The Thief of Stones

= THE THIEF OF STONES =
=== By Sarah Zettel ===
Originally published in Jim Baen’s Universe Magazine in 2006
As I have been bidden, I
will tell of how the sorcerer Merlin Ambrosius came to the shores of , and
what he did there. Ambrosius was sometimes called No Man's Son, but because of
these deeds I am to tell you now, he also had a third name, and that was the
Thief of Stones.
He came alone to the
shores of the blessed isle. Some say he flew there, having power over the wind
as he had over the earth, but this is not so. Merlin Ambrosius was child of the
west lands and its ragged coasts. He traveled in a boat of reeds and skins,
with a brown sail to catch the winds and a stout oar to steer him through the
rough grey waves of that sea. Autumn spread rust and gold over Briton's lands
when he left there, and he came to the green shores on a day of chill rain and
mist. It is often so in ,
and that is why her waters are deep and her fields more green than any others
on the earth.
He drew his boat up on
the sands and as he did, down from the hills there came two warlike men in the
striped cloaks and tightly tied trousers favored on those shores. They marked
well the short sword on Merlin's hip, as well as the white staff in his hands.
This was in his younger days, before Merlin became the ancient sage of Arthur's
court. He was tall, then, and broad in frame. His clothing was well made, but
simple, being a blue tunic belted in bronze, green trousers, and a stout cloak
of brown wool. His beard was short, and more brown than grey. His hair flowed
in curling locks across his broad shoulders held back in a band of bronze
chased with the images of falcons. His eyes were clear and blue, and all about
his person spoke of one who is strong and bold.
Because of all this, the
soldiers addressed him most courteously, inquiring whether he was the one they
were sent to meet by their king, who was Berach Ui Neill.
"I am the one,"
Merlin answered them. "And I am ready to go with you at once to meet your
king."
They were surprised at
this, as it was a hard journey from the land of the Britons. They expected to
linger on the coast for a time allowing him to rest. But they did not doubt his
word, and led him straightaway up into the deep green hills that ring that
land's coasts, now dark and tinged with brown as autumn settled in. It was a
steep way. Rising mist sometimes hid the narrow tracks. But Merlin easily kept
the pace the two soldiers set, and they were much impressed.
Merlin himself had good
reason for his haste. He left behind him his king, new to his power, and that
king had given him great charge. "It is only you, Merlin, who can save me
from my brother's fate," he had whispered in the deepest darkness when
there was no other awake to listen to the fears of the new king. "Go where
you will and do what you must. Do not leave me to die as he did."
Merlin had knelt before
Uther Pendragon and sworn it would be done. He'd left him with his heart
singing in its fullness. He had already seen the greatness of his king, seen it
in Uther's eyes and his deeds, and seen it in the stars overheard. He, Merlin,
No Man's Son would have his last vengeance. He would raise up this man and the
age to follow over those who had once sought to take his life.
Burning with this
ambition, Merlin walked lightly over the chill, green hills of the blessed
isle.
It was near half the day
before they came to the lands and houses held by Berach Ui Neill.
In those days, the men of
 built their houses of round frames with
thatch roofs of a conical shape. Simple pens held the cattle and other animals.
That these were a prosperous people was evident, for the least among them wore
bright gold. Even the blind man squatting by the darkened door of the smallest
house had a golden ring on his thumb. As Merlin passed among the houses, all
the many sounds of life and work stopped as all turned to wonder at this
stranger.
The king's high house
differed little from the other dwellings that clustered around it, save that it
was larger in its compass, and foundations of stone bolstered its mud, lime and
withy walls. But Merlin knew well it was the house of a king, and he entered it
humbly and with courtesy.
A messenger had gone
ahead of Merlin and his escorts. Thus warned of his coming, King Berach Ui
Neill sat on his great wooden chair illuminated by a fire in the round stone
hearth at center of the room, as well as the golden light of no less than ten
torches set in sconces on the walls. His hair and long mustaches were the color
of red gold, and his saffron tunic was banded with scarlet. A golden torque
adorned his throat and a broad golden belt encircled his waist. Four great
black hounds collared with gold lay at his feet. His three sons stood before
him, all clad in yellow tunics and cloaked in red and blue, with gold rings on
their arms and gold-hilted swords hanging from belts that were studded with
jewels. Behind the king stood his wife and four daughters, all dressed in
softest wool striped in every color of the rainbow. So much gold flashed on
their hands, about their throats and on their brows it was as if the whole
wealth of the island had been brought there to bedeck their beauty. Many of the
ornaments were etched or embossed with the sign of the cross amid the workings
of knots and ribbons for which that country was famous, saying that this was a
people that had converted to the ways of God and Christ.
Nor was this all, for at
the king's right hand waited a bard all clad in green with golden cuffs on his
wrists and a white-framed harp in his hands. No less than twelve warlike men
ranged the hall with their sharp spears and gilded helms on their heads. All
watched the approach of Merlin Ambrosius.
Before this wealth and
noble display, Merlin knelt. The soldiers who had brought him this far made
their bows and retired, leaving the sorcerer alone before Berach Ui Neill.
"Be welcome to this
place, Merlin Ambrosius," said the king. His voice boomed out to fill his
house. Firelight set his gold ornaments and red-gold hair to shine and glitter,
but shadows hid his eyes. "We are glad to receive the ambassador of Uther
of the ."
The king gestured for him
to rise. King Berach's wife came forward with a cup of gold studded with blue
gems filled with the mead of that place. Merlin accepted it and drank the whole
of it down in a single draught.
"I thank you for
your great courtesy, king of the Ui Neill," he said as he returned the cup
to the queen with a bow. "I bring to you the greetings and love of Uther
who is named the father of dragons, and as a token thereof, my king commands I
present to you this stone." From the purse on his belt, Merlin brought
forth an emerald the size of a pigeon's egg colored the deep blue green of the
seas beneath the sun. The king received this stone with great pleasure and
pride. His chest swelled and his face shone to behold the jewel. Merlin's keen
eye noted this and in his silence he was deeply pleased to behold, it, for it
told him what manner of man was before him.
The king handed the stone
to his wife, who looked shrewdly at the sorcerer. She held her peace, however,
and let her husband speak. "That is a strange sword you wear, Merlin
Ambrosius," he went on, displaying to all his keen and discerning eye.
Merlin smiled and drew it
slowly, laying the blade out flat against his palm. "A poor thing,"
he said. "Once the tool of the Romans who ruled our land while the men of lived freely. Bronze only, but it suits me." He
held it out. "It is yours, Majesty, if it pleases you."
This puffed out King
Berach's chest even further. He waved the offering away regally and then
commanded that Merlin be given a bed and all he wanted for his refreshment
until the feast for his welcome could be set before them. Pleased with all he
had seen, Merlin permitted the king's daughters to lead him away.
The feast was conducted
with all the splendor that place had to offer. Merlin sat at the king's right
hand behind a board laid with cloths of delicate and brightly embroidered
linen. Whole swans were brought on silver dishes, with oaten breads, as well as
suckling pigs cooked in apples and sprinkled over with salt and the peppers of . To
drink, they had the wine of the Medeterrine and the fiery liquor the men of
that isle call the water of life. There was a gracious plenty for all the
company, for King Berach meant to display his wealth in his generosity. All the
while the feast went on, the bard, whose name was Ailfrid mac Rian, sat beside
the fire and played on his harp. He sang the great history of the Ui Neill,
dwelling with the most love on the legends of Fionn mac Cumhail, the giant and
king, and whom he said was greatest ancestor of the Ui Neill. If Merlin knew it
to be otherwise, he prudently kept silent. Secretly, though, he watched the
bard as closely as he watched the king. For Merlin knew the wisdom and secrets
of the true bards, and wanted to take the measure of this one before him.
When the feasting was
over, and the bard fell silent to receive the applause and praise of all the
house, Merlin rose to his feet and bowed before the king.
"Majesty, I have
been feasted here in a manner most worthy of the great and generous reputation
that is the name of the Ui Neill. If it is your desire, I shall exercise my own
humble skills for the amusement of this house, and to in some small measure
show my gratitude for the rich welcome I have here received."
King Berach inclined his
head magnanimously and Merlin bowed once more, very low. He stepped out into
the center of the house beside the fire. Bard Ailfrid took his harp and moved
aside, but their eyes met in that small moment, the bard's the pale blue of the
winter sky and Merlin's the bright blue of the summer morn. Each saw secrets,
and the knowledge of secrets, and each smiled a small smile at the other,
knowing there would be much speech between them later.
But for now, Merlin only
raised his white staff. "See then Berach Ui Neill! See then all the souls
of this land! See you the workings of Merlin Ambrosius!"
He swept the staff over
the bright red fire. A great wind blew cold through the house and in an instant,
the flames were quenched leaving not even the scent of the smoke. All gasped in
the sudden gloom. Merlin smote the earthen floor with the butt of his staff,
and from the circle of ash sprang up an apple tree covered in white blossoms.
Their perfume filled the house, and was so sweet that all breathed deep and
sighed with the wonder of it. Merlin then raised his right hand. The tree's
blossoms closed and shrank to become green fruit. He raised his left hand, and
the fruits swelled, ripened and turned red. He called out a single word, and
every red fruit became a red bird that took wing. All the assembly shouted for
wonder. The scarlet flock flew about the house, singing songs as sweet of the
scent of blossoms had been and setting all the hounds to barking. Once more,
Merlin smote the earth with his staff. Birds and tree all vanished, and where
they had been there burned the homely fire of the hearth.
Astonishment tied the
tongues and hands of all who witnessed this miracle until the king let out a
loud laugh and beat his great hands upon the table, roaring his approval. His
people joined him with applause and laughter and many exclamations. Merlin
bowed humbly.
King Berach rose to his
feet, holding out his cup to drink to the sorcerer. "Such a marvel I have
never seen!" he cried out. "What reward can I give you for such a
feat?"
Merlin's eyes looked this
way and that, taking in the wealth of all the hall, but more than that.
"Will you give me
the hound that sleeps at Your Majesty's feet?" he asked, pointing to one
of the four dogs that waited so patiently beneath the table at Berach's feet.
"And gladly,"
laughed the king. The hound Merlin chose was one of the great canines they
breed on that isle that are prized even by the Roman lords. It was huge and
shaggy, heavy jawed and black, such as might take down elk or boar. Its golden
collar might make the fortune of a freeman. The king snapped his fingers and
pointed. Obedient to his master, the hound loped to Merlin's side and lapped at
his hand in simple loyalty.
"His name is Ciar.
But surely there is more you desire?" said the king, awash in wonder and
the need to show himself great in his generosity.
Merlin let himself appear
to consider this as he rested one hand on the back of his new hound, Ciar.
"It is not gold I seek, great King," he said slowly, as if making
this admission reluctantly. "But if you would give me what I desire, you
will give me an answer."
Berach spread his hands.
"What answer would that be?"
"I have heard that
in this land there is one of the last of the old priests, one who worked of the
groves and prophecies such as used to be so common in this land. I would speak
with that person."
Berach's face fell slowly
into harsh lines, and the men of the house began to mutter among themselves.
"We are all Christians here," said the king, but now his voice was
cold. "None of this clan know anything of such a pagan witch."
Merlin cast a glance then
at Berach's wife and saw how her eyes shifted away from his. He looked at Bard
Ailfrid, and saw how his face remained bland and without expression. "Of
course," said Merlin, inclining his head in all humility. "But this
witch had a dwelling in former times, or a grove where she practiced her pagan
rites. It may be that some ancient among your people might remember where that
was."
"None here would
have knowledge of such a thing." The king's fists hardened as he said it,
and he looked about at all his company, male and female, his wife and daughters
most of all. All bowed their heads and Merlin understood, He too bowed once
more.
"It is surely as
Your Majesty says. I ask your pardon."
This soothed Berach and
restored his good spirits. He invited Merlin to sit and drink with him once
more, and called upon the bard for a new song.
So passed the night until
all the house was exhausted from drink and revelry. Merlin was conducted to the
place set aside for him, but he did not lie down on the soft bed. Instead, he
waited in the darkness, scratching the head and ears of his black hound, until
all the noises of the house fell away. Then, with Ciar trotting obediently at
his heels, he stepped out of the king's house, waving to the men on watch who
nodded over their spears. Outside beneath the stars, he found Bard Ailfrid.
Ailfrid sat with his harp, and a plate of food and a mug of drink. He played
softly upon the strings, a tune Merlin had never before heard. He paused, took
a bite of meat and a swig from his mug, lost in thought, then touched his
fingers to the strings once more. Merlin moved aside, thinking to wait until
this moment of creation was finished, but the bard turned, unsurprised to see
the sorcerer come out into the chill night. The bard raised his mug and
beckoned to Merlin to come closer.
Merlin sat down beside
him. "A cold night."
"Ah, well."
Ailfrid drank his mead and ate a piece of oaten bread.
"You could have
feasted better inside." The sorcerer waved a hand at the plate and its
meager offerings.
"Well enough,"
Ailfrid acknowledged with a shrug. "But there are nights I prefer my
thoughts as company for a smaller feast." He folded his arms over the top
of his harp and gazed for a moment at the autumn stars shining so brightly
down.
"And may I ask, Bard
Ailfrid, what are your thoughts?"
The corner of the bard's
mouth twitched. "They are of you, Merlin Ambrosius, and of your
errand." He traced the diamond paths of the stars with his gaze for a
moment longer, before he looked to Merlin once more. "You are right in
what you heard. There is such a one in these lands. She is old now, and much
diminished from what she was, as are all who once spoke to the oak and the
mistletoe."
"You do not fear to
tell me this?" Ailfrid shook his head. "Are you not a
Christian?"
Ailfrid shrugged again.
"I am a bard on the edge of winter." He gazed at the darkening trees.
Some had already begun to lose their cloaks of leaves and the wind rattled
their bare twigs, bringing the scent of ice as well as the scent of warm smoke
from the houses below. "I am what my king would have me be."
"Yours are said to
be greater than kings."
Ailfrid laughed a little
at this, running his fingers gently over the frame of his harp, almost as one
would touch the face of a beloved child. "The greatest of us are. I am not
as great as all that, and prefer a fire to the winter pride of my calling."
This answer satisfied the
sorcerer, and he turned quickly to his own business, lest the bard think the
better of it, or, more importantly, one of the king's men should come to
overhear them. "Do you know of this priestess?"
The bard's eyes clouded
over as he searched within himself. "As I crossed the borders into the
land of the Fian, it grew late and I sought shelter with a shepherd family.
Glad I was to have it, as the rains came down fiercely when night fell. With
them was an old woman who asked for the most ancient stories, of the kings and
queens of the elder days. She shook her head and sighed heavily at all I
recited. When it grew late, and she and I were the only ones left waking, I
asked what made her sigh so. This she said to me; 'It is all fading. The greatness
of the world. Patrick and his followers have taken it all away.' I tried to
comfort her, to say that the seasons would turn, and the great would rise
again, but she would not hear me.
"'All gone,' she
said again. 'The secrets of the earth and the future, all gone. Fionn mac
Cumhail sleeps and will not wake for there is no deed great enough for him to
do. The prophets have all lost their sight. None honor the priest and
priestess. My own sister was called away to the druid's grove, and for years
she did what was needful that we might prosper and be safe. What is she now? A
wizened thing in her hut where the river Balidoire meets the bog, and none will
bring her from that lonely spot for the comfort of her age.' I asked the name
of this sister, so I would know her if ever I met her, and was told her name
was Lasair Ui Fian."
Merlin was silent for a
long time after that. He gazed at the stars, gold, blue, red and blinding
white, their graceful, curving trail and mighty patterns all froze above him.
"Thank you," he said at last, to the bard and the stars. Bard Ailfrid
looked steadily at him, waiting. "What might I give you in return for such
a good answer?"
The bard smiled and he
drank his mead and ate of his meat. "Answer for answer, Merlin," he
said. He folded his arms and rested them on his knees. "Her words have
weighed on me since that day. You have eyes that see. Is it true what she said,
that all the greatness is gone from the world?"
Merlin did not even need
to look to the heavens for his answer. "It is not true. Great kings are
yet to come, and long are the tales that are to be told in the world. It is
written that my king, Uther Pendragon, will bring forth the greatest age of
heroes the Britons shall ever know. Not one year shall go by from now until the
end of days that its tales are not told."
"Well." The
bard drained his mug and then stretched his long legs. "I am glad to hear
it. I had thought my days short." He spoke lightly, but Merlin heard more
beneath the bard's words. It was not tales he was concerned of, it was the
hearts and heights of men, for such are the charges of even the least of the
bards. But Ailfrid smiled, setting that away for simple pride of his people.
"And if such an age comes to pass for the Britons, then how much greater
will the men of Eire be? We may even wake Fionn mac Cumhail with the thunder of
our striding across the world!"
Both laughed at this,
making the hound raise his head and prick up his ears. Merlin touched the bard
on the shoulder. "Walk your ways, Bard Ailfrid. Hear the stories and speak
them with a full heart. And if ever you feel cramped on this green isle, come
find me across the waters. I will show you the greatness I have seen there with
the father of dragons."
Ailfrid looked at him for
a thoughtful moment and for that moment, Merlin could not read what was in the
other man's heart. "Perhaps I will," said the bard. "If only to
return home and sing of these great heroics your King Uther is to bring
forth." Ailfrid stood, taking his harp tenderly into his arms. "I
wish you well in your errand, Merlin Ambrosius, but perhaps you'll accept one
word from me."
Merlin spread his hands.
"And what word is that?"
"My kind must go
about on foot, and here is a thing we all learn; be sure you've looked long and
hard at the path where you step before you declare you know your way along
it."
With these words, the
bard took his harp back into the king's house. Merlin sat awhile beneath the
stars, pondering the lights and the words, and the errand which brought him
there.
* * *
Merlin Ambrosius stayed
seven days with Berach Ui Neill. To stay less would be to insult the
hospitality of a king. They talked of many things, but mostly of those men of
Eire who settled in the north of the Briton's land, and how peace might be got
between them and the more southerly lords. When Merlin spoke again with the
bard, it was only of small matters, and small stories.
At the end of his stay,
the king bid Merlin a courteous farewell and gifted him with a gold-hilted
dagger to hang beside his sword. The sorcerer was given a good escort of six
men to walk him to the borders of the Ui Neill lands. There, the men turned
back to their homes, and Merlin Ambrosius and the great hound Ciar walked on,
Merlin wrapping his cloak tight about himself, for even in the brightness of
the day, the winds were grew cold.
The blessed isle may be
likened to a great bowl floating on the ocean. All its steep hills and
mountains ring its coasts. Once beyond their heights, the land rolls and slopes
pleasantly downward and one may walk beside pure streams of running water
through forests of mighty oak and ash, bountiful hazel and apple. But when one
reaches the center, one finds all the waters have mixed and mingled and settled
together to create black fens, dark as night and more foul than any midden.
Their miasma hangs heavy over them, breeding disease and disaster. The secret
lights inside lure travelers from the narrow paths and bridges so that they
disappear forever. Only the poorest people cling to their edges. Those without
king or clan or any other protection eke out sad lives beneath the towering
trees that are fed by the black waters.
As he began the downward
slope, Merlin came to a place where three streams crossed each other, mingling
into one. He took Ciar's golden collar and tossed it into the river. Then, he
dipped his staff into the waters and he said. "In the name of the mother
of all the waters, are you the river men call Balidoire?"
And from the river came
the answer. "I am that water and I will take you where you need to
go."
So, Merlin walked on.
Merlin followed the path
of the river and the fall of the land down through the great forests and
meadows of deep green. When men stopped him and asked his business, he was
always careful to give courteous answer, and to have a token gift of silver
ready for whoever they named as their king. Whether these gifts found their way
to these kings, Merlin neither knew or cared. He cared only that he was allowed
to go his way unmolested.
At last, the land's slope
gentled and the rolling hills spread out and smoothed. The air over the land
took on the tinge of sulphur and death, growing warm and close despite the
deepening of the autumn. So it was that Merlin knew the darkness before him was
the great fen. The Balidoire, his good guide, spread out as well, growing flat,
slow and murky where before it had been sprightly and silver. The trees huddled
closer together, dipping their branches down to catch at his hair and clothes.
Even his stout hound grew uneasy, alternately growling at the strange noises
and pressing close to Merlin's side. Merlin patted the hound and urged him
along, but he also kept tight grip on his white staff.
At last, through a grove
of willows, mangy with autumn, he saw a thin stream of smoke rising in the fetid
air. Beneath it hunched a small hovel. The house was so low and covered so much
in turf that it might have grown there rather than been raised by the hand of
man. Even Merlin's eyes would have missed it were it not for the smoke.
Merlin stopped some small
distance away, and commanded Ciar to sit peaceably beside him. "I salute
the house!" he called. "I seek Lasair Ui Fian, and would speak with
her if she is here!"
He waited patiently. The
birds and the frogs made their calls to one another. The waters muttered at his
feet, and the trees whispered overhead in the cold, foul wind. Then, slowly, he
heard a different rustling and saw movement within the darkness of the house.
The blanket hanging over the low doorway moved aside and out crawled an old woman.
She was filthy beyond
description, more a creature of mud and earth than of flesh. Her clotted hair
was white beneath the grime and stuck out wildly in every direction. It was
impossible to say what color her ungirded garment had once been, but now it was
streaked green and black. So thin was she that Merlin could see all the bones
beneath her skin, and her fingers were delicate twigs. Her eyes were still
clear and green, but as he saw the pain in them, Merlin's heart was moved to
great pity.
She smiled, a horrible
gaping grin that showed her shriveled gums and single tooth. "And what is
it you seek here, a fine man such as yourself?" Her voice cracked and
wheezed as she spread her bony hands and tottered toward him. Her legs were
bare, her feet black with muck. and her odor that of the fen itself. "Is
it a love charm, perhaps?" She leered. "Some pretty young thing not
sure that a man of silver as well as gold is up to keeping her fat and
full?"
Despite his pity and his
horror, Merlin kept his countenance and bowed low. "I would not presume to
bring such a matter before you, reverend one, mother of the oak and the
mistletoe."
Lasair Ui Neill stopped
where she was. The leer drained from her lean face and her arms fell to her
sides. "That is not myself," she said, wagging her head. "That
was long ago."
"Not so long ago. A
moment. A fold of years."
"Stop!" she
cried, her voice suddenly so strong and clear, that Merlin raised his brows.
"That is gone, I say." She jabbed one long finger at him. "Gone,
and better so."
Merlin looked about at
the yellowing willows and the waiting fen. He looked at the low house and
breathed in the stench of the air. "How better, reverend one?" he
asked quietly.
She closed her mouth, and
he saw again that for all her face was ravaged by time and hardship her eyes
were as clear as the streams flowing down the slopes. "Better hidden than
destroyed," she said softly. "Better sleeping than dead." Her
jaw hardened and her shoulders straightened. It was as if twenty years slipped
from her, and he saw how well she had perfected her disguise. "You are one
who sees, fine man." She spoke judiciously now, looking him up and down.
"I can still tell that much. You know the time loops around itself, and
all things come again to their beginnings. The age of miracles will come again,
and the voice will be needed to speak once more."
Merlin let out a long,
slow breath. "That voice does still exist then."
Slowly, she nodded, all
guile, all terrible humor gone from her. "For those who can find it and
hear, yes it does."
"The way to hear
that voice must be greatly secret."
At his words, her leering
smile returned all in a moment. "And you'd know that secret would you,
with your hawk's eyes and your heart greedy for knowledge?" She tapped his
breast with one twig-finger, and when Merlin looked disconcerted, she laughed.
Merlin hung his head, as
if bested. At his feet, Ciar whined to see him distressed. "I will not
lie," said Merlin. "Yes, I would know it. I have walked and sought
long to find it."
"Ha!" Lasair Ui
Fian stepped back, and squatted down in front of her door, settling the mask of
the hag once more over the priestess. "You'll not have it here. It is all
that I have left." She looked past him, up the slope of the woods, toward
the places where men lived in their snug houses. "Even that fool girl who
swore she wanted to study with me left when Patrick and his band came tramping
through singing of their White Christ. My last acolyte, she ran away with
them." Bitterness soaked her words and Merlin saw the hard glitter of
tears in her eyes. "And it was all gone, all of it, save the voice that
sleeps and waits."
Merlin moved forward.
Laying down his staff, he knelt before her. "If you would have a acolyte,
I would learn from you."
She gazed at him, and
hope shone behind the glittering tears, but only for a moment. She dropped her
gaze, and picked at the browning grass between her feet with her twig-like
fingers. "No, you wouldn't," she muttered harshly. "You don't
want to learn. You want to know."
On his knees, Merlin
leaned forward. He pitched his voice soft and low, a lover's voice, a
seducer's. "And were you the one to bring me that knowledge, your name
would be made great," he said softly. "You would come to a land of
honor and plenty and be given rings by the greatest of rulers."
Her restless hands
stopped their meaningless scrabbling and she lifted her gaze. "Look at me,
man."
Merlin laid one hand
softly on his staff. "Look all you want," he told her. "See
whatever you wish."
Her eyes were green as
the heath in the sunlight, and both older and younger than herself. Merlin felt
the power of her gaze reaching deep, running along the well-worn grooves of
truth and possibility that lay within her heart, and his. "You stand
beside kings," she spoke dreamily, in the way of the oracle. "They
are brothers these kings. Mighty men, both. They are not to be defeated by
honorable means. One is gone now, taken by stealth and by poison. The other, he
is greater than brother or father ever were, but fears the poison. He shakes in
the night with fear of it and he knows that fear cripples him. You cannot bear
to see this fear for you know the greatness of the man. He is brother in your
heart, but he is your vengeance too. Oh, yes, your vengeance and your triumph
is this father of dragons. He sent you here. You told him the means to guard
against fear and future could be found in these hills. You come to walk the
ancient ways. You have heard the old names and the old wisdom. You would drink
from that fountain at my hands . . . there is reverence in
you . . . you understand the deep roots . . .
you . . .
"No!" she
shrieked the word, throwing herself backwards into the folds of the blanket
that covered her doorway,
"Lasair Ui Fian,
look at me!" commanded Merlin, seducer no more.
"Liar!" She
screamed, scrambled backwards, her blanket falling about her ridiculously.
"You try to hide your heart behind your eyes but even you cannot hide so
deep."
"Look at me, and you
will see the truth," Merlin grasped her wrist and its bones dug into his
palm. "You can see. Your power will show you the truth!"
But she tore herself away
with a strength he would not have guessed she had. "Yes, I am shown the
truth, hawk-eyed man!" she spat. "I see you know where power lies,
and you come to claim it." She huddled beneath her blanket, drawing in on
herself, holding all she knew behind the walls she had built within her soul.
"You hide too much too deeply, and will one day be hidden from all
seeking. Oh, yes." She grinned again, the horrible gaping leer with which
she had first greeted him. "It is true I am not blind. I see the long
darkness." Her voice fell, growing low as her eyes grew distant. The
blanket slipped from her grip, dropping to the ground. "The age, the time
of the world creeping by, the worms seeking and seeking but gaining nothing
from your flesh. Frozen, trapped, eyes fixed on a single point as the flies
gather and the waters rise and fall and . . ." She stopped,
swaying on her knees, her eyes blinking. She raised her hands, brushing aside
nothing he could see. Then, her ruined face broke into a scowl of unbearable
fear. "Get away from me!" she screamed at him, her trembling arm
reaching out to sketch old signs of warding. "Demon! Death bringer! Get
away!"
Screaming, she scrabbled
back into her house, diving beneath her blanket. Merlin did not try to follow
her. He stood and he bowed to the trembling, weeping form he could no longer
see. With a word to Ciar, he walked up the slopes into the woods. Only when he
was sure he was out of sight and hearing of the hovel and its ancient occupant,
Merlin turned and squatted on his heels before his hound. Gently, he touched
the tip of his staff to the beast's head.
"Now then, Ciar.
There was a girl in that house with the old woman. She left sometime ago, and I
need to know where she went. You caught her scent, good dog, I know that you
did. Will you find her for me?"
The dog looked into
Merlin's eyes for a long moment and then barked once, a cheerful, agreeable
sound. The sorcerer stood back, and let the hound nose about at his feet for a
bit. Then, Ciar barked again and loped off up the slopes on a straight and
steady track that none but himself could see.
Smiling to himself,
Merlin followed the dog into the woods.
* * *
For three days Merlin
followed where the hound led. They crossed streams and rivers and trekked
through many fair woods aflame with the colors of autumn, always upwards until
they reached the windy heights of the western hills. There, he came to a small
dwelling-place, well fenced, with a cross hung upon the archway of its gate.
Just outside the gate, a stout woman with a wagging dewlap tended a flock of
grey geese. She wore a plain brown cloak over a simple white dress girdled with
braided leather. She had her hems tucked into the belt, exposing her sandaled
feet, and bare, thick legs. Her only ornament was the wooden cross hung on a
thong about her neck. She glowered as she saw him approach with his loping
hound. Merlin patted Ciar and commanded him to sit a distance away while he
approached the woman.
"God be with you,
Sister," he saluted her.
"And with you,
stranger," she said, but there was no sincerity in the greeting as she
took in his face, his sword and his staff. "And what brings you to this
house?"
"I am seeking a
woman of the Ui Fian here."
She squinted at his face
again, and shook her heavy head. "No one such as that here." One of
the geese honked and waddled away from the rest of the flock. The woman flicked
her switch, and the bird meandered obediently back. "The only ones here are
daughters of Christ."
"It may be she took
a new name when she came to Christ," said Merlin patiently. He leaned
heavily on his staff, showing more weariness than he truly felt.
She shrugged, but did not
turn her attention from the geese. "It may be. Many do."
"May I have leave to
inquire after her with the other sisters?"
That made the goose-woman
turn to him, as he had known it would. "We are a house of women here. You
are not of the brethren of Christ," she snapped the accusation and
accompanied it with another hard look. "You have no foundation to enter
here."
"Forgive me,
Sister," Merlin replied, bowing as humbly before the goose-woman as he had
before the king. "But I have walked a long way, and my errand is
urgent."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Who are you that you come to claim her?"
Ah. Now he understood the
hostility. Even now that most of this isle followed the Christian rite, there
were many families who were less than pleased when their marriageable daughters
declared their intentions to join a poor house of women and live the life of a
perpetual virgin. "I do not come to claim her, only to speak with
her."
"But who are
you?" demanded the goose-woman again.
Merlin spread his hands.
"I am not brother, nor son, nor husband, nor father, nor chief, nor master.
I am only another seeker who would learn what she can tell me. Herewith, is my
token to the maintenance of this place and this house." He reached into
his purse and held out two silver rings.
"Hmph," grunted
the woman, but she took the rings and tucked them into her sleeve.
She peered at him again,
and Merlin spoke mildly, leaning there on his staff. "You see, I have no
bad intention, nor do I mean to trouble this house. I only wish to speak with
she who was once the daughter of the Ui Fion, who turned aside from witchcraft
to come to Christ."
The goose-woman grunted
again, and then said, "There is a woman of the Ui Fion here. Her name is
Agnes now. You may wait while I see if she's about. Don't let the geese
stray." She stumped through the gate.
Merlin settled onto his
heels to wait. Patiently, he watched the grey geese, who honked and chattered
and pulled at the weeds and preened, and did not one of them stray from their
patch of grass where their mistress left them.
On the other side of the
fence, the sisters of the house passed to and fro between the buildings. All of
them, the old and the young, dressed alike in their simple white robes and
brown cloaks and wooden crosses. They stared, perhaps longer than was
courteous, at the man tending their geese. But Merlin made no move to speak to
any of them, nor for a moment did he neglect the task to which he had been set.
At last, the goose-woman
returned. Beside her walked the sister now called Agnes. If she was truly a
girl as Lasair had called her, she had left that girlhood behind years ago. She
was a square woman, her aspect bespeaking strength rather than beauty. Her
hands were large, and her face was tanned and lined as one who worked hard and
did not fear to do so. Despite this, she looked at him with apprehension
bordering on alarm.
"I do not know
you," she said, hanging back.
Merlin straightened, his
knees popping as he did. He bowed. "I am Merlin Ambrosius, and I am come
from the land of the Britons and the king Uther Pendragon only that I may speak
with you, Sister."
Agnes clenched her jaw,
clearly not knowing what to make of this. If the flattery touched her, it was
brushed away by her uncertainty. "What could such a one have to say to me?
I am no one."
Merlin smiled at this
modesty and glanced at the goose-woman. "If I may have a word with your
sister privately?"
The goose-woman
considered this, but nodded. "Don't fear him, Agnes," she said to the
other woman, laying a reassuring hand on her arm. "I'll be here if you've
need of me." And she stomped back to her geese, where she would no doubt
count them carefully to make sure he had done his work well.
Agnes faced the sorcerer,
her eyes cast down and her fingers tightly laced together. She said nothing.
"I have been to see
your former teacher," ventured Merlin.
At these words, Agnes
glanced upwards, but dropped her gaze at once. "How does she?" she
whispered hoarsely.
"She is old, and
lonely," replied Merlin gently, trying to catch her eye.
Agnes sighed and twisted
her hands more tightly together, looking away down the rolling slopes toward
the distant fens, even as her teacher had looked up those same slopes. Two
longing gazes missing each other for the want of time and faith. "I am
sorry for her." Some memory had her snared, and Merlin strained to understand
what it might be. "If she were to renounce her pagan ways and follow
Christ, we would gladly care for her here." They were pious words, and
deeply felt, but there was something else, something old and secret locked
away.
Merlin nodded in sympathy
at her words. "Alas," he said, twisting his staff as she twisted her
hands. "There is another power that holds her."
"What do you
mean?" Curiosity made her flick her eyes sideways toward him.
Casting a glance over his
shoulder at the goose-woman who now stood with her broad back to them, Merlin
took a step forward. "She still believes she guards the voice that waits
and sleeps," he murmured. "While she remains sure of that, she will
never turn to a new path."
The wind blew hard and
cold between them. It smelled of rain and of the distant ocean and the damp rot
of autumn. "I believe that you are right," said Agnes. The words were
nothing, polite agreement with a stranger, nothing more. She was caught in
other memories. They thronged thick behind the eyes she would raise to him only
for the barest second. Memories perhaps of her leave-taking, or of the years
before and since.
"Were the voice to
be silenced, it would no longer drown out the voice of God in her ears."
Agnes swallowed, her face
sad and sober. Merlin realized she had thought of this before. "I will
turn my prayers to it." Again, a politeness, a nothing. She wanted him to
leave her, to not remind her of other times and places.
"Sister," said
Merlin as gently as he had ever spoken in his life. "I am come to silence
the voice, but I do not know how to find it. Do you?"
Look at me. Look at me,
he commanded silently. But she did not. Agnes only looked at her hands, laced
so tightly together. The wind tugged at her graying hair, teasing out elf locks
to hang around her ears. "I cannot tell you that," she whispered.
"Cannot or will
not?"
She bit her lips. "I
swore I would not." Her voice grew stronger, and Merlin cursed that
strength. "When I heard the word of Christ and chose the virgin's path, I
swore before God that I would not ever tell what I had formerly known."
Her eyes were bright with the glimmer of tears, and Merlin remembered the tears
that had also been in Lasair eyes. "It was only that oath that made her
let me go."
Merlin mustered all the
patience he had. If he faltered now, all would be lost. The barest hint of
anger or impatience would harden her against him. "How can you hold to an
oath that keeps her from God?"
Agnes lifted her head.
"Because I swore," she answered and for the first time Merlin heard
in her voice that strength which was so evident in her form. "Because she
was mother and teacher to me for many long years. It would be sin not to keep
my oath to her. God commands we honor mother and father."
But she looked at him,
and he could hold her gaze now. "God also commands you destroy the ways of
the pagan, sister. How can you refuse this battle for her soul?"
He reached for her,
willing her understanding, her acceptance of what he said. But to his
astonishment, she only glared at him. "I swore my oath. I will not break
it."
Agnes turned on her heel
and marched back through the gate. Merlin made to follow, but at once, the
goose woman was in front of him, as if brought there by magic. Merlin looked
into her stern aspect for a moment, and then bowed, retreating to the edge of
the fence. There, he sat down, laying his staff across his knees, and prepared
to wait.
The goose-woman stared in
astonishment at him. Then, she turned her back, and tried fair to ignore him,
though she cast many a disapproving glance in his direction. Merlin was not
surprised that she took no further measures. To sit beside a doorway in patient
fast was a gesture she would understand well. It had been used by petitioners
to kings of Eire, and to stubborn brides. Usually, all that had to be done was
to wait until the petitioner, ignored and humiliated, was driven away by cold
or hunger.
The women beyond the
fence came and went, rustling and whispering. Evening came, and the cold night
afterwards. Clouds thickened, and rain came. Ciar whimpered and pressed close
to Merlin. Merlin scratched the hound's head and patted his side, and they
shivered together without fire.
The morning came like a
blessing and the fading autumn sun dried them both. Hunger tightened Merlin's
belly. Thirst parched his throat. But still he sat where he was and waited. The
day passed. The women came and went behind their fence, much as the clouds
scudded across the sky. The rains fell, and the sun reappeared. The cold
deepened as night drew near. Ciar whimpered and barked. After awhile, he
disappeared and returned with a sparrow in his mouth, which he dropped at
Merlin's feet. He nosed at his master's hand, urging him to eat the offering.
Merlin patted Ciar's great head, and waited.
When the first blue flush
of twilight crept across the sky, Sister Agnes came to stand before him, hands
on her hips and the flash of steel in her eyes. Merlin inclined his head to
her.
"Leave here,"
she said flatly.
Merlin lifted his eyes.
"I will leave when I have learned what I need to know," he croaked.
"You will starve
then," she told him.
Merlin shrugged and
rested both hands on his staff. "Then I will starve."
Agnes hissed wordlessly
in her exasperation, and left.
So, the night came, and
more rain with it. Merlin, despite all his strength of mind and training of
body shivered beneath his cloak. He drank the rain as it fell, and as it ran
down his face and fingertips. Ciar whined and trembled and would not leave even
when Merlin commanded it, but only rested his head on his master's knee. Merlin
threw the end of his cloak over the dog, sharing what pitiful warmth there was.
Wolves howled unseen in the forest, making the dog growl and bark in answer.
Morning came cold and
grey. Mists rose in clouds and columns from the valleys and the folds in the
hills. Once more, Sister Agnes marched through the gate. This time, she held a
round loaf in her hand.
"Look, here is
bread." She held the before him and broke it in half so that the steam
rose and warmed his face, bringing all the delicious odors of the oaten bread
with it.
Merlin licked his lips,
searching for some hint of moisture still there. "It is not bread I came
for."
"You cannot sit here
until you die." Beneath the annoyance he heard what he waited for. Worry
had returned to Sister Agnes's voice.
"If I must, I must,
for I cannot leave." He made himself shrug.
"I will not break
the oath that set me free!" She cried, the force of her words
straightening her back.
Mustering his strength,
Merlin lifted his head and met her gaze, seeing how anger and concern warred
within her. "Then your silence will be my death."
She dropped the loaf on
the ground, turned and left, walking too fast, not looking back. Merlin pushed
the loaf toward Ciar. The dog whined and thumped his tail, and ate the bread.
Merlin hoped that Sister Agnes saw this, or that one of her sisters did, and
would tell her truly, but could not turn his head to see.
Another day and another
dragged past. He shivered uncontrollably now, as if a fever wracked him. His
cloak only dried slowly. Hunger and thirst became dull aches within him. His
legs alternated between a cold numbness and a storm of prickling and heat
burning through them as if his blood were made of pins. When darkness enveloped
the world, the wolves moved closer now, and he could see their eyes shining in
the bracken that edged the forest. Ciar's hackles rose and he barked sharply,
stalking forward, warning them with his bulk. They crept away, but they would
return. Both master and hound knew it, but there was nothing to be done. Merlin
dozed fitfully in the frigid darkness, dreaming many strange and troubling
dreams, only to pry his eyes open at the grey dawn and Ciar's bark, and look
up.
Sister Agnes stood before
him, her square face white and pinched. Her brown cloak was laced tightly
against the cold, and she bit her lips as she looked down at him. She carried a
bowl of water, a haunch of bread and a blanket of undyed wool in her hands.
With a groan, Merlin
pushed himself into a sitting position, and dropped one hand across his staff.
To his shame he was not sure he had the strength to lift it if he had the need.
The relentless cold had robbed him of all such power. It seared a path down to
his lungs even now as he tried to breathe.
Agnes knelt beside him,
laying the things she'd brought in her lap. She made no greeting, but only
leaned close to him. "Is it true what you said? It is only the voice that
keeps her from God?"
Merlin nodded, and his
trembling increased.
"I have prayed long
over this." She bit her lips again. "I sin, no matter what I do, but
if what you say is so, then I cannot let my mother and teacher die without
baptism when my actions might bring her to God." Her voice eased and
strengthened. "I will tell you what I know."
"All you know?"
he whispered. "You swear it?"
"All I know, and I
do swear."
Merlin closed his eyes
and reached one shaking hand for the water bowl she brought. He drank long of
the clear water as Sister Agnes threw the warm blanket about his shoulders. She
helped him tear and soften the bread so that he might eat of it. Slowly, the
strength returned to his limbs and the clarity of thought to his mind.
When his trembling had
ceased, Sister Agnes, bent close to him, whispering so that only he could hear.
"This is what she told me, and I swear before God this is the whole of it.
She told me that atop the tallest mountain of Beanncarrig, there stands an
ancient tomb. Anyone who stands inside at dawn on the day of the new year will
see a door. At that moment any who asks for entry in the name of the one who
raised the tomb will be able to open that door and follow the path downward. He
will pass three more rooms, and three more doors. The first is opened with a
truth, the second with a lie, the third with all he has. Inside the last room
is the voice and the blessing, and all questions will be answered there."
Merlin closed his eyes,
in weariness and in gratitude. "Thank you, Sister Agnes," he
murmured. "May God bless you."
She gathered up the bowl
and blanket, all of her uncertainty coming over her again. "Come to me on
your return and tell me I may go minister to my old teacher." She stood
hastily, making to depart. To pray, Merlin thought, to try to make peace with
what she had done.
"Will you care for
my dog?" Merlin asked abruptly. "He cannot follow the road I must
take."
She looked at the great
black hound, thinking perhaps of the geese and the sheep, but also of the
wolves that howled in the night. She nodded. "Go with God then."
"I thank you,
Sister."
Leaning on his staff,
Merlin got himself to his feet. With only slightly more difficulty, he
persuaded Ciar to follow Agnes through the gate. He watched them both go with
something like regret, but then turned his face westward, looking toward the
taller mountains waiting there.
With a sigh, Merlin began
once more to walk.
* * *
It was a long walk, for
he must husband his strength. But the cold that was deepening the sky and the
wind both told him the eve of the new year quickly approached. With this
knowledge driving him, Merlin hurried as much as he dared. He clambered over
the rocky slopes by day, finding much to drink but little to eat. He lay down
beneath thick blankets of leaves at night and woke to find frost on his hood
and ice in the streams that sustained him. Cold stiffened his hands and his
legs. His breath came out in white clouds when the weather was clear, and in
harsh gasps when the rain poured down. There were none up here to witness his
passage, but neither were there any to offer him shelter. By his art he had
fire at night, but not all the power he knew could keep the rain from his back
without a roof and the higher he climbed, the more sparse the forest became,
until there were not even branches nor leaves to help shelter him.
Bent almost double from
the steepness of the climb, Merlin came at last to the height of Beanncarrig to
see the tomb just where Agnes said it would be. It was an ancient place,
sturdily built after the pattern of the dwellings of the living-a huge round
house of stone with a conical roof of timbers, lime and slate. A stone cross
thick with carvings of knots and ribbons stood before it, but that was a new
thing compared to the tomb itself, and the carvings on its walls showed as
much. Here were the ribbons and the knots, but no sign of cross or Christ. On
the sides of the tomb Merlin found the white mare and the raven, the salmon,
the bull and the boar. The horned god held court there and the goddess rode in
her chariot.
If there had once been a
portal set in the stone threshold, it had long since rotted away. In its place
now waited two tangled thorn bushes, their barbs thrusting outward. Merlin
broke off a small twig from one and tucked it into his sleeve as he made his
way between them, careful to break no other branch nor tear off any of the dying
leaves.
Inside the tomb was only
darkness. The clouds hung so low and so thick outside, no sun streamed through
the doorway. The air was dank, still and cool, with only the lightest draft to
touch its fingers to the back of Merlin's neck. Before him in the gloom, he saw
the dead.
They lined the walls laid
out in carved niches, three high. Their names had been carved there in the
oldest runes of all. They had been there as long as the tomb, these corpses,
and now were nothing more than bones beneath shrouds that a breath would have
turned to a shower of dust. Still, they waited, grey bones, ruined cloth and
empty eyes. Here and there a jewel flashed or a ring of gold on finger bone or
wrist. Merlin touched none of this. By his art, he made himself a fire and sat
beside it. He ate some of the nuts and withered apples he had gathered on the
lower slopes, and then stretched out before the doorway to sleep. He missed
Ciar's solid warmth beside him but rolled himself in his cloak and let
exhaustion carry him away.
The hooting of the first
owl woke Merlin at dusk. He came to himself instantly, and picked up his staff.
The owl called again, a low, warning sound. He quenched his fire and faced the
doorway. The wind had picked up outside, rattling the thorns in front of him
and sending a new draft to wrap around his throat and ankles. The owl called
once more, searching, hunting.
Behind him, the dead
rustled beneath their shrouds. Bone clicked against bone, skulls in their
niches ground their jaws. The wind picked up their fear as if it were smoke and
brushed it against Merlin's skin. It was old fear with roots that pushed their
way beneath his skin.
"Rest, my
friends," said Merlin kindly. "Rest, all of you. It is not time to
rise yet."
It calls us, said the
dead in their silent way. The root of their fear grew thicker, fear of being
called away, of being lost, forever lost, they who truly knew what eternity
meant.
"That call is not
for you," Merlin told them, taking firm hold of his staff. "Sleep
now. You have earned that sleep."
Slowly the clatter faded
and the rustling turned again to silence. A wolf howled in the distance and
Merlin lifted his head to the sound. "Not here. Not tonight," he said
to the darkness. "Find some other to steal. Tonight, all sleep here under my
protection."
And neither beast nor
bird spoke again in his hearing. The wind was only cold, and the dead settled
back to their deep and dreamless sleep.
Merlin kept watch over
the doorway, helping the thorns stand guard for that long night. He was still
weak from his fast and his long travels, but he kept hold of his staff and did
not let sleep claim him. Gradually, he became aware that the world beyond the
thorn trees had lightened. He stood, stretching himself and he bowed in
greeting to the coming dawn. As if in answer, the sun let loose a single shaft
that pierced the tomb. Merlin jumped back from it that he would not divert its
course. On the curving western wall, he saw a stone door glowing golden in that
single shaft of dawn. With a glad cry, Merlin ran to it at once and pressed his
hands to it. He had just time to make out the portal's faint lines, but could
see neither latch nor handle.
Then the sun was gone,
and his eyes could see nothing but the carved stone wall before him. Beneath
his palm, though, he felt the hair fine crack where the door fitted to wall.
Then, he spoke the words
he had carried all the way from the West Lands. "In the name of Oisin mac
Fionn, son of Fionnn mac Cumhail and Sabha of the leahaun sidhe, son of Cumhal
mac Trenmor and Muirne of the white neck, I beg you, open this door and permit
me entry."
He took a deep breath,
and lowered his hand. He waited one heartbeat, two, three. He waited long
enough for fear that he had been hopelessly wrong to seize tight hold.
Then, soundlessly,
smoothly, the barrier before him drew back, leaving in its wake a patch of
blackness deeper than the night. Merlin swallowed, his knees suddenly weak with
relief. Hurriedly, he drew the dagger he had been given from his belt and
thrust it deep into the earthen floor beneath the threshold. The dagger was
steel, the close kin of cold iron, which was the metal proof against
enchantment. Its presence would keep him from the path ahead if he tried to
carry it, but left here, it would hold this way open until he returned.
Holding tightly to his
staff, Merlin marched forward, and did not look back.
He had no sense of
descending. The floor beneath his boots was utterly smooth, as was the curving
wall beneath his fingertips when he stretched out his hand. But with each step,
he felt the distance between him and all that he had known grow greater beyond
all reason. His eyes strained until they ached, and at last he perceived a tiny
speck of white like a star in the distance. He walked on. Each step was a league,
each breath a day. All his weakness came down upon his shoulders. All behind
was darkness, the only light was up ahead.
A new draft of air wafted
past him. This too came from the way ahead, but where he expected the odor of
earth and mould, he instead found the welcome scents of green and growing
things and the warmth that only comes from sunlight. Amazed, Merlin urged his
steps forward.
He emerged from the
tunnel into a mighty forest at the height of summer. Trees towered on all sides
of him. Light fell in long shafts of greenish gold lighting up the ferns and
brilliant white and blue blossoms. If this was a cavern, the walls and roof
soared so far away they were lost in the sunless light. The air was warm and
clear and rich with the scents of the blossoms and the whole living world, but
no bird sang, nor was there any other sound of animal life here. The quiet
unsettled Merlin, and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Then, the bracken before
him cracked and rustled, and a tiny man pushed through the drooping leaves. He
was only as tall as Merlin's knee and as brown and twisted as tree roots
clothed in moss. Merlin stared, amused, but wary, and his hand did not move
from his sword's hilt.
The creature climbed
nimbly up onto a rotting stump and squatted there, gazing up at the sorcerer
with bright black eyes.
"You cannot
pass," he piped shrilly. "Go back the way you came."
Merlin struggled to
maintain his countenance, and bowed courteously to the little man. "I beg
your pardon and I mean no offense, but I must pass. There is a door beyond here
which I must open."
"You cannot
pass," the brown man said again. "Go back or I'll set my cat on
you!"
"You will do as you
must," he answered gravely. "And I will do the same."
Setting his eyes on the
way ahead, Merlin walked through the pleasant wood. He felt the gaze of the
little man at his back, and he felt the trees lean in close, waiting, it seemed
gloating, ready for the entertainment that was to come as he walked more deeply
into their presence. The whole wood held its breath around him, silent,
expectant.
He had not gone more than
ten paces when he heard the little man shout, "Cat! Cat! Here is a mouse
for you!"
Overhead, the leaves
rustled. Merlin threw himself sideways. His staff spun from his hand, but he
let it lie. A black blur dropped into the place where had stood. He righted
himself, drawing his sword, the bright bronze blade that had once belonged to a
Roman soldier. With only this as a barrier, he found himself face-to-face with
a great cat, the size of the lion of Africa, but coal black in color. Its eyes
blazed bright green as it snarled at him, showing all its ivory white fangs.
Merlin did not wait for
the cat to lunge, instead, he leapt forward, aiming his stroke at the
creature's throat. It dodged his blow, agile and quick, screaming at his
temerity. Merlin turned and the cat stalked around him, tracking his movement,
its hackles raised, watching the strange and dangerous mouse. Merlin lunged
again, and this time the cat leapt to meet him, sinking its fangs deep into his
shoulder. The sorcerer cried aloud with pain as the cat bore him to the ground,
its claws digging deep into his chest and thighs. Blood and pain seared like
fire and Merlin screamed to shake the world. But even as he fell he thrust
upward with his sword, and that bronze blade found the cat's flesh. Now the
beast screamed in agony and outrage. It scrabbled backward, scoring him over
and again with its great claws. Merlin lashed out blindly, and the cat screamed
once more, and the strange clank of metal against metal rang through the
forest.
Breathing hard with the
pain and awash in his own blood, Merlin pushed himself to his feet. He stared,
his wounded left arm hanging loose at his side. The cat was limping backward.
He had wounded it, in the leg and in the side, but instead of blood fat coins
of shining gold dropped from those wounds.
Merlin reclaimed his
sword. Gritting his teeth hard against the pain, he ran forward three steps and
stabbed his blade into the flank of the retreating cat. He slashed sideways,
opening a great gash in the black hide. More golden coins poured out, clinking
and clanking and shining, raising a scent of hot metal in the forge. More than
in the treasury of all the kings of the blessed isle poured out in that
grotesque golden fountain. The creature screamed out once more, staggered, and
fell dead. Under Merlin's astonished gaze, the black skin began to shrivel and
fall back, as if the work of a hundred years beneath the soil was accomplished
in a dozen breaths. The two eyes fell from the monster's skull. Each was an
emerald the size of a baby's fist. One would have bought the emerald he'd
brought to King Berach a thousand times over. Two would buy the whole of the
blessed isle. Both now lay among white bones and golden coins.
"Well, it is yours
now."
Painfully Merlin turned
his head to see the little brown person sitting hunched beside the closed door.
"You've killed my
pet, my rare one," the little man said sadly. "I did not think it
could be done. Take the gold and leave me to bury her."
"It is not gold I
want." Trembling, and gritting his teeth against the pain, Merlin limped
back to his staff and reclaimed it. His hands shook, and his legs threatened to
give way. He noted, distantly, that the forest floor drank his blood and the
cat's just as thirstily.
"Ha! All men want
gold."
"No." Merlin
shook his head heavily. Pain made his reason swoop and spin within him. The
bleeding was bad and he could not feel the staff he held. He needed to rest, to
heal himself. But not here. Not yet. "No thing I have ever done has been
for gold. Nor will it."
The little man regarded
him keenly, and then nodded. "So it is. Go on then, man. See what you have
to say to the next you meet." He nodded toward the trees. Now, Merlin
could see that the cavern wall was quite close. The veil of hazy golden light
had lifted from it, and in the living stone of the wall waited a portal of wood
banded with bronze. Even as his blurred eyes made it out, the door fell open to
reveal more darkness.
Merlin shuffled forward.
His wounded legs did not want to move. His left arm could not hold his staff
and he cradled it close to his chest. The blood ran down in scarlet streams and
his sight swam before him. It seemed an age before he reached the blessed blinding
darkness. There he leaned against the cool wall and did nothing for a moment
but breathe and weep from the pain. Then, he made his left hand wrap around his
staff with his right. In a harsh, hoarse voice, he spoke certain words known to
him.
Fresh pain blasted
through him like a lightning stroke. It seized flesh, blood and bone, twisting
and compressing them tightly. His heart hammered, and he could neither breathe
nor see for a long moment.
Then, it was over. Merlin
pushed himself away from the wall. Blood still coated his skin and clothing,
but it no longer flowed fresh. Any who had seen him then would have thought him
unscathed. But Merlin knew his wounds waited close beneath the surface of his
skin. This was no true healing such as only God and time could make, but it
would serve for the moment, and enable him to walk again through the darkness,
although the pain pulled at him with each step.
After a time that was
both far too long and far too brief, light opened again around him. Merlin
blinked to behold the new world he entered. Where the chamber before had been a
wilderness, this place was a garden. Its tall trees and broad lawn all seemed
lovingly tended. A profusion of flowers perfumed the air with a thousands
scents. As he stood and breathed them in, Merlin felt his heart lift. The
strength of his limbs increased and the pain ebbed away. Apple, plum and cherry
trees, all in their fullest blossom grew beside a flowing stream. Within the
bower of this delicate grove stood a pavilion made of many colored linens, all
patterned with the figure of the white mare. The door of the pavilion had been
drawn back to reveal the delicately carved furnishings and rare carpets. On one
of these costly couches lay a woman.
"Be welcome, Merlin
Ambrosius," she called to him, and her voice was as pure and welcome as
water to a man dying of thirst. She was clothed in some fine white cloth that
clung to the curves of her body as she rose to stand before him.
"Thank you, my
lady." Merlin bowed, feeling strangely clumsy. For a moment, he cursed his
wounds that made his movements so stiff and slow. His hand tightened on his staff
as he struggled to remember himself.
The lady only smiled and
walked forward, holding out both her long, white hands. "Sit and
rest," she said, taking his hand in both of hers and drawing him to the
couch. "You have come a long way."
"It is a long road yet,"
he answered. But she only smiled as she turned to the table where a graceful
gilded pitcher waited. From it, she poured a wine the color of sunlight into
two cups.
"You should drink
and refresh yourself." She held out one of the cups.
The scent from the goblet
was cool, fresh and sweet. Merlin's mouth watered. He ached, and he knew
strength and health lay in that cup. But he only shook his head. "My lady,
you know that I cannot."
She raised her dark
brows. "You will not," she corrected him regretfully. But she set the
cups aside, and instead moved a little closer to him on the couch, close enough
that he could tell she was scented like the flowers around them, and that her
body was warm as it was fair. "Why not take what is freely offered?"
Merlin found his mouth
was dry, and that his pulse beat hard and insistent at the base of his throat.
"It is not free, my lady," he made himself say.
She smiled and he could
think of nothing else. "Perhaps not. Despite that, I am glad that you have
come."
Her eyes were black and
deep. Mysteries he would never find anywhere else waited in them. He wanted to
touch her hand, and for that moment could not remember why he should not. She
would welcome his touch, he was sure of it.
"Why is that?"
he heard himself ask.
The lady reached out and
touched his cheek. Her hand was warm and soft, and where it moved, his ache
eased and her warmth seeped into him. "You are brave, and cunning, true
and fair. It has been a long time since such as you have walked the road to me.
These days I must roam far and wide to find even a shadow of what you
bring."
"You flatter me, my
lady."
She laughed a little.
"Perhaps." She took her hand from his face, touched her fingertips to
his. "Does it displease you to hear yourself spoken well of?"
"It displeases no
man." He answered her smile. He could do nothing else. He wanted to
prolong the gentle merriment in her black eyes, to hear her musical voice, to
have her draw closer.
She did draw closer. The
scent of herself was more strengthening than any wine could ever be. "And
as I have pleased you, Merlin. Will you please me?" she asked softly. Her
eyes were bold. Her warmth ran into his veins, strengthening his blood but
turning all his flesh weak as water. "Will you accept what I offer? It
would please me greatly were you to do so. There is much I could give to you,
not only in this place, but when you return to the living world." She took
up his hand between her own. Merlin closed his eyes. There was too much, too
much in her face so filled with promise, too much in the warmth of her touch.
Too much promise in that and in the words that flowed over him. He was drowning
and he had no wish to rise above it.
"My grace would be
upon you there, were you to accept my gifts now." She kissed him, and the
heat of it rushed through him, burning sense and mind away and leaving only
bare need, the need to touch, to know, to take and take again, to revel in the
touch and scent and voice of her. It had been so long since a woman had come to
him, and he ached with such need now that his arms trembled as he pulled her
into his embrace, letting his staff fall to the ground. He answered her kiss
hungrily, roughly, delighting in the way she yielded herself so eagerly. There
was no pain here, only joy, only heart's wish fulfilled more completely than
even dreams could make it.
But as he pulled her
closer still, the thorn he had placed in his sleeve drove itself into his arm,
piercing the flesh and drawing blood. The small pain found its echo on all the
others within him, and in that moment, his head cleared and memory returned to
him.
Gently, he pulled away,
taking both her hands in his and laying them in her lap.
"I cannot do
this," he said hoarsely. "It is not love I seek." Tears
threatened behind his eyes as he spoke the words. It was as if winter descended
into his heart and would never leave it.
She looked at him, and he
saw her eyes were wide and green. "Is it not?" She saw his tears, he
knew, but she also saw how he did not move.
"No." He shook
his head and dropped his gaze. He could not look at her anymore or he would
weep like a babe. If he did that, he might seek his comfort in her, and this
time he would not have the strength to leave it. "Nor will it be."
He felt more than saw her
draw away. Her shadow fell across him as she stood. Cold. Oh, so cold that
shadow. "You have spoken a mighty thing here. Be sure you stand by your
words, man, for I will not forget them."
He was suffused with
pitiless cold now, and all his pains returned to him. His heart beat heavily in
his chest, even as he reclaimed his staff. He stood, making his bow as best he
could. He kept his gaze lowered, stealing only the briefest of glances toward
the lady. Her face was stern now, all her former delight vanished. She stood
aside, and waved her fair hand. The door he had known beyond the blossoming
trees opened at once. Merlin walked through.
With each step, his
weariness grew. His heart within him beat so heavily, it seemed to be made of
lead. He could not see the way forward. It was as if his eyes were still
dazzled by the beauty of the lady left behind him. He ground his knuckles into
his eyes and groaned aloud. Anger rose up from the depths of his soul. So
simple a thing, the need of flesh and heart.
It will not defeat me, he
told himself. I will not be lost to such a small thing.
One step at a time he
forced himself forward. He staggered in the darkness, and his breath came
ragged and rushed from his lungs. But he did not fall, and slowly, painfully,
he was able to see another golden light flickering before him.
This new place was far
different from the others. No paradise, wild or tamed, waited here. It was only
a cavern of damp stone and rough earth and Merlin stumbled as he stepped into
it, catching himself with his staff. The light was dim, and the stale air
smelled of sea salt and rot. In the cavern's center stood a man. He was tall
and well built, with arms and hands hardened by much labor. His skin was seamed
and tanned as that of someone who stands out of doors on all days, in all
weathers. His hair and beard were dark, but his eyes sparkled brightly.
"God be with you,
Merlin Ambrosius," his voice echoed strongly against the close walls
Wearily, Merlin
straightened himself, clutching his staff. "What are you?" he asked.
His voice was harsh, chilled by the winter still within him.
The one before him cocked
his head, and shrugged. "A man, as you are."
Anger flowed sluggishly
in Merlin's veins. Anger and impatience. He was tired of games played against
his life, and of riddling words and tests and trials. His hands hurt, his feet
hurt, his king waited for him and he would be done! "I am in no humor for
riddles, sir. Who are you?"
The man smiled. "I
have had many names, even as you have."
Merlin leaned heavily on
his staff. He hurt. His stomach cramped with hunger, and all his efforts
weighed down his shoulders. The anger pulsed in his blood, stronger now, anger
for all he had to do and all he must do, anger at this . . .
this thing standing in front of him. "Choose one and give it me, or stand
aside."
The ghost's eyes twinkled
at some silent jest. "My father called me Patricus," he said.
The words fell against
him as a wholly unexpected blow, and Merlin stared. "They speak in this
land of a Christian man named Patrick."
The man nodded. "So
they do."
"What would such a
one as you be doing in this realm? Should you not be in Heaven?"
"I am where I am
needed," Patrick answered simply. "And I have come to stand before
you and ask you to turn aside."
Merlin's cold, pained
hands gripped his staff more tightly, and it seemed as if the floor shifted
beneath him. He had thought himself well prepared for the tests he would meet
here, but this he had no expectation of. This he did not understand. "How
can this be?"
But Patrick's face only
grew grave at his words. "What you do, Merlin Ambrosius, will cause more
harm than good."
Merlin shook his head,
unable to believe let alone to understand. "What say you?" he cried
like a man gone deaf in his old age. "With this act I will break forever
the power of the druid and the magic of the pagan in this land. The followers
of Christ will spread and multiply, unimpeded. It was one of your own converts
who gave me the knowledge of how to come to this place."
The holy man's bright
eyes grew dim and distant. "And in so doing she broke the oath she gave to
God. Her repentance will be long, and sore." There was no humor in this,
no calm acceptance, only a deep regret. Patrick cocked his head, and in his
eyes Merlin saw the last thing he had ever expected to encounter in this realm
of the otherworld. Pity. Plain, simple human pity. "You have eyes that
see, Merlin," he said. "How is it you are still blind?"
Merlin closed those eyes.
They burned. They ached. "I am tired, holy Patrick," he said with
exhausted honesty. "I am sick and sore, and have endured much to aid my
king, my people and my land. I will not turn aside." Merlin rubbed his
brow. He could not stand here. What remained of his strength was draining away
as his blood had drained from his wounds. His time was short, terribly short,
and yet he could not seem to make himself step forward while this shade stood
in his way. "Why thwart me? Why leave this power to the druids?"
He expected another
riddle, or a quip, but instead the man spoke simply, and as he spoke Merlin
felt a different strength surround him. This strength was greater than
mountains. It lifted him up. It willed him to understand and to believe.
"Because even in its shadow, God's truth is proclaimed. Because there may
yet arise in this land one greater than me who could make the voice beyond
speak the glory of Christ." Merlin did not know if he moved, or if the
shade of Patrick moved, but they were closer together now. Patrick's voice grew
soft, soft as conscience, or hope. "How much would that do, if the voice
of wisdom the druids hold proclaimed that greater truth? There would be no more
doubt or hesitation. All would be done, and it would be done without
jeopardizing the faith in the land of my birth, or in yours. Do not do this
thing, Merlin Ambrosius."
Merlin smiled, though he
swayed on his feet and clutched his white staff. Without it he would fall, and
yet he knew he was triumphant. "You lie, little ghost," he said
harshly. "No holy man would speak so. If you were in truth who you claim,
you would welcome me to rid your land of the voice beyond."
But the shade before him
did not waver, nor did it disperse as he had so deeply hoped it would. Instead,
it moved even closer, meeting his eyes. He could not look away, no matter how
much he wished to do so. "Ask the question, Merlin, the one that you have
not dared to ask. Then you will know why I tell you not to do as you say."
Merlin found he could not
breathe. His thoughts swirled inside his skull, battering at each other,
clawing and clinging together. Patrick stood before him, patient, hopeful. The
sorcerer summoned all the will he had left within him and set the challenge
aside. It did not matter. It was no part of his deed. It was as meaningless as
the gold and the love that he had been offered. Only his task mattered, only
his sworn duty, and that the doing of this great thing was wholly in his hands.
That was the only truth. There was nothing else and nothing more. Not now.
One by one, Merlin
dragged forth the words he must speak. "Will you prevent me from entering
this chamber?"
Now it was Patrick who
closed his eyes as if in pain. "I have not that power," he said.
"Then stand
aside." Merlin raised his staff, holding it before him like a bar. He felt
the power of his art rally within him, flowing with his thick, cold blood.
"Stand aside!"
Patrick hung his head,
and between one eye blink and the next was gone, silently and simply. Merlin
stood alone in the cavern, and the light that had no source began to gutter. As
swiftly as he could, Merlin hobbled to the last door and laid his palm upon it.
It came open at his touch, and he entered the last chamber.
This too was a place of
stone and earth. Four torches burned strongly at the four corners of the bier
that waited in its center. Green boughs and blossoms strewed the bier, as fresh
as if they were laid only yesterday. Perhaps in this place, in this twist and
fold of time, it had only been yesterday. It was bitter cold here. Merlin
shuffled forward. His breath steamed in the air.
On the bier lay a
shrouded man. He had been huge when he stood, a giant among all lesser men. The
linen that lay over him was fine enough that through it Merlin could seen his
face had been fair and fine. His hair was long and golden. A gold band circled
his brow. A torque decorated with bulls circled his throat. Cuffs and rings of
gold adorned head and wrist. But he needed no gold to make the beholder see
that here lay a king among men. Merlin had stood before greatness, and he knew
it well. Even in the stillness of death, he knew it.
"Fionn mac
Cumhail," Merlin whispered. The name moved harmlessly through the chamber.
The time was not yet. This name might be shouted in this place, and it would
not wake the one in front of him. It took far more words than those known to
Merlin, or to Sister Agnes, to make a man who slept such a sleep waken, not
whole as he was.
Holding his staff in the
crook of his arm, Merlin gently drew the shroud down from the face of Fion mac
Cumhail. "I am truly sorry, mac Cumhail," said Merlin as he laid the
noble face bare. It was perfect as it had been in life. Whatever held him, it
was not death as other men would know death. "I would not disturb you, but
I have no choice. You hold wisdom that cannot be gained any other way, and what
I do, I do for my king. It is a thing you would understand. More than that,
though. I have seen far, king of the Fian. If you are left here to whisper your
wisdom to those who can find it, your people will rise high, but it would only
be to crush mine down. I cannot permit that."
Merlin drew his sword of
bloodied bronze and laid it against the throat of the giant on his bier, above
the golden torque. He grit his teeth, and raised it up, and with all the
strength of arm he had left, he brought the blade down.
And that is how Merlin
Ambrosius stole the head of Fionn mac Cumhail and carried it back with him to
the aisle of the Britons. There, he washed it in the waters of a certain well
and wrapped it with silk and enchantment, and thus he was able to command it to
speak to him whenever he had need. In so doing he learned the secrets of making
the great stone circle on the plain of kings, and much else besides. And so it
was that the men of Eire lost that wisdom for all time and could no more heal
heart and self for they had lost the way of building a new heart for their
land.
"So ends the tale of
the thief of stones."
* * *
The voice of Fion mac
Cumhail fell silent. The blank, blue eyes stared past the sorcerer, waiting.
Merlin sat alone in his small pavilion with this grim oracle. Beyond the rippling
cloth walls, he heard the sounds of the camp; the clank of metal, the rasp of
swords, the harsh voices of tired, worried men.
Merlin Ambrosius licked
his lips. "And what is the question Merlin was afraid to ask?" he
whispered.
Mac Cumhail answered, its
voice as flat and expressionless as its cold eyes. "Whether it was Uther
Pendragon who would preside over the age of heroes, or another whom he might
bring into being."
Such as a son. Merlin
covered his face with his hands, squeezing his eyes tight shut against the
flickering light, against the shadows that went to and fro outside his tiny
shelter that billowed in the wind sweeping down from the hills. When he could
master his voice again, he asked harshly, "What else?"
"He never asked what
Lasair would do when she felt the voice silenced."
"And what did she
do?"
Mac Cumhail's voice was
droning, unstoppable, uncaring. "She cursed him. She cursed him by all the
names she knew. She cursed so that all he sought to build up by his theft would
fall, that all he had seen and could see would never be enough to save what he
held dear."
Merlin lifted his gaze
and looked at the oracle he had stolen so long ago. He remembered how strong
and handsome Fion mac Cumhail had been when he first looked upon the ancient
king's form on its bier. No more. The features held suspended in that fold of
sleep and time had slackened and turned deathly grey. The eyes were filmed over
by visions of the past and future. His need had robbed the severed head of all
that made it fair, and given nothing back. Merlin slumped back in his cleverly
carved camp chair and looked at the thing he had ruined for its wisdom, the
wisdom he had so misused.
What now? he wanted to
ask. But he knew well enough that not even mac Cumhail could answer that simple
question. What now?
"My lord?"
called a tentative voice from outside his pavilion. Few soldiers in Uther's
army would come up to Merlin's door, even when it was just a length of cloth.
"My lord? He . . . you're sent for, my lord."
Merlin laid his hand over
Fionn mac Cumhail's eyes, closing them. The oracle fell silent and Merlin,
shuffling, (like an old man), lifted the oracle and returned him to the casket
of sweet-smelling wood. He closed the lid and carefully fastened the silver
latch. Then, he straightened himself. His knees ached. His back hurt. Like an
old man.
I am an old man. Older
than I should be. Older than when I came in here to seek the council that I
neglected before.
With his staff as his
support, Merlin walked through the camp. The soldiers turned their heads to
watch him. Conversation fell away as he approached and picked up again softly
as he passed. Gossip. Rumor. From the corner of his eye, he saw how men nodded
meaningfully toward the great slabs of stone that surrounded them all. The
stones he had raised with the wisdom of Fion mac Cumhail. The stones that were
supposed to save Uther, the king, from his greatest fear.
Not that any of the
muttering soldiers knew that much. They only knew their king was dying.
Someone, somehow, had poisoned him, as his brother had been poisoned, and as
his father had been.
The guards on duty beside
the great pavilion saluted Merlin as he entered. He pushed his way beneath the
loose-hanging cloth to see Uther stretched out on his bed. The king's hands trembled
and twitched on the black bear pelt that covered him to his chin. The sweat had
dried on his brow, making his skin dull and pallid, but his eyes shone
fever-bright in the flickering firelight. Pale, golden Ygraine sat beside him,
and the fury in her eyes lanced through Merlin as he knelt on his stiff knees
to make his duty to the man who was lord and king to them both.
Uther drew in one
rasping, rattling breath. "Sit and talk awhile with me, Merlin."
Merlin opened his mouth,
but Ygraine spoke more swiftly. "You should rest, my husband."
The king turned his head,
and, with some effort, twitched his mouth into a smile for his wife. His
too-bright gaze lingered on her white, taut face, and then drifted down to her
belly swollen with child beneath her ochre red gown. "I will do that soon
enough, beloved. I would talk until then." He swallowed. His beard was
flecked with spit, and with blood. "Tell me of my son, Merlin," he
croaked, and the sentence ended in a racking cough. Ygraine reached for him,
but Uther lifted two fingers and she let her hands fall. "Tell me what you
see for the child she carries," he said.
Merlin twisted his staff
in his hands, remembering Sister Agnes, and how she twisted her hands, not
wanting the truth to be what it was, wishing he had never come to make her
speak the words she held within her. How he understood that now. "He will
complete all that you have begun," said Merlin to his king. "He will
fight twelve battles that will become legend. His reign will be called a golden
age, and his name will be on the tongues of men for generations to come. He
will rule surrounded by loyalty and love, and he will be deserving of
all."
Again, haltingly, the
king's mouth spread into a smile. He lifted one gaunt hand, and Ygraine,
despite the fullness of her belly dropped to her knees beside him and gripped
that hand. "There," whispered Uther. "There, you see Ygraine? It
has not been in vain. Not if it brings such a life into the world."
But Ygraine made no
answer. She only clutched her lord's hand and stared at Merlin with her hatred
blazing in her eyes. Men spoke of rape and treachery and the inconstancy of
women when Ygraine's back was turned, but a few knew the truth. Ygraine and
Uther had loved strongly since Goloris had paraded his new war bride before his
fellow lordings. They buried their secret deep lest Goloris doubt the parentage
of her twin daughters. But Ygraine flew to Uther's arms when he came to her.
Despite all Merlin's disguises, which fooled soldier, lord, and keen-eyed
mercenary, Ygraine had known exactly who came to free her from the prison of
Tintagel.
And it seemed to Merlin
that she knew now exactly who had failed him so badly this time.
"You should rest
now, Lord King," Merlin said, and his voice cracked. He stood. "Let
your lady wife comfort you."
Turning swiftly, Merlin
all but stumbled out of the tent and past the guard. Outside, he drew in a deep
breath of night air, filled with the scents of forge and fire, of men and
horses. The whole of the army had encamped on the plain; a city's worth of men
and horses making a defensive ring within the fence of the great stones. This
place was meant to be the answer for Uther's only fear. Poison could not be
brought here, nor heart of evil intent. This was a sacred place, a fortress for
the true man and true heart. This was the place where the mind of Heaven might
be plainly seen if one had but sharp enough eyes.
Even the light of so many
torches and fires could not dim the diamond brilliance of the stars overhead,
each one a messenger of Heaven carrying its own spark of destiny. These million
sparks spread out from around the waning moon and looked down upon him. The
mind of Heaven, seeing as well as being seen.
Merlin had known his
error. He had known since the child began to quicken within Ygraine, whom he
had helped Uther to rescue from Goloris. Until then, he had thought this place
built on wisdom, but it was built only on the cold foundation of a destiny he
had failed to see. Failed to see because he had not wanted to. Oh, he could
gain all the answers that man could have, but only if he asked the right
questions, and in that asking, it seemed he was as vain and as blind as any
other mortal.
Forgive me, he said to
the darkness, the stars, but who it was he begged forgiveness from he did not
know. There were so many wronged. Forgive me.
But the stars had no
answer. Neither did the stones that cast their long shadows in the light of
moon and fire. And yet, nothing had changed. All the reading found in the
ethereal and the invisible was as it had been ten years ago. It was only his
failed understanding that had changed.
"Merlin."
The sorcerer winced at
the sound of his own name and turned. There stood Ygraine. She was stark white.
Grief had all but washed the beauty from her. Her strength remained though,
honed sharp by love.
Ygraine laid her hand
against her belly. "Is it as you said? Of our son?"
Merlin bowed his head.
"I have done many things my lady, but I have not lied to him, or to
you."
She stood there for a
long moment. He could not make himself look into her face, but he could not
fail to hear her breathing, ragged, harsh and filled with the pain she would
not let herself release. You should cry, my lady. Set that pain free. Do not
push it into your child.
Ygraine drew in one more
deep breath and let it out again slowly. "Then, I have a command from our
king to lay before you."
These words lifted
Merlin's gaze and Ygraine met it stonily. He could see nothing past the surface
of her blue eyes. Nothing at all. "What command, my lady?"
She took a deep breath
again, stroking her own belly, calming the child within her. "You will
kneel before me," she said, her voice was as cold and final as a curse.
"You will take an oath to the child in my belly that you will be beside him
always. Never will you leave him. All you do will be to guide and protect him
until he rises to the kingship his father must now abandon."
Merlin heard these words
and they rooted him to the ground. He wanted to cry out against her lie. This
was no command of Uther's. This was hers alone. He could not see it, but he
knew it. Those words of confrontation would not come to him. He could only
plead. "No, my lady. Do not so condemn your son."
Grim faced, she came
toward him. "Merlin Ambrosius, you do not get to abandon us in your guilt
and fear. You will stay, and you will do this thing, or I will go and proclaim
it through this camp that it was your hand that poisoned Uther Pendragon, for
no other could break the blessing of the stones. Then, I will stand back and
let the mob have you."
He looked into her eyes,
and saw there the rage born of grief. She was near to breaking; Ygraine had
already endured so much. She knew that it was only her body that protected
Uther's son. She surely knew that the hand which poisoned the king would easily
do as much to this son, who bore no name yet, but already had a destiny written
over the future in lines of fire.
There, caught between the
flickering torchlight and 's
darkness, with the doomed camp going blindly about its business, Merlin knelt.
He laid his crooked hand on Ygraine's warm belly.
"I swear," he
whispered. "I swear that all my life shall be to protect and aid the son
of Uther Pendragon. I swear that he shall have nothing but the best of my
service as long as I walk this earth, and afterwards if it is so
permitted."
As he spoke, visions
flashed before him, as swift and sharp as memory; the stripling boy leaping up
on the stone, holding aloft the shining sword; the flash and fury of battle
with that boy riding through it proud as a ship on the storm-tossed sea; the
grey-eyed woman on her white horse dismounting to take the hands of the young
king; the black-haired sorceress; the warrior who shone like bronze, the cup of
iron, the sound of harps, the clash of swords. Too much to hold in one mind,
too much to be compassed by a single age, all the years of mankind, and through
them all he rode. 
Merlin rose shaking. He
turned away from Ygraine and walked into the darkness. When he stood beneath
the square arch of stones and could no more feel the heat of the fires on his
back, he bowed his head.
Hoarsely, hesitantly,
Merlin Ambrosius began to weep.
And in his weeping he did
not know that Ygraine's labors had begun, nor did he see the comet arching
overhead to herald the birth of the new king.
Category:Zettel
Category:Fantasy
Category:Universe Magazine