Legend of the Lakes

by Clara O'Connor

  “All in good time, my dear.” Calchas smiled, the overly solicitous pull of his lips as if he was a benefactor waiting to bestow the gift of a lifetime on me.

  I glowered at him. I loathed him. Fidelma and Marcus too. I didn’t care that they had been motivated to help others; they were the reason my daughter looked at me warily, and they were why Calchas held us in his power.

  “Some things in life are so precious. One must savour them while they are available to us.” He sipped his wine, closing his eyes as if to savour the moment itself.

  “Now Marcus, let us leave these two lovely ladies to enjoy each other’s company,” he said abruptly, putting his wine down and sweeping out the door.

  Marcus untangled himself from Féile who gripped on to him on learning she was to be left behind.

  “Shh now, your mama will look after you. I’m not leaving you. I’ll take you home before I go to the Mete, okay?” He unhooked her arms from around his leg as he turned to me. “She’ll be okay, she’s just… it’s just a lot for her. I didn’t know he was going to let her see you. I wasn’t able to prepare her.”

  I nodded tightly, holding it together with everything inside me. The last thing Féile needed was for me to fall apart. They were going to let me spend what time remained before the Mete with her. I should have seen it coming; this was totally Calchas’s style, every last drop of drama to be squeezed out of the steps he was making us dance.

  Marcus was miserably stooped as he left the room. Féile sat tensely in her chair. She stubbornly refused to look at me, her chin tucked into her chest, her arms wrapped around herself.

  “Féile, darling.” I went to her and knelt by her chair.

  She ducked around me and ran over to the far corner of the room, sitting down in between the wall and a great chest, tucking herself into a ball and putting her head down between her knees so she wouldn’t have to look at me.

  I sat on the ground in front of her, measuring my next move.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said to the dark curls. “We looked for you,” I tried again. “We looked everywhere. We looked up in the attics, and in the cellars, and in the stables. We searched all the houses in Carlisle and out in the forests. We even looked in the birdhouses.”

  A dark eye lifted to glare at me in scorn at my poor attempt at lightness.

  I widened my eyes. “We did. We thought maybe you had magicked yourself small and hidden away somewhere to have a sleep.”

  Féile lifted her head a little more and shook it. Her mouth set.

  “Oban gave me to a man,” she said.

  “We didn’t know, baby,” I explained. She must have thought we had sent her away. If Oban had taken her, then she hadn’t been pulled away against her will; she would have gone with him willingly. He was a friend, and she would have thought he’d done it at our request. “We couldn’t find you anywhere. We came here looking for you.”

  It was too much to tell her that we had amassed an army to get her back.

  She contemplated me, her jaw still set, mistrust in her eyes.

  I heard the door open behind me. No, I screamed silently, too soon, too soon. I hadn’t had enough time with her yet. I drank in every piece of her precious face, storing it in my mind, desperate to experience every last second.

  Her face was blank as she looked behind me and then her face disintegrated inwards and she started to convulse in sobs.

  I reached for her as arms appeared from behind me and did the same. They were taking her from me! Panic beat furiously inside me, even as her little fists started to beat at the man who knelt behind me and pulled us both into him.

  I pushed at the arm that was enveloping me, even as I heard Féile manage to blub out between sobs, “Dada, Dada.”

  Twisting around, I discovered it was indeed Gideon. His strong arms pulled us both close as Féile broke down and released all the grief and anger in her little body.

  We were here.

  We had come for her.

  Finally.

  She wept until she was weak from it, the whole time Gideon murmuring soothing words to her, telling her how much we loved her, how much we had missed her, even as his helpless eyes looked over her head at me. Because what he couldn’t say, what he couldn’t promise her, was that we would never leave her again. That wasn’t a promise we could make, no matter how badly we wanted to, no matter how badly she needed to hear it.

  Eventually, she quietened. Gideon gathered her up in his arms and stood up from where we had remained huddled together on the floor. She whimpered at the movement and clutched tightly to his shirt, her little fist holding on to the open neck as if she would never let him go.

  Gideon surveyed the room before finally settling on a wide embroidered couch that sat in the pale autumn sunlight that streamed through the window at their back. He let Féile curl up in his lap while he put his arms tightly around her.

  My heart split at the sight of them. This, this was the knife throw Calchas had aimed for my heart. Bravo, clean strike.

  “Have you eaten?” I asked.

  Gideon shook his head, seeming as disinterested as I had been earlier. But needing to do something useful, I busied myself preparing a plate and brought it back to the couch.

  “You need to eat,” I insisted. He gave me a bleak look.

  I picked up a piece of food and put it to his lips, realising with disgust that it was the same morsel Calchas had tempted me with earlier. It had the same effect on Gideon as it had on me though, and he allowed me to feed him the rest of the plate, never moving his arms from their tight hold on our baby girl.

  When he was done, I put the plate back on the table and, returning, sat on the couch beside them.

  “She’s asleep,” I whispered, running a gentle hand down the side of her face. Her skin was red and blotchy from the outburst of emotion, her cheeks sticky from her tears. I used the hem of my sleeve to dry them.

  Then I turned my attention to the solemn-eyed warrior who held her.

  “We don’t have long; they’ll come for us soon.”

  I savoured the warmth at my side that ran the length of my body as I sat beside Gideon. Spread across our laps, the snuggled body of our little girl exuded a warmth that went all the way through me like a golden shaft of light, heating me from the inside, bathing me in joy. However fleeting it might be…

  Spread out around me was the white gown, my dress for the arena. The seconds sped by; we couldn’t have much longer. My tightening arms disturbed Féile, and she stirred grumpily, her body twisting to scowl at me before her eyes widened in recognition and remembrance.

  “Mama.” She beamed, and tucked herself further into me. Her eyes shut tight again immediately.

  “Féile,” I said, but her eyes remained fastened. A snag caught in my throat. “I won’t disappear.”

  Not yet.

  Gideon’s arm behind me moved and the fingers tickled at her belly, making her squirm and giggle. She pulled away only to relaunch herself at Gideon on a counter attack. I pulled myself out of the way of the ensuing battle.

  The door opened, and our laughter ceased.

  The two girls from earlier entered and frowned at me reproachfully in my now crumpled dress.

  We stood to meet them and I finally registered that Gideon was no longer in the ruins of his attire from last night’s ball. Unlike me, he was wearing the regulation black, but it was tailored differently to the standard uniform of the accused. There were no sleeves, thus leaving his arms bare and displaying all those swirling tattoos. His collar was low and tailored in a slightly more Briton fashion, revealing his strong collarbone and a glimpse of the muscles of his chest, but I had a feeling that the purpose was again to show off his tattoos, to emphasise his wildness.

  One of the women stepped forward silently and handed me the mask I had left behind in the White Tower.

  I swallowed, looking back behind Gideon to where Féile had curled herself into a tight ball on the wide couch.

  “Do
we all need to go?”

  They shook their heads in unison.

  “Just me?” I asked.

  They nodded and moved forward to help me get ready.

  “I’m fine. I don’t need help.” But my protests had little effect, and they set to fixing my dress and redoing my hair and makeup.

  While my costume didn’t appear to fit a trip to the arena, I knew that was where I was bound.

  Gideon and Féile sat watching, blank-eyed, all the joy sucked out of the room. Finished, the girls exited the room as Praetorian Alvar and the other sentinels arrived.

  Gideon rose from the couch, poised for attack.

  Alvar grinned over at Gideon as if daring him to come at him. I glared at Gideon warningly. Don’t fall for it, stay here. Stay with Féile. He nodded grimly and hoisted her up onto his hip like a shield to prevent him from doing what his warrior’s instincts would be demanding of him.

  I casually crossed the room and gave Féile a peck on her forehead before I locked gazes with Gideon. I gave him a small smile and kissed Féile again.

  “If Marcus comes, you go with him, okay, poppet?” I said, as much for Gideon as for our daughter. Marcus had promised to be back for her; the last thing she needed was to see her Dada gut the man she looked to for comfort here behind the walls.

  “See you later…” I said hopefully as I followed Alvar and his group of guards out the door. I surveyed the heavily armed contingent. “It’s a little much,” I observed drily as he handed me the white mask to put on. Then we retraced our steps to the discreet entrance at the back of the Governor’s Palace and the car that awaited to transport me to my fate.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I trailed behind Alvar through the all too familiar golden sandstone corridor that ran underneath the arena, coming to a halt just inside the entrance to the waiting sands.

  The thrum of the crowd poured through as we waited, but there was no indication from Alvar as to the reason for the delay. Another group of praetorians approached, red cloaks not entirely obscuring the tall, dark-haired man they had in their custody and from whom they kept a wary distance. The noise gradually grew to a pounding, vibrating roar, the mob indicating their impatience by stomping their feet on the floor of the amphitheatre. It was a sound that had hailed the arrival of a great many accused over the centuries.

  I felt the anxiety inside me begin to pulse in response. An angled eyebrow was slanted my way in inquiry from where he was held on the other side of the entrance. Gideon had never been all that interested in learning more about the city – during the good times we had stuck to safer subjects like Féile, or the men he trained. My life behind the walls rarely came up, and when it did it was innocuous stuff – mostly my surprise at yet another primitive Briton tool compared to whatever was used instead in the Empire. I had wondered whether his lack of curiosity was inherent or whether it stemmed from his disdain of the Empire or his dislike of any mention of Devyn. Whatever the reason, it left me a little short of time to explain the justice system in which he was about to be tried.

  A guard handed me a second mask; it was black, and the eyes were sealed. Whatever courtesies were being provided to me, Gideon was not to receive them, it seemed.

  “It’s where we hold our trials. You won’t be able to see and you need to do what they ask.” I looked back at Alvar. “Does he stand or kneel?”

  “Kneel.” Alvar smirked.

  That meant he was declaring himself not guilty and begging the mercy and judgement of the city. It was to be a full performance then.

  “You understand?” I asked Gideon, who didn’t seem too concerned. “You’ll be asked how you plead and you must kneel; it means you defy the accusation and wish for the evidence to be judged by the city.”

  “Deny murder?” A dark eyebrow quirked. “Why would I deny it? I did it, he deserved it, and I have no intention of saying otherwise.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway.” The tempo of the pounding was getting faster. I didn’t have time to explain. “It’s not about that; it’s theatre. It’s all for show, a show that the praetor is directing. And we have to dance to his tune.”

  Gideon looked mutinous, he was used to making his own choices; he had a code he lived by, and once you knew what it was, he wasn’t as unpredictable as he at first appeared.

  “Why?” He shrugged. “He’s going to execute me anyway, right?”

  I stared at him. Had he not been paying attention? Comply and you were rewarded. Did he think he had been granted my company and that of our daughter for free? That there hadn’t been a threat implicit in the gift?

  “For Féile’s sake,” I said.

  A small line appeared between his brows but he nodded grimly. “Anything else I should know?”

  I lifted a shoulder. I knew as little as he did.

  “You won’t be able to see until the vote is done.” I showed him the black mask in my hand.

  I looked down at my white dress; this was a stark change in protocol. What it meant I had no idea. As always, Calchas was way ahead of us, manipulating us like puppets, orchestrating the mob to whatever end he desired.

  Despite all my efforts, all my new power and abilities, I was in his clutches once more. As I had been the last time, from the moment he had stolen me from my mother’s arms. By working on the ley line, by prioritising the many over my own daughter, I had played right into their hands. All that work for nothing. I had weakened myself – and I had failed my daughter.

  I returned to the moment and placed a hand on each side of Gideon’s face. I loved him. Not as I had loved Devyn. Not in a way that could be measured as greater or lesser, because that was not how love worked. But fiercely, truly. It glowed inside me.

  I bit down hard on my lip, I couldn’t tell him here, surrounded by guards and about to take the sands. No, I would see him again. There would be a better time.

  I placed the mask on his face and then I was pulled back by Alvar, and he was led out to the waiting crowd, his arms in chains behind him.

  The roar of the crowd erupted as the accused made his entrance. They would be able to tell he was a Briton from his bare, tattooed arms. The speculation today must have been rampant. Even if news of the events of last night hadn’t got out, there were so many things that were out of kilter. I could only assume that the rest of the Treaty party hadn’t been allowed to leave the city this morning. Some, I knew, had got out of the ballroom before the net had closed, but had they made it out of the palace? If they had, where would they go? It was as difficult to leave the city as it was to enter it. There would have been nowhere to run.

  Traditionally, there was no regular Mete while the Britons were in town. So to have a Briton starring in one, centre stage, would have the crowd frenzied. There was a noticeably ugly tone to the noise: here was a Briton, one of the Britons they held responsible for the illness ripping through the province. And he was at their mercy

  Calchas had never planned for us to leave. He had always intended to throw one of us to the mob – it was so obvious. A sacrifice would confirm that the council were right, that the natives were to blame for all the citizens’ woes, and vengeance was being served up. My work on the ley line would confirm this narrative. We had played right into his hands. Or rather, Marcus had manoeuvred us into doing precisely as Calchas wanted. As always.

  A tug on my arm told me it was my turn, and the exquisite mask was dropped down over my face and my hood secured. As I stepped into the arena, the tone of the crowd changed to mirror my own confusion at my role in this particular presentation.

  The baying for blood ceased as I made my way onto the sands. I lifted my chin, and moved to join the figure in black who was standing alone in the centre. But then I was tugged to the left, and led to the side of the arena, adjacent to where Gideon stood in front of the council’s balcony. The crowd’s roar dropped to a murmur as whispered conversations broke out. I pictured the image I made: a woman gowned in white, the colour of innocence, with a vague hint
of the exoticism of the Celt in my outfit, and a whiff of magic in the robes that enveloped me. On the one hand, he offered the crowd a demon to condemn, but I was being presented differently. That sneaking suspicion that Calchas did not mean to have me killed grew.

  The council were already in place and alongside them sat the most senior of our delegation: the King of Mercia and the Steward of York, Bronwyn, heir of Gwynedd, and the Prince of Powys. There was no sign of Marina or Alec; perhaps a few others had also slipped the net. Fidelma – Elizabeth of York – sat on the other side of the balcony with the senators to watch her son face trial in Londinium, the city for which she had betrayed us.

  Rion looked stonily ahead, not acknowledging me, or Gideon, or the crowd. Richard Mortimer and Fidelma were transfixed on the lone figure below, a shadow on the golden sands, his blood already as good as spilt.

  The praetor made his way into the arena and the roar amped up as he was greeted by the mob, ready to watch the drama unfold. He stood at the edge of the balcony with no one at his shoulder; he was the single power in the city now.

  His arms dropped, and the crowd hushed to hear him speak.

  “Friends, people of Londinium,” he began, “I come to you today with a heavy heart and wicked news.”

  The pause for effect was perfect. Even the wind flapping at the banners ceased in anticipation of his next words.

  “One of our city’s most beloved sons has been cut down. A member of our council. A man who raised his son alone when his wife was tragically taken from them by the dreadful illness which has blighted our city. A man who grew to become a true leading light, the saviour of so many.”

  The hush remained, confirming my suspicion that last night’s events must not have hit the feeds, despite the many witnesses.

  “My people, I speak with great regret of Governor Dolon, who was violently taken from us before his time.”

  The crowd’s roar was a curdling bay for blood. They would suspect now who waited upon the sands, because who else could it be but the governor’s murderer? The average citizen probably cared very little for Matthias Dolon, but Calchas’s eulogy was perfect. The arena was a slavering hound as it quieted, waiting for the familiar words. The din dropped.