The Legend of the King (3 page)

"No, honestly, Palomides. You've had your joke. You don't have to actually drink that stuff. I'll grant that it smells pleasant, but to put it in your mouth!" Palomides only smiled and pushed a bowl of sugar to Dinadan. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Dinadan dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and sipped the hot liquid again. "Better," he admitted.

The dry air of Angora had cooled quickly as the sun had gone down. Dinadan was bathed and fed and dressed in a loose garment of light cloth, and he could not imagine a more pleasant way to spend an evening than to sit on that balcony with a friend, watching the sunset through the growing mist.

"You often get fog in the evenings here?" Dinadan asked idly.

"No," Palomides said. "Never."

"Then how do you explain—?"

"Be still, my friend," Palomides said softly. A tautness in his voice made Dinadan turn again, slowly, and look at the mist. It seemed to rise from the street below, but once it had reached the level of their balcony, it rose no higher and instead thickened before their eyes. Then the mist began to swirl and form itself into shapes. At first the misty patterns were unrecognizable, but after several seconds the spheres and lines settled into a consistent shape: a tall, human figure with curling tusks beside his nose. Where the figure's eyes should have been there were only holes, through which the red gleam of the setting sun glowed. Neither Palomides nor Dinadan moved, and after a second the mist monster spoke, in Arabic. Palomides nodded and replied softly.

"Excuse me," Dinadan said. "Could you speak in English, please?"

The mist creature turned and gazed at Dinadan in evident surprise. "English?" it repeated. "You are from England? From the land of Arthur?"

"I am," Dinadan replied with a creditable effort to sound calm. He reminded his pounding heart that he had traveled before to worlds beyond the World of Men and numbered at least one Other Worldly being as a friend, but the hair still prickled on his head, and he had difficulty breathing. "I am of Arthur's Fellowship of the Round Table."

"Then the stories are true," the monster said softly. "One hardly dared believe that men of such honor could exist. But here you are, proof of that." Dinadan didn't know how to respond and so said nothing. The being continued. "I came here tonight for one purpose, to see these two men whose deeds are already spoken of in hushed voices among the djinn—men who for no gain of their own placed their lives in jeopardy to save others, whom they didn't even like."

Dinadan smiled ruefully. "If you put it like that, it doesn't seem like such a wise choice, does it? It's probably a good thing we didn't think too hard."

The djinn replied somberly, "If you could see, as I do, the torn innocents, the shrieking widows, the fields darkening with blood that would have come had you not stopped this war ... if you could see their grief and pain, you would know that your actions were far wiser than your wisdom would have been. These horrors were writ in the book of time, but God has honored your selflessness and has rewritten that tale for another day."

"Do you mean," Palomides asked in a strained voice, "that we changed the plan of time?"

"No one does that, O Palomides," the being said. "But you delayed what is yet to be. Evil will still come to this land. The Seljuks and the empire will yet make war. That cannot be changed, any more than this Englishman can change the fate of King Arthur."

Dinadan's head jerked up. "What fate?"

"Your Arthur's time is near. His son, Mordred, makes war against him, and—"

"Mordred? Arthur's
son?
"

The djinn ignored Dinadan's interruption, continuing, "And the fellowship begins to decay from within and fall apart." The being looked thoughtfully at Dinadan's stricken face, then said, "I am sorry. If there is even one more man such as you at that court, its loss will be felt in many worlds."

"I am the least of that fellowship," Dinadan said softly. "And Arthur himself towers above us all." He glanced at Palomides with sorrow in his eyes. "I'm sorry, my friend. I've dreamed for years of finding you again, and now I have to go. I have to return to England."

Palomides smiled. "Do you imagine that you will travel alone?" He looked back at the being in the mist. "O djinn, can you tell us? Will we help this great king?"

"That I cannot say. I can tell what would have happened, but not what will. But I give you, in reverence, my blessing as you go." With that, a fresh breeze blew in from the north, and the mist dissipated in a second. The being was gone.

"In the morning, then?" Palomides said.

"In the morning," Dinadan replied.

Terence poked his head into the Camelot kitchens and surveyed the bustling scene until he identified the round, glowing face of Sophy, the king's chief confectioner. "Sophy, lass!" he called. "Did I just see Sir Griflet walking by with a slice of custard flan? I thought we had an agreement!"

"Nay," Sophy retorted with a sniff. "You had an agreement with yourself, more like! You agreed with your stomach that you had a right to taste every flan I make—"

"Only the custard ones!" Terence protested. "And strawberry. But mostly custard."

"But I see no call for me to care about your fantasies."

"Never mind that, lass. Is there any custard flan left?"

Sophy rolled her eyes expressively and opened her mouth to retort, but before she could speak, a serving girl stepped gingerly around Terence, muttering shyly, "Excuse me, Sir Terence."

Sophy froze and her cheeks lost some of their rosy hue. "I'm sorry, Sir Terence. Forgive me. I forgot myself."

Terence sighed. "It's all right, Sophy. So did I."

"Of course you may have a piece of flan, sir. On the sideboard, if you please."

Terence helped himself to a piece of the pastry, but almost reluctantly. Half the fun of eating Sophy's pastries was the banter and good-natured cajolery of wheedling them from her. But that seemed to be one more thing that had changed in his life. Three weeks before, after twenty years of serving as squire to King Arthur's nephew Sir Gawain, Terence had been knighted. The king said that his elevation to the knighthood was a long-overdue acknowledgment of loyalty and service, but Terence had yet to discover any advantages in it. His former peers in the squire's court (and, evidently, the kitchens) now treated him with a stiff, stilted courtesy, but his new peers—the other knights of the Round Table—were so used to thinking of him as a squire that they continued to look through him as if he weren't there. Only his wife, Eileen, Gawain, and Arthur's closest advisors treated him as a real person, but then they had done that when he was a squire, too.

He found a seat in the sunny courtyard and ate his pastry. It didn't even taste as good as usual, since he hadn't had to work for it. He took a last bite and was brushing crumbs from his sleeve when a large shadow loomed beside him. Terence glanced up at the craggy face of Sir Kai, King Arthur's seneschal and chief counselor.

"Privy council in two hours," Kai said gruffly.

Terence nodded. It was unusual for a new knight to be included in the king's inner circle, but as Gawain's squire Terence had been a de facto member of the council for years. "News?" Terence asked. Kai nodded once, then walked away, his firm stride marred by a slight limp from an old wound. Terence stood, stretched, then headed for Gawain's chambers.

He was walking by the stables when a horse pulled up in front of him with a flurry of hoofbeats. A sharp voice called, "Terence!"

Looking up, Terence saw Sir Gareth, Gawain's youngest brother. Gareth had not been at Camelot for several months, residing instead at the castle in Cornwall that had become his upon his marriage to the beautiful Lady Lyonesse. "Good afternoon, Sir Gareth," Terence said politely.

Gareth threw himself from the saddle and tossed his horse's reins to Terence. "See to my horse!"

Terence hesitated, unsure as to what to do. There was nothing odd in a knight's caring for his own horses—Gawain always did—but he had a feeling that it would be seen as inappropriate for one knight to stable and groom a horse for another.

"Didn't you hear me, boy?" Gareth snapped. Terence sighed, remembering again why he had never really liked Gareth, who was several years younger than he. He glanced helplessly at the stables and, to his relief, saw that the head groom was coming to his rescue.

"Please, Sir Terence, allow me to take that horse from you," Jem said, bowing low before Terence.

"Thank you, Jem," Terence said, with feeling. He handed over Gareth's reins.

"You, boy! What did you call Terence?"

"
Sir
Terence, you mean?" replied Jem, bowing to Gareth, but much less deeply than he had to Terence.

Terence cleared his throat. "You wouldn't have heard yet, Sir Gareth, but I was knighted by the king three weeks ago."

"You? Knighted by the king?"

"Yes," Terence said.

Gareth looked stormy. "And
that's
the state of our society now!" he grumbled. "Servants made knights—without noble blood either! It's all of a piece. True noblemen are scorned, lackeys are honored, wives betray their husbands, princes are scoundrels. And the king lets it all happen! I'm glad I was knighted by Sir Lancelot and not the king! I need a drink!"

He stomped across the courtyard, trailing clouds of ill humor. Terence grinned at Jem. "You came just in time, Jem. I didn't have a notion what to do."

Jem grinned back. As the oldest servant at Camelot, he had lost all awe for the dignity of knighthood. "You're still new at this, Sir Terence, lad. If you want to fit in with other knights, you'll have to learn to look scornful and puff off your consequence a bit. You might start by calling me 'boy,' the way Sir Gareth does. Treat me like dirt a bit, see?"

"Yes, sir," Terence replied. "Thank you for the advice, sir."

Jem chuckled. "Ah, you're a right one, you are."

Terence dug a sovereign from his pocket and tossed it to Jem. "I've a notion that Gareth will forget to give you anything for seeing to his horse."

"No reason
you
should pay me, though," Jem protested.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll take a sovereign from his purse next time I find him drunk. From the way he headed toward the tap, it shouldn't be long."

"Ah, if that's the case, make it
two
sovereigns. Sir Gareth's a generous chap, you know."

Terence lifted his nose and frowned. "Shame on thee for thy greed, boy!"

Jem snorted. "Knights! All alike, they are."

Terence's prediction as to Gareth's future drunkenness was nearly fulfilled already by the time he and Gawain walked by the castle alehouse on their way to the council. Gareth was still conscious, but he had already passed the rollicking stage of inebriation and was staring gloomily into his drink. Beside him, in a similar state, sat Gawain's third brother, Agrivaine, and two cousins named Florence and Lovel. Gawain stopped by the table. "Almost a family reunion, I see. Hello, Gareth. Good to see you again."

Gareth looked up blearily and said, "'Lo, G'wain. Have a drink wi' us."

"Can't right now. Arthur's waiting."

"Oh, important
king's
business," sneered Agrivaine. "Well, you hop to it, like the royal lap dog you are! Can I lick your shoe, your 'ighness? Can I kiss your—"

"Shut up, Agrivaine," Gawain said mildly. "If you can't hold it, don't drink it. I'll see you later, Gareth." He nodded to Florence, who hiccuped, and Lovel, who didn't seem to notice, then moved on.

A few minutes later, Gawain and Terence tapped lightly on the door to the king's council room, then entered. The king, Kai, and Sir Lancelot were already there, in their usual seats. Gawain moved to his chair, and without thinking Terence took his usual standing position behind Gawain. King Arthur said, "Gawain, Terence, welcome. Terence? Please. Why don't you sit in Bedivere's chair?"

Terence nodded somberly and sat in the chair that had always been occupied by the good knight Bedivere, murdered the year before. It was Terence's first council meeting since Bedivere's death. There was a long silence; at last the king said, "We shall miss him. But now we must take counsel. Kai?"

Kai nodded. His face, always forbidding, was grimmer than usual. "Over the past year, as you know, Arthur has established a web of watchers, mostly lesser nobles who are loyal to him, giving them instructions to report any unusual activity."

Terence didn't know this, having recently returned to England from several months on the Continent, but he nodded. It was a sensible plan. Even before Terence had left, there had been rumblings of rebellion and one brief uprising. That revolt had been swiftly quelled, but there had been hints that other rebels were waiting their turn.

"Last night a runner came from Cornwall, and this morning another from Scotland. Both report armies of rebels being mustered."

"In Cornwall and Scotland?" Gawain asked. Cornwall was as far southwest as one could go in England, and Scotland was at the extreme north. "Two unrelated rebellions at the same time?"

"They aren't unrelated, Gawain," King Arthur said. "Both runners say that the armies call themselves the White Horsemen and rally under the same banner: a white horse treading on a crown."

"The White Horsemen?" Gawain repeated.

"I think it's from the Apocalypse," Terence said. "I forget what the white horse represents, though."

Without expression, King Arthur said, "I had one of the clerks copy it out in English. The part you're thinking of says, 'When the Lamb opened one of the seven seals, I heard one of the four living things say, "Come!" And I saw a white horse, and its rider carried a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.'"

"Ah," Gawain muttered. "I see."

"Not so hard to interpret, is it? A conqueror trampling on one crown and receiving another. The runner from Cornwall said that the leader of the White Horsemen was a pale young man in golden armor." Terence shook his head, and the king explained, "While you were in Greece, Mordred started wearing armor like that."