by Andre Norton
“You have something greater than an army.” Merlin had to believe what he was saying, he had to believe that the mirror had led him aright. “And that is command over a Power which was, is and will be. That you shall prove before the sight of all men when the morning dawns. No.” He held up his hand to halt the questions he saw the other would ask. “I shall not tell you how this may be done. You will come to the testing innocent of all knowledge, so that no man may afterward question the result. But only you who were born to do this thing can achieve it.”
Arthur studied him soberly. “You plainly believe what you say, Lord Merlin. But to be High King in Britain is a task few discerning men would thank you for. Those who reach now for the crown see only that and not the heavy burden it carries for its wearer.”
Merlin felt a lessening of his doubt. If this boy could understand that, then indeed he had some of the Old Race in him. If only he might have been taught! But that time was past. Now the end lay within Arthur’s own character, for good or ill. And by Ector’s account there had already been ill.
Ector spoke to Merlin. “I shall tell the Council. There will be those who will raise the cry of sorcery—”
Arthur made a sudden movement. “I am no party to sorcery!” he stated firmly.
“There is no sorcery,” Merlin replied. “There is only a knowledge which most men have forgotten. And if any remember enough, then perhaps they may win over you. But it has been prophesied that only you shall reign.”
He held stoutly to his faith in the mirror. If that was shaken he had no secure anchor in his life, and all he had done had been meaningless. The Star Lords must have foreseen much when they had prepared the way for this hour to come.
But he was also chilled and had a queer feeling, as if he had lost something he had long treasured. His hope of finding a strong kin in this boy who had been fathered, even as he had been, by the strange beings who strode easily from star to star, that withered into dust. Even the tie he clung to when he met with Ector, tenuous as it was, was lacking here. There was no feeling of inner recognition between Arthur and himself.
Now the boy shifted from one foot to the other, looked from Merlin to Ector, as if he awaited only his foster father’s permission to be gone, When Ector nodded, he vanished so quickly it was easy to read his relief in being away from this stranger whom he might distrust more than trust.
“I have been thinking.” Ector became brisk, as if he, too, sensed a certain atmosphere of strain. “There is a stone nearby—I think it might be one of the Old Ones— well placed for our service. But will they listen to you?”
“They will,” stated Merlin grimly and briefly. “Now let us to this stone of yours,”
Ector was right, it was indeed a standing stone, very like those in the Place of the Sun, except this one happened to be alone. Perhaps it marked some long-ago victory or defeat. Power was still generated by some great deed within it, sensed when he ran his fingertips across its surface. Right for his purpose indeed.
Merlin freed the sword from its wrappings and, placing both hands on the hilt, set its point to the surface of the stone. Slowly, in a low voice, he began the chant, not to induce a stone to rise this time, but rather to open a gate for the metal resting against it. He put all the concentration he had learned into this deed, shutting out the world, leaving just the stone and the metal which he would make obey his will.
The point of the sword bored inward, as if what it rested against was not hard rock but far softer wood. Inch by inch Merlin strove to work the metal into the stone. When it was a third embedded his arms fell to his side and he swayed, would have crumpled to the ground if Ector had not caught him.
“The ancient knowledge is a fearsome thing, kinsman.” He steadied Merlin’s body against his own, his arm tightly about the younger man’s shoulders. “Had I not seen you do this deed I would not have believed. But Arthur does not know the words of Power. Can he indeed draw it forth again?”
“It is so set that only he can do so,” Merlin said faintly. “He is of the race who have power over stone and metal, though he knows it not.” He made a strong effort, drawing on his own last store of energy. “Now we must see that the lords are made aware of the testing.”
Afterward Merlin was never to remember clearly how he confronted that assembled company. He only knew that within him that night there was an upsurge of Power so that men listened—even though he wove no illusions— listened and believed. With torches in hand they went to the stone and there looked at the sword buried in its harsh body. Thereafter they agreed that the test Merlin proposed would be their first effort to select a war leader. Even though they might well believe that no one of their number could pluck that metal forth, yet something in them yielded to Merlin’s fervor.
He himself was so wearied that he fell rather than laid himself down on the bed of cloaks and coverings which Ector provided in his own tent; he then passed into a sleep untroubled by any dreams, as spent as a man who has won a victory against overwhelming odds.
In the morning Merlin ate and drank what was given to him, tasting nothing, chewing and swallowing without knowing what he did, so centered was his whole energy on what was to happen. Later he took his place by the stone with an impatience he found hard to cloak with the outward-seeming dignity and foreknowledge which his role of prophet demanded.
They came, those of the most consequence first. Lot of Orkney stood, his face a fox’s mask beneath fox-red hair, his eyes sliding from one man to another as if he would so weigh the importance of each man to his own cause.
But under his hand the sword did not stir. In fact he jerked his fingers quickly back from the hilt as if they had been licked by fire. Goloris’ son out of Cornwall tried, and the others, so many that their names began to mean little to Merlin. Most were tribesmen, but one or two must have been of Ambrosius’ old army, for they were clearly of the Roman breed.
Next came the younger men, some boys who had barely taken armor. Their attempts to draw the magic blade were more intense, as if they believed where their elders were of two minds about it all. Cei’s dark face was the only one Merlin recognized. He had always been too much apart from court and camp to know many.
But he held his breath as Arthur, the sun turning his hair to a gold as clear and bright as that from the Western Isle, stepped forward at last. Then within Merlin’s mind word fitted itself to word in a smooth, long-practiced pattern, though he spoke not aloud.
Arthur wiped the palms of his hands across his thighs as if they were damp with sweat. His tunic was as sun-bright as his hair, and the light seemed to draw in about him in a dazzle of flame. Or was it only Merlin who saw him so?
The boy closed a tight grip on the hilt of the Sky Sword. Merlin saw the rippling of muscles as his tunic tightened on shoulder and arm with the effort he put forth. His face was utterly serious. If no one else in this throng was wholly sure, Arthur was.
There came a protesting, grating sound. Slowly the sword loosened, came forth from the slit in which it had been set. Merlin heard the indrawn breaths, the gasps from those who watched. They had all tried—they knew this deed to be impossible—yet before their eyes Arthur was accomplishing that impossible feat.
He gave a last tug. The hilt fitted his hand as it never had Merlin’s narrower, long-fingered one. The blade was a fire as he gave a joyous laugh and swung it up through the air.
Merlin did not shout, but his words carried through all that company as if he had roared them forth full-lunged.
“Hail, Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, he who was, is and shall be!”
Awe conquered that moment. He saw even Lot’s drawn sword give a warrior’s salute to the chief. And Merlin felt the tension begin to ease out of him.
Then he chanced to glance at the gathering of women who stood a little apart. Queens and ladies had stood there watching, perhaps each hoping in her heart that the magic of this deed would favor her lord and that she might reign with him. But among th
em . . .
Merlin’s hands, hanging by his sides, clenched into fists, though he might have guessed she would be here, and in some trappings of state this time, no rough green square belted about her now. No, she was tall for a woman, and slender, with a grace which made most of her companions seem like women who labored in the fields. Her robe was green, right enough, but it was richly worked in fantastic patterns, and the thread of that working was silver, just as there was a silver circlet about her dark head, one which bore a green stone to rest in the middle of her forehead.
Her eyes met his and he saw a small, secret smile form on her lips. Straightaway all his feeling of accomplishment was threatened, he was on the defensive. If he only knew what powers she could summon! The mirror had said that in using her energy to imprison Merlin in the cave she had nearly exhausted what force she could summon. However, just as that field had waned over the years, could Nimue not in turn have regained at least partial command over what she had lost?
The lords of the company were coming to Arthur, to swear their faith to him. Merlin saw Ector, as always a little apart. Two strides closed the distance between them.
“Ector,” Merlin said in a voice masked by the clamor of those greeting Arthur, “who is that woman, she who is turning away now?”
He must know what standing Nimue had at court, how much opposition she might be able to summon, either openly or more subtly.
“They call her the Lady of the Lake. For she has a hold of her own, one people say was once a temple to some strange goddess who ruled springs and rivers. But she has great power of healing and has dwelt in the court lately tending Uther until his death. It is she who bore away Morgause, and perhaps keeps her in that tower which is her own. Men credit her with the old learning. Yet if she is of the kin, never has she moved to claim it with such as my own clan.”
“No!” Merlin exploded. “She is of the Dark Ones, Ector, and her true name is Nimue. It was by her will that I have lain in prison. We must set watch on her, for she will mean Arthur no good will, mainly because he is what he is.”
But they were too late, for, when Ector had summoned two of his trusted valley men to set watch upon the Lady, they found her gone, no one knowing where. And Merlin was left with a shadow of fear of what might come to color his days and disturb his nights.
11.
* * *
Merlin stood once more within the Place of the Sun. Lugaid’s hut was just a tumble which could no longer be discerned as any habitation of man. He wondered, not for the first time, where the Druid had gone—if he was not indeed dead. He shivered as if some foot had pressed on his own grave barrow, and the loneliness which always lay in wait beyond the circle of his will stirred like some beast crouching ready to attack. Ector—Ector had gone down beneath a Saxon ax, two or three battles ago.
Time had become not a matter of the counting of seasons but rather of battles, for Arthur was the war leader whom they had long sought. He had in him more skill, even in his youth, than Uther had ever summoned for ridding Britain of the invaders; he had more flexibility than Roman-trained Ambrosius had been able to employ in his handling of the jealous, quick-to-anger clansmen.
His answer to the inroads of the Winged Hats had been cavalry—the Black Horsemen of the borders. Horses of the Friesian breed, larger and heavier than the native ponies, which had been auctioned off nearly a generation earlier when the cavalry left the wall, mated to the also dark-coated Fell Ponies of the north, producing a wiry and strong mount, able to carry a man wearing chain armor. The horses themselves also wore protection of stiffened leather oversewn with metal links.
The Saxons, in spite of their reverence for white horses, which they sacrificed to Wotan on suitable occasions, were not the horsemen most tribesmen were. And a quick cavalry charge, tearing into massed footmen, became Arthur’s way. Ambrosius had done well in his time, holding back the invaders, pushing out those Vortigen had welcomed as a buffer against Scotti and the Picts; Uther had held precariously to the gains his brother had made. But Arthur was ever pushing at the Saxons, forcing them back and out
More and more of them had taken to their dragon-prowed boats with their women and children, their possessions; they headed overseas, away from Britain where the continual harassment of Arthur’s men kept them living with spear and ax to hand, with no surety at the rising of each day’s sun that they would be alive to see its setting.
In so much had Arthur won.
Merlin dismounted by the King Stone, his shoulders a little bent under his white robe.
He rested both palms on the surface of the block. How young, how filled with excitement and triumph he had been on the day it was set here! He had won so easily what he had given his life to obtain. A stone ferried back across the sea, planted in the earth of Britain—an act too small to be deemed a victory.
Now he sighed wearily. He had made Arthur king, yes. But the Arthur who now sat on the throne was not the king of his dreams, nor his labors. He listened to Merlin with courtesy. Sometimes—only sometimes—would he listen with agreement. The priests of the Christ were also near at hand. And they turned on Merlin when they could with a gabble of sorcery, raking up once more the old tale that he was demon-sired.
It seemed to him now that there was always a subtle flaw in all he planned. Only three things had he done without mistake: brought this stone back to its rightful place where it could serve as part of a future beacon, freed the Sky Sword and put it in Arthur’s hand and raised Arthur himself to the throne.
But Arthur did not have the learning which the future of the Sky People depended on. His character had been formed by others. And Merlin had long since learned that Nimue had her own ways of countering all he would do.
There was the matter of the Queen. Merlin’s mouth twisted in a grimace as if a mortal pain had struck him with that thought. A king’s daughter, of such beauty as made men’s breath catch in their throats when they first looked on her—outwardly a worthy mate for Arthur. Inwardly—what? A toy, a doll, a woman so obsessed with her own kind of power, of the body alone, that her eyes were never still when she was in company; rather they flitted here and there seeking out each man to see if he was smitten suitably by her grace of face and form. That was Guenevere.
And Merlin scented suspiciously something about her that was of Nimue, though he had never seen the Lady of the Lake since she had turned smiling from Arthur’s triumph with the sword. So long ago . ..
Merlin rubbed his hand across his forehead. He felt a great weariness of spirit, together with a foreboding he could not understand. Twice he had made the pilgrimage back to the cave, but the mirror was silent; he had not tried to break its silence, drawing instead what force lay within himself to carry on.
Still he dreamed at times, and those dreams were able to nourish his will. He saw the cities which rose in the sky, the men who mastered the ability to fly, fashioned the land itself to suit their will as a potter slaps and pinches clay into a new form. He saw what man could create, and then he awoke to the squalor and the degradation of what man had come to in this age.
He had wisdom to offer, but who would accept his counseling? Arthur—when it suited his own plans. Others—a few who came to him for healing. But the majority listened to the priests from overseas, looking on everything that was not favored by their preaching as the outpouring of evil. How and why had he come to this low ebb?
He stood apart now as if encased in uncracking ice. He could feel compassion, but he was more kin to the beasts of the fields and the forests than to man. And always the loneliness gnawed him.
His very appearance set him apart, for it seemed that he did not age greatly now that he had reached man’s estate. He prudently used the arts of herbs to alter his face and hair, bringing about the effects of encoaching years; otherwise his continued youth would also awake hostility in men who feared most of all the failing of their own powers, the approach of age which meant death in the end.
Cold and dark—
Suddenly Merlin shook his head, stood straighter. He was letting his own uncertainties defeat him. Arthur was firmly on the throne of Britain. The King had forged that peace with the sword Merlin had put in his hand. No man could seize victory unless he had first tasted defeat. This was the hour at last, the hour toward which all his own life had been directed!
He looked about him with renewed vigor like one awakening from a dark dream. The stones stood tall and strong here, ancient as their setting had been. What had the mirror ever set in his mind—the Power that was, is and will be! And the “will be” lay before. He would bring Arthur here in spite of all the priests from overseas, take him on to the mirror. Why had he allowed shadows to lie heavy in his own mind, whisper dispiriting thoughts in his ears? He was Merlin of the Mirror, perhaps the last man of this world to hold so much of the old knowledge! He had wasted time too long. Now that Arthur did not need to hunt the invaders from his land he would be ripe and ready for the task he had been destined for, just as Merlin had been destined in turn.
It seemed to him as he threw aside that morbidity of mind that the stones blazed royally under the sun, with a flare like that of torches. They stood for torches in a manner, emblems of forgotten light in a dark world. He held his head high, straightened his shoulders.
Why had he allowed the cloak of doubt and a premise of defeat to rest on him lately? It was as if men’s talk of magic indeed held a core of truth and he had been firmly encircled by some spell, just as he had formerly been removed from the world by the action of the mirror to preserve his life. Flooding through him now was a realization of Power almost as strong as the day he had raised the King Stone from its bed of earth on the Western Isle.
Yet he also felt a reluctance to leave, to start back to the High King’s fortress-palace. These stones were closer to him in spirit than any man living. And he thought with deep regret of how he had longed for Arthur’s birth that there might be one other to share the alienation he always felt, most strongly when he was among a throng of men.