"Thank you, Sal,” she whispered, once more comforted by the presence of her cool mentor. She dipped a little water into it and drank again. It tasted acid, clean and bitter, and she was refreshed.
Eleanor paused, thinking about the Grail, and wondered if she should return the cup to the gurgling waters. That legendary artifact so vital to Arthurian tales, whether the Chalice of the Last Supper or the Cornucopia of earlier stories, was too potent to treat casually. But after some consideration, she decided it was her personal grail, both within and without the greater tale, and filled it again to take to Doyle.
He lay very still, breathing shallowly, his pale skin as gray as the dawn except where it puckered around the angel burns or was a sullen red beside scabbing wounds. Eleanor lifted his head and pressed the cup against his lips. Liquid trickled down into his blood-and mud-spattered beard.
"Wake up, you black-hearted misbegotten son of a serpent!” she hissed, caught between her exhaustion and her fear.
Doyle grunted, groaned, opened blue eyes, and stared at her for a second, then sat up abruptly, knocking the cup aside. "Such loverlike language,” he muttered, lowering his head into his great hands.
Eleanor repressed the urge to kick him for worrying her, to kiss him for being alive, and to burst into tears simultaneously. Instead, she reclaimed the cup to cover her conflicting emotions. "No one forced you to go berserk,” she said.
"Shh! My head hurts.”
"Good. I told you to turn—”
"Silence!” he roared, them moaned. "I feel as if I had tried to outdrink Dionysus.”
Eleanor bit back another sharp remark, realizing that they were both too tired and hungry to be civil. She had a passing wish that her magic was the kind that could conjure up a good hotel, complete with an unending supply of hot water and steaming cups of coffee. She spent a pleasant moment imagining the Plaza suddenly materializing on the muddy earth before her, dwelling luxuriously on the thought of a real bed, clean sheets, and plush carpets. Fd even settle for a Howard Johnson’s, she decided. Or Nunnally Castle.
With a bit of a shock Eleanor realized she was twenty-five or perhaps thirty miles from the Lady Iseult’s keep, as the crow flies. A day’s ride on horseback, two on foot, but with her current weariness and Doyle weakened, three or four. So near, yet almost unreachable. And who knew what had happened there in two months?
Still, her heart longed for the sight of the hall, for Iseult’s flaxen beauty and sweetness, for the quavering voice of old Roderick and the wary yet human faces of the servants. She wanted to go there and sleep for about a week. Could I but fly or conjure horses, she thought, and knew herself too tired to magic a butterfly.
Doyle seemed to sense her despair, for he reached a hand out to cover hers. He brushed her unbound hair away from her face, caught her jaw between his fingers, and said, "Have I told you how brave and beautiful you are?”
"Not recently.”
"Well, you’ve mud on your face and smuts in your hair. There’s blood, probably mine, dried on your gown, and I cannot think of a finer sight.”
"Blamey-gabble,” she replied, grinning a little. "Does shape-changing always give you a hangover?”
"Always. Except when I am a bear, and then there’s no difference.”
"No, there wouldn’t be. You’re a bear in a man-suit most of the time anyhow. Can you walk?”
"I expect I can, but slowly. Why?”
"Because there’s a keep, Nunnally, where we might find shelter, about thirty miles from here.”
"Where you bested Wrolf’s stone cousin?”
"Yes.”
"We won’t get there sitting in the mud.” He got up slowly and picked up the sword as if it weighed a great deal. Eleanor rose and took her staff, looking curiously at the new-moon face to see if it bore any evidence of the magic it had made the night before. There was nothing. She tucked the willow cup into her bodice and tied her girdle tighter so it would not slip out and turned toward the north. "You look like many-breasted Erda,” he commented.
Eleanor looked around at the vale, the bones of Shad-owfolk crumbling into dust, great scorches charring the earth, and recalled Sal’s admonition to heal. A tiny breeze brushed her cheek, bearing on it the scent of apple blossoms and the faint hum of honeybees, and she was refreshed. She could do no more here. Relieved that she need not cure every ill in Albion, Eleanor set forth with a lighter heart than she had felt in days.
XVIII
In all it took them five days to reach Nunnally, and they returned to their habit of silence, for the Battle of the Tor lay between them like a raw sore. Eleanor could not bring herself to abuse Doyle for endangering his life by not returning to human form, and he could not admit to his error. Only Wrolf was unaffected.
Mercifully, they met no one except a few nervous farmers disinclined to offer either hospitality or conversation. It was midday when they came to the stone remains of the Shadow Wolf before the keep. The drawbridge was up, but a slight haze above the chimneys indicated the place was still habited. A head bobbed above the battlements, then vanished. Eleanor looked at the walls, which had somehow become grown over with creeping roses, so that the place resembled the castle of "The Sleeping Beauty,” and wondered what had happened.
"They don’t seem glad to see us,” Doyle said dryly.
"We are pretty raggle-taggle, except Wrolf. He is dressed for any occasion.”
"Sometimes I think you care more for him than you do for me.”
"I’ve known him longer,” she replied. "I can’t believe I actually fought that thing. I wonder how long it will take for the earth to green again.” She studied the burn marks left from her battle.
"There is none so foolhardy as a Hibernian in battle lust.”
"I know,” she answered with a quick grin, realizing it was the most apology she would ever get. Her father had once said, "There would be no Irish problem if we could only admit that anyone else on earth was right.”
The drawbridge creaked into life and began to descend. Roderick tottered out, looking even older and more frail than two months before. He leaned on his blackthorn staff and moved at a snail’s pace, and from the expression on his face, they would find no welcome at Nunnally. The old man stopped a good ten feet away, peered at them with rheumy eyes, and straightened himself up.
"We wish no more of your magicks here, Lady Es-peranza.”
"I only wish a meal and a place to sleep.”
"No. We will give you food, ill though we can spare it, but you may not enter.”
"What happened?”
"The Lady Iseult was ill repaid for her kindness to you, for she goes about the keep having congress with stones. Waters well up in the court, between the flags, and strange things grow.” He shuddered. "She garlands herself in flowers and sings strange words.”
At this, the lady herself stepped out onto the drawbridge, looking like a Hawaiian Ophelia. Huge leis of orchids were wound around her neck, and a wreath of ferns rested on her golden hair. She was naked beneath her garlands, and Eleanor could not blame the old man for being deeply disturbed. One could not rear a girl from childhood and see her turn into an avatar of the goddess Flora without qualms. Iseult was a bit too pagan for the canons of good taste, even in this time and place.
Still, she seemed very cheerful in her divine madness, and Eleanor was glad to see a face, any face, with an expression of joy. Iseult stepped off the drawbridge, flung her arms apart, and capered gaily. Roderick stumbled to restrain her, but she danced away, leaving a path of golden primroses, the faery flower, wherever her unshod foot touched the earth. The still air freshened with smells of sun-drenched ground, and vegetation and the walls of the keep seemed to glow.
"I knew you would return,” Iseult called, continuing her dance. "See how well I recall your lesson. I shall turn the world green again, if the sun will only show its face. Oh, your dress is so worn. Dear Roderick, give her all my garments. They are of no use to me. And that battered bear beside her
. He, too, must have raiment. I go to clothe the earth in beauty.”
"Lady Iseult, you cannot desert your castle,” Eleanor cried.
"But there isn’t room for another blossom,” the woman replied. "Now I am free.” Then she sped away toward the south with a speed worthy of the fabled Atalanta, who only lost her famous foot race because she paused to pick up the golden apples of Aphrodite.
Roderick wrung his gnarled hands and moaned. "Now, see what you have done.”
"I didn’t do anything,” Eleanor replied, too tired to be polite. She had a nagging doubt that she might be responsible for Iseult’s transformation, too, like a pebble that begins a landslide. Roderick did not listen and tottered back into the keep.
The drawbridge remained lowered, and about half an hour later, two defiant and nervous men scurried out with bundles of garments. They dropped them and loped back across the span. It began creaking up as soon as they were within the shadow of the portcullis.
Doyle and Eleanor examined the offerings, a couple of shabby robes, and a heavy cloak for her, a large and clearly unworn tunic that actually fit him, plus a moldy rectangle of wool too longfor a blanket and an odd shape for a garment. There was also a mealy half-loaf, some grayish meat, and an onion. Eleanor picked up the onion, stared at it a long time, then began to laugh. She laughed so hard, she sat down in a patch of primroses and tears ran down her cheeks.
He looked alarmed at her sudden merriment and sat down beside her, draping one huge arm across her shoulders. Eleanor leaned against the comforting firmness of his chest. "What is it, macushla?”
"I’m.. .tired, that’s all. And I feel funny. What am I supposed to do with one onion?”
"Keep it till I bring you a nice, fat coney.”
To her surprise, the thought of rabbit brought an attack of nausea, and she retched miserably. For several moments, she would cheerfully have lain down in the flowers and died. Then it passed, and she said to Doyle, "No rabbit, please. What I want is a bowl of my mother’s north country porridge with honey and raisins in it. Let’s get away from here.”
A mist lay along the ground as Eleanor and Doyle came to the ruins of a keep. The day’s journey from Nunnally had been silent except for Wrolf’s occasional bark when he coursed some bird or beast from the underbrush. He was not seriously hunting but engaging in wolfish play by stirring up the local wildlife.
"I do not like the feel of this place,” Doyle said slowly, turning his head from side to side to study the broken walls.
"I am sure you are right, but I’m so tired I can barely move, and I think it’s going to rain soon.” As if in agreement, there was a boom of thunder in the graying sky.
"Yes. There seems to be some shelter in that corner.” Part of a wooden roof jutted out crazily from the remains of two walls, and they crawled under it as the heavens opened up in a clamorous downpour. In a few minutes, the roof was leaking merrily.
Eleanor was suddenly furious at the weather and the adventure and her own fatigue. She stood up, gripped her staff for the light it would provide, and charged out into the ruins to see if there was not some drier place. It was either that or scream at Doyle. None of this was his fault, but unreasonably she felt he ought to do something.
She returned some minutes later, drenched but triumphant. "I found a little room. Come on.”
It was just that, a little room in one wall by the gate, barely eight feet in any direction. At the base of one wall, the earth was disturbed as if by some large, burrowing animal, but Eleanor was too intent on sleeping on a relatively dry floor to notice. Wrolf trotted in, sniffed at the hole, raised his hackles, and growled softly.
Eleanor and Doyle spread out their cloaks to dry. There were a few bits of old lumber scattered around, and he piled them up and she set them alight. They left the door open a crack for the smoke and settled down to enjoy the relative comfort of damp stone and a pitiful blaze. Doyle got out their food, but she refused any. The sight of the meat made her stomach knot.
After a time, Eleanor took her willow cup out of her tunic, held it out the door until it was half-full of rainwater, then used the magic fire of her hands to heat it. The slightly acrid smell of willow tea mingled with the smoke, and she sipped it and thought of Sal. It warmed her.
"Would you like some willow tea?” she asked.
"I do not care for witches’ brews,” he replied sharply. Her control snapped. "Then why don’t you just go home to your mother! Take the sword and go. I’m sick to death of you. And your bellyful of pride. And your stupid jealousy. I don’t see why you came at all. All you ever cared about was that damned piece of iron. Well, go sleep with it if you love it so much!”
"You are an ungrateful bitch, Eleanor.” "Ungrateful, am I! Of course I am. You would not have touched me except you wanted my... dowry. What kind of whore does that make you, Doyle? I did not ask for your help.”
"You took it quick enough, shrew.”
"Yes, I did. I cannot imagine what possessed me. Lust, I suppose. Only I mistook it for something else. How incredibly stupid of me to think I was worthy of a great man like you—or of Bridget’s trust. I wasn’t cut out to be a heroine or a wife or even a very good woman.” She blinked back angry tears. "It is not my fault.”
"But it is. No one held a knife to your throat and made you undertake the saving of Albion. And you never asked if it was your task. You just blundered around and into my life. You never asked if it was my quest.”
"Oh, no, you don’t. You made a choice, too. You wanted the sword. Not me. I wish I could say I’m sorry you made a bad bargain. But no one forced you, either.” "The Fates have not been kind to you. Or me. And like my mother, you have a rare talent for speaking the truth. The fire’s almost gone. I’ll see if I can find more wood.”
Eleanor watched him leave and wondered if he would return. She was ashamed of her outburst but too exhausted to berate herself further. Instead, she curled up in a miserable huddle and slipped into an uneasy slumber.
At first she dreamed of bright stars against a darkened sky, but the stars fell, and the blackness grew until it filled her. Even her mouth seemed stifled. There were damp hands in the darkness, soft, fleshy hands, pawing her body.
She screamed and found her mouth filled with dirt. Eleanor could feel moist earth on her eyes, and knew she was not dreaming. The hands were real. And there were voices, deep whispers like the thud of crumbling clods.
"Eat.”
"No, too bright to eat.”
"Hurt eyes.”
"Kill bright.”
Soft hands pushed damp earth over her body. Eleanor struggled and forced herself to move, to sit up. She spat the dirt from her mouth and shook her head. The dirt slid away from her face.
There was a tunnel around her, and several small misshapen men. The roof of the tunnel touched her head. The little men cowered for a second, covering their eyes against her light, then blundered over her, pushing her back to the ground. Three sat on her chest while the others started burying her again. She fought them and her rising panic, but their numbers overwhelmed her. The earth pressed down on her, and she gasped for air. Then there was nothing.
Doyle had paced the tumbled courtyard in the rain for an hour, fighting his own anger at the truth. Eleanor was right and wrong at once. He was committed to her but not to her task. His own mortality lay ahead of him like some huge wall of stone she could pass through. He cursed his foreknowledge and the fact that he could not bear to leave her, even for a season. Then he found some sodden wood and went back to the room.
It was vacant. Eleanor’s staff and starry cloak lay on the stone floor, the fragile willow cup overturned beside the ashes of their fire. He peered around and saw a faint trail of dirt leading to the hole in the wall. The earth looked as if something heavy had been dragged across it. He sniffed at the hole, wondering
what lived in it, and raged at himself for not investigating sooner.
Then he stripped off his soaking tunic and transformed h
imself into a monstrous badger. The earth flew away under the great clawed paws. A small tunnel opened before him.
Doyle widened it with furious swipes. He heard the whispers before he saw the speakers. One moment there was nothing but dark tunnel; the next, a dozen startled faces gaped at him. He smashed a little man against the wall of the tunnel with a clumsy gesture, and the others scrambled away.
All that was visible of Eleanor was her toes sticking up above the dirt. Doyle scraped away at her body, growling. He got her face clear, and she opened her eyes, stared at him a moment, then screamed. He tried to tell her she was safe, but her mind was locked in panic. She clawed at the walls of the tunnel frantically with her bound hands. In desperation, he flipped her onto her stomach, grasped the back of her gown in his teeth, and dragged her along the tunnel floor beneath him. She was an awkward burden under his furred belly, fighting him and the earth.
Finally, she stopped struggling, and in a few minutes they emerged into the room. Doyle returned to his normal shape and cut Eleanor’s hands free while she sobbed and gasped. She was utterly filthy and cut in several places where his claws had raked her.
Doyle pulled her to her feet, took her gown off, and dragged her outside into the pouring rain. The water washed the dirt and blood away until she was a slim, white figure glimmering in the darkness.
Eleanor turned and looked at him. Then she touched his cheek with a tender gesture. She kissed his lips lightly, and he grinned and pulled her in out of the rain.
Neither of them noticed their wet bodies or the chill of the room as they came together. As she fell asleep, he "heard her murmur, "You make a very handsome badger.”
XIX
Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01] Page 20
