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Interlude Twenty-four: the Court of Niamh

Niamh was surprised to feel the ebb of time speeding up around her; it was invigorating, heart-pounding and fearsome all at once!

The fae queen of Eiru took satisfaction that her realm was above the politicks that so many of the realms seemed to be mired in; it was hard to be too interested when their elaborate affairs came and went in the blink of an eye to her, and she no longer even bothered to note the changing landscape within the greater Seelie Court around her.

But now, scarcely hours since her beloved Ossian had so briefly visited and had a special orb forged, word had come from Britain – her sister Annowre had been slain by Britain’s young king.

A knightly messenger of the Seelie nobility came himself. His very presence in her realm altered its normal flow of time, something that had happened once before.

That this King Rokk had slain her last sister was of little concern. That he might be in league with the Bear King did not bother her in the slightest. But that this upstart Rokk had dared to grant safe harbour to the villain Tenzil, she could not abide, and for the first time in more than a week – or 300 years in mortal time – she left her own realm to visit the place her sister had called as Annwyn Annowre.

Interlude Twenty-five: Return to Annwyn Annowre

“I guess you are all wondering why I called you here.” The speaker was fae, but half Pict as well, or so she seemed. She had claimed a long dead Irish witch-queen’s name, taken Annwyn Annowre for her own, and made its guardians Maigh and Dewphe her own. The long table of the castle’s great hall was packed with a motley assortment of beings, each noble in their own fashion.

“The young human King Rokk stands poised to be not only of the very aether of legend for humans for all time to come, but his kingship shall set under way human encroachment into all the Subtle Places. No corner of this world will escape what begins on the Dragon Isle under our very gaze.

“No underwater kingdom, no sea peoples, no faerie realm, no far-off land on this world will be untouched.”

“King Rokk has assembled a veritable Legion of humans with gifts of the gods, demi-gods in their own rights who stand with him as one,” Ulie agreed. “My mistress speaks that the both the Pendragon magicks and the Fold of Three are at their peaks. Both work to his advantage.”

“And he has the Bear King spirit,” Niamh interjected, ready to use any tool to aim past Rokk at Tenzil, even if she trusted not this hostess who claimed to be Medb herself.

Several other fae nobles spoke, eschewing intervention in human matters, or refusing to ally with olde foes among fellow fae. Fíona sat quietly, taking it all in; as one of the few humans present, she felt ill at ease about speaking on matters of which she knew little. But surely one surface-worlder king could not reach below the waves!? The seat across from her remained vacant yet, and she had to wonder just who had spurned the invitation.

“We must avoid the temptation to rush into matters that will no doubt resolve themselves , as they have time and time before,” said Enkenet, matriarch of a nomadic seafaring group of sidhe. Stratha of the stone spirits nodded quietly in agreement.

“There is more that you do not know,” a late arrival commandingly spoke. All heads turned her way; she was a beautiful human-looking woman, pale but well-sunned, with raven-black hair, yet with a mystical quality betraying a nonhuman essence as well. “Where is the darrig?” she demanded.

“Aigh aimme hheigheir,” it replied, a small, plump dark little sidhe with pointy features and a grin that would give a child nightmares for a lifetime. It suddenly occurred to Fíona that while she had vaguely been aware of its presence at the table, but would not have remembered anything but a wisp of an impression had the newcomer not called him out.

“Did you not swear on your very name not to interfere with this Rokk?”

“Aigh didde,” it reluctantly confirmed.

“Then you admit you are breaking your vow.” Whispers of “oath-breaker” were on the lips of many.

“Aigh meagherligh cahall’t fuir ai meet, thaght whe mai discuiesss thegh staight ouve oull Fphaedomm,” he replied. “Gnoet to einterr-veign fuir uur aign’ Keingg Roekk.”

“Liar!” challenged Ulie. “Maigh and Dewphe told myself and my mistress that you instigated this whole matter!”

“Myla of the North Ilse. You speak out of turn,” the hostess who called herself Medb attempted to restore control. It was too late.

“Bréagadóir!” “Fealltóir!” “Blackguard!” The table was erupting into an ocean of anger. Maigh and Dewphe, who had started to step forward and challenge the newcomer, now had to step back.

“You are fortunate you did not try your ploy in the Seelie Court, Llandrough. They would have flayed your very spirit asunder,” Myla of the North Isle calmly scolded. The darrig spasmed in discomfort, yet this was only the first of many truly painful taunts from the use of his real name. She smiled and stepped back; with his real name announced and the anger of the gatherants chanting his name in disdain, the darrig’s moments of free existence were numbered.

Fíona made her way around the table to approach the newcomer. Niamh had already reached her, and was critiquing her about causing the meeting to fail, whilst still leaving the Rokk issue unaddressed. But where had the hostess “Medb” gone? Fled, but leaving behind a scroll unfurled on a side table, written in the strange Ogham writing of the surface dwellers. As Fíona neared the scroll it started to burn; yet she could make out one serpentine emblem before it too darkened and smouldered.

“Jormangund.”

Book VI:
A PICTISH CURSE

Three Hundred and One

The month of Julius of the third summer of King Rokk’s reign came in four waves of roughly a week each: nine days of almost continuous sun, a week of occasional thunderstorms, a half-week or so of clouds and gusty winds, and 10 days of chilly, smoky darkness.

Clouds of charcoal darkness had eaten the very sky! At its height it was hard to tell day from night, especially the farther north one was. Some feared, some prayed, some wondered or pondered. No one felt at ease.

Sir Reep would later collect the stories that wafted in from all over the island and some from beyond. On the same day the darkness would later arrive, the people of the Orkneys spoke of the very ground rumbling beneath them. Later that day, Orkneymen, Picts and Connacht Irish weaved tales of huge waves coming ashore, even washing away some of the lower-lying hamlets or dwellings that faced the open seas of the north. Fishermen who at the outset had ventured into far northwestern waters told of chunks of fire raining down into the sea, fiery rocks that would crash into a burst of steam and float aglow upon the very waves – those who came back alive, that is. Over the next days and weeks, dead birds – some burnt, some not – would float up on shore; all smelled of brimstone.

The first few days of darkness brought a layer of soot upon the land, especially upon the northern lands, but even traces reached as far south as the Kingdom of the Franks. Summer’s greens were covered with thin wisps of ash throughout southern Britain, while in some of the Caledonian highlands the ash might be deep enough to cover a man’s fist, and summer’s heat vanished into a near-wintery chill with airborne soot stealing both the sun’s light and warmth. Lesser amounts of ash fell for another week, but by the end of the month the sun was again something more than a vague, diffused disc behind the smoky sky. Throughout late July, the only scant rains were those of wet ash.

For the very old, the feeble young and the lame, those clinging to life with the thinnest of tethers, the coughing – the tainting of the very air – was enough to push them onward to the Summer Country. Others of poorer health would retain their wheezing and coughing for most or all of their lives. Healthier folk were able to relight their hearths, find firewood under the woodlands’ ash, and keep themselves warm. Yet their hearts feared this strange unknown; they feared for their lives, their futures, their crops, and the infirm dying among them only added to these fears. For southwestern Britain, still recovering from Drusilla and Sir Lu’s wartime pox, the people were as hard-hit as the northern lands where the smoke and ash was much thicker.

The first of Augustus brought two nights and one day of a heavy cleansing rain to many parts of Britain. The skies of the second day were bright and sunny – but grey, not blue. The green of the plants were again becoming visible between puddles of grey slush – those that were not choked by ash, at least.

The sunrise of the second brought a renewed spirit of hope among those who had feared the worst – among all but one. In Cumbria, a young mother-to-be, who since her illness had lingered for months under the belief that she was bearing twins, now felt something was completely wrong, and she was certain the darkness had been to blame.

Garridan and Galahad. Those had been the names of her sons. Only now did she know to be true what the young monk Jan had claimed months before – that there would only be one child from her womb.

The Princess Jancel went into labour in late morning. By late afternoon she held in her hands the only son she would ever bear. To most of Britain, that she and one son had even lived was a surprise and a blessing; Jan had spread word during the war that she had died in order to dissuade the still-unknown would-be assassins from again afflicting her. Word of her death had spread like wildfire. Word of her survival seemed nothing short of miraculous.

Her husband Garth was joyous at both seeing her alive and her being with child; all the uncertainty of their young marriage seemed to have vanished. Britain’s best knight held his son, his pride, his future, her gift to him in his hands and she could almost forget that there should have been two.

“Galahad,” Garth said. “That was what you wanted to call him?” He let his wife’s smile serve as an affirmative before returning his attention to the placid, quizzical, wrinkly bundle of human flesh in his arms. “Galahad. You shall be a fine man, a brave warrior, and the finest of knights. And the ablest of horsemen. I see it all in your little, little eyes.”

Three Hundred and Two

That Imra and Jancel resembled each other has raised a few eyebrows over the past year or two. That both were linked in rumour or fact to Sir Garth raised more than a few eyebrows. That both were pregnant at the same time caused tongues to wag in jest, speculation, or both. That both gave birth not only on the same day, but apparently at the same hour, on the first sunny after the phenomenon already being called “The Darkness” not only swept aside rumour and innuendo but placed it firmly in the realm of Providence – these two young sun kings of near-twin mothers who survived some mysterious conspiracy to see them dead were no doubt destined to lead Britain out of the darkness and uncertainty of the post-Roman world into a new epoch.

To the British public still recovering from a devastating war, young Prince Galahad, heir of Benwick and Deva, and Crown Prince Amhar were without doubt the first of a new generation of heroes, destined to end the Khund menace once and for all.

King Voxv beamed with pride at the child he believed to be his grandson, a future high king of his own bloodline. Elsewhere, Amhar’s true maternal grandfather allowed himself the briefest of smiles. Any satisfaction he could hold his head high with was balanced and outweighed by secrecy and guilt – and the other young sun king was only one portion of that.

Farther north in Lothian, Queen Morgause heard the news with disdain. Her youngest child (which she incorrectly believed to be her nephew King Rokk’s) should be the royal heir, as far as she was concerned, but he was now that much farther removed from the inheritance she craved for her son – indeed for all her sons. The infant Medrod was more than one year old; how would he fare with his younger half-brother gaining his rightful inheritance? Must all her sons be so cheated, just as Morgause herself was cheated out of being high queen? Igraine had the early spoils, but died young – Morgause often clung to the hope that her much longer life would compensate for her early setbacks. But no, even in death her sister and descendents thereof still thwarted her.

When Rokk – Gwydion – was a baby, Morgause had convinced herself it was in all of Britain’s best interests to see High King Ambrosius’ sickly whelp dead and buried, so that Uther’s stronger child would be the more seemly choice for heir. Did her husband Lot ever suspect that Gawaine was not his? Nay. Morgause was wiser in concealing her choice of lovers than Lothian’s king; these northerners did not care as much as Romanized Britain as to whom the king sired children with.

Her third son Gaheris and the Khundish boy Harlack were growing to be brothers as only fosterlings can be. They would be able sword-arms for their younger brother’s claims. The Christians would frown on a royal heir of aunt-and-nephew coupling. Medrod’s name must be as golden as Sir Garth’s, and his rival Amhar must be shown to be incapable. Morgause had no more stomach to see more babies slain, not after brigands had slain the child of Medrod’s very wet-nurse who mistook him for the royal child.

Gawaine (he would never truly be “Jonah” to her) and Agravaine, now back from the East, she would see at Yule, she hoped, but she thought often of her other son, Gareth, being fostered in Kiritan’s court in Kent. No; Yule would not do. Now, with war’s end and no further invasions, she must find reason to go south.

Morgause was one of the relatively few people unhappy with the new royal births. Her late father-in-law Amhlaidh’s young widow also found the gossips too distasteful, even in distant western Ulster. Her young, Caelestia and Leyllain, were well hidden from the butcher Manaugh, she hoped. None from the legion of feted young kings and knights had listed so much as a finger to end the villainy of the Pictish assassin. Mayhap only Lot would.

And at a stone cottage hidden at the southeastern edge of Perilous Forest, a lady once of renown, grace and beauty but now of bitterness and reclusion greeted the news of the two new princes with a shrug. She knew how fickle young kings could be, how quickly her own lover who had promised her the world and his very kingdom had turned on her. He cast her out when that witch turned up alive after all – and she and their two children were cast out to the wind and rain. Her daughter was safe in Avalon, and her son whom she could not bear to be apart from, he would not be a knight of any sort, unlike his older half-brothers.

Elsewhere, Garth’s three young cousins, two fine boys and a baby girl, also grew up in seclusion, at an old castle in Gaunnes, one of the small kingdoms that until recently littered northern Gaul. Here, a nobleman from the Moorish lands who had won both a small kingdom and the hand of King Ban’s sister, who had fought and was wounded alongside Ambrosius, had lived out his days in relative peace, but his death led Clovis to annex the lands for his own growing empire. Yet the Frankish high king’s men were unable to find and slay King Bors’ heirs; the few search parties that had found the hidden castle were driven away by what many believed to be bainsidhes.

In Rhyged, in Urien’s new kingdom rising up out of Glorith’s mainland holdings in between Lothian and Cumbria, the young heir Ywain was already making a name for himself, a warrior of only 10 years of age. In Dalraida, King Fergus was barely dead and buried as his grown son Domangart took the throne; Fergus’ grandson Comgall would soon be the youngest king on the entire island of Britain.

Then there was Dindrane, a maiden of only 11 who braved two of Britain’s worst battlefields to deliver healing to Britain’s warriors. Many said Sir Garth himself would not be alive today without her; she was being called the Grail Maiden. There would come another maiden, a young half-sister of the Greek knight Hesperos; her wiles would be a knight’s undoing but Britain’s salvation. There was also the strange, exotic young girl even now traveling eastward with the Irish explorer Brendan.

As summer started to give way in southern Britain, autumn was already entrenched in Caledonia. There, a baby boy named Loholt would be celebrated by the first gathering of Pictish clan elders since the outset of the springtime war. But one fulfilled prophesy of a great king born means that a less desirable prophesy must first bear fruit…

Farther into the future, there would be a newborn silkie… a sleeping princess… and another mighty warrior of Ulster stock – a baby girl who would grow up in Italia, Colonia, and among Kiritan’s court.

Then would come the knight Galeshin – no, she could not think of him just yet. But these were just vague, passing images that gave way to another more stable vision.

Nura (she thought of herself as queen no more) dreamt of all of these young lads and a few lasses as she slept fitfully. Summer in the Iberian interior was hot and dry and less than ideal for sleeping. Benwick had been but a temporary refuge, one too compromising for Rokk and too close to Marcus and Cornwall for safety. She had accepted exile well enough; being at Thom’s side was enough, even though he moped at perceived disloyalty, at deserting during wartime. Tonight Nura’s own spirits were being dashed; she knew no son or daughter of Thom’s would ever stand among the future court she dreamt of, a young cadre of warriors and others who would take their place amongst an older but still recognizable legion of the heroes she knew and admired.

Three Hundred and Three

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Calm yourself, childe.” I was hard to argue with Jan’s endearing smile.

Jan, the Glastonbury monks, the Druids, the priestesses of Avalon and even the normally reclusive Josephites had done their best to stem the pox over the past few months. Many were healed but many more had perished, even before the Darkness had fallen upon the land.

Drusilla had vanished in shame, Peter had said. Too great was her remorse at the total loss of control of her abilities – and its effect upon the civilian populace.

But Lu… Lu had focused solely on defeating the massive Khundish army with only 32 people. She had chosen to use Drusilla’s poxes as a weapon, and now she felt responsible for the screaming orphans that filled the halls of the Glastonbury monastery around her.

She herself was ill yet. She was the only one to lie sick and bedridden for so long without recovering or perishing, or at least so it seemed to those who tended the ill.

With young Dindrane escorted by Laoraighll, the Cauldron had made its way back to Glastonbury where Britain’s clergy could best use it for this pox’s victims, yet even multiple rounds of blessed water did no good for Lu. Truly, her heart ails, not her flesh, Jan thought. And where sacred artifacts failed, only words could be tried.

Three Hundred and Four

All the fisher-folk tales, all the stories of Irish, Scot, Pict and even the odd visiting Northman trader alike had led L’ile to one inescapable conclusion. He had to go home – and see if home still existed.

He had talked his king out of sending a large expedition. Instead it would be merely himself, MacKell and Father Marla sailing in a boat far smaller than most fishermen would think seemly. Yet he knew, and MacKell agreed, that by passing archipelago to archipelago the route to the North Isle from which he took his name would be a reasonable voyage.

Reep accompanied the trio as they made their way up the eastern Caledonian coast, parting company along a rocky, craggy cove from whence Rokk’s foster brother would depart for the Pictish inlands. He wanted to personally follow up on word of the monstrous Frankish raider Torachi landing in Ulster, and wanted to offer Picts aid on the high king’s behalf should the raider menace Caledonia – but he also had personal motivations for his northward trek.

For the other three continuing on without him, the August sea skies were only occasionally blustery. L’ile and MacKell both knew the way, L’ile from personal experience and MacKell from his centuries of imprisonment, where only his magick vision let his eyes wander and explore where he could not go. Past the Orkneys they went, past the rocky cliffed isles where only birds dwelt, past the mossy crags of isles where the Northmen fisher-folk summered and out into open ocean waters where sea monsters danced with impudicity. Some swam so near the small craft they seemed to threaten to knock the three men asunder; one even rubbed up against the craft and let forth a spewing forth a cloud of mist. Yet t’was no foul or fiery dragon’s breath, but only a burst of briny water. On a hot day as this, t’was a welcome attack.

“The monsters of the northern oceans are generally not man-eaters,” L’ile told his compatriots. “And a small hamlet of fisher-folk indeed can winter on the meat, flesh and fats of but one of them.”

But as the trio journeyed north, the seas were less bucolic. More and more dead sea-life and ashen debris was afloat, and the sea itself smelled slightly of brimstone.

Blue skies gave way to light greys with charcoal clouds growing more and more numerous. Only the sea wind provided relief from the coatings of fine grime that gradually accumulated on cloth, hair and exposed skin.

After several days on the open seas, MacKell was the first to see land. L’ile was horrified but less than surprised: the perpetually snow-capped mountains of his homeland were now blackened with soot – and the massive peak that dominated the entire southeastern shore was but a piece of its former self. A small river of bright reds and yellows flowed out of the mountain onto a new peninsula pointing away from the landmass. MacKell could not help to note this new jut of land resembled a blade pointing directly at Britain itself.

Three Hundred and Five

Brin had long ago retreated into Perilous Forest, and few men and no knights had seen him since the war’s end. By early autumn, the village folk of Gaini spoke in hushed whispers of a battle between a ferocious beast-man and the great ogre Validus. Within weeks, there were reports of the vicious giant ripping its way through Hadrian’s Wall far to the north – had it fled its longtime abode of Perilous Forest or was it chasing Brin? There was no way to tell.

Querl had made one last effort to seek him out, still grateful for his aid to relieve the Cadwy forces, and still mindful of Queen Ayla’s concerns for the reluctant hero.

He wanted to bring Ayla good word as he, Marcus, Reep and Ayla were to meet to discuss the Macedonian occupation of Portus Magnus and Durobrivae – and how to explain to the Cornish king how his missing wife and step-son passed through Armorica without hindrance. He also found time in the woods to be a refreshing experience after having to sort through the wreckage that Hart (bespelled or not) and Val had made of his workshop.

With Marcus and the Macedonian/Nuhorran occupational armies seeking Thom’s head, Sir Meleagant was suddenly quite the pivotal figure who had a disproportionate say over any policy affecting the southern coast – and luckily for friends of Sir Thom he had no incentive for a speedy resolution to the situation.

Ayla took congratulations on aunt-hood well in stride, and quickly delved into the issues at hand before Marcus arrived: protocols for dealing with the foreign troops, for which Querl could prove invaluable; how to satisfy Meleagant’s ever-growing appetite for power; and how to stall Marcus’ and the Nuhorrans’ repeated calls for Sir Thom to be found, captured and returned.

Marcus was certainly calmer than when he first learned Thom and Nura had fled together. His new man Cador, a cousin of Nura’s, had made great strides in settling down the Cornish monarch, although he still had the melancholy of a man betrayed by all he trusted most.

The Kentish Khunds liked it not that foreign occupiers were their new neighbours – did they see competition for expansions into areas they expected to someday hold sway? Their dislike could be a valuable asset in ousting the foreigners, if that proved necessary – yet too much accommodation could undermine Rokk’s authority in Kent as well.

T’is good Mekt’s bespelling came to light earlier, Ayla regretfully admitted to herself. These negotiations are enough to make any monarch into a madman – Praise Iesous Mekt was not here to become unhinged at such a critical council.

Three Hundred and Six

The smoke seemed like a veil. No, it seemed to be lifting a veil, a veil Reep had grown up with and never before realized was there.

He knew not what plants his hosts had been burning. It seemed to be a combination of northern thistles and heathers, with a touch of something sweet-smelling, almost honey-like.

The smoke and the quiet, now-almost-imperceptible drumming, was further augmented by the drink, some kind of fermented berry – again, with a honey-like element. This berry-wine was passed around the circle in a wooden drinking bowl. Reep had not fully understood the Pictish words used for the ceremonial elements, but was beginning to understand enough of Maebhain’s pointed questions. Grev stood ready to translate, but the matron held her hand to order his tongue remain still.

“Being you are?” Maebhain asked. She spoke not in the regular Pictish, but a separate dialect, a sacred dialect. It took only slight adjustment, but was a further complication on top of his already poor Pictish.

The words seemed to wash across the hut like water; thicker wisps of smoke seemed to be break-waters upon which the words crashed and resonated. The words that reached Reep’s ears seemed to have both the power and the natural serenity of the tide washing into a narrow cove.

“Being Reep, being son of Brandius. Being brother of Rokk ere blood.”

The younger priestess with them was new to Reep and spoke not. Tasmia, Maebhain had called her. She eyed Reep with more suspicion than any other Pict had.

“Being YOU are?” Maebhain seemed to be in the habit of asking questions three times. Reep guessed that he was to expand upon previous answers, or at least add more practical substance. As time went on, Reep’s head was feeling lighter but calmer.

“Being warrior of Rokk, listening and seeing of… for Rokk, keeping Rokk’s counsel.”

Only now did Reep realize he was giving answers with his head. His words were not flowing through the smoke as the priestess’ words were. An incoming tide can be met with an outflowing river. He was being invited to blend waters, yet he was refusing to get wet. He waited not for the third time for the question to be asked.

“I… being Reep of Pictish mother… Knowing… not knowing, who being I.”

“Knowing who the southlanders making you.” It was not a question.

“Aye.”

“Choosing this? Being all you are?”

The words, the smoke, the tide… this was a swell, a current, and Reep was but a twig unsure of which way to flow – if he truly had a choice.

“… knowing not, I.” It felt like the first honest thing he had ever told anyone.

The elder priestess smiled. “Knowing not knowing. Being important thing for knowing.”

Reep suddenly felt very uncomfortable, like someone was right behind him but could not be seen – someone who could do him harm. Had he erred in coming here? He was not learning about his mother – or was he?

After a long silence Maebhain again spoke. “Learning, we are offering some. Remembering, we are offering more.”

Three Hundred and Seven

“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“It is our honour to host our king and liege,” Azura, the Lady of the Lake, bowed graciously.

Beren smiled as well. It seemed the Priestesses had grown much more insular under Azura than they had under any prior Lady of the Lake that he could recall – and his memory was a lengthy one.

The sacred landscape of Avalon was such that each of the isles reached different places across Britain – and beyond, Beren recalled, if the tales of long-sunken islands were true, and rather than being an archipelago of seven mystical isles, it was once thirteen.

The elder Druid had led the high king to Avalon via the Druid’s Grove of northern Cymru, a route Rokk had never taken before. Teaching the young king the route through the brambly maze was a gift Druids had never before offered any monarch, but Beren was convinced the trust was warranted, perhaps necessary.

The high king had previously come to Avalon via the Path of Isis from Londinium, which leads to the Teachers’ Isle, and via the lake that connected Glastonbury with the Priestess Isle. These three outer world gateways were days or sometimes weeks distant from each other, but less than a league apart from each other in Avalon.

Having entered through the Druid’s Isle, Rokk had paused to greet the Druids there. With little state business pressing down on him, he could well afford to make a leisurely tour of all the isles, while back in Voxv’s capital Segontium, his court packed for its homeward move southeast.

Having supped with the Druids, word had been sent for Azura to expect him in the morning. The following day he would meet the Josephites, who were his appointed keepers of the Cauldron, and the Teachers thereafter.

Azura was welcoming, almost as much as Kiwa always was, and her unpleasant aide Thora was thankfully nowhere to be seen.

The day was a pleasant one. In a small but stately ceremony, Rokk commended the maiden-priestess Dindane on her wartime service, and gave salutation to the other priestesses gathered there – a giggly horde of young women blushing over the kind words of a handsome young king. For all the trained discipline Imra often described of the priestesses of Avalon and even their priestesses-in-training, these were still young girls scarcely different than Virginia of Siobhan. Or had Azura failed to keep order as Kiwa and those before her had?

In the privacy of Azura’s huts, the Lady spoke bluntly on what she assumed was the king’s visit.

“It is true, my liege, that your sister Mysa was here last year, and that she vanished upon leaving. I lost four priestesses that day along with her when their boat overturned rowing the Passage to the outer world, five priestesses I find hard to do without. And Mysa, Mysa was a friend and mentor. It pains me that she has vanished just as we had renewed our friendship.”

Rokk nodded. He had not realized Mysa was lost, not merely absent, nor had he worried at all for her safety that he could recall – and only now wondered why he had not. It seemed that they had been close earlier in his reign. “I know you, and respect your service to all of Britain. You and Kiwa before you have been naught but beyond reproach, and in truth it never occurred to me to place blame for what was clearly an accident.”

Azura was not the stone façade of emotion that Kiwa was; her relief was quite palpable.

“She was searched for, by Priestess, Druid and Josephite,” Beren assured him.

“Mysa… chose her own path in the world. I hope she is well wherever she has gone, or if she lives not, that she perished painlessly. I am not worried about her. Maybe I sense somehow we shall meet again.” He opted not to let on that he was primarily interested in answers from his sister – about Yvain, Garth and Jancel, and any other secrets she’d kept from him.

Azura let a polite, warm and friendly face materialize, while concealing her new angst: If Rokk takes her disappearance so lightly, then the kinship ties we bargained on to keep the high king on Avalon’s path were but a mistake! We are all only on as firm a footing as Rokk’s whim to tolerate us! Thora was right. We will need to act.

But Rokk was of a different mind; his mind was wrestling with a bear that would not surrender a memory he knew should be there, and it troubled him that he could not recall Mysa’s very face.

Three Hundred and Eight

Sir Lu was still unsteady, but finally able to walk on her own two feet. With Luornu, Sir Dyrk and two nuns spotting for her, she made it from the great hall, a dining hall-turned-hospital ward, to the eastern gardens where she took her midday meal. The autumn air was warm but not hot, and the breeze was gentle and forgiving, even if her conscience was not.

There were yet signs of the Khund attack all around them. The monastery and small nunnery were never a prime military target, and hidden chambers and passages below the complex protected the clergy while their chapels were raided of anything of value.

Dyrk was bored, Luornu knew well. His fidgeting mannerisms never said anything but, yet he held his tongue and offered civil and soothing words to her sister. For that she was grateful.

Lu did not ask about MacKell, and Luornu did not speak of Carolus, or about Dyrk’s surprising renewed interest in her. There was still a gulf of discomfort. They used to talk about everything, the three of them, but two sisters together were only reminded of she they missed.

That night, Luornu said her prayers for her sisters, and asked her god for insight into closing that gap.

There was a knock on her door, the chief matron of the nuns.

“My lady Luornu?”

“I am hardly a woman of land or title.”

“Nevertheless, you are a member of the court, and a trusted ear of Queen Guinevere.”

And when he was younger, King Rokk used to follow me around with puppy’s eyes, she thought of saying. By Nassereth! Am I now with Laurentia’s sharpe wit-of-tongue?

“I am.”

“And you are a child of Iesous.”

“I try to me, milady.”

“Then you of all should know the Holy Grail, which King Rokk entrusts to a little girl who knows no better than her heathen ways, should be here, at Glastonbury.”

“Aye. I have made that case to King Rokk, but-”

“-But Our Lord does not give up on us, yes? Then we cannot give up on Him.”

“The Christian brothers on Avalon known as the Josephites are the custodians of the Grail, they-”

“-Are heretics and share an unholy land with witches and Druids, who had to be shamed into aiding the ill of this pox. Your sister’s pox, as you yourself have said.”

My sister’s pox.

“Childe, I mean you no woe. I merely cannot believe The Lord would place his Chalice so close to the grasp of His believers and intend for us to see it for what it is whilst the heathens do not, and intend not for us to hold His Grail for Him.”

“Aye,” Luornu offered up tired resignation. But later in the night she thought of Balan – Andrew – and how Jan himself had brought him back to life. Mayhap t’was time to remind the court and her monarchs of Iesous’ hand on all the good works beyond mortal capabilities going on in this land.

When Dyrk would come to her pavilion during the nights on the voyage home, she would have the strength and righteousness to deny him this time.

Three Hundred and Nine

Sir Palomides volunteered to serve as King Pellam’s bodyguard, accompanying the elderly monarch first to a stone cottage hidden at the southeastern edge of Perilous Forest, then to Carlisle and finally to North Cymru.

Perilous Forest was perhaps the most frustrating. He was ordered to stay at camp while the elderly monarch twice visited a small farmhouse at the forest’s edge. The first day’s visit left the old king disappointed and untalkative, while the second day’s visit was brief and perhaps slightly happier. At least Palomides got to go hunting while his charge visited gods-know-who.

At Carlisle, they were received extremely warmly by the court of Wynn and Martina, including sirs James and Garth, and the young mother Jancel. Whatever words were said from Pellam to Jancel went unheard by the Saracen knight or by any other, but the princess was clearly moved, touched by his words. The following day, Palomides went a-hunting with Sir Garth, and Sir James and King Wynn volunteered to show the elder monarch around. That afternoon, Pellam saw the baby Galahad, gave him a blessing of some sort, and the next morning he and Palomides departed.

The two caught up with Rokk and Imra just as they were readying the court for the move back to Londinium. Here, Pellam received an almost identical greeting. Palomides was not out of earshot when the very high queen of Britain met the ancient king, but after a few pleasantries the conversation between the two became a wordless one, as he had heard the queen sometimes held. The next morning, as the court was due to begin its move, Palomides found Pellam had gone on ahead with a smile of contentment on his face.

Three Hundred and Ten

“King Pellam was a kind man, a just and noble ruler, truly a man who put British unity ahead of personal ambition,” Rokk spoke as eloquently as he could. “When two competing claims for the high kingship of this isle came about and threatened war amongst Britain’s peoples at a time when we needed unity, when Rome’s strength was ebbing and the Khunds started landing, he stepped aside so that my own family could serve. I hereby bestow upon him in death the title he declined in life, that of High King of Britain.”

At Shangalla hill, the largest gathering of knights, monarchs, soldiers, merchants and peasants stood, the largest gathering since Rokk’s own coronation. For many, it was a culmination of the sacrifices endured in the recent war and Darkness – a living beacon of virtue, humility and past glories was gone.

King Wynn spoke next.

“Many of us may recall the sacrifices King Pellam made to help rid this land of Vortigern and his ilk. Fewer people knew that he was my father, a fact he or I could speak of not. I too renounce any claims to the high kingship, and fully support King Rokk and his heir.

“I say this not for prestige or glory, but so that I might honour my father in death as I could not give voice to in his life. Under King Rokk, we all have the Britain my father spent his whole life working for, and I am proud of the foundation my father built onto which King Rokk has built a mighty fortress! Rest well, father, and enjoy your time in the Summer Country. I know you will not be able to stay away for long.”

Dindrane wanted to step forward to speak, but knew she couldn’t. I spoke with him only a few times, mostly on his visits to Avalon, and only since his last visit had I learned who he was, she rehearsed one more time the words she was forbidden to speak. I spoke with him in Londinium as the war was ending, and was glad to share heartfelt words with him. I am proud to call him grandfather, as should my brother, half-brother and cousins, if only they knew him as I did.

A large man wearing grey clerical robes looked right at her as if he’d heard the entire thing. He wore the weight of the world in his eyes, but gave her an appreciative smile and nod.

Others stepped forward to pay their respects: King Lot and Queen Morgause, Sir Brandius, Sir Derek, King Marcus, King Zendak, King Voxv, the elderly Pict leader Drest, and even emissaries Relnic and Bedwyr from the Irish and Frankish courts of Coirpre mac Neill and Clovis, respectively. Beren and Azura offered the final words and blessings, and the venerable king was buried.

The entourage of knights and nobles lingered at the royal necropolis, one that had too quickly grown these past two years, before slowly drifting back to the encampment of pavilions, where servants were preparing wine and sweetbreads. Many gossiped about the Macedonian occupiers, about sea serpents supposedly still stirred up since the Darkness, or about new expansions and threats by Clovis on the Continent.

En route, Rokk’s queen and the Princess Jancel were huddled together, sharing their first civil words since Garth’s seduction. Rokk assumed it was a bond of fellow new mothers. He was wrong.

Do you think it’s true? Jancel thought, eyes locked with Imra’s.

Aye. He invited me to see the truth in his mind. Addled, he was not. T’is true.

Jancel sighed. So what do we do about it?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Aye, nothing. T’was his dying secret. WE know; t’is enough. For now at least.

Should we not tell our husbands?

Do you really believe they tell us all they should? They can find out when they need to.

You really enjoy your deceptions, don’t you?

Judge me not, childe.

You play at being Guinevere, you weasel your way into being High Queen-

-Neither of which were my choices. And as we now both know, my deception is not so inaccurate as some believed.

And maybe King Rokk would be furious if he knew.

Nay. He is quite adept at grappling the unseemly.

And you are nothing but unseemly!

Spare me thy sharp tongue. I know what I am doing.

And I know what I shall do. I shall tell Rokk – if you don’t.

Why is it that you are such the keeper of my conscience? Why dost thou care about what I tell my husband?

I still have forgiven you not for stealing my Garridan.

WHAT?

T’is true, and you know it. I carried two babies, Galahad and Garridan, up until your friend Jan paid me a visit. Since then, I only had one. Yet you miraculously give birth on the same day to MY son – your Amhar is MY Garridan. You could not have Garth for yourself, so you had one of his babies stolen from my very womb!

Are you mad, woman? How could I do such a thing, even if I wanted to?

You grew up on Avalon, and know all their sorceries. If you couldn’t do it, you know someone who could. I know not how you corrupted Jan, but I know it in my heart that YOU did this.

You are so beside yourself for losing what you believed to be a second son that you are addling yourself. Let go of such malignant thoughts, else they drag you further into madness.

Jancel stood in anger. Tell me not what to do. You may be kin in blood after all, but you are no sister to me!

Jancel-

STAY AWAY from ME! And enter my thoughts never-more! With this, Jancel stormed away, seeking out her husband’s comforting arms.

Imra remained in place, shocked beyond coherence.

She is young, and will grow out of this bitterness. It was a man’s thoughts coming to her unbidden.

Who said that? Imra looked around, and saw only a swarm of nobles locked in socialization; none did more than glance at her, despite Jancel’s theatrics.

You know who I am. There was no malice to the voice, but perhaps a hint of regret.

I believe I do. Where are you? I would like to meet you.

Not here. Not yet.

But I’ve waited so long! I’ve never even laid eyes upon you.

Yes. You have. Be patient.

Have I not been so already?


Haven’t I? I was bidden not to seek you out, and I have not, even when I believed I knew where you were. Have I not been patient?

There was no answer.

In a short span of time a young woman who grew up thinking herself kinless had become a mother, a granddaughter, a sister, a niece, a cousin… was it too much to ask to be a daughter too?

Three Hundred and Eleven

It had been almost a year since Rokk had last ventured north, but now at Reep’s urgent bidding he returned.

By now, sunsets were no doubt coming earlier and earlier and the Caledonian valleys were now more likely to see frosts by morning than not, Jonah surmised. With Garth away in Armorica, allegedly hunting Thom (or so Marcus and the occupational forces were told), Jonah oversaw both the repairs to Londinium and helped Querl and Loomius plot out manpower for construction to resume at Camelot in the spring. The unfinished fortress had seen little wear and tear during the war, mainly thanks to Laoraighll’s defense of the southeastern coasts.

A more somber Reep had resumed his own duties, rebuilding communications procedures, patrols and building informant networks in the occupied towns. He seemed moody, apprehensive at times and excited at other intervals, but kept his own counsel.

As December progressed, Reep reported that the plague in the southwest seemed to be ebbing, but a rash of strange dog attacks had begun in some towns there; in other places dogs were dying.

Tinya, too, was not herself. First, she had become routinely been dismissive of his admonishments about traveling alone during the war, and then one evening not long after Pellam’s funeral she and the newcomer Hesperos had sharp words; he had heard him imply he knew something… about the Picts? It made no sense to him. Mayhap she was ill at ease that the queen and Jancel had born their men sons, but she had not? Maybe it was time to remedy that.

With the queen’s arrival at court, Agravaine – Val – was finally freed from his cell, and after several sessions Hart agreed to a permanent exile. Val, Hesperos and Palomides saw him off for Colonia from the port of Camulodunum, which was now of even greater importance with Portus Magnus occupied.

Imra was getting more involved in strategies than she had been as well, suggesting moves against the Macedonians, and possibly recruiting Lucius of Neustria yet again as an ally, this time against the occupiers. Lucius had remained aloof during the Khund war, it was true, but it was worth consideration.

The queen also began accompanying Dyrk or Jonah himself, first on their inspections of the palace guards, and later on city guards and the standing army. It seemed unwise until she had Reep seize the occasional guard as a Dark Circle minion; after the fact it seemed only the shame no one had thought to use her gifts so beforehand.

But one day, Errol the Druid vanished without word, and the most recent Circle minion, the only one not yet executed, was missing from his cell. The queen had missed a key traitor, it seemed. Or had she?

Jonah could only wonder if Rokk would recognize his court, with his queen now acting as much as monarch as he ever did.

Three Hundred and Twelve

The ocean waters were cold, but that did not faze MacKell.

L’ile’s rituals had worked; one of the sea monsters was coming close to shore. According to L’ile, it was offering its life for them. All that was required was an able hunter and the ability to haul the carcass to shore.

He swam out, with only his magick spear. Normally, crews of dozens rowed out to hunt these beasts, but there were no dozens of hunters, only ash.

With full strength, he lunged his spear repeatedly into the creature’s front, near its eyes and mouth. If this was anything like other game, that would be sufficient to kill it.

Despite its ferocious size, it offered almost no resistance. How could such a monstrous beast be so acquiescent, so gentile?

MacKell hauled the dead creature ashore, and L’ile led the way in carving it up: skins to protect against a winter’s cold, a thick layer of fat that could insolate a mere mortal from the deadly cold northern seas, and meats below. Its large bones were also of use for tool-making or even to frame out a rudimentary hut – there were no trees on the North Isle. The ground, already almost frozen, and the chilly ocean winds were enough to keep the meats fresh. Their existing pavilion was enough to keep the only scavengers – sea birds large and small – from getting at it.

With the beast butchered, the trio sat down for their first meal that was not merely Father Marla’s boiled fish and root stew. Sea monster was surprisingly not at all fishy in taste or texture; it looked like roast pig but had the consistency of a fine slab of beef; its tenderness surprised both MacKell and Marla.

The night was coming earlier and earlier, no one could deny, and the river of flowing fire, now dwindling to a trickle, offer the only distant illumination in the night sky. There were no stars, no moon, no swirls of colour that the northern skies so often saw that L’ile himself had grown up with but southerners considered a rarity. The clouds of dusty ash in the air still blotted out all celestial nocturnal illumination.

On windless days, the trio took cover from the descending dusts all day and night in the pavilion, but their coastal camp usually saw enough wind to allow exploration and chores without coughing fits.

L’ile was morose but intent on doing what needed to be done. There was no sign of his people, whether dead, sheltered or fled.

It was three months now and the dark, smoky clouds were growing thinner and more infrequent, and rare was the day when the trio was trapped in their pavilion, but colder were the days and nights.

They had found several of the bays where L’ile’s people usually wintered, but as he said they often moved from cove to cove, these results proved nothing.

Li’le knew the winter seas would be harsher traveling, and even the spring seas could be icy and dangerous. “T’is time for you two to return to Britain without me,” he said one day.

“And leave you here alone?” MacKell doubted his ears.

“There is no other way. Mayhap my people hide from us, fearing you two as strangers.”

“I would see them,” MacKell responded.

“Mayhap, Mayhap not. There is more to my people than even you might perceive.”

“But we came in only one boat,” Marla challenged. “We shall strand you if we leave now.”

“We of the North Isle are never stranded,” L’ile smiled confidently. “With the sea monster butchered, MacKell has given me all I need to survive, and to return to… to Britain.” He internally winced at almost referring to Britain as home. Could that be why his people hid from him?

It was a clear but cold day as MacKell and Marla set sail south, carrying only the meats and skins they needed.

Three Hundred and Thirteen

No snows had fallen in Armorica, but the merriment for the Yule festivities was in no way dampened.

Queen Ayla welcomed noble and peasant alike into her castle. Her renovations since Roxxius’ raid now complete, she was using the holy-day to officially rename the palace Joyeux Garde.

The queen rebuked not in words her brother’s visitation; he seemed to use any excuse to avoid his bride, and prolonging his less-than-halfhearted hunt for Thom seemed to be his license to remain near his hometown and bask in the admiration of his one-time peers.

On the day of Yule, as custom dictated, old grudges could not be acted upon, and unkind words were to be avoided at all costs, else one dishonour the day of the new year’s birth, and jinx one’s fortunes in the coming year. Even outlaws were not to be hunted unless they did evil deeds on this day.

Ayla and Garth graciously welcomed their guests, and Garth took particular delight in showing all the village boys some fancy sword-work, even letting a few mock-duel him.

An evening of greetings and feasts vanished into a swirl of cheer and wassail, and Garth vaguely recalled being picked apart and devoured by a swarm of Benwick’s young ladies. How he escaped he knew not; perhaps they took pity upon him and let him be.

But with sudden clarity Joyeux Garde was as quiet as a graveyard. Not a creature stirred, not even a vole. Garth wandered the halls stunned by sensation, occasionally hearing from a window the sounds of isolated continuing revelries continuing somewhere across town or out in the hills. At windows above the stables, he could hear the sighs and groans of more intimate revelries.

He felt lonely. He could have any young woman in this kingdom (perhaps he had? His memory of most of this longest night now nearing its end was foggy), but none could do more than scratch the itch of his lust.

I should be with my son, he thought, half-regretting his avoidance of his bride. This was not his first self-chastisement, nor would it be his last.

He entered his sister’s great hall, where the Yule log still occupied the hall’s centre; spilling out, too big for the hearth for days to come. The hall was littered with debris of the feast of hours ago; candles still burned and spilt wine puddle the floor.

A silhouette stood between him and the hearth’s centre. It was an old man, and it seemed familiar.

“Greetings, Sir Garth. I am surprised a young father stays so far from home this time of year.”

Garth’s heart almost stopped.

“H-hello, Mordru.”

Garth’s dealings with the old wizard had been limited, but only of late had he learned that Mysa was his wife – the same Mysa he had so long dallied with in recent years.

The wizard remained silent.

“I hope you found our food, drink and hospitality here in Benwick satisfactory on this Yuletide eve.”

The wizard chuckled, but still turned not to face him. “Oh, yes. The roast elvabird was quite succulent. And I’ve not had as fine a wassail in many long years. But we have other matters to discuss.”

“Mysa?”

The wizard seemed startled. “What of her?”

“I… know not. I just assumed you had something to say.”

“No. I came to speak of Clovis. Has Ayla told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Clovis demands tribute of Armorica, both in gold and allegiance, if it is not to be absorbed into the Frankish kingdom,” Mordru said. “He knows Britain and Benwick are still weak since the Khund war, and there are none who will stand against him.”

“No, we have not talked much of statecraft since I returned. I have been out on a quest.”

“Hunting your friend.”

“…After a fashion.”

“Britain cow-tows to occupiers while Clovis drools over getting Armorica, and maybe even Britain itself, on a silver platter.” Was it anger or enthused amusement in his voice? It was hard to tell.

“I am glad you are still interested in Britain’s well-being.” And Rokk’s, he hoped.

“I have no love for him,” Mordru guessed the correlation, “nor all in his court. Nor have I wish to see my life’s work so easily squandered while Britain’s king squanders his time satisfying lusts.”

Does Mordru know something – or merely assumes the worst about the king he once aided? Garth wondered.

“What do you suggest? Truly fighting Clovis would be unseemly just now.”

“Aye. But two vital British towns allowed to be occupied? It makes Britain look far weaker than it is. And you pretend to hunt your own friend at their behest.”

“It… buys us time.”

“Time, you have little.”

“You will help us?”

“Nay. I gave young Rokk my aid with only a begrudging of thanks. I helped you yourself return to life without a word of thanks. Rokk wins or loses on his own merits, but if he cannot do his job, I can yet find another, even if I must force Rokk out to do so.”

“Yet you sought me out to warn us.”

“Aye.”

“So you do aid Rokk, after all.”

“No. I aid you.”

Three Hundred and Fourteen

Dyrk was pleased that Londinium’s forces were rebounding quicker than expected. With Durobrivae within a hard day’s ride the city had to be ready for any Macedonian or Nuhorran trickery.

He was both pleased and put out that Jonah had taken on so much of that readying himself. Jonah was a better trainer offering a more dynamic persona, skills and charisma. Dyrk’s own troops were never so motivated and inspired – but just not by him.

These conflicting thoughts roamed through his head as he walked about Londinium’s streets. He was entirely unprepared to run into Regulus.

The somber priest looked at him with disdain. “Sir Jonah has seized your command here, it seems.”

“And thank you for rubbing it in.”

“I merely point out that when destiny seals off one path, a new one is there for the taking.”

“Where? I see it not. Nor do you.”

Regulus sighed. “I regret pressures I have placed on you in the past. I expected too much of you. I expected too much of myself, truths be spoken. If you are no sun king, so be it. You are no high king. So be it. But wherever you go, whatever you do, you can still be Sir Dyrk of the family Morgnus, and you measure up well indeed in the eyes of all – except your own.”

Dyrk did not know what to make of Regulus’ earnestness; it was quite unlike him. Perhaps the priest of Apollo saw that conclusion in his face.

“The time I spent with the young knight Andrew has left me with a keener understanding of my own failings,” Regulus continued. “I pray you find such honesty whilst you still have your youth, and do not waste as many years as I have.”

The knight said nothing as his former priest walked away, but his words haunted him as he returned to the palace.

Who was his source of honesty? Only one name came to mind. Only one who held his trust, even if he’d been annoyed with her of late for not being her pliable self. Luornu. His step quickened as he sought her out.

It was not quite jealousy he felt seeing Luornu and Carolus walking intimately together, as it might have been on another day or time. It was a recognition of truth. She was more than the dalliance he treated her; he always knew that, but never found words for it. He had come to her and found truth, the truth he needed – she was not sitting around waiting on his every move as he sometimes fancied she was, and he was actually relieved by that truth.

Growing up, Regulus always lectured him about his supposed grand destiny. Even after his falling out with the priest, the day of the sword-drawing at Camulodunum still had Dyrk half-believing, but since then he had felt cheated and lied to – by himself, for even half-believing Regulus.

He was still a good knight and captain of Londinium’s defenses. But if Jonah, even with all good intentions, was stepping upon his turf, then maybe he in turn could find an opportunity on Jonah’s turf! Ha! Regulus was right for once!

For several days, Reep, Jonah and the queen would be too busy arguing about the occupational forces and Meleagant to notice Sir Dyrk and his stallion would be missing, and it would be at least weeks before they would learn which direction he rode.

Three Hundred and Fifteen

Andrew returned home to the Orkneys for the winter, his first visit since he and his brother answered the War Council’s call for soldiers that quarter-decade ago.

He traveled with Val, who went not as a member of the family that rules those northerly isles but merely as one of the many fellow knights from across the lands. Andrew found that Sorcsis the local hermit, his friend and priest, had since died.

Despite the good efforts of Marla, Regulus, Pellam or Pelles, Andrew felt regret that the Christian clergyman who’d known him all his life could not hear first-hand of his terrible deeds. Had Sorcsis died knowing brother had slain brother? Nay, Andrew’s mother told him, he had not learned of that dark deed. Half the community shunned him – including his own father – while the other half at least listened and considered the weight of Val’s word as well.

Val liked the small, rocky, northern isle. Its temperature, remoteness, starkness and volatile weather reminded him of the World’s Roof, when he and others would forsake the perfection of the blossom valley of Nanda Parbat. Only the stars were not as bright, as summer’s smoky haze remaining in the air yet into winter.

But one cold but crystal-clear night, the smoke was gone, the stars were bright again, and even the bright bursts and curtains of colours returned. Andrew took this as a sign to return south, and expected Val to be of a like mind. That Val was not ready for a change made him doubt this sign, but all doubts dissolved when a boat carrying MacKell and Father Marla southbound arrived the next day.

Three Hundred and Sixteen

“Who was she?” Tasmia’s curiosity was piqued.

Grev grinned mischievously. “A southerner who served in my unit. She was quite a woman.”

“I should wager.” She was not about to let Grev escape a little knife-twisting. “Not woman enough to winter in the highlands, though.”

“No. I suppose not.” He knew if she had stayed at his side he’d be bored with her by now. It was only her distance and absence that made her weigh on his mind.

He and his priestess kinswoman made their way to the lochside village, where the clans were gathering. The priestess Lyddagh was there with her swaddling, as were elders from across the land, and even the Far Orkneys, who came to speak of a sea serpent eating away at their isles. Highland Picts of the east shore also told of such a creature. Many elders spoke in fearful voices of the prophesy.

Tasmia doubted it, at least as of yet. The prodigal would have to fully betray them to fulfill the prophecy. Thus far he had only resumed his hunting in Lothian.

Still, this new fear resonated widely. Even the Yakka-Mahor had set aside their enmity for other clans to attend the gathering.

Despite the cheer of young Loholt’s birth, fear of this serpent, fear from the Darkness, fear of the prophecy all coalesced, and they turned to the leadership of the one revered elder whose heart held no fear at all: Drest. In fact, he had tried to dissuade fears, to calm sentiment, to preserve the clan system rather than emulate the southerners’ system of kings. But in the end, all the young men and women who had fought alongside the southerners saw in him what he did not see in himself: King of the Picts.

Tasmia looked at Grev in a new light as he chanted and cheered for his leader. This was something new, something of the south intruding in the north far more than the memories of some pretty wench. She had no name for this, but she sensed the change, and for the first time the prophecy felt real.

She left the camp to wander up the hill. She saw Lyddagh, and approached her. She smiled at her, at the gathering downhill, and of course at her son.

“You are not disturbed by all of this?” Tasmia sought confirmation of her sudden dread that the winds of change were not blowing a-right.

“Nay. With Drest as king, with our people as one, we can stand against southerners as they come for our land. We will not be like the Yakka-Mahor, forced from their own lands of Eiru to here. And with Drest as our king, Loholt will learn to be a good king after him.”

“Even though he was sired by a southerner.”

“Especially so. For the rest of this isle will not be able to deny his royal blood, and may even call him their king, too.”

Tasmia eyed her fellow priestess skeptically. “They say he came to see you.”

“Aye,” she said. “He recognizes his own childe, and pledges him lands in the south.”

“So we are to become southerners all? Shall we forsake the land of our ancestors to live amongst crowds and know not the freedom of the peaks and seas?” Tasmia stood in anger and departed in a huff. With the slightest exposure to the south, her people were turning into something she understood not.

Three Hundred and Seventeen

The winter winds of southern Caledonia pierced the visiting princess as if she was swimming against the current in a river of invisible daggers. No matter for tightly she pinned her heavy wool cloak and wrapped furs around her neck, the icy wind found a way to penetrate her garbing and flail her flesh as only a cruel step-mother can.

She and her escort Sir Dyrk had ridden long days, and managed to stay reasonably warm with motion, usually finding a local noble or merchant to overnight with along the way. But last night they had found themselves in the northern end of the Rhyged mountains, too far from Urien’s castle, and too far from any town, village or castle. Dyrk had cast the small winter pavilion in a sheltered, wooded ravine, but even with the knight’s best fires, tended for half the night or more, Jecka awoke with a chill in her bones that would just not let go. It was the wrong cold, a wet, heavy cold that set in after day upon day of travels, wading through snow-covered fields struggling to keep sight of where the roadway enters the woods in the distance, and riding into a moist, driving snow-squall, and wondering why it had seemed so important to make this trip in a late winter that would only linger longer the farther north they rode.

But at long last, arrive they did at Lothian, where the princess and the knight found welcoming quarters to rest beside the hearth and be nurse-fed warm mead and broths.

Morgause was amused, impressed and mildly, silently rebuking that Cymru’s princess would make such a trip at a time so notorious for foul weather. She correctly guessed that it was herself Jecka was seeking out, but gave the younger woman time to recover wits and health before she would coax her into attending to the important matters she had guessed were at hand.

Instead, they chatted about gossips and news, about Sir Garth’s avoidance of his bride, the bastard Rokk was said to have sired among the Picts, and all manner of affairs.

Sir Dyrk on the other hand sought out King Lot – and found him a day’s ride west of Lothian. The king was returning with a prisoner, bound and hooded for a public execution, shacked and stockaded prone on a cart drawn by six draft horses, with a special restraint keeping the prisoner’s left hand suspended upward, where it touched naught.

Sir Dyrk gladly joined the procession of knights and soldiers, greeted with cheers at Lothian; the villain who had haunted the kingdom for neigh on two years was captured.

Manaugh was to be executed!

Three Hundred and Eighteen

“…so I implore thee, my lady, my liege. Deliver the Grail into Christian hands.” The noblewoman of Verulanium spoke eloquently and convincingly – if one conceded the common Christian assumption that the ancient Cauldron of the Gods was the chalice of Iesous’ legendary Last Supper.

Imra knew better, but was politick enough to offer the proper non-committals and pledges to discuss the matter with King Rokk. Christians were a small but influential constituency especially among many nobles and some measure of placation was in order; keeping the Cauldron with the Christian Josephite brotherhood on Avalon seemed no longer enough.

Sir Lucan showed the noblewoman out, and Imra called on Carolus to find ways to deflect the discussion should it arise at the evening’s dinner. There was no way to dis-invite a visiting noble, no matter how annoying they made themselves.

Moreover, Siobhan and Virginia had been making similar pleas of late. Imra sensed an organized campaign. When she asked Luornu, she admitted such. “I am pledged to lobby you, t’is true. I know thou thinks it of the ancient Celtic worlde, but how could it be anything but the Grail? Joseph of Arimathea did come from Palestine to Britain; we know that. How could such a miraculous goblet not be the Grail?”

Imra pondered Luornu’s words as she drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, a Frankish messenger arrived. High King Clovis was ill, and was seeking to be administered to with this Grail of which he had heard so much about.

Imra’s heart jumped in anticipation – she had leverage to negotiate an alliance against the Macedonians and to secure Armorica’s border!

She, Reep, James, Querl and Saihlough departed the two days later.

Three Hundred and Nineteen

The Frankish knight ceased his prayers; something did not set right.

He had been a few hours or so behind his quarry, content to follow the wheel-marks and observe from a distance the man, cart, mule and mysterious cargo that wound its way up the rugged mountain path.

He had been gaining too much ground that afternoon, and numerous times he had to come to a stop and wait for the cart to round the next turn. He did not want to be seen, and the steep mountainside held not enough brush for him to remain unseen – unless a turn in the mountain road accomplished that for him.

When he reached the monastery, he had paused for a break. There was no point in continuing – it was a long straightaway along a ridge of lower peaks before the road entered the high ranges, with nowhere to hide. He greeted the brethren, and joined them in prayers and ales. But by the time he estimated enough time had passed, a freak thunderstorm had rolled in; there was no continuing on this eve.

And where did his quarry shelter?

Morning prayers came not easily, and he sheepishly backed out of the chapel for some fresh air. But Lo! His quarry happened by, riding on his mule back in a downhill direction – without the cart! What was the mystery cargo, and where had the knave deposited it?

Secure in the knowledge that he and his charger could catch up with the villain later on, he set out across the ridge at a gallop, ready to seek out the cart wherever it had been left. Tracks in the new mud would identify how far the knave had returned, he hoped, and he minded the abbot’s warnings that the mountain crags ahead held demons of the worst sort imaginable.

Three Hundred and Twenty

Saihlough sat in darkness, letting the chambers around her glisten in magick, magick aided by the limited torchlight around her.

Gold. It was an impressive enough metal in its own right, but in these catacombs in this lighting, it resonated with the magicks of an ancient land, an ancient life.

Saihlough looked around at the carvings, the symbols, the decorations. Some symbols looked familiar, like those she had seen in Eiru long ago. Others depicted people and objects she kenned not, but recognized from the stories told that they reflected an ancient land where humans and gods interacted largely without fae.

Khemet.

But she was not in some far-off golden river valley, was she? Nay, she was underneath the city of Clovis, the Isle of Paris-

“The Isle of Par-Isis. The City of Isis.” It was a woman’s voice.

“Who said that?” It was unusual for Saihlough not to perceive those around her, whether or not they could be seen.

“It is just I.” She walked silently out of the dark doorway, only her voice echoing down the hallway behind her. As the white of her robe and the gold of her jewelry began to reflect torchlight, the sound of little bells began to take shape as well; they issued their rattle-like ensemble of clangy rings as she walked. They were around her ankles and toes.

Her white gown was somewhat transparent, more so than any Breton woman would wear, and made no secret of the slim body beneath. She had golden sandals, waistband, necklaces, rings, bracelets, anklets, earrings and tiara, many including the latter offered snake-like imagery. Her complexion was dark, not like a Moor but like a Saracen. Her eyelashes were dark and thick like a market-faire performer, but done with a flair that suggested royalty rather than vernacular amusement.

“This,” she gestured around, “is the heart of the city that you visit. You are the first in a long time who could perceive the way in. Come, let me show you around.”

The strange woman led the faerie around the catacombs and chambers, a more elaborate complex than she’s realized. There was a garden that grew buildings, miniatures of the city slowly growing above them. There was gold of all shapes and sizes, lining the walls, on tools, and as statues and strange large boxes with golden human faces carved and painted on. There were statues of dead kings, queens and half-forgotten gods that seemed to be both inanimate but alive at the same time. One of them, a man with a bird’s head, almost seemed to be watching her, and it made her ill at ease.

Three Hundred and Twenty-one

It took several days for the Frankish knight to find it, and he had given up hope of catching up with the knave he had initially followed.

From off of the Iberian Road, the empty cart had been abandoned in a mountain gully. A large team of people had hauled its cargo up the mountainside away from the roadway, leaving an obvious dragged path to follow.

Too obvious. It led to a cliff-side. The splintered remains of a coffin-size box lay hundreds of feet below. There was no easy way down the crevasse – or back up, even if he did try.

Instead he retraced his route for an hour back down the path, and found an expertly hidden trail up the mountain. A true master had wiped clear all traces of the foot traffic that had come this way, and the Frankish knight himself recognized the trick only because he remembered so well the mountain goat tracks that were now partially missing.

For that first day and part of the next he ascended into the high peaks, and by midday had stumbled onto an elaborate system of walkways and bridges, so subtle one could not even notice them from but a hundred feet or less below.

But that network seemed to go in circles. Only on the fourth day did he find the temple, and from the looks of it, just in time.

Sir Reep appeared to be in a daze; they had no doubt drugged him. He was garbed not as a knight, but in dyed blazing red and orange robes. One arm was chained to a large central sun dial, while another man, a young man also in the same robes, danced closer and closer to him, wielding a dagger that looked carved from gemstones. The duo were surrounded by a crowd of chanting priests, giving melody to the dance and suggesting a blood-lust even the intruding knight could not ignore the potency of.

There had to be some way to save the British knight. But how?

Three Hundred and Twenty-two

She remembered not her name nor rank, but she knew she did not belong here.

With water and soaps, she scrubbed the entryway to her mistress’ villa. She had but a scant hour or so to finish before she would have to aid the cook with the evening dinner.

She was never so exhausted in all her life.

She had come here, to Paris, with others, but knew not why. The other servants considered her worthless, a new and beautiful maiden who had never worked in her life. They taunted her, calling her “princess” and “seigneura” and any number of names, and she read the distain on their faces – but only on their faces? Shouldn’t she be able to-

“You lazy wench!” It was the elder servant-woman. “I told you to finish than hours ago! And look!” She knocked a vase onto the floor, shattering it and unleashing a mixture of vegetation and moist soils onto her clean floors. “Don’t be so clumsy! The mistress will be quite displeased. Now hurry up and clean up your mess!”

She closed her eyes and winced at the hate and frustration she felt. It seemed to vanish in a burst that made her light-headed. When she opened her eyes her co-worker was slumped against the wall, blood flowing out of her nose, mouth and ears, and welling up in her eyes. Did she do that?

She may not know who she was, but she did know it was time to flee.

Three Hundred and Twenty-three

The captain surveyed the body, now lying limp at the bottom of the cliff. His ruse had succeeded, and the giant had been pushed back over the cliff with siege machinery.

“What that the one the British call Validus?” his lieutenant asked.

“Nay, T’is Sir James of Cumbria. I met him when he visited Duke Lucius’ very court, a year or two ago.”

“Is he dead?”

“If not, he soon will be.”

The captain ordered his men to make their way down to the rocky beach. It was almost a league east to an opening where one could easily descend to the beach, leaving only sentries at the cliff’s top.

But when he and his men arrived at the body of the unconscious giant, he found a knight of Clovis’ court intercepting him.

“The giant is mine. You and your men shall leave him to me,” said Sir Bedwyr. Another knight was with him who spoke not, and he did not lift his helm.

“I shall not. This British knight attacked myself and my men, and slew a half-dozen! T’is an act of war by the British. This is no time for mercy.”

“The knight was bespelled. He knew not what he hath done,” said the other knight, raising his helm. The captain recognized him as British King Rokk, and had served with him in Eiru against Roxxius.

“My lord!” He knew his liege Lucius had been on good terms with the British king, but that tensions were mounting with Britain’s ally Armorica. Indeed, the very town he and his men guarded, St. Malo, was a bone of contention between Lucius and Queen Ayla.

“If we are correct,” Bedwyr began, “Sir James was bespelled by a villain hiding in Clovis’ court, and he is the one driving our nations to war.”

“Lucius shall have compensation for his losses, one way or another,” Rokk said, “We shall ride to take the matter to Clovis himself.”

The captain deferred to the visiting king’s goodwill, and watched the duo rouse James, who now seemed not belligerent at all, but confused that his liege was not in the northlands. The trio rode off towards the Frankish capital.