The Saxon Shore cc-4

by Jack Whyte

  Now she moved away from the fire again, walking to the table that held the mead flasks, where she lifted a cup, holding it towards me with one eyebrow raised in question. I nodded, not having drunk anything for some time. I had been nursing a small drink, sipping it only occasionally, since early in the meal. Now she took two cups and moved back to the chairs by the fire, where I joined her.

  "Of course," she continued as I sat down, "I could be cynical about the entire thing and regard it as an elaborate game, allowing myself to believe that everyone knows exactly what's happening, but that no one wants to break the conspiracy of silence and run the risk of having the 'special occasions' stop."

  I turned to face her, sitting almost sidewise in my chair. "A conspiracy of silence? That does sound cynical, and you are too young and fresh for cynicism. Do you really believe that?"

  She laughed, shaking her head, and we sat in silence for some time, staring into the flames, and then she asked me about the life young women lived in Camulod. She could hardly have asked me anything to tax me more, but I did my best to answer, basing my remarks upon my imprecise recollections of the daily lives of the nubile young women who had shared my aunt Luceiia's household over the years. I found it ironic that I could have spoken with far more authority in the area of their night lives, but that would have been insulting to this vivacious young woman. My halting recital seemed to satisfy her, however, for she began telling me of her own life here in Eire, pointing out the differences between the Eirish customs and those I had so inadequately described.

  The most significant point she made addressed the question of femininity—an area utterly alien to me. She was amazed that our young women received no military training, and pursued no athletic activities, like running and climbing. I listened happily, agreeing from time to time with what she said and remembering with nostalgia my early days with Deirdre, when she and I had run and walked and wrestled strenuously among the hills surrounding Avalon.

  It was only when the fire collapsed upon itself, belching a cloud of sparks, that I realized I had lost track of time and that an hour must have passed since her father and Donuil's departure to search for the man Rud.

  "What about the missing man? Will he be found, d'you think?"

  "Oh aye, he'll be found, but whether whole or injured, dead or alive, I cannot tell. I suspect some accident has happened to him. But they will find him. Rud is a steady man, solid and trustworthy, and unliking of things new. Of all the people in the place who might be expected to lose themselves, Rud would be the least likely, for he seldom travels far in trapping his animals, and he never wanders from the track he has beaten over the years through the woods behind his house."

  "Hmm." I sat back in my chair, feeling totally at ease with this impressive young woman. "You think your father will be gone for long?"

  "Mmm-mmm." The sound, accompanied by a brief headshake, was a firm negative. She put down her cup, leaning over to place it on the floor, and then sat back, twisting her body sideways to rest her back against the arm of her chair so that she could look directly into my eyes. "So, Master Merlyn, what think you of my man, really?"

  Her question caught me unawares, and I realized that I had been looking at her breasts, aware of them for the first time that evening only because of the way in which she had twisted to face me, throwing the right one, small but perfectly formed, into sharp relief beneath the heavy covering of her robe. Now I flicked my eyes hastily upward to her face, seeing again, as though afresh, the startling, hawklike beauty of the eyes that gazed back at me with no sign of discomfort, from beneath her brows. She smiled at me, displaying her fine teeth again, supremely confident of who and what she was.

  "Your man? Oh, your father."

  She cut me short with a shake of her head, her smile growing wider. "No, my man. Donuil Mac Athol."

  "Oh . . . I see." I cleared my throat. "Well . . . what do you mean, what do I think of him? I respect and admire him greatly. He is my friend, and I am honoured by his friendship."

  "He is young, though, to have you as a friend, would you not think so?"

  "Young?" That observation disconcerted me slightly, and I had to think about my answer, attempting to ignore her question's implications about my own years. "Aye," I said, finally. "I suppose nine years might be seen by some as a large gap in age, particularly between close friends. . ." I hesitated only briefly. "But Donuil is unique, and he and I have come to know each other well over the past five years. I have found nothing in him to dislike or to mistrust. Absolutely nothing . . . But tell me," I went on, unable to resist the urge to ask. "Is he aware of your conviction? Does he know you regard him as 'your man'?"

  Now she laughed, her voice as clear and ringing as the tone I had struck from Excalibur in the Armoury at Camulod. "Of course not, no! He has no idea!" The mere thought of such a thing clearly struck her as ludicrous and her laughter grew even stronger. "Oh, poor Donuil! He doesn't even know himself that he is!" She held up a hand, begging me to sit still while she mastered herself, and then, when her laughter had died down she coughed slightly and said demurely, although smiling still, "As I have said, Donuil is young, and in some ways very young, but he will learn."

  "I see," I said again, and this time I did, and clearly. "I think he will, too. But have you always known that he was yours?"

  Now her smile grew gentler, more subdued. "Almost, Master Merlyn, almost. I have certainly known since I was very young. Donuil and I were destined each for the other."

  "Hmm, Destiny." I almost added "again," but caught myself in time. "And how can you know that with such certainty?" I was smiling now, too, not doubting her sincerity for a moment.

  "Because I know. He and I will be wed and I will bear him two sons, called Gwin and Ghilleadh." She raised one eyebrow, looking at me serenely. "I simply know these things, Master Merlyn, but were I to tell you how I know, you would disbelieve me and think me foolish."

  "Call me plain Merlyn, without the 'Master,' or Caius, if you prefer. I doubt that I could think you foolish." She bowed her head in gracious acceptance of both compliments and I stopped speaking, staring into her eyes. She waited, knowing that I had more to add. Finally, when I had straightened out the thought that had returned to me, I continued. "You said something to me this morning, when we first met, something strange. You said you had seen me before, but not clearly." She blinked, a long, slow, birdlike closing of her wide, exotically slanted eyes that was deliberate, I felt; an attempt to guard herself against my gaze. When her eyes opened again, looking into mine, I pressed on. "I know your father has been in Britain, but I did not think he had been there recently. Has he? And did you accompany him? Because unless you did, you could not possibly have seen me before today, clearly or otherwise."

  Shelagh's smile had disappeared as I spoke, and now she reached upward to her mouth, smoothing the softness of her lower lip with the tip of the smallest finger on her right hand. I watched the gentle pressure push the pillow of her full lip slightly askew and then she curled her fingers, cupping her chin delicately.

  "It was a slip of the tongue. Is your full name Caius Merlyn or Merlyn Britannicus? Which is correct?"

  "Both. My name is Caius Merlyn Britannicus."

  "It's a good name, strong and solid."

  "My thanks. And what is yours?"

  "My full name?" Her smile had returned. "Shelagh. Shelagh, daughter of Liam, known as Twistback. But I am not Shelagh Twistback, simply Shelagh."

  "Then, 'Simply Shelagh,' I will congratulate you on your attempt to divert my attention, unsuccessful though it has been. A slip of the tongue, you said.

  I hope you will forgive me if I doubt you. You were looking at me as you said the words this morning and I believed you recognized me. You had seen me before. So how could that be?" My heart was suddenly beating hard in my chest as I waited for her reaction, because I had begun to feel, all at once and without logic, that she and I might have far more in common than either of us could ever have su
spected. She stared back at me, her face now in repose.

  "I meant what I said, Merlyn. It was a slip of the tongue."

  "No." I shook my head, dismissing her response. "Pardon me, but a slip of the tongue is an inadvertent yet revealing lapse. An error of statement that contains a truth."

  "Really?" Her eyes glinted with amusement and a hint, I thought, of stirring anger. "And what does that mean?"

  I decided to gamble, but began by prevaricating. "Nothing, really," I said, pretending resignation. "It was mere curiosity that prompted me to say it."

  "Curiosity about what?"

  Now I smiled at her. "About you, about who you are and how you think. I found myself wondering if you had dreamed of your future with Donuil, and of the names you would give your sons."

  "Well, of course I have." She smiled at me now with all the guile of womankind. "All young women dream of such things. Surely you knew that?"

  I shrugged my shoulders. "To an extent, I did. But I had not known they dreamed quite so minutely. Most of my own dreams are formless pictures, difficult to recall on wakening. I had presumed everyone's were the same."

  "No, not so. I dream quite clearly, most of the time."

  "Aye, I believe you, and you dreamed of meeting me before you saw me."

  Her face underwent a sudden, startling change, her eyes narrowing and her colour receding rapidly. I held up a hand quickly to forestall her flaring, evidently frightened anger, feeling a surge of excitement in my breast. "Wait, Shelagh! Before you fly at me, know this: I am not accusing you of anything. I, too, have dreams that come to pass, dreams that come true."

  She froze, her eyes wide, staring into mine. Silence settled and lay between us, solid and tactile as a heavy veil of drifting smoke. In the stillness, I could feel my heartbeat rally and slow down, and still she sat motionless, tense and poised as though for flight. Then, when I had begun to feel concern that she might never speak to me or move again, her voice came in a whisper, each word hissed separately.

  "What . . . what are you saying?"

  Unable to define the tone in her whispered words, I allowed myself to relax and raised my cup to my lips again, drinking slowly before responding.

  "I am saying that I dream strange dreams," I answered finally, speaking slowly and without heat. "Prophetic dreams, and frightening. And I have done so all my life. Never, at any time, have I met another person with the same ability."

  She was gazing at me fixedly, but the colour had returned gradually to her cheeks. Another silence grew and lengthened between us.

  "Why would you tell me such a thing?" she asked eventually. "What attraction could such perilous knowledge hold for me? And why would you even think to entrust it to me?"

  "Perilous?" I was confused, caught unprepared by the unexpected answer.

  "Why would you say that?" I asked her. "There is no peril involved for me in your knowledge, how could there be? Nor is any need for trust involved. It is simply a thing, an ability—I know not whether gift or curse—that has troubled me throughout my life, although I became convinced of its potency only recently. It's a personal burden, a secret of my own, of which I have spoken to but very few, because it has frightened me for years, but only for my mind, not for my bodily health. There is no danger involved in it, no peril."

  Now it was she who looked confused. Her eyebrows drew closer together and her eyes scanned my face, looking for I knew not what, before she pursed her lips and spoke again.

  "The power you speak of is sorcery. The Sight, it is called. The known possession of it means banishment from the world of ordinary folk."

  "What? Banishment? By whom?"

  "By everyone. It is the law."

  "But, Shelagh, that is ridiculous!"

  "Ridiculous?" Her anger flared again. "Laughable? How dare you mock me, Caius Merlyn! I speak the simple truth. Foreknowledge—the ability to see the future, godlike—is unhuman. No man or woman can possess such powers without being touched by the gods, and therefore without the taint of immortality. The law decrees banishment from the homes of men."

  "I see. It is akin to leprosy. Its possessors are unclean." She had begun to frown again and I pressed on. "To where, then, would I be banished?"

  "To anywhere you wish to go, so long as you remove yourself from all human contact."

  "And if I should refuse?"

  "You would be killed."

  "In the name of God, that is barbarism!" Even as I said the words, I saw, belatedly, the reason for her earlier hostility. The thought of banishment, of a life of eternal solitude, cut off from her father and her folk for her entire life, must terrify her. I nodded my head in understanding, letting the sympathy I felt soften my voice. "So that's why my questions frightened you so much." She made no move, but I saw gratitude in her eyes. "But tell me, if you will," I continued, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. "Tell me why you would speak of dreams to me at all, even light-heartedly, if you had any fear of being thought to have . . . what was it you called it? The Sight?"

  She nodded, a tiny gesture, acknowledging the legitimacy of my question. "You are a stranger, with no knowledge of our ways. I thought I might toy with you, in the safety of your ignorance." Her voice was soft now, reflecting her changing mood.

  "You had no thought that I might share your gift?"

  "None." She shook her head and then realized what she had admitted, and her alarm flared up anew, her eyes widening in panic. Again I raised a hand, palm outwards, to soothe her.

  "Hush, Shelagh, be at peace. You risk nothing with me. It is a gift we share, remember?"

  She nodded again, nervously, appearing suddenly and sadly cowed, her hands clasped tightly on her lap, her eyes darting around the room as if in terror of being overheard, so that my throat swelled up with compassion for her.

  "Come, girl," I whispered, gentling her as I would a frightened horse. "There is nothing to fear. We are alone. But take heart from the knowledge— and I will swear the truth of this on any oath you care to name—that such laws do not exist in Britain, nor anywhere else save here that I know of. There's nothing wicked in the ability you have, Shelagh; nothing willful either, for that matter. It is something born within you, as it was in me, something over which we have no control." I broke off, thinking of what I had just said. "Can you summon your ability at will?" She shook her head emphatically. "Well, then, in that we are alike, the two of us. But you can recall your dreams clearly, is that not so?"

  "Sometimes," she whispered, more strongly this time.

  "And do they frighten you, these dreams?"

  "No," she looked at me, wide-eyed. "Do yours?"

  "Aye, they have, on almost every occasion, although I have no clear memories of them on waking. You can recall the events in your dreams?"

  "Yes, clearly." Her voice was growing stronger with every word, her confidence increasing as her fears abated. "But I cannot always understand what I have dreamed. There are times when I can recall a dream clearly and see the pictures in my mind in detailed colours, and yet have no idea of what any part of it means. That happens often."

  "Often? How often do you dream such things?"

  She shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. It varies. Sometimes I may have several in the course of a single year, but I have known whole years to pass without one." She leaned down again and collected her cup from the floor, then drained it at one gulp, after which she sat back and breathed deeply. I sat still, saying nothing, my thoughts racing. I had found someone who shared my gift, someone who knew the strangeness of the alien power exercised in me! The sound of her voice brought me back from my reverie.

  "I saw your face in one of those . . . the kind I never understand, I mean."

  I sat up straighter. "How so? What did you see?"

  She gazed intently into my eyes for several moments and then turned to stare into the fire. The logs had burned away almost completely, and now she rose and crossed to where a fresh supply lay in a stout, wooden frame. I made no move that might interr
upt her thoughts as she selected several sawn lengths and threw them on the fire, finally pushing and prodding them into position with a long, heavy iron poker.

  "There was a bear," she said, her voice almost lost in the snapping and flaring of the fuel so that I had to lean forward to hear her. "It devoured a boar, and then it killed and ate a dragon that was black, with green scales, and breathed fire. Then, later—I think it was later, but it may have been directly afterwards—it rode on a bull's back to where it met another bear, and all three creatures fought each other in a ring of wolves, among waterfalls of blood, and when the fight was done, the bear, the first one, was sorely wounded and prepared to die among the wolves, but a darkness fell, and out of the darkness, on a broadening beam of light, came a great eagle to attack the wolves and scatter them . . ." Her voice died away completely and she remained there, head down by the fire, staring into its depths.

  "And?" I prompted her. "What happened then?" She gave no sign of having heard, and I stood up and went to her, standing beside her. She paid me no heed. "Shelagh? What happened then, after the eagle came?" She turned to look up at me, frowning and shaking her head as though unable to remember, but I persisted. "You said an eagle came, upon a broadening beam of light. What then?"

  "It killed the dominant wolf, a giant, and then stripped the coat from its back with its great talons. . . and underneath its coat, the wolf had green dragon scales, and it roared its breath of fire at the eagle, burning its feathers, burning it to death, and as it fell dying, the eagle, too, became a dragon- shape, crimson with its own blood. And the light faded, and I saw you, standing among the shadows, masked in almost darkness, and all else disappeared but you, with the crimson dragon bleeding on your shoulder and the great eagle itself, fully restored, perched upon your wrist."

  As I stood there listening, my heart pounding, I realized that she had no more to tell me. I swallowed hard and stepped back from her, looking around me for my cup of mead. It sat on the floor by my chair, where I had no recollection of having placed it. I stepped to it and picked it up. It was empty. Breathing a great sigh, I crossed to the small table and poured a fresh supply for both of us, after which I returned to my chair and sat down.