Chapter 1

I had no idea what hour it was. The sun had set a lifetime ago and thick clouds obscured any moonlight. Battle weary and with heavy hearts, we picked our way from the river in the dark, our joyless task compleated. My four companions formed an escort around me. They knew what I thought of protocol, but I fell in step with the men simply because I was of no heart to argue. The only sounds were the lapping water behind us and our boots crunching the earth.

Odd, such stillness after the mayhem of battle.

When we reached the supply wagons and cooking fires, Dafydd hurried ahead without a word and disappeared into the crowd of soldiers and servants awaiting our return. I noticed immediately that an unnatural hush hung over the entire encampment, like a pall. I saw none of the usual camaraderie or back-slapping, heard none of the light-hearted banter normally present after victory. But my father's men were a special breed, cut from finer fabric. To a man, they snapped smartly to the instant I appeared. I acknowledged their salute with an "at ease" and hurried on my way.

Camlann a victory? Camlann was nothing short of internecine. Not Britanni against Saxon this time. We had all been part of the same army mere months ago. Yet this morning we had faced each other in the twilight mist, astride our battle steeds, in full armour, lances couched, anxious for the signals to be given, the battle cries to be sung, and have at each other. Men who had once been friends met as mortal enemies and slaughtered everything that moved in their paths. Who are the victors in civil strife?

Wfft. What had made us so bloodthirsty?

I saw a different question in the eyes of the men through the smoky firelight as we swept past; the man they had expected to see, the one their eyes sought, the one they had waited for, was not among us. We had lost our king as well as the Round Table. Modred, my half-brother, had driven a pike through Britain's heart. And as my father's heir, the duty fell on me to tell them. But not now. Instead, I announced to my companions that I would meet with everyone for reports after I had changed.

Bedwyr barked out orders and the place seemed to come back to life. Of a sort. I trusted him and the others to know what must be done, and do it, as my father had. He would have addressed the men first most likely, but my father was the Pendragon, and I never would come close to being his equal.

I was not the least surprised to see Dafydd lighting the last of my lanterns when I lifted my tent's flap a moment later. He even had water ready so I could wash.

He offered to undo the laces of my armour, but I declined.

"At least let me help you with this." Dafydd grasped the shield still hanging from my shoulder.

Why had I bothered to retrieve it?

I accepted his assistance without a word.

Dafydd regarded me. Impossible to hide my emotions from him. He knew my heart was shattered. I knew he wanted to offer comfort. But if I allowed myself his embrace now, I would crumble.

"Later, Dafydd," I said.

"You do not bear this alone, Noble One."

"I know. Thank you."

After he left, I stared into the steaming basin. Tor must have had the kettles over the fire hours ago.

I felt dirty far beyond the filth covering me from crown to toe. I needed purifying to my soul and I doubted there was enough water in the Irish Sea for that. Even so, I would not have turned down the opportunity for a prolonged soak in the Great Bath of Aquae Sulis had it been offered. Anything to avoid the grim duty hovering just beyond the walls of my tent.

My muscles screamed in protest as I peeled away layers of armour and clothing. Through years of habit, I inspected woollen and leather tunics, then my lorica, and last the wide belt lined and padded with fleece as each came off. All stiff with dried blood and mud. Most were beyond repair.

Naked to the waist, I noticed a small wound just beneath my left collar-bone. No wonder it pained me. As I dabbed at the area, I recalled the arrow burrowing in. I must have shorn off the shaft with my shield so it would not be in my way as I slashed and hacked in the battle frenzy. When had I pushed it through?

But other than that, and an assortment of minor cuts and bruises, I was not seriously damaged. I was in much better shape, in fact, than my clothing attested.

Then I saw my feet and a wave of nausea rolled my guts. By the gods. What had I done? I had no desire to touch my boots. Had no wish to touch what remained of the men who had fallen beneath my sword. My sword. Drawn without thought to kill an adder slithering towards my horse. I had meant no more harm than that. I sank to my cot and waited for my stomach to settle. Waited for my hands to stop shaking so I could finish undressing. What I would have given for a stiff drink. Wine, ale, uisge beatha Anything.

Ballocks. Why can Bedwyr not address the men? He would know what to say. True. But what made me believe that his pain and grief were any less than mine? Addressing the soldiers was my duty now. I could no more walk away from it without so much as a by-your-leave than I could bring my father back. They had a right to expect my father's heir, not the weakling I had become, too much the coward to face them. Yet I had no idea what I should say. That Arthur, the Pendragon, was gone? Unthinkable. Once the Saxons caught wind of the day's disaster, they would be on us like a pack of starving wolves on an unsuspecting doe. And if not the Saxons, then all our fickle allies would descend like carrion crows, with Camelot as the feast.

If my father could not depend on the aid of his fellow countrymen as the Pendragon, what chance in Annwn did I have?

Between the Saxons and Britain's own people, Camelot would be torn to shreds. And it would take far more than the meagre remnants of the Round Table and my father's army to prevent such calamity. What could I possibly hope to achieve in my father's wake?

I tossed the damp cloth I had been using to bathe with into the basin and filthy water splashed over the sides onto the table.

My bath finished, I had exhausted my excuses for procrastination. I dressed in the clothes Dafydd had set out for me. The softness of the clean wool gave me pause as I slipped into trews and tunic. Such lovely comfort. Warmth had even returned to my toes and fingers.

Right then. What to say? A lie was right out, but neither could I give the entire truth. I needed to buy Britain time and I could purchase that with hope. Quite simple, really, now that I saw it.

Resolved.

I tugged at the stiff leather of my dress boots. I wanted nothing more to do with the old pair. Those I would have Dafydd burn along with the discarded tunics.

With my wounded shoulder, my hair would prove a challenge. Easier to leave it in what was left of the braid I had woven this morning.

Is it still the same day? Year?

Finally, I wrapped a cloak around myself and reached down. Silly pillock. I had left my fibula in the grove. Laid it on the ground when I had removed my wrap for Father to use as an extra layer of warmth. Went off leaving it in the muck. Dolt. Well, there was nothing for that now. It was gone forever, like so much else in my life. As I had no spare with me, I draped the cloak over my shoulders, and went out.

Gaheris awaited to escort me. My kinsman held a small object in his hand that glittered as it caught the light of a nearby torch.

"Funny," he said, "what people leave laying around in the mud, wouldn't you say?"

"I was only just thinking this was lost for good, Ris. Thank you." I clasped the gold dragon, symbol of my rank, into the deep green cloth, in its place above my right breast. "Where is Dafydd?"

"With the others. Are you ready, Highness?"

"No. But I might as well have it done."

I found my trust well placed. Gaheris and the others had been busy and thorough. Everyone still able now stood in formation outside of my father's tent. The Pendragon standard, blood red silk emblazoned with the brilliant gold dragon, flew high on its pole, as it should, snapping in the brisk breeze. Obviously Bedwyr's work. I caught his gaze with a grateful smile. He gave the Latin command and all came to attention.

There were more men assembled than I imagined possible after what I had witnessed on the battlefield that afternoon. Gaheris had counted one hundred and thirty-five infantry, plus a few dozens more in the makeshift infirmary. But no further members of the Round Table had survived. Not so very long ago the equites of the Table had been one hundred and fifty strong. A single battle had reduced us to five.

I gazed upon that sea of faces. The last of the men loyal to my father and his dream to unite our people. I drew my courage from them and began.

"Modred is defeated. He is dead. Once again the day belongs to Arthur, the Pendragon." There was no cheering; I expected none. "You have done a faithful service to your king, fighting bravely and well today, and he sends his gratitude."

He should be here doing this. Damn you, Modred.

I thrust my emotions back down, hoping my struggle was not obvious.

"My father was wounded and has been taken to a place where he can rest and be healed." I had heard Brother Lucan speak of Heaven as such a place. A fragile truth, at best, laced with hope. Let them make of that what they will.

"Has he named you regent until he returns, Highness?" some faceless voice asked from the dark. Did these honest men even realise that the glint of steel that had sparked the battle had come from my blade? How can I dare face them?

"No," I said, my trembling hands hidden inside my cloak. "Lord Constantine remains at Camelot serving in that capacity."

"Well said," my Orkney kinsman whispered. "Bedwyr, Lancelot, and I will see to the rest. Say the same to the wounded. Take Davy and his harp with you."

I nodded.

The infirmary was better lit and I feared my emotions would betray me. I managed by keeping my words brief. This was no time for eloquence. Fancy words are for bards, not warriors. When I finished, I visited a few moments with each man individually as my father always had done, acknowledging their bravery and skills. Sharing a jest. And answering enquiries of fallen comrades. As I moved through the tent, Dafydd strummed his harp, evoking soothing chords that travelled straight to the heart.

Only after I had seen the last man did I have a physician tend to my own wounds. He poked and mashed around at the one in my shoulder, sending fresh waves of pain through my arm.

"The arrow's barb is still within you and naught of the shaft is left to push it through. Your Highness, I am afraid I shall have to cut it out."

"Never mind the apologies, man. Do it."

Wiping his hands on a cloth already stained crimson with blood, the leech turned to prepare his instruments and called for an assistant.

My mind reeled with the massive responsibility ahead of me. Bedwyr and Lancelot might have more experience, but I now held the highest rank. I tried to remember everything that Cai and Bedwyr and my father had taught me over the years. I'd had the best teachers. Why did I feel so ill-prepared?

I declined the elixir offered to dull the pain. I required a clear head. Besides, others had a greater need for that mercy.

"Dafydd?" I raised my voice so he could hear me from behind the screen that had been set up for my privacy.

"Highness?" Not so much as a pause in his chords. His public deference still rubbed me in spite of the years.

"Has anyone taken account of the horses?" Good, basics first.

"Sir Lancelot, Highness. He will make his report when you are ready."

"And what of provisions?"

I grimaced as the physician probed deeper into the wound. Pride kept me from crying my agony. Pride and everything I had learned from Modred during my years in Orkney.

The physician paused. His assistant mopped my brow.

"What are you waiting for, man? Finish."

"My apologies, your Highness."

I regretted snapping at the poor man.

"That will be Sir Gaheris," Dafydd said in answer to my earlier question.

"Lugh's cullions." I cursed more in aggravation at my own stupidity over having allowed the wound, as the leech withdrew the arrow's head.

The worst over, I began once again, "Dafydd, has--"

"Your Highness." He cut me off almost curtly. It bordered on insubordination. Anyone else--"Lord Bedwyr has been arranging things."

I should have known.

After the physician secured a bandage in place and cleansed the gash on my cheek, I thanked him as I slipped my tunic back over my head. I sat up a bit too quickly, for it brought on a wave of dizziness. When the tent stopped spinning, I stood and made my way to the tent's entrance. Halfway there, I turned back.

Dashing sweat from my brow, I said, "Dafydd? I will meet with all of you later to get your reports. My tent."

"I shall make sure the others are there, Highness."

I took the remaining steps, calling over my shoulder, "And find me something to eat. I'm famished."

"Getting more like your father by the hour," I heard him say as the tent's flap dropped behind me. The men laughed, and I smiled in spite of myself, unsure whether he paid me curse or compliment.

* * * *

Naturally Bedwyr stood sentry at his usual post outside my father's tent. Bedwyr was always on duty. The man could be summed in a single word--stalworth. He was at my father's side from the beginning. He and Cai both. Along with my father, they comprised what I had dubbed "the Holy Trinity of Camelot". The three were together long before the idea of a united kingdom of Britain began to take shape.

"Everything is done then," I asked as I approached.

"What can be until morning. There is still you to look after."

"Me? I am right as rain."

Bedwyr frowned.

"I know you have not eaten yet. Shall I send for something?"

"I just asked Dafydd to."

He peered at me, an eyebrow arched.

"What? I swear, you are as bad as Dafydd. I am having food sent 'round to my tent. That is where I go after I finish here. I even had the leech bind a wound." I pointed to my shoulder.

"Had your shield down again, did you? Will you ever learn, tiro?" He demonstrated the proper position once more for my benefit.

Chastised yet again by my first and best teacher.

"It does not seem likely, does it? A reflection on the poor quality of the student, not you, sir." With imaginary shield, I assumed the correct stance for a moment of inspection.

My thin smile quickly faded as I stood in the chill night air, listening to the wind snap the silk above my head. I relaxed my arm. He knew my mission and the reason I hesitated.

If I looked up at him now I would see the understanding in his warm eyes, see the caring. And the pain. No one loved my father more than the man standing beside me. No one. Not the Queen. Not Lancelot. Not even myself.

"I shall be here if you have need of me."

Very comforting, that.

"My father was most fortunate to have had such a friend as you, Bedwyr."

"Thank you. It has been my honour just to have known him." He raised the tent flap for me.

The lanterns had been lit as if his return was expected at any moment. The tent itself was unremarkable, much like my own, though larger and with the trappings of a military leader--a table strewn with war maps and papers, a few chairs, his cot. Rather spartan for the Pendragon.

I felt quite the intruder. I did not belong in the Pendragon's tent alone. But he was my father and he had commanded a duty of me. Disobeying was out of the question. I had protested the necessity of this duty. Protested the necessity of the key in my purse. He had such an uncanny way of being right nearly all the time, so that even in grief I could curse it.

With two steps, I was at his cot and lifted a small oaken chest from beneath. For several heartbeats, I stared at the box in my lap.

"Remember. You will only hold this for him until he returns," I whispered aloud to encourage myself. I slid the key into the lock. It opened without a sound. My breath caught as the flickering lantern light brought the gleaming red-gold dragon ring to life where it lay in its soft bed of purple. The king's ring, the seal of Camelot. Whoever possessed this, possessed the power of Britain.

I could take the ring back to Camelot and declare what was mine by birth. Could show it immediately.

How like Modred.

No. I slammed my fist against the wood frame of the cot. There was no Camelot to return to, the tides of Britain had turned. The Round Table and the Pendragon were no more; those had been destroyed on the battlefield of Camlann. The mere thought of the vile creature with whom I shared a father made me realise I must take that seal, as my father had commanded. But not to wield. The main difference between Modred and me was his insatiable craving for power. All I had ever wanted was my own identity. What a strange fate that I still emerged with everything Modred had tried so hard to keep from me. According to my father's wishes, I was now Pendragon.

I would trade title and ring just to have my father back.

"May your next life be as a leper, Modred. Shunned by all, Maggot-feed." I spat to wherever his spirit might be dwelling.

I snatched up the ring and used the leather cord I had brought with me to fashion a pendant. The gold was heavy; the weight of an entire nation hung at my breast. I hid it under my tunic next to my heart, where I vowed to keep it the rest of my days.

There, you have done it and the world is still here. 

I replaced the chest then crossed to the table. I gathered everything, maps and papers alike, stuffing them into a leather satchel, slung it over my shoulder and left.

"So. It is finished then? What you needed to do?"

I heard Bedwyr ask his questions through my haze of emotions.

"It is done." Focusing on the now once more, I noticed Gaheris had joined Bedwyr.

"Ah, Ris," I said.

"Highness. All is ready for the morrow," he said.

"Well done, Ris," I said.

By reason of my rank, my tent had been pitched near to those of the men I had led into battle. Clear on the opposite side of the camp. Bedwyr, Ris, and I wended through the maze of tents, cooking fires, carts, and piles of supplies and weapons. There is always a faster, shorter, route than the via principalis and via praetoria and other main thoroughfares. On the way, I declined countless bowls of stew, crusts of bread, cups of ale, despite their aromas causing my mouth to water. I greeted the men as civilly as my frayed emotions would allow as I hurried for the privacy of my tent.

A fire burned briskly in the pit a few paces from my tent. More of Dafydd's work. But I saw no sign of my brother. Foster-brother in truth. But brother of my heart. Did we not survive the horrors of Dunn na Carraice together?

Lancelot stood on the fringe of light. I ignored his bow.

"So," Ris said. "What are your plans for the morrow? Where will we go?"

I felt Dafydd beside me before he ever spoke.

"We could go to the Continent, disappear in Armorica until things settle here." Dafydd placed a steaming bowl into my cold hands. The warmth felt exquisite. And the aroma...

"Dafydd, you are a darling man. See, Bedwyr? I did not lie." I attacked the thick venison stew, barely tasting my meal. I soaked up the last of the gravy with a bit of bread. My hunger appeased, I handed the empty bowl back to him.

"My thanks," I said.

He produced an ale jug that met with enthusiastic approval.

Exhausted, I sank onto the log serving as my chair. I threw the folds of my cloak off my shoulders and drew my warmth from the blaze. I gestured for the others to join me.

"Aye," I said finally in answer to Dafydd's suggestion. "Aye, I could go off to Armorica, like the Roman gentry who fled when things got too difficult for their cultured sensibilities. And only spend the rest of my days in a foreign land. A Pendragon in exile. It will be a long while in future, my friends, before things settle here. A very long while."

It seemed unnatural, using the title for myself.

"My family would gladly grant you well come and aid you in any way they could, your Highness." Lancelot spoke to me for the first time since our return to camp.

"I want nothing from you, Lancelot. Or your kin. I tolerate you now because I must." Why he had not accompanied the Queen to the stake was beyond my ken. "Then with your permission, Highness, I shall take my leave." He started to rise, but Bedwyr stopped him.

Both men regarded me.

Bedwyr was correct. For the benefit of the men beyond our circle, I had to maintain an air of normalcy. Any outburst now might raise suspicions that something was amiss.

"No law states I must like you, Lancelot. But I have always respected your skills as a warrior. And my father forgave you. Stay. I will hear your counsel."

Lancelot rubbed his hands over his face, his head bowed.

"I hope someday you will forgive me as well, Highness. Gareth's death was an accident."

I shot him an icy stare to signify I would not.

"Gareth stood guard at my mother's stake, unarmed and unwilling."

"I--" The shoulders of the mighty Lancelot drooped. "Any choice you make cannot be easy for you, Highness," he said softly. "You cannot depend upon Constantine relinquishing the power of regency to you."

I had expected the obvious and suffered no disappointment in Camelot's foremost warrior. The Queen's champion.

"Who else is most likely to oppose me?"

Bedwyr scratched at his chin. It needed a shave. He and the others ticked off the names of the chieftains and princes who had been absent from the battlefield of Camlann. They had remained in their homelands and awaited the outcome in order to pledge loyalties to the victor.

The same men who had opposed my place in the army, and my appointment to the Round Table.

"You haven't much time to deliberate," Bedwyr said. "You can leave at first light, saying you go to join your father. It will be only a short while before today's terrible truth leaks out. The sooner you are away from here, the better. If that is what you truly wish."

What I truly wished was to turn back time by a few years and have another go at it, to avoid the events we had just lived through.

"What is the use? The mighty Arthur, Subduer of the Saxon Horde, could not control his own wife or his closest friend. Could not depend on the loyalty of his equites" I glared at Lancelot until he averted his eyes. "Why should I even bother trying to salvage this cock-up?"

I rubbed my aching brow, remembering our last encounter with the barbarian Saxons. The now famous Battle of Baedd hen Dunn. My first command. Myself and a mere eighty men held off the onslaught for three days until my father led reinforcements from Camelot to help turn the tide. And for what?

I shook my head and thought aloud, "All that work we did, the blood spilt, the lives spent. For what? For today? What a waste. What a waste." I scooped up a handful of damp earth, held it out to my companions. "For this? Did he really think this cares a fig about who lives on it? So many of our own people did not give a damn one way or the other." I tossed the dirt down in disgust. "Well, I say, the Saxons are well come to it, if they want."

I saw the consternation on my companions' faces, and they had the right. We each bore the scars of the hard-won peace we had wrested from that lot.

No one spoke.

"Maybe they would take better care of this land than we did." My last words tangled in my throat for it pained me to see my father's dream in ruins, like a tattered tapestry.

Would this day never end? I closed my eyes and pressed the heels of my hands hard against my forehead in a vain attempt to cancel out the throbbing in my head and the pounding echo of the war drums. The screams of the dying.

Leave me be! 

The wind gusted and I shivered with the chill. I wrapped myself into the folds of my cloak, while my companions stared. I felt their gazes burn through my skin, directly to my soul, as keenly as I had felt the glowing iron brand searing into my left wrist those many years before. I rubbed at the silver wristband covering the scar. Can they not leave me in peace? What did they expect of me? I am not the person my father was. I was a fool for believing I could even try.

"What are you staring at?" I flailed my arms at my companions.

"We only wish to help." Dafydd's touch on my sleeve brought part of my senses back. "We are all exhausted and in need of rest."

"Aye. High time to end this. I cannot take the throne. You know there is no throne for me to take. I have a worthless title. Modred made bloody sure that if he could not have Camelot, then neither would I. All my work to be accepted into the Round Table and earn my place at my father's side was wasted. It is over. Gareth and Cai and the others, they are gone. Who is left to support my claim? Let the mad dogs scramble for the non-existent prize. I shall be gone as well. We leave at dawn. Dafydd. Ris. North is as good a direction as any. Happy now?"

* * * *

"We could have sold that sword you know," Dafydd said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was the first any of us had spoken since Bedwyr and Lancelot retired for the night quite some time ago.

The jug of ale came back to me once more. I took my turn with it before answering.

"Really? I cannot imagine anyone paying real silver for that worthless bit of... of steel."

"But why? Why did you do it? To just chuck it away?"

I could not bring myself to answer or face him. I was not ready to confront the truth behind his innocent question.

"Have you gone mad?"

There was an excellent question to ponder. I had already begun to doubt my reason. I offered the ale to Gaheris.

"I have had my share, cousin," he said.

In truth, I'd had more than my share. Wfft. Why was I not yet sotted? I should have been ages ago, with all the ale I had consumed. That, plus the wine from this afternoon with my father before he... I raised the jug. But Dafydd clutched my wrist and held my arm.

"Are you mad?"

I wrenched my arm free and drank.

"Perhaps," I said finally. "Perhaps I am. And who among us was not a little unsound today? Bedwyr? My father? We allowed Modred control of our destinies. Modred. Can either of you blame me for anything I did today?"

Ris shook his head. He knew better than to get into this. Dafydd should have as well. In fact, he knew me best. The ale emboldened him; he was unused to so much libation. In no mood for talk, I wanted to drop the whole thing.

But Dafydd spoke again. "No, I do not blame you at all. I am sorry you believed that."

I accepted his apology with silence. But he deserved an explanation at least.

"I suppose throwing that sword into the river was my tribute to those who did not survive the battle. A mad act to crown the madness. And to say once and for good, my warrior days are over."

I finished the last of the ale in a long quaff. I preferred uisge for my purpose. Uisge beatha, the Water of Life. What better for drowning your sorrows? I wanted the oblivion of potation. And ale was a poor substitute.

"But really, Dafydd. If my having a sword means so much to you, you can fetch me another before we leave. Surely there are plenty and to spare around here. It should not be difficult for you to find one, especially as you are such a master of procurement."

"You know well it is not the sword alone I am meaning. Why are you walking away from your birthright? Do you not feel a duty to stay and try? Why did you throw away who you really are?"

His words cut directly to my heart. Why did he not simply plunge his dagger there instead?

"That, brother, I did not do," I said, curling a fist. A hurt for a hurt. "How could you think that of me? Throw away who I am? Am I not my father's daughter? Never think I would deny that, Dafydd. Never."

Dafydd stared at my raised fist; his blue-grey eyes, wide with surprise.

"I am sorry, Lin. I..." He dragged slender fingers through his sandy hair. "Nothing we did today made sense."

No, it made no whit of sense. Modred's hatred and ambition had driven us beyond the point of reasoning. Yet it was far too simple to lay the entire blame on him, my own feelings aside. The tapestry of Camelot had begun to unravel long before Modred arrived with his schemes and those of his mother. It had never been tightly woven. Modred only plucked the threads out one by one. When that did not achieve his purpose fast enough, he set the tapestry ablaze. The rotted material burned quickly. Modred's sole mistake was that he did not get out of the way in time, for he was consumed as well.

Wfft. We had all played our parts in destroying Camelot. My father. Morgause. My mother. Lancelot. Modred. Me. Not one of us any more--or less--culpable than the others. Our destinies had been set before my father's birth.

I felt wretched. I always did after an argument with Dafydd. The thought of how close I had come to blows with him frightened me. I touched his sleeve.

"Would you rather be alone, Lin?" He accepted my unspoken apology.

I shook my head. He knew how much I hated being alone.

Dafydd took up his harp. It was never far from his reach. He cradled it in his lap as a mother does her infant. His fingers touched a string here and there to test its pitch. He adjusted a few then played in earnest. Music is the one salve for a rent soul and tattered heart. It may not cure but it certainly is a soothing balm. The effect on me was immediate. I was grateful for the darkness, to hide my tears. To hide my weakness. Damn my gender.

The bards make war seem glorious, even romantic. They lie. Trust me. They are paid to lie. Oh, there are times when war can be justified; at least we had a purpose at Baedd hen Dunn. But Camlann? I guess we needed the Saxons to keep ourselves out of trouble. There was no reason for the blood-bath we had been through today. I had been nothing more than a butcher in the midst of a gory slaughter, no better than the others. No better than Modred. We had been to Hell. How could everyone else be so calm? How could they sleep?

My eyelids closed and the scene of carnage played out before me.

By Toutatis. Thick blood surrounded me. I felt it spill hot onto my sword hand, saw it splatter my shield and clothes, drip from my sword. Mangled bodies, devoid of life, and pieces of humanity littered the field. I slipped and nearly fell and realized I trod upon the entrails of a dying man. Grisly? Ghastly? Most assuredly. But that is the truth of war.

I wiped my hands on my cloak, but they remained sticky. I could not recall soiling them recently. It must have been the remnants of that clot of dirt. But when I held them out to the fire for inspection, the sight horrified me. My hands dripped with fresh blood. It flowed down my fingers and wrists in thick rivulets, hissing as it hit the ground before me. Struck dumb, I stared while both my pulse and breathing quickened.

Surely this was a sign. I had never been meant for the warrior's life. Many had accused me of going against nature fighting in my father's army.

A female warrior? How daft. Even Bedwyr had questioned my father's sanity at first.

I ran trembling hands over my clothes and dragged them across the grass in a futile attempt to remove the stuff of life.

"Dafydd, I have blood on my hands and I cannot wash it off. I was nothing more than a butcher today. And here is the proof." I thrust my arms towards him.

His own fingers froze on the harp's strings, in rare discordance. A deep red drop splattered onto the frame and quickly soaked into the wood. Dafydd seemed unconcerned at the defiling of the beloved instrument, his most precious possession.

"Can you not see it?"

By the puzzled look in his eyes, I knew that he did not. Nor did Ris.

I grasped my brother's ivory tunic and stained the fabric scarlet.

"Have I gone mad? Is this my penance for killing that adder this morning? Father told me to go to the parley unarmed. Am I to blame for starting the battle of Camlann?"

Chapter 2

"Lin. Lin."

I heard him call me from where he stood on the far bank of the expansive, racing river of crimson. What gave the water such a hue? The sunset? Needing to cross, I waded out to my ankles. Much too thick for water. And too warm. The truth made me cringe, but I continued because I saw neither bridge nor boat. I had to reach my betrothed on the opposite side. My Gareth.

Now waist-deep, I swam. I dared not open my mouth to cry for help, lest the viscous fluid fill my stomach and lungs and consume me. I struggled to keep my head clear. The current caught me despite my efforts, and I sank beneath the surface for several terror-stricken moments. My mind now screamed for my love to save me.

The torrent carried me farther from Gareth. He ran along the shore to keep apace.

Ahead, I saw a bridge. I reached for its stones, but gained no purchase.

"Swim, cumal. Swim."

Modred's battle-begrimed and decaying head, fixed to my spear, towered overhead. Mocking laughter spewed from its mouth.

"Gareth, help me."

"Lin?"

I became aware of a gentle shaking.

"Lin, wake up."

I felt firm ground beneath me. Gareth must have pulled me free of the blood river. My chest heaved from the recent exertion. Still damp, I clung to my saviour. His strong arms enfolded me. Protected me.

"Gareth, my love."

"You were having that nightmare again, Lin."

The Irish lilt was right, but...

"You're safe now."

Nightmare? The gods. Did the groan come from my throat?

I opened my eyes. Full daylight greeted my gaze. Ris, my husband, held me, not Gareth. Stupid get. Of course it could not possibly be Gareth. He has been dead these dozen years and more.

And Modred.

I pulled myself from the embrace and wiped my hands on the grass. Then I straightened my tunic to cover my bare knees.

How long had I been without my guard raised? How much had Ris seen and heard?

"Why did you not wake me earlier, Ris? You know I did not wish to arouse the villagers' curiosity."

"You've avoided Camelot for twelve years. Another hour or two makes little difference." He stoked the campfire. "It seems as though your nightmares have worsened."

"They usually do this time of year, Ris. Beltane is but a few days from now."

"I mean worse than that."

"I am well enough," I lied. The nightmare left me shaken every time. Rare was the night without it. Modred always seemed to laugh loudest around Beltane. Near my natal day.

But a Round Table eques never displayed weakness. Or fear. Especially over a childish nightmare.

"Where are the children?" I said, combing my fingers through my tangled hair.

"They followed your brother to the Cam. No doubt he is filling their heads with tales of whimsy."

Better than frightening them by the sight of their mother in the throes of nightmare.

"You know how they love his stories, Ris. Melora even seems to have some of his talent."

"Aye. Her fingers never faltered once on the harp's strings last night while she practised. It is good of Davy to teach her. He would make a fine father. He really should have children of his own."

"Indeed. In the meanwhile, he spoils ours."

"That is nae such a bad thing. Are you certain you want to go up there?"

I realised we both stared at the hill rising from the plain before us. It was crowned by an imposing fortress of wood and stone. Camelot humbled the other hills in the near distance. Proud. Defiant. A worthy lair for the Pendragon. Once it had been my home.

I had vowed never to see it again. Yet, yestereve we had pitched our encampment practically in its shadow. What was Camelot's power, that it could pull me back in spite of myself?

"Yes, Ris. I must," I said, groping behind my back.

"Searching for this?" A small pouch of black leather dangled from his fingers.

"Is there hot water?"

"When is there not?"

I found my cup where I had left it the night before. I emptied its contents onto the ground, then took a pinch of the herbs from the pouch. Ris was closer to the kettle, so he poured out for me. I nodded my thanks.

"You cried out his name in your sleep again."

Was it in my mind, or did Ris set the kettle back in its place more heavily than required?

I cried out many names in my sleep; principally Modred and Gareth. One in hatred. The other...

"I--"

"Ach. You were asleep and could not help yourself. I should not have brought it up. Here, you need something to break your fast." He handed me a barley bannock. "Eat. If not for me and Davy, you'd waste away."

I nibbled on the cake, watching my husband fix his own cup. Why had he mentioned Gareth, only to dismiss him so quickly? It certainly must hurt a man to hear his wife speak his brother's name in her sleep. Odd. I called Ris husband. Friend. Kinsman. But I could not fathom his thoughts at the moment.

Well, what could I do if he refused to discuss it?

I felt a tiny flutter in my belly and gasped.

"What is it, Lin? Something wrong?" Concern changed his entire demeanour.

I smiled to reassure him. The stirring was undeniable.

"Ris, the babe quickened."

"Truly?" His smile lit his face as though we had never shared this moment before. He placed his sword-calloused hand gently, protectively, on my slightly swollen abdomen just as our fourth child kicked once more. "A bonny boy, if ever I felt one, Lin."

"And just how many besides Bear have you felt?"

"Mark me. You're carrying a warrior within your womb, my wife."

"Aye. A warrior to follow in her mother's footsteps."

"I yield," he said with a chuckle. His hands rose above his head, fingers splayed. "Finish your tea, the bairn needs the strength."

I drained my cup, then suggested we join our family.

Ris pushed himself to his feet, turned and extended a hand to assist me. Side by side, we passed through a sparse fringe of trees and emerged on the bank of the River Cam.

"Mummy." Our youngest daughter squealed when she saw us. She ran to me and hugged my knees. "Are we going to that old fortress today?"

"Yes, Gernie." I reached down and smoothed her unruly auburn tresses. They needed combing.

"Bear says it's haunted. With ghosts."

"Indeed?" I must have a word with Dafydd if he was the source of such nonsense from his story telling.

Our five-year-old nodded, then dashed from my side to hug her father. He swung her high into the air, bringing on a wave of giggles.

He made a good father as well. I could have done worse, I suppose.

"And what are you about, Melora?" I stepped to where Gernie's elder sister sat, hunched over the damp earth. She clutched a stick like a stylus.

Raven curls swung from the studious seven-year-old's face. "Practising the letters you taught me last night, Mother."

I glanced over her shoulder.

"Nicely done."

She returned to her task.

I stepped into the frigid water and stooped to bathe my hands and arms. These were the times I dearly missed the luxuries of Camelot--the hot baths. As I washed, I felt my brother studying me from where he stood thigh-deep in the river. My son strained as he wrestled with his uncle. Dafydd knew I had slept poorly, but I wanted to show him I had recovered.

I gave him a smile in greeting. "Careful, Dafydd, else Bear bests you and you end up in the river."

"What? You mean this wriggling braggart?" He grasped Bear around the waist and in a single twist had my son off his feet and in the water. "I think not."

Bear bobbed up doused and laughing, but undaunted. He renewed his assault on Dafydd, growling.

I had named my son Arthur, but I do not recall any of us using it. From the moment he was born, he was my "Bear Cub". And at ten, he showed the signs of both size and strength his grandfather would be proud of, and living up to his nickname.

I sat on the bank beside my husband, enjoying the peace of watching my family. Bear's wet frolic with Dafydd. Gernie copying her sister's actions. Would that life could always be so sweet.

Dafydd effortlessly pulled free of his nephew and joined us. "I hear the Saxons call this place Cadbury," he said and stretched out on the bank.

"Ach, bloody Sassenach." Ris' Irish accent always grew more pronounced when provoked or agitated in some way.

"They are so pretentious," I added. "They seem to rename everything in their ghastly tongue. And they have the cheek to call us 'Wealh'--foreigners. Us."

"Are we Saxon, Mother?"

"What?"

My son towered over me, his arms folded across his chest. With a bare foot tapping the smooth rock beneath it, even drenched he looked like a miniature version of his grandfather.

"Are we Saxon?" He repeated the words slowly, as if I were incapable of understanding.

"Whyever do you ask that?"

"You always talk about heritage, and yet you hardly ever speak of ours. I mean we speak the language." He tossed his pale, wet hair from his face, spraying his father and I. "So?"

"We speak the language. When necessary. Britanni sumus." 

Ris and Dafydd shot me questioning stares at my choice of words. When had we last thought ourselves in such a patriotic vein? Why dredge up what I had forsaken so long ago?

"Even Father? I thought you were Irish, sir."

"My father was indeed Irish, Bear. And I am proud of that. But my mother was British. Once I moved from my father's lands I did not return, save for one time only. A time I regret. I have lived in British land so long, I consider myself a native."

I noticed Dafydd's slender fingers stroking his throat at the mention of Ris' mother, Morgause. An old, all too familiar gesture. Would either of us ever be totally free of that woman? My own fingers rubbed at my silver wristband, recollecting--

"Mummy? Why do you look so sad?"

I thrust the memories of my childhood aside, refusing to acknowledge them.

Instead, I gave my youngest a smile and took her into my lap. "I was just recalling an unhappy time, Gernie. But it was a long time ago. Come. Let us return to the camp so I can comb and plait your hair. And your sister's. We must look our best when we go to Camelot."

As I walked back, the children chattered amongst themselves about the day of adventure they faced. Ris engaged my brother in a conversation which left me alone to reflect on our son's motive for his recent enquiry. He had mentioned heritage. It was merely a matter of time before he reached the pith. It might appear as though he had forgotten the matter, but I knew better. I had been expecting this for quite awhile.

Nigh time for the truth. I shivered and told myself it was naught but the breeze.

* * * *

The morning was still young when we finally entered the village. I could not bring myself to call it Cadbury. Everything was as neat and trim as ever, only quieter. Less bustle without the endless parade of equites, warriors, servants and visitors, as when my father had been in residence.

We cut across the Green, past the well, and headed for the village hall at the very base of the hill. Behind the building of grey stone and thatch lay our goal--"The Wash", the track up to the north-east gate. Eques and common soldier had dubbed it so, because one felt the notion it might be easier to swim up it in the rain rather than climb. The slightest drizzle turned it into a nightmare of ankle-deep mud. I could have wept at the derelict condition of the path and the earthen ramparts. Ris, Dafydd and I had served numerous times on the detail to keep the tracks and defences clear of bush, hedges and weeds--any sort of growth that might provide cover or toe-hold to an enemy. No warrior was ever exempt from the duty. I had always considered it a labour of love. Bramble and brush now reclaimed what only treachery had been able to breach.

The children dashed ahead, eager for their quest. Ris and I walked abreast, but there was no room for Dafydd. He brought up the rear.

The weather had been fair for several days, so the ground was firm and dry beneath our boots. But I was glad I had remembered the old centurion's vine-stick I used when walking. I leaned on the vitus appreciatively.

"What will you tell Bear?"

I glanced at my husband.

"About his question. He shall be on it again, you know."

"And too soon, Ris. I think he is ready for the truth of who, and what we are. Yet I have held the secret for so long. Am I ready?"

"You doubt? You have never been known to lack confidence, Lin."

Have I not? How little he truly knew me. How well I had concealed my nature.

I paused to catch my breath. "Well, I shall let Bear set the pace. I suppose when the time is right, the words will be there. Just like when I addressed the soldiers after Camlann."

"And a grand job you did, too. The people still await your father's return."

"Desperate people will believe anything. Besides, I had help from Dafydd. Was it not brilliant when he added Avalon and the Lady of the Lake?"

My brother grinned and inclined his head, saying, "I am honoured my humble efforts please, Noble One."

"Hardly humble," I said.

Before we reached the first earthen defence, Gernie needed to be carried. Her father scooped her into his arms.

"Come, little dove," he said.

She nestled against his breast.

Halfway up, Melora asked to rest. She was too big a girl for any of us to carry. I, myself, leaned rather heavily on the gnarled and twisted piece of wood, but my pride refused to allow me to stop. In my selfishness, I did not wish Bear to have his first sight of Camelot alone, nor with any one save me. He and I continued at a steady pace while the others stayed behind to catch us up later.

At the summit we paused in the shadow of the guard tower. No sentry questioned our presence. The wood and stone stood mute. Despite of the pang in my heart, I took a deep breath and pushed one of the massive doors. Its hinges squeaked. No one had remained behind to bar the gates from within.

I stepped inside and touched a fist to my breast in the familiar salute, and gave a silent "ave".

"Glory," my son whispered in reverence. Even empty and silent, Camelot could stagger one's wits with its size. "I never thought it possible. Camelot is exactly as you described it, Mother. Exactly. How did you know?"

I watched as his gaze darted from one side of the compound to the other, taking in everything--the stables, the barracks, the craftsman's stalls, the practice field as I pointed them out. I knew he was storing every detail for future inquisitions.

"Later, Bear. I shall tell you everything later." And there is much, my son. "Go on, have a look 'round. Just be careful. Things might not be quite as solid as they appear on the surface."

He dashed off in a twinkling, directly towards the stables. My son. Arthur's grandson.

My own feelings wavered. The place had an unnatural air about it. What had once been vibrant with noise of every sort now stood desolate. Had I been mistaken in returning?

I found myself clawing at my neck in an old habit. The same gesture as Dafydd had made earlier. The shadow of a painful memory constricted and choked me.

No. I refuse to think of that. I forced my hand back to my side.

I wandered about the compound, aimless. Taking my time. Weeds had encroached everywhere, and the buildings stood in a general state of disrepair but, surprisingly, seemed fairly intact. Little had been carted away for use elsewhere. It would not take much to restore Camelot to her former glory. Why had she been abandoned? Why did my kinsman, Constantine, not stay?

"Why did you not return after Camlann?" 

Sod off, Modred. You are dead.

The cries of delight from my daughters, as they had their first sight of Camelot broke my musings. And none too soon.

Without thought, I had made my way to one of my own favourite parts of Camelot--the stables. Bear had wandered off already, no doubt intent on exploring the whole of Camelot at once. The familiar odour of horses and leather remained--or was it my imagination?--mingled with the mustiness of time. I walked down a double row of stalls, counting as I went, although I could have found my way blindfolded. Straight to number six, left-hand side. Rhyddid's stall. My war stallion, a magnificent gift from my father. His name meant freedom. He had been slain from under me at Camlann. Rhyddid and I had been as close a team as Dafydd and me.

I stepped into the empty stall. Dust covered the floor, but someone had mucked out the place before Constantine moved headquarters. I heard a rustling in the corner and peered into the dimness. A mouse scurried across the boards. I half-expected one of the cats to be close behind, ready to pounce.

What had I hoped to find here after a dozen years? What answers could an empty fortress possibly contain? I would show the children around. Perhaps give them a peek at the Round Table Hall. Then we would move on. There was nothing for me here any more. Having forsaken Camelot after Camlann, I had no claim to it. I had no right to even be here. How did I dare criticise Constantine for moving his headquarters?

I am sorry, Father.

I heard footsteps and looked up to find Ris approaching.

"I knew you would be here, where the heart of Camelot beat."

I agreed.

"Those were grand times. The world may never see the like again."

"What do you feel about being here, Ris?"

"What I feel does not matter." He joined me in the stall.

"Yes it does. It matters to me."

Ris leaned against the wooden slats, gazing into the empty expanse, deep in his memories. In twelve years of living and travelling together, neither of us could say we knew each other in the slightest.

"A hundred years could not have made me ready to return."

"Why did you then? You could have stayed at the camp."

My husband stepped towards me and bowed deeply at the waist. "Where you go, I go. That simple. Before you were ever my wife, you were and always shall be, my Queen." Ris straightened. "Why do you feel it so necessary to come here again, reopening old wounds?"

"I wish I could say. But I cannot. I only know it has been tugging on me for some time now, like a hand gripping the cord around my neck with my father's ring and pulling me. I had hoped to find the answers in here."

"Have you?"

"I have come all this way, and all I got were bits of memories. I see no reason for us to stay very long. Just enough for the children to explore a little. I thought we could show them--"

A loud whoop pierced the quiet. It came from outside, in the direction of the practice field.

"Come," Ris said. "Let us see what Bear has discovered."

I tucked my vine-stick under my arm and we walked out.

Our son had found the armoury, and a sword nearly as tall as he. He brandished it two-fisted. I froze in my tracks. My son was magnificent.

"My word. He is a natural," I whispered.

"You expected less," his father asked.

I shook my head, for I had not expected anything. Had not wanted to think of the possibility.

"Arthur would be proud of this one." Dafydd leaned against the door-frame of the stable.

"Wouldn't he just? I guess it's nigh time to start his lessons." Ris had a greedy look on his face, much like men do when they learn their woman has new been delivered of a son, claiming the glory for the woman's labours. As though a son was a spoil of war.

Playfully, Bear attacked his sisters. They scattered, shrieking at the game.

"Arthur!" I summoned the command from somewhere deep within me. Drew it up from where I had allowed that aspect of me to sleep for a dozen years.

My son halted immediately, as if stunned by the sheer force of his name. He turned, wearing a bewildered expression. The sword dangled in his hands.

I covered the distance between us in five or six long paces, and grasped the sword by the rusty blade. He released it without a sound. My gaze held firm as the weapon passed into my hand. He had seen his father's sword many times. Had watched it being sharpened. And Dafydd had his as well, of course. Thus, I was disappointed that our son had so little sense in a sword's use.

"This is not for play. Nor is it ours. It belongs to the Pendragon."

I strode off, swinging the sword at my side, to replace it in the armoury, wishing my son could have lived his life without his hand ever knowing how cold and heavy iron truly feels.

Chapter 3

"Why did you take the sword from me, Mother?" Bear's words echoed in the expanse of the empty armoury.

Sliding my hand along the once highly polished wooden rack dissecting the main room, I pushed aside years of dust. I thought he might follow.

"You have been here before," he said.

"Aye."

"You have had a sword in your hand before, as well."

"Yes."

"And you know how to use it."

So. The time has come.

I compleated my task. The blade looked forlorn without its hundreds of brothers standing hilt to hilt.

I faced my son.

"Again, yes. And you want to know how, and why your mother would know such things."

He nodded.

"Fair enough. Sit down, Bear." I pointed to a bench that stretched along the length of the outer wall. I had spent many a morning sitting there, hour after hour, surrounded by my friends, my brothers-in-arms, polishing weapons, swapping lies, laughing a great deal. In my mind, I could conjure them all and fill the room to its capacity.

"I am going to start at the beginning. My own. Before I knew about swords and shields and armour and war. Many years before I came here."

I paused a long time, staring at the past. I needed courage for what I had to say.

"When I was a child... I was a slave." I had never before admitted that to anyone.

Bear's blue eyes widened for an instant, but he made no sound. A chill ran through me and visions of Camelot vanished.

"Dafydd and I lived far away from here then. Far to the north, in the small island kingdom of Orkney, within the fortress of Queen Morgause."

"You mean King Arthur's sister?"

"Half-sister. We were considered her property."

Bear sucked his breath through his teeth.

Dafydd told stories of Camelot to my children nightly. My son knew well the Pendragon's line, including Morgause's five sons. What Bear did not know was that Gawain, Agravain, Gareth and Modred were his father's brothers. He did not know Prince Gaheris of Orkney, son of Morgause, was his father.

This would not be easy for either of us. I constantly grappled with that portion of my history. The pain. The bitterness. The fear. Over the years, I had suppressed and hidden it from my husband and children. I intended only to answer my son's questions and move on to my father, and my time and position in Camelot. A much happier life. Then we would return to camp.

"Where exactly is Orkney, Mother?"

"Here. Easier to show you." I drew a map on the dust-covered floor with my finger as Bear watched. "This is the wall built during the time Britain was a Roman province." I indicated with a line. "This wild territory north of it, we know very little about."

"That is Pictish land Father has spoken of."

"Yes. Even the Romans had no interest in that part of the country, except to build the wall to contain the Picts. And the Romans are generally an efficient lot, making the most of whatever they conquer.

"Orkney," I continued, "is a group of small islands, just off the northern-most coast of Britain's mainland. Here."

My thumbprint served to represent the main island where I had lived a twelve-year nightmare.

"I must admit, I do not know much about it. Slaves were not allowed to venture much beyond the fortress walls. Just to the stream and the fields."

Bear hovered over the map, studying it.

"Then we must be--" He paused as he considered our location without benefit of any landmarks. "Here." He placed his finger in a spot not far off the mark.

I nodded with a smile. How proud my father would be of this one, indeed. The son he should have had. Instead, my father had been cursed with me--and Modred.

"Orkney is awfully far north, Mother?"

"To be sure. I never felt warm. Nor dry. The place was every bit as harsh and cold as those who would have been my masters."

"Would have been?" Bear looked up from the map.

"Morgause and Modred tried very hard to break my spirit, to dominate me with their will, but--"

"Lin?"

I had to twist in my place to see the door and my brother standing just inside, wineskin in hand.

"I knocked," Dafydd said. "But you must not have heard. I thought you might want this." He held the skin out by its leather strap. "Story-telling is a thirsty business."

"You would know. Come in."

He crossed the familiar room and set the wineskin within my reach. Then he sat on the floor facing us.

"Mother? Was Father a..."

"No, Bear. Your father was never a slave." I spared him the word and his face relaxed. I was glad to have that small bit of happy news to offer him. But just what would the lad think when he learned the whole truth?

My son fidgeted as he pondered the recent information. Mayhap I had misread him. I tended to overlook his youth during his interrogations. I would need to hold tight rein on my answers from now on.

After a time, Bear levelled his gaze at me. It took a physical effort not to gasp. Another man had possessed eyes the same shade of blue as those of my son and father. Never before had the similarity hit me so hard as in that moment. I had known it since his birth. How could I not? I simply had kept Modred and thoughts of him buried deep. For if I had not, I think I would have gone mad, consumed by the hatred I continued to harbour for my other brother.

Hidden in the folds of my tunic, my fists clenched.

"I am the son of a slave woman, then."

The simple statement stabbed my heart. Everything I had planned to calmly and rationally tell my son fled my mind. Only the raw memories remained. Of the whip. The blood. The chains. Modred. Every detail of our slavery battled to be released first. My son must understand that before I could tell him of his grandfather.

Dafydd placed a comforting hand on my knee.

"You find that shameful, Bear?" My brother asked what I could not. "Your mother is a slave no longer. Nor was she at the time of your birth."

Bear's cheeks coloured and he lowered his head.

"I... I meant no disrespect, sir. Mother."

Dafydd regarded my son a moment. "Of course not, Bear. Still, I suggest you listen to her story before you judge."

"It would be an honour to hear, if she will tell it."

Dafydd and I had no need for words. Especially when it came to Orkney. He rose.

"I had not intended to stay so long, Lin. I think I shall go help Ris with Melora and Gernie. That little one is very much like her mummy and can be quite a handful." Despite the lightness of his words, his voice lacked the usual merry spark it held whenever he spoke of my children. He bent to kiss my brow.

"You can do this, Noble One," he whispered. "You must. I shall see that you are not disturbed."

I watched him leave and called out a weak "thank you."

"What did happen on Orkney, Mother?" Bear asked when the door closed behind Dafydd.

My son wanted to know. Then by the gods, he shall.

I took a quaff from the wineskin as I recalled a stormy winter night many years and thousands of miles ago.

My earliest memory.

"I saw little beauty in the island kingdom of Orkney, Bear. Sheer crags, scored by relentless waves rose to dizzy heights straight from the North Sea. Perched on the summit of the headland which overlooked the Sound of Hoy and Cairston Harbour stood Dunn na Carraice. "Fortress of the Rock." Home of the banished Queen Morgause.

"The place was aptly named. My eyes met grey stone at every turn. The ramparts and all the buildings within the fortress might have been carved from the bedrock from which it arose. Even the sky was invariably grey much of the time, heavy with storm clouds blown in from the sea.

"Largest and most prominent of the dunn's buildings was the Queen's palace. It housed the Queen and the five princes, whenever they were in residence and not at Camelot, as well as visitors, warriors of rank, and the house servants. Smaller buildings which functioned as stables, barracks, storage and our quarters flanked the palace. Towering stone walls enclosed all. To keep enemies out. And me and Dafydd within.

"Slaves are less than human, Bear. Slaves do not share living-space with the free-born, except when working. The oblong building allotted us enclosed a single room as home for some thirty people at any one time. It had a thick sod roof with a hole cut in the centre for smoke from the fire-pit.

"It was always cold, damp and draughty. And ugly."

* * * *

I was five the year of the Samhain blizzard; Dafydd had recently turned seven. The storm swept in before cockcrow. By noon the sky had disappeared in the swirling white and we realised the bonfires for the new year's festival would be impossible. At eventide everyone prayed for the gods to understand the omission while huddled around our indoor hearth fire. We prayed we would not awake at dawn buried alive.

Because of Samhain, Queen Morgause provided our quarters with a small cask of ale and extra blocks of peat as fuel for our fire. Our feast consisted of the same fare as any other day--a stew of fish and turnips, thickened with barley, and a portion of bread. One of the men said that if winter continued so harsh, we would all be eating seaweed before spring, even the Queen. Men and women agreed, their faces ruddy with the glow from the blaze.

Several children, Dafydd included, launched into a familiar tune extolling the virtues of seaweed, clapping in rhythm to accompany themselves. When they finished, the room rang with the adults' laughter and applause for the comical song. Gossip and complaints ceased then, and we turned to stories and music to pass the night.

Dafydd loved this portion of the evening. Each night he listened to every word uttered by the story-tellers and singers. He committed every word to memory. I liked that time as well, when the yarns concerned heroes and brave deeds. But Samhain called for darker tales of the Otherworld and of Faerie. Stories to raise the hair, each more strange than the last.

I pressed myself deeper into Mummy's lap, reluctant to leave her safety. She hugged me and called for Dafydd to come to bed. In the midst of a narration.

"Why so early, Mother? The stories are not finished yet," Dafydd said.

"Because they are frightening Linnie," our mother answered.

"She is such a baby. They are only stories."

"Dafydd, she is too young to know the difference."

"Why not just put her to bed then, and let me stay up a little longer? I am not even tired." He yawned.

"I am not scared," I said, trying to spare him.

"You are so," he said and turned his back. "It's unfair. I have to go to bed because she is scared."

"Just lie down and hush, Dafydd. You, too, Linnie."

I slipped from her lap.

"Son? Please?"

A moment later, my brother laid down in an angry huff and jerked the blanket over himself.

"Share the blanket with your sister, please, Dafydd."

"I do not mind him having it, Mummy," I murmured. "I am no warmer with it than I am without."

"My darlings." She kissed my cheek, then Dafydd's before lying down herself. I used the crook of her arm as a pillow. She had none. Very soon I felt her relax.

Sleep came less easily for me. Bogies might well be lurking in the shadowy corners beyond the firelight's reach. Besides, I could not block out the story-teller's voice. Then, when the last story finally ended, conversations were slow to wane while the ale lasted.

Darkness enfolded me. Closer to the fire, a woman giggled above a man's grunting. Snoring came from every side. Occasionally, the entrapped smoke would overwhelm someone into a fit of coughing, myself included.

The wind rose and whistled through cracks between the stones of our dwelling. We had no tapestries to help block it like the Queen did within her palace. Even latched, the window shutters rattled. Snow blew in wherever it found a breach.

I shivered and inched closer to Mummy. She did not move in response. Odd. Her skin felt cold against my cheek. Maybe Dafydd would know what to do. At least he should share the blanket.

"Dafydd?"

The straw rustled beneath him.

"I am trying to sleep. Leave me be."

He was still cross with me.

But I had to tell him about Mummy. I spoke his name again, a bit more urgently.

"Oh, do stop your whining, Linnie. Why must you always be impossible? You follow me all day. Can I not have a moment's peace?" He shifted his weight and hugged the thin blanket tighter. And I got no further response from him.

"Sorry, Dafydd," I whispered, defeated.

I snuggled closer to Mummy to give her what warmth I could, secure in the knowledge that Dafydd would regret his selfishness come the dawn.

And for the rest of his life.

Although determined not to, I eventually cried myself to sleep, trying to draw comfort from my thumb. A cold and lonely comfort.

I awoke not by cockcrow, but by the door of our quarters banging against the wall. The overseer barged in, tailed by his assistant. I sat up and stared around me. Mummy had not moved.

"The overseer is here, Dafydd. Wake up." I nudged his shoulder.

He muttered something I could not understand and rolled over.

I turned to warn Mummy. Too late. The assistant towered over us. He prodded her with the toe of his boot.

"Come on. Wake up, you lazy creature," he said, shaking loose the cords of his whip.

"Please, Mummy. Wake up so he does not hurt you." I tugged on her sleeve.

"Out of my way or I'll do you next." He had his arm drawn to strike.

I shrank back.

"No sense beating a dead horse," someone nearby said.

"What?" My mother's assailant paused. His whip hand hovered, frozen at the height of its arc.

"Can't you see? This one's long cold, man. Been dead all night from the looks of her."

"Dead?" Dafydd, fully awake now, grabbed me by the shoulders and shook. "All night? Did you not know?" He shouted at me.

I stared. The storm in my brother's blue-grey eyes, normally so warm and kind, frightened me more than stories of Faerie and the Sith ever could. More than the overseer's whip. But I would face them, every each, if it would calm my brother.

"How could I know? Dafydd, please do not be cross. I am sorry." I cringed from the stranger he had become, desperate to stay his anger. "I tried to tell you last night something was wrong, but you kept pushing me away."

"Stop that. You are not a baby any more." He jerked my hand from my face and slapped my fingers. His anger stung worse than the blow.

His innocent words would haunt me for a very long time.

Two men lifted Mummy, and none too gently either. They wore leather collars around their necks, same as Mummy. That meant they belonged in our quarters. They half-dragged, half-carried her out. Were they not even going to give her a blanket? It was so bitter cold out there, she would need one. The dead deserved at least that, even a slave.

"I warned you last night, 'twas the screaming o' the Bean Sith." 

Hands fluttered as people made the horned sign to ward off evil at the old woman's words. Everyone knows the Bean Sith are heralds of death. Christians crossed themselves. It did not hurt to invoke as many gods as possible in matters of the Otherworld. Everyone cast furtive glances about the room, afraid of who else might be found in a similar state. Death, like all things in life, comes in triads.

I found no comfort in the honour of the Bean Sith. 

"These two are old enough to start earning their keep around here." The overseer's words sliced into my thoughts. Earn our keep? "You, there. Take this one with you to the kitchen. Find some pots for her to clean." He shoved me forward.

After the morning meal of tasteless porridge, which I swallowed from habit only, I followed an older girl to a part of the dunn I had never been before. In the kitchen, I found no shortage of filthy pots that required scouring. The aroma of roasting haunches of beef and venison, the bubbling kettles of stew, knotted my stomach with hunger, but at least it was warmer than in the slaves' hall and Dafydd no longer had to put up with my constant questions nor did I have to face his wrath.

Wrapped in my loss, scared and confused, I obeyed whatever was commanded of me. Alone in a sea of strangers.

The hours dragged. I missed my brother and--

"You. Prince Agravain needs more wood."

A woman pointed at me. She had been giving orders most of the morning to everyone working in the kitchen. Before I could move, she turned away and to her next task.

I set down the bowl I had been scrubbing and dried my hands on my skirt.

Mummy had always taught Dafydd and me to be polite, especially to our betters in the dunn.

"If you please," I said. "I do not know where the wood pile is or the prince's chamber."

The clatter and chatter of the bustling kitchen ceased. The tall, slender woman without a collar glared at me through narrowed eyes.

What had I done? I stared at my bare feet.

"Why do I get the stupid ones?" she said. "The wood is in the bin. The royal chambers, above."

A snap of her fingers and work resumed.

I found the woodbin by the door and gathered up as many of the split logs as I could. How would I ever find my way in the palace?

"I am sorry about your mother, Linnie."

The girl who spoke was the same one who had led me from our quarters. Her small kindness caused me to blink back tears. I would not let them spill. I was not a baby.

"Thank you."

She glanced around, then gave me directions to the prince's chambers. "You had better hurry, Linnie. First you will have Brisen's anger on you, then the prince's. Neither are pleasant."

The door to Prince Agravain's chamber stood open when I arrived. Laden as I was, knocking was impossible. Not knowing what else to do, I stopped just outside.

Two youths lounged at a table covered with the remains of a hearty meal. The elder of the pair held a scrap of meat to the dog at his feet.

My stomach gurgled and I licked my lips as the animal gnawed.

The young man scratched the dog's ears a moment before finally speaking to me.

"What are you waiting for, girl?" he said. "Put it next to the brazier."

"Yes, my lord," I murmured.

"How about a bit of sport, Agravain?" I heard the younger boy say as I drew close to the table and the nearby iron brazier. There was already a stack of wood beside it, plenty to last the night, I was certain.

"Sport? In this weather? Are you daft, Modred?"

"Not outside, brother. We need not even leave the warmth. Watch."

The youth with the short-cropped black hair chose that moment to stretch in his chair, extending his legs in my path.

I landed on my knees with an "Oh." The wood scattered across the floor. Boyish laughter filled my ears as I rubbed my bruises.

"Clumsy. Pick that mess up." The older prince raised his hand to strike me.

I cringed, raising my own arms in self-protection.

"How dare you hide yourself from me? Slaves take what they're given."

My arms were no match for his warrior's skills. His sword-calloused hand connected with my cheek. Then he hauled me to my feet by my hair.

"Pick it up."

I scurried to obey, wanting nothing more than to quit the royal presence and return to the kitchen.

* * * *

By eventide I stumbled into our quarters along with the others. I collapsed near the fire and stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. A bowl of pottage appeared without warning in my hands. I glanced up and saw Dafydd. Still wounded by his rough treatment of that morning, I immediately redirected my attention to the bowl. It was kinder. At least it gave a little bit of warmth, and it did not shout at me or strike me.

When the bowl cooled, I set it down. Wishing for privacy, I walked to our usual sleeping place. I wanted no part of the stories or songs or gossip. Or anyone. I sat with my back to the fire and the others, facing the wall and hugged my knees to my chest. My throat ached with tears, but I refused to let them flow lest the others see me weep. Babies cry, and Dafydd had told me I was no longer a baby. I held them in my heart.

"Please eat something, Linnie." The voice sounded more like the Dafydd I was familiar with than it had that morning.

"I am not hungry," I said to my knees.

He knelt in front of me and set the bowl within my reach.

"Linnie, you have a bruise." He reached out as if to touch my face.

"Stop." I swiped his hand away. "So what if I have a bruise? So what if one of the princes beat me for being clumsy and slow this afternoon? Can you change it?"

Dafydd had no answers. He stared, obviously wishing he could do something.

Before he offered pity, I pointed to the bowl. "Take that away. I told you I am not hungry. Eat it yourself for all I care."

He removed it immediately, leaving me alone. It felt good to command someone after receiving so many commands myself throughout the day. And being obeyed was sweet indeed.

Still hugging my sore knees, I slumped to the floor. My mind echoed the keening I wanted so desperately to release. I must show him, show everyone, I was not a baby.

At some point Dafydd silently slipped to my side. I let him tuck the thin blanket around me without complaint.

"Lin, Lin." He repeated the grown-up name over and over, as his hand smoothed my hair. "Lin? I'll take care of you. I promise. I'll do better. You'll see."