

“If any man is able to judge such, it is Beren,” Imra conceded. She was both joyful that Avalon might again have a seer of the highest ability, yet still unsettled that it was not a Priestess.

“But what is the message?” Brandius inquired, hoping not to sound too demanding of the queen.

“It seems I must depart for Avalon at once, to try to prevent a civil war at home once the Frankish war commences. Had this come but two days ago, I could not go. And thus Sirs Lucan and Brandius, I am in your debt.”

She took Brandius by the hand and led him to Lucan, who was pouring over the latest messages from Armorica. “My good sirs? Darest I leave all these matters in your capable hands? I would not do so so lightly-”

“-If it were not of vital importance,” Brandius finished the thought.

“I am coming too,” said a familiar high-pitched voice. The dragonfly above them glistened and sparkled, changing form from insect to faerie.

“Saihlough! Twas you verily, not a merely my passing wish!” Imra could not help but smile.

“I am coming to Avalon!” the fae announced like a demanding child, seemingly anticipating parental forbiddance. The second dragonfly followed her around; was it a second fae?

“Tis not a jovial outing,” Imra cautioned, “but if you are here to help, you are most welcome.”

“My lady?” Uland offered. “I realize knights are in short supply, but I am certain my superiors would allow me to escort you to the mystic isles. I-I am beginning to learn the secrets of the Path myself.”

The Path of Isis was the most direct route to the Teachers’ Isle of Avalon from Londinium, but the most hazardous as well. If one walks the path with open eyes, the creatures, the daemons and bainsidhes that lie between worlds, can drive the mind to madness – or to death. Only MacKell has dared to look upon them, and only blindfolded have other members of court endured the trip and the mesmerizing wails of aethereal beings. Conversely, if one walks the path without sight or any other guidance, one can lose ones way. The Teachers themselves can walk the Path blindfolded, but can generally lead only one or two people with them. Only with mind-magicks such as the queen’s can a larger group travel the path, as she can link Taliesin’s mind with the group.

“It would be useful to have a member of the court become versed in walking the Path,” Imra agreed. “But let us not make too large of a travel party.”

“Aord? Aord, shall you go, too?” Saihlough asked the other dragonfly. After a pause, she turned to tell the others, “He is not ready to stop flying.”

Aord, the mighty Manx warrior, had been branded a madman by the city guards, after he returned from the faerie realms with Saihlough. None had seen him in months, and none had realized he was still in Saihlough’s company.

A knight driven mad and transfix’d into a dragonfly, Brandius mused. A fate poore Aglovale narrowly avoided all those years ago. Mayhap he would have fared better if he had been?

Imra’s mind was on other matters, unspoken portions of the message. “When the Eighth Door opens…” It was something Aven had once warned her about. Why couldn’t she remember?

Imra chose a small, concise team of Uland, Saihlough and Jecka. She also opted to bring Luornu and Amhar; her infant son would be safer in Avalon than in Londinium, she recalled, thinking of the very plots to kill Rokk when he was so young. At Taliesin’s suggestion, they would sleep, break their fasts, and leave before the sun had cleared the south-of-river woodlands.

Four Hundred Thirty-one


Genni had told the Druids of the strange bainsidhe of the woodland castle, and was about to lead them back when she received her new orders.

The elder called Taidg led the half-dozen Druids whom Beren had assigned to assist Genni. They moved slower than she, of course, but offered support services, a stable base of supplies and communications, and sage advice throughout her search.

Once seeing Genni off for Exeter, Taidg had his troupe decamp and move on towards the castle themselves.

The roadway, now overgrown with weeds and small shrubs, seemed vaguely familiar to the elder Druid. He had been this way before, had he not? The growth suggested this path had not been maintained in more than a decade.

The route Genni had described would take them downward to the right through some young woodlands towards the base of a ravine; the waters of the pond downhill winked at them from down between the trees. Slightly above them, the silhouette of a bluff-top castle also peeked through the forest canopy. But the rough roadway slowly ascended toward the left, and gut instinct guided Taidg in this direction; his half-forgotten memory insisted there was a better route to the castle than the one Genni described.

The roadway, still over-grown, twisted and turned and circled back towards the castle. It made its way to a bridge so narrow that only a single horse with the smallest of carts could cross it. The nearest tower of the castle towered over the bridge, and any who crossed it would be easy prey to but a single archer – if one was about. The bridge itself spanned a cascading stream that raged too fiercely to be crossed by other means, even if the rocky ravine it flowed through was not as steep as it was. But the castle tower and the guard hut across the way betrayed no sign of defenders. Below the bridge, the plentiful fish danced from eddy to eddy, climbing the graded cascade like children hopping up a grand staircase. The fish seemed unperturbed by a growing tension in the air.

The bridge was old, but its frame was of good stone and its planks were of a fine wood, thick oak covered with a tar, with handles on the ends. Taidg noted they could be hauled out in the event of a siege, leaving only the stone frame in place; few who would cross the un-planked bridge frame in armour, not with such a cascade below.

Beyond the bridge and guard hut lay an overgrown field, once a garden. Berry-bushes and root vegetables still fought valiantly against the influx of grasses and shrubs. At the far end of the field, the Druids spied a bear foraging; they took this as a sign to proceed with caution. Although the grounds were being reclaimed by the forest, the Druids felt a keen awareness that something was amiss.

They followed the bottom of the castle wall, skirting the overgrown fields, and came to an earthen wall capped with large stones across the top. There was a sole stone gateway abutting the castle wall to allow access without a climb. The thick oak doors, sheltered by the archway, still stood strong – but yet was unbarred. No one had defended this entry in some time.

Beyond the gateway and through the wall, Taidg surveyed the enclosure between the earthen wall and the taller stone wall beyond; this had been a small village keep. The stone structures yet stood, but the roof thatchings atop them were but rotting clumps barely holding in place; in many places the thatching had collapsed into the buildings.

“Corbin,” Taidg whispered. “This was Corbin village. Once.” He had been here as a younger man, to beseech an old king to intervene in a feud that threatened to divide Avalon itself. And he had left making an enemy of a young knight who could have been Avalon’s salvation… yet it had turned out a-right without him, had it not?

They bypassed the overgrown village and proceeded directly to the castle gate. Spying one of his men massaging his forehead, Taidg realized that the building tension had been building in his head, too – no, in all of their heads.

It was the scream Genni described! It was still a cry of pain, but one echoing with the resignation of death, not the immediacy of the moment of wounding.

The Druids entered the castle with little trouble, and seeking out the centre of the anguish found Pelles: naked and still dangling from the spear high over the stairwell. For all his wounds, there was surprisingly little blood.

It took the better part of three hours to dislodge the man from the spear and the staircase. First, the Druids had to scavenge enough rope to secure
Pelles that he would not fall down the stairwell once the spear was removed. The ropes had to be attached to secure fixtures and to Pelles himself, and the Druids had to do all this without themselves falling. This accomplished, they could also leverage Pelles himself into a position where the spear could come out straight.

While this was being implemented, one Druid re-lit the upstairs hearth and fed it until he had a blaze. The worst of the wounds would still need to be cauterized; there was no guarantee the flow of blood would remain so miraculously small. Once he was ready and the rope was complete, Taidg himself wiggled the spear out of the Josephite’s thigh.

“I am sorry, my friend,” he said as the maneuver commenced; Pelles let loose a new round of shrieking as the Druids had not felt before, and it almost felled three of them. But out the spear came, and with its removal came the thick, red flows of blood. The five Druids moved him toward the hearth as quickly as possible and sealed the wounds with fire.

With the hardest tasks over and the sun setting, Taidg sent three Druids out to pick the healing herbs and harvest the tree saps that would be needed next; they still had a long night’s work ahead of them if Pelles was to live.

At one point, Taidg found himself alone with the now-unconscious patient, and took the time to inspect the leg wounds. He had seen many a devastating wound and disfigurement, yet he could not help himself from wincing.

“Well, my lord Pelles, I doubt even the late Aglovale would have wished this fate upon you. May his hate for you have ebbed ere he died. I fear that, until we again have the Cauldron, that you shall be lame. And mayhap ever after.”

Four Hundred Thirty-two


The winds were favourable, and King Zendak had returned to Exeter port, hoping to seek out the high king.

He instructed his captain to resume boarding soldiers to sail to Armorica, and trod uphill to the castle irritated at the news he had brought back. The streets were crowded with soldiers, but few failed to get out of the way of a king smouldering with ire.

It was dusk, and the high-ranking officers would be dining in the great hall. Zendak entered and scanned about, looking for Rokk. He saw Sirs Garth, Jonah, Palomides, Lu, and Hesperos gathered along the far wall but close to Aivillagh’s end of the table. Across from them were the Duke’s men: O’Maillaigh, Sir Dyrk/Apollo, Sugyn, Sir Accolon, and an empty seat left between the latter two. No doubt left aside for the crone who claims to be Mysa. A variety of other knights and nobles filled out the table, and many minor nobles were relegated to improvised seating away from the table.

“My goode King Zendak! Let us make room for thee!” Aivillagh boomed, and motioned to his servants.

“He may take my place,” Garth said, standing and motioning for the elder to seat himself. Wartime made Garth tolerate Aivillagh, but nothing would make the knight remain in his onetime captor’s company any longer than absolutely necessary.

Jonah was pleased to see Zendak. “Garth and I should head out to Benwick in the morn,” he said. “I have no doubt Queen Ayla and Sir Bedwyr shall need our help in organizing all the new arrivals. And I hope Prince Pharoxx shall be arriving soon?”

“He shall not!” Zendak grumbled, startling the serving woman who was placing a plate of roast lamb, apple, and root vegetables before him. “Pharoxx has heard some bad news, I fear.” Zendak dove into his meal like a starving man; if he could not vent his ire at Rokk, he would vent his frustration upon his dinner.

Jonah’s heart sunk. “He shall attack Lucius directly, and seek her freedom.”

“If we are so lucky,” scoffed Zendak, grabbing the cup of hot wine being handed to him. “He is of the house of Vovx. No doubt he fancies himself a lord of illusions, and will try to win Elzybel’s freedom by trickery.”

“That’s not so bad,” Jonah replied.

“Aye. If it works. If Clovis’ own sorcerers and seers have not anticipated this. But,” he paused to eat another chunk of lamb. “But what if he fails, and has to surrender control of the Western Navy itself? Or mayhap pledge North Cymru to neutrality?” He took a swig of wine. “And think of the secrets he might divulge to the enemy.”

Jonah paled. Yes, there was fear that Pharoxx might launch an early attack on his own, if he learnt his half-sisters fate. But in truth, Jonah had worried solely of the impact upon the troop-moving logistics.

“I have supported young Rokk through thick and thin,” Zendak grumbled, slowly getting louder. “I sided with him over the Rebel Kings, supported him when it did South Cymru no good at all. I have endured much in his service, but-” He cut himself off before he spoke the treasonous words that were bubbling to the surface. He breathed deep and, noticing all the eyes upon him, resumed a forced whisper, “entrusting Pharoxx with the navy has become the most costly blunder of his reign.”

Even those who did not hear all of Zendak’s words had known what his quest had been – and understood from his current demeanour its outcome.

“King Rokk will be here on the morrow,” Jonah declared. “We have overcome worse setbacks, and this will be no different,” he took the liberty of patting Zendak’s shoulder affably.

Jonah then turned his attention to the room at large. “Pharoxx or not, we shall prevail!” He hoisted his cup high. “Britain will prevail!” He hoisted high again, earning some cheers from the back of the room. “King Rokk will prevail!” More cheers, but hardly the acclimation he sought. The delay in transport was already causing a loss in morale; if transport had not been well-planned, what else had not? Yes, Rokk had won wars at home, but how would the war go on foreign soil?

Zendak forced a false smile as if to make up for his own ill humour, and the chatter of localized conversation resumed around the room. The eyes of friends were still upon him, but no gaze was so intense as that of Sir Accolon.

In the gallery above the feast, a petite woman with long, gnarly gray hair looked on in silence. Mysa of the Faeries was not herself of late, she well knew, but she also knew something far worse was in the offing, something she could not put a name to.

Four Hundred Thirty-three


Most of the woodlands on the Isle of Sgathach were generally wispy and wind-sculpted, tenuously clinging to rocky, mossy soils. They were not oft thick and sturdy like the forests of southern Britain, yet the sheltered vale where the aging priestess Maebhain dwelled was the exception. Here an army can (and had) hidden in its bosom, a dense, dark, verdure sanctuary that offers warriors and refugees alike plentiful cover behind the trunks of ancient trees, in ruts and hollows obscured by lush foliage, behind or between boulders, or even between the very roots of some of the larger trees. But rare were the armies would ever make use of such cover, as scant were the people or resources worth conquest in these distant, inhospitable northern isles.

No, there was only one real reason to come to this ancient woodland by force, and even an Irish sorceress-queen of centuries ago came to rue such an effort. Outsiders then or now would easily lose their very sense of the lay of the land, and get lost in the innumerable ravines, dense thickets, or morasses that litter the vale – if they were foolish enough to seek out the Cave of Shadows uninvited.

Lyddagh needed no invitation, of course; she was welcome in the cave at any time. A priestess of shadow herself and the mother of the most celebrated child in all of Pictland, she needed no leave to see the cave or its matron, the eldest priestess of the Picts who was the living guardian of the demigoddess Sgathach herself. For part of the journey from mainland Britain, Lyddagh had accepted the escort of the School of Sgathach, the warrior cult of this isle, but even then she only accepted their company to the entryway of the sacred forest. Into these woods, she was quite capable to travel alone. Well, almost alone; infant Loholt was hardly old enough to assist in the navigation.

Upon reaching the cave and giving the customary salute to the weathered, carved pictograph representing the demigoddess, and she began singing the Song of Greeting as she entered. As was custom, she was singing not only to Maebhain and to Sgathach, but also to the cave itself, the very womb of spirit-kind of these northlands, and so the song was very feminine in nature. But as she entered, she caught herself using several masculine words without thinking; carrying young Loholt had intuitively made her change the words! And not merely any words, not merely the vulgarity of nouns (as if mere worldly forms could ever matter enough in Pictish cosmology to count as blasphemy) but rather her verbage – the words that describe the very spirit of existence itself! Yet she had sung the words; her song resonated in agreement with an unspoken masculine spirit one does not sing upon entry here. Uncertain as to whether she had stumbled into unforgiveable blasphemy or divine inspiration, she paused to consider how to proceed. Loholt giggled in amusement, but swatted gently at her to resume singing.

“Has motherhood changed you so, that sacred traditions are but mere suggestions to you? Or is it he who has so changed you?” Lyddagh somehow was surprised by neither Tasmia’s presence nor her ever-sharp words, even though she had heard Maebhain’s presumed heir was far across the north on the opposite coast of Britain. Moreover, she knew, despite Tasmia’s words and gestures toward her son, that the “he” who drew her scorn was not the infant but his sire.

“I change as the gods and spirits direct me,” Lyddagh replied. “But then, so do we all.”

Tasmia snorted. “Yes, by all means. Let us build cities and castles and Roman roads. Let us harvest all the woodlands and build ships and wagons and make our own lands fit more for sheep than people. Let us look to Rome or Avalon or the Saracen lands rather than to our own people, our own ways and traditions.”

“Grev tells me there is much to admire of the southerners. Mayhap we can choose the best of their ways, whilst still keep ourselves true to our hearts.” Lyddagh found more wisdom in Tasmia’s kinsman than in she who was poised to someday become the Pictish wise-woman to whom all would defer.

“Grev fights alongside the southerners, and cavorts with their women-folk,” Tasmia reminded her.

“Aye,” Lyddagh conceded. “Tis better than fighting them, “she retorted. “Or is that what you would prefer? And how did that path fare for Manaugh?”

For the barest of instants Tasmia looked to be on the verge of tears. But the instant was gone, and a hard look returned. “We should dance, then, that the southerners and Scoti are not burning our villages, then, but merely build their own forts all the taller and all the stronger. We will never repel them and retake our own lands.”

“Nor avenge the dead?” Lyddagh guessed the unspoken words Tasmia said not. “You seem particularly bitter, even for your usual demeanour. Tis a wonder, so that is. What foul spirit preys upon you?”

Tasmia tired from the act of directing her frustration at her friend. She sighed and agreed with her heart to unburden herself. “Maebhain has… suggested… that I visit the courts at Dalraida and Lothian. That I might see and hear for myself whether our neighbours are honourable, and if we can find long-term accord and alliance.”

Lyddagh bit her tongue rather than chide Tasmia as to what southern customs she might appreciate and adopt herself. This was not the time for such a jest. “Drest and Grev have spoken well of them, tis true. But men can be blind to the obvious,” Lyddagh replied. “Better to have a priestess survey their stock.”

Tasmia nodded, and turned away for the cave’s exit. “May she grant you words better attuned to your spirit than those she gifted onto me.”

Four Hundred Thirty-four



Lyddagh was perhaps most perplexed by the sense of resignation Tasmia exuded as she departed, but could not dwell long on it. She had to greet her mentor, settle in, and then help with preparations for the evening. Maebhain, of course, offered her usual kind and warm greeting, but there was also a terseness about the elder. Was it merely the autumn chill seeping into the elder woman’s bones? Or had Tasmia disturbed her as much as she herself had disturbed Tasmia?

The two chatted, catching up on Loholt’s health and new behaviours, about news of other priestesses and elders, about the progress of King Drest’s new fortress upon the Great Glen, about the departures of so many Pictish warriors for the southlands, about the season’s fish and berry yields, and all matter of other things. It was late into the evening when Maebhain broached the subject Lyddagh had come to talk about but yet could not bring herself to divulge.

“Haunted you are. By your dreams.”

“Aye, tis so,” Lyddagh replied. “Tis not unheard of, I am told, when mothers see their warriors depart for distant battle.”

“You did not come here for the repeatings of the stock soothings so many have told to you.” Maebhain would neither offer such words nor suffer Lyddagh to repeat the words of fools.

“No, I have not.” She was surprised that she had so quickly offered up the words she knew in her heart to be untrue. “I tell myself my dreams are but tied to the war, that so many of our people are away and we know not how many shall come back. But verily, tis not where my fears lie.”

“The sea.”

“…You know me so well, Maebhain.”

“But it is different a-now, and not just because of the childe.”

“No. As you know, I have always feared being out in a boat, unprotected and out of sight of land. Yet when duty compels me, I can make the right sacrifices and perform the correct rituals, and all is well whilst I have my duties – and whilst I have others to attend to. But now, in my dreams, I do all the preparations and I venture out to sea in the smallest of boats – alone, which I have never done – and I carry with me a bundle of the finest gems and metals, all wrapped up in a satchel of white fox-furs.

“I reach a point at sea and the winds suddenly stop, and so too do the waves themselves stop. All is still. I offer the gods my bundle, the finest goods I have spent a lifetime gathering, but it is not good enough. They gods sink the boat, and me with it. I awaken a-frozen, as if I had been in the cold waters I dreamt of.”

“But you neither freeze nor drown in the dream. You let go of the dream before the waters take you.”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“I do not want to die.”

“No. But the gods can kill you anywhere, on land or sea,” she stopped to gesture around herself, “or below either, too. What if… What if entering the waters is an entryway to… somewhere else? Just as a cave entry can be something more than being buried alive?”

Lyddagh was startled; in all of the lore of her people, being swept up by the sea meant only one thing, and if it was a passageway, it was a passageway out of the lands of the living. “To where?”

“You are a priestess of Shadow, the realms where the sun does not reach. Below the surface waters of the sea lie places where the sun never shines. If the gods call you there, they call you to a place of Shadow, to a place you have strength, far more strength than a-many.

“There is a place out there, an isle. Rokk’s fire-haired knight, the youth with the silver arm; he has been there. Jonah of Lothian, too. It is a place you must go, on a journey in which you face your fears.”

“You have seen this? In your own dreams?” Lyddagh’s question went unanswered. “So I must go out into the Hebrides Sea alone, leave my son and all I know, and trust all will be a-right.” She came here hoping for a different meaning. But then, so had Tasmia.

Lyddagh betrayed a shiver she had tried not stifle.

“You have been to sea, but never alone.”

“Aye.”

“You know all you need to; you have seen it done. You know the boats, the weathers, the craft of the boat-men.”

“Yes, but-”

“-But you fear erring, with none to aid you.”

“Aye.” On one sailing to the outer isles in her youth, the boat she traveled on overturned, and only three of the dozen travellers reached shore alive.

Maebhain placed her hand onto Lyddagh’s. “You are ready for this. I have seen it. E’en in your dreams, you did not sink your boat, you did not err. You did all a-right. All the portents say you will follow the gods and do your part. Trust them. Trust me.”

Lyddagh spoke not, but her eyes must have screamed ‘why me?’

“You are not the only one who must face their fears. Nor is Tasmia. Nor even I. How dost ye think young King Rokk felt coming here nigh on two years ago? Alone, far from his people, in a cold land amongst strangers who spoke not his tongue, armed with basic tools, and fighting a giant bear-god? Think ye he did not live and breathe fear itself those weeks? But King Rokk faced Ursuik, and won.” Maebhain again clasped her hand warmly, but quite firmly as well. “The gods have already chosen you as his mate, you from amongst all the Picts. And you too must face your obstacle, the being that whom defines you because she stands in your way.”

“I may fear the open sea, but she does not define me,” Lyddagh protested.

“The sea, I did not mean. You will go forward and meet she who is your true nemesis, the barrier in both this world and within your heart, in the land of the gods.”

Lyddagh nodded. Suddenly the fear of the sea was of secondary concern. “Would you look after Loholt? If so, I can depart immediately, with the rising sun.” The young woman finally had the resolve to get this over with.

Maebhain laughed, with a trace of pity as well. “What thinks ye was the bundled treasure in your dream? Swaddled in white fox-fur, not unlike the white bear-hide you carry your babe within? He must go with you.” Seeing Lyddagh’s objection beginning to form, the elder continued before it found voice. “A childe blessed by the gods to shape the destiny of Pict and southerner alike certainly would have to be welcome on the land of the gods, too. You shall take him. You must take him!”

“But… it may be dangerous!”

“Oh, it will be, most certainly so,” Maebhain caressed Loholt’s tiny hand. “But demigods are never forged in the bosom of comfort. You shall brave your three deepest fears, and he shall be the beneficiary even more than you will be.”

Lyddagh now felt just as compelled and resigned as Tasmia had seemed. “Three fears…” Had Tasmia been here, she would have counted them out: ‘The sea. Harm to her son. What could the third be?’ But Tasmia was not here, nor would Lyddagh have spoken of the third even to she who was like a sister.

Four Hundred Thirty-five


King Domangart was one of the younger monarchs on the isle of Britain, the son of the legendary Fergus of Dalraida, a kingdom of small isles, peninsulas and shore-lands extending from the southeastern Caledonian highlands to the northern tip of Ulster, from whence the Dalraidans came. In his short reign, Domagart and his kingdom had endured devastation of the great sea serpent Jormangund, attacks by the Pictish assassin Manaugh, and his father’s treaty with the Picts hindering his own ability to defend his people. But with war came opportunity, a chance to show Dalraidan honor – and to win allies for when this fragile new peace would shatter, as it sooner or later must.

The young king led his sizeable army southward from Vinovia early one morning, only to chance upon carnage; a battle had taken place, here in northern Elmet, far from Frankish, Khund, or Pictish lands. But who had fought whom? From the roadway, one could discern smoke, hear the cries of anguish and defeat, smell burnt flesh, and the feel the stormy air that makes hair bristle.

What had once been but a clearing, mayhap a small planted field, had become an encampment for soldiers marching south. The patterns of pavilions, campfires and equipment made it clear this field had sheltered small clusters, not a singular army. In the aftermath of battle, it was not clear whose banners still stood, and whose had fallen, but Domangart guessed no more than three or four small companies had encamped here, and one was a detestable Pict force.

Several wounded Picts called out for help; had it only been Picts the king would have ignored them. But there were other northern warriors here as well, and he could hardly turn away aid to potential allies. Yes, Rokk had made allies of those small northern folk, but that alliance would not last forever. And if Dalraida was to survive and prosper, it would again need to expand into Pictish lands, no matter what Fergus had pledged to Rokk and to the Picts.

Domangart had his best warriors survey the battlefield whilst the others tended to the wounded. It was soon clear that the victorious party had fled and left the others to die. For every wounded survivor there were two dead. For every wounded warrior who would survive, there were three who would not. The Picts and Orkneymen seemed to have the most survivors; Domangart decided with a sneer that they must have been the most cowardly.

A wounded Orkneyman who had been his unit’s lieutenant seemed to be the highest-ranking survivor. With Dalraidan help, he accounted for the dead and wounded from the three allied Lothian, Pict, and Orkney forces. Six were missing: four Picts, one of Orkney, and Lothian’s own Prince Val, who survivors said was badly wounded but had rallied from a near-death blast of magickal lightning. Of the enemy troupe, a half-dozen soldiers lied dead. Had Val and the others been taken prisoner, or was there a pursuit at hand, still going on deep into the forest?

Domangart sent a rider back toward Vinovia towne to seek help. He would leave his own wagons here with enough soldiers to protect the survivors and supplies, and with a dozen knights began to track the route of departure of villains and victims, deep into these strange, unfamiliar woods. War to appease Rokk was one thing, but if he could place Lothian within his debt, all the better.

Four Hundred Thirty-six


Jancel glowered at the troops in formation outside the window. No, not at the troops, but at the man drilling them.

“It should be James,” she said to the serving girl attending to her, not really caring that the girl knew not of which she spoke. “With fa-. With King Wynn away, my foster-brother James should be reading Cumbrian forces for this war. Else my husband. But not this… this… peasant.”

King Wynn had left Carlisle when word came of the lake dragon’s return – and that the monster had wounded Queen Martina herself! Was it the same beast Garth had fought? How could it not be, to so vex my foster-family? Jancel wondered, thinking of the old questing curse supposedly placed upon Wynn, the very man who had been more of a father to her than her own sire had been. When Garth had apparently slain the beast, all had thought the curse to be mere foolishness. But now?

She remembered Sir Tuir well enough, a peasant lad whom James befriended, and Wynn had humoured by allowing him some combat training and even a minor knighthood. But the young man looked foolishe trying to organize a company, and seemed naught but an overgrown boy stumbling to make real maneuvers he had only seen others perform.

After a few days of looking completely ridiculous, some of the elderly knights whose sons had already led their own forces southward stepped up to help Tuir’s effort. They were behind schedule, and Tuir took no solace that King Rokk would be angered at James for delegating the task rather then at he himself.

Four Hundred Thirty-seven


With Wynn, Martina, James, and most of the local knights and nobles away, the feasting hall at Carlisle was little more than an echo chamber. Of the dozen or so who took their meals here, only Tuir and Jancel had less than 40 years of age. Had Sir James been there, the three of their ages combined could still be the lesser when compared to the next youngest occupant.

Jancel spoke not to Tuir, nor acknowledged his very presence. Instead, she boasted of the deeds of her absent husband Sir Garth, a man whom in truth had spent little more than a fortnight with her in the two years since they had wed. And even those were mostly at three events: the night of his seduction, their wedding, and for the birth of their son Galahad. Still, the elders fawned over her like doting grandparents, reassuring her than once peace came that she and Garth would have their own castle and lands soon enough.

Tuir meanwhile was getting over his own discomfort and starting to bond with the senior knights who aided him. They were too old to go off to war, twas true, but most of them earnestly pledged to do so. Tuir begged of them to watch over Cumbria on behalf of the absent royals, rather than let it fall to brigands or Irish raiders.

It was only on the eve before the troops’ slated departure that Jancel sought out the young knight.

“I… regret I have been neglecting you, good Sir Tuir. Truths be spoken, I resented that neither James nor Garth were fulfilling this duty.

“But you know something you have said not. Where, pray tell, is my foster-brother? Where is Sir James? I know you two met up ere you arrived here with the orders King Rokk had given James.”

Tuir fussed with his chariot, uncertain of how – or if – he should answer. In lieu of an answer, Jancel continued.

“Once, when deep in his cups, James spoke of a quest he and Sir Reep had taken, a quest that haunts him still. He would not speak of it, save to wail that such a day ever came about. I… I know knights must sometimes do things they would rather not. But please. Please tell me what you can.” She put her hand on his arm.

Unused to attention of beautiful noblewomen, Tuir quivered. “I know little, save that verily it does weigh upon him greatly,” Tuir replied at last. “I do know that he and I both would prefer that twas he leading these soldiers south. I… I can say no more.” The knight had in fact deduced more, and listening to the elder nobles’ gossips had confirmed much.

“I feared as much,” Jancel sighed. This peasant-warrior’s heart could not be stirred enough to tell all; so be it. But she had one more gambit to try. “I should go, then. I should seek out King Wynn and Queen Martina myself. Surely my foster-father has dealt with the beast by now, and Martina must be resting at Brocavium, the summer castle. I shall go there and look for them.”

“My lady! No!” Tuir’s reaction was just as Jancel suspected. “All of Britain knows war shall begin! Why, between brigands and the wild northerners, no lady is safe out on these roads!”

Jancel nodded, thanked the young man, and wished him well. “And if you see my husband, Sir Garth, tell him… Tell him his son misses him.”

Watching the soldiers depart, her heart sank. James, Garth, Wynn, Reep, Mysa… none of them could help her now. Nor Imra, not that she and the estranged sister whom she barely knew were ever on good terms. What good was it to be sister of the high queen if no-one knows of it, and if the two of you cannot share a civil word?

There was naught she could do, no help to be found. Not until three days later, when two riders arrived, seeking her out.

I only come out of lurker mode for this thread.... just so you know

why thank you, Karie!

Four Hundred Thirty-eight


“My lady Jancel,” the newcomer, a young knight, greeted. He spoke with an accent, and was clearly not from Britain nor any adjacent land. He had a warrior’s build, curly hair even blonder than her own, and a winsome smile. “I am Driu, a knight of a distant land and a friend of Prince Val of Lothian, whom you might know better as Agravaine? And this,” he gestured to his travelling companion, “is the widow Enide. We are on a quest of the utmost urgency. We request fealty.”

Enide was clearly of Celtic stock, with fair skin, a smattering of freckles, thick raven hair, piercing blue eyes, and was at least as tall as an average man. Compared to Jancel’s own tiny lithe stature, she was a veritable giant. Her garb was that of a noble-woman, but ragged; she had been travelling for quite some time.

“Enide… Yes, I met you. At my wedding, yes? Two years ago, in Lindum.” Jancel struggled and failed to place her by title, lands, or kin, but was certain they had met.

Enide’s face reddened. “Yes, two years ago. I… I was there with my husband. My late husband.”

Jancel saw she was uncomfortable, and changed the subject. “You are most welcome, good sir knight, and Lady Enide. I fear our stores are somewhat strained already by war preparations, but what is ours we shall gladly share.” She had her staff settle the guests into their rooms and had the noblewoman brought fresh garments.

At dinner, Jancel and the elder nobles chatted amiably with the man who had called himself Driu. Enide happily let him be the focus, and quickly deflected any question aimed at her, offering only the simplest of replies. She let on that her husband had been slain in the Khund war whilst in Rokk’s service, and that the rest of both his and her families were gone, save for an uncle whom she and Driu were now seeking.

Sir Driu, it seemed, was from the Scythian lands of the lower Donau, in southeastern Europe. He had met Sir Val in Asia, and travelled with him for a time. They had a quarrel, but he hoped to put it a-right when net they met. He was full of tales from the Saracen lands, the steppes of the Huns and Magyars, the Persias, and other lands of which none of them had ever heard. He too had fought the Khunds, both in Britain during last year’s war, and in Colonia since then.

“You were in the Frankish lands, then?” one of the older men asked.

“Aye, briefly. But the Franks along the Rhine are more interested in trade and defending against the Khunds than in expanding Clovis’ empire, let alone picking a fight with their British trading partners.”

“So the Khunds do menace the Franks, then? It seems so oft that we get the beatings rather than the Franks.”

“Oh, aye. But between the width and steep shores of the Rhine and the Roman fortifications on the western bank, Frankland is an even harder conquest for them than Britain, where one may ride a full day between coastal forts. Tis no wonder they so oft will sail here and land on smooth shores rather than breach a well-defended, much more highly populated land.

“As I said, the people of the Rhine have no stake in a British war. Nay, my merchant friends there were aghast at Clovis’ ambitions.” He paused to eat more of his mutton. “But I brought back some good news for King Rokk, news that should have reached him ere now.”

“What news, pray tell?”

“Ach, would that I may speak of it,” Driu winked. “But if I were Rokk, I’d not want the word I delivered to be spread ‘round so readily. Let us just say… not all of Clovis’ lands are rallied behind him the way all of Britain seems to be with goode King Rokk.”

Jancel sensed there was more to his words, yet knowing her limited understanding of politics, she let her internal voices of doubt quell this suspicion.

Driu spoke more of lands closer to home: Helvetica, Allemania, and the kingdoms of Italia, and all he had done and seen there. In the old kingdom of Gaunnes, in the northern part of Frankish lands, Clovis’ knights and soldiers are bedeviled by a bainsidhe, he said with a laugh. East of the Rhine, Khunds are still wailing for their losses in the last invasion of Britain, he reported.

Four Hundred Thirty-nine


Later in the evening, after the nobles had retired, Jancel finally had her chance to seek information – and maybe aid. She stepped up the dais alongside her foster-father’s throne so as to be on eye level with the man. “Tell me of your quest,” she demanded, trying her best to duplicate the sense of authority Wynn projected before his knights and subjects.

“What I spoke of earlier tis true. We seek Enide’s kinsman, a lord of a small holding in the hills east of Rhyged. We were bound there when we heard he was… summoned, to a castle not so far from here. Tis my hope that we can stay here whilst I scout yon castle, so that Enide may remain safe.”

“Ye thinks that the lord of that castle is a villain?” Jancel was curious why he thought Carlisle was safe but this other castle was not.

Driu smiled. “My lady, if King Rokk knew what king resides there, twould not be the Franks whom he would make war with.”

“And you seek to defeat him alone?!?” Jancel could believe it not.

The knight laughed. “Oh, tis possible, if I were so inclined. But one man against a fortified castle, with gods know how many knights? Nay, I plan to win with wit, not my sword.”

Jancel looked him squarely in the eye, and what she saw made her fall backwards. With fortune on her side, the throne prevented her head from hitting stone floor.

“You… you…” she gasped for words. “You too have been summoned by this villain!”

“Aye,” Driu smirked, as he helped her back to her feet. “So as you see, I may defeat him from within.”

Jancel nodded. And you seek to win back Rokk’s trust, Driu? she surmised. But how did she know this? Had she finally manifested some of the gifts her sister and true father had?

And why did she trust this Driu? Had he bespelled her? Verily I must make excuse to go with him, she thought, before scolding herself for the foolish thought. I am neither knight nor spy. So why am I so compelled to venture forth into danger?

There was something else at work in her heart, a morsel of a dream she had, a dream of Imra, a dream of both great opportunity and great danger. But what was the Eighth Door?

Four Hundred Forty


For three days and two knights, two small woodland forces played cat-and-mouse with each other in the western Elmetian forests. It began with a small Pictish force of five pursuing a North Tynian force of seven, until the Tynians managed an ambush and sliced their pursuers down to four, a move that also wounded three Tynians and one more Pict.

That night, the Picts’ stealth won out. Neither forced dared to light a fire, and both forces quietly stalked each other in the woodlands, where a Tynian sneeze cost that man his life. In the blind combat that followed, Picts finished off two of the wounded Tynians, and let Tynians injure each other in the confusion of sightless swordplay, which Picts excelled at. Pictish leader Grev knew the tricks to extinguishing torches as soon as Tynians seeking to improve their own odds lit them, but three Tynians managed a tactical retreat.

In the morning interrogations of the surviving two wounded Tynian captives, Grev learned not of his main quarries: Prince Val and the rogue King Mekt. There was no way to keep them alive without compromising their safety, so Grev dispatched them soon after.

Throughout misty daylight hours, the two surviving clusters again stalked each other and tried to force battles when circumstances favoured themselves. Rains and mists shifted the advantages to and fro, and having sized up the other forces neither were eager to make a foolhardy play that cold cost their own lives.

Neither side slept that drizzly night, but Grev’s Picts made several efforts to flush out the surviving Tynians. In the last of these, the Tynians surprised Grev by retreating two of their number but leaving the third to leap down upon the encroaching Picts from an overhead tree branch. Another Pict died, and both Grev and the assassin were wounded, and the trickster managed his escape.

But on the next morning, Grev and his two comrades, much more accustomed to fighting for days without rest, had surprised and cornered the remaining Tynians, slaying two and taking their lord, Sir Epinogres, as their captive. The elder knight, it turned out, had been instructed by his allies to thwart the efforts to track the others, the strange man with a serpentine face, his two surviving warriors, and King Mekt, as they thrmselves tracked down Val.

“Prince Val lives a least,” Grev smiled as he slew Epinogres, and commented to his surviving peers. “Even these mild rains have ruined our chance to track them. I fear Val may be on his own ere we can resume the chase.” They would have to return to the roadside camp to refortify and tend to their own wounded; there was no way to aid the wounded Val today or any day soon.

Four Hundred Forty-one


Queen Ayla rode hard for Benwick and arrived before nightfall. She led a small cohort of six knights, three of her own Armorican men and three from Britain proper. She had no choice but to leave Meleagant in command of the camp, a man she trusted little but yet needed right now. Meleagant had once been lieutenant to the traitor Geraint, but yet he had also brokered the reintegration of Geraint’s men back into King Rokk’s service. Ayla knew well that he had most likely done that solely for his own reasons, and she could only hope he still did so for this new war.

The Armorican queen rode into the city and toward the castle leaving no time for ceremony. Townsfolk had little chance to move aside let alone observe common celebration; they, too knew the stakes were high and their nation could easily be torn asunder.

“Where is Sir Bedwyr?” she demanded of the castellan, before even removing her helmet nor even fully coming to a stop.

“H-he has ridden east, with four companies of Cornish warriors,” he replied. “There was a landing-”

Ayla nodded. Our prisoner alluded to as much. Good, Bedwyr has responded already; I need not have so rushed. “Ready the Cymry and Angle forces, then. The Franks will be crossing the Martus forests soon enough,” she commanded. But who shall lead our forces? So many soldiers yet so few knights have crossed from Britain as of yet.

“Hast thee left anything for us to do?” A familiar face approached the queen. It was Sir Jonah!

“Ah, so Rokk finally sends me another knight as well!” she beamed. “Tis not a moment too soon!”

“We came as soon as we could,” his companion added, grinning at the hoped reaction from his liege. It was Garth, home at last!

The siblings hugged before the queen wagged a finger at her twin. “Why waited thee so long to come? Kenned thee not that we would need leaders, not merely soldiers, ere the Franks were at our very threshold?”

“Aye,” Garth turned serious, “but we were needed with raising troops. So many lords and nobles who had pledged aid at the outset changed their weathers. They became rather halting when came the time of giving soldiers, so knights who would rather be here had to play errand-boy and diplomat.”

“Twas a risk, tis true,” Jonah added. “But a necessary one, I dare say. Any lands the Franks have seized, we may yet seize back.”

Garth interrupted, “What news of the Franks? You look as if you have been a-fighting.”

“Aye, we clashed with a small company on the uplands road just this morn. A small force, it was, so I feared a distraction.”

Jonah nodded. “And thus your own scouts discovered the coastal forces, and Bedwyr will be engaging them by now.”

“Be glad Clovis has not the navies that we do,” Garth smirked.

“Clovis is not without his ships,” Ayla noted, glancing toward the sea, “But know him as we do, he will not leave Neustria undefended… not with Pharoxx out there.”

The two men fidgeted at the mention of the Cymry prince, the admiral of half of Rokk’s navy.

“What is it? The queen demanded.

“Pharoxx has…” Garth began.

“Pharoxx is not with us,” Jonah blurted. “He has sailed to attack Neustria without waiting for Rokk’s command. Without assisting us in the troop transport.”

“That… that… FOOL!” Ayla reddened. “What madness has seized his heart so?”

“He learnt that which Rokk had wished him not to, that Duke Lucius of Neustria holds his half-sister Elzybel as his hostage.”

“Then…” Ayla paused. There was no time to wait for Rokk. “Then we must let Pharoxx be a distraction. How soon shall Iasmin and the rest of the cavalry arrive from Exeter?”

Four Hundred Forty-two


The sea was calmer than she had expected, but not nearly as calm as it had been in her dream. Lyddagh rowed alone, just as her dreams had instructed, and Loholt was bundled in a carry-sack made of the stark-white furs of the great beast his sire had slain. Beside him were all the precious stones Maebhain and his mother could assemble in time for this trip, the time of the year when daylight and nighttime stood as equals.

Just as in her dream, she rowed out beyond the sight of land, departing from the same bay as she had dreamt and keeping the sun at the proper angle. After several hours of intermittent rowing, she reached a point where intuition or providence told her to stop, and there she waited. And waited. And waited…

Had she erred in stopping? If so, the gods could give her direction, yes? But there was naught but the haphazard patchwork tapestry of clouds lazily scrolling overhead from northwest to southeast, and the occasional sprinkle some of those clouds let loose. The gods, as in her dream, did not rise up and overturn her boat.

It was late in the day when she found herself at peace in the little boat, waiting for forces beyond her to make the next move. She spent the hours caring for her son, who giggled at the gentle rhythm of the waves and the occasional splash of sea mists. At other times he spent his time feeding or sleeping. And by the time the first evening stars began piercing the indigo eastern sky, before the sun had fully said its own farewells, Lyddagh was at peace, a peace she had not expected to find out here so far from shelter.

Night was beginning, and the stars one by one began poking their way through the partial cloudscape above. She had made it through an uncertain day, and now they had reached night-time, the time that day belonged to her. She made a small sacrifice to the moon goddess whose name must never be spoken; it was just a small cauldron of burning herbs which she let fly upon the waters beside her. They flickered as they danced in the air, slowly spiraling towards the waters, letting out one last burst of sizzle as the waves accepted the gift on behalf of the goddess. And like a beaming mother, the moon herself gifted her own image upon the distant waves, a disk of brightest light perpetually shattering and reforming on the water-top, as the barrage of waves fruitlessly tried to interrupt her serene presence.

Lyddagh gulped hard as she realized that the sky above the shimmering image was far too cloudy to see the actual moon – this image was no mere reflection from above! She dared not take her gaze away from the moon-image, but pulled the now-waking Loholt to her.

“I am ready,” she whispered, not fully certain she believed her own words. “We are ready. Lady, we accept what shall come next.”

She braced herself for the onslaught of water she expected, but it came not. Were the waves distorting the lunar image now growing stronger, more ferocious? It was hard to tell without blinking and refocusing her sight. But the boat did not rock much more than it had been. And after an interval, it seemed to rock less.

The waves, too, grew gentler, and she could no longer even hear them lapping up on the side of the boat… for there was no boat. Lyddagh found herself sitting on a beach of black sands, and the sea-bourne image of the moon was now barely bothered by the tamed waves around it. Moreover, it now had a near-twin in the suddenly cloudless sky above. The canopy of clouds had been replaced by a tapestry of stars which burnt brighter than they had ever seemed before; their own reflections in the sea below them swayed from side to side like wildflowers in a mountain breeze. The starlight was so intense she could make out the shape of the coastline around her and the uplands behind her (a nearby hill or cliff? A distant mountain range? There was no way to tell) as earthen silhouettes that stood in black contrast against the piercing starlight. Moreover, she could perceive a female form descending the upland as if coming down a staircase (ah, so it is a nearby cliff-side, after all). Upon closer scrutiny, she realized the approaching female form herself seemed to be composed of dancing lights that swirled and flowed within her.

“You have faced your first fear, and have won,” the figure said. “So take my hand, Lyddagh of the Picts, consort of the bear-king. To-night and in the days to come, we forge a legend.”

Four Hundred Forty-three


Young Prince Bors had done as much as he could have, he told himself, to keep the Frankish soldiers at bay. For months on end he had single-handedly defended the small tower so his siblings and servants could survive, where they slowly consumed the stores of food those loyal to the royal family of Gaunnes could smuggle to them. But it had been a costly siege, and the siege was now lost.

Following his family servant Marya’s distraction, Bors had escaped the tower with his younger siblings and made his way to the coast with them. There, an elderly couple had made arrangements to take them to sea in their fishing boat – and hopefully to safety in Britain. The journey on foot would be one of several days’ worth of night-time travel; their Moorish complexion made them an easy target by daylight to any searching for them, as the children of his late father King Bors were the only Moorish children in these lands.

Despite the night-time travel, the going was not too harsh. Following the river meant heading for the sea, and upon reaching the sea it would only be a half-league west to reach the meeting point. Bors focused above all on saving his family; only after they had found a secure daytime sleeping place did he allow himself time to ruminate upon having taken flight. Had the family servants been taken captive? Slain? Only Marya knew the escape plan, and she would die before giving that to Clovis. Marya had been the nanny who had the spirit of a maternal she-bear herself, but Bors’ pubescent feelings for her had not been about her maternal instincts.

Bors slept fitfully through the day, and was woken up before dark by Lionel, his younger brother. A large contingent of soldiers had come close and had been trashing though the brush, but none had found them hidden beneath their thorn-bush. Bors massaged his throat; it was still sore and achy, and his voice would be no more than a rasp. Until he healed, they were defenseless – if found. Yes, he had a blade, but he was a lad of less than 11 years with the barest of swordsmanship skills. No knight was he, not like his legendary kinsman Sir Garth.

The trio got a late start that eve; the soldiers had camped too close to their locale to suit Bors’ liking. It was almost morning before they reached the meeting-place, a large flat rock at the point of a small cape between two bays. As the first sliver of sun was rising over the eastern fields, Lionel and Dana were loaded on board, hidden beneath boxes of fish-crates. The old man looked at Bors, telling him it was his turn, but Bors shook his head. “My brother and sister to safety much reach, but I cannot flee,” his words were barely audible over the sea. He drew his sword and stepped backwards, away from the boat and its owners. “Marya needs me, and so in truths does all of Gaunnes.”

Bors sidestepped the man’s attempt to grasp him, and ignored the man’s wife’s entreaties to board. “I may not be a brave knight, but nor can I flee. Godspeed to you, my good folk; watch over my kin and see them to safety!” In truth, the last of those words lacked any audibility, nd with the exertion his throat grew all the more sore.

The fisher-folk reluctantly departed, and Bors waited in the brush to see them off. For all of Marya’s warnings and advice, he could not just leave her to whatever fate was in store for her. Lionel would live, and mayhap be king of a restored Gaunnes some day, but this fight was not young Bors’ to walk away from, even if his voice would no longer carry the day.

Four Hundred Forty-four


Querl limped along the shore of the Priestess Isle, and opted to settle upon a large, smooth rock that made an inviting place to rest. The short walk from his hut had been more taxing than he had imagined; here he would remain for a long interval. Once his aches receded, he turned his attention to the strange land across the waters. The Forbidden Isle, a strange land where magicks flow like the wind, where one can encounter faeries or the Celtic gods with more ease than one can catch a hare for dinner. Laoaighll had gone there, seeking out her forbear MacKell. Querl let out a slow breath, and was grateful that it did not hurt him too much to make the effort.

“Ye are not planning to venture there, as has the Ulsterwoman?” asked the stranger Querl had seen about of late. A young man not unlike many of Querl’s peers at court, this young man had apparently joined the Teachers of Avalon, and with the rash of strange dreams afoot he was making the rounds all the more to all the isles. He had a thick mane of curly blond hair, and was apparently something of a seer.

Querl laughed a painful chuckle in response to the newcomer. “Nay. I am of no fortitude to walk to the Tor isle, let alone venture to a faeried isle whence I am not welcome. Of the fae lands, I had my fill with Annwyn Annowre.” Querl paused. “You… are Ryol, yes? We have not truly met yet.”

“Aye, I am Ryol. Well met,” said the man. “The Ulsterwoman is not lost to you. Ye will see her ere the coming winter reaches its end.” Ryol was confident in his own visions, it seemed, and no doubt from his affable smile intended well by his words.

Querl had taken a good measure of time to get used to Queen Nura’s prophecies. This man Ryol had the same airs about him, but he was not ready to give his word the weight he would to Cornwall’s exiled but still-beloved queen.

“A half-year amongst the gods and what manner of creatures on yon isle,” Querl spat.

“A half-year until you gaze upon her,” Ryol corrected. “She shall not be on the isle all that while.”

“Have… Have you seen her over there? How fares she?”

“She frolics in lands that seem akin to her Irish homelands. She tarries amongst admiring villagers and magickal beasts. And she defends them from giants, brigands, and other villains. She,” Ryol paused, searching for a description that did not assume too much about what he could glean of her heart, “she seems happy, as if she has let go of all her ills.”

Querl grimaced. “And what of MacKell? Hath she found him?” That had been the reason for her departure, Jan and Azura had both told him.

“Not as of yet, that I have seen. There is… a red-haired maiden, whom I can ken not, who watches out for her. She will lead her to MacKell, when the time is right.”

“When?” Querl snapped.

“I have seen not.” Ryol hesitated. “On some matters, I have the clearest of dreams. Of the Forbidden Isle, I have little certainty. But I believe…” he paused with uncertainty. “I… have seen this not, but my deepest heart tells me it must be so. When she remembers her original quest… that is, when she remembers the time when she found the magickal artifacts she had gifted to King Rokk, only then will her heart be healed and her wit will return, and then she will be ready to leave yon isle.”

Querl knew not enough to weigh Ryol’s abilities to interpret his actual dreams let alone his ability to interpret beyond them, but as much as he hated to admit it, he hoped the seer’s words were true. But is that not how all would-be seers speak, whether they be the charlatans or the mystics?

“Along with MacKell’s spear and Sir Thom’s sword, she brought the Cauldron of the Gods, also called the Grail, to Britain. And she was the first here to be healed by it,” Querl reminisced. “Her gift to Rokk saved untold hundreds of lives, and now it seems gone,” he sighed. “It could heal the last of my wounds this very day, yet given the choice I would welcome she whose fists wounded me rather than the cup of healing itself.”

Ah, but from whence did she get those artifacts, the seer thought to himself, wondering if Querl had ever given it any thought.

Ryol smiled, and amiably put his hand on Querl’s shoulder. “Wouldst thee so say, had ye not felt the power of last eve’s dreamings?” He laughed, “Aye, you are not the only one in Avalon yearning for a love that has drifted away.”

Querl scowled. Yes, he had dreamt in vivid detail of his first night with Laoraighll, yet the chasm that always seemed to lie between them was something he had regretted long before this most recent night’s slumber. “Strange that so many in Avalon dreamt of such delights.”

“Not strange, if your meaning speaks of happenstance. Avalon has been granted a gift by the gods: seven nights of dreamings, and revelation at the culmination thereof!” Ryol was quite giddy at it all; no doubt in addition to the dreamings themselves these events gave greater import to his own appointment.

Querl was not about to challenge Ryol’s assertion, but he was certain he did not dream anything of importance two nights ago, on the alleged first night of dreams.

Ryol guessed his unspoken critique nonetheless. “The first night’s dreams were only for those uninitiated in the divine union of the flesh, those of youthful inexperience, and those whose vows have excluded themselves from such. And they in turn did not share in the second eve’s dreams, which only those so initiated had.”

“So no one dreamt these magick dreams both nights?”

“Well, two of us did, truths be spoken,” Ryol winked. “The first two nights are dreams of memory. Next come the dreams of warning.”