Merlin's Mirror (11 page)

Ector spoke to Merlin. “I shall tell the Council. There will be those who will raise the cry of sorcery—”

Arthur made a sudden movement. “I am no party to sorcery!” he stated firmly.

“There is no sorcery,” Merlin replied. “There is only a knowledge which most men have forgotten. And if any
remember enough, then perhaps they may win over you. But it has been prophesied that only you shall reign.”

He held stoutly to his faith in the mirror. If that was shaken he had no secure anchor in his life, and all he had done had been meaningless. The Star Lords must have foreseen much when they had prepared the way for this hour to come.

But he was also chilled and had a queer feeling, as if he had lost something he had long treasured. His hope of finding a strong kin in this boy who had been fathered, even as he had been, by the strange beings who strode easily from star to star, that withered into dust. Even the tie he clung to when he met with Ector, tenuous as it was, was lacking here. There was no feeling of inner recognition between Arthur and himself.

Now the boy shifted from one foot to the other, looked from Merlin to Ector, as if he awaited only his foster father’s permission to be gone, When Ector nodded, he vanished so quickly it was easy to read his relief in being away from this stranger whom he might distrust more than trust.

“I have been thinking.” Ector became brisk, as if he, too, sensed a certain atmosphere of strain. “There is a stone nearby—I think it might be one of the Old Ones— well placed for our service. But will they listen to you?”

“They will,” stated Merlin grimly and briefly. “Now let us to this stone of yours,”

Ector was right, it was indeed a standing stone, very like those in the Place of the Sun, except this one happened to be alone. Perhaps it marked some long-ago victory or defeat. Power was still generated by some great deed within it, sensed when he ran his fingertips across its surface. Right for his purpose indeed.

Merlin freed the sword from its wrappings and, placing both hands on the hilt, set its point to the surface of the stone. Slowly, in a low voice, he began the chant, not to induce a stone to rise this time, but rather to open a gate for the metal resting against it. He put all the concentration he had learned into this deed, shutting out the world, leaving just the stone and the metal which he would make obey his will.

The point of the sword bored inward, as if what it rested against was not hard rock but far softer wood. Inch by inch Merlin strove to work the metal into the stone.
When it was a third embedded his arms fell to his side and he swayed, would have crumpled to the ground if Ector had not caught him.

“The ancient knowledge is a fearsome thing, kinsman.” He steadied Merlin’s body against his own, his arm tightly about the younger man’s shoulders. “Had I not seen you do this deed I would not have believed. But Arthur does not know the words of Power. Can he indeed draw it forth again?”

“It is so set that only he can do so,” Merlin said faintly. “He is of the race who have power over stone and metal, though he knows it not.” He made a strong effort, drawing on his own last store of energy. “Now we must see that the lords are made aware of the testing.”

Afterward Merlin was never to remember clearly how he confronted that assembled company. He only knew that within him that night there was an upsurge of Power so that men listened—even though he wove no illusions— listened and believed. With torches in hand they went to the stone and there looked at the sword buried in its harsh body. Thereafter they agreed that the test Merlin proposed would be their first effort to select a war leader. Even though they might well believe that no one of their number could pluck that metal forth, yet something in them yielded to Merlin’s fervor.

He himself was so wearied that he fell rather than laid himself down on the bed of cloaks and coverings which Ector provided in his own tent; he then passed into a sleep untroubled by any dreams, as spent as a man who has won a victory against overwhelming odds.

In the morning Merlin ate and drank what was given to him, tasting nothing, chewing and swallowing without knowing what he did, so centered was his whole energy on what was to happen. Later he took his place by the stone with an impatience he found hard to cloak with the outward-seeming dignity and foreknowledge which his role of prophet demanded.

They came, those of the most consequence first. Lot of Orkney stood, his face a fox’s mask beneath fox-red hair, his eyes sliding from one man to another as if he would so weigh the importance of each man to his own cause.

But under his hand the sword did not stir. In fact he jerked his fingers quickly back from the hilt as if they had
been licked by fire. Goloris’ son out of Cornwall tried, and the others, so many that their names began to mean little to Merlin. Most were tribesmen, but one or two must have been of Ambrosius’ old army, for they were clearly of the Roman breed.

Next came the younger men, some boys who had barely taken armor. Their attempts to draw the magic blade were more intense, as if they believed where their elders were of two minds about it all. Cei’s dark face was the only one Merlin recognized. He had always been too much apart from court and camp to know many.

But he held his breath as Arthur, the sun turning his hair to a gold as clear and bright as that from the Western Isle, stepped forward at last. Then within Merlin’s mind word fitted itself to word in a smooth, long-practiced pattern, though he spoke not aloud.

Arthur wiped the palms of his hands across his thighs as if they were damp with sweat. His tunic was as sun-bright as his hair, and the light seemed to draw in about him in a dazzle of flame. Or was it only Merlin who saw him so?

The boy closed a tight grip on the hilt of the Sky Sword. Merlin saw the rippling of muscles as his tunic tightened on shoulder and arm with the effort he put forth. His face was utterly serious. If no one else in this throng was wholly sure, Arthur was.

There came a protesting, grating sound. Slowly the sword loosened, came forth from the slit in which it had been set. Merlin heard the indrawn breaths, the gasps from those who watched. They had all tried—they knew this deed to be impossible—yet before their eyes Arthur was accomplishing that impossible feat.

He gave a last tug. The hilt fitted his hand as it never had Merlin’s narrower, long-fingered one. The blade was a fire as he gave a joyous laugh and swung it up through the air.

Merlin did not shout, but his words carried through all that company as if he had roared them forth full-lunged.

“Hail, Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, he who was, is and shall be!”

Awe conquered that moment. He saw even Lot’s drawn sword give a warrior’s salute to the chief. And Merlin felt the tension begin to ease out of him.

Then he chanced to glance at the gathering of women who stood a little apart. Queens and ladies had stood there
watching, perhaps each hoping in her heart that the magic of this deed would favor her lord and that she might reign with him. But among them . . .

Merlin’s hands, hanging by his sides, clenched into fists, though he might have guessed she would be here, and in some trappings of state this time, no rough green square belted about her now. No, she was tall for a woman, and slender, with a grace which made most of her companions seem like women who labored in the fields. Her robe was green, right enough, but it was richly worked in fantastic patterns, and the thread of that working was silver, just as there was a silver circlet about her dark head, one which bore a green stone to rest in the middle of her forehead.

Her eyes met his and he saw a small, secret smile form on her lips. Straightaway all his feeling of accomplishment was threatened, he was on the defensive. If he only knew what powers she could summon! The mirror had said that in using her energy to imprison Merlin in the cave she had nearly exhausted what force she could summon. However, just as that field had waned over the years, could Nimue not in turn have regained at least partial command over what she had lost?

The lords of the company were coming to Arthur, to swear their faith to him. Merlin saw Ector, as always a little apart. Two strides closed the distance between them.

“Ector,” Merlin said in a voice masked by the clamor of those greeting Arthur, “who is that woman, she who is turning away now?”

He must know what standing Nimue had at court, how much opposition she might be able to summon, either openly or more subtly.

“They call her the Lady of the Lake. For she has a hold of her own, one people say was once a temple to some strange goddess who ruled springs and rivers. But she has great power of healing and has dwelt in the court lately tending Uther until his death. It is she who bore away Morgause, and perhaps keeps her in that tower which is her own. Men credit her with the old learning. Yet if she is of the kin, never has she moved to claim it with such as my own clan.”

“No!” Merlin exploded. “She is of the Dark Ones, Ector, and her true name is Nimue. It was by her will that I have lain in prison. We must set watch on her, for she will
mean Arthur no good will, mainly because he is what he is.”

But they were too late, for, when Ector had summoned two of his trusted valley men to set watch upon the Lady, they found her gone, no one knowing where. And Merlin was left with a shadow of fear of what might come to color his days and disturb his nights.

11.

Merlin stood once more within the Place of the Sun. Lugaid’s hut was just a tumble which could no longer be discerned as any habitation of man. He wondered, not for the first time, where the Druid had gone—if he was not indeed dead. He shivered as if some foot had pressed on his own grave barrow, and the loneliness which always lay in wait beyond the circle of his will stirred like some beast crouching ready to attack. Ector—Ector had gone down beneath a Saxon ax, two or three battles ago.

Time had become not a matter of the counting of seasons but rather of battles, for Arthur was the war leader whom they had long sought. He had in him more skill, even in his youth, than Uther had ever summoned for ridding Britain of the invaders; he had more flexibility than Roman-trained Ambrosius had been able to employ in his handling of the jealous, quick-to-anger clansmen.

His answer to the inroads of the Winged Hats had been cavalry—the Black Horsemen of the borders. Horses of the Friesian breed, larger and heavier than the native ponies, which had been auctioned off nearly a generation earlier when the cavalry left the wall, mated to the also dark-coated Fell Ponies of the north, producing a wiry and strong mount, able to carry a man wearing chain armor. The horses themselves also wore protection of stiffened leather oversewn with metal links.

The Saxons, in spite of their reverence for white horses, which they sacrificed to Wotan on suitable occasions, were not the horsemen most tribesmen were. And a quick cavalry charge, tearing into massed footmen, became Arthur’s way. Ambrosius had done well in his time, holding back the invaders, pushing out those Vortigen had welcomed as a buffer against Scotti and the Picts; Uther had held precariously to the gains his brother had made. But
Arthur was ever pushing at the Saxons, forcing them back and out

More and more of them had taken to their dragon-prowed boats with their women and children, their possessions; they headed overseas, away from Britain where the continual harassment of Arthur’s men kept them living with spear and ax to hand, with no surety at the rising of each day’s sun that they would be alive to see its setting.

In so much had Arthur won.

Merlin dismounted by the King Stone, his shoulders a little bent under his white robe.

He rested both palms on the surface of the block. How young, how filled with excitement and triumph he had been on the day it was set here! He had won so easily what he had given his life to obtain. A stone ferried back across the sea, planted in the earth of Britain—an act too small to be deemed a victory.

Now he sighed wearily. He had made Arthur king, yes. But the Arthur who now sat on the throne was not the king of his dreams, nor his labors. He listened to Merlin with courtesy. Sometimes—only sometimes—would he listen with agreement. The priests of the Christ were also near at hand. And they turned on Merlin when they could with a gabble of sorcery, raking up once more the old tale that he was demon-sired.

It seemed to him now that there was always a subtle flaw in all he planned. Only three things had he done without mistake: brought this stone back to its rightful place where it could serve as part of a future beacon, freed the Sky Sword and put it in Arthur’s hand and raised Arthur himself to the throne.

But Arthur did not have the learning which the future of the Sky People depended on. His character had been formed by others. And Merlin had long since learned that Nimue had her own ways of countering all he would do.

There was the matter of the Queen. Merlin’s mouth twisted in a grimace as if a mortal pain had struck him with that thought. A king’s daughter, of such beauty as made men’s breath catch in their throats when they first looked on her—outwardly a worthy mate for Arthur. Inwardly—what? A toy, a doll, a woman so obsessed with her own kind of power, of the body alone, that her eyes were never still when she was in company; rather they flitted here and there seeking out each man to see if he was
smitten suitably by her grace of face and form. That was Guenevere.

And Merlin scented suspiciously something about her that was of Nimue, though he had never seen the Lady of the Lake since she had turned smiling from Arthur’s triumph with the sword. So long ago . ..

Merlin rubbed his hand across his forehead. He felt a great weariness of spirit, together with a foreboding he could not understand. Twice he had made the pilgrimage back to the cave, but the mirror was silent; he had not tried to break its silence, drawing instead what force lay within himself to carry on.

Still he dreamed at times, and those dreams were able to nourish his will. He saw the cities which rose in the sky, the men who mastered the ability to fly, fashioned the land itself to suit their will as a potter slaps and pinches clay into a new form. He saw what man could create, and then he awoke to the squalor and the degradation of what man had come to in this age.

He had wisdom to offer, but who would accept his counseling? Arthur—when it suited his own plans. Others—a few who came to him for healing. But the majority listened to the priests from overseas, looking on everything that was not favored by their preaching as the outpouring of evil. How and why had he come to this low ebb?

He stood apart now as if encased in uncracking ice. He could feel compassion, but he was more kin to the beasts of the fields and the forests than to man. And always the loneliness gnawed him.

His very appearance set him apart, for it seemed that he did not age greatly now that he had reached man’s estate. He prudently used the arts of herbs to alter his face and hair, bringing about the effects of encoaching years; otherwise his continued youth would also awake hostility in men who feared most of all the failing of their own powers, the approach of age which meant death in the end.

Cold and dark—

Suddenly Merlin shook his head, stood straighter. He was letting his own uncertainties defeat him. Arthur was firmly on the throne of Britain. The King had forged that peace with the sword Merlin had put in his hand. No man could seize victory unless he had first tasted defeat. This
was the hour at last, the hour toward which all his own life had been directed!

He looked about him with renewed vigor like one awakening from a dark dream. The stones stood tall and strong here, ancient as their setting had been. What had the mirror ever set in his mind—the Power that was, is and will be! And the “will be” lay before. He would bring Arthur here in spite of all the priests from overseas, take him on to the mirror. Why had he allowed shadows to lie heavy in his own mind, whisper dispiriting thoughts in his ears? He was Merlin of the Mirror, perhaps the last man of this world to hold so much of the old knowledge! He had wasted time too long. Now that Arthur did not need to hunt the invaders from his land he would be ripe and ready for the task he had been destined for, just as Merlin had been destined in turn.

It seemed to him as he threw aside that morbidity of mind that the stones blazed royally under the sun, with a flare like that of torches. They stood for torches in a manner, emblems of forgotten light in a dark world. He held his head high, straightened his shoulders.

Why had he allowed the cloak of doubt and a premise of defeat to rest on him lately? It was as if men’s talk of magic indeed held a core of truth and he had been firmly encircled by some spell, just as he had formerly been removed from the world by the action of the mirror to preserve his life. Flooding through him now was a realization of Power almost as strong as the day he had raised the King Stone from its bed of earth on the Western Isle.

Yet he also felt a reluctance to leave, to start back to the High King’s fortress-palace. These stones were closer to him in spirit than any man living. And he thought with deep regret of how he had longed for Arthur’s birth that there might be one other to share the alienation he always felt, most strongly when he was among a throng of men.

He whistled and the horse, which had strayed a little, grazing on the ragged grass about the standing stones, nickered an answer, trotted to him and butted its head against Merlin’s chest while he fondled its ears, the stand of mane between. It was one of the famous black mounts, larger and sturdier than the hill ponies Merlin had known years earlier, and more docile, lacking those quirks of independence which sometimes moved the ponies to resent the control of any rider.

After he swung up into the saddle Merlin still lingered to look on the stones wistfully. He could see the barrow they had raised over Ambrosius, that dark, forceful man who had endeavored so hard to bring back the past because only in its ways could he see any security.

Uther did not lie here. The foreign priests had claimed his body, set it under the floor of one of their rough-walled churches which had been erected on the site of a Roman temple, the very stones of that temple riven and reset to the service of this new god.

Merlin could see also the barrow they had invaded to bring forth the sword. Who had lain there? One of the true Sky Men who had come to death so far from his home? Or one like himself, a son of a mixed union? Merlin would never know, but now he found his hand rising in a warrior’s salute, not only to the man called the Last of the Romans, but also to that unknown one of a far earlier age.

As he rode out of the Place of the Sun he buttressed his own resolve. He would appeal to Arthur, take him to the mirror. Arthur was far from a stupid man; he could tell the difference between ancient knowledge and that which ignorant men of this age termed magic.

Also it was time, surely it was time that Merlin put the King Stone to its intended use. There was a certain object in the cave of the mirror. That must be brought forth, placed under the stone meant from the first to be its guardian, and then—then the summons would go forth!

Ships from the stars, ships which themselves were older than man could reckon, would come in answer. Once more men would rise to conquer sky, earth and sea! The glory of that belief exalted him, gave warmth to melt quickly the ice encasing his hopes. Man stood on the first step of a new and glorious age.

So was he borne up by his thoughts during the long journey back to Camelot, and his night dreams were the brightest he had ever had. Arthur and the mirror—the signal and the stone—

Days later Merlin rode up the rise of the ring-and-ditch fortress which Arthur had held and reworked into the most formidable hold in all of Britain. The guards knew him well enough so that there was no challenge at the inner gates. And he paused only to change his travel-stained
robe for one more in keeping with the splendor of the court before he sought out the King.

Arthur was inclined to be expansive. “Hail, Merlin.” He beckoned across the center of the board which was one of Merlin’s own ideas, a circular dining place where no quick-tempered chief or petty king could claim that he was slighted by being placed below another with a lesser claim for notice. Being round, none could say that his fellow was more advantageously placed than he.

“Hail, Lord King.” Merlin was quick to notice a new face among the familiar ones. Cei was no longer at Arthur’s right hand, though the foster brother, for all his uncertain temper, had been the King’s comrade from the beginning. No, here was a new youth, hardly more than a boy.

Looking on the dark face of that stranger, Merlin suppressed a sudden shiver. If Arthur had nothing in his features of the presence of the Blood, this youth showed it more plainly than Merlin had yet seen it, except in his own mirrored face.

Familiar was that look, yet also strange. For the eyes which peered from under the veiling lids were hard, unreadable. Those sullen and watchful eyes were old beyond the apparent years of the boy’s body; they more than hinted at some vengeance. . ..

Merlin took his imagination firmly to task. He should be glad at this moment that one of the Old Race was here. Yet there was nothing in the youth to which he could warm.

“You are in time.” Arthur gestured and his own cupbearer hastened to produce another cup of hammered silver, fill it with the wine from overseas and hand it respectfully to Merlin. “You are in time, bard, to drink to the health of one of the Pendragon blood new come into our service.” He nodded to the youth. “This is Modred, who is son to the Lady Morgause, and so my own nephew.”

Merlin’s hand closed tightly about the goblet. He did not even need that sly, darting look from the boy’s eyes, a look which measured him in a way alerting him to danger, to know the truth.

Arthur’s nephew? Nay, Arthur’s son by that slut whom Nimue had taken into hiding. And by that single glance at him, Merlin was also sure the boy knew the truth—or the part of it which could cause the most harm for Arthur—
that he was indeed the King’s son, and by a lady who was reputed the King’s half-sister.

Merlin drank, knowing that his long training in hiding his feelings must now serve him better than ever before. “Lord Modred.” He nodded to the boy. “The Pendragon blood is in honor.”

“Aye.” Arthur smiled. “He is in good time to blood bis sword and show what mettle he has in him. For we have had the coast lights up along the Saxon shore. These war dogs yet sniff around for some mouthful of prey to snatch. We ride hunting again—”

The King’s face was a little flushed, his eyes alight Merlin, looking at him, knew that no argument he might use now would stop Arthur. He must set aside his own plan of confronting the King with the mirror, so letting Arthur learn bis heritage and true purpose. And Modred ... Modred who was the King’s son was fostered by Nimue. That Merlin also instinctively knew. She had had a long time, as earth men measured time, to prepare the shaft. Now she had launched it. To the malice of one who sees himself bereft of a rightful place, add the iron will of Nimue. She had a formidable weapon in this youth.

Though caution moved in Merlin, so did anger begin to rise. It was always Nimue and from the first he had been far too influenced by her good fortune. Now he would seek her out And how better find a road to her than through this Modred who was her creature?

Merlin listened to the excited talk of a new expedition against the Saxons. But as he sat in his place at that round board he raised his eyes to the gallery of the great hall, there looking from one fair face to another. It was the boast of the Queen that she had in her train the most beautiful women of Britain, having no jealousy in any threat of comparison.