by Lavie Tidhar
‘This is a trap, it must be.’
‘I do not care, I’m tired.’
‘And I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.’
‘Which horse? Not mine.’
‘Perhaps a sausage.’
‘Girls, focus. We have a job to do.’
‘We’re guests here, Guinevere,’ Isolde says.
‘By guests I’m sure you mean to say we’re prisoners.’
‘Hush, Laudine. It’s nice here.’
‘It’s very nice—’ from Enid. She yawns. ‘I like it here.’
‘Well, don’t get comfortable.’
‘Why in Woden’s name not? We travelled days to get here and deserve a rest.’
‘It is a trap.’
‘You said already.’
They break the convocation, undecided.
‘Just keep your eyes and ears open and your mouths closed.’
‘Not if there’s food,’ Isolde says.
‘We know what you like to stuff in your mouth,’ Laudine says, and they all laugh.
‘Fuck off!’
The tread of footsteps, soft, assured. A chambermaid appears. ‘You’re called to supper, ladies,’ she informs them.
Coiffed and perfumed, in soft silks and cotton – imported gods know how and where from – the Choir of Angels follow the servant to the feast.
*
There are a few things Guinevere notices about the dining hall straight away.
It isn’t necessarily the immaculate preparation of the long tables, how everything is so neatly and beautifully arranged.
It isn’t the beautiful fresh flowers artistically placed (and where did they even get such flowers, in such a place?).
It isn’t the silver cutlery or the gleam of gold on the walls, where objects of great beauty are beautifully displayed. It isn’t the tapestries, which are enchanting, nor the music the musicians play, which is also enchanting, nor the smells of the food, which are intoxicating, nor the sound of conversation, which seems invigorating—
It isn’t even, so much, the sight of the beaten naked man chained to the wall.
He is a one-eyed man, thin as a snake and leathery, with old battle scars across his arms and abdomen. He must have been a savage leader, once. A Northern man who might have been a king. Guinevere accepts a goblet from a passing server. She sips the wine. It is exquisite, of course. Everything in this place is done with great taste and deliberation. She walks to the chained man and examines him curiously.
The man’s one good eye stares at her. His lips open, move, but no sound emerges.
‘Urien of the Old North, I presume?’ Guinevere says.
The man closes his eye, defeated.
‘Leader of the Hen Ogledd. I thought this was your land. I thought this was your castle.’
‘Perhaps it was, once.’ A smiling woman joins her. She is very beautiful, with a brooch of gold holding her hair. She sips her wine and looks at the display. ‘Who can remember? Men come and go, but women stay.’ She turns to Guinevere. She alone draws the eye in this place, at this time. She says, ‘I am Elaine of Corbenic.’
‘Is this your castle, lady?’
The smile widens. ‘So it is.’
‘And this?’
‘This thing? It’s but a man. I like to keep him there as a reminder.’
‘A reminder of what?’
The woman laughs. ‘I forget,’ she says. She turns away from Urien. He’s been forgotten long ago, it seems. ‘You must be Guinevere,’ she says. ‘Your name precedes you.’
‘I see.’
‘Please, come. Eat. Drink. Be merry. Did Pelles send you?’
She tries to catch her by surprise.
Guinevere smiles back instead. ‘He did,’ she says. ‘You’re well informed.’
Elaine waves a hand. ‘It is my business.’
‘What is your business, mistress?’
That smile again. She’s like a cat and Guinevere’s a pigeon. ‘Come. Eat,’ she says. ‘You must be starving.’
Guinevere accepts gracefully.
Dinner that evening is a lively affair. They sit at the long table and Elaine of Corbenic sits at its head.
Guinevere is introduced to her table mates.
There is Legate Marcus Aurelius Agrippa, of Byzantium, a stately Eastern Roman with a military bearing and a spotless tunic, who speaks three languages but says relatively little and listens a lot. Guinevere has never met a Roman. What one is doing here, so far from home, is a mystery to her. But when prompted the Legate brightens. He speaks softly of Byzantium, or Constantinople as it’s called now. Of its majestic palaces and churches, its wide avenues, its beautiful climate, the wealth of its produce and artisans.
There is Bahram of Persia, part-roving ambassador, part-trader, part-spy, with a twinkle in his eye, and he speaks fondly of the great trading cities of Bukhara and Samarkand, of silks from Qin and spices from India, and he paints to Guinevere a picture of a world that is vast and glorious, somewhere distant, so far away from this rainy island that she is incapable of even imagining it.
‘And what do you do here, Sir Bahram?’ she inquires.
‘Gold, dear lady, gold!’ he says. ‘What else is there?’
The Legate from Constantinople frowns at this but says nothing. The food is served. Toads stuffed with herbs and dormice stuffed with cheese and wild turtles shelled and served in soup. Guinevere’s stomach growls but she dare not eat this tainted food. This whole land’s poisoned, and the enchanted air feels like a bad miasma, the music cloying, the lights too bright, the gold too fake. There is a wrongness here, she thinks. She finds a bread roll and nibbles on it.
It’s just a play, she thinks. It is an act put on, for all she knows it’s put on nightly. She sips the wine for it’s imported and therefore should be safe to drink, but then she feels light-headed. Eels and water snakes are served, and honey with the bees dead in it.
Legate and Persian ambassador both eat like starved children. The more they eat the more they seem to crave. Their brows shine with sweat. Their stomachs bulge. The more they eat the hungrier they get. Their eyes are glazed. Their speech deteriorates into incomprehensible mutterings. They grunt like pigs. Guinevere glances at the head of the table. Elaine of Corbenic smiles faintly at her and shrugs.
‘We heard talk of leprechauns and gold,’ Guinevere says.
‘I see no leprechauns.’
‘And on our journey we came upon a village where only men dwell.’
‘So?’
‘They claim their womenfolk were stolen away to Maiden’s Castle.’
‘Nothing but tales,’ Elaine says.
‘I am sure you are right.’
‘Tittle tattle. One mustn’t set store by the tall tales of the people in the fog. Their minds are weak.’
‘I am sure you’re right.’
Elaine of Corbenic smiles. She is beatific. On the wall in his chains, Urien of the Old North, king of the Hen Ogledd, sags in defeat.
At last dinner is over. The musicians fall silent. Guinevere is hungry, as hungry as she’s ever been.
They’re escorted back to their rooms. They are not prisoners. There are no guards set on their doors.
‘This is bullshit,’ Isolde says. ‘What are we supposed to do now?’
‘Kill the good mistress Elaine and take hold of her castle?’
‘Did you see the fate of Urien?’ Isolde shudders. ‘We are highwaywomen, not a Roman legion. And she has magic on her side.’
‘How do you know?’
‘How can you not? Do you not smell it? The whole air’s tainted with its stench.’
They argue, but in vain. There’s something wrong in Maiden’s Castle, but is the castle the cause of the wrongness, or merely a part of it? The Choir of Angels settle at last. Yet Guinevere is restless.
She rises. Bites on an apple. The castle’s never silent, there are far cries and sounds going on behind the walls. She steals out to the corridor. There are no guards that she ca
n see but that is not to say they are not there.
‘Pssst! Over here!’
She turns. There is a huddled shadow hiding behind a monstrous Roman marble bust of some dead emperor. It is gaudily painted. Where Elaine sourced it is a mystery, like so much about this place.
‘Pssst! You!’
Guinevere kneels. The figure steps out of the shadow. It is a little leprechaun girl, soot-stained, grimy, with wild red hair and miner’s clothes that are dull green.
‘Yes?’ Guinevere says.
‘Come with me,’ the leprechaun says.
Guinevere, curious – the little girl vanishes behind the statue’s dais. A shadow there – Guinevere sees a hidden opening. She crawls behind the Roman emperor and into a narrow space.
‘Come on!’
She follows the girl into the little crawlspace. They are behind the walls. The shaft angles down. Guinevere slides. She bumps into the leprechaun girl, who gives a squeak of alarm. Then they come crashing down into a stone-hewn corridor and land in an ungainly pile.
‘Oww!’
‘Sorry.’
What is she doing here? She disentangles from the girl. They’re in some sort of mining tunnel. Wooden beams support the ceiling, torches burn at intervals. No one around.
‘My name’s Ulla,’ the leprechaun girl says. ‘Are you the magical princess who came to save us?’
‘Am I?’ Guinevere starts. ‘I hardly think so.’
‘Well, you’re all there is,’ Ulla says. ‘So you will do or…’
‘Or what?’
Ulla shrugs. ‘Or you will die,’ she says, ‘I suppose.’
‘Well, that’s cheering,’ Guinevere says.
‘Come on. I’ll show you where they’re held imprisoned.’
‘Who is held imprisoned? What?’
‘The men.’
‘What men?’
‘The knights who came to help us.’
‘And did they? Help you?’
‘No. I told you. They’re held in prison.’
‘So much for men,’ Guinevere says, and the leprechaun girl, unexpectedly, smiles.
They walk down mine tunnels and round twisting turns. There’s no one there.
‘These are the early sections,’ the girl explains. ‘The gold’s been mined here long ago.’
‘The gold?’
‘And other metals. From the star stone. They say they have a special radiance and are not found in nature.’
‘I’d heard the same…’
‘It’s killing us.’
It’s said matter-of-factly, and somehow chilling all the more for that.
They reach the cells. They hide behind a wall and watch. Two guards look bored. A lone prisoner’s behind bars.
‘This was the old storage unit,’ Ulla whispers. ‘When this section was still being mined.’
‘And now? Where are we?’
‘Somewhere under the palace. I don’t know why she keeps them. I think she took a fancy to their leader.’
‘Their leader? Who—?’
Then she sees him.
43
He is young, he must be her age or a year or so older at most. He is thin, there is no fat on him. He’s muscled in the way a swordsman’s muscled, but he has no sword in his captivity. He has some scars on him. His hair is short. His eyes are bright. He prowls the cage with restless energy. She thinks he’s handsome. He reminds her somewhat of a blade.
‘His name’s Arthur.’
‘Where are the others? You said there were others.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ulla says. ‘Perhaps she’s moved them. There is a Merlin, I think that’s a kind of wizard or some such. He’s locked up in the tower, in a room he can’t escape. The other knights – one’s green and big, one’s small and unremarkable, and a few underlings.’
‘So what do you want from me?’ Guinevere says. ‘And how come you can wander round as you do?’
‘I hide and they don’t see me. They don’t think we’re a threat because we’re not. We just work in the – you know.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’ll show you, if you like. But you’d have to be quiet, so they don’t catch you.’
‘Oh, fuck it,’ Guinevere says – which is as good an attitude to have as any. She marches out of the hiding place directly at the guards.
‘Excuse me…’
They turn. She doesn’t give them a chance to reply.
It’s over quickly. The guards are on the floor and now Guinevere is armed.
She walks to the cage. The boy, this Arthur, stands still, watching her. He really does have eyes so very bright…
She looks at him. Considers. He doesn’t beg.
She reaches a decision.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Before they come around or someone comes to check.’
She unlocks the cage with the keys from the guards. He follows her swiftly.
‘Thank you,’ he says. His voice is rough with disuse.
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘I’m Arthur,’ he says.
‘I’m Guinevere.’
Unexpectedly, he smiles. ‘Thank you, Guinevere.’
She smiles back. ‘Been here long?’
‘Longer than I’d care to.’
‘Bit careless, getting caught.’
‘Yeah.’ He runs a hand through his short hair. ‘They caught us unprepared and under-manned. And my wizard’s useless here, there’s something in the earth that nullifies what power he has.’
‘Why did you come here in the first place?’
‘We were on our way south when we came on this village in the fog. They told us of the castle. I thought… I thought I should see it for myself. And I was right to. There’s power here. There’s real power.’
She looks at him curiously. ‘Is power what you crave?’
He looks back at her levelly. ‘Don’t you?’
And she thinks to herself – I can see the attraction.
‘Yes, perhaps…’
‘Will you two hurry up?’
They glance – guiltily – at the leprechaun girl.
‘Hello, Ulla,’ Arthur says.
To Guinevere’s surprise the little leprechaun blushes.
‘Sir Arthur.’ She tries a curtsy. Guinevere hides a smile.
He helps himself to a sword from a fallen guard. Tries it, swings it about. Nods. ‘It will do.’
‘Do for what?’
‘He’s come to save us,’ Ulla says, with utter trust.
‘Have you really…’ Guinevere says.
Arthur has the decency to look sheepish.
‘Well, let’s go, then,’ Guinevere says. She looks to Arthur. ‘Let’s go save everyone.’
She hefts up her sword. Arthur grins at her. She stares. Yes, she thinks. I can see the attraction.
They follow the leprechaun girl.
*
Down and down and down they go, through twisting winding tunnels too numerous to recall. It is a huge enterprise, Guinevere realises. The mine must have been started even before she was born, back when the star stone fell. Perhaps by Urien, perhaps even earlier. This keep has been here long before – and she realises that either Leir and Pelles lied or, worse, had no idea of its scope. For all this while the Angles came to Britain someone out here was building up a store of power all its own…
No wonder Arthur came here.
She steals a glance at him. She’d heard his name before. So he’s that southern king with dreams of glory and consolidation. He doesn’t look like much. But there’s a hardness to him. There is that.
He takes it in. His eyes miss little. Yes, she thinks. He’s drawn to power like a fly to honey. He wants to take, and this, here, is worth taking.
He sees her look. What does he see when he looks at her? Why does she wonder this, now? And yet it’s not uncomfortable.
Worm? Worm, are you there?
But there is no answer. Her pet is mute, something in this place, perhaps, blocks their com
munication. A deadly radiance, she thinks. What does it mean?
‘There,’ the leprechaun girl, Ulla, says.
They have come to a precipice. They crouch low. The tunnel ends here and the pit begins.
Guinevere steals a look.
The pit lies down below.
Flames flicker down there. Huge figures move through haze of smoke. Trolls, she thinks. Pulling on chains and shifting mounds of earth. And tiny figures darting everywhere, the womenfolk of a hundred villages, and the leprechauns, miners, diggers, with pickaxes or bare hands fumbling at the rock. Somewhere near the furnaces a pile of what she realises are tiny corpses.
She looks at Arthur. His lips move. He sees her looking.
‘I wonder what the expenditure on miners’ lives is on a daily basis,’ he says softly.
‘We lose one in four in the first week,’ Ulla says. ‘And four in five over a six-month period.’
‘A high turnover.’
‘It’s why she keeps sending out for more. Only a few of us survive this long exposure to the metals in the earth.’
She says it simply. Arthur accepts it as such.
‘And the yield?’ he says.
‘It was rich at first. Gold seams as thick as your arms. But mixed in with these other, stranger metals. The likes of which I’d never seen. It’s said they mustn’t be brought together in close proximity. Lady Elaine has calculating-wizards working for her—’
‘You mean mathematicians?’ says Guinevere.
Ulla shrugs. ‘I suppose. Some from the Old World she had shipped over secretly, with her gold. They’ve been conducting experiments. We hear explosions, from time to time. There are boreholes out in the wastelands beyond the keep, too vast and deep to have been dug by any human hand, where the very sand has been fused into glass by enormous heat.’ She shudders. ‘And there is worse,’ she says. ‘For those who do survive are changed beyond recall.’
‘Mutatio,’ Guinevere says.
Ulla looks at her in surprise.
‘I saw evidence of them on our way here.’
‘They are the lucky ones,’ Ulla says. ‘It is better to die free out there than live in here.’
They stare at the giant pit where the fires burn. At the thousands of slaves moving to and fro. At the piles of rocks.
