Lavie Tidhar - The Apex Book of World SF 2

“It’s not my name!” she shouted.

Tristan opened his eyes, looked around, his head rolling on the pillows.

“My lady…” he whispered. “Branwen…Morholt…”

“We are here, all of us,” answered Iseult very quietly.

No, thought Tristan. Iseult is not here. So…it’s like there is no-one here.

My lady…

Don’t make me…

My lady… Please…

Don’t make me look at the sails, Tristan. Don’t force me to tell you…

Please… His body tensed. I beg you…

And then he said it. Differently. Branwen shuddered in my arms.

“Iseult.”

She smiled.

“I wanted to change the course of a legend,” she said very quietly. “What a mad idea. Legends cannot be changed. Nothing can be changed. Well, almost nothing…”

She stopped, looked at me, at Branwen, both still embracing and standing next to the tapestry with the apple tree of Avalon. She smiled. I knew I would never forget that smile.

Slowly, very slowly, she walked up to the window. Standing inside it, she stretched her hands up to its pointed arch.

“Iseult,” groaned Tristan. “What…what colour…”

“They are white,” she said. “White, Tristan. They are as white as snow. Farewell.”

She turned around. Without looking at him, without looking at anybody, she left the room. The moment she left I stopped hearing her thoughts. All I could hear was the roaring of the sea.

“White!” shouted Tristan. “Iseult! My Golden Hair! At last…”

The voice died in his throat like the flickering flame of an oil-lamp. Branwen screamed. I ran to his bed. Tristan’s lips moved lightly. He was trying to raise himself. I held him up and gently forced him to lie back on the pillows.

“Iseult,” he whispered. “Iseult. Iseult…”

“Lie still, Tristan. Do not try to get up.”

He smiled. By Lugh, I knew I would never be able to forget that smile.

“Iseult…I have to see it…”

“Lie still, Tristan…”

“…the sails…”

Branwen, standing in the window where a moment ago had stood Iseult of the White Hands, sobbed loudly.

“Morholt!” she cried. “This ship…”

“I know. Branwen…”

She turned.

“He is dead.”

“What?”

“Tristan has died. This very moment. This is the end, Branwen.”

I looked through the window. The ship was closer than before. But still too far. Far too far to tell the colour of its sails.

I met them in the big hall, the one where we had been greeted by Iseult of the White Hands. In the hall where I had offered her my sword and my life, whatever it might have meant.

I was looking for Iseult and the chaplain. Instead I found them.

There were four of them.

A Welsh druid named Hwyrddyddwg, a sly old man, told me once that a man’s intentions, no matter how cleverly disguised, will be always betrayed by two things: his eyes and his hands. I looked closely at the eyes, then at the hands of the knights standing in the great hall.

“My name is Marjadoc,” said the tallest of them. He had a coat of arms on his tunic—two black boars’ heads, crested with silver, against a blue-red field. “And these are honourable knights—Sir Gwydolwyn, Sir Anoeth and Sir Deheu of Opwen. We come from Cornwall as envoys to Sir Tristan of Lionesse. Take us to him, sir.”

“You’ve come too late,” I said.

“Who are you, sir?” Marjadoc winced. “I do not know you.”

At this moment Branwen came in. Marjadoc’s face twitched, anger and hatred crept out on it like two writhing snakes.

“Marjadoc.”

“Branwen.”

“Gwydolwyn, Anoeth, Deheu, I thought I would never see you again. They told me Tristan and Corvenal put you out of your misery then, in the Wood of Moren.”

Marjadoc smiled nastily.

“Inscrutable is Fate. I never thought I would see you again either. Especially here. But never mind, take us to Tristan. The matter is of utmost urgency.”

“Why such a hurry?”

“Take us to Tristan,” repeated Marjadoc angrily. “We have business with him. Not with his servants. Nor with the panderess of the Queen of Cornwall.”

“Whence have you come, Marjadoc?”

“From Tintagel, as I said.”

“Interesting,” smiled Branwen, “for the ship has not yet reached the shore. But it’s nearly there. Do you wish me to tell you what sails it is sailing under?”

Marjadoc’s eyes didn’t change for a second. I realised he had known. I understood everything. The light I saw at the end of the black tunnel was growing brighter.

“Leave this place,” barked Marjadoc, putting his hand on the sword. “Leave the castle. Immediately.”

“How have you got here?” asked the smiling Branwen. “Have you, by any chance, come on the rudderless boat. With the black, tattered rag for a sail? With the wolf’s skull nailed to the high, upturned stem? Why have you come here? Who sent you?”

“Get out of the way, Branwen. Do not cross us or you’ll be sorry.”

Branwen’s face was calm. But this time it was not the calm of resignation and helplessness, the chill of despair and indifference. This time it was the calm of an unshaken iron will. No, I mustn’t lose her. Not for any price.

Any? And what about the legend?

I could smell the scent of apples.

“You have strange eyes, Marjadoc,” said Branwen suddenly. “Eyes that are not used to daylight.”

“Get out of our way.”

“No. I won’t get out of your way, Marjadoc. First you will answer my question. The question is: why?”

Marjadoc didn’t move. He was looking at me.

“There will be no legend about great love,” he said, and I knew it was not him who was talking. “Such a legend would be unwanted and harmful. The tomb made of beryl and the hawthorn bush growing from it and spreading itself over the tomb made of chalcedony would be a senseless folly. We do not want tombs like that. We do not want the story of Tristan and Iseult to take root in people’s minds, to become an ideal and an example for them. We do not wish it to repeat itself. We won’t have young people saying: ‘We are like Tristan and Iseult’. Ever. Anywhere.”

Branwen was silent.

“We cannot allow something like the love of these two to cloud minds destined for higher things. To weaken arms whose purpose is to crush and kill. To soften the spirit of those who are meant to hold power with iron tongs. And above all, Branwen, we shall not allow what has bound Tristan and Iseult to pass into a legend as an imperishable love that dares all dangers and makes light of hardships, binding the lovers even after their death. That is why Iseult of Cornwall has to die far away from here, bringing into the world another descendant of King Mark, as befits a queen. As for Tristan, if he has already gone to rot before we got to him, he must be laid at the bottom of the sea, with a stone tied to his neck. Or burnt. Yes, that would be best. And the castle of Carhaing should go up in flames with him. And soon, before the ship from Tintagel sails into the bay. Instead of a tomb of beryl—a heap of stinking, smouldering rubble. Instead of a beautiful legend—an ugly truth. The truth about a selfish infatuation, about stepping over dead bodies, about trampling the feelings of other people and the harm done to them. Branwen? Do you really want to stop us, us the Knights of Truth? I repeat: get out of our way. We have nothing against you. We do not want to kill you. There is no need. You have played your role, a rather contemptible one, now you can go. Go back to the shore, where they are waiting for you. You, too, Sir… What is your name?”

I was looking at their eyes and their hands, and I thought that the old Hwyrddyddwg was right: their eyes and hands indeed showed their intentions. For in their eyes there was cruelty and determination while their hands held swords. I didn’t have my sword, that same sword I had offered to Iseult of the White Hands. Well, I thought, tough titties. After all, it’s not a big deal to die fighting. It won’t be the first time, will it?