Prince of Dreams

by Nancy McKenzie

  Gerontius shook his head. “Tristan, how can my father ever repay you for this noble sacrifice?”

  Tristan took his eyes off Marhalt and looked at his cousin. “If I die, he can give you Lyonesse. If I live, he can give it to me.”

  “It’s yours anyway, Tristan. He was only waiting until you returned from this one battle. It isn’t necessary to do—this.” He gestured toward the Welsh giant.

  “I’m doing it to prove that Mark is a man worth dying for. They don’t believe that now. Many of our own men don’t believe it. But after tonight, whatever happens, no one will be able to deny it. Don’t you see? It’s Cornwall’s future that’s at stake as much as Britain’s.”

  Gerontius leaned forward and kissed him.

  “All right. So it is decided.” Peredur again commanded everyone’s attention. “Marhalt, what weapons do you choose?”

  Marhalt smiled disdainfully at the naked, mud-clad boy. “I choose one weapon only. The sword.”

  “And, Tristan? When shall this fight be fought?”

  “Now, my lord. Here. Outside this tent.”

  “Now?” Marhalt stared. “In the pouring rain?”

  “Now.”

  “But—” Marhalt turned toward Peredur. “Must I?”

  Peredur glanced sharply at Tristan. “The time and place were of his choosing. Yes, you must fight now.”

  Marhalt’s voice rose in agitation. “May I not even have ten minutes to don my armor?”

  Tristan bowed. “I will give you five minutes for preparation. Meet me outside.”

  Another smile touched Peredur’s lips, this time of admiration, as Tristan turned and strode out, Dinadan at his heels.

  “Quickly!” Tristan whispered, dragging his friend aside. “More mud. Cover me with it, nice and thick. The rain has stopped and it’s drying out. Pray, Dinadan, for a light rain, or a mist.”

  “By the looks of it, you’ll get both. This is a night for fog if I ever saw one.”

  “I hope so. Marhalt’s nearsighted.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I watched his eyes. And he’s left-handed. And he isn’t very bright.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t surprise me, but how on earth can you tell?”

  Tristan grinned. “His wife leads him around by the nose, for one thing—oh, come, Dinadan, didn’t you see that rape story for what it is? A woman’s plan if I ever heard one. But if that wasn’t clue enough, what commander worth his salt dons armor for a fight in the mud and rain?”

  “He would be better off in nothing but a loincloth, like you?”

  “Much better off.”

  “Tristan, one sword stroke will kill you.”

  “One of his sword strokes would kill me no matter what mail I wore. I might as well be naked.”

  Dinadan shook his head. “I’m damned if that sounds like a battle strategy to me.”

  “At least I’ll be able to move. Just picture him in his leather tunic studded all over with brass, and leather leggings, too, with any luck. After today, they should be good and wet. What will they feel like to wear? He’s probably had them drying before a fire, getting stiff. What will it feel like to move? He’ll be as slow as a sea turtle in all that gear.”

  “God, Tristan, you’re the only one who cares what anything feels like,” Dinadan grumbled, slapping on the mud. “That bonehead won’t even think twice about it. He’ll just put it on and come after you.”

  “Let me live half an hour and his arms will feel it. And his legs. That’s fine, Din, I’m coated all over. Now give me a moment to myself. I need to think.”

  Dinadan withdrew as Peredur emerged from the tent, followed by the Welsh lords, King Constantine leaning on Gerontius, and all the Cornishmen behind them. Twenty men lit torches and stood in a large circle outside the tent. The muddy turf was trampled and torn up from the passing of many feet. Puddles reflected the torchlight, dimpling as a steady drizzle began to fall.

  While they waited, Tristan walked slowly around the circle, digging in his toes, testing the footing. Constantine scowled, Gerontius wept silently, and the Welshmen smiled and nudged one another, nodding at the witless boy.

  Marhalt arrived in his damp leather armor, looking just as stiff and uncomfortable as Tristan had predicted, and just as oblivious of discomfort as Dinadan had foretold. He glared at Tristan.

  “Don’t yield to me, boy. It won’t do you any good. We fight to the death.”

  Tristan raised his sword to his forehead in salute. “I have said my prayers. I am ready.”

  Peredur gave the signal and the fight began.

  They circled warily. While his mind was on Marhalt, watching how he moved, timing his feints, gauging his nimbleness, Tristan’s senses were alive to the thickening mist and the dim haloes around the torches. In another twenty minutes, if he could stay alive that long— The sword flashed, Marhalt lunged, Tristan leaped aside, blocking the blow. Marhalt whirled, struck out, barely missing. Tristan dove, somersaulted, spun, nicked the giant in the arm. Marhalt spat. He was fast for a big man, surprisingly fast. And unbelievably strong. Just crossing his blade had nearly torn the sword hilt from Tristan’s grasp.

  They circled again. Predictably, Marhalt lunged the other way. Tristan parried, dodged, cut him through the armor on the thigh, a light cut, but a bleeder. Given time— Again the blade came at him, hacking down. Tristan leaped aside; the giant’s hand came out to catch him but caught a fistful of mud instead as the boy slithered free. The first fingers of mist drifted into the circle. Tristan heard the Welshman grunt, saw him shake his head. Use your ears and nose, he told himself, not your eyes. Hear him, smell him! Listen to his feet! The sword glinted, swinging sideways. He jumped back, staying balanced, knees bent, toes digging in for purchase. The sword swung up; Tristan darted in, hacked, then out, whirling away as the giant bellowed. Through the flickering mist he saw a dark rivulet run down the Welshman’s arm from the shoulder. The great shadow loomed, coming fast, beating him back, right and left, beating him down. He backed, and backed again, hard up against the soldiers forming the circle. They retreated as the giant’s deadly sword approached.

  Gods of the high hills, gods of the moving deep. Tristan stumbled, rolled away as the sword fell. Gods of the living forests. Feinting, dodging, striking, twisting. Gods of the burning sands. Marhalt lunged, his thick boots sliding in the mud. Diving sideways, Tristan cut him well across the thick part of his arm. Blood soaked the giant’s leather tunic, splashed upon the ground—how much, how quickly! Marhalt turned, hissing, and attacked. Tristan’s sword was brushed aside, again and again, as if it were merely an annoyance. He could not stand against the giant, but circled backward, digging in his toes, nimble in retreat. Gods of the birthless sky and deathless night, hear my plea! Again and again the sword caught the light, flashed, came down. Again and again Tristan dodged, dove, leaped, and scrambled out of its way, now and then scratching his opponent, a nick here, a cut there. Would this bleeding ox never feel his pain? Wonderful Mother, I am a mosquito! Irritated, Marhalt rushed, slipped, and fell to one knee; Tristan landed a blow to his shoulder, but brass and leather dulled the stroke, and Marhalt came up swinging. He locked blades and with a mighty shove threw Tristan hard up against a soldier in the circle. The man staggered. Tristan fell. On hands and knees he crawled into the dark, beyond the reach of the smoking torches.

  Marhalt bellowed, “Cheat! Coward!” and came after him. The circle shattered. Men began to shout. Tristan slithered in the mud, his face clogged with damp, struggling to stand. Damn the noise! He could not hear the giant. He rose. Marhalt was there, breathing fast in the night mist, staring about blindly, calling for light. “Coward! Devil! Show yourself!”

  The giant could not see his mud-blackened body in the dark. Mithra, Bull-Slayer, bless my sword! Tristan braced himself and struck, slashing with all his might. It was like striking a stone wall; his whole body jarred, his wrist loosened. Marhalt gasped once and nearly tore the sword from his grip. He fell b
ack, tripping on a tree root, whipping his body sideways as the Welshman’s blade slashed down. Missed! He pulled himself to his feet, shaking, and leaned for a moment against the tree. He could not feel his hand.

  “I knew you were a coward, you dirty Cornishman! Whore’s son! You’ll die for this!”

  The voice was very close. Tristan gripped the sword with his other hand, and crept silently to his left. Lights were coming downhill toward them, singly and in pairs. Where was the giant? Light gleamed from a bronze stud—there! He dove, rolling on his shoulder, stabbing at the knee. Marhalt whirled, kicked out, caught him in the hip, and sent him flying, smashing up against a tree. Tristan cried out as the breath left his body. Marhalt shouted in exultation and came at him. Wrist and back screamed at Tristan—no time to listen! He threw himself sideways and clawed at the tree to stand. Dimly Tristan saw the blade coming, thrust his weapon out to block it, felt it give, twisting, wrenched away. He stepped back, too slow; the sword raced at him, something jarred him, freezing his breath. He crumpled, his body alive with pain, hot, searing, wet. His legs buckled. He fell hard against the unforgiving ground. His mouth gaped, breathless, sucking air. Jesu Christ, who knows the pain of death, forgive me all my sins.

  “Aiiiii-eeee-aaaah!” Marhalt shrieked his victory, leaped forward, and slipped as his knee gave way. He fell hard against the boy’s body, sword flying wide. Tristan screamed as the man’s weight hit him. His eyes blazed with stars, blinded by fire and pain. He could not breathe. The big hands encircled his neck, slipping against the mud, squeezing hard. Jesu God! No time for prayer or breath; he could not move or think. His body hammered at his thoughts: Do something! Act now! Life was ebbing fast; he could feel his strength sinking, his youth dying, all his hopes unfathomed, all his songs unsung. The fleshy fingers slipped, he grabbed air, heard foul Welsh curses through the cold mist as the cruel hands found their grip once more. He had no strength, no hope, only dumb, blind terror. Deep within him, he revolted. It could not end like this. His fingers twitched helplessly in the mud, groping for something, anything, while the light left his eyes and he struggled, desperate, against rising oblivion. There! The cold, firm feel of forged steel. A sword hilt! Blind, breathless, he forced himself to hold hard with both hands, slowly tighten every sinew, slowly raise his arms above his head, and then strike down! Down! Down with all his might! The blade hit hard, shattering his wrist, a dull thud followed by a loud roar, and then, on the edge of sound, a scream. His scream.

  3 SANCTUARY

  From far away came the sound of water dripping. He imagined a still pool deep in the forest glade, dappled sunlight, cool mosses soft against his cheek. Up welled sweet water, cold and clear, lipping over mossy stones, sliding silver-streamed onto rocks below. He shivered as the icy droplets splashed against his face. He stirred, tasting water against his lips, feeling flesh against his flesh, jarring and remote. Someone held him, someone raised his head while he drank. The glade faded slowly, leaving nothing but a shadowy mist behind. Where was he? Deftly, kind hands stroked his hair and settled his head gently on something soft and sweet-scented—a bough? A pillow? Slippered feet moved quietly on stone: sure steps, purposeful, moving away. He was alone. He heard nothing but the sweet calling of a meadowlark nearby, felt nothing beyond a breeze that stirred his hair, a seal upon his eyelids and the deep satisfaction of a thirst refreshed. As he slid again into senselessness he recognized the place, and rejoiced. I am in Heaven.

  Toward evening Tristan opened his eyes. He lay on a pallet in a small cell with windows facing west and east. The golden light of late afternoon threw a brilliant oblong across the slate floor. The walls were of wood and wattle, mud dried and washed white with lime. On a plain wooden table he saw an old clay pitcher, a horn cup, two jars stoppered with cork and labeled with symbols, an unlit candle in a chipped holder, clean cloths neatly folded, a thin-bladed knife, a mortar and pestle, and a fine ceramic bowl. The stone flooring was swept spotlessly clean. Not a single dust mote danced in the shaft of light. He could just make out the ragged tail of a straw broom in the shadow of the low, curved door. The walls were bare of ornament but were hung instead with bunches of dried herbs, blue, rose, brown, purple, and faded green. It seemed to him he knew this place, recognized its quiet peace, the sharp herb scent, the moving air that smelled lightly, but so enticingly, of the sea. If he was not in Heaven, he was close to it.

  He closed his eyes. He knew, without wondering at it, that he could not move, and he did not try to. It did not occur to him to wonder why or how he came to be there. Instead, he strained his ears to catch the sea sounds he knew could not be far away. It seemed to him he could feel the steady rhythm in the deepest part of his being, the incessant suck and thud of the mother deep, beckoning to him, her lost son, calling him home. With a sigh, he let his seeking spirit drift, to wash in and out with the moving tide, and fall toward sleep.

  The door opened softly, and the purposeful steps he had heard before approached him. A cool hand touched his forehead. Struggling up from the mists of tide-borne dreams, he opened his eyes. A tall hooded figure in a gray robe stood above him, looking down. For a moment, terror stopped his breathing. There was no face inside the hood! The figure turned to the light, and Tristan gasped aloud. It was a death’s head! Dear Jesu God! If I am not in Heaven, am I then in Hell?

  “Be easy, boy. Jarrad, the cloth and cup.” Strong hands lifted his head and shoulders with the utmost gentleness, while a youth, gray-robed like his master, approached with a healing drink. The cup was put to his lips. He drank, and breathed more easily. The hooded figure lowered Tristan’s head onto the pillow and wiped his mouth with the clean cloth. Tristan could only stare at the hood in dread and fascination.

  “Well,” said the figure in a firm, familiar voice, “if you haven’t returned to us at last.” He pushed the hood back. The face, although thin and bony with deep-set, luminous eyes and close-cropped, graying hair, was a man’s face, full of life, full of feeling.

  “Uncle Pernam!” Tristan’s lips struggled to form the words, but only the barest whistle of sound emerged.

  “Don’t try speech yet. It’s enough that you’ve finally awakened. Do you know me? I see you do. Well, Tristan, welcome home to Lyonesse. You’re in my house of healing. You’ve been here three months, and it’s been touch and go at times, but heal you will.”

  Tristan stared. Three months?

  Pernam nodded serenely, as if he had heard the thought. The boy Jarrad brought him the ceramic bowl. He dipped a cloth into fresh water, and cleaned Tristan’s face and neck while he spoke.

  “Yes, three months. It’s hard to credit when you haven’t seen or felt the time you’ve lived through. It’s near midsummer. They brought you home the night of the equinox.”

  Tristan struggled to remember. Where had he been? Why was he in Pernam’s Sanctuary? Why hadn’t they taken him on to his own home across the causeway, on the promontory? What was the matter with him?

  Pernam signaled to the boy, who replaced the bowl on the table and pulled the stopper from one of the jars. The boy brought him the knife, the jar, and a new cloth.

  “Pernam.” He tried again and achieved a sound, a harsh, grating croak.

  Pernam smiled. “Good. It’s coming. Don’t rush it. Your memory will return soon enough. Rest easy, listen to your body’s rhythm. You’ll heal faster if you obey your inner voice.”

  It was all Tristan could do to control his rising panic. Pernam and the youth were lifting a cover from him, washing his body with the wet cloth, yet he could feel nothing!

  “Pernam!” he cried, and the word flew out, sharp and distinct. “I am dead! I can’t feel anything!”

  Pernam paused, holding the knife and jar. “The Good Goddess be thanked, you are very much alive. It is my doing you have lost your sensations. I gave you a potion with a drug to kill your pain.”

  Pain! The word struck with the force of truth. He had recently—but how recently?—suffered great pain. He seeme
d to remember it dully, from a great distance: mind-numbing, all-consuming, killing pain. “We have poulticed your wound twice a day,” Pernam was saying, “but you have never been awake. I warn you, this might hurt, but it is necessary.” He stuck the knife into the jar and withdrew a greenish paste. “Hold still.” Tristan could not feel the touch of the blade against his skin, nor the application of the paste. Instead, he felt a thousand red-hot needles stab his side, from under his right arm, across his ribs, across his chest. Sweat broke upon his forehead; he gasped for breath. “There.” Pernam handed the jar to Jarrad and wiped Tristan’s brow with the cloth. “No more until morning.”

  “Twice a day?” Tristan managed in a whisper. “Pernam, what happened to me?”

  Gently, Pernam drew the coverlet over Tristan, spoke in a low voice to the youth, and sent him from the room. Then he turned back to Tristan and mopped his brow again.

  “You’ve been in a swordfight,” he said. “You killed a giant.”

  Marhalt! The name sprang at him, and all at once memory flooded back, complete and in detail. The nearness of it shocked him. Unlike the pain, he remembered that fight as if it were yesterday. Marhalt dead? But Marhalt had killed him, not the other way around.

  “Marhalt’s dead?”

  “Yes, that was the name.” Pernam’s eyebrow lifted. “You split his skull. Is that the way men fight nowadays? It sounded an unorthodox stroke to me.”

  Tristan tried to smile, but was not sure he succeeded. “He was five times my size and had his hands around my throat. You’ll have to forgive me.”

  Pernam’s smile transformed his long, thin face into the delighted visage of a child. “My dear, all Cornwall forgives you. You are everyone’s darling. My father, Constantine, wept over you. My brother Markion kissed your brow.”

  “Mark was here?”

  “For two weeks, while you raged in fever. He made you King of Lyonesse.”