I threw down what remained of the bow and ran.
Down! Down toward the sea.
The thing was on my heels, propelled by its fury at the savage violation. And I knew it would overtake me soon, for it was faster than I was.
I cleared the forest. Just ahead and downhill was the massive driftwood pile. As I saw it, I felt the creature’s claws on my back. Felt them slip on the armor given to me by my father.
I leaped for the brush pile. This was taking a horrible risk, but no worse than slowing down. If ever there was the devil on one side and the deep blue sea on the other, this was it. The deadwood in the brush pile might give way, sending me down into its depth where broken branches waited like sharpened stakes in a pit, ready to impale me. Or drop me into the deepest part, where I might suffocate under the windblown sand and years of compacted dead leaves.
But somehow, if I wanted to live, I must slow the creature down. I might be its last meal, but meal I would be if I failed.
I landed on the thick trunk of a broken oak, weathered to silver by wind and rain. It held, and I sprang into the air again when I felt the dead tree shudder as the creature landed beside me.
I felt, I swear, its breath on my neck and the claws on my shoulders as it tore away my old shirt.
I gave a fighting yell as I sprang into the air, again to land on a network of broken willow withes. They gave under my weight, but sprang back and didn’t break. I heard my own whoop of delight when I realized the creature wouldn’t be so fortunate.
And indeed, it wasn’t. I was in the air again when I heard the willow branches shatter and the creature’s bellow of fury as it was plunged down into the deadwood.
I aimed for the thick trunk of a decaying log near the bottom of the pile. It was both rotten and slippery. It gave way under my weight, pitching me forward and down.
I rolled to my back just in time to avoid the jutting, broken branches that might have put out my eyes, torn my breasts, and slashed my face to ribbons. As it was, the armor of fairy wasn’t enough to protect me, and I fetched up on the beach, my back torn and bleeding and with deep scratches on my arms and legs. But I no sooner hit the sand than I was on my feet and moving.
Above me, the creature fought to free himself from the tangle that surrounded him. I turned and, heedless of further injuries, thrust my arm into the brush pile, seized a broken branch with my fingers, and thought,
flame!
And I got it.
I had to jump back to avoid the inferno I created. Again, I turned and ran along the beach toward the cove where I had landed and spent the first night. Beyond it, the beach turned rocky, and beyond that, I didn’t know.
I wasn’t fool enough to believe the creature would be killed by the fire. The stuff in that brush pile might make a monstrously hot fire, but it was so dampened by sea fog and rain that it would take some time to fully ignite. And I was pretty sure the thing would manage to free itself before then. So I flew along the beach, running as fast as I could.
And indeed I was right. Halfway to the cove I glanced back in time to see it emerge from the smoke and begin trying to overtake me, running with long, bounding strides.
Oh, but I had marked it. I could see enough to tell that. The magnificent striped yellow and green hide was darkened by soot and smoke here and there. I saw the charred, red black burns on the neck, shoulder, and forearms. Blood sheeted down the thing’s stomach, and it left a trail of it as it ran—big, scarlet splashes on the bright sand.
Well and good, but I was leaving a trail of blood also. And it was bigger and stronger than I ever thought about being. If it was mortally injured, and I hoped it was, did I stand a chance of outlasting it?
When ena woke, her bladder was full and the baby was kicking. She had been thrilled when she felt the first stirring last night, but she knew the joy would probably be succeeded by annoyance. She sat up slowly to find that Cai was already up and, with some of the other men, outside. They were saying their good byes, since most lived hereabouts and would return to their families before attending the court ceremonies Uther would hold at Morgana’s stronghold.
A serving woman brought Ena a towel and some warm water. She washed her face and hands, then brushed her teeth with a twig.
Niamh called that a dream. But Ena didn’t remember it the way she remembered a dream. The touch of the flower petals on her cheek. The aroma they gave off when her fingers brushed them. The taste of clear water. The look of morning beyond the linden tree.
But then when Cai came, it was all gone and she felt a stir of anger that he had awakened her and taken her from such comfort and beauty. A second later, she found herself crying and tried to compose herself before Cai returned.
It was nice she had beautiful dreams, because today was going to be horrible. They must ride to Morgana’s stronghold and bring her the report that Arthur was missing. She hoped Gawain had gone on ahead and prepared the old woman for the bad news.
And then there was the matter of the child. God! Couldn’t anything go right for her/ Couldn’t she do anything right? She knew when her consciousness touched the thing in her womb that it was the wrong sex. She was torn by the sorrow she felt. She loved it and wanted to love it more. But she didn’t dare. It was a girl. And she might find herself abandoned when it was born. Then what would she do? And to her horror, she began weeping.
Cai came in. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Everything! Nothing!” she spat like an angry cat. “Being pregnant! Being sick to my stomach and not able to eat!”
He went to call Niamh, who came and dosed her with something surprisingly good tasting, with mint in it. Then she served her sliced boiled chicken and plain porridge with bread and fresh butter.
When it was time to mount their horses Ena felt better.
Once on the road, she calmed, feeling better than she had in a long time. Now in her mind she was able to analyze the night’s events.
No,
she thought stubbornly.
That was no dream.
The tree had been there, and Cai had pulled her away from a real place. Someone called her, and she had followed the voice.
She had no idea if it was a trap or not. Cai might have thought it was, and Niamh, too. But she was no baby to be soothed by comforting words. What she had seen and experienced while she was there had been real, more real in a way than anything she had known before.
My
child
! she thought. My
child. How can I care for it alone
?
She was trailing the rest, since it was safe here, so close to the Silurian stronghold. No one had bothered to order her to close up with the rest, as they had riding through more perilous lands. Instead, they lazed along, much as she did, enjoying the cool breath that whispered over the forest from the nearby sea and luxuriating in the golden morning. Cai and the men rode in a knot in front of her.
She was chewing over the problem of parenthood, worrying it the way a dog does an old dry bone—thinking that when Cai knew the baby was female he might not want to acknowledge it even as a bastard. Then she saw the rider leave the woods, move easily through the roadside brush, and pace her horse, riding beside her. He was unremarkable looking, dark as many of these people were, and he carried no weapons. This alone surprised her. She knew of no one, man or woman, who went about unarmed. He carried a harp in a case strapped to his back.
Oh,
she thought,
that explains it.
She had heard many times that the poets and singers belonging to these people were sacred and even the vilest brigands would not harm them. For to do so would call down the most damning curses from both gods and men. Those who committed such a crime were as dead to their closest family and friends. Left without shelter, food, or clothing and driven from place to place without mercy until they died. This as much as anything else guaranteed the safety of bards.
She seemed to hear in her mind the trickle of silver notes wrought by the instrument under the player’s skilled fingers. Ena smiled and forgot her worries in the joy of the moment, wondering as she did if he were traveling to Morgana’s stronghold, and if so, might he perhaps sing for them tonight.
She was surprised that no one had greeted him or spoken a word. She caught his eye and smiled as if to make him welcome. He looked wary and increased his pace until he drew slightly ahead of her. But he returned the smile.
Just at that moment the party rode out of the dappled leaf shadows and into a patch of golden morning sun. And Ena saw clearly that the sun shone through him.
Then she began to wonder. Being exposed to the spells Merlin and Igrane wove around themselves; the strange semblance of Arthur that she had broken, revealing the truth. The violent casting out of Merlin’s magic by her and Cai at Gawain’s instigation. The pleasure of it thrummed in her body yet.
She stretched these new, strange senses toward the child. It was fine, enjoying the rhythm of the ambling mare she rode—as much as it was doing anything. It was far from awareness yet and therefore content.
Then she stretched her senses toward the man riding ahead. He was dead, long dead. But he would wake, half wake, from some pleasant dream and try to go home.
Once he had lived nearby, down a road. But he couldn’t find the road; the countryside was greatly changed.
She knew where the road was.
Necromancy, they called it. Only those with a natural talent excelled in it. She had heard both Merlin and Igrane speak about the procedures involved. They roused a sort of horror in her mind. She was not at all prepared for this calm sadness.
He had died loving them and they thought he betrayed them. He had to get back and tell them he hadn’t. Then he could go on with a… ? She wasn’t sure what.
Ena remembered there were questions. Merlin had told Igrane questions you shouldn’t ask the dead. Questions they were forbidden to answer. She didn’t know what they were.
“All right.” She shrugged. She wouldn’t ask him anything.
She prodded her horse a bit, and it drew up next to his. She studied him narrowly. A pleasant enough young man, if you didn’t pay attention to the fact that you could see through him.
He glanced around quickly and then registered surprise. Most can’t see
us.
The words formed themselves in her mind.
I
know,
she answered. She didn’t speak aloud either, not wanting to alarm the men riding with Cai.
But 1 can. The tree is down many winters. Lightning struck it in a storm. It burned, and then someone carried away what remained of the timber. The person who did that didn’t care that it was sacred.
Here!
she said, turning her horse. It staggered slightly as it had to scramble down into a ditch and up the other side. She guided the horse past a tangle of deadfalls and found, as she had thought, a narrow trace running along a hillside. When she looked up, he was beside her.
Yes
, he said quietly.
Yes
.
Below them, a thickly grown water meadow bloomed brightly, supporting a lush growth of furze, golden broom, and tall purple thistles. High up on the hill, mixed stands of giant pines grew. But farther down, toward the meadow, the ground was more open and a sprinkling of white birches shaded the road as it wound away among the trees.
Thank you
, he said. Then drifted into the haze of sunlight and was gone.
Just then she heard Cai calling her name. “Ena! Ena!”
He pushed his horse with some difficulty over the soft bracken covered ground. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” she said, dismounting.
“Oh, that. Ena, it’s safe enough this close to Morgana to wander off, but there are still dangers for a woman alone. And…”
He was turning his back to allow her some privacy as she squatted.
“I wasn’t alone,” she muttered.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she answered in artificially dulcet tones. “Love me or not, you louse.” She was in a bad mood. “When the child is born, I bet I can make a living at this.”
It was true. There was a lot of call in the world for the services of someone who could ask the dead questions. She remembered her parents visiting the vovulas, as they were called among her people. They left a big offering in the ladies’ pot for news of their family back in Frisia. And the women had been right, too, because her uncle stopped by, having taken service with a Veneti captain. And he confirmed everything the women said.
Ena felt a lot better already. And, yes, she hadn’t been in too much discomfort, but it was nice to get her bladder emptied. She didn’t know what kind of a woman this Morgana was or how long she would be kept standing around. If her court was anything like Igrane’s, there would be a lot of that.
But it wasn’t, and she didn’t have to wait long.
Morgana’s stronghold was near the sea, on an island in the center of a lake. It gleamed in the sun. Ena had seen the glass domed feasting hall at Tintigal, but this thing was completely foreign to her experience.
“A Roman built it for us,” Cai explained. It was an explanation that didn’t explain.
The island held three ancient trees: an oak, an ash, and a linden. The stronghold was triangular, with three massive halls, one at each tree. The tree trunks supported the roof of each hall. They came up very high on the tree, but it didn’t matter. The trees were able to get all the light they wanted, because the halls were roofed with glass. Or rather, as Ena looked more closely, she saw the roofs were half glass. A strip of glass and then an equal size strip of wood. The multipaned windows were held together by lead, a new process, now beginning to be used in churches.
A causeway, narrow to be sure but still stone, stretched out over the lake to the island. The guards at the entrance to the causeway hailed the king. He returned their salutes and rode past, over the lake, toward the stronghold.
Women—at first Ena didn’t recognize them as women because they were armed and armored as men would have been—greeted them in the courtyard before the door. They took the horses, and one, a tall, dark haired one with her hair coiled in braids at her ears, helped Ena to dismount. She was perfectly courteous but gave Ena a look of appreciative appraisal such as a man might have, and Ena found herself blushing violently.