Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge)

by J. P. Reedman

  “Who …who are you?” he cried, hurling the mask away. It shattered against a stone and feathers flurried.

  The girl rose onto her haunches, tossing back her ebony mane. “Haven’t you guessed? I am sure the Merlin and Mhor-gan warned you of me! I am Morigau…your half-sister.”

  Bile rose up in Ardhu’ throat, burning like fire. Shame reddened his face. This…this creature had tricked him…tricked him into breaking a terrible taboo. One of the greatest of all taboos. If any of the tribes were to find out, he would lose his kingship, and probably his life; it might even start a civil war in Prydn, as other men strove for supremacy.

  Morigau seemed to read his thoughts. “Don’t worry,” she said haughtily. “I am not going to go about telling the world. My fate would be worse than yours, which would be a clean death at least. Me—they’d pin me in a bog.”

  “Why have you done this?” Ardhu cried. “Hate I could fathom, but not this terrible act! You…you are surely a shape-shifter, a witch… I could have sworn you were Fynavir!””

  Morigau’s lips tightened to thin lines; her eyes were glowing, cat-like. “You saw what you wanted to see! Like most men you were led by your man-thing…and not this…” She tapped her forehead.“Do you want to know why I deceived you? Well, hear my words, brother: I had a father, whom I loved—he was taken from me by your father. I had a mother too; she forgot me when you were born, and even when Merlin claimed you, she never loved me again. I am going to show you what it is to lose, Ardhu. To lose everything, as I have: my father, my mother’s heart, Belerion, which would have been my birthright, had Y’gerna not wed U’thyr. All that is left for me is to marry a pig like Loth of Ynys Yrch, so that I may live with a queen’s status. I blame you for that too, Ardhu Terrible-Head, bastard of U’thyr, whose barrow I spit on!”

  “If I had my sword I would kill you!” Ardhu shouted, smashing his clenched fist against one of the great megaliths of the chamber. “You are sick, twisted.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said scornfully. “Rage, little boy! I have powers, just like your friend the Merlin. You would not dare touch me…especially as the Eye-Goddess, lady of the tomb, has breathed a spirit into my belly to mingle with your seed. Nine Moons from today a child will be born…”

  He stared at her, horrified. “You cannot know such a thing for sure!”

  She smirked evilly. “I am a witch—you said it yourself! I saw it in the bones, cast three times three. Once I was certain the signs were right, I arranged the time of our coupling to follow the phases of the Moon that guides all women. I will not be wrong. My Woman magic is strong.”

  She wrapped her arms round her knees and her eyes were filled with burning fire. “Traders visiting Belerion have spoken of great kings in sun-burned lands far away, who marry their sisters to keep the bloodline pure. That’s what our son will be, Ardhu—a pure son of Albu. Through him I will claim back all the lands I lost, and he will love me as no other ever has. Never will there have been a child of such beauty and power. Be warned, Ardhu—brother—he will be the Dark Moon that eclipses your Sun!”

  She leaped to her feet, her face warped with hatred but also ecstatic at the thought of the future she foresaw.“Today I will continue my journey north to the realm of my husband-to-be. I am sure he will be pleased to find out he has got an heir on me so soon. He will never know another’s seed grows in his field. Farewell, Ardhu. Thank you for your gift.” She leaned over as if to kiss him, but viciously bit his lip instead, drawing blood.

  He cried out and sprang back, repulsed.

  Morigau laughed, standing with her lips reddened with his blood like some malign war-goddess. One droplet rolled down her skin, pooling in the hollow of her throat. She flicked it away with a finger and, casting Ardhu a mocking and contemptuous glance, snatched up her feather cloak and climbed hurriedly from the tomb.

  Ardhu staggered after her, his stomach heaving with the enormity of what he had done. He didn’t know what steps to take …killing Morigau was all he could think of, but he was weaponless, and she was blood-kin, and a woman.

  And a magic-worker, set to marry his enemy, Loth.

  Standing on the barren hillside, with the cold morning wind blasting into his face, he watched as Morigau traipsed blithely down from the burial cairn and was greeted by La’morak and Ack-olon at the bottom of the rise. They hugged and embraced in a congratulatory way, and he realised that not only had the youths been sent to entrap him with drink, that the familiarity between Morigau and her henchmen was more akin to that between lovers than mistress and servants.

  With a cry of grief and despair, he sank down onto the dew-drenched soil and pounded the earth with his fists.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Later that morning, Ardhu sought out the palisaded enclosure beside the waters of the Khen, a sorry, grim-faced figure with a cut and bloodied lip and shadows in his eyes. He had sat for hours in the cold wind beside the Old Ones’ barrow, cursing himself, Morigau, the very gods who could allow such deceit. Eaten by shame, he would have stayed even longer, but suddenly he heard the blare of horns, and standing on the ancient mound saw a stream of unfamiliar banners heading toward the palisade, followed by the flags and pennants of his kin and his own warband.

  Unnerved by this flurry of activity, he cursed and ran from the hilltop toward the palisade enclosures.

  An’kelet met him at the great gateway of stout oak.“Praise the spirits that you are here! The Merlin has been searching for you. The men were growing uneasy.”

  Art glanced at his friend, his insides clenching with revulsion at the memory of the taboo that he had broken. He could tell no one the truth…not An'kelet, not Ka’hai, certainly not Merlin. “I was drunk…” he said gruffly. “I fell. I’ve been in the fields sleeping it off.”

  An’kelet gazed at his troubled face, and frowned, but kept his peace—who was he to pry if Ardhu wished to keep his secrets? “There is news, Lord, news that should gladden your heart. The Lady Fynavir has arrived, bringing cattle and other riches in her train.”

  The last vestiges of colour drained from Ardhu’s already pale face. How could he face Fynavir, so soon after…? If it had just been a tumble with some willing local girl, even a temple priestess, no harm done, none would think of it ever again or hold it against him. But to break such a powerful taboo as that which bars the mating of close kin, with such a powerful magic-woman, in such a holy and dreadful place….

  He ran his hands through his lank and clotted hair, over his pounding forehead. “I must make myself presentable for her, An’kelet. Come; help me dress in my ceremonial clothes so that neither she nor I will be shamed.”

  Ardhu went to his tent and An’kelet followed. As his lord’s right-hand man, he washed Ardhu’s face and painted it. He braided his long dark hair and placed his copper helm upon his brow. Carefully he buttoned him into the leather tunic with the golden breastplate of King Samothos fastened to the front, and girt Caladvolc about his waist. Lastly he handed him the Lightning-Mace with its gleaming mounts and fossil head.

  Hiding his inner turmoil as best he could, Ardhu stepped out of the tent into the milling crowds inside the palisade enclosure.

  The first thing he saw was Merlin descending on him like an angry hawk. The Shaman grasped his arm, fingernails biting flesh. “Where have you been? Why do you play the fool? You spoke to Mhor-gan; she warned you, as I did, of possible danger here at Suilven, and yet you ignored us, and vanished without telling a soul. You are lucky you are not lying in some ditch with your throat slit from ear to ear!”

  “Merlin, enough!” Ardhu flashed back. “You will not chide me like some wayward child in front of my people! Take me to Fynavir and hold your tongue at least till we are alone!”

  The older man fell silent, sparks of fury leaping from his eyes, but he obviously thought better of making a scene. Face dark as a storm cloud, he ushered Ardhu toward a large group of people hovering around a newly-raised cattle pen at the back of the enclo
sure. Cows lowed and stomped as men leaned on the rails, remarking on their size and heartiness.

  “Before you, Chief Ardhu, is Princess Fynavir’s bride-price, sent from Mevva of Ibherna,” said Merlin. “There are also three hounds, a goblet carved from amber, and a gold clothing fastener for your cloak. Ka’hai is looking after everything.”

  “It is good to have received such wealth, but only Fynavir and her wellbeing matters to me. Where is she?”

  “She comes…dressed in her bridal gown and ready to greet her husband-who-will-be.” Merlin nodded toward a tent guarded by several foreign warriors in outlandish clothes, and ringed by girls and women straining to catch a glimpse of the mysterious white woman who had come to wed the young king of the West.

  The tent flap was suddenly pushed aside and Fynavir emerged, attended by two young women from her homeland. The sight of her took Ardhu’s breath away, deepening his guilt over his tryst with Morigau the night before. She was truly a vision, an earthly goddess like her mother, but where Mevva was red, the colour of blood and sensuality, Fynavir was snow-white and pure, unstained, a creature born of cloud or mist. He almost expected white trefoils to blossom and dance at her feet.

  She was wearing the badges of nobility, of a queenly bride—a bronze circlet that glowed against the snow of her hair and a shining pectoral cape wrought from a single sheet of beaten gold, fashioned by great art to resemble pleated cloth. Linen marriage-robes fell from eyelets along the cape’s edges, sweeping the ground with a fringe made of thin gold wires. As stunning as the cape looked, Fynavir was clearly uncomfortable wearing it, for the shoulders were so narrow and inflexible she could scarcely bend her arms. She moved at a shuffle, looking nervous and disconcerted, while women and men alike touched her for luck.

  “Fynavir.” Ardhu held out his cold and dirty hands, green with barrow-mould, and made to clasp her soft white hands.

  Then he stopped. He was filthy. Contaminated. Unfit to touch her.

  He dropped his hands abruptly, and stared at his feet, leaving Fynavir stunned and hurt with the murmuring crowds all around her.

  A priestess of the Sanctuary came up, tall and thin in her hooded robe. “Shall I send for the Old Woman of Blessed Fame, and prepare the circle for your marriage-binding, lord?”

  “N…no!” Ardhu objected more harshly that he had intended. “I have decided that the best place to wed is my own territory, at the Temple of Khor Ghor. I would leave for there as soon as possible.”

  A gasp went through the crowd, and the people suddenly shied away from Fynavir as if she was now accursed. The priestess’s weather-beaten face was thunderous. “If that is your wish, you must go—you are the Young King,” she said. “But some may see this decision as an affront both to Suilven and the spirits.”

  Ardhu made no reply but signalled for his men prepare for departure. Merlin’s visage was livid, but he kept his peace and stalked along behind Ardhu, clutching his staff until his knuckles were bleached as bone.

  Art nodded at An’kelet, who stood in white-faced silence, as shocked by Ardhu’s rejection of the blessings of Suilven as the rest of the company but loyalty staying his tongue “Ank, escort the Lady Fynavir back to the Place of Light, will you? Make sure her men need for nothing, and that the animals are well tended and don’t escape along the journey. I will ride ahead with the Merlin. We have much to discuss. Things I cannot even speak of to you, my friend.”

  *****

  The warband moved across country, passing the harvest-hill that was a miniature twin to Zhel’s Barrow before following the wild borders of Savarna’s wood toward the South. Merlin and Ardhu were far ahead of the rest, out of earshot and almost out of sight.

  Fynavir rode on a fat pony that had been requisitioned from one of the warriors; she had never sat astride a horse before, and so An’kelet led her steed on a sturdy twine rein. She glanced over at him, noticing how the hazy summer light shimmered on cheekbone and smooth forehead, and made a halo of his waving amber hair. She had missed him, her friend from Lodegran’s dun, who, as a foreigner himself, had understood her sense of never truly belonging. He had made her laugh, had taught her to fire a bow and tame a hawk, and she had danced for him once, as she had for Ardhu, but he, bound by the oaths set on him by his priestess mother, had merely kissed her hand afterwards and walked away.

  “I am not sure about riding,” she said dubiously, trying to strike up conversation. “It seems unnatural. . .”

  “You will grow accustomed,” An’kelet replied with a smile. His teeth were white and even, not worn down by grit like so many others’. “It is a swift way to travel—and for warriors, riding gives advantage in most kinds of battle. Ardhu wants us all to learn to ride.”

  Fynavir tensed, and she stared at the ground. “I displease him.”

  “Don’t be foolish!” An’kelet shook his head.

  “Then why…did he not take my hand? Why has he postponed our marriage, and enraged the priestesses of Suilven?”

  An’kelet sighed and flicked his horse’s rein, guiding it closer to Fynavir’s pony. “Art is young, Fynavir. Sometimes he acts with no thought. He is…moody.”

  She laughed a little. “I thought only women were prey to their moods! But I will take into account what you say. I hope I can trust your word, and that you are not just trying to pacify me.”

  He gazed at her with seriousness. “I would never lie to you…my queen. Ardhu is as my brother, and I will serve and love the both of you until there is no breath left in my body. If I should break this vow, many the sky fall upon me, my bones remain unbarrowed and my spirit be bound to earth forever.”

  He spoke with such passion that she blushed and glanced away, embarrassed. Heat crept up into her face. She was all too aware, suddenly, of An’kelet’s near presence … his muscled arms, bare in the heat, his golden male beauty making him shine like a spirit born of the Sun Himself….

  You should not think of him thus! she told herself sternly…

  At that moment a hare bounded out of a mossy bank and dashed, legs pumping, in front of her pony. The stocky little animal reared on its hinds, while Fynavir grappled hopelessly with the reins then, in desperation, flung her arms around its neck. The pony rolled its eyes and bolted, thundering over the rocky terrain toward a winding brook lined with ash-trees.

  “Fynavir!” She heard An’kelet’s voice call frantically after her. Sunlight shattered on the rocks about her, rippling like golden fire on the free-flowing stream. Wind raked her hair and the world tilted, earth becoming sky, sky becoming earth …and then a hefty branch hung with lichens smashed into her shoulder and sent her crashing to the ground amid the pointed rocks.

  An’kelet was at her side with such speed it was as if he had flown to her on the wings of a magical swan. Face pallid with concern, he flung himself on the ground next to her and lifted her carefully in his arms. She could feel the beat of his heart against her cheek, the beat of her own heart madly, wildly, against her bruised ribs…and suddenly the world seem to lurch again, but not in an unpleasant way. It was as if time itself had stopped, and all the world had become unreal, a place where only she and An’kelet existed, locked in a golden circle of light, far from the fights and troubles of kings and warriors.

  And An’kelet…he gazed down at her in silence, her hair spilling over his lap like a cloud, and Fynavir knew he felt what she felt, and that he feared it, and yet desired it more than anything on earth.

  “My Lady…Fynavir…” he whispered hoarsely, and he gently turned her around in his arms so that she faced him. The golden light was all around them, the brook beside them roaring, its spirit rising to protect them, embrace them. She closed her eyes, felt his breath mingle with her breath, the faintest touch of his mouth on hers, rich with the taste of honey and meadowsweet….

  Suddenly a shadow fell over them, and the magic circle was diminished, its light smothered. They both glanced up as a raven soared overhead, its voice harsh and mocking, doom-laden.

/>   “An omen!” Fynavir whispered, covering her face in fear.

  An’kelet's hands dropped from her shoulders; his visage was white and drained. “An evil spirit possessed me…. I should not have acted so. Forgive me.”

  Tears sprang in Fynavir’s eyes; coldness clutched her heart. She had nearly betrayed her husband-to-be, her king, and put both her own life and An’kelet's in jeopardy with her wantonness.

  At that moment Ka’hai and Bohrs rode up. “Lady, are you hurt?” Ka’hai swung down from his horse.

  “Only my pride.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “But don’t fear for me, lords of the West—I will not break from such a tiny bump, I am made of sterner stuff than that! I have a wedding-alliance to make between your peoples and mine. I will not fail in my duty.”

  She got up, ignoring their proffered hands, and managed to clamber with minimal fuss back onto her pony, which was now cropping grass calmly beside the stream. She gestured to Ka’hai to ride beside her, and set heels to her mount, driving it back up to the main entourage waiting on the trackway.

  An’kelet was left behind, seemingly forgotten by his fellows, kneeling on the cold stones under the branches of the gnarly ash, watching Fynavir’s white tresses stream away into the distance like a trail of wind-blown smoke.

  She did not look back.

  *****

  The sky was dark with promised rain, the clouds bunched into fantastical shapes of giants and gods. Shafts of sunlight spiked through tiered cumulus, lighting up the rolling barrow-downs around the temple of Khor Ghor, illuminating first one mound and then another, making chalk ditches and half-grassed summits gleam with otherworldly luminescence.

  Inside the great Stone Circle, the warriors of Ardhu Pendraec stood in their ceremonial robes, one in each archway, facing in towards the Altar-stone. Ardhu stood upon the height of the Great Trilithon with Merlin at his side, invoking the spirits of Everlasting Sky—Nhod the healer, Cloudmaker, lord of the milky way; Moon-Mother with her bone-white eye; and Bhel Sunface with his radiant head that gave life to all the world.