Merlin was more than glad for the rest, as his left eye felt swollen and his lungs were like burning embers from his father’s forge.
His father’s forge.
His father . . .
Oh, that his father were there — alive and still working in their family’s blacksmith shop! Was someone else smith now? What had happened to Troslam and Safrowana? To Allun the miller? To all the good people of the village?
What of Dybris and all the other monks? Were any of them left in the village?
But Arthur was up once more and pushing the men.
“It’s not far,” Merlin told him, “Maybe one more league, and . . .”
“An island. You’re sure there’s an island?”
“Yes.”
Soon they came to a cross-path. Rushing into the woods beyond, they arrived at a clearing, which Merlin entered at first with uncaring, unseeing eyes. Then the realization of where he stood brought him to a standstill. It was the Gorseth Cawmen — the druid circle just outside Bosventor. The stones towered above him against the trees, and silent as a grave. Uther’s grave it was too — for here the High King had been murdered by Vortigern. Memories from the past flooded Merlin’s head.
Druids chanting. Drums pounding. His father’s failed fight with Mórganthu. Brother Dybris yelling as he was captured and thrown into a wicker cage with the other monks.
Mórganthu’s call for the people to bow and worship the Druid Stone. His yell for the crowd to burn the monks:
Flames blaze and burn the witches!
Fire! Flames! Destroy the witches!
Caygek planning with Merlin on how to save them.
It all came back.
“Run!” Dwin yelled, waking Merlin from his thoughts. The man grabbed Merlin and yanked him along.
The circle passed behind him like a dream. Like a nightmare. They descended the hillside where the pines began to thin and were replaced by beeches. Down they went, faster and faster until they came to the Fowaven River.
As they splashed across, Arthur yelled, “Rest a moment! We’re safe once more.”
Merlin knew the truth. “There’s a bridge to the south where the wolves can cross. Run!”
Across the moorland Merlin dashed, and soon came to the withered shore of a once-broad lake, now much reduced in size. He stopped. Lake Dosmurtanlin, the water where he had once thought his mother drowned. Yet it wasn’t so, for she still lived beneath the surface — changed forever by the Stone into a water creature. Merlin longed to —
“Run!” Arthur yelled, for the great werewolf surely had crossed the bridge and, howling, would soon be upon them.
Merlin regretted it, but he started running and left the lake behind. He longed to call out to his mother in hope that she might hear him, but his ragged breath prevented speech. To his left rose the Meneth Gellik — the mountain upon whose southern side his village was built — yet here on the northern side he could see only a hint of the fortress on its western spur. So close, yet he couldn’t stop as the ground descended toward the marsh. Some of the men had already reached it and were swimming for the island.
Most of the reeds on the receded shoreline were dead, and there was a stronger stench than Merlin remembered. Safety was so close. He ran past the dead skeleton of a deer, its skull stuck in the dry mud, through the rattling reeds, and dove into the water. Its warmth enveloped him and filled him with such joy at finally being safe.
The swim across the marsh was farther than he had remembered, and his right calf began to cramp up so that he had to float on his back for a long way, sculling with his hands. His leather-and-scale armor weighed him down, and he was tempted to pull it off, but he persevered and finally reached the rocky shingle of the northern landing. He pulled himself ashore: wet, tired beyond the frontiers of exhaustion — and safe.
It seemed a long time before the last man made it ashore, and many had to be dragged from the water half dead.
Then, across the water came the roaring of the werewolf. The sound sliced through the air and set Merlin’s teeth on edge. And only after Merlin collapsed shivering and laid his head down on a stone to sleep did he remember the fishing boats over at the village.
If the werewolf found them, then nowhere was safe.
Not even the island of Inis Avallow.
Nowhere.
Merlin forced himself to rise and look for Peredur, but he couldn’t find the horse master among the men. Desperate, he called for him, but the man simply wasn’t present. Somewhere along the trail he had slipped from the group and been lost.
Merlin fell to his knees and pulled on his hair, wanting to rip it out. Peredur — his brave and loyal friend. How could Merlin not have noticed him falling?
To the east, the sun began to trace its lonely finger across the horizon in a streak of red and gray. And with the coming of dawn, Merlin prayed for Peredur’s safety, and that they all might have one day of rest and preparation. Just one day . . . just one day . . . keep him safe . . . please keep him safe!
Sleep overtook Arthur so quickly and profoundly that when dreams came he didn’t remember where he was. He was flying — flying across a land bespeckled with verdant hills and flowing rivers, where wild roses were knit together with sweetbriar, and the cowslips grew among the violets. A land of peace, where no sword needed to be drawn.
Arthur watched as all these beautiful things passed by, his eyes wide and mouth agape in startled ecstasy.
And then she was there.
The woman in the iridescent, blackbird-feathered cloak . . . and she was flying behind him. Whenever he turned to see her, she flew just out of his sight, and a dark hood hid her face.
“Do you see all this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“It can all be yours, Arthur. Imagine with me a land of peace and safety. It is within your reach, but you must take hold of it and never let it go.”
“How can I?”
“I will show you . . . yet how does any king reign? How did Uther reign before you?”
Arthur’s pulse quickened, and he turned to glimpse her. “Did you know him? Did you know my father?”
She paused, and hid her face from him again. “Yes . . . in my own way. It was long ago, Arthur, and there is no going back. I have learned that. You must go forward, and listen to my advice, whatever it costs you.”
“You ask much of me.”
“Nothing more than what I have already paid.”
“Who are you?”
“I am she who lives in secrecy.” With that the woman arched the flaps of her black feathered cloak and swooped upward into a cloud, and was gone.
Arthur longed to follow her, for she was beautiful — yet against his will he was taken back to the island, and there he awoke. It was still early morning and, though his bones ached and his muscles were cramped and sore, he rose with a strange expectation in his soul. A thin mist had arisen on the marsh, low though the water level was, and Arthur wandered away from the sleeping forms of his warriors.
Southward he walked across the length of the island as if in a daze, and his feet found an old, thin trail that snaked through a stand of pine, rowan, and ash, and soon the trees gave away to emaciated, almost skeletal apple trees. Their fruit was stunted, yet Arthur plucked one and took a bite, only to choke and spit it out. Tiny white worms had filled the inside cavity. They slithered and twisted out onto his hand, and he threw the wretched thing away, wiping his palm on the smooth bark of its parent.
Farther down the path he came to the ruins of a fortress whose old stones had been weathered over the many lives of his forefathers. Moss and vines had overgrown their northern faces, while the sun-bitten southern sides were dry and pitted. The stones were massive, much larger than any man could lift. Yet they had been thrown about as if some giant had destroyed the walls and buildings long ago.
At the far end of the ruins stood a tower of stone, still mostly intact, although the roof was entirely gone and some stones from the top of the
western side had fallen out like old, forgotten teeth. A window survived near the top on the eastern side, and on the north gaped a dark doorway three feet off the ground. Whatever steps had once existed were now gone, for empty socket holes showed where the railing and posts would have been wedged. And though the tower was forgotten and dejected, surrounded as it was with the wind-blasted remains of long-dead apple trees, someone had cared enough for the place to drag a few flat rocks underneath to make access easier to the door.
But all of these details entered Arthur’s mind like a haze of smoke, and they were soon forgotten as he wandered aimlessly south to the very tip of the island. There he looked out upon the brooding reeds and sulking, silent water veiled in mist.
Then he heard a woman singing from somewhere across the marsh. And though he couldn’t catch the words, he could sense that they were sung mournfully. He sat and let the song fill his soul as the beauty of her voice enthralled him.
And then she herself appeared . . . in her cloak of black feathers, balanced upon a narrow skiff and propelling herself with a long, thin pole. Thusly she passed like a dark ghost through a bank of reeds, and they bowed to her as if she were the very queen of the marsh. Her song was unbroken, and now the words themselves fell clearly upon Arthur’s ears, sinking into his soul where they would haunt him, he knew, to the very end of his days.
O where is my love, lost long ago?
And where’s the harp, plucked sad and slow?
Forlorn am I, and filled with woe,
For he’s gone north, to land of snow.
And will he come, a bold hero?
Or will he die, his blood to sow?
Forlorn am I, and filled with woe,
For my sure love, he’ll never know.
Arthur, Arthur, yourself do show,
Or all will be, yea, food for crow.
Forlorn am I, and filled with woe,
For who can fight, and who the foe?
All land will die, and moon will glow.
The shade of night, so tall will grow.
Forlorn the land, and filled with woe,
For who will make, the deadly blow?
O come, loved one, lost long ago,
And bring the harp, strummed sweetly low.
Forlorn am I, yet all aglow,
For you’ve come south, to land of woe.
She had poled to the very edge of the island now — and stepping ashore, she threw back her hood to stare knowingly and unemotionally at him from the one eye that wasn’t hidden by her raven-hued hair.
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat, and he stood as if he had no control over his legs. She was so close! His heart began pulsing and his throat went dry.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Arthur was spun around.
Merlin stood there, his eyes bloodshot and his face lined with fear.
“Do not look at her!” he hissed. “It is Mórgana!”
Arthur was torn. His heart had leapt when he first saw the woman in the black feather cloak, yet Merlin pulled him backward in terror.
“Let go!” Arthur cried, jerking away from his father. A strange longing urged him to embrace her, as if somehow, deep in his heart, he knew her.
“She has bewitched you!” Merlin cried as he drew his dirk and lunged at her.
Arthur, off-balance, tried to grab his father but slipped on the gravel and fell.
Merlin lifted his dirk and slashed it down.
The woman didn’t flinch, but faster than Arthur thought possible she slipped two thin blades from her belt and crossed them, catching Merlin’s dirk in mid-strike. Before he could react, she turned sideways and kicked him in the stomach, knocking him down.
“Arthur!” Merlin yelled, but there was no time to respond.
She leaned forward and slipped her blades downward so that the tips came to rest on each side of Merlin’s head — at his temples, where his pulsing veins lay just a hairbreadth from being sliced open.
“Do not attack me again, O heir of Colvarth!” she said. “Or Britain shall have one less bard to count among her blessed number, and that would be a great and tragic shame.”
Merlin dropped his dirk and she kicked it away.
Arthur saw then, as she leaned over, that her hair covered one side of her face intentionally, for her left eye was missing. The skin had completely healed over the wound so that no eyelid was even present — only unbroken, slightly scarred flesh under a dark eyebrow.
Arthur fell to his knees to get a better look, and deep was his wonder, for he had never met anyone who had endured such a wound and yet lived.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She turned to look at him with her beautiful hazel-green eye, and there was a slight quiver to her lip.
“I am one whom few men fish for, and those who do never see my face again. Do you trifle with me, Arthur?”
Arthur stood. “But your name — what do men call you?”
She pulled her blades away from Merlin’s temples, stepped back, and swallowed.
“I?” she said. “It has been many long years since anyone has said my proper name. To myself, I am Abransva, but to the locals I am known as Muscfenna.”
“And to us? Who are you to us?”
I have to know, he thought. There is some secret here . . .
She took a deep breath, licked her lips, and then spoke.
“To God, firstly, I am known as Myrgoskva, the daughter who lives under the shadow of the Almighty — prophetess of God Most High. But to you . . . to you I was once known as Myrgwen . . . but that Myrgwen has died and is no more.”
“Myrgwen . . .”
It was a name he hardly dared to breathe.
It was a name he’d only recently connected to himself and his own history.
Is it true . . . Is she alive?
Understanding grappled with his soul, and he spoke the words aloud. “You’re my sister.”
She sheathed her blades and looked at him with uplifted chin, a sad smile on her lips. “And you took a long time to come visit.”
“But . . .”
She poked him in the chest with her finger. “And that’s for not even knowin’ who I am!”
Merlin stood and dusted himself off, understanding replacing the confusion and shock on his face. “This was my mistake,” he said soberly. “After we settled in Rheged, Colvarth and I sent an inquiry about you and Eilyne. We intended to bring you north, but the news came back of your deaths and Troslam and Safrowana’s disappearance. I never dreamed . . .”
Tears came to Myrgwen’s eye, and her voice cracked. “Vortigern slew my sister and injured Troslam. He lived but was ill, and finally died during my sixteenth winter. We had all lived on an island away in the western marsh for safety, but eventually Safrowana left with Ymelys to stay with relatives, and then Muscarvel, my protector, died too. I’ve lived alone ever since.”
“You never left Bosventor.”
“No. I was afraid . . . afraid you’d never find me.”
Arthur reached out a hand to her and she took it.
“All these years . . .” he said. “We never knew.”
“I’ve known,” she said, “and I’ve been waiting for you. God told me . . .”
“What . . . what did He tell you?”
“Come with me first.” She pulled away and began walking northward toward the ruins. She led them to the doorway of the old tower and motioned for Arthur to join her.
Merlin stayed back, and Arthur cast him a grateful look.
“Enter now,” she said, “and weep with me.”
Arthur climbed up onto the sill of the doorway, turned to take her hand, and together they entered. An earthy scent met him, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. What he saw amazed him. Where he had expected dead earth and stones to fill the interior, he found a lush garden instead, with green bracken, sweet-smelling fairyglove blooms, ivy, and a type of flowering nettle that was soft to the touch.
“It’s beautiful
,” he said, discerning the care it would take to keep the plants watered from the marsh during the drought. But then he stepped back, for against the wall were two modest cairns, both about the size of . . .
“Is this . . . is this . . . ?” was all he could say.
“Yes. Mother’s buried here . . . and Eilyne too.”
He squeezed her hand as they approached the twin graves. They knelt. Moisture began to cloud Arthur’s vision, and soon the tears began to flow. All these years, lost to him. All these precious people, lost to him. But now he had Myrgwen, beyond all chances and beyond all evils. Blood of his blood and bone of his bone. True family. Yet just below these rocks — so close, yet so forever far — lay his mother and sister. A violent longing took hold of him to see them in the flesh, to be a child and sit beside them at a cozy hearth. Just share a single meal. Why can’t I do that? It’s so simple, God, why is this denied me? Why were I and Myrgwen stripped from their arms? I don’t understand . . . I don’t understand!
His mother and sister had both died as part of Vortigern’s evil plot to steal the High Kingship. A sudden urgency took hold of him. “Father . . . where is my true father buried?”
“In a cairn near the druid circle. I’ll show you, but not now.”
“Why? Why not now? You have a boat, and we could . . .”
“You must prepare for your enemies.”
“Prepare? We’re safe here. The men need to rest.”
Without another word, she stood and left the tower.
Arthur followed.
Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) Page 31