Lancelot (39 page)

“Avalon,” he said, and laughed. “You never did believe me, did you, but now you can see it for yourself.” He waved a hand to encompass the barren field.

“Avalon?”

“There is the lake. I told you of it, do you remember?”

She remembered well his description of crystal lake of Avalon. Now she looked from the fetid swamp into his glowing eyes and felt her heart break anew.

“My love,” she said carefully, “we must go home now, to Corbenic, where I can look after you.”

He turned and gestured toward a patch of muddy reeds, flattened as though they had been trampled. “Lady,” he said, bowing his head, “may I present Elaine of Corbenic? Elaine, this is my foster mother, the Lady of the Lake.”

When Elaine merely stared, he tugged her hand, shooting her a puzzled look before he glanced away.

“Oh, no.” Lancelot addressed the patch of reeds. “Of course she can.” He turned to Elaine. “Why do you not greet the Lady? You—you do see her, don’t you?”

Wordlessly, Elaine shook her head.

“But you must!” Lancelot insisted. “Look, just there!”

“Oh, Lancelot,” Elaine began, her voice breaking. “Please, take me home.”

“What is the matter?” Lancelot demanded of the Lady. “Why can she not see?”

“Her will is very strong,” the Lady answered. “She cannot allow herself to see what she does not believe exists.”

“Then make her see!”

“I cannot.”

“Elaine,” Lancelot said, “we are in Avalon. The Lady of the Lake sits just here, before you. You can see her if you want to. You have to try, Elaine.”

His voice was so pleading that despite her own misgivings, Elaine screwed up her eyes and stared hard in the direction he was pointing. “There is nothing there, Lancelot, only the swamp and broken reeds. My love, it is all right. When we are home again you will be better.”

“Lady,” said Lancelot, “I thank you for your gift, but I cannot accept it.”

“Child,” the Lady answered, “you misunderstand me. This gift is not one you can refuse.”

She spoke with such finality that Lancelot knew any argument was pointless. In Avalon, the Lady’s will was absolute.

“Then send Elaine back,” he said.

The Lady’s arched brows drew together in the slightest of frowns. “I have said I will no longer meddle in the world of men. I can return her to her tower if you like, but without you to bring her forth, she will remain there until her years have run their course. I only thought to please you,” she added reproachfully. “I could not know that she would be so . . . stubborn.” She rose gracefully to her feet. “In time, she will accept her fate.”

“No—wait, you cannot go—” Lancelot cried, but the Lady had already vanished.

“Let us go now,” Elaine pleaded, taking Lancelot’s hand and seeking to draw him to his feet. “Galahad will be missing me. You remember Galahad, do you not? He will be awake now, wondering where I am.”

Lancelot stood and took both her hands in his. “Galahad is well, I saw him just this morning. He was sitting with your father, practicing his letters.”

“His letters? But—”

Lancelot touched a finger to her lips. “Love, you must listen to me. You lay in the tower for a twelvemonth—no, listen, Elaine, it is the truth. Morgause put an enchantment on you—”

“No! Morgause set a fire in the tower last night. I panicked and swooned. You must have reached me soon after and brought me to this place before I woke.
That
is the truth, and you will remember it in time. But now—now I must get home to Galahad.” She pulled her hands free. “I will go home. I must!”

Lancelot bowed his head. “Yes. You must. Very well, Elaine, I’ll take you home. I know a way—I found it long ago. But you must promise to ask no questions and do everything I say, no matter how strange it may seem. Can you promise that?”

“Yes, anything, only take me from this place!”

L
ANCELOT skirted the lake, Elaine’s hand held fast in his, pausing now and then to listen. Water lapped against the shore. Moisture dripped from the branches overhead, falling with little plinks upon the rocks. A cuckoo trilled in the forest, its cry echoing across the water.

They had been walking for nearly an hour when he heard the sound he’d dreaded.

Clink
.
Clank
.

“Hurry,” he whispered. “And not a word.”

Elaine obeyed, though her eyes were wide with fear and doubt as he dragged her closer to the lake, where a fine mist rose from the water.

“Where are you, boy?”

The voice boomed out, startling a heron three paces from Lancelot and Elaine. It rose with a clap of wings and an angry cry, a silver-white flash soon swallowed by the rising mist.

“You know you cannot hide from me!”

“Run,” Lancelot said, pulling Elaine forward.

He glanced back over his shoulder and stumbled, sinking knee-deep in icy water, mud grasping at his foot as a living cloud buzzed around his face. Iridescent wings fanned his heated cheeks; tiny faces grinned, revealing pointed teeth.

“What do you here, King’s Son?” the faeries shrieked. “Whither dost thou wander?”

“Ugh!” Elaine cried, beating at the air. “Flies!”

Sharp pain stung Lancelot’s thumb, and he instinctively flung out his hand, sending a tiny creature spiraling into the mist.

“Ill done! Ill done!” they chorused in shrill discord as they swarmed him. He beat them off, cursing as tiny teeth drew blood, then froze as the Knight’s voice rang out again.

“Where are you, boy?”

The faeries drew off at the sound, hovered for a moment, then darted off in a cloud of buzzing laughter. “Here, lord, he is here! This way, follow us—”

“Do you see that hawthorn bush in bloom?” Lancelot demanded, pointing.

“Yes,” she said, too tired to argue.

“Elaine, tell me the truth.”

“There is only a dead tree.”

“Is there a branch—look closely now—about three feet from the bottom that falls like an archway to the earth?”

“Yes.”

“Run, Elaine, and go under that bough. Not around, go under. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lancelot, under the bough,” she repeated wearily. “Come, you can show me.”

“No, you must go ahead.” He reached into the purse at his belt and brought forth a small pouch, which he emptied into his palm. With dull astonishment, she recognized the
diamond he had won in the tournament so long ago. “I always meant to have it set for you,” he said with a twisted smile. He returned it to the pouch and hung it round her neck.

“But what—”

He kissed her brow. “That is for Galahad.” His mouth closed over hers. “And that for you.” His hands were on her cheeks, framing her face, his eyes burning into hers. “If you ever loved me, Elaine, listen to me now and do exactly as I say. When you get through the archway, you’ll see a chapel on the hill. Go there and ask for the priest.”

“But—”

“Farewell, my love. Don’t stop for anything and
don’t look back
.”

And he was gone. Half blinded by tears, she saw him run into the field beside the swamp. His sword, bright Arondight, glinted through the rising mist as he drew it from its scabbard. He waved it as though in battle, thrusting it first into the air, then lifting it as though parrying a blow.

She stumbled toward the tree, brushing at the enormous flies that buzzed around her face, the stink of the swamp mud acrid in her nostrils. Twisted roots seemed to rise from the water to grasp her ankles. When at last she reached the tree, she ducked to pass beneath the bough as she had promised.

“Go,” he had commanded. “Don’t stop for anything.”

Madness, surely . . . and yet his eyes had been so clear, his voice so steady. Even as she raised her foot to step through, she was seized by the unreasoning certainty that if she left Lancelot now, he would be lost again, this time forever.

“Don’t look back,” he had said, and she had promised to obey.

“No,” she said aloud. “No, I will not leave him. Whatever demons he must face, I will stand with him.”

She turned and halted, one hand clamped across her lips to still her cry.

The swamp was gone. In its place was impossibly blue water that rippled to the horizon. The field was hidden by an impenetrable mist, but even as Elaine started forward, it began to disperse, blown into ragged tatters by a sweet breeze off the lake, revealing a sweeping meadow starred with wildflowers.

Now she could glimpse Lancelot. And he was not alone. He was locked in deadly combat with a knight, clad in armor that covered him from neck to heels, emerald green without a dent or blemish. Shreds of mist twisted around shining green greaves that gripped his massive calves. A helm sat upon impossibly broad shoulders, the slit at eye level revealing naught but inky shadow. A green sword was clutched in one mailed hand; the other gripped a verdant shield.

“The Green Knight,” she whispered, icy terror pooling in her belly. “The Green Knight.”

She started forward, letting out a small cry of disgust when a cloud of winged creatures surrounded her. Her cry changed to one of astonished wonder when she saw that they were not flies but tiny beings in human form with wings that shone like rainbows in the sunlight. “Go,” she pleaded, making gentle brushing motions as she ran, careful not to injure them. “Go!” she repeated more firmly, her wonder turning to annoyance as they continued to dart before her eyes.

She stumbled to her knees as something grasped her ankle. Stark terror seized her when she realized it was no root that held her, but a hand, tinged green and webbed between the fingers. She pulled and fought, but she was no match for the creature she could glimpse beneath the waves. It dragged her forward with inexorable strength, the tinny laughter of the fairies ringing in her ears. Her fingers scrabbled vainly at the earth, and then icy water closed around her.

The creature drew her closer, one hand closing round the pouch about her neck. She beat it off and broke free, rising to the surface long enough to take one gasping breath before it pulled her under. Twisting, struggling, they went down together into the waterweeds. The creature reached again for the pouch; Elaine eluded it again, but now black dots danced before her eyes. She crouched upon the bottom, then straightened her legs, fumbling at the pouch as she hurtled upward. She broke the surface once again, and now she held the diamond in her palm. When the creature’s head emerged, she glimpsed its flat green features and huge black eyes before she flung the jewel with all her strength.

With a flash of scales, the creature turned and dove. Elaine struggled to the shore, dragged herself up upon the bank, and gasped like a landed fish. When the dancing spots subsided, she staggered to her feet.

The meadow lay before her now, each detail sharp and clear. Lancelot and the knight fought on, their blades ringing with each slash and parry. Around them rose banks of cushioned benches, filled with what Elaine first took to be people. Looking more closely, she realized her mistake. Some of the creatures watching were hideous, others were almost too beautiful to bear.

But none of them were human.

In a pavilion hung with rosy silk sat the most beautiful of all, and Elaine knew that at last she looked upon the Lady of the Lake. The Lady looked back at her, her lovely face rigid with cold fury.

“Bah, is this the best you can do?” the Green Knight taunted. “Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“Not quite,” Lancelot replied, lunging forward with fluid grace. The Green Knight fell back a step, his blade barely catching Arondight’s edge. Lancelot pressed his advantage, his sword weaving a pattern so intricate that
Elaine could not begin to follow it. The Green Knight stumbled and went down upon one knee, awkwardly flinging up his sword to deflect a blow that would have severed his neck had it landed squarely. As it was, Lancelot’s blade sliced through the green armor at the shoulder, though the Knight gave no sign of having felt it as he leapt to his feet and retreated out of reach.

“You are slow, old one,” Lancelot cried, laughing.

“And you are but a foolish mortal.”

“Give thanks for that! And for the magic that protects you!” Lancelot leaned upon his sword, breathing hard. For the first time Elaine saw that he was bleeding; a long scratch ran across his brow and blood dripped from a gash in his shoulder, falling like tiny garnets on the grass.

Yet his smile flashed out, the merry, reckless smile that had always left her breathless. “Mortal I may be, but I will live on in your memory—and that of the gentle company gathered here today!” He laughed aloud, bowing to the stands. “Forever is a long time, old one. A very long time to remember that in a
true
test of arms, you were no match for Lancelot du Lac!”

The Knight charged with a roar. Metal clashed on metal when Lancelot caught the green blade upon his own. The Knight turned and came in from below; the tip of the his sword caught Lancelot’s sleeve, tearing it from wrist to shoulder, and Elaine clamped her hands across her mouth when his blood began to flow.

The Green Knight hurtled forward as Lancelot retreated, switching Arondight to his left hand long enough to wipe his bloody palm upon his jerkin. As the Knight reached him, Lancelot seized Arondight two-handed and swung it with such speed that the Green Knight barely caught it on his shield. The force of the blow rocked him back upon his heels before he leapt forward with a cry. Again they engaged and
again retreated, back and forth upon the grass, while the eerie cries of the inhuman spectators urged them on.