“An'kelet…” She had not asked it yet, but now, glancing down, he saw her eyes troubled, tearful. “Where is my husband? Why did he not come?”
“Ardhu is wounded—he couldn’t ride, Fynavir. He took a deep injury to the leg while fighting T’orc. But do not fear, his wound should heal in time.”
Fynavir was silent for a while, contemplative. “He couldn’t come for me…but you did.”
An’kelet glanced down at her. “I could no more leave you with that bastard Melwas, than cut out my own heart with my dagger. I swore an oath to protect you…and all that is in Ardhu’s kingdom.”
“So that is why you rescued me? Because you swore to guard Ardhu’s chattels?” Her voice was slightly bitter, disappointed.
“No, not exactly.” He gave her a crooked smile nearly as bitter as the tone of her voice.
She stared up into his face and suddenly the darkness and sorrow in her eyes lifted, as night lifts before the day.
*****
They soon found the banks of swift-flowing Brui and followed it southwards. Eventually, they reached a spot where the river curved out and was fringed by a stand of weeping willows. Within this clump of tangled foliage, they found an old midden, heaped with shells, and the charcoal from a long-dead fire. An’kelet examined the burnt remains and deduced that they were old, their makers long gone from that place.
“We will stop here for the rest of the night,” he said, setting Fynavir down on the dewy grass. “I will make fire.” He went to the site of the old burning, and used his strike-a-light to ignite a small heap of dried moss, leaves and bits of wood. The ignited flame was feeble, but cast some slight warmth in that wintry world.
“Let me tend to your wound,” Fynavir said, when he was done “It cannot be allowed to fester. You could lose the arm—or worse.”
They walked to the edge of the water and An’kelet knelt while Fynavir peeled away the shreds of his torn and bloodied sleeve, and laved the gouge in his upper arm with river-water until it was clean. An’kelet endured her ministrations in silence; not because of pain from the injury, which was slight, because he dared not speak, dared not move. Her close proximity, the touch of her hands on his skin, the glimpses of her body as she bent in the flimsy strip of skin she wore …he could scarcely endure it.
“I am no healer,” she said. “But that will do until we can get you to see the Merlin. Now I must wash myself, the stink of Melwas’s hut is still upon me and the stain of his hands…”
An’kelet caught her fingers, cold and white. “Fynavir, did he…hurt you?”
“If you are asking if he used me…no. But he was not…kind.”
Turning her back to him, she let the filthy skin fall and waded out into the swell of the river. He could see bruises and wheals dappling her back and buttocks, and his heart twisted with anguish and rage. How could Melwas have done such a thing!
“Fynavir, be wary, the tow of the river may be too strong!” An’kelet shouted, as she swam out too far for safety, too far from his grasp. Even battered and bruised, she was beautiful and he would not be surprised if some river-spirit leapt from the depths to try and steal her away.
She returned immediately, swimming into the shallows. “What’s wrong? Your face, you are white as a bone!”
Words fell from his lips, unwise words, and unguarded, but exhaustion and emotion drove him. “I could not bear to lose you again. When word came that Melwas had abducted you, it was as if I had been pierced by a thousand spears.”
“And you came for me. Alone, risking all, you came for me…I owe you so much. If there is a way to repay you…”
Heat jolted through him from face to groin, despite the chill of the winter’s night. “I ask for nothing, but I also would refuse nothing that you willingly gave me.”
She stood up in the river, water pouring in runnels off her bare flesh, and waded towards him. He sat on the bank, transfixed, unable to tear his gaze away from the sway of her full breasts, and from her rounded hips, the soft gold at their join filled with promise and desire.
His own desire rose up in him, and he reached to her, pulling her into his arms, his mouth hungrily seeking hers. Together they fell into the shallows, water surging about them. She tugged at his tunic, yanking it over his head, and at the lacings of his deerskin trousers. Her lips and fingers ran over his taut muscles, the Sun-bronzed flesh of chest and shoulders, teasing him, maddening him, making him ache with need.
Vaguely, through a haze of desire, he was aware he was making the most momentous and terrible decision of his life. He was about to betray the vows he made to his priestess-mother, that had made him the best and most noble warrior in the world.
Worse still, he was about to betray his friend.
His king.
But he could no more stop himself now than he could stop the turning of the seasons, the rising of the Sun. It was as if both he and Fynavir had been caught in some primordial spell that bound them together and dismissed all other loyalties, giving no heed to the fate that would befall them should their tryst ever be discovered.
The icy water splashing over their flesh did not quell their ardour; but instead heightened the sensations as they lay with the weeds twined around them, caressing their skin just as they caressed each other. It was as if the Brui cleansed them, washing away the past, moulding them anew, making them, for the first time in their lives, truly whole in their union with each other.
An’kelet gazed down at Fynavir, her head thrown back, eyes closed and her lips parted. Water swelled between her breasts, glittering. “Fynavir, Fynavir…” he chanted her name like a prayer, though he knew of no gods or spirits that would bless this union.
The union of traitors. A union that could bring down a kingdom.
She opened her eyes. He saw his own image mirrored in them, his spirit trapped in their depths in all willingness.
Nothing then mattered, not Ardhu, not his mother the Priestess, not his prowess as a warrior. The only thing that mattered was this night, and the heat of his heart, and the desire of the flesh.
*****
Dawn came too swiftly, bringing reality with its blood-red light. An’kelet woke, shivering, and glanced down. Fynavir lay asleep, half under him, wrapped in his cloak. The little fire was cold embers near her head. He shook his head, fearful and wondering and glad all at once, captivated by her beauty, her fragility, yet terrified at what he had done.
His need of her had changed him; he could not deny the unsavoury truth. The pure, almost holy quality that his mother Ailin had conferred upon him was gone, dead, charred like the ashes of the fire. It had died in Fynavir’s arms. He was forsworn to both Ardhu and the Priestess Ailin of the Lake of Maidens. He would never be the same again.
Thinking of the night’s passion, he shook his head in dismay. They had rutted like beasts out in the open, where any passer-by might have spotted them. And in the river, no less…the icy river! At the last, he had realised how cold he was, how Fynavir trembled against him like a leaf and seemed near to falling into a faint, and he knew that their actions put them both in danger of freezing to death. By the spirits, it was only just past Y’melc, too early for frolicking naked under the stars! He had carried Fynavir to shore and stoked up the fire he had kindled earlier, then bundled her under his cloak and warmed her limbs with mouth and hands. Eventually, they had both slept, growing warm by the crackling flames.
As he lay there, propping himself upright on one elbow, grief and consternation mingled on his face, Fynavir began to stir. She rolled over and gazed up into his eyes. She too looked troubled. Reaching up, she touched his arm. “An’kelet, what have we done? What are we to do now?”
He stared at the ground, unable to meet her anxious gaze. “Maybe… maybe we should head for the coast and take a boat to Ar-morah. My kin might give us shelter.”
Fynavir shook her head. “No, no, that won’t work. Ardhu would hunt us—he would have no choice, even if he had no stomach for it. The chiefs of A
lbu would demand that he take revenge, or else they would depose him as weak and unmanly. No, he would have to hunt us until one of us was dead. And if he were to bring his warband to Ar-morah, Albu would be open to sea-pirates, evil men and schemers like Morigau. They would pounce like a wildcat upon its prey, and the Isle of Prydn would burn.”
“What would you have me do, then, lady?” His voice was strained. He knew what she was to say next…knew, because it was the only option.
“We must go back to Kham-El-Ard.” Fynavir’s voice wavered as she strove not to weep. “It is the only way. The only honourable way. We must pretend as if nothing has happened between us, that your loyalty to me is only through the friendship between you and my husband.”
An’kelet pressed his hands to his forehead in frustration. “Ah, you cannot ask me to do this; it is beyond my endurance to see you at his side, in his bed, while I cannot even touch you….”
She took his hand, kissed the long, strong, golden fingers. “I will find a way…..I will ask to go riding with you as my guard, and we can find some private place, some hollow… A stolen moment is better than none…Ardhu would never suspect! He loves you as his brother!”
An’kelet groaned at her last words, self-loathing washing over him in a black tide. “That he does is the worst of it, Fynavir. For I am traitor to him, and unworthy to stand as a warrior of the Circle of Khor Ghor.”
She pulled away, staring at the ground, embarrassed by his obvious distress. She had never seen him so distraught, so unsure—he who was so bright and strong and certain, the rising Sun at Midsummer. “It is the only way, An’kelet. I can think of no other, unless you leave me forever from this day onwards and make your own way to your people across the sea, or to Ibherna, or even to the dark forests of the middle-lands, where men are fierce and would welcome warrior-skills such as yours. I could tell Ardhu a tale to cover your tracks—I could say you took a wound while fighting Melwas and died from fever, and that friendly locals made your pyre and I scattered your ashes into the river at dawn.”
“Hush! All this talk of death!” He placed his fingers to her mouth, and then replaced them with his lips, in a kiss so deep, so powerful she felt as if he were trying to possess her spirit, to draw it from her body and bring it into him to join with his own spirit. When he finally released her, he pulled her tight against his chest and said, “I won’t leave Prydn, my fair one… I will never leave you. For all the trials I may face, none could be worse than never seeing your face again. I will return to Kham-El-Ard with you, and play my part.”
“It will be all right…you will see,” she cried, heart leaping at the thought that he would be near her at Kham-El-Ard, and that she could somehow steal away with him. Ardhu would never find out; she’d be careful and clever.
An’kelet looked at her sadly; his smile was thin and weak. “My love…it will never be ‘all right’. Never again.”
*****
Fynavir and An’kelet stood at the gates of Kham-El-Ard, gazing out across the fields toward the ancient track called the Harrow or Temple Way, which came from the West to join the centre of all things at Khor Ghor. The Merlin stood beside them, brooding and silent; his raven-sharp eyes darting first to An’kelet then to Fynavir, searching, weighing each one up. They both stood straight as spears, neither looking at the other.
“My lord Ardhu is coming,” said Fynavir. “My lord, the victor over the Chief Boar, will soon be home.”
Messengers had come the day before; Ba-lin and Bal-ahn and the faithful young Drem. Fynavir had rewarded them with golden mead poured by her own hand, and with ingots of bronze, and amber amulets from the cold dark sea in the north where her long-dead sire had hailed from.
And now the great aurochs-horns were blowing, their voices deep on the wind, and the men of the warband and their banners were visible on the horizon, marching steadfastly for home. At their head was Lamrai, her grey mane tossing on the morning breeze, with Ardhu seated on her back, and the wan Sun glinted off his breastplate of gold and golden belt buckle and the polished surface of the Face of Evening. The people of Kham-El-Ard cheered as he rode toward them, their young king, the victor over many foes.
But Ardhu had no eyes for any of his people, as he spurred Lamrai into a sudden gallop, and charged up the crooked hill on which his fortress stood. His eyes were only for Fynavir, standing in her gold-beaded cape, with a headdress of swan’s feathers upon her hair.
“My lady, it is good to see you unharmed!” He swung from his horse’s back and tossed the reins to Ka’hai. “When news of Melwas’s treachery came to me, I did not think there would be a happy outcome. Praise to the spirits that you are whole and well.”
He walked towards her, and she could see that he had a slight limp, and winced slightly when too much pressure was placed on his left leg. She took his hands in hers, gently, and kissed his cheeks in greeting, and the people of Kham-El-Ard cheered even louder. Drums began to beat and a reed pipe wailed out; there would be much celebrating in Ardhu’s great hall for the next three days till the new Moon.
Ardhu turned to An’kelet, who stood in silence, his arms folded and his head bowed. The young chieftain’s eyes were full of gratitude. He clapped the taller man on the shoulder. “My friend, how can I ever repay you? I am eternally in your debt for returning Fynavir safely to me.”
“It was my duty,” An’kelet murmured. “I could do naught else.”
“And you killed Melwas single-handedly, saving me the trouble!”
“He is dead indeed, and cursed beyond the grave.”
“Then we shall all feast tonight, in my high hall, and the men-of-words shall tell tales not only of how Ardhu the Bear felled the Chief Giant and the Chief Boar, but how the brave An’kelet, Man-of-Many-Arts, saved Fynavir White Phantom, queen of her people, from the grasp of Melwas, king of the Summer Lands!”
The crowd roared their approval, and pressed forward eagerly, sweeping all into a vast celebration that lasted from dusk to dawn every day until the Moon was new.
*****
It was the Time of the Bhel-fires, one of the most joyous festivals in all the year for the people of Prydn. A time to worship both Father Sun and Old Earth Woman, and invoke the Ancestors that they might confer continued fecundity on man and beast.
In the circle of Khor Ghor Ardhu stood with An’kelet on his right side and Fynavir on his left, and the Merlin before all three in his robe of many teeth and claws. Above them towered the immense Door into Winter, Portal of Ghosts; while from the other massive trilithons fell shadows that slunk and stretched and veered with the movement of the Sun. The gold dagger and inlaid axes on the Gate of Kings had been unveiled and glittered warmly in the rich, dying light; symbols of Ardhu’s continuing power, the greatest reign of any in Prydn since the time of Samothos, who came to Prydn nigh on five hundred years ago, following the Westward paths of the sea.
Ardhu lifted his arms toward the scarlet West, his eyes dark with emotion. “Bhel-Sunface, to whom the pyres burn this eve, I offer you my thanks for the great blessings you have conferred upon me—the defeat of T’orc, and the fall of Melwas and return of Fynavir, my wife…. My wife, who is now with child and will give my kingdom an heir to take on my mantle when I am gone!”
The Merlin gestured to a priest-acolyte and a calf was led forward on a rope. Ardhu drew Carnwennan, and with a swift, brutal motion cut the animal’s throat. It collapsed in a heap before the Altar Stone, blood pumping from the severed neck-vein and feeding the thirsty earth at the foot of the stone. Ardhu, without flinching, promptly slashed the palm of his own hand, letting red droplets fall to mingle with the calf’s blood, signifying his own bond with the earth, with the stones of which he was earthly lord. Turning from the sacrifice, he took more blood from his hand and painted his face, and daubed it onto Fynavir’s brow in the prescribed patterns of life and death and binding. Finishing, he turned to the silent An’kelet and used the last of the blood to draw similar marks on his cheeks and forehead.
“For you are as my family,” Ardhu told his friend, his first warrior, acclaimed above all others in Kham-El-Ard. “So you shall share in this blessing. If not for your valour in the slaying of Melwas, this occasion would be one of sorrow and not joy.”
An’kelet could find no words to say, but clasped Ardhu’s hand in a tight grip.
The young chief did not see the shame and sadness in his eyes.
Instead he turned back towards the Great Trilithon, its gigantic stones blood-hued in the Sunset, and spoke to the Merlin, a sombre figure reading omens from the death-throes of the calf that Ardhu had slain. “And what does the mighty Merlin, lord of seers, have to say upon this day? What words of advice have the spirits of this holy place whispered in your ear?”
Merlin sighed; he was getting old, and felt the pains of age more strongly every passing day. He wondered if Morigau had cursed him in some way. The thought made him cantankerous, and more afraid than ever that soon he would not be able to guide and watch over Ardhu and the Five Cantrevs of the West.
“They say only that when the enemies outside the fold are vanquished, the wise ruler will look for greater enemies within,” he said sourly.
Ardhu shook his head, his eyes burning with the force of his belief. “I do not have that fear, Merlin. My warriors shall forever form a stalwart circle around me, even as the Stones of Khor Ghor stand in their unbroken circle for eternity.”
He turned to Fynavir, smiled. “Are you ready?”
“I am, lord.” She bowed her head, the blood on her face blazing like the sky.
“And An’kelet, my friend, my brother?”
The Man of Bronze raised his spear Balugaisa in salute to the stones, to the spirits, to his King…and to his Queen. “I am ready, lord!”
“Then let us go forth and feast, and jump the Bhel-fires on Kham-El-Ard!”
With the White Phantom and his chief warrior close behind him, the Stone Lord of Prydn passed under the colossal arch of Winter’s Door and strode across the Great Plain towards the setting Sun.
Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge) Page 36
