Free End of the Century by Chris Roberson

than the outdoors, and for that Galaad was thankful.
    When it came time for the evening meal, Galaad was made welcome in the kitchen while the High King and his captains dined in the audience hall. The meal was meaner than he might have expected in the home of the Count of Britannia, the stew more like a watery broth, but there was hard-crusted bread and watered-down wine, and the cook, maid, and scullions were pleasant company. One of the servants had skin the color of honey and a kink in her hair, suggesting something of Africa in her ancestry, and another had the olive complexion of a Scythian. Galaad was surprised to find that another had the coloration and accent of a Sais, though she insisted that she was not one of the Saeson but was from a place she called Geatland. Galaad was soothed by this, until the cook pointed out with a wry smile that the Saeson leader Bödvar Bee Hunter had himself been a Geat. After that, Galaad ate a bit more warily, keeping watch on his tablemates.
    After dining, Galaad repaired to his chamber and prepared himself to sleep. By the light of an oil lamp he unpacked his bundle and arranged his effects on the mantel. He laid his leaf-bladed sword next to the simple tin cross that had once belonged to his father, and to his father's father before him. As a Pelagian, the tiny cross was merely symbolic, only a moral example instead of the atonement it represented for the followers of Augustine, but it comforted Galaad all the same.
    Galaad sat down on the hard wooden sleeping pallet, his only bedding a thin woolen blanket, worked his way out of his tunic, and pulled off his boots. Then, just as he was about to douse the light and turn in, he heard footsteps on the far side of the door and the sound of someone knocking.
    â€œCome in?” Galaad stood, the floor tiles cold beneath his bare feet. He thought perhaps one of the household servants had come on some errand. He even entertained the brief fantasy that one of the women had found him attractive enough to seek out the company of his bed. Then it occurred to him that the Geatish woman might be a hidden assassin after all, though even with his thoughts addled by lack of sleep he realized that he could hardly present much of a target for villainy.
    When the High King himself stepped into the room, his purple-red cloak wrapped around him against the night's cold, Galaad wasn't sure whether to be relieved or even more worried.
    â€œDo I disturb your slumbers?” the Count of Britannia asked, glancing around the small room.
    â€œNo, sir,” Galaad said feebly, conscious of the fact that he stood dressed only in breeches and undergarments. “That is, I was about to sleep, but…” Galaad gestured to the still-lit lamp, his voice trailing off.
    â€œGood.” Artor nodded, satisfied. “I know the hour is late and that you have traveled far, but I would hear more about these visions of yours, if you will allow it.”
    â€œOf…of course!” Galaad stammered. Self-consciously he picked his tunic up off the pallet and pulled it on over his head. “What is it you wish to know?” he said, his voice muffled by the fabric as he struggled to work his head through the neck.
    Artor crossed the room and sat on a stool set along the far wall. He was stilldressed as he'd been earlier in the day, though had disposed of his sheathed spatha somewhere along the way. It seemed as though Artor's hands hungered for the sword, though, and they gripped his knees through the fabric of his cloak, unable to lie still at his sides. Galaad realized with a start that the High King seemed agitated in some way. Not nervous, precisely, but anxious like someone eager to begin a journey and forced to endure long delays.
    â€œThis woman you speak of?”
    â€œThe White Lady?” Galaad answered.
    â€œYes, the White Lady. Tell me about her. What does she say to you?”
    Galaad blinked slowly, and when his eyes were closed