“Why?” Black Leg asked.
“He is my other half,” I answered. I don’t know even now where the words came from, only that as I spoke them, I understood in some profound way their truth.
“What would you have me do?” I asked.
Black Leg’s eyes were fierce as a hawk’s or a wolf’s on the hunt. “Come with me,” he said. “We can live and love with humans, wolves, or both. I will be a hunter of great renown among the packs and a magnificent warrior among men. I know.” He struck his chest with his fist. “I know. I feel it here.”
“This is what you want?”
“Yes!” he answered. “Everything I want except … you.”
“It cannot be,” I answered. “And you know why.”
We both knew why.
“Vortigen,” I said, “is dead these hundred years. Yet your father, Maeniel, spoke to him, came to ask his help for the Bagaudae in France. I think you will take after your father.”
“No,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “I won’t just be a watcher.”
“Then seek the Isle of Women,” I said. “They will teach you to become the most dangerous warrior of all.”
“Where is the Isle of Women?” he asked.
“East of the sun, west of the moon. Follow the coast and they will call you.”
Again, I didn’t know where the words came from. But again I knew they were important and that it was important that I speak them. I wondered if this was part of the gift she had given me, the power to sometimes see into the souls of my companions and advise them well.
I doubt, you see, that the first queen of the people wanted to leave her pleasant, well-watered valley, where she and her people hunted in the winter and in the summer allowed the sea’s bounty to smile upon them, and journey to the cold crags, where they now made their home. But she knew the pleasant choice was not the wisest one, and so she accepted her fate.
A second later, my friend, my playmate, my foster brother was gone, and a big, gray wolf stood beside me. I turned toward him, tears swimming in my eyes. His nose touched mine. Then he was gone.
EIGHTEEN
CAN’T FIND HIM,” MERLIN SAID TO IGRANE.
She chuckled.
“Don’t you dare,” he said.
She tried, a bit unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile. His eyes lingered on her. The hag’s magic had worked well. She was beautiful again. It was a lean sort of beauty; her breasts were hardly bigger than ripe apples, cherry-topped. Her stomach was so flat it was concave, and her ribs were visible. Her skin was gardenia white, protected from the sun by unguents, oils, and a little of her own magic. Her legs were so long as to make other women’s seem stubby by comparison, her sex a mound of soft curls.
As he watched, she spread her legs slightly, showing a bit, just a bit, of warm, scarlet flesh between them.
“Cover yourself!” he commanded and averted his eyes. His nostrils distended, but he knew he couldn’t afford this right now. He needed all his energies, his power. She distracted him. She always had. His had been a downhill course since he had met her.
Before that he had been able to concentrate all his energies on matters of state. He had dominated the politics of several successive kings and protected his power base among the great landowners of Britain. Protected them and their possessions.
Now this boy looked to slip through his fingers. He’d aided and abetted her in torturing her child, Arthur, but he sensed she’d gone too far. Her own tendencies toward cruelty and domination had betrayed her. A somewhat lighter touch and he would have wound up her slave, but she enjoyed tormenting the child too much. She hadn’t had the discretion to refrain from or limit her pleasures when the king was present, and he had caught her.
When Merlin arrived, she had a broken jaw and arm, and the boy was gone. He’d punished her; he liked punishing her. In fact, before the night was out, he would probably punish her again. But he wouldn’t kill her. He ought to, but he wouldn’t. And she knew it.
Hearing the genuine anger in his voice, she sighed and pulled on a long silk robe. “I thought you told me he couldn’t get out of that cage.” She sounded snappish.
“I didn’t think he could,” Merlin admitted. “But somehow he found the courage to climb down the cliff.”
“He never lacked courage,” she said, belting the robe. “I told you not to underestimate him. I can remember his eyes on me as a child. It was as though even while he was screaming, reduced to tears and fouling his clothing, some part of him stood aside, reckoning up the injuries and waiting for his chance to repay them in kind. I wish you had killed him.”
“He’s your son.” Even Merlin was a little horrified.
“What is that to me?” She spoke over her shoulder. Some distance away, near the terrace, her women were waiting like a bouquet of brightly colored flowers to do her hair and dress her for dinner. Watching her body undulate across the floor, part of Merlin’s mind considered his pleasures for the night, while the other part mulled over the problem of the young king. The politics of this country had been a problem since before the Romans. In a sense, they had only compounded the difficulties.
The Romans had been interested in the low, fertile lands centered around London. This wealthy agricultural land was what had drawn Caesar. The loot he extracted from the coastal tribes, the human merchandise collected by the slave dealers who followed him, and the tribute extorted from the rest of the country went far to pay his debts in Rome and make him its first full-time emperor. When Claudius followed and began a conquest of the country, a permanent conquest this time, it was primarily these warm, southern lowlands he was interested in, also.
But to the Romans’ dismay, they found the deeper they ventured into the countryside, the harder the going got. Most of this never made it into the historical chronicles the Romans kept. But the mountains of Cornwall and Wales were higher; the forests denser; the tribes wilder, more dangerous, and less submissive than groups from the richer, coastal basin. Still there was gold and silver to be mined and much rich farmland to be exploited, easily worked by slaves or coloni—semifree serfs—for their new masters. From the less settled or exploitable parts of the country, furs, amber, and slaves generated by the endemic state of warfare between the tribes were valuable commodities.
All in all the Roman nobility were well satisfied with the situation. Bodiccia’s revolt was the first indication that things wouldn’t go entirely their way.
The Roman garrisons were lucky to crush it before the Roman presence was completely stamped out. But after that it was all downhill. Slowly downhill perhaps, but nevertheless a constant erosion took place. Six legions had to be stationed here to ensure the safety of the by now Romano-British landowners. Wales could never be completely subdued. In the end, after many violent campaigns, the Roman garrisons were content to extract tribute.
Hadrian’s wall was at last a magnificent achievement and a confession of failure. The Romans were nothing if not ruthless bottom liners, and the bottom line was that Roman conquests had to pay for themselves. And there was no way that the legions could extract enough good land, silver, gold, or sellable slaves to repay them for the blood and treasure they had to pour out to finally and forever break the resistance of the native peoples.
What they did succeed in doing was dividing the country into two groups: the free tribes—people who ran their affairs according to customs that had been practiced quite literally time out of mind—and the civilized Romano-British landowners and their downtrodden slaves.
The slaves always had before their eyes the example of the freemen holding firm in the mountains of Wales and the ancient peoples of the highlands, whose claim to sovereignty was not just over the land of Britain but also over its religious life. Their claim to have been the first originators of law and governance for the entire island was hallowed not by centuries but by millennia. He didn’t know whether or not he believed the tales that they went to the mountains when the sea began to fill the valley bet
ween England and France. The story seemed like foolishness to him. But he knew he always came out second best when he crossed swords with their witch queens and sorcerers.
Like the little bitch who humbled Igrane and himself.
When the Romans left, he had cast his lot with the Romano-British. God, they were civilized. They lived in houses, read books, had table manners. These wild men and women on the fen, moor, mountain, and deepest forests, who wore out short lives in loving, fighting, feasting, sailing, fishing on the deep seas, singing, and storytelling—what had any truly civilized man to do with them?
He loved his comforts, was a connoisseur of women, food, wine, and he had the best of everything. They went to bed on the floor, on skins, scratching their lice. And sometimes endured two seasons of famine a year, one in spring before the sheep dropped lambs and another near autumn before the crops came in. If he could have what he wished at the expense of others, why so much the worse for them. In any case, most of them were second-rate material, better winnowed out the way a barren cow is by a harsh winter or an old hen fit only for the pot.
He admired the Romans. They brought civilization and law and order to the island. And the conquest of the drunk, disorderly rabble they crushed beneath their heel could only be a good thing. Twice the civilized south had made a bid to conquer the barbarian north. The second time, he had “arranged” the death of Vortigen and his powerful druid, Vareen. But he had failed. The Veneti had betrayed him by refusing to resupply the Saxon levies left behind by the legions, and he had found he had to back a new high king to halt the ever-widening chaos that threatened to bring down the powerful southern landowners, his civilized allies.
Uther Pendragon was that king. Now he, the chief druid of Britain, was faced with another rebel in his son, Arthur. Igrane would torture the boy! It hadn’t been wise. Though Merlin agreed he could be broken and brought to heel by that means. He should have had her poisoned and taken over the child’s education himself. He understood the use of subtler means to control others. But he had fallen into his own trap. She was like a drug. Luxuria, the Romans called it. A descent into forbidden pleasures. He could feel the tightening in his loins at the mere thought.
Her women were setting a table for two among the flowers on the terrace. Wine, Roman wine in glass goblets. Dishes of crystal, gold, and silver would hold the fruits the glassed-in chambers of his dwelling produced in such abundance summer and winter alike. There would be venison, wild boar, squab stuffed with strawberries taken from the open hilltops of Cornwall. And to top off the meal, pastries redolent of saffron and myrrh.
And afterward, Igrane was dessert. He couldn’t wait.
I cried all night. But at dawn, Kyra made me do up my hair and put on a scarlet silk tunic embroidered with gold and a pair of trousers made of the same material. We had a brief, violent debate about shoes.
“You aren’t going to wear those horrible things,” she said, pointing to the rough leather sandals Talorcan made for me.
“I certainly am,” I said.
Kyra picked them up and reacted much the same way Igrane had. They fell from her hands as though red hot.
“My God,” she whispered. “Where in heaven or hell’s halls did you get those?”
“Hell’s halls,” I said. “Torc Trywth made them for me. His name is Talorcan. They change to fit what I’m doing or wearing.”
And they did, too—becoming gold with many laces that came up to my calves and tied just below the knee.
Then the whole lot of us—all but Black Leg, who was gone—I, Kyra, Dugald, the Gray Watcher, Gray, and Anna went down to the shelter of a quiet cove, where a ship was waiting. Farry was the captain.
“You have your own ship now?” I said, surprised to see him.
“Yes, and you have become as lovely as I thought you might,” he said.
I offered my cheek, but he only took my hand and kissed it. “So formal?” I asked.
“The occasion calls for formality,” he said gravely. He, too, looked older. He had a short, curly beard and his hair was long now and hung to his shoulders. All in all, a fine-looking man. He wore a beautiful, woolen mantle of Irish weave. The underlying color was black, but it was striped with soft blue, green, and a dark red like wine. Only our people know how to make such things. I have never seen Greek, Roman, or Eastern cloth woven in this way. It is one of the more profitable trade goods the Veneti, Farry’s people, carry even now to the east, where it is still in demand.
“When did you get your own ship?” I asked.
Farry flushed and answered, “My father gave it to me when I acknowledged my first son.”
“How wonderful,” I said, congratulating him. I wondered how many wives he had by now. The Veneti, especially a captain with his own ship, would have several. They tied him along his personal trade route with guest friendship, ensuring his safety while in port.
That was why they were so influential a people. Yes, Caesar had killed many of those who plied the French coast when he destroyed Ohene, port city in Brittany. Dishonor to his name, the Romans always persecuted trading peoples. But few cared to open disputes with traders. They were useful to everyone. There are always things that even relative self-sufficiency can’t supply. Spices, cloth, metals, gemstones, walrus ivory, and sometimes honey and salt; we must trade for those things. And Farry’s people supplied them, occasionally in quantity when famine threatened or war increased the need for weapons. It was best to keep friends with them.
“I’m here,” he told me, “to bring you to the great assembly of the Painted People. When I have completed my business here, we will sail north.”
Kyra nodded to me.
“So soon?” I asked.
Her mouth was tight, a thin line. “The sooner, the better.”
“Yes,” Farry said.
A lot of business was being transacted around us, on both the deck and the beach. As I watched, a local smith came to an agreement about a heap of scrap metal and one of Farry’s men began to load it into sacks to bring it to the beach. A nearby carpet was covered with packets of spices and odds and ends of jewelry. At least a half-dozen men and women were haggling with the crewman in charge of the merchandise.
There were stoneware crocks of honey and oil, and a rack of wine amphoras under an awning shaded from the sun’s heat. I desperately wanted to stop and look, but Maeniel and Dugald flanked me on either side and ushered me gently but firmly past small bales of linen and silk toward a pavilion on the stern of the boat.
“We have business here,” Dugald said. “Important business.”
“Oh, stop,” I said. “At least you could let me—”
“Paw through those trinkets?” Dugald snapped. “They are beneath you. You will be a queen.” Farry suppressed a grin.
I sighed deeply. “I saw a pretty silver ring …” I began.
“I’ll buy it for you,” Maeniel said. “Now, move. The lady is waiting. Please, captain, whatever she wants,” he added, hustling me along.
“It has a moonstone, very appropriate,” Farry said, and stooped down to pick it up when we passed the carpet.
Maeniel slid the heavy, silver circlet on my finger.
“Too large,” Kyra said.
“She will grow into it,” Farry said confidently.
I noticed the pavilion had a curtain that shielded the inhabitants from the prying eyes of Farry’s customers at the front of the ship. He pushed it aside and ushered me in.
I knew who she was the moment I saw her. He favored his father’s side of the family.
She was legend.
Morgana. Said to be the most powerful of all enchantresses. So joined to her goddess the two were almost one in the same body.
I started to kneel, but Dugald tightened his grip on my arm and said, “Don’t—you—dare.”
I didn’t.
“To what do we owe the honor?” Dugald asked.
She drifted forward. She surprised me by being plainly dressed, until I realized th
e subtlety of the silk brocade dalmatic and the deerskin, suede britches. It was an opalescent shimmering blue gown covered with a pattern of black raven’s wings. The torc around her neck probably had a couple of pounds of pure gold in it, as did her belt, shining black hematite, gold, and real opal.
She was tawny, not blond. I have never seen coloring like that before and not since. I knew … she was like her grandson Cai. Shape-strong, but in what way I couldn’t tell.
“Kyra? Dugald?” she said, looking at each one.
“You know my guardians?” I asked.
“I don’t see anything special about you,” she said directly to me.
“I don’t know that there is,” I answered.
“Yes, nothing that would make you someone he would have married. I was told you pledged yourself to him.”
“I thought it was the other way around. He pledged himself to me.”
“You exchanged vows,” Maeniel said.
“I suppose we did,” I answered.
“Are you sorry?” Morgana asked.
“No,” I said. “He is what I want.”
“Are you so sure?” Maeniel asked.
I turned and looked at him. “I’m sorry about Black Leg, but, yes, yes, I am sure.”
“Well and good,” Morgana said. “But it may all come to nothing. He is gone.”
“Gone!” I said and stepped away from my family toward her. “Gone where?”
“Merlin made some dreadful magic and sent him to the summer country,” she replied. “He is in another world. A world from which the only passage back is death.”
Maeniel whistled, and Magetsky landed on the ship’s rail. The raven hissed and made that farting sound it had learned.
“Be silent,” I said, “or I’ll burn off every feather you have. If you know something about Arthur, tell it to us now.”
“How can she do that and be silent? Don’t be so anxious to use that talented right hand of yours. Keep it in reserve for serious matters,” Maeniel said.
The bird pecked with her beak on the rail and called Maeniel a nasty name. Then swung her backside around—it had been over the water. She aimed it at the deck, and what was worse, the carpet Morgana stood on.
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