The King's Wizard (2 page)

“I will never help you,” Merlin vowed
.

“You will,” Mab purred, her green eyes gleaming with wolf-light. “I’ll make you help me.”

But he had sworn a bitter oath on the forest graves
of his mother and his foster mother—both now dead through Mab’s treachery—that he would never use his wizard’s powers except
to defeat Queen Mab
.

But Merlin now knew how infinitely clever and treacherous Mab was, and that was why no action was safe. His only safety from
Mab lay in being more cunning than she was, more clever. So Merlin would follow the way that Mab’s sister, the Lady of the
Lake, had unfolded to him in the Land of Magic. Merlin would study wisdom, not magic, and all of Mab’s plots to make him her
tool would fail
.

But as the years passed, Merlin realized that though he had not lost his fight against Mab, he hadn’t won it either. Though
Merlin had escaped the twisting paths of the Land of Magic to live safe and unmolested in the forest that had been his childhood
home, he knew that in the world beyond the forest, Queen Mab was still scheming and planning to make her dreams for him come
true.

His visions told him so.

The ability to dream true was not a talent that Merlin had learned in the Land of Magic or a gift granted by the Lady of the
Lake. It was a skill that he had been born with, something in his blood from earliest childhood. Now that he had turned away
from wizardry, Merlin’s prophetic dreams were much stronger, and through the years, he had come to rely on them. Though his
dreams always came true, sometimes they were so confusing that he didn’t realize the truth they contained until it was too
late. But they were the only weapon he had. As a boy, Merlin had cherished
dreams of being a valiant knight, but his wizardhood had forced him to set aside his boyhood dreams long ago.

Through his dreams Merlin watched all of Britain as it writhed in the terrible grip of its tyrant king, Vortigern.

Vortigern the Saxon ruled as he had for Merlin’s entire lifetime. He crushed all rebellion with an iron hand. He was neither
Christian nor Pagan, and there were only two things he could not control.

One was the Great Dragon, Draco Magnus Maleficarum. The fire-breathing monster ravaged the West Country with his insatiable
appetite for flesh. Only magic could defeat the Great Dragon, and King Vortigern was no wizard: instead, the King preferred
to slake the beast’s appetite with flocks of sheep and the occasional virgin sacrifice, rather than fight it and lose. Vortigern
wished to save his army for other things, like his other great nemesis, Prince Uther.

Prince Uther was hungry for more than roast mutton. He was the rightful heir to old King Constant, from whom Vortigern had
stolen his blood-soaked throne. As a child, Uther had been smuggled out of Britain, and grown to manhood exiled in France.
All his life he’d been waiting for his chance to take back what was his by right of inheritance, gathering ships and men across
the channel in Normandy. Now that he was grown, Prince Uther wanted two things: his father’s throne and Vortigern dead. And
he would wait no longer to attain either of his desires.

Merlin’s visions told him that Uther would soon meet the king on the battlefield, but his visions did not
tell him whether the Old King or the Young Prince would win the war to come, nor what the cost to Britain would be of the
winner’s victory.

A high one, no matter who wins
, Merlin thought with a sigh. There had never been a year of his life when Britain had been free from the shadow of war. Even
if Uther gave up his hopes of the crown and settled peacefully in France, there would still be war in Britain, for Vortigern
had no heir to set upon the throne when he died, and Vortigern’s nobles watched the aging king hungrily, each one certain
that he would be king hereafter.

Wolves have better manners than that lot
, Merlin thought sourly as he opened his eyes, shaking off the last of sleep. His night had been restless, filled with dreams
of dragons and swords.

He stretched and sat up, looking around the snug forest cottage that had been his home from earliest childhood. He had been
born in this very room, to a mother who had died only moments later, the first victim of Mab’s meddling in his life. Since
he had returned from the Land of Magic years before, the little hut in which his foster mother Ambrosia had raised him had
been his home and his whole world.

It was late autumn, a few weeks past Samhain. Unconsciously, Merlin always expected trouble to come at the beginning of the
dark half of the year, and when the festival time had passed, he assumed the rest of the year would be quiet. But the morning
wind had brought him the news that strangers trespassed in his beloved forest. There was danger afoot.

Merlin rolled to his feet, shivering in the cold of
the small forest hut. He’d slept in his clothes: a rough tunic of brown homespun and leggings over which he wore a long vest
of deerskin to protect him from the worst of the winter cold.

Wind whistled through chinks in the thatch of the cottage, and Merlin moved quickly to poke up the fire on the hearth, holding
his hands out to the warmth he raised. Without the use of his wizard’s powers, he was as helpless as any mortal man before
the forces of Nature. Fire was the earliest magic, and a touch of wizardry would warm him, but he would not use his magic
for his own comfort. It was reserved for only one purpose: Mab’s destruction.

As he prepared his simple breakfast of herbal tea and acorn bread, Merlin’s mind was far from the simple homely tasks. What
did the coming of the strangers mean to the peace and quiet of the life he had made for himself here in the greenwood? While
a part of him hoped he would be let to live out his life within the confines of Barnstable Forest, he had always known that
this was an unattainable dream. He had always known that his fate would find him someday.

And suddenly, someday was today.

As he had learned to do over the years, Merlin calmly awaited what was to come. He finished his morning meal and then went
out into the clearing in the forest to meditate. He sank down gracefully into a seat amid a drift of autumn leaves. All around
him the circle of young trees stood like the pillars of a cathedral—a cathedral of the Old Ways that grew from the living
earth, and was not made of dead stone as were the churches the New Religion built.

As soon as the thought came to him, Merlin pushed it away. To think in terms of the Old Ways versus the New Religion was to
fall into the same trap that Queen Mab had, a trap made of hatred and distrust. Merlin chose to walk a third path, neither
of Black Magic nor White Light, a path grey as mist, where everything must be judged upon its own merits. He would not hate
the New Religion or follow the Old Ways. He would simply be as he had always been: Merlin the Wizard.

As he closed his eyes and settled into a meditative trance, the forest seemed to unfurl below him as though he were a bird
soaring far above its leafy canopy. In the eye of his imagination, he could see glints of metal far below, the helmets and
lances of his uninvited guests. They were warriors wearing the sign of the white dragon: soldiers of the king.

Why had Vortigern sent them? Even as he wondered, Merlin knew he would have to wait for that part of his answer. He was only
a thread in a pattern that forces greater than himself had begun to weave long ago, and over the years Merlin had learned
to save his strength for the most important battles.

At midday he finally heard them approach—a troop of mounted soldiers crashing through the winter-killed underbrush. There
were half a dozen of them, and riding at their head was an old man dressed as a Druid, though the reigns of two draconian
kings had managed to nearly wipe that ancient priesthood from the face of Britain.

So Vortigern has discovered he now has some use
for magic?
Merlin thought to himself.
This should be interesting
.

He got to his feet and turned to face the soldiers just as they entered the clearing.

Their captain was a man of a type Merlin knew all too well: a brute, but a clever one, who served a ruthless master with efficiency
and without conscience. The old Druid riding with him simply looked terrified, but despite that he was obviously the real
leader of the little party. “Seize that man!” the Druid blustered, pointing an accusing finger at Merlin.

Merlin tried his most disarming smile. “Welcome to my home, sir,” he said mildly. “How can I help you?”

To live in perfect trust was the first lesson that magic taught. As the years had passed here in his forest home, Merlin had
learned to live and act as if he expected goodness from all men, and such was the power of expectation that he had rarely
been disappointed. Even now such humble sorcery worked its subtle magic. The old Druid dismounted from his horse, and when
he spoke again, his tone was very different.

“Well,
er
, the king wants to see you,” he said in apologetic tones, taking a step toward Merlin—or more precisely,
away
from his armored companions.

Now that he was close enough, Merlin could see how the old man’s face was marked by lines of care and worry—though that was
hardly unusual with Vortigern on the throne.

“You have only to ask,” Merlin said gently. Because of his forest seclusion, Merlin had been spared
most of the fear that the ordinary people of Britain faced in their daily lives. But if Vortigern was asking for him, Merlin
knew that Queen Mab must somehow be behind it.

“You’ll come voluntarily?” The old Druid did his best to conceal his surprise. “Ah, that’s good. Most people are reluctant
to meet King Vortigern. In fact, they’re usually dragged in screaming. Not that I blame them,” he added hastily. The last
of the pretense of command seemed to leave him now; as he sighed, his shoulders drooped and he suddenly looked like what he
was: a frail, frightened old man in the grip of forces larger than himself.

“I’m the king’s Soothsayer,” he explained dolefully.

Even Merlin in his isolation had heard of Lailoken, Vortigern’s Soothsayer. No wonder the old man looked so weary. The poor
creature was hated by the Christians for his pretense of Pagan wizardry and despised by the Pagans for serving Vortigern.
It was a hard life when you fit in nowhere, and no one knew that better than Merlin, who was himself half-fairy, half-mortal.

“An important position?” Merlin asked Lailoken politely. Vortigern was notorious for ignoring advice, no matter what its source.
He wasn’t likely to pay any more attention to his soothsayer than he did to his generals.

“And a fragile one,” Lailoken agreed. “I’m the third Royal Soothsayer this year.”

“He must get through them at an alarming speed,” Merlin commented. He did not need to ask why the
previous soothsayers had retired. There was only one way to retire when you worked for Vortigern.

By now the rest of the soldiers had spread out around the clearing, surrounding him and incidentally cutting off his path
of escape. Merlin saw that Vortigern’s men had come well prepared: all of them were armed to the teeth. More to the point,
they’d brought a spare horse for him to ride.

“He gets through
everything
at an alarming speed,” Lailoken said gloomily, as if agreeing with Merlin’s thoughts. The soothsayer shuddered, glancing
at the ring of soldiers surrounding them both, and then, as if only now remembering his duty, said: “You
are
Merlin, the man without a mortal father?”

“Yes,” Merlin answered, wondering why Lailoken was asking. There was no point in denying who—or what—he was: a wizard, created
by the Queen of the Old Ways to be her champion and born of a mortal mother—but a champion who would not fight, and a wizard
who rejected magic.

“I’m afraid the king wants you urgently,” Lailoken sighed. He seemed to sincerely regret his part in the proceedings, whatever
it was.

Without being asked, one of the soldiers led the riderless horse into the clearing. The man’s expression said clearly—though
silently—that Merlin would mount the animal one way or the other. Bowing to the inevitable, Merlin vaulted gracefully into
the saddle, and from that vantage point took a last look around his forest home.

Something within him told him that it would be a very long time before he saw it again.

In moments, Merlin and Lailoken were surrounded by mounted soldiers whose horses were moving at a brisk trot along the road
that led out of the forest, the road that led west… toward Pendragon Castle, and the king.

In the month since the last architect had been executed, little had changed here on the Welsh border. The building blocks
of what was intended to be Vortigern’s most formidable castle still lay scattered across the landscape as if they had been
dropped by an angry giant. The tents that sheltered the members of the court obliged to attend the king here still decorated
the grassy plain near the ridge like bright mushrooms. Beyond them, the tents housing the workers and soldiers spread in somber
and orderly rows. All day long, masons and laborers toiled to repair the destruction of the tower’s last collapse. All of
them hoped there would not be another—none more fervently than the man who huddled over a table of curled velum drawings,
cringing beneath the king’s bright gaze. He was not the best builder in all of Britain, but he was certainly the most unlucky,
for no architect in the last ten years had been able to make Vortigern’s fortress stand.

“It’ll hold this time, Your Majesty, never fear,” Paschent said nervously.

“I never have,” Vortigern said simply.

It was no more than the truth. For more than two decades, the Saxon king had ruled Britain as king by right of conquest, and
he had done it without help from either magic or religion. But Time had taken its toll, and now the aging ruler, his kingdom
beset by threats
from within and without, was willing at last to seek out new alliances. It was why he had demanded that his soothsayer discover
why the tower would not stand, even though Vortigern had never found that magic could accomplish anything muscle could not.