Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  So we took that plan to Belyn. He was not easy to convince; he did not like the Irish any more than we did, but working with us would force him out of his cherished isolation. He much preferred his solitary way. But in the end, Maildun argued for us and won Belyn’s support.

  The night before we were to leave Llyonesse, Pelleas came to me. “Lord Merlin,” he said, “forgive me for disturbing your rest.” I had retired early to my chamber—haggling always taxes me, and after three days of it I was weary.

  “Come in, Pelleas, come in. I was enjoying a small cup of wine before going to sleep. Will you share one with me?”

  He accepted the cup I offered him, but he did not drink. I could see by the look on his face that it had cost him a great deal already to come here, and that he had a matter of some importance on his mind. Tired as I was, I did not rush him, but let him come at the thing in his own time.

  I sat down on the edge of my bed and offered him the chair. He sat, holding the cup in his hands, staring into it. “What is it like in the north?” he asked.

  “Oh, it is a wilder country, to be sure. Much of it is woodland, and there are mountains and moors where nothing grows but the peat moss. It can be a lonely place, but it is not so bleak and terrible as men make out. Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “I have never been to the north.”

  Something in his voice made me ask, “Is that where you think I live?”

  “Do you not?”

  I laughed. “No, lad. Dyfed is only across Mor Hafren, not far from Ynys Avallach. It is no great distance.” He was embarrassed by this, so I went on to explain. “The northland I was talking about is far, far north indeed. It is many and many days ride—above the Wall itself.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  “I lived in that region for a time, you know.” His head came up at these words. “Yes, I did. I lived with Hawk Fhain—a clan of Hill Folk who follow their herds from grazing to grazing all over the region up there. But the land goes even further north than that.”

  “It does?”

  “Oh, indeed it does. There is Pictish land further north. Now that is a forbidding place where they make their homes.”

  “Do the Picti really paint themselves blue?”

  “For a fact they do. In various ways. Some of them even stain their skins permanently in the most intricate patterns—the fiercer warriors do this.”

  “It must be something to see,” he said cautiously.

  “You should see it sometime,” I replied, sensing this was what he wanted from me.

  Pelleas shook his head slowly and sighed—I think he had rehearsed it. “No, that is not for me.”

  Again I made the required response. “Why not?”

  “I never can go anywhere.” His voice had risen, and the words were a lament. “I have never even been to Ynys Avallach!”

  Here we had come to the thing he wanted to say. “What is it, Pelleas?” I asked gently.

  He started up from his chair so quickly some of the wine splashed over the rim of the cup. “Take me with you. I know you are leaving tomorrow—I want to go with you. I will be your steward. You are a king; you will need someone to serve you.” He paused and added desperately, “Please, Merlin, I must get away from here or I will die.”

  The way he put it, I was not entirely certain that he would not fall down dead immediately upon our departure. I thought about this. I had no real need of a steward, but there might be a place for him in Maelwys’ house. “Well, I will ask Belyn,” I offered.

  He threw himself back into the chair in a slump. “He will never let me go. He hates me.”

  “That I heartily doubt. No doubt the king has other things on his mind and—”

  “Things more important than the welfare of his own son?”

  “His son—” I looked at him closely. “What are you saying?”

  He took a hasty sip from the cup. His secret was out, and now he was steeling himself for the fight he sensed would come. “I am Belyn’s son.”

  “I must apologize,” I told him, remembering our first meeting and how I treated him as a servant. “I seem to have mistaken a prince for a steward.”

  “Oh, that I am. At least, I am no prince,” he sneered.

  “Make it plain, please—I am tired.”

  He nodded, his eyes downcast. “My mother is a servant in this house.”

  I understood perfectly. Pelleas was Belyn’s bastard, and the king would not acknowledge him. He felt his only chance to make a life for himself lay as far from Llyonesse as he could get. For the same reason Belyn would not acknowledge him, the king was not likely to let the lad go either. I told him this.

  “Would it hurt to try?” He was so desperate. “Please?”

  “No, it will not hurt to try.”

  “Then you will ask him?”

  “I will ask him.” I rose and took the cup from his hand. “Now you are leaving, and I am going to sleep.”

  He rose but made no move toward the door. “What if he says no?”

  “Let me sleep on it tonight. I will think of something.”

  “I will come for you in the morning, shall I? We can ask him together.”

  I sighed. “Pelleas, leave it to me. I have said I will help you if I can. That is all I can do at this moment. Let us leave it there for tonight.”

  He agreed apprehensively, but I think he was not displeased. Nevertheless, at cock’s crow the next morning Pelleas was standing at my door, ready and eager to see which way his fate would swing. As there would be no getting rid of him until the thing was done, I agreed to see Belyn as soon as may be.

  In fact, it was not until we were making ready to depart that I was able to speak to Belyn alone. Thinking my chances were greater without anyone else looking on, I had to wait—and endure Pelleas’ pleading stares—to find my chance.

  “A word, Lord Belyn,” I said, seizing my opportunity as we walked from the hall. Gwendolau and Baram and the others had left moments before, and we trailed after.

  “Yes?” he said stiffly.

  “I am interested in one of your servants.”

  He stopped and turned toward me. If he guessed what I had in mind, he did not show it. “What is your interest, my Lord Merlin?”

  “As a new-made king, I am without servants of my own.”

  “You want one of mine, is that it?” He smiled frostily and rubbed his chin. “Well, name him, whoever you fancy, and if I can spare the man he is yours.”

  “You are most generous, lord,” I said.

  “Which one?” he asked absently, turning to the door once more.

  “Pelleas.”

  Belyn swung back to face me. His eyes searched mine to determine what I knew.

  “I understand he has no formal duties,” I volunteered, hoping to make it easier for him.

  “No—no formal duties.” He was working furiously on this, weighing implications and possibilities. “Pelleas…Ah, you have spoken to him about this?”

  “Yes, briefly. I did not wish to say too much until I could consult you.”

  “That was wise.” He turned away again, and I thought he would leave the matter there. Instead, he said, “What says Pelleas? Would he go, do you think?”

  “I believe I could persuade him.”

  “Then take him.” Belyn took a step toward the door and hesitated, as if to change his mind.

  “Thank you,” I said. “He will be well treated; on that you have my word.”

  He only nodded and then walked away. I think I sensed relief in his mood as he moved off. Perhaps in this arrangement he saw an answer to an awkward dilemma.

  Pelleas, of course, was overjoyed. “You had better collect your things and saddle your horse,” I told him. “There is not much time.”

  “I am ready now. My horse was saddled before I came to you this morning.”

  “Very certain of yourself, were you not?”

  “I had faith in you, my lord,” he replied happily and ran off to bring his
things.

  If I thought that was the end of it, I was mistaken. No sooner had Pelleas disappeared than I became aware of a presence watching me. I turned back to the empty hall to see that it was not empty now. A figure, swathed head to foot in black, stood in the center of the great room. My first instinct was to flee, but as if in answer to my thoughts, the stranger said, “No, stay!”

  I waited as the figure approached. The full black cloak was ornately worked in tiny, fantastic designs all in black and gold thread, the tall boots likewise; black gloves covered the hands nearly to the elbow, and the head was covered in a hood-like cap that had a gauzy black material attached to it so that the face was veiled from view.

  This strange apparition came to stand before me and I felt a dizzying sensation, as if the stone beneath my feet had lost its solidity, stones become fluid mud. I put out my hand to the doorpost beside me.

  The black-robed figure studied me intently for a moment. I could see eyes glittering behind the veil. “Have we met?” asked the stranger in a voice deceptively cordial—coming, as it was, from so forbidding an aspect. And it was female.

  “We have not, lady, for I feel certain I would recall it.”

  “Oh, but we know one another, I think.”

  She was right in this, for I knew full well who it was that addressed me. My own dread had told me if nothing else.

  “Morgian,” I said, my tongue finding movement of its own. How quickly her name leapt to my tongue.

  “Well met, Merlin,” she replied politely.

  At the speaking of my name I felt a delicious thrill, sensuous and seductive—like that a man might feel in succumbing to some forbidden pleasure. Oh, she had many kinds of power and knew their various uses well. I actually wanted her at that moment.

  “How is my dear sister?” she asked, taking a half-step and lifting the gauze from her face. At last we stood face to face.

  Morgian was beautiful, very much like Charis; the family resemblance was strong. But at the moment my mother was the furthest person from my mind. I stared into a face of seeming exquisite and compelling beauty.

  I say “seeming,” because I am not at all certain now that it was not enchantment. She was of the Fair Folk, of course, and had the natural elegance of her race. But Morgian far exceeded this. Hers was the dreamlike beauty of a vision: heart-rending, flawless, perfect in all its parts.

  Her hair gleamed like spun gold, pale and shimmering; her eyes were large and luminous, flecked with the green fire of matched emeralds beneath golden lashes and smooth, gently-arched brows; her skin was white as milk, contrasting with the deep blood-red of her lips. Her teeth were even and fine as pearls.

  Yet…and yet, around her, or behind her like spreading black wings or a living, invisible shadow, I saw an aura, brooding dark and ugly, as if made up of all the nameless horrors of nightmare. This thing seemed alive with churning, writhing torment, and it clung to her—although whether it was part of her or she part of it, I cannot say. But it was a real presence, as much as fear or hate or cruelty are real.

  “You are long in answering, Merlin,” she said, lifting a hand to my face. Even through the fine leather of her glove, I could feel the cold fire of her touch. “Is something wrong?”

  “Charis is well,” I said, and felt I had betrayed my mother merely by uttering her name.

  “Oh, I am glad to hear it.” She smiled, and I was shocked to feel genuine warmth in her smile. Immediately I thought I must be mistaken in my estimation of her. Perhaps she did care after all; perhaps the evil I sensed in her was of my own imagining. But then she added casually, as one might upon suddenly thinking of it: “And what of Taliesin?”

  The words were malice itself—a poison dagger in the hand of a skillful, hateful enemy.

  “Taliesin is dead these many years.” I intoned flatly. “As you well know.”

  She appeared taken aback by this news. “No,” she gasped, shaking her head in mock disbelief, “he was so alive when last I saw him.”

  It was a wicked thing to say. I did not think it needed a reply.

  “Well,” Morgian went on, “perhaps it could not be helped. I imagine Charis was devastated by his death.” The word was precise as a knife prick.

  I reached for a weapon as well. “Indeed, but her grief was not without some consolation at least.”

  This drew her interest. “What consolation could there be?”

  “Hope,” I replied. “As my father was a believer in the True God, he had won eternal life through the grace of Lord Jesu, the Christ. One day they will be reunited in paradise. That is the hope and promise that sustains her.” It was a clean thrust, and I felt the blade go in.

  She smiled again, and I felt the power leap up in her as it reached out to me like a hand poised to slap. “We need not dwell upon such unhappiness,” Morgian said. “We have other things to discuss.”

  “Do we, lady?”

  “Not here; not now. But do come visit me again,” she invited. “You know the way, I think. Or Pelleas will show you. We might become friends, you and I. Oh, I should like that, Merlin, to be your friend.” Those striking green eyes narrowed seductively. “You would like that, too. I know you would. There is much I could teach you.”

  Such was the power of the woman that even though words like “friend” were so unnatural, so alien to her, I still believed she meant it. Her charm could beguile and it could confuse and convince; it could make the most impossible, repulsive suggestions seem logical and attractive.

  I said nothing, so she continued, “Oh, but you are soon leaving, are you not? Well, another time. Yes, we will meet again, Merlin. Trust on it.”

  The prospect chilled me to the marrow. Great Light, spread your protecting wings around me!

  She pulled the veil across her face once more and stepped back abruptly. “I must not keep you,” she said, and turning away made a small flicking motion with her hands.

  I could move once more and lingered there no longer, hurrying from the hall and through the corridor beyond, anxious to put as much distance between Morgian and myself as possible. Outside, the horses were ready and I vaulted to the saddle without a backward glance.

  Gwendolau was waiting with the others and regarded me closely as I swung into the saddle, perhaps sensing something amiss. “One other will be coming along,” I told him. “Pelleas is riding with us.”

  “Is everything well with you, Myrddin? You look as if someone has just danced across your grave.”

  I forced a laugh. “There is nothing wrong with me that a good day’s ride will not cure.”

  He climbed into his saddle beside me. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, brother, I am certain.” I gripped his arm; I needed the reassurance of flesh just then. “But I thank you for your concern.”

  The big man shrugged amiably. “I am only thinking of myself. My sister would flay me alive if I let any ill befall her future husband.”

  “For the sake of your oversized hide, I will try never to let that happen,” I told him with a laugh, and felt Morgian’s influence receding.

  Pelleas came alongside a moment later. He had a small bag slung on the back of his horse and a great grin on his face. “I am ready,” he announced happily.

  “Then let us ride, my friends,” called Gwendolau. “The day is speeding before us!”

  We rode out from the forecourt and through the tower-bound gates of Belyn’s palace, and no one came to see us away.

  7

  They say Merlin slew a thousand thousand, that the blood of the enemy ran red upon the land, that rivers stank with floating corpses from Arderdydd to Caer Ligualid, that the sky darkened with the wings of feasting birds flocking to the battlefield, that the smoke of the cremation fires rolled to the very dome of heaven…

  They say Merlin mounted to the sky, taking the shape of an avenging hawk to fly away to the mountains.

  Yet, when the voices of the searchers rang in the wood, where did Merlin hide? In what pit did Merl
in cower while they cried out to him?

  O, Wise Wolf, tell me, why was the light of the sun taken from me? Why was the living heart carved from my breast? Why do I haunt the desolate wastes, hearing only the sound of my own voice in the mournful sigh and moan of the wind on bare rock?

  Tell me also, fair sister, how long has it been? How many years have passed me here in Celyddon’s womb?

  What is that you say? What of Morgian?

  Ah, yes, I have often wondered…what of Morgian?

  The first time, of course, was just the brandishing of weapons between foes. She wanted to see who it was she would destroy. She wanted to savor the exquisite hunger before the kill. She was the cat taunting the mouse, trying her claws.

  But I do not think she was entirely certain of me then. The meeting was necessary, because she was not a fool and she would not presume to begin her battle without first assessing the strength of her adversary.

  Strange to say, but I believe Morgian’s offer of friendship was genuine—that is, as genuine as anything about her could be. She meant it, although she could not have had the slightest idea of true friendship because she was not capable of it. But she was so hollow, so empty of all natural feeling that she could adopt any posture as it occurred to her, she used emotion as one might use a cloak, changing when it suited her. Still, she believed what she felt—amity, sincerity, even love of a perverse sort—until she abandoned it in favor of another, more practical weapon.

  Thus, Morgian could make the incredible offer of friendship to me, and make it seem genuine, because she herself believed it—if only for as long as it took her to say it. In that sense, it was not a trap. She no doubt thought it might be advantageous to her in some way to have me as an ally and so spoke sincerely. This was part of her treachery: she could change as quickly as the wind, and put the full force of her being behind the moment’s intent.

  For Morgian there was no higher ideal, no greater call to be heard above the deafening shriek of her own all-consuming will. There was no core of human pity or compassion to appeal to.