by Sarah Zettel
And I do also understand what it is to be unable to speak. Something eased inside Geraint as he thought of that. “I know no such weakness.”
For a moment, he thought he saw gratitude in the old man’s eyes. In the next heartbeat, it was gone and he thought he must be mistaken.
“Beware pride, Geraint, beware anger. These are the things that will bring an end.”
Geraint bowed his head. “Thank you.”
Merlin said nothing to that, and Geraint knew it was time for him to leave. He turned to go, but Merlin’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“It is not by accident that you are the one who inherited your mother’s eyes, Geraint. Do not shrink from that.”
Geraint’s shoulders stiffened. Memory flickered across his mind, of a corridor and darkness, of tears and bad dreams. He closed the door behind himself. If Merlin needed it open again, then it would be open. He hurried across the yard, suddenly eager to be gone.
Chapter Six
Elen woke, but she did not move. She was curled on the pallet at the foot of Urien’s bed, a prisoner in the hall that had been her home. Urien now slept in the carved bed that had once belonged to her parents. He had ordered her to sleep at his feet. And when he woke he would order her to dress him and serve him his food, and he would stroke the hawk and she would feel his touch soothing her skin and how the hawk’s heart fluttered and then calmed.
She wanted to be sick. She wanted to die. For four days she had been bound to this existence, and it felt a lifetime. You have been heard, Merlin swore, but as the nightmare days stretched on, that promise was harder and harder to hold onto.
She risked opening her eyes, and, as had become her custom, she looked to the hawk. She was restless on her perch. The leather chafed her leg and she scratched herself. She flapped her wings hard and Elen felt the rush of the wind on her skin. She wanted to fly. She wanted to kill. The raw meat Urien fed her satisfied her hunger, but not her longing for the hunt. Elen felt all this in the hollow center of her, and she welcomed it, because it was better than despair.
Urien snorted and shifted on his fur-heaped bed. He yawned loud and long and Elen heard the shift and rustle of his bedding as he sat up.
“Awake, Elen,” he said. “Dress yourself. Poke up the fire, bring me water and tell Wyx and his woman that I am ready to break my fast.”
So began her morning, as it had for each of the days she had been Urien’s prisoner. She rose, amid the other groggy men and women waking on their pallets, blankets and beds. All her need was to pull on the clean over dress that had been reluctantly allotted her from the looting of her home, and to kneel before the firepit and uncover the glowing coals. They were the most beautiful things in the world and her hands all but shook with her desire to coax them into flame as she laid on the tinder and the kindling. The fresh smoke and heat were a delight. Then she must catch up the bucket by the wall and hurry through the back of the hall, empty now of its hangings, its shields and its captured weapons, out into the harsh light of morning.
Wyx was the liar who had spoken up at the welcoming banquet. It was no surprise to find he was also Urien’s most trusted servant. He now slept beside Urien, and shared out the booty as he directed. Wyx’s woman, Elen knew no other name for her, supervised those tending the ovens and great kettles in the outdoor kitchen yard. She was brown from harsh weather, her clothing rough and her chestnut hair hung in one gnarled braid down her back.
“He is ready for his meal,” Elen said as she passed, her feet hurrying her onward. The water must be brought at once.
Away from the house, the nightmare only deepened. She had to pass through the burned and broken village and watch the brigands and bandits. They had been coming in for days. They wandered through the houses of her people, squabbling over who got a roof and who got this bit of refuse as booty or that stick of furniture to burn. What livestock remained was shared out among Urien’s men for their food, except for a few of the cows and pigs that were kept under guard for Urien’s own use. Those with neither house nor cow made their camps on the hillside. An army’s worth of men, they squatted by their fires. They drank from leather skins. They combed their horses, mended boots and sandals, cleaned and sharpened their weapons. Not a few had brought their women with them. Some of these were wives or slaves, but others also dressed for battle after the old ways. The air was as thick with their voices and their smell as the hillside was thick with their bodies.
But even that was not the worst of it. The worst was that the urgency her curse brought upon her muted the horror brought by every sight, every smell and sound, and she was grateful for it.
She reached the well and shouldered her way through the men and women who waited there, lounging and gossiping and drawing their own water. Some reached out to pinch or pat her, although Urien had let it be known she was not to be touched. She did not pause to rebuke any of them. She did not have the time. She hung her bucket on the hook and lowered it down. She could have spoken as she worked, but she held her silence. She would do nothing more than she was told, but she hoarded these moments inside her. Here, she could have spoken. There, she could have moved. She could feel her boundaries, and they were broader than Urien knew. One day, soon, he would learn that, and he would find it a bitter lesson.
“See how well she serves her master,” remarked one of the women as Elen drew up the dripping bucket.
“Oh, I’m sure her own well is deep and fresh for him!” screeched another and laughter erupted from the whole gathering. “Come, sweeting, how does he plunge his dipper in your water? Tell us all!”
Elen fled, the hard laughter following close behind as her feet carried her to the only place she could go.
Back in the house, the beds had been cleared away and long tables set up in their place. Urien was sitting at one of the trestle tables with a crowd of his men, finishing a bowl of pottage. He wore his blue breeches and green tunic. Elen placed the bucket beside his bench and stepped back. A second bowl waited on the table beside him, and the smell of oats and lentils set Elen’s stomach rumbling, but she did not move toward it.
Urien turned so that he straddled the bench, scooped the water up with his hands and gave face and feet a rough washing. Around him, his men kept talking, jeering, eating and watching her. Always, they watched her.
Urien lifted his head, shaking off the water droplets like a dog. “Bring my towel, and next my cloak.”
Elen did as she was bid, fetching the things from the chests along the wall. Urien dried himself as roughly as he washed himself, smoothing hair and beard down with his hands before he reached for his blue cloak pinned with the broach Morgaine had given him. Elen’s skin crawled each time she saw the thing. She could have moved, stepped back, even sat down, but she did not. She stood still before him and watched as he fastened Morgain’s gift around his throat.
She too will fall. I will find a way.
The hawk on her perch preened her feathers. She creeled and stretched her neck, begging Urien for her food. She was glad to see him, and her gladness seeped into Elen and she saw for a moment that Urien was swift in answering her need. He took her gently onto his gauntleted wrist, dipping his hand into the bucket of scraps he kept just for her, feeding her the dainties tenderly. He loved her, he saw her beauty, her strength. He would set her free to fly soon. He would see she must fly.
The fetter. Elen closed her eyes. You do not love a thing you keep fettered. Remember that. Oh, Mother, help me remember.
She made herself open her eyes again, and she saw Urien watching her, the only still figure in his crowd of rough men and women, going about their mornings.
“Follow me.”
Obedience fell on her, and she followed him, out into the sunlight of the yard. The world milled around them, all the strangers laying claim to their small scraps of her home.
“It is not me you should hate, Elen,” said Urien. “I wish you would understand that.”
He stroked the hawk’s bac
k and to Elen it was as if his touch glided over her flesh, warm and gentle despite the rough fingers. The hawk creeled softly. A whimper filled Elen’s throat. She wanted to hate, she tried and tried, but the hawk did not hate. The hawk only longed, and it was all she had.
Remember the blood. Remember your mother. Remember Yestin. Remember these four days.
It came, hatred slow and thick, but it was there, and it brought warmth in place of the blood that flowed no more in her.
“You could order me to hate whomever you would,” she said, her voice harsh from disuse.
Urien ruffled the hawk’s feathers ever so gently. “I could, but I do not wish to. It pains me to have to chain you even thus.”
Although the pit of her cried against it, Elen felt the kindness he used on the hawk and could not hold her tongue. “Then do not do this. Keep me with you if you must, but set me free of this spell.”
Urien sighed sadly. “And if I do that, will you give up your vengeance of me? Speak the truth.”
Because it was an order, the words tumbled out of her and she felt only the rightness of speaking them. “I will not give up my vengeance until I stand over your bleeding corpse and know its life has fled.”
“So you see.” Urien shrugged. “I cannot free you.”
“Kill me then.”
“Nor can I waste you. You will not ask that of me again.”
The new fetter settled over her mind and tongue. Elen turned her face away.
“Master Urien!”
Urien lifted his head at the sound of his name. Wyx was stumping across the busy yard. Three men, two with black hair and one red-brown like a fox followed close behind him. “Here’s some outlanders would join the throng.”
Urien smiled as he always did when newcomers arrived for his army. He was counting warriors in his head, matching them against his foes. It was a dream he enjoyed. “Let’s see them, then.”
Wyx stood back and the three men strode up to stand before Urien. All were dirty and unkempt from days of travel, with unshaved chins. The shortest of them, the fox-haired one, had a tangled beard and hair that would have fallen into his eyes were it not bound with a leather thong. The second was taller by at least a head, a lean man with amber eyes and a disapproving glower. Something in his face was familiar, but Elen could not say what it was. The third … Elen bit down hard on her tongue to keep from gasping out. The third was Sir Geraint, Arthur’s silent messenger, with his deep blue eyes. A black beard of several days duration obscured the strong lines of his face, but it was him. As his blue eyes looked at her face, she saw at once he knew her well.
How could he come here? Urien would know him in an instant. He’d be killed and she would be able to do nothing but watch.
But Urien was clapping the fox-haired man on the shoulder. “Ifor! It’s good to see your ugly face! Who’ve you brought me?” He beamed at the other two.
“Men of Gododdin. Found ‘em on the road, looking for work. This clerkish one’s Ahern.” Ifor jerked at thumb at the lean man with amber eyes. “And his dumb brother there’s called Gavan. I wouldn’t give you much for either of them, but they both bring their own arms and say they know how to use them. Rather, Ahern says his brother says. I’ve not been able to get three words out of the man in three days!”
“I’ll wager I can get three words out of him!” Wyx bellowed merrily, and he swung his fist out, straight for Geraint’s stomach. But Geraint stepped neatly aside, kicking at Wyx’s ankle while grabbing his arm and pulling him forward so he slammed into the ground. In the next heartbeat, Geraint was kneeling on the squat man’s chest and his knife was in his hand.
“You lose,” he said quietly.
The whole yard errupted in laughter, for many had stopped in their tracks as soon as Wyx swung his fist. Urien slapped his leathery hand against his belly in approval. The hawk shrieked at the noise, and Elen winced.
“Let him up, Gavan. He’s a fool, but he’s useful to me.”
Geraint stood back and Wyx rose, the hard look in his eyes promising there’d be payment. Geraint did not even appear to notice.
“If you’re as fast as your brother there, Ahern, I’ll be glad to have you both with me.”
“My brother,” said Ahern drily, “Shows off more than’s good for him. He’s as known for that as for his prattling tongue.”
Urien laughed again. “A wit too! This will liven things up here. Go on and find yourselves a place, I’ll soon follow and then you’ll hear of some good sport that will test your mettle.”
Elen felt herself go suddenly cold. It had come then. It was today.
She had been listening to Urien and Wyx make their plans since he brought her back to Pont Cymryd. It seemed they had been thinking of this before they even came with spears and clubs to take the hall. There was to be a tourney, here, below the ruined village, with the wild men who would fight for the loot and slaves that Urien promised. Thus would Urien see the strength of those who came to him, and they would know his generosity as lord and leader.
Of course, such a great tourney would have a great prize.
Sir Geraint and the other man — his brother in truth? Yes, he might be, there was something about their faces, their eyes — bowed to Urien. Geraint caught her gaze with his again for one swift instant before he straightened and followed Ahern and Ifor from the yard.
Urien laughed happily, delighted with himself and the glorious day that shone out over his plans. The hawk flapped her wings and Elen shivered. She tried to rouse hope in her. She had been heard in truth. She had been heard, and help had come. But so to had Urien’s time, and the fear of that laid itself over the hope that was struggling to grow.
Urien turned to her, surveying her with a critical eye, as if doubting her presentability. “You will come with me,” he said. “You will stay beside me, and you will keep your silence until I bid you otherwise.”
The fascination fell over her again and she followed, docile as any lamb as he left they yard and made his way through the earthworks. He climbed to the top of one of the dykes, standing tall and proud on the little hill that had been made to keep the high house safe.
Urien nodded to Wyx, who had been ready for this. He raised the horn that hung from his side and blew it long and loud. The gabble and riot that stretched down the hillside stilled for a moment, and then resumed as the men surged forward, crowding together to hear what their master had to say.
Our master. Sorrow and fear filled Elen. The hawk on Urien’s wrist flapped her wings and cried out, and Elen felt the desperate urge to freedom knife through her, but the gaes was stronger and she could only stand and suffer with the captive bird.
Urien himself was smiling, showing all his sharp, dirty teeth.
“Behold!” he cried, sweeping out his arm to encompass the mob. “Urien’s round table!”
Shouts of laughter and raucous jeers battered against Elen. She looked for Sir Geraint, but could not see him in the sea of bellowing strangers.
Sir Geraint is there. I am not alone. I was heard.
“Arthur the Bastard thinks he will rule this land. He thinks he and his outlanders can ride into our mountains and sweep all before them. These mountains have seen outland kings come in other days, and they have seen the men of the west drive them back.” Cheers and oaths split the air. Elen felt her heart beating very fast and its fear filled her. She wanted to run, she wanted to fly. Tears threatened because she could do nothing but stand.
“So it shall be with the Bastard!” More cheers and the wild yips and screams of men longing for battle. Urien grinned broadly. The sound swelled him to greatness. “But more than that! Once we have driven him from our hills, we will pursue him to his own hole! The Bastard will see his fortress looted, his lands burned, and our men getting sons of his women! Nor will we stop until the whole of this land is wiped clean of his works!”
The cheers doubled at that, and doubled again. The whole world was filled up with the roaring voices. The hawk screame
d over it. The fear was overwhelming. It was only the strength of Urien’s order that kept her upright.
“But Urien shall have none at his table who is not a true man! Each of you shall have a chance to prove his might against his fellows, and he whose striving proves him best, his prize will be threefold. First, he will have my favor in all things! Second, he will have this fine hawk!” He raised the bird high for all to see. Not that any man there was likely to know how to hunt or keep such a bird. It was a gift fit for a prince. That was all they knew. “Third, he will have this maiden who stands beside me for his own, and with her he shall have her dowry, which is all the land he sees here about him!”
The cheers rocked Elen back on her feet. She felt a thousand greedy eyes drink her in. The air seethed with their thoughts of what they would do once they had her won.
No. She closed her eyes. No. Mother, help me. None of them will have me. None. I will find a way.
“Go to your camps. My men will come and count you off in groups of fifty and you’ll be told what turn you take on the field. The hundred men who show their best will fight again tomorrow, and of those the best, twenty will fight the third day for the great prize!”
The cheer that went up was deafening. The mob boiled, churned and scattered, men streaming down the hill. There was one only who held his place. Sir Geraint. He looked steadily at her, making certain she saw him. His mouth moved, silently, shaping a single word three times, before he swiftly turned and followed the rest of them, vanishing into the roiling crowd.
“There’s one who’ll fight hard for you, Elen,” laughed Urien. “You should be flattered.”
But he did not see what Elen saw. He did not see that Geraint had given her a message.
