“Until the battle of Elmet, I thought he wasn’t. But he showed up large as life, exactly as I’d seen him in my vision. And everything else he’s foretold has come to pass, so…”
“Look, Art,” Lance said uneasily, reading the lines of illness and strain in his friend’s face. “I’ve no doubt he’s a prophet. But one very old man with a long white beard can look a lot like another, and… my mother used to say that these hermit-magicians, for all their gifts, are caught between the old world and the new. That they don’t really understand either, and would do anything to pull things back to a kind of dream of the way the kingdom used to be, or should have been, and maybe never was.”
Art reached up to grasp the rail. Before Lance could stop him, he’d pulled himself to his feet. “You don’t understand. He’s the Merlin, the very one who brought me from the forest. I need him, especially—especially now that Ector’s gone.”
I won’t breathe his name until you do. Lance hadn’t had to wait for long. Art had been close to a decision in the debating hall today, and the old man had deflected him. “Ector loved the bones of you,” he said firmly, getting up and taking Art by the shoulders. “He’d want you to heed any wisdom your Merlin has to give, but not to fear him. And he’d definitely not want you standing about on freezing staircases until your family jewels drop off anyway. Come inside.”
“All right. Let’s stay out of the corridors, though, then there’s less chance of old King Coel collaring me.”
“Does he do that a lot?”
“Every chance he gets. A merry old soul, my arse! Like it’s my fault his son’s a collaborator.”
“And is he?”
Lance put out an arm. It was no less than the Lady Ardana would have done, and Art took the offered support with as much grace as he could muster. “Garb? Just an idiot, I believe. Thinks he can succeed where Vortigern failed.”
“Can he?”
Night had fallen on Din Guardi, a wolf with icy breath. Slowly they made their way back down the track and past the wooden palisade that marked the castle’s inner ward. Even this pace was making Arthur limp and bite back sounds of pain, so Lance stopped with him under the archway to a squat tower, ignoring the edge of his temper. “Is that the keep?”
“Yes. Sight lines clear to Alauna. Has its own well, too. I could hold the north from here, if the Hen Ogledd kings would stop bickering and join me.” He released a long breath, and turned to meet Lance’s amused glance. “Thank God you’re here. My enemies won’t say yes to me, and my so-called friends won’t say no. You must be tired, though, after your journey. Come and I’ll show you your quarters.”
***
Lance, who had been ready to billet down among the soldiers, looked with pleasure around his bright-lit chamber. Coel had given Arthur’s retinue lodging in the keep, the only structure in the fortress with a stone-built upper floor. It was the best and least draughty of all the buildings, with cloudy blue Roman glass in its narrow windows: whatever his motives in asking Art here, the old king had certainly meant to do him honour. The rooms in the upper floor were not large, but they had plain, comfortable wooden-frame beds and even their own rough corner fireplaces. A good blaze had been roaring in this one when Arthur had left him, and it was crackling still, sending ruby and orange flickers to blend with the world’s-edge darkness beyond the glass.
Driftwood and sea coal, Art had said. A salty incense filled the little space. Unpacking his few possessions from a saddlebag, Lance knew he would never forget it—that fragrance, and the unseen, softly roaring sea-night. I put you on the seaward side, Art had said to him. It’s colder, but I thought you’d like it better. I have to speak to Garbonian now, curse him. See you at dinner.
Lance went to the window. A single pane, it swung outward from its latch, letting in a wild rush of air. Art was right—it was freezing in this depth of December, and he doubted it was ever truly warm on this far-flung seagull’s perch. But he did like it better. I love it, he realised, wonderingly.
The draught was making the fire smoke. Reluctantly Lance closed the window. He wasn’t tired, he thought, not really. He could have gone with Art, or at least done something useful with his evening, to begin to pay for his welcome. Well, he’d seen archery targets in a hall on his way up here, even a big, torchlit yard where men were doing their best to knock one another off horses with swords. He could go and practise drill. From the look of things, he could even use what Ban had taught him from his Roman army days to make a few improvements…
He turned back into the room and looked at the neatly made-up bed. A huge yawn shook him. It hadn’t mattered to him at the time, but now he came to think of it, he had hardly rested for days. He’d been like a loosed arrow himself, flying straight for Din Guardi, as soon as he’d known he was free.
The rough blanket smelled clean from its outside drying. Stretching out on his stomach, Lance tried to stay awake, long enough at least to feel guilty about falling asleep in his boots, barely an hour after the midwinter sun had gone down.
Chapter Eight
He slept on until late evening, only jolting awake at the sound of shouts and laughter down in the hall of the keep. A clench in his belly, and savoury scents in the air, reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since his snatched meal with Guy before the debate. He scrambled up, washed as best he could in the bronze bowl of water by the fire, and changed into his one clean shirt.
At the foot of the twisting spiral staircase he met Guy and Ardana, involved in a scuffle that was making them laugh like children. Ardana looked up blushing when she noticed him, and Guy let her go, still beaming. “Ah, Lance! Have you met my wife?”
“Not formally, no.”
“My Lady Ardana, I present to you Lance o’the Lough, king of the White Meadows and Vindolanda.”
Lance bowed. Ardana, who looked as if she’d have liked to bow back, dropped an awkward curtsey instead. “We’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, then caught Guy’s eye and smiled. “An awful lot.”
“I’m sorry about that. And I’m only the prince, I’m afraid. My father came back.”
Guy’s eyes widened. “He never did!”
“I’ll tell you all about it, but not now. It looks as though we’re going in to dinner.”
“Aye, and you don’t want to miss that. It’s a grand affair.”
“Every night?”
“Now Art’s up and about again, yes. He thinks he’ll make all these grumpy old men learn to get on, if he sits them down together every day and feeds them. Of course old Coel couldn’t afford it, and we don’t believe in billeting troops on unsuspecting landowners like that anyway, so we’re footing the bill.”