The Broken Sword (16 page)

It was blind.

A creamy blue film completely covered its eyes. The wolf seemed to be looking at Taliesin through two shafts of moonlight.

Maybe he doesn't know I'm here, he thought wildly. If I'm still, if I'm very quiet…

Go to your father,
a voice said.

Involuntarily, Taliesin snapped his head around. There was no one besides himself and the wolf in the still valley. Yet the voice had been so clear!

The animal was still facing him calmly, those blank, unseeing eyes seeming to peer at him from the depths of the universe.

He is dying. Make your farewells. Go. Mona will wait.

A thin cry of fear and confusion escaped from the boy's throat. The wolf blinked its slitted eyes slowly. Then, with a graceful swoop of its long tail, it walked back into the fog.

Taliesin stumbled toward his horse and untied it with wildly shaking hands. Of course the wolf had not spoken, he told himself. No one had. The voice, as he remembered it, had been neither young nor old, male nor female. Not a real voice at all, but some trick of the imagination borne of the cold and the mystery of this deserted place. It would be foolish to go home now, to give Uther another chance to kill him.

As he mounted, he heard again the weird, compelling music from the island, and it broke his heart.

"Mona will wait," he whispered.

He turned his horse toward the east and, with the rising sun stinging his eyes, headed at a canter back toward Ambrosius' castle.

H
e remained at court
only long enough to say good-bye to Ambrosius, who had raised his bastard son like a prince. Uther, who had scowled in suppressed rage when the boy rode into the castle gates, was finally appeased when Taliesin rode back out with nothing more than his instruments and a few books. He was, in fact, so pleased with his half-brother's voluntary banishment that years later, when Taliesin's name was known throughout Wales and his songs were remembered and sung in places as far away as Cornwall and Scotland, Uther invited the famous bard to sing at the castle where the two of them had once shared a father.

And Taliesin had accepted, as he had accepted the invitations of all the petty chiefs who called themselves kings, though they all knew that, since the Romans, there had been no real king to rule Britain.

The Romans had come some four hundred years before. They had built roads, established cities, introduced bathing, brought books, even officially recognized some of the local kings as honorary citizens of Rome. An ancestor of Ambrosius himself had been granted this honor generations before, which was why his chiefdom had been permitted to stand. The machine-like invaders from their warm land to the south had deemed this family "civilized"—meaning that the clans so honored were less likely to attack the Romans as they went about the business of Romanizing Britain.

Or tried to. They had been trying for centuries to instill the Pax Romana on the wild tribes of this northern land. Beginning with Vercingetorix of Gaul, the Romans had systematically eliminated every leader capable of uniting the disparate chiefdoms. They had burned the villages of the rebellious, starved the uncertain, murdered by the thousands the women and children who wandered as refugees, preferring to live off the meager fruits of the uncultivated earth rather than look to their conquerors for succor.

But their efforts had been for nothing. The wide Roman-built roads went unused by the proud Britons. Their magnificent baths were smeared with dung. And the populace, from farmers armed with wooden pitchforks to the educated honorary Romans and their genteel wives, had never, not in four hundred years, ceased to fight.

By the time Taliesin was born, the Romans had all but vanished from Britain, maintaining only a small number of garrisons in England to protect their towns populated almost exclusively by Romans and their mixed-blood descendants. In Wales, the soldiers were almost never seen.

"It is because of Mona," the Welsh whispered among themselves. "The druids keep them away with their magic."

Any Roman worth his salt wages would have laughed at such an idea. The druids were of no consequence, the useless relics of an ancient folk religion whose tenets were so lost in time that the people no longer knew what they were. Oh, the warrior chieftains occasionally prevailed on the gray-robed holy men to cast some sort of spell or other (which, more often than not, didn't work), and the farmers in the barbaric countryside still coupled with their women in the fields, believing that the act of procreation would bring about a good harvest, but there were no services in this dying religion, nothing to connect the druids with any sort of reality. No, despite the fierce patriotism of its inhabitants, the real reason the Romans had abandoned Wales was that there was nothing in that desolate land worth taking.

Still, the stature of the druids grew during the Empire's slow retreat from Britain. When Rome itself began to suffer from constant attack by nomadic barbarians and the far-flung legions were recalled home one by one to defend their besieged city, even the conquered Britons in places as Romanized as Londinium began to believe that this had been the work of the druids who manipulated the stars of destiny from their mysterious island.

"If only the holy men could give us a king to unify the chiefdoms," mused the people from one shore of Britain to the other.

This was not lost on the hundreds of rival chiefs. A unified land would ensure that no invaders would ever again occupy Britain. And the man who brought about that union would be the greatest king who ever lived. In consequence, the departure of the Romans signaled a new era of civil warfare which divided and weakened the nation more effectively than any assault by a conquering foreign army.

"Britain is ripe for invasion," Taliesin warned Uther during a private moment. "While we fight among ourselves, ruining our crops, wasting our weapons, and killing our best fighting men, any half-organized army could come in and take us with one hand."

"The Romans will not be back," Uther said, drunk enough from the evening's mead to pass a few moments of idle talk with the half-brother he had once so despised. "They know better than to fight us again."

"It wouldn't have to be the Romans. Before long, the whole world will know of our pitiful condition. Already the Saxons are making their way toward us. The chiefdoms along the eastern seacoast have already seen fighting."

"The Saxons!" Uther roared with laughter. "A Saxon couldn't win in combat against a Welsh farm girl!" He waved dismissively at Taliesin. "Go play your music, bard. Sing songs of my conquests, and leave your political opinions in your weakling's mouth, where they belong."

Taliesin did as he was instructed. He lifted his sweet, high voice in songs of brave deeds tailored to his audience, as he had for the past six years. In that time he had crisscrossed Britain, from its filthy cities to the sleepy farms in the plains; from the wild highlands of the Scots to the sea-swept rocks of the south. They had been wonderful years, filled with adventure, brimming over with worldly pleasures. He had dined with more kings than he could remember. He had ridden into battle, his harp bouncing against his horse's flank, his blood on fire. He had lain with women, spoken with scholars, formed friendships with men who would have torn one another apart on sight, yet opened their hearts to a visiting bard. For six years Taliesin had gobbled up life with both hands, and a full banquet was still before him.

And so it had been so very strange, that night in Uther's court, when he realized with a dreadful suddenness that his life as a bard was over.

It had occurred in a moment, at the mention of a single word…

Tintagel.

It was Uther's new castle to the far south, acquired through a series of conquests and alliances. Taliesin had known about it; indeed, much of the stronghold in Wales where they were presently gathered was in the process of being packed up for the journey to Uther's new lands, which afforded him a better position to jockey for the title of High King. But it was Uther's own utterance of the word that struck such a weirdly resonating note in Taliesin that the song he was singing died in his throat, and the last chord he had plucked upon his harp rang out in solitude for a moment, then faded away.

Uther continued talking briefly, until the weight of the sudden silence caused him to turn his head in the direction of the bard, whose eyes were staring back blankly at him.

"Well?" he snapped irritably. "What is the problem?"

Taliesin himself did not know what the problem was. He was, in fact, unaware that he had even been eavesdropping on Uther's conversation. Usually while he sang, there was nothing in his mind except the song itself, its music transporting him back to whatever state he had been in when he composed it. But when Uther had spoken the name "Tintagel," the word had cut like a sword through every association in the bard's mind, taking his spirit out of the castle where he could see his physical body holding the harp on which the strings of the last chord plucked upon them still vibrated.

He found himself on a boulder-strewn shore, looking up at the stone fortress of Tintagel. There was no wind; the place was silent except for an eerie, rhythmic sound like muffled drums. As he watched in awestruck wonder, twelve arrows leaving trails of blinding white light fell out of the sky, sweeping across the horizon until they were out of sight. Then, before his eyes, the castle crumbled and vanished, leaving behind its single occupant, a young man wearing a circlet of gold upon his head. The rhythmic sound increased, and Taliesin realized that it was the man's beating heart that he heard, filling the very sky with its power.

Bewildered, Taliesin tried to get to shore, but he lost his footing on the boulders and fell, nearly tumbling into the ocean's waves. He cursed while he wrung out his sodden sleeves, then pulled himself up onto one knee before realizing that he was not alone on the treacherous rocks. The old blind wolf he had encountered years before sat quietly on its haunches on a flat stone in front of him. This time Taliesin knew better than to fear the animal's presence.

"Who is he?" he asked quietly, knowing the wolf would answer.

He is your destiny,
the white eyes communicated.
And you must forge the tools to prepare for him.

"How? With my music?"

No, your life in the world has ended for a time. You must follow me now.

"Where?" he asked, confused. "Where do you wish me to go?"

The wolf rose from the rock where it had been and walked away, over the water into the setting sun.

"I will do as you will, but I must know where to go!" Taliesin shouted after the retreating wolf.

He heard nothing more until Uther asked him dryly: "Well? What is the problem?"

Taliesin looked around at the faces staring at him, then strummed a chord on his harp. He began another song, since he had no idea what he had been singing since he fell into his waking dream.

A dream, he thought. Yes, that must be it.

His arms were cold. He looked down. With each chord he played, droplets of water from his wet sleeves spattered onto the instrument.

A
lthough he had been
planning to remain at Uther's court for several more days, he left immediately after that night's performance. In his mind, the moonlight eyes of the old wolf pulled at him like a magnet, even though he did not know where he was being pulled; and so he followed the moon.

It led him to the crest of a hill, the first of the foothills leading west. Taliesin smiled and shook his head. But of course the wolf would have led him here! It was in these fog-enshrouded foothills that the creature had first spoken to him of Mona.

Mona will wait,
the wolf had said with its blind yet all-seeing eyes.

Then he heard it again, for the first time in six years, the ancient chant of the druids during the darkest hour of the night, drifting faintly toward him from the island of magic. It filled him to trembling. Its awesome perfection was no less wonderful to him now that he was a grown man and a musician rather than the raw boy who had first heard its strains, and its pull on him was no less compelling than it had been then. He only wondered how he could have forgotten it for so long.

Taliesin rode the rest of the night to the shore and sold his horse to the innkeeper who offered him the night's lodging. In the morning, before dawn, he hired passage on a small boat and, with the sound of the druids' Salutation to the Sun ringing loud in his ears, finally made his crossing to Mona.

T
he candle in the
ship's hold had burned down an inch or two. Outside, the wind buffeted like pounding hands against the hull, but the ship was large, and held steady.

Beatrice's eyes, still transfixed, were beatific and calm.

"By all that's holy, I do know you," Taliesin whispered.

She smiled softly.

It was the second time he had recognized her. The first was sixteen centuries ago, in Mona.

B
y the time he
reached the island, the druids had stopped singing. So silent was the island that, watching the retreating shapes of the boatman and his vessel rowing back across the channel to Wales, Taliesin wondered if he had come to the right place.

It was said that druids could make themselves invisible at will. It was also said that anyone who dared invade Mona would suffer the unbridled wrath of their fearful and powerful magic. Taliesin felt his skin crawl as he walked down the foot-worn paths searching for some sign of life. There were no buildings here, not even the great hall where the Innocent spoke to his disciples. Yet the wooded paths, indented to trenches, spoke of years—perhaps centuries—of use. Every single rock large enough to sit on had been worn smooth with use. No, they were here, he was certain of it. They just weren't showing themselves to him.

Surely he would not be considered an invader, he told himself. The wolf had led him here. In his vision it had walked westward into the setting sun. Westward, to Mona.

The wolf…

Would even a druid laugh at his tale of a blind wolf who spoke to him with its eyes? Had he just imagined it all in his poet's brain?

He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes in anguish. "I am a fool," he whispered.

And a voice said softly behind him, "That is a beginning."

He whirled around to face a man in a gray hood. His face radiated such serenity and goodwill that Taliesin's fears immediately evaporated. "Were..." He hesitated, but could not keep himself from asking. "Were you invisible?"

The druid smiled. "No. I was still."

Years later, Taliesin would also know the secret of the druid's stillness, a stillness that originated in the very essence of his body and soul, a stillness so perfect that he could stand in a crowded room without being noticed by anyone. But at the moment, he could only tremble in fear at the wizard's magic.

"Come," the druid said. "The Innocent has been waiting for you."

"Waiting? But I didn't say I was coming."

The druid's expression was amused. "Nevertheless, I was asked to watch for you," he said.

A
ccompanied by the druid
, Taliesin now saw not dozens, but hundreds of gray-robed disciples walking calmly about the island, talking together or sitting silently in meditation upon the smooth rocks. It struck him that Mona was one of the most populous places he had ever seen, and wondered how he could possibly have missed such a dense collection of individuals.

But where did they live? Nowhere, among all the humanity that teemed on the island, was there a single building.

Perhaps they didn't need them, Taliesin thought as he followed the druid past lakes and streams as undisturbed as if no human had ever set foot near them. Mona was the pinnacle of the druids' achievement of mind: Here was where the chief druids from thousands of enclaves throughout Britain and Gaul gathered to renew their powers; here was the place where those raised from childhood to the life of the spirit came to undergo initiation and testing. Here lived the Innocent himself, who understood the innermost mysteries of the higher realms, surrounded by his chosen disciples. Perhaps at this level, shelter from the elements was no longer a necessity.

But again he eventually saw the truth, and was surprised by it. When the druid knelt to enter the sod-covered opening of a cave, Taliesin noticed that the area was covered by tall mounds. Mounds! He almost laughed aloud. They lived in turf-roofed mounds, probably of the same design as the dwellings of the very first humans in Britain.

Even the great cave where he entered was part of a hillside, all but obscured by living grass and new flowers. It smelled of the earth, clean and fresh as the outdoors. And so he understood from the beginning of his time in Mona that the druids, for all their learning, dwelled upon the land like the most humble of creatures.

The interior of the cave was as simple as the outside. Aside from a fire that vented through a hole in the sod above it, almost no effort had been made to make it resemble anything other than what it was. The walls dripped with damp; overhead, bats circled. Their backs to the entrance, ten druids flanked a large granite altar, in front of which stood a frail old woman, her bony arms outstretched in silent prayer.

The Innocent.

The druid with Taliesin pressed him forward. He could barely bring his feet to move. None of the fantastic stories he had heard about the great wizards had shocked him more than this. A woman!

The Innocent lowered her spindly arms and laughed. "While you are here, you will have to examine all your values," she said in a resonant voice completely at variance with her effete appearance. Then, slowly, she turned to face Taliesin so that he might feel the full effect of her eyes.

They were blind, as milky and opaque as the wolf's, and yet they seemed to stare right through him into his very soul.

Taliesin felt himself shaking uncontrollably.

"Do you know me?" she asked.

"I do," he answered hoarsely.

"Do you know why I have called you here?"

"The dream," he stammered. "I had a dream while playing music..." But of course she would know that. "There was a man in it, a man you called my destiny."

"So he is. Though the man has not yet been born, he will one day become king of this land, a king who will bring order out of chaos and elevate the whole of mankind with his life. And you, my singing poet, must prepare to teach him how to do it."

"I?" he asked. "But I know nothing about..." He looked at his hands. "I know nothing at all."

The Innocent smiled. "Then you shall have to work very hard at learning," she said gently. "Are you ready to begin?"

Taliesin fell to his knees. "Yes, master," he said. "I am ready."

"I
was twenty-one years
old when I came to Mona," the old man said. "When I left, I was forty."

Beatrice took his hand. "Were they very difficult, those two decades?"

"Yes. I remember thinking bitterly that you'd shrunken me to a seed."

"A good analogy, Taliesin. You should have told me."

"As if I had to tell you anything," he said, giving Beatrice's hand a squeeze.

"Although an egg might be better."

"An egg?"

"You did hatch, you know. You became the Merlin, the great magician of the gods."

He smiled. "The Merlin. It is a title I have never deserved."

"Oh, I think you have. You gave up much for the magic—the love of women, the joy of raising sons and daughters, the companionship of friends. These were never yours. There was only the magic." She touched his hand with one delicate finger. "Was it enough, little bard?"

Taliesin looked into the girl's blank, impossibly old eyes.
Was it enough?

He remembered the years of loneliness during which he'd envied the poorest peasant for the simple joys he himself could never have. Yet in that loneliness, the magic had brought him moments of transcendent happiness.

"Who can say whether it was enough or not?" the old man answered quietly. He sighed. "I think I might have preferred to remain an egg."

I
n order to become
the Merlin, Taliesin had to first discard everything else that he had been. It was the first step in his journey toward the holy life, and the hardest task he had ever faced.

He was no longer the brilliant bard known from one end of Britain to the other. He was not permitted to play his instruments, lest his pride be bolstered by those who might take pleasure from hearing his music. To lose the arrogance of his intellect, he was denied the use of books or paper so that he would not be tempted to read or write. He was forbidden to use his knowledge of herbs to treat his sick brethren, even when all other attempts had failed. To forget that he had been a king's son, the other druids were ordered to shun him and behave as if he were invisible. He was allowed to attend the druids' services, but not to participate. Each dawn, when the community gathered to sing the Salutation to the Sun, Taliesin could only stand outside the circle of initiates, his eyes cast down in acknowledgment that he was an outsider.

Each week he was brought before the Innocent to confess his faults.

"My mind wandered during the moon reverence," he said at his first confession. It was the only thing he had done which could possibly be construed as a fault.

The Innocent fixed him with her blank, blind stare. "What were you thinking?"

"I... I was remembering the first time I heard it. I was lost in the foothills on the mainland—"

"You will no longer be permitted to attend the moon reverence," she said.

Shocked at the severity of her punishment for such an insignificant transgression, he willed himself to perfect concentration during all of the services left to him. When he came before her the second week, he said with all sincerity, "Master, I have done nothing wrong."

For his arrogance, the Innocent removed his right to attend the Salutation to the Sun.

The third week, he confessed to being lonely. His sleeping blanket was taken away. It was late fall, and he shivered so much that he could not sleep.

By the fourth week, he was angry.

"What are your faults?" the Innocent asked.

"Whatever they are, I will be punished with unnecessary harshness for them, so do what you will," he said.

The cold eyes stared, unblinking.

Taliesin was made to remain in a sod mound in the earth. Inside, it was too small for him to stand erect. Since there was no hole in the ceiling, he could not build a fire. His blanket had not been returned to him. A meal of bread and water was left outside the mound-dwelling once a day, and once a day the container filled with his bodily wastes was removed and replaced by invisible hands. In his earthen prison, with only worms and insects for companionship, he could barely hear the faint strands of music from the Salutation to the Sun, and he never saw light.

It was the life of the living dead Taliesin lived, and more than once he wished that he were truly dead. His body itched with vermin. His mouth was filled with sores. For weeks—or months; he quickly lost all track of time—he waited patiently, penitent for his outburst, comforted by the certainty that this was a trial and that it would pass. At times he would weep without realizing it, his tears falling on his arms and legs like foreign objects.

When his food came he crammed it into his mouth with his fingers and drank his small ration of water, longing tor more. He retched when he carried the clay pot filled with his excrement into the tunnel leading to the outside. In time he stopped taking it out at all.

One day he began to scream, and found that he could not stop himself from screaming. The rage inside his heart poured out of him like venom, wordless, pointless. This was not punishment. It was torture. He had not deserved such terrible injustice. It was not his fault that he had been born into the nobility. His talent and intellect were not faults; they were gifts, gifts that anyone with eyes in her head could see were useful and good!

He felt some measure of guilty pleasure at the thought of the words
eyes in her head.
The Innocent had no eyes, in more ways than one. She was nothing more than a wicked old woman wreaking revenge on men. It had probably been a man who had blinded her.

What of the male druids who served her? he wondered. Had they, too, submitted to this humiliation? Were they so spineless that they believed torture was the way to enlightenment? Or were they the sort who enjoyed abuse?

He crawled to the entrance of the mound. Like a mole, he thought, or a beaten dog. His legs were like dead weights. Well, he would force them to stand when he got out. He would walk out of this nightmare with the dignity of a man. The world outside was waiting for him. It hadn't changed.

Nor have I.

The thought occurred to him just as his hand reached the entranceway. It was night outside, but lit by a full moon. He turned his arm back and forth slowly, watching the play of moonlight on his filthy skin.

It was hard to think. His mind had become undisciplined in the hole where he had allowed himself to degenerate into the creature he had become.

"The dignity of a man," he repeated aloud. He had no dignity. She had taken it away from him.
She,
the blind bat who had sent him to this torture. She, who had made him crawl for so long that he had lost the use of his legs.

Taliesin shook his head. His legs... It wasn't about his legs, really. He did not need legs to possess dignity, any more than the Innocent needed sight.

He had been told to live in the earth, but not in squalor. His books had been removed, but no one had told him not to think. He had been prohibited from playing music, but not from hearing it in his soul.

And yet he had done none of those things. He had changed nothing about himself to adapt to what was, but had merely waited and railed and wished for what was to become something else.

The Innocent had done nothing to harm him, Taliesin realized: He himself, alone, had possessed the power to make him something less than a human being.

And he alone could make him something more.

He went back into the darkness, to the stinking chamber pot that crawled with maggots, and brought it into the tunnel. When he came back into the mound, he reached up to its roof with tentative fingers. He had been told to remain inside, he realized, but he had never been forbidden to change the mound itself.

"The darkness," he croaked, scratching furiously at the hard-packed earth. "I never had to accept the darkness."