Excalibur Rising--Book Four, page 12
part #4 of Four Series
A shadowy figure hovered in the still air between Dristan and Ryan. Merlin! No one spoke but she had the sense of an argument played out without sound. She felt Dristan’s resistance but Merlin’s words were intended for Ryan.
“Dristan is to be tested and all of Albion with him. It begins now. The sword must go.”
Merlin’s voice reached out to her from beyond the cave, sounding like a thunderclap in her ears. “Now do you understand?”
She dropped Ryan’s hand. His anxious voice was at the very edge of her consciousness. “What is it?”
“Come alone. Come now.”
She scrambled to her feet. Ryan tried to rise but she pushed him back down. “I have to go alone.”
“Where?”
“To the lake.”
“But—“
“No, he cannot come to you. He can only come to me.”
She went out into the night, threading her way between the pavilions and the sleeping guards. No one stirred, not even the dogs.
She found him at the water’s edge, his body made of clouds and dark water, almost without substance. She was angry and made no attempt at concealment.
“Why have you taken Excalibur? How do you expect the boy to function? Excalibur was his proof.”
“Excalibur was Arthur’s proof.”
His voice in her head troubled her.
“Get out of my head. Speak aloud.”
The water shimmered, the clouds thickened but Merlin’s body remained insubstantial.
“I have not the power. I am holding many things together, I cannot hold this body. “
“What do you want of me?”
“Tell the boy to take up the breastplate of his ancestors; the breastplate of Ambrosius. It will be his protection and his proof. Arthur required the magic of Excalibur but the boy has no such need. The throne is his by right of succession. Let him show the proof of his ancestors.”
“Where will he find this breastplate?”
Merlin was silent and Violet’s anger bubbled to the surface again. “Did you bring me here to tease me with hints and half-truths. If you want Dristan to find the breastplate of his ancestors, tell me where it is.”
She heard a sound that was not in her head. The throat was rusty with disuse, the effort painful, but Merlin was laughing and for a moment he held a solid form, an old man with a pinched nose, and deep dark eyes.
“Tell him to visit his mother. She has waited long enough.”
Violet smiled. “Is that your idea of a straight answer?”
“It is sufficient.”
“I suppose so.”
His form shifted and lost its substance. Droplets of water descended from his finger tips to the lake.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Far Isles: Meleanore
“Molly, take this to Captain Hannon.”
The landlord called her Molly although she was quite sure that Molly was not her name, but if she was not Molly, who was she? She could not say where she had come from or who she had been before she washed up on the beach at Breada City, but she knew she was not a barmaid named Molly. She looked at the bowl with the gobbets of eel meat floating in greasy broth. She was absolutely certain that she had once eaten better food, but she could not say where, or when.
She moved easily among the tables at the City Tavern dodging the grasping hands of guards and sailors as she made her way to the backroom.
“I’m taking Captain Hannon his dinner,” she said and the grasping hands fell away. Although he was a native and not one of the conquering Gauls, Captain Hannon’s name commanded respect.
She carried the tray of eel stew and bread into the back room and the boy with the wandering eye followed behind her with the cider pots. They called him Squinto, but just as she knew she was not Molly, she knew that he was not Squinto.
He had been with her on the beach. She remembered the moment of opening her eyes and finding him beside her. Sometimes his name was on the tip of her tongue; sometimes her own name was also there, just beyond her reach.
Captain Hannon sat alone in the backroom. He was a big man dressed from head to foot in eel skin leather. His grey streaked hair was brushed back from his face and the light from the oil lamps softened his weather beaten features and gave them a ruddy glow. She thought that he had once been handsome but the habit of command had twisted his features into an expression of permanent disapproval. He had the far-seeing light eyes of a man who had stared into the face of the storm time and again and brought his boat and his crew safely back to harbor. He was a man to be relied upon and to be feared but not to be loved.
She set the eel stew down in front of him. He looked up at her and his features softened. This softening was something recent. For a very long time he had either ignored her or treated her with rough impatience, but lately he had been kinder. She mistrusted his kindness.
The pot boy set down the tankard of rough cider. Hannon picked it up and took a long swallow. He cocked his head sideways and tried to meet the boy’s eyes but Squinto’s eyes would not be tamed. One fastened itself fearfully on the captain but the other wandered the room and focused itself beyond the door where the Gaulic guards were meting out some form of punishment to a local fisherman.
“Is that boy your brother?” Hannon asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
He nodded his head. “Ah yes, that’s right. They say you have no memory.”
“None, sir.”
“So the behavior of those guards, the abuse of that unarmed man, has no effect on you?” Hannon asked.
“I think it is cruel, sir.”
“Yes, it is,” Hannon agreed. “Tell me, Molly, is it right that the Gaulic guards should make life so miserable for an honest eel fisherman?”
She hung her head. “I don’t know if it’s right. I don’t know if the people of Breada City have done anything to deserve such treatment. I have no memory before the day that I was washed up on the beach.”
“How many years ago?”
“I don’t know. It may be as many as five years.”
She resented the captain’s questions. They had been asked and answered before. They had been asked by the Gaulic guards, by the Gaulic constables, and by the puppet Breandan governor. Where had she come from? Who was the boy with the wandering eye? Where was their boat?
She had no answers. She knew that she had been washed up on the beach below the city and had opened her eyes to a world in which she knew nothing of her past. It was as though all that had gone before was hidden behind a curtain. Occasionally the curtain stirred and released a flicker of … something … and then it would settle again.
Years had passed and the curtain remained in place. Customers at the City Tavern mocked her saying that she had the manners and refinement of a lady and wondered aloud whether she had learned such manners in a House of Pleasure. The procurers who found women for the occupying forces told her that she could command a high price if she would just “admit her calling.” She refused. The curtain had stirred sufficiently for her to know that she was destined for better things.
She suspected that she was a virgin. Certainly she had not been with a man since she came to the island, and she had no memory of being with a man before that time.
She curtsied. “Will that be all, Captain?”
He gave her a calculating but not unkind look.
“Sit down, Molly, I have something to ask you.”
“I’m not allowed to sit with the customers, sir.”
Squinto sniggered. “You should sit. Might be best for both of us.”
She turned on him. She would take favors from no man, not even the powerful Captain Hannon.
“Be quiet Caerog.”
He stared at her. “What did you say?”
Memory slammed into her and sent her staggering backwards.
A wide river and a man with a wooden leg. She was on board a boat with red sails and she had companions. The two women in blue dresses struck fear into her heart. An old knight and his squire tended to a handful of skittish horses. A dog crouched in the stern and watched the river. A tall slim man with dark hair stared fixedly at the opposite bank. There was another passenger; young and handsome with a mighty sword strapped to his side. And up in the bow a boy with a wandering eye.
The memory was gone in a flash. She was not sure what she had really seen but something settled itself in her mind. Her name was Meleanore.
“Your name is Caerog, my name is Meleanore. I am the Lady of the Far Isles.”
Hannon moved faster than she would have believed possible. The hand he clapped over her mouth was calloused and tasted of sea salt.
“Say nothing.”
Caerog stared at her with his one good eye while his other eye roved around the smoky room. “You made us take the boat out to sea,” he accused. “You wouldn’t turn back, not even when we saw the fog. You made us go on.”
Hannon’s mouth was close to her ear, she could feel the bristle of his beard against her cheek. “Keep your voice down.”
He took his hand from her mouth.
“It’s her fault,” Caerog said. “It’s all her fault.”
The memory slammed into her again and knocked her backward. She felt Hannon’s arms close around her and then all feeling left her. The memories poured over her just as the breaking waves had poured over their sinking craft.
Rain, hail, flashes of lightning and the red sails torn to pieces. She saw the skipper’s terrified expression as a wave swept him overboard. Where were her companions? Oh, yes, she had deserted them and left them to ride on alone while she took the boat to go …where?
Now she was sitting in a chair and Hannon had Caerog by the scruff of his neck. “Be very careful what you say. This is dangerous talk.”
She heard footsteps and the landlord’s voice hushed with suspicion. “What ails her? Does she have the fever?”
Hannon’s hand brushed across her forehead and smoothed her hair. He was surprisingly gentle; not like… not like Mordred.
Hannon removed his hand. “No it’s not the fever. You have no need to fear contagion. You work the girl too hard, that’s all. Leave her here. Let her rest.”
The landlord’s voice came from a great distance. “Rest? That’ll be the day won’t it. That’ll be the day when any of us are allowed to rest. There’ll be no rest while the Gauls rule here.”
Hannon rebuked the man in low tones but to Meleanore his words were no more than a meaningless jumble drowned by the onslaught of memories. It was as though windows that had been nailed shut were suddenly flinging themselves open and she was overwhelmed by the rush of memory.
A dragon hovered in the sky above a ruined castle. She held up a carved token. The dragon blew a hot breath on her hand. She was not the rightful owner of the pendant. He was the owner. He commanded the dragon.”
The memory flashed and retreated into the churning sea of new information. She was dimly aware of Hannon dismissing the landlord. She managed to pick a thin thread of worry from her tangled thoughts. If the landlord dismissed her, where would she go? She had no home here. This was not her place.
Hannon’s face was within inches of her own. His breath smelled of cider but his hair and clothing had a clean scent; a welcome relief from the stink of fish and smoke that hung like a pall over the city.
He was helping her to her feet.
“Can you stand unaided?”
She smoothed her skirts. “Yes, of course I can. Thank you for your kindness. I shall return to work.”
“What about him?” Hannon asked.
Caerog had slumped to the floor. His eyelids were closed but she could see the rapid movement of his eyes behind the closed lids, as though he was watching a scene that only he could see.
He opened his eyes again anxious and unfocused. “Grandmother. What’s happened to my grandmother?”
This is my fault, Meleanore thought. I’m not sure why, but I know it’s my fault. She stepped away from Hannon’s hand and leaned down to pull Caerog to his feet. He was painfully thin. He weighed no more than he had weighed when they were on the boat.
“I’ll take him outside. He needs fresh air.”
Hannon pushed her aside. “Let me.” He picked up Caerog and slung him effortlessly across his shoulder. Meleanore followed him out into the night.
The night air was cold with a strong wind blowing gusts of rain. Meleanore looked up and wished she could see the stars. The cold north wind did nothing to dissipate the smoke and the clinging stench of fish.
A summer night on the road to Camelot and Dristan telling her the names of the stars. Apple blossoms falling like snow.
Travelers from the other Gaulic Dependencies who came to the City Tavern spoke of starry nights in faraway places, but it was a long time since Meleanore had seen the stars.
Hannon strode ahead of her. His eel skin jacket caught the light from the blazing boilers of the central steam plant before he turned into a dark alley.
“Where are you going with him? Put him down. I just wanted to get him some fresh air. I can’t stay out here.”
Hannon propped Caerog up against a wall and put his finger to his lips. “Not so loud.”
“Why?”
Hannon pulled her into the deep shadows of a doorway. “You have spoken words that should not be spoken.”
Meleanore stamped her foot impatiently. Her guardian had tried to cure her of her defiance. Roland of Thornfield.
She glared at Hannon. “Don’t talk in riddles.”
“I’m not the one talking in riddles,” Hannon replied. “You spoke the words.”
“What words?”
“Lady of the Far Isles. Where did you hear this?”
Meleanore’s heart hammered with the truth of it but she kept her voice to a whisper. “I’ve remembered. I know where I came from, I know who I am. I am the Lady of the Far Isles. ”
Somewhere close by a furnace vented a putrid cloud of smoke and steam and a flare of sparks crackled and died in the puddled alley. “Who gave you such a title?” Hannon asked.
Sunlight warmed the stone floor of her mother’s solar and fresh scents of spring wafted in on the warm breeze, and yet her mother huddled by the fire. After a long labor and a bloody delivery, she had given birth to a stillborn son and now she had called for Meleanore to come and sit beside her and take up her embroidery.
“I don’t understand why father left us,” Meleanore said. “If he is not here, how can you make another son?”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “I see that you are growing up. Unfortunately, you don’t seem to be growing in compassion.”
“I’m sorry about the baby,” Meleanore said “but, I am right, aren’t I? If father is not here you cannot make another baby. If he doesn’t return, I will be the heir.”
“Yes, you will.”
“And I will have to marry someone my uncles choose for me.”
“Possibly.”
Meleanore stabbed the needle through though the embroidery linen and watched the red thread make a careless stitch. “That’s not fair,” she complained. ”Father should never have left. Why did he go?”
“It was his duty,” her mother replied. “In every generation we must send one man in search of our homeland. It was your father’s destiny.”
“The servants are saying that he’ll never return.”
Her mother’s face twisted with pain. She had not recovered from her long labor and her hands, accustomed to sewing, were idle in her lap.
“Why must he go to the Far Isles?” Meleanore asked. “We’re happy in Albion aren’t we? We have lands and titles, why do we have to go and look for something that doesn’t exist?”
Her mother’s smile did not quite mask her discomfort. “The Far Isles are your heritage. As I have not given your father a son, you will become the heir. You will be Lady of the Far Isles.”
“Lady of nothing,” Meleanore complained. “There are no islands. Everyone knows that.”
“No, Meleanore, you are wrong. I know that it is a long time since anyone has set eyes on them, but the Far Isles do exist. They are like green jewels in a bright blue sea and they are waiting for our return. The Lord of the Far Isles lives in a fair white palace with turrets that reach up to the clouds. His throne is made of gold, and his crown radiates light that reaches beyond the islands and calls sailors to come ashore and enjoy the abundance of the Far Isles.”
Meleanore stared down at her embroidery. She thought about her father. She knew how much he had loved her and yet he had gone away. He had been convinced that the Far Isles existed; was it her duty to share his conviction? Her future was mapped out for her. She came from a wealthy family, she would make a good marriage, and she would be a woman of substance. She recalled her mother’s description of the Far Isles; such a place was surely worth finding. She set her embroidery aside. Her mother’s words had set a song in her heart that could not be sung within the walls of an arranged marriage.
On that day, the day before her mother succumbed to childbed fever, she made up her mind that she would follow her father. She would find the Far Isles.
The cold wind blew the stench of the fish processing plant into the alley and turned her mind from memories of her mother. A window opened high above them and Hannon pulled her clear of a foul waterfall of slops.
“Do you know where you are?” Hannon asked.
“I think I am in the lowest circle of hell,” Meleanore replied.
“No,” said Hannon. “You are not in hell. You are in the Far Isles.”
Caerog
Caerog opened his eyes and found that he had been left to lean against a wall in the back alley behind the Breada City Tavern. Captain Hannon who had carried him out of the tavern was now fully occupied with Molly…Meleanore…Lady Meleanore who appeared to be having a very unladylike temper tantrum.
Hannon, a man not widely known for his patience, was restraining her with surprising gentleness as she flailed and screamed and tried to run from him. Run where? The memories washing over Caerog told him that neither he nor she had any place to run. They were far from home and had been for some time.
