Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  Kiara and I cheered for his spectacular agility and grace.

  At the next station, a girl of perhaps fifteen, face still rounded with the fat of youth, prepared to make the salmon leap. She stood before a stack of wood reaching higher than her head, expression stony with concentration. Rocking back and forth on her heels, she flung her arms above her head and leapt straight to the top, a feat doubly impressive given that she was a little slip of a thing.

  Jumping down again, she headed for a thick felled tree trunk at least twice her height. Before she could reach it, a little girl of perhaps seven summers, painted with a single horizontal strip of blue across the bridge of her nose, ran onto the field, begging to be allowed to join in. Bending, the competitor scooped the girl in her arms—the resemblance was so strong, they had to be sisters—and whispered something to her. The girl relaxed and allowed her sister to carry her back to their family, who stood watching from the sidelines.

  In a flash of memory, I saw myself as a seven-year-old girl. I had just graduated from a wooden training sword to my first sharpened blade. I was so proud, so certain I was the toughest female warrior of my bloodline—save my mother of course—and I strutted around just like that little girl. That was the same summer I began to boss around Elaine and came into my own as a future ruler. It was also the same year I began having visions and talk of Avalon was first mentioned. That was the age that changed everything for a Votadini girl, and here she was facing a war that even her family couldn’t shield her from. But I could. No matter what happened, I would keep that girl safe and see her grow to womanhood.

  Her sister sorted, the warrior took a deep breath to regain her focus, bent low, and took a firm grip of the tree trunk. She hugged it near the base before lifting it nearly onto her shoulder. Muscles straining, she took a few uneven steps before letting it fly. The log landed several feet in front of her. It was a good toss—sure to be beaten by the men in the competition, but fair enough to keep her in the running. A grin lit up her face, and suddenly she was no longer the hardened warrior I had seen before, but an uncertain adolescent girl seeking approval from the elders and peers that swarmed around her, offering their congratulations.

  As the competitors finished their turns, I calculated their scores in my head. Some were clear standouts for me, but it wouldn’t be easy to honor only three. The tribes had many great warriors, a sign I hoped heralded good fortune in the war to come.

  Mynyddog stood atop a tree stump so he was visible to all the assembled warriors and spectators, his swollen, bruised nose contributing to his image as a fierce warrior, as though he had earned his injury in the competition, rather than at Galen’s hand. “The judges have met and determined our winners. I am pleased to announce that the leaders of our new army are Cinon, son of Clydno Eityn, who once held the office of Votad; Corag, son of Fergus called Quickshanks; and Ailith, daughter of Davina the Strong.”

  Ailith. That was the name of the willowy girl who had charmed me with her tenderness toward her unruly sister. I would have to watch her over the next several months, for I was still seeking a commander of infantry, and with a little training and maturity, she could be a viable candidate.

  The winners had one final stop before they could celebrate with friends and family. I followed them to a tent on the outskirts of field, away from the noise and activity of the competition. There they would meet with Calliac, who represented the Death Mother. She was charged with ensuring each warrior understood that for those who make their living by the sword, everything ends in death—for those killed, if not for the warrior personally. She also had the responsibility of determining if they could handle the guilt and pain that sometimes came with taking life, and if not, she was to let the judges know so another could be selected.

  Inside, at the far end of the tent, Calliac sat draped in black fabric, swathed in deep shadows broken only by three candles: one on her right, one on her left, and another directly before her. The two boys and girl hesitantly approached her, and I followed suit, though I kept to the shadows so as not to disturb them. At first, Calliac’s veil obscured her face from view, but when she raised her head and the candlelight touched it, it faded from opaque to translucent like dissipating smoke. A ring of human skulls circled her brow, and charcoal painted around her eyes and over her nose gave her an uncanny resemblance to them.

  “Welcome, chosen brothers and sister,” she hissed in a voice like stones grinding under wagon wheels. She raised a hand, palm up, indicating they were to sit.

  To a one, they chose to kneel instead, sensing the power of the one who spoke through Calliac.

  “Some of you know me, for I have taken your brothers and sisters, your mothers and fathers unto my breast. I have visited your homes in plague and accidents and have stolen life from the childbed.” Her eyes roamed over each of them in turn. “None of you has escaped my shadow, nor will you avoid my touch in the end.”

  The three glanced at one another nervously.

  “Know that in training others for war, you do my bidding, for war has no end but death, no purpose but destruction. You may think your aims noble, but in the end, you are but my scythes, harvesting the souls whom I call to reckoning. Guilt and innocence concern me not; I leave those to Cerridwen, for they are her purview. My only desire is to close the eyes of those who have used up their time on earth.” She watched them, as though evaluating each.

  Then she treated Cinon to a rictus grin devoid of all warmth. “Know now the gift you bestow upon all you kill and all who kill in your name.”

  She reached out a bony finger and touched Cinon right over his heart. His face went pale as though he was in a faint, and he choked. The moment she removed her finger, he caught a breath.

  She turned to Corag, who made to scoot away from her touch, but she grabbed his wrist. He shook as though touched by lightning. Only when she let go did his body calm.

  The Death Mother reached out to Ailith. Unlike the boys, she did not cower, so the goddess lowered her hand and pressed her cold, colorless lips to Ailith’s brow. She did not shake or spasm but simply closed her eyes and exhaled, as though resigned to her fate. When the goddess pulled back, she drew another breath.

  “You have all experienced the agony of my touch and lived. Therefore, you are bearers of my lethal gift. I ask you now to take it and spread among your enemies. Can you do that?”

  The three were silent for a moment, eyes closed in contemplation.

  Reverence for their culture washed over me. From the outside, they appeared brutish and brutal, but they treated death with great respect. It was a higher calling among their people, a mindset others would do well to share. Years ago, Aggrivane had told me that Lot had sent him to study the ways of the Druids before he could go to war, in order to help teach him responsibility and respect. Perhaps this was something like what he’d learned. If all were taught the same, maybe, just maybe, we would have less senseless killing.

  Ailith answered first. “Yes.”

  The others echoed her.

  “Then so be it. Your names will be immortalized in song for your great deeds done in war, and down through the ages, warriors will toast to your honor.”

  Her head snapped up, as though I had made a sound that alerted her to my presence. “But you”—she pointed at me, eyes boring into my own—“you will lead these innocents to the grave.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Winter 523

  By the time the snows began, Evina’s army had nearly doubled, with nearly three hundred new recruits in training. As their teachers, we—the remaining Combrogi, Lancelot, Kiara, Sobian and I—had a responsibility to see their training continued through the cold winter months. Though there would be no campaigns until spring, they could still spar and learn basic knowledge. We divided them into classes of approximately thirty students—though twenty would have been preferable—and devised a learning schedule similar to the on
e used in Avalon so they could study multiple skills at once.

  On a leaden day about three weeks before midwinter, we took them north, into the mountains above of the Firth of Forth. Though chances were good we would not campaign in winter, we chose to test the students’ endurance and fealty to the commitment they had made by exposing them to the elements.

  During our three-day excursion, the warriors learned how to walk with heavy packs, maneuver horses in the snow, and fight on a variety of surfaces, from ice and snow to steep mountain passes. They were also required to swim in a freezing lake and practice rescue and healing skills. They learned to find a defensible position, build shelter with and without usable timber, how to light a fire under a variety of conditions, and how to find fresh water, even when all appeared frozen. Their final lesson was one Lancelot and I had learned by nearly losing our lives when fleeing Malegant’s mountain fortress—sound carries differently in the cold and snow and forgetting that can be deadly.

  By dawn on the fourth day, we were all ready to head back to Din Eidyn, even though it was snowing. We had just left our campsite—Sobian and Kay in the front, recruits in the middle, and Lancelot and I bringing up the rear—when I noticed Lancelot’s horse lagging behind.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Lancelot bent over his horse’s neck. “He’s not stepping correctly on his left foot.”

  I pulled up next to him and we both dismounted.

  Lancelot took the horse’s hoof in his hand and turned it over to examine the underside. He cursed. “An ice ball. I just inspected his hooves earlier. How could one have formed so fast?”

  I peered at it. “In these conditions, anything is possible.” I picked at the ice ball with my fingers, hoping it would dislodge easily, but it didn’t budge.

  Lancelot dug at the mound of ice with his dagger, but with the same results. He squinted at me. “It is going to take some time to remove this without hurting him. Go on without me. I will catch up with you.”

  I was loathe to leave him behind, especially knowing the snow would get worse as the day went on; I sensed it.

  When I made to follow him back to the remains of our campsite, Lancelot waved me away. “I’m going to have to rebuild the fire and heat the hoof pick to try to get this out. It almost looks like someone jammed ice in his hoof, then melted it so it would cling to the shoe. The wrath of the winter gods never ceases to amaze me.”

  “Are you sure you will be all right out here alone?”

  “Of course. How many winters did I survive alone on the road before I met you?” He flashed a heart-melting grin. “Besides, I have the remains of this morning’s kill with me and I know where you are headed. I’ll meet you at the next campsite.”

  I kissed him quickly and mounted my horse. “Be careful.”

  Day turned to night and Lancelot still had not joined us. The evening star replaced the morning star a second time, and I panicked. So many things could have befallen my husband—bears, wolves, snowdrifts, thin ice, cold, hunger. If there was even a chance he was injured or in need of help, I couldn’t sit idly by and do nothing.

  One day out from Din Eidyn, I broke from our party, leaving the students in the care of the former Combrogi while Sobian and I retraced our route. We found our former campsite, but nothing appeared amiss. However, a short distance away, we found Lancelot’s horse, his ears frostbitten and hoof still impacted with ice, but otherwise healthy.

  “Where is your master?” I asked, looking deep into his eyes as though I had Lancelot’s talent for speaking with horses.

  His eyes rolled as though recalling some unspeakable horror.

  With a jolt, the sight came upon me and my mind was transported south. Lancelot was bound and gagged, kneeling at the feet of Elga and Ira. The Saxon said something to him and Lancelot shook his head. A guard drew his sword, then the vision vanished.

  “No,” I shouted. “No!” Violent spasms racked my frame.

  Sobian dismounted and put her arms around me. “Guinevere, shush. Shhh,” she hissed in my ear. “We must be quiet or risk triggering an avalanche. Remember what we taught the students?” She took my face in her hands as my wails increased in volume and violence. “Remember? Look at me, Guinevere. Look at me.”

  I complied, blinking away frozen tears.

  “Good,” she soothed. “Come now, we must be away from here. You can tell me what has you so upset when we are in a safer place.”

  In the shelter of the pine forest, I poured out my heart to her.

  “I will get my girls on it. If anyone can find him, we can,” she assured me with a squeeze of my hand.

  “But he is with that unholy witch of a woman,” I cried. “She swore to me someday she would have her revenge. What if this is it?”

  “Then we will have to kill her before she can do any permanent damage. She should have died at Badon and has been living on borrowed time ever since.”

  When we were finally back in Din Eidyn, Lancelot’s horse safely in the stable, I fell asleep in Sobian’s arms, exhausted and unable to find comfort anywhere else.

  I was just beginning to dream when Sobian gently shook me awake. “Guinevere, you have a visitor.”

  My sleep-addled mind leapt to Lancelot, expecting to see him when Galen opened the door. But instead, Morgan stood on the threshold.

  She rushed toward me and fell at my feet. “Oh, Guinevere, I am so sorry. I never thought… I never intended…”

  Morgan apologizing? Surely I was still sleeping. This had to be a dream; she had never once apologized to me in all the years I had known her. But if I was dreaming, why would Sobian have had to wake me? No. As improbable as it was, this was very real.

  I raised Morgan to her feet, holding her at arm’s length. Her red hair was disheveled under her black hood, eyes bloodshot, cheeks stained with tears. Her lips quivered as though she was about to let loose a fresh torrent of tears.

  “What is it Morgan? What have you to apologize for?”

  She looked at me in consternation, some of her old defiance returning. “Lancelot’s disappearance, you daft cow.”

  “What?” I could not believe she’d had anything to do with it. How could she have known where we would be? I hadn’t even seen her since we returned from the Isle of Winds. I must have misheard her.

  I was about to question her further, when the complaint of a wooden chair groaning under weight drew my attention across the room to Accolon, sunken-cheeked and missing an eye, but very much alive. Maybe I was dreaming. The last time I had seen him, Elga was dragging his unconscious body aboard one of their ships at the Isle of Winds. How had he escaped her and when? And if he was here and Morgan was apologizing for Lancelot’s disappearance, that meant—

  “Elga offered me a trade,” Morgan explained as though she could not keep the words inside any longer. “Lancelot’s whereabouts for the return of Accolon.” She looked at me, eyes pleading. “You must believe that I never expected she would take him. Now… now…” She reached inside her gown and removed a roll of parchment. It shook as she held it out to me.

  I handed it to Sobian, not trusting my own eyes to read it.

  “She is demanding your life and the allegiance of the Votad and Votadess in exchange for Lancelot.”

  Less than an hour later, a small crowd gathered inside the smoky council room for an emergency meeting in the wake of Morgan’s revelation. Evina and Mynyddog poured over correspondence and maps while a handful of counselors whispered advice and suggestions out of our hearing.

  They had been silent for so long, I feared they had forgotten my presence. “We must rescue him,” I pleaded for what felt like the thousandth time.

  Mynyddog raised a hand as though he could shield himself from my panic and outrage with a gesture. “I understand your need for action. I am troubled by this situation as well, but we cannot simply take up arms without th
inking through all eventualities.”

  Mynyddog’s words—no, it was more the surprising compassion in his tone—surprised and soothed me. Deep down, I knew he was not reacting out of any fondness for me, but out of concern for Elga’s terms. My life was one thing; he would turn me over to the Saxons in a heartbeat. But asking them to bow before foreign rule was another matter altogether.

  “It would be tantamount to murder to send our men on campaign in the middle of winter,” Evina pointed out.

  “Which I’m sure the Saxons took into consideration,” Sobian said, more to herself than to anyone else.

  Mynyddog nodded, tapping his balled fist against his lips, eyes distant with thought. “They need time for whatever they are planning. That’s why they did this in winter. They want to be ready when we come to them.”

  “But where will we engage with them? We don’t even know where they are,” I said.

  “Let me try to find them,” Morgan suggested, tapping her forehead.

  I crooked an eyebrow at her. I was the one with an emotional connection to Lancelot. I was the one with the ability to see events at a distance. She could only… see the future. She would be able to see where they would be when our forces were ready to move, which was much more valuable than knowing where they presently stood. Inwardly, I scoffed at myself. My petty, jealous pride had nearly blinded me to Morgan’s wisdom. If I hadn’t exorcised my demons where she was concerned by now, would I ever?

  Morgan sank down gracefully before the fire, tucking her feet beneath her and smoothing her gown over them. She breathed deeply a few times, but instead of closing her eyes as I would have done, she stared deep into the fire, letting her vision unfocus. To my left, Accolon tapped a steady beat on the wall with his palms to encourage Morgan’s trance. Galen soon joined in.