Читать книгу Camelot’s Shadow - Sarah Zettel - Страница 9

It was almost dawn when Euberacon rode once more in sight of his habitation. To most eyes, the place he approached looked to be a single, crumbling tower, the remains of some fortress of the Romans, or perhaps of the Saxons and their failed war against Arthur. The bright rays of the rising sun touched on pale stone mottled green by moss. The whole structure listed to one side and any builder with half an eye would have said that it would collapse completely with one more winter.

To Euberacon, it was a palace like nothing else the length and breadth of the whole cold, crude isle. It was built of pure, white marble. Its four towers were topped with gilded roofs that flared with vibrant light as the morning touched them. Inside the single gate was a courtyard walled with cunningly painted tiles, so it seemed he rode into a fantastic garden of drooping trees laden with fruits of red and gold. A fountain spread its bowl in the centre of the yard, showing a mosaic of all the ocean’s fishes swimming in sapphire waters. Another mosaic, this one depicting delicate, twining flowers, spread out beneath his horse’s hooves.

This place could appear to be many things; a cottage, a grove of trees, a single miraculous tower standing on its own rooftop. The spells that protected it and shifted its appearance were of ancient origin, and costly in time and material. They were, however, well worth the care he had taken with them. This was a small land, and for the time being, he must remain hidden.

During the day he was the master of this place and all its forms. At night, there was uncertainty, and there were shades that passed where his eyes could not see. But he had found his cure for that, and once she was done working her other mischief, he would bring her to him.

A boy of about ten years entered the tiled court, bowing respectfully. Euberacon passed the boy the horse’s reins. With the competence of an experienced stablehand the boy caught hold of the animal’s bridle to hold it steady as Euberacon dismounted and retrieved the saddlebags that held his trophies. If one looked steadily into the boy’s eyes, it could be seen that he stared too much and did not blink quite enough. In his mind, the boy was still fostering in the hall of one of the island’s many petty kings. He remained unaware that his foster mother had sold him for a potion to rekindle her straying husband’s lust for her.

The few servants that kept Euberacon’s house had been purchased for similar prices. The fact that he needed to descend to such barter for his most basic needs galled him, but he had schooled himself long ago to patience. Each day brought him closer to his victory.

A bird squawked overhead. A raven perched on the windowsill of the north-west tower. More of them circled over head. Kerra had returned, then. Good. He needed to speak with her about recent developments.

But first, he needed to confirm his suspicions.

The south-east tower was Euberacon’s alone. No mortal servant, however completely enchanted, entered here. On the first floor was his sleeping chamber, its door bolted and barred with oak, ash and magic. The chamber, immediately beneath the gilded roof held a small menagerie of caged animals: doves, ermine, foxes, crows, wrens, and their like. These he fed and cared for with his own hands, ensuring their health and wellbeing so they would be ready when he had need of them.

But at this time, no such sacrifice was needed. He climbed the spiralling stairs only to the second storey. Light and cold filtered in through the arrow slits in the outer walls. Warmth was the one thing with which he could not supply his dwelling. It was the constant reminder of where he truly was.

A silver key hung on a chain around his neck. Euberacon unlocked the ash-wood door in front of him and entered his private workroom.

The scents of herbs and rare essences overlaid the less savoury odours of old blood and decay. Euberacon uncovered the brass brazier by the door and dropped fuel onto the smouldering coals so that the flames sprang up, providing a flickering light. Despite this, the room remained densely shadowed. Bags and bundles hung from the ceiling. The shelves were crowded with mortars, alembics, braisers, along with sieves and bowls made from all manner of materials, both precious and base.

What the room did not contain was books. He had not been able to bring a single tome or scroll when he fled Theodora’s assassins, and those that pretended to practise the high arts in this barbaric land did not see far enough ahead to write their learning down.

Euberacon had heard rumours that Merlin had several mystical volumes in his private chamber in Camelot, but no art or artifice had enabled him to see into that cunning man’s sanctum. The extent of Merlin’s knowledge remained his own secret.

Perhaps then, they are not so foolish, Euberacon admitted grudgingly to himself. But they are yet not wise enough.

First, he dealt with the trophies of his night’s work, plunging them into pots of honey, setting aside the hand which needed to be cured in spirits of wine. When he was finished, he washed his own hands in a silver basin, letting the action calm and clear his mind even as it purified his flesh. He discarded his gory robe, covering himself with the clean garments he kept in a cedar chest for when they were needed. The rich black cloth was trimmed and lined with fur and did some good to keep out the eternal chill.

From under a square of white linen, the sorcerer drew a silvery mirror one palm in breadth. He had made it from the sword of a man who had come too close to his refuge. He had heated and pounded and polished the artefact, working the over-bold wanderer’s blood into the reshaped steel. Around its rim, as prescribed, he had engraved the names of power – Latranoy, Iszarin, Bicol, Danmals, and the rest, with the name of Floron at the apex.

He laid the mirror on the smallest of his wooden tables and then turned to his work benches. In a clay bowl he mixed together equal proportions of milk, honey and wine, whisking them together with a brush of fine twigs. He shook the brush over the mirror in the manner of a priest anointing a body with holy waters.

‘Bismille arathe mem lismissa gassim gisim galisim,’ he intoned. ‘Darrgosim samaiaosim ralim ausini taxarim zaloimi hyacabanoy illete.’

The chant wound on, snaking through the room, reaching out to the shadows, thickening them, bringing them weight and substance, like cobwebs, like nightmares. It called, it compelled, it bound. It wound itself around the mirror, found its substance sympathetic to its purpose and sank within it, infusing and transforming it, making what had been a tool of reflection into a window onto other worlds. The steel of it misted over, swirling, first white, then red, then black.

Judging the time was right, Euberacon hardened his voice. ‘Floron,’ he spoke the demon’s name as a command. ‘Respond quickly in the mirror, as you are accustomed to appear.’

The black mist slowly took shape, forming itself into the likeness of a man riding a black stallion and carrying a black spear three ells long beneath his arm. The man had no face, not even eyes, only shadow, but all the same, Euberacon felt the figure’s burning hatred of him and of the power he wielded over it.

Euberacon smiled. ‘I would see the future days,’ he said. ‘Show me what is to come for the ones who dwell secure in Camelot.’

The black horse stamped one hoof soundlessly, and the demon lost its coherent shape, once again becoming the swirling mist, of shadow. Slowly, that mist took on new form and fresh colour, and Euberacon looked deep, and the future became clear.

He saw the great hall of Camelot broken and in flames. He saw the famed cadre of the Round Table milling uselessly, their ranks broken for want of a leader. He saw Kerra laughing in the ruins, her ravens swirling overhead in a great and noisome cloud. He saw himself on the prow of a boat laden with treasure, standing beside the Saxon leaders. The ship’s oars were out, and the barbarians rowed across the ocean, ready to gather more of their fellows, and he was ready with magic and sword to reclaim Constantinople, to set his man upon the throne and himself to the true rule. He saw fresh fires, but these rose from the Hippodrome and the great cathedral.

Last he saw a pair of black, black eyes staring at him, woman’s eyes, witch’s eyes, seeking the past as he sought the future, and for a moment Euberacon’s nerve quailed. He felt the power within that gaze. This, surely, was the fabled Theodora, looking hard for him.

She would not find him, not until it was too late.

The final vision faded, leaving only the reflection of his face. To his displeasure, Euberacon saw the sheen of sweat on his brow. He wiped it away. He should be well beyond such displays of emotion. What had he to fear from a woman’s eyes? He had seen the future, and it was his.

Euberacon’s lips twitched as a quiet admonition passed through his mind. Those who scried the future did well if they understood that what they saw was only one of many possibilities, and that nothing came to pass without effort and vigilance. But the possibility of his triumph was there, and it was stronger and more clear than it had been when last he sought the vision out. Euberacon’s mouth bent into a smile of satisfaction as he once again covered his mirror and set it back in its place.

Now, to speak with Kerra.

Kerra watched from her solarium as Euberacon crossed the tiled court, the sleeves of his black robe flapping behind him in a poor but vigorous imitation of wings.

Kerra had always seen him more as a crow than as a raven. He did not hunt. He let others fight the battle while he watched. He sought no allegiance from those who were not strictly of his kind. Instead, he held his peace until all others believed the best was finished with, and then he stole what he wanted. He was cunning, yes, but not so wise as he fancied himself.

As soon as they returned from their night’s watch, her companions had told her all that had occurred. Euberacon must be fuming that he had lost his little prize to Gawain. She wondered if he would even think to mention it, or what lie he would tell to cover it.

What was not in question was that he would come to see her when he had finished with whatever working he had in hand. She wanted him disposed to talk, so Kerra readied her chamber for his comfort. She had already dismissed her companions. Euberacon found them distasteful. He preferred his slaves either human or incorporeal. She had closed and locked her four carved chests so he might think she kept something of worth there and waste his time ferreting out what it was. She checked the long-necked jar to make sure there was wine in it, but did not pour any out so it did not appear that she had thought too far ahead. Lastly, she made sure of her dress and appearance, repinning her hair beneath its veil and resettling the bronze circlet engraved with the likenesses of ravens with garnet eyes. She smoothed and straightened her skirts and sleeves. Her dress was russet cloth trimmed with silver, very fine, but not the best. When she ruled in Camelot, it would be scarlet and her crown would be gold.

She picked up her hand loom, set to work on the meaningless weaving, and waited for Euberacon. Sometimes she grew sick of all the time she wasted waiting for the eastern sorcerer. Unfortunately, neither she nor her true mistress were yet strong enough to topple Camelot without great risk, nor could they safely bring Merlin to heel. So they must wait and bide their time and use this foreigner to do as much of their work as he could. Eventually, her mistress would send her messengers across the sea to find this Theodora and offer him up.

A single knock sounded on the door.

‘Enter,’ said Kerra. Once the door had opened wide enough to reveal Euberacon’s dour face, she hastily thrust her weaving into the basket beside her couch. Euberacon’s eyes glittered briefly, thinking he had caught her at some secret work.

Kerra gave him her most radiant smile and rose in greeting.

‘My lord.’ She moved forward, her hands outstretched. As usual, he did not take those hands – Euberacon declined to touch her in any way – and as usual, she lowered them to her sides without comment. ‘This is a pleasure.’

Euberacon did not answer what they both knew to be a false pleasantry. Instead he let his gaze wander about the chamber, taking in what had remained the same – the luxurious couch, the locked chests, the simple hangings, and what had changed – the basket, the wine jar.

Again, Kerra affected not to notice. Instead, she returned to her couch and sat gracefully down. ‘Will you take your rest, my lord?’ she asked; indicating the space beside her, and glancing from beneath her lashes as she did.

The look Euberacon returned her was cold and sour. ‘You should know by now woman, I will not be one of your victims.’

‘That would be sorry payment for all you have given me, my lord.’

‘It would indeed.’ The utter dryness of his voice made Kerra laugh. She reclined on the couch, allowing her skirts to fall so that the shapes of her legs could be discerned beneath the cloth. She did not expect this to inflame Euberacon, only to let him think that she relied on one particular sort of power. He thought her little more than a glorified whore. It suited her to let him continue in that belief.

‘So, tell me, my lord, what of this pretty little thing you went to fetch? She did not come home with you?’

‘She did not. Arthur’s man Gawain intervened.’

Kerra arched her brows. ‘Did he? That is poor luck indeed.’

Her light tone made him glower, as she had known it would. ‘Did you know about this, woman?’

‘I knew he was near that road, no more.’ She gestured towards the window. She had removed its slatted screen to allow the ravens entrance and egress. ‘My friends see much that is useful, but will tell only what they are asked. You did not ask me about Gawain.’

‘It is dangerous to taunt me, Kerra.’

‘And it is dangerous to forget me, my Lord Euberacon,’ she answered sharply.

To her surprise, a smile flitted about his thin lips. ‘Rest assured, Kerra, I know and respect your powers. I do not trifle with you. Your ends suit mine and this petty bickering does not become either one of us. Tell me what your friends have to say regarding Gawain.’

Mollified, but still wary, Kerra stretched out her hand. As she did, a gleaming black raven alighted on the window sill. It croaked once and then hopped obediently onto her wrist, its claws lightly pricking her flesh. She wore no glove to separate herself from the bird. She stared hard into the raven’s dark eyes, seeking the slippery touch of its awareness. Pictures, colours, half-understood images flitted through her thoughts. Slowly, her mind began to make sense of what the bird had seen and add to it her own knowledge. ‘They tell me the pair keep to the old Roman road. That they are seeking speed rather than stealth. This is to our advantage. Were they to take to the woods they might come across Harrik and his men. But ‘ware, for they will stop at Pen Marhas.’

‘Could Gawain turn the tide there?’ muttered Euberacon. ‘For all his prowess, he is but one man.’

‘But where Gawain is, Arthur will be.’ Kerra deposited the bird on the back of the sofa. It glared at Euberacon with one round eye and fussily began setting its feathers in order.

‘That much is the truth.’ Euberacon’s eyes narrowed, seeing something beyond the tower walls. ‘Has Harrik enough men to take them? Is he that firmly your man he would fight against Gawain?’

‘He would fight against God Most High if I asked him to now.’ She smiled, remembering how that had come to pass. Most men turned clumsy in their desperation, but he had the controlled power of a warrior. There had been an unusual pleasure in making Harrik one of hers.

Her thoughts must have shown in her face, because the perpetual disdain of Euberacon’s expression deepened.

Kerra laughed and waved that disdain away. ‘In Harrik, my “husband” Wulfweard is secure and well advised. Harrik is in many ways the better man,’ she mused, and made sure Euberacon saw exactly what she was thinking of. ‘We should have begun with him.’

‘We would have failed,’ said Euberacon bluntly. ‘Our task needs weakness, not strength.’

Kerra shrugged. ‘It is well for you then, my lord, there are so many kinds of weakness.’

‘Yes,’ he murmured more to himself than to her. Kerra felt her own eyes narrow. Had he been scrying the future? What had he seen? One day she must find the way into his tower and his secrets. They would complement her own most sweetly.

‘Have you use for my men?’ she prompted. ‘Or for me?’ She gestured once more to her couch, moving her ankles just a little as if to make room for him.

Euberacon did not move. She had not truly believed he would. Still, one day he might. There were so many kinds of weakness.

‘I need Gawain and the woman separated,’ he said. ‘I need them afraid. It is fear that will make them useful. The fear in their hearts that will give them to us.’

Kerra sat up, leaning close. ‘What have you seen?’

Euberacon smiled. ‘I have seen Arthur’s fall, and I have seen mighty Constantinople. It burns, Kerra. If Gawain fails and Arthur falls, then all Byzantium is mine.’

Kerra smiled, pretending to share his glee. Underneath it, she felt only irritation. It seemed he saw little else for all his learned necromancy and dark mutterings. He could at least come up with a new lie.

Suddenly, she could no longer bear having him in front of her where she would have to smile and play the seductress.

‘Then I had best begin my work, hadn’t I, my lord?’ She stood, inviting him by word and gesture to leave her room.

But Euberacon was not quite done with her yet. ‘Go carefully. The girl is not without power, and Gawain is on the watch. It will not be so easy to take them from each other without rousing their suspicions.’

‘You may rest assured, my lord, that I will keep myself and my purpose well hidden.’ It is, after all, something at which I am quite practised.

That answer seemed to satisfy him and Euberacon left. When he shut the door, the raven perched on the couch let out a single derisive call and flew to her shoulder, running its beak familiarly through her hair until she reached up to stroke its feathers.

In response to its call, first one then another of the great black birds glided in through the window, settling themselves on chests and chairs, on the bedstead and the couch and any other surface where they might find room. Soon they were as thick as autumn leaves, filling the air with their raucous conversation, and filling her mind with their mischief and impressions.

‘Yes,’ she murmured to her friends, and to the man who had just departed. ‘I have had much practice at keeping myself concealed.’

Euberacon knew little of her past and cared less, or so he had said. She had told him her grandmother had been a slave in a sprawling villa when the Romans still ruled the island. For the great family, grandmother had been herbalist and bone-setter and had been well rewarded for her work. She had also been fair on the way to teaching her own daughter her arts.

When the last of the Romans fled back to their own hot land before the fast-approaching Saxons, grandmother had simply dressed herself and her daughter up in travelling clothes and set them on the road. They would walk until they found a village or other settlement. A healer’s talents were always welcome, she reasoned, and would be well rewarded – perhaps with a cottage and some goats or pigs.

What Kerra had not told Euberacon was how badly grandmother’s plan had failed. He believed Kerra had been raised in the bosom of a noble house and come honestly by her bearing and manners. But the truth was, the Saxons had raged across the country like a wildfire, taking what they wanted and burning the rest. It was only slowly that they began to think of staying in this rich new land. As grandmother walked on, she found great need for her skills, but none who could afford to keep her and her swiftly blossoming daughter, so they continued to walk.

In time, the daughter had a daughter of her own. By then, mother had grown to love the roving life, and gave no thought to settling down. She walked contentedly from place to place, plying her arts, taking whatever payment in coin or kind she was offered, and moving on again.

All might have gone well, but as Kerra grew, it soon became clear that all was not right with her. Voices no one else could hear whispered in her ears. She suffered violent headaches, and would sometimes fall to the ground, foaming at the mouth, her body writhing uncontrollably. At such times, she saw visions and uttered prophecy in strange tongues.

The attacks became more frequent and no amount of prayer or physic seemed to help them. Mother found herself less welcome in the villages. Here and there a voice muttered ‘witch’, and pointed at Kerra. Once, the people drove them out with stones and clubs, the priest leading the way, his cross held high.

After that, mother started telling Kerra to stay behind, to hide in the woods until she could determine if it was safe for Kerra to come inside the walls of the town or the limits of the croft. Sometimes, Kerra would be smuggled in after dark and hidden in a barn or pantry. Other times, she would be left in the woods, with mother venturing out to bring her food when she searched for the plants and herbs that were her cures. These times became more frequent and Kerra began to fear the day that mother would decide to walk on and leave her mad, bedevilled daughter to fend for herself.

The dreams only made it worse.

At night when she closed her eyes, Kerra began to see a black-haired woman. At least, sometimes she was a woman. Sometimes she was a flock of ravens, or a great, black mare. The woman promised Kerra she could take away the fits, and make it so the voices only came when Kerra wished for them. All Kerra had to do was help her.

At first, Kerra tried to block out the dreams. She prayed herself to sleep and made herself a cross to clutch through the night. But gradually, she began to listen to the dream woman. No one else had ever said they could help. The midwives and cunning men mother consulted had done little more than shake their heads. The priests had laid their hands on her head and raised their eyes to Heaven, and nothing had changed. This woman swore she could help, and all she wanted in return was a healer. Her infant son was ill with a fever in his lungs, she said. The sickness had spread to her. She was weak. He was dying. If Kerra helped them, saved their lives as her mother surely would had she but known, then Kerra would be taught to control the power that was within her.

Kerra could not long resist such a promise. It was harvest time. They were staying with a cluster of fishers on the ocean shore who agreed mother’s ‘half-wit’ daughter could stay in the drying shed as long as mother played midwife for the two bearing women and healer for the men who worked with lines and nets.

At the dark of the moon, Kerra crept from her warm, stinking shelter and fled inland to where the woods began. There she found the woman who named herself Morgaine and the infant boy, her son, saved from drowning she said. His lungs were bad, and his fever was high, and his mother had little milk to give him. Kerra built them a shelter of branches such as she and her mother used when they were on the road. She brought them goat’s milk, and fish and mussels she searched out from the tide pools. She brewed them strong teas using her mother’s recipes and herbs she had filched from her mother’s bags or ferreted out from the woods.

Slowly, the babe improved. His cough subsided and his limbs grew round and strong again. When it became clear that he would live, Morgaine began to keep her promise to Kerra.

Kerra, Morgaine said, was not cursed, but blessed. It was only because she was untutored that her natural powers threatened to run wild. She taught Kerra the rites that would summon the voices and the visions, and send them peaceably away. Her fits faded away to memory and all her dreams were of the normal kind. She learned how to call the ravens to her as friends, and how to work with bone and poison to achieve her ends when the healer’s art was of no use. She learned the names of the powers that inhabited land and sea, their natures and which were to be avoided and which might be plied or pressed into service.

In time, she also learned manners, dress and bearing. She learned the ways of men and women and how they might be enhanced with her other arts. To all these studies and many more she applied herself willingly, until the day came when it was she who walked away. Leaving her mother to her roving, Kerra set herself firmly and finally to Morgaine’s campaign against the king in Camelot and his helpmeet and fellow conspirator, Guinevere.

The voices of her companions roused Kerra from her bitter reveries. Their thoughts pushed against hers. They did not like this place. They wanted her to come with them, to fly, and to sport on the winds.

Kerra smiled at the great flock gathered around her.

‘Yes, my friends,’ she said. ‘Yes, we will fly.’

Kerra retrieved her sewing basket. From under the meaningless pieces of fine work, she drew out a great black cloak. The basket itself was far too small to conceal such an object, but it came to her hand nonetheless. She shook it and the sunlight glinted on the rich black feathers borrowed from one thousand living ravens. Kerra settled the cloak over her shoulders, closed the bone clasp, drew the hood up over her hair and steeled herself against the pain.

Kerra’s bones began to shrink. Her legs lengthened and her joints buckled, feet and toes split and splayed. Her body solidified and her neck thickened even as her face lengthened and bone split skin to form a sharp, black beak. Feathers sprouted from every pore and from the tip of each finger as her arms reshaped themselves to become her wings and all around her the ravens voiced their approval.

Then, one bird among many, she took to the air, beating her wings joyfully until she was able to catch the wind and soar with the rest of the flock over the tops of the trees and away out into the countryside.

As Euberacon watched, the ravens one by one left their perches on the roof and in the trees beyond the fortress walls, joining Kerra in her eyrie.

He knew she had her own plans that she kept carefully hidden from him. She thought she was using him, just as she thought it was his carelessness that led Gawain to take Rhian from him. She was wrong, but that did not mean she should not be treated with great caution. Even a barbarian could be dangerous. The pike and the axe could kill as thoroughly as the sword. It was as well to trust her no farther than absolutely necessary, and when he left these shores for Byzantium, it would be wise not to leave her alive.

For now, though, she was most useful. She would lay the traps that would drive Gawain and the girl apart. Her mischiefs would bedevil them and make peace of mind a stranger. It was likely she would fail, but the attempt would have the effect of making them cling more closely to each other, and that closeness would breed the weakness he needed for his own work.

Euberacon crossed his beautiful courtyard, returning to his tower and his carefully laid plans.