Mapon finished speaking. The Crone regarded the circle of people and fixed her dark gaze on Llyr. At once, he bent forward and again pressed his forehead to the ground. The Crone's lips parted, and Guinevere heard a dry crackling sound emerge. It drifted over the silent throng like wind through a field of grass. Guinevere noticed that no one in the circle looked directly at the Crone, as she had, and that Mapon did not face her when he spoke to her. This in itself did not disturb Guinevere—the indirect approach was a common practice when addressing gods. Even the Christian God required a bent head for direct communication. But the Crone was one of the Old Ones themselves, a mortal being, like the hill witch Griselda who had made such a nuisance of herself in Northgallis. To accord her this degree of respect, the Long Eyes must think her a very powerful old woman, indeed.
A dry chuckle sounded from the dark shroud of the cloak. The ancient eyes were watching her, the seamed face crinkled in amusement. Guinevere pulled her hood forward to blot out the sight. The Crone laughed.
Daughter of Rhiannon, freedom is not thy destiny. Do not yearn for it. Guinevere heard the words perfectly clearly. They came out of the air, borne on a strong, young voice. At the same time, she was aware of total silence in the cave. It was so still that she could hear the faint drip of moisture sliding off a rock face deep inside the hill. No one had spoken aloud.
She knew then that it was the Crone's true voice she had heard, her inner, ageless voice, which bypassed the failing body and spoke directly to the mind. More astonishing, this old woman had the power to read one's innermost thoughts. There in the back of the cave, she had felt Guinevere's yearning for a life free of strictures, for a bed out under the stars. Guinevere shivered at the thought. How did one keep anything secret from the One Who Hears?
Mapon turned to Guinevere. “The One Who Hears wishes me to translate for you. She wants you to understand and participate in everything that passes here.”
Guinevere could hear his disapproval in his voice, but no one could deny the Crone's request. She nodded weakly.
“The One Who Hears knows of the warning you bring.” Mapon cleared his throat. “But the Council is divided. Some do not believe that King Pellinore's queen would betray us. Some think we will be safe enough, this high in the hills, without taking further action. Some—a few—think that the outcast has persuaded you to tell us a story that will serve to soften his punishment and get him readmitted to the clan.” Mapon averted his eyes as he spoke. “The Council must decide with one voice. We cannot take action until the people all agree. If we split apart, we die.”
Guinevere thought she understood. Among the Old Ones, it was said, the leader was not a ruler. He led, but he did not lay down the law. He was not king. It took a consensus of the clan to come to a decision. She had always thought this a very fair way to govern, especially if women were allowed a voice in the discussion, but now she saw a difficulty. If they could not take urgent action until they all agreed, they could be destroyed by a swift attack.
She looked across the circle at Llyr, who had raised his head and whose dark eyes burned with fury. She realized, with a glimmer of delight, that Llyr's anger was all on her behalf. Some among the Long Eyes did not believe her. Mapon had not said so directly, but that was what his words had meant. Llyr's enemies did not believe she was the one called She With Hair of Light. They did not believe her message; there-fore, they could not believe in the messenger. The realization lightened her heart in one respect. If there were doubters among the Long Eyes, there must be doubters in other clans, as well. The hag Griselda had been a local woman and her prophecy a local event, not a universal truth to be accepted everywhere beyond the borders of Northgallis. She almost smiled in her relief.
Her pleasure vanished when she saw Mapon's drawn face. He had been ashamed to tell her of the doubters, and he would not have done it if the One Who Hears had not commanded that Guinevere be told everything. Mapon would have to change some minds before he could unite the Old Ones.
Wasn't this why they called upon the One Who Hears, to guide them through their deliberations, to show them truth? Guinevere glanced toward the Crone, but the old woman's face was hidden by the hood of her cloak. She sat slumped and motionless, supported by the acolyte beside her. She made no movement, gave no indication that she held the power even to discern truth, never mind make it manifest to her followers.
Guinevere looked away. A great grief rose within her. If the Long Eyes were to withstand Sir Darric, they must be united. Uniting them meant convincing them that Llyr had not deceived them, that he had not forced her to come here on his own behalf but on theirs. They must be made to believe that the threat was real, that the warning came from a reliable source, from an outsider they could trust and believe. A sob caught in her throat. The only way to do that was to convince the doubters that she was indeed the child of the prophecy, the one person in the whole world she did not want to be.
The black hood turned toward her again, but this time the eyes that looked into hers were not smiling. There was a question in them, and a stillness that seemed to strike at her very soul. Daughter, what is thy choice?
Angry tears rose to Guinevere's eyes. Why should this burden be hers? Why was she the one who must decide? Her choice might mean the death of many . . . or the sacrifice of one. She was only a girl, an orphan and a ward, without the power or standing to command belief. She stared back into the Crone's eyes and read in them only a reflection of her own defiance. She looked away, head held high, too furious for speech. Gathered around the smoking fire, the silent congregation of the Old Ones watched her fearfully, as if waiting for a storm to break.
She looked again at the faces around the fire, and gradually her anger drained away. They were a superstitious folk, after all, to believe such tales as Griselda's. A prophecy wasn't a prophecy unless one believed in it. Hadn't she made that argument to Gwillim over a hundred times? Her childhood playmate returned to her mind as vividly as if he were sitting with her in the circle. Over and over, they had discussed the truth of unseen gods, of magical powers and foretelling, of charms and spells and the crazy incantations of charlatans who practiced on the faith of the credulous. If she didn't believe a prophecy, Gwillim had agreed, it could have no meaning for her, it could not control her life. It could only affect her future if she allowed it to. A great weight seemed to lift from her heart as she looked around at all the waiting faces. She was safe, perfectly safe, from all their superstitions. For it did not matter what they believed, so long as she did not believe it herself.
Guinevere squared her shoulders and turned back to the Crone in time to see her toothless smile. Daughter, thy courage is a gift from the Goddess. It shall serve thee well. Guinevere rose and made her a proper reverence, not the self-abasement reserved for deities but a deep curtsy of obedience and respect to a very clever old woman.
With lightning speed, the Crone pulled something from her robe and flung it on the fire. Black smoke billowed from the flames, rising to the rock roof and hanging above them all in a menacing cloud. Huddled deep inside her cloak, the Crone began to rock gently back and forth, mumbling a low chant. One by one, the others around the circle joined her. Their music snaked around the walls until the open space vibrated with a low thrum of excitement. Quick as a flash, a clawlike hand whipped out from the black cloak a second time. The fire leaped and spat as a shadow lighter than peat smoke took shape above the flames, a brilliant shadow rising against the dark ceiling smoke, a soaring shadow that gave the impression of wings outspread.
Guinevere swayed on her feet, dizzy with headache, chanting, and firesmoke. Out of the darkness came a shrill, inhuman voice:
He comes, he comes,
The Unconquered One,
With crowns and swords and rings.
She waits, she waits,
The white hart's child,
For him to bring her wings.
“The white shadow!” Mapon croaked, pointing with one hand and with the other m
aking the sign against enchantment behind his back. “It comes!”
Guinevere shrank back as the shadow drifted toward her. The chanting had stopped. No one in the circle breathed, but their eyes, all turned upon her, shone like shield bosses. The wings of the shadow descended and embraced her, cold against her cheek. She sank to the floor, shivering. The white hart was the emblem of Northgallis. And the word Mapon had used for the winged apparition was the one the witch had spoken the night her mother died. White shadow. Gwenhwyfar. It was her name.
A cup of hot liquid was pushed into her hands and guided to her lips. Guinevere swallowed, sputtered, and swallowed again. Warmth flooded her limbs, and her throat burned. Llyr knelt at her side, his face aglow. Behind him, the entire company sat around the fire, eating mealcakes and sipping from horn cups. She glanced quickly at the Crone, but the old woman had retreated back into her dark cocoon, and all Guinevere could see of her was a wisp of white hair beneath her hood.
Llyr's face, bent close to hers, was filled with awe. “Drink,” he whispered, urging the cup against her lips. “A potion for reawakening.”
“Have I been asleep?”
Mapon appeared beside Llyr and smiled down at her. “Don't worry,” he said in Welsh. “It's a sleep of blessing. It often happens when the One Who Hears speaks with the god's voice. Even secondhand, the divine voice exhausts mortal ears.”
Guinevere sat up and took a sip of the hot liquid. It tasted bitter and sweet at the same time. Ailsa sometimes gave her something like it when she was sick, a mixture of herbs, bark, and honey, and it never failed to make her feel better. She took a long swallow and looked up at Mapon.
“Father Martin said the same thing once. He said God's voice was too much for us sometimes.” She glanced quickly at the dark huddle on the pallet. “What a burden it must be for her.”
Mapon agreed. “It is the burden of power. The One Who Hears carries no other burdens. But even so, it is a heavy weight to bear. As you can see.”
Guinevere wondered if this explained the extreme age of the old woman. Or perhaps it was her extreme age that enabled her to hear the god's voice. Either way, she did not envy this divine gift, as some people did. Life was proving hazardous enough without seeking for hidden haunts of power.
“And the warning?” she asked Mapon. “Does everyone understand the danger now?”
“Yes,” Mapon said. “The truth has been made plain.”
“And Llyr? Has he been restored to his place among you?”
Mapon chuckled. It was the first sign of cheerfulness she had seen in him. “Not quite. Llyr has been honored with a different fate. He is to be your guardian. No longer will the Long Eyes share that duty. It is Llyr's duty now. Wherever you go, Llyr will watch over you. He will have no other life. If he summons us, we will come to your defense. You, and those who love you, will always have friends among Earth's Beloved.”
Guinevere turned to Llyr with a worried face. “That is her judgment? But what about your father? What about your place among the White Foot?”
She had spoken in Welsh, and Llyr looked blank. It was Mapon who answered. “He lost that place when he was cast out. Now the god has given him another. It is a place of honor, with a status higher than the leader of any clan. His father and his family will be proud.”
Guinevere was still not certain she understood. Llyr was not a member of any clan, but neither was he an outcast. What had the Crone done to him? Where was his place?
“I stood at the brink of death,” Llyr said gently, seeing her confusion. “On the edge of a cliff. And the god sent me away from that place and into the clearing. To meet you.” He nodded toward the Crone's bent back. “She knew this.”
Guinevere looked at the Crone. She must have seen at once the necessity of uniting the Old Ones in the face of Guinevere's warning. She had given Llyr a status that did not require accepting him back into the clan, which might have divided the Long Eyes at a time when they needed to be united. It was a clever strategy, but Guinevere was not at all sure it was in Llyr's best interest. There were sure to be some among the Long Eyes who resented Llyr's elevation, even if he was still outside the clan. Although that resentment had not prevented a coming together for defense, it might still simmer, unexpressed, and endanger Llyr at some future time.
“And now,” Mapon said carefully, “we have something to tell you, if you are well enough to hear it.”
“I'm perfectly well,” Guinevere replied, straightening her cloak, which had fallen from her shoulders when she fainted. “Go ahead.”
“We have taken council, and the One Who Hears has advised us to tell you who the thief is.”
Guinevere stared at him breathlessly. “You mean, you know?”
“Three times in the past month, we have seen a group of men on horseback, eight of them, steal cattle and sheep from King Pellinore's herds in the upper meadows. Always in the darkest hour of the night. Always on horseback. Always eight men.”
Guinevere cleared her throat nervously. “But how did they do it? The herds are guarded, night and day, by men and dogs.”
Mapon nodded. “The dogs obey the men. The men look the other way. They receive a copper coin for this. Afterward, they may feel shame—who knows?—but they say nothing. By the time morning comes and the commander makes his count and discovers animals are missing, the tracks are old and impossible to follow. They wrap the horses' feet in cloth, and the cattle's, too. They make no sound and leave a trail almost impossible to follow.”
Guinevere swallowed hard. “Who is it who pays them to look the other way?”
Mapon paused. He looked uneasy, and Guinevere saw that this tale-telling was difficult for him. “King Pellinore has a friend. He is lord of a wide valley in the north, where the river comes down from the hills and floods the marshes. It is a rich land, with fish and marsh birds plentiful all summer and deer moving through each autumn and spring.”
“The Longmeadow Marshes?” Guinevere whispered. “Belonging to Sir Gavin, the earl?”
Mapon bowed his head politely. “He is the friend. But he is not the thief. It is the younger son, the one with the eyes and manners of a wildcat, who steals the queen's cattle from beneath her nose.”
Guinevere closed her eyes. She had seen it coming, but hearing the words spoken aloud made her blood run cold. Of course it would be Sir Darric, stealing King Pellinore's cattle while he flirted with the queen to keep her attention elsewhere. If it was true, Queen Alyse would never believe it, could not afford to believe it. She would certainly never believe it even for an instant if she heard it from Guinevere's lips.
Mapon seemed to read her thoughts. “Will you tell the queen who the thief is? This we ask of you in order to prevent war.”
Guinevere sought desperately for some alternative. “King Pellinore will be home by Beltane. He has the power to settle everything.”
“But the troops are coming tonight.”
Guinevere drew a long breath. “All right. I will tell her.”
“Will she believe you?”
Her heart sank, but she told him the truth. “Probably not.”
Mapon raised both shoulders and let them fall. “Then it is out of my hands. If they attack us, there will be war.”
Something moved in the shadows. A pair of dark eyes glinted beneath the hood of the black cloak, watching.
Guinevere raised her head to Mapon. “I will do my best to see that my aunt Alyse learns the truth. But she will want proof before she believes such a tale as this.”
“You mean, a tale told by hillmen.”
Guinevere colored furiously, but she could not deny it.
“There is another way.” Llyr spoke abruptly, and everyone turned to look at him.
Llyr addressed Mapon in his own tongue, rattling on and on in evident excitement. Mapon's stern visage softened as he listened, and when at last he turned to Guinevere to translate, he was almost smiling.
“Llyr reminds me of something I had forgotten. King P
ellinore manages his herds with close attention, does he not? He counts his cattle when he brings them into the pens each autumn, and again in spring when they go out to graze?”
Guinevere nodded. “That's right. The spring counting was done just before all this trouble started.”
“Then it can be known what beasts are missing. Tell the queen to look for them among the Marsh Lord's herds. They are marked, as Llyr reminds me. It should not be difficult.”
“Marked?” Guinevere was out of her depth. She knew next to nothing about raising cattle. Queen Alyse's lecture to her and Elaine about their woeful ignorance of practical matters returned to her with all the force of truth.
Mapon raised his eyebrows. “You did not know? He marks his beasts with a knife at the edge of the left ear. Thus.” He demonstrated by taking his dagger from his belt and scratching a baseless triangle on his forearm. “Let the queen look for such beasts in Sir Darric's pens. She will find them.”
“She would believe that kind of proof,” Guinevere said eagerly. “I will find a way to tell her.”
“And I will find a way to avoid the Marsh Lord's son until Beltane.”
Mapon rose, and everyone else rose with him except the Crone, who sat unmoving within her cloak.
Llyr, too, rose to his feet. Guinevere made a final reverence to the Crone. “Thank you, Mother,” she said. “You are a very wise woman.”
The old woman gave no sign that she had heard. She had retreated into the fastness of her cloak, and her eyes, half closed, were as dull as the eyes of the blind.
Guinevere's Gift Page 11
