Prince of Dreams

by Nancy McKenzie

  Tristan closed his eyes. At last. “I am sorry I knew nothing of it.”

  “He was sorry, too. He will come again when you are stronger and are able to receive him at Lyon’s Head.”

  He looked up at Pernam’s calm face. Ever since he could remember, this uncle, the youngest of Constantine’s three sons, had been a solace to him, the only one, sometimes, who understood his songs and dreams. Pernam had always been as he was now, serene and whole, a man who had come to terms with life. There had never been a time when he could not talk to Pernam.

  “Pernam.” It came out a whisper. “I thought I was dead. The giant killed me. I remember it.”

  Tenderly, the healer’s hands stroked the hair back from his forehead. “It was nearly so. He cut you well. You almost bled to death before they left the field. No one thought you would live. They bound your body as best they could and carried you home on a litter. They brought you to me, here in this room, more dead than alive.”

  Tristan watched his face, a noble face, with tanned skin, lightly lined, stretched across strong, well-molded bones. Although he could not feel their touch, he felt the strength that flowed into him through the deft, long-fingered hands. The dark eyes seemed to reach his soul. This man commanded power. He had suspected it in childhood; he knew it now.

  “I have six new apprentices,” Pernam said softly. “You trained them well, Tristan. Everything they know, you taught them. They were with me when I took the wrappings off your wound.”

  Tristan gulped. “Was it so awful?”

  Pernam’s thin mouth twitched into a smile. “The army physicians did their best, but they hadn’t washed all the mud out. It festered.”

  “But it was the mud that saved my life. The oaf was strangling me.”

  “Ah, well. Suffice it to say I had to reopen the wound and let you bleed before you could heal. You were two weeks in a fever that might have killed you, and six weeks in chills and sweats. At one time we had four mixing tables in here. As you see, we are down to one. The numbing potion and the poultice. That and prayer and sweet rest are all that you need now.”

  “I remember—I think—he broke my wrist.”

  Pernam lifted Tristan’s right arm so he could see it. Tristan gaped. Was that his own arm, that long shaft of bone and sinew? What had happened to his flesh? Had his whole body shrunk to no more than a pallid shroud upon his bones? Pernam was flexing his wrist for him, showing him that it moved.

  “Not a bad break, really. It healed swiftly. You will have the use of it again.”

  “Pernam!”

  “What is it, nephew?”

  “Why is it I can feel nothing, not even the movement of my arm, but I can feel every inch of this burning wound?”

  Something moved in the dark eyes, but Pernam said nothing, replacing Tristan’s arm under the coverlet and taking care to adjust the pillow under his head. The light was failing. In silence, the room grew dark.

  “Tell me.”

  Pernam’s hands moved before his eyes, making a sign over Tristan’s breast. Then he spoke.

  “It is as I thought. I said nothing before because I was not sure. But if you feel it through the power of the drug, then it must be so.”

  “What must be so?”

  “The sword that cut you was tipped with poison.”

  “Poison!”

  “And no ordinary one. I have a large store of antidotes to poisons. I have tried them all. And the wound has healed, Tristan. For a long while it would not. We finally found a mixture of the right ingredients to heal the flesh, but I wondered if the wound was not deeper than the flesh.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Pernam slowly, “that there was more on that sword than simple poison. There was enchantment.”

  Tristan stared at him.

  Pernam sighed and looked past the window toward the lighting stars. “There are not many left nowadays who possess such power. In the old days, when my father was young, when Cador, my grandfather, served the High King Arthur, such power as this was given into the hands of men. The great Merlin commanded it—surely you have heard of him.”

  “Merlin the Enchanter? Yes, of course. But to me, he’s a figure in a bard’s song, like Kay the Short-Armed, Bedwyr of the Bright Sword, and the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.”

  “And what do bards sing of but our glorious past? These men were real enough, like you and me. I saw Lancelot once myself as he passed through Cornwall. And Merlin, though a servant of the god, was as much flesh as you are, while he lived.”

  “The bards say that, like Arthur, he never died.”

  Pernam smiled. “Well, bards do tend to stretch it a bit, don’t they, bardling? But there is truth in much of what they say. Merlin was a great enchanter and always used his power for the good. Niniane of Avalon, Lady of the Lake, was another. And Morgaine the Long-Sighted, her successor. Some used their power for evil purposes: Morgan of Rheged, and the dread Morgause, Witch of Orkney. But they are all gone now. Even Avalon is only weeds and apple trees. Not all their secrets died with them, apparently. Someone cursed that Welshman’s sword.”

  Tristan did not respond, and Pernam sat motionless beside him in the still summer twilight. Beyond the window a nightingale took up its liquid song. At length, Pernam rose and lit the candle. Dusk sprang to night when the flame was born. Now Tristan could see little else but his uncle’s face.

  “Will it always feel like this? Is there no help for it?”

  “It will ease as you grow in strength. But I am afraid the pain will never wholly leave you unless the antidote, if I can call it that, is found.”

  “How do I find an antidote to enchantment?”

  “Tristan, I do not know. Whoever cast the spell may have its cure, or know what paste to apply to draw the venom. I do not. But I am sure of this: Had you not killed Marhalt, you would have died.”

  “Of a certainty!”

  “No, I don’t mean by Marhalt’s hands. Had he nicked you and done nothing more, the sword’s curse would have killed you. You lived only because the sword’s master died.”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Uncle?”

  “There is no other explanation for your living through such bleeding, through such a journey, through such a fever. In a perverse way, the enchantment has preserved you, because Marhalt died.”

  “This sounds like madness.”

  “I have heard of such curses. The Druids used them in the days of their power. Someone with a knowledge of Druid lore may have cursed the sword, thinking to protect the swordsman. It would prove fatal to his enemies, and a boon to him, if he were a difficult man to kill.”

  “He was that, all right.”

  “Then as long as Marhalt lived, the sword would kill his enemies. But should he die fighting, the curse would preserve the man he struck. Although not without cost.”

  “Then I must find the man who gave the sword to Marhalt?”

  Pernam nodded. “Or the woman.” A scratching came at the door. “Ah, here is your supper. Come in, boys. I will raise you up, Tristan, and they will feed you. Allow them, if you will; it’s part of their training.”

  In came six youths, robed like Pernam, each one carrying a candle and a basket. Pernam sat on the pallet and propped Tristan up against him.

  “I can feel your hands!” Tristan cried in delight. “The drug is leaving me.”

  “Eat first. Then I will mix another potion.”

  “Oh, no! No. It is wonderful to feel again, even discomfort. At least I know I am alive. I don’t want any more of the drug.”

  “It will be more than discomfort before long.”

  Out of the baskets came a clean linen napkin, which was tucked under his chin, a loaf of new bread still warm from the ovens, a flask of steaming soup, and a small glazed bowl. The boys poured the soup into the bowl, and one of them lifted it to his lips. It was hot but rich with flavor, warming his belly, sending heat and life into his limbs. He could not manage the bre
ad alone—could not find strength to chew it—but another of the boys soaked it in the soup and he sucked it down. A third lad stood by with the horn cup of fresh water, while two more held candles high so they could see. The sixth sat on a stool by the window with a lap harp and gently plucked the strings, chanting in a clear, high voice words that Tristan did not know, but which seemed to ease his spirit and give him strength to eat.

  “Are they not beautiful?” Pernam whispered in his ear. Tristan looked at their young faces, still rounded by childhood, at their flawless complexions, their clear eyes and serious, intent expressions.

  “Pernam’s angels,” he whispered back, and heard his uncle’s light laughter in his ear.

  “They belong to the Goddess, not to me. Though Jarrad disturbs my sleep from time to time. . . . You were such a one as these, Tristan, when last I saw you. When Meliodas lived. You were this beautiful. And I daresay, when you have your health and we shave off that scruffy beard, you will be beautiful again.”

  “I didn’t know I had grown a beard.”

  Pernam’s fingers brushed his cheek, and he felt not the touch of flesh, but the stiff tickle of whiskers. “Four years of soldiering have made you into a man. Mark and Guvranyl, between them, stole your boyhood and remade you in their image. And now, see, you are a king.” Pernam sighed. “It was bound to happen, I suppose. You are cut from Meliodas’s cloth, not from mine.”

  The boys knew when Tristan had had enough, and stoppered the flask, folded away the napkin, and rinsed out the bowl. The singer brought his song to a close and slid off the stool. Pernam laid Tristan’s head gently down on the pillow.

  “I want to see Dinadan,” Tristan said. “Can you send for him?”

  “He is here in the guest house. He has been here all along. I will send him to you in the morning.”

  Pernam lifted a hand and the boys began to chant softly to a tuneless, rhythmic beat. Their odd music, formless, sinuous, curved into his thoughts, encircled the dull edge of pain, and bore him onward, away, into oblivion.

  “Dinadan.” Tristan grinned as the familiar face peered around the door.

  “Tristan! Christ. You look like death.”

  In three strides Dinadan was beside him, grasping Tristan’s hand roughly between his own as tears started in his eyes.

  “It’s good to see you, too. Din, don’t cry. I’m going to live.”

  Dinadan laughed and wiped his eyes. “I should hope so, after all we’ve been through. God, Tris! I mean, my lord.” He went down on one knee. “My lord Tristan, King of Lyonesse.”

  “Get up, idiot. You look a fool.”

  “Nothing new for me. First time of hearing it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll get used to it. How do you feel? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “Like hell,” Tristan said stiffly. “There’s such a pain in my chest I can hardly breathe. But at least I feel it. Yesterday I felt like a waking corpse. Today I feel like a wounded man.”

  Dinadan shook his head. “Most men would take anything rather than feel it. But not you.”

  With an effort, Tristan raised a skinny hand and pointed to a linen bag tied around his neck with a silken cord. “See this? Can you smell it? It stinks of some magic weed my uncle knows, and as long as I breathe its vapors the pain will be bearable. He made me wear it since I won’t take the drug. He says too much pain interferes with healing. He’s brought me back from death, so I must obey him.”

  “Your uncle Pernam’s a magician,” Dinadan said fervently. “Do whatever he tells you. I can’t believe half the things I’ve seen here. Although”—with a swift look away—“some of his ways are strange.”

  “All men are different. He is a healer in the Mother’s service. His gifts are not those of a warrior.”

  “I know. But the boys—aren’t they awfully young—”

  “None of them is here against his will. Pernam doesn’t take anyone but youths who beg to come and offer service, youths who dream not of killing men and leading kingdoms, but of something different.” He paused. “He’s a man of virtue. Else my father would not have let him live here. No one comes to harm under his care. Healing is everything to him.”

  “I’ve cause to know it.” Dinadan hurried on in a lighter voice. “He’s had me scouring the countryside for all kinds of plants, looking for a cure.”

  “You? You don’t know one plant from another!”

  “Didn’t, you mean. I do now. Leth and Aran helped me—the gray-eyed twins. They taught me what to look for. Can you believe I rode halfway up the coast to Tintagel looking for just the right kind of fern? Half of what I collected they threw out, and once I nearly poisoned myself on the wrong kind of mushroom. Your uncle Pernam saved me. It’s been an exciting visit here in Lyonesse.”

  “Dinadan, how ever can I thank you?”

  “Let me serve you at Lyon’s Head when you’re well enough to go home,” his friend said earnestly. “My father’s given me permission to serve you instead of Markion, now that you are king.”

  “Why, I’d love nothing better!” Tristan exclaimed. He reached out his thin hand, and Dinadan grasped it. “Tell me about Marhalt. What I heard from Pernam only confused me. Did I really kill him?”

  “Indeed you did. Thwack! Down the middle of his head with your sword. I was some ways off and heard the blow. It took two men to prize the thing out of his skull. And you ought to see the blade. I’ve got it in my chamber. I’d show it to you now if Pernam would allow weapons in the house of healing. A deep nick, right in the heart of the blade edge, to mark Marhalt’s death blow. Wherever he lies now, he’s got a piece of Cornish metal in his brains.”

  Tristan paled. “That was the sword my father gave me only a month before he died.”

  “Don’t worry, the blade’s as strong as ever. I’ve tested it against my own.”

  “Thank God for that. You know, Dinadan, since dawn I’ve been lying here thinking. If I had it to do over again, I wonder if I’d challenge Marhalt after all.”

  “Because you nearly died of it?”

  “No,” Tristan said slowly, holding his friend’s hand, “because something tells me no good will come of it.”

  “You are King of Lyonesse, and the Welsh have been forced to accept Markion as High King of Britain. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Tristan sighed, his eyes on the cracked ceiling. A light sea breeze caressed his cheek. All of a sudden he was very tired.

  “Maybe it’s something I dreamed, maybe it’s something Pernam said. But I’ve had this feeling that my fate is linked to Marhalt’s. That someday he will repay me for the blow I struck.”

  Dinadan scowled. “Superstition born of pain and illness. You’ll feel better when you’re out in the light and air. Marhalt’s dead. He can’t touch you now.”

  4 ESMERÉE

  By summer’s end Tristan was strong enough to walk unaided. He delighted in this newfound freedom, and one morning, tired of walking around the grounds of Pernam’s Sanctuary, he crept out the gates and scrambled down the steep cliff path to the rocky beach below. He stripped quickly and waded knee-high into the sea, his flesh tingling. Holding his breath, he dove in, glorying in the rush of water, ecstatic at the sweet caress across his skin. This must be, he thought, how a lover feels after a long absence. How long since he had last been upon her, since he had last felt her great, enveloping embrace! He spiraled to the surface, blowing sea water from his nose and mouth like the great fishes, and floated idly. The morning sun kissed his face and breast, while the cool sea stroked his legs, tickling him with her movement, buoying him lightly as a feather on her swells, up and down, beguiling him ever farther out toward her deep domain. At last, as his toes began to numb, he struck out for shore in long, smooth strokes. On the beach he stood a moment, toes digging deep into the shingle, letting the cool water stream from his body, the lover’s last caress. On the thought his loins awakened. Tristan laughed aloud and stretched his arms out toward the glittering sea.


  “Great Mother, giver of life, I salute you!”

  “Tristan!” He turned. Dinadan was running down the beach. “There you are! Pernam’s looking for you. Why didn’t you let me know where you were going?”

  Tristan shook the water from his hair. “I wanted to be alone.”

  Dinadan grinned and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need to be alone. You need a woman.”

  Coloring lightly, Tristan reached for his leggings. “It’s been happening a lot lately. Often during rubdowns after exercise. Pernam says it’s part of healing, and not to worry.”

  “Well, I agree with him there. Worry’s a waste of time. Just find a woman.”

  Tristan grinned. “Oh, aye, that’s easy enough—there are so many of them about.” He eyed his friend. “And how do you know so much about it? Last I knew, you had no use for girls, no time, no interest. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Now it was Dinadan’s turn to color. “I would have told you all about it . . . but there wasn’t time on the battlefield.”

  “You’re serious? When was this?”

  “Last winter. After Markion’s council at Tintagel. You stayed; I accompanied my father home to Dorria.”

  “I remember. Before Christmas. Go on.”

  “What do you mean, go on?”

  Tristan was lacing his sandals and looked up smiling. “Your face is the color of a ripe apple. You sly fox, keeping secrets from me. Tell me about it.”

  “Well, I, uh, her name is Diarca.”

  “Don’t tell me her name, fool. She’d have your hide for that, and I wouldn’t blame her. Tell me what it was like to lie with her.”

  Dinadan’s face flamed. “For pity’s sake! You can’t expect me to tell you that.”

  “Why not? Oh, all right, forget it, if it’s such a chore. I’m just curious, that’s all.” He tied the last lace and rose. He was taller than Dinadan by half a head. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough yourself. Look at you, grown a head since winter, with the legs of a racehorse and the shoulders of an ox, and King of Lyonesse to boot. Before you’re home an hour they’ll be lining up outside your door.”