End of the Century (37 page)

Galaad lingered in the saddle, while the captains transferred their flasks and wineskins and bundles of comestibles to their own backs. That the captains performed these mundane tasks without speaking, as if by rote, suggested to Galaad that they had done similar maneuvers countless times in wartime, shifting from horseback to foot with changes in terrain or tactics, and that they might now be seeking solace and support in these familiar activities, taking their troubled thoughts away from the unearthly sight before them.

“Come along, now,” Artor called to Galaad with a wave of his hand. “It's due to you that we've come, after all.”

Galaad took a deep breath and let out a ragged sigh that fogged in the cold air. He set his jaw, willing himself to overcome his fears, and slipped off
the saddle and onto the ground. He handed the draco standard to the nearest of the pages.

Artor turned to Geraint. “And you, cousin? Will you come with us into the heart of mystery?” But even as he spoke the words, it was clear that he knew what the answer would be.

“Yes, I had intended…” Geraint glanced to the arms his pages bore, his voice trailing off. He shook his head, sadly, and struggled to meet the High King's gaze. “I'm sorry, but…I cannot. I…I am needed with my people in Llongborth. I am…” He trailed off, his gaze lowering to the ground, shamefaced.

“Do not worry yourself, cousin,” Artor said gently. “I understand. Had I a wife and son at home, I might feel differently, too.”

Geraint looked back to Artor, his expression brightening fractionally. He nodded, seeming to find some peace with his decision. “I will return with your horses to Llongborth,” he went on, in a louder voice, his tone firm. “But we'll leave one of our people stationed here against your return, for as long as we are able.” He pointed to one of his pages, whose shoulders slumped as he realized that he would not be returning to the comforting warmth of the hall any time soon. “You,” Geraint said, “will remain here.” The other page could not completely hide the relieved smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And you,” Geraint continued, pointing to the other page, “will return with me, to ride back out by nightfall to spell your fellow in his watch.”

Now both pages exchanged dispirited glances, but if they had any complaints did not give them voice.

The seven gathered in a ragged line, standing between the horses and the hedge of mist in the near distance. A cold wind blew from behind them, stinging cheeks and bare hands, and Galaad hugged his arms to his chest, shivering beneath his cloak.

“Well,” Lugh said to Artor, “you wanted adventure and to have your pulse quicken once more before you died.”

Artor glanced back his way.

“So, has it quickened yet? Because I'll tell you, my own blood is damn near
frozen
.”

Artor gave him a tight smile. “I've not felt as alive in some time, my old friend. In some long time.”

Lugh blew air through his lips, dismissively, but after a brief moment a smile crept across his own face. “Aye,” he said. “Well, it beats haggling with traders for scraps of food, I'll give you that.”

“Or listening to endless petitioners,” Caius put in.

Artor nodded. “That it does.”

“Are we going to go or not?” Gwrol said, fidgeting. “I can feel my manhood freezing off in this cold, just standing here.”

“It's a small loss,” Pryder replied, “and it isn't as if you had any use for it, after all.”

“You fellows don't think we'll see those hounds again once we're within, do you?” Bedwyr asked, his voice quavering.

“Come on, you lot,” Artor said, striding forward. “If this is to be our end, let us face it with heads high and eyes wide open, shall we?”

The captains left off their squabbles and comments and, hands on their sword hilts, followed after.

Galaad was the last to advance. He glanced back at Geraint and the pages, who already were busy putting the horses on a line to lead back to the city. He couldn't help but envy them, but at the same time, he felt the fires of his curiosity burning higher within, knowing that he could be so close to the answers he had so long sought.

He turned back towards the hedge and hurried to catch up to Artor and the others.

The party reached the hedge in a matter of moments and paused just before entering the hedge of mist. Seen from this close, it seemed more an absence of anything visible than a tangible thing in itself, more a wall of nothingness than any sort of fog. Behind was the world they knew, and before them was simply…nothing.

Artor glanced around at the others, a faint smile on his face, and without another word strode forward and into the mist. He disappeared immediately from view, even the sounds of his feet crunching the icy ground fading entirely.

The captains exchanged glances and shrugs, and then singly and in pairs followed behind.

Galaad was the last to go, as always. He paused a long moment, gathering
his resolve. He set his jaw, tightened his hands into fists at his sides, and holding his breath, walked forward into the mist.

For a brief moment, it felt to Galaad as though he was nowhere. He saw only white, heard nothing, felt nothing. His stomach roiled, and he felt an intense sensation of vertigo, feeling almost as though he were falling from some great height and gaining speed, but also as if he were frozen in place. He thought for a brief instant that he was experiencing another of his visions, but he had felt none of the other indicators and the overall sensation was markedly different.

Then the moment passed and he completed the step he'd begun in walking into the mist, his leading foot striking the ground.

A wave of heat hit him, like an oven door just being opened, and he squinted in the sudden strange light that greeted his eyes. He stumbled forward, feeling queasy and unwell.

Galaad managed to keep from pitching forward onto his face, his arms out to either side for balance. Straightening uneasily, he glanced around, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the odd quality of the light. The skies overhead were a clear, crystal blue, and the field which spread out before him was covered in some sort of strangely colored heath. Where an instant before he'd been in the depths of a frigid winter, now he found himself in warmest summer.

More worrying, though, he found that he was completely alone.

Galaad felt a momentarily thrill of panic and a sense of dissociation to find himself alone in these strange summer lands. Then he heard footfalls behind him, and a series of startled gasps, and turned to find the captains behind him, staggering through the hedge of mist. An instant later, Artor followed, his faint smile fading, replaced by an expression of confusion.

“But…” Artor began, looking from the captains before him to the indistinct wall of white through which he'd walked. “I just…”

“Where have you been?” Galaad asked, reaching out a hand towards the
nearest of the captains, almost afraid to touch them, as though they might come apart if he did.

The captains alternated between looking around them at their strange new surroundings and glancing at one another in confusion over the unexpected order of their arrival.

Artor narrowed his eyes. “I just walked through the hedge, leaving you all behind me, and now I find that you preceded me through the mist. How is that possible?”

Lugh shrugged. “Perhaps we took a short cut,” he said, unconvincingly.

“No.” Caius shook his head. “It took no longer than the time needed to take a single step.”

“And yet Galaad, the last to come, preceded us all,” Pryder said, glancing towards Galaad with suspicion.

“On my honor,” Galaad said, hastily, “I watched you all vanish into the mist, but when I followed I briefly found myself alone on this side.”

“It was just…white,” Bedwyr said, looking back at the mist, reaching out a tentative hand, though stopping far short of touching it. “And silence. It was simply…”

“Nothing,” Gwrol finished for him. “It was as though we passed through nothing.”

Some of the others nodded.

“I don't like this,” Bedwyr said with mounting panic. “Perhaps we should return at some other time.”

Bedwyr took a step back towards the hedge, as though to return.

“Wait!” Artor said, holding up his hand.

As it happened, he needn't have bothered. Bedwyr reached the mist in another step, but instead of passing through, he was stopped short, as though he had walked into a solid stone wall. He rebounded back, unharmed but distressed.

“I…” Bedwyr reached out his hand again, this time close enough to touch, but rather than disappearing into the white fog, it was met with resistance. “It is solid!” He looked to the others, his eyes wide. “It could be made of stone, or iron!”

The other captains exchanged curious looks, except for Lugh, who simply
marched up to the hedge, clenched his hand into a fist, and pounded on it like one knocking on a door.

“Aye,” he said, turning back. “It's solid enough, all right. Won't be going back
that
way.”

Artor nodded, thoughtfully. “Perhaps that is why none of Geraint's people have ever returned. Perhaps this is a passage that can only be traveled in one direction.”

“So how will we return?” Bedwyr's eyes were wide. “How will we escape?”

Artor stepped close and laid a hand on Bedwyr's shoulder. “There may yet be other avenues,” he said, his tone soothing. “Or else it may be possible to traverse the hedge at some other hour, or in some other spot.”

Bedwyr nodded eagerly, though his expression made plain that his anxieties were far from dispelled.

“But what of our strange order of arrival?” Pryder asked. “What does it mean that the last of us to leave was the first to arrive, and the first the last?”

“I don't know.” Artor's voice was grave, his brow furrowed. “It seems our mysteries multiply in number, the questions outpacing the answers.” He took a few steps away from the hedge, surveying the terrain before them.

“Ach, but it's hot,” Lugh said, shouldering out of his cloak.

The others nodded, shifting uneasily in their armor and cold-weather clothing.

“Well,” Artor said with a wry smile. “At least now you have one fewer thing about which to complain.”

“Perhaps,” Lugh said with a grin. He mopped at his brow with his bandaged hand. “Except that now I'm sweating.”

Chuckling, Artor turned and walked further into the strange summer day.

The Summer Lands, as they had come to call them, had some clear resemblance to the lands on the far side of the hedge, for all the distinct difference in climate. The low fields and gently rolling hills they saw before them followed
the same contours as those over which they'd ridden out from Llongborth. Artor had not been in the area for nearly two decades, but said that in the main the landscape conformed to his memories from before.

But there were more differences than simply the weather.

Removing their helmets, sword belts, and hauberks, the captains shucked out of their heaviest articles of clothing. Then, dressed only in tunics, breeches, and boots, they armored themselves once more, and used their cloaks to fashion makeshift packs in which to carry their discarded clothes. More appropriately attired for the warmth, they continued on, exploring the lands around them.