Read Online The Camelot Spell by Laura Anne Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
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so, either.” Not that anyone could have found them to tell them the news, if they had.
She was riding a horse now—an unnamed, rangy, torn-eared roan gelding with white-rimmed eyes. It looked uglier than a toad, but Newt had picked it out that morning from the others that the local farrier was willing to sell, having sorted through the herd with a practiced eye. Gerard hadn’t wanted to spend the coins, since they only had what the squires had beenable to pool together, but riding double was slowing them down too much, and the mule flat-out refused to carry any more weight in addition to their supplies.
They’d been away from Camelot heading northeast for two days now, following Gerard’s map to the nearest of the sigil-marked locations. The narrow track had widened into a true road, the dirt packed down by years of wagon traffic moving from town to town. The trees to their left were balanced by the meadows on their right, filled with quail and rabbits that Gerard proved very good at catching for their evening meals.
Though she was glad they weren’t going hungry, Ailis was getting sick of meat for every meal. And she hadn’t been able to wash properly since she left Camelot; her scalp itched under her braid, tucked up again under her hood, and she was pretty sure she smelled like dirty horse and dried sweat. Still, if their mission hadn’t been so urgent, she might have been enjoying herself. But even if she hadn’t shared the boys’ fears about an unknown enemy lurking somewhere, waiting for word to attack the now-defenseless castle, the thought of her queen slumped over her meal was one she would never be able to wipe from her mind’s eye—the indignity of it so atodds with her lady’s bearing and desires. And so the fresh air, the new sights, and the freedom to wear a page’s cast-off shirt and leggings under her skirt for modesty so she could sit astride like a boy was only half as sweet as it might have been.
“Town ahead,” Gerard called back. He was riding a few paces in front, his horse more restless than their geldings.
“Finally.” If they had gone west upon leaving Camelot, they would have encountered numerous towns built in the shadow of Camelot’s walls. East and south were the ocean and the rocky cliffs that Merlin—according to the map—seemed to avoid. North was where the sigils were; where the land was less settled. There lay swathes of woodlands and meadows undisturbed in the years since Arthur took the throne and established the Pax Britannica, the peace of Britain. It was as though nobody wanted to live where so many had died in battle the year after Uther, Arthur’s father, had fallen.
A shiver went through Ailis. Her parents had died in such a battle, although she had no memory of it herself.
“Blood fed those trees,” Newt said, as though he had been reading her mind. Ailis forced her gazeaway from the towering oaks and onto Gerard noting how he sat so straight in the saddle, even as he leaned forward to stroke his horse’s neck.
“Are you superstitious?” she asked lightly, truly looking at Newt for the first time. The interesting roughness of his features, fading bruises and all, was a marked contrast from Gerard’s narrow face and paler coloring, although Gerard was showing a few bruises himself. She wondered if there was a connection. Maybe that was why the two boys seemed so uneasy around each other. “Do you believe Ankou will come to collect you if you walk over the resting places of the dead?”
“Who?” He looked at her blankly.
“Ankou. The gatherer of the dead. Don’t you listen to any of the old stories?”
“Not much place for stories in the stable,” Newt said.
Since Ailis knew full well that the tales that didn’t come from the kitchens came from the stables, she gave that claim the look of scorn it deserved, making Newt snort with laughter. His expression lightened and made him seem quite…presentable.
“What are you laughing at?”
She was riding a horse now—an unnamed, rangy, torn-eared roan gelding with white-rimmed eyes. It looked uglier than a toad, but Newt had picked it out that morning from the others that the local farrier was willing to sell, having sorted through the herd with a practiced eye. Gerard hadn’t wanted to spend the coins, since they only had what the squires had beenable to pool together, but riding double was slowing them down too much, and the mule flat-out refused to carry any more weight in addition to their supplies.
They’d been away from Camelot heading northeast for two days now, following Gerard’s map to the nearest of the sigil-marked locations. The narrow track had widened into a true road, the dirt packed down by years of wagon traffic moving from town to town. The trees to their left were balanced by the meadows on their right, filled with quail and rabbits that Gerard proved very good at catching for their evening meals.
Though she was glad they weren’t going hungry, Ailis was getting sick of meat for every meal. And she hadn’t been able to wash properly since she left Camelot; her scalp itched under her braid, tucked up again under her hood, and she was pretty sure she smelled like dirty horse and dried sweat. Still, if their mission hadn’t been so urgent, she might have been enjoying herself. But even if she hadn’t shared the boys’ fears about an unknown enemy lurking somewhere, waiting for word to attack the now-defenseless castle, the thought of her queen slumped over her meal was one she would never be able to wipe from her mind’s eye—the indignity of it so atodds with her lady’s bearing and desires. And so the fresh air, the new sights, and the freedom to wear a page’s cast-off shirt and leggings under her skirt for modesty so she could sit astride like a boy was only half as sweet as it might have been.
“Town ahead,” Gerard called back. He was riding a few paces in front, his horse more restless than their geldings.
“Finally.” If they had gone west upon leaving Camelot, they would have encountered numerous towns built in the shadow of Camelot’s walls. East and south were the ocean and the rocky cliffs that Merlin—according to the map—seemed to avoid. North was where the sigils were; where the land was less settled. There lay swathes of woodlands and meadows undisturbed in the years since Arthur took the throne and established the Pax Britannica, the peace of Britain. It was as though nobody wanted to live where so many had died in battle the year after Uther, Arthur’s father, had fallen.
A shiver went through Ailis. Her parents had died in such a battle, although she had no memory of it herself.
“Blood fed those trees,” Newt said, as though he had been reading her mind. Ailis forced her gazeaway from the towering oaks and onto Gerard noting how he sat so straight in the saddle, even as he leaned forward to stroke his horse’s neck.
“Are you superstitious?” she asked lightly, truly looking at Newt for the first time. The interesting roughness of his features, fading bruises and all, was a marked contrast from Gerard’s narrow face and paler coloring, although Gerard was showing a few bruises himself. She wondered if there was a connection. Maybe that was why the two boys seemed so uneasy around each other. “Do you believe Ankou will come to collect you if you walk over the resting places of the dead?”
“Who?” He looked at her blankly.
“Ankou. The gatherer of the dead. Don’t you listen to any of the old stories?”
“Not much place for stories in the stable,” Newt said.
Since Ailis knew full well that the tales that didn’t come from the kitchens came from the stables, she gave that claim the look of scorn it deserved, making Newt snort with laughter. His expression lightened and made him seem quite…presentable.
“What are you laughing at?”
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