September 21, 2010
A Sketch.
When the hard-faced emissaries of the mainland Queen reached the outer isles and asked about sunken boats and drowned children and were any rescued by chance, they said, no no, nothing like that here. Nothing but cold sea and gulls, and seals and fish, and bitter wind on the barren rocks. And the men left, and one of theirs tugged the tattered blanket off the head of the red-haired infant sleeping at her breast.
In later years, folks over from the mainland often remarked on the redheaded child scuttling among the seaside hollows, but they just shut down conversation until the visitors shut up, and got very adept at steering curious folk away.
And when he went away into fosterage to a noble who actually had some sense, they listened, and in the long years of his absence they took note of his exploits, and they’d sit around the fire at one or another’s house and say, that’s our boy. no matter what them others say.
And when at long last he came back, battle-weary but wearing their marks with quiet pride, they took him back and tucked him in and sat around the floor of his house saying, that’s our boy.
—————
A note: the “mainland Queen” is Morgause. Mainland is actually the name of the largest of the Orkneys, which always amuses me.
April 10, 2008
Another Conversation.
The King’s Champion leaned against a wall, surveying his counterpart. “You never really struck me as someone interested in private gatherings, Lancelot.”
Lancelot grinned. “That depends on whether or not I am the one in charge of the guest list, Gawain. At a large party, it is easy to avoid people. Not so in a more intimate setting.”
Gawain smiled wryly. “True. I am surprised, though, at some of the people present.”
“You are referring to Mordred.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no grand secret behind it, Gawain. I remember how overwhelming it was when I was new at court. How much worse must it be for him? Better for him to grow accustomed to us a little at a time.”
“I thank you for your consideration, Sir Lancelot.”
Gawain and Lancelot turned to look at the young knight. “You have good ears,” Lancelot remarked.
Mordred gave a small half-smile. “I am only more used to using them than others, perhaps.”
“Speaking of getting used to things,” Gawain interjected, “how are you adjusting to Camelot?”
“The vastness of many of the rooms here has been hard to adjust to, but it is easier to identify people than I feared. There are so many different accents here!” Mordred shook his head in wonder.
“I found that overwhelming, myself,” Lancelot said. “I had learned the language of this land at home, as a part of my studies, but to be thrown into the midst of this court, trying to speak it to its native speakers for the first time, and having to interpret so many different accents…”
The three knights fell into a comfortable silence. Gawain was the one who finally broke it.
“How are … other things?” he asked Mordred softly.
Mordred sighed. “Better than I can expect, really.”
“You will, of course, allow us to help you should any problems arise,” Lancelot said.
Mordred straightened, turning in Lancelot’s direction. “Thank you.”
Mordred’s No-Good, Very-Bad Day.
The clank of riveted metal joints caused Mordred to duck, but not fast enough. A gauntleted hand closed over his throat; a moment later, Mordred found himself pinned to a nearby wall. His assailant plucked his sword and dagger from his belt, then held a sword of his own to Mordred’s side. Mordred’s hands scrabbled uselessly at his attacker’s armored arms; a low snicker from the man finally identified him.
Amhar.
A surge of desperate energy roared through Mordred’s veins. His half-brother meant to kill him; of that, there was no doubt. Mordred was equally certain that Amhar intended it to be a long, slow death.
Mordred struck at the arm grasping his throat with all his strength. Something snapped in his hand, but Amhar’s grip loosened. Recovering quickly, Amhar swung his sword.
It struck Mordred’s side with a resounding clang, and stopped. Amhar readied himself for another swing, but Mordred had already opened his mouth and exhaled a soporific fog. Amhar dropped to his knees, struggling to keep his eyes open as his half-brother knelt next to him.
“You can’t be trusted with this,” Mordred rasped, pulling Amhar’s sword out of his grip. “Go to sleep.”
Amhar obeyed.
***
Gawain watched Amhar turn down a side street, a nasty suspicion forming in his mind. He started off after him.
“And then I was- Hey, Gawain, what’s wrong?” Kai trotted after his friend.
“Amhar. He-”
The clash of metal on metal spurred both men into a run. They turned the corner in time to watch Amhar collapse.
“What?” Gawain breathed.
Kai started to laugh. “Merlin owes me a drink. I told him Mordred was a true Pendragon.”
Gawain eyed his friend. “Meaning?”
Kai waved at the kneeling figure. “Arthur never uses his powers much anymore, but anyone who wants to claim the name Pendragon has to show two abilities – the ability to use his breath as a weapon, and the ability to use his own skin as armor, as Merlin’s godawful books put it.”
Mordred stood and walked over to them, holding Amhar’s sword. As he drew closer, Gawain could just see a scaly pattern as it faded into Mordred’s skin.
“Hello. Have either of you seen my weapons?” the Pendragon asked.
Standing Stones.
Gingerly, Merlin lowered the final lintel in place and released his magic. The massive stone wobbled a bit, then steadied.
“Thank God,” croaked the wizard, collapsing against a bluestone. The damn monument was finished, finally.
Some strange power prickled up the bluestone. Merlin leaped away, instinctively calling up his own magic.
There was nothing there.
Merlin poked the stone. Something in it poked back.
Merlin made a face at the stone. It stuck a stone tongue out at him.
Merlin stared, slowly letting his fighting magic sink back. He reached for a different strain of magic instead.
“Why don’t you show yourself?” he called, putting a touch of the summoning magic in his words.
A head stuck out of the stone. “I’d come out entirely, but I’m not sure I can go back if I do.”
“I’ve never seen a landwight with gold eyes.”
“I’m only half a landwight, and I’ve never done this before.”
“Ah.”
Wizard and wight stared at each other for the span of several minutes.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but what year is it?” the wight asked.
“Erm… 522, I think. I’m not entirely sure; I’ve been moving stones for a while, and time flies.” The wight was looking at Merlin like he’d grown three heads. Merlin patted his neck to make sure he hadn’t. “What’s wrong?”
“I, er, seem to have gone back in time.”
“Or you’re hallucinating,” Merlin pointed out.
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, well, if you’re sure. I’ve never heard of a time-traveling wight, but I suppose it’s possible. What else are you, anyway?”
“Hm?” The wight still seemed to be in shock.
“You said you are only half wight. What else are you?”
“Oh. Desert demon and deep elf.”
“Well, there you go.” At the wight’s confused look, Merlin continued. “The alfar are liminal wights; they live in the far fringes of the world where things like time don’t work like they do elsewhere.”
“That explains a lot about Grandma,” the wight said to himself. To Merlin he said, “Thank you,” and promptly vanished.
“You’re welcome,” Merlin said to the bluestone. He shouldered his bag and walked off towards Camelot, and smiled at the watchful curiosity that ran through the earth in his wake.
The End.
Nathan steeled himself and rapped on the door. It swung open before he’d even finished knocking.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Dr. Cain said, ushering him in. The Pendragon looked much the same as always, though she’d cut her hair and was female today.
The two stared at each other for a long moment, then Dr. Cain folded her arms. “You told me decades ago that you needed to speak to me sometime. I am assuming this is that time, so speak.”
Nathan opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Something dark deepened Dr. Cain’s black eyes. “Whatever it is, it must not be good, else you would not have waited until after you abdicated to come tell me. What is it?”
“It’s about your son.” Nathan’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Dr. Cain froze.
“He set off on a quest, intending to find something and bring it back home. He died on the return trip, but he succeded in his quest.” Nathan reached into the pocket of his overcoat and removed a small cup. It fit easily into Nathan’s hand and was made of a paper-thin crystal that caught the light.
Dr. Cain said nothing, but her eyes never left the cup.
The silence stretched.
“Why bring this here?” Dr. Cain said, her voice low.
“Your son set out to find it for you. Seeing that you got it is the least I can do.”
“The least you could do?” Awan hissed, and then realization hit her like a bolt of lightning. “Galahad was in the city you destroyed.”
Nathan bowed his head, still holding out the Grail. Mordred Pendragon took it, looked in its depths, and smiled.
Galahad snippet.
Galahad’s version of hair care went something like this: shave head. Wait until head resembles a woolly caterpillar; start from top. His approach to facial hair was pretty much identical.
God only knows where he got his clothes from. Nothing matched. Most of it didn’t even fit him. Fortunately, he mostly just wore his hermit’s robe. It was fun seeing what he’d wear to court the few times he bothered to show, though.
The west wall of his hut kept falling down, too. Not that Galahad cared, much. He said it gave him something to do. The only time it ever really irritated him was when it landed on him in his sleep. He had a nice cellar, though. It’s where he kept all his books, which he also scrounged from around the city. A substantial portion were on such refined matters as tatting lace.
All in all, Galahad had to be the most unkempt knight of the Round Table, and certainly one of the strangest. Percival, the holy fool, probably edged him out for the title of strangest knight, but only just.
Lancelot, when asked, insisted that Galahad took after his mother. Since no one at court had ever seen her, most people accepted this.
Galahad knew better, though.
A Visit by an Aunt.
“So, Dr. Cain, when did you get your eyes fixed?”
Ashmedai jumped and spun to face the woman leaning against the wall. “I thought I locked that.”
“You did. I unlocked it. It wasn’t hard. Stop glaring at me like that, nephew.”
“I’m not your nephew anymore, Morgan.”
“Not this incarnation, no. You’ve been reborn how many times since then? What do you do, kill yourself off every half a century for a new, youthful body?”
“I’m not you, Morgan.” Ashmedai turned back to his desk.
Morgan’s mouth twisted. “You never did answer my question, Mordred. When did you get your eyes fixed?”
“What makes you think I wasn’t simply reborn with working eyes?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Morgan said from right behind Ashmedai. She grabbed his hands and turned them palm-up. “If it were that easy, your hands should be healed, too.”
“That’s different,” Ashmedai said, not meeting Morgan’s eyes.
“Or I was right.”
A sudden surge of power pushed Morgan out into the hallway. The office door closed behind her, then fused into the wall.
“Someone feels threatened,” Morgan muttered, sitting up. She rubbed her head and clambered to her feet.
“I was right!” she yelled through the former door, before turning and skipping off down the hall.
The Trial.
The trial was held, like every other trial, in the Rotunda, in the presence of a quorum of knights. Kai looked around the room and sighed. Nearly everyone had shown up. Even Galahad had hunted down some knightly garb for the occasion, though he still looked like a country bumpkin playing dress-up.
Kai looked around again, counting empty seats. Nine. Four would not be filled until replacements were found. Kai had to remind himself not to glance at the remaining Lothian brothers. Sir Alexander and Sir Palomedes were out questing; they would not hear the news for days, at least. Lancelot had vanished, though he would not have had a seat at the table anyway. That left Gawain and Mordred.
Kai looked at his brother. Arthur had clearly noted their absence as well and looked, for the first time that day, faintly hopeful. After all, without the key witness, there could be no trial.
Kai refused to look at Guenevere.
Then the doors opened, and Gawain walked in, guiding Mordred. Kai winced; Lancelot had certainly done a number to the younger knight. The whole left side of Mordred’s face was one solid bruise; his left arm was in a sling. As he hobbled to his seat, Kai could see that he wasn’t resting his weight on his right foot, either.
Gawain clasped Mordred’s shoulder briefly before taking his own chair. Arthur’s eyes sought his champion’s; Gawain’s return stare was faintly challenging.
Mordred just leaned forward, blind eyes staring vacantly at the table, too tired to even pretend to sight.
Arthur cleared his throat. “You are all gathered here today as judges in a matter of grave import. The Queen has been accused of adultery; Sir Lancelot of adultery, murder of a fellow knight, and assault of another fellow knight. Lancelot, as you all can see, is not here at present, so this trial is solely of the Queen.”
Kai watched the others. Galahad leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, looking for all the world like a lazing lizard. No way to tell what he was thinking, or even whose side he was on. Gawain was still staring at the king; his two remaining full brothers were blank with shock. Kai would bet a year’s income that they weren’t even fully aware of their surroundings. Bors and Lionel were staring at Mordred. Bedivere was watching Kai watch the crowd; Kai spared him a smirk.
Arthur paused. “How, then, shall we go about this?”
Lionel’s voice rasped out into the sudden stillness. “With the only witness, of course.”
Mordred did not even twitch. In a dull monotone, he asked, “Did anyone remember the truthspell?”
Everyone paled. Guenevere looked about to faint – something she’d never, to Kai’s knowledge, actually done before.
“Is it really necessary?” Arthur asked, looking ill himself.
Surprisingly, it was Percival who answered. Kai hadn’t even known he’d been paying attention. “It is demanded by the law, Your Majesty, if we are following the strict form.”
“It will take a while to track down a wizard capable of rendering it,” Arthur said, “and it is also necessary under the law to conduct trials speedily.”
“I could render it,” Mordred rasped, “but none of you would trust it if I did. Just as none of you will trust my word without it, and I will not trust Her Majesty’s without it, either.”
“Mordred…” Arthur began.
“Besides,” Mordred continued, “while the law does insist on a speedy trial, it also insists on several things to make it a just trial.”
Kai was tempted to find a pin and drop it, just to test the silence.
“Are you impinging the honor of this company?” Bors asked in his slow manner.
Mordred laughed. “You dare ask me that? Do you forget whose trial is still pending?”
Bors reared back as if slapped. “You insolent…”
“It’s rendered.”
Every head turned towards Galahad. He raised an eyebrow. “You were waiting on a truthspell?”
Okay, so maybe spending all his free time in a little hut with esoteric texts had paid off for Galahad.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Now that that matter is seen to, what next?”
Lionel opened his mouth, undoubtedly to repeat his earlier statement, but Mordred spoke first. “Question the accused.” His voice was as flat as if he were reading from a legal text.
No one spoke.
A dark grin curved Mordred’s lips. “I see. None of you wanted it to go there, did you? No truthspell, so she couldn’t be compelled to testify; now that there is a truthspell, no questions… Very well.” He turned more or less in the Queen’s direction. “Your Majesty, you stand accused of committing adultery with Sir Lancelot, repeatedly over a period of several years. Is this accusation true?”
Guenevere remained silent, but her face was growing gray.
“Your Majesty, it is unwise to resist a truthspell. You will eventually be compelled to speak anyway, but you may be mindless when it happens. Please answer the question; did you commit adultery with Sir Lancelot?”
“…Yes.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
Mordred didn’t even blink. “And this had gone on for…?”
“…At least a decade. I don’t remember exactly.”
Mordred paused for a long moment.
“Mordred…” Arthur began.
“You do not have to remind me. Only questions pertaining to the Queen’s charges, right?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.” Was that mockery tinging Mordred’s voice? “No further questions, Your Majesty.”
Lionel had grown more and more flustered throughout this exchange. “And what prompted you to go to Her Majesty’s quarters, Sir Mordred?”
“I am an investigator,” Mordred replied, completely unruffled. “I was investigating a crime.”
“And you frequently investigate crimes involving people’s private arrangements?”
“They are still crimes,” Mordred said flatly.
“You hypocrite,” Guenevere hissed. “You have been trying to get the adultery laws overturned for years.”
Mordred’s eyes burned green as he turned to stare at her. “Yes,” he replied, still in that flat voice, “but you were the one who passed that law in the first place. It’s a nice bit of poetic justice, wouldn’t you say, that you are now suffering from it?”
Arthur massaged the bridge of his nose. “We could change the law.”
“No.”
Arthur, Guenevere, and most of the rest all stared at Mordred. His flat denial seemed to ring in the air.
Kai found himself watching Galahad. Galahad was toying with a rosary and smirking to himself, the only one in the room unsurprised by Mordred’s refusal.
“‘No’?” Arthur repeated.
“No. You would not repeal the law when I asked in the past. No matter how many cases I brought before you, no matter how many examples I gave of just how this law was hurting people, you refused to change it. ‘Adultery is oathbreaking, and oathbreaking is the heart of dishonor.’ Isn’t that what you said, the last time I mentioned it?” Mordred leaned back with a dry chuckle. “But now it’s hit a little too close to home, hasn’t it? It’s become personal, hasn’t it? It hurts you, and suddenly it’s worth changing?”
Even Gaheris and Gareth were staring at Mordred.
Mordred, oblivious, said, “I burned an adultress three days ago. I lit the pyre myself. She died begging to be returned to her children; her husband, the man she’d betrayed, was too distraught even for that. I lit the pyre myself,” he snarled, “remembering that the last time I’d spared an adultress, you ordered her tracked down and burned anyway. You dare ask to change the law? Now?“
No one could think of a thing to say. Arthur was staring at his hands; Guenevere was staring at Mordred. Everyone else was trying to ignore him.
“Be that as it may,” Arthur began, “does it really matter why I come to see that a law is wrong, so long as I do? I-”
“Tell me, Father, how it is you managed to get such a reputation for justice when you allow yourself complete freedom from it?”
And Kai realized, with the suddenness of a knife to the back, that Mordred wasn’t talking about Guenevere anymore.
December 30, 2007
Grail Castle.
He really hated the south of France. Fucking Pyrenees.
Dr. Cain scrabbled up another cliff, his head pounding from his magically-induced eyesight. He barked his shin on an outcropping, cursed, and kicked it again just out of spite. It hurt his toe, but it made him feel better.
Times like this, he wished he’d never been given the ability to make his eyes work. Then he could’ve told Francis to fuck off.
Dragon talons did come in handy for scaling mountains, though. Dr. Cain wheezed out a laugh. Kathleen had told him he climbed like a gecko. Not strictly true, but amusing nevertheless.
Dr. Cain pulled himself onto what was more or less the mountaintop and curled up in the brush, blending in seamlessly. Being able to turn “green as spring grass”, as his brother had put it, had moments of usefulness.
All in all, thought the scientist, he had too many useful traits. If he were more boring, he’d never have been sent on this damn fool errand.
He poked his watch irritably. “Francis.”
The watch twitched. “What?”
“Why am I breaking into your family’s ancestral castle, again?”
The watch sighed. “Because I’m holding your laboratory hostage.”
“Besides that.”
No response. Dr. Cain poked the watch again. “Francis. If you don’t tell me exactly what’s going on, I’m going to jump off this mountain and go home.”
“Most people ask before they leave, you know,” Francis muttered irritably. “And I told you. Something weird’s up there. I don’t know what, and I can’t exactly scale a mountain, and I don’t exactly trust the rest of my family to check it for me.”
“That’s really a sad commentary on your family,” said a third voice as its owner hunched down next to Dr. Cain.
Dr. Cain promptly punched him.
Or tried to, anyway. The stranger ducked back and got to his feet in one smooth motion.
Something tugged at the back of Dr. Cain’s mind.
The man twitched his disheveled robe straighter, ran a hand over his cropped white hair, and half-grinned down at the green man.
“So, Mordred, has anyone ever told you you climb like a gecko?”
Damsel in Distress.
Elaine was not having a good day. She and her father had been on the road to Camelot to finally – finally! – introduce Elaine to the court, when they’d been set upon by a band of robbers. Now Elaine’s father and their men were dead, their belongings stolen and Elaine’s handmaid taken, and Elaine herself was gagged and bound securely to a tree.
She supposed she should be grateful that her mother’s charms against injury and the unseemly lusts of men held, but after four hours in the rain, with the coarse rope chafing her skin and the gag cutting into the corners of her mouth, Elaine really couldn’t bring herself to be anything other than angry.
What made her even angrier was that here she was, tied up within sight of the road, and two different people had simply passed her by. Okay, so the first traveler had been a drunkard, and quite probably hadn’t even seen her, but the other had been a knight, curse it, and knights were supposed to help.
Angry tears prickled at Elaine’s eyes, which only added to her frustration. She was fourteen, damn it all, and a lady now. She should be calm and composed in all situations.
And of course someone would choose now to come up the road. It was bad enough that whoever-it-was would see her tied up, they didn’t have to see her crying too. Elaine sighed around the gag and glared at the road. This day was just going from bad to worse.
The redhead who walked by had clearly been caught off guard by the rain, and was just as clearly unhappy about it. He walked with a slow but ground-eating pace, squelching along in the mud and muttering imprecations under his breath. As he drew even with Elaine, she caught a glimpse of the badge on his tunic, and her eyes widened.
Another knight! And yet, he too kept walking. He didn’t even look at Elaine.
That was it. Elaine was beyond angry now, and threw all pretense of gentle breeding to the wind. She threw herself forward against her bonds, snarling around the gag.
The man stopped dead, then turned his head in her direction. Sweeping his walking stick in an arc before him, he stepped off the road and picked his way towards Elaine.
Elaine, surprised, fell silent.
The man stopped. “If there’s someone out there, you are going to have to make some noise,” he said quietly, in the manner of someone who’d said the same thing too often.
Elaine gasped. The knight was blind! She began cursing herself for a fool as loudly as she could.
The knight stopped in front of her, laughing softly. “I understood about half of that,” he said, extending a hand. “Pardon my rudeness.”
His hand hit her nose, and Elaine bit back another curse.
“Sorry,” said the man, trailing his fingers gently down Elaine’s face. They stilled at the gag, then followed it to the knot under her ear. “Hold still,” he said, and drew his knife. With one swift movement, he cut the cloth, then tugged it from Elaine’s head.
“Thank you,” Elaine rasped. She coughed.
“You’re welcome,” said the knight, running his hand down her arm. The ropes received the same treatment as the gag.
Elaine staggered, clutching at her rescuer’s arm. He sheathed his knife, then grasped her shoulders to steady her.
“Let’s get you out of the rain,” he said, turning towards the road. “Unfortunately, the nearest inn’s still a bit of a walk.”
“I can make it,” Elaine croaked. “My name is Elaine,” she added, straightening out her sodden dress.
“And I am Mordred,” said the knight, ducking under a dripping pine branch.
Elaine gaped, then trudged after him, noting to her dismay that the sun was already setting. But lights were being lit up the hill a way, and Elaine saw that they did not have so far to go as she had feared.
Together, the bedraggled pair headed into the rain-dampened sunset.
