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swallowed and admitted, "I'm not sure."
He turned his head away from the boy to get a view of his surroundings. He
seemed to be lying in a town square. Common folk bustled all around them.
Knights on horseback rode past, which accounted for the clattering that had
first roused him. The smell of nearby livestock was pungent in his nostrils.
The rhythmic cry of a passing peddler competed with all manner of sounds,
complaints, and pleas coming from man and beast alike. Looking around more
alertly now, Arthur saw that some people were staring at him with suspicion or
dismay, but most chose to ignore him and go about their business.
It occurred to him that a king even a very confused one should not be lying
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like a drunkard in a town square for all the world to see. "Help me up, boy."
"Yes, sir."
The lad was strong, hauling Arthur to his feet with virtually no cooperation
from the king's trembling limbs. Arthur leaned heavily on the boy's shoulder
and gasped for air as the world reeled around him. Sounds scraped along his
skin, colors felt hot in his mouth, and scents enveloped him like a scratchy
blanket. What in God's name was happening to him? He breathed deeply, still
amazed that it didn't hurt. Only minutes ago, each breath had been an
unbearable agony taking him one step closer to death.
Bit by bit, the world stopped swirling, his legs stopped shaking, and he was
able to stand like a man instead of cling like a weaning child.
"Thank you," he said to the boy helping him. "I'm better now."
"Would you like me to take you ..." The boy paused and shrugged uncertainly.
"Back to your people?"
"My people?"
"Or wherever you belong?"
"I belong . . ." Arthur looked around as his senses calmed. Something stirred
in his memory as he studied his surroundings. "I know this place."
"If you're better now, sir..."
"Those stables ... This marketplace..." Arthur nodded slowly. "Yes, I've been
here before." But when? And where was this? "And how did I get here?"
"I'm afraid they're waiting for me," the boy said apologetically. "Kay will
be vexed if I make him wait much longer."
"Kay!" Arthur's head snapped around. "Then he ... He isn't dead, after all?"
No, that was impossible. Kay was dead on the blood-drenched field of Camlan.
"Dead? No, indeed, sir." The boy gave him a puzzled look. "Do you know my
brother?"
"Your
brother?"
"My foster brother," the boy amended.
No, not Kay, then. Just this lad's
... A strange sensation crept into his bones. "I had a foster brother named
Kay."
"I see, sir. And is he ..."
"Yes. Dead."
The place. So familiar. The boy's face. So familiar, too, he now realized;
only seen from an unfamiliar perspective.My God... "Ar...Arthur?"
"Yes, sir!" The boy smiled. "Forgive me, sir. Have we met before?"
Polite, yes. His stepfather had drilled courtesy into them. Tall. Stronger
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than other boys his age. He would grow into those hands and feet in time to
fight the Saxons ... Arthur sat down rather abruptly on the hard pavement.
"Sir!" The boy knelt beside him. "You arevery unwell!"
Well, yes, I'm dying
... He started to laugh.
"We must find someone to tend you," the boy said worriedly.
The sword,
Arthur realized.
"Can you walk?" the boy asked.
This was where it all began. This was where he had pulled the sword out of
the stone. The sword that marked him, blessed him...cursed me ... as king.
"The sword," he whispered to the boy Arthur his head reeling.
"Never mind the sword Kay sent me to find. He can wait," the boy said firmly.
"You need help."
Everything could be different. Now was his chance to change all that he had
wrought. "The sword in the stone..."
"I will find a healer. Can I leave you here alone for a few moments?"
"Don't... Don't..."
"I'm sorry, sir. There's no other way. You can't move, and I don't know how
to help you."
"No, you don't understand." He reached for the boy's arm. Young Arthur eluded
him with the speed and agility that would keep him had kept him alive in many
battles.
"I do, sir, but I'll be back before you know it. Lie still. Don't fret."
No!
But young Arthur was gone without hearing the words which could have saved
him.
Don't touch the sword in the stone.
Go home, boy, go home and live a normal life. Don't become the man whom
thousands will follow to their deaths. Don't drench this land with the blood
of your friends as well as your enemies.
Arthur tried to rise again, but his legs would not support him. His vision
swam, darkening at the edges. The sunlight dimmed as shapes became shadows,
voices turned into echoes, and the scents of his youth drifted away on the
summer breeze ...
Pain cut through him with brutal force. Echoing sounds shimmered through
shifting light and darkness. Nausea overwhelmed him, but when merely breathing
hurt so much, the thought of vomiting was unbearable.
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"He's awake!"
Bedivere's voice. Exhausted and grim, but still buoyed by the courage and
common sense that had made him Arthur's most trusted companion for so many
years. His dearest and most valued friend... until Lancelot.
Lancelot, who'd come to Camelot like a breath of fresh air, who'd had the
imagination and vision that Bedivere lacked, while lacking none of his
courage. The knight who could see what Arthur saw, the man who could
understand better than any other what Arthur envisioned, what he hoped to
create and shape from the shambles he had inherited after the Saxon wars.
Lancelot, his dearest friend, his most capable enemy ...
"Yes, I'm awake," Arthur mumbled.
Awake now. But how real the dream had seemed! And how his bewildered
dream-self had longed to alter his destiny.
Ah, yes, if only things could be if only they had been different. If only he
hadn't sired a bitter son on his own half-sister, become king of a chaotic and
war-torn land, loved and made a queen of the woman who would fall helplessly
in love with his own best friend. If only, if only, if only...
Well, it was all over now. And what man did not have regrets, after all? What
king did not drown in them?
"Sire," Bedivere said, bending over him. "We must lift you onto the barge."
"And it will hurt," Arthur guessed.
A weary smile flickered at the edge of Bedivere's grim-set mouth. "Only when
you laugh."
"Oh, in that case ..."
He felt Bedivere briefly clasp his hand in the dark. "Avalon is not far now,
sire."
"Only across the water. Ah, if only I could walk on it..." He closed his
eyes, sorrow overriding the pain. "No, we'd still have lost."
Bedivere said nothing. No empty boasts about the next battle. There would
never be another battle for them. They were done. Utterly destroyed at Camlan.
The dream was over.
"Lucan?" Arthur asked.
"Dead," Bedivere replied briefly. "While you were unconscious."
"So many dead. So many." It hurt to speak, yet he felt he must say their
names aloud, if only to hear the words one more time. Some would get no other [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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