End of the Century Read Online Free PDF Page B

envoy from a Gaulish king protested that Artor had not supplied the copper and grain which the treaty between their two nations demanded. And a Britannic missionary who worked to convert the subjects of the High King of Hibernia to the Roman religion carried word that the landholder of Alt Cult's soldiers once more raided the island and had again begun to take Christian converts as slaves, as they had in the days of the late Patricius.
    One of the captains seated at the marble circle snored gently, head lolling, and Galaad began to suspect that for men who had been bound together on the field of battle, there were far more engaging pursuits than the dreary business of statecraft. Even Artor, who seemed better at hiding his thoughts than many of the others in the room, seemed far less than enthused.
    Galaad busied himself identifying those he could from the stories he had heard. Artor was easiest, of course, but only slightly less easy to name was Artor's counselor, the man who called out the supplicants to address the High King and who silenced them when he felt they had spoken long enough.Caradog, so the stories went, had once translated the Sais tongue to Britannic for the High King Vitalinus, long before Galaad was born. Later, he had fought against the Saeson at the side of Artor's father, Utor. It was said that Caradog had gained his strangely bent arm in battle, but that for all of its withered appearance it was stronger than the limbs of any other three men combined.
    The afternoon wore on, and the hall gradually emptied, as supplicants stated their case before the High King, heard his judgement, and departed. Soon, the only ones in the room were Artor and his twelve captains seated about the marble circle, and Galaad sitting on the stone bench at the back of the hall.
    â€œIs there any more business?” Artor asked, stifling a yawn.
    â€œNone that I know, majesty,” Caradog answered, consulting the tablet laid on the table before him.
    â€œIn that case…”
    Galaad began to panic. He felt sure he'd been forgotten, or else overlooked, and that his long journey to Caer Llundain would have been for nothing. With all the courage he could muster, he half rose from the bench into a standing position. He opened his mouth, intending to speak, but succeeded only in emitting a faint squeaking sound. He intended to try again, but never knew if his attempt would have succeeded, as in rising he jostled the bundled slung over his shoulder, causing it to slip far enough to one side that his grandfather's grandfather's sword slid loose from the bindings.
    As the sword tumbled to the floor, Galaad grabbed for it, desperately, but even as he watched every inch of the fall, he felt as though he were moving through frigid water, so slowly did his limbs seem to move. So it was that he seemed to have moved but fractionally by the time the sword clattered to the mosaic floor. The deafening sound of metal on stone resounded on the hollow floor, coming back even louder.
    Galaad looked up, horrified, and found that all thirteen pairs of eyes in the hall were directed at him.
    â€œAch, I forgot!” Lugh said, snapping his fingers. “This little tadpole has a story for you, Artor.”
    The High King glanced from the Gael captain to Galaad and raised an eyebrow. “Do you, now?”
    Galaad opened his mouth once more, and discovered he'd forgotten entirely how to speak.

    â€œMy name is Galaad, and I come from Glevum, in Powys, in the west.”
    Galaad stood facing the gilt chair of the High King, his hands twisted into white-knuckled fists at his sides, trembling with nervous anxiety.
    â€œI know where Glevum is,” Artor said, his tone surprisingly gentle.
    â€œOh.” Galaad blinked, and swallowed hard. “Of course. Well, as I say, my name is Glevum…”
    â€œI thought your name was Galaad,” Caradog said, glancing up from his tablet.
    â€œUm, right, of course, my name is