Taliesin picked up another rock, this one heavier, and threw it, but it went wide.
Necton spit blood out, kicked Garth to keep him down, and then stabbed the spear into Ector’s back.
Ector collapsed, his visage wracked in pain.
Taliesin screamed. His uncle couldn’t die, he couldn’t!
A flurry of rocks rained down now, and Necton ducked as he jammed the spear deeper in.
Ector fell to his side and writhed, finally spasming and then falling still.
Necton grabbed Garth, lifted him up as a shield, and backed down the mountain.
When the Picti were far enough away, Eira was the first to open the gates and run screaming to her husband. Mother, Bedwir, Caygek, and Brother Loyt ran out after her.
But Taliesin didn’t go. He couldn’t go. It was too horrible — an evil dream that he wanted to end but that wouldn’t go away. He wanted to cry, but Withel was standing next to him, and so he held the beastly tears back, sucked in his breath, and let his soul burn instead.
Arthur gulped as his adoptive father was prodded forward. The vessel of vinegar, which Arthur had not yet delivered, felt suddenly cold in his hands, and the room began to roll under his feet. Arthur lurched to the side and caught himself on a nearby standing stone. Thankfully, with everyone’s eyes on the stranger being marched to the front, no one noticed.
“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Vortigern said.
Reinwandt dropped the High King’s hand and briskly returned to her chair.
The warrior with the spear stepped to the side. “I foun’ him, my lord, hidin’ in the woods. If it tweren’t for him crackin’ a branch, I’d’a never noticed him, the sly fellow.” The warrior used the butt of his spear to shove Merlin forward.
Vortigern straightened and looked down his nose at Merlin. “Take off your mask.”
Merlin dropped his hood to his shoulders, pulled the mask off, bowed slowly, and then looked Vortigern squarely in the eye.
The king’s face paled. He mouthed Merlin’s name, but no sound came from his lips.
“Yes, it is I, Merlin, come back from slavery and exile.”
Vortigern began to shake, and he rasped out, “And the child? Where is the . . . the child?”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. The High King was asking about him, but didn’t seem to realize how close the two stood.
Merlin looked fiercely at the king. “I saw the boy die.”
“He died?”
“Yes.”
Arthur’s first reaction was that Merlin was lying, but soon realized that this was a subtle truth. He felt the old, thick scar through his tunic and a flash of pain and fear from his deepest past assaulted his mind.
Vortigern lurched forward and grabbed Merlin by the collar. “I don’t believe you.”
“It is the truth.”
Vortigern slapped Merlin across the face, and Arthur winced. Merlin had been right all along: the king really did hate him and wanted him dead, and the reality of this slipped into Arthur’s soul like a cold knife.
Hengist placed a hand on Vortigern’s shoulder and spoke in his halting British, “Ef you need to verify de truth, Reinwandt can do such. She will be your wife before de night es over, so you may command her.”
Vortigern looked to his young bride for confirmation of this, but she was glaring at her father.
“Come . . . my bride!” the High King said. “I must know the truth of these words.”
Reinwandt rose from her throne with a pout on her lower lip and strutted like a cat over to Vortigern.
“What do you desire, O betrothed?” she said, but there was ice on each word.
“Tell me . . . does this man speak the truth?”
She turned to face Merlin, and though she was shorter, the malevolence of her presence could be felt from across the room. Merlin shifted his weight backward ever so slightly.
“Hold him!” she said to the warrior, and the man took hold of Merlin’s arms.
She placed a hand on his forehead, and though he tried to jerk his head away, he could not. “Tell me the truth,” she commanded, “did the child die, the one of whom Vortigern speaks?”
Merlin’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he appeared to fall into a deep sleep.
Arthur held his breath as Reinwandt began to chant in the language of the Saxenow. Would she discover the truth by reaching into Merlin’s mind using her evil, pagan power? Perhaps only moments remained before Vortigern would have Arthur hung on a stone gibbet. He could almost feel the rope being cinched around his neck as the dead corpses hanging behind Vortigern’s throne swayed in the draft.
And then to Arthur’s surprise, Reinwandt’s lips began to move silently, mouthing the same words over and over, until finally Merlin’s voice came from her own throat. “The boy died . . . the boy died . . . the boy died . . . the boy died!” And then she screamed as small wisps of smoke began to ooze from her hair, her arm, and the hand that lay upon Merlin.
She tried to pull away but could not.
Merlin opened his eyes. “You have asked a question of me,” Merlin said, “and now I will ask a question of you. Tell me, will there be peace?”
She screamed again, but did not answer.
“Will there be peace?” he demanded.
She looked up at him, her eyebrows twitching and her mouth open wide. “Yes . . . there will be . . . peace!”
She finally jerked her hand away and fell to the floor.
Arthur gazed at his father in wonder. Merlin’s eyes were aflame with a holy light, and he looked at her grimly. “Now in the name of Jesu, leave me alone, witch.”
Reinwandt crawled away from him, and then, rising, ran to her father and into his protective arms.
Vortigern grabbed Merlin once more by the collar, and gave him a last, searching look, suspicion etched in every line of his face. “So he died? You’re sure of this?”
“Yes. I saw it happen with my own eyes.”
After glimpsing no lie in Merlin’s face, Vortigern relaxed and the air went out of him. He let go of Merlin and returned to his throne, collapsing upon it.
Arthur tried not to move a muscle even though his insides were shaking.
Merlin still stood before the two kings, who looked at each other as if they had no idea what to do with such a one. And then Merlin did what Arthur had seen him do hundreds of times. It was so familiar, in fact, that it did not occur to him at first how much of a revelation it was to those that watched. Merlin pulled his harp from off his back, unwrapped it, slung its leather strap over his shoulder, and lifted it before the assembly of warriors.
The druid, Podrith, snarled from beside Vortigern’s throne, but Merlin ignored him.
“Behold!” Merlin said. “I make known to you that which has been hidden for many long years. Witness the Harp of Britain!”
All eyes turned to glimpse the beautiful instrument, made from wood so ancient that it seemed even older than Hen Crogmen itself. Delicate designs adorned its rich surface, and Arthur never tired of seeing their profound and mesmerizing patterns. And the strings! The strings of purest gold fairly glistened in the light of the bonfires.
“Thief!” Podrith yelled, and the other druidow joined him. “Return the harp to us, for it belongs to the druidow.”
Merlin turned to face them, and his voice held an authority far above anything Arthur had ever heard. “Do not pretend, Podrith, chief dunce of Vortigern, that you are unfamiliar with your own laws. In light the harp was made, and only in light may it be given. It is the law of the land that the Harp of Britain may be passed down by the chief bard to the successor he chooses. Only if he dies without having freely given it does it return to the gorseth of brihemow, to be bestowed upon whom they choose.”
“You stole it!” Podrith cried, spit flying from his mouth.
“Not true!” Merlin said. “Bledri mab Cadfan, Chief Bard of Britain, chose me by prophecy and gave the harp to me. He is the one whom you have perjured and
named Colvarth.”
Podrith hissed at the name and covered his ears.
“And as final proof of my right to bear this peerless instrument, behold the song of a true bard.”
Merlin smiled at Arthur, shifted his black cloak and the silver brooch pinning it in place, and began to play, bringing forth music so beautiful and poignant that all those present listened with amazement. And as his fingers flashed upon the strings, Merlin walked slowly back and forth in front of the thrones, locking gazes not only with the warriors, nobles, and provincial kings who sat there, but also with Vortigern, Hengist, and the fearful Reinwandt.
And this is what he sang:
Come see the sputtering candle as it gathers forth its flame,
And hearken to this long-lost tale of Gowan’s greedy claim.
One hundred years ago it was, at Dyfed by the sea,
When Peul Prydain and his girl capsized upon the key.
Now Peul was a warrior brave who’d slain a giant green;
The little girl, hiding in brush, the battle she had seen.
Vile giant, with a coat of leaves, had madly swung his axe,
Yet Peul deftly struck him down, so bold were his attacks.
Then burying his wife, now slain, they did not fail to weep,
And Peul took the green, stout, axe and sailed across the deep.
But when their boat came near the shore, it swiftly met its doom,
And up they climbed, weary and cold, to fortress dark in gloom.
Here Merlin deepened the timbre of the notes, and continued.
There was a man, Gowan by name, who met them at the door.
Fancy his clothes, bright were his shoes, and eating roasted boar.
“O please, kind sir, give us good fare, and warmth beside thy fire,
For we are lost and wet and froze, our need of thee most dire.”
Gowan did laugh at their sad state and would not help at all,
But then he saw the bright green axe — so sharp, so grand, so tall —
And in his heart did crave this thing, and want it for his own.
“Grant me the axe, for food and warmth,” he said in deadly tone.
Sad Peul turned, looked on his prize, for this he could not do.
It was his quest to show his lord, and he would see it through.
So he refused and said they’d go to find a nearby farm.
Inflamed, Gowan did seize the axe, and swung, intent to harm.
Merlin’s notes became piercing as he struck the strings quickly with his nails. Arthur felt the tension tighten within his chest, as if the song itself had reached inside with a mighty fist and squeezed his living soul.
Then Peul pled with grim Gowan, and made an offer fair,
That Gowan could cut off his head, if he would truly swear
To take good care of his daughter, for one year and a day.
Then he’d return to take her back, and claim her straight away.
Gowan did mock at this fine joke, and vowed and pledged and swore,
Then he cut off the poor man’s head, and felled it to the floor.
So Teleri Prydain did weep, and mourned her father’s death.
She buried him within the hall; it took away her breath.
Merlin played this last stanza with deep sadness, and right as he sang of Peul’s death he struck a high note so loudly that the gold string broke, and its demise reverberated through the hall. Merlin paused a moment, and then continued.
A year, a day, the time did pass, but Gowan was so cruel.
He beat her hard, he locked her up, and only gave her gruel.
Yet in that year she grew so tall, and beautiful as well.
He promised if she’d kiss him then, he’d free her from her cell.
Merlin took a deep breath and then sang on, successive hints of sorrow, anger, and finally hope touching his fine, strong voice.
But she refused and suffered hard at Gowan’s calloused hand.
On final day did Peul’s son appear upon the strand,
And Gowan mocked the youth so lean, and sat upon his throne
With bright green axe fixed o’er his head, a prize held on the stone.
But Peul’s son was not dismayed, and said in voice so loud,
“Murderer, thief, and fraud art thou, and death shall thee enshroud.”
And then he stamped his foot upon his father’s grave so cold.
The axe, it fell, cut Gowan’s neck, and then his proud head rolled.
The girl was free, the people glad, and Peul’s son was king.
They held a feast, splendid and fine, that year in sunny spring.
In justice did he rule the land, to Dyfed’s utter fame,
And we remember well the tale of Gowan’s greedy shame.
Merlin stilled his fingers upon the harp, yet the final notes echoed off of the standing stones before dying to a palpable hush. “Thus is ‘The Lay of Gowan and the Green Axe’ when sung by all who remember it rightly.”
With his eyes closed, Vortigern laughed in an uneven, quiet way, as if there were a joke in the song that only he could perceive. After awhile his mouth tilted strangely, showing his old teeth as the laugh went on.
“I have heard your ballad,” the High King finally said, “and I know its meaning.” Then he opened his eyes and looked to the guard behind Merlin.
“Kill him.”
Arthur’s hand moved quickly to the hilt of his blade — only to find it missing. He had forgotten that all except for the kings had been required to disarm. Culann had Arthur’s blade, and there was no time to retrieve it now, for the guard behind Merlin raised his spear to strike. Arthur tensed his body to tackle the man, yet before he could move, the man sighed and fell back, dropping the point of the spear.
“Lord, I cannot do this,” the man said. “He has the Harp of Britain!”
Vortigern swore. “I don’t care. Kill him.”
The guard knelt down. “To kill a bard is against all the laws of these isles, and he — he is the chief bard.”
“Fool!” Vortigern said, slamming his hand on the arm of his throne. He stood and raised his voice for all to hear. “Who will kill him for me?! I offer a rich reward.”
Arthur looked out on the throng of mixed Britons and Saxenow, and no one moved. While the British were downcast, the Saxenow watched their king.
Hengist leaned over and whispered with his daughter, then popped a thin slice of horsemeat into his mouth, chewed, and spoke. “Vortigern, do de deed yerself. Me daughter would like to see dis entertainment. After all, what is a British bard to us?”
Vortigern put on a smile for Hengist, pulled up his sagging breeches, and drew his sword. As he advanced on Merlin, Arthur knew the time to act had come.
He stepped forward and took the spear from the kneeling guard.
Vortigern saw him out of the corner of his eye and snarled.
But Arthur dropped to one knee and held the spear out upon both palms. “My lord, if I have found favor in your eyes as the avenger of your son, let me remove the bard from your presence. This deed is not worthy of you on your wedding night, nor should blood be shed in front of your guests.”
Vortigern stopped short, waggling the end of his blade.
He looked back to Reinwandt, who flicked her fingers to encourage him.
He looked toward the British nobles and seemed to weigh the sour looks upon their faces.
“My lord,” Arthur said, “I implore you to let me remove him from your presence forever.”
“Forever,” Vortigern said, a slight smile on his lips.
“Forever.”
Just then, Fodor stood up from a table to Arthur’s right. Arthur’s hands clenched on the spear. A wrong word from the envoy and all would be lost.
“Sire! May I interrupt the proceedings?”
“Eh?” Vortigern said, turning a cold, menacing gaze toward Fodor.
The envoy nearly jumped from fright, gulped, and then spoke shakily. “O renowned . .
. legendary lord . . . I have new information!”
“Silence!”
Fodor pointed at Arthur and Merlin. “But — ”
“Say another word, and I will wring your bumpy little throat!” Vortigern sheathed his sword. Holding up his hands, he pretended to squeeze, wrench, and snap Fodor’s neck.
Fodor squeaked, but held his tongue. Glancing at Arthur, then at Merlin, he sat down, but his face turned red with anger.
Stepping back, Vortigern slumped once more upon his throne and slapped Hengist on the shoulder. “You see, the man will die, and I don’t need to get my hands any more . . . any more . . . bloody.”
Hengist shrugged and motioned for Arthur to take him out. “Begone den, get it done.”
Arthur stood, bowed, and then pointed the spear at Merlin’s chest. “Out!”
Merlin, who had already slung his harp over his back once more, raised his arms, spun on his heel toward the exit, and marched out.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 19