The Guinevere's Tale Trilogy

Chapter 2-2

So our competition slowly became a battle of wills. We found tiny ways to trip one another up or gain advantage—petty things like toppled ink pots, missing vials of herbs, and well-timed pinches that forced one another to break the solemnity of ritual—childish pranks we thought went unnoticed by anyone else. That is, until one day in early winter when Argante asked us to remain with her after our lesson ended.

We were learning the basic tenants of law, which at our early level consisted of memorizing categories of possible dispute—property, contracts, and crimes—along with their corresponding value or punishment. After eight months of study, we could easily recite the equivalent value of a cumal of rich farmland versus one of poor, rocky soil, or how to determine the honor price owed to a father for a bride. While not as exciting as divination or as entertaining as learning epic bardic poetry, it was equally important. Someday, as priestesses, we might be called upon by kings or lords to settle matters of law they did not want or were unqualified to decide themselves.

Argante had just returned from such a journey, where she’d adjudicated several cases for the new lord of the Summer Country, a young tribal prince named Malegant who, according to rumor, had managed to overthrow his own mother, as well as kill or subdue nearly a dozen siblings who contested his right to the throne. The resulting kingdom was a blend of three previous tribal holdings, and peace was tenuous at best. He’d had the foresight to call on Argante for aid, and she had been using some of the examples from his court to instruct us.

“I have called you apart from the others because I have a special case to present to you, one I would normally pose only to advanced students. I believe because of your superior skills and wit, you will rise to the challenge. Imagine yourselves the judges of this scenario. A man takes a second wife—”

“Does that happen anymore?” I asked, not realizing I had voiced my thought aloud, until Argante pinned me with an outraged expression that answered louder than her voice ever could have. I’d better not interrupt her again.

“A man takes a second wife,” she repeated. “His first wife is displeased and kills her. Is she to be held guilty or not?”

This situation was a matter of tradition, one told in bardic lore from ages long past, before the coming of the Romans, so we were familiar with the idea, even though our studies had not yet reached that level of complexity.

“Does he have sons? When did the murder take place?” Morgan asked.

“Ah, now you are getting to the heart of the matter.” Argante gestured with her index finger as she spoke. “He had no sons, and the murder took place two days after his second wedding.”

Morgan wrinkled her brow. “Then no, she is guilty of no crime and no punishment should be given. If the second wife dies within the first three nights of marriage, then the primary wife is held blameless, regardless of her actions.”

“The primary wife would have to pay a fine to the victim’s kin, whether or not she was within her rights,” I corrected Morgan.

Argante turned to me. “And if the second wife’s family seeks vengeance?”

“If the family takes revenge, they do so at their own peril, unless they hire outlaws to do their bidding,” I answered.

“And why is that permitted?” Argante asked Morgan.

“Because outlaws are not held to the same code as those with tribal ties. The only way to impose the law on a band of outlaws is to hire your own, and even then, they may turn on you.”

“Exactly.” Argante nodded and clapped her hands together, pleased. “Now what if the husband kills the first wife out of anger for her act? How is he to be punished? Is he put to the sword, or does he pay a heavy fine and enter slavery for a number of years? Or is there another alternative?”

Morgan and I looked at one another, puzzled. That was well beyond our ken. I decided to keep silent.

Morgan attempted to form an answer but never made it beyond stuttering, “I-I-he. . .”

Argante fixed us in her solemn gaze. “I did not expect you to know the answer. You see, ladies, you have just proven you are equals both in knowledge and ignorance. Stop trying to best one another, and concentrate on your studies. You only hurt yourselves by directing your attention elsewhere. Now go join your sisters.”

Morgan was silent as we made our way out the door, but then we moved out of earshot of our teacher.

“We are not finished,” she sneered.

Hours later, in the deep stillness of night, I woke with a startled gasp, one hand pressed protectively over my racing heart, the other clamped in a fist at my side, still holding my one piece of home—a small wooden dog that had been my going-away present.

Sometimes the door of my mind would not stay shut. Most of the time it was locked to even gales, but in my weaker moments, just the slightest whisper of a memory was enough to release the lock and let the sight slip in like a winter draft.

Fighting to see through the cobwebs left behind by my nightmare, I sat up and gazed around at the other girls sleeping soundly all around me. Rowena was facing me in the next bed, a slight smile upon her lips, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other thrown carelessly above it. At least I had not woken them in my fright.

I lay back down, focusing on my breathing as the snow swirled outside the window facing the Tor, blanketing the isle in a glimmering cape of white. Slowly, I went through the steps of shutting my mind to the sight, trying to forget the terror that came with it.

That was one of the strange things about visions that came unbidden. Even after the images faded, the emotions they conjured remained. Tonight it was the bittersweet dregs of the Holy Grail, with its sanguine promise of peace offset by the rumbling threat of destruction. This was a dream that had haunted me for as long as I could remember. I suspected it was my confession of this dream, more than my recurring visions or my mother’s vow, which had prompted Viviane to bring me here. The Grail was one of Avalon’s clandestine treasures, and anyone who knew of it belonged here, safe behind the mists.

I shivered and drew the blanket closer around me. In the months that had passed since I came to Avalon, my visions had dwindled in number and more time elapsed between them, but they did not cease as Viviane had hoped. Argante told me they probably never would but echoed Viviane’s promise that with training, I could control them. However, she warned that I would never be totally in control. Weakness, she said, was the strongest trigger, even for a woman of many years like herself. Each one of us, just by being alive, was subject to its many whims. Even with all the training Avalon could provide, illness, fatigue, or even strong emotions such as love or fear could render us powerless to the sight.

I bit my lower lip, trying to decide what had prompted this dream. I was healthy and my initial fear of life on the isle had faded, so that left one possible trigger—some strong emotion. Even without much thought, I knew what it was. Hatred. It burned in my belly even as I turned the previous day’s events over in my mind. Morgan’s refusal to let go of her quest for dominance over me, even after Argante’s strict admonition, set me on edge. I was done fighting, but Morgan never would be, at least not until she saw me trod down once and for all.

Suddenly, a sound as soft as the tease of a feather captured my attention. I lifted my head slightly off the pillow. It came again, more distinct this time, a small cry almost like the mewing of a kitten. I lifted myself onto my forearm and scanned the beds. One was empty. Wrapping the heavy fur blanket around me, I followed the sound, my bare feet swishing softly on the cold floor.

I could just make out a small figure hunched on the thick white rug in front of the fire. As I drew nearer, I recognized Mona’s silhouette.

I crossed my ankles and sank down silently beside her, wrapping my arm and half of the blanket around her. She nestled into my embrace like a baby bird beneath its mother’s wing. Neither of us spoke, for we both knew the source of her grief. Whether by design or malevolent coincidence, Mona had been named after a holy island off the coast of my father’s kingdom of Gwynedd, which had been home to the Druids before its inhabitants were slaughtered by a power-crazed Roman governor, an event she frequently relived in her dreams.

When I first joined the House of Nine, I thought her a banshee, but by now, I was so used to her screams in the night that I usually turned over and went back to sleep whenever she woke me. But something was different tonight. Maybe it was because of my own nightmare, but I wanted to keep watch with her, to hold her until her tears ceased and she finally succumbed to sleep.

After a long silence, Mona spoke, hiccupping through her tears. “I asked Argante today why I am cursed.”

“What? Why?”

“By the nightmares, I mean. She told me the sight works differently in every person. Some can see the future, while others are given the gift of seeing distant things as they occur or, in my case, long after.”

“But I still do not understand. It seems pointless to repeat the same events over and over again, even if only in our minds.” I stroked her hair, gazing off into the distance as I thought of my own visions and felt anew the frustration of reliving tragic events and portents without any understanding of why.

“That is exactly what I thought, so I asked her what value there is in seeing the past. She did not really answer me but went into one of her lectures.”

“What did she say?”

Mona shifted around so she was facing me. Distracted by her story, she had finally stopped crying. She adopted a dignified pose and mimicked Argante’s regal voice, quoting her while being careful not to wake the others. “‘How can we ever plan a better future if we do not learn from our past? If you burned your hand but did not remember the pain, how would you know not to touch the flame again? It is the same in battle or politics. If no one remembers the successes and failures, then our lives are but one pointless circle with no hope that future generations will advance. Knowing someone’s past gives special insight into their motivations, which is much like being inside their minds. Do not discount the gift you have been given. If you develop it properly, it is a blessing that could prove very useful.’”

We were both silent for a moment.

“How very”—I searched for the right word—“cryptic. Do you feel any better?”

She shook her head. “Not really, but at least I know Argante sees potential in me, in my condition. What is that?” She pointed at the object clutched in my left hand.

I opened my palm, having completely forgotten I was holding anything. In it lay the small wooden carving of a dog. Peredur, the young son of my lady’s maid, had given it to me as a farewell present on my last day in Northgallis. It had been a gift from his own father to help him conquer his fear of the dark. My palm was still etched with its imprint, made as I was clutching it in my sleep.

“This”—I gave Mona a squeeze—“is a magic wolfhound. He protects you from all your fears. I have been sleeping with it to combat my homesickness, but maybe you should keep him for a while.”

Mona took the toy from my hand and examined it in the firelight. “I think he is one of Ellen’s own,” she said with awe, referring to the goddess of all journeys, even in the land of dreams.