by Andre Norton
Still, he had no enemies he knew about. Gwyn ruled the clan and he himself would never protest that for he was pledged to a different life than a battle leader. And it was already accepted among his kin that he would go to Lugaid’s kind when the time came, to be taught such of the mysteries as survived.
To what other man could he possibly be a threat? His mind played with that puzzle as they came into the town which claimed Vortigen as ruler. For, as they rode, his captors now talked a little, and the boy speedily discovered that this was their goal. Was he then to be hostage for his people? But with Nyren gone Myrddin’s kin were not of such account as to make a hostage worth maintaining.
He roused from his thoughts to look around him, though the hood was drawn down so far on his head that what he could see was limited mainly to the road underfoot, with here or there an edge of stone wall. Though half blind, he could listen. At first his ears, in the past only attuned to the noises of what was a very small clan settlement, were almost deafened. He found it hard to separate one noise from the other.
At last their lagging mounts came to a stop and the rope which held Myrddin’s feet twitched, fell away. A heavy hand swept him out of the saddle, shoving him roughly ahead as his feet nearly buckled under him. So he entered a confined place of vile smells where the cloak was whipped away. He could see that he stood in a stone-walled cubby of a room which had only a length of pitted stone against one wall for a bench or bed, and only a slit high in that same wall for a window.
The bonds fell in turn from his wrists, but his arms were leaden, his hands numb from the hours of their lashing. It was the man in the helm who had cut him free; now he gave the boy a last shove toward the bench.
“You wait on the High King’s pleasure,” he grunted. And he was gone, slamming the door behind him, immediately plunging Myrddin into a gloom as deep as the twilight in which he had first been taken.
The King. Myrddin shaped those words but did not say them aloud. There was only one king here, though his rule rested mainly on the will of those Saxons he had invited overseas to bolster his armies, first against the raiding Scotti, and then against those of his own blood who might be rivals. Vortigen, Myrddin had been taught from the time he could understand, was a traitor, a nothing man who now listened to the orders of the Winged Hats and cut down his close kin at their pleasure.
And what did Vortigen want of him, Myrddin?
Thinking made his headache worse. He sat on the stone of the bench, rubbing one hand against the other, striving to keep from whimpering as the pain of the returning circulation in his puffed hands was almost more than he could silently bear.
He tried now to call to mind all he had lately heard concerning the High King. The last rumor to reach as far into the mountains as the House of Nyren had been that Vortigen was planning a great fortress tower, one which would rival anything the Romans had built in their day.
But the drifting one-armed trader who had brought the story had also said that there were difficulties in that building, that what was carefully laid stone upon stone on one day was discovered the next morning to be broken away, or set awry enough to be useless. It was said that magic overcame all the efforts of man in constructing the fortress.
Myrddin leaned his head back against the wall. He was so tired that, uncomfortable as he was, sleep pressed upon him until finally he could answer no more to the searching of his thoughts, but rather subsided into a darkness heavier than that of the cell which imprisoned him.
When he woke it was to find a flickering of light about him and for a moment or two he thought he was back in the place of the mirror and those colored squares of radiance which snapped on and off across the squares now faced him. When he opened his eyes fully and pulled himself up on the bench, however, he saw that a pine knot had been thrust into a ring high on the wall. A man stood under that torch, eyes resting directly on Myrddin.
And the boy knew a sudden lift of heart. Such a robe of white he had never seen worn except by Lugaid on high feast days, though this lacked that spiral of gold on the breast which Lugaid’s had borne. Yet if he was of the bardic brotherhood, then indeed he could be hailed as friend. And Myrddin knew the words which could claim protection. He was about to repeat the sentence Lugaid had long ago—or so it seemed to the boy—drilled into him, when the other spoke:
“Son of a demon, son of no man living, I order that you use not any devilish wiles. Be warned that there has been laid upon you the greater and the lesser obedience, those bonds of spirit which you cannot break.”
As he spoke, his words following a kind of chant, he pointed to Myrddin with a staff, white in part, the rest a rusty red as if it had been dyed with blood.
It was as if the boy’s nose was suddenly filled with a vile scent. Myrddin shook his head to try to escape the unseen cloud which surrounded this man who was certainly not of Lugaid’s kind. At the same time he realized that all the fear he had felt before was nothing to what he experienced now. For this was not only a threat to his body, but rather also to what he was. And he began to repeat, not the words of greeting which had been on his lips, but rather others which Lugaid had also taught him.
He saw the strange Druid’s eyes widen. The staff lashed across the air between them as the other might beat a man down; the wind of its passing touched Myrddin’s dust-grimed face. Yet the gesture was only empty menace, as well he realized. And with that realization the boy’s control began to regain command over his fear.
“What do you want of me?” Myrddin purposefully did not add any address of courtesy to that demand. This stranger might wear a robe like Lugaid’s, but Myrddin’s inner sense denied that he was of the breed of Lugaid.
The other had stilled his wand, though its reddened tip pointed straight at the boy as if it were a spear set for the final death thrust.
“You are the one of the foretelling, being born of no father, thus ordained for the High King’s purpose. For we who speak with the Powers have learned that never shall his fortress stand until its mortar be slaked with the blood of a youth who has no father kin.”
Deep within Myrddin there was a stir, a half memory. There was something—perhaps he had learned it from the mirror and then forgotten. He could not always remember everything he had been shown in the hidden cave once he had left. Instead, some parts of his knowledge seemed to sink so deeply into his mind that they lay hidden there until a chance word, some glimpse of a familiar object brought them to the surface.
This was shown! Not his death, of that he was sure, and his conviction on that point gave him confidence. But he had been brought here, not only by the will of the High King, but for another reason also, one which marched with the tasks he still only dimly suspected lay before him.
If the Druid expected him to cringe, to show fear, then his was the disappointment. For Myrddin, secure in his inner knowledge, faced him chin up and unshaken.
“What Powers do you speak for?” Again he deliberately omitted any title of respect. “Perhaps in these days your voices come not from the Sky Ones, but rather from the desires of men.”
The other’s breath rasped; his eyes strove to catch and hold Myrddin’s in one of those compelling strokes of command such as would make the boy will-less, ready to obey any order laid on him. And Myrddin, summoning all he had learned for the protection of his own secrets, gazed as steadily back.
“What do you know of the Sky Ones?” this stranger asked in a voice which had lost something of its arrogance and now held a note of unease.
“What do you?” Myrddin countered.
“That this is forbidden for any not of the Mysteries to speak of.” The stranger’s face flushed with anger. “What have you spied upon, demon-bred?”
“Could I be a spy and yet know this?” Deliberately Myrddin spoke the words of recognition Lugaid had taught him so long ago.
But to his surprise the other laughed with harsh relief.
“Those are worthless now. We listen to a new Power. You can
not claim kin, being what you are and already meat for the High King’s use. Better you be truly dead so you cannot corrupt any foolish ones with your prattling of forgotten things. Enter.” He turned his head a fraction, though not enough to take his eyes from Myrddin, as if he feared that the boy might indeed be more of an equal opponent than he now seemed. “Enter and take him!”
The man wearing the old armor pushed past the Druid, giving him a respectfully wide berth. And Myrddin made no struggle as his hands were once more lashed behind him, as he was pushed toward the door.
The Druid had turned and gone out, but he awaited them bathed in a sunlight which made Myrddin blink, unable as he was to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. More of the guard closed about them, and beyond that row of armed men the boy saw clanspeople and Saxons watching him with a kind of avid greediness which made him sick inside.
The same evil which had flowed like a stench from the Druid hung about this whole company. It was meant to feed on a man’s fears, overwhelm his courage, so he would go without struggle to whatever death waited for him.
Yet, much as the boy inwardly shrank from that assault of emotion, he walked firmly, without any wavering, his head up and his control unbreached.
The road they followed climbed a hill toward the piles of stones Vortigen had commanded his fortress be fashioned from. As they went, Myrddin looked from right to left, not now searching the faces of those gathered to see the sacrifice, but rather because he was aware, as if his sight could indeed pierce through the earth, of what lay underground.
They came to a halt before a leveled stone which had been draped with a covering of elaborately embroidered cloaks. And on that improvised throne sat the High King—claiming a title no mountain man would grant him.
Myrddin saw a man he thought close to his grandfather’s age, but there was no nobility, no pride, in these features, puffed as they were by too much drink. Vortigen’s eyes were never still, but flitted ever from face to face as if he expected treachery with each breath he drew. And his hands played with the hilt of his sword, though by the soft appearance of his body, the swelling paunch about which the belt of that sword had trouble meeting, he was no warrior now.
Behind him stood a woman, graceful, much younger, with the red-gold crown of a queen in a band about her head, resting on hair as yellow as ripe grain. Her robe of red was so overlaid with stitchery of gold that she glittered as hard as any metal figure in the sun. And in spite of her beauty of face there was in her the hardness of worked gold, not the softness of flesh.
There was no timidity nor unease in her, but she looked with boldness where she would, a faint smile carved on her lips, never warming her arrogant eyes. And when those eyes rested on the boy they glinted with what he correctly read as cruel anticipation.
“This is the boy?” Vortigen demanded. “It is proved, he is the son of no man?”
“Lord King,” the Druid answered, “it has been so proved, out of the mouth of she who bore him. For one of the Power questioned her and she could not lie. On Samain Night he was conceived through the power of some wandering ghost or demon—”
“Lord King!” Myrddin raised his voice and found that at this moment it was not shrill; rather it sounded assured and steady even in his own ears. “Why have your men of Power lied to you?”
The Druid swung halfway around, his staff moving up. But at that moment Myrddin’s deep-planted memory came fully awake. His eyes caught those of the furious priest and held them for a long moment. The flush faded from the man’s countenance, his features slackened oddly. He looked dull, drained.
Vortigen watched that transformation with something approaching awe.
“What have you done, demon-born?” He raised his fingers in the sign to ward off bad fortune.
“Nothing, Lord King, except gain for myself a space in which to tell you how ill-served you are.”
The King licked his lips. His fingers tightened on the sword hilt, half drawing the blade from its sheath.
“In what manner am I ill-served?”
“In the manner of this tower you would build.” Myrddin pointed with his chin toward the piled stones. “Dig beneath and you shall see. For below lies a spring of water which flows to soften the earth, so it cannot hold the weight of the stones you would set on the surface. And within that water you shall find the fate of this land. For there crouches the white dragon from overseas.” He glanced beyond the King’s shoulder to that upstart Queen, whose gaze was as intent on him now as if she, toe, would use her will as a weapon. Faintly he could feel the push of that will. But the force was feeble against what the mirror had built within him.
“Beyond the other edge of the pool is the red dragon of the Old Ones. And these strive ever to win an endless battle. Now the white dragon waxes in strength, and he shall nigh overcome his enemy. But the day lies close, closer than you know, Lord King, when the Red shall prevail. Set your men to spades and let them seek. You shall find it as I have said.”
The hand of the golden Queen reached forward as if to touch Vortigen’s shoulder. And in that moment Myrddin, carried out of himself, filled with understanding from the mirror, knew her for the enemy. She was more than just the Saxon wench who had seduced the High King, she was—
He frowned, sensing a new menace he did not understand and the nature of which he had not fronted before. Alarmed, he centered his concentration on the High King, instinctively knowing that this was the moment in which his own trained will was at its height.
“Let them dig, Lord King!”
Vortigen, leaning forward on the stone slab so that his shoulder was now well beyond the Queen’s reach, nodded heavily and echoed:
“Let them dig.”
So they brought spades and cut into the earth, laboring hard and as fast as they might under the King’s eyes until there was a swift gush of water from the side of the hill. Then they hurried to lay bare a small cave in which there was a pool.
Myrddin drew on his powers. This was no small clouding of memory so that he would not be seen by his peers, their young minds lying well open to such bewilderments. No, he must create an illusion those here would not forget.
There was a flash of red on one side of the water, a spear of white flame on the other. The tips of those fires inclined toward each other, inclined and wavered. For as long as he might, Myrddin held the illusion and then, drained of energy, allowed the flames to sniff into nothingness. But there was awe on the faces of those about him. Someone hastily cut through his bonds.
The High King turned a blanched, strained face in his direction.
“It is the truth—the truth,” he repeated, his voice loud in the silence that had fallen on the hilltop.
“And I will give you another truth.” Out of nowhere Myrddin found the words which he knew he must say. “Your day comes to sunset, High King. Know that Ambrosius advances with the evening star!”
4.
* * *
“They speak of you as a prophet, boy.”
The commander wore his red cloak flung back to display a breastplate of the old Roman style, one bearing the design of a laurel wreath encircling a god clutching thunderbolts in either hand. He was stocky, with a closed face, as if he never allowed emotion to uncover what he might consider a weakness. He was of the Roman pattern in more than his dress: his weathered, swarthy skin, his hair clipped close to his skull, his jaw shaved clean, though his beard was so heavy that it seemed only momentarily restrained by such measures.
Myrddin sensed this man’s strength of purpose like another kind of armor or weapon. This was truly a leader of men. All they had said of Ambrosius Aurelianus was the truth: he was the last of the Romans, with all their virtues and firmness of purpose—and perhaps their faults as well. This was a captain one could follow, but he was not the man Myrddin sought, not one to weld the broken factions of Britain into one nation again. He was too much of a Roman to be anything to the tribesmen but a worthy war chief, looking toward the p
ast and a life which the years of disunion had wiped forever away.
“Lord.” The boy chose his words carefully. This was one to whom he could not tell the entire truth, for Ambrosius would not believe it. “Lord, I am of the mountains and I knew this land. I only said what the High King’s men should have known, that there can be no firm foundation where a spring eats under the crown of a hill.”
“And these dragons—white and red—which our prisoners swear they saw at war?” countered Ambrosius swiftly. “Where did they come from, also out of your spring?”
“Lord, men see what they expect. The water lay as I said, therefore they were prepared to see what else I had pictured for them. The dragons were in their minds, for that much was the truth as they knew it. The white dragon of the Saxons sat in honor in Vortigen’s hold and and the red which is of our land was in defeat.”
He met the other’s piercing gaze squarely.
“I will not,” Ambrosius said with an emphasis which no one could mistake, “have any practice of sorcery. Such is both an abomination before the gods and a beguiling of fools. Remember that, my young prophet! Though a man may seize any weapon to save his life, he would do well thereafter not to try it again. I and my men fight openly, with these.” He touched the sword which lay on the table in front of him. “That magic of the night, the evil of witchery, is not ours. Let that thrice-damned Saxon witch, who has so beguiled Vortigen to his undoing, try such methods.”
Myrddin had heard the tale, that it was the Queen who had produced the poison used in the murder of Vortigen’s eldest son, starting the revolt of the King’s own followers against him.