Merlin's Harp (20 page)

  Not so, a Human in love. I saw Lancelot charge through the crowd to the stake alone. I saw him pulled down, pressed under the weight of ten men. Caught. My brother, who once killed an adder for my good, who played with me on Apple Island, who guided me through the Children's Guard…caught.

  "No," I realized aloud. "I cannot leave Lugh alone. Don't ask me why."

  Mellias said, "Don't ask me why, but I can't leave Lugh either."

  "As for me," said Merlin, "I am half Human. So I could never leave any of you."

  I looked at the two faces close to mine in the lamp light, one whitebearded, wrinkled old man; one grinning, brown Fey. I held out a hand to each of them. Merlin sat down his lamp and took one hand, Mellias the other; and for a long moment we stood in silence, handfasted.

* * *

We led the blindfolded, muffled horses from hut to hut across the dun. We traveled each alone, one hut apart. Over thatched roofs and between huts growled the voice of the crowd about the stake in the center. "Fresh bannocks!" A hawker sang, and another, "Ale for sale!"

  I shook my hooded head and muttered a curse on Humankind. A good thing it was for them that I had lost my power!

  Lugh led the dapple-gray charger Mellias had stolen. Gray, said Mellias, would blend into the background better than the black of Lugh's own charger, and the great horse could easily carry two riders. For his strength, he lost something in speed, but we counted on the shock of surprise to delay pursuit. We had had to enlarge the entrance to our tunnel to lead the charger in, risking discovery with every spadeful.

  Mellias and I led ponies, not so carefully chosen, that Merlin had sung in from the meadow. Well rested in the tunnel, they cocked their ears and danced sideways. Burdened by no baggage and barebacked, once turned loose they would run like stags.

  We all went cloaked, hooded, and masked. Beside our knives, Mellias and I carried daggers, Lugh an ax and sword—not his own trusted sword that had won him fame and glory, but a stolen sword. Merlin had hefted it, laid his cheek to it, and declared it free of any powerfully evil aura.

  Merlin was not with us. He had taken his "weapon," the harp Enchanter, elsewhere. I missed the sense of his steadying presence. Lugh's mind was bent entirely upon Gwen and the stake. Mellias thought first of Lugh. And I, leading my small brown pony forward toward the crowd, felt exposed and abandoned.

  Hearing the crowd, my blindfolded pony bridled and balked. I blew in her nostrils, whispered in her ear, and pulled her along as a Human child might.

  We came to the edge of the crowd. Over the milling heads— bare, hooded, or veiled, none helmeted—I saw the tip of the upthrust stake, surrounded by upthrust lances—the lances we would have to pass, going in and coming out. At the back, knaves jostled and argued. But the knights in front stood silent, defenseless, heads bowed, as Aefa had told us they would. No one had told Lugh that.

  I spared a bitter breath to imagine myself in Gwen's place.

  A good thing I lacked the power to truly know! Imagination, common Human magic, has its own considerable power. Hastily, I backed myself out of that picture. Even a moment's imagination had drained needed energy.

  Drawing my knife, I bent to cut the rags from the pony's hooves. Into my hood-narrowed vision came another knife, another small, brown hand. Aefa slashed the rags, straightened without looking at me, and disappeared.

  I cut off the blindfold. The pony blinked and shied at the sudden light. Her small hooves danced eagerly. "A moment," I muttered in her ear. "A moment, and you can run your heart out."

  I glanced right. A tall shadow-giant held a charger hard by the bridle.

  A horn blew. The crowd shifted, sighed, and fell silent to hear a herald announce Gwen's crime.

  Till this moment I had moved as in a dream. I could not truly believe that Arthur would order this, or that his knights would stand and witness it, or that Humans of all stations would stand and gawk at it, hoisting their children on their shoulders to see it.

  Now came the fire, real, alive, and I had to believe what I saw.

  Reaching the stake, the torches dipped down out of sight. A whiff of smudged smoke rose over the watching heads. The crowd gasped and shuddered and craned its neck.

  I grasped the little mare's mane and swung onto her back.

  To my right, the shadowy figure crossed itself with the Christian sign and mounted the shadow horse.

  I kicked the mare into action.

  She trotted into the crowd, knocking knaves, slaves, and hawkers aside. She did not want to trample people, but I kicked her fiercely forward. The smell of smoke frightened her, the tension all around, and now the sound of crackling flames. Now squires and men-atarms went down under hoof, cursing and flailing, and we were in the front row among the bareheaded knights.

  Tight faces turned to us. Some of them I knew: Gawaine, Geheris, Bedevere. I drew my dagger, and the unarmed giants retreated quickly, in good order, leaving a clear path to the stake. None raised hand or voice. Later, Lugh would remember this to his unbearable sorrow.

  Between me and the stake, faggots were beginning to burn. The flames still crackled low, but would leap at a breath. Gwen leaned against the wooden stake. Smoke already stained her white shift; flames licked at her feet.

  Lugh checked the charger beside me. Ax in hand, he leapt straight onto the pyre. The charger wheeled away, but I caught his rein.

  As when I once held two coracles together in mid-flood, one in each hand, so now I held two panicked animals together. The charger snorted and sidled, the little mare shrieked. Both backed into the crowd. Behind me I heard groans, orders, running feet. Because of my mask I could see nothing to the side; I only saw Lugh, straight ahead, chopping the stake down.

  Flame flared between us. The stake toppled. Lugh leapt through the flame, Gwen like a white sack on his shoulder. (Had the fool woman fainted?)

  Lugh slung her onto the charger and vaulted up behind. She came to enough to grab the horse's mane and add her bare-heeled kicks to Lugh's. He seized the rein from me, wheeled the charger, and gave him his head.

  A swinging section of stake still chained to Gwen hit my mare a vicious blow on the haunch. She reared and shrieked again, and I caught her mane to hold on.

  A small brown hand seized my rein and hauled us after Lugh. Mellias and I thundered after the dapple-gray rump fast disappearing behind a cloud of smoke and dust. The piece of stake swung, beating the charger to his best speed.

  Aefa had told us rightly; the whole dun—knaves, men-at-arms, knights, nobles—was gathered about the stake. Galloping down narrow streets to South Gate we met not a soul. Behind us, the voice of the crowd roared, then sank into distance. Tunnel-visioned, Mellias's hand firm on my rein, I pounded along in Lugh's dust as though kidnapped.

  South Gate loomed before us, a narrow gap in the rampart. The iron gate stood wide on its iron hinges, and beyond, glimpsed through dust clouds, the meadows stretched to safety.

  Like story-enrapt children three burly guards hunkered down left of the gate. A white-bearded bard sat on a stone before them, evenlengthed fingers on his harp strings. Beside him, a small black pony hung her unkempt head.

  We thundered down upon them. White-beard played on with never a glance our way. The gray charger pounded through the gate.

  Up leapt the guards, swords screeching from scabbards.

  Up leapt Merlin, harp in hand, and vaulted astride the black pony. From a dejected standstill the pony flew into a gallop, hurtling through the gate just ahead of Mellias and me. A javelin whizzed past Mellias's nose and thudded into Merlin's side. Merlin fell forward on the pony's neck and hung on.

  We were through and out and streaking across the meadows.

  I tore off hood and mask. Sudden light flooded my eyes, meadows bounded past. A flock of sheep drew away from us with shuddering cries. Grazing oxen raised arching horns to stare at us. I listened for hoofbeats behind and heard none.

  Aefa had turned every horse in the dun loose on the meadows.

Gildas's eyes were dark with concentration. He stared at me, brows twitching and rumpling. Spilling the story, I had tossed apples hither and yon as though sorting, without looking at them. Gildas had given up the pretense and listened with folded hands.

  When my voice died away in a weepy quaver, Gildas said quietly, "And you made your way here by an unknown way."

  ''Merlin knew the way. But Arthur must be close behind us. With Merlin hurt, we traveled slowly."

  "Our healers are skillful, but…you know he has a bad wound there."

  "Yes."

  "Look, Mage Niv. Arthur will respect our right of Sanctuary for a time. But the Queen's presence here is a…desecration."

  I turned a bitter laugh into a hiccup.

  "She is an unacceptable burden to us. This night she must go on to St. Anyes, disguised as a monk."

  "St. Anyes?"

  "A convent, half a day's ride. I thought you knew all this country."

  "Not all. Only from our forest to Arthur's dun, and north to Morgan's Hill."

  Gildas's brows shuddered. "Play with serpents, they bite."

  "So they did, Gildas."

  "The King will respect Sanctuary, I would not guess how long. In the end, horse and ax are stronger than pious words."

  "Arthur is truly pious."

  Arthur was two men, as his auras proclaimed. There was the red and orange king, who for his pride would hunt his friend and burn his wife; and there was the great golden soul, devoted to his country and his people, sacrificial beyond the scope of most Humans, and to us Fey perfectly incredible. And that Arthur was as real as the bloody-handed chief who yet hunted us. I murmured, "When Arthur comes, convince him to turn monk. He could work miracles, Gildas. He could be your church's greatest saint in history." Gildas chuckled. "I do not joke." Gildas laughed.

  A barrow creaked nearby. Gildas called, "We have mixed the piles here. Give us time." He bent to re-sort my wildly flung apples. Past our shade, in the mellow sunlight, the monk blinked and paused. Then he trundled his barrow away.

  I, too, sorted apples, this time more carefully. I murmured, "So Arthur comes and besieges Arimathea, and you hold him off for a time with the right of Sanctuary. Then what?"

  "Then he comes in, swinging his magic sword, and finds you flown."

  "You will send us all away, like Gwenevere?"

  "This very night. The Queen goes to St. Anyes. You and Sir Lancelot and his groom and my old friend go on to your enchanted forest."

  "But Gildas…Merlin can barely ride."

  "Merlin will have to ride, or face Arthur as a sacrificial lamb."

  It would not be the first time Merlin had been cast in that role. His magic had saved him as a child before King Vortigern, as prophecy poured from his lips. This time, old and sorely wounded, he might not be able to summon up power.

  I said slowly, "Gildas, I fear he will die on the way."

  "Then that will be his fate. But surely, Mage, you are a healer? You can save him."

  "I know not." Even when my power was at its height, healing had not been my best gift.

  Gildas laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  Thinking him heartless as myself, I had mistaken Gildas. Now I felt his heart through his hand. Very Human it was, warm and steadfast to the point of folly.

  He snatched it away. He had forgotten my sex. Most likely, Gildas had not touched a female shoulder since he hugged his mother good-bye and set off for Arimathea, forty years gone. He said firmly, "Take your friends to your forest, whether that be in this world or another. And come here no more, Mage Niv."

* * *

We rode a day out from Arimathea across rolling meadowlands and fields full of harvesters. Some of these still sweated in standing grain; others celebrated Harvest Home with dance, song, and play sacrifice. We passed laughing men binding a pretty girl in stalks. Lugh turned around on his charger to tell me, "Now they will throw her in the river." I was not much surprised. These were Humans, after all. "See," he said, "the bindings are loose. And the river is shallow."

  He led us on his great gray charger. Without armor he was no great weight for the horse, who stepped out proudly, glad of the exercise. We had chosen this horse for endurance and "invisibility," and now he showed another benefit: respectability. Peasants who saw him approach moved quickly aside, though his rider wore rags. The charger would pace grandly by them, followed by a hurt old man and two dwarves, or children, on ponies. I wondered what stories the peasants told of us in their taverns.

  Lugh rode easily, quiet and alert. I knew that since he had kissed his rose good-bye (while we looked carefully away), his thoughts had ridden with her. Every hoofbeat bore him farther from her. But once, when passing clouds misted the autumn sun, I saw his aura stream away behind him, a thread of gleaming energy spinning out like a spider's web to Gwen.

  (I saw it! "Gods," I murmured to myself. "I can see!" And then I saw nothing because grateful tears blinded me.)

  Lugh's loneliness for Gwen was burden enough for a fragile mind that had cracked a few times before now. Added to this, his remorse for his friends almost overbore him. Once safe, with a good head start, Lugh remembered that his brother knights around the stake had been unarmed. "I struck them down," he told me, numb with grief. "I don't remember which. I remember faces looking up at me, but not which faces. And I struck. Oh, holy God!"