The Bright Sword

by Lev Grossman

Adventures were quick and exciting when you heard about them, but when you were inside one they happened very, very slowly.

The world was coming undone again, like it had with the knight, just when he’d almost got it back together again. Why couldn’t it behave?

If his royal blood was Arthur’s first revelation, this was his second: he was no figurehead, he was a warlord, a dux bellorum. He had only the most perfunctory training with a sword, but Arthur was a natural with a much more fearsome weapon, an army. He’d spent two years watching Merlin beat the stuffing out of the Eleven Kings, and not a second of it had been lost on him. He had the general’s knack for reading a landscape, creating mismatches and natural killing grounds. He had an instinctive feel for when to show his forces to the enemy and how far to stretch a supply line. He could chill his soul down to the temperature necessary for the sacrifice of loyal men.

“My brother and I are waiting for a knight of purity and goodness to come and anoint his wounds. If the prophesy is true then when he whom we await touches them, the wounds will heal. When the king is whole again, the land will be whole too.” Her speech finished, Ystradel stood up. She seemed eager to wrap up the formalities. “I understand.” Arthur stood too. “We will try this adventure, and may God have mercy on us all. But a word with my companion first, if you please.” He took Bedivere aside. “You think I can do this?” he said in a low voice. “No.” “Be frank. On no account spare my feelings.” “My liege, I think it extremely unlikely that you will accomplish this adventure.” Arthur was a brave knight, and a zealous Christian, and the best of all kings, but he was not without stain, at least as God judged these things. He’d had a child out of wedlock with his own half sister, which seemed like the kind of detail God was unlikely to overlook. For some of the more rigorous adventures you had to be an actual virgin.

“How’d you know it was Sir Scipio on the horse, Dinadan?” Collum said. “He must’ve been a mile away.” “Mile and a quarter,” Dinadan said. “You can really see that far?” “It’s a gift.” “There is an initiation when one is raised to the Table,” Palomides said. “Some people come out of it with a special talent. Dinadan can see farther than any man in Britain.” “Not everybody gets something,” Dinadan said. “Bedivere didn’t. Constantine didn’t. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Gareth could do a standing jump of twenty feet. And when it rains, Palomides doesn’t get wet.” “Lancelot,” Palomides said, “never shits.” “What?” Dinadan said. “Have you ever seen him shit?”

He learned everything he could about her. Isolde was a princess, it turned out, from the kingdom of Munster in Hibernia. Palomides had known women in Baghdad, plenty of them, but he understood now that he’d never been in love before. The way Isolde looked at him—her gaze had a terrible, irresistible warmth, both girlish and maternal in equal measures, that made him think, She alone knows me for who I truly am, and delights in me, and favors me above all others. He believed that even as he saw her bathe others in that same terrible, irresistible gaze. But true love rarely comes without impediments. One impediment was that Isolde was married, to a certain King Mark of Cornwall. Another was that she was well known to be in love with King Mark’s dashing nephew, a knight of the Round Table whose name was Sir Tristram of Lyonesse. But these barriers felt trivial to Palomides compared to the magnitude of his love.

As for Sir Tristram, he expressed only mild disappointment. He’d been sure the holy water would turn Palomides’s skin pale like his. What did it mean? Was he actually a Christian now? Had he become a barbarian? In truth he didn’t know what he believed anymore, or who he was. He was not unfamiliar with Jesus as a prophet of Islam, but he found the idea of God having a son hard to swallow. He’d always thought of Christianity as a crude faith, mystical and rather monstrous, with its incarnation and resurrection and its bizarre triple godhead. But had he not spent years now worshipping a goddess made flesh, in the form of Isolde? In the House of Wisdom there were old books that were written on parchment taken from even older books—the scribes had scraped off the old ink and written a new text over it. Palimpsests, they were called. Now Palomides was a palimpsest, a prince of Baghdad scraped clean and rewritten as a Christian knight. That was how he felt, scraped and scoured and raw.

cheeks, and led him to his accustomed chair. Palomides found himself blinking back tears. His own father the caliph wouldn’t have embraced him the way this British king had. In Baghdad he was a fourth son, an inconvenient extra, the laughingstock of the paper-sellers’ quarter. But these men had seen him at his absolute worst, humiliated, rejected, wallowing in sin, and here they were waiting for him. They didn’t care what was written on him. They saw the parchment beneath the letters. After that Palomides left off both his hunting and his wooing for a while. For the first time he began to take an interest in Camelot’s scraggly, threadbare gardens, and he shared with the groundskeepers some of the advanced irrigation practices of the royal gardens in Baghdad. He gave a public demonstration of his astrolabe, which, granted, only Nimue attended, but she gave him her warmest attention. When a dome was wanted for a new chapel he showed the architect how to calculate its proportions by means of the novel mathematical discipline of al-gebra, fresh from the House of Wisdom.

“Tintagel is just a folly, a toy castle balanced on top of a big rock sticking out into the ocean. The weather comes straight in off the water—rain, snow, sleet, hail—and Tintagel takes it all right on the chin. Probably not so different from Mull.” She pursed her lips as she sank into the trance of remembering. “We spent most of our time huddled together in our furs in front of a smoky fire telling stories, three girls and their mum. That was Queen Igraine, of course, though she wasn’t a queen yet, just a duchess. We were our own little world. “And it was an old world. We never heard a word of Latin, and Jesus was just a fairy tale. We were the Dumnoniae, and we lived by the old ways. My mother always wore one glove inside-out to keep the piskies from leading her astray, and when we got sick as babies they would pass us nine times widdershins through a great rock with a hole in it. “When I was six my parents were summoned to Camelot to celebrate Uther’s having killed some more Saxons. But they came back in a hurry, with Uther right behind them. Uther had fallen in love with my mother, and he was coming to get her.” Collum knew that part. The great king Uther, seized by a passion that no earthly power could stay. He was given the likeness of Duke Gorlois, by Merlin’s magic, so that he might lie with his beloved. “We had two castles, and Mother kept us at Tintagel while my father went to the other one, Tarabel. We knew we were safe—it may be a folly but no army can take Tin...

Jesus is a story

“I hope he survives the battle,” Collum said, “so we can hang him as a traitor.” “He’ll do the same to us,” Scipio said. “The losers are always the traitors.”

He had often, very often, thought about battles and how amazingly well he would one day acquit himself in one. But now that he had an actual battle forming right in front of him—for Camelot!—the idea of involving himself in it, submerging himself in that swirling human maelstrom, was less appealing than he’d imagined. All else being equal he would’ve preferred to wait a little longer, and gone off somewhere and lain down and had a sleep first. Too much had happened, he needed the sorting angel of dreams to come down and sift it all into piles for him, make it into stories and tell him what it all meant and which bits he could safely forget.

“Not a bad spot, considering,” Bedivere said. “Slight slope in our favor. And we’ve got the Brass and the woods on our flanks—they’d be damned lucky to get cavalry through those trees.” Collum nodded sagely, as if he had evaluated the tactical scenario too and come to that exact same conclusion.

Constantine estimated that Rience had the advantage by about five hundred men, but as against that Camelot’s men hadn’t just marched three hundred miles from Rheged. The grade and firmness of the field was discussed, the ratios of cavalry to infantry to archers, wind conditions, the possible presence of disguised enchanters, on down through the humidity and its probable effect on the archers’ bowstrings. Collum would stick to trying to kill the man opposite him. And facing the right way.

There was the smell of hot steel in the sun. The oxeye daisies and meadowsweet and a hundred other flowers he couldn’t name seemed touchingly unaware that they were about to be trampled by ten thousand human feet. An ancient beech tree stood alone in the middle of it all, holding itself aloof from the drama unfolding around it.

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” The man barked hoarsely over his shoulder: “Sword!” Collum flushed red, but within a minute a sword arrived, passed hand over hand from back in the ranks. He thanked the man, checked the grip, knocked it against the bottom of his foot a couple of times, edge and flat. Bit short, bit stiff, bit heavy in the hilt, but if you hit somebody with it hard enough, they would die.

He would bide his time, and in the meantime he would live as a man, just like Marina the Monk had in Lebanon. He would bind his breasts and stuff his crotch and bathe in private. He would pretend to shave his face and learn to piss standing up. He would have lovers, and a hundred brothers, and he would be happy, because at long last he’d done what he always dreamed of doing. He’d turned into what he already was.

“My friends.” A flushed King Cole the Old lifted a silver cup, not his first. “To Camelot.” Cole was an immensely distinguished royal figure who had only thrown in with King Arthur after having occupied and then lost the thrones of three different kingdoms in the Old North, where he was known as Coel Hen. Collum was glad to have an excuse to drink more.

“War’s a game of castles, boy! Battles are nothing—”

“A king has to master a country. He couldn’t even master himself. And I’ll tell you something else, it wasn’t Frankish gold in that baggage train, those coins were minted in Cameliard, which means the Eastbrooks. The queen’s family.” No one knew what to say to that. “There’s six keels of Mordred’s Saxons still running up and down the east coast,” said King Cole. He shifted in his chair, trying to ease a gouty foot. “Who’s going to pay them now?” “There’s always money in the monasteries,” Scipio said, “if you shake them hard enough.” “You would plunder the church to pay heathens?” the archbishop of Caerleon said. “Just sell some more indulgences, you old fraud! If God doesn’t like it He shouldn’t’ve left all those gold reliquaries lying around.” “Enough.” Bedivere massaged his forehead as if he had a sudden headache. He must get tired of being the grown-up in the room, Collum thought. “We won today, but the next army of any size that turns up at Camelot will take it. We must act.” “Pray,” the papal legate said. “God’s not listening,” Constantine said. “Another quest then,” the archbishop of Caerleon quavered. “You could find the Holy Lance, no one’s ever found that!” “There are no adventures left in Britain,” Bedivere said.

He’d gone past tiredness into some exalted spiritual state on the other side.

“Could I ask you,” he said, to break the silence, “what it feels like? Doing magic?” “Feels like?” She frowned. “Why?” “Because I’ve never done it.” “I don’t know, what does it feel like killing people with a sword?” Nimue’s shovel hit a rock, and she stooped to root it out. “Good at first. Fantastic actually.” Collum fiddled with the string. He couldn’t think of a good lie so he just told the truth. “I felt like a god today, like I could do anything and whatever I did was right. But now none of it seems right. People say battle is supposed to show you who you are, and I wanted it to show me. Very badly. But I know less about myself than I did this morning. Except I guess that I’m not a god.”

“God doesn’t come when you snap your fingers, He comes when you’re ready for Him.” Nimue snapped her delicate fingers, producing a strikingly loud pop in the quiet. “That’s the difference between a spell and a prayer.”

“I think you’ve been honest with me, Sir Collum, or as honest as you can be, so I should be honest too. You fought well for Camelot today but I don’t trust you. You’re keeping secrets.” At that moment all Collum wanted to do was tell her everything, good and bad, start to finish. It would almost be worth it just to have had this be a genuine conversation between two people in the middle of the night in a courtyard at Camelot. But it wasn’t quite. He wasn’t quite brave enough. “Everybody has secrets,” he said. “Of course they do. Bedivere certainly has them. And Dinadan, and Scipio—Scipio is made of secrets. But you want to be particular about which secrets you keep, right? Because they require a lot of care and feeding. In my experience it’s almost never worth it.” “Well,” he said sheepishly, “fortunately I’m not very good at keeping them.” “I suspected as much.” “I have a feeling you’re the opposite.” “It’s a mixed blessing.” Nimue smiled, and Collum almost felt like himself, whoever that was, for the first time since the battle. She took something out of her bag and tossed it to him. “Here.” It was a silver shilling. “I won it off Dinadan. I have a feeling you’re going to need it more than me.”

He wasn’t really on an adventure, it was more like he was the adventure.

How false and foolish life is, Collum thought. And how easily one life is changed for another.

Collum might have died of thirst, but that night he heard an unearthly yowling from not far away. Creeping closer he saw a black lion wrestling with an enormous banded serpent that was trying to crush it. Collum drew his sword, waded in, and slew the snake. After that the grateful lion followed him everywhere, padding along beside him like a loyal hound. For weeks Collum and the lion wandered the desert together, until a bandit chief and his company ambushed them and took Collum prisoner. He languished in a cell until a servant girl took pity on him and slipped him a magic ring that would turn him invisible. Once he’d escaped he discovered that the ring was cursed and wouldn’t come off his finger, and he spent six more months roaming the countryside invisibly, like a ghost, stealing food when he had to, searching for a sorcerer or holy man who could undo the spell. The sorcerer who finally lifted the curse charged him with rescuing his daughter, who was being held captive by a giant. This Collum did, and in the giant’s castle he met a fairy knight with whom he agreed to change places for a year. When the year was up the fairy knight revealed himself to be none other than Blue Rooster, the same knight who’d dragged Collum into the desert in the first place. That whole affair was a case of mistaken identity! Blue Rooster had confused him with another black knight who’d slain his father. In fact the two of them hit it off, and they agreed to travel together. From then on Coll...

He was back in Astolat. Turn, turn, turn. Sitting on the rim of the fountain, as if he’d been waiting there for Collum all these years, was Lord Numerius of Astolat himself, older but still hale, his cheeks still rough with blond stubble. Collum dropped to one knee. “My lord.” “Sir Collum. It’s been some time.” “It has,” Collum said. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I regret my absence.” “You swore an oath to me,” Lord Numerius said. “I can only assume that all these years you have been trying your utmost to return to your duties.” “I am sorry, my lord. I have not.” It would have been an easy lie, but somehow Collum didn’t have the stomach for it. He was worn out with running in circles, fleeing who he was. He couldn’t run any longer. “You have much to answer for, Knight of the Fountain. You broke your oath. You fled battle like a coward. You abandoned your only friend, the only creature loyal to you in this world.” On cue the black lion padded silently out of the trees. It was missing the tip of one ear, and an inch or two of tail, but it had survived. It settled on the grass like a sphinx, licking a singed paw with its pink tongue, eyeing him reproachfully. “I did. I am sorry.” He apologized to the lion. “I’m glad to see you alive, old friend.” “I took you for a knight, but you’re a liar, a thief, and a coward. A bastard and a commoner.” Everything Lord Numerius said was true. He’d thought that it would destroy him—that the shame of it would blast him to nothing—but the...

smallclothes,

From time to time they met other knights along the way and exchanged news, and generally the news was bad. They seemed to be the only ones who were making any progress toward the Grail at all. Some of the knights had given up or been sent home by scoldy angels and hermits. Others had died or gone mad, and accounts of the deaths were disturbing. Sir Brian de les Isles was discovered turned into a figure of ice, and his companions watched helplessly as he melted away to nothing. Sir Felot of Listenoise had gone down fighting something that somehow attacked him inside his armor, leaving great bulges and dents in the metal. It ate him alive. The quest for the Holy Grail, which had begun in such a spirit of adventure, with such high hopes and good fellowship, had become something very much rougher and darker. There was grumbling about it, especially among the older knights, especially since raw skill at arms didn’t seem to count as much as it used to. On the Grail Quest it was nakedly apparent that victory really did go to the pure of heart, no matter how disgraceful their swordsmanship, and whose bright idea was that? Questing’s a hunt for glory, sir! The great game! The whole enterprise stank of the seminary. This one was for the kneelers, the cross-kissers. Any knight with red blood in his veins ought to quit while he still could.

When Arthur did finally turn up he suggested they play rovers, like children did, so they wandered around the field calling out targets: a bush, a tuft of grass, a stump. Whoever got closer won that round and got to pick the next target. Once they flushed a hare and both shot at it and missed. It wouldn’t have mattered, the arrows were blunts anyway. “I’m sorry I took so long,” Arthur said, “but King Erec came to beg an audience in person. He told me the most extraordinary story, about some knights causing trouble in Destregales—it was Lavaine, Hellaine le Blank, and Bellangere le Beuse.” “What sort of trouble?” “Apparently there was an old giant named Umfrey who lived in the hills north of Carnant. He was a gentle enough soul, didn’t eat people, just took a sheep every week or two. He slept most of the time. King Erec said he slept on his belly like a little boy. Well, Sir Lavaine got it into his head that this Umfrey was a monster, an enemy of God, and therefore he was their next adventure on their glorious path to the Grail. So they searched him out and chopped him up with axes while he slept.” “Not very knightly.” “It was a damned atrocity. Umfrey woke up halfway through and broke Hellaine’s leg before he died.” “Serves him right. The fool.” Hellaine was an ignorant man who grabbed the maids’ bums. Guinevere aimed an arrow at a young oak by itself in the middle of the field, picturing Sir Hellaine. She held the bow at full draw for a count of ten, just to show she coul...

how to make a story reveal newfound insight

Power was Merlin’s real medium, even more than magic, and power, like heat, was never destroyed, only redistributed. Somebody somewhere always had it. You just had to figure out who it was and how to get close to them.

The rainbow angel was nowhere to be seen. Could angels die? Collum wasn’t afraid or awed anymore. They were fellow veterans, that was all. Fellow losers.

The dead land would not live again. Instead one man would grab a gold hat from another and put it on his head, that was all. The old dream was gone, and the paths forward were winding and indistinct, lost in thickets of darkness and confusion. Empty time, like the angel said. There would be no new age, not now or ever. The sun had moved, the shadows had shifted, and they would not move back.

Shitting Jesus, what the hell was he going to do now? His mind, seeing its chance, wisely fled from his body for a moment, leaving him standing there numb and confused.