For King & Country (10 page)

It wasn't precisely like hearing voices inside his head. It was more like some previously unfelt part of himself was making its presence known, as though a portion of his personality which had been submerged was now fighting to free itself from Stirling's internal censors. The sensations reminded him, oddly, of colliding air masses, which boiled up into storm fronts before mixing into something that was neither a cold front nor a warm front, neither high pressure nor low, a hybrid sort of weather that was wildly unpredictable.

The buried part of his eerie new personality was radiating abject terror, swamped with overtones of rage. Without conscious awareness of the process, he found himself thinking in a very archaic form of Welsh—Brythonic, Dr. Bhaskar had called it. Other voices were swimming into his awareness. Men's voices, rough with worry, a woman's shrill in tones of fear. One deep voice commanded instant respect from Stirling's fractured thoughts.

"Take him inside," that voice said, the meaning coming only after the flow of words had ended. "Thank God we were so close to Caer-Iudeu! With Lot's death, we can ill afford his brother's life in the crucible as well." The whole process of understanding what had been said was as fractured as Stirling's awareness, coming partly from a slow translation of the strangely accented Welsh and partly from the portion of his new and dual awareness, which gibbered in the same language as the unknown speaker.

He was abruptly overwhelmed by a frantic desire to cry out in terror. Stirling reacted violently and automatically—and bit his own tongue bloody in the effort to shut off the frantic plea for help.
Oh, God...
He wasn't entirely sure which portion of his dualized mind had thought it. Even as he clenched his teeth, he was struck by a critical need to know whose body he had invaded. Somehow, the struggling and terrified portion of his mind didn't sound female. And his senses were working well enough, at least, to recognize the familiar feel of male anatomy under his clothing.

He was thankful for that much, at least... .

He was lifted and carried by several men. Stirling caught a flash of chilly, star-dazzled sky circling in dizzy arcs as he was ferried ignominiously toward "inside"—wherever that would prove to be. His jaw already ached from clamping his teeth over his host's screams. Stirling caught a glimpse of dark stone walls, firelight, a smoke-stained ceiling. Footsteps thudded with a distinct, indoor sound. Then he was eased down onto a horizontal surface and felt fur under his skin, a fur sack stuffed with something that smelled organic. Straw maybe. It made a lumpy mattress, although not as lumpy as the ground had been, and a good deal softer.

A woman Stirling couldn't see snapped, "
Fetch Covianna Nim!
"

Another voice said, "
Who
is here? Thunders and damnations, man, fetch her at once!" And on the heels of that, "We're fortunate, Ganhumara. Morgana's here, on her way home from Ynys Manaw with Medraut. They were told we'd ridden north toward the border and followed to catch us up."

Who, Stirling wondered fuzzily, was Covianna Nim? Who were Ganhumara and Medraut? And who, exactly, was
he
? The strange new portion of himself radiated surprise that he
didn't
know. How on earth had Cedric Banning and Brenna McEgan adjusted to this disorienting sense of being divided into warring factions inside one's own skull? A twinge of guilt struck at that thought. Not
his
skull, at all. McEgan probably didn't care that she'd crushed some innocent's personality. And Cedric Banning? The Aussie raised in Manchester? Poor sod. Stirling wondered how many weeks it would take them all just to adjust. And whether or not any of their host minds went mad under the strain. It'd be one way to track them, he supposed—look for the unfortunates who'd lost their minds, apparently between one moment and the next.

"Where is he?" a new voice, low and beautifully female, demanded.

Stirling tried to get his bearings and managed to blink his eyes open. Steel-grey eyes met Stirling's with a forthright calm that spoke of a powerful personality held carefully in check. There was a quality of expression in those eyes that suggested she had recently received a dreadful shock of some kind and was keeping some terrible emotion at bay through the force of her will alone. She was in her late thirties, at a guess, dark haired and strikingly beautiful. She carried a brightly colored, woven cloth satchel. Her voice, when she spoke again, rippled like a waterfall deep in a sacred grove, full of mystery and compelling grace. "Lie quietly, Ancelotis, while I sound your pulse." She peered into his eyes as well, fingers light and gentle on his wrist and eyelids.

The other woman he'd first heard spoke again. "He collapsed without warning, Morgana, actually fell from the saddle on the road up to the fortress. It happened so quickly, Artorius wasn't able to break his fall, for all they were riding knee to knee."

Artorius?
Stirling closed his eyes for a moment over dizzy relief. At least he'd arrived at the proper time and place. And he
hadn't
arrived in Arthur's body, which would have been utter disaster.

"Ancelotis," Morgana asked quietly, "can you tell me what happened? Was there pain anywhere before you fell?"

Both of them—Stirling and Ancelotis—tried to answer at once, each half of their dual personality determined to control shared mouth, tongue, and lips. The resulting sound came out part strangled groan and part choked wheeze, half in English and half in archaic Welsh, and all of it hopelessly garbled. As Stirling groaned and his host persona whimpered, Stirling wondered,
Who the bloody hell is Ancelotis? God in Heaven, don't let it be
Lancelot
... if that's whom I've invaded, we're
all
in serious trouble. Bloody hell, wasn't Lancelot something the flipping French made up?
His head throbbed fiercely, making it difficult to retrieve what he did know of Arthurian history, and his ignorance was making the headache worse—he could feel it thickening, like a summer thunderstorm building up behind the long black ridges of the Highlands.

I've changed my mind,
he shouted uselessly at the scientists back in the lab, scientists who couldn't hear him anyway, and couldn't retrieve him for a whole year, no matter how badly he regretted his hasty decision to follow McEgan and Banning. He was stuck, well and truly stuck. And he had a terrorist to find. The room steadied down and he took a shuddering breath, then another.
All right. I've a terrorist to find and stop. That, I'm trained for.

Morgana was frowning. "His armsmen saw nothing before he collapsed? No warning of illness?"

"None, stepsister." The male voice that had ordered him carried inside must belong to Artorius himself. Morgana was pouring something into a cup, holding it to his lips when a newcomer arrived. A slim woman in white robes swept into the room, doffing a heavy woolen cloak and striding toward them. "I'm dreadfully sorry, I was out collecting herbs under the full moon when the messenger traced me down. I came as quickly as I could. Does he rest quietly, Morgana?"

"Aye, Covianna Nim, more quietly than he deserves, I'm thinking."

Covianna Nim, whoever she might be, was striking, her long blonde hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders. She wore a very simple garment, which stood out against the sea of brightly colored reds and blues and yellows worn by the others, by virtue of being an unsullied white, only slightly dusty along the bottom hem which swept the ground. The robe, with a deep hood shrugged back over her shoulders like a cape, open down the front over an ice-pale gown of softest lamb's wool, was belted closed with a beautifully worked girdle of silver links, intricate with the loops and the interwoven animal shapes of Celtic knotwork. Stirling, lying dazed and confused, couldn't decide which healer he preferred bending over him, and finally decided he'd just as soon have neither of them.

"Drink this, Ancelotis."

Stirling had no idea what it was, but he didn't want it. Neither did Ancelotis. Unfortunately, Morgana was not to be denied. He swallowed the bitter stuff, which sent creeping lassitude through limbs and brain. Maybe, if Stirling got really lucky, he would wake up when the drug wore off and find this whole thing was only a nightmare.

Morgana sat close to the great hall's hearth, sipping a cup of mulled wine to which she had added soothing herbs, and listened in silence while her stepbrother outlined the size of the nightmare which had descended upon her. Upon them all, for that matter. Voices from the other side of the hall distracted her, officers of the garrison patrolling their northern borders, and the hastily summoned council of advisors for all of Gododdin, who had ridden hard half the night from the capital at Trapain Law. They had all gathered to speak quietly on the other side of the hall, making decisions for the kingdom's defenses in light of this latest disaster.

"It was the Picts," Artorius said quietly at Morgana's shoulder, resting a warm hand against her back. "If I'd known that Lot had taken most of his
cataphracti
from Trapain Law up to Caer-Iudeu, I might have arrived in time to change things. But I didn't find out until we were halfway to the capital. We stopped at one of the mile forts along the Antonine Wall, to rest the horses, let Ganhumara stretch her legs a bit. They told us he'd passed through with the bulk of his cavalry not twenty-four hours previously, heading for the border. That he was planning actually to cross into Pictish Fortriu, not just repel raiders. Lot meant to strike at their base of operations, prevent them from pillaging across the northern borders with such ease—"

"Yes," she interrupted harshly. "I am aware of the problem, stepbrother."

He moved around to grip her hand. "I know that, Morgana. God forgive me for having a blunt soldier's manner. Would that a learned Druid such as Emrys Myrddin had the telling of this, to soften it."

She managed a fleeting, watery smile. "I have no complaints in you, Artorius, and not even Emrys Myrddin could soften such news." The smile died away. "I, too, spoke with the officer of that mile-fort garrison, on my way home from Galwyddel
.
They told us you had passed not eight hours ahead of us." Her throat thickened. "I came north with news for him, news I thought shouldn't wait, and little thought I would never have the chance to tell him a word of it." Her voice shook and the wine in her cup sloshed dangerously up the sides. She sipped again to prevent spilling any across her lap.

Artorius found a square of linen tucked into a pouch at his waist and handed it to her, to dry her eyes, then soothed her arm with gentle fingers until she had herself under control again. Across the room, the councillors had either reached some decision or had a weighty question to ask, as their spokesman bowed his apologetic way into her awareness.

"Forgive the intrusion, Queen Morgana, but we must know... Will you insist on your eldest son inheriting immediately?"

She lifted her head sharply. "Put little Gwalchmai on Lot Luwddoc's throne, and the boy not above seven years of age yet? We would do just as well inviting in the Picts to take their choice of plunder!"

The councillor winced. "Yes, our thoughts precisely, but we had to ask. Will you then serve as queen of Gododdin until your son has reached manhood?"

Morgana gripped her wine cup until her fingers went white and cold, having dreaded this very question from the moment the council had arrived. Slowly, she shook her head. "No. Already I have Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw to govern, which I have done from Trapain Law since my marriage. To add Gododdin to this..." She shook her head once again. "It would be unfair to the people of Gododdin and to those of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw."

The councillor paled. "Who then, Queen?"

Morgana glanced at her stepbrother, then sent a look toward the chamber where Ancelotis, her husband's younger brother, lay sleeping, having collapsed in the wake of his brother's death. Artorius followed her glance and nodded. "Yes, Morgana, you have the right of it. Ancelotis is exactly what Gododdin must have until Gwalchmai reaches his maturity."

Relief flooded visibly through the councillor. "Ancelotis. Yes, of course. You give your approval to this choice, Queen Morgana?"

"I do," she said softly, echo of other words, another time and place that seemed a lifetime ago, now. "Ancelotis is the best choice Gododdin could hope to have in this troubled time." After a moment's thought, she added quietly, "Indeed, Ancelotis may prove a better king than his brother." She winced to speak ill of the dead, but couldn't help remembering the fate of poor little Thaney, her husband's daughter and only child by his first wife. Disinherited and nearly drowned for failure to reveal the name of her lover...

His ire had not even been a Christian anger at the poor girl's immorality, for Lot held far more closely to the old ways than the new. A view she had shared, in fact, or her marriage would have been intolerable. No, there had been nothing of religion in his actions. He had simply been infuriated by Thaney's stubborn refusal to obey him. Lot's temper had, indeed, been a great failing of his character. But he had never quite dared strike Morgana during a rage, given her own pedigree and the strength of well-honed steel behind it, all the steel of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw combined, her birthright as queen of those lands. Ancelotis, at least, was an even-tempered man, who would rule as a conscientious regent for Morgana's young son.

A short vote lasting less than two minutes confirmed it. When he woke, Ancelotis would be king. And Morgana would no longer be queen of Gododdin. The quiet presence which shared Morgana's inner awareness listened intently, trying to understand the nuances of what she heard. Poor refugee, to choose a place and time like this one as better than her own...

"Will you travel on to Trapain Law, Morgana," Artorius asked quietly, "to be with your sons, or return with us to Caerleul?"

She glanced up, gaze sharply focused on Artorius' worried eyes. "There will be a High Council of Kings, will there not, over this?"