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Overview
Steel and sorcery collide in this epic series featuring the women of Camelot.
When treachery and violence destroy Elen’s homeland, a power begins to rise inside her. But it will take more than that untested magic to avenge her family, unite her people, and reclaim their land. Her enemy receives power from an evil source: the wicked sorceress Morgaine LeFay, who will stop at nothing to destroy King Arthur and his knights of Camelot. And she plans to use Elen to work for her own vile purpose.
The thought of Elen in danger stirs something in the heart of Sir Geraint. Quiet and stalwart, he has always remembered the warmth they once shared. He will do anything to help her, even traveling undercover into enemy territory, where his martial skill and the love he shares with Elen will be put to the ultimate test . . .
Praise for Elen: For Camelot’s Honor
“Lyrical, heartwarming, and engaging.” —Explorations
“Fine characterizations, lyrical writing, and intricate plotting make for a spellbinding journey.” —BookLoons Reviews
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504057776 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 04/09/2019 |
| Series: | The Queens of Camelot , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 506 |
| File size: | 9 MB |
About the Author
Sarah Zettel is the critically acclaimed author of more than twenty novels, spanning the full range of genre fiction. Her debut novel, Reclamation, won the Locus Award for Best First Novel. Her second release, Fool’s War, was a 1997 New York Times Notable Book, and the American Library Association named Playing God one of the Best Books for Young Adults of 1999. Her novel Bitter Angels won the Philip K. Dick Award for best science fiction paperback in 2009. Her latest novel, Dust Girl, was named as one of the best young adult books of the year by both Kirkus Reviews and the American Library Association. Zettel lives in Michigan with her husband, her rapidly growing son, and her cat, Buffy the Vermin Slayer.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Pont Cymryd, Anno Domini 521
"So, your mother welcomes the men from Camelot?"
A shadow fell across Elen where she knelt beneath the trees. She did not turn. She recognized the booming voice well. Elen sighed toward the morning's treasure: an oaken stump that had yielded a magnificent and unexpected crop of crooked-capped mushrooms. Reluctantly, she stood, carefully brushing off the skirt of her dress, then her hands, tossing her black braids over her shoulders and then smoothing down her green cloak.
It was only then she turned to face Urien, whose followers styled him y Tarw, "the bull." He certainly looked the part. He was a bluff and rugged man with thick red-brown hair and arms like a smith's that were banded with blue tattoos and silver rings. He rode a shaggy black beast of a horse. His iron knife and nail-studded club hung in plain view on his leather belt. His broad shoulders were only partly hidden by the green-and-brown striped cloak that was clasped with a silver brooch in the shape of three cranes. Behind him, on uncombed ponies, rode two of his men. Both were hulking creatures with thick shoulders and strong hands. The one on Urien's right had a round face with a toad's goggling eyes. The other was a starved wolf, his brown hair and beard equally tangled. He kept looking down the path, as if he expected enemies to leap through the trees.
Elen wanted to ask him what he feared so, but she made herself pay attention to Urien. "Arthur's ambassadors came with all signs of respect and asked for the hospitality of our house," she said, keeping her tone carefully bland. Whatever she thought of him, Urien was the chief of the cantrev Eufaen, their neighbor immediately to the west. As such, he must be given at least the show of respect. "Is it your counsel, sir, that my mother should have turned them away?"
Urien's face clouded. Not that it was not dark enough to begin with, Elen thought sourly to herself.
"It is known that since your father died your mother looks east." Urien's black horse stamped impatiently.
Elen clenched her jaw. Father had thought well enough of the High King at Camelot, and mother had concurred, but it would accomplish nothing to remind this man of her father's feelings. It was the shade of her father that kept him at bay, and that shade was stretched very thin these days.
"My mother has not yet shared her thoughts with me on this matter."
"I don't believe you." Urien leaned over his mount's neck to peer more closely at her. "In this cantrev, the women rule."
Elen picked up her basket, although it was only half full and she had not yet picked the stump clean of its treasures. The earthy scent of mushrooms rose invitingly, making her stomach growl. "Do you wish to speak of this with my mother? You will find her in our house." Elen did not have the patience for the verbal dance. She had work to do.
"Perhaps I will, that." Urien took up his reins again. "As her daughter seems to know so little of what happens in her family's house."
Elen held her peace, but only with difficulty. Overhead, the wind whispered to the trees and their branches swayed back and forth. A crow cawed three times. An omen, surely, but of what? Elen shook her head.
"You are a bright spark," Urien went on. "You look suspiciously on this embassage of Camelot's, and I'll wager your brother does, too. He's no fool, either."
Elen opened her mouth, but did not know what to say. It was no help at all that she was in truth worried by the arrival of these men. Urien had a darkness in him, but at least it was a darkness she knew, like the storms in summer. What came from Camelot was utterly strange, and to her shame, that strangeness frightened her. But she would not give voice to any such thing before Urien.
The sound of footsteps on the path saved her from having to answer. Carys, her brother's betrothed, picked her way down the crooked path, a pale basket resting on one ample hip.
Carys saw Urien and pulled up short. "My lord Urien," she said, bowing her head respectfully. "I had not thought to find you here. I was coming to my sister, who has not yet broken her fast." She rummaged beneath the white cloth that covered the basket's contents and pulled out a fresh loaf of bread. Elen could smell its enticing warmth from where she stood. "Will you stay and eat with us, my lord?" Carys had an easy way with courtesy that Elen envied. She would make Yestin an excellent wife and do honor to their house.
Elen felt a rush of relief as Urien shook his head. "And I thank you, but I must continue to the house. I have words to speak with Arglwyddes Adara. Think on what has passed here, Elen," he added before he sent his shaggy horse trotting down the path.
Once Urien was well out of earshot, Carys asked, "And what is it you're to remember?"
"To fear the east, I think." As if any of us needed reminding. She took a deep breath and, with difficulty, turned her thoughts from Urien. "Have you been to the bridge yet?"
Carys shook her head. "I've the milk with me. Your mother said we should go together."
Elen took up her own basket. "That should be done before we eat. Come."
They took the path, heading in the opposite direction from the way Urien had gone. It sloped downward through the thick trees, ambling as it went, in the way of a track that had been made by passing feet rather than by careful plan. Soon, it joined up with the broader way suitable for a cart, a herd of cows, or even a group of men on horseback. The birds called all around them, saluting the morning and one another. The sun slipped through the trees, making patches of warmth on cheeks and shoulders as they passed beneath the leaves. A beautiful summer morning. Were it not for the shadow of Urien, Elen would be enjoying herself.
They did not have far to go before the greenwood opened onto the grassy riverbank. The river Usk sparkled gold and silver in the morning sun. A pair of boats floated on it, with their men setting out lines to fish the waters as they flowed beneath the bridge. On the other side, beyond the rushes, rolled green meadowland cut by the old Roman road that led all the way to the coast. Beyond that rose the ranks of the Black Mountains, dark green and brooding, fencing in their valley and guarding their own.
Their cantrev was Pont Cymryd — the Taken Bridge — and the bridge that gave their land its name was an ancient thing. No graceful Roman arch, it was a pair of gray stone slabs laid end to end, each wide enough for two men to ride abreast. Six pillars that had been sunk into the riverbed supported the great stones a bare yard above the water. More than once, Elen had seen the spring floods wash over the bridge. The shallow steps had hollows worn in them from generations of feet. There was no rail or wall to keep the unwary from falling from one of the edges.
There were those who said no one knew who had built the strange bridge. There were others who said it was known all too well. Mother was inclined to keep certain observances and customs in regard to it. Elen never found cause to fault this, whatever the traveling priests might have to say. One of them swore he would show the cantrev that all the old tales were nonsense, and on Midsummer Night, he rode his horse over the bridge, brandishing his cross and singing loudly. Priest and horse vanished into the darkness, and neither was ever seen again. They did find the cross, though, or so old Trent told her, on the near side of the river, floating forlornly among the rushes.
Then there was the even older story of Maius the Smith, whose daughters were the founding of her own line. He had withheld what belonged to those whose lands lay across the bridge, and for punishment was taken away and never seen again. Only his iron hammer was found. Aeddan kept its head wrapped in white linen at his forge.
She and Carys were not the first to visit the bridge this morning. Bouquets of flowers, little heaps of grain and even a few late strawberries had been placed beside the worn steps. Most other days, there would be men at the bridge, taking the toll from any bringing goods or cattle across. Not today. Today, all could pass freely until sunset. When dark came, no one would set foot on the bridge. Tonight, the bridge belonged to those who placed it there. In other cantrevs and other lands, folk would light fires, dance and feast and celebrate the summer and the long, bright days. The folk of Pont Cymryd would close themselves up in their houses and their hall and leave the night to itself.
Carys set her basket down, removing the cloth to reveal a clay jar of milk and four small white-flour cakes alongside the bread. Elen took these offerings and set them beside the others.
Her encounter with Urien still rested heavy on her mind. "Abide, abide." She whispered the ritual words fervently as she set milk and white cakes on the soft clover. "And let no trouble come to our house this year."
The river Usk flowed past wide, silver and calm, but the wind blew hard, whipping her cloak out behind her and carrying the smell of rain from the hazy horizon. Elen set her jaw and turned away toward the woods. The future would bring what it might. Until then, there was work to be done. Carys saw Elen's mood and did not attempt to talk. She just rummaged in her basket for the bread. The scent rose in a delicious cloud as Carys tore it open. She handed Elen a goodly portion so they could eat while they walked. It truly was a beautiful morning with spring turning fast into summer. The people of the cantrev were waking to their tasks, and the road became crowded with beasts and their keepers heading down to the riverside to drink or graze, or to make their own offerings. Pleasant greetings and snatches of gossip and song, along with the good bread in her stomach, lightened Elen's mood as they turned up the gentle hill toward home.
The dwellings of the cantrev's people clustered around the high house like pebbles scattered around a boulder. Smoke rose from the holes in the thatched roofs. The clatter of voices, both human and animal, competed with the noise of the thousand tasks of living. Sheep bleated, cattle lowed, pigs squealed and grunted. A sharp tang on the wind and a metallic clanging said Aeddan was at his forge. The west was one great carpet of green with the new grain almost knee high. Men and women were out with their hoes, chopping out the weeds, inspecting the stalks and new-formed heads to see that they were strong and there were no early blights. Mali stood in her doorway, sweeping dust vigorously out across the threshold. A noisy flock of gray-and-black geese waddled fussily past, followed close by Nia with her willow wand switch. Her belly was huge with her first child nestled safe within. She smiled and called out to Elen, who stopped and laid her hand on Nia's stomach. Elen was the cantrev's midwife, taking over the duties her mother could no longer perform.
The babe stirred at her touch and kicked once. "We'll be seeing each other before another seven days have passed," Elen predicted. "That one's anxious to be out."
Nia patted her belly proudly. "It's a boy, Mother said. She can tell by the way he's lying."
Elen eyed the wool-clothed mound critically. "I hope she remembered to tell the babe!"
They all three shared a laugh at that, and continued on their separate ways, Nia to the river and Elen and Carys up to the hall.
The great house of Pont Cymryd stood within a ring of earthworks and deep ditches. The men on watch hailed Elen and Carys as they passed. The house was a long, low hall with gray stone walls and a timber roof. The yard was as busy as the surrounding village with everyone scurrying back and forth to take care of the work of the day, plus the extra work of preparing for the welcoming feast. The breeze was warm with the smell of baking bread, and little Ana hurried by with a basket of eggs clutched tightly in both arms. Before the great iron-banded doors waited Urien's shaggy black horse. His two men, the toad and the wolf, lounged beside their ponies. Not one of the hall's men had come to make conversation with them.
Urien would be in there with Mother. Elen thought for a moment about circling around to the ovens to deliver her basket of mushrooms. She did not want to trade more barbs with Urien. But stronger than the desire for peace was the desire to know what Urien was saying to Mother, and what reply she made to him.
"Carys, take the mushrooms around to Siani." She handed her basket to her sister-to-be. "Make sure she knows these are to stew with the onions. Say I'll be with you shortly."
Carys gave her a knowing glance but took the basket under her arm without comment and started on her way. Elen schooled the frown from her face and walked through the great door into her house. Urien's men eyed her as she passed, but both bowed respectfully all the same.
Inside, the world was dim, smoky and cool. The beds and sleeping pallets had already been cleared away. Women tended the black kettles of porridge that hung over the hall's three fire pits. Boys set up trestle tables and benches for those who had the leisure to come and eat beside their warmth. Children raced to and fro as if constant motion could keep the scolding grandmothers from identifying them and giving them chores. A cluster of women, young and old, sat in the corner at work on the eternal tasks of carding and spinning.
Mother sat in the great carved chair that had once belonged to Elen's father, loan. Urien stood before her. A bright blaze of color caught Elen's eye. As a courtesy to their guests, Arthur's saffron-and-scarlet banner hung above her mother's seat beside her father's shield emblazoned with his blue boar. Urien could not like standing beneath Arthur's bright red dragon.
Adara, Lady of Pont Cymryd, widow of Penaig loan, was tall and straight despite her years. Her hair fell in a gray cloud past her shoulders, held in place by a circlet of bronze. Her face was lined with wisdom and laughter, especially around her dark eyes. The only sign that the years might weigh on her was her hands. Once strong and clever, her fingers were now bright red and chapped with joints so swollen they lacked the strength to pick up anything heavier than a wooden spoon. The pain in them was harsh, Elen knew, but Mother never complained of it. She still carried herself with the dignity and grace of a woman in the prime of her years.
Where's Yestin? Elen wondered to herself. The answer came to her a heartbeat later. Keeping our guests occupied so they do not hear what is said at this moment.
Urien had a warrior's senses, and he turned as Elen approached, although he could not have possibly heard her over the other noises ringing through the hall. He frowned deeply.
"I see your daughter would have words with you, Adara. Shall we speak more of this later?"
"What do you have to say that my daughter may not hear, Urien?" Mother asked pleasantly, extending one of her swollen hands. Elen took the sign and stepped up to her mother's side. Mother, it seemed, was not in the mood to make things easy on her neighbor.
For a moment, Urien looked as though he could spit on the floor, but he evidently decided having his say with Adara was more important than whether or not Elen heard it. She could see the preparation in his face. He meant to shoot his bolt now, and aim it true.
"Adara, we are of the oldest blood, you and I," said Urien, holding up his right hand to show the tattoos there. The raven, the pig, the mare, all the old signs of luck and fortune were embedded in Urien's skin. "You have knowledge and skill that stretches back to the druids and further. You know the voices and the names of the oldest gods. You could bend those powers to help keep the usurper from our lands." Now he pointed at her, as if he brought the accusations of the gods with him. "But even you must be prepared. Should Arthur come suddenly, all your learning will be as nothing to protect you."
Elen felt the tension thrumming through her mother. She wished she had deflected Urien when she still had the chance. Mother had enough to worry her. Elen wished she could speak now, but it would not be proper.
"It is not Arthur who has made threats against our land," said Adara.
That surprised Urien, or it seemed to. "You think I threaten you? I would leave us all free as we have ever been."
"Free, so long as we agree to abide by your word."
"A house must have a master." His tone said this was obvious to all who had any sense. "It is only when we are together as one house that the border cantrevs have a chance to stand against Arthur."
Adara was not dissuaded, or softened. "Again I ask, Urien, what threat has Arthur made against you or I?"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Elen: For Camelot's Honor"
by .
Copyright © 2005 Sarah Zettel.
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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