“No, you stiff-necked monster. As one of our household, I was going to say, although that was a stupid word too, and what he means—whatImean—is that you should come with me as my companion and friend.”
He paused. He could only see Lance in profile and a little from behind. The path wasn’t quite wide enough, despite Hengroen’s manoeuvring, and it seldom seemed to occur to the prince of Vindolanda to let the prince of Cerniw precede him anywhere. Still, Art could tell his jaw had dropped. He smiled. “You’ve the makings of a fine warrior, Ector says. And… we are recruiting, in a small way. Would you like to come?”
Lance closed his eyes. They’d left the track, but Ector’s beautiful mare was picking her way through the rushes so surely that she needed little attention. And he wanted an instant of blindness, of seeing nothing but blood-filtered sunlight. When he opened them again, the world was still there. But Lance hardly knew it—hardly recognised his own self within it. The sky, the very turf beneath his horse’s hooves, the long-familiar swell of the land that would conceal the lough for a few minutes more, until they broached the crest… All were different to him; he perceived them with a mind transfigured.
Arthur, who had mistaken his silence for hesitation, was awkwardly assuring him he need not find his board or expenses, that Ector would consider him his ward, just as he did Arthur, until he was old enough to wield a sword for his wage.
Lance let him run on. The voice was pleasant to him, as if he’d been hearing it all his life, like the sound of the wind through the gorse. Lance had been abandoned here. He’d had enough time now to accept that Viviana had told him the truth about Ban. He had been a lost child. But Viviana had taught him that he was a child no more, and must not behave as such. And now he was no longer lost.
No longer lost, but chosen. Found and chosen by the one soul in the world whose choosing could matter to him, by whom he would allow it. It had taken Lance very little time to understand that he would follow Arthur into battle, death and beyond, but that quiet certainty had belonged only to himself, and he had stilled his mouth and his heart from its expression.
He couldn’t do better even now. He was smiling, and he wondered if Art would take that as his acceptance. They rode on in silence for a short while longer, and then they reached the hillcrest.
The lough lay glittering before them, giving back the sky its brilliant blue. A year had passed since Lance had seen it shine, had seen it anything other than half-frozen beneath leaden skies. He remembered how he had used to come up here in summer and stand in this very spot, to watch it dance in light.
He stopped, and felt rather than saw Arthur rein to a halt beside him. “It might seem strange to you,” he said, “but for a while, this place was more a home to me than any I’ve ever known.”
“No, it doesn’t seem strange. I could make a kingdom here—these moors, and this beautiful lake.”
“It’s called a lough,” Lance corrected. “To rhyme with...” He glanced across at Arthur’s wrists, fine-made but already scarred, muscular with horsemanship and work. “To rhyme withtough.”
“Well, Lance o’ the lough, you must consider finding your home elsewhere. You don’t have to decide at once—you can meet us at Caer Lir, if you wish. But tell me at least that you’ll think about it.”
Lance nodded. He knew he should speak, after such an offer, and he tried to find the words. But Arthur seemed quite satisfied, and after a moment turned back to his contemplation of the water. “Was it here that you found the sword?”
Lance looked down briefly at the weapon in its scabbard. “No, a short way further east. Come on and I’ll show you.”
The place was so ordinary that Lance was surprised he could find it again. Viviana’s herb was growing in abundance all along the fringe of the lough now. How he had searched, to find her a few fresh strands! He could have cured all Vindolanda of its fevers now. Nevertheless he directed the horse with unerring certainty to the very spot where he’d first caught sight of the spiralling gold. “There, Art,” he said, the short name coming easily to his lips now. “I found it just there, in the shallows.”
“Just there,” Arthur echoed. “Tell me the whole story of its finding.”
Lance frowned. Why would Art assume there was more to it than Lance had already told him—that he’d gone out as bidden to fetch herbs for the old woman, and come back instead with the sword? Lance wasn’t sure himself why he’d held back part of the truth. Possibly, he told himself wryly, because he didn’t want his new friend to think him a lunatic. Well, that was too bad.
He drew breath, but Arthur gently interrupted him. “Never mind,” he said. “I will tellyouthe story. You came here, and you saw the sword. But it was given to you by a hand, a pale beautiful hand that came out of the water and disappeared under it once more.”
Lance stared at him. “She touched me, too,” he said, although his heart was so high in his throat that he could barely speak. “Just once, on the wrist. I thought she would be cold, but she was warm as blood.”
Arthur turned to look at him. “Was she?” he said, almost wistfully. “I never heard that part.”
“Where… Where did you hear the rest?”
Arthur swung himself down from the saddle, landing in ankle-deep water. Lance’s first, prosaic, thought was that he himself would not have been so cavalier about such fine boots. He’d observed that, while Arthur was never profligate with clothes—the party were travelling light, and anyway he doubted Ector ever allowed much extravagance—the things he had were of the best, and their spoiling wasn’t the disaster it would have been to a child of Ban’s household.
Lance realised he was seeking distraction because he was frightened. It was not so much that Arthur had known his story as seeing the change coming over his friend now. He’d lost his air of poise, and most of his colour, too. He had turned from the lough, and was staring off over the marshland to the east. He looked weary and lost. “The old man told how it would be. The one who brought me to Ector.”
Forgetting concern for his own boots, Lance dismounted to stand beside him. “How do you remember?”
“Ah—I was a disobedient, sharp-eared brat, always hearing what I shouldn’t. Poor Ector. He used to interrogate every passing guest to see if they were part of the prophecy. It isn’t just that though. All my life I’ve seen him. I… I see him now.”
“Who?”
Art smiled shakily. “Aren’t you paying attention? The old man. He comes to me to tell me things I don’t want to know. He sends me visions. He comes when I’m happiest, when I’m thinking of nothing but the sunlight and the pleasure of being alive. And all my life, I’ve been alone when he came. Now, though… Lance, turn now, and tell me that you see him too.”
Lance obeyed. Hedidsee something. Was he only flash-blind with sunlight on water? No—for a moment, a tall gaunt figure in black robes. Joy rose in him. Surely it was Viviana! She would answer Arthur’s fears, solve his mysteries. He drew a breath to call her name, but the light shifted, and she was gone. “I thought I saw…” he began, and tailed off. “Nothing now. Do you see it still?”
“No,” Art said miserably. “I wish I did. If he talks to me, it isn’t so bad. But if he comes and goes like that, he means me to see something. And I guarantee I won’t like it.” He paused, swallowed hard. “You saw him, too, for an instant. Didn’t you?”
Lance didn’t want to lie to him. Even the thought of doing so burned him with shame. But if it distressed him, was it kind of Lance to feed the vision? “Perhaps,” he said carefully, “you have heard him spoken of so often that he has come to be real to you.”
