The White Phantom nodded. “Changed, are these Summer Lands. Unchanged, you cannot long endure. Mantles, you require. Protection.”
She indicated the silvery material that the beetle-things laid before Artor. He picked it up and inspected it. It seemed transparent like glass from one angle, but when turned another way looked like silver. But it moved like fine, soft fabric.
“Enough for three, I bring,” the White Phantom said, sounding concerned. “Mantle can divide, and redivide, and still be effective. But you will not be able to tarry.”
Artor looked from the silvery, glasslike material in his hand to the White Phantom.
“Tear each in half, and one in half again” she instructed. “Then give a portion to every man.”
Artor raised an eyebrow but did as she had said. Galaad could see the High King was surprised at how easily he was able to rend the material, which seemed otherwise so sturdy. As Artor tore the material, and each of the other two that the beetle-things carried, he distributed the pieces to his men.
“Lay the pieces over your heads,” the White Phantom instructed.
Galaad shrugged but did as he was told, draping it over his head like a veil. He wanted to ask what next he should do, but before he could speak his answer presented itself. The mantle seemed to distend, flowing like water. He looked to his fellows, alarmed, his vision somewhat clouded by the silvery material. On each of the other six, he saw the mantle spreading farther and farther, until it covered them entirely, head to toe. They all glinted for a moment, like statues cast in silver. And then, without warning, the mantles began to disappear. Or, to be more precise, they seemed to recede, as though absorbed into their bodies, like water soaked up by parched, dry ground.
Immediately, Galaad's vision cleared. But more significantly, he found that his health was instantly improved. The sense of queasy disquiet that had plagued him since shortly after they'd passed through the hedge of mist had completely vanished.
“Remote, must return,” the White Phantom said, as the beetle-things scurried back onto the crewless ship, “before absence is noticed. Continue to the tower of glass, and enter the Unworld. Rescue me. Beware the Red King. Beware the hounds.”
The image of the White Phantom began to flicker.
“Wait, lady!” Galaad rushed forward, his hands held up before him. “I have so many questions for you.”
“Reach the tower of glass. Enter the Unworld.” The White Phantom began to fade, the outline of the ship beyond becoming crisper and more clear. “Rescue me.”
With that, the image vanished entirely, and the White Phantom was gone. With a low hum, the crewless ship slipped back into the water, sailed a short distance away from the shore, and then sank back down beneath the rippling surface, disappearing from view.
“So what was she going on about, anyway?” Lugh said, flexing his new silver arm.
Their skyblades girt round their waists, disks and lances in hand, the seven continued on. Wary of facing any more undersea dwellers come up from beneath the water, they turned their course away from the shore, heading inland before turning north, trying as much as possible to parallel the course of the coast. From time to time they drifted back to the west, just far enough for the coast to come back into their limited field of view, and then quickly shied back to the east. None called it cowardice, Artor's decision to avoid another altercation with the giant monsters, though some among them were just as eager to test the mettle of their new weapons on an opponent.
It was hard to say how long they walked, and impossible to say how much time had passed since they'd pierced the hedge of mist, but even with their health bolstered by the strange mantles the White Phantom had provided, they began to tire. The skies overhead showed no signs of darkening, just as blue as they'd been when Galaad had first glimpsed them, and there was no indication that night would be falling any time soon.
Finally, as they approached a narrow stream which blocked their path, running from east to west, Artor announced that they would stop and make camp.
With sighs of relief, the captains lowered their packs to the ground and began unpacking their supplies.
“Look!” Bedwyr shouted, and pointed across the stream.
The others followed his gaze, and there on the far side of the stream they saw a group of people standing. At this distance, it was difficult to make out any details, too much obscured in the diffuse twilight, but Galaad could see that they were men, and not giant monsters like those they had faced on the shore.
The captains laid their hands on their weapons, warily, and hurried to the stream's edge.
“Halloo,” Artor called, cupping his hands around his mouth like a trumpet. “Are you friend or foe?”
There were seven of the strangers, Galaad now saw, all facing away from the stream, their backs to Artor and his men. One glanced over his shoulder at them but did not speak. Then he looked away, and the seven strangers waded backwards into the stream.
“What madness…?” Caius began.
When the last of the strangers had backed into the stream, a kind of haze appeared before Galaad's eyes, and when it cleared the strangers had disappeared from view.
Artor ordered the captains to keep careful watch on the stream, in case the strangers had submerged and swum to their side, but the waters of the stream remained undisturbed, and there was no further sign of the strangers.
Unable to find fuel for a fire, Caius experimented with his lance, firing a burst of bloodflame at the ground and generating a roaring blaze. The conflagration quickly burned itself out, but while it raged it gave considerable heat, and so with periodic blasts from the lance he was able to keep a fire burning long enough to cook their evening meal. There was some discussion of using water from the nearby stream, but the question was quickly made moot by Artor, who insisted that they use only the water they had brought. Galaad thought of the ancient pagan myths of women who had ventured into the underworld and eaten the food of the dead, thereby ensuring that they would never be able to return to the world of men. Galaad wasn't sure if the High King was reminded of those stories as well, but nevertheless saw no reason to debate the decision.
Later, after they had dined on their simple fare, the seven gathered around the dying embers of Caius's bloodflame fire, seeming to draw more comfort than warmth from its glow. The skies overhead were just as illuminated as they'd been since first they'd ventured into the Summer Lands, but gathered around the fire, the seven spoke in lowered voices, pitched in tones more fitting evening.
Lugh was experimenting with his new silver arm, flexing and relaxing the silvery pincers at its end. With the ragged hem of his bitten-through tunic covering the join between flesh and metal, it was difficult to see where man left off and the metal began. He had pulled the glass apple from his belt and tossed it from hand to hand, testing the dexterity of his new appendage.
“Does it hurt?” Bedwyr asked, eying the silver arm uneasily.
Lugh was thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “Not really. It…tingles, I suppose you'd say. A bit like when your hand falls asleep and twinges with pinpricks until it awakens once more.” Lugh snugged the glass apple back into his belt and held both his hands up before his face, flesh and metal, flexing them in unison. “But no. Doesn't hurt.”
Bedwyr seemed suspicious, looking with distrust at the Gael's new appendage. It was clear that he'd been shaken by their encounter with the White Lady, or at least with her ghostly image, the White Phantom. And Galaad could see that Bedwyr was not alone.
“Do you think,” Gwrol said, staring into the dying embers of the fire, “that the gods of our grandfathers really existed, after all?”
It had been so long since the Gwentian had spoken that it was startling to hear his voice once more. He'd hardly said a word since he'd been snatched up by the one-armed creature on the shore, and Galaad had put it down to the pain of his bruised ribs, though it now appeared that something else had been occupying Gwrol's thoughts.
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br /> “We'd always been taught that such things were superstitious pagan nonsense,” he went on, glancing towards his brother Pryder, “mere fancy. But…but suppose that they had really existed, at that. With the retreat of the Romans and their god from Britannia, does that mean that the old gods might be returning?”
Pryder shifted uneasily, not willing to meet his brother's gaze. Galaad knew that the two Gwentians professed belief in the Messias, but had not seen any indication that their faith was particularly strong. Evidently, there was some room for doubt in their minds, at least on the part of one of them.
“I follow the ancient Derwydd faith of the grandfathers,” Bedwyr said, eyes lowered, “but nothing in my beliefs accounts for monsters such as we've seen.” He shuddered. “Who is to say that this White Lady is not some temptress, sent to lead us astray? Who is to say that she really exists at all?”
Artor shook his head. “I believe in what I can see, and always have. Who am I to doubt the evidence of my senses now?”
Caius chuckled, prodding the embers with the tip of his lance. “You didn't always trust your senses so well.” In response to Artor's questioning glance, Caius explained. “Remember that night, years ago, when we first established a headquarters in Caer Llundain. You and I had drunk our fill, with your portion far exceeding my own, and we decided it the right time to walk the perimeter of the city wall. Stumbling often, and taking liberal doses from the wineskins we'd brought along to slake any recurrent thirst, we continued on into the small hours of the night, coming at last to the place where the wall in the east meets the Tamesa. I paused to relieve myself against the Cantium ragstone, and you staggered on up the white hill. In moments, you rushed back, wild-eyed, and insisted that you'd come upon a strange figure burying something beneath the hill.”
Artor scowled. “You mocked me mercilessly for days, but I know what I saw.”
Caius grinned wider. “But didn't dare to go back and try to dig whatever it was up, as I recall, for fear of what you'd find.”
Artor shuddered. “I'm not a suspicious man, as you know well, but there was something about that strange figure, and the industry to which he turned his hand, which did not sit right with me. I insist to this day that was something beyond the ordinary to what he was about.”
Caius chuckled again and prodded the embers, sending up a shower of sparks.
Galaad sighed, contentedly. “As for me, I'm just relieved that all of this is real. What will they say back in Glevum, all of those who claimed my visions were only a plague of guilt?”
Even as he spoke, he realized he'd said too much.
“Guilt over what?” Artor asked, eyes narrowed.
Galaad shifted uneasily, all eyes turning to him.
“What do you have to feel guilt over, tadpole?” Lugh asked, quirking a smile.
Galaad flushed and lowered his eyes to the ground.
“It…it is nothing,” he said, trembling.
“Oh, no,” Pryder said, in good humor, “you can't announce something like that and leave it unexplained. What is it that you'd done? Bedded another man's wife? Stolen away the neighbor's prized pig? What mischief could you have got up to in Glevum at your tender age?”
Galaad hunched his shoulders, shrinking into himself. “Her name was Flora,” he said.
Around him the captains leered lustily, jabbing one another with their elbows.
“She was my daughter.”
The leers faded, the elbows ceased their jabbing.
“She was not yet three summers old. It was a spring day, and we were riding. Flora loved to ride with me, and I with her. We rode out over the countryside, at a gallop, enjoying the sense of speed, feeling the rush of air in our hair, hearing it whistle in our ears. Then…”
He swallowed hard, eyes stinging.
“Then the horse…It was later decided that it had turned an ankle on a rock, but at the time all I knew was that it stopped short, falling to one side, and throwing me and Flora to the ground.”
Galaad reached up and touched his head just above his right eye, the scar completely hidden above the hairline.
“I landed headfirst, and when I tried to stand, the flowing blood nearly blinded me. I lost consciousness almost immediately, but not before seeing my daughter, lying a short distance away.”
His throat constricted, and he choked back tears.
“It was small comfort, but she'd died instantly, her neck broken in the fall.”
Galaad lifted his eyes, looking around the circle, taking in the expressions of the captains.
“It was a short while after that when I had my first visions. At first my neighbors thought I was mad with grief and guilt, and then simply thought me mad, and in the end even my wife turned her back to me, leaving our home and returning to live with her parents. But I knew that it was not just grief, or guilt. I knew that someone spoke to me in the visions, and now others have seen her with their own eyes.”
The captains glanced to one another, their expressions unreadable.
“Would that we had known that before leaving Caer Llundain,” Bedwyr said, caustic. “We might well not have gone if we'd known your visions, so-called, were nothing but the product of an addled, grief-stricken mind.”
“But whatever their source, the visions proved true enough to lead us here,” Caius said.
“And is this the product of grief and guilt, as well?” Lugh flexed his silver arm.
“That's not the point!” Bedwyr snapped.
“Enough!” Artor barked, quelling any further comment. “This damnable light above will never fade, but we are all sore tired, and much in need of sleep. Let's call an end to the day, and continue this talk, if we must, tomorrow.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Whenever that might be.”
Galaad was not sure how long they'd slept, but when he woke to the sounds of the others breathing, he felt considerably refreshed and rested. Too, he felt lightened somehow, as if he'd been shriven of his sins, at least in part, by admitting the truth about Flora and the visions to Artor and the captains.
For his part, Galaad was still not entirely convinced that there was not some connection between the accident and the visions, for all of his protestations to the contrary. He still wondered if perhaps the injury he'd sustained had not made him more susceptible to the White Lady's message. Or perhaps if, burdened by the guilt of causing his daughter's death, he'd not been given the chance for redemption, singled out by the White Lady for this dispensation. He burned to ask her, to find out the truth of it, and hoped against hope that when they reached the tower of glass, he'd have his chance.
Their bundles repacked and secured on their backs, their swords girt around their waists and their lances and disks in hand, the seven headed out. The stream, when forded, proved to be shallow, rising no higher than their knees, such that when they reached the other side only their boots and the legs of their breeches were wet.
The seven stood on the shore, shaking the water from their feet and legs.
Galaad glanced back over his shoulder, and then called out in alarm. “Look!”
The others turned. Seven men gathered on the far bank of the stream.
Galaad's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. He wondered how they had been pursued, and by whom? He thought of the seven they'd seen when first reaching the stream. Then a thought struck him.
“Wait,” Galaad said, staying his hand, while the others drew their weapons. “Look more closely.”
The seven who gathered on the streams far side seemed not to notice them, except for one, short and compact, who looked at them for a moment with his mouth wide but silent, and then turned away. They were indistinct at first, obscured by the diffuse light of the Summer Lands, but as Galaad looked closer, their features became more evident. One had dark hair and a well-trimmed beard, carrying himself with a regal air. One had red hair and a drooping mustache, his right arm glinting silver below the elbow. Two were as alike as brothers, one light, one dark. One was t
all and fair haired, another short and compact. And the last, carrying a circle of metal in his hands, looked to be little more than a boy.
“They are us,” Galaad said softly.
Artor nodded without speaking.
“But how is it possible?” Caius gaped.
“That's not us now,” Lugh said, warily. “That's us yesterday.”
“What?!” Gwrol sneered.
“We're looking at yesterday, imbecile,” Pryder said, punching his arm. “Can't you understand anything?”
Gwrol rubbed his upper arm, scowling.
“I don't like this,” Bedwyr said in a low voice.
“You don't like anything, tree lover,” Lugh snarled. “Come on, let's go. It's not as if we did anything yesterday worth looking at.” Without a backwards glance, the Gael hefted his pack on his back and started away from the stream.
The others followed after, drifting after Lugh, seeming reluctant to tear their gazes away from the strange sight across the stream, this brief glimpse into the past. Galaad was last to follow, lingering at the streams edge. Across the stream, yesterday's seven were backing away from the stream, disappearing from view.
Perhaps Lugh was right, and there was nothing to be gained for looking too long at the past, dwelling too much on yesterday. With a heavy sigh, Galaad turned and followed the others towards tomorrow.
They had walked for some time when they first caught sight of the rider and first heard the white hounds coursing in his wake, their baying like wild geese in flight.
The rider approached at speed, coming at them out of the indistinct blue haze of the middle distance. He was astride some sort of beast, the size of a horse but with the look of a lizard, its scales red, with a long ropy tail and fierce talons. Tendrils trailed like whiskers from the sides of its massive head, and in its fierce mouth were four large teeth, two above and two below. Its eyes burned as if lit by flames from within.
End of the Century Page 36
