In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy)

by Sarah Zettel

  Perhaps it would not be so bad. Perhaps the Mother Superior of St. Anne’s would shelter her without requiring that she take vows. The emerald ring and the rest would, after all, buy a small convent much that it needed. Perhaps Whitcomb could find some excuse to travel alone again and come visit her there, bringing Vernus with him. Perhaps a small deception could be given out that would ensure the priest who came to hear the sisters’ confessions would agree to marry Risa to Vernus on the spot … then they could have their wedding night, and make sure the deception became the truth. Then no one would have to know what father had done, and she would not have to be the cause of his dishonor. For despite all, she found she still had love in her heart for him.

  Perhaps mother could make father see reason after all, and Risa would be able to go home and live in peace again without resorting to such elaborate games to keep her freedom.

  Games. Played on a board of ivory and ebony. What is it every woman wants?

  Risa closed her mind tightly against these thoughts. It had been a dream, after all. A dream. She could not let it distract her now.

  Ahead, the black trunks of the trees parted just enough to show the stretch of road the Romans had laid, still straight and flat even after all these years. But Risa’s eyes which had become well-accustomed to the dark picked out something standing just at the point where the track met the road. It was not a tree, nor yet a road marker. It might have been a standing stone, but there had never been any such in this place.

  Whitcomb urged Blaze into the lead. Past him, she saw the wind catch hold of cloth, and realized what she saw was a tall man wrapped in a dark robe.

  “Who is that?” Whitcomb demanded.

  The figure spoke, and its voice was low and cold. “I am Euberacon Magus, and you, old man, have what is rightfully mine.” Euberacon turned toward her and in the light of the waxing moon she saw his hooded eyes glinting like a serpent’s — cold, inhuman, and filled with the knowledge of death.

  Risa’s mouth went instantly dry. She pulled Thetis to a halt. She did not ask how this could be, she did not have thought enough in her head for that. She only knew deep and sudden fear at the sound of that voice and the dark sheen of those hooded eyes. This was the one to whom her father had promised her life, and he had come to collect.

  Thetis whickered and stamped. Risa pressed her knees into the grey mare’s ribs. Thetis balked, but began slowly to back. The track was narrow here, and there wasn’t enough room to turn her easily.

  “Stand aside for my lady.” Whitcomb commanded. “Or do you relish the thought of being run down by a pair of horses?”

  Now she could see that the dark-robed man had thin lips and that they twitched into a smile. Whitcomb dug his heels into Blaze’s sides and the horse started forward.

  No! she tried to shout, but no sound came.

  Euberacon raised his hand, and Blaze reared up high, screaming in sudden, unbearable terror. Utterly unprepared, Whitcomb crashed to the ground. Blaze fled into the darkness, running in blind panic past the sorcerer who stood still as a stone, caring not a bit as his robes rippled in the wind of the terrified animal’s passing.

  “I can make that creature run itself to death,” said Euberacon calmly, as if remarking on the weather. “I can do the same to a man. Shall I prove these things to you so you will see I may not be brooked or gainsaid?”

  Whitcomb groaned and tried to rise. The sorcerer glanced down at him, distantly, as if the fallen man were no more than a stick of wood.

  Anger overrode the fear that filled Risa. “Leave him be!” She flung herself from Thetis’s back. The sorcerer did not seem concerned for her shout or her sudden movement. Steel glinted in the moonlight as he drew a wickedly curved knife from his belt. The sight of it stopped Risa’s heart. Whitcomb rolled, trying to get away, trying to rise, but although he pushed himself up on his arms, it was only to fall again. Risa pulled her bow off her shoulders and an arrow from her quiver.

  “Do not touch him!” she cried as she nocked the arrow in the string. “Can you make a beast run itself to death? I can hit a mark at fifty yards.” She drew the string back next to her ear, sighting along the shaft. Even in the dark Euberacon Magnus would be an easy target.

  “Run,” croaked Whitcomb, rolling to his side again, struggling still to rise. “Run!”

  She did not heed him. She would not abandon Whitcomb to this devil. “Leave us, sorcerer. I belong to none such as you!”

  Euberacon turned his inhuman eyes toward her. They glinted like the steel of his knife. Risa braced herself to let the arrow fly.

  The bowstring snapped in two.

  The arrow fell soundlessly to the ground. Risa stared dumbfounded, unable to understand what had happened. Euberacon bent over Whitcomb, who swung out feebly. The sorcerer avoided the blow with ease. Risa rushed forward, but it was too late. The sorcerer lifted his dagger and plunged it straight down into Whitcomb’s heart.

  Risa screamed. Whitcomb cried out, a long wail of terror and pain, as his blood poured out onto the ground. Risa threw herself at the sorcerer, grappling with him, but he tossed her back easily. She scrambled backward, groping for a branch, a stone, anything she might use for a weapon.

  Whitcomb’s cry fell silent, and all his struggles ceased.

  “No!” wailed Risa, pushing herself to her feet. She could not see Thetis. She could not see the road. She could not see anything but Whitcomb dead on the cold ground, and the sorcerer bending over him as if to examine his work for flaws.

  “Demon!” She still had no weapon, but in that moment she could have torn him apart with her bare hands.

  “Cease this nonsense.” Euberacon straightened up. His robes were so black that she could not even tell if he had any blood on them. “Come to your master.”

  Risa’s breath froze in her lungs. Unseen hands seemed to catch up her limbs, compelling her forward even as a fog descended over her mind, disordering her thoughts and confusing her senses.

  “No!” she screamed, straining to hold herself still. “Mother Mary save me!”

  Euberacon laughed, and the sound filled her like winter’s ice. “No mystic virgin can hear you now, little girl. All ears, all eyes here are mine.” He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. How had she moved so far? Her hands and arms had gone numb. “For you now there is no God, no savior, no father, no mother, no protector save for me.”

  “You lie, villain!”

  Hoofbeats shattered the stillness. Sensation returned in a rush and Risa jerked her head up to see a figure on a grey horse thundering toward them, a flashing spear raised high. Euberacon yanked Risa sideways, but she twisted in his grip, grabbing at his little finger and forcing it back. He cried in pain and his hold broke. Risa dove forward just as the mounted figure cut the night between them. She rolled, getting tangled in her own skirts, but somehow managing to get her legs free to stagger to her feet.

  The horseman wheeled his mount in a tight and expert turn. Moonlight sparkled on mail, on harness, on spear’s tip and on shining dark hair. Euberacon’s face had broken into a snarl, and he raised clawed and empty hands. The horseman wasted no time digging in his heels and charging the sorcerer again. At first she thought the spear must have caught him square in the chest, but he only spun back, and did not fall.

  Risa did not stand and stare, for the moonlight also showed her where the sorcerer’s knife had landed. She snatched it up and held it out low by her waist as she had seen Whitcomb do while helping train young men who came to her father for fostering. Her flesh seemed to recoil at the touch of its smooth, warm hilt but she clutched it tightly nonetheless.

  Again, the horseman wheeled. This time, the blow struck Euberacon flat on the ground. Now it was his turn to struggle to rise. Blood stained his temple black and he clawed at something under his robes. The horseman pulled his mount to a halt and leapt from its back, sword still in his hand. Euberacon looked directly at Risa with his snake’s eyes and she raised his knife
defiantly.

  “Do you yield?” demanded the horseman as he put himself between Risa and Euberacon.

  In answer, Euberacon’s mouth curled into a smile, and he made a gesture as if to throw something at them both. Suddenly, there was a roaring wind and a foul cloud of smoke. The gale knocked Risa off her feet and she lay coughing in the damp grass, unable to do anything for a long moment but squeeze her eyes shut and clutch at her mouth and try not to breathe.

  At last, there came silence and stillness.

  Risa opened her eyes and scrambled to her feet. A thick lock of hair had come loose and tumbled in front of her eyes. She pushed it aside and for a moment saw only a man’s broad back corsleted in a leather coat with bright mail rings over it. He was breathing hard, and staring at the place where Euberacon had been. Soft sounds she suspected were oaths came from him.

  Of the sorcerer, there was no sign.

  The horseman turned toward her and for the first time, Risa could see the whole of her rescuer. Broad and strong, he stood against the night. Behind him, to one side, her bewildered eyes saw his white horse and his shield that hung from the saddle. Its device shone clearly; a five pointed star of green on a silver field, the symbol of the Virgin Mother.

  It seemed that her prayer had been heard after all.

  To the other side of him lay Whitcomb, her dear friend and protector, still as stone, his eyes open and staring at the stars, but seeing Heaven.

  It was too much. Relief, wonder and sorrow poured over her and Risa began to cry. Not quietly with a maiden’s gentle grief, but in great, inconsolable sobs that shuddered through her frame. The strength in her legs gave way, and, still sobbing, she fell to her knees on the cold and sodden ground.

  Chapter Three

  The violence of the maiden’s weeping shook the whole of her body. Gawain tightened his arm around her shoulders to keep her from throwing the whole of herself into the mud. Sudden violence, fear and loss had clearly robbed her of all composure.

  “My lady, do not grieve so,” he murmured, not knowing if she could understand him in her state, but hoping the sound of his voice would bring her comfort. “You are safe now, I swear it. On my life, I swear it.”

  Even as he spoke those words, his eyes searched the shadows of trees and bracken that crowded this disused length of road. There were too many places to hide here, too many ways to watch unseen. Sorcerers were full of more tricks than man could number, and there was no knowing if her attacker had taken himself miles away, or simply vanished into the trees behind the cover of his smoke.

  He had to get her safe away from here.

  But having begun to weep so hard, she did not seem to be able to stop herself. Her tears ran down in rivers and her sobs clogged a throat that seemed too tight to release them all.

  “Come away, lady. Come with me.”

  She lifted her head, her tears coating her cheeks like a layer of ice. She looked not at him, but at the dead man stretched out before them. “I cannot leave him like this.”

  Cursing hard necessity, Gawain took her hands in far too familiar a fashion so that she looked from the corpse to him. “Lady, there is nothing more that can be done for him, and we do not know where your assailant has gone. He may be nearby and waiting.”

  That broke through her grief and she looked up at him with stark terror in her eyes. Gawain berated himself inwardly for frightening her further, but she did not protest as he raised her to her feet and led her to her mount. The lady’s horse, fortunately, had not bolted, evidently deeming it a safer thing to stay with her mistress, rather than brave the dark forest.

  The lady suffered him to help her onto the horse’s back. She huddled in the saddle. The moonlight showed him fair skin and regular features, and a lock of waving hair that had come free from a braid that was as thick as a man’s wrist, but it also showed him skin gone far too pale.

  And if you stay here staring, Gawain, she will succumb to the cold as well as her shock. The early spring night was almost as chill as a winter’s day. Trusting the mare to hold steady under her mistress, Gawain went back and retrieved the bow from where it had fallen. He gave it into her hands, and she clutched it like a talisman, which was what he had hoped, because it would keep her from trying the reins. No doubt she could ride well enough, but her eyes had turned glassy and staring. There was no telling if she could guide the animal in the state she was now, nor where she might attempt to lead it. He also retrieved the vanished sorcerer’s knife.

  There was no point in leaving a weapon lying where it might be taken and used by any who passed.

  “Now, Mistress Horse.” Gawain took hold of the mare’s bridle and stroked her neck. “Shall we be friends you and I? Your good lady is in need of aid from us both.”

  The horse seemed to find this a reasonable request under the circumstances and remained quiet. Gawain looked again to the dead man on the ground. It was unseemly to leave him this way, but he must help the living.

  What story is this? he wondered as he caught up the reins of his stallion, Gringolet. He had no answers, nor would he until the maiden had more fully recovered herself. It stank of magic, all of it. He’d set the sorcerer’s head on a platter, if he got his way, and that of Harrik’s witch beside it. The thought of Harrik reminded him afresh of the urgency of his errand though, and Gawain grit his teeth.

  God grant we find your friends soon, my lady. Gawain glanced at the sky where the stars shone down clear and brittle. The moon had almost set. For I must be gone come the day, but I would not leave you alone.

  Gawain led the horses down the high road, the half-frozen mud muffling their hoofbeats and their breath making silver clouds in the deepening dark.

  Euberacon, shrouded by night and magic, watched the rider hoist the weeping woman onto the horse and lead her away. The glittering light of moon and stars gave him a clear view of the device decorating the shield hanging from his horse’s saddle bow.

  Well, my Lord Gawain, what do you think of the prize that has fallen into your purse? Is it not lovely and rare? Does it not fill your heart with tender and possessive thoughts?

  Under Euberacon’s watchful eye, Arthur’s captain turned down the forest road, leaving behind the dark trails of prints from himself and his beasts. Euberacon smiled briefly, and then turned back to the dead man. There was profit yet to be taken from this night’s work. The deep gouge in Euberacon’s chest where the knight’s spear had stabbed him was painful and the exposure of his ribs made him feel a little dizzy and weak, but it would close soon enough. The source of Euberacon’s life was no longer in his heart, and those who sought it there were bound to be sore disappointed. There was no reason to hurry home. The heart and eyes, the tongue and left hand, these were things not to be wasted. Euberacon drew his second, sharper knife and bent to work.

  In the light of the setting moon, Gawain could barely make out the tiny roadside chapel where he had taken shelter for the night. It was a rude and neglected place. Piles of twigs and leaves in the corners and the char on the uneven flagstones told him it had lately been more a house of travelers and wild creatures than of God. But the thatch roof and stone walls were still whole and while the presence of another horse and another human would make for a cramped and slightly comical congregation, they would also add greatly to the warmth, and warmth would only aid the lady in her recovery.

  “Come my lady.” Gawain held out a hand. Her hand was ice cold in his and he had to grip it hard to help her down because she had no strength to hold onto him. Trusting that her horse would not stray far, he led the lady through the low, narrow door. Inside, the dying coals of his little fire provided just enough illumination to show the dusty altar and chipped cross. The whole place smelled heavily of horse, and his palfrey whickered and stamped as he entered.

  “Rest you awhile, lady. I will see to the horses.” Keeping hold of her hand, Gawain lowered himself onto one knee so the maiden would be able to steady herself as she sat by the fire. He felt her tremble
as she did, her free hand automatically tucking her cloak and skirt under her to guard her from the cold of the cracked flags. He took that as a good sign. He had seen men after battle become like this, too stunned by what they had been through to see the world in front of them any longer. Fire, drink and a time of quiet rallied most of them. He prayed it would be so with her.

  Outside, Gringolet stood alone, nibbling at the bracken. Gawain cursed under his breath and circled the chapel, to find that the mare had sniffed out a springlet and decided to help herself to a drink. He waited somewhat impatiently until she raised her dripping head and allowed him to lead her into the chapel, balking only slightly at the narrow doorway.

  Inside, the lady fallen, stretching out to her full length on the flags. Gawain dropped the mare’s reins and ran to her side, turned her, thrusting a hand under her cloak and leaning close, to search for breath and heart beat.

  To his immense relief, her heart beat steadily under her cloak and her warm breath brushed his cheek and mouth. For a moment, he inhaled a scent like summer itself. This close, he could see the color was beginning to return to her white cheeks. Simple sleep then, was what had claimed her, and Gawain thanked God and the Virgin for it. That would heal her more than any clumsy words he could offer.

  As gently as he could manage, he laid her back down and stood, running his hand through his hair and looking at the face the firelight revealed to him. Her cheeks were round and full, her features regular and delicate. Her hair underneath her veil was the color of the flame, a reddened gold that shone like the setting sun. The few tresses that had come free of the braid trailed almost to her ankles. Her eyes were set wide beneath her clear, white brow, and he wondered what color they would be when they opened.