by Andre Norton
“It is done,” he answered the mirror voice tonelessly.
“Rest, and wait,” chimed the voice in return. And at once it seemed to Myrddin that he was freed from some compulsion he had not even been aware of carrying. He blinked and stretched like one who had awakened from a long sleep filled with dreams. Then he turned and edged out of the chamber of the mirror, filling his lungs with the fresh air of the mountain winds.
He did not return to the ruined clan house. Instead he fashioned a small hut, partly of stone, partly of branches. The high point of summer came and he busied himself with the matter of food and stores for the winter. He found herbs and growing things which he could harvest; and he hunted a wild cow, perhaps lost from the ravaging of the clan house, killed it and smoked the meat.
When the ravens gathered to pick the hide he had flung over a bush, a wild cat and her kitten moved in to dispute their ownership by feline hissing and growls. The ravens screamed their battle cries in return, greedy for all they could get Myrddin watched the engagement until the hide was picked clean of all remnants of flesh. Then he scraped and worked it as best he could. Thereafter he left the offal of any animals he took in hunting for his feathered and furred neighbors.
It was a strange life, far removed even from the comforts the clan house provided. He grew lean and spare, taller, darker of skin where the sun burned him. There came the day when he used the newly honed edge of his belt knife to shave down off his lip and chin, at the same time hacking away his hair so it grew no longer than his earlobes.
His tunic and breeches were too small so he fashioned new breeches, awkwardly, from the crudely tanned hide, using the thicker portions to make sandals. He tore the sleeves from his tunic and wore it loosely around the upper part of his body.
Now the short summer was drawing to a close. He must prepare for the cold months. Though he hated the task, he climbed each morning after sunrise to a point from which he could look down at the clan house. He was too far aloft to see much of the ruin and desolation which had taken the domain of Nyren, but he made sure that the signal he had asked of Uther was not set.
Almost reluctantly he also made visits to the mirror, but there were few times when the voice spoke to him and some of the questions he asked went unanswered. At last he was driven to chanting as he worked, fixing in his mind the lore from past learning sessions and exercising a voice he had little use for.
One day he found one of the raven kind with its foot trapped in a twist of briar, croaking its terror to the world. Freeing the creature in spite of its frenzied pecks, some of which drew blood, he found its foot broken and tended the bird as he would the victim of man’s blood lust
When at last the raven mended, the bird seemed unwilling to depart wholly to the wild. It would often fly to a perch near the log Myrddin had drawn up at the door of his hut and which he used for a work place, weaving baskets from osiers brought from a mountain lake, grinding some half-wild grain from a weed-run field.
Myrddin named the raven Vran and was surprised at the creature’s response to his own tentative offers of food and his attempts to echo the bird’s harsh cries. After a while, when he appeared from out of the hut in the morning, Vran would wing to him, darting down to perch on his shoulder and cackle in softer tones, as if in some unknown speech, into the boy’s ear.
That winter was harsh and Myrddin, on the days of the worst storm winds, withdrew into the cave of the mirror. He had to pry and pick away at the crevice to force the doorway, his shoulders had grown so squared, his height increased. Vran disappeared, seeking out some shelter of his kind, and the boy missed his company.
He did not approach the mirror, for he felt a certain constraint now, as if this were not the time when he was to use the installation from the stars. In fact some of the lights across the cubes no longer appeared. He wondered, almost with a stab of panic, if they would ever work again, or if the mirror was growing old after a fashion, its power waning.
The days were no longer marked by any numbering of time. Myrddin had tried to keep a calendar of stones as he had by Lugaid’s hut; but after a storm had dislodged a score of them and he could not remember their exact number, he did not attempt to renew them. There were days when he ate only one light meal and drowsed away the rest of the hours in a lethargy which was not normal.
At least no one troubled the peace of the mountain. In all the time since his return he had seen no human being. Nor had his special sense warned him that he was being watched, as it had when Nimue had stalked him.
He wondered where she was and what she might be doing. The uneasiness of that wondering aroused him to the thought that perhaps he might be well engaged in trying to track her, just as she had tracked him. But when he at last asked that of the voice of the mirror, the answer came quick and emphatic:
“Do not approach any who serve those Others, for they will lead you to battle and the time for that is not yet.”
Myrddin was about to turn away from the question bench when the voice spoke again:
“The time is nigh now for your second task. Listen well. There must be a child born, even as you were born, one of our blood, unflawed. But all men must believe that he is of the High King’s begetting. When you are asked to aid Uther in this matter, you shall use the powers given you. Let the King believe that he lies with the woman of his choice and enjoys her favors for a night. Let the woman believe that she entertains her lord. But within her chamber you must open the window and leave her alone.
“Thereafter, when the child is born, you must take him, telling the King that he will be in danger, for there are those who want their ruler to have no true heir. And you must hide the child carefully, as a fosterling, with a lord to the north, one Ector. Let that one believe that you have fathered the babe. For he is one who knows of the Old Race and you shall give to him the sign of recognition. In his veins, though much thinned by time and many generations, is a portion of our blood and like will greet like.
“Be ready when the King’s messenger comes, that you may do this thing. For this child shall be the hope of your land, and our hope also. Only when a king of our kin reigns here in peace will the bonds be strong enough to bring about our return.”
“When shall this happen?” Myrddin dared to ask.
“With the coming of spring. Use now your powers of illusion, work with them day after day, until you can use them as easily as a well-trained warrior can wield his sword. For such are your weapons and only by them can you fashion what we must have.”
So Myrddin woke from the dreamy acceptance of passing days, one so like another that he could not have said that was yesterday, this is today, this tomorrow. And he flexed his powers as a fighter flexes his muscles before a contest.
He created his illusions on the nearby hillside, making them as lifelike as he could. One day he had a dark and foreboding forest around the entrance to the cave. The next he banished the darkness to lay down a fair meadow in which the flowers of early summer swayed beneath the caress of the wind. Then he fashioned people. Nyren walked there, his war cloak swept back, the chain mail rings of bronze sewn on his leather jerkin, shining brightly. He smiled as he came, raising his hand in friendly salute.
The struggle to hold such an image so that it did not appear as a shadow but as a living thing was the hardest task Myrddin had yet to learn. It tired him more than had his ordeal of raising the King Stone in the Western Isle. But the more he used that power, the more his strength grew, the more solid and lifelike became his illusions. Yet he could not be sure that he could hold them as well for others as he was able to do for himself.
Then he used Vran, who fluttered back to him as the spring advanced. He pictured a sheep butchered and skinned on the ground and the raven, with an ear-splitting shriek, settled on it, strove to tear the flesh. Then, giving a honk of surprise, the raven wheeled upward again when the sheep faded into a bush.
Daily Myrddin tested and wrought his illusions until the morning when, climbin
g to his point of vision, he at last saw smoke rising from the destroyed clan house. Waiting only to take up the bark-wrapped sword, he strode quickly down the faint path he had never wanted to travel again, to see through the gap of the smashed outer gate the men who stood by the signal fire. One of them he knew—Credoc, Uther’s own shield man. That he should be sent on such an errand made Uther’s great desire obvious. And Myrddin realized that the time had come of which the voice had warned him.
He knew that to these men in their rich cloaks, their fine linen tunics, their wealth and ornaments, he must look like a beggar of the wilds, a woodwose or some strange thing out of the hill legends. But he came proudly, knowing that only he could foster the King’s desire, even though he would do it by trickery.
“You are Myrddin?” Credoc’s disdain was plain to read.
“I am. And the High King wishes my services,” Myrddin answered composedly. “The life in the hills, my lord, is not a soft one.”
“So it would seem!” Credoc did not quite sneer openly, but his eyes and tone condemned what he saw, though Myrddin cared nothing for that.
But he was more suitably clad, in fresh tunic, cloak and trousers of clan check when he rode into the King’s city. Years of neglect, other years of Saxon raiding, had done much to reduce to ruin what had once been a goodly port. But certain buildings had been repaired and the largest of these was snug-walled. It even had a look of splendor on the inside, where hangings of needlework covered most of the deficiencies.
Myrddin was taken to an inner chamber. Uther sat on the end of a bed whose tumbled coverings had not yet been straightened, as if the ruler had just risen from sleep, though the morning was well advanced.
“Ho, prophet.” Uther drank from a silver-mounted horn cup and then passed that to a waiting boy, signaling him to refill it from a jar of foreign wine. “You spoke the truth on the day of our last meeting. I have indeed found a use for you. And if you serve me well in this, you may name your own reward. You,” he said, turning on the others in the chamber, “get you hence, all of you. I would speak in private to this prophet.”
“Lord King, he is a self-confessed dealer in magic,” Credoc protested.
“I care not! Such magic as he has wrought to my knowing has been for the good of this land. Not notably so, of course, but at least to no one’s hurt. Now leave me.”
They obeyed, with visible reluctance. But the High King waited until they had gone before he spoke, and then only in a low voice which would not carry to the walls of the chamber.
“Myrddin, you dealt once in illusion, as you told my brother. Saying that men see what they want to see. Have women also this failing?”
“It is my belief that they do, Lord King.”
Uther nodded vigorously. He was smiling, taking small sips from the refilled horn. “Then I wish you to create an illusion for me, prophet Lately was I crowned here before the host of those who have long followed me. And not the least of those lords is Goloris out of Cornwall. But he is a man of age, still sturdy enough to answer the war horn most likely, but yet not one to satisfy a young wife as he should. And he has such a wife, the Lady Igrene, near a daughter to him by years. This lady—she is the fairest I have ever seen. Though I have bedded many women—and all of them came to me willingly enough—yet never have I seen her like! When I tried to speak her fair she would have none of me, but rather tattled to her lord so that he most rudely withdrew from my court, saying no farewells, in such a manner as to put shame on me!” Now Uther’s face flushed and he spoke with his lips tight against his teeth in anger.
“No man or woman shall so shame the High King, that others may titter behind their hands! I have already sent my guard into Cornwall to make that plain to Duke Goloris. But his lady—aye, that is another matter. I would hold her within my arms so that she may know how a king can love. The Duke has been enticed from his stronghold but the lady is safe, he deems, within. Now tell me, prophet, how can I come to her bower or she to my chamber?”
“You spoke of illusions, Lord King. There could perhaps be woven an illusion so secure—for perhaps the space of a night—that the lady would think her lord had returned to comfort her. Yet it would only be the outer semblance of the Duke. . . .”
Uther threw back his head to utter a roar of laughter. He was, Myrddin saw, well heated with the wine. “A famous jest, prophet! And one which pleases me. You swear this can be done?”
“For a short time, Lord King. And we would have to be close to the Duke’s hold. . . .”
“No matter!” Uther waved his hand. “In my stable are the fleetest horses in this land. If need be we can run the hearts out of them.”
As the High King commanded, so might it be done. Myrddin found himself clinging to the back of a larger steed than he had ever known, riding at a reckless pace through the twilight; they passed on even through the night, for the moon swung high enough to give them wan light. He did not consider the good or ill of what he would do, but rather what could come of this if he was successful. Another Sky Son would be born, one like himself, always in half exile in this land. And at that he knew joy, for he had learned the bitterness of loneliness throughout his years.
Let the child be born and taken to Ector—then perhaps he himself would be free. He longed as fiercely for that freedom as any slave wished his chains to be loosed.
Thus in three days they came to a fortress by the sea and found hiding places in a copse. Myrddin pushed forward alone to look down on the keep Uther wished to invade and, in the silence of the spot on which he sheltered, he began to ready his powers for the greatest feat of illusion he had ever tried.
8.
* * *
The night was cold, unusually chill for Beltane Eve. There was a crisp wind off the sea, whose thunder-break of waves Myrddin could hear even through the thick walls of the fortress. He himself was feverish as if some rheum of winter troubled him as he crept along the passage, unsure of his powers even yet.
Uther and his men slept back in that bidden camp. It had been easy enough to introduce the herb powder into their single bottle of heather mead, for the strong flavor of the drink covered the lighter taste of the sleep herb. And he had implanted the illusion dream in Uther’s mind with all the skill the mirror had taught him.
But now he traversed passages where twice he had to raise screens of illusion to distort sight and leave him free. The strain was telling on him. In the chamber ahead . . . He paused within hand-touching distance of the curtain that cloaked its entrance, began once more to create his dream weaving.
When it was as strong as he could summon, he drew a deep breath and walked forward, lifting the right edge of the curtain and stepping boldly through. If he worked his magic correctly, the woman within would see only what she looked to see, the unexpected return of her lord.
In his hand was the tiny packet holding the rest of the sleep draft. Get her to swallow that on some pretext and his task was done.
A lamp of the old Roman design flickered beside a bed fashioned like a richly carved wooden box with its lid removed. However it held no occupant. Instead the woman stood looking out of the window at the storm-roiled sea, a cloak about her slim shoulders covering only part of her nudity. She turned swiftly as Myrddin’s boot rasped on the stone.
Her startled look was gone in an instant. She smiled hesitantly, as if not sure in what mood the intruder came.
“My lord! But . . . how come you here?”
Myrddin gave an inner sigh of relief. So the illusion held—she saw whom she might expect, the Duke Goloris.
“Where else would I be?” he asked. “Fair lady, this is no night for wars or sword-dealing.”
She came away from the window, dropping the edge of her cloak. Now he could see that indeed this one was fashioned for the joys of bedding, although he could look on her without that stir of confusion he had felt when Nimue unveiled her body in invitation. She was indeed beautiful, this Duchess Igrene, but it was a beauty one might view i
n the Roman images of their goddesses. Now she regarded him with a small, almost secret smile, and he guessed that in some things she could rule her old lord as completely as Uther wished to rule Britain.
Make an end to this play, something within Myrddin bade him. In this room, which was scented with woman and a life he knew nothing of, he was as uncertain as a stag who suspected a trap. His hand went out to a small side table on which there providentially stood a tall bottle of glass brought from overseas and two beautifully decorated goblets.
“The night is cold,” he said. “I would have wine for the warming.”
Igrene laughed low and sweetly. “There are other ways of warming one, lord.” Slyly she motioned toward the bed.
He forced a laugh of his own. “Well enough. But first, pledge me in a cup, lady. Then we shall perhaps try your way to see which is best”
She pouted, but waited until he had poured a measure of wine into each goblet, then docilely accepted the one he held out to her. He pretended to drink, but she emptied her cup in a couple of swallows.
“My lord, you are not usually so behind in such matters.” She came closer so that the flower scent which clung to her skin grew stronger. Making nothing of her nakedness, she raised her hands to unbuckle his cloak. “Lord, you are not yourself this night. . . .”
Myrddin wanted to jerk back, away from her reaching hands. By sheer will he kept still. Setting aside his goblet, he caught her hands and held them tightly clasped within his own, watching her with an anxious eye.
Now he caught and held her gaze. The playfulness faded from her expression. Her face smoothed, as if she no longer saw him in truth, but some vision which stood between them.
Gently, after a long moment of that locked gaze, Myrddin drew her to the side of the bed, settled her within it. Her eyes were still on what only she saw. Lying back among the pillows, she made no move as Myrddin left her.