When, as usual, the subject of next season's battles came up, Kyle hesitantly asked whether they couldn't use Merlin's magic to help plan their strategy.
The wizard frowned at the harper, but when Kyle visibly cringed in response, Merlin softened his reply. “Yes, no doubt it would be very convenient if I could just go into a trance and tell you what Queen Margaret or her allies are planning. But I can't. It doesn't work that way.”
“But,” Kyle protested, “the old stories say you used to prophesy for Arthur.”
The King laughed and passed the tureen of soup down the table. “He's got you there, Merlin. Admittedly, you didn't do it often, but you did occasionally come through with some pretty good ones.”
Exasperation crawled across Merlin's face. “Yes, but prophecy is not my strong point. Nobody seems to realize that there are many kinds of magic. Prophecy is a specialty, and with those for whom it doesn't come easily, it requires specialized equipment. I don't have that now.”
“So you can't even tell what we're having for dinner tomorrow night?” Kyle asked incredulously.
“Not without talking to Cook.”
“Then what use is there in being a wizard?”
The large chunk of bread on Kyle's plate suddenly vanished and reappeared on Merlin's. “Oh, it has its uses,” he said, taking a leisurely bite. The harper blanched and concentrated on eating his soup.
When the early snow had melted, the second promised consignment of horses arrived from the allied dukedom of Carlisle. The next morning, most of the town came out to the King's horse meadows to examine the new arrivals. This town of farmers and herders took a proprietary interest in everything their king did. And despite earlier scoffing, they now had no doubt about his ideas for building up the horse population. Arthur's dominion had spread, at least in part, because of his new mobile cavalry.
Heather and Welly joined the others by the horses. In the watery sunlight, the grass glinted silver with frost and crunched underfoot. The air smelled of horse and excitement. Appraisingly their eyes scanned the shaggy beasts, picking out those whose size or other throwback features might breed improved warhorses.
“What do you think of that bay stallion there?” Welly asked as they hung over the stone wall of the corral. “He's almost as tall as Arthur's gray.”
“He's a beauty,” Heather agreed. “But he doesn't seem very content. Maybe once he gets to know the place he'll calm down a bit.”
“Yeah, but whatever their temper, you can bet we won't get tall horses until everyone else is mounted on one.”
“We are still kids.”
“We've seen as many battles as most of the rest!”
“But you don't look the part,” Merlin said, coming up behind them. “This war business is largely image. Ferocious warriors on big horses scare people more.”
“But I can make terribly ferocious faces,” Welly said, producing an expression that Heather thought made him look like a demented toad.
Merlin laughed. “As my mother used to say, watch out, or someday your face will freeze like that.”
Welly and Heather exchanged startled glances. Somehow, they'd never thought of their friend as having had a mother. But before they could pursue the matter, a commotion arose near the King, and the three went over to find the cause.
“Certainly I can talk with him now,” Arthur was saying to one of his retainers. “Didn't he come all the way from Bassenthwaite to talk with his king?”
Though Bassenthwaite was actually no great distance, the statement made the tousled peasant nearby swell with pride. Self-consciously straightening his clothes, the young man walked up to the King. He attempted to bow, looked up, and was struck speechless as he realized the tall, fair man a few feet from him was actually King Arthur.
The King stepped into the spluttering silence. “You have a message from Bassenthwaite?”
“Yes, sire, King Arthur, sir. We lost some sheep, a third of our flock, sire. We're a poor valley, Your Majesty, and it's a real blow. The shepherds lost them in the last storm, and we haven't been able to find so much as a scrap of wool since. And what with the fell-dogs and muties, it worries us, you see, sire.”
“Lost sheep,” Arthur said flatly. Then he smiled. “Well, young man, why don't you go with this gentleman here. He'll see about getting you some refreshment while I discuss this with my advisers.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Your Kingness.” The man bowed and stumbled backward until he was led away.
“Lost sheep!” Arthur exclaimed. “I have horses to work with before the next snow, the couriers from Carlisle brought alarming news about the Scots, and now I'm to look for lost sheep.”
“Remember, Arthur,” Merlin cautioned, “the first thing any conqueror must do is keep the home front happy.”
The King turned on him. “Have you any idea, Merlin, how difficult it is to take advice, particularly correct advice, from a beardless boy?”
“If you like, sire, I could conjure up a beard until my real one grows in.”
“No, please don't. It would look ridiculous. All right, let's get some of those townspeople to form a sheep-hunting party. Make it a prestigious royal commission.”
“Could I go, too?” Heather asked. She enjoyed horses but had a special feeling for sheep. They were dumb and helpless, yet hardy and stubborn as well.
The King looked at her a moment. “All right. Several parties would be more efficient, and you're good with animals. And yes, Welly, don't ask. You go, too; you're getting to be a good weapons man. But don't you ask, Merlin; I need your advice on this business with the Scots.” He looked around. “Kyle, why don't you go with them. Your songs could use a little more local flavor.”
Within an hour, the sheep hunters set out. The largest group headed north with the shepherd, but Heather said she wanted to look west of broad Bassenthwaite Lake.
“Well, miss,” the shepherd said, “I don't really see how they could have gone that far. But suit yourself. The more eyes the better.”
So the party of three headed where the western fells bore down on the valley, their high peaks trailing thin banners of snow in the wind. Heather trudged along silently, trying to think about sheep, trying to think like sheep. Welly thought more about horses and how he wished he were riding one now, a large white one.
Dutifully Kyle looked around him, trying to find words and feelings for the wild mountain landscape, for the sheets of wind-chopped water glinting like dull silver in the misty light, for the brave rock-walled fields, and for the high fells baring the bones of the earth to an empty sky.
Suddenly the sky was no longer empty. Hollow haunting calls fell from it, from the wedge of dark specks cutting across the expanse of gray. “Look,” Kyle called. “Those must be geese. I read that they used to fly like that.”
“Geese,” Heather breathed, listening to their wild music. “Then they aren't extinct. I hope Earl sees them. He gets so depressed sometimes about the things that are gone.”
After a time, staring into the sky, Welly cleared his throat. “I hate to mention it, but if it's sheep we're looking for, they'll be on the ground.”
“Welly! You have no romance in your soul!” Heather exclaimed.
“I do too.”
“That's true; you want a white charger.”
Welly blushed, and taking off his glasses, polished them furiously on his jacket front. “They don't come in white anymore,” he muttered.
Heather laughed apologetically. “Well, you'd look dashing on one if they did.” Tugging thoughtfully on a braid, she continued. “Let's go that way. I feel … I mean, I think that's a good place for sheep.” She pointed to where several fells folded down to form a narrow valley.
“Wherever you say.” Welly jammed his glasses back on.
They climbed into the mountains until Heather finally stopped at the mouth of a small gorge. A frozen ribbon of water trailed from it into a loudly gurgling beck.
“Up here.”
“Here
?” Kyle said skeptically. “See any footprints?”
“No. Yes. Come on.”
The snow here had melted, and between the rocks the grass was dry and springy. As they climbed the steep gorge, Welly contemplated the ancient phrase “wild-goose chase.” Now that he'd actually seen wild geese, he wondered if “wild-sheep chase” wouldn't be more appropriate.
Heather turned into an even narrower ravine. Welly, puffing up behind her, was about to protest when the cold breeze brought the sound of sheep bleating.
Kyle stopped, bewildered. “How did you know?”
She answered tensely, without turning around, “I just did. Come on, let's try to drive them back to the valley.”
After several minutes, they'd had little success. Every time they closed on a dark, woolly animal, it moved off— in the wrong direction.
Suddenly Heather stiffened and spun around, looking at the rocky crags above. “Hurry! We've got to get them away. There are fell-dogs about.”
“Nonsense,” Welly asserted. “If there were, these sheep would be all worked up.”
“Well, there are, and I'm worked up. Get them moving!”
Their increased frenzy finally turned the sheep in the downward direction. But they were only halfway to the main beck when the sound of growling rolled down at them from behind.
The sheep broke into panicky flight. Heather looked back. Two grizzled fell-dogs sprang out from behind a rock. Red tongues lolled between bared yellow fangs.
Welly and Kyle pulled out their swords and ran back to her. But Heather just stared at the animals, her gaze intense and cold. The dogs' eyes were locked on hers. The animals crouched for a spring that never came. Slowly the crouch turned into a cower. Bushy tails slid between their legs as the dogs slunk backward into the tumbled rocks.
For a moment, no one said a word. Then Welly whispered, “They'll be back.”
“No,” Heather said, suddenly relaxing and turning around. “They won't. But we'd better go after those sheep, or they'll run all the way to Borrowdale.”
By the end of the day, the sheep were back with their people. Though Heather herself said nothing, the story of the remarkable rescue spread rapidly.
That night, after dinner in the King's hall, Kyle brought out his harp and sang a new song. It carried in its melody the longing call of wild geese and the sound of wind over barren rock. And the words told of a woman of power and her touch with creatures of the wild, her touch of caring and command.
Heather listened, looking paler and paler. She kept her eyes down but could feel the gaze of others on her. A faint noise of shifting bodies told her that the space between herself and those seated near her was widening. Before the harper finished, she slipped out of the room. A minute later, Merlin followed her.
He found her in the old garden below the hall. She was huddled on a stone bench beside a large carved urn. Tears glistened on her cheeks.
Sitting quietly beside her, Merlin reached out one thin hand and touched hers. “This has been going on for some time, hasn't it?”
She nodded, then words tumbled out. “Yes, for months, a year, maybe. Oh, Earl, everything's changing so, inside and out, and it frightens me. Tonight … tonight he called me a ‘woman of power.’ But I'm not! I'm not a woman; I don't want to be. And I don't want any power!”
Sagging against his bony shoulder, she sobbed violently. He looked down at the quivering plaits of her honey-colored hair. His voice was pained. “Heather, in this world, you are a woman. You don't choose to grow up any more than you chose these gifts. And power is a gift, though it comes unasked for and often unwanted. You cannot deny it; all you can do is try to understand it and learn to use it, instead of letting it use you.”
“Oh, Earl, I don't know. It makes me so … different. It cuts me off so.”
In the dark, Merlin sighed. “Don't I know that. Magic is the loneliest gift in the world.”
“That's what I mean. I don't want that, not now. I mean, when I was at Llandoylan, I was awfully lonely. I didn't fit in. I tried pretending that I didn't care, that I didn't need the others. But now, since we've come to Keswick with Arthur, I do have a place. I belong. How long will that last if people start thinking I work magic, even a little?”
Merlin stared down at his own clenched hands. Then he raised his head, a grim smile on his face. “I understand, Heather. Believe me, I understand. But I don't think it need be like that anymore. The world has changed. Magic is cropping up everywhere now. It might have been latent in your family for generations, and nobody knew because it wasn't the season for it. But the seasons have turned.”
A smile quivered on her tear-streaked face. “I don't know. Maybe that makes a difference. I can hope, I guess.”
Merlin continued, trying to be cheerful. “Come now. Tomorrow, if the weather holds, I'll take you to a place of power where you can get a feel for what you have and for how to deal with it.” He looked at her almost pleadingly. “Is that all right? ”
“Yes,” she whispered after a silence. “I really can't handle this any longer—not alone.”
Hesitantly he squeezed her hand.
That night she lay awake a long while, trying not to think about sheep and fell-dogs and the frightening powers that bound her to them. She succeeded only when sheer exhaustion pulled her into sleep.
VISIONS OF POWER
Heather woke to gray light seeping through the parchment-covered window beside her bed. She slipped from beneath her wool blankets, shivering as bare feet touched the cold stone floor. Quickly she padded over to the room's one window, which retained three of its ancient glass panes. Scraping impatiently at its ferns of frost, she squinted out for a glimpse of what the day was like. Nothing but gray.
Annoyed, she unlatched the casement and flung it open. Cold mist swirled in, and with it came recollections of yesterday and plans for today. She slammed the window shut. But the memories remained.
Reluctantly she dressed. Every movement was weighted with dread, with a feeling that she was about to step through a gate, a gate that opened only one way. Thoughts of what might lie on the other side were frightening enough. But what really chilled her was the thought of never getting back.
When she finally dragged herself downstairs, she found Merlin waiting for her by the dark fireplace. It was too early in the season to burn precious fuel, and the hall seemed cold as a tomb.
Heather walked toward him, wondering suddenly if she looked as frail and drawn as he did. Is that what magic did to a person? Did it drain them? Did it eat them up inside? She shuddered with a confused surge of fear and pity—pity for her friend, fear for herself. Somehow she managed a wan smile as Merlin handed her a bowl of warm porridge.
He motioned her to a stone bench and sat down beside her. “Most of the others have already left to work with the horses. I told them we had other plans.”
She said nothing, making herself think only of the rough feel of the pottery, of the fragrant steam, and the nutty taste of each mouthful.
But soon they were putting on their hooded, fur-lined jackets and stepping into the cold gray of the courtyard. The mists had risen from the buildings but still shrouded the surrounding fells. Bleakly Heather looked into the grayness.
“It's not far from here,” Merlin said as he headed for the gate. “We'll walk. Horses don't like this sort of thing.”
They're not alone, Heather thought.
They trudged up the main road out of town. Keswick, always a small town, had not suffered much from the social collapse of the Devastation. The population had dropped sharply, but the survivors had managed to raise the few crops and sheep that had developed resistance to cold and radiation. The mountains were defense against marauders, so the citizens of Keswick had never needed to wall in their town. With the arrival of Arthur, however, activity had increased to house and feed his growing army and to rebuild the more important roads.
The road Merlin and Heather took was one of these. But soon they left it for an o
ld sunken farm lane running between two stone walls. The hedges and wildflowers that once would have softened the stark gray stones had long ago vanished. Their climb brought them into the mists again, and Heather clutched her hood around her. Her thoughts were as dismal as the setting.
“Here we are,” Merlin said. Heather jumped, realizing this was the second time he'd said that. Dutifully she looked around, and her heart nearly stopped. Ahead of her on a bleak hilltop, hulking gray shapes seemed to move in and out of the mist. Her throat went dry.
“I thought stone circles were … dangerous,” she said hoarsely.
“You're remembering the one on the Devonshire moor. Yes, some are, but they are also places of power. Almost any really old site is. Ancient peoples built where they did to make use of the power. True, it can attract other unsavory things, like the wraith we met in Devon. But I've checked this place out. The only spirits here are sheep.”
Heather looked more closely and saw that some of the gray shapes were indeed moving, and one was rubbing its back against a rough tilted stone. She certainly felt no menace about the place.
Slowly they walked forward. Some of the stones were missing, and some had toppled over or were leaning at crazy angles. Most of the unworked boulders were no taller than the two of them.
Merlin stepped into the circle. Heather took a deep breath and followed. He stood, head tilted, as if listening to some distant sound. Then he turned to Heather.
“The power here is a gentle kind—earth power, mostly. I don't really know what sort of magic you have, but we should be able to tell something here.”
He walked off to one side, where an inner rectangle of stones stood. “Ah, this should do,” he said, squatting down beside one of the fallen stones. With a sigh of resignation, Heather joined him.
Tomorrow's Magic Page 20