"God knows!" Lucanus yawned and stretched. "To the best of my knowledge, or anyone else's for that matter, he marched south and presumably to the west of us. It's been months now, as you know, since we saw hide or hair of any Cornish forces in this region, and your belligerent cousin spoke only the day before he left of carrying the war to its last stage and burning out the nest of rats Lot calls a fortress."
"Aye. What did he call the place?"
"Nothing, as I recall. I doubt it even has a name. Most people refer to it simply as Lot's Nest."
"Lot's Nest, rats' nest, there's no difference, but it might take a deal of burning. How many men went with Uther?"
"Enough. Two full thousand, half horse, half foot. But you're right. It could prove difficult to burn, and Lot might not even be there."
"How so?" A note in his voice had struck my ear strangely. He returned my gaze evenly, allowing a short silence to stretch between us. "What do you mean?" I pressed the point.
Lucanus continued to stare at me for several more moments, then he shrugged his shoulders. "Simply what I said. When Uther came home at the start of the winter, when it grew too cold and treacherous for campaigning, you may recall he cursed Lot and his wealth very effectively, Do you remember?" At that moment I was able to identify the reason behind the peculiar look in his eyes. The physician was still looking for gaps in my memory. I nodded, as casually as I could, and he went on, apparently satisfied. "Well then, you'll recall that Uther's concern—and he was convinced, for whatever reasons, that he was right to be concerned—was that Lot would use the winter rest period this year to reinforce and strengthen his armies. He has the wealth to do it, if we are to believe what we have heard about his pirates, and the winter months when the snows blocked the hill passes gave him the time."
I nodded again, remembering, and he continued, "Lot has that kind of wealth, and the mercenaries out there in Hibernia, and even in Gaul, know of it. By this time, for all we know, the entire peninsula down there could be jammed with new levies, primed for battle. With water on three sides, it's easily supplied by sea with stores or men. Uther marched south—that's all we know. He took the great road. He could have left it at any point and struck inland, to east or west, depending on what his outriders found before them." He yawned and stretched hugely before concluding, "You know that as well as I do, if you would but think about it."
I nodded. "I agree. He could be anywhere. I won't keep you longer from your work or from your bed, my friend. I only wanted to say goodbye, since I intend to leave with the dawn, and to ask for your support in this matter of my brother Ambrose."
He smiled. "You know you didn't have to ask that, Cay, but I'm glad you told me of your intentions. But don't leave yet. I am not tired, and I've finished what I was doing. I have some excellent wine here."
"Can't, Lucanus. I still have to find Donuil and instruct him on what I wish him to do. It is imperative that he leave in the morning. And besides, you yawn like a man deprived of sleep for days."
"Nonsense! And why the urgency? Let Donuil rest. He'll be deep asleep by now. Tell him in the morning."
"Sick with an aching head?" I grinned at him again. "No, really. I told you I intend to leave at first light and I meant it. I also intend to leave clear-headed, so accept my thanks for the offer and my regrets. I agree with you about disturbing Donuil, however. I have to write a letter to my brother, and Donuil may as well sleep until I've done it. Good night, Lucanus. Sleep well."
I had no sleep that night, listening to the thrashing rain, and the second hour before dawn found me walking, fully dressed save for my boots and cloak, through the darkened house towards the room that housed Publius Varrus's treasures and his books. There, by the light of my solitary lamp, I toured the walls slowly, looking at the ancient weapons that hung there and remembering my great-uncle and the way he had loved and treasured these antique symbols of man's dexterity and ingenuity. Reaching his great African bow, layered of wood and horn and sinew, I took it down from the pegs that held it and tested its spring in my outstretched hands. It was as supple and mighty as ever. Donuil had replaced it here after bringing me back to Camulod from the Mendip Hills, two years before. It had not been oiled or polished, I could see, in at least half that time, but it had evidently not suffered from the neglect. A quiver full of long, carefully fletched arrows hung beside it, and I took that down as well. A small drawer in the table directly beneath, against the wall, held a supply of bowstrings made from stretched sinew, each wrapped and tied with care. I took all eight of them, dropping them into my scrip, then crossed the room again to lean the bow stave and quiver by the doors, where I could pick them up on my way out.
Finally, unable to postpone the moment longer, I took down the wooden hammer keys and used them to uncover the long, polished case that lay hidden, coated with dust, beneath the floorboards. Moments later, Excalibur sat firmly in my grasp, thrilling me with its power. I sat there on the floor, my legs dangling in the hole at my feet, and raised the sword above my head, watching the light from my lamp reflected in its glittering silver blade, and turning it this way and that to catch the ripples of refraction along its planes. Every detail of that magic, long-gone day, the first time I had seen this wonder, passed through my mind. I drew the hilt close to my eyes and examined again the perfect symmetry of the huge gold cockle-shell that was its pommel, and I flexed my fingers around the wire-latticed grip, made from the belly skin of a great shark. With the tip of my finger I traced the Celtic scrollwork on the broad cross hilt, trying in vain to detect the edges of the silver leaf covering that coated the bronze. And I heard again the voice of Publius Varrus from his death bed, instructing me in my duties concerning this wondrous weapon, which he had made with his own hands. As I listened to those words, whispered from the depths of my soul and my memory, so newly returned to me, the exhilaration I had felt seeped out of me to be replaced by a creeping nausea. I might never look upon this wondrous sword again. With the approaching dawn, I would ride out in search of vengeance, hunting the grandson of the man who had made it. Only one of us, and perhaps neither one, would return alive. But if I died, Excalibur, my sworn and sacred trust, would remain here, concealed from all eyes and therefore useless forever. That could not, must not be so.
Today I can find some tiny cause for pride—a very tiny cause, insignificant against the monstrous anger that consumed me at the time—that it did not occur to me to take the sword with me. I could not even then, in my swamping bitterness, conceive of using the sword Publius Varrus had made to kill the son of the child Publius Varrus had fathered. No matter how obscene I considered Uther's sins to be—knew them to be—I would never have thought to kill him with Excalibur.
Slowly, and sick with the knowledge of what I had to do, I laid the. gleaming blade gently in its sculpted bed, then closed the lid, hiding the sword from my eyes again for what I felt might be the last time, and carefully wiped off the dust from the polished lid. That done, I lowered the case carefully back into its hiding-place and resealed it beneath the floor-boards. Then I crossed to my great-uncle's writing desk, where I used my lamp to light more tapers, after which I found pens, ink and parchment and began to write. By the time I had finished, although it was still darkest night, my fingers ached from the unaccustomed effort of holding die pen.
I wakened Donuil in the pre-dawn blackness, when there was still no sign of light in the sky to the east. He was surprised to see me up and about before him and I did not bother to explain. I placed my lamp on the table by the door of his sleeping chamber and perched on the edge of his bed, where I repeated the now familiar story of my coming odyssey in search of myself. I repeated the explanation of how I perceived the need for Camulod and Ambrose to be brought together, and explained to him why I wished him to go in search of Ambrose, wherever he was to be found. I also told him in detail the message I wished him to relay to my half-brother, and then listened while he repeated it back to me. I instructed him to take two companions with him, the centurion Rufio and Curwin the bowman, and to be careful on the road. I myself, I told him, would probably be gone for no more than a week or two, after which I must return to Camulod and to my duties. His search for Ambrose, on the other hand, might take months.