Knight of the Round Table
Can this be Lili?”
Softly, I laugh for joy.
Niviene knows me most certainly by sight and aura and smell and Spirit. But little Ranna’s blue, red-embroidered gown surprises her!
I hardly know myself, gliding about Arthur’s Dun in this finery, black hair combed loose down my back! I have never worn anything like this gown. At first it needed some practice. I had to learn to kick the (shortened) skirt away with each step; or else to lift it gracefully up and away. I remembered Percival, learning to walk in armor, with some sympathy.
But I learned also a new joy—a power of attraction and excitement; the exact opposite of invisibility. And the glances of passing men and boys confirmed this power. Anywhere else in the Kingdom this would signal acute danger. But here in Arthur’s Dun Human men live strictly constrained and governed, at least in daylight. These men’s glances sent me only appreciation and added power; the men themselves passed on quietly.
In any case, I still wear my Bee Sting; and Victory still hides between my breasts.
So defended, I have wandered by night to Niviene’s fireside in the mages’ hut.
Niviene gestures me to fold myself down beside her. She sits by her hearth coals in a rosy cloud of ember light and white aura. Gracious, she offers me bread and mutton. “Where did you steal that gown?”
I tell her about little Ranna.
“You favored her, stealing it! She plays a dangerous game.”
“She knows that. And she has other gowns.”
“Sorrow for her! Now, our Percy; we see him doing very well!”
“He’s in the chapel this moment.”
“Keeping his vigil for Knighthood.”
“I like not the chapel.” So I came here, to you.
Niviene chuckles. “No more do I! The Power there…will you have ale, Lili?”
“Water.” Niviene needs not to get up; she only reaches into shadow and brings forth full goblets. “You knew I was coming!”
“We thought you might. So, Lili, what do you think of the Kingdom?”
This is too much to tell!
I begin slowly, sipping water between thoughts. “I could say I hate the Kingdom…All that dirt.” Niviene nods. “Fury…Gods, so much noise! No Human, no animal, doing their own will.” Niviene nods deeper. “All like…worker bees. Even Spirits seem drawn into Human frenzy.”
“What Spirits?”
Why does Niviene ask that? Surely, she sees them too. “Mostly ghosts; some dead, some yet alive, Alanna comes around Percy…Percival, he wants to be called…morning and night.”
“Most like, when she prays for him.”
“Mother ghosts, live and dead, hover near their small children. Dead ghosts drift about every hut and street. I meet very few fairies.”
“The massive Human aura is too strong for them.”
“Sometimes Gods appear, beating wings like windy clouds.”
“Angels. Take care with angels. Not all of them are kind.”
“They guard Arthur’s chapel. And I saw one in a Human hut, where they gave us their bed and most of their dinner.”
Niviene finger-talks, That would draw an angel.
“But all these spirits seem concerned with Human doings. No more free than the Humans themselves.”
Why did you come out here, Lili?
I crumble bread, lick crumbs off my fingers. Sip water.
“I came here to find a Human Heart.”
Niviene laughs.
“Truly. Merlin told me the Human Heart is the World’s Greatest Magical Power.”
“Even so, I would not go searching for it! Any more than I would walk into a plague-haunted house! I threw away my own, Fey heart, long ago.”
That reminds me. “Niviene, the Lady counseled me to chastity.”
Good counsel. Though she does not herself follow it.
“Are you chaste, Niviene?”
I am.
“But…what of the Goddess, and Her sacrifice?”
Does pain flit across Niviene’s cold face?
Nay! That must have been a trick of firelight.
Calmly she signs, I sacrificed once to the Goddess. Once was enough. She can demand no more of me. As for you, you have time enough for that.
Think about this later. “And has this chastity strengthened your Power?”
Niviene raises and jabs both thumbs at the glowing coals on the hearth. On the instant, hungry flames leap high. Niviene continues to point. In the flame, Percival appears. “What do you think, little one?”
Fully armed, sword held upright before him in both hands, Percival kneels before the high altar in Arthur’s chapel. In dark air above him Alanna’s pale face, pale braid, shine softly.
“See, Niviene! Alanna is there.”
Pointing, Niviene cannot finger-talk. “There; but not aware.”
“She doesn’t know she’s there?”
“Most likely she dreams.”
Ah. So even Humans travel in dreams!
We watch Percival nod, sway, and jerk upright again.
“Holy Gods! Must he kneel there till dawn, like this?”
“His own choice, Lili.”
“Not so! He must follow the rule!”
“His choice to follow the rule. His choice to be a Knight.”
I sigh. “Poor Alanna! Tomorrow her long nightmare comes true. Percival truly becomes a true Knight.”
A voice from the dark behind us says, “If she ever hears of this, Alanna may well leap off the Cliffs.”
We turn toward the back of the hut. Merlin emerges from the dark.
Robed in white, crowned and cloaked by his huge white aura, he advances nimbly to hunker down between us.
“Hear that?” Niviene says to me. “Throw herself off the Cliffs! That’s what a Human Heart will do for you!”
She lowers her pointing thumbs, and Percival fades from the fire. The flame sinks back down into coals.
“No question,” says Merlin, reaching for bread. “The Human Heart is itself the price of its magic—a heavy burden to carry. As for the magic, the owner must know how to handle it.” Bite, chew, swallow. “Fortunately for us, most Humans have no notion how to handle it. They let it handle them. Thus, such confusion reigns in their world that they must leave us alone!” Grin; wink.
Somewhat confused myself, I say, “I seek a Heart. But Percival seeks the Holy Grail.”
“The Holy Grail?”
Merlin’s gnarled fingers pause, breaking bread. Niviene’s dark eyes darken.
Merlin asks me, “He is not content to attain Knighthood, itself? Now he wants the Holy Grail?”
I tell them about Lord Gahart, his daughter, lands, herds, men, and so forth. “All this he will give Percival in return for the Holy Grail.”
Niviene gasps. “But, Arthur! Percival’s allegiance is to Arthur! How can he hand over the grail to this…Gahart?”
I explain. “Gahart says that Arthur is better off without the grail. As a Christian, he should rightly have no dealings with magic.”
“Magic?” Merlin breaks his bread. “What magic?”
“Gahart says the grail is a magic dish that brings forth whatever food and drink is desired.”
“Hah.” Pop bread in mouth. Swallow hard. “The grail is the Cup of the Last Supper.”
Last supper?
“Christ’s last supper before His death on the cross.”
Confusion floods!
“But,” Merlin adds, chewing, “it matters not.”
Matters not?
“No questing Knight will ever lay earthly eyes on the Holy Grail.” And Merlin laughs.
Niviene and I bow respectful heads to this true laughing prophecy.
“As to your Percival…” Break the last bread; share it around. “Your Percival will never see the grail with any eyes at all, so long as he is made of ice.”
***
Percival woke, still upright; sword still upstanding between numb hands.
The sanctuary lamp glowing softly on the altar reflected on the golden door of the Tabernacle. Percival understood, now, that God lived behind that golden door. Earnestly, though foggily, he gazed at the door, and tried to send thoughts through it to God—Who seemed to sleep.
I come here from far away. I come from a Fey forest, where I knew nothing. Now, in this coming morning, King Arthur will knight me. I will become a Knight of the Round Table! I, Percival; I, who knew nothing! Lord, do You hear me?
The sanctuary lamp flickered in darkness.
Then, Lord, come spring, I will quest for the Holy Grail! I who have come so far will go farther. I will find the grail, and I will take it to Lord Gahart, who taught me much. You will be glad of that, Lord; for King Arthur, my liege Lord, should not deal with magic. It is not Your will that he should do so. Am I right?
The lamp dimmed. Maybe the oil’s low? Nay, not so. I am falling asleep.
Lord, let me not sleep! This night I must meditate on my life to come, on adventures and virtues and heroisms…
When I take the grail to Lord Gahart, he will give me all that he has.
Not all at once. I will share it all with him while he lives. But Gahart is old, Lord. Soon he will go on to You in Heaven, and leave me his fields, his flocks and herds, his shepherds and plowmen…
Visions of Gahart’s lands swam like dreams through Percival’s mind. He saw raucous, violent men thoughtlessly obedient to him. He saw flagons and barrels of ale, constantly refilled; the very Holy Grail itself would belch honeycakes and fine, soft bread at a word from him! No need to hunt my rich woodlands; roast grouse will fly up out of my grail!
But I will hunt, if only to keep myself strong. And I will fight at the King’s call, all days, all seasons. And King Arthur will have no finer Knight than me, Sir Percival. Glad he will be forever that he knighted me! Lord, do You hear this?
Behind the golden door, God slept.
Kneeling stiff and still as a wooden statue, Percival sent his thought like a battering ram at the golden door.
Lord God, You have ever slept when I sought you! I never found You in the forest, I have not found You in the Kingdom, and now I find You not in Your own golden Tabernacle! Lord God, I look at You! All my life I have looked at You, and never once have You looked back at me! Look back at me now! Look back at me now!
Again, Percival swayed and caught himself.
You sleep. But I must not.
Some say I am made of ice. You, God, are made of rock!
He let his drooping eyes roam the dark.
Over there…the Mary statue. Bigger than Alanna’s. But the same.
Like Alanna’s Mary, this one held one compassionate hand out to Her petitioner. Her Christ son rested on Her other, open hand. This Mary was also robed, crowned, and haloed; and Her paint had not worn away under rain and snow, but still reflected golden lamplight.
Yet She’s the same…
Dreamy Percival drifted near the statue in Mary’s Clearing.
Below him, Alanna’s snowy garden waited for distant spring. A humped, shapeless figure huddled before Mary. It seemed to hug itself, sway, and weep; but Percival, though seeing clear as by daylight, could hear no sound.
A second figure moved below him. Old Sir Edik bent to the huddled form, hugged and patted and raised it.
It turned and embraced him, and raised unseeing eyes to Percival.
Percival thought, Mother, never fear for me! King Arthur will have no better Knight. This has been prophesied with laughter.
But lo, Mary’s Clearing had vanished.
Percival knelt alone, stiff and numb, before the mild glow of sanctuary lamp and Tabernacle. Around him hung darkness.
***
Windy clouds chase winter sunshine across Arthur’s Dun.
The mages and I are far from the only ones come to see Percival knighted!
Disguised as a short Human lady in Ranna’s gown and my “invisible” cloak, I must have begun to feel the part I acted; for I have let myself become part of a gathering, smelly Human crowd. Now here I stand in the middle of it, I who would rather peek like a mouse spy from roof or drain!
Along Percival’s path from chapel door across to King’s Hall door stand Round Table Knights—Gawain, Lancelot, Cai, Bors, Bedevire, Gareth, and more—their squires and servants behind them.
Except for Lancelot’s small, brown squire, Mell, who grins and chats in Lancelot’s ear.
Gwenevere waits by the great doors to King’s Hall, with a small contingent of bright-robed ladies.
Servants, traders, beggars, slaves, wives, and children block the street both ways, peering over shoulders and between cloaks, as I should do, myself. Somehow as the crowd gathered I lost myself in it. Now I stand in the front row across from Merlin and Niviene, perfectly visible from all sides, “invisible cloak” or no, and crowd-trapped.
I should be terrified, but Victory dangles by my heart. And Ranna’s magnificent gown disguises me. And of course, Bee Sting hangs by my hand.
This is a new art I learn here; if you cannot be a shadow, or a bush, be a respectable Human! There may be some safety in that.
Clouds chase sunshine across the Dun; when a dark cloud sweeps over, auras shine out. Quickly, I glance around.
Over there by King’s Hall, Gwenevere’s small, green aura clings close and bright. One strand reaches out and streams across wind, toward…Lancelot.
Lancelot’s orange-green aura reaches toward Gwenevere; and the two auras meet and circle and converse, while all eyes are locked on the chapel door.
But…Gwenevere is, what’s the word, wed, to Arthur. Not to Lancelot. Think about this later.
I pass on to Squire Mell. Something unusual about Mell…he is beardless, though certainly adult. His constant smile is close-mouthed, tight-lipped. His narrow, cautious aura like a soft rainbow…
Lancelot’s Squire Mell is Fey!
He may be the Lady’s lost son, Lugh!
Think about this later.
Side by side, Merlin and Niviene shine steadily, grandly, like two huge stars. But I remind myself, the Humans around them do not see them shine. Alone in the foremost crowd they sport no jewelry: no necklace, bracelet, earring, finger ring, buckle, or brooch proclaims their worth. Only the stern message of their white robes and mistletoe crowns keeps the pressing crowd a little away.
Sun chases shade; auras fade.
The quietness of this crowd surprises me. Where I find Humans gathered I expect noise. But these folk are almost silent, eyes on the chapel door, faces…solemn. Looking up into these big, still faces, I almost feel thoughtful minds behind.
Aha! A murmur runs like a gentle stream down the street.
The chapel door opens.
Within is darkness; within the dark, a golden flame; within the flame, a Human figure.
The crowd sighs, admiring.
Can Humans see auras after all?
Maybe they can sense auras, as I sometimes sense deeply invisible Spirits.
Percival emerges from darkness into winter sunlight. Sunlight devours and quenches his golden flame. Tall he stands on the top chapel step; big and broad and bright—all the things we Fey laughed to scorn. These Humans murmur admiration.
Percival! You came to your right world!
Grave, radiant, he steps down into the path left open, and progresses—that’s the world—toward King’s Hall.
First Gawain, then Lancelot, moves to escort him. One on each side they lead him between the mages and me, past Gwenevere, to the King.
For while we all watched Percival, King Arthur has appeared on the top step of King’s Hall.
Big and dark, bright-bejeweled, he awaits Percival, sword naked in his two gloved hands.
Naked sword? Why does the King need a sword?
Sudden dread shivers up and down my spine.
Nothing is so strange that Humans will not do it.
Maybe at this ceremony the King decides whether Percival is worthy to be a Knight; then, depending on his decision, he either knights him, or slays him on the spot.
I haul Victory by her thong up out of my gown.
As I have done before, I point her at Percival’s back, pouring Power into Percival.
Nay! If there were real danger, the crowd would emanate excitement. And the only excitement I feel here is reverent joy.
And my Percival can well defend himself, even without Bee Sting, which he has so foolishly laid aside.
Pouring Power on Percival between concealing fingers, I look again at Arthur.
In glowing, growing sunlight, King Arthur’s triple aura shines red as new-shed blood closest to his rugged form; farther out shimmers a wide orange band; and farther yet—higher, wider than the doors of King’s Hall—a faint gold band twinkles like sunlit water.
I have seen the King’s aura before; but not magnified and solemnized by ritual, nor enriched by the crowd’s pooled Power, as now I see it.
Holy Gods! I drop Victory back down inside my gown. Not even Victory can defend against such Power.
Who ever guessed a Human could shine like that?
***
Close, closer, to the King.
Arthur stood on the top step of the King’s Hall door, sword in hands, watching Percival’s approach.
Goddamn! My hour is come!
Percival had always believed it would. It had to come, this hour of triumph, vindication, and final acceptance. From his forest meeting with Sirs Friendly, Suspicious, and Wounded, he had never for a moment doubted that this was his appointed fate.
But now, as the crowd stood aside for him; now, as his friends came beside and escorted him; now, as the King awaited him, he marveled. Saint George! How is this possible?
For I came here Nobody, from Nowhere, a fool in a soup-kettle helmet. And now after two short seasons of learnings and adventures, I am to be knighted! A few moments, and I will be truly, rightfully, Sir Percival of the Round Table.
Pure astonishment assailed him.
Eyes on the King, he hardly saw the faces he passed. But one small lady on the right, gowned in red-embroidered blue, drew the corner of his eye. That one looks familiar.
He passed and forgot her.
Power punched the small of his back like a treacherous fist. He faltered and almost missed a step.
Then, beautifully, the Power moved through him.
What ailed me before? This is right, this is perfect; doubt, now, at this high moment, would be sin!
They were come to the first step below the King. Lo, how he shines!
Another moment, and he will knight me.
This is the King I will follow faithfully, worship, die for. For him I came out of the forest. For him I will find the Holy Grail and place it out of his reach, for it might harm him.
The sun itself seems to shine from him. Am I seeing his aura, as Lili would?
Now, this one gesture I have dreaded.
But this is not hard. This is easy, because it is right.
Percival knelt on the step below the King.
Arthur raised his sword.
Goddamn! True Knighthood comes down like a falcon, like a harrier—
Down came the sword and rested flat, like a friendly hand, on Percival’s right shoulder. Joy burned down Percival’s right side.
The sword rose, arced over his head, and descended on his left shoulder.
Angel Michael, Saint Hubert, Saint George, let me not faint for joy!
Joy flowed like molten gold through Percival, crown to toe.
From above, Arthur’s great voice called out to Percival, to the crowd, to the Kingdom, “Rise, Sir Percival!”
And Sir Percival rose.
There rose around him joyful babble from the crowd; and from somewhere in the back, men’s voices joined in song; and a shriek.
Shriek?
“There he ish!” A woman’s voice shrilled. “Right there! That’sh the one I told you—”
Song and babble died away.
A man roared, “I demand my rights! I demand my rights now and instantly, from the King!”
***
Late at night I leave the mages’ hut and make my way home through narrow, twisting, ill-smelling streets. I carry no lamp. To my Fey eyes this half-moon darkness is like twilight; and lightless, I am close to invisible to the few quarrelling, drink-fogged Humans I pass. This is as well; for in little Ranna’s gown, and at this hour, I might draw those stragglers as a doe draws dogs.
I come home to Percival’s chamber in the long barracks behind King’s Hall, knowing what I must do, and almost pleased to do it. Almost excited.
Niviene explained to me the “rights” which aggrieved Sir Agrain demanded.
In windy morning light, he told Arthur and the whole of Arthur’s Dun that Sir Percival had forced a way into his tent, stolen his goods, and despoiled his food and wife. For this, he must be let kill Sir Percival. He has the right.
Percival shook his golden head. He insisted he had not forced entrance, the tent was open; he agreed that he had eaten and drunk, uninvited, because he was hungry and thirsty. He had removed a coverlet, because he was cold. But he strongly, forcefully, and truly denied despoiling any wife.
(The wife, meantime, kept crying out, pointing at him and fainting behind her concealing veils.)
King Arthur looked gravely from one Knight to the other. I thought any moment he would say, “Well, no great harm’s been done. You are both Knights of the Round Table, and good men don’t grow in gardens. Embrace now, Good Men, and be friends.”
He said, “Noon tomorrow. Tournament Field.”
Niviene explained. “He had no choice, Lili. This is the rule in such cases.”
“You’re saying that crowd that loved to see Percy knighted will now watch him be killed!” (Not if I could get him away this night!)
“Not in cold blood.”
“Cold blood?”
“Percy will defend himself. He will win, and kill Sir Agrain.”
“And the crowd won’t mind that either.”
“Right.”
“Why don’t I get him out of here. I have some Grand Mushroom in my pouch. I could—”
“He would never, never forgive you.” That’s true.
“Niviene! I must be sure Percy wins!”
Then Niviene told me how to be sure.
Here I hurry down our street toward our door.
Each of these Knights’ chambers opens into the street by its own door. Someone has found ours.
A figure muffled in cloak and veil hesitates before our door. It lifts a hand to the door-string; but at that instant I slip in between hand and door.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
The figure springs backward as though a serpent had risen before her; for it is a she, that I see by pale moonlight. Good thing she does not screech and wake the street!
I whisper again, “Who would wake Sir Percival at this hour? And the night before his fateful combat!”
She lifts a corner of her veil to peer down at me. “I know you…” she mutters.
“But I don’t know you.”
“Oh, you musht! You were there in the crowd when Shir Agrain and I rode up, and I shaid—”
“Ah. Yes. You yelled, ‘That’s him! That’s the one!’ Now I know you.”
Aha! The Goddess brought this one to me just in time!
She cocks her head, shrugs delicately. “I shaw you there. But I never thought you were…with him.”
“Hush.” I don’t want anyone wakened, alerted. If I know Percival, even on this night he lies drunk with sleep, not to be waked but by a lightning strike. But this barracks is a wasp nest, full of chambers. Anyone might hear us.
I take hold of her wrist and draw her out into the street. “Let’s find a corner where we can talk.” My eyes rove the narrow street.
“Didn’t come here to talk…” I’ve heard that before.
Down at the corner is a small ale-shop booth.
I know what you came for, Lady, just in time for me. All I need do now is let you take him.
But first, let me know more about you. For all I know, you carry a Bee Sting in your pocket.
I lead her, captive by her delicate wrist, into the ale-shop booth. We sit down together on a customers’ bench. We whisper and murmur. (Sometimes I catch myself finger-talking, as I would do with one of my own folk.)
She says, “You shee, it’sh like this. Shir Pershival came into my tent, Shir Agrain’s tent, when he wash away. Shir Agrain wash away. And I wash there.”
“I know that.”
“Oh, yesh, you heard all that thish morning! Let me go on, then.” She wiggles, settling herself more comfortably. “When my Lord came back he found everything eaten and my ringsh gone, and the coverlet gone. And he wash very angry.”
“Mmmm?”
“And he shaid, ‘What more is gone, Lady?’ You know what he meant.”
“Mmmm?”
“And he beat me.”
“What?”
“Shee, he thought I had lain willingly with Shir Pershival. Only then he wasn’t Shir—”
“But you never lay with him at all.” Willingly or not.
“No, I shertainly never did! But how do you know that?”
“Why, because I was there.”
“You?” She leans closer, studying me through her veil. “Come to think, he had shomeone with him…a boy.”
“Me. That was me.”
“Indeed!” She looks me up and down, down and up. “You aren’t a boy now!”
“But you say, he beat you. Why did he do that?”
She clucks softly like a hen. “Well, you know, I belong to him. And he thought I had…” It’s little Ranna, all over again. I seem to hear her whisper, “If my father knew…(shudder!) What good would I be to him then?”
What good is this lady to Sir Agrain? Whatever good she had for him, it’s lost.
She whispers, “I wouldn’t mind if it wash only that one time—”
“Hush!” I grip her wrist again. She falls silent immediately. A good thing, because that regular thump-thump around the corner is a detachment of guards, coming this way.
She gasps, “Oh!” And shrinks down on the bench.
“Be still. They won’t see us…”
I raise a mist of invisibility around us. Coldly it drifts between us and the four men who march past. They swing their lanterns to light alleys and corners, and into our booth. They tramp on, past the barracks and around the next corner.
The lady draws breath and dives straight back into her story. “I wouldn’t mind if it wash jusht that one time. One hash to expect that.” One does? “But he won’t believe me. He beatsh me every day. Look.”
She draws her veil off her face.
That thin, once-cool face is bruised all down the right side. The right eye is swollen shut. The lower lip hangs flabby, revealing knocked-out teeth.
My stomach drops inside me.
Weakly, I repeat her words. “Every day?”
“That’sh why, when I shaw Shir Pershival with the King, I cried upon him.”
“You what?”
“I shrieked, ‘That’sh him!’ Sho he would fight Shir Agrain, and prove I never lay with him. And then I thought…” She lets her veil drop. I am grateful. “I thought, why shouldn’t I really do it? He won’t believe I was virtuoush. Sho, why be virtuoush?”
Wordless, I shrug.
“Beshides, you know, when Shir Pershival took my ringsh he wash lovely! Shoup-kettle helmet and all, he wash perfectly lovely! I almosht wished then…But now he’sh knighted and armed, all right and tidy, why now he’sh a God! A veritable God! And you know, in the dark, he won’t shee me. He won’t notish—”
I draw deep breath. “Listen,” I say, stemming her flood of words. “He’s mine. You can’t have him. I won’t let you.” Why not? It would certainly simplify my task! “But we can stop these beatings.”
“We can?”
“Like this.”
On the spot, I invent a short spell. “Devil take your arms, my Lord, cut your hands off like a sword!”
“Holy Mother! If I shaid that—”
“Not aloud. You only have to think it. And mean it.” But has this lady the Power to actualize thought?
“A charm will strengthen it…Wait, I must have something here…” I’m feeling in my pouch. Knife, handy thong, herbs…
I don’t carry much in the way of material magic; my magic is in my head, safe from harm and loss…Aha! This light, soft touch tingles fingers and soul. I draw out…Percival’s teal feather!
He picked it up from the snow grail, itself a natural, melting charm, and gave it to me for safekeeping.
He has not asked for it back. Too soft, too airy for his keen purpose, it has melted right out of his mind.
“Here. Keep this safe, but within reach. Hold it when you say your spell.”
“Thish little feather?” Behind the veil, the bruised eyes boggle.
“Thish little feather will add weight to your Power.”
“Power?” With a light breath she ruffles the feather.
Briefly, my Spirit touches hers. Bounces off hers. Convinced, I tell her, “You have more Power than you think. Look at you! What other lady in this dun would wander these dark streets alone, without a lantern?”
A grin flashes behind the veil. “You!”
“Ah. But then, I’m no lady.”
I leave her. One moment I sit beside her, thigh to thigh. Next moment I am gone. Let her ponder that. Then let her leave my Percival alone, and keep her magic feather tenderly. It’s all I can give her.
***
Percival sleeps in our wide, warm bed. On the bedside chest the lamp still burns. His green-blue aura wafts about him, gentle as his sleeping breath.
I sink down on the bed and study him—my new Knight, my old friend.
What does the Goddess think of Percival?
If I were She, Lady of Life, Percival would be my favorite son!
Bright and big he is, it’s true; impossible to hide; heavy-footed as his great, red horse. But strong! From the deep insides of him gushes a magic fountain of strength, ever renewed. That lady called him “a veritable God.” And such he is, to Humans. What need has a God to hide, vanish, and sneak like a Fey?
We misjudged our Percy, back in the forest. “You can’t go fishing with him…the fish think his hair is the sun, and hide away.” We judged him as one of us…which he never was.
As I protected him then, so I would protect him now.
Morning comes soon, and the combat.
If he would use Bee Sting, his favorite weapon, Percy would win for sure. But he has not carried Bee Sting since we came here to Arthur’s Dun. Says it’s not a knightly weapon.
Look how far he has come, from his forest oak-nest to this hard-won bed! From Alanna’s soup-kettle helmet to the red armor carefully stacked in the corner. He must not stop now, cut down by a vicious, undeserved fury! By a cruel, knighted fool!
My Percy must win this combat.
After that, we must find that Holy Grail he’s after. Then Percy will have fulfilled himself and his Quest.
And if the price for Percy’s quest is my own quest, if I must give up my Power so that he can win his Power, then, Lady Goddess, so be it.
I draw Victory up out of my gown. I let her dangle between us, twirl softly, reflect golden light. Hound on trail…wind in sail.
I pull down the coverlet and lay two gentle, suddenly hungry hands upon my Percy, hands like lightning bolts, charged with the Power of so many nights’ imaginings! My Percy awakes.
***
Last night, by last lamplight, I lifted Victory from my neck. Lying beside panting Percy, I took up his left hand and pushed the ring firmly onto his third finger. It fit perfectly.
Idly, he raised his hand, looked at the ring with dazed eyes. “What is this?”
“A charm,” I told him coolly, as though it mattered little. “Her name is Victory.”
He studied her. “Dark, it is. No shine.”
“It shines within. Wear it from now on, Percival.”
“Oh. Goddamn! You mean, wear it for you?”
“For me?” Curious, I turned my head on the pillow to watch him push Victory around his finger. His new, crimson aura, fading now, expanded with every touch to the ring. Well would Victory serve my victorious Percy! (I suppose my own ringless aura must have shrunk, even as his expanded.)
I asked him, “What good would that do me?”
“So I’d remember you. If we should ever part.”
What a fool Human notion! “No, Percival. She is for yourself. To bring you Power.”
“Power. Only one kind of Power I want now!” He turned to me, reached for me.
But found me not. I was out of bed, pretending preparations for the morning. “Rest now,” I told him, busily fussing in a corner. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”
“You’re right, Lili.” Thinking of the morrow, he smiled a smile of pure confidence, stretched out comfortably on his back, and was instantly asleep.
I looked again on his dear face, newly relaxed, newly warm; and I rejoiced. Not made of ice now!
According to Merlin, Percy’s Quest should now be almost in his grasp.
My own Heart Quest was probably lost, flickering last, pitiful flames, like this lamp.
Well I knew what I had done. Well I knew what the Goddess had done. She had told me. And She had given me a task. For Her sake I would now have to leave Percival behind, alone; yet not truly alone; for I had given him Victory.
I blew out the light.
Now, this morning, I face a stiff, winter breeze at ringside. A much larger crowd than yesterday’s has gathered to watch the combat. Behind me all manner of Humans push and jostle, curse and laugh. Too small to defend my space, I manage to stay in front by dodging, vanishing, and reappearing, like a snake in high grass.
Ranna’s heavy gown and my “invisible” cloak serve well in this bitter wind. From upwind I smell warm bread and those little honeycakes Percival loves. Sales must be brisk as this breeze, which rushes away honey-smell and crowd-smell!
Men have paced off the combat ring in brown, snow-speckled grass. They have pushed back the crowd and left the space empty.
Lo, here strides a big Knight into the ring, sword and shield at the ready. Red cuirass and greaves, helmet and shield proclaim him my Percival. A murmur of appreciation runs through the crowd. And the crowd does not even glimpse his wide, orange aura edged in red! I see it almost clearly in windy gray light.
Sir Agrain comes in from the other side. His shield is half blue, half orange. His small, dark red aura clings close. Smaller than Percival, he must be far better practiced with the sword. He stands well away from Percival.
The crowd’s murmur rises a notch. Some of these same folk watched my Percival knighted yesterday. Then they waited in awed, reverent silence. Merry, now, they wait to see him kill or be killed.
Across the ring last night’s bruised lady, heavily veiled, droops near Agrain’s handful of men. I wonder what happened to her last night. Did she not use the teal feather?
Horns blow. King Arthur and the Queen approach through the parting crowd. Close behind them come Lancelot and Gawain. Their four mingled auras rise straight and high above the crowd, bright smoke on a brisk day.
Servants place cushioned benches in the front row. The haughty four seat themselves and spread their embroidered cloaks.
In the center of the ring a herald blows a horn, then shouts into wind and crowd-chatter. Only the combatants on each side of him can hear his words. I think he tells them combat rules.
Once more he lifts and blows his horn.
And now the crowd hushes.
The herald steps nimbly away. For the first time the combatants face each other. Swords screech out of scabbards.
Agrain lifts and lowers his sword like a signal to Percival. Quickly, Percival lifts and lowers his sword.
The crowd stands almost silent, with only a rustle here, a mutter there.
Percival and Agrain raise swords and shields, lift feet, and come at each other, swinging.
On his gloved finger, Percival wears Victory. Wind in sail…His heart is hot, no ice crumb left there. Should he stumble; should Agrain’s practiced skill begin to weaken him, here I stand ready, spell on tongue, Power gathered in clenched fists. I came here to see Percival victorious, and this I will see.
Swords clang on shields.
Agrain’s bloodred aura expands.
The Knights circle each other like fighting dogs. They advance, retreat, strike, ward, high, low, left, right.
Agrain’s red aura fills the great circle.
Should I cast a spell?
Contained Power shakes my fists at my sides.
Truly, I am not sure that red aura is all Agrain’s. Percival’s aura has reddened as well; and now the two auras writhe together, attack, and retreat in air, like the Knights below them.
Percival wears Victory.
I need to know if he can win alone, with only her help.
Because I must leave him.
I clasp Powered hands tightly under my chin. Bite my tongue, that wants to shout the spell.
Blow upon ringing blow, Agrain beats Percival back.
A small moan runs through the crowd, as a small thought may run through a distracted mind. Percival is the crowd’s man—at least while he still swings a sword.
Back and back he steps, back he bends beneath steady blows. Now he could stumble.
My fists fly up before me, ready to open, to cast forth Power upon Percival. My mouth opens to cry out Power.
But wait! Wait till he actually stumbles. See if he can—
Gods!
In the air Agrain’s aura swoops toward Percival’s.
On the ground, Agrain swoops toward Percival. And overreaches.
Percival has led him on!
Agrain stumbles.
Percival regains balance with one easy step. His sword plunges in under Agrain’s cuirass.
A moment the two figures hang there, Percival holding the spit on which Agrain writhes.
Percival yanks out the sword.
Agrain reels toward Percival. Crashes on his knees. Rolls prone on earth.
Midair, his aura freezes. It turns purple, brown, black. It collapses upon him like a huge black veil tossed over a corpse.
Across the circle, one high shriek rends air. The veiled lady faints into the arms of Agrain’s nearest man. In her slippers, I would not shriek and faint! I would sing praises to all Gods. But—to think Human—Sir Agrain must have been of some use to her, and now that use is lost.
The King rises from his bench. He raises, then lowers, a commanding hand. The rules say Percival is in command.
Agrain’s black aura-veil shudders and ripples as though windblown. The man is not dead yet.
The crowd roars.
Percy, make speed! This enemy viper must trail you no more. Another time, he might strike without warning.
Percival steps forward. Raises sword.
His aura that has filled the circle comes rushing back to him. From red, it fades to orange. A wide green border circles the orange and moves inward.
Percival sheathes his sword.
***
“Why did you not kill him?”
“Lili, I don’t know why!”
“You know. You don’t want to look at why.”
Percival sighed.
“Look at why, and tell me.”
A deeper sigh. “Lili, he was breathing.”
“So.”
“I did not want to stop him breathing.”
“Why?”
“Well…you know, good men don’t grow in gardens.”
“This was not a good man! But you could not know that.”
“What did you know of him?”
“I saw his bloodred aura. Big as the combat circle! I saw his wife’s face.” Lili paused, thinking. Then she said, “You realize he may come after you again.”
“Nay. He will die.”
No doubt of that. The healer who could save him lives not in this world.
“Then you might have done better to stop him breathing then and there.”
If every breath he draws this moment is an agony. “Yes. I might have. But why do we argue, Lili?”
“I seek to understand you.”
“Now is our last chance to play our new game, alone, in a soft bed.”
“Last chance? What last chance?”
Lo! I have surprised her! “We leave in the morning.”
“What?”
Percival pulled off his tunic, dropped it on the floor and jumped into bed beside Lili. He left the lamp burning. He wanted to see her face when he delighted her. “So let us spend this time well, Lili, as you have shown me how.”
He grabbed for her. Hastily, she sat away up and curled herself small.
“Where are you going in the morning?”
“First light, we pack up and ride out with Lancelot and Gawain!” Percival could hear, himself, how rich satisfaction darkened his voice.
“Where and why?”
“To quest for the Holy Grail. What else?”
“Now? In dead winter?”
“In the spring, the whole Round Table will go questing. Except that we will be back by then, grail in hand!”
“Hmm. Grail in whose hand?”
“Why, in ours!”
“Give that some thought, Percival.”
Percival laughed. “You talk like a Human, Lili!”
“I am learning.”
“But truly! We are now three brothers. I never had brothers before—except the dead. Now I have Lancelot and Gawain, and I stand by them and they stand by me, and I will hear no word against them!”
“Not from me, no.”
“Nor no one else! We three are Arthur’s Best Knights. So, as I said, this is our last chance in bed—”
Lili hiked her curled-up self farther away. “Very well; first light, you ride out. As for me, I go another way.”
“What?” Astonishment froze Percival, eager arms thrown out, at half jump. “What?”
“You think I’ll help you find the grail so you can wed Lord Gahart’s daughter.”
“Aye! And inherit his lands!”
“Nothing in that for me.”
“Ah? Oh! Aha! Lili, you are Fey! This wedding game is not for you!”
“No, it’s not for me. And neither are you, Sir Percival. From now on.”
Lili rolled off the bed entirely, pulled off the top coverlet and spread it on the floor.
Women! A good thing we men don’t have to understand them.
But this was certainly disappointing. Now that at last his body had learned ecstasy!
Lili blew out the feeble lamp. He heard nothing more but her sigh of happy contentment as she lay down on the floor.
He relaxed against the pillows. But his eyes would not shut. The darkness showed him sunny-bright pictures of himself grooming the red charger, trapping and dressing hares, starting fires with flint and tinder. Doing all the boring, dull tasks that Lili did.
After a while he asked into darkness, “Where will you go, yourself? Now, in dead winter?”
“Me, I’m going home.”
“Home?”
“To the forest. Where else? I’m dead tired of traipsing about this Kingdom as your servant boy. This life is too rough for me. I’m going home.”
“But…It’s too far, Lili.” Especially in winter.
“A four-day ride, if you know the way.”
“You don’t know the way. And you can’t travel alone! Even with all your talents—”
“I’ll go with the mages. In a few days.”
“The mages…Niviene and Merlin? Ah. Well.” Not much danger there. Those two can freeze bandits or Saxons in their tracks, turn aside snowstorms, call hares to their cookfire.
Still. Funny, cold feeling in the stomach. “Goddamn! I don’t like this, Lili.”
Down on the floor, Lili chuckled. “Will you miss me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will your heart hurt for me?”
“No!” Fool talk!
Slyly. “But you will miss my talents, Percival.”
To be honest…“Maybe.”
“You’ll miss my hunting, cooking, spying. Who will keep the women off you now?”
“Women?”
“You know not how I have served you! They’ll eat you up.”
Is this a frightening thought? Or is it cheering?
“And my spells. Gods, how you’ll miss my spells!”
“Spells?” What does the girl mean now?
“Surely you don’t think you won all those fights by yourself?”
“What?”
Percival leaped bolt upright.
“Think, Percy! How could you, a fool beggar straight out of a Fey Forest, kill the Red Knight?”
“You saw how! With my Bee Sting—”
“Which I prepared for you. And worked a spell on the spot.”
“That may be. But I myself—”
“How could you, who never held a cudgel, beat Lord Gahart’s best cudgel man?”
“Why—”
“You who had barely learned to handle a lance, how could you unhorse Sir Cai all by yourself? And I mention not Sir Lancelot, Arthur’s Best Knight?”
Percival ground his teeth. The cold hollow that had opened in his stomach was swallowed up in hot rage. “Don’t you try to steal my glory, girl! You, who were not even there! You were cooking, back in camp—”
“So you thought. In truth, I was out hunting what to cook. I saw those Knights approach; and I sent you all the strength in the Lady’s Victory ring.”
“Ring? Victory ring? You mean, this ring? I work no magic! I win by main strength and spirit! I’ll have your ring off!”—
Tear it off. Twist it, rub it, rip it off.
“Better hold on to that ring, Sir Percival. This morning she defeated Sir Agrain.”
“Goddamn! Saint George! I myself, me, Sir Percival, I defeated Sir Agrain!”
“With Victory on your finger. Remember?”
Off with the damned thing! “Take back your damned ring!”
“Percival, I gave you that ring in friendship. Would you throw away my friendship?”
There, it’s off. “Fey Witch! Succubus! Here’s your ring back, and your evil friendship!” And Percival hurled Victory out into the dark.
***
I’ve been here before.
This mist I’ve seen before, rolling around even the nearest trees.
This lumpy, rough ground…I’ve swung over it before. I’ve felt Bee Sting thump thigh; I’ve felt the jar in knees and ankles as I stride forward…always forward…in haste to go there…
I know what comes next.
Aye. There it shows. Dark on the ground.
As before, the stretcher laid before him breaks Percival’s stride.
On the stretcher lies a big blond man, naked within his fishing-net wraps. Perfectly still he lies on his back, gripping a fishing spear in helpless hands. He looks up at Percival calmly, though anguish darkens his gaze.
Between his thighs he bears a grievous, bloody wound.
The Fisher King. Won’t look!
But Percival has to look at the dreadful wound. He shudders through his whole body. And looks away.
Good for me, it’s not my hurt!
But when it is…if ever…I’ll bear it as he does.
Now, I’m going. There. With all good speed.
Percival moves to step over the impassive Fisher King.
Nay. This way.
He steps around the head of the stretcher.
And strides on through mist, over rough ground.
***
Niviene says, “Lili can start the fire.”
Merlin shrugs. “Lili needs not prove herself to me.”
But Niviene sits back on her heels by the little tent of sticks we have circled with stones and glints up at me. “Fire-starting was one of the first magics I learned. Let me see you do it.”
Despite many tries, I have never yet made fire.
Niviene will not be denied. I kneel down by the sticks and rub my hands smartly, palm to palm.
We will rest in this cold thicket overnight. Gods be thanked there is no snow. Earth sleeps bare, brown and hard. Night comes on.
A few paces away, across a patch of bracken, a small camp spreads along a river ford. Makeshift cabins and tents house the raggedest, saddest Humans I have yet seen. Everyone lurching among the tents limps, or taps his way with a long cane, or bends double as though loaded like a donkey.
I did not want to stop near these folk; their diseases, vermin, and griefs may catch us here.
“They are but beggars,” Merlin told me, firmly unloading our hobbled ponies, “And some sick. This place is called Swineford, where swine are driven through the ford to market. These folk beg from the drivers, or rob them.”
Niviene said, “We’ve camped here before. The bracken hides us. The beggars don’t bother us, for we have nothing.”
I nodded toward the ponies.
“Those harnesses bear the King’s stamp. They don’t touch those ponies.”
“But their illnesses may come and catch us.”
“Not through the Power Circle I have laid down,” Merlin assured me.
Very well. I trust Merlin.
Now let me try this difficult art once more.
I lay my warmed-up hands to the tinder under the sticks and murmur the fire spell.
My hands feel hot. I’ve never come this far before.
Heat hurts my hands. This time, could I succeed?
Fervently, I repeat and repeat the spell.
Smoke puffs between my fingers! I lift my hands, and sparks fly up. Sparks. Fly. Up!
A brisk wind blowing to us from the camp carries away my sparks.
Merlin, standing over Niviene and me, spreads his cloak between wind and tinder.
Niviene remarks, “It needs more Power, Lili. More Power.” I glance across at her. Through deep dusk, my Fey eyes catch hers twinkling.
Over at the camp, someone shrieks.
“There,” says Niviene, “it’s caught.” Our little fire licks up like a new-hatched serpent standing on his tail. “Oh you of little faith! You didn’t even believe you could do it.”
I? I did this?
Unbelieving, I stare down at my little, rising flame.
From the dark, a pony shrills.
Over at the camp, a great voice booms.
Humans cry, scream, and babble.
Merlin turns around to look. “Fire,” he says, simply.
Niviene and I stand up and look out over the brown bracken.
The tumbledown cabin nearest us has burst into flame.
This fire must have started by magic. In one moment it has engulfed the whole tiny cabin. Already, streams of fire lick along the wind toward our bracken.
Over the fire-roar and the Human cries, we hear soul-shrinking screams from inside the burning cabin.
I look to Niviene. “Stop the fire!”
“Too strong for me.”
“But it’s coming right for us! Stop it coming!”
“Oh, aye,” Merlin assures me. “We can turn those little flames.”
He and Niviene raise their arms to the dark sky and chant spells. I know those spells. But my arms refuse to rise, my throat constricts. Something pounds in my chest as our three panicked ponies hobble away, neighing.
The wind, which blew fire toward us, shifts away northward.
Holy Goddess! What are those beggar folk doing?
Fast as they can, hobbling like our ponies, they run toward the burning cabin. Toward it. Not away.
Women beat at creeping flames with brooms. Men rush to the ford with pails. A line forms, handing full pails of water toward the fire. Too small. And much too late.
I ask the mages, “What are they doing?” But they only chant louder, waving magic gestures at the sky.
By all Gods! A man, surprisingly big and strong, charges into the fire.
“Lady Goddess, he’s crazed!”
A small, crippled man follows him into the fire.
Is that what a Human Heart will do?
I snatch Victory up out of my tunic on her thong, and point her toward the fire. My stopped throat croaks out fire-dousing spells.
The big man staggers out of the fire. A small child lies over his shoulders, lamb snatched from wolf. He dumps the child and rushes back into the fire.
I see only fire, hear only fire-roar. Victory points, trembling in my hands. Voice chants. The fire seems…the fire seems to stand still.
Out reels the strong man again. With one hand he hauls a woman, hair, and tunic on fire. With the other hand he drags the lame man, who drags another child.
I wave. I chant.
The first pail of water arrives up the line, hand to hand, and is hurled over the burning woman.
The fire shrinks. Lowers its voice. But riverlets of fire still burn toward other cabins and tents.
More pails arrive.
With a stupendous crash the hut falls in like a tent of sticks.
(At the same moment, the little tent of tinder at our feet falls in.)
The fire rears up once more, then dies away down. Its roar sinks to rumble and crackle.
The crowd murmurs.
“Hush,” says Merlin to me. “Shut it up! You’ve done it.” I didn’t know I was still chanting spells.
He grabs me around the waist and drags me backward into dark woods.
I’m on the ground. Merlin kneels beside me, holds me in his arms.
Niviene comes to us silent, with no rustle or footfall. She kneels with us. “No one noticed,” she murmurs. “They were all looking the other way.”
“Good,” Merlin says shortly.
I’m looking up through darkness into their two, solemn faces. I sense other faces behind theirs, up there in the cold dark. I seem to drift, invisible, among these other invisible faces, looking down on us three.
Niviene says, “You doused our little fire too, Lili. We’ll leave it dark. No need to attract attention.”
Merlin chuckles. “Did those folk out there know what you’d done, they might rebuild the fire and throw you in!”
Gods. “Why?”
“They fear magic.”
“Even good magic…”
Slowly, I sink back down into the exhausted body in Merlin’s arms.
Niviene leans close. “Lili, how did you douse that fire?”
“Don’t know.”
“Why did you douse that fire? It no longer threatened us. Merlin and I had turned it away.”
“Don’t know.”
I strain to sit up. Merlin lifts me, cushions my head on his sharp old shoulder. Back hurts. Head hurts. Arms hang down all helpless. An awful thirst grips my throat.
Merlin says, “I suspect you started both fires, Lili.”
“But I never…never before…”
“Your power has gone beyond you. Out of control.”
One thing I know. “Don’t want more Power. No more Power! Don’t want Human Heart.” That wild, crazifying thing sent men charging into fire!
Niviene laughs softly. “Too late, Lili. Your Human Heart has caught you. Like plague.”
***
The small hoofprints I have followed hungrily through new snow, under evergreens, across clearings, glow fresh in late light.
I pause in my tracks, fingers on Bee Sting. My prey must be very close.
To my right, West River gurgles around ice.
Slowly, step by step, I followed the glowing tracks into a trodden snow trail, and up away from the river. Ahead, I smell panting heat!
Up a steep trodden track I scramble, almost too fast, almost too eager.
Near the top I lie down and inch my eyes up over the rim.
And look straight into golden eyes.
Breath puffs between us.
At first I see only eyes. Then the prey moves, twitches an ear, turns her smooth head, and I see her plain—a small, white fallow doe, invisible in white snow. She stands in the track, head high, looking back at me. She flicks her tail and takes a step away.
Bee Sting comes up, ready between fingers.
But wait.
White fallow doe. Just such a one led the Lady and me into Counsel Oak’s shadow once, where I received and rejected good counsel.
Just such a one swam out past Percy and me as we rode our coracle toward the Kingdom. Turn back, she signaled. But I misunderstood her.
How many snow-white deer may there be in this forest?
This may well be the same one as twice before.
She looks back at me, flicks tail again, steps forward again.
I push Bee Sting back into belt. I rise up out of snow and follow her.
She takes the straight, trodden track as a Human would. Come to think (despite hunger, weariness, and chill), this is a Human kind of track.
I am guided.
Mary’s Clearing opens before me.
My guide steps aside among snow-laden young pines and vanishes.
Ahead, Mary’s bower stands humped under snow. Alanna stands humped before it, reed broom in hand. Brushed-off snow lies flung to both sides, but Mary is still invisible under snow. I am glad.
Walking up gently, I hear Alanna pant and mumble.
Standing close I notice how she has aged. Her braid is white, shoulders hunched and shrunk. In this light I cannot see her aura; but I feel it small, close to her figure, gray.
Softly, I snap my fingers. Alanna’s hearing is sharp as ever. She turns to me, peers at me. A moment, and she knows me.
“Little Lili? It is you!”
Little Lili; like little Ranna. This is how Alanna sees me?
“I thought you went away with Percy.”
“I did so, Alanna.” “Little” must refer to my height.
“Ah. And now you’re back.”
“Here I am.” And Alanna knew me truly little.
Gray eyes widen. “Percy’s back!”
I feel her invisible aura expand and swallow me. She drops the broom and dances herself around, awkward as a captive bear I once saw forced to dance in Gahart’s Hall. Her gaze sweeps around, past and over me. “Where is Percy?” She cries, “Percy!”
I tell her, “Percy isn’t here.”
She quiets. “Where?”
“Out in the Kingdom.”
“Dead.”
“Oh, no! Very alive. He’s a Knight of the Round Table, Alanna. Questing the Holy Grail.”
“What! What?”
“The Holy Grail.”
I feel Alanna’s aura crumble. Fast as it expanded, now it shrinks away to a black veil over her face. I remember Sir Agrain’s dying aura.
She murmurs, “The Holy Grail. Knights go after that, they never come back. Never seen again. Or if they are seen, they drool and dream. Mad as sick wolves.
“The Holy Grail,” she says. “Percy will never come back…Before, there was hope…but now…Now I might as well…”
Alanna pulls a good, sharp knife from her belt and punches it into her left breast.
What I should do now; I should turn and go away.
If Alanna wants to die, that’s her decision. No right to interfere.
The knife is good and sharp, but it doesn’t go far in.
Alanna yanks it out. Shudders deeply. Bleeds a bit. Holds up her left hand and sets knife to wrist.
What I do is, I reach and grab Alanna’s right wrist. Take the knife away. Throw it aside.
Now I throw my arms wide and high and close them, almost, about Alanna’s waist. We reel together off-balance, and collapse in the snow. Alanna’s arms come around my shoulders. Her warmth enfolds me. Her tears drench my cheek. Alanna’s tears, Alanna’s grief, catch me like plague. I cry, myself.
For Alanna spoke truth. Percival will not come back.
Afterwhile, when both our tears have slowed, I whisper in Alanna’s ear what the Goddess told me the night before the combat. “That’s why I came back.”
Alanna sits up straight. She dries her eyes on her poor old gown. (Now I know how poor it is!) She staunches her wound with it. She says, “Then I must live.”
“Me too.”
“We have work to do.”
I dry my own strange tears on my tunic. I ask her, “What has happened here? Where is Ivie?”
“Ivie? Oh, Ivie. Her time came, to bear her child, and she disappeared.”
Aha. In Fey fashion, Ivie hid herself away, alone with the Goddess, and her child. If she has not been seen since, she is most likely dead.
“I would have helped,” Alanna says sadly. “I would have cared for her and the child. But she went away. Ivie turned Fey, and Sir Edik turned Human.”
What? “Sir Edik was always Human.”
“Only half.”
“Sir Edik is half-Fey?” Come to think, I should have guessed that. His small stature, his skills…he always finger-talked with the best. So he turned to his Fey half, and tried to forget the other. And now? Alanna means, now he has turned back to his Human Heart. “How has he turned Human, Alanna?”
“He…I…We are wed.”
“Wed!”
“Aye. I would never lie with him otherwise.”
“But wedding needs a priest! Witnesses!”
“Not so. True wedding needs only a promise. Holy Mary witnessed ours.”
I learn more about the Kingdom, even here!
“A good thing you stopped me just now, Lili. No matter my pain, I had no right to leave my dear husband alone.”
Husband!
This is what the Human Heart leads to! Obligations. Rights and counter-rights. Now poor Alanna has not even the right to die!
Merlin warned me that the Human Heart may be its own price. Counsel Oak warned me. A price is paid for every quest.
Still embraced, we kneel up together.
Alanna murmurs, “And now, Lili, I have no right to leave you alone either.”
Something moves in my breast, in the area where Alanna tried to stab herself. Something in there opens like a flower, but suddenly—as if spring came and sun shone and flower bloomed all in a moment.
Astonished, I hear myself say, “I won’t leave you alone either.”
Alanna lets out a soft cry. “Holy Mary!”
Embraced together, we turn to Mary.
Mary has melted away Her disguising mantle of snow. She stands clear and distinct. Sun glows on faded paint. Hollow wooden eyes watch us.
Alanna breathes, “Miracle!” She knows how much snow was still there to sweep away.
But she does not even see Mary’s steady lightning spread through the whole clearing.
Last time I saw this lightning I scrambled down yonder yew tree and fled away.
It holds no terror for me now. Mary’s wooden gaze holds no terror.
I only bow my head to Her in solemn greeting, as Ivie used to do, when passing back and forth with wood or water.