Mercedes Lackey - Anthology (25 page)

 
          
Gawain
turned away from the Tor, the battle, the tree, and out toward the water. Drops
of blood fell from his wing, splattering the wrinkled gray surface below.

 
          
Guard
your strength, he warned himself. He had fought wounded before, he reminded
himself. But now, he was hawk, not man. Or, for that matter, not waterfowl; if
he fell, he fell from a height and he would sink, one wing down.

 
          
Something
flew beneath him over the water. It was seized and shaken—once, twice, three
times, by light that rose from the water's depth, rippling its surface like
wind upon feathers. Light erupted,
then
died, sinking
into the depths. What had that been?
A seamonster?
He
could neither eat it nor fight it. He forced himself to gain altitude. His wing
ached, and he knew he could not fly much longer.

 
          
A
shadow rose between the water and the dawn, fragrant with the scent of
appleblossoms, shimmering now in the mists: Avalon drew near. Could he reach it
before his strength
failed.

 
          
He
could see a tower there, a broch built in the old way of stones piled on
ancient stones upon the headland. He screamed a warning. His hawk's voice
sounded strained.

 
          
Three
ladies emerged.

 
          
Mother?

 
          
It
came out Skreeeeeel
The
lady raised her head.

 
          
He
had seen her dead, lying at Lamorak's side, their blood and their hair flowing
together as Agrivaine sweated and shook and tried to make excuses.

 
          
Dead,
betrayed, corrupt: but if Gawain could return from the dead to redeem
unfinished work, why could not his mother? She had studied with Morgan, he knew
that.

 
          
Three
ladies hastened toward the shore and the boat tied to an oak tree by the shore.

 
          
His mother and his aunts, all ladies who were enchantresses.
The sun rose, glinting off their hair and their rubies, like gouts of blood.

 
          
Morgause
flung up an arm, calling Gawain down from the sky much as she had called him in
from play so long ago in the Northern islands. He wobbled, his strength flowing
from him like blood now that he saw an end to the ordeal of flight, but he
managed to descend, rather than fall. He looked out for a perch.

 
          
Not
on her tender arm, Gawain thought, and settled deadly claws upon a low oak
branch. He was glad his landing was fairly neat: Morgause had always lacked
patience with weakness.

 
          
Merlin,
are you here, too?

 
          
He
heard the music, but it was not Merlin's.

 
          
The
lady stepped forward and gazed into his eyes.

 
          
"The
hawk came with a warning. Our brother the
king.
. . !
We are late, my sisters! By now, the king's wounds have caught cold. And the
brave hawk is wounded."

 
          
The
women keened as women of the Celts had always done, but, true to their blood,
did not
pause
an instant to wipe their tears. They tugged
the boat down to deep water, unbound a glowing sail, and prepared to cast off.

 
          
Their
skirts streamed water. Their hair flowed free under their gleaming circlets.

 
          
Two
boarded. Morgause still held Gawain's eyes.

 
          
"I
see," she said. "And I know you." She tore a long strip from her
sleeve and bound his wing. "Come with me, my son. We will bring him here
for the healing of his wounds, against a time of need when he will return.

 
          
The
king had been her husband's foe, her brother, and Mordred's father. They had
been enemies, lovers, and kin. But in the end, it seemed, the call of blood
drowned out the call of hatred.

 
          
"Blood
calls to blood." Morgause inclined her head. She raised a hand to Gawain's
wing, the blood dripping there. "We must find you better healing."

 
          
And then what?
Could he fly free? Would he rest?

 
          
"I
cannot return you to your old form," she said.

 
          
"Sister!
We must hurry!"
came
a cry from the boat, hawk-shrill.

 
          
"I
offer you only service," his mother said. "Come with us. Wait with
us. A time will come when he will need you."

 
          
Gawain
inclined his head. He flew after Mor-gause, a little pain-filled flying hop
toward the boat.

 
          
She
climbed into the boat, released its sail, and let fly a battered banner of the
Red Dragon. Gawain perched above it like the eagle on a legion's staff as they
sailed from Avalon toward the shore of the waking world.

 
          
Arthur
lay upon the shore as the boat drew up, his head in Bedwyr's lap. His sword was
gone. The ladies keened again. This time, Gawain added his cry. He mantled in
painful salute.

 
          
Wordlessly,
Bedwyr bore up the king and carried him to the boat, spreading his cloak over
him. It was too tattered for warmth, and Arthur was cold, so cold.

 
          
He
would never survive a journey on the water.

 
          
Morgause
had been right.
Already, Arthur eeded him, even in this new
body.

 
          
Painfully,
Gawain dropped from his perch, spreading his wings—the hale and the
wounded—over his uncle. A hawk's blood burned hotter than a man's. Let it warm
the king.

 
          
Bedwyr
set shoulder to the boat, pushing it out from the shore.
Beyond
him stood robed figures and a smaller one, his eyes avid.

 
          
At
his skreeee, the boy started forward, but a monk restrained him.

 
          
Watch,
child. Watch and
remember,
Gawain thought.

 
          
He
stared into the rising sun, as able as an eagle to bear its light, but not the
sight of the wounded man whose body he warmed. After a while, Arthur's hand
rested upon his head, ruffling feathers, then smoothing them as a falconer will
when day is done. A while
longer,
and his hand lay
still. Gawain thought he slept.

 
          
Rest, my uncle.
I will keep good watch.

 
          
The
tiny boat turned back toward Avalon.

 
          
Nancy
Asire is the author of four novels, Twilight's Kingdoms, Tears of Time, To Fall
Like
Stars, and Wizard Spawn. She has also written
short stories for the series anthologies Heroes in Hell and Merovingen Nights.
She has lived in
Africa
and traveled the world, but now resides in
Missouri
with her cats and two vintage Corvairs.

 
          
IF
the sun's angle was right and she squinted slightly, Yslinda could make out the
Prince's banners flying from the summit of the governor's palace.

 
          
Lord-Hill,
the local people called it, for of all the buildings in the region, it alone
rose high above the surrounding countryside— a man-made hill erected as if to
glorify humankind's triumph and mastery over the earth. Yslinda's own home was
similar to other dwellings in her country, built to reflect the world about.
Low-lying, generally of a single story, wide-eaved and open-windowed, they
invited contemplation of their surroundings. Only the ruling class, descendants
of the conquering Asketi, whose invading legions had swept over the old sleepy
kingdom
of
Delad
three generations before, considered
themselves beyond the touch of nature. The world was theirs for the taking, to
be used, harnessed, and turned toward their will.

 
          
This
morning was a quiet one, a gentle breeze barely stirring the dense leaves of
the trees above Yslinda's head. She left her doorstep and her feet found the
well-worn path leading from her house into the forest. Behind, she left the
gentle lap of waves on the shore of the lake wherein her island stood.

 
          
Before
her
existed
only the quiet of the woods, the call of
birds, and the hush of hallowed places.

 
          
Priestess
of Savanya, Yslinda trod the same path toward the shrine her predecessors had
taken for hundreds of years. The trees grew closer away from the shore, the
light more diffuse. Soon, she moved through a green-drenched world where
silence reigned.

 
          
Drawing
deep slow breaths, Yslinda stilled her heart, her mind, her soul. One did not
enter the goddess' presence beset by cluttered thoughts.

 
          
Automatically,
ancient words came to her lips, prayers uttered in praise of life, thanks given
to the goddess of wisdom who ruled over the unlimited reaches of the human
intellect, who was patroness of Delad.

 
          
Suddenly,
she stumbled. Some small exposed root, perhaps, or, more likely, the intrusion
of thoughts she had been keeping at bay for days now. She stopped, her hands
trembling, closed her eyes, and sought in that darkness to resettle her mind,
to regain the calmness necessary to perform her duties as priestess.

 
          
The
statue rose from the center of the clearing into which Yslinda stepped. No one
knew how old it was, this rendering in stone of the goddess of wisdom,
nor
who had carved it in the deeps of time. But the
centuries themselves held small dominion over the statue—the facial features
and other details remained so crisp and defined that one could imagine the
artist only yesterday had made the last finishing touches to the white stone.

 
          
As
always, when her eyes met those of her goddess, Yslinda's heart seemed to
expand, to grow warm within her. Savanya stood there in quiet majesty, clad
simply in a flowing robe, with her great owl riding her shoulder. Yslinda bowed
low before the statue,
then
sank to her knees.

 
          
"O
Savanya, Mother of Wisdom, still my mind," she prayed, lifting crossed
hands and covering her eyes. "Tell me, Mother, what should I do? Guide me,
Giver of Wisdom. Let my choice be as wise as your name and the winged symbol of
your thought."

 
          
She
had always dreamed of owls, one of the early signs that had set her on the path
to become Savanya's mouthpiece. In addition to her inborn healing powers, from
an early age she had been so in tune with the purposes of the goddess that
people had sought her wisdom when she was still very young. Yslinda's formal
training had commenced when she reached the age of nine, a source of wonder and
pride for her parents. But always, aside from skills quickly developed under
the kind tutelage of the old priestess, Yslinda had been attracted to and had
dreamed of owls.

 
          
For
seven nights now, her dreams had been full of wings.

 
          
Prince
Gonten leaned back in his cushioned chair, swatted absently at a passing
insect, and watched his companion prowl the room. Though painfully aware of the
importance Hvandi wielded in the Asketian Empire, he both loathed and feared
the High Priest of Keti. Few had ever given Gonten pause, but this one did, as
evidenced by the Prince's presence in this godforsaken corner of the Empire,
bored nearly to tears by the lack of entertainment and creature comforts.