Spear

by Nicola Griffith

The sword both drew her and repelled her. It was not for her, she knew this though she did not know how she knew it.

Even Artos, who has no magic to be corrupted, will pay for it—he does already; the sword eats at his mind.

😐 So we have the sword in the stone The bowl And Lugh’s spear

“The Tuath can speak to the things of power, and the power can speak in them. They are not gods, but neither are they mortal. The sword speaks to you, and speaks of you, as it never could to Myrddyn, or me, or Artos. The sword was not made by mortals for mortals. And it speaks to you. And you smell of its makers. So the question now, Peretur, is: Are you wholly mortal?”

No, she’s the daughter of Mananan Mac Lir

Peretur wanted to trust this woman, trust her own judgement, but twice before she had trusted that she had won herself a place, and twice misjudged. Unclean … She felt herself tearing slowly down the middle.

Peretur 🥺

She looked at him, standing with his muscled legs wide, fair hair stuck to his head, in his tawdry green-and-yellow leathers and suddenly, very much, wanted to hit something. Cei would do.

Djdjsjsjsjs

Was this what Nimuë was afraid of? Was it her true nature to take from others for her own power?

“You have talked to people about me? To Bedwyr?” “Say rather that he has talked to me. As has Andros. And Beli. And Geraint. And Cei. All of them. Even before today. They saw you fight Cei. If they did not understand Artos’s refusal then, it will be worse now.

Aww, all the companions are like “we like this guy, we want him on our team.”

Manandán used Elen as he wanted, and she was helpless to give him back anything but devotion, even as he rived her mind and spirit, and tormented her by showing her the wicked heart of her brother—who did not love her but planned to steal the cup for himself and become as a god. And Elen, whose mind was now unmoored and swollen with repeated use, smiled and smiled—while deep, deep in the tiny corner she had held safe for herself, her rage grew.

When Peretur was seven—though he did not know Peretur existed, just as Manandán did not know—when she was eating and drinking daily from the great cup of the Tuath Dé and tracing its figures with her fingers, Myrddyn found Nimuë, and set about bending her into his tool without breaking her, for although the greatest treasure, the cup, was lost to him, somehow hidden, there were others—the two he knew of whose keepers and thieves had each killed the other, taking with them their hiding place. He was not strong enough to find them on his own.

No mortal should taste the treasures of the Tuath, for that power would drive them to corruption and madness even as it set them as rulers over all the world.

But to her mother she was not a person in her own right, not Peretur Paladr Hir; she was Tâl, the payment her mother felt owed; she was Dawnged, her treasure and gift, stolen from Manandán without his knowledge. Always something owed and owned rather than loved.

“I have two beds.” “Two?” “From time to time I invite visitors. Lance comes. Most often with Gwenhwyfar.” Most often? “Once with Artos. Though those two usually go hunting together for a few days.” “Ah.”

SIP

Peretur was no longer listening.

“That knowledge would cost you your life if you revealed it.” Peretur: *no longer thinking about the king and queen both being railed by Lancelot* Nimue is pretty

Two, not three. The sword, the stone, the cup, and the spear. “Tell me of your spear.”

“The great spear of Lugh. The spear of light that flies true to its target.”

“The spear is not what it once was. It is … lessened. I was betrayed once, a long time ago, one treasure stolen from me, and much of the power of this one. But I will have it back.”

She is the power of the spear, I get it now

“You’ve been here two days.”

🙈

Half the fort has dreamt of the Grail—

The holy grail and the cup of the Tuatha de Dannan, nice, nice, nice way to tie them together

Perhaps Peretur should learn the smoothing trick, because Bedwyr saw something in her face and tck-tcked in irritation. “Another lass already? Who is it this time?” Peretur’s cheeks warmed. “Well, whoever she is should not expect you back soon. It’s bad enough that Nimuë’s been gone for—” Peretur’s cheeks flamed. Bedwyr stared. “The king’s sorcerer? Saint Cadog save us! Are you quite mad?

Don’t judge her, Bedevere. 🙈🙈🙈🙈

“Myrddyn first told the story: a great gold cup, the Holy Grail. The cup the Christ drank from at the Last Supper before he died.” “And Myrddyn wanted this cup?” “He did.

>.> <.<

Then he reassessed how she and Nimuë sat with each other.

Lance realizes he is in the presence of lesbians

Artos believed he had no children by other women.

>.> …….Mordred, does he suspect???

But I had a son not long after I left Astur and came over the sea. He is hale and being raised by the brothers at Caergybi.”

Galahad has not yet entered the chat

“And brothers share. And so.” “And so,” Nimuë agreed. He seemed relieved he would not have to spell it out.

So they’re all in a consensual threeway relationship, interesting

“And then we found that Artos did, indeed, have a living son. Though not one suitable for an heir.

Oh! So they do know about Mordred! Hoo boy

Elen’s daughter—Bêr-hyddur, spear enduring—

👀👀👀 I thought that was what she was calling Manannan, but is that Peretur’s name? (Yes, she calls Peretur that when Peretur asks for her real name before she leaves)

But now she knew, too, what she had not known before, and she stepped to one side and called to the spear, called it to its own power: to her, where the power lived, power stolen from the spear by her mother and woven into her blood and bone. Bêr-hyddur, spear enduring.

The spear took Nimuë in the belly, and she folded down with a sigh.

Oh shit!!!

“You grew up here,” Lance said. “You and your mother.” “It’s all I ever knew until I left for Caer Leon. She was all I knew.” “Tell me of her.”

Aww, Lance is alright

His name is Galath, and he takes after his mother: soft skin, lighter than mine, light as toasted acorn flour, hair the colour of pine resin darkening in the sun, and eyes the red-brown of the sweet chestnuts that grow in the foothills of the mountains.”

fabada—

Okay, so that’s why they call him Llanza. It’s Spanish, not Welsh

His own son would despise him for his imperfections.

Oh buddy. I don’t think the other companions know about the threeway relationship, but if this goes south, which it probably will, Galath would denounce him for sleeping with Gwen