Merlin's Mirror (17 page)

Merlin had already relinquished the illusion with which he had clothed himself this night. Now he set out through the moon-and-shadow-checkered land to follow the old road, to be away from this place as soon as possible, drawing on the dregs of his strength to keep walking.

It was three days before Merlin saw the high rise of Camelot’s hill before him. He was very tired and hungry, though he had broken his fast at a shepherd’s hut that morning. The man had little news, except a rumor that
the High King ailed and kept to his chamber. So Arthur still played his role. But when Merlin came nearer to Camelot he saw a party of horsemen spurring down the slope at a pace that suggested some need for haste. When they had gone, Merlin made what speed he could up to the outer wall of half earth, half stone.

There were twice as many guards at the entrance, and within a bustle of men were preparing to march. The first sentry swung his spear up crosswise, barring Merlin’s passage.

“Stand!” the man commanded.

“You know me,” Merlin countered. “Why do you this, fellow?”

“By Lord Cei’s orders, none is to enter—”

“Then send a message to Lord Cei,” Merlin returned. “I am not one to be kept waiting thus.”

The man seemed undecided and there was a shadow of hostility on his face. However, one of his fellows did go off, and Merlin settled his shoulders against the firm wall to wait with what patience he could summon. He was eager to know what had happened. That Cei gave the orders here—that either meant Arthur still played his role or—Merlin tried to list the factors which might have gone wrong with their plan.

The messenger was already returning. “You are to come to Lord Cei,” he told Merlin shortly, using no courtesy in that command. Nor did Merlin ask anything of the fellow who stalked by his side through the enclosure.

All the signs were of war. Saxons? Had there been some unlooked-for invasion during his absence? He kept his ears open but he could gather little from the shouted orders and general talk of the men.

Then he mounted the inner stairs of the palace to a balcony room where Cei stood by the outer window frowning out at the ramparts. He turned quickly at Merlin’s coming and his scowl did not lighten.

“Arthur?” Merlin made a question of that name.

Cei’s scowl deepened. “How near you are to traitor, bard,” he said menacingly, “I do not yet know. When I learn ...” He held out a hand between them and slowly curled his fingers into a hard fist. “If I find it to be as I suspect, so shall 1 take your throat and crush the life out of you—slowly!”

“It would save time,” Merlin pointed out, “if you would
tell me what has happened. When I left the King was playing ill for purposes of his own—”

Cei showed his teeth wolfishly in what was far from any smile.

“So he told me. But look upon him now, healer. And if you can indeed heal, then do so speedily!”

Nimue! Merlin nearly said the name out loud. Perhaps he and Arthur had been defeated in trying to keep her from her stronghold. Poison was a handy weapon and Nimue knew her herbs well—those which were baneful, too—as he had sniffed in the tower room.

He had already turned again to the door. “I will see him now.”

If Cei had tried to stop him he would have struck the younger man down, for Merlin carried an icy fear which armed him doubly. If Arthur died . . . !

So once more he came into the King’s chamber. Bleheris rose from where he had crouched by the bed. He, too, turned a bleak face in Merlin’s direction. But all Merlin had eyes for was the man on the bed.

Arthur’s face was not flushed by any pseudo-fever this time. Rather it wore a sunken look and the skin seemed gray; it might almost have been a dead man lying there. Merlin went to work instantly, all his healer instincts aroused.

The King’s body was chill, too chill. Merlin called for stones to be heated and wrapped, put about him as he lay. Next he used his sixth sense, and that recoiled immediately. Though the fell symptoms he saw might well come from some ailment of the body, it was surely the evil of some possessive hold which kept the King prisoner.

Cei watched and now he demanded: “What is it? Yesterday when the Lady Nimue departed he was well and able once again. This morning—” He flung out his hands, his face twisted with pain. Though Cei seldom showed his feelings outwardly Merlin knew that the tie between him and his foster brother ran deep and clear. “Then that nithling, that stinking traitor—”

“He is under ensorcellment,” Merlin answered the first question. “And he must be swiftly awakened thereit.”

“You can do that?”

“With certain remedies, aye. Let me go to my chamber, but you stay here. Allow no one but the two of you near
him.” He nodded to the Pict now. “I shall be as quick as I can!”

Alive and well when Nimue departed, he thought as he strode along the hall. Then perhaps she had placed on the King one of those delayed mind-orders which would strike when she was gone. What else Cei had said did not hold Merlin’s attention now. He must save Arthur!

In his own chamber he chose hurriedly from his supplies, gathering small jars into a rush basket. And he also carried his wand with him as he returned to the King’s chamber. Once there he sent Bleheris for a pot of boiling water, then had the Pict set up a brazier into which, on a bed of live coals, Merlin tossed leaves of various sorts he hurriedly culled from his selections. An aromatic smoke arose while Merlin brewed a tankard of liquid with the water.

“His sword—” He turned to Cei. “Where is his sword?”

It was Bleheris who answered, not with words but by scuttling across the room to fetch the sheathed blade from behind a chest.

“That one came hunting,” he said as he put the sword into Merlin’s hands. “But he did not find it.”

As Merlin drew the sword and the firelight caught the blade, turning it into a shimmering bar of light, he asked of Cei: “Modred—is this nithling you speak of Modred?”

“Aye.” Cei’s voice was hot with fury. “He tried to put his will on the lords because the King ailed. They would not swear to him. Then—then he wooed the Queen. And she listened to him! In the night she rode off with Modred, and men who saw her go said she went willingly. Faugh! She is near twice his years and yet she colored like a maid when he looked at her. She deems Arthur as good as dead and she would still be Queen! What will you do now?”

“I summon our lord’s presence back. A part of him strays in a strange place and it is a place which is death to man. Now be silent!”

Merlin raised the sword until the point rested lightly, tip only, on Arthur’s forehead above and between his eyes. Though both Cei and Bleheris listened and this was not meant for the ears of common men, he began to chant. His eyes were closed as he tried not to believe that he stood in the familiar chamber of the King, but rather ranged in another place to which someone, doubtless Nimue, had banished Arthur.

There was a kind of nothingness, though odd crooked dazzles of light still ran through it. Each of those flashes was a personality which had either chosen to enter this limbo or had been banished here. Merlin’s chant rang, not as words, but rather as muted sounds. With that a path of light also spread out and out from Merlin’s own stand here. The sword was a pointer he could use in his search to locate Arthur.

Merlin began to move along that path of light while the dazzles drew back or fled away. But one red-gold flash was touched and held in spite of frenzied contortions. Seeing that, Merlin changed the flow of words. Earlier the words had been of far-seeking, now they formed an imperative summons.

Down the path of sword light came that wriggling figure, fighting because the compulsion to remain here had been set upon it Merlin’s will must defeat that compulsion. He commanded, as one who had full right to do so. Into that command Merlin poured all his concern for Arthur, his belief in the other and the mission which they both shared.

Back drew that fighting fragment of twisted light. It was fairly caught and held by the power of the sword. Merlin released his own hold on that strange far country to open his eyes.

He was never sure if he actually saw that last flicker of light slide down the sword blade to the King’s head, but he heard Arthur’s groan and saw his head move a fraction on the pillow. He had won.

17.

The breeze at the top of the windswept wall did not carry away the words of the man who stood below. Arthur, his face drawn and set in lines of haggard strain, stood firm-footed gazing down at that bard. Behind him was ranged a ragged showing of his once-proud court. Cei’s voice was a thick growl, monotonously cursing the bard, who by the ancient custom of the tribes must be free from any retaliation in physical form.

Merlin studied the man. This was so ingenious a move that he did not believe the idea had been Modred’s at all. He could see Nimue in this—or was he too ready to see Nimue in
all
which moved against Arthur or him? The plan could even have been partly Guenevere’s, for the bard below was from her father’s court, well noted there for the sharpness of his tongue and the evil twists of his mind which profaned bardic uses to his own purposes.

This was a threat which had brought proud lords and kings to dire disaster in the past: for the bard was engaged in singing aloud the tale of Arthur who lay with his own sister to beget a son whom now he hunted from him, of Arthur who was demon-possessed and no true king at all.

Since his recovery the King had refused to listen to Cei and the others who had pressed him for the instant pursuit of Modred and Guenevere. He had patiently pointed out over and over again that to pursure with a sword was to break apart the Fellowship of Britain. And that, if the Fellowship failed, Britain would also break asunder while the sea wolves would be quick to pick her bones.

Merlin had thought Modred more farseeing than to move thus openly with the old scandal. He could not expect the lords to rally to him after revealing his mother’s shame to pull Arthur down. Even though he was of the
Pendragon blood, no lord hearing this would raise his voice for Modred to wear the crown. By tainting Arthur he tainted himself. So why?

Guenevere, too, had much to lose. If she had chosen Modred as the coming ruler, thinking Arthur on his death bed, then why would she wish to dash his chances? Too many questions and they all led, he was sure, to Nimue.

If she had discovered his attack on her stronghold then her fury might have erupted, pushing her to act without the careful intrigue he associated with her, to throw aside all cover and make such a deadly attack. Nimue—he was positive of that!

On and on rang that chant, derisive, penetrating, tearing at the innermost feelings of a man who had no way of taking counteraction. Maybe Arthur could not, but ... Merlin moved. There was an answer, abrupt, perhaps dangerous in a way. Yet he could not allow this reviling to continue. In the past, mighty men of good life had been led to commit kin-murder by just such goading.

Merlin raised his wand, pointing it at the head of the bard. This was no real weapon; he was not putting an end to the law of bardic freedom of speech by physical means.

No, it was thought command which he hurled, knowing full well that the man below would never have ventured to the very walls of Camelot with his obscene attack were he not defended by shields no man could see. Merlin concentrated. The words sing-songed on.

Then suddenly the bard was silent. His head shook from side to side. He raised frenzied hands to claw at his own mouth.

Merlin’s own voice rang out: “The one who has spat forth poison now must chew on it! Speak, man of little power, speak now the truth!”

It took all the power of his will to hold the bard. He bad been very right in his belief that the fellow had come well armed. He had strong defenses of the old lore to counteract, yet he did so.

The bard had fallen to his knees. He looked straight up at Merlin now, his face working hideously as if he indeed held some fell poison in his mouth and could not spew it forth, so that it ate into his tongue and jaws. Again Merlin pointed with the wand.

“Speak out, with the truth. Give us no more lies of your
foul imagining. Who sent you to so bemire the High King?”

As if against his will the bard’s lips parted.

“She—” he said. That single word might have been wrenched from him by a torturer’s instrument.

“Give this woman a name,” ordered Merlin. “Or as you have spouted forth lies, so shall it be that the truth will be ever closed to you. Henceforth all men will know you to be a liar, and none will listen to you again. For there comes a time of judging when one answers to his own Power. And if you were true bard you would also know—”

There was red hate burning in the man’s eyes as he stared back up at Merlin. But accompanying that hate was fear, and the fear was growing stronger.

“It is the Lady Morgause who has told this thing,” he said thickly, “and how better would anyone know the truth than she?”

Morgause—the girl Merlin had seen imprisoned in Nimue’s keep? Was this the reason Nimue had kept her on hand and ready for all these years? Merlin could hear a shocked murmur of those behind him on the wall.

“You saw the Lady Morgause.” Merlin forced his calm to hold. “And you say how better could anyone know than she. How—”

Arthur’s voice cut across his own. “Let it be, Merlin. The High King does not fight with women.”

Now the grimace of the bard below turned into a snarling grin. “Speak fair, Lord King. Cling to that shadow of honor you have never wholly had since even before the day of your crowning. Let this demon’s son strike me speechless. There have been ears enough for the hearing. Men remember evil quicker than good; it is the way of the world. Even if you could by some miracle prove yourself innocent of this act, more will listen to the accusation than to any words which absolve you. Listen well! Lord Modred sets dishonor upon you. He marches now to bring justice into this land. If you would meet him, then let the Power itself decide what is right and what is wrong.”

“Good enough!” Merlin heard Cei’s instant answer to that. “Lord King, each lord who listens seriously to this foul lie is a traitor. And with traitors there is only one way of dealing. Let them speedily face the sword edges of honest men!”

A small cheer followed his speech, but Arthur’s frown came swiftly. However it was to the bard he spoke, not Cei.

“Bard, you have delivered your message. Now go.”

“And what return do you make to Lord Modred, High King?” The man accented the title tautingly.

“That I do not propose to wrench Britain apart to suit his will,” Arthur replied somberly.

“You have no choice,” the bard returned, “unless you creep away in full dishonor before the faces of all men. Remember that!”

Then he rose from his knees, favored Merlin with a last glare and strode away, his back turned without courtesy upon the King. Cei grunted.

“A spear between that one’s shoulders now,” he said wistfully, “that should be his full payment. But he is right, foster brother. You fight or else you leave full power open to Modred. And how do you think he will use that right to rule? He is a nithling. The great lords will break apart, for he will find few to do him homage. Lord will quarrel with lord, each reaching a hand for the crown. What comes of that? A riven land will open as easy meat for the Saxons. So it was at the death of Uther. Lord King, you have no choice. You ram these foul lies back down the throat of that nithling, using your sword hilt to do so, or else you stand without honor before all who have followed you through these years.”

Arthur’s set expression did not change, but his eyes turned from the retreating bard to Cei and then to Merlin. “Attend me,” he curtly bade them both, and strode along the rampart, men falling back to give him passage.

But too many faces in that company were sober, too many eyes rested on the High King questioningly. Cei’s summing up of the situation was very apt. Arthur would be damned before all men if he did not fight, and a war between lord and lord in Britain would come either way. Everything he had wrought would break apart like a fruit rotted at the core.

And Merlin, as he obeyed the King’s summons, thought of the beacon. How long, how far? To those questions he had no answers. Perhaps what he had set in motion would draw their off-world kin into utter chaos. Yet he could not see what he might have done differently at the time.

With Cei he entered the King’s chamber close on Arfour’s
heels. The King strode back and forth across the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin sunk upon his chest. There was pain in his face, such pain as no physical wound would have raised.

“Brothers,” he said, “you alone know the truth which lies behind my heritage. Aye,” he spoke now to Merlin, “I have shared the truth with Cei for he is also of the Old Blood in part But there is this: will any man, either those out there who heard that down-chant, or those who have apparently flocked to Modred, believe it?”

Cei spoke first. “If they did, brother, they would find it an evil truth and look upon you with even greater hatred. Few men will accept that there may be a race somewhere, either on this earth or off it, who are greater in gifts and talents than themselves. The priests teach that there was a Christus who was so, but he is dead. And so, being dead, men can now accept him. Yet in his time men hated and reviled him for that difference, and conspired to send him to the most shameful punishment they knew, one reserved for slaves and traitors. Men bow to gods, but if those gods appeared they would fear and hate them.

“It is the nature of man to wish to drag down to his own level all who have climbed above. You are the greatest king Britain has seen, even greater than Maximus, for you have not deserted your duty in pursuit of ambition. Had you not been given the crown, still you would have struggled to serve. Men know this and it does not make them revere you the more. Do you think that Lot, who was in position to claim the throne, loves you now? Nor may the Duke of Cornwall, nor any of those others who might aspire to your crown.

“Aye, they shall use this old scandal against you. But this was an act of a lusty youth and it can be made plain that the Lady Morgause was unknown to you as being close kin. Besides, she was one who had warmed other beds and it can be hinted that Modred was none of your true get—”

“No!” Arthur interrupted. “We do not befoul a woman’s name to answer this threat. She perhaps was—is—all that you say. But I will not hold her up meanly before all and cry ‘The woman deceived and tempted me!’ Such action is not for any king.”

Cei nodded. “So would you decide, brother. But such fairness will not work for you either. Men will accept forbearance
as an open admission of guilt. However, to tell the truth is even worse. We shall have ‘demon-born’ hurled in our ears until that cry will deafen and turn from us even the most strong-hearted of those who would otherwise support you.”

“He is right,” Merlin said quietly. “This is a time when either choice will make strong enemies. The web has been well woven; the snare is around us.”

“You are sure this is of Nimue’s doing?”

Merlin answered the King forthrightly: “As sure as if I had heard her order Morgause to teach the bard his lines. She is taking her revenge now. But there is this, Arthur, I am also certain that she can no longer speak with her guiding voice, therefore what she may do is of her own thinking. And the beacon cannot now be overset—”

“This beacon—” Cei rounded on him. “You promise it will bring the Sky Lords. In what numbers will they come, and when? Will they raise weapons to aid our King, or stand aside and let man struggle against man, perhaps then making some treaty with the victor?”

“I have answers to none of those questions,” Merlin returned. “Time to the Sky Lords does not pass as our days or years. They live much longer than we do. It may be that years will pass before their ships drop from our sky.”

Cei shook his head. “Then it is best to forget them in any plans we make. But Modred must be handled, and speedily. As yet his force will be small, but men will ride to him. And do not forget, he also has the Queen. Her very presence in his camp will argue that she believes this shameful tale and so has withdrawn from you, Arthur.”

“That I know,” the King returned. His voice sounded tired, as worn and ravaged as his face. “Men will also say that I ride out against my own son.”

“You ride against a traitor!” returned Cei forcefully. “You,” he said, turning his attention to Merlin, “this was of your doing! If your knowledge was so great and all-powerful why—”

But Arthur replied with more strengh in Merlin’s behalf than he had for himself. “Waste no time, brother, on the counting of many ‘ifs’ which lie in all our pasts. Merlin did only what was given him to do. And it is on him that all our success will lie in the end.”

Merlin, startled, regarded the King narrowly. There had been a note in Arthur’s voice when he said that, as if
suddenly the talent of farseeing had been given to him.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“When the hour comes,” the King continued in that same assured voice, “then it shall be known to you, kinsman. We each have a part to play, ill-fated though such may be. It is, as you have pointed out, Cei, well that we move to the playing of them now.”

They rode out of Camelot, not ablaze with colors waving and high confidence in their might, but soberly, yet not in any degree showing that they believed their mission any the less rightful than when they marched against the invaders.

News was brought to Arthur. The forces had indeed split, and it was true that many of the great lords, perhaps through jealousy as Cei had foreseen, were either holding aloof from taking sides or had openly joined Modred. He had dared to raise the Dragon standard and proclaim himself High King, Arthur being no fit ruler.

Cei laughed harshly when that was reported at their second night’s camp.

“He is a fool,” he said bluntly. “Does he believe that Lot, who waits now to see how fortune favors us, would allow him more days on that unsteady throne than it would take him to offer Modred open challenge?”

If Lot was one who waited, Constans of Cornwall was not. With his Boar banner waving proudly, he brought his train of fighters into Arthur’s camp. There before all gathered he reaffirmed his sworn allegiance to the King. So an old ill was forgotten and Arthur gained heart thereby, for Constans was the son of Goloris’ son, and the only other true-born lord of Arthur’s kin.