The King's Wizard (5 page)

“And women?” Nimue asked. She really wasn’t afraid of him. Vortigern found this astonishing.

“Yes. And children,” he said, smiling his predator’s smile as he stalked toward her.

Astonishingly, Princess Nimue laughed. “See? I’m trembling,” she said, holding out a steady hand.

“What makes you so brave?” Vortigern asked in wonder. He circled her menacingly.

“Knowing that if you hurt me, my father and his men will go over to Uther,” Nimue said calmly.

Vortigern grimaced. Kill the girl and he lost his hold over Ardent, and his hold over the fathers of the other hostages was
weakened. He could not afford that, least of all now, when Uther waited ready to welcome any disaffected band of warriors
to swell his army’s ranks.

“Yes,” he said consideringly, “that would make you brave enough to face me. So what do you want?”

“Merlin—the wizard—is sick.”

“Then get him a physician,” Vortigern growled, once he remembered who she was talking about. The moment was sliding from drama
into farce, and if any of the fools gathered in this room laughed he’d have to kill the girl just to save face. Maybe he could
feed her to the Great Dragon and kill two birds with one sacrifice.

“There’s no cure but his freedom,” Nimue announced.

“I can’t give him that,” Vortigern said. For a moment he wondered if somehow Nimue was in communication with Uther. Christian
or not, Uther must know that a wizard as powerful as Merlin would be a great ally in the war to come.

“Then he’ll die,” Nimue said.

As if I care
, Vortigern thought. A dead wizard could be of no use to his enemy, and that was more important than the aid Merlin could
be to him. “We all die eventually,” Vortigern said, sweeping his captains with a menacing glance. “Even wizards.”

Nimue turned to go, as if she had given up. As she reached the doors she stopped and looked back, as if a thought had suddenly
struck her.

“If he does, you’ll never know about the battle. He’s had another vision. Don’t you want to know how to win?”

T
rapped in his cell beneath the castle foundations, Merlin drifted in a dream of banners and clashing swords. Victory for the
red dragon … or the white. But which—and when? The sounds of the battle merged with the sound of the key turning in the lock
of his cell door, so that Merlin did not truly wake until Nimue knelt beside his cot.

“Merlin—you’re free. The king wants to see you,” she said, shaking him gently awake.

“Why?” Merlin asked quietly. Over her shoulder he could see his guards standing in the doorway, regarding him uneasily.

“I told him you’d had a vision of Uther,” Nimue said, her voice low. “I lied—but you can make something up, can’t you?”

Merlin smiled painfully. “As it happens, that won’t be necessary. Help me up.”

* * *

The soldiers almost had to carry Merlin up the steps that led out of the dungeon, but once he emerged into the clear winter
sunlight of the castle courtyard, strength seemed to seep into him with the sun’s warmth. Though still very weak, he was walking
under his own power by the time he entered the corridor that led to the king’s Great Hall.

The news that Uther had taken Winchester without a battle frightened Vortigern’s men more than Vortigern had expected—and
terrified men, the king knew, were difficult to panic further.

“I have the biggest army Britain has ever seen,” Vortigern said impatiently. If he couldn’t frighten them, then he wanted
to refocus their thoughts on his inevitable victory.

“It may not be enough,” Sir Egbert said nervously.

Sir Egbert had led the scouting party that assessed Winchester’s defenses, and ever since he had tried to avoid reporting
his findings.

“Uther and his men follow the Christian way.”

Christians, Vortigern knew, would fight on behalf of other Christians as Pagans would not. Hawdes and Aerlius had been Christians—it
was one of the reasons Vortigern had been forced to execute them. “I thought they didn’t believe in killing,” he muttered.

“They’ll kill in a holy cause, Sire. And destroying you is a holy cause.” Sir Egbert, hearing his own words, looked stricken,
but Vortigern couldn’t work up any interest in tormenting him just now.

“How convenient. They kill when it suits them,” he muttered.

“As do we all, Sire,” Yvain the Fox said. He bowed slightly when Vortigern’s glance fell on him.

“What I want to know is: when will Uther attack?” Vortigern asked.

“Not before Spring,” Sir Gilbert said decisively, and the other lords nodded. It was one of the rules of war: fight in summer,
rest in winter. None of them would do otherwise, no matter the cause.

“Good. Then I’ll use Winter as my ally and take him by surprise.”

The stir of astonishment at the king’s words almost masked the sound of the doors to the Great Hall opening once more. Vortigern
glanced toward the doorway, and saw Merlin and Nimue entering, followed by several guards. He bounded to his feet and crossed
the room, smiling a crocodile smile.

“Ah, Merlin,” he said, reaching out to clasp the wizard’s shoulder. “I need your help. I know I’ve been a little hot-tempered,”
he added without contrition, “but patience was never one of my virtues.”

“You have so few, I wouldn’t trouble myself about that one, Sire,” Merlin answered. He longed to return to the sunny courtyard,
but he refused to allow the king to see what his captivity had done to him. “What do you want?”

Vortigern shrugged off the veiled insult. “I have to know: can Uther be defeated?”

His words woke a piercing memory of the teasing fragments of dreams that had tormented Merlin during
his imprisonment. Red dragon or white? “I dreamed a battle near Winchester,” Merlin said, smiling faintly at the king’s frustration.
“But I couldn’t see how it ended. I was too weak.”

“Dream it again!” Vortigern snapped. “I want to know who wins!”

The tension in the room was palpable, and Merlin could feel the hatred and distrust of magic that radiated from the British
lords. Once they would have welcomed magic as their natural ally, but it had been too long since a king of the Old Ways had
ruled Britain. Though he wished them no harm, even Pagans thought of Merlin as their enemy.

“And
I
want fresh air and sunlight!” Merlin responded in frustration. “Without them I can’t dream dreams—see visions. I need the
sun!”

He’d exposed the depth of his infirmity, but Vortigern, like many bullies, was mollified by a display of his victim’s weakness.

“Is that all?” the king said expansively. “Why didn’t you say so? There’s plenty of sun up on the battlements.” He nodded
toward the guards, who stepped forward meaningfully. “Go bask in it. And come back soon with what I need to know.”

Merlin and Nimue walked along the stone and wood battlements of Pendragon Castle, able finally to touch, to be together. Here
in the south, the cold weather was not yet as established as it was in the north, and the air was soft. Merlin drank in the
sunlight and clean air as if they were life itself, and the
disturbing clamor of events not yet to be faded from his mind.

But the need to make a decision remained. Should he place his prophetic gifts in the service of Mab’s ally? Merlin hesitated
at the thought. The last time he had prophesied to Vortigern, it was almost by accident, but this time it would be a deliberate
decision. There were two kings upon the chessboard of Britain—Uther and Vortigern. Which should he help to victory? Whose
victory would hurt Mab most? The choice seemed obvious, but Uther was far away—and Vortigern held Nimue as his hostage.

How can I let anything happen to her?
Merlin wondered despairingly. For the first time in many years, there was something that mattered to him as much as his vow
to destroy Mab—Nimue—and for the first time Merlin was unsure of what course to take. How could he save his love and keep
his oath?

Nimue took his arm. What lay beyond the castle walls was apparently as new to her as it was to him, and she pointed and exclaimed
at the hurry and bustle going on below them and in the surrounding countryside.

“Oh, Merlin, look! It is as if there is another city surrounding this one,” Nimue exclaimed.

“A city of legions,” Merlin said, smiling faintly at his own jest. Scattered across the rolling fields outside the walls of
the city, Merlin and Nimue could see the tents of Vortigern’s army as it massed for war. The host was enormous: through the
years, Vortigern had drained all Britain’s resources to keep his forces armed and supplied, and now, inevitably, they would
be used
… but the young lovers found it hard to care. Fate had tossed them together once more, and for the moment, that was all that
mattered.

They continued their circuit of the castle walls, and Merlin felt himself growing stronger by the moment. The thought that
Vortigern might once more lock him in that foul cell beneath the earth was a terrifying thought. What would he do to escape
that?

Merlin shook his head, willing the dilemma far from him. He had made his decision long ago, and he did not want to be faced
with any new choices. He only wanted Nimue … and freedom.

“What do you hope for most, Nimue?” Merlin asked. “When Uther and Vortigern fight, one must triumph and the other die.”

Now Nimue stopped, pointing toward the distant horizon.

“Way over there, beyond those hills, is an island called Avalon,” Nimue said wistfully. “Joseph of Arimathea came there from
Jerusalem with the Holy Grail. It has the power to feed the hungry and heal the sick. It is lost to us now, but one day a
man with a pure heart will find it and peace and happiness will return to us.”

“It’s a lovely story, and so are you,” Merlin said.

Nimue smiled at him and took his hand, ignoring the guards that loitered several yards away. Her hand was soft and warm against
his work-hardened ones, and in that instant it seemed as if they could take up where they had left off on that long-ago summer’s
day, as if the intervening years of trouble and danger they had both endured simply had not existed.

Perhaps those years had been the dream and not this shining moment. Perhaps Merlin could simply step aside from his half-glimpsed
destiny into a world where he could love and be loved as an ordinary man.

He did not then realize that his wish was so fervent because it was for something he could never have. All around him Britain
was tearing itself to pieces, and in this moment Merlin didn’t care. All that mattered was Nimue.

Far away, that golden afternoon was reflected in a giant crystal sphere that seemed to hang weightlessly in darkness. The
great scrying ball was at the center of the midnight rainbow chamber that was the heart of Mab’s power. Within this spherical
sanctuary all went on as if the New Religion had never come to Britain. Here the power of the Old Ways reigned unchallenged.

Mab stepped through the concentric rows of glittering crystals that stretched as far as the eye could see. As she crossed
the mirrored floor her reflection seemed to follow her, a silvery ghost. Approaching the ball, she tapped its surface with
one long lacquered talon. A large oval ring with a blood-red stone flashed on her forefinger, secret fires churning at its
heart. The tiny images of the lovers embraced, oblivious.

Mab smiled, baring sharp white teeth. Merlin thought he’d seen her trap and escaped it by refusing to use his magic to escape
Vortigern—but the blade now laid at his throat was far sharper and more inescapable. He’d chosen to be ruled by his human
heart and humans were subject to falling in love.

Mab didn’t understand love, but she knew its
symptoms and its effects from long observation. Lovers would do anything to keep one another from harm.

Even break an oath sworn on their life’s blood.

“Frik!” Mab rasped. “Come here. There is a journey I need to make. …”

Merlin and Nimue had dined privately in her rooms. The sun had set, and the full moon was visible in the night sky outside
her window. Her disapproving ladies in waiting hovered around them until Nimue shooed them out.

“Vortigern will expect you to prophesy for him soon,” Nimue said when they were alone. “He isn’t a patient man.”

“I know,” Merlin said, rubbing his still-bruised jaw reflectively. “But when the time comes, he’ll have his prophecy. I don’t
think he’ll like what I’m going to tell him, though.” Merlin smiled.

“Are you really a wizard?” Nimue asked wonderingly, studying his face.

“A Hand-Wizard,” Merlin said apologetically. For the first time in years, his failure to master Frik’s teachings bothered
him. Now at last Merlin wanted to be great, in order to be worthy of Nimue’s love.

“You mean there’s magic in hands?” Nimue asked, enchanted. She didn’t understand. Merlin realized that to her, magic and wizardry
were only a wonderful game. Nimue followed the New Religion; the Old Ways were less than a legend to her, and she had no idea
what his words implied.