Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

He sat nodding now, his face transformed, and this time when he looked at me he smiled, although fleetingly, and then his mouth drooped down again, as though afraid to lose the bitter taste of sorrow.

"What's wrong now? Come on, take another drink and spit out what you think. There are only we two here."

He gulped at the mead this time and I braced myself, prepared to leap up and pound him on the back, but the fiery drink went down without producing anything more than a brief shudder. Then he sniffed and looked me in the eye. "I'm sick in my soul, Cay, terrified to lose her. I'll never see her again once she goes home and we ride south to Camulod. She lives in Gallava... in Caledonia!"

"A different land, aye. But you're wrong, lad. You'll see her again, and soon, and I'm going to tell you how and why. But first I have some things to clarify, for myself, and for you. They are important to me—to both of us in truth—so let me deal with those, ere we move on to talk of Morag. Will you listen?"

He nodded, sipping at his drink again, more temperately this time, and I wondered how long it would take for the potent brew to work its will on him. I had, in truth, poured but a small amount for both of us, but he was unused to its effects.

"Good. Here's the crux of it, so listen closely." I stood up and moved away from him, speaking directly towards him as I moved about the room. "The main thing I want you to know is that, had I been aware of how you feel about Morag, I would not have thrust the matter upon you so suddenly and so thoughtlessly today. I would, however, have given you the same instructions, and the same restrictions would have governed your obedience to them. You must go to Derek tomorrow morning, and you must return without fail tomorrow evening. None of the imperatives governing our behaviour have changed since first I spoke to you. You have duties to perform here and, in justice you must be seen to perform them. If you are to lead men of your own in the time ahead, you must be seen to be above claiming privileges unavailable to those you lead. A really great leader is the one who shares the burdens of his men in the small trials. They cannot take his place when great events occur, but he will share their tribulations, and then he will assume his own burden, unaided, when the crisis is at hand. At that point they will follow him and fight for his cause, and die for his objectives and his will, for love of him and what he represents: their best interests. That is true leadership, Arthur, and it is almost impossible to achieve, though thousands attempt it. And one of the most chronic difficulties in achieving it lies in the kind of thing you faced today— the temptation to advance your own desires, your own well being, at the cost of those who depend on you and trust you to be true to them. Give in to that temptation once, and you'll do it again, and as surely as running water erodes rock, you'll destroy your own leadership."

I stopped pacing and faced him across the back of my chair, leaning my hands on the topmost rung. "That's really all I wanted to tell you. Does it make sense?"

"Aye," he said, his voice a husky growl. "It makes perfect sense."

"Good, I'm happy you see it. Now, what I said, among all that, was that you'll leave tomorrow and return tomorrow, doubtless passing Morag and the returning party on the way. But several matters have come up since first we talked of this, and I have something now to offer you." I stepped around my chair and took hold of his hand, tipping his cup towards me. There was still some mead in the bottom of it. "Do you want to finish that?'

"No, not really."

I took it from his hand and poured the. remainder into my own cup. "You heard what Connor said as we were coming here. The men will gather after dinner, to drink mead and make their farewells. It will be a celebration, probably long and noisy. The women will attend as well, of course, but there will be much drinking, and no doubt songs and music. I invited you to come with me—I mean as a man— and Connor made no objection." I sipped. "It occurs to me, however, that you might not wish to come with me. Tress, I know, has talked of returning here tonight, after dinner, to show her finest needlework to young Morag. If such things interest you, I'm sure Tress would be proud and pleased to show you her work, too. What say you?' The joy on his face was all the reward I had hoped for. "Very well, then, I'll make excuses for you to the other gathering, since you must be astir and away to Ravenglass early in the morning. Now, there's one thing more: the future. Morag is a king's daughter, and you are a king's son..."

I went on then to describe to him at length, using Tress's logic and words, how he would, in fact, see young Morag in years to come, providing he and I emerged victorious from our wars. By the time I had finished, he was a warrior indeed, sparks flashing from his eager eyes, and I knew he would ride into Ravenglass the next day with his soul ablaze with hopes and dreams.

I placed our empty cups on the table top and we walked together to the dining hall, my arm about his shoulders and my chest swollen with the satisfaction of hearing him talking normally again, his excitement and exuberance spilling out into my ears. He did riot mention Morag once by name, but all his fire, his passion and enthusiasm, was for her and for the hope that lay ahead of them.

THREE

In my travels the length and breadth of Britain, I have always found time and provocation to wonder at the influence of the Romans—an influence they have continued to exert long decades after their withdrawal. Perhaps one should expect no less; after all, Britain was a Roman province for nigh on five centuries and thus almost purely Roman in all its civilized ways. But the ubiquitous Romans were predominantly urbanites in Britain, seldom venturing outside the vicinity of the towns they built around their forts, which nurtured them and their civilization. Beyond the towns, the land itself knew another life, supporting other peoples who had lived according to their own ancient ways since long before Julius Caesar first turned his acquisitive eyes towards these shores. These were the true Britanni, the real people of Britain, and they were a tribal race, perhaps a mix of races commingled in the lost and ancient past. The Romans, with their passion for organization, named these clans according to their tribal territories, Romanizing the alien sounds of what the federations living there called themselves and labelling them Trinovantes, Belgae, Iceni, Dobunni and similar names, most of which have been long since unused.

The entire north-western area, through which we travelled first that spring, was the traditional territory of the Brigantes, the clan from which Derek and his folk had sprung, and it stretched clear across Britain to the Eastern Sea, into the area Vortigern had claimed, within living memory, as his Northumbria. We had left Ravenglass and travelled inland, north by east along the Roman road, the Tenth Iter, to a place that had been known as Brocavum and that now lay empty and abandoned, too close to the Pictish lands above the Wall to be safe for habitation. From there, we, turned south, following the high road to yet another empty, ruined fort, this one much smaller and so long forgotten that its name had been lost, despite the fact that it stood at a crossroads. We spent a pleasant afternoon and night in the shelter of its crumbling walls, then swung west on the right arm of the crossroad for a few miles, before turning southward again at an unnamed bridge over the river there. After travelling some fifty miles, we gained the westward fork that would bring us to Deva, the great fortress town of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix Legion.

There, even decades after it had been abandoned by its renowned garrison, we found that little had changed. The great fortress that had stood invulnerable and inviolable for so many scores of decades had not yet begun to bow its mighty head to decay, and it hosted a strong and self sufficient populace who had no patience with visiting soldiery, even those who came in peace. These people, presumably descendants of the Cornovii whose ancient territory this was, called their fortress home Chester, a corruption of the Latin word castra, meaning the fort or camp. Although the people there showed us no overt belligerence, they locked and barred their massive gates against us and disdained to recognize our overtures of peace and friendship.