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Three Hundred and Sixty-six

“I cannot believe Avalon schemes as you imply,” Cador was quite insulted. “I have only left Avalon since the Khund war, and cannot believe it has changed as you say.”

“But it has,” Governal insisted. “Azura and Mysa have feuded, and Mysa has vanished by treachery. Imra has cast aside her guise as Guinevere, and listens more to the Christian priests than to Avalon. Rokk has aligned with the Bear-King of the Picts, or so they say, and Azura has cursed him. And Avalon has aligned with the fae-queen calling herself Maeve, who summoned the great serpent to Britain just weeks ago.”

Cador could not lightly dismiss the word of Governal, who was the sage to the Cornish court since before even Gorlois’ father was born.

“I… should return to the Teacher’s Isle, then, to see if what you say is true. But verily, I cannot ken that it could be. I trust you can manage without me for the time being?”

Governal nodded. “Marcus’ melancholies rise and fall with the moon, or so it seems. The moon is now a-waning. It will be weeks before his mania again is at its peak.”

Cador rose. “I must retire early, then, my friend, if I am to start for Glastonbury in the morning.”

“If I might as one boon?’ Governal waited for Cador’s nod. “I have an amulet. It was the Lady Kiwa’s. It should be in Avalon, not among an old man’s memorabilia. But if Azura is not to be trusted-”

“-Then I can have the Teachers hold it until the Priestesses again are ruled by a Lady of quality.” Cador smiled. He accepted the amulet and departed.

Alone, Governal walked the halls of Tintagel castle, pondering his lost pupils, especially Mysa, and whatever had happened to her. “Well, Mysa, I’ve done as Mordru wished. I hope he finds the answers – or satisfaction – from Avalon that you would require,” he whispered to himself.

The night carried distant sounds to the castle walls. Above the steady pattern of waves crashing ashore, he could hear a dog in the nearby fishing village. It moaned and wailed in pain, another dying victim of the plague.

Three Hundred and Sixty-seven

By July’s end, Dindrane had done as much as she could in Lothian and the surrounding coasts. She and the Druids had even toured Dalraida to tend to victims. They also transported with them the physically healed but still asleep Ulster knight. There, the King Domangart was a thankless host, acting as if his lands had taken the brunt, not Lothian. He demanded to know the whereabouts of the Justice of Balor, but refused to name why he was so interested.

She was quite weary and ready to return to Avalon. It was a long road back, through Rhyged, Cumbria, Deva (where her party met Queen Imra’s on its journey eastward) and North Cymru. The high queen was quite disturbed to see MacKell with them, still lacking consciousness, mobility and awareness.

Prince Pharoxx and Beren awaited them at Segontium, Voxv’s capital. North Cymru would be providing an armed escort to the sacred grove that served as the gateway to the Druid Isle of Avalon, as Beren reported a host of Druids had been slain by a strange creature who spoke in rhymes.

The Cymru woods, long a place of comfort and safety to the young priestess, now felt claustrophobic. Every tree could be hiding the fiend that laughed as it struck down the priests of the forest.

It was late morning in the dark forest when they reached the edge of the grove. A thunderstorm had been slowly following them, but now lightning crashes were getting closer and louder.

The grove itself was still surrounded by an impenetrable hedge of thorns, impassable unless one was accompanied by a Druid of rank who knew how to call for the branches to part and open the way. Beren was among a half-dozen with Dindrane who could, and presently where a mesh of magickal, razor-sharp thorns had blocked the way there was now an arched hallway nearly 20 feet high and at least four (maybe six or seven) times as long through the barrier.

A lightning directly flash above them briefly illuminated the otherwise opaque brambles, and despite her shock at the light and deafening thunderclap, she could see deep in the hedge the metallic remnants of invaders who tried to hack their way through the hedge: Irish spears, Northman battleaxes, Roman armour, swords of various types. None any more than 25 feet deep into the hedge. What little bone was left was largely intertwined into the brambles. It was both comforting and chilling to think of the hedge as carnivorous, but it was. Necessarily so, after what the Romans had done to the Druids of Mona.

The inner courtyard of the Druids contained a stone circle at least as large as the one on the plains of Salisbury, each adorned (and some overgrown) with specific plants of which she, despite all her instruction, could only identify a handful.

But more unusual on this visit were the remaining bloodstains. Druids had been slaughtered here, despite the hedge’s defenses. Dindrane glanced around nervously, wondering how the creature got in – and where was it now?

The rain began in a torrent, and Dindrane was almost ready to seek shelter. Beren placed a calming hand on her shoulder, as if to say, “no. We must not rest here.”

The continued, into the hedge maze that leads to Avalon.

Three Hundred and Sixty-eight

Reep and Querl finished setting up the modified computi structure early in the morning, hopefully secure beneath the brush that concealed them. Reep felt vulnerable, working at ground level so close to the town walls, but there was no other choice. The Saracen knight Sir Palomides, Sir Brek and Dag were their sole defenders should they be spotted prematurely.

It was an in-the-field experiment, Querl conceded. Never before had he and Loomius concentrated multiple computi components into a single structure, let alone with flammables. A miscalculation or misfire could ignite the entire battery.

Reep wished L’ile was back from the far north isle. They had much to discuss: recent news, strategies, construction of Camelot, and of course the ongoing Dark Circle and White Triangle matters.

Not challenging the Macedonians right after the Khund war was wise, Reep had agreed – but leaving them for almost a year was a mistake, and he questioned his foster-brother’s wisdom in getting so entangled in other matters. Getting wounded in Lothian battling sea creatures could not be helped, twas true… but he felt uneasy about conducting an operation he knew Rokk would want to lead himself.

Jenni was tackling Macedonian scouts and relaying messages, and Iasmin’s cavalry was ready just a half-league away beyond the ridge. A hastily assembled West Country force led by Sir Garth was watching for riders or detatchments from the other Macedonian regiment at Portus Magnus, and nearly half of Kiritan’s men had been filtering into occupied Durobrivae via the river Medway itself since last night. The other half were in the opposite brush, hundreds of yards away, awaiting a success from Querl’s modified unit. So much was in his, Querl’s and Stig’s hands.

Without scouts, and surrounded by a strange shift in Kentish morale, the Macedonians would be anticipating trouble, and drilling – but the question was, did they think they could hold the walls and the citizenry at the same time?

Jonah was marching with Londinium’s army into plain view of the walls. It would soon be time to deliver the surprise Jonah’s plan relied upon.

Three Hundred and Sixty-nine

Sir Lu returned to Londinium early. The Queen’s retinue was continuing across the north to Rhyged, Dalraida and Lothian, but she felt an inexplicable need to regroup with her sole surviving sister.

Londinium was beginning to swelter with the first of the summer’s heat, and she could not help but be appalled by the number of dog corpses she found herself stepping over. Some had been left out to die, some had been killed.

She had heard of the plague during her own recovery in Glastonbury, of course, and could not help but feel guilty. But all she had seen was a notable absence of dogs in Britain south of Deva, none or few in the numerous villages, hamlets and thorps, and maybe a weak hound lying in the green whimpering. Only in Verulamium had she seen a tall hunting dog looking at her in desperate hope, shivering despite the early summer warmth, too skinny for health’s sake, and standing over a set of pups too weak to do any more than twitch.

Londinium was quiet. Few guards, soldiers or knights were out on Lu’s first visit since the war, and she had to wonder if the festive city she had known had faced too much in too few years’ time to ever recover itself.

Three Hundred and Seventy

Even as a priestess, Mysa had learned to travel the country trails and avoid the roads where merchants, brigands, mercenaries, soldiers and nobles might travel. It was safer, often easier, and ones passings often went unnoticed except to the country folk who hosted and honoured the priestesses and kept their travels secret.

Now in the involuntary guise of a crone, Mysa found travels even easier – none paid attention to her at all, lest alone those who might be conflicted by whether to keep her confidence – or Thora’s.

She found herself tiring easy, and was grateful for the pony Bagdemagus had granted her. With a little lard, it looked too mangy for even a highwayman to bother with taking from a little old lady.

Mysa instinctively knew she needed allies in Avalon. If Thora and Mordru plotted treachery, then they had already rendered Azura irrelevant. She could not go to the Priestesses – any priestesses. Whose word would they take? Azura could be clueless about what transpires right behind her back.

There was Beren, of course. In some ways, she thought of him as who Mordru could have been. Beren would listen and investigate. The Teachers were too self-absorbed and removed from the schemes of one like Mordru.

Mordru.

She shivered. She had loved him, and she had even joined him once in plotting how to take Avalon. He too knew that Beren and the Priestesses would be they key links between Avalon and the outer world; she could be blind-sided already if she approached the Druids unprepared.

Not Beren, then. Pellam.

Surely the kindly old king, Kiwa’s old friend, was enough of a wise and influential soul to help her warn Avalon as to what was to come.

Pellam’s castle was at most a few days north from Corinium. Even taking the byways, she should make it within the week.

Brilliant! Please sir... Can we have some more?

Three Hundred and Seventy-one

Sussiah could not believe the sheer ease of her quest thus far.

Of all the isles of Avalon, no one at all seemed to bother with one adjacent to the Brethren, an isle of short brushy plants but nary a tree. Here she could make her camp, watch her for quarry while even catching fish or small game to live on. All it took was patience, resolve and wit not to be caught.

Neither the Brethren nor Druids ventured here, and the farther isles of the Priestesses and Teachers were far easier to remain unseen from.

Some nights, Sussiah would sneak close to the Brethren to gain a better lay of the land she would later need, and nights near the full moon were especially aglow in Avalon. She wagered that she could probably enter the priests’ very huts and look through their possessions, but as tempting as that was, she was here for a larger prize than any prayer beads or manuscripts.

Yet sometimes, whether close to the Brethren or on the Isle of Heath (as she later learned they called it), she sometimes felt that a man was watching her – a big, silent man who watched her like she was an amusing girl-childe playing in her mother’s ribbons. But when she turned, there was never anyone there. Well, almost never – once on the Isle of Heath, she turned and saw in the distance and there on the isle of the Brethren he stood watching her – a tall, large-framed man of older-middle years, exactly as she’d imagined. He looked at her as if to say I know who you are and what you’re planning, and she could tell he was smiling, like an indulgent parent knowingly letting a child get away with only so much.

It was almost enough to make her give up, or at least to rethink her plan. Could he actually stop her, when the time came?

In the drizzle of the next night, she thought and rethought, fearing even to sleep more than the odd catnap.

The daylight offered no answers, nor the night or morning that followed.

But the afternoon that followed brought a commotion on the Druid Isle – a large contingent of Druids and knights.

This in and of itself was not of Sussiah’s concern – until she saw the maiden with them. Her heart skipped a beat! If this was her, then her prize had returned with her!

The time for hunting game was over; the time for acting had arrived!

And on the isle of the Josephite brethren, Pelles watched Sussiah with sadness, no longer a smile.

Three Hundred and Seventy-two

Queen Imra and her entourage reached Lothian in mid-July, not long after word had reached Rokk of the doings at Durobrivae.

He greeted his bride coolly.

“Jonah, Garth and Reep think themselves capable enough to wage wars without consulting me. My wife conducts botched diplomacy, casts aside state secrets and announces them in person to every court in the land. I should be pleased that everyone feels the whim to let their king know these things after the fact, I suppose.” He was calm and collected in his sarcasm, at least.

“My lord husband, I-”

“Am I not king of this land? Have I not fought, bled and nearly died time and again for this land and all its people?” Now his ire began to appear.

“..You have.”

“Have I not been friend and ally to Avalon and Church, to pagan and Christian, to Roman, Celt, Kentish Khund, Angle, Cymry, Pict, Irish and Manx?”

“Aye.”

“So why… Why is it every time I slay one beast, solve one riddle, thwart one war, I find my friends and family have invited five more in its stead?”

Imra had enough. “Maybe you spend too much time amongst your Pictish friends siring bastards that you have forgotten that your kingdom extends south of Lothian!”

“If my wife didn’t moon after the oh-so-pretty Sir Garth, mayhap my attentions need not so wander! I have seen my brother Reep but thrice since Jormangund – and you and he returned from Paris at the same time. Perhaps this newcomer Sir Bedwyr retains your interest more than your liege and husband?”

“The evils from your tongue betray only the evils in your heart! I have not cast aside my fidelity for anyone, let alone some cave-dweller!”

Rokk was startled. “Thou speak truly?”

What cause hath I given that thou should so doubt me? Why hast thine heart grown so darkened since ere before the Khund war?

“I… am not sure. I thought perhaps that I had merely cast aside my youthful notions, that I had learnt of how men and kings truly must act in this world, but sometimes…” He sighed. “Sometimes it seems everything slips away from me. And everyone.” He turned and walked to the window. Outside, work continued as normal on rebuilding Lothian, oblivious to his marital difficulties.

Imra came up behind him, easing up against him and placing her hand over his on the sill.

“I have been busy, tis true. But I should not have neglected my husband. Maybe… maybe I felt that with you so long in the North, that I could serve your duties in Londinium. I know, tis foolish, when spoken aloud…”

“No. Except for this Clovis business, you did well enough, my wife. In truth, maybe I am mad that I cannot be everywhere I am needed.”

“You’ve done what you can here. Tis time to return to Londinium. Time for us to move on from all this.”

“Aye,” he conceded. “Our son still travels with you? I would very much like to see him.”

Three Hundred and Seventy-three

The old woman paused in front of the graves.

They were clearly set in a place of particular honour. But who could be here buried? Certainly not Geraint!

Mysa caught her breath at the unsavoury concept that crossed her mind. Marcus was addled, it was well-known, and she had certainly heard many tales of his madness en route. But could he have murdered her sister and Sir Thom?

Peasants and merchants she had known passed by her with no heed. They would have recognized the young woman who had once been their queen, but not the withered old figure they now barely noticed.

“Fear not. There is no one in those graves,” a young man said as he passed, presumably a tradesman doing business at the castle. “Our mad liege thinks his son and love are under the dirt though.” He tossed her a coin. “Please spoil not the secret should you see him a-ranting out here, eh?

Mysa picked up the coin and began to wander back toward the village. On the way, she learned from the gossip of outbound farm folk that Queen Nura had fled Britain with Sir Thom. Pellam dead, Nura exiled, Imra probably still hated her… who was there to turn to? Traveling tired her more than it should; she was an old woman in more than just appearance. There was a nice smooth rock that would be good for a rest…

…It was late in the afternoon; she had nodded off and not realized. She rose and made her way into the village when she happened upon an elderly man also making the half-mile walk from castle to village. He seemed familiar.

“Governal?”

He turned, offering an affable smile.

“Yes?” He clearly saw her not as anything but one of the local old hens who knew all the castle staff, yet was not individually known in turn.

“Governal, it’s me,” she knew better than to expect him to recognize her. When last they met some 20 months ago, she was a yet a woman in her last phase of turning young men’s heads. “It’s Mysa.”

The recognition in his eyes took barely a second. “Mysa! Tis you!” He was overjoyed, even as concern washed over him. “But what has befallen you? This is no disguise, no seeming, is it?”

“No, tis not. Come, my old mentor. Let us find someplace that we can share counsels. We have much to discuss.”

Three Hundred and Seventy-four

“And you say the kingship of Drest has changed us,” Tasmia scoffed.

“Priestess of Shadows you may be, but Shadows have not protected us from Jormangund nor the Irish,” Grev admonished. He and the other warlords who won acclaim in the Southlands had presented their new king with their idea, and he agreed – so long as they could muster support from the clans.

Thus far, most had agreed, he noted. “Only the Yakka-Mahor have refused us. Yet even they will be welcome within our walls. It will be a magnificent fortress, guarding the south end of the Great Glen. Fit for any people in any place.”

“Fit for any king?” Tasmia scoffed. “You see how the Southlanders value their nobles, whether or not they are of their own Folk. Now we adopt their kings, their fortresses. What is next? Shall it be their women carrying the seed of our menfolk? Or vice versa?”

It was Grev’s turn to scoff. “If you had seen how the fortifications of the Southlands had held off a single force of Khundish invaders than there are Picts in all the lands, you would see the need. Spears and stone-axes will do naught when invaders come with catapults, siege towers and computi. If we do not adapt to the tools of others, those tools will destroy us!”

There was a truth to the words, but Tasmia was uncomfortable with that. “Or do we just become Southlanders, saving them the trouble of conquest?”

She stormed off, regretting directing such anger at her kinsman. He had seen the Southlands, it was true. Perhaps he and the other warlords were just in building walls and fortresses… but she couldn’t help but feel the shroud of prophesy falling upon the land.

Three Hundred and Seventy-five

She watched.

She watched the Druids with pomp and ceremony bring her prize to the Josephites brethren, and the brethren accept with a humble air of ceremonial of their own.

She followed from a distance as the brethren returned the prize to a resting place, a secret compartment hidden behind the lion’s head of the very well she passed upon entering this magickal land. So much the better!

Giddy with how easy the kind, generous and naïve priesthood had been, she merely waited a half-hour for them to return to their suppertime chores before helping herself to the prize; she would not even bother to return for her camp supplies.

The secret compartment opened with ease – surely in this hidden land where all but herself was sacred and oath-bound no one would need elaborate locks, or maybe locks of any kind at all.

Sussiah paused to admire the prize. Cauldron, Chalice, Grail, whatever it was, it was small, golden, and easily carried, either formally, levelly with two hands or more sloppily with one. Sussiah’s sack made an even better vessel. She paused, and was off, back down the grotto tunnel by which she had arrived.

Pelles stopped chopping the greens for the evening meal and without a word bolted towards the grotto.

His brethren were perplexed, and one stepped up to take over the duty, assuming he would be back in moments. Pelles was a good man and good brother; no doubt he would sheepishly make up for his erratic moment with extra chores.

It never occurred to any of them that they would never see Pellam’s son again.

Three Hundred and Seventy-six

Mysa was delighted to have Governal’s aid in catching up on matters. He, too, was delighted to reunite with his former charge and student, even if she was now of an age with him.

They shocked each other as well. He was shocked at what she had gone through, and that the mythical land of Gorre was still an active participant in the world. She in turn was shocked that Mordru and his aid Iason (why did that name and description seem so familiar?) were moving on Avalon in retaliation for wrongs done to her, and that Governal had himself aided this effort.

“Still, everything will be set a-right. Cador will help us, once he returns from the Teachers,” he platonically squeezed her hand in his mentorly-but-familial way.

“Cador,” she repeated. She recalled him from Avalon, but knew him not so well as Governal. She recalled his Cornish accent more than his face to be honest, and she could only hope her beloved mentor’s trust was not misplaced.

The weeks continued to breeze by. She was made quarters in the castle, and welcomed as a peer of Governal and Cador. Marcus rarely left the keep these days, whether deep in melancholy or outbursts of mania, and she helped to tend to him.

One day a knight turned up seeking hospitality. Governal knew him well; he was of South Cymru and his name was Accolon. He was dark in features, clearly of olde blood. He greeted her like a queen, and looked at her not as a withered old woman.

“I have some traces of the Sight,” he explained to her one day as they walked along the cliff-top pastures, as they were doing more and more often of late. “More then men-folk are supposed to. Or so I am told,” he smiled.

“And they say men who have womanly qualities are not real men,” she laughed. “Yet you are every bit the knight, the man anyone could ask!”

He smiled. “And you, every bit the woman. I see you despite the enchantment forced upon you,” he turned and looked at her with a warmth and zeal she was taken aback. “And I know that you did not get free of the Far Realms just to accept life as the sage-crone.”

She nodded. “I am hoping that the Teachers-”

“-The Teachers and indeed all of Avalon do nothing, while those of the one-god steal our island out from under us! Come with me, Mysa. My lord and I are gathering those who would remind King Rokk that Britain is the Dragon’s Isle, not the Cross’s.” His passion was infectious, and Mysa could not help but be intrigued – and attracted.

“You have earned my ear,” she smiled.

“With Marcus’ dementia, you are queen of Cornwall in all but name. The people will follow you. You can undo the influences of Geraint. The West Country must be the heart of noble olde Britain again, and in your service, we can do it!”

The warm summer evenings brought forth wines and music, and the courtship political and romantic continued. Governal caught on; one night he whispered a comment that Garth was not the only younger knight seeking her skirts, even despite her aging, before retiring for the evening.

Did he really see her as a younger woman? Or did he see the same withered appearance everyone else did, but merely see that it was but a façade? The way he caressed her, stroked her hair, she felt young again, and in the dark she could at last forget her skin was not an old woman’s.

Three days later, they rode off together, bound for Exteter.

Three Hundred and Seventy-seven

Laoraighll had escorted the queen across all of Britain and back, with few courts unvisited by Laoraighll, and none missed by the queen or the rest of her escorts. It was necessary work protecting the queen from villains who had been few and far between.

Rokk and Imra had ruled ably enough, and the lineage and death of Pellam led tongues that several years ago had fueled the conspiracies of the rebel kings were now welcoming and conciliatory. Britain was as united as it ever had been, possibly more so, and Imra was accepted as herself as part of that.

Despite the necessity of the task, the Ulsterwoman was bored.

When Imra left Dalraida to go east to Lothian, Laoraighll had gone west, home to Ulster. It was unsettling, a reminder of how much she was changing, becoming at home in Britain – those of Ulster laughed at her accent, her styles and mannerisms. Going home in body is nae the same as going home in the heart, she realized.

She rejoined the royal procession at Eboracum, with King Rokk now a part of the troupe returning to Londinium. They arrived to find that the celebration of Durobrivae’s liberation had come and gone. Now, all were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Laoraighll had no patience to hear Rokk screaming at his officers, that they initiated a military campaign without him (let alone successfully), and departed – without leave. An odd humour set about her, and she felt almost queasy.

In the morning, Lu found her in bed shivering, vomiting, unable to speak.

Three Hundred and Seventy-eight

Sir Reep inspected the site. Construction was going well. It would take years to complete Camelot, of course, but the portions already built, additions to the original garrison, were impressive, and the preliminary outer walls facing the coast had already earned their keep.

It was just past dusk, near the foundations of the west tower that Reep heard the screams.

“Help! Help! Get it off of me!” It was an old man’s voice.

Reep drew his sword and charged.

A man in robe with long flowing white hair (did he seem familiar?) was trying in vain to fend off – a monstrous creature trying to latch onto the man’s head – to consume him, no doubt!

Reep drew his sword and charged. “What manner of creature art thou?”

“It’s a demon!” the old man blurted. Old man?!? – it was Mordru!! Surprised by the victim’s identity, Reep was knocked groundward by the demon, his sword flying as well.

Reep pulled his dirk and tried again. “Begone, vile fiend! You have no place in this place, the fortress of King Rokk!” Somehow he had imagined demons would be yellow-skinned and breathing fire, but this one--

He swung, but the fiend was gone. It was suddenly attacking him from behind.

“‘King’ Rokk, you say? And who made him king?” The creature asked in a low, grumbly voice.

Reep swung, but the creature parried.

“He is the son and heir of the High King Uther the Pendragon, recognized king by the Church, the Druids and the Lady of the Lake!”

The creature shoved him and was gone again. Suddenly it attacked him from overhead.

“Some watery tart lying in ponds distributing scimitars is no basis for a system of government,” the creature said while fighting with its array of small, miscellaneous limbs. “Now in my realm, we govern ourselves by collective-”

Reep managed to score a cut into the bug-like demon, and it yelped as it vanished in a circle of darkness.

Reep looked around, expecting it to be back. Cautiously, he made his way to his sword before greeting the wizard.

“You have my thanks,” Mordru smiled. “Where- where am I anyway?”

“At Camulodunum. How did you get here, without knowing?” Reep was suspicious.

“As you know, my wife Mysa has been missing for the past year and a half. I have been seeking her out, by looking in every otherworldly place I can think of, where those lost in the lake of the worlds may come ashore.”

Wife? Reep didn’t know that. “We are far from Glastonbury.”

“Aye, so we are. But the Far Realms do not behave as our maps would have us believe.”

“So why here?”

“There was a… gateway I was going to explore, here, at the marsh’s edge.” Mordru glanced around and pointed. “It only materializes at dawn and dusk, but it will appear over near where the tower’s foundation is laid.”

“We’re building our fortress on a gateway to God-knows-where?”

“To Avalon, it turns out. I suspect the wards preventing me from entering summoned up that demon against me. So I’ve wasted my voyage here. I’m forbidden from even checking out the gate by stepping through it and back again.”

“Well, I wish you luck. I hop you fid her. I… miss her.”

I’m glad someone at court does, Mordru thought. “I owe you a boon. Here,” he held out an amulet. “Should you choose to check out the Avalon gate yourself, this will help you find your way through and back.”

Reep was still deeply suspicious, but took the amulet.

Three Hundred and Seventy-nine

Word had spread of Jonah’s victory at Durobrivae, which nobles from across the isle attributed to a master plan of Rokk himself. His knights magnanimously said nothing to the contrary. Rokk in turn would accept the situation so long as he was not circumvented again. Noble after noble either visited court themselves or sent messengers of nobility themselves, and by early autumn the victory was celebrated all over again.

But the Macedonians had gotten the message to. The Portus Magnus force was tripled almost immediately, Jenni reported, and reprisals against locals were increasing.

Where did they get the troops so quickly? Tis not an short voyage from the Middle Seas, Rokk wondered. He sent word for Reep to rejoin him from Camelot. With L’ile absent and Querl, like Loomius still recovering from their burn wounds, he needed his foster-brother’s advice on strategy.

Rokk took advantage of the visiting nobles to lobby for a new force to remove the invaders once and for all. Vassal after vassal pledged such support, and offered everything from tactical advice to an expeditionary force to Nuhorra itself.

On the fourth day of feasts and plans, a messenger arrived from Neustria. Rokk expected the messenger would request a private audience, but no, the messenger wanted to address them all.



At this point, the messenger was shouted down by the assembled court, and Imra returned hard the stare from Jancel, who had spoken not to her since Pellam’s funeral.

Rokk called for order and for silence, particularly calling upon Jonah to sheath his dirk. “Harm not the messenger for the folly of his masters!’ Achieving order, he motioned for the messenger to continue.



Rokk had to hush a wave of negative reaction yet again, although this one was less irate than the prior round.



This time, the messenger continued as no tongue would be spared at verbally flaying Lucius, Clovis and the messenger himself. Few heard his next words:



The crowd had simmered down enough for more to hear his conclusion.



“I’LL show you JOY AND LOVE, villain!” James was ready to strike down the man.

“No messengers shall be slain in my name!” Rokk commanded. “Yon man is no warrior. He is a courier of messages, and with his approval I would like to send one to Lucius.”

“My lord expected as much, your highness,” he replied.



“Did you get all that?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then go in peace. Sirs Berach and James? Would you escort the messenger safely from our shores?”

Kiritan was the first to speak when the guest had left. “T’would seem we know now where the new troops at Portus Magnus have come from.’

“Aye, they’d likely have been sent even if we’d never taken Durobrivae. They’ve been looking for an excuse to push us.”

“They made a mistake, giving us this year to catch our breaths. I want Portus Magnus back in British hands before the messenger reaches Neustria!” Rokk commanded, receiving a tempest of cheers.

Three Hundred and Eighty

“Ah! My ‘Wild Huntsman’ returns!” Aivillagh greeted Sir Accolon. “And you must be—” The lord of Exeter was taken aback. “M-my Lady Mysa! But you’re so-

“Forgive me,” he recovered himself.

“Tis all-a-right. I am still not used to the reflection I see in the washing bowl,” she laughed.

“No matter. We are all here for one purpose,” Accolon sought to move beyond the faux pas.

‘We must save Avalon from Mordru,” Mysa agreed.

“And from itself,” Aivillagh added. “Beren ages and slows, with none in sight to replace him. The Teachers remain aloof. Azura’s authority over her own priestesses began to wane the day you vanished.” He waved for his servants to bring in wine and bowls of fish stew for his visitors.

“She met with King Rokk a few weeks later, I’ve learned. After this, she began attending more to the Queen than ever, as if she no longer saw Rokk as worth trifling with,” Accolon added.

“They say he turned his allegiance away from Avalon, to the Pictish priestesses last winter,” Aivillagh said. “He has even sired a bastard up there, tis said.”

“I cannot believe that!” Mysa had to protect her younger brother.

“Boys grow up and learn the ways of men. Kings especially have to learn faster. He’s changed since you’ve last met. They call him the bear-king now.”

“Even so, I’ll not hear such words until I see it with my own eyes!”

“Of course. My apologies, my Lady,” Aivillagh backed down. “Tis only my lament for seeing the Olde Ways erode. I once saw King Rokk as Avalon’s ally, whilst now Avalon itself falls into slumber.”

“You mentioned there are none to replace Beren? What about Llanfair? Taidg? MacCullough?”

‘Truthfully – could any of them ever serve as Beren has? As Azura falls short of Kiwa, so too must any who follow Beren, I fear,” Aivillagh sighed. “Avalon long trained generation after generation of this land’s best. First, we started losing them to Rome. And now to the Christians. Avalon used to turn away pupils, we had so many seeking to learn its ways. There were enough to stay, to commit to Avalon, but even those who went home again remained in her service.”

“I… need to see my brother. His bride and I feuded and I left court, but I must see him. I cannot be part of any conspiracy against him, I tell you that.”

Aivillagh was hurt. “We- I- merely want him to remain true to the Avalon of Beren and Kiwa, that the traditions of Britain persevere. I do not wish to move against him, my Lady! Mind also that myself and many others regard you as our queen.”

“An honour I cannot accept whilst Marcus yet lives, nor while Nura and Thom are exiled.”

“They will never serve,” Aivillagh said. “Thom won’t, in any case. Too many still begrudge him for Geraint.”

“Even though Geraint’s brother holds Portus Magnus hostage,” Accolon added.

“Aye. But in death Geraint is purified of that, or so it seems in my talks with my fellow West Countrymen,” Aivillagh replied.

“We seem to have drifted from the issue of finding allies. What of Imra? Was she not raised in Avalon, and of the Olde line?” Accolon asked. “Even if she and Mysa are at odds, cannot someone approach her?”

“Imra… consorts with Christians these days. To what extent I know not,” Mysa offered.

“Yet Azura was with her of late, helping to smooth the waters with nobles. She cast aside her guise as Guinevere, you know,” Aivilalgh reported.

Mysa nodded. “I cannot approach her, or even enter court, not knowing where I stand with either of them. I shall approach Sir Brandius instead. Governal tells me he spends little time at court just now.”

“Tis true,” Aivillagh nodded. “I heard him say as much at Pellam’s funeral. He jested that Rokk does not need his foster-father peering over his shoulder.”

“Then there I shall go.”

“I have made the acquaintance of the queen last year in Cymru. Perhaps I could go.” Accolon suggested.

“Nay. Imra’s Sight is such that if you so much as think of me, she will know. Seek out Beren – but be prepared that Mordru may expect it. Governal and Cador will warn the Teachers. We need someone to alert Imra or the Priestesses without Thora knowing.”

They sat in silence, save for the sound of the guests dabbing at their stews.

“I… have a new acquaintance, an ally of a like mind who already knows the queen, and is on good terms already. I shall send him.”

“Who?” Mysa was intrigued.

“He was Sir Dyrk, but now calls himself Apollo. He is out hunting with my Northman knight Sugyn.”

“You are building quite the court of knights yourself, then,” Mysa observed.

“I have no wish for numbers at the expense of quality. A dozen pure of heart I would be satisfied with.”

Three Hundred and Eighty-one

The complete rout at Portus Magnus surprised even King Rokk, who had anticipated a greater challenge against the Macedonians and their Frankish allies. But rather than offer them a conventional battlefield where their superior training and equipment would win out, he caught them by surprise and made them fight in the streets of the city – streets his British warriors were still better accustomed to than any occupiers, especially those newly arrived from the Frankish kingdom.

Mobile computii and the occasional burst of taranaut barraged Macedonian/Frankish-occupied towers and rooftop archers, minimizing the advantage of building height the occupiers enjoyed. Although ill, Laoraighll also leapt from rooftop to rooftop, taking on adversaries up-close with such efficiency that it seemed that more enemy bodies were airborne than were enemy arrows. Portus Magnus had been lost and re-taken so often in Rokk’s short reign that his men were almost following routines as they retook strategic locations. Rokk resolved to do something about the civic defenses soon – while there was still a city to defend.

The sheer number of British forces, from all quarters of the isle and fighting as one, had created an unstoppable force – one that struck terror into the surviving Franks who fled to the seas. Kentish Khund, Pict, Angle, Celt, Roman, Cymry, Cornish and Scot fought as brothers; any past internal quarrel now behind them, it seemed. Even the Cornish who had been loyal to the traitorous Geraint now fought against his brother’s occupation; according to what Sir Garth had heard, Duke Aivillagh of Exeter had some witchy old woman speak to the troops, and this somehow smoothed some waters – Geraint’s own adjutant Meleagant stood by her side. This old woman looked at him seemingly with eyes that knew him well – yet she was but a stranger to him.

Iarcalthus himself, the very instigator of the Nuhorran/Macedonian occupation, had been in Paris and was neither leading his own defenses nor among those captured. Indeed, Frankish propaganda would later try to portray the British as lying in wait for the “rightful” governor of the city to vacate before their attack when in fact Rokk had hoped to make an example of the arrogant Nuhorran. Sir Jonah achieved a measure of satisfaction for capturing the Nuhorran chamberlain Mantos, who had vowed revenge on the British earlier that summer.

Three Hundred and Eighty-two

“You were right, Vidar,” Duke Lucius admitted. “Young King Rokk has shown his true colours. And to think I had once considered him a friend and ally.”

“We… we all make mistakes, Lucius,” Clovis’ thought was interrupted by a coughing spell. “I too had hoped Rokk would mature into a wise leader, not merely one lucky on the battlefield.”

Vidar smiled, and gave himself the luxury of being a reasonable voice of dissent. “Perhaps young Rokk knew not that Iarcalthus was away, or that Frankish troops had been deployed to Portus Magnus.”

“Oh, come now, my Universeau,” Clovis’ passion prompted a new round of coughing and wheezing. His retainers waited patiently for the bed-ridden king to resume. “Not only have your words helped us glean the workings of the British court, but our… other informant describes Rokk’s spy network as second to none.” A servant brought him a new elixir to drink. “He knew. By the gods, he knew.”

Vidar winced at his liege’s lingering paganism. It seemed to demonstrate itself more often when the king was tired or particularly sicker than usual. He hoped his agent could return soon with the artifact he’d hired her to fetch.

“And forget not Bedwyr,” offered Hart. “Your own son, seduced by that mind-witch.”

Vidar nodded glumly. Yet still he clung to hope that the lad might come to his senses.

“Rokk has made plain he is ready for war’” Clovis refocused the discussion. “Our question to-day is how we respond, and how we… incorporate Iarcalthus’ suggestions in with our own strategy.”

Three Hundred and Eighty-three

After a full week without rest, even Sussiah was exhausted beyond the point of collapse. Every time she had thought she had foiled her pursuer, every time she thought she could sleep for but an hour, he was there – the big burly priest who had chased her all the way from Avalon.

He could be amazingly quiet at times – yet whenever he came within earshot of her hiding place, he grew louder and louder. If she stayed in place whether night or day, he would thrash around in circles all along one side, sometimes coming very close while others circling far enough away – far enough to let her escape. He was playing with her, she finally realized – he was driving her toward the mountainous vales east of Cymru and west of Perilous Forest.

She was tired – and she’d had enough. This time, she had made her resting spot above a fierce river, one that cascaded down a steep hill valley into a small pond; at the base of the falls was a whirlpool that fed much its the water into some netherworldly chasm – the river continued on as only a fraction of itself above ground.

It was approaching dawn as her pursuer began thrashing closer and closer, playing out his game once again Sussiah almost groggily stumbled toward her feet and made her way to a chalky limestone cliff overlooking the falls. “Come on out, holy man! Show yourself, or your prize goes down into the bowels of the world!”

The priest’s thrashings stopped. For an interminable spell Sussiah glanced about her, looking for the priest to be sneaking up at her whilst fending off her own weariness; her blinking and her determination to glimpse the priest were in combat against each other.

“Come on out. NOW!” She stepped closer to the cliff.

“I will throw it. Verily, I shall!”

That is your choice. That is why I brought you here.

“Show yourself, by damnation!”

Yes, by damnation indeed. A holy relic is better lost to this world than misused for greed. Throw it, if you will.

It must be a trick, mustn’t it?

Sussiah lifted the Chalice from its sack and held it high above her, angling it towards the edge. “You really think I shall not? You really think I’d believe a holy man would so easily part with such a vital relic?”

Iesous gave His life for us, my childe. For all of us. With no thought for His own regard. Can we cling to possessions, no matter how wondrous, and ignore His example? We are not merchants hoarding things for worldly value.

There was still no one in sight to accompany the disembodied voice that placed his words directly into her head.

“If I can’t have it, no one can!” She started to hurl the Chalice away – but found she could not! The metal, gold but not gold, silver but not silver, glowing but not glowing, with all its fine detail, was just too precious a prize to be lost – when it could just as easily be restolen some later day.

She lowered her arm, still gazing at her prize. Its warm energy was in fact the only thing keeping her awake after so many days.

The gentle, good-natured laughter right behind her startled her almost enough to fall over the cliff herself. She had so shifted her focus, she was so tired, that the priest was now close enough to seize her, seize the chalice, or seize them both.

I could take away your spoils here and now, my childe. But I shall not – if you accompany me on a short journey to a castle not a-far from this very place.

Sussiah later could not remember the details of the conversation that followed, but she slept for more than a full day and awoke to the priest – Pelles, he called himself – preparing a fast-breaking on some subsequent morning, a meal of woodland berries and a single small trout for them to share.

As he had promised, the Chalice was still in her hand upon her waking.

Three Hundred and Eighty-four

The villa but a day’s journey from Corinium was nestled into a picturesque valley of hills covered by apple orchards and small lowland fields of grain surrounded by wooded peaks that only a southern Breton could truly call mountains

Mysa let her little pony lead her up the path past apple trees and spidery grape lines towards the villa ahead. She could well imagine her young brother growing up here, with a happy childhood insolated from the strifes of the outer world. In some ways, this place seemed as removed from the mundanities of politics and war as Avalon itself! Tis appropriate that Rokk’s very homeland is just as magickal, in its own way.

The farm hands paid no mind to an old woman passing through. Between midwives, rural healers, beggars and petitioners, she looked no different from many who traveled the roads these days. Indeed, there was a line up ahead of her – a line stopped in place. Mysa dismounted and approached.

A small crowd was listening to Sir Brandius himself lecturing a lad bandaged in red-stained cloth on the proper handling of axe. He calmly and patiently explained where the youth had gone into error by carrying the axe wrong, running with it, and even in the way he swung it, all while trying to obtain firewood for his family. The crowd was appreciatively awed and charmed by their local lord.

One by one, those ahead of her petitioned Brandius for some boom or judgment, and Brandius held court comfortably and affably in the partial shade of his orchards. With a gentle warm breeze, it was hard for any to be of dour mood.

One woman wanted her neighbour to repay a small loan. A man sought to clear up a besmirching of his family’s honour. A mother who had traveled all the way from the western edge of Perilous Forest sought the return of her son, who had run away and been working in Brandius’ kitchen, hoping to earn squiredom or even eventually knighthood. Two brothers quarreled over their inheritance. And so it went.

Finally it was Mysa’s turn, yet more had gathered behind her. She would not have a private moment as she had hoped. She had avoided interrupting the line ahead, hoping Brandius would spy her and slowly glean who she was without her having to make the case for recognition. Her hopes were for naught.

His smile was warm and affable, but his eyes showed no connection, no sign that the elder knight saw anything more than an elderly peasant woman before him.

“My good Sir Brandius. It has been too long.” She spoke at last, hoping to recapture enough of the essence of her own voice and poise to spark her brother’s foster-father’s wit.

“I fear the advantage is yours, my dear lady,” he spoke politely – too politely, lacking the familiarity she sought.

She chuckled dismissively, as if the disconnect were the simplest of errors. “I fear the curse upon me makes me less than obvious. Tis I, the Lady Mysa, your foster-son’s own sister. I fear the magicks-”

“Have addled your head, my dear lady,” Brandius replied patronizingly. “The real Lady Mysa is a much younger lady.”

Mysa started to reply, but Brandius cut her off. “You are not the first addled mind to claim to be the high king’s missing sister, but I give you credit, you are the eldest, and most imaginative.”

Mysa was taken aback – and not just by hearing of imposters. She had truly thought Brandius would see the real her, as Governal and even Aivillagh had.

“My lady,” he continued. “I would see my kitchen avail you with a bowl of stew ere your departure. You are clearly not from around here, and it would grieve me to see you traveling without a meal whilst in my gardens.”

The words she had practiced had fallen from her mind into a fog. Mysa nodded slowly as an underling ushered her away, hoping she could find away to again try to appeal to her brother’s most trusted aide.

Three Hundred and Eighty-five

The labour that rebuilt Portus Magnus was that of soldiers from the breadth of Britain. But the plans, the improvements of fortification, were the designs of but men: High King Rokk, Sir Derek, Querl and Duke Kiritan. These minds planned a new wall structure that would better repel attacks from Khund, Frank or even Roman; Rokk would no longer let Britain’s second city be the most-oft seized fortress in his domain.

Meleagant, whose sway over Cornish and southern forces was vital, and Prince Pharoxx of North Cymru, who as commander of Rokk’s navy would be based from Portus Magnus, were of course consulted, and Rokk even managed to make them think that they had made significant contributions to the overall plan. But Derek was as surprised as anyone upon later reflection how Kiritan had gone from being leader of a defeated, distrusted faction to being a key defender of a vital British port. Necessity had turned Kentish Khunds from targets of occupation to a lynchpin in the island’s defenses, and part of Derek wondered if Rokk was only duplicating Vortigern’s failed strategy of decades agone.

The youngest, greenest companies in all British forces were Kentish Khunds, all the youngsters who had been too young to fight under Zaryan, combined with a handful of their surviving elder veteran peers.

Derek surveyed them with a caution too ingrained in his generation, who fought battle after battle with Khunds of both Britain and far-off Germania. Yet this week it was Latin-speaking Khunds toasting and feting a Roman-British king for besting a Frankish-Macedonian alliance. Rokk, who had personally bested Jormangund, a creature born of the Khundish gods, was now as much their king as any son of Britain or Rome. Derek was, in truth, not entirely pleased by this development at all.

Three Hundred and Eighty-six

Sussiah had been unaware of how deep her hunger had grown until she feasted at the grand table. This place, this castle, was a realm of miracles; everything gleamed of gold, silver and jewels of every hew in this warm, comfortable, beckoning palace where the breeze whispered song, the colours on the tapestries danced like a stalks in a field of grain, and an air of good humour permeated ev’ry corner. There was no palace staff to wait on them, yet the palace was sparkling clean, and the dishes gently floated toward them through the air like leaves upon a slow-moving river of the most soothing clarity.

The source of their feast was the Grail itself. Pelles’ prayers had cause it to brim forth full of fine stews and meats, wines and breads. They fed themselves and quenched the hungers of many days, yet as full as they were they could yet enjoy the next dish without bloat.

Carbonek, her host had called this place. She recalled an old nursery rhyme about a place of the same name (but could it not be this very place?), the magickal heart of Britain itself. She would have to take some of its gold with her, she absent-mindedly resolved; it was hard to concentrate here.

Sussiah knew she was giddy and light-headed, but resisted the overbearing spirit of goodwill that gnawed at her. Truly any other heart would be so overcome by these enchantments of good will as to give up claim to the prize which she had so rightfully seized. Surely Pelles was counting on the magicks of feast and castle to win her over. She could only giggle with joy at so fooling her host!

“I knew this… Grail… was good for healings. Yet how can it provide us with foods as well?” She finally asked.

The Cauldron, this Grail if you will, is the vessel of life. It may merely preserve it in a spot of difficulty, or it can bring one to the very pinnacle of life’s bounty, he replied without speaking.

“All pinnacles of life’s bounty?” She replied, tugging at his robes.

Did the magicks affect him as well? Could even a priest be as giddy and overtaken by these magickal euphorias as she was? His toothy grin answered her question as he pulled her close.

In the blissful throes of passion that followed, Sussiah was quite surprised at how Pelles’ mind seemed like a detailed tapestry to her. It was an ensemble of images from all his deep burdens of self-fear, hurt and loss that have accompanied him for all of his days. All his attempted and failed reaches for self-control – and the all too appealing juicy family secrets (oh, Queen Imra! What a plaything for many masters you have been!); they were all on display for the immediate world to see.

Fear overtook her that the reverse might be true and all her secrets would be unwoven for him… but no. It had been well over a decade since Pelles had last cast aside his shields with abandon; he was too deep in the experience – and the relief – just now.

If anything, if Pelles’ normal mind-magicks were like listening to the whispers within another’s ear, then Pelles himself was now shouting without scruple, completely unmindful and unheeding of the whispers of Sussiah.

Sussiah found herself tempted to surrender herself into the blissful torment of coitus, but even more tempting was the prize that Pelles’ heart and mind was letting loose. She was well used to seizing physical trophies, but now she could pilfer this onetime prince for all his worth – even as her flesh quivered and danced with his. He has bottled up his man’s spirit so long he now spills it too freely for his own wellness, she thought, but the magicks of castle and touch could not let her hold him in the contempt she normally would.

Pelles had hoped to win her over with the magicks of Carbonek, that its purity would inspire a conversion within her. Had he been entranced by her beauty enough to hope to win her heart for himself, even while he had lied to himself that he was seeking to win her for Iesous? Aye, he had. But Sussiah had seized the courtship on her own terms. It was the secrets of his heart she would mine, steal and use, secrets that held together this kingdom called Britain.

Three Hundred and Eighty-seven

Genni should have been on her way back ere now, and met us with the Grail.

Sir Berach fretted – with good reason. He had erred on the side of slowness for the sake of his charge, assuming the swift Moorish lass would be on the return by now.

Genni had been ordered to reach Avalon via the Priestess gate, the lake passage at Glastonbury, and return with the Grail – first to tend to the ailing Ulsterwoman Laoraighll – and then to the wounded at Portus Magnus. Berach’s mission was to slowly and safely transport Laoraighll toward Glastonbury, in hopes of reducing her suffering time; Querl insisted that every day, even every hour, was of the highest need.

The Ulsterwoman had been ill since not long after the dog plague had come to Londinium and the whole of southeastern Britain – yet she had insisted upon fighting at Portus Magnus. Now she gasped and spasmed like a dying dog, her skin almost appearing to bubble in places. Like the dog-poisons the Khunds had once used against her, this canine pox also afflicted her, perhaps more severely.

Grail healing or no, King Rokk had ordered Laoraighll to go to Avalon anyway, as Querl had linked her current ailment to the dog plague. The king argued and Querl concurred that she should spend her recovery time away from any dog in the land, and the mystical, otherworldly archipelago of Avalon held not one.

Querl was more and more frenzied by the half-day – the speed of travel could further injure his beloved, but so too could travel delays. The Greek scholar took out his own changing moods upon Berach himself; the knight tried to handle the scientist as best he could.

Like many, Berach had become overly confident in Genni’s swiftness – not mounted rider ran as fast as the lass. Thus he had his company move quite slowly so as not to add harms onto the Ulsterwoman. He had expected that they would meet Genni on her way back well before they would reach the great stones of Salisbury plain… but he was wrong. The hills just east of Cadwy’s Fort were now visible, and this close to Glastonbury there was still no sign of her.

Berach checked upon Laoraighll, and found Querl silent and paralysed in panick, staring with the eyes of a defeated old man. Laoraighll looked closer to death than any Berach had seen ever return to so much as speaking. He gave the order for the company to ride just a bit harder; they could make the lake’s shore by evening if the good weather held.

Three Hundred and Eighty-eight

Sir James was grateful for the leave-taking. After all his time on duty while Rokk was in the North, it felt like years since he had visited his family. True, he would only be visiting his parents at Sir Derek’s villa north of Londinium, but for the first time in what seemed like years he felt like he could relax. If he gave any thought to the last time he felt like this – the ill-fated dragon hunt with Sir Garth – he let it not interfere with his spirits.

Along the road between Portus Magnus and Londinium, a patrol intercepted him – they reported a strange old man and his aide harassing soldier and commoner alike, looking for the ruins of some old Celtic hill-fort lost since Boudicea’s time. With a sigh, James made a slight detour and scoured a few hamlets looking for the duo. After all the hubbub, he found it to be Mordru and some manservant of his! Mordru told the Cumbrian knight he was looking for his wife Mysa, and declined the young man’s offer of assistance.

Continuing on through Londinium, he spent the night at Rokk’s fortress, and caught up on the news. Beren had sent word that L’ile had been sighted back on British soil, but had already vanished again. Sir Brandius reported an old hag harassing and attempting spellcraft against him. And Domangart of Dalraida had threatened and briefly imprisoned a knight of King Urien of Rhyged.

James summoned Sir Lucan, King Rokk’s butler. “As soon as Genni arrives from Portus Magnus, have her take these messages to King Rokk at Portus Magnus,” he ordered.

“It shall be done,” the man confirmed. He hesitated before leaving. Seeing James’ nod as confirmation to continue, he said, “We have no word for certain, but merchants newly arrived from Colonnia are telling us of retribution by the Franks.”

“Go on.”

“Tis Prince Pharoxx’s half-sister. Elyzabel. She, so the merchants say, has been… imprisoned by Clovis for espionage. And Sir Bedwyr has been banished, on pain of death ere he returns.”

“I see. No doubt Clovis’ messenger is en route with the official notices and demands and the like.”

“No doubt, sir.”

James pondered for a moment. “We… cannot wait for Genni. Word must be sent to Rokk at once. Who is your swiftest rider?”

Sir Lucan paused. That would be… Dbron, I surmise.”

Dbron! What an oaf! “No, this is too important. I shall return to Portus Magnus at first light,” James decided. He could not enjoy his leave when his very gut told him there was more to the news than words conveyed.

And where was Genni? Surely she had been to Avalon, back to Rokk, by now and should have been here.

Three Hundred and Eighty-nine

“Do you like our lodgings?” The old man in truth cared not about his companion’s opinion.

“I’ve had better, but cannot recall when,” Iason confided. “The view’s not much to speak of.” He gestured out the window to the stone wall not 30 feet away, but continued to gnaw at the chicken in his hands, above his plate.

“That, my friend, is the wall of the palace of Londinium itself. Young King Rokk’s prize fortress, built by my own hands, stands right outside our window!”

“You sound proud.”

“Nay,” Mordru replied. “Not as you imply. Yet consider the temple we have observed right across the river from here”

“The Temple of Isis? Strange, how the Romans so welcomed cults of realms from the farthest reaches of the world.”

“Not so strange, in the grand design of all things. The Druids tell us that all gods are the same god, and all goddesses are the same goddess.”

“I have heard such said, but it means little to me,” Iason sneered. “Surely Ceridwen is not Isis nor is Cernunos Jupiter.”

“No, of course not,” Mordru smirked. “Yet let us consider our prize: Avalon. Druids and Priestesses are of a line that long predates the Romans on this isle, yes?”

Not even waiting for Iason’s nod, he continued. “The Druids are of the Celt, and share the bond of wisdom, lore and music with the Celts of other lands. The Priestesses are a far older order, left over from a people who were here long before the Celt. Ys, Hybrasil… these are but Celtic shadows of lore the Druids latched onto from their predecessors. Just as the Christians begin to borrow from the pagans.”

“The Josephites,” Iason blurted. “They too came to this isle – and to Avalon, as did the Druids of long ago.”

Mordru nodded. “As did others, long before, who are best forgotten and unnamed. Like the Josephites, the cult of Isis also came from afar. The Teachers have sought to blend the traditions of Britain, Eiru, Greece and Egypt. What is the pattern? What is missing?”

“The Romans themselves.”

“Aye.” Mordru took a swig of his ale. “Just as the Romans came with the sword, to rule, not to join, so too did their priests refuse to pay homage to the Dragon that is this isle. The Roman god Terminus is a particularly jealous one. Yet these Romans have provided us with the very tools we need. To save the heart of Britain from the sword of Rome, Avalon was removed from sword’s reach, and lies safely beyond the gates we have been visiting,” Mordru spoke softly, even though no one else was in earshot.

He pulled a sheet of parchment to the table. “Observe as I mark out on the map. The west Cymru grove here holds the very gateway that leads to the Druid’s Isle in Avalon. The ruins here in south Cymru lead to the Isle of the Josephites. The lake at Glastonbury leads to the Priestess Isle. The long-sealed gateway of the Tor Isle used to lead to here, to the great standing stones of the Salisbury Plain. That’s four out of seven.

“Now look again. At Londinium, the Path of Isis leads to the Teacher’s Isle. And at Camulodunum, the marshland gate now being built over by Rokk’s west magnificent tower leads to the Isle of Heath. Now tell me, Iason, what can you discern?”

“They are all spaced out in intervals along a curved line. But there is an uneven gap between the Salisbury Plain and Londinium? Thence is the hill-fort which we were seeking?”

“Well observed. We can presume seven gates, one each for the seven isles of Avalon. Clearly that lost hill-fort must be the entry to the Forbidden Isle, somewhere not far off of the very road to Portus Magnus.

“But despite our best efforts these past few weeks, another task now takes precedence,” Mordru said, his voice lacking any pleasure.

“So are we to finally enter Avalon and attack? Via the Path of Isis, here in Londinium?”

“P’fah!” Mordru scoffed. “Of course not. Your lacking memory clearly recalls not our military campaigns together. One does not invade when your enemy can gain reinforcements from many different fronts. For right now, we need to be able to close all doorways to Avalon when we are ready to strike.” He snapped his fingers for effect.

“Our allies, wittingly or not, have been placing my specially prepared charms near each of the gates. With demons out to get the Druids, they needed military escorts. Our Cymry prince, of course, led this very protective effort, and visited Avalon via the Druid gate. He also personally helped see Rokk’s magick cup returned to the Josephites, and thus planted my charm there, too. The Tor gate is already sealed, and while few mortals are privileged to come and go to Forbidden Isle as they choose, I dislike chance and would seek to charm that gate too. Sir Reep was kind enough to carry my charm through the Camulodunum marshland gate. Thora has unwittingly placed her charm near her own island’s gate, although not the charm she thinks she has. Governal has had Cador deliver the charm for the Teachers’ Isle. That just leaves the entry to the Forbidden Isle.”

“So what now? Why have we then given up?”

“We are not giving up. We are waiting for the one who can find the last gateway for us.”