Sussiah could not believe the sheer ease of her quest thus far.
Of all the isles of Avalon, no one at all seemed to bother with one adjacent to the Brethren, an isle of short brushy plants but nary a tree. Here she could make her camp, watch her for quarry while even catching fish or small game to live on. All it took was patience, resolve and wit not to be caught.
Neither the Brethren nor Druids ventured here, and the farther isles of the Priestesses and Teachers were far easier to remain unseen from.
Some nights, Sussiah would sneak close to the Brethren to gain a better lay of the land she would later need, and nights near the full moon were especially aglow in Avalon. She wagered that she could probably enter the priests’ very huts and look through their possessions, but as tempting as that was, she was here for a larger prize than any prayer beads or manuscripts.
Yet sometimes, whether close to the Brethren or on the Isle of Heath (as she later learned they called it), she sometimes felt that a man was watching her – a big, silent man who watched her like she was an amusing girl-childe playing in her mother’s ribbons. But when she turned, there was never anyone there. Well, almost never – once on the Isle of Heath, she turned and saw in the distance and there on the isle of the Brethren he stood watching her – a tall, large-framed man of older-middle years, exactly as she’d imagined. He looked at her as if to say I know who you are and what you’re planning, and she could tell he was smiling, like an indulgent parent knowingly letting a child get away with only so much.
It was almost enough to make her give up, or at least to rethink her plan. Could he actually stop her, when the time came?
In the drizzle of the next night, she thought and rethought, fearing even to sleep more than the odd catnap.
The daylight offered no answers, nor the night or morning that followed.
But the afternoon that followed brought a commotion on the Druid Isle – a large contingent of Druids and knights.
This in and of itself was not of Sussiah’s concern – until she saw the maiden with them. Her heart skipped a beat! If this was her, then her prize had returned with her!
The time for hunting game was over; the time for acting had arrived!
And on the isle of the Josephite brethren, Pelles watched Sussiah with sadness, no longer a smile.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Queen Imra and her entourage reached Lothian in mid-July, not long after word had reached Rokk of the doings at Durobrivae.
He greeted his bride coolly.
“Jonah, Garth and Reep think themselves capable enough to wage wars without consulting me. My wife conducts botched diplomacy, casts aside state secrets and announces them in person to every court in the land. I should be pleased that everyone feels the whim to let their king know these things after the fact, I suppose.” He was calm and collected in his sarcasm, at least.
“My lord husband, I-”
“Am I not king of this land? Have I not fought, bled and nearly died time and again for this land and all its people?” Now his ire began to appear.
“..You have.”
“Have I not been friend and ally to Avalon and Church, to pagan and Christian, to Roman, Celt, Kentish Khund, Angle, Cymry, Pict, Irish and Manx?”
“Aye.”
“So why… Why is it every time I slay one beast, solve one riddle, thwart one war, I find my friends and family have invited five more in its stead?”
Imra had enough. “Maybe you spend too much time amongst your Pictish friends siring bastards that you have forgotten that your kingdom extends south of Lothian!”
“If my wife didn’t moon after the oh-so-pretty Sir Garth, mayhap my attentions need not so wander! I have seen my brother Reep but thrice since Jormangund – and you and he returned from Paris at the same time. Perhaps this newcomer Sir Bedwyr retains your interest more than your liege and husband?”
“The evils from your tongue betray only the evils in your heart! I have not cast aside my fidelity for anyone, let alone some cave-dweller!”
Rokk was startled. “Thou speak truly?”
What cause hath I given that thou should so doubt me? Why hast thine heart grown so darkened since ere before the Khund war?
“I… am not sure. I thought perhaps that I had merely cast aside my youthful notions, that I had learnt of how men and kings truly must act in this world, but sometimes…” He sighed. “Sometimes it seems everything slips away from me. And everyone.” He turned and walked to the window. Outside, work continued as normal on rebuilding Lothian, oblivious to his marital difficulties.
Imra came up behind him, easing up against him and placing her hand over his on the sill.
“I have been busy, tis true. But I should not have neglected my husband. Maybe… maybe I felt that with you so long in the North, that I could serve your duties in Londinium. I know, tis foolish, when spoken aloud…”
“No. Except for this Clovis business, you did well enough, my wife. In truth, maybe I am mad that I cannot be everywhere I am needed.”
“You’ve done what you can here. Tis time to return to Londinium. Time for us to move on from all this.”
“Aye,” he conceded. “Our son still travels with you? I would very much like to see him.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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They were clearly set in a place of particular honour. But who could be here buried? Certainly not Geraint!
Mysa caught her breath at the unsavoury concept that crossed her mind. Marcus was addled, it was well-known, and she had certainly heard many tales of his madness en route. But could he have murdered her sister and Sir Thom?
Peasants and merchants she had known passed by her with no heed. They would have recognized the young woman who had once been their queen, but not the withered old figure they now barely noticed.
“Fear not. There is no one in those graves,” a young man said as he passed, presumably a tradesman doing business at the castle. “Our mad liege thinks his son and love are under the dirt though.” He tossed her a coin. “Please spoil not the secret should you see him a-ranting out here, eh?
Mysa picked up the coin and began to wander back toward the village. On the way, she learned from the gossip of outbound farm folk that Queen Nura had fled Britain with Sir Thom. Pellam dead, Nura exiled, Imra probably still hated her… who was there to turn to? Traveling tired her more than it should; she was an old woman in more than just appearance. There was a nice smooth rock that would be good for a rest…
…It was late in the afternoon; she had nodded off and not realized. She rose and made her way into the village when she happened upon an elderly man also making the half-mile walk from castle to village. He seemed familiar.
“Governal?”
He turned, offering an affable smile.
“Yes?” He clearly saw her not as anything but one of the local old hens who knew all the castle staff, yet was not individually known in turn.
“Governal, it’s me,” she knew better than to expect him to recognize her. When last they met some 20 months ago, she was a yet a woman in her last phase of turning young men’s heads. “It’s Mysa.”
The recognition in his eyes took barely a second. “Mysa! Tis you!” He was overjoyed, even as concern washed over him. “But what has befallen you? This is no disguise, no seeming, is it?”
“No, tis not. Come, my old mentor. Let us find someplace that we can share counsels. We have much to discuss.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“And you say the kingship of Drest has changed us,” Tasmia scoffed.
“Priestess of Shadows you may be, but Shadows have not protected us from Jormangund nor the Irish,” Grev admonished. He and the other warlords who won acclaim in the Southlands had presented their new king with their idea, and he agreed – so long as they could muster support from the clans.
Thus far, most had agreed, he noted. “Only the Yakka-Mahor have refused us. Yet even they will be welcome within our walls. It will be a magnificent fortress, guarding the south end of the Great Glen. Fit for any people in any place.”
“Fit for any king?” Tasmia scoffed. “You see how the Southlanders value their nobles, whether or not they are of their own Folk. Now we adopt their kings, their fortresses. What is next? Shall it be their women carrying the seed of our menfolk? Or vice versa?”
It was Grev’s turn to scoff. “If you had seen how the fortifications of the Southlands had held off a single force of Khundish invaders than there are Picts in all the lands, you would see the need. Spears and stone-axes will do naught when invaders come with catapults, siege towers and computi. If we do not adapt to the tools of others, those tools will destroy us!”
There was a truth to the words, but Tasmia was uncomfortable with that. “Or do we just become Southlanders, saving them the trouble of conquest?”
She stormed off, regretting directing such anger at her kinsman. He had seen the Southlands, it was true. Perhaps he and the other warlords were just in building walls and fortresses… but she couldn’t help but feel the shroud of prophesy falling upon the land.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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She watched the Druids with pomp and ceremony bring her prize to the Josephites brethren, and the brethren accept with a humble air of ceremonial of their own.
She followed from a distance as the brethren returned the prize to a resting place, a secret compartment hidden behind the lion’s head of the very well she passed upon entering this magickal land. So much the better!
Giddy with how easy the kind, generous and naïve priesthood had been, she merely waited a half-hour for them to return to their suppertime chores before helping herself to the prize; she would not even bother to return for her camp supplies.
The secret compartment opened with ease – surely in this hidden land where all but herself was sacred and oath-bound no one would need elaborate locks, or maybe locks of any kind at all.
Sussiah paused to admire the prize. Cauldron, Chalice, Grail, whatever it was, it was small, golden, and easily carried, either formally, levelly with two hands or more sloppily with one. Sussiah’s sack made an even better vessel. She paused, and was off, back down the grotto tunnel by which she had arrived.
Pelles stopped chopping the greens for the evening meal and without a word bolted towards the grotto.
His brethren were perplexed, and one stepped up to take over the duty, assuming he would be back in moments. Pelles was a good man and good brother; no doubt he would sheepishly make up for his erratic moment with extra chores.
It never occurred to any of them that they would never see Pellam’s son again.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Mysa was delighted to have Governal’s aid in catching up on matters. He, too, was delighted to reunite with his former charge and student, even if she was now of an age with him.
They shocked each other as well. He was shocked at what she had gone through, and that the mythical land of Gorre was still an active participant in the world. She in turn was shocked that Mordru and his aid Iason (why did that name and description seem so familiar?) were moving on Avalon in retaliation for wrongs done to her, and that Governal had himself aided this effort.
“Still, everything will be set a-right. Cador will help us, once he returns from the Teachers,” he platonically squeezed her hand in his mentorly-but-familial way.
“Cador,” she repeated. She recalled him from Avalon, but knew him not so well as Governal. She recalled his Cornish accent more than his face to be honest, and she could only hope her beloved mentor’s trust was not misplaced.
The weeks continued to breeze by. She was made quarters in the castle, and welcomed as a peer of Governal and Cador. Marcus rarely left the keep these days, whether deep in melancholy or outbursts of mania, and she helped to tend to him.
One day a knight turned up seeking hospitality. Governal knew him well; he was of South Cymru and his name was Accolon. He was dark in features, clearly of olde blood. He greeted her like a queen, and looked at her not as a withered old woman.
“I have some traces of the Sight,” he explained to her one day as they walked along the cliff-top pastures, as they were doing more and more often of late. “More then men-folk are supposed to. Or so I am told,” he smiled.
“And they say men who have womanly qualities are not real men,” she laughed. “Yet you are every bit the knight, the man anyone could ask!”
He smiled. “And you, every bit the woman. I see you despite the enchantment forced upon you,” he turned and looked at her with a warmth and zeal she was taken aback. “And I know that you did not get free of the Far Realms just to accept life as the sage-crone.”
She nodded. “I am hoping that the Teachers-”
“-The Teachers and indeed all of Avalon do nothing, while those of the one-god steal our island out from under us! Come with me, Mysa. My lord and I are gathering those who would remind King Rokk that Britain is the Dragon’s Isle, not the Cross’s.” His passion was infectious, and Mysa could not help but be intrigued – and attracted.
“You have earned my ear,” she smiled.
“With Marcus’ dementia, you are queen of Cornwall in all but name. The people will follow you. You can undo the influences of Geraint. The West Country must be the heart of noble olde Britain again, and in your service, we can do it!”
The warm summer evenings brought forth wines and music, and the courtship political and romantic continued. Governal caught on; one night he whispered a comment that Garth was not the only younger knight seeking her skirts, even despite her aging, before retiring for the evening.
Did he really see her as a younger woman? Or did he see the same withered appearance everyone else did, but merely see that it was but a façade? The way he caressed her, stroked her hair, she felt young again, and in the dark she could at last forget her skin was not an old woman’s.
Three days later, they rode off together, bound for Exteter.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Laoraighll had escorted the queen across all of Britain and back, with few courts unvisited by Laoraighll, and none missed by the queen or the rest of her escorts. It was necessary work protecting the queen from villains who had been few and far between.
Rokk and Imra had ruled ably enough, and the lineage and death of Pellam led tongues that several years ago had fueled the conspiracies of the rebel kings were now welcoming and conciliatory. Britain was as united as it ever had been, possibly more so, and Imra was accepted as herself as part of that.
Despite the necessity of the task, the Ulsterwoman was bored.
When Imra left Dalraida to go east to Lothian, Laoraighll had gone west, home to Ulster. It was unsettling, a reminder of how much she was changing, becoming at home in Britain – those of Ulster laughed at her accent, her styles and mannerisms. Going home in body is nae the same as going home in the heart, she realized.
She rejoined the royal procession at Eboracum, with King Rokk now a part of the troupe returning to Londinium. They arrived to find that the celebration of Durobrivae’s liberation had come and gone. Now, all were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Laoraighll had no patience to hear Rokk screaming at his officers, that they initiated a military campaign without him (let alone successfully), and departed – without leave. An odd humour set about her, and she felt almost queasy.
In the morning, Lu found her in bed shivering, vomiting, unable to speak.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Sir Reep inspected the site. Construction was going well. It would take years to complete Camelot, of course, but the portions already built, additions to the original garrison, were impressive, and the preliminary outer walls facing the coast had already earned their keep.
It was just past dusk, near the foundations of the west tower that Reep heard the screams.
“Help! Help! Get it off of me!” It was an old man’s voice.
Reep drew his sword and charged.
A man in robe with long flowing white hair (did he seem familiar?) was trying in vain to fend off – a monstrous creature trying to latch onto the man’s head – to consume him, no doubt!
Reep drew his sword and charged. “What manner of creature art thou?”
“It’s a demon!” the old man blurted. Old man?!? – it was Mordru!! Surprised by the victim’s identity, Reep was knocked groundward by the demon, his sword flying as well.
Reep pulled his dirk and tried again. “Begone, vile fiend! You have no place in this place, the fortress of King Rokk!” Somehow he had imagined demons would be yellow-skinned and breathing fire, but this one--
He swung, but the fiend was gone. It was suddenly attacking him from behind.
“‘King’ Rokk, you say? And who made him king?” The creature asked in a low, grumbly voice.
Reep swung, but the creature parried.
“He is the son and heir of the High King Uther the Pendragon, recognized king by the Church, the Druids and the Lady of the Lake!”
The creature shoved him and was gone again. Suddenly it attacked him from overhead.
“Some watery tart lying in ponds distributing scimitars is no basis for a system of government,” the creature said while fighting with its array of small, miscellaneous limbs. “Now in my realm, we govern ourselves by collective-”
Reep managed to score a cut into the bug-like demon, and it yelped as it vanished in a circle of darkness.
Reep looked around, expecting it to be back. Cautiously, he made his way to his sword before greeting the wizard.
“You have my thanks,” Mordru smiled. “Where- where am I anyway?”
“At Camulodunum. How did you get here, without knowing?” Reep was suspicious.
“As you know, my wife Mysa has been missing for the past year and a half. I have been seeking her out, by looking in every otherworldly place I can think of, where those lost in the lake of the worlds may come ashore.”
Wife? Reep didn’t know that. “We are far from Glastonbury.”
“Aye, so we are. But the Far Realms do not behave as our maps would have us believe.”
“So why here?”
“There was a… gateway I was going to explore, here, at the marsh’s edge.” Mordru glanced around and pointed. “It only materializes at dawn and dusk, but it will appear over near where the tower’s foundation is laid.”
“We’re building our fortress on a gateway to God-knows-where?”
“To Avalon, it turns out. I suspect the wards preventing me from entering summoned up that demon against me. So I’ve wasted my voyage here. I’m forbidden from even checking out the gate by stepping through it and back again.”
“Well, I wish you luck. I hop you fid her. I… miss her.”
I’m glad someone at court does, Mordru thought. “I owe you a boon. Here,” he held out an amulet. “Should you choose to check out the Avalon gate yourself, this will help you find your way through and back.”
Reep was still deeply suspicious, but took the amulet.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Word had spread of Jonah’s victory at Durobrivae, which nobles from across the isle attributed to a master plan of Rokk himself. His knights magnanimously said nothing to the contrary. Rokk in turn would accept the situation so long as he was not circumvented again. Noble after noble either visited court themselves or sent messengers of nobility themselves, and by early autumn the victory was celebrated all over again.
But the Macedonians had gotten the message to. The Portus Magnus force was tripled almost immediately, Jenni reported, and reprisals against locals were increasing.
Where did they get the troops so quickly? Tis not an short voyage from the Middle Seas, Rokk wondered. He sent word for Reep to rejoin him from Camelot. With L’ile absent and Querl, like Loomius still recovering from their burn wounds, he needed his foster-brother’s advice on strategy.
Rokk took advantage of the visiting nobles to lobby for a new force to remove the invaders once and for all. Vassal after vassal pledged such support, and offered everything from tactical advice to an expeditionary force to Nuhorra itself.
On the fourth day of feasts and plans, a messenger arrived from Neustria. Rokk expected the messenger would request a private audience, but no, the messenger wanted to address them all.
“Greetings, lords, ladies and knights of Britain. Lucius, Duke of Neustria and its Northern Territories salute you. We bring greetings also from our kind and just liege, Clovis, King of the Franks.
“As you know, relations between ourselves and your court have been quite cordial, and we wish it to remain so. Bretons and Franks alike must stand together as the Khund continues to bear down upon us all.
“Therefore it is imperative that such cooperation continue. On Britain’s behalf, we have petitioned Clovis to forgive the trespass done by a shameless hussy who will claim any noble lineage her quick tongue finds-”
At this point, the messenger was shouted down by the assembled court, and Imra returned hard the stare from Jancel, who had spoken not to her since Pellam’s funeral.
Rokk called for order and for silence, particularly calling upon Jonah to sheath his dirk. “Harm not the messenger for the folly of his masters!’ Achieving order, he motioned for the messenger to continue.
“Our just and wise lord has consulted with Symmachus, Bishop of Rome and Pontiff of the Living Church of Iesous. Our wise fathers are in agreement that in order to save and protect all good Christians from the heathens of Khundia, the North and elsewhere, the time has come to reunite the Empire under the banner of Clovis.”
Rokk had to hush a wave of negative reaction yet again, although this one was less irate than the prior round.
“With the blessings of Clovis, the young King Rokk may remain king of Britain as vassal to Clovis-”
This time, the messenger continued as no tongue would be spared at verbally flaying Lucius, Clovis and the messenger himself. Few heard his next words:
“On the conditions that he put aside his current woman and wed a proper Christian bride of true nobility, surrender the villain Sir Thom to our good and noble allies of Nuhorra, and offer such tribute as your liege deems fitting.”
The crowd had simmered down enough for more to hear his conclusion.
“Should young King Rokk fail to satisfy these reasonable expectations and refuse to rule as a responsible Christian, then we, by royal appointment of Clovis and with the full approval of Symmachus, shall be the true and proper ruler of the province of Britain within the restored Empire. In such an unfortunate event, Rokk and any warrior who stands with him will be sentenced to hard labours as the Emperor sees fit. With much joy and love, Lucius, Duke of Neustria.”
“I’LL show you JOY AND LOVE, villain!” James was ready to strike down the man.
“No messengers shall be slain in my name!” Rokk commanded. “Yon man is no warrior. He is a courier of messages, and with his approval I would like to send one to Lucius.”
“My lord expected as much, your highness,” he replied.
“Greetings and salutations, Lucius of Neustria. We continue to be appreciative of mutually beneficial efforts of the past, and are disturbed that any lord like Clovis who would claim the mantle of a Christian emperor would harbour a dangerous heretic like the would-be cleric Vidar, who uses the name of our Saviour only to disguise his evils. It would be unseemly to offer the just Sir Thom, even if it were actually reasonable to do so, while such a villain preys upon the court of Clovis. We understand that Clovis’ impressions of our bride and queen were influenced by this viper as well, so thus we cannot honour such a request as it was made in haste, ignorance and deceit that are the very hallmark of Vidar himself. While many sons of Rome here in Britain would welcome a return to Empire and a united front against the Khunds, it would be nothing less than an affront to our Lord and Saviour Iesous Cristi to do so with His enemies whispering in the very ear of he who would be our emperor. With all our blessings for peace and unity untainted by evil, Rokk, King of Britain."
“Did you get all that?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then go in peace. Sirs Berach and James? Would you escort the messenger safely from our shores?”
Kiritan was the first to speak when the guest had left. “T’would seem we know now where the new troops at Portus Magnus have come from.’
“Aye, they’d likely have been sent even if we’d never taken Durobrivae. They’ve been looking for an excuse to push us.”
“They made a mistake, giving us this year to catch our breaths. I want Portus Magnus back in British hands before the messenger reaches Neustria!” Rokk commanded, receiving a tempest of cheers.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“Ah! My ‘Wild Huntsman’ returns!” Aivillagh greeted Sir Accolon. “And you must be—” The lord of Exeter was taken aback. “M-my Lady Mysa! But you’re so-
“Forgive me,” he recovered himself.
“Tis all-a-right. I am still not used to the reflection I see in the washing bowl,” she laughed.
“No matter. We are all here for one purpose,” Accolon sought to move beyond the faux pas.
‘We must save Avalon from Mordru,” Mysa agreed.
“And from itself,” Aivillagh added. “Beren ages and slows, with none in sight to replace him. The Teachers remain aloof. Azura’s authority over her own priestesses began to wane the day you vanished.” He waved for his servants to bring in wine and bowls of fish stew for his visitors.
“She met with King Rokk a few weeks later, I’ve learned. After this, she began attending more to the Queen than ever, as if she no longer saw Rokk as worth trifling with,” Accolon added.
“They say he turned his allegiance away from Avalon, to the Pictish priestesses last winter,” Aivillagh said. “He has even sired a bastard up there, tis said.”
“I cannot believe that!” Mysa had to protect her younger brother.
“Boys grow up and learn the ways of men. Kings especially have to learn faster. He’s changed since you’ve last met. They call him the bear-king now.”
“Even so, I’ll not hear such words until I see it with my own eyes!”
“Of course. My apologies, my Lady,” Aivillagh backed down. “Tis only my lament for seeing the Olde Ways erode. I once saw King Rokk as Avalon’s ally, whilst now Avalon itself falls into slumber.”
“You mentioned there are none to replace Beren? What about Llanfair? Taidg? MacCullough?”
‘Truthfully – could any of them ever serve as Beren has? As Azura falls short of Kiwa, so too must any who follow Beren, I fear,” Aivillagh sighed. “Avalon long trained generation after generation of this land’s best. First, we started losing them to Rome. And now to the Christians. Avalon used to turn away pupils, we had so many seeking to learn its ways. There were enough to stay, to commit to Avalon, but even those who went home again remained in her service.”
“I… need to see my brother. His bride and I feuded and I left court, but I must see him. I cannot be part of any conspiracy against him, I tell you that.”
Aivillagh was hurt. “We- I- merely want him to remain true to the Avalon of Beren and Kiwa, that the traditions of Britain persevere. I do not wish to move against him, my Lady! Mind also that myself and many others regard you as our queen.”
“An honour I cannot accept whilst Marcus yet lives, nor while Nura and Thom are exiled.”
“They will never serve,” Aivillagh said. “Thom won’t, in any case. Too many still begrudge him for Geraint.”
“Even though Geraint’s brother holds Portus Magnus hostage,” Accolon added.
“Aye. But in death Geraint is purified of that, or so it seems in my talks with my fellow West Countrymen,” Aivillagh replied.
“We seem to have drifted from the issue of finding allies. What of Imra? Was she not raised in Avalon, and of the Olde line?” Accolon asked. “Even if she and Mysa are at odds, cannot someone approach her?”
“Imra… consorts with Christians these days. To what extent I know not,” Mysa offered.
“Yet Azura was with her of late, helping to smooth the waters with nobles. She cast aside her guise as Guinevere, you know,” Aivilalgh reported.
Mysa nodded. “I cannot approach her, or even enter court, not knowing where I stand with either of them. I shall approach Sir Brandius instead. Governal tells me he spends little time at court just now.”
“Tis true,” Aivillagh nodded. “I heard him say as much at Pellam’s funeral. He jested that Rokk does not need his foster-father peering over his shoulder.”
“Then there I shall go.”
“I have made the acquaintance of the queen last year in Cymru. Perhaps I could go.” Accolon suggested.
“Nay. Imra’s Sight is such that if you so much as think of me, she will know. Seek out Beren – but be prepared that Mordru may expect it. Governal and Cador will warn the Teachers. We need someone to alert Imra or the Priestesses without Thora knowing.”
They sat in silence, save for the sound of the guests dabbing at their stews.
“I… have a new acquaintance, an ally of a like mind who already knows the queen, and is on good terms already. I shall send him.”
“Who?” Mysa was intrigued.
“He was Sir Dyrk, but now calls himself Apollo. He is out hunting with my Northman knight Sugyn.”
“You are building quite the court of knights yourself, then,” Mysa observed.
“I have no wish for numbers at the expense of quality. A dozen pure of heart I would be satisfied with.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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The complete rout at Portus Magnus surprised even King Rokk, who had anticipated a greater challenge against the Macedonians and their Frankish allies. But rather than offer them a conventional battlefield where their superior training and equipment would win out, he caught them by surprise and made them fight in the streets of the city – streets his British warriors were still better accustomed to than any occupiers, especially those newly arrived from the Frankish kingdom.
Mobile computii and the occasional burst of taranaut barraged Macedonian/Frankish-occupied towers and rooftop archers, minimizing the advantage of building height the occupiers enjoyed. Although ill, Laoraighll also leapt from rooftop to rooftop, taking on adversaries up-close with such efficiency that it seemed that more enemy bodies were airborne than were enemy arrows. Portus Magnus had been lost and re-taken so often in Rokk’s short reign that his men were almost following routines as they retook strategic locations. Rokk resolved to do something about the civic defenses soon – while there was still a city to defend.
The sheer number of British forces, from all quarters of the isle and fighting as one, had created an unstoppable force – one that struck terror into the surviving Franks who fled to the seas. Kentish Khund, Pict, Angle, Celt, Roman, Cymry, Cornish and Scot fought as brothers; any past internal quarrel now behind them, it seemed. Even the Cornish who had been loyal to the traitorous Geraint now fought against his brother’s occupation; according to what Sir Garth had heard, Duke Aivillagh of Exeter had some witchy old woman speak to the troops, and this somehow smoothed some waters – Geraint’s own adjutant Meleagant stood by her side. This old woman looked at him seemingly with eyes that knew him well – yet she was but a stranger to him.
Iarcalthus himself, the very instigator of the Nuhorran/Macedonian occupation, had been in Paris and was neither leading his own defenses nor among those captured. Indeed, Frankish propaganda would later try to portray the British as lying in wait for the “rightful” governor of the city to vacate before their attack when in fact Rokk had hoped to make an example of the arrogant Nuhorran. Sir Jonah achieved a measure of satisfaction for capturing the Nuhorran chamberlain Mantos, who had vowed revenge on the British earlier that summer.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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“You were right, Vidar,” Duke Lucius admitted. “Young King Rokk has shown his true colours. And to think I had once considered him a friend and ally.”
“We… we all make mistakes, Lucius,” Clovis’ thought was interrupted by a coughing spell. “I too had hoped Rokk would mature into a wise leader, not merely one lucky on the battlefield.”
Vidar smiled, and gave himself the luxury of being a reasonable voice of dissent. “Perhaps young Rokk knew not that Iarcalthus was away, or that Frankish troops had been deployed to Portus Magnus.”
“Oh, come now, my Universeau,” Clovis’ passion prompted a new round of coughing and wheezing. His retainers waited patiently for the bed-ridden king to resume. “Not only have your words helped us glean the workings of the British court, but our… other informant describes Rokk’s spy network as second to none.” A servant brought him a new elixir to drink. “He knew. By the gods, he knew.”
Vidar winced at his liege’s lingering paganism. It seemed to demonstrate itself more often when the king was tired or particularly sicker than usual. He hoped his agent could return soon with the artifact he’d hired her to fetch.
“And forget not Bedwyr,” offered Hart. “Your own son, seduced by that mind-witch.”
Vidar nodded glumly. Yet still he clung to hope that the lad might come to his senses.
“Rokk has made plain he is ready for war’” Clovis refocused the discussion. “Our question to-day is how we respond, and how we… incorporate Iarcalthus’ suggestions in with our own strategy.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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After a full week without rest, even Sussiah was exhausted beyond the point of collapse. Every time she had thought she had foiled her pursuer, every time she thought she could sleep for but an hour, he was there – the big burly priest who had chased her all the way from Avalon.
He could be amazingly quiet at times – yet whenever he came within earshot of her hiding place, he grew louder and louder. If she stayed in place whether night or day, he would thrash around in circles all along one side, sometimes coming very close while others circling far enough away – far enough to let her escape. He was playing with her, she finally realized – he was driving her toward the mountainous vales east of Cymru and west of Perilous Forest.
She was tired – and she’d had enough. This time, she had made her resting spot above a fierce river, one that cascaded down a steep hill valley into a small pond; at the base of the falls was a whirlpool that fed much its the water into some netherworldly chasm – the river continued on as only a fraction of itself above ground.
It was approaching dawn as her pursuer began thrashing closer and closer, playing out his game once again Sussiah almost groggily stumbled toward her feet and made her way to a chalky limestone cliff overlooking the falls. “Come on out, holy man! Show yourself, or your prize goes down into the bowels of the world!”
The priest’s thrashings stopped. For an interminable spell Sussiah glanced about her, looking for the priest to be sneaking up at her whilst fending off her own weariness; her blinking and her determination to glimpse the priest were in combat against each other.
“Come on out. NOW!” She stepped closer to the cliff.
“I will throw it. Verily, I shall!”
That is your choice. That is why I brought you here.
“Show yourself, by damnation!”
Yes, by damnation indeed. A holy relic is better lost to this world than misused for greed. Throw it, if you will.
It must be a trick, mustn’t it?
Sussiah lifted the Chalice from its sack and held it high above her, angling it towards the edge. “You really think I shall not? You really think I’d believe a holy man would so easily part with such a vital relic?”
Iesous gave His life for us, my childe. For all of us. With no thought for His own regard. Can we cling to possessions, no matter how wondrous, and ignore His example? We are not merchants hoarding things for worldly value.
There was still no one in sight to accompany the disembodied voice that placed his words directly into her head.
“If I can’t have it, no one can!” She started to hurl the Chalice away – but found she could not! The metal, gold but not gold, silver but not silver, glowing but not glowing, with all its fine detail, was just too precious a prize to be lost – when it could just as easily be restolen some later day.
She lowered her arm, still gazing at her prize. Its warm energy was in fact the only thing keeping her awake after so many days.
The gentle, good-natured laughter right behind her startled her almost enough to fall over the cliff herself. She had so shifted her focus, she was so tired, that the priest was now close enough to seize her, seize the chalice, or seize them both.
I could take away your spoils here and now, my childe. But I shall not – if you accompany me on a short journey to a castle not a-far from this very place.
Sussiah later could not remember the details of the conversation that followed, but she slept for more than a full day and awoke to the priest – Pelles, he called himself – preparing a fast-breaking on some subsequent morning, a meal of woodland berries and a single small trout for them to share.
As he had promised, the Chalice was still in her hand upon her waking.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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The villa but a day’s journey from Corinium was nestled into a picturesque valley of hills covered by apple orchards and small lowland fields of grain surrounded by wooded peaks that only a southern Breton could truly call mountains
Mysa let her little pony lead her up the path past apple trees and spidery grape lines towards the villa ahead. She could well imagine her young brother growing up here, with a happy childhood insolated from the strifes of the outer world. In some ways, this place seemed as removed from the mundanities of politics and war as Avalon itself! Tis appropriate that Rokk’s very homeland is just as magickal, in its own way.
The farm hands paid no mind to an old woman passing through. Between midwives, rural healers, beggars and petitioners, she looked no different from many who traveled the roads these days. Indeed, there was a line up ahead of her – a line stopped in place. Mysa dismounted and approached.
A small crowd was listening to Sir Brandius himself lecturing a lad bandaged in red-stained cloth on the proper handling of axe. He calmly and patiently explained where the youth had gone into error by carrying the axe wrong, running with it, and even in the way he swung it, all while trying to obtain firewood for his family. The crowd was appreciatively awed and charmed by their local lord.
One by one, those ahead of her petitioned Brandius for some boom or judgment, and Brandius held court comfortably and affably in the partial shade of his orchards. With a gentle warm breeze, it was hard for any to be of dour mood.
One woman wanted her neighbour to repay a small loan. A man sought to clear up a besmirching of his family’s honour. A mother who had traveled all the way from the western edge of Perilous Forest sought the return of her son, who had run away and been working in Brandius’ kitchen, hoping to earn squiredom or even eventually knighthood. Two brothers quarreled over their inheritance. And so it went.
Finally it was Mysa’s turn, yet more had gathered behind her. She would not have a private moment as she had hoped. She had avoided interrupting the line ahead, hoping Brandius would spy her and slowly glean who she was without her having to make the case for recognition. Her hopes were for naught.
His smile was warm and affable, but his eyes showed no connection, no sign that the elder knight saw anything more than an elderly peasant woman before him.
“My good Sir Brandius. It has been too long.” She spoke at last, hoping to recapture enough of the essence of her own voice and poise to spark her brother’s foster-father’s wit.
“I fear the advantage is yours, my dear lady,” he spoke politely – too politely, lacking the familiarity she sought.
She chuckled dismissively, as if the disconnect were the simplest of errors. “I fear the curse upon me makes me less than obvious. Tis I, the Lady Mysa, your foster-son’s own sister. I fear the magicks-”
“Have addled your head, my dear lady,” Brandius replied patronizingly. “The real Lady Mysa is a much younger lady.”
Mysa started to reply, but Brandius cut her off. “You are not the first addled mind to claim to be the high king’s missing sister, but I give you credit, you are the eldest, and most imaginative.”
Mysa was taken aback – and not just by hearing of imposters. She had truly thought Brandius would see the real her, as Governal and even Aivillagh had.
“My lady,” he continued. “I would see my kitchen avail you with a bowl of stew ere your departure. You are clearly not from around here, and it would grieve me to see you traveling without a meal whilst in my gardens.”
The words she had practiced had fallen from her mind into a fog. Mysa nodded slowly as an underling ushered her away, hoping she could find away to again try to appeal to her brother’s most trusted aide.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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