The touch of morning’s light on her eyes woke Lynet slowly. Her body was aching and stone cold. She had curled herself like an infant around the mirror. Every joint protested as she stretched out. Thirst raged in her and pain pounded in her head with each heartbeat. She blinked her heavy eyelids. How long had she been away from herself? Daylight now streamed through the shutter slats. Lynet’s heart constricted as she saw that her waiting maid’s empty bed. What if the woman had tried to rouse her and been unable? What if she had gone to fetch help?
How will I explain?
As quickly as she could make her stiff hands move, Lynet slid the mirror back into its purse and tied it to her girdle. To add to the pain in her joints and sinews, her soul already ached to be back with Laurel. She wanted to dog Mesek’s and Peran’s footsteps. And Morgaine. How could she have failed to make Ryol show her what Morgaine was planning? It would be a grave risk, but they must take it. Surely even Morgaine could not see through all shadows.
Despite all these frantic thoughts, all Lynet could do was lay back on the pillows, trying to loosen her breath and find her strength. After a time, before a hand scratched at her door.
“Enter!” she managed to croak.
The door opened. Daere came in. The maid carried a tankard of something that steamed, and was followed by a golden-haired girl so thin and bony it seemed her shoulders would poke right through her neat dress. This girl bore a brightly colored bundle of cloth in her arms.
“It is a tisane sent from the queen,” Daere said, making her curtsey as she handed the silver tankard to Lynet. “She says you are to drink it all before you come down to join her to break your fast.”
“Thank you.” Lynet made her hands wrap around the tankard. The steam was savory with herbs and strong wine. She sipped it, tasting sorrel, marjoram, thyme and even a little pepper. It warmed and strengthened her well. By the time she finished the drink, Lynet found she was able to sit up more easily and watch while Daere laid out the fine garments the younger girl carried on the foot of the bed. There was an underdress of rich burgundy linen trimmed at the hem with hawthorn blossoms of white and gold. The over-robe was a brown silk, embroidered with holly branches in red and silver, and with trailing sleeves to be tied to it with red laces. Next to this, Daere laid out a girdle of bronze holly leaves studded with garnets to make the berries. A plain bronze circlet and fawn-brown veil were laid out last.
The sight of so much wealth displayed so casually stunned Lynet. “These are …” she began.
“These are also sent to you by the queen,” said Dare smoothing out the skirt of the overdress. “She asks you of your courtesy to accept this gift as a token of the earnest welcome you are given to Camelot.”
Determined not to play the country maid any more than necessary, Lynet swallowed. “Of course. I will have to render sincere thanks to her majesty.”
“The queen is a generous and thoughtful mistress,” replied Daere with such an attitude of sincerity, Lynet could not set it down as the empty compliments of a fawning servant. “I give thanks daily to be in her service.”
There was nothing Lynet could say to that.
Daere and her helper moved about the room, tending the fire, folding back the shutter to let the stiff, fresh breeze in. The wind smelled strangely dry and plain to Lynet who was used to the scents of rain and salt. But the sun was warm and felt like springtime and she was gladdened by it.
Once these tasks were done, Daere set about the business of dressing Lynet in her new finery. The maid was meticulous about her work. Consequently, the straightening and lacing, buckling, arranging and adjusting took long enough that Lynet’s patience strained. Eventually, Daere pronounced Lynet presentable, and she did not protest too much when Lynet insisted she would hang her keys and her purse from her shining, new girdle.
Daere conducted her through maze of wide corridors that made up the keep of Camelot. Lynet had heard from Laurel that the high king had made a Roman governor’s villa into his great hall, and she had tried to describe the beauty of it. Her words, Lynet now saw, had failed. Each window and entry way was arched and ornamented. The floor was decorated with sparkling mosaics of repeating patterns, or fabulous beasts. Although made of good brown stone, the edifice felt so light and airy, part of her was sure that it must soon float away.
To Lynet’s surprise, they passed by the great hall. Instead, Daere took Lynet to a smaller door, where she knocked humbly. A waiting lady opened it, a noble woman with rich brown and frankly curious eyes. She curtsied politely to Lynet and stood back so that she might enter what was clearly the queen’s private chamber.
Lynet had never seen a more beautiful or luxurious room. The carved furniture alone was a fortune of material and skill. She counted five books on the shelf above the writing desk. Carpets that were whole worlds of color softened the floor.
Queen Guinevere sat before the hearth at an inlaid table spread with a meal whose luxury equaled that of the room. There was cold hare with worrel and hazelnuts, and a roasted chicken scented with something pungent and savory Lynet could not name but which nonetheless set her mouth watering. There were white and brown breads, honied cakes, and cakes of dried fruits soaked in wine.
Lynet began to kneel, but the queen stopped her, raising her up before she could complete the gesture.
“Please sit,” Queen Guinevere said, but she no longer spoke the rolling, formal language of this eastern court. Instead, she spoke the Dumonii tongue of Cambryn, and smiled at the surprise that showed plainly on Lynet’s face. As Lynet took the seat that was offered, the queen beckoning to Daere. The maid who came forward at once to pour Lynet both beer and cider.
“Please, break your fast with me now. Help yourself as you wish.”
Whatever words must pass between them, Lynet more than willing to let them wait awhile. The food was excellent, savory, filling and elegantly spiced. The queen herself ate lightly, but well, sparing Lynet from any anxiety that she was taking too much.
As she ate, Lynet could not help watching the queen, although she tried to be circumspect. She was as beautiful as the bards told, with the bright grey eyes they all praised. She held herself straight and proud, a woman who knew she was watched and measured at all times. They spoke in their common language of nothing urgent, remarks on the meal before them, on how the night had remained dry, against all expectations. Everything was arranged to set Lynet at her ease, and indeed she did feel herself relaxing under the gracious influences of comfort and good food. But despite all this, as she regarded the queen from under her properly lowered eyelids, what came back to Lynet again and again was something Laurel had once written to her: the queen is a gracious woman, in all ways and at all times the soul of polity. One might easily see only the hostess and wise woman and overlook how many secrets she guards and how closely.
When at last Lynet was able to sit back, both hunger and thirst satiated, the queen pushed her own cup aside.
“I thought we should speak privately, this morning, you and I,” said Queen Guinevere. Lynet could no see she was being watched closely, examined for her reaction.
And can I blame her? She does not know what she is coming to any more than I did when I set out on the road to this place.
“I am at your majesty’s service,” Lynet replied, because it was expected.
“For which I thank you,” replied the queen drily, proving to Lynet that she recognized her statement as an empty form. “But you and I both know that is far from certain.”
That startled Lynet and for a moment she did not know how to reply. But those keen grey eyes told her that only honesty would do. Slowly she said, “Your Majesty does not trust me.”
The queen considered this for a moment. “Say rather, I know you do not trust me.” Lynet opened her mouth to attempt to deny this, but Queen Guinevere went on. “I do not blame you for this, but hope to help amend it.” She spread her hands. They were neat and well-kept, which was too be expected, but they were also stained. Some old juice or dye had left its mark there, faintly mottling the white skin. Lynet found herself oddly curious as to what it had been. “You may ask me any question, speak any concern,” the queen was saying. “None here now speak our tongue. Only you and I will know what is said.”
Lynet sat in silence, her mind racing, trying to find the correct words. The queen urged frankness, but Lynet could not trust this. Her hand instinctively covered the mirror in its purse.
Queen Guinevere sighed. “Very well.” She clearly had been prepared for this reaction, although it disappointed her. “Here is something you should know. Your father knew this much, and perhaps your brother as well. If it did not come to you … well only God can see so far.”
Lynet’s hand tightened a little on the mirror, and she forced it away to lie in her lap. But the queen was not watching her. She was staring into her wine cup toward some deep memory.
“In the early days, while Arthur was struggling to unite the Britons, it was known that keeping the Dumonii loyalty would be one of the greatest challenges. There were many factors; the distance and difficulty of the crossing by sea, and worse by land … not to mention that the Dumonii are so churlish of their independence,” she smiled a little at this. “My marriage to him could only go so far in creating a bond between our people and the rest of the Britons. So, Arthur put all his efforts into cultivating the friendship of King Mark. We had to be careful. Mark labored under the overlordship of the Eire-landers at that time, and they were not disposed to look favorably on any embasage from Arthur. But we needed Tintagel. Not only because the kings of Eire used it as a staging place for their raids up and down the Dumonii coast, but because his lands joined with my own would provide a road inland, should it become necessary.”
Should the Dumonii rebel, she meant. “All went well for a time. Mark let himself be persuaded. Arthur swore that once the Saxons had been driven back, Mark would have all the help we could give against the Eire-landers. Mark sent treasure in secret after Arthur, and his best men, in ones and twos, however it could be managed without alarming his outland masters. What lies he told and what risks he ran, I do not know, but he was faithful to his promise, and Mark’s wealth and Mark’s men helped win the twelve battles that drove the Saxons into the sea.
“It was soon after this he sent to us a young man … a stripling boy, really, named Tristan.”
“King Mark sent you Sir Tristan?” Lynet exclaimed. A memory came to her then, as clear as day. She had been sitting beside Queen Iseult in Tintagel’s plain and empty hall. The sea winds howled loud enough they could be heard through the stones. Sir Tristan had agreed to play for them to while away the winter storm. She had been captivated as always, by the sweetness of the music, and the fairness of the man, but she had, for a moment, perhaps in guilty conscience, glanced toward King Mark. She had seen in him a mix of love and sorrow so profound, she could barely comprehend it. But then, Sir Tristan changed the song to a merry dance tune, and Iseult had taken up King Mark’s hand, urging him to come dance with her. He danced like a bear, lumbering and clumsy, but a fresh gaiety took them all, and the moment was over.
Queen Guinevere nodded. “He called the Tristan his nephew, but I had my doubts. He looked far more like Mark himself than like his sister, who was dark as one from the West Lands where Mark was fair, almost a Saxon for looks.”
Lynet had never seen King Mark as anything but a grey old man. She tried to picture him ever resembling the bright Sir Tristan, and failed.
“It happens sometimes that a nephew takes more after the uncle than the father.”
“It does,” agreed the queen, but she did not seem convinced or consoled.
“You think Sir Tristan was King Mark’s son?” said Lynet slowly. A strange realization ran through her mind. Queen Guinevere said King Mark had called Tristan his nephew, but in all her time at Tintagel, Lynet had never heard any mention of a blood relationship between the two.
Queen Guinevere nodded again. “His son by who I could not say. Perhaps I am afraid to guess,” she added quietly. “For Mark had no wife at that time to give him legitimate heirs, so what could make him he deny the existence of any son who could carry on the line?”
The implications of this careful statement made Lynet’s stomach turn.
“But we did not ask too closely then.” The queen drank a little of her wine, swallowing her own memory, tasting the complexity and bitterness of it. “Tristan seemed a good young man. He worked hard at his training so that he was able to keep up with the best of the young men, even Gawain. His talents with harp and song were surprising and delightful, and a respite as an entertainment from Sir Kai’s jibes.” Her smile turned a little sharp at this, but Lynet did not want to break the tale to ask what made it so. “We would have kept him here, given him a cohort to lead, but his only ambition was to return to Mark’s country and serve him. This seemed not only natural, but desirable. With the lands of the Britons as secure as could be made, it was time to honor our promise and aid Mark. What better man to send him than Tristan at the head of a century of Arthur’s finest? It had the added advantage that it would strengthen the ties between Tintagel and Camelot. Mark still had no heir. We needed to take whatever steps we could to make sure his kingdom would not fall into chaos when he died.
“So, with all due ceremony, Tristan was knighted, and he returned home.
“Tristan and Mark together took the war to Eire, and as you know they brought back both victory and Queen Iseult. It seemed as if no more could be wished for.
“Then, Arthur received a message from Tintagel. It said Mark had heard something deeply disturbing from Tristan. It seemed that the chieftains and nobles near Tintagel were uneasy about Mark’s alliance with Camelot. This will not be a new story to you. They were chafing the idea of a new overlordship replacing that of the Eire-landers. Mark asked that we stay away, leave him free rein until he could sound out his own people, find for certain who was in favor of things being as they are and who would be willing to work for change and how far they would go.”
“This cannot have been true.” The words were out of Lynet before she could stop them.
The queen paused, not at all angry at being interrupted, only expectant. “Why not?”
“Because, if it were, Tintagel would have already collapsed. Instead, all the heads of every clan and house have been clinging to one another trying to hold the kingdom together.”
Queen Guinevere also let this sink in, considering, evaluating, adding it her personal treasure store of knowledge. “I am glad to hear you say this,” she said. “It makes what is to come that much easier, but, you must understand that until this moment, we did not know that much. Our best source of news after Mark, was Steward Kenan.”
And after what I had done, he could not go openly to Tintagel, not easily, until that last time when they all went together.
“So, here we have been,” sighed the queen, pushing her cup to one side. Daere moved at once to refill it. “Stifled in our ignorance, waiting to see who would come to us first, if any would come before a war did. We have sent out men in secret, but they have been able to learn little. So few here speak the Dumonii language.” She sighed again, shaking her head, her face gone hard at reality and necessity. “And that, is one reason why I have not returned to my own lands. I would wager you know the other.”
The queen looked to her, and waited. Lynet did know, but she was reluctant to speak the name. That was a road she did not wish to travel, but Queen Guinevere seemed prepared to wait as long as it took for her to take that step.
“Morgaine,” said Lynet.
Queen Guinevere nodded. “Yes. You see, Lynet, I am at heart a coward.”
This admission startled Lynet so badly she could not find a single word.
“All know of Morgaine’s hatred for my lord Arthur, but she bears me no love either,” she spoke lightly, but the steel in her grey eyes had found its way to her voice. “She believes that I stole the love of her sister Morgause and that it was my fault that Morgause turned against her in the end. Perhaps it was, a little. I do not know.” Anger made a treacherous current under those last words. Anger at her own ignorance, at her inability to find an answer. “I do know that she purposes my death as well as Arthur’s and while I could face an open fight. I fear Morgaine’s home in the shadows and the unseen country.”
The word “shadows” made Lynet’s heart hammer and her fingers try to reach the mirror.
“Now comes your news that she begins to move openly.” Lynet had to work not to shift and shrink under the queen’s new gaze. Queen Guinevere examined her now, looking close to see if the words that had passed between them had worked any change on Lynet. “She must at last feel secure in her following and in her chances for success. Indeed, I would not blame you if you found you must play hostess to her at Cambryn and hear her out. There are few things she desires more than to take the home that was once both mine and hers.”
Lynet’s mouth went dry in a heartbeat, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. “If that were true, Majesty, what would you do?” asked Lynet, her voice suddenly unable to rise above a whisper. If she did not know before, she does now. I’m sorry, Laurel.
But Queen Guinevere replied evenly. “You are here and have asked for succor and intervention. This we grant freely as your right. All else, done in honesty, will be looked on only as a good, Lynet.”
She held Lynet’s gaze and Lynet held her peace, considering this.
“Has Morgaine spoken with you or your sister?” the queen asked.
“No, Majesty.” Lynet hesitated, afraid to say too much, but at the same time afraid to be seen to hold too much back. “But that does not mean it will not come. We … we believe as you do, that she desires to take possession of Cambryn.” Then, slowly, Lynet began to tell the queen of the sea voyage, and of the morverch.
Queen Guinevere listened in silence to these revelations, her face utterly still. If she felt alarm, she concealed it thoroughly. When Lynet had finished, the queen let the silence stand unbroken between them for a long time.
“There are tales that you were begotten not of the land, but of the sea, Lynet. Are they true?”
She spoke matter-of-factly, but Lynet could not forget the what she had confessed a moment before, that the queen feared the invisible countries. But she had also asked for honesty. This was the test of which was greater. “No, Majesty,” said Lynet. “I am not of the sea. That blessing was my mother’s.”
Queen Guinevere nodded once more, after only the briefest of pauses, her face still unreadable. “I thank you for telling me these things. We must know as much as we can before we go on.”
Lynet hesitated, then made herself ask. “You will not change your mind now?”
In that moment, the queen’s eyes seemed like tempered steel and Lynet hoped to never see such anger turned on her. “Oh, no, Lady Lynet. Do what she will, she will not have Cambryn of me.” She spoke these words to the air, a promise meant to carry to Morgaine herself, wherever she might be. “Now, then Lady Lynet, I have my answers from you. What would you of me this day?”
Lynet opened her mouth, and closed it again. What would you of me? There were so many things, all of them unreasonable or impossible. “I would see my men,” she said at last.
“Of course. Your captain and men-at-arms are hosted in the great hall by the knights. Daere will take you.” She rose, and all her ladies were on their feet at once. Lynet also stood, making a deep curtsey. But something was left unsaid, and should not have been.
“Thank you, your Majesty,” said Lynet, holding her obeisance. “For all that you have done.”
The queen took her hand, raising her up. She understood, Lynet saw, how much lay under those few words. Understood, and believed. “You are welcome, Lady Lynet, and know that you have my thanks as well.”
With that, Lynet let Daere lead her from the room. A strange warmth filled her, and it took Lynet a moment to realize it was hope.
The great hall of Camelot’s keep was as full, as noisy and as crowded as the new hall at Cambryn would be on any given morning, but was twice again as large, and more magnificent than her home would ever be. Tapestries that were the work of lifetimes ornamented the walls. Innumerable shields, axes and swords hung over the great hearths. Carpets of red and gold softened the floor where it was not strewn with fragrant rushes. The dais was made of snow white marble. Atop it waited Arthur’s gilded throne of audience flanked by two golden dragons that were taken by his father Uther from the foul Vortigern, before Vortigern’s treachery took that king’s life.
As this time was for breaking the night’s fast and not a formal audience, the high table had been set on the dais’s first broad step. A number of knights and ladies occupied it, but if the king had been there, he was gone now, so it was not necessary for Lynet to pause there first in acknowledgement and greeting. She could go directly to the trestle table beside the hearth where Hale, Lock and the Trevailians sat with a host of scarred and grizzled veterans. She passed open glances of curiosity and stories whispered back and forth. But she heard no malice in the sussuressence of the voices, and the hope remained secure within her.
Her men stood as she approached. They were clean and freshly clad, as she was, although less formally, and their hurts had been tended. Hale spoke in praise of their hosts and the comfort of the barracks where they were housed. They were to assist in the preparations for the return journey, he said. The knights Bedivere and Lancelot wanted to speak with them about the land and its conditions, their remaining men and the minute details of their territory and fortifications.
In case Peran and Mesek do not keep their word. In case the land had fallen apart before we return. These thoughts settled uncomfortably in Lynet, but she gazed about her, at the strength and the wealth of the place around her. Lancelot … even she had heard that name. He was said to be the greatest among the cadre of the Round Table, come from across the waters, from a people who fled into exile when the Romans came to the island. It was told the other knights looked on him with jealous eyes because of his prowess in battle, although he had not been present for any of Arthur’s greatest victories. Still, that he was to accompany them was a sign of the seriousness with which their claim was taken, and such a famed warrior would pick good men to follow him. They would go back in strength with the queen’s justice.
“All will be right, Captain Hale,” she said. “Give them all the help you can. Keep nothing back.”
He bowed, his eyes bright with the same hope that warmed her within. “It will be my pleasure, Lady.”
“My Lady?”
Lynet turned. It was Daere who spoke, suddenly hesitant. A young boy stood beside her, in a neat but plain tunic, shifting from foot to foot, and staring at the floor as he did.
“My Lady …” the boy said. “Merlin would speak with you.”
Merlin? The memory of the black-robed cunning man flashed across her vision, how he had watched her without blinking as she spoke.
“Yes, my lady,” said Daere. Her fingers fiddled with her skirt, and Lynet had the odd sensation she would have crossed herself if she could have done it without being seen. Or perhaps it’s just that I would.
“Very well,” she made herself say. “Then let us not keep him waiting. You will tell him I am coming,” she said to the boy. He grimaced, bobbed his head and pelted away, leaving Lynet and Daere to follow at a more sedate pace.
Like Cambryn, Camelot was a collection of buildings, sheds, stables, barns, coops and small yards clustered around the square of the great hall. Its people were busy with the thousand familiar tasks that came with spring. Shouts and whistles, snatches of songs and the livestock’s grunts and squawks filled the mild air. Daere led Lynet across the yard and under the shadow of the high walls with their wooden palisades. In the northwest corner of the bustling yard, there stood a low cottage with a thatched roof. Its wattle and daub walls had been lime washed to keep them whole. It would have been difficult to imagine a humbler dwelling in the shadow of a great king’s court. One wide window faced the yard, its shutters flung open to catch the spring’s sun and bright breeze. At a table on the other side sat a grey-headed man bent over a sheet of vellum on which he wrote slowly and carefully with a pen made of a swan’s white feather. As if sensing she watched him, the old man lifted his head, and Lynet looked into Merlin’s bright blue eyes.
She froze, half-afraid, half-guilty, as if she were a child caught in some act of mischief. He laid his quill carefully down on and beckoned to her with one long, gnarled hand. Lynet did not know what to do. She had no desire to come near this man at all, but she could not have clearly explained what repulsed her. He had not yet even spoken a word in her hearing. All he did at the long council yesterday was listen. Listen to everything and miss nothing.
It seemed to her that her purse grew cold and heavy where it hung from her new girdle and without thinking she covered it with her hand. From his window, Merlin had not ceased to watch her, and to smile with grandfatherly kindness, ready it seemed to wait for whatever her reaction to his gesture would be.
With that complete freedom, it felt oddly as if she had no choice at all. “You may wait for me here, Daere,” and Lynet. She walked up to the ashwood door that stood open a crack. She pushed it back and stepped over the dark threshold.
The inside of the cottage was as humble as the outside. It looked more like an herb wife’s home than anything else Lynet might name. Bundles of drying plants hung from the roof beams and filled the air with a thick and pungent scent. The long work tables held mortars and pestles, braziers, scales and weights, earths and ores. Their wood was scarred and stained with inks and dyes and other substances Lynet was sure she would be hard pressed to put a name too. Two things though dominated the room even more than the presence of the black-robed cunning-man in his plain chair. The first was the books. She counted ten great volumes, each the size of a Bible. The second was the low, round, stone well, covered tightly with a lid that like the door was made of ash. A voice from deep inside Lynet whispered that she truly did not want to know what waters might flow into such a well.
“Lady Lynet.” Merlin stood in welcome. “Welcome to my home, and thank you for coming.” He pushed out a neatly made chair for her. Lynet stared at it as she had the well. I am being rude. But she could do nothing but stand there awkwardly. She knew nothing of this man’s rank or birth or place. She did not know what gesture of acknowledgement or obeisance to make to him, or even what title to call him by.
“Thank you,” she said because she could think of nothing else. She settled herself in the comfortable chair. The sun streamed through the window, its warmth raising the pleasant smell of herbs, parchment and earth, but she could not free herself of the awareness of the shadows behind her. It was as if they had weight and pressed too close for comfort.
“Did you wish to speak with me, Sir?” she asked, as much to distract herself as anything else.
“I did.” Merlin returned to his own chair. “I am come from telling the high king the things which you did not tell him, or the queen.”
The shadows crowded closer and the of cold bled through from her mirror again. “What is that, Master?”
“That while you travel with the folk of Camelot, the sea road is closed to them.”
No words came to Lynet. It took all her strength to remain impassive. Merlin’s blue gaze never wavered. At last, she was able to say, “How do you know this?”
His smile was faint and filled with humility. “If I have a use to the high king it is that I can see such things. What concerns me is that you knew this, and yet said nothing.”
“I have told the queen of the morverch,” she said defiantly, like a child caught eavesdropping.
Merlin made no reply. It was not enough. She knew it, and so did he. Lynet could no longer meet his gaze no more. Her hands knotted themselves together in her lap. The terror and loss and anger of the storm rolled over her. Bishop Austell screamed once before he was dragged down and she could not remember whether that had truly happened or her fearful thoughts added it now. A lump filled her throat and the cold from her mirror seeped into her heart. “I made one bargain,” she said weakly. “I hoped to make another if necessary. We must have speed.”
“Yes,” said Merlin. “But it will not avail you. You have the enmity of the sea-women. They will not forget the betrayal of one of their blood, nor will they forgive it.”
She did not doubt his words. She had known this in some corner of herself, but she was unprepared for the pain that lanced through her as he spoke this truth aloud. She had done what was necessary. She did not regret it, but it had cost her the connection to her mother through them.
There might be a way yet. If she gave the mirror back to the sea, help would come, Laurel had said. She could open that road again.
But she would have to sacrifice her means of reaching Laurel. She could not do it. Not even to gain a few days.
Merlin still watched her, his gaze as heavy as the shadows at her back. When he spoke, his voice was distant. “You carry power with you, in the lines of your blood. You also carry it in trapped in silver and in dragon’s blood.”
Anger, sharp and unbidden rose in her. How dare he? Spy and thief, stealing the thoughts from her heart and the words from her mouth. “I mean no harm to any here. What I hold was given to me freely and is mine.”
“I did not say otherwise,” Merlin spoke from within own frame again, no further away than his chair by the sunny window. “Will you let me see this power you bring?”
Lynet suddenly felt as if she had been asked to strip naked. She did not understand why the simple, mild request should effect her so violently, but it did. “I was told to keep it secret.”
“You were told more than that, I think.”
She bridled. It was too much. The summons, this close quizzing, that he had heard things he had no right to hear. “That is my own business.”
He did not relent, nor did his change tone in its mildness or directness. “You have ignored that other warning, and used the power.”
“That also is my own business.”
“It is, my lady,” he acknowledged. “But I make it mine to warn you. Accepting such service comes at a price, even though your servant bears you all the love in the world. You have already begun to feel it. The greater the service, the more it will cost you, until you have nothing left to give but yourself.”
“Why do you care?” she demanded.
Once more, Merlin answered the words, and not the tone. “Because the fate of my king and more hang on such things.”
“Such as myself?”
He nodded once. “Even so.”
“Then why do you not warn him against me?” she shot back.
If she had hoped to shock or anger him, she was disappointed again. Merlin calmly shook his head. “It is not a warning that would be heard, nor could it be. So, I must do what I can in other ways.”
“And what is it you can do?”
“What I do now, speak of what I know.”
“Then I thank you for your care and your warning, Sir,” she stood. She was done here, and she wanted nothing more than to be gone from this deceptively simply cottage.
“You are most welcome, lady.” Merlin inclined his head. “And will be again if ever you need any aid.”
She half-turned, but froze as these words penetrated her morass of thought. “You would help me?”
“I would.”
Lynet opened her mouth and closed it again. “I will remember.”
Merlin nodded his head once more, and with that, Lynet knew the conversation was at an end. She left, shutting the ashwood door behind herself as if it could shut away all that had just been said. She strode swiftly across the yard, barely aware of Daere scrambling to catch up with her. It was only then she realized she was still clutching her mirror. She lifted her hand away, clutching her trailing sleeve instead. She moved swiftly, but she realized she had no idea where she wanted to go. Truth to tell, she did not want to return indoors just yet. Perhaps there was a garden where she could go, somewhere anywhere where she could be under the sky and breathe the spring’s fresh air, and regain once more the feelings of hope to soothe her jangled nerves.
Just as she turned to ask Daere about this, an approaching figure caught her eye. A noble man, one of the knights perhaps, she thought. Then she looked again. No. It was the kitchen boy from the day before. What was his name? Gareth. She only recognized him by the long red slash on his cheek and his raven black hair. Otherwise he had been transformed utterly. He was clean now, brushed and neatly barbered. Gone was the battered tunic, torn breeches and loose sandals, and in their place were fine linen garments of summer green and goldenrod yellow. A fur-trimmed green cloak streamed from his shoulders, a belt of enameled bronze circled his trim waist.
“God be with you, Lady Lynet,” he said, making a deep bow. He was taller than she remembered. “I trust you have been made most welcome among us?”
He had eyes of summer brown that returned to her the first openly cheerful gaze she had seen since she had woken this morning. Something in them soothed and warmed her, even as Merlin’s had angered and frightened her. “That I am, Squire Gareth, thank you,” she said politely. “And I ask you to accept my apology for my treatment of you yesterday.” She offered a small curtsey. He was the high king’s kin, after all, and above her in rank.
“It is I who should be thanking you, my lady,” he answered in a manner both merry and sober at once. “I know it is tragedy that brought you hear, but you have brought with you my chance at redemption from my own folly. For this I thank you with all my heart.”
He bent swiftly and kissed her hand. Lynet froze at once, as if he had slapped her rather than saluted her. He straightened, and she could not smooth out her distress swiftly enough.
“Lady, have I offended?”
“No. No, Squire.” She pulled her hand away, letting the fall of her sleeve cover it over. “It is nothing you have done.”
He did not believe her. She did not care, as long as he said nothing of it. Daere was frowning. No, she was glowering. Lynet feet began to ache. She should go, find somewhere to sit down. Be anywhere but here. “Is there any way I might aid you?” he asked. “You have brought about my release from punishment, and my knight has turned me loose for the morning …”
“I thank you, but no …” She searched hard for some way to make light of this, but none came. “Thank you.”
“Then, perhaps, if my lady has no other appointment, she might permit me to walk with her aways, and show her something of my home?”
Lynet looked up into his face, and his warm, restful eyes. Slowly, it occurred to her that for once, here was a man who did not know who she was and what she had done. The tales they told at Camelot of Sir Tristan and Queen Iseult might not include the name of one gulled waiting lady. She might, this once, be able to pass a pleasant hour here, in simple talk and rest her mind for just this small space of time.
But before she could form a reply, Daere spoke up. “The lady is needed elsewhere, Squire Gareth.”
Gareth raised his brows at the maid. He plainly did not believe her, but he was not going to call her out in the lie. He only bowed again. “Perhaps another time, if circumstances permit.”
“I expect the lady will be far too busy for that. Have you no feeling?” Daere sniffed, and turned away. “Please, my lady, we are wanted.”
Mutely, Lynet turned to follow her maid, who strode off across the yard with a most determined stride. Lynet had to work to keep up with her, and her feet began to twinge and creak in protest. “Why did you do that, Daere?”
Daere’s face puckered with distaste. “It would not suit my lady’s honor to be seen with that one.”
“What has he done?”
“It is not what but who,” replied Daere meaningfully. “And how often. No, my lady, he is not a safe companion.”
Lynet glance backward. The squire still stood there, watching the men marching past with their shields on their backs and raising his hand to some acquaintance. The breeze had caught his raven black hair and blown it back from his fine face. It seemed to her that she could see Sir Tristan’s golden shadow beside him. So, Squire Gareth was another one. Another of Camelot’s fair men, just like that other. Her heart hardened within her at this understanding.
But it was not without a little regret that she turned to follow her diligent maid to somewhere else, somewhere safe this time.