Chapter 13
Introspection was not something Ordes thought he was much good at. Perhaps Jenyfer had it right and it was more ‘brooding’ than anything else. Katarin often accused him of brooding, and as he wasn’t prepared to argue with either woman, brooding it was then.
They had dropped anchor the night before.
Port Leore hunched its shoulders against the wicked southerly wind that had sprung to life with the dawn.
From the deck, the town was unassuming, bland and not in the least bit dangerous.
Except the last time Ordes had visited, he’d gotten into a fist fight, and now, those from Kernou who did not follow Mordred to Dinas Emrys had chosen Port Leore as their refuge.
If Kernou had been the front line of the One God’s takeover of the continent, Port Leore was marching close on its heels.
It was the last place Ordes wanted to go, but it was the first stop on Olwen’s list of places in need of a new understanding of the Word.
One of the copied volumes was tucked beneath Ordes’ arm, where it had been all morning.
He’d watched the sun rise, needing a moment to mull over the plan that involved him walking into a place full of people who would burn him if they knew what he was.
Worse still, he’d be walking in wearing another man’s face.
Ordes could no longer deny it was his likeness that appeared in the illustrated versions of the Word. His face – not Arthur’s and not Jenyfer’s. His. Which he couldn’t stop thinking of as some sort of terrible forewarning he was not understanding yet.
A shadow passed over the deck. Arthur’s dragon circled the ship before shooting into the sky.
Ordes had spent a lot of time watching the way it moved its body through the air, wondering how those great leathery wings managed to keep its bulk airborne and how, for such an enormous creature, the dragon was agile and graceful.
Ordes’ smile slipped. The White Dragon, for all its majesty and power, was a tool of destiny, no more in charge of its fate than any of them were.
He was still watching the dragon when Jenyfer slipped her arm around his middle, pressing a kiss to his upper arm.
He was wearing a red cloak – a perfect replica of Ulrian’s.
Arthur had sat with Ordes after dinner the previous night, scrutinizing each rendition of his father’s cloak that Ordes produced.
Jenyfer didn’t comment on his clothes. ‘I don’t like the idea of you going there alone.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘I’m less worried about the people than what I’m going to tell them.’
‘Remember to sound like a pious prick,’ Jenyfer muttered.
Ordes kissed the side of her head, then returned to studying the dragon’s wings.
He fixed them in his mind. Magic rippled over his skin and the wings that emerged from his back were thin and membranous, the tips ending in a dagger-like claw.
Jenyfer made a noise that could have meant she was impressed.
‘Do you think I could become the whole thing?’ he asked, watching the White Dragon as it made another graceful circle of the ship.
Jenyfer’s hand trailed along the leathery underside of his wing. ‘Only if you were a small dragon. Then I could keep you as a pet.’
Ordes laughed and kissed her, then shot into the sky, climbing higher, wondering how high he could go.
He had the mad urge to fly alongside the dragon, but he couldn’t see it until he was suddenly engulfed in shadow.
The pale underbelly of the beast passed above him, so close he could touch it. The dragon flew past then spun around.
For a moment, Ordes thought he’d made a terrible mistake.
The White Dragon hovered in front of him, great wings moving gently.
Ordes swallowed, meeting its ancient, liquid gaze.
The dragon’s jaw slowly opened; rows of razor-sharp teeth greeted Ordes and he could feel the heat of the beast’s breath on his skin.
Then, the dragon snapped its jaws closed and rolled in the air, like a cat might. Belly-up, it shook itself and then flipped its sinuous body over gracefully.
Ordes exhaled in relief.
The White Dragon sailed away, disappearing behind the clouds.
Every nerve ending in Ordes’ body was pulled tight as he turned towards land.
Flying directly over the village would be a mistake, so he landed some distance away, choosing a spot sheltered by trees.
As soon as his feet touched the ground, Ordes hid his wings.
His heart was racing, palms sweaty, magic dancing over him.
If there was a Witchfinder in Port Leore, they would find him in an instant.
But that was a risk he was going to have to take.
He closed his eyes, holding Ulrian Tregarthen’s face in his mind.
He pictured the Ulrian he had seen the night Jenyfer had shoved him out of sight and let herself be caught where she shouldn’t have been.
That was the face Ordes needed to show them – stern, devout, anger simmering beneath the surface.
Not the face of the broken, tormented man below deck on the ship.
Jenyfer’s voice slid into his mind. We’re here – I’m here – if you need us.
I know.
You can do this, Ordes.
He took a deep breath, held it, then stepped out from the cover of the trees wearing Ulrian Tregarthen’s face.
The walk into Port Leore didn’t take as long as he’d thought it would.
Ordes’ mind was racing as ferociously as his heart.
At the edge of the town, where the first of the cottages began, he forced everything from his mind except two things – the Word and Arthur’s voice, his instruction on how to speak.
Ordes hadn’t mastered changing his voice.
It was not Ulrian but himself who spoke when he opened his mouth.
He’d practiced lowering his voice, making it deeper, more authoritative.
It would have to do. Hopefully, the face he was wearing would be enough that no one would notice that the Chif who wandered into the town did not sound exactly as people remembered.
Deception, Ordes mused, truly was an illusion.
As he walked, he caught sight of himself reflected in a window of a nearby house. He paused, unease washing over him. How was he going to convince people that it was Ulrian Tregarthen who had come to speak to them?
The main centre of Port Leore seemed different from what he remembered.
His eyes shifted in the direction of the ale house he and Jenyfer had visited searching for clues about the Grail.
Sunlight coated the market square and painted everything in warm, golden light.
Shop fronts were lined up in neat rows, potted plants hanging from their awnings, and the scent of freshly baked bread wafted on the air.
People were going about their daily business.
Ordes watched two men carry a basket of fish into view, disappearing with it inside the fishmongers.
It was strangely picturesque, innocent looking, but the longer Ordes stood there, the more he saw.
Young women were accompanied by a man. Their hair was covered with linen caps, their eyes downcast, clothes simple and modest. They didn’t speak and walked behind the men who paraded around with all the confidence in the freedoms the One God had awarded them.
And there, in the middle of the square, wrapped in sunlight, was the cross of the One God.
That hadn’t been there before, Ordes recalled.
He rolled his shoulder, willing his muscles to loosen, then made his way towards it.
A copy of the Word landed in his pocket as he walked.
He withdrew the book, lifted his chin, straightened his spine, and exchanged his pirate’s swagger for the authority of a man on a mission from his god.
When he was standing beneath the cross, he opened the Decalogue and cleared his throat. ‘The Word says to think of people as seeds.’
Faces whipped around to his and a shocked murmur spread through the people gathered in the square.
They abandoned their shopping and slowly approached.
Nerves prickled along Ordes’ spine. He cleared his throat again and went on.
‘Seeds do not fear the Darkness – they use it to help themselves grow.’
He stopped, his hands trembling as he held the Decalogue. The whispers began.
‘That’s—’
‘It’s the Chif!’
‘Where has he been?’
Ordes had to resist the urge to step back as the crowd pressed closer, their voices tumbling over one another.
These were the people from Kernou, he realised.
Mouth dry, Ordes licked his lips and turned a page with shaking hands.
He didn’t know what to say, what to offer these people who were looking at him like he was… a parent. They were like children.
This wasn’t leadership, at least, not as far as Ordes understood.
Ulrian Tregarthen’s paternalism had robbed these people of their autonomy. To Ordes, that was the worst abuse of power. Looking at the faces around him, he was amazed once again that Jenyfer and Arthur had managed to avoid this fate.
He glanced down at the Decalogue and was confronted with the image of his own face. It shook him so much that his magic slipped; he forced Ulrian’s features over his as quickly as possible, but they’d seen.
The crowd fell silent. They drew back. There were frowns, confusion and then, muttering. Ordes closed his eyes. Fuck it. He didn’t know why he thought this would work.
‘Chif Tregarthen?’ a man whispered.
‘No,’ Ordes said. ‘I’m not.’
He let Ulrian’s face slide away. A dozen shocked eyes met his. Ordes turned the Decalogue around so they could see the picture, and then, as some in the crowd began to move towards him again, he unfolded his wings.
People shrank back. They cowered from him.
‘What are you?’ someone asked. ‘Where is the Chif? What have you done with him?’
There was no point in trying to explain, Ordes realised. He bent and set the Decalogue on the ground at his feet, then met the gaze of the man who had spoken, the one whose face was slowly transforming from shock to anger.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ordes said, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologising for. He stood, then disappeared.
‘Well,’ Ordes said. ‘I think if Olwen were here, she’d skin me alive.’ He tucked his wings away and practically tore the red cloak from his body, dumping it on the deck and staring at it until his eyes blurred.
Before Arthur or Jenyfer could respond, a black bird swooped over the deck, transforming mid-air into a man. Ordes folded his arms as his father landed before them. Merlin brushed a stray feather from his shoulder.
‘That,’ he announced, ‘was a disaster.’
‘You were watching? Of course you were,’ Ordes muttered. ‘Sorry I don’t have the same propensity for theatrics as you do.’
‘That’s a big word, Ordes,’ his father quipped.
Ordes sighed.
‘Was it so bad?’ Arthur asked.
‘It was not bad so much as… sad,’ Ordes said.
‘The moment they saw me, wearing your father’s face, they rushed over.
I knew these were the people who had left Kernou because of the way they looked at me – as if I could provide all the answers.
I didn’t know what to say. In the end, I handed one of them the new copy of the Word and told them to read it. ’
‘Did you do what Olwen asked and show them the wings?’ Arthur asked.
‘Yes, and I think if I’d stayed a moment later someone might have produced a pitchfork,’ Ordes replied wearily. ‘I don’t know why we thought it would be simple.’
Arthur’s frown was deep. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his head, dragging his hair back from his forehead. ‘That was my mistake,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I should have gone. I know these people – I know how they think.’
‘Or how they don’t,’ Jenyfer put in. ‘And that’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re dealing with people who don’t know how to think, how to make their own choices and walk their own path. They’ve been led by your father, by the false Word, for too long.’
‘I wonder how long it will be before the story spreads,’ Ordes mused. He drummed his fingers on his thigh. ‘I think that’s the last time I will wear Ulrian’s face. I think I need to go into this as myself – wings and all.’
‘You’re still going to go to Arcdon?’ Arthur asked.
Ordes nodded. ‘After all, it’s my face in that book, isn’t it?’
They gave it two days for word to travel along the coast.
A crowd had already gathered in Arcdon. They were outside the tavern and clustered at the doors of shops when Ordes strode into the town centre. There was no red cloak, no face that was not his. A fresh copy of the Decalogue was tucked under his arm.
No one stopped him as he planted himself in the middle of the square, opened the Decalogue to the page showing his picture, then, when he was certain all eyes were on him, he opened his wings.
‘It’s him,’ someone shouted.
A pause, where Ordes’ magic curled around his hands instinctively.
‘The Word says, “and you shall know him because you have always known him”,’ he said. Then, louder, ‘Only on Camlann Field shall the red dragon yield, and the Once and Future King shall see the land healed.’