Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 02]
Page 26
“Blasphemy!” bellowed the Bishop.
“Poor little man,” Beth cooed. “Did you really believe you could escape me? Did you know that all your prayers and sweet smokes came to me? Pitiful Mary was but a face 1 wore for a time. I am Maiden, Mother, the Hag, and my will brings you forth and calls you back.”
The Bishop leapt to his feet and held his scapular cross out from his chest. “By the sign of the holy cross, I send you back to the Hell from which you rose!”
Beth bent down and touched the thing, and the bishop stared at the garland of leaves which now hung around his neck. Then he tore them off in a fury and raced out of the room, screaming. Aenor and one of the dukes both burst into laughter, and Dylan grinned in spite of himself.
“Females!” shouted the King, in the voice of one tried to the end of his patience. He pounded a fist on the table in frustration. “I wish that God had never made you!”
“But he didn’t,” Beth answered. “Not the God you think you worship. It was quite different from what you might imagine—but that is not a tale for this occasion.
“You have done well, young Dylan, and you have pleased me in your labors. I count myself fortunate to have a place in your great heart which grieves so in the death of even the White Folk. You are such a gently-made knight, so caring in your ways. Were the Grail still achievable, you might seek it with a good will. But that ship has sailed out of the reach of man for now.”
“I thank you for your words, gracious lady, and for your aid in my quest. The tokens of your presence have saved my life many times.” He touched the green tunic he wore and made a reverent half bow. “I shall wear the birches with honor until I come, at last, to you.”
“That,” she replied briskly, “is a matter for heralds. My servant, Louis, look at me!” The King lifted his head unwillingly and stared at the goddess. “It is my plan that these two shall wed and bear the children I have foreseen. Their son will battle the Shadow, and their daughter will suffer greatly to accomplish the ends which are needful for the world. Aenor, child, give him the sword you bear. It will be a small consolation, and he will use it for his God’s ends, which are also mine.”
Aenor hesitated, fondled the great beryl stone for a long moment, and looked at Dylan. He turned his palms up with a shrug. “I wished to make it my dower gift,” she said quietly.
“Dylan wishes no sword to lie between you. What did your grandmother tell you do do with the jewel?”
“If I could not give it to the man I love, then give it to God. So be it.” Aenor reached down and unbuckled the wide belt that graced her slender hips, removed the Crystal Sword in its scabbard, and slid it down the table with an expression almost like relief on her face. “It was a heavy burden, though I did not know it.” She slipped around the table and reached for Dylan’s hand.
The sword lay in front of Louis, the gems in the scabbard gleaming faintly in the light coming in from the high, narrow windows. The beryl glowed like a great green eye. He frowned a moment, then reached out a hand to touch the hilt. He gasped. “Such power! I am unfit to wield such power.”
“True,” said Beth, “but you are the best Franconia has at the moment. Carry it against the Darkness and all will be well. Raise it against the Light, and it will slay you.” She was gone, leaving behind only a clean smell and a memory.
There was an enormous uproar in the corridor beyond the broken door. Dylan half expected to see the Bishop returning with a troop of incense-armed priests or at least some guardsmen. Instead, he saw his mother, and behind her, King Arthur and Doyle, plus shouting Franconian and Albionese knights and milling men-at-arms.
“Who have you the right to sign treaties in my name?” roared Arthur good-humoredly. Then he stopped and stared at Aenor. “Sister?” he whispered. “But surely this cannot be.”
Aenor regarded her younger brother critically, taking in the ruddy hair and a beard a little tinged with grey, the strong white teeth, and the air of easy authority which covered his travel-stained garments. The Fire Sword hung easily from his hip, the ruby in its hilt flashing wickedly.
“You have grown up quite handsome,” she replied, “which I never imagined you would. You were such a scrawny boy.”
“Sweet-tongued as ever, I see. Though it is some miracle, you are most assuredly my sister, untouched by time. No one else ever had those eyes.” Arthur glanced from Aenor to Dylan and back again, taking in their clasped hands. Then he gave Eleanor d’Avebury a curious look. “It seems I will have you in the family after all, doesn’t it.” Then he pushed forward and bowed to Louis. “I hope you will forgive my bursting in this way, but when that damned treaty arrived I could hardly sit around Westminster and twiddle my thumbs, could I? My Queen has often chided me for my lack of manners.”
Eleanor d’Avebury walked over to Dylan as he rose. She raked him with grey eyes, and he could see the lines of strain around them. A few weeks had aged her terribly, and while the love shone in her eyes, the fear for his safety did as well. Would Aenor clutch at their firstborn this way? he wondered. Then he embraced his mother and muffled her sobs against his shoulder. He patted her shoulder futilely and felt like a beast for making her suffer. With a kind of chill he remembered Beth’s words, that his and Aenor’s son would someday battle the Shadow and the
Darkness, and he cursed silently that he was no more than a pawn in the game of the deities. Mortal suffering was nothing to them.
Untrue, young Dylan. We share your pain and we do these acts that the world might not gutter out like a candle in the wind of Darkness. Your task is done. Go now and live in such peace as you can persuade your contentious bride into. Go to the south, into the sunlight, and raise horses and babies. It was Sal’s voice he heard, stem and acerbic, the whisper of the willows.
And my children?
We are all hostages to fortune, my son.
Eleanor raised her head and brushed tears off her face, smearing dirt under red-rimmed eyes. “Do not argue with her, Dylan. She always has the last word. Now, introduce me to my daughter-to-be. I promise I will not cry again until the wedding.” She gripped his hand almost painfully, and Dylan knew what her words cost her. She gazed at his strange silvery hand. “Besides, you must have quite a tale to add to my collection. Perhaps it will inspire the king again. The Lay of Dylan Silver-Hand and . . .”
“Aenor Golden-Throat,” he said, and joined the hands of the two mortal women who rivaled any goddesses in his heart. He was glad he could not see into the future, that he was spared foreknowledge, that he would be surprised at his inevitable death, and that he would not know the moment when Aenor would slip from his hands and when his mother would return to Sal’s final bitter embrace. Dylan clung to the promise of children, sunlight, horses, time. He clasped Aenor’s shoulders and knew eternity would not suffice. She turned her face upwards, smiling, glowing, and he was almost content.