The Hallowed Isle Book Two (10 page)

There was a murmur of comment at that. Artor allowed it to continue for several minutes before lifting his hand for silence once more. In two years he had at least learned how to manage a council, even if he did not yet always have the confidence to impose his will. Silently, Merlin projected his aura towards the boy and allowed some of his own energy to flow into it. To the others, there seemed only an intensification of his presence, which focused their attention until everyone was still. At first, the fifteen-year-old king had needed such bolstering constantly, but along with his father's armor, he was growing into his power.

“I think we agree we're going to have to fight somebody—” Artor's grin was reflected in the faces of some of the younger men. “And the choice seems to be between Icel and Ceretic. They are both dangerous. Tell me what we have to fight them with, and maybe that will help us to decide.”

If you want to know how the colt will run, look at his breeding,
thought Merlin, hearing echoes of Uthir's easy style. It sounded ingenuous, but clearly Gerontius had been talking, for it was obvious, when you looked at the problem, where the men and resources would have to come from if the British intended a spring campaign.

“By the end of this month my people will be done with the spring planting,” said Docomaglos. “I can have three thousand men on Ceretic's doorstep before he gets word we are moving. We can hit hard and fast and drive him into the sea by Pentecost.”

“That reasoning seems good to me—” answered Artor. “Catraut is right—Icel is a problem, but I think we'll tackle him with more confidence without Ceretic's spears pricking between our shoulder blades.”

Merlin suppressed a smile. Uthir would have said “. . . poking up our backsides.” But without the crudities, the boy certainly seemed to have inherited his father's knack of putting men at ease. The northern princes not only dropped most of their objections, by the time the council ended, they had even promised to send men.

It was the sound of swordplay that led Merlin to the king. After dinner, most of the princes had gone back to sit and talk and drink by their campfires, watching the daylight fade from the sky. When the druid went to look for Artor, he found that most of the younger men had disappeared.

He hardly needed magic to find them. Just outside the town, where the river flowed quiet through grassy meadows, two figures strove, shadow against shadow, the last of the sunset flickering from their swinging swords. After the first shock Merlin realized that they were doing slow work, bodies moving with the graceful deliberation of dream. But it was still dangerous. He drew breath to stop them, then let it slowly out again. He could not keep the boy swaddled forever; Artor was almost a man.

But it was a boy's voice that protested, laughing—“But how can I touch you, Gerontius, when I can hardly see?” He danced back out of range and stood leaning on his sword, breathing hard.

“If the enemy makes a night attack you won't be able to see, or in the dust of the battlefield, or if you take a head wound and blood blinds you.” Gerontius straightened, his voice cool and unstressed.

A third figure, by his voice, Cai, spoke up—“At least in battle you don't have to worry about hurting your enemy.”

“If you can see which ones
are
the enemy,” said Artor. “Once battle is joined, Gerontius, how do you
know?
”

“If his spear is pointed at your belly, he's an enemy!” said one of the others.

“If he shouts at you in Saxon—”

“If he's facing the opposite direction from your line—”

“Artor is right—” Gerontius cut into the discussion. “In the confusion of battle it can be hard to tell friend from foe, especially now, when our warriors and the Saxons copy each other's gear. What I am trying to do with this exercise is to teach you to perceive your opponent with senses other than sight or even sound.”

“Ah . . . Merlin has showed me something of that . . .” said Artor. “He said you have to sense your enemy's energy, to become one with him. But I'm not good enough to risk it with the blade, so—” He stooped suddenly, scooped up something from the grass and flung it.

There was a blur of movement and then a thunk as Gerontius's sword struck the incoming missile and smote it to bits.

“Wretch!” he said, over his students' laughter. “If that was a cow patty, I will make you clean this blade.”

“No,” Artor caught his breath on a whoop, “only a piece of sod.”

“Very well.” Gerontius tried to sound stern. “And now it truly
is
dark, so I suppose we must bring this practice to an end. There should be time for some more work tomorrow morning, however, before the
consilium
begins again.”

“Not more meetings!” exclaimed Cai over the murmur of talk as they began to gather up their gear.

“Do you think that several thousand men and all their gear are moved into place by magic, as they say Merlin sang up the stones to make your father's monument? There is still a great deal of planning yet to do . . .”

As the group started back toward the buildings, Merlin fell into step beside them. Artor had learned enough to sense
his
presence—Gerontius started and went for his sword when the dark shape appeared at the king's elbow, but Artor only sighed.

“Your teaching is done for the evening, but there is still time for some of mine,” Merlin said to the warrior. “Take the others back to camp. I have something to show the king.”

“He must be guarded—” objected Gerontius.

“Do you doubt my ability to protect him?” He drew in a breath of power, holding it until even the warrior must be able to see his glow.

“Do you doubt that I will track you down and break every sorcerous bone in your body if you fail?”

“Stop it!” exclaimed Artor. “I feel like the bone, with two dogs growling over it. Go on, Gerontius. I'm sure we will be back soon.”

“Yes, my lord—” Gerontius's voice was harsh with reluctance, but he obeyed.

“We
will
be back soon, won't we?” asked Artor when he had gone. “I've worked hard this evening, and I'm tired.”

“No. But we will take horses, so you can at least sit down.”

Artor stopped short. “Horses? Where are we going at this hour?”

Don't you trust me?
thought Merlin, but trust and reason made poor bedfellows. He remembered suddenly something that the Saxon witch had told him about her god, that he sometimes seemed treacherous, betraying men for their own good, or some purpose greater still. Maybe he himself was a little like Woden after all.
If you learn to trust me in small things, that I can explain, perhaps you will obey when the time comes to follow my lead without knowing why. . . .

“We go to the Giant's Dance. It lies six miles hence. If we go now we can be there before the moon is high, and I do not know when we will be in this part of the country again.”

There was a long silence. “My father is buried there. . .” Artor said at last. “Very well. I will come with you.”

The standing stones cast long shadows, stark in the moonlight. In silence Artor and Merlin rode around the circle. The plain stretched away before them to a horizon dim with distance, its pale, moonwashed expanse broken only by the line of mounds.

“Who set up those stones? What are they for?” asked Artor, eyeing the henge circle uneasily.

His father had asked the same thing. Remembering, Merlin began to tell him of the ancient tribes and how they had watched the stars.

“The plain is so empty,” Artor whispered when he had finished, “as if we were the only living beings in the world.”

Merlin looked around him, seeing with spirit sight the need-fire that danced above the mounds.

“The only ones living, perhaps—but these spaces are thronging with the spirits of those who have gone before. That is what I have brought you here to learn. All things pass, but nothing is lost.”

Artor swallowed. “Where is my father's grave?”

Merlin pointed toward the last of the mounds, the one they had raised next to the mound of the lords killed in the Night of the Long Knives.

“He lies there, with Ambrosius his brother.”

“I never knew him . . . If I could meet him now, I wonder what wisdom he might have for me?”

“They say that if a man sits out the night on a sacred mound, by morning he will be mad, or dead, or a poet. We must be back at the camp before dawn, but if you wish, you might sit there for a little while.”

“Is it dangerous?” Artor's voice, the druid was pleased to note, held not fear, but a healthy caution.

“The dangers are those you bring with you,” he answered. “Anger for anger, fear for fear. Remember what I have taught you, and you will do well.”

And if he does not, I may as well go back to my northern forest and stay there,
Merlin thought wryly,
for my life will not be worth a denarius here!
But his fear was not for the boy's physical safety. If Artor failed this testing, then everything for which Merlin had worked and suffered would be lost as well. And for the druid, this place held its own dangers; it would be fatally easy to come too close to the nexus of powers that met here, and be drawn through into some other world.

And so, as the young king took his place upon the mound that held his father's bones, Merlin his teacher sat down upon a boulder a little to one side of the line of power that ran from it to the henge of stones, to watch with him while the moon sailed serenely westward and the skies wheeled towards dawn.

When, in the grey hour before sunrise, the druid called his charge to come down from the mound so that they could begin the ride back to Sorviodunum, the boy's face was drawn, his eyes scarcely seeming to focus on the world. It was not until they were nearly back to the encampment and the first streaks of light were awakening the sky that Artor sighed and the bleak look began to leave his eyes.

“Did your father speak to you?”

“Don't you know?” The boy's voice held mixed wonder and bitterness.

“You are a child of prophecy, as am I, but our choices are our own. And this was
your
mystery,” Merlin said gently.
I must learn
. . . he told himself,
to let him go.

“Yes . . . I think he did . . .” Artor answered then. But he would not tell what the spirit of his father had said to him.

Oesc caught the blur of motion against the blue sky and dodged, thrusting up his wooden shield. The stave thwacked home with a force that nearly knocked him from his feet. He stumbled backward, shield-arm throbbing.

“You blocked well, but you were off-balance,” said Byrhtwold, resting the oak stave on the ground and leaning on it.

“That hurt.” Oesc let the shield slip off and rubbed his shoulder.

“No doubt. But without the shield a blow like that would have broken your arm.”

“If I had a weapon I could hit you back,” said Oesc. “You act as if I were still twelve winters old!”

“Maybe, but if you lose your blade in battle, only your shield will save you until you can grab another weapon,” the old man replied. “Because you have been in a battle you think you are a warrior. I think you have habits which you must unlearn. So we go back to the beginning. When you can hold me off with shield alone you can practice with the blade. In the meantime, keep strengthening your sword arm.”

“Chopping wood?” Oesc asked with a sigh. “That's thralls' work, I only did it before to strengthen my arm.”

Byrhtwold grinned. “But good practice. And if you cannot master the skills of the folk who serve you, how will you keep them to their work?”

Oesc nodded, recognizing the futility of argument, and Byrhtwold handed him the stave.

“Tomorrow morning we will practice again.” Byrhtwold turned away, then paused, relenting. “Be patient, lad—you will be chopping something more than wood soon enough. Ceretic has asked that you come with the men your grandfather is sending to Venta Belgarum. You are going to war.”

Oesc stood watching as the warrior walked away, his mind in a whirl. The morning was sunny, though great puffy clouds like hanks of wool were moving in from the west, casting dappled shadows across the wall of the old theatre that dominated the remainder of the city like an old oak, after a storm has blasted all the lesser trees. No doubt there would be rain before evening. When his father first brought him to Cantuware, he had thought the buildings that still stood in Durovernum the work of etins. Then he had seen Eburacum and Verulamium, noble still despite their battle-scars.

But Venta had never been destroyed. Venta had welcomed the Saxons as the rightful heirs to the empire, as Gallia was welcoming the Franks even now, and the Visigoths had been received in Iberia. Even Durovernum was becoming Cantuwaraburh on men's tongues.
We are the future,
he thought, and if he marched with Ceretic, his own name might live in that future as well.