“It’s only a small sample of her influence. That’s why I’ve come, to warn you of Ennyde’s plans. I overheard her on the stairs.” She repeated the conversation and saw both their faces darken. “So you see”—she turned to Galahad—“you must get Val out of here. Even if his arm is not yet healed. He is better off anywhere else at all between now and his fifteenth birthday.”
“But Dane,” Percival protested, “I just got home. Now you want to send me off again for three whole years? I can’t just vanish—what possible excuse could I make for going? You must be exaggerating. Ennyde isn’t queen.”
“Not in name. But she’s wife of the regent, which is much the same thing in her eyes. As it will be in Peredur’s, if she has her way.”
“Nonsense. Mother can put a stop to it.”
Dane rolled her eyes. “Mother has never seen through any of Ennyde’s devices. And of course Ennyde is careful always to present a smiling face to Mother, so Mother thinks her a pleasant enough companion. A little vain, perhaps, but certainly not a blackguard. And besides”—her voice saddened—“don’t forget Mother’s not Queen of Gwynedd any longer. Ennyde will run roughshod over her if she gets in the way.”
“And Peredur?” Galahad asked. “If you told him what you heard, would he believe you?”
“It’s my word against Ennyde’s,” Dane replied. “Would you believe your twelve-year-old niece against your own wife?”
Galahad shrugged gracelessly. “I don’t know. All women lie.”
Dane jumped to her feet. “No more than men!”
Percival waved them silent. “Do you really believe I’m in danger from Peredur?”
Dane still glared at Galahad. “Not now. Perhaps not for quite a while. But yes. I believe Ennyde has the power to persuade him to almost anything. And she’s ambitious.”
“He has publicly acknowledged my right to kingship.”
“That was then. Next year he may publicly acknowledge his own.”
“But even if you’re right, I can’t just run away. That’s cowardice.”
“No, it’s not; it’s wisdom. There’ll be plenty of chances for bravery when you come back to claim the kingship. But in order to get that chance, you’ll have to leave.”
“But why? I don’t understand why.”
“Listen, then. Ennyde wants to drive Galahad away so she can weaken you in Peredur’s eyes and in the eyes of his men. That fight with Maldryn was only an example. Imagine how you’d have felt if Galahad hadn’t been there.”
Percival flushed lightly. She returned to his side, kissed him quickly, and held on to his hand. “It’s important that you have the men’s allegiance,” she said softly. “You must, to be their king. You can’t afford to let Ennyde shame you, even a little. Three years is not a long time. The men will remember. Birthright or no, they will want to follow a strong king, not one who’s been pushed aside and left sitting in the shadows. And what’s to keep you from being pushed aside? Only your sword arm, and that’s not ready yet.” She squeezed him gently. “I’m sorry, Val, but it’s truth. You know it is. Galahad might be able to protect you, but it wouldn’t help you much— the men would not respect you for hiding behind him. And it’s the men of Gwynedd who will make you king.”
Percival stared miserably at his lap. At last he nodded. “What shall I do for three years? Where shall I go?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anywhere. Get away from here and learn the things you will need to know to come back and claim your inheritance. Improve your swordsmanship, for one thing. Galahad can teach you. Go to Lanascol and train with Sir Lancelot. Travel. Meet the kings of other lands. Do them service; earn their favor. Come back with allies at your back. I shall hate to lose you again so soon, Val. I shall cry myself to sleep for a solid year. But it’s the best thing, really it is, to bring about the future we’ve always planned for Wales. You are the strong king Gwynedd needs, all Wales needs—and you know it’s in you. Camlann proved that. But you cannot become that king if you stay here.”
“But what excuse can I give for leaving?” Percival cried. “I’ve not been home six months! How can I turn around and say that I am going off again?”
Dane hesitated, and then looked quickly at Galahad, chewing her lip. “Well, I thought perhaps you could go with Galahad when he leaves. Wherever he goes. Er, that’s what I came to ask you, cousin. Will you take him away with you, for Gwynedd’s sake?”
Galahad looked at her coldly. “You’ve a strange way of asking a favor.”
She glared up at him. “You said yourself you would stay until Val was strong enough to fend for himself. Ennyde will never let him get strong enough if he stays here. Do you want to see him shamed in his own country? And denied his birthright? You didn’t bring him all the way from Avalon for that. You can’t be planning to live in Gwynedd forever—take Val home with you when you go. That’s all I ask. Is it so very much?”
“I’m not going home.”
He stood half-turned away, a brooding shadow against a dark wall. Dane forced herself to speak quietly. “Where then?”
He ignored her. “What’s to stop your uncle from making himself king before Percival and I are across the border?”
“He won’t, because he’s not ready to. For now, being regent is enough. Ennyde has yet to convince him he’s made for better things.”
“Peredur’s wife will still be here in three years’ time.”
“I know. Leave Peredur’s wife to me.”
“To you!”
Dane looked up at him defiantly, her untidy curls framing her face in a wayward halo. “I’m not ineffective just because I’m small.”
“Believe her, cousin!” Percival cried. “She got me off to war behind the backs of both the king and queen. And they never knew it!”
Dane flashed Percival a look of affection. “And you came back a hero.”
“What will you do to Peredur’s wife?” Galahad asked quietly.
She grinned suddenly. “Are you afraid I’ll poison her soup? No, half-wit. Less direct means are more effective. I’ll play by women’s rules. Don’t trouble about your conscience. In three years’ time she’ll be alive, but with luck, out of favor. Wait and see.”
“My conscience is none of your concern. Neither is our destination. That’s between Percival and me.”
She rose. The top of her head barely reached his chin. “We are twins, Val and I. Two sides of one coin. We share everything.”
Galahad turned, walked across the room to the single window, and stood staring out, a shadow belonging more to that vast, deepening dark beyond than to the solid warmth of the lighted room. When at last he spoke, Dane and Percival both jumped. “I am going away on a quest Arthur gave me. Even though he’s dead I think the mission is important. I don’t know if I can find the things he wanted found. I only know I have to try.”
“Would you let me come with you?” Percival asked softly, his face alight.
“I might as well.”
“Oh, Galahad, a thousand thanks!”
“What quest?” Dane cried. “What are you looking for? Val, what is he talking about?”
Galahad turned to face them. His eyes burned blue even in shadow. “I go at a time of my own choosing. I don’t know when it will be.”
“I’ll be ready,” Percival vowed.
“What quest is this?” Dane turned toward her brother. “What do you know about it?”
Galahad lifted an eyebrow. “One person, are you?”
“Tell me what you’re talking about.”
He shook his head. “This is something you can’t share. It’s private ground.” To forestall her protest, which he could see already rising to her lips, he walked past her, opened the door, and strode down the corridor to his own chamber.
But sleep came hard. He lay for a long time staring at the ceiling, his hands folded beneath his head. He was half-afraid that if he slept, he would dream again the dream Niniane had sent him that night in Avalon, the dream that had cheated
him of Camlann. And he was half-afraid that he would not. An hour before dawn his eyelids finally closed and he sank into sleep with the swift inevitability of a stone down a well.
He rode out of a dark forest by the banks of a flowing river. In the middle of the river stood a castle on an island. The river swept by, deep, swift, silent, while the castle beckoned to him. But he saw no bridge, nor any fording place, only a man asleep by his boat at the water’s edge.
“Good sir!” he cried. “Can you tell me how to get to yonder castle?”
The man leaped up, a stout pole in his hand. “Aye, my lord. You have come to the right place. A bronze coin will get you across.”
He tossed the man a coin, then slid from his horse and got into the narrow boat. The craft looked small for such swift water, but the ferryman was skilled; soon he stood on the green verge of the island.
“What place is this?” he called out. “What lord lives here?” But the ferryman was already too distant to hear him, and just nodded politely as he poled back across the river.
Now that he stood at the door, he saw the castle was really a rambling house built on several small islands and connected by arching bridges. A quaint place, he thought, but probably deathly cold in winter.
He drew his sword and pounded on the door with the hilt butt.
“Who goes there?” cried a voice within.
“A traveler!” he called back. Slowly the door swung inward, revealing an old man who leaned upon a staff.
“Ah, Sir Galahad.” He bowed low. “Welcome, my lord, to Corbenic. We await you at dinner.”
He followed the old man through corridors, up steps, over bridges, past doors which opened onto beautiful rooms, lavishly appointed.
“Old man, stop a moment! Where are we going? And how do you know my name?”
“Ahhh”—the old man grinned—“those are questions easily answered. Not like some.” He cackled. “I know you by your badge, of course.” Galahad plucked the badge from his shoulder and was shocked to see not the Hawk of Lanascol, but a red cross on a white field. “We are going to meet your host. The Fisher King.”
“The Fisher King? Who is he? Does he fight for King Arthur?”
But they had reached the great doors to the dining hall; the servant bowed and disappeared.
The doors swung open upon a huge chamber, big enough to seat a thousand men, its rafters lost in darkness. Before him on a dais stood a long table draped in white cloth and lit by forty candles. At one end of the table sat a handsome man of middle years with a short, graying beard and a pleasant smile. All the other chairs were empty.
The man rose and beckoned to him. “Ah, Sir Galahad, you’ve come at last. Welcome, my lord, welcome. Sit here by me, so I can have speech with you.” He wore a crown upon his head and carried his left arm in a sling.
“How fares your arm, sir?” Galahad inquired politely as they took their seats. The king waved the question away with a light laugh.
“Oh, it’s nothing. An old war wound that still festers from time to time.”
No sooner were they seated than serving maidens appeared with rich dishes of every sort, fatted meats, roasted fowls, vegetables simmered in broth, nuts and breads, honey cakes with raisins, fruit fresh from tree and vine, sweet water and neat wine. Galahad had never seen such a feast. He ate until he was full to bursting and still they came, with sweetmeats, cakes, and iced fruit drinks, each serving maiden prettier than the next.
“Please!” he finally gasped. “No more!”
In an instant they were gone, and he was alone with the Fisher King. “Now watch,” said the king, “and I will show you a marvel. Pay attention, for I will ask you a question later about what you see.”
A question, Galahad thought, not so easily answered.
The candles dimmed of their own accord until the hall glowed with a soft light. Someone unseen struck a harp, and sweet, vibrant music moved the air, singing to his soul. From a doorway at one end of the hall a maiden came forth, dressed in white, with pale, glowing skin, hair as black as a raven’s wing, and lips as red as new blood. In her hands she held a krater of ancient make, shallow and wide-lipped, shining with the sheen of beaten silver, studded with tiny amethysts and delicate golden chasing. In the hollow dimness of the hall it shone with its own light and seemed to float of its own will between her hands. Galahad gulped, dry-mouthed. He had never seen anything so beautiful or so compelling. The maiden approached him with the krater, stepping gracefully to the music, and passed him by. There were words etched upon the krater’s lip, but he could not quite read them. He tried to reach out and touch it, just once, but his arms would not obey him.
A second maiden followed, as lovely as the first, bearing a spear. Galahad caught his breath. It was over six feet long but so beautifully balanced she carried it with ease. The shaft of dark, dense wood was polished to brilliance; the honed spear tip shone deadly bright. Again he saw writing etched along the shaft, dancing in the light. What a magnificent weapon! His palms began to sweat as the maiden approached and passed by. What ancient hero king had made that spear, had feasted from the krater? The music faded; the candles flamed; the maidens were gone.
Galahad turned to his host. “Sir, I beg you! What are these treasures? Where do you keep them? Bring them back and let me see them once again! I have searched everywhere to find them!”
The Fisher King turned. His eyes shone blue and green and blue, changing like the water outside his door, deep and unreadable.
“Galahad,” he said slowly, “what do you seek?”
“Sir, that is a question easily answered. I seek the Grail and Spear.”
The Fisher King smiled. “Why?”
“Why, to bring to Arthur! That Britain might be whole and he might be King forever!”
At once the candles blew out and left Galahad in darkness. From far away he heard the laugh of the Fisher King.
Arthur has no need of the Grail and Spear! His time is past; his time is yet to come. Go, Galahad, seek far and wide for the Blessed Gifts whose power can heal Britain. In the soul of darkness will you find them. In the heart of light they lie. Find them for the hand that will hold them. Thou art the Grail Seeker. Find the Grail and Spear.
The words eddied around him, spinning ever faster about his head like stars gone wild. Flashing light beat against his vision. He staggered once and fell. Even as he lay rigid and sweating in Percival’s castle, hands clutching the bed frame, knuckles white and eyes open, he fell down, down, hurtling through endless darkness in a sickening plummet into nothingness.
5
PRIVATE GROUND
Sea fog blanketed the low hills and snaked up the mountain valleys, hugging the crevasses and deadening the forest noises. Galahad rode slowly along the track, letting his stallion pick his own way through the clogging damp. He did not much care where they went—he only wanted a day’s escape from that wretched castle. The winter had been hard and the long spring wet. Seven months penned in by rains, snows, and tempests, with no soldiering and little hunting, daily fighting a thousand small battles to preserve his wits in a household made up of a grieving widow grown overprotective of her son, an ambitious regent who had begun to thirst for kingship, a friend reduced to petulance at the slow speed of his recovery, and an ill-bred girl who was good for nothing at all except disobedience and rebellion—seven months of such companionship was enough to ruin anyone’s humor. That and this foul Welsh weather. Everywhere else in Britain the sun shone on the first of June.
He shrugged and wiped the cold damp from his face. One good thing had come from such forced inactivity: Percival was at last nearly healed of his wound. The arm was stiff but serviceable, and would loosen up with time and use. He was beginning to chafe under Maldryn’s patronizing, Ennyde’s hauteur, and Peredur’s astounding tolerance of their behavior. Only last night he had solemnly told Galahad, “I’m ready to go when you are.”
Why, then, did he still delay his leaving? Galahad did not understand his
own reluctance. Had not his mother always told him he was meant for something special? That he would one day do something so glorious, so magnificent, he would eclipse his father’s fame? Had not King Arthur himself sent him to find the Grail and Spear? Surely his dreams lent force to that request. Why, then, did he continue to put off the moment of departure?
The longer he stayed, the more teasing he would have to bear from Dane. He scowled as he thought of Percival’s sister. Her bold tongue and ready wit tried his patience. She could argue her way out of anything and always ran circles around him when he opposed her. She spent little time with the women of the house, where she belonged. She went where she willed, usually to the stables, or to the yard to watch sword practice, or wrestling, or contests of strength among the soldiers. It did no good to resent her presence, or to point out to her the unfitness of her behavior. She only laughed at him.
The stallion picked his way along the narrow, rocky path and quickened his pace as the trail broadened into a pine wood. Dane rode better than many of Peredur’s soldiers and could handle a bow and arrow, cut down for her size, as well as anyone. Her aim was true—more than once her day’s catch had fed the entire company at dinner. It was exasperating to come home empty-handed from a boar hunt to find Dane waiting with a pouch full of fat hares.
He had heard many of Arthur’s soldiers make the same complaints of Guinevere. Bold, beautiful, and certainly capable, but unwomanly. He smiled to himself. No one in his right mind would call Dane beautiful. Pretty she might be, with all that wild hair, but she did not have a single feminine grace to recommend her. On the other hand, she was truly devoted to Percival. She cared more for his health and his honor than about anything else, including her own freedom. She had certainly risked her family’s wrath by helping him to stow away to Less Britain. His future as King of Gwynedd meant much to her, as much as it meant to Percival himself.
Galahad knew that, alone of all the men in Gwynedd save Percival, he had her admiration. She admired him for his horsemanship and his skill with a sword. Something so hard to win had a value of its own, and half against his will, he felt honored by her esteem. He only wished that now and then she would drop her banter and show it in her speech.
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