“To…?”
“Myself. My honor. I have the power and the ability to stop evil. To shirk the responsibility would be a sin of omission. A mortal sin of omission. The last thing the world needs is for someone to leave this world defenseless.”
I smirked. I had to. “So with great power comes great—”
“Oh shut up,” Merlin interjected. “Did you read those comic books? Trust me, every time Peter Parker stops being Spider-Man, my first thought is, buddy, take a vacation, you’ll get over it. Which is more or less what the writers have him do anyway. Great responsibility and power and all that is fine, but doing it stupidly is a great way to burn out. Trust me, I know.”
He closed his eyes, and I was close to asking if he needed a nap. “You know, I always believed my greatest power was to work behind the scenes and bring out the best in other people. Let the brave and noble come up and stand on their own two feet and bark at the injustices of the world. And I can nudge one or two people here and there.” He lolled his head over in my direction and gave a sleepy smile. “I think that Tolkien fellow had it right. I’m like that ring of his. I don’t really cause people to do good, I just allow them to do the best that they can, and bring out their best abilities. Arthur was like that, you know. Only he could motivate legions. A civilization. I was content to bring out the best in him.”
The smile faded. “If only we could have brought out the best in everybody. Maybe I wouldn’t have failed so badly.”
He was silent for a minute. Before he fell asleep on me, I asked. “What do you want to do now? I can’t drive around the city all day.”
“I should go kill the mayor,” Merlin said casually. “As the fae with the most human power in the area, if I take him out, the others should back off until they regroup.”
“I hope you’re going to use something other than the revenge of the wrought iron flamingo.”
Merlin groaned. “I guess I should be more prepared this time. I can See fae when I’m on a direct line of sight. If I had known ahead of time, I would have had something up my sleeve. I would have at least scratched a rune on an iron pellet or something. It would have at least gotten him, if not the minions around him. I think I’d rather have the shotgun next time.”
“Yeah, well, if I wasn’t afraid of giving you ideas, I’d suggest you make your own shotgun shells, and engrave a rune on each pellet.”
That made him open his eyes. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “That’s not a bad idea, actually.” He pulled a phone out of the air—I knew I patted him down thoroughly—and tapped out a message. “I’ll tell you this about your time period. The internet is so much better than carrier pigeon.” He hit send. He looked at me again, and laughed. “Maybe you can bring out the best in me, kid. Now let’s go, I’m not going to be this young forever.”
I laughed. “No. You’ll be even younger tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 9
Maddie blinked. “Why did you tell that story? I mean… that had to have taken place hundreds of years ago, right?”
Fox nodded solemnly. “It did. But you’re not listening—and your life depends on you listening. Particularly yours.” Fox looked towards Gavin, who flinched.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you can’t run from the supernatural,” said Fox sharply. “The world has changed—it has gone back. You can fight it. I suspect you won’t have much of a choice. But avoiding it is no more of an option for you than it was for Officer Tinney.”
Gavin stared daggers at Fox. Maddie had never seen him look so angry. But instead of exploding, Gavin merely said “Point made,” and stopped talking. Maddie suspected that Gavin was done speaking for the night.
Fox walked forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Never fear. There are allies among us as well.”
CHAPTER 10
Lady in Waiting, by Jonathan Shipley
The afternoon train chugged into Glastonbury station under a plume of smoke. It was just a small local locomotive—too small even for First-Class compartments—but always well populated with livestock, if not people. Clara, a petite form with a severe face at the back of the common passenger car, ignored the chickens and looked out the window, taking comfort in the familiar shape of the hill towering above the town. Glastonbury Tor topped with the ruined tower of Saint Michael’s chapel was the heart of the local landscape. Though she’d never seen it white with snow before, it was still a reassuring sight when everything else about this trip was wrong.
She gathered her luggage as the engine belched a last gust of steam and came to a halt. Stepping out of the car, the bitter cold hit her broadside, reminding her all over again that winter was here. She seldom came to Glastonbury this late in the year when school was in term, but Aunt Meg had been most insistent. “Sickness in the family,” the telegram had stated, but that was for the headmistress’s benefit. Clara’s intuition had told her something strange was afoot the moment the telegram messenger had arrived at the school. It had to be an emergency of the strangest sort to pull her out of school right at the Winter Solstice, which was tomorrow.
Clara didn’t at all mind the unexpected respite from Miss Hadley’s School for Young Ladies in Bath because the curriculum was unswervingly boring, but if one was a young lady and wanted schooling, one needed a school for young ladies. Ridiculous really when she should be at university. Oxford even had a newly opened college for women, so it was entirely possible, though not really what a young lady of breeding did. And the 1880’s were supposed to be so modern and forward-thinking. But why dwell on mundane problems when there was a most un-mundane situation to be dealt with. She hired a dogcart at the station to bring the luggage around later and started up the High Street past the ruined abbey toward the steep slopes of Glastonbury Tor itself.
Aunt Meg’s cottage, a solid structure of dressed stone covered in brown, dormant ivy, nestled at the foot of the hill. Originally an outbuilding of the old abbey, it had been firmly in the hands of the Aun family since the days of Good Queen Bess. As cottages went, it was surprisingly defensible, though that hadn’t been much required in recent centuries. As Clara approached, she noticed the windows were shuttered and door firmly closed—probably bolted from the inside, as was Aunt Meg’s habit when she was away for any length of time. Clara frowned, puzzling why her aunt would send for her so urgently, yet not be there to receive her. Then she noticed the note folded and attached to the bell pull.
Dearest Clara, it read. Do let yourself in—always practice, practice, practice—then make the rounds of the lake. I’m working a late shift at hospital and will be in on the last train from Wells. There’s meat pie warming on the footman. Love, Aunt.
Clara frowned. As a Compassionate Sister of Mercy, Aunt Meg often worked late shifts at hospital, but in conjunction with a pending emergency, it was more than a bit odd. The heart of the message, however, seemed to be “make the rounds of the lake.” Was something amiss there? But first things first. Time to “practice,” as her aunt put it.
Closing her eyes, Clara focused first inward, then outward towards the door. She “felt” for the massive iron bolt on the inside of the door, felt its texture. Then she pushed. Grudgingly the bolt slid aside, and the door drifted open. She opened her eyes and gave a nod. At Miss Hadley’s, something like witchcraft would not be tolerated, so she had to be circumspect with her talents at school. A less adventurous soul might have refrained entirely, but that wasn’t Clara. Still, subtlety put a crimp in her arcane development during the semester, but she always made up for it summering with Aunt Meg in Glastonbury, where there was an ocean of arcane energy floating around.
She entered, secured the door with another burst of concentration, and headed for the back bedroom to change into the comfortable walking clothes and heavy woolen cloak she kept in the cupboard. Then she investigated the fireplace where a brass footman on the hearth held a plate of warmed-over meat pie as promised. She ate, wrote a note of her own for the carter to leave her luggage
at the door, mentally rebolted the door from the outside, and started down into the town for her rounds of the lake.
The lake—wetlands actually—surrounded the town on three sides and like the Tor, was steeped in mystical traditions going back thousands of years. But something was wrong, she realized as she looked ahead to the shoreline. The water level. This was of course Somerset—the Summer Country of lore and legend where marshy wetlands rose and fell with the seasons. During the summer when Clara was usually here, the marshes were low, but always higher and sometimes impassable during the winter.
So why did the wetlands downhill from the town look as every bit as low as last summer? She continued down the High, passing through the town and coming to the edge of the marsh. No, she thought at close quarters, this is actually lower than last summer. What is happening here?
Then a grimmer thought: How is this affecting the Lady?
Once asked, the question supplied its own answer. Yes, this situation had to be about the Lady. Why else would Aunt Meg urge her to “make the rounds”? Clara walked along the edge of the marsh until she came to the Hidden Way that lay just below the surface of the water. It was one of several safe walkways through the marsh, even in winter. Most of them went from one town to another, but this one went and stopped in the middle of nowhere, or so it seemed. The Auns knew better. This had been part of their Legacy as long as they had been in Glastonbury.
Clara’s comfortable walking clothes always included a skirt that was scandalously high above the ankle and a pair of men’s mud boots. It wasn’t stylish or even proper, but it was infinitely practical for trekking about in the marshes. She put a foot upon the Hidden Way, breaking the thin crusting of ice, and carefully started forward. The unseen ledge she was walking was wide as any garden path and ran straight as a bayonet, but one had to maintain focus. Otherwise, the journey became very wet indeed, and a mid-winter swim held little appeal.
At five-hundred paces out, she stopped and turned to the right. She closed her eyes and concentrated. “Arloedhes kows orthiv mar pleg,” she intoned. Once, twice, thrice. Then she opened her eyes and waited. Only the invocation needed to be in the Old Tongue, which was good as Clara only knew a phrase or two of that vanished Celtic dialect. It was hard to see at first, but eventually the slow swirling water before her took on more life and began to glow a deep yellow-green. Then a mass of seaweed-green hair broke the surface crust, followed by a woman’s pale face. The eyes were large, the nose was small, and the pale lips parted to reveal sharp teeth.
The woman sighed like the wind ruffling water.
“Arloedhes... Milady,” Clara answered, dipping her head.
It is good you have come. The words flowed into Clara’s mind like a swift stream. It felt like English, but probably wasn’t. My end is nigh.
Clara gasped. “Your end? How is that even possible? You’ve been at Glastonbury for centuries, before the abbey even.”
Longer. Avalon and the priestesses served me then. The Circle of Nine communed with me, and we did great things together. But those days have passed, and now I, too, shall pass.
“Die?”
The water rippled in denial. Not death... a return. I shall pass the Gate to Other Waters, and it shall close.
It seemed unthinkable. “But you are the Lady of the Lake,” Clara protested. “You are forever.”
There can be no Lady of the Lake with no lake. Your kind steals the waters away.
Draining the marshlands had been going on in one form or another since Roman times, but it only affected a small amount of the wetlands. It never—
Different this time, the Lady continued, responding to the unspoken thought. I feel it in the eddies and the currents. The water slowly leaves, and I cannot remain without it. I accept that Fate. But you—she heaved herself higher from the water, extending a pale hand with long, sharp fingernails—you have a Fate of your own. I cannot be here to guide you, but I gift to you the Heart of Heroes. Use it well; guard it well. You will know when to pass it to another. A second hand appeared from the water, this one holding a silver sword.
Clara gaped. Was it possible? A sword from the Lady of the Lake—the sword? But even though it boggled the mind, she did not hesitate as the sword was handed to her. The only thing more inconceivable than the offer was refusing it. The sword was long and ungainly, but surprisingly light for its size.
Farewell, the Lady whispered silently and sank back beneath the cold, opaque waters. The glow faded.
For several long minutes, Clara stood there unmoving, staring at the sword in her hand. Then abruptly, she folded it into her cloak as best she could and started back to solid land. She wasn’t sure if her mind was functioning properly, because the running stream of thoughts that were always with her was strangely absent. She should have had a thousand questions, but not a one occurred as she walked back through town. There were lamps in the windows of the houses she passed, telling her that twilight had fallen. But it had only been afternoon when she went out to the marsh. And now it was dark and snowing again. The time didn’t add up, but she didn’t question it.
At the cottage, she saw the soft lamp glow through the window and knew Aunt Meg was back from Wells. She walked in, saw her aunt bustling about the fireplace with a kettle, saw that her luggage had arrived, saw on the table the big hamper that her aunt often carried to and from shifts at hospital.
“Aunt?” Clara unwrapped the sword and hoisted it up on the table next to the hamper where a blind man couldn’t miss it.
Aunt Meg turned with a smile, blues eyes twinkling in a ruddy, round face. Then her eyes widened. “Well,” she managed after a moment. “I see you talked to the Lady.”
The questions that had been strangely absent suddenly came home to roost. “How is it possible, Aunt?” Clara demanded. “After hundreds, thousands of years, the Lady of the Lake is driven away by a drainage project?”
“It’s been happening for a long time,” her aunt said. “The series of drainage canals put in by the abbey and others over the centuries have weakened her little by little. But this vast project from the Queen’s Corps of Engineers is the most ambitious yet. They say half of the swamplands will go dry in two years—progress, they call it. The Lady has stayed as long as she dares. If she lingers much longer, she could be trapped here in a weakened state, unable to defend herself against all the scientist types. That would be the worst.”
“I suppose,” Clara admitted. “But all this ‘progress’ seems very sudden to me. And the sword? What does that mean?”
“Ah.” Aunt Meg stepped over, moved the hamper over by the door, and took a seat at the table. “Sit, my girl. I have things to say.”
Clara seated herself with some apprehension. Too much was happening too fast. She didn’t really want more revelations, but that didn’t seem to be a choice. Her glance went to the silver sword on the table. “About this?”
“We can start there. It’s more a metaphorical sword than a physical weapon, you see. So not really for running people through. But its nature is to sustain and empower those it champions. If the sword has come to you, it means you have a formidable task ahead. That’s the way this works.”
Clara blinked. “So this has happened before—well, King Arthur, of course—but more recently in the family?”
“In the family—out of the family.” Aunt Meg shrugged. “Whoever is chosen. But yes, this has happened before. The sword has been at quite a few pivot points in history. But at this point in history, a sword on your hip would be both awkward and cumbersome. And you need to keep it close at all times. It’s not really the sort of thing you leave lying about in the cupboard.”
Cumbersome to say the least, Clara thought, eyeing the sword. Returning to Miss Hadley’s School with a sword on her hip might offer a moment of extreme satisfaction, but no, it wouldn’t do in the long run. “So what’s the solution?” she asked.
“Knitting needles, I think,” Aunt Meg said. “Light enough to travel easily in a han
dbag with no questions asked.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the silver sword had shrunk to a pair of silver knitting needles. “Yes, better.”
Clara frowned. “All this is going to take some thinking through.”
“Yes, I’m sure. But one thing is clear—no more wasting time at Miss Hadley’s. You’ll need a proper arcane education to prepare you for whatever Fate has in mind for you. No time for tea and poetry when Excalibur’s calling. So you think on it while I go out on one final errand. To say my goodbyes, don’t you know.”
“Tonight? In the cold and dark? And it’s snowing again.”
“The best time is always now,” Aunt Meg said firmly. One of her favorite sayings. “And best not to wait for the Winter Solstice itself when the Lady will be preoccupied with opening the Gate.” She stood up wrapped her cloak about her and pulled on her pair of heavy mud boots by the door. Then she picked up the hamper. “You know, Clara,” she added with one hand on the door latch, “perhaps it is time for the Lady to go. There’s always been a certain amount of awkwardness in her care and feeding... she’s a blood creature. And it’s only getting more awkward as we move into a more organized society. No, not really sustainable with people noticing more and keeping better records. I’m relieved, really I am. Saddened, but relieved.” And she was out the door.
Behind her, Clara was trying very hard not to understand those parting words because she didn’t want to. Yet her overactive intuition was filling in the missing pieces anyway. The hamper that went back and forth to hospital... the Lady’s sharp teeth and nails... blood creature. No telling what earlier generations had been feeding the Lady, but Aunt Meg seemed to be supplying a diet of surgical amputations.
Perhaps progress was for the best.
CHAPTER 11
Gavin looked at Fox. “Do you really think we should ally with a cannibal?”
Fox sighed. “You miss the point, Sir Gavin.” The group caught the use of the honorific, but nobody said anything about it. “The tides of time are changing. The line between legend and reality is blurring once more.”
Tales of the Once and Future King Page 11