Jim Baen’s Universe

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Jim Baen’s Universe Page 42

by Edited by Eric Flint


  On the ot­her si­de of the fen­ce, the sis­ters of the ho­use pas­sed to and fro bet­we­en the bu­il­dings. All of them, the old and the yo­ung, dres­sed ali­ke in the­ir sim­p­le whi­te ro­bes and brown clo­aks and wo­oden cros­ses. They sta­red, per­haps lon­ger than was co­ur­te­o­us, at the man ten­ding the­ir ge­ese. But Mer­lin ma­de no mo­ve to spe­ak to any of them, nor for a mo­ment did he neg­lect the task to which he had be­en set.

  At last, the go­ose-wo­man re­tur­ned. Be­si­de her wal­ked the sis­ter now cal­led Ag­nes. If she was truly a girl as La­sa­ir had cal­led her, she had left that gir­l­ho­od be­hind ye­ars ago. She was a squ­are wo­man, her as­pect bes­pe­aking strength rat­her than be­a­uty. Her hands we­re lar­ge, and her fa­ce was tan­ned and li­ned as one who wor­ked hard and did not fe­ar to do so. Des­pi­te this, she lo­oked at him with ap­pre­hen­si­on bor­de­ring on alarm.

  “I do not know you,” she sa­id, han­ging back.

  Merlin stra­ig­h­te­ned, his kne­es pop­ping as he did. He bo­wed. “I am Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us, and I am co­me from the land of the Bri­tons and the king Ut­her Pen­d­ra­gon only that I may spe­ak with you, Sis­ter.”

  Agnes clen­c­hed her jaw, cle­arly not kno­wing what to ma­ke of this. If the flat­tery to­uc­hed her, it was brus­hed away by her un­cer­ta­inty. “What co­uld such a one ha­ve to say to me? I am no one.”

  Merlin smi­led at this mo­desty and glan­ced at the go­ose-wo­man. “If I may ha­ve a word with yo­ur sis­ter pri­va­tely?”

  The go­ose-wo­man con­si­de­red this, but nod­ded. “Don’t fe­ar him, Ag­nes,” she sa­id to the ot­her wo­man, la­ying a re­as­su­ring hand on her arm. “I’ll be he­re if you’ve ne­ed of me.” And she stom­ped back to her ge­ese, whe­re she wo­uld no do­ubt co­unt them ca­re­ful­ly to ma­ke su­re he had do­ne his work well.

  Agnes fa­ced the sor­ce­rer, her eyes cast down and her fin­gers tightly la­ced to­get­her. She sa­id not­hing.

  “I ha­ve be­en to see yo­ur for­mer te­ac­her,” ven­tu­red Mer­lin.

  At the­se words, Ag­nes glan­ced up­wards, but drop­ped her ga­ze at on­ce. “How do­es she?” she whis­pe­red ho­ar­sely.

  “She is old, and lo­nely,” rep­li­ed Mer­lin gently, trying to catch her eye.

  Agnes sig­hed and twis­ted her hands mo­re tightly to­get­her, lo­oking away down the rol­ling slo­pes to­ward the dis­tant fens, even as her te­ac­her had lo­oked up tho­se sa­me slo­pes. Two lon­ging ga­zes mis­sing each ot­her for the want of ti­me and fa­ith. “I am sorry for her.” So­me me­mory had her sna­red, and Mer­lin stra­ined to un­der­s­tand what it might be. “If she we­re to re­no­un­ce her pa­gan ways and fol­low Christ, we wo­uld gladly ca­re for her he­re.” They we­re pi­o­us words, and de­eply felt, but the­re was so­met­hing el­se, so­met­hing old and sec­ret loc­ked away.

  Merlin nod­ded in sympathy at her words. “Alas,” he sa­id, twis­ting his staff as she twis­ted her hands. “The­re is anot­her po­wer that holds her.”

  “What do you me­an?” Cu­ri­osity ma­de her flick her eyes si­de­ways to­ward him.

  Casting a glan­ce over his sho­ul­der at the go­ose-wo­man who now sto­od with her bro­ad back to them, Mer­lin to­ok a step for­ward. “She still be­li­eves she gu­ards the vo­ice that wa­its and sle­eps,” he mur­mu­red. “Whi­le she re­ma­ins su­re of that, she will ne­ver turn to a new path.”

  The wind blew hard and cold bet­we­en them. It smel­led of ra­in and of the dis­tant oce­an and the damp rot of autumn. “I be­li­eve that you are right,” sa­id Ag­nes. The words we­re not­hing, po­li­te ag­re­ement with a stran­ger, not­hing mo­re. She was ca­ught in ot­her me­mo­ri­es. They thron­ged thick be­hind the eyes she wo­uld ra­ise to him only for the ba­rest se­cond. Me­mo­ri­es per­haps of her le­ave-ta­king, or of the ye­ars be­fo­re and sin­ce.

  “Were the vo­ice to be si­len­ced, it wo­uld no lon­ger drown out the vo­ice of God in her ears.”

  Agnes swal­lo­wed, her fa­ce sad and so­ber. Mer­lin re­ali­zed she had tho­ught of this be­fo­re. “I will turn my pra­yers to it.” Aga­in, a po­li­te­ness, a not­hing. She wan­ted him to le­ave her, to not re­mind her of ot­her ti­mes and pla­ces.

  “Sister,” sa­id Mer­lin as gently as he had ever spo­ken in his li­fe. “I am co­me to si­len­ce the vo­ice, but I do not know how to find it. Do you?”

  Look at me. Lo­ok at me, he com­man­ded si­lently. But she did not. Ag­nes only lo­oked at her hands, la­ced so tightly to­get­her. The wind tug­ged at her gra­ying ha­ir, te­asing out elf locks to hang aro­und her ears. “I can­not tell you that,” she whis­pe­red.

  “Cannot or will not?”

  She bit her lips. “I swo­re I wo­uld not.” Her vo­ice grew stron­ger, and Mer­lin cur­sed that strength. “When I he­ard the word of Christ and cho­se the vir­gin's path, I swo­re be­fo­re God that I wo­uld not ever tell what I had for­merly known.” Her eyes we­re bright with the glim­mer of te­ars, and Mer­lin re­mem­be­red the te­ars that had al­so be­en in La­sa­ir eyes. “It was only that oath that ma­de her let me go.”

  Merlin mus­te­red all the pa­ti­en­ce he had. If he fal­te­red now, all wo­uld be lost. The ba­rest hint of an­ger or im­pa­ti­en­ce wo­uld har­den her aga­inst him. “How can you hold to an oath that ke­eps her from God?”

  Agnes lif­ted her he­ad. “Be­ca­use I swo­re,” she an­s­we­red and for the first ti­me Mer­lin he­ard in her vo­ice that strength which was so evi­dent in her form. “Be­ca­use she was mot­her and te­ac­her to me for many long ye­ars. It wo­uld be sin not to ke­ep my oath to her. God com­mands we ho­nor mot­her and fat­her.”

  But she lo­oked at him, and he co­uld hold her ga­ze now. “God al­so com­mands you des­t­roy the ways of the pa­gan, sis­ter. How can you re­fu­se this bat­tle for her so­ul?”

  He re­ac­hed for her, wil­ling her un­der­s­tan­ding, her ac­cep­tan­ce of what he sa­id. But to his as­to­nis­h­ment, she only gla­red at him. “I swo­re my oath. I will not bre­ak it.”

  Agnes tur­ned on her he­el and mar­c­hed back thro­ugh the ga­te. Mer­lin ma­de to fol­low, but at on­ce, the go­ose wo­man was in front of him, as if bro­ught the­re by ma­gic. Mer­lin lo­oked in­to her stern as­pect for a mo­ment, and then bo­wed, ret­re­ating to the ed­ge of the fen­ce. The­re, he sat down, la­ying his staff ac­ross his kne­es, and pre­pa­red to wa­it.

  The go­ose-wo­man sta­red in as­to­nis­h­ment at him. Then, she tur­ned her back, and tri­ed fa­ir to ig­no­re him, tho­ugh she cast many a di­sap­pro­ving glan­ce in his di­rec­ti­on. Mer­lin was not sur­p­ri­sed that she to­ok no fur­t­her me­asu­res. To sit be­si­de a do­or­way in pa­ti­ent fast was a ges­tu­re she wo­uld un­der­s­tand well. It had be­en used by pe­ti­ti­oners to kings of Eire, and to stub­born bri­des. Usu­al­ly, all that had to be do­ne was to wa­it un­til the pe­ti­ti­oner, ig­no­red and hu­mi­li­ated, was dri­ven away by cold or hun­ger.

  The wo­men be­yond the fen­ce ca­me and went, rus­t­ling and whis­pe­ring. Eve­ning ca­me, and the cold night af­ter­wards. Clo­uds thic­ke­ned, and ra­in ca­me. Ci­ar whim­pe­red and pres­sed clo­se to Mer­lin. Mer­lin scrat­c­hed the ho­und’s he­ad and pat­ted his si­de, and they shi­ve­red to­get­her wit­ho­ut fi­re.

  The mor­ning ca­me li­ke a bles­sing and the fa­ding autumn sun dri­ed them both. Hun­ger tig­h­te­ned Mer­lin’s belly. Thirst par­c­hed his thro­at. But still he sat whe­re he was and wa­ited. The day pas­sed. The wo­men ca­me and went be­hind the­ir fen­ce, much as the clo­uds scud­ded ac­ross the sky. The ra­ins fell, and the sun re­ap­pe­ared. The cold de­epe­ned as night drew ne­ar. Ci­ar whim­pe­red and bar­ked. Af­ter aw­hi­le, he di­sap­pe­ared and re­t
ur­ned with a spar­row in his mo­uth, which he drop­ped at Mer­lin’s fe­et. He no­sed at his mas­ter’s hand, ur­ging him to eat the of­fe­ring. Mer­lin pat­ted Ci­ar’s gre­at he­ad, and wa­ited.

  When the first blue flush of twi­light crept ac­ross the sky, Sis­ter Ag­nes ca­me to stand be­fo­re him, hands on her hips and the flash of ste­el in her eyes. Mer­lin in­c­li­ned his he­ad to her.

  “Leave he­re,” she sa­id flatly.

  Merlin lif­ted his eyes. “I will le­ave when I ha­ve le­ar­ned what I ne­ed to know,” he cro­aked.

  “You will star­ve then,” she told him.

  Merlin shrug­ged and res­ted both hands on his staff. “Then I will star­ve.”

  Agnes his­sed wor­d­les­sly in her exas­pe­ra­ti­on, and left.

  So, the night ca­me, and mo­re ra­in with it. Mer­lin, des­pi­te all his strength of mind and tra­ining of body shi­ve­red be­ne­ath his clo­ak. He drank the ra­in as it fell, and as it ran down his fa­ce and fin­ger­tips. Ci­ar whi­ned and trem­b­led and wo­uld not le­ave even when Mer­lin com­man­ded it, but only res­ted his he­ad on his mas­ter’s knee. Mer­lin threw the end of his clo­ak over the dog, sha­ring what pi­ti­ful warmth the­re was. Wol­ves how­led un­se­en in the fo­rest, ma­king the dog growl and bark in an­s­wer.

  Morning ca­me cold and grey. Mists ro­se in clo­uds and co­lumns from the val­leys and the folds in the hills. On­ce mo­re, Sis­ter Ag­nes mar­c­hed thro­ugh the ga­te. This ti­me, she held a ro­und lo­af in her hand.

  “Look, he­re is bre­ad.” She held the be­fo­re him and bro­ke it in half so that the ste­am ro­se and war­med his fa­ce, brin­ging all the de­li­ci­o­us odors of the oaten bre­ad with it.

  Merlin lic­ked his lips, se­ar­c­hing for so­me hint of mo­is­tu­re still the­re. “It is not bre­ad I ca­me for.”

  “You can­not sit he­re un­til you die.” Be­ne­ath the an­no­yan­ce he he­ard what he wa­ited for. Worry had re­tur­ned to Sis­ter Ag­nes’s vo­ice.

  “If I must, I must, for I can­not le­ave.” He ma­de him­self shrug.

  “I will not bre­ak the oath that set me free!” She cri­ed, the for­ce of her words stra­ig­h­te­ning her back.

  Mustering his strength, Mer­lin lif­ted his he­ad and met her ga­ze, se­e­ing how an­ger and con­cern war­red wit­hin her. “Then yo­ur si­len­ce will be my de­ath.”

  She drop­ped the lo­af on the gro­und, tur­ned and left, wal­king too fast, not lo­oking back. Mer­lin pus­hed the lo­af to­ward Ci­ar. The dog whi­ned and thum­ped his ta­il, and ate the bre­ad. Mer­lin ho­ped that Sis­ter Ag­nes saw this, or that one of her sis­ters did, and wo­uld tell her truly, but co­uld not turn his he­ad to see.

  Another day and anot­her drag­ged past. He shi­ve­red un­con­t­rol­lably now, as if a fe­ver wrac­ked him. His clo­ak only dri­ed slowly. Hun­ger and thirst be­ca­me dull ac­hes wit­hin him. His legs al­ter­na­ted bet­we­en a cold num­b­ness and a storm of pric­k­ling and he­at bur­ning thro­ugh them as if his blo­od we­re ma­de of pins. When dar­k­ness en­ve­lo­ped the world, the wol­ves mo­ved clo­ser now, and he co­uld see the­ir eyes shi­ning in the brac­ken that ed­ged the fo­rest. Ci­ar’s hac­k­les ro­se and he bar­ked sharply, stal­king for­ward, war­ning them with his bulk. They crept away, but they wo­uld re­turn. Both mas­ter and ho­und knew it, but the­re was not­hing to be do­ne. Mer­lin do­zed fit­ful­ly in the fri­gid dar­k­ness, dre­aming many stran­ge and tro­ub­ling dre­ams, only to pry his eyes open at the grey dawn and Ci­ar’s bark, and lo­ok up.

  Sister Ag­nes sto­od be­fo­re him, her squ­are fa­ce whi­te and pin­c­hed. Her brown clo­ak was la­ced tightly aga­inst the cold, and she bit her lips as she lo­oked down at him. She car­ri­ed a bowl of wa­ter, a ha­unch of bre­ad and a blan­ket of un­d­yed wo­ol in her hands.

  With a gro­an, Mer­lin pus­hed him­self in­to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on, and drop­ped one hand ac­ross his staff. To his sha­me he was not su­re he had the strength to lift it if he had the ne­ed. The re­len­t­less cold had rob­bed him of all such po­wer. It se­ared a path down to his lungs even now as he tri­ed to bre­at­he.

  Agnes knelt be­si­de him, la­ying the things she’d bro­ught in her lap. She ma­de no gre­eting, but only le­aned clo­se to him. “Is it true what you sa­id? It is only the vo­ice that ke­eps her from God?”

  Merlin nod­ded, and his trem­b­ling in­c­re­ased.

  “I ha­ve pra­yed long over this.” She bit her lips aga­in. “I sin, no mat­ter what I do, but if what you say is so, then I can­not let my mot­her and te­ac­her die wit­ho­ut bap­tism when my ac­ti­ons might bring her to God.” Her vo­ice eased and stren­g­t­he­ned. “I will tell you what I know.”

  “All you know?” he whis­pe­red. “You swe­ar it?”

  “All I know, and I do swe­ar.”

  Merlin clo­sed his eyes and re­ac­hed one sha­king hand for the wa­ter bowl she bro­ught. He drank long of the cle­ar wa­ter as Sis­ter Ag­nes threw the warm blan­ket abo­ut his sho­ul­ders. She hel­ped him te­ar and sof­ten the bre­ad so that he might eat of it. Slowly, the strength re­tur­ned to his limbs and the cla­rity of tho­ught to his mind.

  When his trem­b­ling had ce­ased, Sis­ter Ag­nes, bent clo­se to him, whis­pe­ring so that only he co­uld he­ar. “This is what she told me, and I swe­ar be­fo­re God this is the who­le of it. She told me that atop the tal­lest mo­un­ta­in of Be­an­ncar­rig, the­re stands an an­ci­ent tomb. An­yo­ne who stands in­si­de at dawn on the day of the new ye­ar will see a do­or. A t that mo­ment any who asks for entry in the na­me of the one who ra­ised the tomb will be ab­le to open that do­or and fol­low the path dow­n­ward. He will pass three mo­re ro­oms, and three mo­re do­ors. The first is ope­ned with a truth, the se­cond with a lie, the third with all he has. In­si­de the last ro­om is the vo­ice and the bles­sing, and all qu­es­ti­ons will be an­s­we­red the­re.”

  Merlin clo­sed his eyes, in we­ari­ness and in gra­ti­tu­de. “Thank you, Sis­ter Ag­nes,” he mur­mu­red. “May God bless you.”

  She gat­he­red up the bowl and blan­ket, all of her un­cer­ta­inty co­ming over her aga­in. “Co­me to me on yo­ur re­turn and tell me I may go mi­nis­ter to my old te­ac­her.” She sto­od has­tily, ma­king to de­part. To pray, Mer­lin tho­ught, to try to ma­ke pe­ace with what she had do­ne.

  “Will you ca­re for my dog?” Mer­lin as­ked ab­ruptly. “He can­not fol­low the ro­ad I must ta­ke.”

  She lo­oked at the gre­at black ho­und, thin­king per­haps of the ge­ese and the she­ep, but al­so of the wol­ves that how­led in the night. She nod­ded. “Go with God then.”

  “I thank you, Sis­ter.”

  Leaning on his staff, Mer­lin got him­self to his fe­et. With only slightly mo­re dif­fi­culty, he per­su­aded Ci­ar to fol­low Ag­nes thro­ugh the ga­te. He wat­c­hed them both go with so­met­hing li­ke reg­ret, but then tur­ned his fa­ce wes­t­ward, lo­oking to­ward the tal­ler mo­un­ta­ins wa­iting the­re.

  With a sigh, Mer­lin be­gan on­ce mo­re to walk.

  *****

  It was a long walk, for he must hus­band his strength. But the cold was de­epe­ning the sky and the wind both told him the eve of the new ye­ar qu­ickly ap­pro­ac­hed. With this know­led­ge dri­ving him, Mer­lin hur­ri­ed as much as he da­red. He clam­be­red over the rocky slo­pes by day, fin­ding much to drink but lit­tle to eat. He la­id down be­ne­ath thick blan­kets of le­aves at night and wo­ke to find frost on his ho­od and ice in the stre­ams that sus­ta­ined him. Cold stif­fe­ned his hands and his legs. His bre­ath ca­me out in whi­te clo­uds when the we­at­her was cle­ar, and in harsh gasps when the ra­in po­ured down. The­re we­re no­ne up he­re to wit­ness his pas­sa­ge, but ne­it­her we­re the­re any to of­fer him shel­ter. By
his art he had fi­re at night, but not all the po­wer he knew co­uld ke­ep the ra­in from his back wit­ho­ut a ro­of and the hig­her he clim­bed, the mo­re spar­se the fo­rest be­ca­me, un­til the­re we­re not even bran­c­hes nor le­aves to help shel­ter him.

  Bent al­most do­ub­le from the ste­ep­ness of the climb, Mer­lin ca­me at last to the he­ight of Be­an­ncar­rig to see the tomb just whe­re Ag­nes sa­id it wo­uld be. It was an an­ci­ent pla­ce, stur­dily bu­ilt af­ter the pat­tern of the dwel­lings of the li­ving-a hu­ge ro­und ho­use of sto­ne with a co­ni­cal ro­of of tim­bers, li­me and sla­te. A sto­ne cross thick with car­vings of knots and rib­bons sto­od be­fo­re it, but that was a new thing com­pa­red to the tomb it­self, and the car­vings on its walls sho­wed as much. He­re we­re the rib­bons and the knots, but no sign of cross or Christ. On the si­des of the tomb Mer­lin fo­und the whi­te ma­re and the ra­ven, the sal­mon, the bull and the bo­ar. The hor­ned god held co­urt the­re and the god­dess ro­de in her cha­ri­ot.

  If the­re had on­ce be­en a por­tal set in the sto­ne thres­hold, it had long sin­ce rot­ted away. In its pla­ce now wa­ited two tan­g­led thorn bus­hes, the­ir barbs thrus­ting out­ward. Mer­lin bro­ke off a small twig from one and tuc­ked it in­to his sle­eve as he ma­de his way bet­we­en them, ca­re­ful to bre­ak no ot­her branch nor te­ar off any of the dying le­aves.

  Inside the tomb was only dar­k­ness. The clo­uds hung so low and so thick out­si­de, no sun stre­amed thro­ugh the do­or­way. The air was dank, still and co­ol, with only the lig­h­test draft to to­uch its fin­gers to the back of Mer­lin’s neck. Be­fo­re him in the glo­om, he saw the de­ad.

  They li­ned the walls la­id out in car­ved nic­hes, three high. The­ir na­mes had be­en car­ved the­re in the ol­dest ru­nes of all. They had be­en the­re as long as the tomb, the­se cor­p­ses, and now we­re not­hing mo­re than bo­nes be­ne­ath shro­uds that a bre­ath wo­uld ha­ve tur­ned to a sho­wer of dust. Still, they wa­ited, grey bo­nes, ru­ined cloth and empty eyes. He­re and the­re a jewel flas­hed or a ring of gold on fin­ger bo­ne or wrist. Mer­lin to­uc­hed no­ne of this. By his art, he ma­de him­self a fi­re and sat be­si­de it. He ate so­me of the nuts and wit­he­red ap­ples he had gat­he­red on the lo­wer slo­pes, and then stret­c­hed out be­fo­re the do­or­way to sle­ep. He mis­sed Ci­ar’s so­lid warmth be­si­de him but rol­led him­self in his clo­ak and let ex­ha­us­ti­on carry him away.

 

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