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Twenty

"You know what we need? I've heard of an Ulsterwoman with the strength of twenty, who stands a full head taller than the tallest Northman. They say she fights off Khund and Northman alike - with her bare hands!" Thom joked, taking a swig of his ale.

The three lads laughed.

"With an army of such, I can well afford to worry less about keeping the local kings happy," Rokk laughed. "While my upbringing was Roman, who teach that war-craft is solely for men, I have learned much about the warrior-women of the Celts. Perhaps we can recruit this Ulsterwoman."

"Nay," said Garth, whose face showed which of the trio was trying to be serious. "I have seen the warriors of Iberia fight from horseback. Not the mangy ponies we have here, but beautiful, magical steeds from the warmer lands, bred by people who have made an art of it.

"Give me gold and leave to purchase, say, 40 of these, and I in turn will create a fine fighting force that will prove themselves worth 4,000 foot soldiers," he said.

"Forty Ulsterwomen will be cheaper. I know, I've had a few," Thom jibed, and even Garth had to join his friends in roaring at this.

But not the one you wanted most, Garth responded in his head, but did not wish to renew his friend's melancholy.

"What if we put 40 Ulsterwomen on 40 horses?" Rokk posited.

"Mares, I hope. I wouldn't trust an Ulsterwoman around stallions," Garth shot back, outwitting the other two, for once. He relished finally earning his friends appreciative laughter.

Rokk looked up from his ale, only to see Reep waiting impatiently.

"A moment, my friends. I must speak with my brother," he said, departing the table.

The two walked down the hall, whispering until they exited into the courtyard.

"Well?"

"I have confirmed Vidar's departure, yet we have three new reports of strange behavior. Perhaps I was not wrong in saying a plague was about," Reep reported.

"Perhaps. Sir Derek brags about his new retainer, a silentist, I think he said. Supposed to be quite knowledgeable about medicine and nature, yet believes not in magicks. I'd like you to see what he may say," Rokk said.

"Ah, the scientist. One of the Druids has mentioned him," Reep said. "I'll go to him at once."

"Good." Rokk sensed something else was on Reep's mind. "What else?"

"Well, the Princess Guinevere of North Cymru has arrived. She's staying at the convent."

Rokk felt his legs quiver under him, and let out a long breath. "I'd sooner face a Khund horde single-handedly than contemplate marriage to a lady I've never seen. I swear, old kings are worse than village crones with their match-making."

"Ah, but a match by village crone can't secure the loyalty of all the western and northern kings," Reep reminded him.

Rokk thought about Luornu. He missed her. "Has-?"

"-She'll be here, too, probably by evening," Reep guessed the question. "She's traveling with Father Marla."

"Good," he said. "I trust that's all?"

"Well, no. There's a woman who claims to be your sister here to see you."

"My sister?" Rokk couldn't believe it. "I have no--- She must be a madwoman or a liar!" He was slightly angry at the prospect.

"Beren vouches for her."

"The Druids again! Perhaps I give them too much of my ear. I shall see what Morgause thinks. Even her lies can be more transparent than a Druid's truths!" he exclaimed, storming off.

Notes on parts 11-20:
11: Sometimes when writing, a character will write something themselves that totally surprises the writer. Lot does it here with his advice.
BTW, Did anyone catch the very first cross-continuity hint of this section?
12: I initially had story-structural issues whether it was a lad or lass that picked the blade out. But in the end, it didn't really matter, as I opted they were all traveling together (another section hopefully made it obvious with who they traveled).
Gawaine's disfigurement should be explained before I get to the Notes for 21-30. Other parts of his story might also receive at least partial explanations by then, too.
13: I know dreams are a cheap and convenient way to foreshadow, but this bit wrote itself. I'll try to keep it to a minimum in the future, or keep it "off-camera."
post-14: Oops! I skipped Rokk's talk with Mordru. I'll have to reincorporate it into their next talk.
15: Lancelot and Tristan were supposed to be instant, good friends. Hence, Garth and Thom.
Eriu is Ireland, in case you hadn't guessed. (For the really geo-challenged, the Ulster of #20 is northern Ireland.)
17: This was NOT the debut of the footprint-person.
18: Festus was an actual Roman senator of that time (even though the last Western emperor was already history).
16, 19, 20: They are what they are. Or are they?

Twenty-one

The door opened slowly.

She sat very still on the chair near the fireplace. She didn't even look at him right away, slowly, sometimes almost imperceptibly turning her head, as if imitating his opening of the door.

He tried to smile, but knew he must be looking very sheepishly.

"So. You must be. My-. The lady Mysa." He winced. That couldn't have sounded any more awkward if he'd tried.

"Gwydion," she whispered, and a face that had struggled not to tremble now warmed into a smile. "It truly is you."

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember you."

"No, you wouldn't. I'm not surprised. You were a babe of less than two years."

They both spoke simultaneously, then stopped short, each bending over to yield the conversation to the other. Mysa, with more years at personal politics, eventually coaxed him to speak.

"What was our mother like?"

"She was tall. Red-haired, like me, but much more beautiful. Truly a woman two kings would make war over," she said, proudly.

"You must have hated Ambrosius."

Mysa was taken aback. "Why, no. I admit, as a girl, when being punished, I would tell myself that my father would have treated me better, but in truth, both were sons of Rome, who had no use or care for daughters. Uther - your Ambrosius - did try to like me, I recall. To please my mother. Our mother."

"It still rings odd to my ears to hear Ambrosius, last of the Roman commanders, to be called Uther the Pendragon by the Celts." Rokk was warming to her.

"Oh, he was the Pendragon. He stood down his soldiers, and traveled alone to follow the old rituals of Avalon, to truly be high king of all Britain. Willingly. And all the peoples of the Old Ways embraced him. The Celts. The Picts. The Faerie."

"The faerie?" Rokk was genuinely surprised. "There truly are such beings?"

"Oh, yes. Some are closer than you might believe," she smiled.

"So, I, too, must go to Avalon to win over these peoples? Like Amb- uh, Uther did? Is that why you are here?"

"No. I am here to reunite with my brother and congratulate him on his coronation. Uther made the pledges for himself and his line to come. You need only to renew that pledge, if you choose. But that's for you to take up with Beren. I," she paused for emphasis, "Would like nothing more than enjoy the company of my long-lost brother."

While by no means ugly, she was not nearly as appealing as many of the nobles' daughters were. But her charming smile and friendly green eyes did make Rokk somewhat regret that she was kin.

They talked into the night, mostly with Mysa telling family stories he was too young to remember. With the aid of wine, she recalled and sung his favorite lullaby as an infant.

"I remember!" he said, the last few vestiges of doubt fading. "I remember..."

And he did remember. A young red-haired girl holding him, cradling him, singing that song... a red-haired woman tending him while he was sick and hurting... the same woman rushing out to greet a man on horse.

"Ambrosius," he whispered, recalling the face. NO! It's got to be a lie, he thought, imagining that same face with 20 years added to it.

Mysa, who was holding him and singing softly, lost in her own memories, immediately noticed him stiffen up. "Gwydion? What's wrong?"

"It can't be true," blurted the young man, wiping the heavy tears from his face. "It can't!"

For the second time that eve, he stormed out, with the intent of forcing truth from newfound family.

Twenty-two

Mysa gently made her way through the garrison halls. She had not yet been introduced to the staff and guards as the king's brother.

Would that he still believes that truth, she thought, given their conversation's ending. The thought of little Gwydion not only rejecting her - but thinking her a charlatan - hurt her deeply.

She crossed the dining hall, in order to continue her search in the western wing.

"Mysa of the Faeries," remarked a man sitting alone in the almost-dark hall. The fire was burning low, and he moved so little he almost blended into the support columns.

"Who is there?" she called. What man in Londinium would taunt her by her childhood nickname?

The man stood, somewhat wobbly. Clearly he was drunk. Mysa considered running, or calling for help, but her recalled her uncertain status inside the king's walls.

He stepped closer, and she got a better look at him. "Lancelot?"

He laughed. "That was Kiwa's name for me. I am Garth. Pleasesed to meet your acquaintance," he mocked, and bowing, almost fell over.

Mysa couldn't help laughing at him. "Lanc- Garth, you are drunk!"

"Yes I am," he said, as she helped him steady himself. "But in the morning I'll be sober, and you'll still be," he looked her in the eyes, "beautiful."

Mysa, flattered by the youth's desires for her, again laughed. "Come, my boy. Let me help you to your bed."

"We can't go to my bed," he slurred his words.

"Why not?"

"Itsa barract. A barrits-- a playsh where men sleep."

"And you are a man, yes?"

"But you're not." As his words were sinking in, he sloppily tried to kiss her. She evaded his mouth, and used his unbalanced state to step away while he grabbed for a column to support him.

"You think I'm going to share my bed with you?"

"Mysa. I've adored you since I was a boy." He reached out for her, one arm still holding the column.

"You're still a boy."

"Yeah, but." He started laughing for reasons that escaped her. "But I'm a biiig boy now."

"Goodnight, Garth." She started to walk away when the sentries could be heard coming down the hall.

I've done worse, she thought, realizing there was nowhere to hide. She sat on the bench and pulled Garth close to her.

The sentries passed without pausing, speaking only to comment on Sir Garth's ability to draw ladies from out of thin air.

After they were gone, she considered asking Garth to stop. But it had been too long since a dashing young man had nibbled her there, caressed her theeerre.

Ohhh.

You're really enjoying writing this Kent aren't you? It shows! This is fantastic, probably my favourite thing on the board right now, more, more, more!

Impressive, Very impressive.

I really get turned on by sentences like "The first hues of blue were hugging the eastern horizon".

Yet another chiming in. I just read through all of this, and it's great! I love AUs like this, and it's lots of fun to see what you'll introduce next from either Legion or Arthur mythology. Thanks for posting this!

I do hope for more appearances of the "silentist!"

Thanks, gang!

Yes, Mearl - the "silentist" will be reappearing soon.

I didn't want Rokk to be an idiot, but neither could I see him being familiar with the term scientist.

Twenty-three

"Guinevere was my sister, you must understand."

The "was" was not lost on Imra.

"I was the elder, and thus responsible for her.

"It was midwinter, and father was off at Zendak's court. Zendak had not long been king, and needed father's aid in settling a dispute with the wee folk.

"You see, the Faerie of south Cymru claimed exclusive fishing rights to the Silurian coast, claiming they had defend against sea dragons-"

Jeka realized she was diverting herself. She sighed.

"No matter. As little girls raised by a doting king are wont to do, we evaded our nannies and went out for play.

"It was just an empty snow-covered field with a pond. But to two little princesses, it was a field full of elves, prancing unicorns, handsome knights and merchant fairs full of goods from the far-off Constantinople and the Persias.

"We would play and hold imaginary court until too we became too cold, and we'd sneak back to the castle, satisfied than none knew of our adventures, or our special field.

"Looking back, any fool could have followed our footprints - and did. I knew not enough of the Art to hide our way. Our nannies were wise enough to pretend to let us escape them, only to keep a watchful eye from the hedge-rows.

"Usually.

"But one d-day..." Her voice quivered, and she took a moment to steady herself before continuing.

"I know not what caused our nannies to be distracted, to not be there. It could have been anything. Directing a messenger, dealing with a castle issue... It does not matter, I suppose. The fact remains is that for once we were as alone as we believed ourselves to be. In our games, I suppose, we lost our sense of the lay of the field."

She turned to face Imra, with a pleading look in her watering eyes. "The ice was too thin!" She began weeping. "I didn't know we'd strayed so close to the pond!"

Imra held her close, letter her sob. "Truly, I didn't know," Jeka continued.

"You didn't know," Imra reassured her. "You were just a child."

Later (was it ten minutes? an hour?), Jeka found the words to continue.

"Father, as you may imagine, was quite appalled, and I never again held favour in his eyes again. And he was only too happy to have me sent to the Priestesses. Better than the convent, I suppose.

"A-And to make matters worse, his mind snapped. He couldn't believe she was gone. He'd speak of her, first, as if she were ill and bed-ridden, but would recover.

"While in Avalon, I received word he believed her healthy and well, and would talk into thin air as if she still lived. The castle staff covered for him -he was and is much beloved - and my cousin Pharoxx encourages his madness, so he will gain the throne."

"So the other nobles don't know Guinevere is dead?" asked Imra.

"No. My family is adept at preserving the illusion. Probably why I despise lies and deception so much.

"Kiwa knows I can well play the part of Guinevere - to all but father. She expects me to be Avalon's puppet.

"And Pharoxx also counts on me. He knows I can play the part, and he controls me, too. He can blow my deception at any time, which will make me look even more evil to father - evil enough to disinherit, to name Pharoxx as his heir.

"There is only one way out. One way to have a high queen who is neither under Pharoxx' whim nor Kiwa's. A queen who will be an asset to young Rokk, not a liability."

"What do we do?"

"My illusions will make someone else be Guinevere - someone who actually wants to be high queen. All of my father's staff will vouch for her - they are with me on this. They hate Pharoxx more than I."

"But how do we fool King Vovx?" Imra truly hadn't gotten it yet.

"Why, we will create a Princess Guinevere who is adapt at the arts of the mind, who can both influence father's perception and be privy to the delusionary conversations and events that he recalls."

Imra's face went white.

"Come on, now. You did say you wanted to be queen."

Twenty-four

"You still haven't said it isn't so," Rokk stared at his most disliked benefactor.

Mordru grinned. So he does have the eye and the wit to be a good king. He may even make a fine wizard, if he applied himself.

"No, I haven't," he said at last. "Very well. I am not Ambrosius."

"But you look like him," Rokk continued his stare.

"Is that such a slight?" Seeing Rokk was not abating, he continued, for the first time returning Rokk's stare with equal intensity. "If he had any... disreputable twin, Ambrosius, as you may imagine, would not favour it being widely known.

"Ambrosius and I took every pain to keep any similarities hidden, be they coincidental or familial. He shaved Roman-style, while I allowed my face to become thicker than many forests are. Ambrosius refused to have his broken nose properly healed, that it not be compared to mine other than the standard Roman pronouncement. And I used tricks learned from thespians to add differences where there were none.

"I can speak naught else, or I would break an oath I swore to Ambrosius."

Rokk soaked up the wizard's words, not quite sure if he believed them.

The man that the woman (his mother?) rushes so eagerly toward had a beard, and no broken nose. IF a two-year-old's recollection could be trusted, he reminded himself.

Leaving out the last doubt, he challenged Mordru with this memory.

"I have never seen Ambrosius as you describe," he said. "If that's the extent of your memory, I fear I've run out of assistance to you."

Rokk paused before exiting.

"One more thing, wizard. The madnesses continue, although Vidar is gone. When last we talked, you seemed sure that he was the cause."

"Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps these are just mad times," the wizard said, dismissively. "I truly know not what contagion is afoot."

Rokk realized that he believed him, and wondered (feared?) if he was actually warming to the sorcerer.

In the hall, it struck him that Mordru, like Reep, at least partly considered the madness a pox, but Rokk couldn't strike the feeling that someone was behind it.

I should ask Reep what Derek's scholar had to say. But the hour was late, and he had the halls alone to himself and his thoughts.

Twenty-five

Reep joined his hosts in breaking their fasts on the terrace. Sir Derek's villa was magnificent, a veritable palace atop a hill near Londinium.

A plate of smoked fish, sliced fruits, bread and cheese had been set out by the servants. Reep ate sparingly, else miss a chance to enter the conversation due to a stuffed mouth.

"What you say is impossible," Querl said, slightly irritated.

"Not so. I grant that it may seem improbable, but I assure you. I have walked through a Khundish horde without being seen," replied the target of Querl's ire.

"Surely his visit to this very estate several days agone is proof enough," Derek interjected.

"Nay. We must have been distracted, like the charlatan-games the tribes of Little Egypt run on the very streets of Constantinople," Querl replied. "You belie yourself with failure to demonstrate your claims, when asked this very morn. One cannot become invisible!," he concluded, pounding his fist on the table.

"Easy, friend," Dyrk grabbed his arm.

"My apologies." The Greek was slightly embarrassed at his behaviour.

"I think what our friend is saying is that when he wishes to be unseen no one sees him," Reep said. "Not that he turns invisible."

Querl raised an eyebrow.

"We cannot see, say, Bishop Vidar, but he has not turned invisible. We merely can't see him because he's not here."

"But-"

"Please. Let me continue. And if Bishop Vidar was here, we might still not see him. He could be disguised as a green- er- Greek philosopher, he could be hiding behind yonder tree, we could be so caught up in debate that we overlook him, or we don't want to see him."

"What?"

"Think. No doubt we can all think of a case where people wanted to believe something so much that they genuinely believe it they saw it? Perhaps it's the same. Though a combination of disguise and... persuasion, not unlike Vidar's, I maintain that our friend can remain unseen if he chooses."

Reep realized he was gesturing toward an empty seat.

Querl's eye's bulged. "While we all focused on Reep's words-"

"-He vanished himself! Bravo!" Dyrk interrupted.

"Which he could not do whilst we watched him," Querl concluded. "Reep, you have won your point. I concede."

"Druid! You can return yourself!" Derek called out, not knowing which way to direct his words.

"Let us all watch that hawk," Reep suggested, "and allow him venue to do so."

"Behind our backs," Dyrk murmured in jest.

"I do feel rude calling him naught but 'Druid.' Have you a name, lad?" inquired Derek, hoping for a verbal sign before he turning to see if the vacant chair was again occupied.

"My name is sworn to secrecy. You may call me by my home, the island of the far north.

L'ile Norge, thought Derek, as the table returned to facing toward each other. He looks not like a Northman, though.

"So. Your persuasion argument also supports the madness has its roots in the mind, not a plague," Querl said, resuming the conversation. "I believe our error was assuming that Vidar was the sole person responsible."

"Who else, then?" Reep asked.

Querl continued. "If Druids are capable of-"

"Mind your tongue!" L'ile warned.

Reep intervened. "I think he only meant that if one group had mastered it-"

"-That another may. Exactly," Querl said. Looking to L'ile, he asked, "Is there any who might have stolen Druidic secrets?"

"None! The penalty is death, unless..."

"Go on."

"There is a sect of Druids of which I have recently learned. They consider themselves the avengers of a massacre of Druids that took place centuries ago, on the north Cymru island of Anglesey.

"They were the sole group not to join Uther's alliance, and indeed worked to undermine it. Mayhap this dark circle is now also targeting King Rokk."

But is this the same north island the lad himself comes from? But if so, why would the conspirator lay down all his cards? Querl wondered.

But the whole debate of persuasion, misdirection and hiding in plain sight still left Querl with the feeling that there was more to L'ile's words than he said...

Twenty-six

"...would please us greatly to continue the peace," said King Zaryan. "Not even your esteemed father, the great Ambrosius, unwove Vortigern's treaty.

"We fought on the side of the Pendragon time and time again against any invader - even Khundish. Kent will stand with Britain, if Britain will stand with Kent," he concluded.

"Well spoken, Zaryan. I will gladly say that I have no wish for war between our peoples. Yet many still question why your people would turn against your own kin? This makes no sense to my Celtic subjects," Rokk replied.

"My king, the Khunds of Kent have now been here for three generations. We were born on this isle. We are British, with no more connection to Khundia than..."

She had enough.

It was fascinating to eavesdrop on negotiations between kings, but enough was enough. She had warmed to Rokk despite herself, but Zaryan was a Khund first, and thus was less trustworthy than Morgause or her mother.

Restless, she wandered down the hall, wondering where her true love had ventured. She drifted out of the garrison.

"How could you say that of me, my love?"

"I know much of boyish love. It lasts only until the next pretty face," Mysa laughed. "Last eve was a treasure, I'm sure, but I can't have my brother's best knight at my door, else the entire court be scandalized!"

"Then marry me!" Garth pleaded, but Mysa only laughed.

Best knight? She scowled. Only because Gawaine has yet to earn his king's favour. Infuriated, she continued on, leaving the couple to their silly games.

Few were out on the city street, as the city guard had closed them to all but the nobles and military before tomorrow's ceremony.

She wandered past Ambrosius' palace, where crews were working day and night to make it ready for the new king, and the coronation celebrations on the morrow.

Continuing on toward the Basilica, she saw the arrival of the priest who is replacing Vidar. He looked not remarkable at all, yet was looking around cautiously as he ushered three cloaked girls into his rectory.

Well, now. This one has more applaudable secrets than Vidar had, she concluded.

Reversing direction, she now followed Prima Gate west, passing the Mithraeum, where one of the many kings in town for the coronation was exiting.

"Your daughter will make a most excellent high queen, my liege," said the knight at his side.

"She shall. You know, she talks of naught else," the old man agreed.

The father of this Guinevere is a follower of Mithras? Or is this more of the strange Druidic plot?

She tagged along.

They proceeded along the street until reaching one of the grand residences, where a row of escorts lining the entry stairs greeted them.

Atop the stairs were two young women, adorned as royalty.

Truly both are beautiful. Yet which is Guinevere?

"My daughters," the king warmly greeted them.

The knight looked confused.

"My father and liege," replied the younger of the two. She looked nervous to unseen eyes.

The maidens descended to meet their king and exchange further pleasantries.

Apart from the entourage, she noticed Garth had wandered upon the seen, and his eyes seemed transfixed upon the younger daughter.

Mysa was right. This 'best knight' has the conviction of a mangy cat. May he serve his king better! she thought, smug in knowing who was truly a better knight.

Turning south, she entered the Temple district, and was surprised to see Rokk and Reep walking toward the Druidic shrine.

"Are you sure about this?" Reep asked.

"No. But if Beren is out to kill me, I'd rather know tonight than in the midst of battle," Rokk replied.

She stepped ahead of them, inside the temple. She marveled that Druids would need even a simple building, yet noted this was Londinium - it's hard to have a private grove in the city.

Yet there it was - a sizeable courtyard fully gardened into a grove, with an ominous large ceremonial stone in its center.

If Beren intends harm to the king, I must serve as witness, be it sacrilege or not.

She watched Rokk enter alone, and be ushered away for a ritual bathing. As the moon rose in the sky, the ritual began, officiated by Beren himself.

The blade he wielded looked very familiar - the same one Gawaine had thrown into the river.

They are assassins! I must find Gawaine! she thought, fleeing the scene. Where are you?

She closer her eyes and let herself be spirited away.

She was out of the city altogether, in a small village a half-day out she recognized from the original trip south.

"My love! Where are thou?"

"Not now!" Gawaine bellowed, trading sword plows with a villain she recognized not.

Even if I interrupt, he'll not make it to Londinium in time.

But then she noticed that Gawaine was not alone. Saihlough had gone with him - could this be the Dark Stranger he fought?

Saihlough winked at her.

"Come, little faerie. We have a king to save!"

Twenty-seven

Garth was quite pleased with himself.

He was pleased with the garb that Sir Brandius' aides had picked out, pleased that he negotiated the maddening streets and made it to the Basilica with an hour to spare - and that he avoided Mysa.

I must find out who that princess was. Until then, let Mysa keep busy tending to the details of her brother's court.

In a complete contrast from last night, he doubted there was a single square foot of all Londinium not occupied by human eyes this day. Has even Rome ever seen such a glorious day?

The priest, a Father Marla, was going over details with Brandius, Sir Derek and others, leaving Garth with little to do but await his best friend.

Few had been allowed inside the vestry, and he found himself with no one to talk to. Not even Reep, he realized. Where are those brothers?

"My lord?" A young woman's voice uttered.

He looked up to see his princess from the last evening.

"...," he managed. Never before at a lack of words with maidens, he suddenly felt paralyzed.

"My lord and liege, I swear I shall make you a good wife, and a queen you may be proud of," she said, kneeling before him.

Garth continued to be tongue-tied, just as Rokk walked in.

"Garth! You have found a woman who truly worships you," he said.

"Rokk! My king! I-I..." Garth nervously managed.

The maiden looked up. "You're not-?" She looked back and forth between the gaping Garth and the grinning Rokk.

"My liege! Forgive me! I thought..." Imra instead bowed before him.

"Please! None of that!" Rokk exclaimed. "For a lady such as yourself to be let into the vestries, why, you must be..." Rokk's smile froze.

"Princess Guinevere, my lord." Imra's face reddened, knowingly lying to her king and future husband.

She's Guinevere. Garth’s heart sank.

"My lady! I wish that we had time to talk, but we must talk to Father Marla about the details of the Coronation. You, I gather, shall be at my side."

"Yes, of course," she replied.

Minutes later, they stood on a large dais, with thousands looking on. None of them had ever seen such a crowd, let along been the center of such attention.

Brandius and Father Marla stood across the dais with Reep and Mysa, explaining their roles to them. A handful of city guards and deacons lined the back row against the basilica wall. Slowly, Beren and the various kings came up, forming a line in front of them.

The many lords and knights enjoyed privileged locations immediately to the front of the crowd.

Garth, still eyeing Guinevere, noticed that she looked disturbed, and not just by the earlier faux pas.

"Assassins," she whispered. Then shouting. "Assassins! They're going to kill Sir Brandius!"

Without thinking, Garth and Rokk had both drawn swords, taking a step at the city guardsmen holding daggers.

The contest was never in any doubt.

But why Sir Brandius? thought Garth, once the delayed ceremony was finally under way. There's something else going on here.

Twenty-eight

"Simply amazing, by damn."

"Well, that certainly expands our repertoire of extraordinary gifts," Reep said. "Even more, looking at the one Garth wounded."

"How so, son?"

"The wound was... charred. Apparently Garth's lightning-quick swordplay may be a measure more than metaphor."

"Well, he's in good company, then," Rokk smiled, looking down at the hall of feasting guests. He took a quick head-count of the young knights gathered with extraordinary feat attributed to them, and wondered how many more were in the general populace.

"Mayhap we have a legion with freakish gifts," he said at last.

"You'd play the fool not to," Brandius replied. "I thought you better of Tacitus' writings than to ignore such an advantage. Why, such a legion would be remembered for 3,000 years!"

Above them, Saihlough smiled. This shall be fun!

Despite her intrusion in Rokk's royal anointment by the Druids, he thanked her for her concern, and liked her. And she in turn took a liking to him.

Rokk was also grateful the little faerie had not burst in during the priestess ritual that followed.

Rokk saw his long absence was being noticed. "I must rejoin the feast. Father, promise me you'll stay safe?"

"Bah! I'll not hide, for assassins can just as easily strike a quiet library as a crowded hall. And I'll not miss this celebration, not even for Rome restored to her former glory!"

As the trio returned to the feast, Reep realized that Gawaine was missing. Rokk's most celebrated cousin has made himself scarce, and now snubs even the coronation? he thought.

He recalled the 'knife conspiracy' L'ile had set up, when last Reep suspected Gawaine's loyalties. Had the knight indeed passed the test - or merely seen through it?

"Why did they go after my father?" Reep whispered to himself, disliking an unanswered question.

"Dubhghall," Saihlough answered, although out of Reep's earshot. "One king-maker's vengeance against another."

Twenty-nine

Imra was neither accustomed to all eyes being on her - constantly - nor at having to work at maintaining a lie.

She hated herself for it.

All the men - young and old -wanted her, and all the women -again, young and old - envied her.

"You're doing fine," Jeka whispered, as they moved through the crowd.

"She needs you not to know that," Voxv reprimanded. "She's become quite capable in your absence."

Pharoxx glowered, like a wild boar, caged, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness.

"Father, you know I adore you," Imra began.

"Of course, Gwen," he doted.

"If I haven't already taxed your benevolent humour once to often, I might ask of you one additional gift."

"Anything that is mine, or than I can make mine, is yours. You know that," he replied. "So what can I give my precious daughter on the day of her betrothal?"

"I would like very much, if you an see it in your heart, to see you and Jeka reconciled. I love you both, and it hurts me to see you at odds."

"Forgive Jeka? After what she did! No. no, I can't."

"But why? A childhood error, it was. Yet no irreparable ill came of it; here I am. And Jeka's now a grown woman - not that same little girl who -"

"I cannot." Tears were welling up in Voxv's eyes.

Privy to more than his words, Imra realized that part of Voxv saw through his own illusions - and she almost gave it enough strength to blow her cover wide open before him.

And part of her wished for it.

Pharoxx grinned at her, as if he knew just how close she had come.

Jeka had remained entirely quiet, so as not to betray neither her hope nor her despair.

I'm sorry, Jeka. I tried.

They entered the chambers where Father Marla waited with Rokk and his kin.

She greeted those she knew, and was introduced to his uncle Lot and aunt Morgause as well.

With serpents like these, Rokk will need every good soul he can at his side, she thought.

And nervously, she greeted Rokk. Why, he's just as nervous, yet without secrets like mine. If only we could talk before this ceremony.

It's just a betrothal ceremony. There's still time to talk before the wedding.

And then she noticed Pharoxx talking chummily with Lot...

Thirty

"I told you, it's Dubhghall!" Saihlough exclaimed.

Sir Thom scrutinized the body with skepticism. "This 'Dark Stranger' some of you were so concerned with was naught but an old man?"

"Do not scoff. I know old men that are deadlier than any of us combined," said L'ile.

Reep tried to tune out his companions. His thoughts were on the conversation between cousins in the room beyond.

"If you believe me not, or cannot trust me, then I shall go to Lothian, and bother you nevermore," Gawaine said.

"It's all a bit much to take in. Why... Why don't you begin again, at the beginning?" Rokk said.

"After the battle with the Khunds, I was approached by two groups, both expressing interest in assassination. I had no interest in killing you, but I felt obligated to find out what they had to say - before a true assassin did.

"The one group, the Druidic conspiracy, you tell me was but a test. I knew that not, yet hurled their magick dagger into the river.

"Before that, I was approached by the Dark Stranger, promising me the throne if I helped. A-And he promised that my beloved would be returned to me."

"He has a hostage?" Rokk asked.

"No. No, he doesn't. She is - dead, or close to it. He said he could revive her.

"I hoped to trick him, save my love without harming you.

"I talked it over with my mother, and she agreed I should meet both parties and hear them out."

I've no doubt she did, Rokk thought.

Gawaine continued. "After deciding not to continue, I began hunting these people. Finding one trail cold, I sought the other. With the pixie's help, I fought this Dubhghall's men, and Dubhghall himself."

"Why did you not come to me, cousin?"

"I wanted to redeem myself first."

"By bringing me the body of an old man that means nothing to me."

Gawaine sighed.

"What?"

Rokk looked at him, wondering what his kinsman was reacting to.

"My love tells me that Saihlough has told her Sir Brandius would know the man."

Two weeks ago, I'd have considered him a madman. Rokk thought, recalling Saihlough said a female apparition had led her to try to interrupt the Druids.

"Very well." Rokk opened the doors to the outer chamber. "Reep, would you summon our father?"

The collection in the outer room had grown. The Greek scholar, L'ile, Mysa, Dyrk and Wynn's son James had all joined Garth and the others since the interrogation began.

"While we wait, pray tell us how you received those scars," Rokk said.

"There is a great glen that crosses northern Caledonia, and within that glen, a dark lake, inhabited by dragons.

"I fought on such dragon, who swallowed me whole, and bit on me before swallowing. I had to slay it from the inside," he said, matter-of-factly.

This knight makes dragon-slaying sound routine, Garth thought.Either he's tougher than I, or as honest as his parents.

"My father could use your help," James said. "Our kingdom, Cumbria, is also plagued by a mighty lake dragon. Father has already gone home in response to a new sighting."

"Dragon's blood has made you stronger," Saihlough quietly remarked.

"Yes, yes, it has. I am much stronger, and have been able to do things that make no sense to me," Gawaine said.

He'll fit right in, then, if we can trust him, Rokk thought.

"Telling my story to father's court, the Christians among them likened my tale to that of their Jonah. I am no good Christian, but I feel the need to rename myself," Gawaine said, looking at Rokk, "To remake myself as part of Rokk's court, not of Lothian."

"Worry you not that your sire will take it as an insult, tossing aside his name for you?" Rokk asked.

"If he is sincere in his oath of loyalty, he should have no ills. And if he has treachery in his heart, than I fully renounce him, and will say so before any court in his land."

[ He's serious, Imra told Rokk, measuring the knight unseen from an upstairs parlor. He truly regrets being caught up in his parents' deception.

Reep returned with Brandius, who exclaimed at the sight of Dubhghall. "Why. it's Doyle!"

"Who's Doyle?"

"One of Vortigern's bastards from Eriu. He sought to rally the Khunds of Kent against Ambrosius, and prevent the alliance that won the peace," Brandius replied.

"So this Doyle was able to ally with L'ile's Dark Circle, and obtain the secrets of persuasion, to again rile up Roman against Pict, Celt against Kentish Khund," Querl surmised.

"Not my Dark Circle," L'ile rebutted. "And targeting Brandius gave Doyle revenge for past grievances, while undermining King Rokk's ability to govern."

"Far better to portray a young, weak king than create a martyr that could further unite the peoples of this isle!" Querl agreed.

"Precisely," Reep concurred.

The group talked until fast-breaking on how to ferret out this Dark Circle, until one by one the warriors drifted away to rest.

"Dubhghall and I certainly had bad blood," Brandius confided in Reep. "In addition to politics, we were both rivals with your mother."

Notes 21-30:
It feels good to have gotten through both the coronation and the Doyle story! At the outset, I envisioned parts 12 or 13 - not 27-30! It's probably Imra's fault.
Doyle was a gift from the Language Gods. The name comes from the Irish Dubhghall, which actually does mean "dark stranger!"
Lyle, likewise, comes from L'ile, "from the Isle," and I found the similarities between Norg and Norge (the Norwegian name for Norway) too good to pass up - even if he's not a Viking.
While we're on names:
James for Gim isn't too far a stretch - if you're like me and always associated 'Gim' with 'Jim.'
Dyrk and Derek are actually names with Anglo-Saxon origins, but I chose to overlook this. Maybe the Krauts got 'em from the Morgnas.
Saihlough, obviously, is my own Celtification of Salu, still pronounced the same way.
21: Sometimes its fun just to sit back and let the characters write themselves.
22: "..but in the morning I'll be sober..." Playing on words attributed to Sir Winston Churchill, but changed from insult to flattery.
23: With this one, I think I've finally nailed down my Imra and Jeka
24: :Rokk! I am your father. Join me and come over to the dark side of the force. Nah, it's been done.
25: If Lester was Derek, it would be Breakfast at Spiffany's.
26: I don't know yet what niche Mithras is carving for himself here. Plotting out Tinya's meanderings around Roman London, (1) I needed a place for her to run across Voxv, and (2) the Mithraeum was right along her route.
27/28: Largely came across as I originally envisioned.
29: For a subplot that I was hesitant about, this one's writing itself.
30: At what point did anyone realize Gawaine was Jo? Was it obvious all along?

Thirty-one

Three days of coronation festival had its share of competitions, as young knights from all around Britain and Lesser Britain - and some from beyond - sought to impress the young king.

Garth, Thom and Jonah proved to be the top three, and the only three who could beat their liege.

With his mounted maneuvers, Garth also succeeded in convincing Rokk that his cavalry concept was sound. Even so, the young king still found himself smiling, thinking of the jests he and Thom shared at his friend's expense.

He humbly excused his own defeats of other knights, saying they held back, "so as not to wound their king," while magnanimously praising the three who beat him, saying, "I'd rather have as trusted allies any who beat me."

But Rokk and several of the knights were perplexed at Sir James' strange, bulky armour and tunics, to which he laughed, saying his attire may be ill-suited to friendly combat, but has served him well in real warfare.

"I hope so," said Thom, noting James failed to defeat all opponents but one - a short, silent lad who refused to remove his helmet.

The lad wished to remain anonymous until he proves himself as a knight, said Father Marla, who vouched for the lad's good character. The king, of course, indulged the lad's wish, noting, "He yet has far to go."

He was much more impressed with the two brothers, Balin and Balan. They proved formidable fighters, each besting all but Rokk and Jonah, but succumbed so easily to their king that he jestingly questioned their efforts.

Like Marla's lad, these two always wore their own iron helmets, saying as Orkneymen, their appearances would be unsettling to gentlefolk.

"I don't like them," whispered Saihlough to Jonah. He resolved to keep eyes upon them.

Perhaps he kept too many eyes on them, the pixie thought, watching Lot's eldest be bested - and even made to look a bit foolish - by Dyrk.

The young Morgnus won most of his battles, but beating the mighty Gawaine took many by surprise. Rather than the rage he once would have shown, Jonah made sport of his embarrassment and commended the fellow's skill and ingenuity.

Lothian's sons would have the last laugh, however, as Agravaine avenged Lothian's honour by learning from his brother's loss - and seeing the limits of Dyrk's skills.

What he knows, he knows well, thought Lot's second son, But what he doesn't shall be his downfall.

Reep, his injury still unhealed, was content to play spectator see the palace set in order, and to aide L'ile in setting up reconnaissance and scouting teams. The summer was barely under way, and it was only a matter of time before the Khunds returned in numbers.

Thus far, only small bands had been seen, and easily fended off by local lords and kings. They're up to something, Reep sensed. It's only a matter of time.

Rokk's official seneschal, he had plenty of duties, everything from strategy to supervising palace staff, making sure all the guests' needs were tended to.

And his staff was being kept busy. Imra, Jeka, the ladies of Voxv's court, Mysa, Morgause, and most any noble woman who could get a word in edgewise plotted and schemed the pending nuptials, all while cheering on - or otherwise paying partial heed to the menfolk's contests.

Would that he were high king, Imra caught herself staring at Garth on the field. If Jeka saw, she said nothing.

Mysa, who had surmised why Garth was ignoring her, had been amused the young man's fickle heart - but noticing the glances between the knight and her brother's fiancée, feared the worst.

They are yet young. May they grow past these fleeting emotions else a kingdom dies stillborn.

Concerned with more concrete dangers, Rokk kept an extra eye on Brandius. It was true that no more would-be assassins had struck, and the madness seemed to have run its course among the public, yet the young king was not ready to surrender his foster-father due to his neglect.

He was gladdened by Luornu's arrival, yet she also seemed far distant - as if she and he had become strangers in the few short weeks since they hugged their good-byes.

"You have nothing to fear. Vidar has been sent to Rome," he assured her. But whatever demons plagued her seemed to be growing worse.

Rokk considered asking for Imra's aide, but then thought the wiser of it. The most invasive of tools must be the last to be taken off the shelf, he thought. Especially amongst those one cares for.

His train of thought was interrupted, however, when L'ile and Reep sought him out.

"It's the Khunds," L'ile blurted out. "Or rather what's left of some. Our patrols found the remains of three raiding boats on the Trinovantes shores."

"Did they run afoul of dragons? Or was it a storm?" Rokk asked.

"If what they say is true of a woman scorned, then aye, it was a storm," replied the young Druid. "It was the Ulsterwoman that Zendak and Beren have told me of."

"I would very much like to meet this woman," Rokk smiled. "Verily, she would be most welcome among my knights and companions."

"If she lives, you may ask her," L'ile replied.

"She was struck down?"

"Nay. At least, it appears not. I have taken the liberty to dispatch our best healers. And Querl."

"Poison, then," Rokk conjectured. "You acted wisely," he told L'ile.

"Reep, my brother, would you have my steed readied? I would ride to Trinovantes myself."

"To escape your wedding day?" his brother chided.

"Nay," Rokk laughed. "If any Khund survived, and knew the Ulsterwoman was ill, I'd hate to see vengeance taken in my kingdom."

"My lord, I beg of thee. Take a company of knights at your side," L'ile implored.

"With your patrols on hand, I have extra swords if I need them. Nay, T'is a simple matter I can handle myself."

Yet on arrival at the stables, Marla's mysterious silent knight awaited, ready for travel.

"Ready for a quest, lad?" Rokk laughed. "Very well, then, my no-named companion, we must away."

Thirty-two

"It's a game our friend Querl brought back. Apparently, it's quite the rage in the East," L'ile said.

"You throw two six-sided stones, and based on the outcome, you move all your tiles from one triangle to another around the board," he continued, tying to keep up with Reep's fast pace. "But if one tile lies alone on a triangle, and your opponent lands on it-"

"Sounds like a splendid diversion, should I ever have an afternoon free again." They reached the kitchens on the lower level.

"I spend so much time down here, I should change my title to 'Kitchen Staff Supervisor,'" Reep joked.

"But how many kitchen staff supervisors also oversee security?" asked L'ile. "I've only ever heard of one, in the legendary land of Palnu."

Reep picked up a piece of cheese. "I've been so busy, I've not eaten since fast-breaking."

He was shocked to find L'ile grabbing his arm, preventing him from eating.

"I smell Wyrmweed," L'ile said, forcing his friend to drop the cheese. "A deadly poison from Scythia."

"Yes, it is," replied one of the kitchen staff, chewing and swallowing a morsel himself. "A slab of veal from the north was also poisoned.

"Amateur job, I must say. Smells like poison, and it tastes too salty," he said, helping himself to more veal.

"L'ile, meet Tenzil, our new beefeater."

"A madman, that he knowingly consumes fouled meats!"

"Nay," replied Tenzil. "A man cursed by the Faerie Queen to eat but never be sated, to taste but never enjoy, to consume any poisons but never ail."

"What better poison-tested could one wish for?" Reep beamed.

"What indeed?" L'ile agreed. "You are knowledgeable about many poisons?"

"I know poison when I taste it. And I'm fairly good at judging plant from mineral, powder from liquid, and pox from poison, even after the beast has swallowed it."

"We may need your help, then," L'ile told him. "It's been two days. The king must be en route home by now," he said to Reep.

"Then you, too, think the Ulsterwoman was poisoned?" Reep asked.

"Aye, It does seem likely," L'ile answered, before shifting his attention to the beefeater. "Good sir, once the guests' evening meal is ready, would you join me on an errand?"

Thirty-three

The rain was getting harder.

Querl had accepted that Britain would be a far rainier place than any Mediterranean city he ever called home, but never imagined how rainy, damp and chilly a place it could be - even approaching midsummer.

Yet he dared not light a fire.

His cloak, along with three of the four others gathered from his late Druid escorts, made a fine enough tent, easily enough camouflaged with branches and weeds. Every so often, he'd hear the shouts of his pursuers, yet none have ventured even remotely close to his encampment.

Luckily you are far to ill too give voice to your pain, he thought, as if speaking to his guest.

She was tall, even by the standards of these northerners. During her better times, she muttered words in Gaelic, which her Greek caretaker knew far too little of to understand - even if she'd ever spoken coherently.

At least the Druids' herb-craft took measures to better your condition, he observed, feeling her forehead. You may not die this eve after all.

Lightning flashed, followed closely behind by a fearsome thunderclap. The voices outside became more distant, as the hunters, too, no doubt sought shelter.

The makeshift tent, now soaked and never seamlessly watertight, was beginning to let a noticeable amount of moisture though.

Our one chance to outrun these fiends. But only a madman would try to travel through this.

A lightning flash again illuminated the young woman. He stroked her cheek. Aye, only a madman.

He rolled his charge over on her back, before unrolling a fifth Druidic cloak, one that was more bloodstained than the others, and set it over her, clipping it in place to her belt using an extra cloak clasp.

Sitting beside her, he then lifted her over his shoulder, gradually rising to his feet with her balanced in place. Despite a few stumbles, he managed to pull it off.

My thanks to the lady that she wears no armour.

He had previously carried her several hundred feet, with great strain, yet she now seemed lighter. What madness is this? But I should reserve my complaint for another hour.

Stepping out into the driving rain, he made little headway, and after a minute's effort realized he wasn't certain which way to even go.

I should follow the stream away from the sea. From there, I go straight until I hit a road.

He could make out the stream's edge, now bloating outward into the lower woodlands. If the storm worsened, his on tent would be engulfed before long, he noted, bolstering his decision to move on.

About 30 feet en route, he had to rest, and leaned against a tree, his female cargo still providing his sole rain-block. She did not a good job; he was drenched, and it was getting harder to see.

As rested as he could get, he repeated his efforts, knowing only that he was moving against the stream's current ...which must be uphill... taking breathers every 20 to 30 feet.

He'd lost track of his progress, or even how many breaks he'd taken, and the experience was beginning to blur into a swath of wetness, nasal congestion, light-headedness and the rhythm of the merciless rain.

And then he lost consciousness...

He awoke hearing horses, and immediately assumed the worst. He reached for a stick, a stone - anything, to defend himself, and sat up, amazed to find himself holding a sword in his hand.

The two riders looked nothing like the barbarians he'd faced and evaded (yesterday?). They were fair of complexion and hair, with young, hairless faces, and fine, glistening armour. And they rode silvery horses.

"Who art thou, and how did you come upon the Claidhim Lugh?" one demanded.

"Clay-um Lou?" Querl was perplexed, but relatively certain he was awake. "You mean her?"

From their reactions, he guessed they didn't mean her.

The speaker dismounted.

"In the name of my lady, I ask you again! Who are you?"

"I am Querl of Colu, sometimes called Branius V." He was growing to hate the name, but if they'd heard of him and were to be impressed, it would be with that name.

"And how did you gain the Claidhim Lugh?" he continued.

He'll not believe that I know not. "My lady entrusted it to me for safekeeping." He gestured to his amazonian companion, still asleep.

"Wake her, that she may vouch for you."

"I cannot. I believe she's been poisoned. Now I believe it's your turn. Who are you, and where are we?"

"You are in Annwyn Annowre. We are the gatekeepers, Maigh and Dewphe, and we will now escort you to meet our mistress."

"Then make yourselves useful and see that my lady is transported." He knew he'd carried her, but strangely felt not weary at all. Still, no sense in repeating the effort, when two fine horses were here.

He also noticed he and the lady were both bone dry, and although the day was bright, there was no sun to be seen.

Realizing they waited for him, he said, "Lead on, Maigh, Dewphe."

Thirty-four

"Yes, so they were Khunds. What of it?"

"But look at their weapons, their tunics, father. See how different they are from the bodies of the Khundish raiders along the shore? How much better their armour is? All British items."

"What's your point, lad? Khunds have long raided Britain and taken such goods." King Marcus was losing patience.

"Aye. Those raiders mix and match, it's true. A Frankish sword, a Gaulic helm, a British shield. But these are entire outfitted in British equipment - and unlike raider's mismatched booty, each’s wares seemed fairly well tailored to the wearer," Thom concluded.

"If you accuse the Kentish treaty lands of treachery, you'd better have stronger arguments to make," warned his father.

Thom nodded.

Marcus turned his attention to his wife. "What of this Irish hussy you saw?"

"She was taken by the green man into Sidhe," Queen Nura replied. She bristled at the implied insult. Although Cornish in origins, she grew up in Eiru.

Marcus rolled his eyes. "The Romans were right in dealing with those little-"

"Father!"

Marcus was surprised. Thom was not one to reproach his lord and father, but the young man was gesturing for him to silence himself.

"If we are near a Faerie dwelling, t'is best not to be insulting." Thom turned to his new step-mother, trying not to look into her eyes. "Is she in the same realm Lady Kiwa said King Rokk was in? How do we get there?"

"'We' do not. You follow the path of flat stones in yonder stream," she pointed toward a small ridge, deeper in the forest.

Marcus nodded. He had no intentions of entering their realm again. He smiled, that his bride's Sight could be crisp enough to anticipate that his son would take this trip alone.

"We'll guard the entrance," he announced, coming across less reassuring to his son than he intended.

The three crossed the ridge, stopping only to examine some pieces of cloth that lay beneath a pile of twigs, branches and weeds. There was also a smooth stone, with an Irish Druidic rune on it. Marcus kept that for himself - and for Nura, of course. Finding no bodies, they proceeded to the stream.

"Lad!" called Marcus. His son turned quizzically. "You'd better hand us any iron you may have on you?"

"It would make a bad impression, wouldn't it?" Thom smiled.

Once the task was complete, he stepped to the first flat stone, and turned to ask Nura, "How will I know when I'm there?"

"You'll know," she told him, smiling.

Without thinking, he let himself make eye contact with her, and they found themselves staring soul-to-soul - again. Her polite distance and his avoidance of her were cast off like masques hurled aside at the end of a carnival, and nothing else in the world mattered but-

"Get on with it, boy!" barked Marcus.

"Y-Yes, of course. Farewell," he smiled politely, as did Nura. The carnival masques returned, it seemed, albeit without the freedom from inhibitions that such fests allow.

Thom stepped from stone to stone, counting the first dozen, then two dozen, amazed that there would be so many stepable flat stones in a row. "How many do you think there are?" he called back.

Receiving no answer, he turned around, only to see a huge glistening sea behind him, deep blue waters with ripples that glittered like gems. The waves, smelling more like rose pedals than salt, lapped gently aw the stones beneath his feet.

Looking forward again, he had three steps to go before a pure platinum-sand beach awaited him. A variety of winged creatures, mostly small, drifted between the thick, mighty trees beyond the beach.

Once on the shore, he saw a path lead into the woods. Although the beach was pristine, the path beyond had plenty of recent footprints - human, equestrian and other.

"This must be the way, even if the way is an ambush," he concluded, entering the woods.

Back at his starting point, Marcus was still amused by his boy. "I think he's taken a liking to you," he jibed.

"Yes, he has."

"A pity. A young man's heart can create so much sadness, so needlessly."

"Yes. It can only end badly," Nura agreed, turning her head to hide a tear.

Thirty-five

Querl awoke starving.

He looked at the tray of food before him, then looked away. He knew enough legend not to eat food in the Faerie realms, else be bound there for years.

He didn't necessarily fully believe the tales, but this isle of Britain seemed out to prove him wrong about everything.

He again tested the door to his room. Still locked. Curses. He paced around, feeling antsy, as if he was missing something important.

Better find some action else I lose my wits to my hunger, he thought, annoyed at his helplessness.

He nearly injured himself yesterday trying to squeeze through the widow bars far enough to see the courtyard below, but the sound of combat outside inspired him to try again.

He lifted himself up to the lone, high window, delicately balancing in the thin ledge between bars and gravity. There was but one tempting gap between bars wide enough to get his head through, although there were still sharp spikes to avoid, designed to discourage the effort.

Querl rubbed his scar along his cheek and neck from yesterday in recognition of this before slowly, carefully attempting it again.

It worked! Comfortable it was not, but he could clearly see King Rokk below, fighting Maigh and Dewphe, and not fairing too well. He felt better about his own defeat, even wielding a "magic" sword.

Just as he saw another figure charging out of the woods at the king, he slipped, slicing his upper right ear and part of his head on a spike as he bumped on bars, ledge and soon after, the floor of his cell.

"Noooooo!" he called on the way down, both at his own fall, and an attempt to warn the king of the interloper.

And I am useless to him up here, he thought, checking how deep the gash was this time.

He ripped yet another length of his outer tunic and held it against his head. For better or worse, King Rokk fights alone.

Alone.

He wondered what had become of the Irish woman. Had their "hostess" harmed her?

With uncharacteristic anger, he hurled himself again at the door, again straining his lithe frame.

Lying on the floor panting, he flailed around to regain his bandage, disturbed the amount of blood now pooling.

"If I die, it shall not be on this floor!" he shouted at the evil door, knowing full well he was irrationally ranting - a trait he despised. What was wrong with him?

The door suddenly exploded backward, adding another to Querl's collection of bruises, winging him as it hurled toward the far wall.

Several splinters of wood rained down as well, remnants of the barricade that had held the door fast.

He looked up, to see the Ulsterwoman standing tall, surprised to see him on the floor.

She said something incomprehensible in Gaelic before lifting him. Despite his cry of pain, she carried him off toward the stairwell, stroking his cheek as he had done to her back at the tent.

"Rokk... The king needs you help," he told her. She smiled at him, uncomprehending, continuing down the stairs as he passed out.

Thirty-six

"Have you anything to say, lady?"

Thom had never seen Rokk so angry; the high king was quivering with anger as he said the words.

The woman looked up at him. "I love you," she said, and recognizing something in the way she looked at Rokk, Thom believed her.

Rokk slapped her face. "You... DARE... say that to ME?"

"My liege..." Thom began.

"DON'T-" Rokk snapped, redder than an August sunset. "You know not what she has done, Thom. She must die. She will die."

"Let us be done with this," she continued. "My love."

"If my knight were willing to execute you, I would deny you the privilege of execution by my hand," Rokk said. Hearing nothing from Thom, he continued. "Lie still, and this may hurt you less."

Excalibur swung steadily, and Annowre's head bounced thrice before rolling to a stop. The sap-like bright red fluid that the Fae have for blood flowed like a syrup, rather than the splattering that similar human wounds create.

Rokk took several deep breaths, whispering, "It's over. Thank Iesous. It's finally over."

Rokk walked to the parlour's doorway, and out onto a balcony. He stood there and stared.

Thom joined him.

"There." Rokk pointed. "You go 70 paces into the woods, and there's a rocky outcropping. A burrow of rabbits dwells just beyond, and there is other fine hunting.

"There." He pointed in another direction. "Beyond yonder berry bush, a trail can lead you either to a river of wine, the ruins of an old hill-fort, or the Shimmering Village. You can take the same path every day, and reach dozens, maybe hundreds of places. It is different each time."

"How do you know this?" Thom was having trouble believing Rokk could have seen so much of this realm in so few days.

"There." Rokk pointed to a hill rising over the forest canopy. "The hill is not always there. Sometimes it is plush with game, while others it is blighted. I once found a band of pixie musicians there -akin to dear Saihlough's people. They sang a song of hope and love. That was so long ago..." He was almost in tears.

Thom counted the days since the king's departure from Londinium, then began worrying for his king's mind. Then he recalled where they were.

"H-How long? Have you been here?"

"I lost count of the months." He turned to Thom, looking the knight squarely in the eyes. "Tell me, how fares Britain? Who rules in my stead? Gawaine?"

"You... You haven't been gone long enough for the question to be posed. I saw you last one week ago, the day after your coronation."

"The day after... last week." The information soaked into Rokk.

"Every day. Every day I would wake, having forgotten I was not in my own castle. I would go into the woods and hunt. I would meet two of my knights - sometimes you, many times Garth, Ga- Jonah, any of them. All of them.

"They would betray me, Thom. They would turn on me when they'd gain my back, and beat me senseless. They'd bring me before Annowre, who would again ask me to lie with her.

"And I'd remember all the times it happened before, and I'd spit at her. And over it would begin the next day.

"But yesterday, Thom. Yesterday, I cursed her. I cursed her, and all of Faerie-kind. What have I done?

"S-She in turn ordered my death. Her two man-servants were to kill me, when you stopped them. In truth, I thought you another traitor when I saw you charge."

Rokk wept openly now, and Thom held him. "Saihlough," Rokk blubbered. "What have I done, Thom? Have I betrayed Britain's oldest peoples?"

Even now, he concerns himself with Britain, not his own torments, Thom marveled. "Then we shall endeavour to have this curse lifted," he assured this king.

Nura foresaw no curse, he reminded himself. Yet.

Thirty- seven

I failed him.

That's all that the knight could think, standing on the ridge, watching the reunion of the various figures.

King Rokk greeted Marcus, while his beautiful young queen talked with the tallest woman the knight had ever seen, both speaking in what sounded like Gaelic. L'ile and Tenzil tended to Querl, while Sir Thom looked on, ready to offer his aid.

Only Thom had approached the knight Rokk had dubbed "Sir Prize," reassuring that following Rokk's last orders to keep watch was the right thing to do. Thom even joked that he would rather be "Sir Prize" himself - to be less recognized at court! The knight's vow of silence limited the conversation, of course, and Thom drifted back to Querl's group, occasionally stealing glances at Marcus' bride.

Even as a guard, I missed the arrival of Thom's group while I hunted for food. They must think me a complete coward.

Rokk was making much of the three gifts the tall Ulsterwoman, Laoraighll, had brought: Three artifacts said to have been brought to Eiru by the legendary Tuatha de Danaan: Claidhim Lugh (the sword of the craftsman god Lugh), the Spear of Victory, and the Cauldron of the Gods.

A fourth item, a "Stone of Virtue" was apparently lost during her illness.

She, already a renowned warrior, did this to prove her worth, the knight pondered.

Prove her worth.

Rokk had tied up with one conversation after another, but finally found a moment to approach the quiet knight, to make assurances that more valourous duties would come about.

But when he turned, the knight was gone.

Thirty-eight

The rider charged straight at her, and leveled his lance, ready to run her though.

He urged his horse onward, building yet more speed, massing more force with which to assail his target.

She smiled.

Her arms were poised, ready and waiting...

The lance was within seconds of impact...

She was ready...

But the rider suddenly shifted the lance, aiming not at her heart, but her thigh.

She was quick, it was true, and tried to change her intercept, but all she could do was deflect the weapon, not snare it.

The rider passed, still holding his weapon, he slowed, and came to a stop at the end of the field.

"Chugainn!" she called, challenging him to try again. "Féadann tú é a dhéanamh má thugann tú faoi."

The rider again leveled his lance, and prodded his mount in her direction again.

She expects trickery this time, he thought. Why then, she must have it.

The lance again was aimed at her heart...

She rubbed her palms with her fingers in anticipation...

Watching for any signs of what trick he would try this time...

The lance remained straight on. She grabbed it, thrusting its point into the ground, expecting the rider to be dislodged from his mount, just as the other were ---

-- but there was no extra weight or resistance!

Slightly imbalanced, she regathered her wits to see the rider that let go of the lance, and had drawn his sword!

With no time to move, the flat of the blade cracked upon her arm, knocking her to the ground.

"Bithiúnach!"

From the pavilion, a battered and bruised assortment of warriors cheered. Each of their humiliating losses were being avenged at last, it seemed.

The rider dismounted, approaching on foot.

"Amadán," she sneered. "Tabhairt faoi!"

Her opponent's sword kept at her like an unrelenting swarm of wasps, yet she evaded his thrusts, ducking, leaping and virtually dancing around him.
She gave as good as he did - her foot or fists coming as close to connecting as his swordplay did to her.

Until a glancing blow knocked the fellow over. If that's a veritable miss, I'd rather not feel her full strength, he marveled.

She could have easily finished him off, but waited for him stand. He could see she was enjoying this.

"Arís eile!"

He picked up his sword, and they resumed the dance - albeit slower - each now accepting the other as an equal, and eyeing each other for weaknesses or openings.

"Firinscneach?" she taunted.

Just as well I don't understand, he thought.

Hoping she had adjusted to a slower rhythm, he began a new assault, trying a pattern he'd practiced but never had opportunity to try on an opponent.

With his blood pumping so loud he could hear his heart, he took satisfaction at his opponent's surprise, as she began backing away from him.

Finding himself in a state of keen euphoria, he realized he was swinging the sword faster than he could see ---

--And there was a blinding flash.

"Splanc thintrí!"

She was knocked backwards by the blast. The other knights ran out from the pavilion, and all gaped at the smoking hole under where Garth's sword had been. A snake-like pool of molten metal drained into the hole.

Garth stared at his hands - now exposed. Most of his gloves had burned away, and what was left was charred.

But his hands were unscathed.

"Taranaut!" he whispered to himself. "So it wasn't just a dream."

"Garth! What happened!" called Rokk.

"Taranaut." His sole word hung in the air, awaiting explanation, but Garth just walked away, leaving a legion of gaping mouths in his wake.