The chosen ones — their call fulfill.
Muscarvel’s words fell away from him in the grief of tears. As he spoke again, a calmness, if not a saneness, returned to his voice. “Great lord, besides a few final tasks, I am now free. But you … you shall bear these words as a dark burden until your death. I merely carried them. You must live them.”
A shiver ran through Merlin. The man was mad — but nonsense though his words sounded, he said them with such sincerity and conviction that they somehow rang true. Why had Muscarvel spoken these words to him?
Natalenya, now holding Merlin’s arm, whispered in his ear. “He’s crying as he pulls something from a moldy pouch. Oh, Merlin, it’s beautiful.”
Merlin could see the gleam of gold in the man’s hands.
“Great lord, this also I have kept for the day of your rising. The Christ hid it in a bog, and I found it! A great chief of men died I know not when, and I wrenched it from his leathern neck.”
Natalenya pulled Merlin closer. “It’s a torc of fine workmanship. Made from thick braids of gold. On its ends are crafted what look like the heads of falcons.”
Reaching up, Muscarvel placed the torc upon Merlin.
He felt the cold, heavy weight of it on his neck and collarbones, and he reached up to touch the ancient curves of the torc with his fingertips. I don’t deserve this. Who am I? No one. Just the blind son of a blacksmith. Why had Muscarvel done this? And who was he?
Muscarvel plucked his sword from the plank and yelled, “I’m free!” He ran down the shaking dock and jumped into his boat. His paddle sloshed through the water swiftly, and his parting words called back to them through the mist.
“Lost the meat! I’ll find it, Father. I’ll find it yet!”
For a long moment Merlin and Natalenya stood side by side, speechless. When the sounds of Muscarvel faded, Merlin listened instead to Natalenya’s breathing, so close beside him.
All at once, she turned toward him. “I should go. Here.” She rummaged in her bundle, then pressed a smoked fish into his hands. “It’s no golden torc, but it’s the least I can do after you saved me from those men.”
The scale-free fish felt soft against Merlin’s fingers, and the mouth-watering aroma made his stomach growl. “Thank you.”
She laughed. “Thank you, Merlin.”
Her two soft hands grasped his free one for a moment, and then she was gone.
He picked up his staff, tapped his way back to the end of the dock, and sat down, alone with his thoughts once more. He laid his staff beside him, peeled off the fish’s skin and chewed it, relishing the smoky flavor before swallowing. For a while he just sat and ate the rest, thinking of Natalenya … of the warmth of her hands … of the Eirish men who would steal fish from a woman but wouldn’t touch a bard … and of Muscarvel.
His good mood soured. Pulling the last of the flesh from the fish’s bones, he held the bare spine in his hand. This was how he felt. Like a dead fish, blind and useless.
Father, what is my life? Do my efforts even matter? I bared my back to the whip, took a beating from Mórganthu, and what does Garth do? Off with the druidow.
And Mórganthu had shown the village what a fool Merlin was. He couldn’t fight properly, and he wasn’t respected enough in the village to speak. It was his father who needed to stand up and tell the people the truth about Mórganthu. Why won’t he do it?
Maybe Prontwon would try again when he got better. Or Neot. Or perhaps Dybris, the new monk, could convince the people. Certainly blind Merlin could never sway their minds. What could he do? And what of this torc Muscarvel had given him? He reached up and felt the intricate lines of the ancient gift resting around his neck. He touched the gold falcon heads fashioned on the ends. What was he supposed to do with it? He hadn’t earned such a thing. Everyone would laugh if they saw him wear it. Ha-ha! There goes the blind man who thinks he’s a chieftain!
And all Muscarvel’s other gibberish.
In anger Merlin spread the ends of the torc and pulled it from his neck. He loosed the ties of his bag and shoved the torc inside, where it clinked against his few coins. He rose and set off for home. Muscarvel was mad, plain and simple.
When Merlin arrived, he found the house quiet.
“Tas?”
He stepped into the room and listened. “I’m over here,” his father said from a stool at the table. He sounded tired, and a little angry. “Waiting for you. Quite awhile to buy some fish.”
“Where are Mônda and Gana?”
Owain rested his forehead on the table and then thumped his head on the wooden surface. “Oh … I don’t know exactly. I worked on the sword for an hour or so, and when I came in —”
“Mônda almost never leaves the house.”
“I know. I’m afraid they’ve gone to her father.”
“To Mórganthu?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded empty. “Mônda and I have been arguing since last night. I wouldn’t let her go. So now she’s left.”
“I hope you don’t plan on following.”
His father stood, and his words bit like a blade. “I’ve been wanting to, but you were gone. I don’t want you getting in any more trouble. Like a cracked anvil, you are. What took so long?”
“Megek didn’t have any fish —”
“And so it took longer?”
“Natalenya was there.”
“Ahh.”
“She’d bought all that was left. Tregeagle’s hosting a feast tonight.”
His father moved toward the door. “That still doesn’t account for your time.”
Merlin backed up, blocking his father’s exit. “There were others. Eirish warriors.”
“Eirish … here? In Bosventor?” He clutched Merlin’s shoulder.
“They tried to steal the fish.”
“The people settled in Lyhonesse rarely come here … much less Eirish raiders. How do you know?” his father asked. “How —”
“How can I know, because I’m blind?” Merlin tightened his jaw. Why did it always come to this? Didn’t his own father think he was capable of anything? “Their speech gave them away, and Natalenya told me their clothing matched her father’s stories. Apparently Tregeagle’s fought them in the past.”
His father turned away and whispered so quietly, Merlin barely heard it.
“As have I.”
Merlin placed a hand on his father’s shoulder and gently turned him so they were again face-to-face. “What did you say? You’ve fought in a battle?” Merlin wished he could see his father’s features. Years ago he would have felt the whiskered cheeks, but now that he was older, it somehow didn’t seem right.
“Long ago,” his father said. “Before I met your mother.”
“You never told me.”
His father went to the wall and took down his sword, swung it, and put it back up again. “How many Eirish warriors were there?”
“Could have been six, maybe more.”
“Sure it wasn’t just one, and a wee one at that?”
“I’m not stupid.” Merlin said.
“I’m teasing. Why didn’t you ask Natalenya?”
Merlin tapped his staff. “I didn’t think to.”
“Maybe you had other things on your mind?”
Merlin blushed.
His father whistled. “That’s what really took so long. Let’s go find Mônda and your sister before Mórganthu does.”
Merlin wanted to tell him not to go, to somehow prevent his father from going near the Stone. But how could he say no to bringing Mônda and his sister back home? He nodded, and his father took him by the arm.
Leaving the house, they made their way to the village pasture where Mórganthu had placed the Stone the night before.
“People are here, but I don’t see Mônda … or Gana,” his father whispered. “Druidow are guarding the Stone, but their weapons are old and rusty, and their muscles are too little kindling to start a fire with anyone serious. Maybe that’s why they’re not stopping anyo
ne from approaching the Stone.”
“Who’s here?” Merlin asked, offering up a silent prayer, for he could see now that a faint blur of blue flames radiated from the Stone.
“A crowd. Hen Crenlyn just walked by us. He’s looking at the Stone like it was a stump. Olva’s on the other side looking on. Brunyek’s further off, but I can tell he’s peeking at it. Stenno’s here too.”
“What’s he doing?” Stenno wasn’t much older than Merlin, though he streamed for tin to support his widowed mother.
“He’s on his knees near the Stone, holding his hands in front of it like he’s warming them.”
“That’s bad.”
“It’s really interesting … I wish you could see the Stone. You’d understand.”
Merlin didn’t want to, and for once in his life, he was glad of his blindness. His father led him toward the Stone but then stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Merlin asked.
“Kiff’s here. I hadn’t noticed him on the ground on the other side. He has one hand on the side of the Stone.” Raising his voice, his father called out, “Kiff … Hey, there!”
But Kifferow didn’t answer.
They walked over to him. Bending down, Merlin’s father spoke into the man’s ear, “Kiff, it’s me, Owain.” He shook Kiff’s shoulder. No response. Muttering, he braced himself and pushed the big man over onto his back.
Kifferow sneezed, shook his head, and sat up. “You … You did that!”
“Sure, I pushed your pig belly over.”
“You broke my dream.” Kifferow rose to his feet with a grunt and belted Owain across the jaw, knocking him down. “You take that!” he shouted, raising his fist again.
“Kiff, stop!” Merlin stepped in between the men, but Kifferow slammed him in the shoulder, knocking him backward. The world turned sideways, and Merlin found himself lying across his father’s legs with his face in the dirt.
Mônda appeared from the haze and called out loudly, “Leave him alone, Kiff. And Merlin, get off your father!” She wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders and clung to him so fast that she gouged Merlin’s elbow with her armband. The wound throbbed as Merlin rolled off Owain’s legs.
Kifferow huffed but backed away as well.
“The Stone will help you understand,” Mônda said. “Look at it. Look at the Stone.” She reached out her hands and turned Owain’s gaze to the blue flames.
Merlin’s father shook her off. “Leave me alone, all of you.”
The gem in Mônda’s armband began to glow, and then his father’s began to gleam as if in reply. Mônda mumbled some strange words, and Owain’s head snapped up and turned toward the Stone.
Merlin pulled himself to a sitting position just as his father crawled toward the Druid Stone.
“That’ll teach him,” Kifferow said. “Now he won’t interrupt me!”
Desperate, Merlin grabbed his father’s foot to stop him, but the action barely impeded Owain’s progress as he dragged Merlin closer to the Stone.
“Tas. Tas! What are you doing? Kiff, help me!”
The big man stepped closer, but instead of helping, he snatched Merlin’s arms and dragged him away. “Be quiet and let him take a good long drink. He’ll never forget the sweetness.”
Merlin struggled, but the carpenter’s grip was too strong. “Let go,” he yelled, thinking of Natalenya’s warning.
Kifferow laughed, and his breath smelled like ale. “He’s smiling. Feel the Stone, Owain. Touch it!”
Owain reached out a wavering hand to touch the glowing surface of the Druid Stone.
“Merlin, it’s magnificent.”
CHAPTER 12
TOUCHING FIRE
No!” Merlin yelled as he kicked Kifferow and twisted out of the big man’s grasp. He flung himself forward and rammed his father in the side, knocking him away from the Stone.
Owain yelled and turned back with a ferocity that astonished Merlin. A fist hammered him in the gut.
Merlin fell back from his father’s blow, and his right hand landed on the Druid Stone and stuck fast, as if it were covered in soft pine tar. The Stone felt warm to the touch, its surface partly rough, partly smooth. And it quivered like a wolf ready to pounce.
Merlin’s body stiffened, and the ground tilted. He jerked his left hand up to prevent himself from falling over, and now both hands were stuck to the Stone.
The Stone grew larger and then melted away, his body seeming to plunge inside, as if the Stone had become a hole leading to a creature’s lair. He fell into silent darkness, it seemed, for hours.
Without warning he felt cold flagstones under his fingers. His groans echoed off walls that appeared from nowhere, and the dense air smothered him like frozen spiderwebs. Where had his father, the grass, and the Stone gone? He looked around, and his blurred sight sharpened. Once again he could see clearly.
He lay in a chamber made of solid granite, with neither window nor door. A bluish light flickered from torches held by intricately forged iron holders. Cold smoke poured from the torches, filling the lower half of the room. Merlin coughed.
In the center a square stone pillar rose from the smoke. The top was draped with a blue cloth decorated with dizzying spirals and symbols. From where Merlin knelt, he could tell that something rested on top.
He wanted to see what was on the pillar, but his legs ached and he couldn’t stand. The desire burned within, and in desperation he cried out, “Will anyone help me?”
A cold voice answered him: “Rise and see!”
Merlin’s numb legs obeyed and lifted him up to see four drinking horns placed at the corners of the pillar. Each was fashioned from the long curving horn of a ram, spiraling inward and downward and held by an iron stand shaped like the cruel talons of some giant creature.
The first horn was red as blood, the second bright golden, the third sickly white, and the fourth pale silver. Each was filled with a different liquid.
The bodiless Voice called out again, “Take and drink!”
Merlin leaned forward to peek inside the dark-red horn. It held what appeared to be the purest of water, so clear and fresh he could see down into the depths of the horn. As he stared, the water flickered with visions of vile, base, and godless things. The images kept changing, and Merlin desired to take up the horn and fill his body, soul, and spirit with the wicked degradations.
He called out to God for help, and a revulsion of sufficient strength finally rose up that forced his eyes shut. The images fell away into darkness. The desire left him.
He pulled himself away from the horn and opened his eyes to see the golden horn before him. A bubbling, creamy brown liquid filled it, and he listened to its frothy sound. As each bubble burst, he heard soothing words issue forth. He strained his ears to hear, and every utterance called him to lie and deceive. Drums began to beat in his ears until the horn shook and he felt his head would burst with the vibration.
Stopping up his ears did nothing; the calling would not cease. The temptation grew to embrace the horn, let the deceits fill his soul, and make the raging words go away. He reached out his hands, hoping for relief.
Then a memory arose of his father. With downcast face, he spoke to Merlin, saddened because of a childhood lie Merlin had told. His father implored him to choose the right and turn from falsehoods. At first Merlin wanted his father to go away, and he swept his hands to dispel the image, but his father’s face remained. Slowly, Merlin’s heart broke. The desire to take up the drinking horn faded, and Merlin was free again.
The third, a whitish horn, now stood before him, but he distrusted it. This time he wouldn’t look inside. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward to determine if he could smell it, and a sweet aroma drifted deep into his lungs.
He felt stronger, taller, and wiser, filled with his own greatness and ability to lead. Visions appeared of men bowing as his kingly torc was placed around his neck. It smelled so wonderful that he found himself staring at the liquid in the horn. It flowed green as the
nectar of garden flowers, and with just a taste he could do any task, no matter how difficult. One sip from the horn, and he could have anything he wanted. He would be the supreme authority once this sweet liquid coursed down his throat.
In joy he grasped his own smiling face, and there he felt the scars. Deep and thickened. And he knew that few could love the gross disfigurement he’d been cursed to carry. His pride drained away, and he was once again the normal, scarred Merlin.
He approached the final corner of the stone pillar and the last drinking horn, which stood so tall he couldn’t glance inside. Its silver glimmered in the light of the blue torches, and it was magnificent. Even a great king would be proud to drink of the heady ale lurking there. A longing to see what was inside overcame him.
He hefted himself up onto the pillar, now strangely widened into a table, and knelt in the middle. There he peered over the silver horn’s filigreed edge. Inside lay a black liquid, thick and rich. His hands reached to the horn and stuck to its sides.
Small bolts of lightning shot through his arms and across his chest. There, in his pain, a terrible vision engulfed him.
He was the adviser to a king and led warriors beyond count across Britain. Each battle brought death. His warriors’ limbs lay hacked at his feet. His enemies’ heads lay piled as a mountain. No matter where he wandered, all had been slain. Death and ruin abounded. Merlin stood alone, a curse on mankind. His hands lifted the terrible horn with the slop of dark liquid toward his lips.
Closer it drew until Merlin cried out, “God, save me from this curse!”
His hands dropped the horn with a crash upon the table. Before the liquid slimed across the surface and touched him, he leaped to the ground.
And there, amid the hiss of the torches, the Voice himself rose from the ground. His robe enshrouded him in darkness, and his flaking claw held a sword as pale as dead flesh. He lifted it to strike the head from Merlin’s body.
“Bow and worship!”
Defenseless and with nowhere to run, Merlin yet found strength welling up inside. He shouted, “I’ll never worship you. Though you slay me, I will hold fast to Jesu!”
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