—At home Dahut mumbled something about having sought the council of the Gods in a night vigil at Lost Castle. She had said the same thing before. Nobody responded, save to carry out her orders.
A long hot bath soothed much of the tenderness in her flesh. She emerged, was dressed, ate, drank. Thereafter she retired to her private room, barred the door, and settled down with writing materials—a brazier would consume any rejected bits—to compose the letter that would be carried, sealed, to Budic.
4
Once long ago, when he and the world were still young, Niall had walked forth from Temir on the eve of a holy feast, to have speech in confidence about a warfaring he intended abroad. But that was just before Beltene; the voyage would be open and splendid, against the Romans in Gallia; the men at his side were the druid Nemain maqq Aedo and the ollam poet Laidchenn maqq Barchedo. This morrow’s day was Imbolc. Nemain was dead and Laidchenn had returned to Mumu after his satires avenged the murder of his son. The deeds he was to do were unknown to Niall. He knew only that he must do them alone.
With his handfast captain, lean gray Uail maqq Carbri, he took the northward road between the Rath of Grainne and the Sloping Trenches, and on downhill as of old. His four guards tramped behind, out of earshot. The day was late and dark, wind awhistle over dun meadows and leafless woods. Smoke blew tattered from the thatch of wide-strewn shielings. Where their doors stood open, firelight gleamed afar; this was to be a night of good cheer, when Brigit and Her white cow traveled the length and breadth of the land to bless it. Those glimpses made the walkers feel twice removed from the world.
“Then all is in readiness, darling?” Niall asked.
“It is,” Uail told him. “The ship lies ready at Clón Tarui. A stout Saxon-built craft she is, and I myself have overseen the wrights as they made her perfect this winter. The crew will hasten there at once after the festivities; they should be on hand when yourself arrives. We are well provisioned, also with the gold you ordered. There remains only the kindness of Manandan and the merfolk, that we have a swift and safe passage.”
Niall nodded. He had put the questions more to start talk going than because of any doubts. “The Gods shall have such sacrifices tomorrow as ought to put Them in the right mood,” he said.
Uail could not refrain: “And yet I wish I knew why we go!”
“What men do not know, they cannot let slip,” Niall answered sternly. “May the lot of you keep in your heads what I have been telling you over and over.”
“We shall that, master.”
“Repeat it.”
“You are a chieftain who wants to explore what the outlook may be for you in the Gallic trade. Niall is a common enough name that it should arouse no wondering in the Romans, who know little about Ériu anyhow. We need but remember not to declare that you are Niall of the Nine Hostages, King and conqueror. We come to Gesocribate this early in the season so that we may be well ahead of any rivals. We wait there, living off the trade of our gold, while you go inland to ask among the tribespeople.”
“It may take a month or more,” Niall reminded. “Enjoy the time; but it is gess for you to say anything further, even among yourselves, no matter how drunk you get.”
“I tell you again, dear lord, you should not wander off alone,” Uail fretted. “It’s dangerous. It’s unbecoming your dignity.”
“And I’ve told you before, if I tear off at the head of an armed band, the Romans will ask why. They may well forbid it and seize us for questioning. Whereas if I quietly drift away, that should lull them. They’ll take me for a barbarian simpleton, and imagine no real harm that a single traveler could do.”
Uail sighed and shut his mouth. After all, Niall had once gone thus to meet him in Britannia. As for what harm the King intended, that must be against Ys; and a shuddery thing it was to think about.
They strode on. Twilight gathered. “Shall we be turning back now, master?” Uail asked.
“Not yet,” Niall answered. “I hope for a sign.”
Ahead of them gloomed an oakenshaw he well remembered. Suddenly upward from it flapped a bird. Niall halted. Knuckles whitened on his spearshaft, breath hissed between his teeth.
But this was no eagle owl such as had gone by on an unlucky eventide. This was a raven, eerily belated for one of its kind, and huge. Thrice its blackness circled above Niall’s spearhead, before it wheeled and winged away south.
Niall shook his weapon aloft. “The sign indeed, indeed!” he roared. Joy carried him beyond himself. Uail and the guards made furtive signs against misfortune. Few men were glad to see the Mórrigu at the edge of night.
Niall turned about and ran the whole way back onto Temir hill. The rest had trouble keeping up.
Before the Feasting Hall he stopped, breathing deeply but easily, his ardor quenched like a newly forged blade. The building sheened great and white in the dusk, below its thundercloud of roof. Folk stood outside; the gold upon them kept the last brightness there was.
His younger Queen stepped forth. “We have been waiting for you, dear lord,” she said.
“Mighty matters held me,” Niall said. “Now we shall revel.” He looked at the babe in her arms, fur-wrapped against the cold. He laughed aloud. “And do not give Laégare to his nurse. Bring him in that he may be at our feast, he who one day will be King.”
5
Snow returned, this time on a wind from the sea that cast it nearly level through the streets of Ys and drowned vision in whiteness. The noise shrilled around Budic’s knock when at last he had gotten the mettle to put knuckles to door.
Dahut let him in and retreated. His hands acted for him, closing and bolting the door without his awareness. Himself he could only look and be lost.
Warmth from the brazier, glow from clay lamps turned the drabness of the room into a snug little nest. He would never have cared, when she stood before him as she did. A belted robe of deep blue clung to her body, rose and fell with her bosom, where shadows played in the cleft under the red crescent. Loosened hair shimmered and billowed down past widened eyes, quivering nostrils, parted lips. Arms lifted slightly toward him as if in appeal.
All at once tears broke free. She shuddered, sobbed, covered her face from him. “Princess,” he cried in dismay, “what’s wrong?”
“You came not and you came not,” she wept.
“I could not.” Step by step he rocked toward her. “Your father had us out on maneuvers these past several days. I never saw your letter till yesterday, and then—Oh, Dahut, what is it you need of me?”
“Your help. Your comfort. If you can give it, if you will, after you hear.”
He stopped himself just short of embracing her. “What’s happened? It must be something terrible. In Christ’s name, tell me!”
“The worst. I fear I am doomed unless—” She gasped, gulped, overcame the convulsions. She hugged herself, and did not appear to notice that that drew further down the neckline of her robe. “I am cold,” she said in a tiny voice. “The fire doesn’t help. I grew so cold, waiting here for you after your word came to my house.”
“Then speak,” he begged.
“Now I know not if I dare. You’ll cast me off. That would be more than I can bear.”
“Never will I forsake you. I swear that.”
“My father swore me the same oath once,” she said with a serpent-lash of bitterness. Despair overtook her again. She lowered her head and looked at the floor. Her fingers clawed into the robe. “’Twas never my wish, Budic. Whatever you feel, never believe I willed it.”
Blindly, he laid arms around her shoulders. She nestled into his bosom. “Oh, Budic, my love. I confess it. No shame is left me. I love you, Budic.”
Almost, he fell. He came back from the cataract to feel her draw away from him and mourn, “Too late now. I am dead. This is a ghost who speaks to you.”
“Tell me,” he implored.
She looked at him, brushed away tears, blinked hard, tried thrice before she said, with forlorn gallant
ry:
“Oh, I was foolish, I brought it on myself by my heedlessness. Yet how should I foresee, I, a maiden, a girl who’d never known aught but love and honor—I who was the Luck of your legionaries, do you remember? ’Tis simple. You know a shipful of Northmen was in port for some while. Belike you saw them. Mayhap you drank in the same inn a time or two. Well, I was curious. Ever had I been eager to learn about the outside world, those wonderful realms that I shall never behold. In my boy’s guise I struck up acquaintance with the captain, showed him about in Ys, listened to his tales of far ventures. ’Twas reckless of me, aye, but life had been so empty and he seemed an honorable man in his rough way. Also, I believed he did think me a boy. So there was no fear in me when he made a pretext to enter this room—he said he had a gift for me—but—”
She broke off and keened.
He screamed in his anguish. “Nay!”
“Yea,” she said. “See.” She lifted her arms, so that sleeves fell down from bruises still visible. “Over and over. ’Twas a nightmare I could not wake from, till at last I swooned. Then he went off and gathered his crew and sailed away.”
“Did no one hear, and, and—did no one care?”
“I could not ask them. I beg you, do not talk with them either. Spare me that last rag of pride.”
“Dahut—”
“Belike I should not have sent for you,” she went on in the same flat tone. “But who else was there for me?”
“What can I do?”
She made a slight shrug and smile. “Flee if you will,” she said wistfully. “Ill understand. You are pure. But if somehow you could find it in your heart to spend a very little time beside this ruin, I will have that to cherish through everything I must endure.”
“What must you endure? Nobody knows but me. Torture will not wring it out of me.”
“The Gods know. And I do, I whose dreams you haunt, Budic, I who have lost you forever. And… he will know who finally slays my father. Virgin must I come to his bed, I who am unwedded. When he learns—Well, of course I pray my father will reign for many years yet.”
“You—oh, Dahut—did you think I, of all men, I would find you the less because… because that beast hurt you?” He hammered fist in palm. “Could I catch him and feed him inch by inch to the flames! But I, I can at least say I love you, Dahut.”
They were embraced, they were kissing.
“Hang not back,” she cried softly. “Hew me clean of him.”
And again and again.
—Night drew in. Lamps guttered low.
“I will always remember this,” she said, close beside him. “Twill make my fate endurable. And I hope ’twill warm you too in your loneliness.”
Alarm stirred him out of drowse. “What do you mean?”
She gave him a steady blue look. “Why, you must flee, you know.” Calm pervaded the husky voice. “Seek elsewhere and never come back. ’Twere death for you to remain, after what has happened between us.”
“Nobody need know.”
The amber-golden locks brushed to and fro over his shoulder as she shook her head. “Impossible to keep it secret for long. Nor would I so sully a brave and beautiful thing. Oh, we could take a risk that no gossip about today will get out, but it is a risk—and you would die most hideously—and at best we would not dare meet again. Nay, fare you to a new life. Til make sure that poor Keban is provided for.”
“And I abandon you?” He sat straight. “God knows I am a weakling and a sinner, but a Judas I am not.”
She raised herself likewise. Her clasp trembled on his knee. “What else can you do?” she whispered.
Resolution clanged. “I will make myself King of Ys, and you my Queen.”
“My father!” Her tone was aghast. “Your centurion!”
“Aye,” he said bleakly. “But Roman has warred on Roman erenow. You are more to me than him or the whole world and Heaven. And you would not be in this plight had he kept faith with you. Christ Himself taught that man and wife shall forsake all others.”
“Christian King of Ys—”
His laugh rattled. “Nay, my dear. How long I’ve wrestled with this, sleepless on watch or in my cheerless bed. At last it is decided. Already I am blackened. What I shall do will damn me forever. Well, so be it. I will embrace the Gods of Ys as I do you, Dahut. Thus shall Corentinus’s prophecy be fulfilled.”
It flared in her. “Then you are the King who was foretold me!”
XVI
1
During the night snowfall ceased and freezing weather moved in. When day broke cloudless it saw what was rare in an Armorican winter, earth glittery white and a leafage of icicles aflash over the Wood of the King. The air was so cold that it felt liquid in the nostrils. Silence was so deep that it seemed to crackle, with any real sound barely skimming above.
At first Gratillonius could not see his challenger. The features were there, but they slid off his mind like raindrops off glass. Then he began to think: No, this is impossible, a nightmare or I’ve gone mad or a sorcerer is deceiving me. Yet he felt too clearly the chill on his face and the knocking in his breast, snow scrunchy underfoot, a sudden renewed ache in the ribs that had been snapped. He could count the rivets that held the metal rim and boss of Budic’s shield, he noticed where the legionary emblem on it needed the paint touched up, a light and a heavy javelin rested in the man’s left hand at just the angle that was Budic’s wont, given his height, when he wasn’t on parade, the woolen trews of winter wear sagged a bit over the top sandal straps, a small sloppiness for which the centurion had long since quit reprimanding an otherwise excellent soldier…. It was the visage under the helmet that was different. The lineaments were the same, but a stranger looked out of them.
Gratillonius’s tongue came to life. “What kind of jape is this?” it foolishly formed.
A machine might have replied. “None. I swung the Hammer in full sight of those men on the porch there. Go arm yourself.”
“Have you forgotten what happens to mutineers?”
“The King of Ys will know how to deal with Rome.”
It tumbled through Gratillonius that that might prove correct. Various officials would be glad enough to get rid of him that they would urge Stilicho to give his successor a chance. He said nothing, because it seemed unimportant beside the incomprehensible betrayal. Instead he let his body and its habits carry on for him.
Upon getting the news at the palace, without the name of the adversary, he had sent runners to inform the appropriate persons. Those were now arriving. Soren was as impassive as the sky. The marine guards tried to maintain the same control. The legionaries did too, with less success. They kept formation except for their eyes, which tracked Gratillonius whenever he stirred and swung slitted back to where Budic stood. Hands strained on spearshafts. Gratillonius heard his voice lay double stress on the usual command, that if he fell the men must be obedient to the victor until such time as they marched to Turonum and the tribune there.
“Let me ’elp yer make ready, sir,” Adminius begged. Perhaps he was unaware of the tears that trickled down his cheeks, came to rest in the stubble on his lantern jaw, and gleamed in the sunlight while they waited to freeze.
Gratillonius nodded and led the way to the equipment shed. When the door closed, both were momentarily blind, after the brilliance outside. Gratillonius wondered if he was getting a foretaste of death. No matter. Adminius’s words wavered: “Wot’s got inter ’im, sir? ’E worshipped you, I know ’e did, second only ter Christ—and Christ’ll cast ’im off for this, down inter ’ell, less’n a demon’s took ’im, and ’ow could that ’appen ter a praying man like ’im? Oh, sir, you’ve got ter win this ’un, more’n any o’ t’ others. You can’t leave us under a traitor an’—an’ expect us not ter kill ’im!”
“You will follow the orders I gave you,” Gratillonius clipped. “Is that clear, soldier? Shut your mouth and do your duty.”
Adminius gulped, hiccoughed, fumbled his way to the rack and chest
where the battle gear rested. It was the worn outfit that had fared with the centurion from Britannia and seen him through—how many combats at Ys? He’d had a shiny rig made for city and parade-ground use. Since challenge started coming on the heels of challenge, he had left the old one here; it didn’t mind a few extra scrapes and nicks, and he felt obscurely that it brought him luck. The shield was new, of course, following the fight against Carsa. It hefted heavier than it should. Gratillonius had not yet rebuilt his muscles to their former solidity. When he stripped, cold lapped him around, and lingered beneath the undergarments he donned. The metal almost seared him with frigidity. He took his helmet. A notion came to him that the luck drained out of it before he could put it on.
Adminius ran fingers over every joint and buckle. “You’ll want the javelins, sir,” he chattered. “’E’s got ’is.” Plume and vinestaff must stay behind. “Pardon me, sir, let me remind yer that casting is ’is main weakness. If ’e don’t take special care, ’e ’ooks a bit ter the left, so by cocking yer shield after ’e lets fly—”
“Enough,” Gratillonius interrupted. “It won’t do to keep them waiting.”
He stepped forth and was again blinded. Light bounced back off snow and flared in hard hues from icicles. Budic stood in a nimbus of radiance like some warrior God: incredible, how beautiful Dahut’s bridegroom was.
Why need I live on? thought Gratillonius while the dazzlement danced around him. I did not know until this dawn what weariness had been in me. Some of the Queens and princesses will mourn—I dare believe Dahut among them—but they will take comfort from supposing that through my death the Gods of Ys renew the life of the world. And Dahut will no longer be torn, poor bewildered soul, between her father and her destiny. Whatever drove Budic to turn on me, he’ll be kind to her. He loves her; that’s been as easy to see on him as fresh blood, year after year. Oh, my death will solve many a problem. Also my own. I can lie down to rest, I can let this heartsickness fall off me and sleep, just sleep forever.
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