by Sarah Zettel
He saw his mother follow. His mother who was years dead, and saw how she laughed soundlessly at his father, who fell onto his knees, grovelling before her.
And how that vision turned to look at him, and he saw that in his mother’s eyes had turned black.
Geraint shook himself hard. Now was not the time for such memories. Now he must focus on the way before him. There would be a lifetime and more for the dark past.
Elen insisted she be allowed to check Geraint’s wounds. The cut he took on his arm seemed to be healing cleanly and the bruises had already begun to fade. The same could not be said of her hurt. Beneath the binding, the tears on her wrist remained fresh and open, just as they had been the day before.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But it is nothing I cannot bear.”
Neither of them spoke the thought that what if, as she was, she could not heal?
Merlin will solve this riddle. I will see her safe to Camelot and all will be set to right.
But the road was long between here and there, and where it ran … Geraint frowned at the distant hills.
“Even Gareth would have something to say to me about my choice of priorities,” he sighed. “Elen, do you know where we are?”
Elen smoothed her sleeve over her re-bandaged wrist and looked north. The mountains that had been misty blue yesterday were today grey with low clouds and the threat of rain. She looked south, where the land was more gentle and green.
“I think Pont Cymryd is far on the other side of those.” She pointed toward a trio of green mountains that clustered together as if gossiping. “You can see them in the distance when you stand on the bridge. They are the highest of the Black Mountains. More than that, I cannot say.”
Geraint puffed out his cheeks, considering their options. There were, in truth not many.
“North and west then,” he said.
She cocked her head. “To seek a thing neither of us knows anything about, we should go to a place neither of us knows?”
He nodded. “If we follow the stream down the valley …” He pointed to the sliver thread meandering through the valley’s dark green fabric. “It may be we come to folk who have heard of this Little King.”
Elen folded her arms, her lips pursing in approval. “It is as sound a plan as any.”
Geraint felt his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Faint praise from my wife.” Elen bowed her head in such a show of humble apology, he could not help but laugh.
While Geraint saddled and harnessed their horses, Elen packed up their meagre camp. Her hands seemed clumsy this morning, and she dropped the bowls and spoons more than once. When she saw Geraint’s questioning glance, she turned away, her unbound hair falling across her face, hiding her from him.
“It is Calonnau,” she said. “She knows we are leaving. She did not want to be out in the gloom when hunting will be poor.”
For a moment, Geraint had allowed himself to forget the hawk. She had sat still and invisible in her tree since he had woken. Elen, however, could not forget her for even a moment.
“She will obey,” said Geraint. “She will accustom herself to these things. You are her mistress.”
“No, I’m not,” answered Elen, and her voice was very small. “Her keeper, perhaps, or her fellow prisoner, but I do not master her. If anything …” she would not finish the thought. She only bowed her head again so he could not see her face and continued to pack the saddlebags.
But Geraint found he could not let it go at that. “Does this … way of being pain you?”
“No. It frightens me.” Elen looked over her shoulder toward the wood. What did she see there? “We talk of noble beasts. What I feel in the heart she carries for me … there is no nobility. There is no thought. There is hunger and fear and anger. She is content when fed, and when she kills … it is all mindless. Being close to this … I fear that I will never lose the taint of it, even if there is a way to break this curse.” She rubbed her arms and hands, trying to wring warmth from them. Her flesh had been cool beneath his hands the night before, growing warm only slowly. He had not thought before how very cold she must be.
“There will be a way. Merlin will know it if no other man does.”
“I pray you may be right.” There was no faith in her voice. She pulled the laces on the saddlebag tight and knotted them, and would say nothing more.
She insisted he take the grey horse they between them dubbed “Donatus,” although he offered it to her. She was no horsewoman, she said, and the Lady had given the beast to him. She let him tie the reins of the small brown to his saddle and was content to be led as they made their way down the sharp slope toward the northern valley. He could not help but eye her seat, and agree, she was clearly unused to horses. The people of her country kept few ponies, using the rivers or their own feet to make their way through the mountains. Perhaps, when they returned to Camelot, the queen would agree to tutor for her. The thought of riding with her to the hounds and on May Day made him smile.
The weather did not threaten for long, but fulfilled its promise. By the time they reached the valley floor, a cold, misting rain began, the sort that seemed to rise up from the ground as much as it fell from the sky. The grassy hillside quickly turned slick, requiring Geraint to get off his horse and lead both animals to help them keep their feet. The broad valley held no trace of human house and the rain had silenced even the birds. To keep their northward course, they had to climb the next hill, and descend again. The birds had all gone silent and the animals stayed in their small shelters, turning the day eerily silent. No cloak was thick enough to keep the rain out and soon they and the horses were all soaked and shivering. Calonnau could not fly in this to follow them, so Elen carried the hawk on her gauntlet. The bird hunched miserably in on itself. Elen was beginning to pale with the cold and she bit her lips constantly. They would have to find shelter and fire soon.
This new valley was sharp and narrow. The hills rose like earthworks on either side. The horses would not be able to manage them. So, Geraint set them to following the chill, pebbly stream that snaked through the grass and reeds. The brown fish that swam beneath its waters had pressed themselves against the bottom, trying to escape the falling rain. The ground was level, so Elen and Geraint could ride again, but the horses plodded so listlessly, walking might have been faster.
Geraint began to eye the stones scattered here and there, wondering if any were large enough to put their backs against for some slight shelter. Then, he caught a faint scent on the wind. Elen caught it too. She lifted her head, equal measures of fear and hope kindling in her.
Smoke. There were hearthfires burning nearby.
“I’ll ride ahead.” Geraint told her. She slipped the knot that tied her horse to his. He urged Donatus into a canter, kicking up clods of mud with every step.
At last the rain began to slacken. The wind picked up, sending the grey clouds rolling across the sky. It also blew straight through their sodden clothes. Hills and stream bent, forcing the valley around a corner, but then the way broadened. The stream spread out to become a small, reed-choked lake. Through the sullen mists, Geraint saw the shape of a small crofting — half a dozen houses crowded between forest’s edge and new cleared field. No more half the acres were green with grain, the others still sprouted stones and burnt stumps.
In the middle of this detritus, an old dame and her man struggled with a large stone. They had tied it with ropes and while the old man pulled, the dame tried to slip a sapling pole underneath it to lever it out of its bed. They were alone in their labors, and Geraint guessed that whatever fellows they had in this place had sensibly taken shelter. He found himself shaking his head at the fact that these two oldsters were left to this heavy work on their own.
Elen caught up with him, reining her horse to stand beside his. She saw the aged pair and the distant houses. There was hunger in her face for that shelter, but she nodded her answer to his unspoken question.
Geraint dismounted and walked forward. Such was their attention to their labor, he was almost beside them before the old man noticed he was there. The man straightened up quickly, and the woman, gasping as she took in the new arrivals, did the same. They both bowed their heads humbly for a bare instant, then the old man examined him with narrowed eyes.
“What do you want here, Sir?” There was suspicion under the acknowledgement of rank seen in his horse and harness, if not in his clothes and arms, or lack of them.
“Shelter for myself and my wife,” Geraint answered. It felt odd to say those words aloud, and yet fresh pride stirred as he did. “For which we would be most grateful.”
“You shall have it and welcome, sir,” said the old man smartly. “That’s our house there.” He pointed back toward the cluster of cottages still blurred by the mists. “Shout at the door and they’ll let you in.” He moved to pick up his ropes again.
“Come, let us get out of this,” said Geraint, sweeping out his hand to indicate the way to the cottage. “I will lend my strength to yours as soon as it is fair again.”
The old man held his ground. “Another pair of hands would be most welcome, Sir,” said the old man, bowing his head humbly. “Who is it we have to thank for this help?”
“I am Geraint of Goddodin, Lot’s son.”
“Ah!” the old man sighed, straightening.
“Ah!” the old woman echoed him.
Before a new question could shape itself on Geraint’s tongue, both of them began to change. Their forms blurred, soft and insubstantial as the mists around them. They lengthened, broadened and rose up. Elen’s horse whickered and stamped. Colannau shrieked. Donatus backed away, and Geraint too stepped away, his heart in his mouth.
Now he could see them clearly again. They had helmets on their heads, leather corslets covered with scales of steel and thick grey cloaks clasped with silver. One carried a spear. Both wore swords on their hips. Their horses were tall, but poorly fleshed. Geraint could all but count the creatures’s ribs. The right hand one had horses decorating his helm and two gnarled scars on his wiry arm. That old wound must have affected his grip, because he held the reins tight in his left hand and wore his sword on the right, where his left hand could reach it most easily. Beside the sword, a knobby club of black thorn had been thrust through his belt.
“Well now, Sir Geraint,” drawled the oak-crowned one. “At last you’ve come. We were growing full weary with our waiting.”
Geraint swallowed fear and astonishment. “Who are you?” asked Geraint. Oak Helm sat back, but his grip on his spear did not change nor did it loosen. Elen still sat on her uneasy horse. The hawk shrilled and shook itself, preening frantically. Horse Helm looked over at them, frowning. His hand stayed on his club. No danger there yet, though. It was Oak Helm’s attention he had to keep. He was the leader of the pair.
“I asked who are you?” he repeated the question, his voice ringing harshly in his own ears.
Oak Helm smiled. His teeth were grey and some broken. “We are the keepers of the gate. We are the ones who will take you to our lord and master.”
“And who is your lord?”
Now Oak Helm changed his grip on the reins. His horse felt its ribbons tighten and lifted its head and stamped. Horse Helm was trying to divide his attention between Cob, and Elen and Geraint.
“His name is my lord’s business, Son of Lot, and none of yours.”
Geraint had no weapon. He had no armor. He was as good as naked before these two. He understood now the disguise, however it had been accomplished, had been a ruse to get him off horseback and leave him vulnerable. Even if he shouted to Elen to get away at once, she would be ridden down within moments. There was magic here as well as mystery. The wise thing would be to surrender now, to let them be taken to this mysterious lord, and look for their chance to escape later.
Even as the thought that, pride, bright and burning rose up in Geraint. These two on their starved mounts would not lay hand on Elen, nor yet on him. He was companion to Arthur. He was a man of Gododdin and the son of kings. They would not take him as a prize to their petty prince.
“Whoever your lord may be, let him come before me himself.” His voice was hot now, but steady. He felt Elen at his back. Felt the tension radiating from her even as he held his own arms loose and easy at his sides, ready.
Let them come. Let them try.
Let them learn.
Oak Helm’s frown grew thunderous.
Incongruously, the first of the birds began to sing, alerting their fellows that the rain was done. Oak Helm raised the spear and tucked it under his arm so the point was levelled at Geraint’s heart. Horse Helm moved his mount closer so Geraint faced a wall of man and beast, his eyes pointed over Geraint’s shoulder. What was Elen doing that so distracted him? He could not risk a look back, for now Oak Helm angered and insulted, held his beasts reins with only his weakened hand. “Would you command the Great King, villain?”
Geraint lunged underneath the spear, grabbed Oak Helm’s sleeve, and kneed the horse in the side. The horse reared and Geraint yanked Oak Helm toward him. The rider’s foot caught in the stirrup and he dangled ridiculously over the horse’s side. Geraint caught the spear as it fell from Oak Helm’s grip. Oak Helm’s horse whinnied high and frightened and danced in a tight circle, trying to throw off the struggling weight. Geraint and Elen’s horses answered with snorts and whickers and both danced back. Elen fell onto her back with a hoarse shout. Colannau flew into the air, screaming in her anger. Oak Helm hollered and cursed, and Horse Helm shouted his own curses, trying to maneuver his beast past Oak Helm’s to get a clear swing at Geraint.
Geraint lept backward. Elen scrambled to her knees. She clutched the stone axe from their gear. She scrambled to her feet and ducked quick behind him, heading for Donatus before it bolted.
Geraint thrust the spear at Horse Helm’s mount. The beast had no taste for a fight and shied, coming down within an inch of Oak Helm’s head. He hollered, and scared it again, making it shy again. Elen hauled Donatus up to Geraint, and Geraint swung himself into the saddle.
Oak Helm at last kicked himself free of his stirrup and landed on the ground with a thud. Horse Helm had mastered his beast, and urged him around his fallen captain. But it was not Geraint he headed toward. It was to Elen, standing on the grass, the hand-axe held tight in both hands.
Geraint put Donatus between Horse Helm and Elen and thrust again with his spear. Horse Helm knocked his blow aside with the club and turned his horse in time, passing by Elen, and wheeling about to try his charge again. Oak Helm found his feet and limped toward her, fighting to pull his own sword. Geraint made his choice and swung toward Horse Helm. Elen saw the opening he gave her and ran past. Horse Helm dodged Geraint’s spear again and drew up short, landing a blow above Geraint’s knee. The pain shot stars across Geraint’s sight. The next blow caught his arm, and he dropped the spear.
Oak Helm howled and caught the spear up, swinging it around. Hoofbeats hit the ground. Elen had run only far enough to mount her little brown, and now she charged at Oak Helm, who levelled his spear and Geraint cried out, and only barely managed to duck the fresh blow from Horse Helm.
Elen veered off her course, swung the axe, and threw it at Oak Helm.
The axe spun end over end. Oak Helm ducked. Horse Helm stared. Geraint kicked his horse hard, sending it plunging forward. Holding tight with his knees, Geraint swinging out his good fist to catch Horse Helm hard on the temple, just below his cap. The man reeled. Geraint grabbed his club from his hand and slammed it down against Horse Helm’s weak right arm, which was all the man had to guide the horse. He felt bone give and heard the crunch, and Horse Helm screamed and his horse reared and lurched and Horse Helm fell from the saddle.
Oak Helm had grabbed the sword and abandoned the spear. He thrust the weapon into his belt, the naked blade dangerously close to his leg, and his horse’s side as he swung himself back into the saddle. But the fight seemed to have gone ou
t of him and Oak Helm turned his horse about, sending it galloping up the narrow valley way.
Geraint, arm and leg weak and burning with pain urged Donatus to follow as best he could. Oak Helm shouted something Geraint did not understand. Thunder roared and the ground shook. Donatus screamed and stumbled. Geraint barely kept his seat. When his mount recovered, Geraint saw that one of the green hills now gaped open wide. Through the gap waited another valley where the sun shone bright and the air was clear. But he saw these things only for an instant, because Oak Helm charged through that ragged, earthen gate.
It shut behind him, and he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
As soon as Geraint rode past her, Elen let go of Calonnau’s jesses and grabbed up the spear. The fallen man had his knees bent and was struggling to rise. She shoved the spear at him until the point rested over his heart. Corslet or no, he had reason to fear the weapon held this close. For a wild moment, she had an urge to stab his chest, just to reach the heart that he did not deserve. She uttered no threat for she did not trust her voice. The hawk flapped awkwardly to the stone, and continued her frantic shaking and preening, and her complaining. Calonnau’s distress mixed with Elen’s fear for Geraint and the near-panic the battle raised. For all that, her hands and gaze held steady, and the man with the horse helm and the broken arm held still.
Calonnau shrieked. Elen heard the approach of a single horse. She did not let herself look up. Despite his injury, Horse Helm was watching her closely from where he sat, looking for his chance.
The horse stopped, and someone dismounted. She knew it was Geraint before he came into her field of view. He circled the captive until he stood opposite her.
“Who is your lord, villain?” he asked quietly.
Horse Helm turned his face away. Geraint knelt. He removed the captive’s helmet and tossed it aside. Underneath, their man had a thatch of brown hair and one eyebrow made ragged by an old scar. But that was not all. Someone had burned the man’s forehead with a brand, leaving behind a livid white scar shaped like a sealed knot.
