Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I walked for a short while—much further than I remembered—and was about to turn back when I saw it. Directly ahead, shimmering in the moonlight, stood the house, the light from the hearthfire faintly glowing in the doorway. Smoke seeped slowly through the roof-thatch, silvery in the moon-glow, rising like the vapors from a fetid fen.

  I moved toward the light, and upon reaching the door I heard singing: soft, lilting, sweet; and yet I shivered to hear it. For more than anything else, the sound possessed the haunting, melancholy quality of a chill autumn wind through bare willow branches.

  I paused on the threshold of the house and listened, but the last few notes trailed away into silence and the song was finished.

  “The horses are set—” I began, then froze, staring.

  Merlin lay on the floor near the hearth, his head in Nimue’s lap. She held Merlin’s knife in her hand. At my intrusion, her face turned toward me, and—I cannot be certain—but in the flickering firelight it seemed her features contorted in an expression of unutterable rage and contempt. And I felt as if a spear pierced my belly and twisted in my entrails.

  Nimue smiled invitingly. Placing a long finger to her lips, she whispered, “Your master is asleep.” She smoothed his hair and bent to kiss him.

  My reaction was sharp and quick. Anger blazed through me like lightning. “No! You cannot—” I leaped forward, but she held up a hand and I halted.

  “Shh! You will wake him!” Then, more softly, “I was singing and he fell asleep…He was so tired.”

  As quickly as it had erupted, the heat of my fury melted away and I stood looking on, feeling foolish and contrite. “I am sorry,” I mumbled, “I thought…”

  Nimue smiled. “Say no more. I understand.” She turned and, as if forgetting me, began stroking Merlin’s head once more, then bent and kissed him chastely on the forehead, and replaced the knife in his belt. She murmured something over him and then carefully lowered his head and shoulders to the hearth.

  She rose and came to me, smiling, and put her hands on my chest. “Forgive me,” she whispered, putting her face close to mine. I caught the scent of apple blossoms on her breath. “He looked so peaceful, I could not resist…”

  Her lips parted, and her eyelids closed. She pressed her mouth against mine, and I tasted the sweet warmth of her lips. I felt her fingers on my wrist, guiding my hand to her breast, and in that moment I wanted her as I have desired no other woman.

  Nimue held her body next to mine, pressing herself against me. I felt her firm warm flesh beneath my hands, and I ached for her.

  The next thing I knew she was standing before the fire, and her mantle was slipping to the floor.

  Her body was exquisitely formed, flawless, its curved symmetry revealed by the shadows and light from the hearthfire. She turned, cupping her breasts with her hands, and walked slowly toward me as if offering me the ripeness of her body.

  I reached out a hand to touch her, to take her.

  Into my mind sprang the image of two people in the act of love, limbs intertwined, bodies straining. And it seemed to me that something hideous was happening. The image shifted slightly and I saw that the body of the woman was a rotting corpse…

  All desire vanished in that instant, replaced by an unspeakable repulsion. Sickened, I turned away.

  “Pelleas…” Her breath was hot on the back of my neck, her voice a moan of desire. “Take me, Pelleas. I want to love you.”

  “No!” The shout tore unbidden from my throat. “No!”

  Her hands were on me, encircling my waist, caressing me. “Love me, Pelleas. I want you.”

  “Leave me!” I screamed again and whirled toward her, my hand poised to strike.

  Nimue stood defiant, a look of haughty triumph on her beautiful face. “Do it,” she urged. “Strike me!”

  With an effort of will, I lowered my hand. The desire to strike her remained strong, yet I resisted. “I will not.”

  Her seduction failed, she nevertheless could not resist gloating. “I despise weakness,” she hissed. “Show me you are not weak.” She stepped toward me, her hands stroking her thighs.

  “Get away from me, whore!” I said, forcing out each word. “In the name of Jesu, stay back!”

  She halted, her lips twisting in revulsion. “You will live to regret this, Pelleas ap Belyn!” she rasped, as if she had been struck a blow in the stomach. Then she whirled away, scooped up her clothing, and fled from the house.

  As soon as Nimue vanished, a great weariness came over me. The room grew dark and wavered in my sight like a reflection in a pool. I felt drunk—yet I had touched no wine. On unsteady, unfeeling legs I stumbled to the bed place; it was all I could do to keep from falling over. I tumbled headlong onto the straw pallet…

  * * *

  I awoke to sunlight streaming into my eyes, and the sound of a horse nickering softly. I raised myself up and saw that I lay in the grass beside the pool. My horse grazed nearby on its tether. Merlin was nowhere to be seen.

  All at once, memory of what had happened the night before came rushing back to me and I jumped to my feet. My head pounded with a dull throb, my eyes ached, and my limbs were sore, but I was unharmed. I ran up the path toward the house.

  But the dwelling was not there.

  I searched until I panted for breath, but could not find it. The solid stone structure was nowhere to be seen. The house was gone—and Merlin with it.

  I realized what had taken place. But it was too late. Too late. I cursed my blindness, and the ease with which I had succumbed to the enchantment.

  And then I remembered Nimue and the threat uttered in her rage: You will live to regret this, Pelleas ap Belyn…

  She had called me by name! A wave of sick dread convulsed me. The bile rose to my gorge and I retched—

  Morgian!

  8

  Fear came swimming out of the very air: what if Morgian should return to claim her prize?

  Blessed Jesu, help me! Where is Merlin?

  I ran, searching blindly. Stumbling, falling, picking myself up and running on, I searched for the house—but I could not find it, or Merlin.

  I called his name, but there was no answer…no answer.

  In the end, I returned to the pool and forced myself to kneel down and drink. Somewhat refreshed, I washed my sweating face and then set about saddling the horses.

  I was resolved in my soul to find my master or die trying. Though Morgian returned…though all the powers of Hell raged against me…I determined to find him and free him from the sorcery that bound him.

  With this vow in my heart, I went down on my knees and prayed for the leading of the Guiding Hand and the protection of angels and archangels. Then I rose and swung into the saddle, and thus began my search anew.

  Perhaps prayer is so rarely heard in that wilderness that it is answered all the more readily. Or perhaps wherever the Adversary flaunts his power, the Most High quickly grants the plea of any anguished heart that seeks him.

  However it was, my urgent prayers soon turned to shouts of praise, for I had ridden but halfway around the pool when I saw my master. He was lying facedown beneath an elder bush, his legs and feet in the water.

  I vaulted from the saddle and ran to him, hauled him from the pool, and rolled him on his back. Pressing my ear to his chest, I listened. He lived. His heart beat slowly, but rhythmically. He slept—a deathlike, leaden sleep: no movement, his breath light and shallow.

  Cradling him in my arms, I began chafing his hands and shaking his shoulders in an effort to rouse him. But I could not.

  I rose to my feet, contemplating what next to do. Clearly, we could not stay in the forest. We needed help. There was nothing for it but to ride for Benowyc, but I could not leave Merlin.

  “Forgive me, master, there is no other way.” So saying, I raised him up to sitting position and, bending low, took his weight on my shoulders and lifted him.

  Slowly, and with immense difficulty, I eased my master onto his horse. Then, th
ough it hurt me to do it, I drew his hands together around his mount’s neck and bound them—all the while praying his forgiveness for the pain I knew it would cause him.

  At last, satisfied that he would not topple from the saddle, I took his mount’s reins and tied them to the cantles of my saddle. Without a backward glance I started for Benowyc.

  * * *

  “Whatever is required will be done,” Ban repeated earnestly. “You have but to name it.”

  I could think of nothing save bearing Merlin away to Ynys Avallach as soon as possible. For I had made up my mind that if my master were to be healed anywhere on this earth, it would be at the Shrine of the Savior God near the Fisher King’s palace. And if anyone in this worlds-realm could heal him, it would be Charis, the Lady of the Lake.

  “Again I thank you, Lord Ban,” I told him. “The use of your fastest ship will avail us much. It is all that we need now.”

  “I will come with you.”

  “It is not necessary.”

  “Allow me to send a physician in any case. I will summon one from the abbey.”

  “I dare not delay even a day longer. There are physicians at Ynys Avallach who will know how to free my master from this sorcery.”

  Ban frowned. “Very well. You shall leave at once. I will accompany you to the ship and instruct the pilot and crew myself. Also, I will send a man to help you.”

  We left Caer Kadarn as soon as a litter could be prepared for Merlin. The tide was flowing when we reached the port; the ship was manned and ready. We boarded as soon as the horses were safely picketed, whereupon Ban delivered his orders to the boatmen. But a few moments later I felt the ship surge away from the quay and turned to call farewell to Lord Ban.

  “Whatever happens,” he replied, “we will come to you in the spring. Also, the supplies you have asked for will be sent as soon as the harvest is gathered in. I will not forget my promise of aid!”

  In truth, I had forgotten all about Arthur and our reason for coming to Benowyc in the first place.

  * * *

  All that can be said of the sea journey is that it was mercifully short. Favorable winds carried us swiftly over the sea and into Mor Hafren. We made landfall late in the third day along the Briw River, having sailed inland as far as the river would allow. From there we rode, following the river directly to the lake surrounding King Avallach’s Isle.

  We came upon the Tor at dawn, glowing red-gold in the new day’s misty light. We had ridden through the night, stopping neither for food nor sleep. The horses were near exhaustion, as I was myself.

  “We are home, master,” I said to the body lying deathly still on the litter beside me. “Help is at hand.”

  I started along the lakeshore and struck the causeway joining the Tor to Shrine Hill and the lands beyond, leading Ban’s steward and Merlin. We crossed the causeway, and then began slowly climbing the winding track to the summit—all the while keeping my eyes on the palace lest, like Morgian’s enchanted dwelling, it should vanish in the mist.

  The Fisher King’s palace is a strange and wonderful place. It somewhat resembles my father’s palace in Llyonesse, but Avallach’s realm is the sun to Belyn’s black night. Surrounded by its lakes and salt marshes, with groves of apple trees rising on its lower slopes, Ynys Avallach is a true island—a landlocked island, yes, but cut off from the main as completely as any seabound crag.

  Out of necessity, the Fair Folk adapted the open, light-filled structures of their lost homeland to the bleaker clime of Ynys Prydein. But they still sought the noble, uplifting line and the illusion of light—much needed in this often melancholy corner of the world.

  Fair Folk…Faery: the adopted name of the orphan remnant of Atlantis’ lost children who settled here. Fair we are, by comparison; for we are taller, stronger, and more agile than the Britons; by nature more comely, possessing higher gifts. Also, our lives are measured differently.

  Little wonder that we are often looked upon as very gods by the easily mystified inhabitants of this island realm. The simple people esteem us unnecessarily, the backward revere us without cause, and the superstitious worship us.

  It is folly, of course—the more to be believed, apparently. We are a separate race; that is all. And a dying one.

  I know full well that I am the last of my line. There shall be no more after me. As God wills, so be it. I am content.

  Merlin is different, though. How different is not easy to tell. He is fully as much a mystery in his own way as his father.

  I never knew Taliesin. But I have talked with those who did know him—including Charis, who shared his life however briefly. “In truth,” she told me once, “Taliesin is more a wonder to me now than ever—and it deepens with each passing year.

  “You ask me who he was, and I tell you plainly: I do not know.” She shook her head slowly, gazing into that vivid past where she and Taliesin still walked together as one. “We were happy, that is all I know. He opened my heart to love, and hence to God, and my gratitude, like my love for him, will endure forever.”

  Seeing the Tor at first light brought these things to mind, and in my fatigue I wrapped myself in reverie as I made my slow way up the twisting path to the Tor.

  It was early yet, and the gates were still closed. So I roused the gatesman, who hugged me like a brother and then ran to the palace, calling at the top of his voice, “Pelleas has come home! Pelleas is here!”

  Weary to the bone, I had not the strength to call after him. It was all I could do to stand upright in the empty yard.

  “Pelleas, welcome!” I knew Avallach’s voice when I heard it, and raised my eyes to see the Fisher King advancing toward me. He saw Merlin stretched upon the litter, and his greeting died with the smile on his lips. “Is he…?”

  I had no time to answer. “Pelleas!” Charis appeared, dressed in her nightclothes, and hurried barefoot across the yard, hope and terror mingling in her expression. She glanced behind me to where Ban’s steward waited, head bent as if in sorrow. “What has happened? Oh, Pelleas, does he live?”

  “He lives,” I assured her, my voice the croak of a crow. “But he sleeps the sleep of death.”

  “What do you mean?” Her green eyes searched my face for comfort, but there was none to be found.

  “I cannot rouse him,” I told her. “It was…” How could I say the words? “It is sorcery.”

  Charis’ long experience treating the sick and dying served her well. She turned to the gatesman lingering near and said, “Go to the abbey and bring the abbot at once.” Her voice was calm, but I sensed the urgency as if she had shouted.

  Avallach bent over Merlin’s body. “Help me…We must get him inside.” Together Ban’s steward and Avallach raised Merlin from the litter; the Fisher King gathered him up and carried him into the hall.

  Dizzy with exhaustion, I swayed on my feet. Charis put her arms around me to support me. “Oh, Pelleas…I am sorry, I did not—”

  “There is no need, my lady—” I began, but she did not hear.

  “You are weary. Come, let me help you.”

  “I can walk.” I took a step, and the ground seemed to shift under my feet. But for Charis I would have collapsed in the yard. Somehow we reached the hall and crossed it to the chamber prepared for me.

  “Rest you now, Pelleas,” Charis told me, placing a coverlet over me. “You have done your part; I will care for my son now.”

  * * *

  It was late when I awakened. The sky was golden in the west as the sun slipped down to touch the hill-line. Desperately hungry, I rose, washed myself, then made my way back to the hall. Charis was waiting for me, her head bowed, praying. A tray of meat, bread, and cheese lay next to her on the board. Cups stood nearby, and a jar of beer.

  She rose and came to me when she saw me, smiled, and said, “You look more like the Pelleas I remember. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” I admitted. “But I can wait a little. Is there any change?”

  She shook her head slowl
y. “There is not. I have been considering what to do—I have spent the day with my books, seeking a remedy. But…” She let the words go unsaid. “You must break your fast now,” she instructed, guiding me to the board and seating me, “and regain your strength.”

  “We will bring him back,” I said boldly, more for encouragement than from confidence.

  Charis put her hands on my shoulders, leaned near, and kissed me on the cheek. “You serve him well, Pelleas. More than a servant, you are his truest friend. He is fortunate; any man would be blessed to have such a companion. I am glad he has chosen you to go with him.” She seated herself beside me and poured drink into the cups.

  “My lady, I chose him,” I reminded her. “And I will never forsake him.” I glanced out one of the high windows. The light was fading outside. Was it fading for Merlin as well?

  I ate nearly all that was before me. How many days had it been since I had eaten? I more than made up for it, I think. Satisfied at last, I pushed the tray away and took up the cup.

  “The man with you,” Charis said when I had finished, “he told Avallach he was from Armorica, a realm called Benowyc. Is that where Merlin was…was stricken?”

  “It is,” I replied, and began to explain the aim of our journey. “The trouble here in the south—Morcant’s stupid war, strife in a dozen different places—it is only just beginning. Now more than ever we need a High King, but Arthur’s claim was not upheld.”

  I told her of the council and of Arthur’s becoming War Leader, and of our journey to Ban in Benowyc to secure aid. I described finding Fair Folk in Ban’s court…and then I told her of Broceliande.

  Charis became earnest. “Pelleas, if I am to help, I must know—what happened to the people in Broceliande?”

  “I cannot say for certain, but I think it was Morgian’s doing.”

  “Morgian!” Charis’ hand flew up as if to ward off a blow.

  “It is so, my lady.”

  “When you said it was sorcery, I did not think…” Her voice trailed off. Presently she nodded—as if forcing down bitter herbs. “Tell me what happened to my son,” she said. “I will bear it.”