by Judith Tarr
There was a deep and subtle rightness to this gathering. The land embodied itself in these commanders of the villages and towns. Gemma had eased in their company, falling in with people she knew, who knew her inn and her village. They even seemed to know her silent companion. He remembered one, and maybe two: a woman and a man who had spent a night in the inn, and stopped to talk to him in his corner by the fire. Their eyes on him were warm. None of them betrayed either mockery or astonishment that Gemma had brought her idiot to the great war. Indeed the man said, “We’ll need every strong arm, I hear.”
He tried his new smile. People smiled back at him. That was delightful. Maybe he would try laughter; but not quite yet. And not here.
They were nearly the last to come in. As the murmur of greeting died, the air shifted. The witling’s hackles rose. He felt the others turn in the instant after he did.
More than one person had entered through another door, but only one of them mattered. Mortal eyes saw a tall man, pale-skinned, with long dark hair and a handsome, somber face. The eyes that saw beneath the flesh, saw much the same; but that white brow was crowned with the antlers of a stag.
At his coming, all the chatter, all murmuring and laughter, fell silent. Some of the commanders began to bow, but he raised a long thin hand. “No ceremony,” he said in a voice that made the witling think of far horns blowing. “There is little enough time as it is. We are needed and sorely, with as much haste as we can make. And prayer, my people; prayer to any gods you worship.”
Those were grim words, though spoken without despair. They brought every man and woman to the alert.
He sat in a carved chair, not particularly high or elaborate, but princely enough. Servants went round with wine and ale and platters of bread and sweet cakes. Few refused either. They were soldiers; they ate when they could.
Lord Huon shared the wine and the bread, but his mind was clearly not on it. Soon enough he said, “Listen now, and listen well. I will hear your counsel, and gladly, but first you must know what I know. You will not speak of it to your men without my leave. If that is not to your liking, then you may go. No shame shall attach to you, and no penalty be paid. But you will know only what the army knows: that there is war in the kingdom. The old enemy has risen again. He marches against us with a great force of men and hellspawn.”
That much, they all knew. The commanders glanced at one another. None moved to depart.
Lord Huon sat back. His expression did not change, but it was clear that he was pleased. When he spoke again, he spoke with care. “We fight as we have from the old days, for the Grail and for its king. We defend the great power that guards us, for which the enemy has lusted since before Jerusalem’s fall. Our faith is strong and our loyalty unshaken.
“But our king is dying. He wills himself to pass beyond the world’s veil into the light. He cannot restore himself even for this war. On the road that he has taken, there is no turning back.”
The silence was profound. No one spoke, or seemed to breathe.
Lord Huon bowed his head as if in weariness. When he lifted it again, his face was drawn. “There are prophecies,” he said, “and omens and foretellings. A king will come, they say. A champion will stand forth. The Grail will have its great defender, as always before.
“Prophecy sent out the lady from the castle, chief of the enchantresses who guard the shrine. She traveled far from this kingdom, from the Grail and from her king. She followed the guide, the words and the magic. She found the champion.”
Breath hissed. Someone bit back an exclamation.
But there was no gladness in Lord Huon’s face. “The magic led her to him. The Grail chose him. He won the sword, the blade in which resides the power of the king. She found him, and she brought him back to Carbonek.
“And there she lost him. He vanished from the castle. The enemy has him, we greatly fear. And if the enemy has him . . . then there is no hope. When the old king dies, no king will come to take his throne. No champion will rise to defend the Grail.”
Those words struck hard. Even the witling, who knew nothing, not even his name—even he could understand what a calamity this was. A dying king, his successor lost, no champion, no strong defense . . .
“My lord.” Gemma’s voice was clear and rather harsh, and forthright as it always was. “This is evil news. But are we lost yet? He’s only one man, however great his power. We’re many, and our faith, as you say, is strong. Won’t the Grail defend us as we defend it?”
“Surely,” said Lord Huon, “and we will fight as strongly as we may. How not? But our greatest weapon is lost.”
“Is it, my lord?” Gemma asked. “Can’t it be found?”
“They have searched in every way known to men and magic. In the kingdom, beyond it, they have hunted without rest. They have found nothing. It is as if he has vanished from the world.”
“Dead?” one of the other commanders asked.
Lord Huon raised his hands. “No one knows. She says not. But he is nowhere to be found, in any world.”
“So we’ll fight without him,” Gemma said. “We have the Grail, after all. We have the nine ladies. We have a king, though he’s dying. We’ll be strong enough, one way and another.”
“One may hope so,” Lord Huon said. He smiled at her. “And truly, if all our people are as determined as you, we have little to fear.”
She shrugged off his praise. “So. What do you need? Advice? What can a village innkeeper tell a great lord of the Grail, that he doesn’t know already?”
Lord Huon’s smile erupted into laughter. “Why, madam! All manner of things. The disposition of forces, the lines of their supply, the order of march—”
“Ah,” she said. “All that. Yes, that’s simple enough. Where shall we begin?”
While Lord Huon spoke, the witling had retreated to a corner. He huddled in it, knotted tight. Nobody took any notice of him. Those words—they had no meaning. And yet they smote him like blows. Champion. Sword. King.
Champion.
He was nothing. He had no name. He came from nowhere, he belonged to no one. He had been a hawk; man’s shape had been forced upon him. Even that shape was not truly human, the hawk’s eyes in the man’s face.
He was not the lost one. That would be a man, great and holy, a prince of blood both ancient and royal. Not a half-human halfwit in a borrowed tunic.
He pressed his hands to his ears. Still that clear voice spoke, ringing in his skull, driving the words home. They should not matter to him. They should not. He was nothing. He was no one. He was nothing.
CHAPTER 41
The camp was a blessed refuge, as solidly human as anything in this kingdom. Gemma had gone with the other commanders to see to some matter of the army. He had slipped away from her, unnoticed and unregarded. If she looked for him, she would find him safe enough, curled inside her tent, with a blanket over his head.
Something tugged at it. He set his teeth and held on. A small solid body insinuated itself beneath a dangling fold, purring raucously.
It was only a cat. Though what a cat was doing in the camp of an army, he hardly had wits to guess. It pressed against his belly, kneading ferociously. Even through the thickness of the leather coat, its claws pricked his skin.
The small pain was almost welcome. It drew him away from the roil in his skull. Lord Huon’s words echoed and reechoed till he could hear nothing else. Nothing save the cat’s purr.
He was lost in a dark dream. He did not want to wake. Light was terrible, was terrifying. He had no strength to endure it.
The cat crawled up through the blankets to butt its small hard head against his chin. Its tongue rasped his neck. Teeth bit delicately, not quite hard enough for pain.
He worked fingers into soft fur, rubbing places that he knew without knowing how. Without wanting to know how. This was a door to memory. The cat was a key.
A great part of him wanted to fling the creature away. The rest, which was stronger, let it stay. He was ma
ny things, and a coward not the least of them, but even cowardice had its limits.
Once more he heard Lord Huon’s voice, heard the tale that he told. A king; an enchantress. A champion. A weapon—a sword. Blade that rippled like water. Hilt of silver unadorned. On the pommel a white stone like the moon. His fingers curved, remembering the shape, the heft of it, the weight and balance—and yes, the way it sang, sweet and high.
He was no champion. He was certainly no king. He was the halfwit from Greenwood, the foundling from the Lady’s tree. He had no name. He did not want one.
But memory, once unlocked, would not retreat behind its walls. Little of it was as clear as the sword. Places, faces—a blur of vision, a cacophony of names in tongues too many to count. Two he saw most often: a big fair man, now bareheaded, now crowned with an iron crown; and one even bigger and even fairer, laughing and flinging a heavy arm about his shoulders. That memory smote him with grief so strong that he doubled up gasping.
There was another, too. A woman. Now clad in strange silken garments. Now clad in nothing at all. His body heated at the sight of her. His temper, too—a gust of anger as strong as the grief that had struck before. It was not hate. He was very sure of that. But he was angry—furious. She had betrayed—she had lied—hidden—she had—
The cat sank claws in his shoulder. He hissed with pain. He was back in the world again, such as it was: Gemma’s tent with its clutter of belongings, weapons, bits of leather armor and ironmongery. It was as familiar as anything could be. Too familiar. As if he had lived in such tents for long and long, tents of war. The armor—it should be steel, fine woven mail. There should be helmets, bows, quivers of arrows. A horn of some vast creature, carved with intricate artistry. A sword—the sword. The champion’s blade. Durandal.
His lips shaped the name. He had no voice, nor wanted any. But the word had come to him. It would not let him be.
He was not the champion. He was not.
Truly—as he was, he could not be. He was fit to carry a spear in a lord’s army, that was all.
But the need—the war. The king was dying.
Behind his eyes he saw a dark-haired man lying on a narrow cot. He wore no crown. His robe was a monk’s robe. Yet there could be no doubt that he was royal.
She sat by him, his hand in hers. Were there tears on her cheeks?
Well might there be, after what she had done. Keeping silence. Letting him believe—leading him to think—
Anger wore wings, bore talons. It tugged at him. It lured him back into the dark.
Once more, pain cast him out into the light. The cat crouched on his breast. Its glare was baleful.
He knew this cat. Which was not a cat. Heedless of the threat of claws or teeth, he brushed his finger along its jaw. It stroked fiercely against him, as cats will, to mark and claim him.
“I won’t,” he said. His voice was raw, rusted with disuse. “I will not.”
The cat begged to differ.
It had trapped him. It had wakened memory, put an end to his silence.
He could refuse. He could still do that.
Could he?
Anger was a sin, a deadly one. It had driven him out of himself, reft him of his name, cast him naked and mindless in a strange land. He was a broken thing because of it. And war was coming, led by an enemy both ancient and strong. An enemy whom he knew in his bones, deeper even than he had known the sword. He was bound—he had sworn—
He surged to his feet. The cat rode up on his shoulder, claws locked tight.
He did not know where he was going until he had come there. The brown man was squatting by a campfire, feeding it with bits of sweetly scented wood. Night had fallen without his knowing it. People were eating, drinking, sleeping.
No one kept Marric company. Perhaps because of that, he labored less than usual to seem a human creature. The firelight caught his long pointed nose and his long pointed ears. When he grinned up at the newcomer, he bared long pointed teeth.
“Bogle,” said the one who still had not found his name. His voice was not as rusty now, though still far from its polished self. “Bogle on a hearth.”
The brown eyes went wide. There was a green gleam in them, as in a cat’s. He looked rather alarming, and yet he roused no fear. “So,” he said after a stretching moment. “You can talk as well as see.”
The other nodded. He squatted beside the bogle. The cat leaped down from his shoulder to purr and preen against the bogle’s shin.
“Ah,” said Marric. There was a world of understanding in the sound. He did not seem surprised. Rueful, maybe, in the face of the cat’s green stare. “You didn’t look far enough,” he said to it. “And I . . . well, I’m but an earth-spirit with pretensions. Who would have thought She’d send him to me?”
The cat hissed and lashed its tail. It was more angry at itself, perhaps, than at the bogle.
“She has Her ways,” Marric said, “and Her reasons. We do tend to forget that.”
The nameless one did not understand. “Tell me what to do,” he said.
Marric blinked. “You’re asking me?”
“Tell me,” the other said.
“I’m a bogle on a hearth, such as it is. You are a great deal more than that.”
He shook his head sharply. “No. I am nothing. No name, no memory.”
“Well,” said the bogle, “as to that, if you are what I think you are, and what this puca’s presence makes you, you do have a name. That name is Roland.”
He reeled, staggered, fell. That name—that sound—it smote him to the ground. The door that he had thought opened wide, showed itself to have been but a chink in a postern gate. The gate itself roared open, loosing a horde of memories. All that he was, all that he had done; the whole world that was encompassed in his name. He was—he was—
“By the stars,” said the bogle’s dry calm voice. “She is not merciful.”
He clung to that voice. He made of it a lifeline. He crawled toward it through the flood of remembrance.
He lay in firelight, with Marric bending over him, and a small grey cat perched on his breast. His head ached abominably. He knew where he was, and how he had come there, and above all, who and what he was.
He swallowed. His throat was burning dry. “How long?” he asked.
The cat did not care. The bogle, who had taken an entire village for his hearth, shrugged and said, “Long enough. Time’s odd here. Sun and moon travel as they please. Less so over Carbonek, which stands on the edge of the mortals’ world, but you were far in, near the Worldwood itself.”
Marric liked to babble. “Tell me how long,” Roland said.
“Long enough,” Marric said again.
Roland sat up carefully, balancing his aching head on its stiffened neck. He steadied it in his hands. The cat slid down into his lap, leaving a stinging trail. “Tarik,” he said. He did something, he was not sure what; a flick of the hand, a shift of the eye. The puca blurred and shimmered and grew.
A naked youth crouched beside him, glaring with yellow cat-eyes. Roland met that glare with golden hawk-eyes. “Did she send you?”
Tarik hissed. “I sent me.”
“But she knows.”
“I never told her,” Tarik said. “She chose badly. She pays for it.”
“You are a spiteful thing,” Roland said, though not as one who passed judgment.
“I prefer to be a cat,” the puca said.
“Yes.” Roland set his teeth. The throbbing in his skull was worse. It was close to blinding him. But there were things that he must say. “If I may ask this of you—stay here. Don’t go back. Keep me secret. Will you do that?”
The puca bared sharp white teeth. “Oh, yes! I stay with you. She sheds tears, you know. When she thinks herself alone. She says your name. She dreams, and you are in it.”
“Good,” said Roland out of the deep well of anger.
“Are you going?” the puca asked after a moment. “Or will you stay?”
Roland drew a
breath. “I . . .” Only his hands kept his head from shattering. “I will go. But in my own time. In my own way. I am not her dog or her slave. If what people are saying is true, I am supposed to be rather more than that.”
“You are supposed to be a king,” the bogle said.
“That, I am not,” said Roland. “I don’t want it. I won’t take it. But if this kingdom needs my sword-arm—if the Grail needs me, even me, to defend it—then I will do what I can.”
“And if you have to be king to do it?” asked the bogle.
“I will pray that I do not,” Roland said.
CHAPTER 42
Roland tumbled headlong into sleep. He woke dazed, with hammering skull, as if he had drunk the night away. But his memory was bitterly, painfully clear. The puca had returned to its cat-shape once more, draped heavily over Roland’s knees.
He could hear Gemma’s voice outside the tent, and the voices of her sons, and others that he knew from the dark time. His heart constricted. Dear saints, what was he to do? The creature they knew, the mute and witless fool, had died under the puca’s claws.
Best get it over. He rose and set himself in order, combed and plaited his hair that had grown halfway down his back, dressed and straightened his shoulders and arranged his face, and stepped blinking into the morning light.
Gemma looked up. He had hoped, rather desperately, that she would see no change in him. But her eyes were far too keen for that. They widened, then narrowed. She looked at him as if he had been a stranger.
So he was. He had a name. He had memory. He walked differently, he supposed; his face would have changed. He was not the witling any longer.
Kyllan said what they all must be thinking. “Sun and stars! What happened to you?”
“Remembrance,” Roland said.
