The Hallowed Isle Book One

by Diana L. Paxson

  He doused his head in the horse-trough, combing back his hair with his fingers in an attempt to bring it to some kind of order, but as he thrust aside the spotted cowhide that curtained the doorway he had an unhappy feeling that he had only succeeded in making it stand up in spikes like a bogle’s. And his tunic was torn; he had not noticed that before.

  Something stirred in the shadows of the entry. Ambros whirled, then relaxed, sensing, even as his eyes adjusted, that it was little Ganeda who was hiding there. He bent and took her into his arms.

  “Guests, with pretty clothes!” She pointed into the hall.

  “Who are they, sweetling?” Her soft hair, pale as duckling’s down, tickled his nose and he set her down again.

  “They asked for you,” she said, “to bring you honor! Come and see!” She took his hand and pulled him into the center of the hall.

  His stepfather and the strangers lay at their ease on dining-couches on the other side of the fire. His mother looked up from her embroidery as he entered, as if that breath of air had alerted her. Maderun was vague about many things, but surprisingly alert where her son was concerned. With one glance she took in his appearance and shook her head with a sigh. In another moment she would try to hustle him out to put on his good tunic, but before she could rise, Morobrin spied him and pointed.

  Ambros, still standing in the doorway, found himself the target of all eyes. Flushing, he stood his ground.

  “That is the boy?” asked one of the strangers, a tall man with a grizzled beard.

  “Ambros,” said Morobrin, “child of the nun.”

  “She will have to come with him,” said the other man, “to tell her story.”

  “Where?” Ambros found his voice at last. “Where are we going?”

  “To Vitalinus, to the Over-King.”

  “The king has promised gold and a bull from his own herds if you can help him,” said Maderun as they rode northward.” Your father is very pleased. . . .”

  He is not my father, thought Ambros, and he is pleased to be rid of me. You are chattering, mother—what is the knowledge you are trying to hide?

  He knew already that the Over-King’s messengers had not told the whole truth to him. They said that a fatherless child was required to bless the king’s new fortress, but what if he failed? Ambros did not believe that his mother would knowingly lead him into danger, but she was very good at seeing only those parts of a picture that fitted her vision of reality.

  She even thought he was handsome, and Ambros knew full well he was as ugly as Imacdub who was the ugliest boy ever born. The goddess Cerituend had brewed up a cauldron of magic to make her son wise if he could not be beautiful, but the serving-lad Viaun had drunk it all instead.

  Perhaps my mother’s cousin Argantel could teach me wisdom—I have heard she is a mistress of magic, but I think I will have to be Imacdub and Viaun both if I am to survive.

  But whatever happened to him in the Over-King’s hall, it would be a change from listening to the taunts of the lads at Maridunum, and the little girl who talked to him in his head had told him he should go. He turned to look at the road behind him. The town was already hidden behind a wooded ridge, and they were passing through the last of the farmsteads.

  “I met Vitalinus once, you know,” his mother chattered on.

  “Who?” Lost in his own thoughts Ambros tried to pick up the thread again.

  “That is his name. Vor-Tigernus is only the title he has taken, though I suppose it might be courteous to use it when you address him.” She frowned. “He did not seem overweeningly proud, as I remember, but he did have a great many opinions. . . . Great lords do not like to be contradicted—” She turned to Ambros again. “Be careful how you speak to him, but remember that your blood is as good as his.”

  On one side, thought Ambros unhappily, but he nodded.

  “And perhaps,” she went on, “it would be better not to tell him about the Sword.”

  He turned to her. “That will be easy. You have never more than mentioned it to me!”

  His mother’s face brightened. She liked to tell stories about the past—it was safely over and done. Sometimes, though, the past was like an adder that seems dead until it rolls over and bites you.

  “Two hundred years ago there was an emperor in the lands of the Romans who was called Marcus Aurelius.” Maderun glanced up and down the road and decided that the riders in their escort were out of earshot. “In his time there was war between the Sarmatian peoples beyond the borders of Dacia, and one of the losing tribes, the Iazyges, came to the Danuvius and asked for asylum in the Empire. The emperor replied that he could not take all of them together, but if they were willing to be divided, he would let them in.

  “Five hundred warriors were sent here to Britannia and stationed at Bremetennacum, to guard the western shore. When their twenty years of service were up, they settled here in the North and their sons entered the Auxilla after them. When the veterans were given citizenship, as the custom was, they took the family name of their commander, Artorius.”

  Ambros nodded. “Wasn’t your grandmother named Artoria?”

  “Just so. My cousin Argantel bears the name also, and keeps the Sword. It came to us through our great-grandmother, a druid’s daughter who married the last of the Sarmatian soldier-priests who guarded it,” Maderun went on. “It is an ancient blade, forged from star-steel by a magic that no smith in our day understands. In the hands of a great king, born of the ancient blood, it will bring victory.”

  “You are telling me that Vitalinus wants to be a great king, and would take the Sword?”

  “He would,” she said softly, “but he is not destined to wield it.” She moved her mare up beside Ambros’s hill pony. “A god lives in that Sword, who has promised that the Defender of Britannia will come of my cousin’s blood. But the druid who must help him will come of mine.”

  Ambros’s pony started to trot at the involuntary touch of his heels. He hauled back on the reins, abruptly making sense of a number of comments his mother had made in the past.

  “And you think that I will be that Man of Wisdom?”

  “I know that you are—” she said serenely. “And you must remember it when you go before this king.”

  Ambros felt his heart beat as if he had been running. “But what if I say the wrong thing?”

  “Say what your heart tells you, and trust in God.”

  Which one? he wondered grimly. The god of the Christians, or the one in the Sword, or whatever power my unknown father served? He had been christened as a babe, but he thought sometimes that his alien blood had somehow repelled the Christian blessing. He attended mass with his mother, but he felt the mystery of the Spirit more strongly in the depths of the forest than he ever had within the chapel’s walls.

  Ambros grew very silent as the journey continued, for he had much to think about. Two days’ travel brought them to the western coast. From there they rode northward, into the old Ordovici lands. Presently the way became more traveled. Boats were drawn up on the shore, and sacks and bales lay stacked under rude shelters.

  They camped overnight by the water, and Ambros ran about talking to the sailors and workmen. If he was to grow up into a man of wisdom he would need to know about everything. And so he asked the sailors how they knew when a storm was coming, and the builders how they laid a foundation, and noted not only what they said but the pitying looks they thought he did not see.

  Three more days of travel brought them to the Over-King.

  Ambros sensed the hill almost before he saw it. A round summit, separate from the surrounding hills, it commanded the vale. The eastern face rose steeply, but their escort led them around to the southwest, where a path meandered slantwise across the slope. From here, one could see to the peak, where the trees had been felled to make way for the building. But there were no walls, only a great deal of tumbled stone.

  The royal encampment sprawled over the meadows by the lake. A roundhouse had been erected to shelte
r the king; a gaggle of rudely thatched lesser buildings clustered around it, leaning a little drunkenly as if they had been built for a temporary use that had extended well beyond its term. The men were as motley as the dwellings.

  Many were native British of types he recognized—horse-faced and redheaded Celts from the south or midlands, or the smaller, darker folk of the west. He saw men with the brown skins of legionary forebears from every corner of the Empire who spoke the British tongue with as pure an accent as any tribesman. But there were others, big, heavily muscled warriors with brown or ash-blond hair who exclaimed in deep-voiced gutturals. He knew these must be Saxons, hired mercenaries from across the sea.

  A new language, Ambros thought with interest. He was quick at such things, and could read Latin from the church books almost as well as the priest already. He wondered how hard the Saxon tongue would be to learn.

  Their escort brought them through the camp and drew up before the big roundhouse. Ambros felt his heart thumping heavily as he slid stiff-legged off his pony.

  “The Vor-Tigernus is down by the lakeside,” said the warrior who guarded the door. He was a big man called Hengest, the leader of the Saxon mercenaries. “He said you should take the boy to him when you came in.”

  Ambros was glad for the chance to walk some feeling back into his legs. He did not want them to think they were trembling because he was afraid. Still, as they made their way through the camp and down to the waterside he could not help holding very tightly to his mother’s hand.

  A group of older men stood on the lakeshore, watching another, who stood thigh deep in the water, holding a slender pole.

  “He is fishing,” said one of the men as Ambros looked up inquiringly, “we must keep still.”

  At home people generally used nets, which were more efficient both in time and results, but Ambros had sometimes caught fish in his hands, and knew how silent and attuned to the flow of the water one must be. The man who stood in the water did not move, but his mind was unquiet. And if Ambros could feel that, surely the fish would too. But maybe he did not care if he caught anything, so long as he could get away from other people for awhile.

  Maderun was speaking in low tones to a tall man, richly dressed, with silver in his fair hair.

  “This is Amlodius, your cousin by marriage. It seems a long time ago that we met—” She turned to the big man again. “Is Argantel well?”

  “She is well in body. We had hopes of a child earlier this year, but it was not to be.”

  “That is always hard for a woman,” Maderun sighed. “Take my love to her, when you return.”

  Amlodius started to reply, then stilled. The fisherman was coming in. The skin on his head was sunburnt beneath the thinning ginger hair, and the skirts of his tunic flapped wetly around his legs, but no one laughed. Instead of the kind of majesty Ambros had expected, he moved with a driving purpose that was in its own way just as compelling. A slave brought up a stool for him to sit on and took his fishing pole. Ambros stiffened as the Over-King’s gaze swept the little group and fixed upon him.

  “This is the boy, sir,” said one of the messengers. Vitalinus beckoned him forward.

  “Do you know why you were brought here?” His voice was an even tenor, neither warm nor cold.

  “You are building a fortress and it keeps falling down. Your wise men said I could help you, and you will reward my family if I do—” Ambros shrugged and glanced at the two men in the multi-checkered mantles of druids who stood nearby.

  “Perhaps, if you are the right boy,” said Vitalinus. “Lady Maderun, I understand this is your son. You must tell me truthfully how he was begotten.”

  Maderun came forward to stand beside Ambros and he took her hand.

  “I can say this, my lord, and may God be my witness. Until I was married, after this boy’s birth, I never lay with a man. They will have told you that on my journey home from my cousin’s wedding I was lost for a time in the forest. What happened to me there I do not remember, but my son was born a full twelve-month afterward, so I do not think he was gotten then. When I lay recovering in the convent I dreamed often of a man as fair as the dawn who came to me. Be he angel or demon I do not know, but that he was my child’s father I believe, and no earthly man.”

  Ambros looked up at his mother with interest. Does she have an invisible friend too?

  “Maugantius, is this possible?” The king turned to his house-priest, who was looking thoughtful.

  “As you know, I have studied the writings of the Romans as well as the Church fathers,” he said at last. “And it may be so. In De Deo Socratis, Apuleus tells us of beings that live between the earth and the moon which have partly the nature of men and partly that of angels. The ancients called them daimons, but we know that they are incubi, or succubi if they come in female form. It is said that they delight in tempting mortals to impurity. Perhaps one of these appeared to this woman and begot the lad.”

  “He does not look like the son of an angel,” said Vitalinus thoughtfully. “But he does seem to fulfill the terms of the prophecy. My druids have told me that the blood of a fatherless boy is needed to bless the foundations of my fortress. What have you to say to that, Ambros who is no man’s son?” he said suddenly.

  Maderun gasped and gripped his shoulders protectively.

  They did not tell my mother why they wanted me, but I think they told Morobrin! Ambros felt terror shock through him and then drain away, leaving him very still. Neither of the two druids would meet his gaze.

  “They are fools,” said a still, sweet voice in his head. “Go to the hilltop and the spirits in the earth will tell you what is wrong.”

  “I think that they are stupid,” he said in a voice he did not recognize. “You need me with my blood in my veins, not on the ground. The earth speaks to me. Take me to the top of your hill, and I will tell you what she says.” Saying the words opened his awareness to the voices in the wind and water. He could feel the flow of energy beneath his feet as he did sometimes in the forest at home.

  “It is true that death is very final,” said the Vor-Tigernus. “But you must understand that this fortress is an essential link in the chain of strongholds I am building to defend this land. I will do whatever is needful to establish it.”

  Ambros met the Over-King’s eyes and saw something, perhaps a spark of recognition, kindle in that amber gaze. “You act from need . . .” he said, “but I, from necessity. . . .”

  Ambros felt as if he was two people, the one who was climbing the hill, answering questions as if he were a spirit himself, and the other, who was only a little boy, and afraid. But there was a third within him, and it was she who comforted the one who feared and counseled the one who climbed. Perhaps, he thought, she was a daimon like the one who had come to his mother. It was a long climb, but Ambros noted with some satisfaction that the adults tired before he did.

  Except for the Over-King. Agile as a fox, Vitalinus mounted the path ahead of him, and when they arrived at the summit he was not even winded.

  “Behold Britannia spread out before you,” said the Vor-Tigernus. “Is it not a fair prospect?” Below them the lake shone bright as blue enamelwork in the sun, surrounded by folded green hills.

  “Is that why you want to build a fortress here?”

  “I will be remembered. I will defend this land!”

  Ambros looked at him, and echoing the voice within, replied, “It is true. You will be remembered.”

  Vitalinus, sensing something sardonic in the boy’s tone, turned to him with narrowed eyes. “And what do you say now that you are here? Your life hangs on it, boy, so speak to me.”

  At the center of the summit was a hollow, where coarse marsh grasses grew. Ambros made his way to the center, squatted down, and laid his two palms against the ground. With his eyes closed his hearing sharpened, and it seemed to him he could hear running water. His awareness expanded, and he felt two streams of energy, one coming all the way from the farthest point on the holy isle o
f Mona to the northwest and the other from the Isle of the Dead to the southwest, winding through the earth like serpents to cross beneath the peak.

  “The Dragon Path . . .” he whispered, looking up at the king. “You are building on the Dragon Path. Why have your druids not told you?” Once more he sent his awareness downward where the forces churned uneasily, disturbed by the digging.

  “Tell the Vor-Tigernus he must dig down until he reaches the water—” came his inner voice. Ambros did not realize he had repeated the words aloud until Vitalinus began to shout for his builders.

  “Your head is not safe yet, boy,” he said as men ran off to do his bidding, “but if you are right about this I will begin to believe.”

  For the rest of that day and the next every man who could hold a shovel was set to digging, stopping only when darkness fell. Ambros and his mother were treated well, but they were carefully guarded. The boy slept fitfully, dreaming of warring dragons.

  On the third day the mud the workmen had been digging gave way to a bubbling spring, which rapidly washed away the remaining earth around it until they were looking down at a clear pool.

  “Your druids could not even tell you what was underneath the ground,” said Ambros. “They were wrong about me as well.”

  “Perhaps. But I still must make the foundations for my fortress.”

  Ambros eyed him uncertainly, but the Over-King was smiling. A little wind ruffled the surface of the water; or was it something from below? The boy looked upward and saw clouds moving in from the northwest, but the disturbance he felt came from somewhere deep in the hill.

  The two druids watched him, muttering, and he turned to them.

  “If you are so wise, tell the king what is underneath the pool!”

  “Earth and stone are underneath the water,” said one, but the other kept silent.

  “And what do you say is underneath the pool, oh fatherless child?” asked the Vor-Tigernus.