Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  He lay in the bed, staring into the darkness. He was trying to stave off sleep, afraid that he would dream. He thought about his father, and he thought about Amren, and he wondered if he would be able to be buried in the crypt with them now that he was king. He supposed that he would be given some ostentatious tomb somewhere and resigned himself to an afterlife without the nearness of his loved ones.

  He was still tossing and turning long into the night when a light tap at his door called his attention away from his morose musings. “Come in,” he said.

  Merlin came into the room, closing the door behind himself. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Can’t sleep?”

  “Don’t want to,” he admitted. “I don’t want to dream tonight.”

  “Do you dream often?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Vivid dreams, things that seem so real but aren’t… or maybe they’re visions, like when you had me drink from the yew cup in the grove.”

  Merlin touched the black tattoo around Arthur’s wrist. “You didn’t fare so badly, I think. You have a powerful patroness.”

  His words reminded Arthur of something that had troubled him. “I was told that I have a talent for killing. Is that because of the Morrigan? Or is it something about me? I don’t want to be a killer.”

  “It may be because of your goddess, or it may be an inheritance from Uther Pendragon, who was a masterful fighter. It might also be something entirely native to you. As for being a killer, my dear king, you will have to kill to defend your throne.” He touched the black tattoo again. “All kings are killers in the end.”

  Arthur stared at him. The darkness obscured his face, but he could just make out the shape of Merlin’s body. “How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

  The druid chuckled. “Ancient. I was already old when the Romans first came to Britannia.” He turned toward Arthur. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because you look barely older than a boy, but everyone treats you with such respect. I thought it must have been because of your age.”

  Again, the druid chuckled. “It’s not about my age. It’s about the fact that I could kill them all with less than a flick of my wrist, and they know it.”

  Arthur shuddered. “That’s a terrible power to have. I wouldn’t like to have that much magic in me.”

  “I find it exhilarating. So do most magic users. The more we have, the more we want. There are several very powerful and very dangerous magicians in Britannia, and you will have to look out for them.” He stretched out on the bed beside Arthur, taking up the other half of the down-filled mattress. “I am sorry, very sorry, for the loss of Sir Ector. He was a good man. I selected him carefully to be the one to raise you. He had the best qualities and the stoutest heart. I hoped he would impart his morality to you, and he has. He did a great service to the world by raising you. He will be missed.”

  Arthur wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s hard to think of life without him. I just… I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”

  Merlin patted his thigh. “You will learn. We all must learn to live without our parents. I’m just sorry that the time for that lesson came so soon for you and for Kay.”

  It was the first time that Arthur had ever heard Merlin say something kind about Kay, and he resolved to remember it, if only to remind Merlin of it later. “You’ve said your mother is still alive, but you never said anything about your father.”

  “I never knew him.” He shrugged. “Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. My mother was the only one I needed. A father would have been… disruptive.”

  “If you say so.” They lay quietly for a while, and then Arthur said, “I don’t think Princess Guinevere likes me very much.”

  Merlin chuckled. “She’s willful, and she’s reacting to something that has very little to do with you.”

  “Are you sure? It seemed rather personal.”

  “I’m sure. The next time you see her, she will be much more kindly disposed toward you. Trust me on that.” He sat up. “If I don’t move, I’ll fall asleep here, and that would be awkward in the morning.”

  Arthur sat up, too. “You don’t have to leave. Please… I don’t really want to be alone.”

  “Do you want me to send in Griflet?”

  He looked away. “I didn’t say I wanted sex.”

  “Is that all that Griflet is to you?”

  “No. He’s more, and I don’t want him to be,” he said, his voice thick. He swallowed. “If I love someone, they leave me or they die. I don’t want him to be hurt, so I should stay away from him.”

  Merlin stood up and looked at him. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. People don’t die because you love them. They die because that’s what mortal beings do. All people, all things, must die. Even gods and angels can be destroyed.” He shook his head. “Don’t start thinking that you and your love are some kind of curse. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “Well, it’s no boon.”

  “No? I know people who would give most almost anything to receive some kind of love from you.”

  There was a strange tone in the druid’s voice, and Arthur tried to see him better, to read his emotions from the expression on his face. He failed. “I have a hard time believing that.”

  “Why? You’re the High King. Women and men will come from all around Britannia, clamoring to be in your bed. What a conquest you’ll be… and yet you are really the conqueror.”

  “I don’t think love is a war game, Merlin.”

  “Of course it is. It’s the oldest form of warfare known to man.” He reached down and squeezed Arthur’s foot through the covers. “Lay down and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be easier, and every day after that. You’ll see.”

  He lay back and watched as his teacher and advisor left the room. He often felt like Merlin talked in riddles, or spoke in circles around what he really meant to say. It was sometimes annoying, and sometimes mystifying, and he never could quite make out what Merlin really thought or felt. It was a conundrum, and he wondered if he would ever be able to solve it.

  When the palace was asleep, Guinevere slipped out and ran to the river. She stripped off her shift and plunged into the water, swimming as fast as she could toward the fey gate at the bottom. There was no moon that night, but despite the darkness she could see perfectly well. Being a sea nymph had its advantages.

  She reached the gate and swam through, feeling and tasting the quality of the water change as she passed from the world of men to the world of faery. She startled a family of nixies with her passing, and they squeaked indignantly in her wake. Guinevere ignored them; she had no time for their minor vexations.

  She swam until she reached another gate, this one made of gold and pearls. She pressed her hand against it, and the magic in the bars recognized her. The gate opened of its own accord, allowing her to pass through. Once she had crossed the threshold, the gate shut once more, locking with a click.

  She kept swimming until she reached an ornate plaque announcing that she was entering the castle of Manawydan fab Llyr. She touched the plaque, her homecoming ritual, and then went inside.

  Her sisters were lounging in the throne room with their father, who was dozing with a siren on his lap. Guinemara, the craftiest of the Ladies of the Lake, noticed her arrival first, and she nudged their father’s elbow. He woke with a start.

  “Guinevere is here,” Guinemara announced.

  Manawydan looked down at her as she bowed her head to him. “What do you need?”

  “When you summoned me here yesterday to discuss your plans of marrying me to the High King of men, you neglected to tell me that he’s still a child,” she answered indignantly. “If I had known he was only a boy, I would never have agreed to consider your proposal.”

  Her father waved his hand dismissively. “Boys grow up to be men. If he’s not fully mature, so much the better. You can shape him into what you want him to be.”

  She drew herself up. “If I’m to be married,
it will be to an adult, not a child. Anything else is ridiculous and I will not consider it.”

  Manawydan leaned his elbow on the throne and put his head in his hand. The siren on his lap stretched languidly, then slithered down to lie on the floor at his feet. “Why are you so disagreeable, Guinevere?” he sighed. “Yesterday you were pleasant and charming, and now you’re in a snit and being unreasonable.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m not being unreasonable. You said that you wanted me to consider marrying the human king. I said I would. But you should have told me the whole story.”

  “I have Merlin’s assurances that he’s no mere boy, and that he’s plenty old enough to keep you satisfied in your marriage bed.”

  Guinevere tossed her head. “I’ll be the judge of that, and I’ve never met a human man who could satisfy me, let alone a boy who hasn’t even begun to grow a beard.”

  “What is this really about?”

  Her father’s prescience startled her. “About? What do you mean?”

  Guinemara giggled as Manawydan elaborated. “You know that if his age is a problem, all you have to do is wait. There’s something else that’s troubling you about the match.”

  She looked down and inadvertently caught Nyneve’s eyes. Her sister looked completely miserable, and Guinevere wondered what was wrong with her. She said, “When I met him, he was nearly on his deathbed from an injury suffered in warfare. I don’t want to be tied to a man who spends all of his time out killing, and who will probably end up being killed in his turn. Human warriors are all the same: braggarts and liars and cheats. He will take my immortality away and he will probably beat me and then leave me a widow.”

  Laudina spoke up. “We will never let him misuse you, sister.” She rose and went to Guinevere, embracing her. “If any mortal man ever lays an evil hand on you, I will personally find him and bite it off.”

  Guinevere was touched by the offer, and she hugged her sister close. There were reasons why they called Laudina the Judgment of the Sea. “Thank you,” she said. “But the point isn’t whether he’ll be punished. The point is that I don’t want to be in a position where he can do it at all.”

  Manawydan rose. “It falls to you as Sovereignty to be the bride who unites the High King with the land. The last High King neglected his duty to wed himself to the goddess, and as a result, large tracts of land went fallow and warfare overtook the human race. It is in the best interests of the fey, as our king Fergus Mor Mac Eirc has said, for the humans to be peaceable and prosperous. If they have everything they need, they’ll be far less likely to hunt us or try to force us to use our magic on their behalf.” He walked down his dais to where his daughter stood, and he put his huge hands onto her shoulders. “I know that it’s a sacrifice, but it’s what you were called to do when you became one with Sovereignty.”

  Guinemara stepped forward, twining her arms around her father. “Perhaps the wrong sister was made one with the goddess,” she suggested. “I would go to marry the boy. I would marry him today for the sake of our people, and for you.” She cast a sly look at Guinevere. “My sister never wanted to be chosen, but I did. Have the priestess shift Sovereignty to me, and I will be the High Queen to this Arthur Pendragon.”

  Guinevere was offended by her sibling’s overreaching ambition, as she always was. She frowned. “Don’t you even want to know what sort of man he is?”

  “No, because it doesn’t matter. Unlike you, I’m brave enough to do what’s asked of me.”

  She narrowed her eyes at her sister. “Are you calling me a coward?”

  Manawydan looked from one daughter to the other, then said, “If you meet this boy and find him to your liking, and if you’re willing to cooperate where your sister is not, then I will consider your request.”

  “Father!” Guinevere was horrified. Behind her, Niniane gasped in dismay.

  The sea king smiled. “Do I have your attention now, Guinevere? Do you see how this is really not your choice after all?”

  She set her jaw. “I see perfectly clearly.” She turned her back on her father and walked back toward the gate.

  “Where are you going?” Manawydan called after her.

  “Back to Cameliard,” she said, “and apparently to Arthur Pendragon.”

  She kept her face turned away from him, but she could hear her father’s grin in his voice. “Does this mean that you will wed him?”

  With fury in her eyes, she turned to face him. She hated the word as she spoke it. “Yes. And whatever happens, let it be upon your head.”

  Guinemara stepped back from Manawydan with a scowl. “That was supposed to be mine.”

  He sat back on his throne. “Stop pouting. It makes you tiresome.” He looked at his other children. “Nyneve, how is your stolen human progressing?”

  She looked up in sorrow. “They say he learns well, and that he serves them well also. They won’t let me see him.”

  “No matter.” He dismissed her with a flick of his wrist.

  Nyneve’s bottom lip trembled. “They’ve hurt him, father.”

  “Of course they have. They’re satyrs and wood nymphs. It’s what they do.” He gave her a severe look. “It is his first trial. If he’s strong enough to withstand what they do to him now, then he will be strong enough to be your sister’s champion in the future.”

  Guinevere turned and looked resentfully back at her family once more before exiting through the gate. They looked like strangers to her, and she felt like an outsider. It was a heavy feeling, and it haunted her all the way back to Cameliard.

  Sir Kay sat on the edge of his bed, sleepless and downhearted. He had insisted on staying in his old room in the knights’ house beside the stables, mostly because he couldn’t bear to see Sir Ector’s room, knowing that his father would never set foot in it again. He propped his elbows on his knees and put his face into his hands. He was alone, finally, and with a strangled sigh he let his tears flow for the first time since he’d heard the news. Crying was for children and women, and he had to prove that he was no child. He had pride, unlike Arthur, who sniveled and wept in public like an old hag. He hated his foster brother for his emotions and for his propensity for showing them. It was unsightly, unmanly, and uncomfortable to witness. He wished Arthur would stop.

  Here, while he was alone, he wept. He let his heartbreak pour out, streaking his face with bitter tears. He should have been there in that battle. While his father was dying, he was sitting in Verulamium, courting Lionors, reciting love poems from Ovid and holding her hand in the garden. It was despicable. He had allowed his head to be turned by the soft things of the heart instead of working harder, instead of driving himself forward when he could have gone back to his father’s side. He had stayed safe and secure, playing the lover while he let his father die. If he’d been there, he could have defended Ector. He could have righted him before he was ever pulled off his horse. He could have been the living shield the Ector’s ruined left arm had no need to carry.

  He blamed himself, but he blamed Arthur more. His father had died defending his little brother’s kingship, something that Kay wasn’t entirely certain he even believed was true. It made him angry to think that Sir Ector’s life had ended because Arthur wanted to be a big man and gain more power. It was Arthur’s selfishness that had led to Ector’s downfall. He hated his brother for it. He hated his so-called king.

  Arthur had taken everything from him. His mother, his father, even his lady’s virtue. Now he slept in the master’s room at Caer Gai, no doubt pleased with himself and continuing his disgusting debauchery with Griflet, the catamite who never should have received a knighthood. He was certain that Arthur’s tears were dried and forgotten now that he had no audience to weep for.

  He straightened and balled his hands into fists. He would see Arthur pay someday, somehow.

  Arthur rose while the keep was still quiet and went out to the stable. Ewain, his old friend, was seeing to the horses, bringing them grain and water. Without saying anything,
he picked up a bucket and began to help, taking water to the animals who had pulled the cart. Ewain turned from his tasks and saw Arthur, and his eyes widened with horror.

  “Your Majesty! You mustn’t!”

  “I mustn’t what? Water the horses?”

  “It’s manual labor, sir. You’re above that now,” the groom fussed. He hurried over and took the bucket out of Arthur’s hands.

  “The day I’m too good to give water to a horse will be a sad day, indeed,” the young king said. “I’m still just me.”

  “Oh, no. Nothing ‘just’ about you, sir,” Ewain objected. “You’re the High King. Imagine! All this time, we had you here under our noses, and we had no idea who you were.”

  “I had no idea, either.” He sat on the top rail of the fence, watching the busy man go about his tasks. “How have you been? It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”

  Ewain smiled. “Oh, passing well, sir, passing well. Mairwen and me are getting married at the end of summer.”

  He was surprised. “Married? I had no idea you were even courting.”

  “More than courting, sir,” he admitted with a blush. “There’s a baby on the way.”

  “Ah. I see.” Arthur nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re doing the right thing and taking her as your wife.”

  “Yes, sir. It just wouldn’t do, otherwise. Father Marcus would be so cross! He’s always said that he’ll baptize no bastards, and in this world, I’m not leaving any child of mine without the protection of the Almighty.”

  The crunch of boots on gravel called his attention, and he saw Sir Brastias approaching from the knights’ house. He smiled a greeting. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning, sir,” Brastias responded. He came to lean against the rail where Arthur was sitting. “How are you today?”

  “Ready to go back to finish what we started with King Lot.”