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

by Sarah Zettel

  “If I am welcome, Lady Marie.” Memories of the scathing looks and whispers in Pen Marhas followed hard by the fresh recollection of the treatment she had received from Kai and Agravain the previous day made her suddenly regret her choice. The other ladies already clustered on blankets in the shade of the trees as the pavilions were made ready for the midday meal and the return of the hunters.

  “You are most welcome.” Marie sounded both friendly and sympathetic. Risa hooked her arm through the lady’s and let herself be led to join the feminine company.

  The hunting party rode out and everyone cheered. As they vanished into the greenwood, the ladies turned to each other for amusement. Dainties, both sweet and savory were set out with wine and small beer. Fine needlework was unpacked, and in short order, rather to her surprise, Risa found she began to enjoy herself. Oh, there was gossip enough around her, but little of it was mean-spirited. There was talk of the Saxons as well, but it was sensible, rather than terrified or blood-thirsty. Risa herself was questioned, as she expected, but the ladies took their cue from Marie and appeared content with her somewhat short answers, even when she only turned her gaze downward and blushed at the hintings at her betrothal. The king would make that announcement, and it was clear the court already knew most of the tale without her confirmation.

  “Shall we have some entertainment?” suggested Lady Marie, seeing Risa was determined not to elaborate on the subject of her relationship with Gawain. “It grows dull in the heat.” It was an unusually warm day for the first of May, and more than the delicate pastries were beginning to droop as noon approached. “Lady Risa, would you be willing to oblige?”

  At first, Risa was relieved, but then unnerved. What could she know that would entertain these polite and sophisticated ladies? They surely knew the epics better than she did. It was equally certain they would turn up their noses at an outlandish country song. Or would they? Emboldened by the delightful morning and her friendly reception, Risa smoothed her skirts out and began:

  “An outlandish knight come from the Northland,

  “He come a-wooing of me.

  “He promised to take me into the Northland,

  “And there his bride I should be.”

  From the laughs of delight and the clapping, it was a good choice, not least because Gawain himself was from the north. She would live a long time among these ladies. Let that life begin with laughter.

  “And so he’s turned his back around,

  “And viewed the wold with great glee.

  “She’s grabbed him around the middle so small,

  “And kelted him into the sea, the sea, and kelted him into the sea …”

  There were small cries then, in mock-horror at this blood-thirsty deed, along with some remarks passed back and forth about why Gawain should take care not to turn his back on Risa that would have caused some of the younger men to blush had they been there to hear. Risa herself was hard pressed to keep her countenance.

  “Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man,

  “Lie there instead of me …”

  Something dark fell onto her skirt. Risa brushed at it, thinking it was a twig, but as her hand moved she saw instead that it was a feather, long and glossy black.

  She had no time to do anything but look up. They rained down like leaves from the trees, talons extended, beaks open and shrieking their triumph. Risa heard shouts, heard screams. She threw up her hands, beating at pricking feathers and soft bodies, but they were too many. They blotted out the sun. She covered her eyes, crying out wordlessly. She felt the talons and stabbing beaks. They were everywhere. There was no part of her they did not touch. Then, impossibly, she felt the ground rush away from beneath her in a roar of beating wings and laughing birds. The terror was too much for her, and Risa’s mind went dark.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Risa woke to nothing more alarming than a bare room and a thin straw mattress on a plain bedstead. She sat up at once. Her hands were slashed and bleeding from the ravens’ attack. She wrapped her sleeves around them to staunch the still-oozing blood. The air around her felt slightly damp, as if she were in a cellar. A single sunbeam streamed into the room from an arched opening near the ceiling, but it was blocked by a bulky shadow. Risa craned her neck, and saw a black bird sitting on the sill.

  Unreasoning terror seized her. She screamed, throwing herself backward so hard she slammed against the wall. The raven chuckled, and flew away.

  Risa buried her head in her wounded hands. Shudders ran through her entire frame. She clenched her jaw to stop the screams.

  I will not weep. I will not.

  When she was able to look up again, the light streamed unbroken through the minuscule window. Risa forced herself off the bed and went to try the plain wooden door. Several futile pushes told her it was barred from the outside. She stood on tip-toe to try to see out of the window and made out the edge of a tiled yard and the curving base of what might have been a fountain or a well. She saw no signs of anyone coming or going. She heard no sound but her own harsh breathing.

  She lowered herself onto her heels and clutched her sleeves, trying to think. Before she could calm her storm-tossed thoughts, she heard the sound of scraping wood and whirled around.

  The door opened and a slim woman in an ochre gown entered. She was fair enough to be Saxon. Her golden hair hung to her waist and her blue eyes regarded Risa critically.

  This was the witch. Harrik’s witch. She must be. She was just as Gawain had described her.

  “Well, let’s have a look at you.” The woman crossed the room in two strides and caught Risa’s chin in her hand. Risa swatted at her, but she simply seized Risa’s wrists in her free hand, twisting painfully. “Now, none of that. Hmm.” She turned Risa’s face left and right. Then she let go and stood back, leaving Risa burning with humiliation and anger. “Pretty enough to snare a blind man like Gawain, but no real knowledge there. No learning or craft. There could be, though.”

  “Who are you and what do you want with me?” demanded Risa.

  To her surprise, the witch smiled. “I want to be your ally, if you’ll let me. You must listen quickly, for the magister does not want us meeting yet, not until he’s sure his is the hand that holds your leash.”

  The magister. There was only one person that could be. He’d done it. He had taken her. Risa fought against the rising fear, carried by clinging tightly to her anger. “Who brought me here? Was it you?”

  “There’s some spirit there too.” The witch nodded approvingly. “Perhaps I will be able to work with you yet.”

  Hope unlooked for surfaced in Risa. “Can you get me out of this place?”

  But the witch only raised her brows. “And what good would that do you?”

  “I would be free!”

  “You would not. Euberacon would only hunt you down again and bring you back. You may believe me when I say his wrath would not be a pleasant thing to face. You are better off where you are for the present, where you may learn the reality of things, and work towards a true freedom.”

  Risa steeled herself. The witch had left the door open. If she ran, if she were fast enough …

  “You cannot be fast enough, not in this place.” The witch stepped closer. She smelled of mint and incense. Her breath was warm and sweet. Was this what enchanted Harrik? Was this what fed the ravens? “Listen to me, little girl,” she murmured, and despite herself Risa did listen. “Euberacon thinks he understands. He thinks he can control you. He thinks he knows what women want, but even he has limitations. No sorcerer can see all possibilities and every spell has its weak point, for every sorcerer has his. Euberacon does not understand the choices of others. He believes that only he is in control, and that his choice is final. This is his weakness. Remember that, and you will have the whip hand over him.”

  Risa retreated. The cell did not afford much room for movement, but she could back away a few paces and find room to breathe, to think. What is it every woman wants? Where had she hear
d that question before?

  “Why would you tell me this about your master?”

  The witch’s blue eyes glinted. “Because he is not the one I serve.”

  “Who then?”

  “Not yet, Risa.” Yes, her smile said. I even know your name. What else do I know? “I too must be certain of loyalty before I reveal so much truth.”

  Risa paced sideways, thinking to circle the witch, to bring herself closer to the door, but all at once a hurricane wind blew from nowhere at all, raising a gout of dust and noise. Risa threw up her hands and fell back. The wind died as quickly as it rose, and she was able to see again. The witch was gone. The door was closed, and — Risa rushed to it — barred.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. There was nowhere else to go. Her hands hurt. Pinpricks of pain touched her cheeks, but nothing felt inflamed. There was nothing to do but wait for the one who had brought her here to reveal himself, and to try to keep her courage up.

  Arthur and Merlin are my kin and my brave friends, Gawain had said.

  Gawain would be searching for her. He would require Merlin to bend his arts to her aid. She must hold tight to that, no matter what happened. She was not abandoned. She never would be, not while Gawain lived. She knew that.

  No sorcerer, no matter if they come from the farthest shores of Hell can touch you now.

  Risa closed her eyes. No. This is not his fault, not your fault. You must not think that way. Say your prayers Risa. Stay ready. There will be a way. There must be a way.

  God and Mary help me, there must be a way out of this.

  It was almost full dark when Gawain returned to Camelot. The groomsmen and boys came out with lanterns and torches to meet the horses and their riders. Gawain dismounted, ignoring them all. He heard Geraint calling him, but he did not look back. He strode ahead into the gathering darkness, across the yard and grounds, past the animal pens, the forge, the weaver’s shed and the pottery, down to the low cottage where Merlin carried out his works.

  The place had been built as solidly as any church, with stone walls and a roof of slate. It was said the hinges of the ashwood door had silver pins. Gawain pounded on that fabled door with his fist and stood back, breathing hard. His whole body ached from riding, dismounting and futilely searching, only to mount and ride again. Fatigue was beginning to wrap around him, but he could not, he would not, think of rest. Euberacon had taken Risa. Gawain would find her. He must. It was only Geraint and Gareth’s absolute refusal to go any further without more men and fresh horses that had brought him back here at all.

  Over the harsh sound of his own breathing, Gawain heard a man’s voice within the cottage. A second man answered it, and the first spoke again.

  “Merlin!” shouted Gawain. “I would speak with you, Merlin!”

  Both voices fell silent for a long moment and Gawain heard the shuffling sounds of movement. The door eased open, revealing nothing but shadow, and Merlin standing in its heart.

  Despite his intentions, there was something in the old sorcerer’s face that made Gawain hesitate.

  “Well,” said Merlin. “If you are so determined, you had best come in.”

  Gawain strode inside. It was one of the few places in Camelot where he had never actually stood. He had only dared peer through the windows once, as a young squire. Gareth, he knew, had once accepted a dare to come inside this place and steal something to prove he had done it. He had never said what happened, but Gareth had never taken such a dare again.

  There was only one candle lit, so Gawain could see next to nothing of the room he had entered. He had a vague impression of tables and other furnishings, but the rest was nothing but mysteries. But in the center of the floor were the low and curving stone walls of a great well. Gawain blinked. For a moment it seemed to him a faint silver glow emanated from that well, but by the time his eyes adjusted to it, it was gone.

  Merlin was lifting the well’s cover and sliding it back in place. The cover was heavy, and the old man moved slowly. Gawain almost offered to help, but his skin crawled unaccountably at the thought of approaching that well and what he might see in its depths.

  Wood grated against stone, and Merlin fitted the cover back into place. Some of the chill ebbed from Gawain. The sorcerer turned and lifted an iron wand, and with it performed the very ordinary action of poking up the fire.

  Now Gawain could see him clearly, the bent old man who had been at Arthur’s side since Gawain had come to Camelot. The fear faded and both will and wit returned.

  “What have you found?” he asked at once. “Did you see her? Do you know where she is?”

  But Merlin only shook his head. Gawain’s chest seized tight.

  “Gawain.”

  Gawain opened his eyes. He had not realized he had closed them. Nor that he had moved. He stood beside the wall now, and his fist had struck the stone. Were it not for his leather gloves, he would have split his skin from the unconscious blow.

  Merlin laid a gnarled hand on his wrist, gently pressing down so that Gawain lowered it back to his side. Gawain’s eyes swam with tears of pain and anger.

  “Help me, Merlin. I must find her.”

  “I know.” In the firelight, Gawain saw nothing more mysterious than a room hung with bundles of herbs that gave forth fresh and pungent scents. Clay vessels sat on wooden shelves and locked chests stood against the walls. Merlin seemed little more than an old man in a robe of black wool as he sat in a finely made wooden chair before his fire. “I have turned all my art to this matter, but I am defied.” He scowled at the flames. “I can see that your way will be shown, and soon, but not how, or by what means, nor can I see what lies at its end. The waters are deep here, Gawain, and there is more than one power beneath them. Your Risa has not been fortunate in her enemies.”

  “But you have seen that I will find her? You can tell that much?”

  “I have seen you will be shown the path, that is all.” Merlin shook his head and frowned harder. “Go to the hall. They are still at board. Eat. Try to rest. I will see what answers I can bring with the dawn.”

  Gawain wanted to argue. He wanted to shout, to grab the old man by the shoulders and shake him, demanding that he know at once where Risa was. But for all his fear and fury, Gawain was a grown man, not a ranting boy. He knew Merlin had never played Arthur false, and would not do so with him. This was knowledge hard won, but it held now, and he was able to turn and walk away back into the night. What he could not do was speak. With words would come a flood of feeling he could not yet release. When he held Risa again, that would be the time. When he looked again into her eyes and felt her breath warm against his cheek, her hands against his breast and her mouth against his. Then. Only then.

  The great hall was full but subdued when Gawain arrived there and knelt before the king. Arthur stood immediately from the high table and came down to him, raising him up and giving him the kiss of peace. Gawain found he could not meet his uncle’s eyes or make any polite greeting. Arthur seemed to understand. He put his arm about Gawain’s shoulders. Had it been any other man, Gawain would have shaken him off. He was not in the mood to receive such sympathies. As it was, he must add shame to his other emotions. He had come into the great hall with the dust of the road still on him, reeking of horse and sweat, his sword still hanging from his hip.

  Arthur, of course, said nothing of this. He simply steered Gawain to his place at the high table. Geraint watched him as he passed, but held his peace. Meat and wine were placed in front of Gawain. It was plain from the solemnity on every face that Geraint and Gareth had already told the tale of their failure. It was as well. He found he had no words in him for that either.

  Only Agravain looked satisfied with himself as he watched Gawain over the rim of his wine cup. Gawain stared back stolidly.

  One word, brother, one word and I swear I will not be responsible for the consequences.

  But the only challenge Agravain made was his silence. Even Kai seemed disinclined to jest, and Gawain wondered
if Arthur had said something to him. It didn’t matter. Nothing here mattered. He stared at the steaming trencher before him. The meat looked tenderly done and its fragrance was rich with wine and pepper, but he could not eat. He could not seem to make himself move.

  “Gawain,” came the queen’s soft voice. “You will do her no good if you have no strength.”

  Which was, of course, the merest truth. He tore off a piece of good fresh bread, soaked it in the peppery gravy and managed to choke it down without tasting it. What fare did Risa enjoy tonight? What roof sheltered her head? Did she call his name? Did she curse it?

  Old memories, memories of screams and of deeds he could not prevent and a life he’d failed to protect filled his mind, mixed horribly with the memory of Risa’s smile, and Gawain abruptly stood.

  All voices ceased their conversation. All faces turned to regard him with curiosity and surprise, waiting for him to speak.

  Gawain’s throat was dry. He wanted nothing more than to fling the table aside and charge from the hall, naked sword in his hand, challenging the night itself to bring Risa back to him.

  “I …” he began.

  The doors banged open, sparing him the necessity of finding another word. The porter, white-faced, ran into the hall. Arthur was on his feet at once beside Gawain.

  “What is it, man?” cried the king.

  The porter seemed unable to find his tongue. It would have been comic to watch him choke and point like a clown in a mummer’s play, were it not for the terror in his eyes.

  They all heard the noise then — the clop of hooves against stone. The porter fell back, and horse and rider entered the great doors.

  He was green as summer, green as ivy and young wheat and a standing pond beneath the trees. It was the living essence of what the court had turned into a tame pageant on the hunt. He was huge, a giant who would have towered over every man in the hall, even were he not mounted on a steed the size of the mightiest cart horse that was as green as he. He was garbed in the old style, in tunic and breeches all belted and trimmed with green. A green torque twisted like tree roots around his neck. His green beard was as wild as tangled moss, and his long green hair was braided. In his hand he carried a mighty battle-axe with a haft as thick around as Gawain’s wrist and a keen edge that glittered as it caught the torchlight.