Chapter 14
Fourteen
As Elinor convalesced, something shifted with the sisterhood.
They began to hover. Glitonea and Ganieda watched our archery practice in silent judgement.
Mazoe and Sebile trailed us as we plucked herbs for a poultice.
Lotta barreled into the library one afternoon and pulled Viviana into the great room.
They spoke for a long time in aggressive whispers, a conversation we could not quite hear.
Viviana dismissed our concerns with an affected calm. But the color had drained from her complexion. I knew it had to do with Elinor’s female heir. An heir who could only flow through me.
Despite all this, I continued to go to the lake. Galehaut was a heavy sleeper, and I had no trouble slipping out. Perhaps I was tempting fate, pushing the sword beyond its limits. But if the sisterhood knew or objected, they did so silently.
The sword’s visions were diminished now—disparate images I struggled to parse.
A stone fountain. A raven-black shield. A girl standing on a rocky cliff.
They left me confused, sometimes frightened, but they carried the hint of a world beyond the isle, a world that could be mine.
I learned nothing more about my birth mother, Arthur, or the grail maiden.
But one night I saw the Round Table again. Its chairs were filled, save for one.
“I love how the forest holds everything we could possibly need,” Viviana said, as we walked through the woods. “Food, water, medicine. Plants that can sharpen our memory, cure sadness, wake us up, excite us, help us sleep. Some call this magic but it’s not. It’s just knowledge.”
Galehaut and I had heard these musings many times. We followed behind, lost in the beat of her gold sandals.
“Mugwort,” she said, pulling at a shaggy bush.
“It’s one of the nine healing herbs. The skin repels insects and cures fatigue.
” She flipped over one of the leaves, exposing its scruffy underbelly.
“These dry hairs make useful tinder. And the blossoms.” She plucked a tiny pink flower.
“Mix some with honey, linseed, barley groats and marche to treat a fever.”
Galehaut shot her a wry smile. “What is the plant I use to remember all this?”
“For memory? Just mix betony, fieldmore, satureia, pepper and costmary with boiled goat’s milk and drop a spoonful into a cup of ale. But make sure that it’s fieldmore and not seed of alexanders and don’t drink it in broad daylight or it might kill you.”
“Viviana,” Galehaut said, looking my way. “Perhaps Lancelot and I can scavenge for the nine herbs on our own?”
She eyed the sun. “I suppose I should check on Elinor. But be careful. Night is about to fall and the trails are hard to navigate in the darkness.”
Galehaut busied himself at the mugwort bush until Viviana was out of sight. Then he grabbed my hand.
“Come,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
He broke into a sprint and I followed in surprised gasps. It was unlike him to be so sudden and spontaneous. I could only wonder what he was up to. He ran with a boyish exuberance and didn’t look back. He knew I would follow.
At last he stopped, wheezing for breath. We were on the north side of the island, where the forest grew wild and dense.
“What is it?” I asked, my heart still pounding.
He shot me a mischievous glance.
“You do not know?”
I looked about. We were in a thicket of scraggly trees. I had walked through this place countless times and thought nothing of it. In the waning light, the snarled roots and bone-like branches seemed like the rotting limbs of monsters.
“Just wait,” he said, noting my underwhelm. “The sun will set at any moment.”
Before us stood a massive oak tree. Galehaut took a seat in its hollow.
“Come,” he signaled. “This is the perfect spot.”
I did as he said, wedging my body next to his between two emerging roots. We were curled so close that I could not tell where I ended and he began.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
Was this friendship? A sensation that pulled at the chest and fluttered the stomach, that made me want to abandon everything for him?
If so, it felt like the most important thing in the world.
For a time we said nothing, and my senses shrunk to the twitches of his leg, the rasp of his fingers, the rhythm of his lungs.
I breathed in his scent—sweat, pine, blackberries and warm earth.
A sudden sadness overwhelmed me. After our training he would return to Cymidei.
I would need to marry and produce a daughter.
Whatever this moment was, it would be over soon. A memory for a sword.
“Look up.”
Thousands of bright blue lights were blinking awake. I watched as they weaved through the branches, pulsing in and out, each on their own slow orbit.
“Water nymphs,” I whispered, astonished. A lifetime on the Isle of Women, and still I was encountering fresh wonders. I was surprised that Galehaut had found this place on his own. More surprised that he’d wanted to share it.
“I have never seen so many,” I added. “Not up close.”
The sprites flowed above us in unison, a tethered dance like the bells of a wind catcher.
“They are not truly here, are they?” Galehaut asked. “They are on some other plane.”
“Yes. According to the sisterhood.”
“If I were to reach up, would my hand pass through them?”
“I believe so. Do you want to try?”
“No, no. I would not want to disturb them.”
“How could you? They are not truly here.”
“But they are,” he said. “At least in my mind. Which is the same.”
I nodded, trying to imagine myself into the world of his thoughts.
“What is it like in your mind?” I asked.
He grinned. “No one has ever asked me such a question. I have never thought about my mind as a place. It is like asking, What is it like in your body? How could I ever know?”
“But are you not the only one who knows?” I laughed at the irony.
“Yes, but I have no other point of comparison. I cannot say it is better or worse to be in my mind than, say, yours. Maybe yours is calmer. But I could not truly know.”
I thought of the sword’s memories. Arthur’s mind was generous and abiding. Guinevere’s, I had sensed, was more inhospitable than my own. How I wished I could step into Galehaut’s.
“Is your mind not often calm?” I asked.
“The opposite. It is always racing.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
My hands were on my knees, my back indented by the tree bark. We did not look at each other.
“Mine as well,” I said.
I felt the lightest touch on my knuckles. His hand came to rest on mine.
“Lancelot.” He turned to me with an expression I had never seen before.
The blue light had washed away his confidence and haughty charm—illuminating instead something fragile.
I flinched in recognition. He was reflecting a side of myself I had fought to hide.
As he leaned closer, I felt a pressing urge to hold him, to do more.
A rustling noise drew us out of the moment. We sat up, wide-eyed and vigilant.
I recognized the markings—the snowy chest, the ink-dipped legs, the one white paw and eyes like liquid gold. The fox froze in front of our tree, craned his neck in surprise. Then, after a time, he slumped away.