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Four Hundred Sixty-seven


Not too long after Imra’s group stopped and let the others walk onward, on a place on the causeway well-suited for a small encampment, the queen, the seer and the two elders settled in. There was a gentle breeze off the water, cool but still a comfortable and mild end-of-summer wind. Unlike the waters lapping up on the Forbidden Isle shores these were the fresh lake waters that surround the Priestess isle, yet another of the magickal conundrums of the archipelago. Imra sat along the shore and counted the fish. As a child on the Teachers’ Isle this had been a favourite pastime of hers between lessons and chores on sunny summer days.

Ryol had drifted off to sleep. No, not sleep – it was the dazed, trance-state she had seen in Nura!

Nura...

How she missed her. Although Nura’s gifts were different from hers, she felt closeness to her: royalty raised apart from their own families, queens laden with responsibility but denied their true loves ere their kingdoms suffer en masse (well, Nura had of late better fortune on this, albeit at a price), powerful yet trapped in circumstances beyond their control.

“Imra.”

She could almost hear Nura calling out to her. Where was her friend at present? Iberia? Eiru? Rome? Africa? She wished she knew.

Imra had wandered down the causeway a few lengths, still within earshot of Asteri and Azura; their conversation almost sounded like Nura’s voice...

“Imra.”

...calling her. She looked back at the Priestess Isle. Querl was still watching them, she kenned. She hoped he was not in too much pain, and would rest when his body told him to. In the other direction, the search teams were well out of sight. There was naught to do but–

“Imra.”

!!!

Could it really be Nura!? Mayhap she was the ‘child of Brigid’ from Aven’s warnings!

“Nura? Where are you?”

“I am at Karnak, on the shores of Armorica, at the great standing-stones where Garth, Ayla and Mekt gained their gifts of Taraunaut. I was sailing for Iberia with Thom when we were attacked by Geraint’s brother Iarcalthus. Thom slew him, but our ship took on water. I came here, knowing I had to reach you. There is much that we must discuss, but we have little time.”

“Nura, take great care! You are on the place whence the Eighth Door opens to Avalon, and a villain may gain entry to the sacred isles here!”

“Yes, and we shall be under attack here presently. But I shall talk to you again at mid-night, and see you at dawn’s first light, but you must be awake to see me! There are magicks that must be fulfilled ere all is lost!”

“Nura? Tis time!” It was Thom’s voice now.

“Safeguard yourselves!” Imra called out. There was no reply. The Eight Door led to Armorica! So the Franks were the likely villains who might gain entry.

Four Hundred Sixty-eight


Imra marked the place where Nura’s voice had been the clearest, piling several small stones atop each other. Then she returned to the others. Ryol was awake now, and nodded as the queen reported her news.

“I have foreseen the coming morning. Those who would be ready for revelation must keep vigil all the night, and forsake the final night of dreamings, the culmination of those magicks. Insight and answers or dreams of ones soul’s fulfillment,” he announced. “All of Avalon must be free to make those choices themselves. My vision directs me to hold vigil atop the Tor. And you, Queen Imra, must have a fire and large cauldron ready for Queen Nura’s next directions, and servants to bring you firewood, and ingredients of spell-craft as she directs.”

Azura nodded. “My Priestesses will see to it.”

“And I shall bring word to Avalon,” Asteri said. “Despite the goodwill of the past two days, not all might take Ryol at his word yet. I will also summon the visiting warriors, that they may help guard the site of the gateway.” Seeing Imra’s objection about to voice, he added, “Queen Nura may need the assistance of the sword if they need to flee here through the Door.”

Ryol nodded. “All will be well, if we are so prepared. I have seen it. Well, not all of it, but enough.” He turned to Imra. “Although they are distant, you can still project word to those on the isle ahead of us. First, they must know to stay awake this eve. Later, they may need to collect spell components for you as well.”

Four Hundred Sixty-nine


A full moon on the cloudless night of the autumnal equinox was a potent time for magicks as it was, but combined with the dreamings and the expected revelation it was to most of Avalon a sign of divinity participating directly in the matters at hand. Clearly, the gods were favouring Avalon like they never had before! All of Avalon was so illuminated in the moon’s glossy but stark contrast that lighting fires seemed like they would be sacrilege; despite that so many kept vigil all of Avalon was quiet and serene. All of the Teachers except one, all but the youngest of Priestesses, Most of the Druids, a few of the visiting nobles, and one Josephite remained awake, pondering the coming morning. No one sang, no one danced, no one walked or ran. No one even spoke – not until the night’s mid-point.

"Imra?" Again the voice came from the gentle waters along the causeway.

“I am here, Nura. How fare thee?”

“We drove back a modest Frankish force. Sir Bedwyr and the Cornish armies interceded at just the right time. All are encamped here this eve ere they press onward tomorrow.”

Tempted as she was to ask for news about Garth, whom she knew was also in Armorica by now, other matters took precedence. “Have them remain vigilant. There is prophesy-”

“-I have seen the morrow. I have seen no villain here at Karnak any longer. And the Eighth Door will open at dawn. But before then, there are preparations that you must make, which will let us secure this gateway so that Avalon and its allies alone may control its use, and aid you if some villain does come forth. The spell I shall give you shall also aid Laoraighll and MacKell, and one other who shall defend Britain.”

Imra sensed Nura was withholding something, about this ‘one other,’ but held her tongue. Nura gave the high queen a list of things to assemble, including two items the search teams on the Forbidden Isle had to acquire. In short order, Azura set about acquisitions, while Imra projected instructions to the search teams to each bring back one particular item.

“MacCullough’s team has found MacKell, but he recalls them – or us – not. He dwells in a place akin to his homelands of six centuries ago, complete with his family and the Knights of the Red Branch. Uland’s team has found Laoraighll of similar mind, save that she openly attacked them. She is also surrounded by magickal beasts, seemingly the very beasts Mysa made up to tell Morgause’s younger children fanciful tales!”

“They may try to lure the two of them back to the causeway with trickery rather than beseechings. Or mayhap tomorrow is not they day of their return. But when we are done, return they may, whenever the gods deem it so.”

Through the night, the cauldron burned, the sole fire in all of Avalon. The Priestesses fetched all the herbs and minerals, although a shortage of dragonroot caused a scramble that was solved by the lone Josephite vigil participant, surprisingly enough. MacCullough’s team returned in poore spirits, but had obtained a lock of hair from an imp, a little fiend who apparently regularly bedeviled MacKell. Uland’s team returned in even poorer spirits, having brought neither Laoraighll nor the item they were tasked to gain.

An hour before dawn, it seemed all was lost.

Uland was the first to notice it, in the near black-and-white moonlit landscape the shape of a figure that seemed purple to him and him alone. A female figure at the Forbidden Isle end of the causeway. “Could it be Laoraighll?” He wondered, whilst the others strained to see anything of note. “She has a small child with her!”

“No, tis not Laoraighll,” Imra replied. She lifted Amhar, instructed all others to remain at the cauldron, and walked towards the woman she had never met but on some level had hated and feared since she first learnt of her.

The others on the causeway wondered in silence, but not for long – from the rest of Avalon the dreamers of the seventh night began awakening – and awakening with shrieks of terror. Imra had heard none of that yet; she was too focused on the woman ahead. Would she be kindred spirit or nemesis?

Four Hundred Seventy


“You are Queen Imra,” said the Pictish woman. Imra knew she was not speaking any language she knew, yet she understood her fully. Twas the magicks of the Forbidden Isle.

“I am. You are the Pictish priestess who... who birthed a child sired by my husband.” She tried to sound as if she was merely stating a plain fact, not hurl an accusation, nor show any of her own hurt at the reality of it all.

“My son Loholt is of the union of the southern high king and the shadow-priestess line of the Picts. I am Lyddagh.” As they became close enough to inspect each other, the queen saw the Pict and her son seemed to have been through some battles – was it on the Forbidden Isle, or ere coming here?

“My son is Amhar. He is heir to Rokk’s throne in the south,” Imra replied. “I would wish that our sons need not be enemies. Nor that we ourselves do.” Until meeting her, seeing her and knowing she was a real and vulnerable mother like herself did Imra really believe that these strangers could be anything other than threats.

Lyddagh nodded. “Picts have no wish to harm the southerners. We just wish to continue on as we are. Many Picts in the southlands are no more, or are pushed to the hinterlands.”

Imra added onto the thought. “And in the south, many of Celtic blood feel the same of the Romans, and now the Angles and Khunds. My husband and I hope for all of Britain’s peoples to stand as one, not only against foreign foes but to aid each other.”

“Tis a noble goal, but I fear many will find excuses to undo such a peace. When again they need our lands.”

“Aye. But you and I, we are mothers and priestesses, and although the Picts have no royalty as we do, mayhap in your own way you are like me a queen of sorts. As mothers, we must both care, provide for and protect our own young. As priestesses, we must care for our communities. As queens, in actual title or not, we must safeguard all of our peoples. This place,” she gestured to the other isles of Avalon, “Is a place where Priestesses since ancient times, Druids of the Celts, Teachers from the Roman traditions, and Brethren of the one-god followers cooperate in peace. Mayhap your shadow priestesses can begin a presence here, that you can know and be known amongst Britain’s other peoples, its leaders, sages, heroes and clergy?”

Lyddagh looked horrified. “Have you no Sight? Do you not see the storm even now descending upon you all? How can these renowned isles of such high magicks be so blinded?” Lyddagh had no Sight herself, but in her days on this isle her experiences had prepared her – yet not her counterpart, it seemed.

Imra paused; the slow bits of noise coming over the waves were now clearly screams, screams from the other isles! What was transpiring!?

“You will need this,” Lyddagh handed Imra a steel plate of armour, one with a hoofprint in it. Seeing the question in Imra’s mind, she replied, “Yes, I heard your allies speaking of their goals. With the help of the fire-haired maiden who watches over the mighty Ulsterwoman, I acquired this for you, metal with the print of a flying horse.

“Now go, go to your people. They will need you. We shall meet again. As friends, not as strangers.”

Imra looked down. Amhar and Loholt had locked hands and were all smiles. The mothers had to actively separate them, and Imra lifted him and rushed down the causeway. The first reds were seeping into the eastern sky; was there still time for the spell to work?

Four Hundred Seventy-one


High atop the Tor, Ryol looked around in horror. Why had he not foreseen this? Verily, something, some magicks had plagued him! But how? Mere hours ago he was thinking of Dindrane; it only occurred to him now that their time together was only in the past. “Verily, I have spend my young life dreaming the future, but now that it is here, I have none. I am the dreamer who was lost in my own dreams. Forgive me, Avalon. Forgive me, Britain. I am blind, but feigned to lead you all.”
Others would seek him out soon enough, but his role in the grand tragedy was nearing its very end.

***

In Exeter, Aivillagh, Accolon, Apollo, Sugyn and O’Maillaigh had gathered around Mysa’s bed. She had not woken or spoken in days, and Aivillagh’s healers had feared the worst. Word had been sent to Cador in Cornwall, and to the Priestesses of Avalon. But aid would be days away.

Mysa still tossed and turned, still tormented by her dreams. Accolon wiped her head and held her hand. There was naught else to be done.

Asleep, unable to speak, she was recalling a flurry of events, dreams, visions, memories, all swirled into one. Before she had reunited with her brother and met his companions, she once had dreamt of one man conquering Avalon. Months later, coddled in his very arms, they themselves plotted how it would be done. Trapped in the otherworldly waters after her betrayal by Thora, she saw him beginning to make those very moves without her, but apparently to avenge her. Yet in a crone’s body with a crone’s fickle state of mind, never before had all the pieces come together; her own wit and body prevented her from stopping his plan. And now it was too late.

As dawn’s first lights filtered through the palace window, Mysa startled all by suddenly sitting upright and shouting. “No, my husband, do not do this!” She collapsed into tears whilst her companions tried to make sense of her words.

Four Hundred Seventy-two


With dawn’s light nearly halfway across Londinium’s skies. The two men left their pavilion and walked towards the Temple of Isis. Even Iason was overwhelmed by the wails of anguish coming from not only city walls but the temple itself. There was no resistance as they entered and approached the portal, the Londinium end of the Path of Isis itself.

Iason was visibly shaken by the shrieks, even from the normally somber priests of Isis themselves. “I would be done with this,” he told his companion and gritted his teeth.

“As you wish.

“Gone, gone, O form of man. A-rise the demon Etrigan,” Mordru chanted.

***

Thora, who had not kept vigil nor had a single dream throughout the week, knew what was coming. As was her usual routine, she had awoken more than an hour before sunlight.

Today could be the day she could visit all her grievances upon Azura, upon her mistress’ final day, final hours as Lady of the Lake. But having envisioned this day for weeks, nay months, now that it was here there was no satisfaction. Azura was not a good leader at all, twas true, and her vision of cooperation with Christians struck her as morally wrong. But now that the time was at hand she felt pity for her superior. Uncertain as to what to do, she walked the lakeshore; the barge was returning from Glastonbury – at this hour?!?

She awaited the barge’s arrival and asked to be updated. Azura had sent the barge late into the night so that extra dragonroot could be harvested from the lake shores near Glastonbury; Imra had needed more than had been on hand and she had sent out requests to all the isles and beyond. But by happenstance, a messenger had also come. Thora read the message and ordered the barge to remain at station, and told them to be ready to depart at a moment’s notice.

Soon after, the first shrieks of stricken, waking dreamers began emanating from the younger Priestesses’ lodge, and also from the lodge of uninitiated maidens in training. There she joined Azura and for once the two worked as one in getting all the still awake older Priestesses to assist the youngers. Azura truly cares for them, and for all of us.

Although now fully awake, the young dreamers all told of dreams of death and dying, and of waking dreams wherein the same fates repeated time and again.

“Endless dreams of death,” Azura commented. “An ill end to this week’s gifts.”

And you do not know the final act yet, my Lady.

Thora found herself welling up with tears; her fondest wish was turning out far crueler than she had imagined. Azura saw her tears and held her close.

“You must go,” Thora said at last. “There is word from Aivillagh. Mysa is dying. She needs your help. And Avalon will need her for a coming crisis far worse than to-day, if... if my dreams are –true,” she decided the lie was necessary.

“I cannot leave here now,” Azura scoffed.

“You cannot do more than offer a shoulder. The worst is over,” Thora lied again. “The dreamers have awoken. Now, instead of reacting, we must move ahead of events, ere it all turns upon us and Avalon falls by Yule. Already, Asteri is resolving the current situation,” the lies continued; Thora of all of Avalon had no prophetic dreams at all, and she had told no one of this. “And when you return, you and Mysa shall restore the Priestesses. I have seen it.”

Azura was touched but could no take Thora’s reversal of spirits at face value. “You say such?”

“I say such. I must admit that I am a poore leader for the maidens. I shall remain on and pursue the subtle magicks, as Iera did when we were young.”

Azura nodded; there had been no easy way to replace Thora as her second-in-command ere now. But Mysa! Oh, that would be her dream come true!

Thora realized that the pattern of the week-long magicks, Azura’s lack of sleep, and the element of wish fulfillment had sold the Lady far more than she herself had, but time was of the essence.

“Go now, while the barge is ready yet. Do not let Queen Mysa die!”

Thora saw the barge off, while Zinthia and Elwinda, still attending to the maidens, commented to each other on the Lady leaving at a time like tis.

“Tis not wise to leave Avalon right now,” Zinthia said. “I pray she returns presently.”

“She shall not,” Elwinda said, recalling the sum of all her dreams. “I shall never see her nor the barge again.”

Four Hundred Seventy-three


Mordru next turned his attention to entry to the Path of Isis itself. “Door, door, Avalon’s gate, Tis my will that now commands thy fate.”

***

On the Forbidden Isle, Laoraighll awoke. “Something else else is different,” she said to herself. This village, this small village, it was her childhood home, but with all the good memories, and no sign of the bad. There were no signs of the damage caused by Northman or Khund raiders; buildings burned when she was a child were intact. People whose deaths she remembered were somehow now alive and had grown old. And wandering around in the early dawnlight, the community itself seemed false, like a coating of faerie magick. Had it changed? Or had she?

Last eve, a group of strangers who said they knew her had come, beseeching her to return to their lands with them. Thinking they were dangerous fae, like in her dream of several nights ago, she fought them off and they fled. But there had been something familiar, something else dreamlike about them.

“Who were they, maiden?” she asked. Her friend, her guide whom none of the villagers seemed able to see, was rarely not nearby.

“They were friends of yours. From Britain, from the court of High King Rokk.”

“I... I was going to visit that court, wasn’t I? But there was a quest I had to perform, something I owed to Sir Aglovale.”

“Aye. But what if... What if you had already completed that quest, and actually journeyed there, but have since forgotten such? What if your friends there miss you, and want you to come back? What if, as part of your adventures in Britain, you met your ancestor Sentanta, Lar Chulain himself, and you fought side by side with him? And came to call him your friend as well as your kinsman?”

Laoraighll laughed. “Now you speak foolishness. Lar Chulain died before my grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother was born.”

“I can take you to him,” Zoe offered.

Laoraighll looked around; soon she would forget the sensation of awareness and fall back into the village’s illusion. “Let us seek him out, then.”

Four Hundred Seventy-four


Mordru took out a small blade and cut his arm, letting it bleed onto the stone, and creating a half-circle that enclosed the portal entry at its base. He then let a pool accumulate inside the half-circle, close to the portal’s centre.

“With blood I call, with blood I bind. Tis Isis’ path no more; this path is now forever mine!”

***

On the Isle of Heath, two children of a visiting lord ran and hid; mayhap distance from all the screams would silence the terror in their own hearts. Their parents had brought them here as prospective pupils for the Druids and Priestesses, but if life in Avalon brought such nightmares, they would not be staying!

As dawn was taking hold, they opted to re-seek their parents. Upon crossing to the Tor Isle, they saw a fire out on the water, out on a rocky causeway. It had a large cauldron atop it, and a gathering around it. The waters near them were bubbling, and a stone megalith arose from the waters, two towering rocks with a third across the top, like the great standing-stones near Salisbury or atop Avalon’s Tor, just as the cauldron spewed forth a spiral of golden smoke.

Four Hundred Seventy-five


Mordru next instructed the insect-like demon at his side to enter the portal, stepping over the half-circle of blood but deliberately smearing the internal pool of blood through the gateway threshold itself. From within the tunnel, ten thousand shrieking, wailing bainsidhes descended upon the demon. But the demon vanished into a black oval, reappearing at another place deeper into the tunnel. It stopped to smear more blood, then again vanished ere the bainsidhes caught up with it again. After several such repeated actions, it reached the far end of the tunnel, and there the demon opened an oval that encompassed the entire pathway. Sheltered between the exit to the Teachers’ Isle and the oval-gateway, the demon was safe from the bainsidhes. Some the bainsidhes entered the oval and vanished, but most paused in confusion.

“You have all been trapped here by the cruel overlords who exploit you, keep you prisoner! I offer you freedom, and vengeance!” the insectoid told the bainsidhes.

At the far end, Mordru chanted. “Spirits of the path, who stand as sentry, bound by spell to bar my entry. My blood is spilt upon the path, you must attack with all thy wrath. Go forward, spirits, with all haste. Go forward and destroy, to all lay waste!”

***

Atop the Tor, Ryol struggled to regain his composure. Yes, he had failed, and yes, as Avalon awoke they would all turn on him, but something had to be done. The promised revelation had come not; what was he to do?

A dark oval appeared in the sky and from out of it poured a horde of shrieking creatures. They were partly phantasmal, translucent, but not always, and seemed to shift back and forth. Sometimes they appeared as screaming and distorted people, and at other times like animalistic creatures, oft with wings but all flying nonetheless. Ryol had never seen them in sunlight, but knew in an instant that they were bainsidhes, not unlike those who guarded the Path of Isis. And so many of them!

They swarmed out and spread out across Avalon’s sky. Ryol ran not, and when they reached him he was torn apart in an instant.

Four Hundred Seventy-six


Mordru next lifted an amulet identical to the ones he had given Thora, Governal, Reep and Pharoxx over the past several months. “Doors to Avalon, hidden yet free, doors unlocked should have a key. By no one’s word may any come or leave, by no ones word except for me.”

***

MacCullough saw the creatures swarming above and realized too late that he was correct about Ryol. “Beren was a fool,” he commented. Before ordering everyone on the Druid isle into the path to the North Cymru grove in outer Britain. But as the Druids and guests ran into the hedge maze, it came out again back where they started!

“The path to Britain is gone!” blurted one of the Druids.

“A demon attacked Druids in North Cymru month ago, and now it seems they attack us again. Everyone in-doors! Inside at once! And secure all entries and gaps, no matter how small!”

Four Hundred Seventy-seven


Mordru walked the Path of Isis in silence and with eyes open, the first to do both in more than four centuries. There were no bainsidhes howling, seeking to drive him to madness or trick him into mis-stepping. Without the creatures, the path was no hardship at all. It zig-zagged though complete darkness, but the path itself held a slight phosphorescent quality. The bainsidhes had been the only real obstacle; no doubt this was why the Teachers had bound them here.

With his arm now self-bandaged, he bled not, and took great care not to step onto any of the blood his demon had smeared along the route. There was still a chance he would have to use the bainsidhes again.

***

The Josephites had discovered, as had the Druids, that there was no escape from Avalon. While some hid in their cottages, many Brethren had tried to flee – the dreams of death were the clearest of signs that it was time to leave Avalon for good. Brothers crawled into the tiny tunnel one at a time, with some of the larger Brethren who knew they would not fit standing guard and trying to intercept the bainsidhes that occasionally descended to attack. They lasted not long enough to ever know those they tried to protect would not be reaching safety.

The first Josephite to find a stone dead end instead of the well that should lead upward called back to let the others know, but it took time to stop the forward advance of those behind him, and the lead Brethren found themselves quite crunched up against each other and the tunnel walls with precious little space, precious little air.

The remaining would-be escaping Brethren tried their best to hold off the onslaught in the grotto that contained the tunnel entry, but the grotto had too many ways for small, nimble, lithe sidhe to gain entry and attack. Soon there was only the last brother who had managed to fit into the tunnel; his corpse at least prevented bainsidhe access to those deeper inside, although those deepest inside would die of suffocation before it would become safe to exit the tunnel and return to the grotto.

Four Hundred Seventy-eight


Asteri had never rejoined Imra on the causeway; he had felt drawn to solitary meditation in the main lodge of the Teachers’ Isle. So deep in trance was he that he failed to hear the screams just beyond the walls, from either waking dreamers earlier or present bainsidhe attacks. Many of his fellow teachers were dead or had taken cover in their own huts and in the other rooms of the main lodge. Many assumed he was still with Imra; none looked for him in the study-room that also contained the gateway to the Path of Isis.

Only when the entry portal to the Path of Isis itself started to glow and wail did he realize something was afoot – the old enchantments had activated and Mordru was entering Avalon! By the Path of Isis, no less!

Asteri raced out of the room to warn the others; only then did he witness the wounded, the dread, the scared, the desperation to keep doors and windows sealed. His inquiries were met with incoherent pleas for assistance, and his efforts to warn about Mordru were met with disconnect – was not the greater threat the attacking bainsidhes?

Attacking bainsidhes. The bainsidhes could do no physical harm when they were trapped along the Path of Isis, but Mordru the Oath-Breaker had not only freed them but brought them to a blood frenzy. “Our watchdogs become our blood enemies. We have become our own Vortigern,” he said, knowing none were listening to him.

He returned to the study to be ready to face the invader. “Aven’s prophesy did not say the villain was using the Eighth Door itself,” he pondered. “What a foolishe oversight we have made.” He went to the shelf of scrolls, seeking out the olde one that had bound the bainsidhes to the Path in the first place. “If Mordru seeks us all dead, I will not have time to end this. But if he merely wishes conquest, we might live yet.” He found the scroll and began preparations, knowing Mordru would likely arrive before anything could be accomplished.

Which aspect of this living nightmare distressed him the most? Which made his fingers tremble all the more? Knowing that all of Avalon might die? That all their lives lied in his hands – and also in Mordru’s whim? Or that he would be the one who had to surrender Avalon to the Oath-Breaker who had betrayed them long ago?

Was that a Gates analogue that ported through the path to Avalon smearing blood?

Love your work Sean, very engaging, love how you are cutting between his getting access to Avalon and what else is happening around about ...I'm waiting with baited breath to see what he does next to the poor souls on the Isle.

Great stuff! More, more, more!

yes, that was a Gates-as-Etrigan dual character. He was introduced a ways back, but of course in this tale there are so many characters to lose track of.

Thanks!

Four Hundred Seventy-nine


Uland had hoped, dreamed that he would be the one to cure Laoraighll and MacKell, that there would be a triumphant return and the war would begin with Rokk’s legion at full strength. On the Forbidden Isle, the maiden Zoe who watched over Laoraighll had assured him that the duo would be free from the dog plague, if it lingered still in the outer world, when the Ulsterians did return there. But that would not be today. Imra said the spell Nura had given her would help them too. The news sat not well with Uland; he was certain there was something he was supposed to be doing on this adventure, something he and he alone would contribute.

He looked back down the causeway at the Forbidden Isle, hoping the Ulster duo would now be charging toward them. Gods knew they needed it. Another of their defending warriors was struck down before him.

The skies were still full of bloodthirsty bainsidhes. Whatever spell emanated from Imra’s cauldron kept them mostly at bay, but for how long? If the monsters abated not there would be but one fate awaiting them all. He, Imra, Jecka, Stig, Peter, Saihlough, Luornu, Amhar, Taliesin and Anryd huddled around the cauldron and accepted its nasty odors as preferable to certain death. Their defending lord, a minor Anglian noble called the Knight of the Red Tunic, encircled the group to protect them as best they could, but with limited space on the causeway those in Red Tunic’s command seemed all too doomed; there was no way for all to be close enough to the cauldron for safety.

Jan had single-handedly kept the creatures at bay as he, Querl and two Priestesses haltingly made their way up the causeway from the Priestess Isle. They joined the main group presently.

Seeing their party apparently safe on the causeway’s middle, various survivors from the other isles, mostly the visitors from the looks of them who had not the sense to take shelter, attempted to boat or wade out to them. The bainsidhes left none of them intact.

As dawn’s slowly lights took hold upon Avalon’s skies, a stone arch had risen from the waters, and soon after Nura appeared within it. It was about a man’s height in distance from the causeway, although with its rise there appeared to be several shallow stepping-stones submerged between the two.

“The Eighth Door has opened,” she shouted to them, truly more alarmed than any had ever seen her. “You must all follow me and depart, were the cauldron’s smokes ebb!”

“We cannot depart this way. We all entered Avalon via other portals!” Taliesin beseeched.

“I think this is a time to forsake the rules,” Imra said bitterly, and with a great sense of dread. Last time she had done so, it had cost her Aven. What would befall them this time?

“The causeway begins to sink beneath the waves!” The Knight of the Red Tunic pointed out. There was no longer a choice in the matter.

Surveying the gap tween the causeway and Nura’s arch, Stig, Peter and Jan stepped down and steadied their footing to help the others cross the gap, starting with Querl. Seeing Nura’s difficulty in helping him up the last few steps, Uland rushed passed the others to calm to Nura’s side. He misjudged his footing and twisted an ankle as he climbed toward the archway, but bit his lip and ignored his pain that he might help the scholar.

“What has transpired, Nura? What have you foreseen of all this? What foe attacks us, and storms upon Avalon?” The queen was almost in tears as she, her wailing son, and Luornu crossed.

“Nothing,” Nura swallowed a sob. “Dark magicks have given me, and I dare say others, in all likelihood, false visions to replace our true Sights. I... know not, other than that we must flee whilst we may.”

“You have seen nothing?” Imra could scarcely believe it. “Nothing?” Imra was already through the gateway; those still mid-crossing did not see her, Luornu, or the boy any longer.

Elwinda, Anryd and Zinthia crossed next. The smokes of the cauldron were noticeably thinner now, and the bainsidhes swooped in all the closer. Two more of Red Tunic’s men fell.

Jecka, Taliesin, and Saihlough were next. A bainside came close enough to slash at the bard’s hat, and Jecka fell in avoiding it as well, also knocking Stig over in the process. The two fell deeper into the water than they’d imagined possible this close to the stones they’d stepped from – but the causeway they had stepped from was no longer sinking, it was completely gone. The Knight of the Red Tunic was slain already; the last two of his men flailed their way towards the arch.

As the remainder of the party scrambled for the gate, suddenly the bainsidhe were retreating, back towards a distant black oval in the sky. Had it been there all along? Or had it returned?

“Tis over!” Stig exclaimed. “The elders must have won the day!”

“Or else surrendered,” Peter added.

“We must still flee! Quickly now, so the door may again close!” Jan was not going to let the distraction lead to more tragedy. “If Avalon has prevailed, we shall learn in good time.”

As the last of them vanished, there was no longer a single living person outside-of-doors in all of the six islands, and none could say how the Forbidden Isle had fared, if that strange and mysterious place had been touched at all. Within the hour, though, an insect-like being would be venturing out alone cross the isles, popping out of an oval, surveying damage, then vanishing into another oval only to appear again elsewhere.

Two queens, one princess, three knights, two soldiers, three Priestesses, one monk, one bard, one initiate, one scholar, one infant and one faerie. Three would not make it to the far side of the passageway to Karnak.

I haven't caught up yet, but that Gates-like demon made me sit up and take notice! Nice!

And a version of Zoe, that is always a good thing!

Zoe's best stuff is still ahead, Ibby. Thanks for reading!

Four Hundred Eighty


Mid-day in Avalon there was no chatter, no singing, no one excitedly sharing dreams or revelation. Those who braved the out-of-doors began cleaning up the debris, silently moving their dead friends and compatriots so they could be prepared for burial. It was meal-time but no one ate. Word of Asteri’s surrender had come around the isles, and Azura, MacCullough and Joshua had assented in the of renewed assault. Avalon was broken – in flesh and in spirit.

Their new ruler had allowed them the day to mourn and repair, but the morrow was reserved for labours he would require of them. Twas a long road ahead for them all, and Mordru himself took today to climb the Tor and survey the isles.

“Ambrosius stood here,” he told Iason. “My own kin, forced to submit to Avalon’s will. No more,” he said with contempt.

“Madoc and Aglovale, too,” Iason added. “And so many others.”

“Only one of those two was kin of mine,” Mordru sneered. He looked around at the conquered isles. “Verily, I should have done this years ago.”

“Why did you not?”

“Uther and Ambrosius wanted to put Avalon at their service. I let them play that game. Later, I wanted to take Avalon with Mysa at my side, but she wanted to play court-lady to her brother and his wife. No more,” he paused, “No more do I wait upon the will of others. Britain is the union of the mighty sons of Rome and the conquered daughters of Boudicea, verily the best of both realms. Tis the sons who must rule, and the daughters to mind the hearths. Britain is not a fanciful fest where Khunds, Angles, Irish or Picts may join the family as peers. The sooner my nephew understands that, the better.”

“Is it true? Did Avalon kill Rokk’s elder brother?”

“True enough,” Mordru muttered. “For him. For Ambrosius, for Uther, for Igraine, and yes, and especially for my dear Mysa, I reaped only upon Avalon what Avalon reaped unto me and mine.”

“Seàinn, Madoc, Aglovale, Mekt, and Lyta of the Eighty-Seven Quests. Would they have not been as fine a set of companions as all of Rokk’s myriad freaks?” Iason sighed. “Four dead, and one but a shade of his former self.”

Asteri joined them after a while, reporting that all survivors, all potential hiding-places had been accounted for, and all had accepted the terms of surrender.

“Through my manipulations of Ryol, I promised you answers, did I not?” Mordru would have sport of the man.

Asteri nodded, but did not face the man eye-to-eye.

“What is the secret of Avalon’s role in outer Britain for a generation hence? Whatever I determine it to be,” he sneered. “What will the Frankish war bring? Death, destruction, and an end to Rokk’s rise in prestige. He has passed his apex; when he chose to be bear-king and not the Pendragon, he set his course to be downward. With this war, his scandalously good lucks run dry.”

“And what is the secret of the Eighth Door?” Mordru continued. “Your queen, Avalon’s puppet and Pellam’s own grand-childe, used it to save her own skin, and now it shall be sealed again, forevermore.

“Now follow us back to my lodge, Asteri,” Mordru commanded. “There are great deeds to be done in my service.”

I'm sure you will write her beautifully, Kent! Still trying to catch up, but I'm excited!

THE PRINCE RETURNS

Interlude Thirty-six: The Shores of Eiru


“High King Coirpre mac Neill is dead!”

The bard’s news stunned Relnic as he and his guest came ashore at Wexford. They had been at sea for more than a month, and the emissary of the Irish high court had looked forward to seeing his liege again.

Seeing Relnic’s expression, the bard continued. “Coipre had feuded with Endae, the king of Leinster. King Endae had never made full restitutions to the high king after he had supported the usurper Saraid three years ago. In response, Coipre seized more of Endae’s lands, expanding the kingdom of Meath, but Endae fought back. They... they slew each other in combat. Coipre died quickly, whilst Endae died a slow lingering death.”

Relnic nodded. “And we have landed in southern Leinster. Are we upon enemy soil now? Should we take back to sea and make our way to Ulster’s shores?”

“No,” the bard replied. “There were weeks of fighting whilst Endae lingered on his death-bed. But since his death, we have a fragile peace. Coipre’s step-son Lugaid mac Lóegairi is now Ulster’s king and regent of Meath, of course, and Leinster will assent to his high kingship over all of Eiru so long as the lands taken in the most recent campaign are restored. Endae’s son Dúnlainge now rules Leinster.”

Relnic’s guest shot the elder a look of exasperation, but Relnic shot a stern look back.

“Whilst we were at sea, I was telling my friend that Eiru is not as it was years ago when last he visited, that as Christians we now settle disputes with words, not swords. And now my words are put to shame,” Relnic admitted. “And I have lost a friend and liege.”

“The new high king will be at Leinster’s court next week, so solidify the peace agreements,” the bard replied. “He should find your counsel of great assistance, if I may be so bold.”

“You have my thanks,” Relnic replied, clasping the bard’s hands warmly. He turned again to his companion. “And you, my friend? Would you like to meet some Irish nobles?”

The man laughed good-naturedly. “My thanks for the kind invitation. And for your transportation, conversation and company these past fortnights. But I must now make my way to Britain. I have too much to accomplish, so I may return to Egypt ere the springtime.”

“Of course,” Relnic smiled. “I normally sail for Constantinople in late April. But if you must make your way without me-”

“If I am blessed with all good fortunes, I shall return on my own ere then. And if so, you are most welcome to visit when next you are in Alexandria. In any case, I shall send word as to my intentions, once I myself know them.”

The man knew Relnic’s annual trips to the east ran on a tight sailing window; there were only certain windows of the year when even the most daring of sailors would brave Iberia’s Atlantic shores, let alone the treacherous Pillars of Hercules that lead to the Middle Sea. No, most travelers crossed Gaul, a far safer route, although it took much longer. That his quest aligned with Relnic’s most recent sailing was a blessing, and he allowed himself to take it as a good omen as well.

“Sir?” The bard spoke to Relnic’s friend as well. “My son also travels to Britain, and seeks to be a knight. Perhaps you-”

“-Might accompany him?” The man guessed. “I mind not the company nor conversation, but know this: I am not bound for the court of this young King Rokk of whom I here so much.”

“My son is answering the call of another king, a northern king,” the bard replied. “King Tarik of the One Hundred Knights, a king very loyal to our own Celtic traditions.”

“Then I shall most gladly accompany him,” the man replied. “For I am also bound for the north.”

“My son is Muldron. Let me bring you to him.” The bard looked expectantly as well, for the man - or for Relnic – to introduce the man.

“I am called... Gaius,” he replied. Relnic stifled any look of surprise his face might have shown, for Gaius was not the name by which he knew him. Relnic surmised that ‘Gaius’ did not wish his return to his homelands to be widely known in Britain, but knew little else about this mystery quest.

But even Relnic did not know that his friend had years ago abandoned yet another name, a name that still carries much weight among Britain’s nobility and clergy. Gaius himself had not spoken that name himself in at least a decade, when last he had stood on British soil.

Gaius did not change his name lightly, however. It was just that he had no wish to be associated with is old life in Britain, nor for any of the deeds her in the great northern isles to come to haunt him if he was indeed fortunate enough to return to Egypt.

Interlude Thirty-seven: Palestine, two years ago


Two years agone, Gaius was in Antioch, at a celebration of the Feast of Theotokos hosted by a merchant friend Andreis.

“You are British?” The questioner was young, beautiful, of platinum hair, and carried herself with a air unlike that any merchant’s daughter.

The question from the maiden surprised Gaius (who was not called Gaius at this time. But we shall call him this, as this is the name by which we have met him). Most in these Saracen lands surmised he was Frankish or Scythian; even those who knew people of his homeland recognized no trace in his speech.

“Yes, of… of Deva,” he only partially lied. “But I have been here in the East for almost a decade.”

The young noblewoman nodded. “Many families of merchant and noble alike have lost sons to these southern lands, who seek better fortunes here than at home.”

“And you? You seem, if you forgive me for saying, too young to be here alone.”

“I stay with the sisters at the convent upon yon hill,” she gestured. “But Andreis and his wife invited me for the feast.”

“You seek your own better fortunes, then,” Gaius concluded.

She laughed. “Nay, I have… burdens of conscience to ease. I tend to the poor and ailing, whilst the young man whom I have given my heart seeks his own unburdening even farther east than here. And you, good sir, what fortunes have you sought?”

“Trade, at first. I have since become a steward of sorts. I arrange transport of goods by caravan or sometimes boat, armed escorts, and protect messages between merchants, mostly between the Middle Sea ports and the upper Nile, but sometimes to the Saracen lands across and along the Rubrum. ”

“And you live here in Antioch?”

“Nay, I have a villa in a small town near Alexandria. And you? Where is home?”

“Segontium, in-”

“-North Cymru,” he finished her sentence. “Where King Voxv keeps his court. Or did. Tell me, does he-”

“-My father reigns yet,” she beamed proudly, appreciating the look on his face telling her that he was impressed.

“M-My lady-”

“-Oh, none of that,” Jecka scolded. “I am here to get away from all that.”

Gaius smiled. He was not without his own noble heritage, but was not about to tell her that.

From there, the conversation flowed easily to a rhythm of Gaius playing the man so-far-from-home starved for news and Jecka being the centre of attention and valuable font of information. Gaius, about a decade or so older than her, was able to steer the conversation to his interests without the princess catching on.

From her, Gaius learnt much of Britain of the past decade, of its new, young high king and his knights and other strange companions. Yet this news was naught but interesting curiosity; he had no real interest in some new king whose deeds were already no-doubt exaggerated legend, stories of wonder even here at the farthest end of the Roman world.

No, the real news for him was but a minor aside to this Jecka. Yes, she mentioned his father in passing, unaware that she was telling him of his very own sire. But she also referred to his father’s current wife by the name of Gaius’ late mother – could it be that she was not dead after all!?!?

“Perhaps I am mistaken, but did not the lady you named die at a villain’s hand twelve or more years agone?” Gaius asked.

Jecka paused. “Nay, she lives yet. Or did, when last I was in Britain… But hold. I… I do recall a tale of when I was young, of a queen thought murdered but who turned up alive but a few years later. Mayhap that was her?... Yes, verily I think it may have been.”

“An amazing turn of events!” Gaius said, trying to sound impressed yet detached.

Gaius dared not ask more, else alert her that these doings were of great importance to him. His mother was alive! And my father had put aside the harlot who sought to replace her! How his heart danced at the news!

Yet this alone did not make him want to return to Britain.

Gaius talked further, and gleaned even more. Jecka told him all about the new, young high king of Britain, a king who holds his own family’s loyalty, or so it seemed. Is this whelp-of-a-king truly worthy? Is the legend about him mere fabrication, crafted by Mordru mayhap, or could there truly be something to him?

Jecka had spoken more of monarchs and knights and knaves he cared little to naught about. But she was not done surprising Gaius! Thinking of his own lineage, and how close Kiwa, the Lady of the Lake, had come to manipulating him, he asked Jecka, “Valour or not, a young high king needs to watch for villains not just from afar but from close by. Kin, even,” he bitterly recalled his own uncle’s treachery. “Pray tell, is he so wise? Does this King Rokk have wit to have caution against even allies who might scheme to replace him?”

She was all too happy to answer, to show her unique insights into the high court. “King Rokk has no kin on his father’s side that any has spoken of; his father Uther and uncles on that side are dead, else the throne would not be his, would it?”

Gaius prevented himself from smirking; mayhap he knew more of Rokk’s family than she did.

Jecka continued. “On his mother Igraine’s side, there is Queen Morgause of Lothian; she has four sons. While she and her husband King Lot I would no put past the very worst of schemings, her eldest sons Sirs Jonah and Agravaine – my Agravaine – have already sided with Rokk over their parents’ plots.

“Oh, but how could I forget? Igraine herself had a daughter, too. So King Rokk’s half-sister Mysa perchance stands even closer to the throne. Yet she has renounced her claims to the Cornish throne and her noble heritage, so I cannot believe she would so scheme.” Jecka’s words would still lingered in Gaius’ memory, almost two years later.

Mysa – could it be the same Mysa? Could it not be? So, she was the half-sister of this King Rokk, and was now free of the now-dead Kiwa, who was no longer spinning her plots and deceptions.

In one evening, Britain returned to life for him. My little fae-lass Mysa… the memories still bring a smile to Gaius’ face. Yet the eve he had met Jecka, he still had not wished to return home. Not then. Not until more recently.

Interlude Thirty-eight: Alexandria


The man we call Gaius was never one for magicks, prophesies or sooth-sayers; he had enough of that in the Britain of his youth. Yet he never begrudged his wife such diversions, so long as she did not encourage this in their children. And true to their agreement, her favourite sooth-sayer, a crone called Ezerie, never visited their home but rather met his wife near the Medina.

Ezerie knew better than to try to pry any earnings from Gaius’ own purse, yet one day nearly two months ago she approached him with grim words, and asked no coin for them. She spoke words she could not possibly know, of people and deeds back home in Britain, of things not even Jecka could have known, but things Gaius knew to be true.

After some mulling of thoughts, Gaius had sent word to Alexandria towne, and word had come back: Relnic was in port, and would soon be sailing for Eiru. He was both pleased and saddened to be leaving home; it was as if his Rubicon had been decided for him. He had three days to ready himself before the boat he hoped would take him to Britain would be departing.

He had clutched the message scroll in his hand, crinkling the paper, as if seeking to draw strength from it. The heat of the day was ebbing and a nice breeze was coming in from the sea. It would be a nice day to relax and watch the young children of the quarter prance about in the palm grove in between the villa and the sea, or to supervise the date pickers out in the gardens. But no, he had a harder task ahead, one that brought no pleasure: he had to tell Miriama that he was leaving.

She had, of course, known the plan, but Gaius knew on some level that she was hoping that he would change his mind. He had only himself to blame, he knew. Rare was the good word he had ever spoken of his homeland. She no doubt considered it as vile and politicked as Alexandria itself, nigh on torn apart by religious factions and power-hungry latter-day Pontius Pilates.

He found her on the courtyard balcony, looking down on the washer-women as they took in and folded the laundries. He read weariness and resignation from the way her shoulders sagged. She knew already, he kenned.

“When I as a girl, my father would take me to the Nile delta marshlands to hunt game-birds. I always told him I wanted not to, and always begged him to let me play with my sisters instead, but he always made me come along, along with all my brothers,” she told him, still not facing him. “We would lie in wait in the reeds, in the mud, until the right kind of bird came close and in numbers, and all the while I quaked in fear that a crocodile would come along and eat us. But on father’s command, we would let loose a volley of arrows and slay as many birds as we could hit. In the many years, no crocodile had found its way to our little hunting-grounds, lest while we were there.”

Gaius knew where this story was going, but dared not to interrupt. She needed to tell it – and maybe he needed to hear it again. “I was both thrilled and appalled at the number of times I hit my targets, how many birds I took in, and how my prowess increased over the years. It was a source of pride, a skill I had that my sisters and mother had not, and my brothers teased me less the better a huntress I became.” Her words slowed as a shiver overcame her. He winced at tears that would come soon.

“Y-yet the one time a crocodile did come, I stood by helpless, paralysed, as it took my brother Marc. Father and the others had gone ahead with our catch, and Marc stayed behind to recover the arrows with the magnificent coloured fletchings our uncle had crafted. They were special, and as proud as he was to use them, he was not going to leave them behind. He… never saw it coming, and fear had stolen my voice to warn him just as it had taken my arms from shooting.

“And so every time someone I cherish goes off to do something I know in my heart is dangerous, and every time they cast aside my fears as foolishe, I see again Marc being grabbed and torn away from me in a thrashing squall of blood, flesh and bone.” Her tears were fully unleashed now, and he held her tight. “Please… please. Ezerie has said you will go, but please, fight not the beast with the jeweled teeth that she has foreseen.”

Gaius held his weeping wife, and waved away his children, who had come to see what the fuss was about.

“I leave the hunting of monsters to my father,” he spoke softly. “I thought my mother to be dead once. I’ll not stand by idly if I can prevent it from happening verily, even though I must cross half the world for it.” He spoke not to her of Ezerie’s warnings about the Mysa; his wife held enough fears in her heart.

Looking back on his wife’s words, he wondered about the monsters ahead, be they human or otherwise. Just like Marc found in the reeds, there were dangers lurking ahead, and some no doubt would target him just as the monster had taken Miriama’s brother.

Interlude Thirty-nine: Leinster


The port bustled with activity in the morning, with fishermen and merchants alike rushing to seize the day at hand. For Gaius, it had been too long since hearing so much Gaelic; his ears rebelled in confusion and if he caught every fifth word or phrase he counted himself lucky.

Muldron, he could tell, was a little exasperated with his elder’s learning curve, but feigned patience as best he could, translating for Gaius as they negotiated passage. The younger insisted that they sail to the Isle of Manannán first rather than directly to Carlisle, Deva, or Rhyged; there they would be vetted and vouched for, so that when they arrived their final destination they would be greeted by Tarik’s army as friends, not foes or suspected spies.

Word around the port was that Britain was now at war with the Franks, and that one of Rokk’s knights had recently come seeking Irish aid, unaware of Eiru’s own internal war. A Cymry prince, Rokk’s own admiral, had apparently betrayed the British side; this caused many tongues to scorn the young British king and to predict a full Frankish victory.

At last Muldron concluded negotiations and the two were told to return to port on the morrow. A merchant would be sailing for Manannán en route to Dalraida. There was naught to do but let the day pass, and that day would be spent in the meade stores of his younger companion’s kinsmen.

From Muldron and his kin, Gaius learnt more of the younger man’s reasons for seeking out Tarik: To avenge wrongs done by Roman Britain to kin? Aye, a wee bit. But for the chance to earn coin and adventure? Verily, this was the far weightier of reasons. So why Tarik’s court? Why not an Irish one, or Cymry court or even this apparent living demigod Rokk’s? On this matter Muldron was evasive, but his kin let on there was a woman involved. Gaius laughed as he finished another goblet of meade; this was all too believable for a lad Muldron’s age. He had done similar for Mysa, had he not?

Gaius deflected questions about his current motivation to tales of glory from his own youth in Britain: damsels saved, villains vanquished, monsters slain, and witches foiled.

Muldron told great tales of valour, too. Although Irish and from Leinster, his mother had been from South Cymru too, and he himself had lived in the Irish settlements of the central Cymry coast. He told of fighting against Khunds, sea-monsters, and other Irish, as well as many different kinds of monsters, including ogres, fir bolg, and sidhe.

Gaius believed little the man said; he clearly had his people’s gift of exaggerated storytelling and could probably give the renowned bard Ossian a challenge for his coin. Muldron was the second-youngest of half-dozen men gathered and drinking here, he guessed, and probably had little chance to encounter one-eighth of the foes he claimed, let alone defeat them. From the reaction of the kinsmen, they believed him not either.

“Have you ever fought a dragon?” asked a new arrival, the bard Gaius had met three days ago upon his arrival. He exchanged greetings with his kinsmen, and once the welcomes died down he winked mischievously and repeated the question for the young man.

“Not yet,” Muldron admitted. “But my Cymry kinsmen, my mother’s family clan, do hunt sea dragons from time to time.”

One kinsman who knew Muldron not well looked alarmed for a second, but then began laughing. “Ye almost had me,” he patted Muldron good-naturedly.

Gaius himself recalled something about hunters of sea dragons. But when? It was a memory he could not summon up.

Muldron smiled devilishly, as if admitting his distant cousin had seen through the tale. But that made Gaius wonder all the more.

“Rokk’s new war with the Franks. That was caused by an Irish lass, was it not?” asked the eldest of the group, a man of about four decades. He was just as straight-faced he had been when the drinking began. Verily, there was no amusing the fellow, it seemed.

“Most wars are, truths be told,” Muldron cackled. “Verily, a Irish lass with her tongue unleashed could have vanquished Rome long before the Goths came. Why thinks thee Rome never took Eiru?”

Once the laughter settled, the bard spoke up. “Elyzabel is half-Irish, half-Cymry, of the courts of Leinster and of Voxv. She was visiting her uncle in Paris and became the paramour of Lucius of Neustria. And now she is Clovis’ hostage, a tool to divide Elyzabel’s half-brother Pharoxx from Rokk himself.”

“They say King Rokk was a fool to make Pharoxx the admiral of his western navy,” said a young woman whom Gaius had not seen arrive. Neither had they others, they stood quickly and abandoned the smiling, laughing faces of drinking for that of apologetic solemnity.

“Oh, none of that, my friends,” she scolded. From garb and demeanour, she was clearly of nobility, of higher station than any of Muldron’s kin. She looked to be of similar age to Jecka – or rather the Jecka of three years agone as he had met her. Her braided auburn locks triggered another half-memory.

“My lady is here to meet the enigmatic outlander,” the bard added. “I took the liberty of telling her about you ere we came here,” he said directly to Gaius.

“My lady,” Gaius bowed.

“My good sir,” she began. “Tis nice to see you again.” Seeing his confusion, she added. “I am Penarwan, daughter of King Endae. I was but wee when I saw you last, goode Sir ‘Gaius,’” she clearly was mocking his pseudonym, and knew full well who he truly was.

“I... visited Leinster’s court ere I left for Rome,” he recalled. “I am amazed you still recallst me.”

“My foster-sister Nuira is strong with The Sight, and has been since we were little. She told me long ago that we would meet again,” she smiled. “and will several times more, ere you depart us yet again.”

Interlude Forty: Isle of Manannán


By the time of their arrival on Manannán’s Isle, Gaius and Muldron were fairly chummy, but each still kept their secrets as well. For Muldron, Gaius was a big-brother figure to whom he was not as transparent as he was to his Irish kinsman; amongst them he could get away with little. With Gaius, he could more easily reinvent himself.

For Gaius, he could imagine Muldron as his younger brother had he been raised as a commoner. His real brother was no doubt saddled with duties and obligations of knighthood and nobility. Muldron was a free spirit, seeking adventure for its own sake – yet with a dark, buried, festering wound he thinks he conceals but does not.

“Ye still have not said: why doth ye journey all the way from the Middle Seas to join Tarik’s army?” Muldron had asked him several times, and several times Gaius had deflected the question. But now on Manannán, Gaius had reason to speak ere they were vetted by Tarik’s men.

“An old family obligation. My forbears were loyal to King Pellam, and fought against the three brothers Uther, Ambrosius and Constans. If there is a chance to restore the proper order to Britain, I must be part of it. For family honour.” He hated to lie even partially, but if he had guessed right, this was the time to do so.

“Why didn’t you say so ere now?”

“I have heard it said that young Rokk has friends and allies in Eiru. I knew not who I could speak before, else give us both away, on shore or on the boat.”

Gaius hoped they were being observed as they approached the farmhouse they were instructed to journey to, a small croft-stead on an isolated, windswept peninsula.

Over the next few days, they would be observed, tested, questioned and intoxicated by Tarik’s knights and some allied Druids. But once their hearts were deemed true, they were sent onward. To northernmost Cumbria.

BOOK IX:
THE WAR AT HOME

Four Hundred Eighty-one


Aivillagh estimated that his message to Avalon should be reaching the Priestess Isle this very day, if all had been well upon the roads. But maybe the message should never have been sent. This morn, Mysa had taken a turn for the worse, and had entered the unwakeable sleep that one does not oft awaken from.

Sir Accolon held her hand, and sobbed for her to awaken. The nurse-maids fed her broths and elixirs, all to no avail. Her magickally aged, boney hands betrayed little sign of life at all.

Twould be three full days ere the Lady Azura would arrive, seeking to help to heal her. In that time word would come in from Benwick, that Sirs Garth and Jonah had begin leading an assault on Neustria, in hopes that Duke Pharoxx’s anticipated and unauthorized naval assault might be aided. High King Rokk had been enraged that such a decision was made without him, of course, and he feuded with King Zendak of South Cymru over it. But in the end Rokk had dispatched the troop transport ships to try to aid both attacks, whilst sending Sir Berach to Eiru in hopes Irish King Coipre mac Neill would lend Britain ships in its hour of need. Zendak in turn had feuded with Rokk about sending what was little more than a motley of fishing and merchant ships into combat.

Aivillagh, in keeping with his new but fragile alliance with Rokk, smoothed the waters as best he could, but without the king’s half-sister Mysa in his own court he knew well Rokk would cast him aside at the earliest convenience.