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A beautiful drawing of Avalon and it's magical inhabitants, in this case, Mysa, Tinya and possibly, Lu's older sister in a happy momemt before so much tragedy struck their lives:


posted by Irenkesabo

Ok, so I'm re-reading this again

But I do have a question. Around chapter 100 there is mention of a conversation between Imra and Ayla, now is that something you are still going to bring up? Or am I in need of some new glasses cause I cant actually find the conversation anywhere. Or is this a reference to something that was brought up in one of the Legions comics, and I just dont have that particular issue?

By the way... awesome pictures Candle

Saihlough is just a click away:

http://gi105.photobucket.com/groups/m228/CV1ARFWWH1/headsSpring22212223221.gif
posted by Irenkesabo

I sometimes only hint at things that happened 'off-camera.' One of these includes one or more conversations Imra had with Ayla while Ayla seemed to be Garth (remember, Salu's magics made her look like Garth, and think she was him); the implication being that Imra, overjoyed at Garth seeming to be back from the grave, and may have said more than was appropriate, thinking she had the opportunity to say to Garth what had been unsaid.

As a result, Imra and Ayla both had a bit of dealing with the after-the-fact awkwardness of said situation, including Ayla having a much better idea than anyone else of Imra's true feeling for Garth (and the memory of having had those feelings directed at her).

I try to strike a balance between telling too much and not enough; I prefer to leave Imra's words for Garth unspoken at present.

More great stuff, Candy! Glad you're so inspired.

I've been on the road, but will add more sections soon.

Ah... that is what you were doing.

Kee 'em coming!

Well, when you have some free time ofcourse

Three Hundred and Ninety-six

“The hag was right about one thing. You and Mordru are conspiring against me, aren’t you, Thora? You hold no trust nor respect in me, your liege. You have offered nothing but ill counsel on this entire trip,” Rokk charged.

The barge upon Glastonbury lake was now approaching, and the priestess would soon take leave of him. There was no longer opportunity for any nocturnal backstabbing or spellcraft, so Rokk felt safe making time to have words.

“I have no love for you, my liege. But I do not work against you. My only contact with Mordru has been to help him in his quest to find the real Mysa. I thought that our quest as well. If I am less cordial than other priestesses, perhaps my experiences with the ways of men have left me so.”

“The hag blames you for Mysa’s disappearance. I’m not convinced she was wrong.”

A feigned expression of hurt appeared on Thora’s face. “My liege! You do me a wrong! She was my friend, a fellow priestess!”

“Know this,” Rokk said with all the intensity he could muster. ‘If Azura did not trust and value you so, I would have no problem seeing you donjoned for questioning. You know things you do not say; of that I am certain. That I cannot place trust in what you do say, I am also certain. I have been glad to be an ally of Avalon and its Priestesses under Azura and Kiwa. I do not believe that good will could possibly continue if you ever become Lady of the Lake, my ‘lady.’”

Then mayhap a new king is in order, she thought, but did not say. But the barge was now almost within earshot and more than she feared the king, she feared her reputation among the other priestesses.

“I… swear upon the great mother goddess Ceridwen and the crone Cailleach, taker of life, that you shall have naught to fear from me. I pledge by the gods of all Britain that no harm shall come to you by my hand. So may I perish!” With the last, she slashed her arm, and let her blood cover the knife blade, first one side, then the other. She wrapped the bloody blade in a cloth and presented it to the king, before tending to her own wound.

Rokk knew enough of Avalon to take the vow seriously, and Thora already regretted vowing so much, made just on the account of the approaching priestesses. Mordru will just have to handle the whelp-king without me.

Three Hundred and Ninety-seven

He awoke with a start, and found his limbs numb from disuse.

The rattle of surprise that escaped his throat must have been louder than the raspy cough it sounded like. Maidens rushed to his aid and surrounded him, checking his wounds and asking him a deluge of questions his still-struggling voice could not keep up with. They forced their elixirs and salves into and onto him, and to their credit the spasming pains of his brokenly awakened flesh soon ebbed. He was almost afloat inside of a calm, cool, herbally fragrant coating and massaging.

It was night; of that he was certain. The cool air, the maidens entering by candlelight, the harmony of the unseen insect choir outside… he was safe, and he could resume his slumber…

Morning came with lances of sunlight piercing his hut. He could slowly make out the structure; it was newly, hastily built. Or perhaps it was deliberately built to allow airs to more readily weave through his sick-bed chamber. The many openings in the hut were covered with un-dyed embroidered cloth of patterns he had seen before – he was in the care of the Priestesses of Avalon. The realization both pleased him and scared him – he had spent far too many lifetimes trapped in Avalon as it was, and he preferred to spend little enough time there. But Avalon held the Cauldron of the Gods, the artifact that would speed his remedy. And probably had already.

He rested easily that morning, and the maidens came early to offer a thin fast-breaking soup to tame the hunger that roared within his innards. He had presumed to have slept but weeks, as it seemed like no more than late spring, but he had seen the Priestesses apply such a regiment of foodstuffs before – he must have slept far longer than he’d believed.

“H-how long?” he managed at last. The maiden, who almost looked Khundish, just smiled shyly and retreated from the hut without a word.

Later that morning, a familiar face appeared at the entry to his hut.

“Brother Jan! Verily it is good to see you!”

“Not half as good as it is to see you awakened at last, my friend. Welcome back to the land of the living, Sentanta Mac Kell.”

Three Hundred and Ninety-eight

“Beren ages. The Druids will be ready for a fresh leader,” Errol pled.

Norack entertained the idea. After nearly nine months since the young Druid had freed a Circle initiate, he was still not trusting of the man – there was too much knowing of Rokk’s court the man had been unable to reveal.

Norack had initially considered Errol to be an unwitting spy for the crown – perhaps bespelled, even. But more and more the likelihood that this Errol really was an unobservant, well-meaning oaf seemed credible.

“You have helped us on many simple tasks, young Errol. It is time for you to prove your worth, if you really wish to be a priest in the Circle of the New Moon.”

“What would you have me do? I am most willing.”

Norack stood and paced. “Beren’s best hope is the lad from the North Isle… Rowan.” Seeing the young Druid’s confusion, he restated. “L’ile, he is known at court.

“Some say he is dead, since not long after the Glorious Day of Darkness – the very day so many like you have seen quite correctly as a sign from the gods to ally with the Circle. Some say he has returned, but remains in hiding. Find him. Either bring him here as a recruit, or make certain he cannot succeed Beren at all.”

Norack handed the man a bundle of cloth, Unwrapping it, Errol found a crystalline dagger.

“It will prevent Rowan from hiding from you,” Norack continued. “The very last survivor of Mona crafted it with his dying breath.” Norack grabbed the hand with which Errol held the blade. “Honour him. Honour us. Honour yourself--”

“Honour Mona,” Errol interrupted with a rueful smile.

Holding the blade, he could well hear the voices of those martyred Druids who were slaughtered by Romans on that isle so many generations ago.

Errol well recalled his conversations with L’ile. As fellow young Druids, he was privy to many things the rest of the court was not – yet never once had his friend and peer told him his real name. The hurt was lessened by the importance of his mission – and he rode northeast for Perilous Forest.

Three Hundred and Ninety-nine

Laoraighll tossed and turned, weaving in and out of consciousness. It pained her forbear to see her in such agony, and it seemed even worst those fleeting moments where she achieved awareness of self and her company.

“She fares far better now than when ere she first arrived,” Jan assured him. “I have faith she will recover in the coming months.”

“What ails her? Why hast the Cauldron not been sent for?”

“Since the Khund war, a strange dog plague has afflicted all the land. Few hounds have survived. We fear that just as you two were affected by the Khunds dog-blood war-paint, so too do you succumb to the pox.”

“All the lands?” MacKell was sickened to again be a prisoner here in Avalon, if this plague again made all the lands beyond his reach. When – if – he could again roam the world, he would no longer be content merely to remain in Britain.; he knew well how wide the world truly is.

“Aye. And the Grail… the Cauldron… is missing. A Josephite brother named Pelles has taken it on some unknown quest.”

“And he shall return it yet? Certain art thou that he is no thief, or bespelled by some fiend?”

“He is son of King Pellam, father of Queen Imra, and an elder among the Brethren for many a year,” Jan replied. “No-one has found the reason for his departure. Genni searches for him.”

MacKell sat in silence as he contemplated his exile in the mystical realm of Avalon. Seven islands, four holy orders, and the cave in which he was once a prisoner; this was his world, for as long as the plague ran its course.

Jan realized his need for solitude, and left the Ulster knight, who was gently squeezing the hand of his ailing kinswoman.

Four Hundred

King Urien looked up expectantly at the portal, hoping his messenger had returned from Londinium with good news. He disliked relying on High King Rokk to solve his feud with the upstart, young and inexperienced King Domangart of Dalraida, but did not want to shatter the peace for which his liege had worked so hard with rash retaliation.

As he sat in his gardens, enjoying the ebbing September summer day, he looked out over the mountains that marked his northern border. Rhyged was a land of green mountains, in which his people had eked every fertile acre of every valley possible into farmland. The harvests were proceeding nicely, and he had no wish to pull the young men away to fight the Scots – not when both nations should be reading their men for a winter war against the Franks.

The portal failed to produce a messenger, no matter how many times he looked toward it. Frustrated, he left the garden to walk the orchard path down to the village.

As he walked, he heard the sound of a harp. Was a Druid, a bard, visiting? Or had some noble chosen, like him, to appreciate the beauty of his lands and escape the walls whilst the weathers still allowed?

He left the path to seek out the harper. He was not surprised to see that the player was a woman; the music had a feminine flair to it. She wore flowing white robes, and her head was turned downward toward the harp. He saw not her face but her rich, thick head of red hair, with few but well-placed braids and ribbons. It reminded him of-

“Hello, my love,” the woman said. It was a voice that paralysed him, a voice he knew and missed.

No words found voice within him. It was struggle enough to remind his heart to beat.

“No words of greeting?” Even if Urien was not already captivated, the sultry melody of her voice would have ensnared him anew.

Could it be a trick? No, as soon as she turned her head, he knew her – she was still as young and beautiful as he remembered, those dozen years ago.

“I-I greet you, my love, my lady,” he finally managed. “You are most welcome in my kingdom. O-Our son is a fine lad, already a great knight,” he told her.

She nodded as she set down her harp. She seemed to float, not walk, toward him, and embraced him in what felt like a wind of silk. “I am gratified. Perchance we should have another.”

“Mayhap we should wed,” he said. “Y-you are the king’s own-” Her fingers to his lips stopped the thought.

“Were we not already wed, beneath a sky of the brightest stars? Come, my love. Let us… reacquaint where we shall not be bothered.”

The woman found Urien too easy a sport to fully enjoy. But he was a useful pawn in what must come next.

Four Hundred and One

Mysa brushed her stark white hair in the mirror, reprimanding herself for sleeping away the prior day. There was much to be done, and she could not afford to nap like the old woman she seemed to be whilst others did her work for her.

Aivillagh’s queries had led to the same result; a smattering of impersonators had been reported over the past seven months.

Apparently it took a full year for the charlatans of Britain to realize she’d even been missing.

Tenzil had disliked being tricked into traveling to Exeter on what had turned out not to be King Rokk’s orders. But Accolon had proved to be right – the loyal beefeater had become convinced that Mysa was Mysa after all. He too recalled the scornful words that her half-brother had shouted at her, and felt responsible for being a less-than-convincing intermediary when Mysa attempted to contact Rokk at Sir Brandius’ villa those weeks ago.

Coming down to Duke Aivillagh’s parlour for fast-breaking, Mysa learned that Apollo (it was still hard not to think of him as Dyrk) had returned late last night.

Presently he was telling her allies of his talks with the court.

“King Rokk had ridden north to encourage conscripts for the Frankish war,” he was telling things they had already heard. “I met with Queen Imra and Azura, the Lady of the Lake. Both were truly aghast at the idea that the court or Avalon were failing to uphold the Olde Ways.”

Accolon was overcome with dread. “I hope you did not accuse-”

“No, no, no.” Apollo grinned. “Queen Imra hopes to build better bonds with the more tolerant of Christians, and has proposed that Brother Jan start a sect on the Isle of Heath.”

“Blasphemy!” Aivillagh blurted.

Mysa liked Jan, but felt the proposal to be an intrusion. “Did you dissuade her?”

“Aye, I think I have. Azura pledged to keep a stricter eye on Thora, and to call all the nobles who adhere to the Olde Ways to gather at Avalon, that we may redress allegiances to one another.”

“Verily, it has been too long!” Aivillagh was in his glee. “In the olden days, nobles did this each year. But then the Romans-

“But I am lecturing. Continue, Apollo.”

“Both Imra and Azura are concerned with Rokk. Imra, whose gifts of the mind magicks offer a unique view of the situation, believes Rokk himself wrestles with something within him. She knows not what to do about him.”

“I know how she feels,” Mysa shivered, and told the group her own fears and suspicions – and her proposed remedy.

“But what of Mordru?” Accolon chimed in.

“Azura wants to meet with you, my Lady Mysa, ere she accuses her aide of any wrong-doing. If it is pleasing to you, I can arrange-”

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of combat. Rushing out to the square behind the others as quickly as her aged bones would allow, Mysa arrived to find Aivillagh’s Northman Sugyn pinning Sir Garth. Accolon had rushed into the fray as well, and intercepted Garth’s would-be savior – Carolus!

Four Hundred and Two

MacKell walked the six islands like a caged beast pacing at the bars, looking for any gap through which his head was wide enough to escape the bars.

He had long since caught up on old news – he and the others had been successful in besting the great serpent Jormangund, and he was quite pleased. Death would have been a satisfactory price to pay, but imprisonment seemed far worse a fate.

Pleased he was of the eviction of the Nuhorran/Macedonian occupiers. He would have liked to have aided the effort – and to aid the coming war. Yet here he was a prisoner again.

He walked all the isles. And re-walked them. He discovered the remnants of an encampment on the Isle of Heath, overlooking the Brethren Isle. None knew whose camp it was, or where its originator had gone. MacKell’s enhanced senses told him a woman had stayed there, but Thora denied any Priestess could have, and none would accuse a Teacher of a false denial.

He helped with the harvest and the fishing, but these too brought little relief from his sense of enclosure. He helped tend to Laoraighll, who little by little did seem to be improving.

The harvest season ebbed and news came in from outer Britain that even many young pups who had previously avoided the plague were now whimpering and bloating. MacKell grimaced. He would find no freedom before winter; that much was clear.

Each time he walked the isles, he walked closer and closer to the seventh isle, the one every voice admonished him not to venture to. Some islands were connected by short bridges, some by marshy paths, and some by stepping-stones. In other places, one could wade through shallow waters from one isle to another. The Forbidden Isle, a hill almost always cloaked in mists, abutted none of the others. It always seemed a quarter-mile away from the three northernmost islands, and the same rocky peninsula on that distant isle seemed to always point towards the viewer, no matter where in the archipelago one stood.

Frustrated and feeling cornered, MacKell picked up his spear, the ancient, magickal Spear of Victory, one of the very treasures Laoraighll had first brought to court. In a fit of anger, he hurled the spear at the mysterious isle before him.

He watched it make landfall, onto a stony black beach none but he could see with clarity. In the channel between that shore and the place where he stood, the waves of presently grew rougher; the clash of the fiercest of these waves clashed into a frothy seam that slowly reached from the shore in front of the spear to the one in front of his feet. Out of the froth slowly rose a stony causeway, a land-bridge of interlocking hexagonal stones not unlike those which the British knights had seen on the Ulster shore. This new causeway was wide enough for a man to walk upon, so he did.

If the Forbidden Isle welcomes me, who am I to refuse?

Four Hundred and Three

Rokk was annoyed by yet another Mysa sighting – this time by a vital vassal king of a vital northern kingdom. He had settled the feud with the Scots – for now – and acquired recruits from all the northern lands. Even battered Lothian was eager to contribute, if only to vent its ire at being so helpless before Jormangund. If Pharoxx’s naval preparations were ready, Rokk could well attack Neustria before Yule.

Rokk permitted himself a brief rest in Rhyged, and hoped to ride with the first of the southbound armies. But he hoped not to hear of its king belabouring about his visions of his own sister.

“My father has a single weakness – for my mother,” Ywaine explained. “None but her sorcery can distract him from duty and kingdom.”

Rokk liked the young knight – more of a fighter at 10, and now 12, than he had been at his first battle at 14. “You really think it is her? Your mother?”

“I would know not. I have no memories of her. But I do known that father believes it to be her. Your sister, Mysa.”

“She would have been very young to be mother to you,” the king said.

“As so you say, my liege. I approve not of her, nor the witchery she is said to hold to her heart.”

“My sister was a Priestess of Avalon. In their own way, they are as pious as we Christians.”

“So you say. But it seems very ungodly to me. If you mind not me saying, my king.”

Rokk nodded. “This world carries more to it than any single philosophy, I have found, no matter what the priests may say.”

Ywaine’s father joined them presently “I regret, my liege, that your sister could not join us for our evening meal. She misses your company dearly.”

“I am certain she does,” Rokk said diplomatically. Either King Urien’s Mysa was a fraud or a phantasm – and Rokk had his fill of both.

Pity the next false ‘Mysa’ I chance upon.

Four Hundred and Four

Taliesin would have rather attended to his students, but more and more the fears Cador gave voice to could not be avoided.

While he and the other Teachers preferred to let the rest of Avalon tend to their own affairs, Azura’s grip on the Priestesses was waning, none could deny. Mysa had vanished, and treachery by a Priestess was likely. The camp that the Ulster knight found suggested someone was keeping something secret – but what, here, of all places? This was Avalon, not some tawdry Frankish court!

To make matters worse, the answers that had been found ailed his heart as well. Young Zoe had confirmed that the spirit of the Bear-King dwelt in the high king’s heart – but which truly held sway? Sorcery had brought the great serpent to Britain, yet no trace of Medb could be found. Against the avalanche of ill omens, even Cador’s claim that dear Imra, beloved pupil of all the Teachers, was in league with the zealots of the one-god could not lightly be dismissed.

The Teachers had listened, and had taken their time to reach a consensus. Cador, who never was one for the full deliberative process, had left for Cornwall in frustration. And now that his peers needed him, he was not here.

But just as the Teachers approached a point of action…

A causeway suddenly opened to the Forbidden Island. An unprecedented event in all the centuries since Avalon was severed from the outer world.

Was it a good omen, or an ill one? It was enough to put the Teachers back into more weeks of deliberations, but even Taliesin was approaching the point of shouting “enough!”

But still the Teachers talked. And talked. And talked.

Four Hundred and Five

Mordru surveyed the small pile of stones.

“That is it? That is all that is left?”

“Aye,” Marla told him. “The Romans wanted no trace at all of Boudacea or her rebellion. It took the greatest amount of stealth for her surviving followers to erect even this cairn.”

“And this leads to the Forbidden Isle?” Iason asked, unmindful of Mordru’s gaze, a look that silently shouted, “Silence!”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Marla lied, amused by the assumption. Suddenly he felt less culpable about being coerced by his one-time liege. “All I know is that it was a route to Avalon, but has not been used since Boudacea herself collapsed the tunnel.” Marla was not about to provide useful information for the wizard’s mysterious scheme when he could ramble on about old lore any local villager could recite.

Mordru surveyed the ground, patiently probing the ground all around the cairn. “There are passageways below.”

“How can you be certain?” Iason asked, earning laughter from both his companions.

“I am surprised you asked, as you bore witness to so much, Twas Mordru who gained the confidence of Vortigern by warning him of the dragon that dwelt below his own castle,” Marla reported.

“Iason remembers little, I fear,” Mordru countered. “For his own wits, I say tis for the best.”

The trio headed back for Londinium. Mordru shushed many of Iason’s inquiries until Marla parted, else too many ears begin to glean the pieces of his designs.

Mordru kept a low enough profile in Rokk’s capital, he hoped. Yet the evening before he and Iason were to depart, he found a dour-hearted Sir James waiting at his door.

Four Hundred and Six

“Dyrk is both descendent of Apollo, and also Apollo himself. Potentially speaking,” Regulus shouted, so as to be heard through the rain. “The liturgy of my order tells us our god can and does incarnate among us from time to time. And all the signs, since years before Dyrk’s birth, made it clear that he would be the last great incarnation of this age.”

Rokk considered himself lucky to encounter the Apollonian priest who was also journeying south, after spending the entire summer in Lothian and Pictland. The priest had been among those who had scoured the sea-shores and gathered Andrew’s metal bones for burial on the Caledonian coast, at the shrine of his death, Sinn Andrew.

Regulus was both pleased to hear of Dyrk’s survival, but totally a-fluster at the news from the south of a Dyrk aglow like the sun itself calling himself Apollo. “In truth, it could be the culmination of all my hopes. Yet all my prophesies have fallen like shards around me.”

“You once wanted Dyrk to be high king,” Rokk said pointedly.

“Once. But my greatest failing was both that I recognized yet failed to interpret the will of my god. Now I merely hope to see where the path leads, rather than pretend to lead that path. I… am nearing the end of my priestly duties, I fear.”

Rokk, Regulus and the Rhyged army passed through Cumbria, where the king was perturbed that no progress had been made on raising an army.

King Wynn has been delayed in the south yet again, the castellan told him – just has he’d been told the same weeks ago.

“James should have been sent for!” the king scolded the official. “Summon your nobles. I will instruct them, if the family of Cumbria is so unwilling! If Wynn hadn’t been such a staunch ally in the past, I vow I would carve up this kingdom to-day!”

Rokk had the army fed as he took the extra day among the nobles. With the young king’s growl came the pledge of a thousand men within the week.

Four days further south, just outside of Deva, Rokk learned that Sir Garth and others were apparently captives of Duke Aivillagh – who had proclaimed himself vassal of the queen of Cornwall – yet another of those posing as Mysa. Dyrk/Apollo was also of their number, it seemed.

The army changed course for the road to Corinium and the southwest coast.

Four Hundred and Seven

“I believe it not.” Garth would not even look her in the eye.

“You, who used to beg to wed me. You, who was blessed by the gods with thine arm. You, for whom I would make puppets for you to play soldier as a little boy, when Kiwa sent for you. LOOK at me! Tell me you see me not!”

Garth slowly turned, as if the very sight of the old woman would turn him to stone. “I see an old woman, who I’ll wager learned many a secret from the queen she may have murdered, for all I know. I’ll not be a party to your magicks at all.” He spoke quietly but with a simmering anger, and turned his head back.

After a long quiet she spoke again. “Jancel. It’s her, isn’t it? You will not give me even the satisfaction of my ear because of her.”

Garth spoke not a word, but merely tugged at his bonds as best he could.

“I truly am sorry,” Mysa said. “I, who for so long vowed not to manipulate as Kiwa did me, did just the same to you and her.” She let out a sob. “You must be quite pleased with the curse now upon me.”

“I am pleased of little, more and more. If you so repent what you did to Jancel and I, then why did you so transform Dyrk?”

So he did accept who she was!

“I did nothing to Dyrk.”

“Liar! You, who always spoke of men as gods. Now Dyrk thinks he is one, too!”

“I am not so all-powerful that I cause all changes and miseries in this world, Garth. Plenty transpires well without me.”

“What other deeds have you done?”

“What?”

“You hinted oft, when we were lying together, of things you had done for which you held shame. I… would hear them, then. Until then, tell me not what you didn’t do, for I shall assume you did all else.”

Four Hundred and Eight

Laoraighll stepped outside of her hut for the first time on a chilly October morning, but it would be three days before she could walk farther than a nearby bench that Jan had built.

On that third day, she made it down to the water’s edge, and sat meditatively looking out on the misty lake. In the distance she could hear the priestess’ barge rowing the waters on their way to Glastonbury’s shore in the outer world.

Jan joined her not long after her arrival, bringing warmed broth and moistened bread, which she devoured quickly.

“Lar’s gone, isn’t he? He hasn’t come to see me in more than a week.”

“Aye. He was growing quite melancholy being trapped here in Avalon. We are fairly certain he went to the Forbidden Isle.” He opted not to tell her of the causeway, for fear she might attempt something ill-advised herself.

“What other news? Tell me something more pleasant.”

“Azura and the Teachers have sent Thora on a quest. The young maidens are quite pleased to see the Lady back in charge after spending so much time traveling with the Queen this past year.”

“What else?”

“Aivillagh has claimed the crown of Cornwall for an old woman he claims is the rightful monarch there. King Marcus is apparently riding to challenge him.”

Laoraighll scoffed. “Sounds like two madmen to me.”

Jan chuckled. “Prince Pharoxx is quite irate. The Franks have imprisoned his sister, or so tis said, and no-one at court deigned to tell him.”

“Zounds!”

“Aye. Well, Rokk should be back from the north soon, and set him a-right. Or re-align him toward the Frank, rather than his own men.”

“Ha! I would be surprised not at all if Pharoxx does not start the war without Rokk!”

“Aye,” Jan said. “That does not seem unlikely, does it?”

Four Hundred and Nine

“I apologize for your captivity. You are free to go,” Aivillagh told Garth, Tenzil and Carolus.

“For what hast this all been a-foot?” Carolus demanded.

“You and Sir Garth attacked my court. Had you but asked for fealty, you would have been made more than welcome,” the duke explained. “I have no wish to feud with the high court. But nor do I entertain knights who behave like brigands!” For a brief second, Aivillagh looked so red and angry that Carolus could imagine him sprouting horns.

“Tis my guess that King Rokk’s entire army is about to bear down on you and you think you can avoid the spanking you deserve,” Garth taunted.

“Such a thought is quite unseemly for a nobleman, Sir Garth. As a son of a Lady of the Lake yourself, you would be better served making amends with those of kindred hearts.”

“I am no kindred to you!”

“Both of you! Cease you quarrel!” Mysa had enough.

“I merely came because I distrusted your ‘sun-god.’ Keep him away from court, and I shall quarrel with either of you no more.” He couldn’t resist one last stab at Mysa. “I hope you accept your curse as justice for all your wrongs, my lady. Kiwa would be proud of you.”

The three men left Exeter upon horses, Garth upon his own and the others upon gifts of the duke.

“That really was Mysa?” Carolus asked, once they were well out of the city.

“Aye, it was,” Tenzil replied. Garth offered no denial. His companions soon found he was of no humour for jest or even conversation as they rode.

At that evening’s camp, Garth resolved to stop blaming his wife for Mysa’s deeds against them both. He also wondered to himself, for the first time, if his own avoidance of Jancel was a weakness akin to the very one Mysa saw in him – when she sought to separate him from the Queen. Would we really have fared so well, Imra? Would we not have found our embrace whence you learned of Rokk’s Pictish bastard?

He liked his companions well enough, but these were no Sirs Thom or James or even Jonah to share confidences with.

The campfires burned low. Garth stared long into the night at the dancing embers. They were easier tormentors than thoughts or dreams were of late.

He was unused to making his camp along this stretch of the Exeter road – this close to the sea on an open plain. Only the gentle hills shielded the winds. Alone, he could have likely made it halfway to Glastonbury, had he the motivation to do so – yet this trio was scarcely one-quarter of that distance.

Garth figured roughly the number of days this trip should take, given his fellowes’ lesser experience on horseback. It would be a lonely journey, all the more so with the weight his reunion with Mysa had laid upon his heart. A long voyage indeed…

But the next day, word from the king would halt their voyage, and they would begin their return to Exeter much sooner than any of the three had expected.

Four Hundred and Ten

Errol had ridden the western periphery of Perilous Forest several times, but found no trace of his quarry. Out of sheer desperation he visited a lone cabin, almost as invisible as L’ile himself. Only a Druid would recognize the deliberate and skillful placement of foliage that both disguised the house and also looked to less observant eyes as nothing unordinary from the rest of the woodlands, meaning only a Druid had planted them.

Errol called out to the cabin, but yielded no response. He walked around it, and seeing no-one, he entered and called again. Again, no response. Lacking options, he set himself down in plain site and began playing his wood-flute, hoping in his heart not to attract the dread ogre Validus said to lurk these woods.

After less than an hour, he stopped, and lied back, studying the forest canopy. Soon, he felt like he was being watched.

“You’re Errol. You’re a Druid,” said a boy of about 10 or so.

Errol was impressed with the lad’s silence, but to live in Perilous Forest, one would have to be. “Yes, I am, he replied. And who are you?”

“My friend told me all about you,” the boy continued. “He knows a lot about everything.”

“Who is your friend?” Errol asked. “Is he a Druid like me? Can I see him?”

“I’m Peredur,” the boy said. “And I’m going to be a great knight someday.”

“You are NOT!” said an unpleased matronly voice behind him. Turning, he saw a quite peeved middle-aged woman pacing directly at them. “Go inside at ONCE!” she ordered the boy.

“State your business,” she demanded of Errol.

“I mean you nor your son any harm. I am looking for a Druid named L’ile. Or Rowan.”

“Are we here for your amusement, then? My son tells you of his imaginary friend, and now you must share in the jest? I did not chase my son to halfway to Cornwall and disabuse him of his foolish dreams of knighthood just for every foul forest-wanderer to mock me! Go, for the sake of all that is virtuous, just GO!”

Errol left, but encamped nearby. L’ile – Rowan – was nearby! His quest was nearly over.

Four Hundred and Eleven

Luornu felt as if she had been naught but the complete fool.

She had long ago ceased to be Dyrk’s paramour, and sought instead to seduce him to the banner of Iesous. But then he had seemingly died – like Andrew – and how she mourned them both! But now Dyrk had returned as a some sort of pagan devil, a false god, and she had given in to him with a will – nay, a lust – that was barely her own.

Even worse, she had not only taken him to bed, but her sister had come along too! Could that not be a sin without parallel? Was this not her punishment for defying the will of God, as revealed to her by the matron at Glastonbury? Had she not been so proud and willful to think that she knew better? But now she knew the fallacy of her ways. Wretched, cursed peasant girls are not in God’s good graces, nor true ladies of good lineage, simply because they associate with real nobles. Surely Laurentia’s death was also a clue she had been too proud to see for what it was.

As fondly as Luornu thought of Father Marla, he was far too lenient on sin, and espoused forgiveness more than he did repentance. So many times he had forgiven her, yet time and again she had fallen back into sin. Luornu prayed for a sign, and the next morning she learned that Sir James was bound for Exeter with a company of men! Surely it was the Lord’s doing – bestowing upon her yet another chance she deserved not. It took little coaxing for James to agree to see her to Glastonbury along his route.

Her friendship with so many pagan ladies and knights… her acceptance of the queen’s own sorcerous ways… all had led to no good at all. And her own sharp tongue (how like dear Laurentia she had become of late!) had almost gotten her excommunicated!

No more. She would seek forgiveness and repentance among those whose counsel she should have been following all along.

Four Hundred and Twelve

James’ troop arrived at Exeter unprepared to see the sprawl of northern armies encircling it. For a moment, the knight thought the Franks had seized it and Rokk was re-taking it. But there was no siege, although some of the men seemed to expect one.

His heart was heavy, and he had none to unload it onto. If he could muster the courage, he would speak his ills to his liege.

Once inside the city walls, he saw Garth arguing with Dyrk/Apollo. But Carolus interrupted the new arrival’s observance of that quarrel, and the jester informed him that King Rokk was awaiting him at Aivillagh’s castle.

“Sir James,” Rokk greeted him almost as an after-thought. “I need you to ride to Cumbria at once and gather the armies I requested.”

“I shall gather the nobles and-”

“-That has been done, by me. You merely need to follow up. I want them here before Yule.”

“Here? Not Portus Magnus?”

“Must all my decisions be questioned?” Rokk was not of a good temper – again. “Everyone expects Portus Magnus to be the launching point, because it always is. Let us give the Franks something they expect not – if that meets your approval?” The sarcasm was not lost on the knight.

“You look as if you want to say something else. What is it?” Rokk said with more annoyance than interest.

“T’is nothing, my liege,” he said, exiting. “Nothing at all.”

No burdens would be let loose to-day; the king was clearly of no mind to hear his ills.

Outside, James briefly encountered Garth, who chastised him for his ill hunour of late. “Let us find you a maiden to get your heart back in place,” he slurred, already several pints into the evening – and it was only afternoon.

“Aivillagh has re-pledged loyalty to King Rokk,” Garth told him. “Rokk stays loyal to Avalon, and Exeter aids the war. Not so much as a ‘sorry for imprisoning your best knight, or seducing another with magicks.’”

James abandoned Garth to his cups, and walked the narrow city streets in search of peace. He was rather surprised to see Rokk himself, dressed as a common knight, summon him to a side alley with far kinder words than the king had used of late.

“Pray tell, do you recognize this lady?” his summoner asked.

It was an older woman, yet one vaguely familiar. As he stared in part confusion, she began a slight smile that gave her away.

“My Lady Mysa! T’is a wonder I have recognized you!” his joy was genuine; certainly she of all people could aid him, where even Mordru would not!

“T’is a wonder indeed, as so few have done so,” she replied. “Pray tell, can you help us escape this city?”

“Since when does the high king and his sister need to-”

His thought was cut short as his summoner’s face had shifted into a visage he knew not.

“Reep?”

Four Hundred and Thirteen

“What did she want?” Rokk continued his interrogation of his host.

“She wanted to remove the curse of agedness upon her person, to reunite with you, her brother, and to resolve any ill will ‘twixt your court and herself,” Aivillagh replied. “Having failed with Sir Brandius, I confess it was my idea to restore her claims to Cornwall, that if her people accepted her, you might come around as well.”

“But now she has fled.”

“Aye. She heard you threaten harm, ere you look upon her, that her life would end.”

Rokk fumed. He had said those words, when he believed her a fraud. The bear inside him rebelled against his regret; it needed a new target.

“It is said King Marcus rides here to make war on you for pledging loyalty to Mysa.”

“He will have a lonely ride. My allies have already stripped him of his troops. They still ride here, but for your war effort.”

“How so?”

“Mysa’s presence this summer has done much to remove the last vestiges of Geraint’s leadership. The people of Cornwall – her Cornwall – crave a leader of the olde line – not Marcus, not Gorlois, but a true descendant of Llir. Even Geraint’s blood was not as good as Mysa’s. Or yours, but the people of Cornwall are jealous – they want their own monarch, not just a high king of their lineage.”

“There is more you say not,” the high king gleaned.

“Aye. Suffice to say, you will only hold Cornwall and the southeast with your sister’s blessing – and she has endorsed a requirement I expect of you for that to happen.”

“YOU… require…?!?” The bear within Rokk growled loud.

“We support you in this war without condition. But continued support beyond this – and we both know there will be more wars, Khunds if none other – shall require a demonstration. Bear-King you may be, but many of the Olde Ways need to know that you are still the man we coronated in your heart of hearts. A man loyal to Avalon, as your father Uther pledged for his line to come.”

Rokk was angry enough to run the man through, there and then. But promises to underlings were made to be broken – if even the good duke even survives the coming war.

Tempted Rokk was to inform Aivillagh that it was Ambrosius, not Uther, who had made the pledge to Avalon… Or had he? Was Rokk mis-recalling Mordru’s words, so long ago? Which of the three brothers had made the pledge? Ambrosius, Uther… or Mordru himself?

“Very… well…” Rokk heard himself slowly saying, choosing his words with as much precision as his suddenly racing heart could muster. “But to make such a demand of one’s liege is not to be done lightly. I require something of Avalon as well.”

Four Hundred and Fourteen

“I am pleased that your journey was successful,” Cador beamed as he bowed. “T’is good to see you, my queen.”

The early autumn evenings on the Tintagel coast were a delight. With only a slight chill in the air, the two nobles could comfortable walk and talk privately along the rocky shore, and return when they needed warmth to the fire pits where servants were roasting a pig to feed the visiting monarch. The smell of roasting apples and spices competed with the briny smell of the sea out along the cliff-top path.

“I fear I cannot be your queen just yet,” the beautiful young woman before him said, “else southern Britain is again at its own throat.”

“But my vile kinsman Geraint’s name no longer commands the respect it one held. It is safe. All is well.” Cador knew well that only his distant kinship to Geraint was why he and he alone had been able to smooth the waters between Marcus and the nobles who had stood with the would-be usurper.

“No. Even if Cornwall is mollified by Mysa’s words, the Summer Country and beyond are not. Meleagant was Geraint’s man, and he hath no love for us.

“Marcus will not go quietly, and too many will remember my love as his slayer, too. We cannot let Meleagant use us to divide this land, for him to become the next Geraint.”

“What do we do? Who shall rule Cornwall? Until Rokk and Mysa settle their feud-”

Cador’s guest shushed him with two gentle fingers to his lips. “There is much I must tell you, and we must pray all unfolds as it must. You stepped in as but a temporary peacemaker, tis true. But Cornwall is not yet done with you, I fear.”