Only a hero or a fool enters the Arroy without need. I'm not a hero. The only question is whether I go because I have the need, or because I am a fool.
Both is most certainly a possibility.—Cully
The path wasn't the same.
Cully had expected that; it was never the same. That's one of the ways you could know that you had entered the Arroy; there was no sharp, bright boundary between the Arroy Forest and the massive Bedegraine Forest that encompassed it.
He had left the horses and most of his gear at the village of Bedegraine itself, at the eastern edge of the forest, and proceeded on foot, with nothing more than his rucksack, his two swords, and his walking stick.
Best not to enter the Arroy on horseback, all in all—more than one knight had found his horse chasing something or running from something and had learned the hard way that the Arroy's other name, the Forest of Adventure, was well-deserved, and that adventures tended to be much more pleasant in retrospect than they were to experience. Not that there was any guarantee of immunity by entering it on foot. It was just a little safer, perhaps, and the changes seemed to come a little slower.
The change was like a man aging.
Bedegraine had been, well, as ordinary as a forest could be, which wasn't very ordinary at all. The path had taken him past trees of all shapes and sizes; the ancient towering giants, their tops concealed by the leafy greenery, loomed over smaller ones, sometimes seeming almost parental. The undergrowth was thick in some places and thinner in others; the land rose and fell sometimes so gently that it could have been almost flat, and sometimes so steeply that he had to use his stick for fear of slipping and falling on the detritus that littered the paths. While the trails sometimes ran straight along a ridgeline or across an open glade, most often they twisted down through tree-lined gulleys and folds of land so much that he had to be sure to frequently turn around to catch an occasional glimpse of the sun through the leafy canopy to be sure that he was still heading west.
The woods were always alive with sound. Squirrels chittered in the trees, and occasionally the crashing of something larger moving away quickly, and there were always birds singing off in the distance, becoming silent at his approach. Once, a partridge leaped out of the brush and into the air, its wings thumpthumpthumping together as it panicked into the sky.
Not that there was anything to panic about; his bow had been left behind, and while he fancied that he still could have downed a fleeing bird if he'd been moving through the forest with an arrow nocked, he wasn't, after all, hunting.
Still, more than once, he caught himself falling into a woodsman's pace of step-step-step, then pause, then a few more irregular steps and another pause. Ancient habits died hard, and Cully had to force himself to keep a steady pace. If the regular beat of his footsteps carried through the air or the ground to frighten away a deer, that was fine with him.
It was, he thought, so much like aging that it was almost painful. One moment, you were a young man, full of health and energy and ideals, leaping out of bed in the morning having slept off whatever aches and pains the previous day had brought, and in the blink of an eye that young man had turned old and aching, cursed by a body that seemed to obey your will just a little less each day, each day that was framed by a night of the cursed sleep that brought no rest.
And so it was with the forest, as Bedegraine had given way to Arroy.
As it always had been before, it had all happened too gradually to notice as it was happening, but he had left the last of the young trees behind him a long time ago, and the twisting path was now walled by leafy giants that utterly blocked the sun, giving him not even an occasional bright spear of direct sunlight as respite from the cool dark greenness that was far more chilling than refreshing, despite what had been the warmth of the day. It was almost strangling in its darkness and stillness, where gnarled roots looped up from age-packed earth littered only by rotting leaves, with no undergrowth working its way from the soil up into the wan light.
There was no sound. No animals moving in the absent undergrowth, no whisper of wind or rustle of leaves, nothing save the sound of his own breathing, and the beating of his heart.
A single brown oak leaf fluttered down from high above his head to settle itself silently on the ground; he knelt to pick it up, and was only vaguely surprised that he could hear it crackle as he crushed it in his hand, then wiped his hands down the front of his tunic.
He took off his rucksack and took out the battered brass compass that he had acquired what felt like a lifetime ago aboard the Wellesley's cutter, and snapped the cover open, although he knew what he would see, and indeed the needle swung free, refusing to settle on a direction. He put the compass away, and slipped one strap of the rucksack over his shoulder, and continued down the path, forcing his pace to a walk, although he wanted to run—he just wasn't sure in which direction. No, that wasn't true—he wanted to run in both directions at once: to run to Her, and to flee from Her at the same time.
Cully smiled. He should be used to that by now, eh?
He walked on.
There was something always comforting about walking down a trail in the Arroy, knowing that when you reached a fork in the trail, it didn't make a difference which one you took. Life was rarely like that; most of the time, decisions mattered. But not here. Left, right; north, south; the well-trod path or the one so overgrown with brush and thorns that you would have to draw a sword to chop your way through—it didn't make a difference. It would bring him to Her.
Cully always took the easier path. It only made sense, after all, and it was a comfort to be able to do that in good conscience.
Not that even the easier paths were particularly easy; there had been a rain the night before, and the ground was still soft and muddy. Crisscrossed by tracks, as well, although not as many deer tracks as he would have expected.
The trail crested a hillock, then fell into a deep gully; at the bottom a stream twisted its way, the steep banks dead of any growth for easily a dozen feet on either side, save where mammoth ropes of roots from the leafy giants above emerged, looking strangely naked and vulnerable, despite their size.
As good a place as any, and it wasn't likely he'd find a better one. He sat down on an upthrust root and removed his boots, then the rest of his clothing, tying it into a neat bundle; he lashed the bundle and his swords to the rucksack, then carefully heaved the bundle, the scabbarded swords on top, across the stream to the opposite bank.
He stepped onto the sharp stones hidden beneath the icy water. The water went barely knee-deep as he waded across the stream, ignoring the cold as well as he could.
He crouched, shivering, over his rucksack and untied the straps again, removing two thin blankets. The first he spread out on the riverbank, just a step beyond the rushing waters, and set the other, still folded, on it, then removed his fresh clothes from his rucksack and spread them out on the blanket, as well, before untying his bundle of dirty clothes to remove his boots and set them aside on the ground next to the blanket.
From his rucksack he drew a packet of brown paper containing a small bar of soap and a mesh bag, into which he inserted his dirty clothes before tying the neck of the bag tightly, tugging hard against the string to make sure that it would hold.
Holding tightly to one end of the string, he tossed the bag into the water, then pulled it back to shore. He dumped the damp clothes into a pile, and then, one by one, removed each garment and rubbed the soap on it in turn before, thrusting it into the string bag, and retying the bag.
He tucked his bag of dirty clothes under his arm and walked back into the icy water.
Bathing in a stream was always cold, and always tricky; if he lost his grip on his clothing bag, it would be washed away before he could go after it. He solved the problem, as usual, by the simple expedient of kneeling on the bag, pinning it in place until he could be sure that he had the string properly anchored under a sufficiently heavy rock, then backing off downstream, to give him a chance to catch it if he had been wrong.
But the bag held, and he lowered himself all the way into the water to wet himself, then lathered himself down from hair to crotch to toes. Still soapy, he walked to the riverbank to rewrap the soap in the brown paper and toss it to the blanket before ducking once more into the stream to rinse himself off, and retrieve the clothing bag.
He emerged, naked and shivering, and dried himself as best he could with the spare blanket, then wrapped it about his waist while he hung his wet clothes on the upthrust roots to dry.
He had no brush in his rucksack; as usual, he hadn't thought of everything.
Oh, well—he finger-combed his hair into place and dressed as quickly as he could, taking extra pains to make sure that his boots were laced tightly, and his trousers bloused properly, then slipped his swords into place.
He continued down the path, with only the clothes on his body and the swords in his sash. He left everything else behind—particularly his stick. He could retrieve it on his way back. Cully would not hobble his way into Her presence.
The path twisted up the side of the hill, and then down, into a deep valley full of stones.
A long table that would have done justice to the finest home Cully had ever seen stood on the stones, with two places set at one end.
She stood at the head of the table, waiting. Her black hair should have glistened in the bright sunlight, but it there was no gloss to it, and it fell about her shoulders like a shadow. Her skin, too white and pale, should have been burning beneath the light of the noonday sun, but if it bothered her at all, there was no sign of it on her perfect face.
Her lips, red as fresh blood, parted in a smile, revealing the too-even, too-white teeth behind them.
She was in person, as She always was in his memory, inhumanly perfect.
"Hello, Cully," she said. Her voice was as it always had been, as it had to be: half an octave lower than he had expected, sweet as honey, bracing as a cold stream, and as always he didn't know what he wanted to do, although he wanted to do something almost more than he could stand.
So he just stood there.
"My Lady," he finally said. "It's been a long time."
"Yes, it has. Too long. It would have been a few minutes less long if you hadn't dawdled so," She said, with just a touch of petulance.
He shook his head. There was much he was sorry for, but he had no apology for that. "I couldn't appear before You in dirty, tattered clothes, could I?"
"Of course you could—if you thought what I needed was your strong arm and your sword."
He nodded, conceding the point. He would have, and not thought twice about it. "But that is not the case."
"No, not at the moment. I could summon some ravening beast from the Arroy, if you'd like. It could attack me, and you could slay it, and I'd be glad of the effort, if that would make you feel better about your uncombed hair."
"I don't see the need, not at the moment."
"Very well. Will you sit?" She gestured toward the chair next to Hers. "I've been waiting for you. I think you'll find the food to your liking."
"No." He shook his head again. "I don't think so. I'll willingly kneel before You, if You wish, but I don't think I can sit and break bread with You."
She nodded. "As I'd expected." She cleared Her throat. "How was the funeral?"
He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.
" 'Art thou greatly wroth?' " She asked.
"Yes," he said. "Greatly wroth." He nodded. "Among other things."
She smiled sadly. "And the other things would be . . . ?" She was suddenly before him, close enough to touch, if he dared. His right hand, as though of its own volition, reached out to cup Her cheek, but he held it back, less than an inch from that all-too-perfect skin. She started to take his hand in Hers, but stopped. "I can't touch you if you won't let Me, Cully."
"And I can't let You, Lady." He shook his head. "It's temptation enough to be here. More than enough." His jaw hurt, and he forced himself to unclench it. "But I had to."
"Yes, you did." She nodded. "All of the boys love Me; it's part of what I am, and what all of you are. Most of them let Me go, one way or another. But you, Cully . . . you can't let go of Me any more than I can release you, Cully. Of all of them—and there have been several, over the centuries—you've been . . . different. Special?"
"I'm . . . touched," he said, trying to sound sarcastic, and failing. He was being silly. Of course, She knew that. She knew everything there was to know about him. That was the way of it, and he couldn't have changed that if he wanted to.
"You love them more than you love Me?" She asked.
He shook his head. "It's more complicated than that." He shrugged. "Everything is always more complicated than everything else. It's one of life's great contradictions. You . . . You don't need me, Lady. My lambs do."
She looked at him. If she spoke the truth, that the way he served his lambs was ever and always by leading them to the slaughter, he didn't know what he would do. There was no sin in speaking the truth, and he certainly deserved to hear it, but he didn't think he could bear to hear it from Her lips.
"Oh, Cully, my Cully." She sighed. "And if your choice is them or Me?" she asked.
He could feel the warmth of her cheek, even though he didn't trust himself to touch it. "That decision has long since been made, My Lady," he said.
She tilted her head to one side, and he had to move his hand lest he touch her. "I was hoping that you would reconsider," She said.
"Reconsider?" He laughed. It sounded every bit as forced as it felt. "I reconsider every day. There was a time that I reconsidered every minute. Then every hour. Perhaps in another ten years, it'll be every month."
She smiled. "But you'll not change your mind?"
"Of course not."
"It wasn't a serious question. I know you too well."
"We have different loyalties, My Lady. Yours are to Your family—"
"And yours aren't? He's a good boy, this Mordred; he wears his crown with honor and dignity and wisdom—and more than a little courage. His sons will wear the crown even better, if they're permitted."
Sons? Not son? Was she speaking metaphorically, or was She seeing something about the princes? He would have asked, but she wouldn't have answered. "He's more than that, my Lady. I . . . admire my King. But . . ."
"But he, like Me, will stand by while your lambs go to the slaughterhouse."
"Worse. Much worse. He'll stand by while I send them there, in his service, and if it bothers him—I think it does, and I hope for his sake that it does—he won't so much as lay a cheap salve upon his conscience by letting it show."
"And you, Cully, must let it show; you'll wear your self-inflicted grief like a blood-stained medal pinned not merely to your tunic, but into the flesh of your chest. Does that make it better, or worse? You don't need to answer that."
"If I knew, I would."
"You're a stubborn man, Cully."
"Yes. And I will do what Cully must, as I am, willy-nilly, Sir Cully of Cully's Woode," he said. "It's not a choice, not for me. I'd thought that—but never mind what I'd thought. That matters as little as what I'd hoped."
"Yes."
"Would you have me otherwise, my Lady?"
"No." She shook her head, and then She sighed, and She nodded. "Very well; have it your way." She sniffed. "I'll send for the king, and ask him to relieve Gray of his Red Sword, if you wish." She held up a hand. "I'll make him listen, Cully. From his viewpoint, yes, Gray and the Khan are a fine arrow, but he does, as he's said, have others."
He closed his eyes. She was tempting him with the impossible. But even the impossible wasn't enough. "And you'll relieve Gray of his willingness to be damned for the carrying of it? You'll grant my—you'll grant the boy repentance and hope?"
If She could do that . . . no.
"Cully," She said, "you ask too much."
He opened his eyes. "Yes. I do. But it's no more than I must, Lady."
"I can't do that—it's not a matter of I-won't, but I-can't. But if I did grant that? If I could grant that? What more would you demand?"
"I don't know." He shrugged. "I don't know much, not anymore."
"Yes." She nodded. "So: we find ourselves still in opposite camps, with no room for compromise, and my vision of necessity pitted against your resolve, with neither breaking."
He didn't quite stop himself from sighing. "One thing we have in common, Lady, is that neither of us has ever been much for compromise." He let his calloused hand rest on Her perfect cheek, and the hand burned with a fire that was as much of pleasure as of pain. He had done harder things than let that hand drop down to his side, although he couldn't remember when.
But it didn't matter. He was, after all, despite what were his wishes, despite what had been his hopes, despite what should have been his prayers, himself. Just as She was the Queen of Air and Darkness, and neither wishes nor prayers could touch that, he was Sir Cully of Cully's Woode, sworn and sealed knight of the Order, and he would be what he must be, and do what he must do.
And he would feel what he must feel, as well.
"But, still, I remain, in my own way," he said, "Your faithful and loving servant, and whatever else I've been."
"Yes," She said. "You are that. Your lambs come first, which is, perhaps, not as it should be, or, possibly, as either of us would have it, but that is as it is, my Cully. And do I remain your Lady, Sir Cully?"
"Of course." He nodded. "Always, Morgaine." He cocked his head to one side. He smiled. "It couldn't be otherwise, could it?"
She smiled back, and arched an eyebrow. " 'Not while I breathe'?"
"Yes."
And then he turned and walked away, the stones hard beneath his boots.