Lavie Tidhar - The Apex Book of World SF 2

Branwen rose from her knees. Her eyes, I saw, were also filled with diamonds. Eh, women…

“Go to him, then, good Branwen,” said Iseult bitterly. “Go and take to him that which I see in your eyes. But prepare yourself for the worst. For when you kneel by his bed, he will throw in your face a name that belongs not to you. He will throw it like a curse. Go, Branwen. The servants will show you the way.”

Iseult, wringing the fingers of her white hands, watched me carefully. I was looking for hatred and enmity in her eyes. For she must have known. When one weds a living legend, one gets to know that legend in its tiniest detail. And I, after all, was no trifle, not to look at, anyway.

She was looking at me and there was something strange in her gaze. Then, having gathered her long dress, she sat in a carved chair, her white hands clasping the arm-rests.

“Sit here, Morholt of Ulster,” she said. “By my side.”

I did.

There are many stories, mostly improbable or untrue from beginning to end, circulating about my duel with Tristan of Lionesse. In one of them, I was even turned into a dragon whom Tristan slew, thereby winning the right to Iseult of the Golden Hair. Not bad, eh? Romantic. And justified, to a point. I did in fact have a black dragon on my shield, perhaps it all started with that. After all, everyone knows that after Cuchulain, there are no dragons in Ireland.

Another story has it that the duel took place in Cornwall before Tristan met Iseult. That’s not true. It’s a minstrels’ tale. King Diarmuid sent me to Mark, to Tintagel, several times, it’s true, where I haggled over the tribute Cornwall was due to the King, gods only know on what grounds, I wasn’t interested in politics. But I didn’t meet Tristan then.

Nor did I meet him when he came to Ireland for the first time. I met him during his second visit, when he came to ask Iseult of the Golden Hair for Cornwall. Diarmuid’s court, as usual in such situations, divided between those who supported the match and those who were against it. I belonged to the latter faction, though, in all honesty, I didn’t know what all the fuss was about; as I said, I wasn’t interested in politics, or intrigues. But I liked and knew how to fight.

The plan, as far as I could see, was simple. It didn’t even merit the name of “intrigue”. We wanted to break up King Mark’s match and prevent the marriage with Tintagel. Was there a better way than to kill the envoy? The opportunity presented itself easily enough. I offended Tristan and he challenged me. He challenged me, you understand, not the other way round.

We fought in Dun Laoghaire, on the shore of the Bay. I didn’t think I would have much of a problem with him. At first glance, I was twice his weight and had at least as much experience. Or so it seemed to me.

How wrong I was, I discovered soon after the first encounter, when we crushed our lances into splinters. I almost broke my back, so hard did he push me against the back of my saddle. A bit harder and he would have pushed me over together with my horse. When he turned around and, without calling for another lance, he drew his sword—I was pleased. The thing about lances is that with a little bit of luck and a good mount, even a green horn can thrash an experienced knight. The sword, in the long run, is a fairer weapon.

To start with, we felt each other around the shields for a bit. He was as strong as a bull. Stronger than I’d thought. He fought in the classical style: dexter, sinister, sky-below, blow after blow, very fast; his speed didn’t allow me to take advantage of my experience, to impose my own, less classical style. He was tiring me out, so at the first opportunity I dodged the rules and slashed him across the thigh, just below the shield adorned by the rearing lion of Lionesse.

Had I struck from the ground it would have felled him. But it was from the mount. He didn’t even blink, as if he hadn’t noticed that he was bleeding like a pig, squirting dark crimson all over the saddle, the housing, the sand. The onlookers were shouting their heads off. I was sure the loss of blood was taking its toll and, because I was nearing my limits, too, I launched myself into attack, impatiently, recklessly. I went for the kill. And that was my mistake. Unwittingly, thinking perhaps that he would repay me with a similar, unfair cut from the side, I lowered my shield. Suddenly, I saw the stars burst with light and…didn’t know what happened next. I don’t know. I don’t know what happened next, I thought, looking at the white hands of Iseult. Was it possible? Was it only that flash of light in Dun Laoghaire, the black tunnel and then the grey-white coast and the castle of Carhaing?

Was it possible?

And immediately, like a ready-made answer, like a hard proof and an irrefutable argument, there came images, faces, names, words, colours, scents. It was all there, every single day. The short, dusky winter days seeping through the fish-bladders in the windows. Those warm, fragrant-with-the-rain days near Pentecost, and those long, hot summer days, yellow with sunshine and sunflowers. It was all there: the marches, the fights, the processions, the hunts, the feasts, the women, and more fights, more feasts, more women. Everything. All that had happened since that moment in Dun Laoghaire till this drizzly day on the Armorican coast. It all took place. It all happened. It passed. Only I couldn’t understand why it all seemed to me so…

Never mind.

It didn’t matter.

I sighed. This reminiscing wore me out. I felt almost as tired as then, during the fight. Just like then, my neck hurt and my arms felt like slabs of stone. The scar on my head throbbed furiously.

Iseult of the White Hands, who for some time had been looking out of the window, watching the overcast horizon, slowly turned her face towards me.

“Why have you come here, Morholt of Ulster?”

What was I to tell her? About the black holes in my memory? Telling her about my black, unending tunnel wouldn’t make sense. All I had at my disposal was, as usual, the knights’ custom, the universally respected and accepted norm. I got up.

“I am here to serve you, Lady Iseult,” I said, bowing stiffly.

I saw Kai bowing like that in Camelot. It struck me as a dignified, noble bow worth copying.

“I have come here to carry out your orders, whatever they may be. My life belongs to you, Lady Iseult.”

“Sir Morholt,” she said softly, wringing her fingers, “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

I saw a tear, a narrow, glistening trickle making its way from the corner of her eye till it slowed down and stopped on the wing of her nostril. I could smell the scent of apples.

“The legend is about to end, Morholt.”

Iseult didn’t dine with us. We were alone at the table, Branwen and I, except for a chaplain with a shiny tonsure. But we didn’t bother with him. He muttered a short prayer and having blessed the table he devoted himself to stuffing his face. I soon forgot about his presence. As if he’d always been there.

“Branwen?”

“Yes, Morholt.”

“How did you know?”

“I remember you from Ireland, from the court. I remember you well. No, I doubt you remember me. You didn’t pay any attention to me then; although, I can tell you this now, Morholt, I did want you to notice me. It’s understandable; when Iseult was around one didn’t notice others.”

“No, Branwen. I remember you. I didn’t recognise you today because…”

“Yes, Morholt?”

“Because then, in Atha Cliath… you always smiled.”

Silence.

“Branwen?”

“Yes, Morholt?”

“How is Tristan?”

“Bad. The wound is festering, doesn’t want to heal. The rot’s set in. It looks horrible.”