The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  The Lawgiver raised an eyebrow and appraised Pellinor for a long moment, then gestured at the sword. “Fine,” he said. “Eight great kings. If you believe yourself worthy, try to draw the sword from its scabbard.”

  Pellinor harrumphed and adjusted his belt as he stepped down into the shallow hole. He looked down at the sword, which was shorter and more stout than he’d imagined it to be. It also wasn’t very decorative. The hilt was plain, mostly tarnished silver and steel wrapped in blackened leather, and the scabbard was a match in style and plainness. It was not in appearance the weapon of a king—but that, he figured, could be fixed with some jewels and gold flecking, and probably a new scabbard altogether.

  “This should be good,” Hank whispered to Hugo.

  “Why?” Hugo wondered.

  “Because he’s doing what everyone told him not to,” Hank whispered back. “I’ve seen this sort of thing in power plants, where some hoity-toity fellow with a degree from a fancy school starts directing the engineers on how to change everything. It usually ends when he insists on touching a cable no one else will go near.”

  “What happens then?” asked Hugo.

  Pellinor bent down and lifted up the sword and scabbard in one swift motion. He held it, smiling triumphantly, then grasped the hilt and attempted to remove the sword—which stayed exactly where it was.

  Pellinor’s smile faltered, and he redoubled his effort, putting the sword between his legs for leverage and using both hands. Finally, incredibly, the sword shifted one-quarter of an inch within the scabbard.

  “Aha!” Pellinor exclaimed. “That’s—”

  A tremendous bolt of lightning erupted from the sword itself, shooting skyward and filling the valley with thunder. It threw Pellinor out of the hole and about twenty feet into the dust, scorched and smoking.

  “That’s what happens,” said Hank, shaking his head.

  “Is he alive?” the Lawgiver asked.

  One of the knights, who had ducked as Pellinor flew overhead, went over to where he lay and put a blade of grass in front of the old king’s nose.

  “He’s breathing,” reported the knight. “For now.”

  “Well and good,” said the Lawgiver. “As I was saying, you seven great kings have proven your worth to compete—”

  “To be the High King?” one of the seven bellowed. “To be Pendragon?”

  Taliesin nodded and raised his staff.

  A cheer went up from the assemblage, and the seven kings all looked at one another, each taking the measure of the others, trying to judge who among them might prevail.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Taliesin said, “we shall have the final contests. The seven shall draw lots, and then may choose whom to fight in single combat. The last to stand shall then be offered the chance to draw the blade from the scabbard. And if that one succeeds—”

  “He shall have one more battle to fight,” a harsh voice called out, “unless you are willing to admit me now as one who has the right to vie for the office.”

  From the eastern side of the hill a black horse sauntered in, and its rider, dressed in equally ebony clothes, dismounted. There were murmurs and growls throughout the crowd, but from two, Taliesin and Merlin, gasps of recognition.

  He removed a tall, bull-horned helmet and placed it on the ground, possessively near the crypt. His skin was dark, more from weathering than pigmentation, and his features were lean. He moved with grace and the coiled energy of a serpent, which, Hugo realized, was exactly what he was. A serpent had come into Taliesin’s well-ordered garden.

  His clothes were unusual but seemed tailored for combat, wrapped tightly around his limbs and loosely around his torso. And as for weapons, he carried only a spear, which in contrast to his dress and manner appeared to be of Roman make.

  “I declare my intention to compete. Are there any who would oppose me?” the man asked, looking directly at Merlin.

  Taliesin’s eyes narrowed, and he looked from the new arrival to Merlin and back again. There seemed to be an unseen struggle taking place in the very air. Finally Merlin nodded to the Lawgiver, almost imperceptibly, and Taliesin turned to the stranger. “What is your name, and by what right have you come here to disrupt this tournament?”

  The man smiled coldly, as if he had been waiting for, and hating, that very question.

  “I come by right of blood,” he said quietly but firmly, in a tone that said he would brook no opposition, “honor-bound, after long exile. And I come because it is I, and I alone, who is worthy to draw Caliburn and become the Arthur—the High King.”

  “What is your name?” the Lawgiver asked again.

  “I’ve been called many names during a long life,” the man replied, “and none have served me well enough to keep. But the people who took me in, whom I have called my own for so many years, called me Mordraut. And that should suffice for this gathering.”

  “What?” Hank said to Hugo, straining to hear. “What did he say?”

  “Mordred,” Hugo said, shuddering. “He said his name is Mordred.”

  For almost an hour, John, Jack, Chaz, and a slightly confused Thorn circled the hill around the oak tree looking for a window in the air that was no longer anywhere to be found. Jack was distraught, and John was concerned. Of the three of them, only Chaz seemed unworried.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, tucking the Little Whatsit under one arm, “but I’m not exac’ly all broken up at the thought of being stuck here. It in’t perfect, but it’s better than where I was at.”

  “Nothing’s perfect,” said Thorn. “I don’t think anything is expected to be.”

  “Then what is expected?” asked Chaz.

  “To become better than you are, one day at a time,” replied Thorn. “Progression, not perfection, should be the goal.”

  “That’s a very enlightened attitude,” John said, clearly impressed. “How did you come by it?”

  “From my teacher,” said Thorn. “He ought to be coming back anytime now.”

  “I thought you were here alone,” asked John

  “I didn’t think to mention him,” Thorn explained, using his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. “He went off exploring after I used the horn.”

  “Why am you looking up?” asked Chaz, his Gaelic still rough. “Are. Why are you looking up?”

  As if in answer to the question, a bird—the one Jack had seen at a distance, he now realized—began to spiral downward towards the oak. Moments later the great bird, an owl, had lit on Thorn’s shoulder.

  “You three,” the owl said scornfully in flawless Old English. “You can listen to the smart one, there,” he told Thorn, pointing a claw at Chaz, “but these other two are a bit slow.”

  “Archimedes,” John greeted the owl he’d last seen in Alexandria.

  “Of course,” the bird replied. “How many other talking owls have you met?”

  “Just you, actually,” John admitted.

  “See what I mean?” the owl said. “Slow.”

  The bird reacquainted itself with the companions as they told it of recent events, then agreed to assist them in looking for the lost window. But the addition of an extra pair of eyes, even those as sharp as Archimedes’, did not help them locate the portal to Sanctuary. Jack was right—it was gone.

  “Could it have been the giants?” John asked. “Do you suppose they actually went onto the island?”

  “I doubt it,” Jack replied. “If they were going to do that, they’d have done it much earlier.”

  “You came through a door with only one side?” asked Archimedes. “That’s very interesting.”

  “I’d love to show it to you, Archimedes,” said John, “but I think we’ve run our luck dry.”

  “Not luck,” said Thorn. “The will of God.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack asked. “Which God?”

  Thorn looked at him, surprised. “There’s only one God, Sir Jack,” he said plainly. “I don’t know much about him, but I know that he sees all, knows a
ll, and has a reason for everything he does.”

  “Stranding us in … what year is it, anyway?” said Jack.

  “It’s been approximately four centuries since we first met, at the library,” said Archimedes. “If I had a chalk and slate, I could work it out more precisely.”

  “Great,” said Jack. “We’re in the sixth century. Do you want me to believe that it’s God’s will that we’re trapped here?”

  “You came when I summoned you with the horn,” Thorn replied. “How can I think otherwise?”

  “We didn’t come because of the horn,” Jack retorted. “We came to … to …” He stopped and turned to his fellow scholar. “I don’t even know, John. What are we here to do?”

  “I think,” John said, carefully considering his words, “that we were meant to be here, now, to help Thorn get to where he’s going.”

  “It seems we have little choice,” said Jack in resignation, casting a look around the hill. “We can’t go back. We might as well go forward.”

  “That’s very astute,” said Archimedes. “One might think you were an educated man.”

  “I’ve got an entire section here on Camelot,” Chaz said, pointing to the Little Whatsit. “There are a few passages on tournaments and the like, but along with those are some general directions. We should be able to get Thorn where he needs t’ be without much trouble.”

  “It doesn’t help us to know where we’re going, if we don’t know where we’re starting from,” John said in a slightly officious voice. “It’s one of the first things I learned watching over the Geographica.”

  Chaz blinked. “And … ?”

  “And Thorn was already lost, and we have no way of telling where we are.”

  “Sure we do,” Chaz insisted, pointing at the book. “We’re at Grandfather Oak. See? There’s a picture.”

  Sure enough, there was an engraving of the tree that stood next to them.

  “That’s insane,” Jack stated. “Why would that book have a picture of this tree, of all things?”

  “It seems to be an important place,” said Chaz. “According to the Whatsit, it’s where someone called Arthur first met the knights of the Crusade, on the day before he became the High King.”

  It took a few moments for the full meaning of the words Chaz read to sink in. When they finally did, John and Jack turned to look at Thorn. “Is that true?” John asked slowly. “Are you Arthur?”

  “Not yet,” Thorn answered, “but I hope to be, soon.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Crucible

  Chaz led the way, with a conversational Archimedes circling low above his head. John, Jack, and Thorn followed closely behind, talking.

  Thorn explained that Arthur was not a name in and of itself but a title of rule, and that it essentially meant “High King.”

  “High King of Britain?” asked Jack.

  “You mean this land here?” Thorn replied. “I’ve not heard it called that before. It is called Albion by some, but most call it Myrddyn’s Precinct. But,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m not allowed to know that.”

  “Why?” asked John.

  “My mother would behead Archimedes if she knew he’d told me,” Thorn replied, seemingly unwilling to elaborate.

  John already knew the land had once been called Myrddyn’s Precinct. But that was before he’d discovered who Myrddyn was. Apparently, in the four centuries since Alexandria, the Cartographer had been busy.

  “Archimedes found out about the tournament,” Thorn was saying, “and he convinced me that I needed to come and participate. I was against it at first.”

  “Against the chance to be king?” asked Jack.

  “Against the need to fight for it,” said Thorn. “As I understand it, the office of Arthur is to go to someone who is worthy to serve the people of the lands. I didn’t understand why there needed to be a competition to find such a person.”

  “You don’t worry that someone less worthy might take the title?” John wondered.

  “Why would they?” Thorn replied. “What’s the point of being in charge of the world if you don’t want to help people? Hey!” he exclaimed, running ahead. “Chaz! Race you to the stone!”

  “He’s a good man,” John said as they watched him race with their companion to a large stone up ahead. “Isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Jack agreed. “He’s going to get slaughtered tomorrow.”

  As night began to fall, the companions built a small fire in the lee of the stone and set up a makeshift campsite around it. Archimedes turned out to be an excellent night watchman, and an even better cook. Using recipes Chaz found in the Little Whatsit, they gathered roots and herbs from the shrubbery and used the last flagon of water and one of Reynard’s bottles to make a soup. It was thin, but tasty and warming.

  With Archimedes standing guard, Thorn and Chaz soon fell asleep, but John and Jack stayed awake, talking.

  “When the owl told us we were in the sixth century,” John began, “I thought maybe …”

  “Hugo would be somewhere nearby?” Jack finished. “So did I. But even if he is here, how are we going to get him back? The portal is gone.”

  “I know,” said John, “but I’m hoping there will be another way back. We never did find out what happened to the door from the Keep.”

  “True, that,” Jack agreed. “This Thorn is an interesting boy.”

  John nodded, a shadow against the stone. “He might really be Arthur—and I rather like the idea that we’re to be remembered as knights of the Crusades.”

  “We will be,” said Jack, “as long as we’ve gotten here soon enough to prevent whatever it is that Hugo did to create Albion.”

  “Don’t worry about that now,” John told him, settling down to try to sleep. “Plenty of time for that tomorrow.”

  It was a clear statement of intent that Mordred set up his camp not around the basin of the valley, as everyone else had, but on top of the hill, adjacent to the stone table and facing the crypt of Caliburn.

  There had been some fighting among the knights and nobles, particularly those who had been eliminated earliest, but it never amounted to a formal protest, much less an outright rebellion.

  The assent of the Lawgiver was enough to persuade most of them that there was in fact something substantial to the claims of the mysterious new arrival.

  The look on Mordred’s face was enough to convince the rest.

  The fires were lit, and venison was roasted as the dinner celebrations began. It was more civilized than Hugo expected, but still more raw and primal than he was prepared for, so he and Hank retreated to their own camp to sup and discuss the day’s events.

  “Mordred,” Hugo repeated for perhaps the hundredth time. “That’s amazing to me. Did you see how he silenced the crowd with little more than bravado?”

  “More charisma than bravado, I’d say,” Hank replied as he crouched over the small fire, stirring the stew he’d prepared for dinner. “He certainly has some kind of history with Merlin.”

  “I saw the look,” said Hugo. “That’s the other thing: the idea that ‘Arthur’ is a title. I wonder if it’s possible that one or the other is actually meant to become King Arthur? That maybe he wasn’t a separate man after all?”

  Hank chuckled. “No, the Arthur is someone else,” he said mysteriously. “More than that, I’m not allowed to say. But it’s going to be very interesting to see how this all plays out.”

  Hugo handed Hank their bowls. “Is your watch device working any better yet?”

  “Not at all, I’m afraid,” he said, filling a bowl and handing it back. “I think …” He paused. “I think somehow time itself has been broken.”

  Hugo stopped, his hand halfway to his mouth with a ladle of stew. “Do—do you think that’s my fault?”

  “You’re an anomaly, that’s for sure,” Hank said, blowing on his stew. “Careful, it’s hot. No, I think something else has happened. But fixing it is out of our hands. It’s on someone else n
ow to try to sort out what’s gone on. Not only for our sakes …

  “… but for the sake of the future itself.”

  After they ate dinner and cleared away the bowls and kettle, Hank went to sleep immediately, citing the heavy armor he’d worn all day as the reason he was so weary. For his part, Hugo could not close his eyes for a second. He was too intrigued by the turn of events at the tournament and the new arrival.

  Leaving the engineer sleeping soundly in the tent, Hugo crept out and began to make his way back to the center of the happenings. He thought he’d take a closer look at Mordred if he could, his curiosity overcoming his fear, but he was sidetracked by a light he saw emanating from the tent of the Lawgiver.

  He made his way around to the rear, where he’d seen Merlin exiting earlier, and peered through the flap.

  Inside, Taliesin was standing to one side, while Merlin paced in front of him, obviously agitated.

  “I did not know he would come at your summoning, Taliesin,” Merlin said brusquely. “I was unprepared.”

  “You were forgetful,” the Lawgiver shot back. “Your Binding exiled him, until he was summoned again—by blood.”

  “That was a slip of the tongue, wasn’t it?” Merlin admitted. “It never occurred to me, cousin, that another of our family might ever call out into the world for a Gathering.”

  “We’re not family, Myrddyn,” Taliesin said with undisguised rancor. “We shared a father in Odysseus, but our mothers were different, and we’ve never been family.”

  “If we were not, my dear cousin,” Merlin said with deliberate emphasis as he touched the older man on the forehead, “then my Binding on you would never have worked, and we would not be here today.”

  “Do you believe this will be the way you will get back, Merlin? Back to the Archipelago? By deceiving your way to possession of Caliburn?”

  “I believe it’s the way I will conquer the Archipelago. And everything else.”

  “It won’t work. You saw the lineage in the book yourself. Only a follower of the Grail—”