"And I will show you how hopeless." My brother ruthlessly thrust aside my attempts to fend off what was coming. "Get out of that cart and I will teach you not to lie..."

"I will lend you my horse," Bedwyr said to me, quite suddenly, "and my spear and shield as well, so that you can fight as a warrior should."

There was an instant of startled silence. "Thank you," I said at last, slowly. "But I fear I will disgrace your weapons."

"Perhaps," said Bedwyr, "and perhaps not."

"I wager he will," said Cei cheerfully. "I stake a gold armlet that Agravain downs him. You are right, Agravain, to do this; no one could believe that tale but a Breton."

"I would accept your stake," said Bedwyr, "only I do not share your taste for jewelry. I have my reasons for believing the tale, Cei."

Agravain scowled. He had wanted to fight me in the way he was best accustomed to, with his fists. But he decided that this would do. "Very well. Hurry. We must reach Camlann before too long."

I climbed down from the cart, tying the reins to the corner post, and Bedwyr dismounted. He gave me his spear and shield, tying a rag around the point of the spear and telling me to use the b.u.t.t end, then gave me the reins of his horse, which was a long-boned dappled Gaulish war-steed. I thanked him, feeling resigned to my inevitable defeat. It would be only another fall, I told myself. It could not hurt me.

I mounted Bedwyr's horse and rode it in a tight circle, seeing how it responded and trying to get an idea of its temper. It was a good horse, though of course nothing like Ceincaled.

We moved off the road to the cleared land about it. Now that we had left the marshes behind, the road wound through steep hills, covered with plowed land and pasture. The pastureland by the roadside was soft, so a fall would not be very painful. The warriors of the band formed a circle, not really understanding what was happening, but interested. No one accepted Cei's wager.

Agravain rode to the far side of the circle, levelled the blunt end of his spear, and nodded briskly. "I won't hurt you," he warned me, "But you must learn."

I nodded, sighed, and raised my shield. He would be cheerful again once he had downed me, and it was a small enough price to pay for that. Still, I wished that he would believe me. It hurt a little that he could so quickly call me a liar.

Agravain urged his horse to a trot, angling his spear and following the line of the circle. I followed his example, trying to remember what I had struggled to learn in the Boys' House. My brother saw I was ready and swung his horse towards me, touching it to a canter.

Suddenly, everything narrowed, and time itself seemed to slow as I touched Bedwyr's horse to a gallop and rode to meet him. My heart soared, and I swung my spear out of line. Agravain saw it, smiled, confidently came in. The world narrowed further to his spear tip and right shoulder, and around these points all was blurred. He was almost upon me; I swerved my horse just half a step, caught his spear on the edge of my shield, sending it glancing off, dropped my own spear into line, and thrust it against his shoulder, braced for the impact.

Time resumed its normal flow, and Agravain fell from his horse, his eyes wide with surprise, as I reined in and turned my animal quickly, dropping my spear to threaten him.

He lay still for a moment, then rose, slowly, rubbing his shoulder and scowling in bewilderment. I came to myself and stared, first at him, then over at his horse, which was now nibbling the thick gra.s.s. I could not understand what had happened.

"We will try again," said Agravain loudly. "Now."

"It was an accident," I said. "I could not do it again. I know that you're the better warrior of us, Agravain." Of course he was; it was his world.

"We'll do it again, d.a.m.n you!" shouted Agravain. He went over to his horse, remounted it, jerked savagely at the bit, and rode over to the opposite side of the circle.

"Cei," said one of the warriors. "Is the wager still on?"

"If you want," said Cei.

"Fair enough; I've armlets too."

Agravain lowered his spear, and began trotting about the circle again. I did the same, waiting for him when he turned his horse nearly backward and came up with a swerving course. This time I reined suddenly as we approached, bringing Bedwyr's horse rearing to a stop. Again everything contracted about us, and I felt even more clearly the wild lightness in my mind. Agravain was almost beside me, and his spear, aimed at my left thigh, was close. I beat it out of line with my shield, turning my horse and allowing his weight to join mine behind the spear as I thrust at Agravain's side. Again, he fell; again his horse ran on, this time into the circle of warriors where it was caught.

Agravain rose to his feet. He was no longer scowling, but staring in total bewilderment, like a man who has seen the sun rising in the west. The madness was still on me, and I did not wish to speak, so I sat silent and unmoving, spear ready, and waited.

Agravain went and got his horse, remounted, levelled his spear. I rode to the opposite end of the circle and nodded.

He came at me immediately this time, at a full gallop. I hurled my spear, blunt end first, as he came, and rode on drawing Caledvwlch.

The spear hit his throat and glanced off, though he would surely have a bruise to show for it; had I thrown it tip first he would be dead. He almost fell as it hit him, but recovered in time, keeping his spear straight. His thrust as we drew even would have struck me through the ribs to the right of my shield, had it touched me-but I hacked at the shaft with Caledvwlch, and it snapped. Time froze, and I lifted the sword before Agravain's horse could complete another step. The light was burning in the blade, and I was filled with a strength which seemed hardly to be my own. The world looked as though it had been etched on bright steel. I let all the force fall into my arm as I struck Agravain with the flat of the sword blade. He fell into the gra.s.s, his horse plunging slowly past me. He rolled over and lay still. There was a ma.s.sive silence.

My head cleared a little and I sheathed the sword. Still Agravain lay motionless. The rest of the madness departed from me, and I dismounted hastily. "Agravain?" He did not move. I ran over to him. By the Light, how hard had I hit him? "Agravain?"

He shook his head groggily, then climbed to his knees, holding his arm where I had struck it. He stared at me. His face was white, beaded with sweat. He climbed slowly to his feet, still staring.

"Dear G.o.d," he said, very slowly, each word falling into the ring of silence that was the watchers. "What have you become?"

"I said that you underestimated your brother." Bedwyr walked forward, still calm and unshaken. "I think that you will find a place with Arthur, Gwalchmai ap Lot."

"But the sword!" said Cei. "Didn't you see the sword? It was burning. He..."

"The sword?" asked another, "Didn't you see his eyes?"

Light! I thought desperately. Now they do believe that I am a witch.

"He has beaten Agravain of Orcade in fair combat, do any of you question that?" asked Bedwyr sharply.

"I question it," said Cei immediately. "That was not fair combat. No ordinary mortal being could have..."

"It was a fair fight," said Agravain. The warriors at once stopped glaring at me and stared at him instead. "It was a very fair fight, and long overdue. Gwalchmai is no witch, I swear the oath of my people to that. If any of you thinks otherwise, I am willing to fight again today. My brother is a warrior. G.o.d! By the sun, I have never fought anyone as good!"

"It was an accident..." I began, still bewildered.

"It was not. You are better than I, and we both know that now."

"One fall might have been an accident," Bedwyr stated. "Three times const.i.tutes proof. You are very good, Gwalchmai. Perhaps better than I."

"That is absurd. You are the finest horseman in the Family," objected Cei.

Bedwyr only smiled.

Cei shook his head violently. "Nothing of this makes sense. Swords cannot burn like firebrands. His story is impossible; but if it is true, where does that leave us? He is a sorcerer..."

"I said, nothing more about that!" Agravain snapped. "Whatever he was in the past, my brother is a warrior now."

"How can I be?" I broke in. "I never could fight. You know that, Agravain. You must remember how I was in the Boys' House, how I could not throw a spear straight..." Agravain rubbed his throat where my spear had caught it, but I plunged on. "Everyone knew that I was no warrior. Father was disappointed in me, I was disappointed in myself, so much that I was willing to give myself up to the Darkness from sheer anger and the pain of failing. How can I be a warrior?"

"You say that you laid open Aldwulf's face with that?" Agravain began to point at Caledvwlch with the arm I had struck, then winced and clasped it again.

"I...yes, but..."

"And you killed three Saxons when you escaped from Din Sarum?"

"Yes, but Agravain..."

"There you are, then." He turned to the others. "He has ruined Fflamddwyn's good looks for him and fought against our enemies. Can you question that he is fighting for us?"

"We have only his account to rely on for that tale," objected Cei.

"Do you accuse my brother of lying?" asked Agravain, trying to reach for his sword and wincing again.

Cei stopped, staring at my brother. Then he sighed and shrugged. He plainly thought that I was lying somehow, but he would not fight his friend for it. "I accuse no one," he said. "But I will tell Arthur of this."

Bedwyr nodded. "And I will tell Arthur that I believe Gwalchmai." The two looked at each other for another moment, and then Bedwyr smiled gently. "You merely do not wish to lose that armlet, Cei."

Cei looked confused for a moment, then remembered his wager. He grinned shakily, pulled the armlet off, and tossed it to the man who had won it. That man sat his horse looking at it uncertainly, then put it on. Cei clasped Bedwyr's hand, remounted, and turned his horse back to the road. Slowly the others followed, and Bedwyr took his horse and shield from me and went after them.

"Agravain..." I began again.

"Gwalchmai." He rubbed his arm, winced again. "By the sun, I have a bruise here. Bedwyr has forgotten his spear; where is it?"

I picked it up. The rest of the foraging band had started off down the road at a walk; Sion's mare was cropping the gra.s.s by the roadside. Agravain caught his horse, gathered the reins up, awkwardly one-armed. Just about to mount, he stopped, looked at me again, and caught my arm.

"Gwalchmai, I am sorry," he said.

"I am the one who is sorry. Truly, I did not mean to hit you so hard!"

"I don't mean for this." He had slipped back into Irish from the British of the warband. "Though I am sorry, and should be, that I cried liar on you. But all your life I have been calling you names to provoke you to fighting, and beating you to make myself feel better; and I have pretended to help you with the arts of war while I ruined you for them, pretending, even to myself, that it was generous of me and for your own good-do not say anything. I know that it is true. I began to realize it after I was a hostage here, when I was no longer the first-born and leader in everything, and when I saw that it was hopeless to fight and still wished to. And when they told me that you were dead, and all Britain said, 'There is one witch the less,' then I did understand, and wished myself dead as well. I remembered how you looked at me once after a fight, and I knew it was the part of a dog and a devil from Yffern to so humiliate a brother, and I had done it, and gone hunting afterwards. Listen, perhaps there is no repayment for it, but I am sorry."

I clasped his shoulders. "My heart, I have said that I was a fool then, and took things over-much to heart. If I had been able to laugh at you...and it is past now. Forget it."

He embraced me. I felt his chest shake, realized that he was weeping, realized that I was as well. "From this time on, Gwalchmai," he muttered, "it will be different." He released me, looking at me earnestly. "I will boast of you before I boast of myself. From now on there will be only victories."

I could say nothing, and he said again, "Only victories, Gwalchmai. Forget all that I ever said about your skill as a warrior. You will be a great warrior, a man they make songs about." He looked up the road then, and added, "They are slowing the pace for us, but we will still be left behind. Come, help me on to this horse. My arm is still numb."

When the cart was jolting and swaying down the road again, Sion's little mare trotting briskly to catch the others, Agravain fell behind. I understood very well why. He wished to be alone with his thoughts, as I did with mine, and, after such words as had just pa.s.sed, we would have nothing to say to each other for a time.

I did not know what to think or to feel. I had beaten Agravain; Agravain had repented to me for the past. I had beaten Agravain, he said that I would be a great warrior. There had been a time when that was the focus of my dreams, but I had abandoned those dreams for the Darkness, and I had never thought to see them placed within my grasp. And I wanted to turn the cart about and ride away from Camlann as fast as the horse could gallop.

I looked at the worn leather of the reins, dark with the polish of use, and at my hands curled around the leather. I had sworn those hands to the service of the Light. What had Bedwyr said about the Light? Something about all other lights or goods being known only in it. And I had already come to see that the Light could do whatever he wanted, even among the Saxons. Surely he did not need my aid, and did not need to have given me Caledvwlch, or to have sent me to Britain. Agravain had asked me why, when I spoke of Morgawse, and I knew that he meant not only "Why does she hate?" but, "Why must she be there to hate?" And I could not see why. If the Light could protect Arthur against her strongest spells, and could save me from her, he could certainly rid the Earth of Darkness. He did not need me or anyone to run about Britain and make war. I saw with a sense of shock that I did not like the thought of war, and I saw that I believed that it was wrong to kill. I had never heard of any such idea in my life, and yet, I thought again of those three Saxons and thought that there surely should have been some other way. And if it were sometimes right to kill, as I would have killed Aldwulf, or, in a different way, as I had killed Connall-when was it right? And how could anyone be always right? The Light of its-his-own nature must be always right, if what Bedwyr had said was true, and I believed that it was. But the world of men is mixed, good and evil together, and there was no simple and clear struggle, no one decision like the one I had made at Dun Fionn.

Yet men make choices, and must make choices. I had chosen Light at Dun Fionn. Medraut had chosen Darkness. Violently, I wished that I could have stopped him, and I remembered him standing in Morgawse's room, looking at her in adoration. If I had dragged him from the room after me? But he had been calling me "Traitor," the shout had echoed behind me. If I saw him again, and spoke to him, could he still change his mind? Surely, the Darkness could not completely enchain his will-and then I thought that I and the Light could not either. But who would choose Darkness, if they understood what they were choosing, understood the hunger and fear, the hatred that consumes happiness, the loss? And yet sometimes it seemed plain that we could not help but serve Darkness. And if I fought for Arthur, I would have to make choices, and it was evident that in the nature of the world I would sometimes choose wrongly. I did not want to fight in the complex world of men. It was easier to fight in the Otherworld.

I stared up at the hills before us, and found Bedwyr looking back down the road. Our eyes met for a moment; he reined in his horse and fell back till he was level with the cart again.

"Your thoughts seem heavy ones, Gwalchmai ap Lot," he told me.

"They are heavy, lord," I replied. "Agravain says that I may be a great warrior now, and you have said as much also. And I am a hair's breadth from turning about and returning to the Orcades, a piece of foolishness such as I have never heard of."

Bedwyr's eyes glinted slightly. "And why is that?"

"You serve the Light, I think," I said. "Is it right to kill men and to make wars?"

"Ach!" He stared at me. "I do not know."

"But you are a warrior, and when I spoke of the Light you understood it better than I did myself."

"I doubt that. I merely know the language of philosophy, and so could describe it better. You have touched on something, Gwalchmai ap Lot, which I have often questioned. I could only say what I know myself, from what I myself have experienced."

"Then tell me that, if there is time. I am sick with thinking of it."

"I think I understand that." Bedwyr's eyes glinted again with the suppressed amus.e.m.e.nt. It was very strange, I thought fleetingly, that I could speak to him so easily, and that he had so quickly taken my part against Cei. Perhaps it was that we served the same lord that created this understanding.

With his shield-arm, the one with the missing hand, he brushed his hair back from his face. "Very well," he began. "As Cei has mentioned several times already, I am a Breton, and my father has estates in the south-east-no, that is not to say I have a n.o.ble clan; in most of Less Britain, clans are less important than ownership of land and civic status. My father is a curialis-that is a t.i.tle. Officially his rank is clarus, but he calls himself clarissimus, because he likes the sound of it." Again came the glint of amus.e.m.e.nt. "We are near the border of Less Britain, and while I was young, not a summer went by without the Franks, or the Saxons, or the Swabians or Goths or Huns breaking into our fields and driving off our cattle, and demanding gold for the munic.i.p.ality. So I learned to fight early, as men also do here in Britain. I also learned to read, but I considered this of less importance. In Less Britain, as in parts of southern Gaul, the old munic.i.p.al schools are still run for the children of the n.o.bility, and I went there and was taught the elements of rhetoric from the grammaticus there; and very tedious it was. We had a textbook, though, one among the cla.s.s of twelve, and it was written by a Marius Victorinus, who was a philosopher. When he wished to give an example of an exhortation, he exhorted to philosophy; of discussion, a debate about the summum bonum-that is, what is most excellent in human life. He thought it was philosophy. I thought he was a fool, for the Franks cared nothing for philosophy, and I enjoyed killing the Franks. Mind, I enjoyed it, not tolerated it, but took pleasure in showing off my skill. When I was seventeen, I enrolled some peasants from my father's estate, and took them off, with one or two other youths from the area, to fight for the Comes Armoricae-the king of Less Britain, you would say. After a few years, the Frankish king died, and the new king was busy with the Goths, and the wars seemed over for a time. Then I heard that our king's younger son, Bran, had made alliance with Arthur of Britain, and planned an expedition. I had never been to Britain, and had killed no Franks or Saxons for nearly a year, so I took my followers and went with Bran.

"You know of that campaign, I think, and how Arthur, won the purple, so there is no need for me tell you of it. But for myself, I was wounded in the battle by the Seafern." Bedwyr held up his shield-arm again. "The blow was not bad in itself, but the wound took the rot, and I, who was not afraid of the Saxons, was afraid of the doctors, and did not go to them until I was sick and had to be carried. They took the hand off, but I was in a high fever from the rot, and I thought that I would die. I lay there in the monastery where they had brought us, and now I had time to wonder about how many men I had placed in this position, and the thought did not please me as it had before. All my renown was useless to me now. And I kept remembering the exhortation to philosophy from that textbook, and thinking that glory was not, after all, the summum bonum.

"For three days I lay between death and life. On the third, Taliesin, the chief bard of Arthur, came to the monastery-I still do not know why. When he walked past the rows of the wounded, it looked to me as though a star burned on his forehead, and I thought that I was dead. So I called out to him that I was not yet prepared.

"He stopped and came over and knelt beside me. 'For something you are prepared, Bedwyr ap Brendan,' he said, 'But not for death.' Then he turned to the doctors and said that he thought the fever would break soon. 'So you regret your life,' he said turning back to me-I had never seen him before, and still I thought him the angel of death. 'With all my heart.' I replied. 'You live now,' he told me, 'and will for many years yet. But remember your regret when you recover, and, I warn you, things will turn out otherwise than you expect. Have faith, and do not wonder at what happens.' With that he left, and the doctors put me in a heated room with many blankets, so that the fever broke, and I began to recover."

"Who is this Taliesin?" I asked. "His last words to you were the same as Lugh's to me."

He gave me a dark, serious look. "Indeed? I do not know where Taliesin comes from or who his parents were. No one does. He is a great poet, and a healer besides. There are other stories about him, some very strange, but nothing is known for certain. I know that he is not evil, and his words then were true. I recovered from my fever, but I remembered what I had felt then, when I had thought that I would die. I asked the monks who cared for the sick if they had that textbook by the philosopher Victorinus, but they had never heard of him. They had only a few books, and those gospels. So I read one of the gospels, that of Matthew, and I came to the place where the Christ was betrayed, and led off to execution; and one of his followers drew a sword to defend him, and our lord said, 'Put your sword in its place: for those that take the sword will perish with the sword.' Then I decided that it was wrong to kill and to make wars, and I resolved to return to Less Britain as soon as I was well enough to travel, and there enter a monastery, and contemplate the Good. I antic.i.p.ated that my father would be angry, but I would not have yielded for all that. So, you see, I know what it is that troubles you."

"Why did you change your mind again?"

He smiled, a quick but very warm smile, "I met Arthur. I had seen him before, but never spoken with him. He came to the monastery to visit the wounded. I was sitting in the garden: it was summer, and evening, and I was trying to read. He came up to me, calling me by name, and asked me of my wound; then asked when I would rejoin King Bran. I told him that I did not plan to continue to live as a warrior, but to enter a monastery, and he said that Bran thought highly of me, and that he did not understand.

"I explained my reasons, and, surprisingly, he did understand. He had even heard of Victorinus-he had read of him in a book by one Aurelius Augustinus. 'But I do not agree with your Victorinus on the highest good,' he told me. 'Do you think that it is glory, then?' I asked. 'Indeed not,' he replied, 'But Augustinus says evil is not a substance, but an absence, being nothing more than the denial of good. And this my own heart teaches me as well, for I can see from it that evil begins in weakness, cowardice, and stupidity, and proceeds to hatred and desolation, while good is active. So it seems to me that the highest good cannot be a thing that sits like a picture on the wall, waiting to be admired, but must be active and substantial.' And I: 'Victorinus says that the Good, that is, the Light, subsists in all things, for if it did not, nothing would exist. But because men do not consider it, and act blindly, they create evil.' And he: 'If they do nothing but sit and consider, they are bound to create evil, for they cannot create good.' 'But they might find it and know it,' said I. And he stood and paced about the garden, then asked me, 'Is justice good? It is active. Are order, peace, harmony good? Is love?-Augustinus says that love is a property of men but not of G.o.d, but I think that, if this were so, we would be superior to G.o.d, which is unthinkable; for I am certain that these things are good, love most of all.' And I: 'The Church says that G.o.d, that is, the Good, loved and acted once, in Christ.' And he: 'I say he did then and does now, in us. Tell me, is it good that the Saxons take away the land, the cattle of their neighbors, and that men and women, and children, too, are left to starve? Is it good that only a handful of n.o.bles in Britain can read, and few of them have books? Is it good that men are reduced thus to the level of beasts, thinking of nothing but food and slaughter?' 'Why do you ask?' I said, 'There are evils, but they have come about because Rome has fallen and the Empire has gone from the West. What can we do but ourselves abstain from evil in such times?' 'We can restore the Empire,' he said, and stopped pacing, standing with the moonlight in his hair-for by then the moon had risen over the abbey wall.

"'Before G.o.d, I will preserve civilization in this land or die defending it, because I love the Good. And I think that to fight thus is the highest good for men, and not philosophy.What would your Victorinus say to that?' 'Victorinus had no emperor like you to Follow,' I said, 'or he would have spoken differently.' And I knelt to him, and told him, 'I have only one hand to fight for you, but, in G.o.d's name, take me into your service, and all I can do, I will.' He looked at me in surprise for a moment, for he had not realized how much his words had stirred me; then he took my hand and swore the oath a liege-lord swears to his follower. And I have fought for him ever since, and will do so all my life, G.o.d willing: for I now believe that to act with a desire for good, even if we may act wrongly, is better than not to act at all. But whether in the end we are justified in the eyes of G.o.d, I cannot say."

I was silent for a long time. "That is hardly comforting," I said at last.

"Life is not comfortable," he replied. "Nonetheless, I think there is more joy in struggling for the Light than in retreat."

"But the difference between us and the Saxons is not so great," I objected. "They are men too, and much like us. And I know that you are a Roman, but still, I cannot see why the Empire has anything to do with the Light. No British king had some miserable slave tortured to death to see whether his master threw stones at a royal statue, or had three thousand people ma.s.sacred at a theater because they had rioted, as did Theodosius, the High King of Rome. My mother told me of this, but still, it is true, isn't it? And I never heard of any king in Britain or in Erin having hundreds of innocent n.o.blemen put to death, solely because their names began with "Theod," as Valentinia.n.u.s did because of an oracle he had received, though he missed Theodosius. Moreover, the Romans took Britain by force of arms, just as the Saxons are attempting to do now, and no doubt the people here then liked the Romans as little as we now like the Saxons-why are you smiling?"

"Because you can speak Latin and read and are probably a Christian, and still, if you do not object to my saying so, you are a barbarian. I mean no insult. It is true, the Empire caused much evil and misery. But no British lordling ever created as much of good and beauty, ever gave to the world so much knowledge, art, and splendor as did the Romans. And no British king ever founded hospitals, or endowed monasteries to care for the sick, the poor, and the orphaned; or again, relieved his domains when there was famine and restored them after fire or war, which the Christian emperors did. The Empire is worth fighting to preserve. That I could never question."

"Very well, I am a barbarian," I said, beginning to laugh. "You southern British-excuse me, Bretons-always say as much about the Irish. I still do not see that your Empire has much to do with the Light; but, from what you have said, I think the Empire Arthur desires would. And I have been given a sword, which, if it is a weapon of Light, is also a weapon of war. I do not fear perishing by it if I take it up, and if your Christ threatened nothing more than that, I would have no hesitations. Only...by the Light, it is too sudden. I never expected...I never thought that I could become a warrior, and would have to make such a choice."

"Perhaps when you meet the Emperor Arthur it will become clear. Look, there is Camlann. We are almost home."

Camlann is ancient, older than the kingdom of Britain, in fact. It stood empty and decaying while the Romans ruled, but after Londinium fell to the Saxons, Ambrosius Aurelia.n.u.s had it resettled. Arthur had it refortified with the great walls, which, when we rode up that day, were only half-finished. As we approached, Agravain drove up his horse to ride beside me again; and Cei fell back, watching me as though he expected me to grow wings and fly off rather than enter the fortress. So I came to Camlann, driving a heavy-laden cart pulled by a spent mare, flanked by three warriors who viewed me in vastly different lights, fastening my hopes on a High King who was absent.

The gates had been thrown open for us before we reached them, and we drove up the steep hill, the warriors calling greetings to the guards and shouting that they had a victory. The High King was expected back, with the rest of the warband, at any moment, and Bedwyr wanted the supplies from Ynys Witrin to be unloaded before the Pendragon returned.

"I do not wish my lord to have to trouble himself with inventories, nor to wait for his victory feast," he told one of the servants.

"Of course," said the man, eyeing the carts with some eagerness-I gathered they had been short of supplies in Camlann. "Did you bring mead from Ynys Witrin?"

"Seeing that the monks make the best mead in Dumnonia," Cei replied, "we were hardly likely to miss it."

"Good. We've only that ale we saved from last winter, and I had no wish to give that to the Emperor after a victory."