“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Peredur rushed into the glade, his own blade drawn, and stood by Merlin’s side.
“Are you all right?”
Before Artorius could answer, Culann called out, “You’d better take a look at this.” He was peering at the dead man.
They gathered around as Culann pulled off the man’s tartan-fringed black hood.
Artorius had to close his eyes for a moment and then look again to make sure what he saw was real. The man’s chin looked normal, if you ignored the strangely sharp teeth and lips covered in dried blood. But his nose . . . it was split, almost like a dog’s, with large nostrils, and hair — fur — growing down its length. The man’s eyes were unnatural as well — large, with barely any white to be seen, and the dead, yellow irises almost glowed in the moonlight. Pulling the hood back farther revealed his ears, sticking out from his head in points, with hair all over them.
Dwin shook his head. “He’s a freak!”
“Half dog,” Culann whispered.
Merlin kicked the corpse over, hiding the grotesque face. “You mean half wolf.”
Artorius had never heard his father’s voice like that before. It was thick with fear, the words barely escaping his teeth.
Peredur retrieved their two horses, and then joined the others at the freshly kindled fire.
Only then did it occur to Artorius what was strange about his father’s appearance just now. “So where’s Ector and the rest of the warriors? I’m surprised you two are alone.”
After glancing at Peredur, Merlin cleared his throat. “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about . . . you’re going the wrong way. Ector’s headed north to join King Urien against the Picti. And so we’ve come — ”
“Wait,” Artorius said, confused. “The parchment said — ”
“Forget the parchment. The envoy who posted that was lucky to escape Uncle’s wrath.”
“But the Saxenow — ?”
Merlin held up a hand, his voice rising. “Arthur, listen!”
Arthur? Had his father just called him Arthur? Just like the woman with black hair in his dream. Artorius opened his mouth to speak, but Merlin cut him off.
“Listen, all of you.” Merlin looked at each of them in turn. When he came to Artorius, there was an expression of gravity in his gaze that Artorius had rarely seen — only when he was in trouble.
“What I have to tell you has long been kept hidden. Hidden from almost everyone, especially from you, Arthur.”
Merlin reached out and placed a hand gently on Artorius’s shoulder. “Though I and your . . . and Natalenya love you as our own, you are not our true son. Your father was High King Uther, and your mother, his wife, Igerna. We’ve been protecting you from Vortigern, who slew your parents for the throne.”
Artorius laughed. This was a joke, payback for his prank in the arena. His smile died, however, as he looked around at his companions. Peredur looked relieved, Culann and Dwin seemed shocked, but there wasn’t a hint of a smile among them. He placed his hand on his tunic and felt the scar underneath. Suddenly he could hardly breathe. His name was Arthur? Merlin wasn’t his father?
“You’re the High King!” Culann said, his shock changing into a bit of a smirk.
“No, no, that can’t be,” Artorius said.
Merlin squeezed his hand. “You know me, and that I speak truth. This is why you can’t go south. The man you’d be serving killed your parents.”
“But Vortigern was Igerna’s brother . . . you’re saying he had his sister killed as well?”
“That’s my understanding. I don’t know why, except that there was a generations-old feud between the families. Igerna married Uther, her family’s enemy. Everyone thought that the wounds had been healed, but apparently that wasn’t true. News reached us shortly after we settled in Dinas Crag that Vortigern even killed your two sisters, Myrgwen and Eilyne.”
Artorius repeated the names to himself. He’d heard them before, when his parents would speak in hushed tones late at night, but he never knew who they were. His mind began to swirl with strange sensations as his entire life spun before him — all the pieces painfully ripping apart and rearranging themselves in a bent, unnatural shape.
When he finally spoke, his words came out slowly.
“So that’s why you have two names — Ambrosius and Merlin. Which means Colvarth . . . the chief bard . . . he served my father, then.” He could see the logic, now, in a way that hurt.
“Yes. Now you begin to understand — ”
“That you lied to me. You’ve been lying to me my whole life.”
“No . . . we were vague.”
“Yes. You did lie.” Both Merlin and Natalenya, the people who had been his parents, had deceived him all these years. The thought was almost unbearable. He wanted to grab on to something and break it with his bare hands, but what was falling apart was inside of him, and try as he might, he couldn’t hold it together.
“Not to hurt you. To protect you. Vortigern’s already tried to kill you twice. Word could’ve gotten out, and if he learned of your presence, then he’d have stopped at nothing — ”
“You lied!”
“Artorius . . . Arthur, I — ”
Artorius got up and strode off into the darkness. He climbed a hill, tripping on a fallen tree, slipping on loose stones, and yet kept going. No one followed, and he was glad. He needed to think. Everything he had ever known about his life had fallen away like leaves from a winter tree, and he felt cold and alone. He was an orphan, bereft of parents, and now twice bereft. His mother, Natalenya, wasn’t his real mother. His tas wasn’t his real father.
And on top of this, he’d been stupid enough to try to help Vortigern, a stone-hearted man who’d killed Artorius’s family.
Coming to a small open space at the foot of a smooth boulder that towered over him, he paused and leaned his forehead against the cool stone. As he stood there, a new thought occurred to him. Vortigern had stolen the throne. By all rights, it belonged to . . . him. But that was ridiculous. He, Arthur, was the true High King? How stupid. How perfectly preposterous.
But then he remembered the words of his chieftain, Great-Uncle Ector, when he’d given instructions about how to lead men in battle:
“Artorius, one day you will lead great armies across Britain, and you must learn what I am teaching you.” Artorius had laughed as Ector’s gaze fixed on him. “Do you hear me? You are destined for great things. Know it, and learn from my mistakes.”
Now he could see what motivated his uncle. Ector had known, hadn’t he? And Colvarth, he had said some similar things many years ago. A memory came of the old man, sitting with the Harp of Britain on his lap and playing it softly as he spoke:
“Oh, son of my liege, pay attention when I . . . speak to you. These are weighty . . . matters, matters that concern you and the very future of Britain. You must learn . . . great wisdom, for all men will look to you for understanding and judgment.”
The bard had forever spoken that way, calling him “son of my liege.” Artorius had thought he was talking about Merlin, but reconsidering it now, Merlin was not Colvarth’s liege lord. He had meant Uther. That Artorius was the son of Uther.
And it had always made him wonder how he and Merlin could look so different. As he had grown, he’d always tried to find the similarity, but it usually eluded him. He had wanted to look like Merlin. To be like his father. But if Merlin wasn’t his father, then —
Could this be the source of his restlessness? Of the deadness he felt inside, like something was missing from his life? Of the strange dreams that often came to him in the night? That sometimes even interrupted his waking world? Flashbacks of a time, long, long ago when he had lived a different life? Had a different father? Mother?
Arthur.
The name sounded so strange to him. To grow up with one name and then to find out it was false. Chosen by his parents as a lie to hide who he truly was.
; Arthur.
He sounded out the name slowly, letting his tongue form the syllables in their strange yet simple cadence. The name was British, not Roman like his false name. He knew from his studies it meant “wild bear” . . . one of the most dangerous animals on the island.
And it wasn’t like there were hundreds others named Arthur out there — there just weren’t, at least not in Rheged. The name was rare, and had become even rarer after the child’s supposed death so as not to rankle Vortigern, the new High King. If Merlin and Natalenya had not changed his name, everyone would have suspected.
Arthur.
A name rich in recent history, a name that every Briton knew and lamented. Hah! He himself had shed young tears at the tales of the High King’s lost son. Some said the child had been killed with his family. Others that he had drowned. But his parents always maintained a different story and told a tale of the child being taken as a slave into Pictish lands. The same land where Merlin and Natalenya had been taken as slaves with him.
Another truth fell into place. They had always told him that they fought the slavery because the High King’s son had been taken there. But they had never finished the story. The boy had been taken out to freedom, hadn’t he? And they had known it all along.
Artorius sat down on a tuft of moss and looked out at the moon, setting now behind the distant silhouette of hills. Like a door smeared with ashes, its mysterious white arc was pulling him, unwilling, into an uncertain future.
But where? Into darkness? Could he go there? Face that future? Face the man who had slain — no, murdered — his father?
Sunrise was just beginning to redden the sky over the eastern foothills by the time Artorius returned. Merlin was the only one awake, and he was adding wood to the fire in order to cook some oatcakes on a flat rock he had found. Without a word to his father, Artorius began to wake the others. Everyone must hear what he had to say.
Once they were all up, including a yawning Dwin, Artorius sat down across from Merlin. Everyone looked at him expectantly without betraying their feelings.
After a long time of silence, Merlin spoke. “So . . . what have you decided?”
“That I believe you,” he said, holding back the bitterness that tried to creep into his voice.
“Anything else?”
Artorius nodded. “I’ve decided where we’re going.”
“What did you choose?”
Artorius looked down. His father wasn’t going to like the decision.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do . . .”
Holding out a fist and shaking it, Artorius asked, “Do I even have a choice? Has God given me a choice?”
Standing up, Merlin began walking around the fire, as if thinking. “Surely — ”
“Even if I didn’t know that I was Arthur, God has made me thus, and I can do no other. We’re going to Glevum.”
The word struck like a blow to Merlin’s gut, and Artorius saw him wince in pain. “Why?” was all he could say.
Artorius wiped his hands over his face; he had hoped for a different response. “I thought you wouldn’t tell me what to do.”
“And I won’t,” Merlin said, continuing his pacing. “But I want to understand. The heart of Glevum is the feasting hall of the most powerful man in Britain — and he’ll do anything to put you on a spit and roast you alive.”
Merlin paused behind Artorius and placed his hands gently on his shoulders. “You look a lot like your father, you know.”
“I . . . didn’t know that.”
“What reason do you have to go there?” Merlin’s voice was soft, but Artorius could detect an undertone of desperation.
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“And fighting the Picti is the wrong thing?”
“No, just the lesser good. If the heart of Britain falls, then Rheged will be smashed between the might of the Saxenow and the guile of the Picti.”
“But Vortigern?”
“I’ve thought this through,” Artorius said. “If we don’t stop the Saxenow — Vortigern or no Vortigern — there won’t be a Britain left to be High King of. When I read the parchment calling for the muster at Glevum, I realized how focused we’ve been on Rheged’s own little problems, and I was proud that Uncle had finally called us to help in the south. I guess I was wrong.”
“We have nothing against the south — ”
Merlin said these words with conviction, but Artorius could feel how empty they were. Action is what matterred now, not good will. “I know that, Tas. But the time has come to lend our aid. The kingship — ”
“Please listen to reason,” Merlin said. “Vortigern is getting old. When he dies, you will have the perfect time to act. Not now.”
Peredur coughed. “Vortipor is his heir and will be High King after him, Merlin. Vortigern’s death won’t change anything. In fact, it might make it harder.”
Artorius stood now, mustering up as much authority as he could scrape together. It felt strange, though, to be speaking against his father, but he had resolved to go south, and he had to speak.
“And all of this is up to God. Isn’t that what the abbot would say? I’ve wanted to help in the south before, but the only news we’ve ever heard is that each year Vortigern retreats and the Saxenow take more and more land away. Well, that time is at an end. I know my purpose now.”
Merlin looked away and then back, making eye contact. Finally, he sighed and sat down. “And which name will you go by?”
“Artorius, still, I suppose. It’s the name I’m used to, and it can serve me a little longer. It’s odd, but I had a dream last night that helped prepare me for this news — a woman with black hair called to me. Only she called me ‘Arthur’, not ‘Artorius’, and she wanted me to come to her. Before you told me the truth, I didn’t understand, but now I do.”
The blood had left Merlin’s cheeks. “A woman . . . with black hair?”
“Yes.”
Merlin said nothing for the space of three heartbeats. “The woman you saw . . . was Mórgana, my sister. I advise you: Do not go to her. She’s worse than Vortigern, and has been trying to kill you and me ever since we fled Kernow.”
Artorius crossed his arms. “I didn’t sense any evil.”
“It doesn’t matter what you sensed — she’s deceiving you. Please trust me.”
“There was nothing to be afraid of,” Artorius said. “I know this.”
Merlin swallowed and looked sternly at him. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Aye,” Peredur said, rising. “We’ve wasted enough daylight. That creature may not have come alone.”
Merlin sucked in his breath at this comment and looked around, studying the woods for a long moment. Only then did he proceed. “There’s one thing to do before we go,” he said. “Long ago, when you were still a child, Artorius, and we were fleeing from Vortigern, Colvarth gave me the job of leading.” Merlin drew his sword and presented his blade to Artorius. “I now give the leadership to you, for I swore an oath long ago to your father, and now I swear it to you:
I beseech thee, High King,
and deign thee to bless with thy right hand —
The fealty of my mouth,
that I may speak well of thee.
The fealty of my heart,
that I may follow thee.
The fealty of my arms,
that I may fight against thine enemies.
And the fealty of my legs,
that I may go where thou commandest.”
Merlin paused, swallowed once, and then finished:
“For all my days will I serve thee and defend thee,
along with thine heir, and all that is right under Christ,
on the Isle of the Mighty.”
Artorius stared, shocked to hear such an oath, not just because it was to him as the High King — something he had never fathomed before this strange night — but also because it was from the man he had always considered his father. He received the sword with t
rembling fingers and asked him to rise. “No, you can’t swear this oath,” he said.
Still on one knee, Merlin looked up at him, tears shining in his eyes. “I can, and I have.”
And then Peredur knelt and did the same, followed by the solemn Culann and the smiling Dwin. As each one swore his fealty to Arthur as High King, he blushed. He could hardly stand it. Did his friends really have to do this?
Merlin thought so.
But now that it was done, the weight of it finally hit him. For Artorius, this wasn’t about authority as much as responsibility. His decisions could bring about any and all of their deaths. Was he ready to accept that? What if Dwin died? Culann? Peredur? His own father? Could Artorius live with that?
But there was no choice anymore. He had met that demon in his night of indecision and had vanquished him. Whatever happens, he had to do what was right.
Hesitatingly, Artorius spoke. “I . . . accept your fealty. May God bless it.”
Dwin grabbed his sword and stood. “Then we go to Glevum?”
“We go.”
They mounted their horses and rode off. The adventure had begun.
Once the sun had risen high enough for Merlin to see clearly, he remembered the blade he had tucked into his belt — the one from the grotesque half wolf.
Looking at it carefully, his suspicions flared again. The shape was identical to the ones that his father had forged for the soldiers serving Tregeagle in the village of Bosventor. The blade was like that of a Roman gladius, but thinner and with a few design touches that were unique to the Britons.
Turning it over, he looked at the side of the pommel — and gasped.
The mark was there: OAG, his father’s initials, Owain An Gof.
How had this half-wolf who had attacked Arthur come into possession of a blade that Merlin’s father had made?
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 9