He grabbed for his sword, only to find it missing, and he couldn’t find his knife. But then the fog parted and another boat appeared. A man rowed it, whistling quietly. Didn’t he see the creature?
“Stay back,” Merlin yelled, but the man ignored him and rowed his boat nearer. Then the man set his oars down and stood in his boat, a dark, hooded cloak upon his frame and his face in darkness. He held in his hand a fishing net, and tossed it into the water using a long rope. He was still whistling.
The creature below the water paused, the green fire of its eyes glaring upward. Then, as if spooked, it shot away into the depths.
Merlin’s boat had now sunk partway into the water, and Merlin abandoned it, swimming over and grabbing onto the net, still dangling from the man’s hands. “Help me up,” he called, looking frantically into the water to make sure the creature wasn’t returning.
The fisherman reached down and pulled him into the boat. He then lifted the net in, and it was filled with seven large perch, gray-green with black stripes.
“Where am I?” Merlin asked, his wet clothes dripping on the bench.
The man did not answer. He took hold of the oars and rowed. Merlin tried to glimpse his face, but the hood drooped too low for that.
They rowed through the fog for a long time, and yet it seemed to Merlin that they stood still. Nothing could be seen on the left or the right, and time slowed until Merlin felt they would go on like that, the man bumping the oars, splash into the water, raising them — dripping years across the surface of Merlin’s life — and then back down again for another row. Perpetually.
Just as Merlin began to shiver, the boat bumped something. Turning around, he saw a wide shore, gray with rocks. Merlin climbed out and pulled the boat up the shingle.
The fisherman gathered his catch, still flopping slightly, and climbed onto the shore. He lit a small lantern from a tinder box, and then led the way up a narrow track.
“Who are you?” Merlin asked, trying to keep up, but the man ignored him. Merlin wanted to grab his sleeve, turn him around, and pull back the hood — but began to fear what he might find.
Soon they passed through a forest of stout but short trees, their wide, pointed leaves motionless in the lifeless air. A stone fortress loomed out of the thinning fog. Its granite blocks had been weathered from hundreds of years of wind and rain, and they towered over Merlin, more imposing than even Dintaga. To the left stood a high tower with a conical roof, its windows black. The gate was open, but it was dark inside, and a stillness pressed down over the place like a blanket, thick and moldy.
The man entered, his lantern too small to light up anything beyond the gate but for a foot or so.
Merlin hesitated. If he stepped inside, would the doors close behind and trap him?
The fisherman turned and beckoned him. His hand was thick and calloused, and there was no hint of evil in his motion — but could Merlin trust him? Yes, he had seemed to scare off the creature in the water, but what if it was for some fouler purpose?
Merlin turned back and looked the way he had come. He knew the boat was still there on the shore, and he could take it and — but the creature was there, so he could not go back.
“There is nothing to fear,” the man said, his fish gleaming in the lantern light.
Merlin had forgotten about the fish, and that is what made his decision. The simple act of catching fish hearkened back to his own memories as a child, when his father would take him out on the marsh. They would spend hours filling the bottom of the boat, cleaning their catch, smoking them, and hanging them from the ceiling to provide meat through the long winter.
How bad could this man be? Merlin stepped forward, and together they entered the shadowed interior of the fortress wall. The man walked slowly across the courtyard and to a timbered hall where they entered. The floor was littered with rocks, and the hearth in the center lay dead, its ashes sodden and the charred logs old and broken. On one end of the room lay a dais, and upon it stood two granite thrones whose stonework was cracked. They were framed by blood-red vines that grew up the wall.
The man handed the net of fish to Merlin, and though it was heavy it gave him something to do — something to hold on to — and that net of fish felt more real to him than all the rest.
The fisherman stepped up to the dais, turned, and sat down heavily upon the throne. And in that instant, all the world changed. Lights burst out in the room. The net of fish changed suddenly to a tray of salted and baked fillets. Servants appeared dressed in finely woven clothes of yellows, blues, and crimson, and they carried platters of steaming breads, troughs of meaty stews, and crocks of spicy soups. Above the blazing hearth lay a spitted boar, roasting, with fat sizzling and dripping.
The fisherman had changed too. His dark cloak was gone, replaced by a mantle of plum and argent. His tunic was plaid, like the princes of Kembry, and his pants made from handsome gray leather. Next to him, upon the other throne, sat a woman. Her hair was red like a flaxen fire, and her elegant dress was the most brilliant blue Merlin had ever seen. Upon her head and the king’s lay simple silver circlets with neither gem nor ornamentation.
A servant came and relieved Merlin of the tray of fish. He was hungry but didn’t care, for the sight was feast enough. He dropped to his knees before the king and queen, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
“Rise, Merlin, and be at ease, for you are an honored guest,” the lady said, and her voice was like a songbird freshly lit amongst the dew-dripped flowers.
Merlin looked up, and her face was radiant such that he had to turn away lest she steal his very soul. That was when he saw the man’s face. His jaw was strong under a handsome nose, and his brown hair fell thick past his shoulders. But a sadness hung upon him unlike any Merlin had seen before. His lips hung down at the corners as if a smile had never been seen across his face. The skin of his cheeks lay tense and brooding, and his eyes — the sadness was most pronounced in his eyes — they were sunken as if all the tears of the world had been shed through them and had left them hollow. The crease of his brow was so pronounced that Merlin shuddered.
“My lord,” Merlin dared utter, still on his knees, “what burden do you bear, and how may I cheer you?”
The king said nothing, but only pointed to the plaid of his chest … and there Merlin spied a stain. Blood it was, trickling down from his heart, pooling in his lap, running down the throne, across the dais, and soaking into the ground. There was so much of the blood that it was a wonder Merlin had not seen it before.
Even the queen was concerned now, and she rose to help her husband, but he waved her back. “Nothing can be done for my wound, and you know it well,” he declared.
“That may be,” the queen said, “but that is why Merlin is here. He holds the power to heal your wound, if he is willing.”
Merlin felt himself go pale. If he was willing? Heal the king’s wound? Merlin had no power to heal. His prayers for Natalenya’s healing had gone unanswered. His prayers for release from their slavery had gone unheeded. A fool he was. A powerless fool, with a God who had abandoned them to sickness and death. He wanted to believe — to trust — but his faith was beginning to fade as the trials mounted and the impossibility of their situation pressed upon him.
But the queen spoke again, her voice soft as the waters of a gently flowing stream. “Do not doubt, brave Merlin, but believe the gospel! Within the bag at your side hides the power to heal the great wound of my husband.”
Merlin did not even bother to look down at his waist. He knew there was no bag there — he had already searched himself when the creature had slunk by in the marsh. But … what was this knot at his elbow? He felt with his hand, and sure, a bag was mysteriously present where none had been before. He untied it and reached inside, felt something wooden, and pulled it out.
It was the small, strange bowl he and Colvarth had found in the tin box. The bowl Necton had stolen from them without knowing what it was. Its wood was aged to a deep brown, and its ba
se was covered in a circle of decorated gold.
“You hold the Sancte Gradale, the Sangraal,” the queen said, stepping down from her perch and falling on her knees beside Merlin. “The cup of the Christ! At the Last Supper, it held the wine that was poured out for us all, and the Pergiryn who built this fortress, this shrine, used it to catch our Lord’s blood when he lay dying upon the cross. It is most holy.”
Merlin studied it again, holding his breath, for now its bottom was filled with blood, dark and dread. He almost dropped the thing, his hands shaking, but the queen reached out and steadied them, her eyes shining with wonder.
“To think that you have brought it here again,” she said. “To think that I have now touched the cup of the living Christ. May I bring it to my husband? For his wound is grievous.”
Merlin stood, and giving her the Sangraal, she held it out to the king’s lips, who drank of the blood, all of it, and in that instant was healed. The stain upon his tunic faded and was gone, the pooled blood evaporated, and a joy filled his face. Raising his arms to heaven, he sang forth a song Merlin had never heard:
Trust not in guile, or in a hoard —
trust in the power of Christ, your Lord.
Not in the wood, or in a sword —
here lays the blood of Christ, yes poured.
Let death break forth, and blade’s bright rust —
at the judgment they turn to dust.
And when you fail, in thick disgust —
there, in the Christ of heaven, do trust.
The light of the Sangraal flashed then, more intense than any light Merlin had ever seen. The world was covered in that light, and the dream faded away.
Merlin opened his eyes to a world unlike the one he had dreamed about. His head felt like a dead fish — bloated, washed ashore, and ready to pop.
Colvarth was there, trying to rouse him with insistent whispers. “He has taken Natalenya! Awake!”
“I know. I know …” Merlin said. Of course Scafta’d taken Natalenya’s harp and smashed it. Even in his drowsiness, Merlin’s heart began to burn in anger at such a desecration.
“Not the harp — Natalenya herself, Necton has …”
“Necton?” This didn’t make sense to him. Necton couldn’t play the harp, certainly not a broken one. Merlin sat up, the world tilting around the rock steadiness of Colvarth’s hand.
“You must be up — Necton has taken Natalenya to make her his wife!”
Ganieda ate and was satisfied, wondering who these people were such that they treated her so harshly … and yet so kindly. Her mother had always warned her to avoid the other people of the village. None of them were descended from the glorious Eirish, like her mother. They were cruel, ignorant, and foolish. Certainly the tall man’s treatment of her grandfather had been cruel — but the woman treated Ganieda gently despite the fact that Ganieda had cut her.
Wasn’t that how the world worked … cut those who cut you? Why did Safrowana unbind her while being threatened? Ganieda had fully expected to be beaten, and yet here she sat in the woman’s lap — dallying over her bread, smelling her hair, and feeling warm and truly safe for the first time in many weeks.
But what of the others? Those girls? That cruel man?
Someone knocked on the door and entered. It was the man.
She wanted to scream, but her mouth was full of bread, so Ganieda stuffed the remaining piece in and clung to Safrowana. That man wouldn’t dare hurt her then!
“It’s okay, little girl. I’m called Troslam, and I’m sorry for the rough handling. I’ve made you a dress, and I hope you like yellow.”
He laid upon the bed a bright yellow dress, cross-woven with orange and red strands. It was more beautiful than any dress Ganieda had ever seen, and she just stared at it as the man left and closed the door.
Ganieda reached out and felt the cloth, smooth and soft. Is it mine? she thought to herself, but didn’t realize she had spoken it aloud until the woman answered her.
“Of course it’s yours, dear. Let’s try it on.”
Before Ganieda knew it, she was dressed and feeling beautiful.
The woman left to get some ointment for the small cuts on Ganieda’s legs. While she was gone, Ganieda flopped back on the bed and repeated the woman’s name out loud to herself. Safrowana … Safrowana … It sounded similar to her mother’s name Môndargana, but of course not half as special. From her vantage point, Ganieda looked up at the cast-iron lamp hanging from a hook nailed into a beam running across the roof. The oil had nearly run dry, for it sputtered in the still air. And just as she was about to look away, the wick flared up, revealing a line of white nearly hidden on the lamp’s ledge. White? Could it be?
She jumped up, almost losing her balance on the stuffed feather mattress. She leaned forward to see what the white thing was, but the wick was too dim. Blowing at it as hard as she could, she couldn’t make it flare up. Looking around, she found her old dress, nearly rags now, and she waved it at the lantern until the wick flashed, revealing what lay on the edge of the lamp … and it was … her fang!
She reached forward, straining, tilting, but the bed was too soft and too far away. She spied a broom in the corner, and jumped off the bed to get it. She had just returned to the center and raised the broom handle toward the lantern when someone knocked on the door.
She froze. What if she were caught? They would take the fang and hide it somewhere else. Maybe break it. Maybe bury it in a hole where she would never find it again.
The door began to open. She dropped the broom to the ground and pretended to sweep.
It was Safrowana, come back with a small crock of ointment. “Ah, lass, there’s no need for that,” she said, and she gently took the broom away.
Ganieda let it go, for she could grab it if only Safrowana would leave again. But for what excuse? Ah, that was it. Ganieda picked up the empty soup bowl and held it out.
Safrowana smiled. “In a moment, lass, let me put this on your cuts … That’s it, hold your leg out. So many scratches. You must have run for hours through the woods to look like this.”
The ointment felt cool as it was spread on Ganieda’s leg, and it smelled of thyme and lavender. Safrowana smiled, picked up the bowl, and left.
Ganieda ran to the broom, grabbed it, and went swinging at the lamp. She hit it once, but the fang didn’t fall. A second time, but still nothing.
Ganieda banged the lamp hard, and the fang fell to the rushes that covered the floor. She seized it and tucked it into her shoe — just as the door opened. The three girls entered the room, the tallest of whom was in front — her with the maroon, green, and white plaid. She had a funny look on her face, and the two in back were whispering.
The front one stood there, looking down her nose at Ganieda, who could almost feel the scorn. The girl held her hands behind her back, hiding something.
Stay away from the other girls, ya hear? Ganieda’s mother had said. They hate ya and they’ll hurt ya. The words rang through her head, and she repeated it to herself.
The big girl made a hesitant step forward.
Ganieda tensed, holding the broom ready to defend herself. She would hit the tall one in the head and throw the broom at the others. Then she’d pull the fang from her shoe. They would learn not to hurt her, for she’d teach them the power of the fang, and they’d never forget.
CHAPTER 17
A DESPERATE NEED
Natalenya ran crying to Colvarth and Merlin, the slave collar’s chain banging into her shins. She had escaped, by God’s grace, from Necton, but at what cost? He knew now the depth of her sickness, for he’d seen the black boils gathering on her upper arms, and he had shoved her away, yelling at her as if her life was worth far less than the mud beneath his feet.
Strangely, she had begun to place her hope in him — that if she fell too ill to keep up on the trail that he would put her on his horse. But now that he knew about the boils he would never help her — and if she faltered, she would be killed or l
eft to die.
But even as her itching sickness condemned her, it had also saved her from an unholy marriage, for once Necton saw the truth, his interest faded and turned into anger. Maybe fear.
And in her disgrace, she barely had the courage to go back to her friends. To Merlin. Especially Merlin. She had hidden the boils from him, but now she couldn’t conceal them anymore. He would see and would also reject her, even loathe her, and their love would die another death. Could she face that?
Hadn’t he sworn to protect her? When had that ended? She knew he’d been kicked by Scafta, but why had he allowed her to become a slave? Wouldn’t it have been better to die an honorable death fighting the Picts? Her father would have never willingly become a slave.
But then there was Arthur. Merlin thought of the little boy as the future king of the Britons — and all of his painful decisions hinged on that uncertain future. Did that matter to Natalenya? Not so much. She cared more for the little boy’s chubby cheeks, his ready laughter when she tickled him, his soft fingers when he held her earlobe, his sweaty toes that smelled like vinegar — and most of all, his quiet, thoughtful nature.
Oh, how it had hurt when she’d been forced to give Arthur over to Garth. She was just too sick to carry him, clean him, feed him, and love him. Could she give him up to the Picts to raise? For that is what would surely happen unless she got well … and … what? Would that really change anything? She would probably have to marry Necton simply to take care of Arthur. But could she? That beast of a ruddy-haired pagan? And maybe he was already married, and that sickened her. No, she could not. Never. But what then? Would she ever get well? Or would she die, overcome by the black, encrusted boils beginning to cover her body?
As she ran, the questions swirled around her, calling out, clawing at her ragged clothes and trying to pull her down to a quick grave. For such questions she had no ready answers, and she stumbled — and stumbling again she passed through the ranks of the Picts, over a small hill, and finally collapsed at Merlin’s feet. Her whole body ached, and her sobs rolled in and out of her throat like jagged stones.
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