The Old Magic (8 page)

He shook his head, pushing the hair back out of his eyes, and ruefully assessed the damage. He’d lost the honeycomb somewhere
back at the beginning of the chase. His skin was scratched and his clothes were berry-stained and bramble-torn. Aunt Ambrosia
would not be pleased—she always said he was far too hard on his clothes. Maybe some wildflowers or rare herbs would appease
her, although frankly Merlin doubted it. The effort was worth making, though. He looked around, to see where he was and what
might be growing here.

Funny. I don’t remember ever seeing this place before.

Since he’d been old enough to venture away from his own front door, Merlin had roamed the forest. He’d been sure he knew every
inch of it as well as Aunt Ambrosia knew her own kitchen.

He’d never been here.

It was later than he’d realized at first; almost suppertime. The evening light shone down upon a forest pool that welled up
out of a cleft in the rock behind it. He was hot and thirsty from his long run; kneeling beside the water, he cupped his hands
to take a drink.

Another face stared up at him from out of the water.

“Yah!” With a startled cry, Merlin jumped backward and fell sprawling. Common sense reasserted itself a moment later, and
he advanced warily on the spring. This time, when he looked down, he could see that the face that had gazed up at him was
a carving, not a living thing. He drank thirstily, and then carefully cleared away the debris and leaves that had fallen into
the pool over the years until he could see the carving clearly.

It was a carving depicting the faces of three women, cut into the granite at the bottom of the pool by some long-forgotten
master craftsman, as perfect and beautiful as the day that unknown artist had laid down his chisel. Two of the faces were
shown in profile—one facing left, one facing right—with the third one gazing straight ahead. The three faces shared a certain
resemblance, but each was subtly different. He did not know how he knew them, but somehow he did—a secret knowledge that emanated
from some secret place within. Once—before the Christians, even before the Romans—these had been the gods of Britain.

Mab-Morrigan the Warrior—Lady of Ravens, Queen of Battles—Titania the Maiden—Bright Enchantress—and Melusine the Mother, Mistress
of the Silver Wheel. …

The one facing left was a young woman: Titania. The Maiden’s cheeks were full with youth, and her cheek was dimpled with a
hidden smile. Her hair was long and flowing, and it was braided with wildflowers, each blossom carved in such loving detail
that Merlin fancied he could almost reach into the pool and pluck them from her hair.

The one gazing straight ahead was older, a woman grown, somber and purposeful: Mab-Morrigan. This was the Lady in her aspect
as Warrior: Her mouth was set with solemn determination, and there was justice but no mercy in her expression. Her eyes gazed
steadfastly into his. She wore the coronet of rulership upon her brow, and clusters of ravens’ feathers were braided into
her hair.

The third of the three faces turned toward the right: Melusine, the Mother. It was the face of an older woman, her features
marked with lines of both joy and pain. The Mother’s hair was braided and coiled upon her head, and held in place with jewelled
hairpins depicting the moon and the stars.

Carved into the stone above the center face, Merlin could see the crescent moon and triple spiral that marked a shrine of
the Old Ways—Ambrosia had told him how to recognize such places, though she’d told him little else about the Old Ways. From
what people had said in his hearing, Merlin had gotten the idea that all the shrines to the Old Ways had been smashed, either
by Constant or by Vortigern. But if that were true, they seemed to have missed this one.

Nobody knows this place is here but me.
Delighted with his secret knowledge, Merlin flopped onto his belly and gazed down into the pool.

The Warrior aspect of the Queen of the Old Ways disturbed him obliquely, and the Mother-self reminded him of his Aunt Ambrosia.
But the Maiden, her eyes downcast and a secret smile upon her face, seemed to him in that moment to be all that Merlin had
dreamed of in his unfocused dreams. Gazing at her, all the vague longing he had felt for so long crystallized with a sharpness
that bordered on pain.

Come to me,
he thought to the beautiful image.
I’m all alone. Aunt Ambrosia has her work, and Blaise has his god, but what is there for me? You are all there is of love;
I can see it. Come to me, come to me—I need you. …

But the Power he called to with all the passion of an untutored young wizard had long since lost the ability to love that
filled young Merlin’s heart. Ages ago the Queen of the Old Ways had lost that gentle loving part of herself—Time and War had
cut away her maiden and mother selves, leaving behind only the warrior, Mab-Morrigan of the Ravens. She could not hear the
cry of a young lover’s heart any longer, let alone respond to it.

But such a call could not go unanswered. Somewhere in all the world, there must be someone to hear. Merlin gazed into the
water, and saw the reflection of his face shimmering over the Lady’s own, giving the carven features the illusion of warm-blooded
life. But when he reached out his hand to touch her face, the ripples his fingers made as they brushed the surface of the
water shattered the image into a thousand bright dancing rings. …

The candle flame cast bright rings of light on the mellow stone walls of the abbey. The sound of the bells tolling for evensong
drifted in through her window, and Nimue wondered what life would be like when she could no longer hear them each evening.
Would church bells ring in the shadow of her father’s castle? Or would she join her father at King Vortigern’s Pagan court
and never hear the church bells again?

Nimue could not suppress a small shudder. Vortigern had been the bogeyman of her childhood, the threat that had commanded
her obedience. Her family had always been loyal to King Constant, but things had grown so bad in the last years of the mad
old king’s rein that Ardent had welcomed the new usurper even as he helped to smuggle Uther and Lionors, King Constant’s family,
to safety in Normandy.

But Vortigern had swiftly proved to be as bad a king as Constant, and so Ardent had sent his only child to the holy sisters
of Avalon for safekeeping. Nimue had grown from gawky child to poised young woman safely behind the walls of Avalon, isolated
from the troubles of the world.

But not unaware of them. Each messenger from her father had brought fresh—and often disturbing—news from outside. Vortigern
trusted no one, and kept his barons close about him at his court rather than leaving them at liberty upon their own lands
as Constant had. He had abandoned Constant’s royal city at Londinium to begin building an enormous city in the western hills,
a city that would be dominated by a fortress named for the white dragon that was his emblem: Pendragon. He taxed the people
of Britain heavily to pay for all his building, and many were turned out of their homes for the inability to pay. Destitute
and starving, the people cried out for help and no one listened. Every year it seemed that things could be no worse, and every
year things managed to become more terrible than the year before.

This was the world that her father had summoned Nimue back to. The messenger had come early this morning, entering as soon
as the gates of the abbey were opened. As soon as an escort could be gathered for her, Nimue would head north to her father’s
castle, and from there to Vortigern’s court.

What will happen to me? What will I become?
she wondered. There was a marriage in her future almost certainly—a loveless marriage of duty to whichever noble her father
commanded her to wed. Nimue sighed. She had learned love in her years at Avalon, but she had learned duty as well, and it
was her duty to marry where her father ordered, to strengthen the web of political alliances that kept the land from plunging
once more into civil war.

But what if Uther comes back? They say he has begun to gather troops in Normandy to invade Britain and retake the throne.
When that day comes, which side will our family be on? Who will my husband support?

Who will
I
support?

The question was a startling one: In all her sixteen years, Lady Nimue had never considered the possibility that her opinions
might differ from her father’s. But now, as she faced that possibility for the first time, Nimue realized that she had very
strong opinions—and she did not want to marry some nobleman who was blindly loyal to Vortigern while there was a possibility
of civil war once more. War meant a new king, and the chessboard of politics tipped over yet again.

What shall I do?
she wondered. She could not defy her father—nor did she wish to. But perhaps she could persuade him to wait—to wait for the
savior of Britain to appear at last.

I feel as if I already know him somehow,
she thought, staring absently into the candle flame—and as she did, the flame seemed to swell and swell until all the world
was filled with light and her eyes were filled with visions.

At first she saw only familiar sights: green meadows and a young spring lamb bleating lustily for its mother. But in the very
instant she recognized the peaceful scene, it changed.

A white dragon swooped down from the sky like a hunting hawk. Its scales glittered like hoarfrost and its breath left grey
ice everywhere it touched. It pounced upon the lamb, its cruel claws digging deep into the young flesh, and carried it off
into the sky.

But then a red dragon, with scales that shone like fresh blood and a hot breath that withered the grass upon the ground, dove
out of the sun to attack the white dragon, fighting for its prize. As the two battled, the lamb fell to the ground, too injured
and terrified to run. Whichever dragon won could easily devour it.

Nimue stared, transfixed with horror as the two dragons fought on until it began to seem that the whole world would be destroyed
by their war of fire and ice. But just at the moment she began to despair, a shining falcon, with feathers as gold as the
sun, appeared out of nowhere to attack both dragons. Its piercing cries drowned out the roaring of the dragons, and its shining
ivory talons left long bloody gouges in the scales of both beasts. It seemed as if only moments passed before both dragons
fell lifeless to the ground, and the falcon folded its wings and followed them ground-ward.

But the poor lamb—
It seemed that the lamb’s fate was to be devoured no matter who triumphed, but just as the bird’s talons touched the earth
it shimmered and became a golden young man wearing a great feathered cloak.

Who are you?
Nimue cried silently.

He picked up the lamb and cradled it tenderly against his chest, and then looked up as if he could see Nimue watching him.
His eyes were the deep green of the forest, and as their gazes met she felt his look pierce through her, as if in that instant
he knew all about her. He smiled, and her heart beat faster in response.

Nimue wrenched herself free of the vision with a gasp, her heart beating as wildly as a caged bird’s. The bells still rang
for evensong—what had seemed to take hours had in fact taken only seconds.

She got to her feet and began to pace in agitation, the face of the golden young man still before her mind’s eye. What did
the vision mean? Was it an angel she had seen? The words she had heard in her heart when he had looked at her still echoed
through her mind:
You are all there is of love. Come to me, come to me—I need you—

He was late for supper, and Aunt Ambrosia scolded him severely, but even that could not drive the image he had seen from Merlin’s
mind. For a moment he had seen a flesh-and-blood woman in the pool—a woman with dark eyes and soft brown hair and a mischievous
smile. Seeing her had made him aware of an emptiness where no emptiness had been before, an ache he did not know how to heal.

His foster-mother remarked on his absent-mindedness in the following days. He knew it worried her, but he could not find the
words to allay her fears. There was something he had to do, something he had to find. He did not know whether it lay within
him or outside him, but there was something he needed to know, to learn.

The milk jug crashed to the floor with a loud thud, spewing milk all over the floor. Merlin stared at it as if he’d never
seen it before, startled out of his daydream.

“Out!” Ambrosia lifted the hearth-broom menacingly. “A wild boar would be more use in the house than you are! What’s gotten
into you, Merlin?”

“I don’t know.” The boy hung his head, staring at the jug. “Sometimes I just—”

Ambrosia reached out and hugged him, ruffling his hair. “I know, Merlin. It isn’t easy for you. But this is a difficult time.
You have to be careful.”

Why does everyone keep telling me that?
It seemed to Merlin as if he was always being warned about something these days, but no one would tell him what it was. Once
again he felt the flash of cold selfishness, as if some other self were struggling inside him, striving to be born. Again
he pushed it away, but each time he felt it, it seemed to be stronger.

“Why don’t you just run along, then, Merlin. It’s such a beautiful day it seems a shame to be indoors. I can finish up the
spring cleaning by myself,” Ambrosia said. “But be sure you’re back in time for dinner. I’m making your favorite: buttered
parsnips.”

Merlin smiled in anticipation of the feast. He backed carefully toward the door, alert for any more milk jugs lying in wait.
By the time he’d reached the edge of the clearing, he was running, his vague preoccupation forgotten.

If he had known then that this was to be his last day as a boy running free in the forest, Merlin could not have chosen a
better way to spend it. He visited all his old friends and favorite places, feasted on fresh honeycomb and raspberries, and
idled through the afternoon with nothing more pressing on his mind than the need to get home in time for supper.