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Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 44

by Edited by Eric Flint


  But as he pul­led her clo­ser still, the thorn he had pla­ced in his sle­eve dro­ve it­self in­to his arm, pi­er­cing the flesh and dra­wing blo­od. The small pa­in fo­und its ec­ho on all the ot­hers wit­hin him, and in that mo­ment, his he­ad cle­ared and me­mory re­tur­ned to him.

  Gently, he pul­led away, ta­king both her hands in his and la­ying them in her lap.

  “I can­not do this,” he sa­id ho­ar­sely. “It is not lo­ve I se­ek.” Te­ars thre­ate­ned be­hind his eyes as he spo­ke the words. It was as if win­ter des­cen­ded in­to his he­art and wo­uld ne­ver le­ave it.

  She lo­oked at him, and he saw her eyes we­re wi­de and gre­en. “Is it not?” She saw his te­ars, he knew, but she al­so saw how he did not mo­ve.

  “No.” He sho­ok his he­ad and drop­ped his ga­ze. He co­uld not lo­ok at her an­y­mo­re or he wo­uld we­ep li­ke a ba­be. If he did that, he might se­ek his com­fort in her, and this ti­me he wo­uld not ha­ve the strength to le­ave it. “Nor will it be.”

  He felt mo­re than saw her draw away. Her sha­dow fell ac­ross him as she sto­od. Cold. Oh, so cold that sha­dow. “You ha­ve spo­ken a mighty thing he­re. Be su­re you stand by yo­ur words, man, for I will not for­get them.”

  He was suf­fu­sed with pi­ti­less cold now, and all his pa­ins re­tur­ned to him. His he­art be­at he­avily in his chest, even as he rec­la­imed his staff. He sto­od, ma­king his bow as best he co­uld. He kept his ga­ze lo­we­red, ste­aling only the bri­efest of glan­ces to­ward the lady. Her fa­ce was stern now, all her for­mer de­light va­nis­hed. She sto­od asi­de, and wa­ved her fa­ir hand. The do­or he had known be­yond the blos­so­ming tre­es ope­ned at on­ce. Mer­lin wal­ked thro­ugh.

  With each step, his we­ari­ness grew. His he­art wit­hin him be­at so he­avily, it se­emed to be ma­de of le­ad. He co­uld not see the way for­ward. It was as if his eyes we­re still daz­zled by the be­a­uty of the lady left be­hind him. He gro­und his knuc­k­les in­to his eyes and gro­aned alo­ud. An­ger ro­se up from the depths of his so­ul. So sim­p­le a thing, the ne­ed of flesh and he­art.

  It will not de­fe­at me, he told him­self. I will not be lost to such a small thing.

  One step at a ti­me he for­ced him­self for­ward. He stag­ge­red in the dar­k­ness, and his bre­ath ca­me rag­ged and rus­hed from his lungs. But he did not fall, and slowly, pa­in­ful­ly, he was ab­le to see anot­her gol­den light flic­ke­ring be­fo­re him.

  This new pla­ce was far dif­fe­rent from the ot­hers. No pa­ra­di­se, wild or ta­med, wa­ited he­re. It was only a ca­vern of damp sto­ne and ro­ugh earth and Mer­lin stum­b­led as he step­ped in­to it, cat­c­hing him­self with his staff. The light was dim, and the sta­le air smel­led of sea salt and rot. In the ca­vern’s cen­ter sto­od a man. He was tall and well bu­ilt, with arms and hands har­de­ned by much la­bor. His skin was se­amed and tan­ned as that of so­me­one who stands out of do­ors on all days, in all we­at­hers. His ha­ir and be­ard we­re dark, but his eyes spar­k­led brightly.

  “God be with you, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us,” his vo­ice ec­ho­ed strongly aga­inst the clo­se walls

  Wearily, Mer­lin stra­ig­h­te­ned him­self, clut­c­hing his staff. “What are you?” he as­ked. His vo­ice was harsh, chil­led by the win­ter still wit­hin him.

  The one be­fo­re him coc­ked his he­ad, and shrug­ged. “A man, as you are.”

  Anger flo­wed slug­gishly in Mer­lin’s ve­ins. An­ger and im­pa­ti­en­ce. He was ti­red of ga­mes pla­yed aga­inst his li­fe, and of rid­dling words and tests and tri­als. His hands hurt, his fe­et hurt, his king wa­ited for him and he wo­uld be do­ne! “I am in no hu­mor for rid­dles, sir. Who are you?”

  The man smi­led. “I ha­ve had many na­mes, even as you ha­ve.”

  Merlin le­aned he­avily on his staff. He hurt. His sto­mach cram­ped with hun­ger, and all his ef­forts we­ig­hed down his sho­ul­ders. The an­ger pul­sed in his blo­od, stron­ger now, an­ger for all he had to do and all he must do, an­ger at this… this thing stan­ding in front of him. “Cho­ose one and gi­ve it me, or stand asi­de.”

  The ghost’s eyes twin­k­led at so­me si­lent jest. “My fat­her cal­led me Pat­ri­cus,” he sa­id.

  The words fell aga­inst him as a wholly unex­pec­ted blow, and Mer­lin sta­red. “They spe­ak in this land of a Chris­ti­an man na­med Pat­rick.”

  The man nod­ded. “So they do.”

  “What wo­uld such a one as you be do­ing in this re­alm? Sho­uld you not be in He­aven?”

  “I am whe­re I am ne­eded,” Pat­rick an­s­we­red simply. “And I ha­ve co­me to stand be­fo­re you and ask you to turn asi­de.”

  Merlin’s cold, pa­ined hands grip­ped his staff mo­re tightly, and it se­emed as if the flo­or shif­ted be­ne­ath him. He had tho­ught him­self well pre­pa­red for the tests he wo­uld me­et he­re, but this he had no ex­pec­ta­ti­on of. This he did not un­der­s­tand. “How can this be?”

  But Pat­rick’s fa­ce only grew gra­ve at his words. “What you do, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us, will ca­use mo­re harm than go­od.”

  Merlin sho­ok his he­ad, unab­le to be­li­eve let alo­ne to un­der­s­tand. “What say you?” he cri­ed li­ke a man go­ne de­af in his old age. “With this act I will bre­ak fo­re­ver the po­wer of the dru­id and the ma­gic of the pa­gan in this land. The fol­lo­wers of Christ will spre­ad and mul­tiply, unim­pe­ded. It was one of yo­ur own con­verts who ga­ve me the know­led­ge of how to co­me to this pla­ce.”

  The holy man’s bright eyes grew dim and dis­tant. “And in so do­ing she bro­ke the oath she ga­ve to God. Her re­pen­tan­ce will be long, and so­re.” The­re was no hu­mor in this, no calm ac­cep­tan­ce, only a de­ep reg­ret. Pat­rick coc­ked his he­ad, and in his eyes Mer­lin saw the last thing he had ever ex­pec­ted to en­co­un­ter in this re­alm of the ot­her­world. Pity. Pla­in, sim­p­le hu­man pity. “You ha­ve eyes that see, Mer­lin,” he sa­id. “How is it you are still blind?”

  Merlin clo­sed tho­se eyes. They bur­ned. They ac­hed. “I am ti­red, holy Pat­rick,” he sa­id with ex­ha­us­ted ho­nesty. “I am sick and so­re, and ha­ve en­du­red much to aid my king, my pe­op­le and my land. I will not turn asi­de.” Mer­lin rub­bed his brow. He co­uld not stand he­re. What re­ma­ined of his strength was dra­ining away as his blo­od had dra­ined from his wo­unds. His ti­me was short, ter­ribly short, and yet he co­uld not se­em to ma­ke him­self step for­ward whi­le this sha­de sto­od in his way. “Why thwart me? Why le­ave this po­wer to the Dru­ids?”

  He ex­pec­ted anot­her rid­dle, or a qu­ip, but in­s­te­ad the man spo­ke simply, and as he spo­ke Mer­lin felt a dif­fe­rent strength sur­ro­und him. This strength was gre­ater than mo­un­ta­ins. It lif­ted him up. It wil­led him to un­der­s­tand and to be­li­eve. “Be­ca­use even in its sha­dow, God’s truth is proc­la­imed. Be­ca­use the­re may yet ari­se in this land one gre­ater than me who co­uld ma­ke the vo­ice be­yond spe­ak the glory of Christ.” Mer­lin did not know if he mo­ved, or if the sha­de of Pat­rick mo­ved, but they we­re clo­ser to­get­her now. Pat­rick’s vo­ice grew soft, soft as con­s­ci­en­ce, or ho­pe. “How much wo­uld that do, if the vo­ice of wis­dom the dru­ids hold proc­la­imed that gre­ater truth? The­re wo­uld be no mo­re do­ubt or he­si­ta­ti­on. All wo­uld be do­ne, and it wo­uld be do­ne wit­ho­ut je­opar­di­zing the fa­ith in the land of my birth, or in yo­urs. Do not do this thing, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us.”

  Merlin smi­led, tho­ugh he swa­yed on his fe­et and clut­c­hed his whi­te staff. Wit­ho­ut it he wo­uld fall, and yet he knew he was tri­um­p­hant. “You lie, lit­tle ghost,” he sa­id harshly. “No holy man wo­uld spe­ak so. If you we­re in truth who you cla­im, you wo­uld wel­co­me me to rid yo­ur land of the vo­ice be­
yond.”

  But the sha­de be­fo­re him did not wa­ver, nor did it dis­per­se as he had so de­eply ho­ped it wo­uld. In­s­te­ad, it mo­ved even clo­ser, me­eting his eyes. He co­uld not lo­ok away, no mat­ter how much he wis­hed to do so. “Ask the qu­es­ti­on, Mer­lin, the one that you ha­ve not da­red to ask. Then you will know why I tell you not to do as you say.”

  Merlin fo­und he co­uld not bre­at­he. His tho­ughts swir­led in­si­de his skull, bat­te­ring at each ot­her, cla­wing and clin­ging to­get­her. Pat­rick sto­od be­fo­re him, pa­ti­ent, ho­pe­ful. The sor­ce­rer sum­mo­ned all the will he had left wit­hin him and set the chal­len­ge asi­de. It did not mat­ter. It was no part of his de­ed. It was as me­anin­g­less as the gold and the lo­ve that he had be­en of­fe­red. Only his task mat­te­red, only his sworn duty, and that the do­ing of this gre­at thing was wholly in his hands. That was the only truth. The­re was not­hing el­se and not­hing mo­re. Not now.

  One by one, Mer­lin drag­ged forth the words he must spe­ak. “Will you pre­vent me from en­te­ring this cham­ber?”

  Now it was Pat­rick who clo­sed his eyes as if in pa­in. “I ha­ve not that po­wer,” he sa­id.

  “Then stand asi­de.” Mer­lin ra­ised his staff, hol­ding it be­fo­re him li­ke a bar. He felt the po­wer of his art rally wit­hin him, flo­wing with his thick, cold blo­od. “Stand asi­de!”

  Patrick hung his he­ad, and bet­we­en one eye blink and the next was go­ne, si­lently and simply. Mer­lin sto­od alo­ne in the ca­vern, and the light that had no so­ur­ce be­gan to gut­ter. As swiftly as he co­uld, Mer­lin hob­bled to the last do­or and la­id his palm upon it. It ca­me open at his to­uch, and he en­te­red the last cham­ber.

  This too was a pla­ce of sto­ne and earth. Fo­ur tor­c­hes bur­ned strongly at the fo­ur cor­ners of the bi­er that wa­ited in its cen­ter. Gre­en bo­ughs and blos­som stre­wed the bi­er, as fresh as if they we­re la­id only yes­ter­day. Per­haps in this pla­ce, in this twist and fold of ti­me, it had only be­en yes­ter­day. It was bit­ter cold he­re. Mer­lin shuf­fled for­ward. His bre­ath ste­amed in the air.

  On the bi­er lay a shro­uded man. He had be­en hu­ge when he sto­od, a gi­ant among all les­ser men. The li­nen that lay over him was fi­ne eno­ugh that thro­ugh it Mer­lin co­uld se­en his fa­ce had be­en fa­ir and fi­ne. His ha­ir was long and gol­den. A gold band cir­c­led his brow. A tor­que de­co­ra­ted with bulls cir­c­led his thro­at. Cuffs and rings of gold ador­ned he­ad and wrist. But he ne­eded no gold to ma­ke the be­hol­der see that he­re lay a king among men. Mer­lin had sto­od be­fo­re gre­at­ness, and he knew it well. Even in the stil­lness of de­ath, he knew it.

  “Fionn mac Cum­ha­il,” Mer­lin whis­pe­red. The na­me mo­ved har­m­les­sly thro­ugh the cham­ber. The ti­me was not yet. This na­me might be sho­uted in this pla­ce, and it wo­uld not wa­ke the one in front of him. It to­ok far mo­re words than tho­se known to Mer­lin, or to Sis­ter Ag­nes, to ma­ke a man who slept such a sle­ep wa­ken, not who­le as he was.

  Holding his staff in the cro­ok of his arm, Mer­lin gently drew the shro­ud down from the fa­ce of Fi­on mac Cum­ha­il. “I am truly sorry, mac Cum­ha­il,” sa­id Mer­lin as he la­id the nob­le fa­ce ba­re. It was per­fect as it had be­en in li­fe. Wha­te­ver held him, it was not de­ath as ot­her men wo­uld know de­ath. “I wo­uld not dis­turb you, but I ha­ve no cho­ice. You hold wis­dom that can­not be ga­ined any ot­her way, and what I do, I do for my king. It is a thing you wo­uld un­der­s­tand. Mo­re than that, tho­ugh. I ha­ve se­en far, king of the Fi­an. If you are left he­re to whis­per yo­ur wis­dom to tho­se who can find it, yo­ur pe­op­le will ri­se high, but it wo­uld only be to crush mi­ne down. I can­not per­mit that.”

  Merlin drew his sword of blo­odi­ed bron­ze and la­id it aga­inst the thro­at of the gi­ant on his bi­er, abo­ve the gol­den tor­que. He grit his te­eth, and ra­ised it up, and with all the strength of arm he had left, he bro­ught the bla­de down.

  And that is how Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us sto­le the he­ad of Fi­onn mac Cum­ha­il and car­ri­ed it back with him to the ais­le of the Bri­tons. The­re, he was­hed it in the wa­ters of a cer­ta­in well and wrap­ped it with silk and en­c­han­t­ment, and thus he was ab­le to com­mand it to spe­ak to him whe­ne­ver he had ne­ed. In so do­ing he le­ar­ned the sec­rets of ma­king the gre­at sto­ne cir­c­le on the pla­in of kings, and much el­se be­si­des. And so it was that the men of Eire lost that wis­dom for all ti­me and co­uld no mo­re he­al he­art and self for they had lost the way of bu­il­ding a new he­art for the­ir land.

  “So ends the ta­le of the thi­ef of sto­nes.”

  *****

  The vo­ice of Fi­on mac Cum­ha­il fell si­lent. The blank, blue eyes sta­red past the sor­ce­rer, wa­iting. Mer­lin sat alo­ne in his small pa­vi­li­on with this grim orac­le. Be­yond the rip­pling cloth walls, he he­ard the so­unds of the camp; the clank of me­tal, the rasp of swords, the harsh vo­ices of ti­red, wor­ri­ed men.

  Merlin Am­b­ro­si­us lic­ked his lips. “And what is the qu­es­ti­on Mer­lin was af­ra­id to ask?” he whis­pe­red.

  Mac Cum­ha­il an­s­we­red, its vo­ice as flat and ex­p­res­si­on­less as its cold eyes. “Whet­her it was Ut­her Pen­d­ra­gon who wo­uld pre­si­de over the age of he­ro­es, or anot­her whom he might bring in­to be­ing.”

  Such as a son. Mer­lin co­ve­red his fa­ce with his hands, squ­e­ezing his eyes tight shut aga­inst the flic­ke­ring light, aga­inst the sha­dows that went too and fro out­si­de his tiny shel­ter that bil­lo­wed in the wind swe­eping down from the hills. When he co­uld mas­ter his vo­ice aga­in, he as­ked harshly, “What el­se?”

  “He ne­ver as­ked what La­sa­ir wo­uld do when she felt the vo­ice si­len­ced.”

  “And what did she do?”

  Mac Cum­ha­il’s vo­ice was dro­ning, un­s­top­pab­le, un­ca­ring. “She cur­sed him. She cur­sed him by all the na­mes she knew. She cur­sed so that all he so­ught to bu­ild up by his theft wo­uld fall, that all he had se­en and co­uld see wo­uld ne­ver be eno­ugh to sa­ve what he held de­ar.”

  Merlin lif­ted his ga­ze and lo­oked at the orac­le he had sto­len so long ago. He re­mem­be­red how strong and han­d­so­me Fi­on mac Cum­ha­il had be­en when he first lo­oked upon the an­ci­ent king’s form on its bi­er. No mo­re. The fe­atu­res held sus­pen­ded in that fold of sle­ep and ti­me had slac­ke­ned and tur­ned de­athly grey. The eyes we­re fil­med over by vi­si­ons of the past and fu­tu­re. His ne­ed had rob­bed the se­ve­red he­ad of all that ma­de it fa­ir, and gi­ven not­hing back. Mer­lin slum­ped back in his cle­verly car­ved camp cha­ir and lo­oked at the thing he had ru­ined for its wis­dom, the wis­dom he had so mi­su­sed.

  What now? he wan­ted to ask. But he knew well eno­ugh that not even mac Cum­ha­il co­uld an­s­wer that sim­p­le qu­es­ti­on. What now?

  “My lord?” cal­led a ten­ta­ti­ve vo­ice from out­si­de his pa­vi­li­on. Few sol­di­ers in Ut­her’s army who wo­uld co­me up to Mer­lin’s do­or, even when it was just a length of cloth. “My lord? He… you’re sent for, my lord.”

  Merlin la­id his hand over Fi­onn mac Cum­ha­il’s eyes, clo­sing them. The orac­le fell si­lent and Mer­lin, shuf­fling, ( li­ke an old man), lif­ted the orac­le and re­tur­ned him to the cas­ket of swe­et-smel­ling wo­od. He clo­sed the lid and ca­re­ful­ly fas­te­ned the sil­ver latch. Then, he stra­ig­h­te­ned him­self. His kne­es ac­hed. His back hurt. Li­ke an old man.

  I am an old man. Ol­der than I sho­uld be. Ol­der than when I ca­me in he­re to se­ek the co­un­cil that I neg­lec­ted be­fo­re.

  With his staff as his sup­port, Mer­lin wal­ked thro­ugh the camp. The sol­di­ers tur­ned the­ir he­ads to watch him. Con­ver­sa­ti
­on fell away as he ap­pro­ac­hed and pic­ked up aga­in softly as he pas­sed. Gos­sip. Ru­mor. From the cor­ner of his eye, he saw how men nod­ded me­anin­g­ful­ly to­ward the gre­at slabs of sto­ne that sur­ro­un­ded them all. The sto­nes he had ra­ised with the wis­dom of Fi­on mac Cum­ha­il. The sto­nes that we­re sup­po­sed to sa­ve Ut­her, the king, from his gre­atest fe­ar.

  Not that any of the mut­te­ring sol­di­ers knew that much. They only knew the­ir king was dying. So­me­one, so­me­how, had po­iso­ned him, as his brot­her had be­en po­iso­ned, and as his fat­her had be­en.

  The gu­ards on duty be­si­de the gre­at pa­vi­li­on sa­lu­ted Mer­lin as he en­te­red. He pus­hed his way be­ne­ath the lo­ose-han­ging cloth to see Ut­her stret­c­hed out on his bed. The king’s hands trem­b­led and twit­c­hed on the black be­ar pelt that co­ve­red him to his chin. The swe­at had dri­ed on his brow, ma­king his skin dull and pal­lid, but his eyes sho­ne fe­ver-bright in the flic­ke­ring fi­re­light. Pa­le, gol­den Ygra­ine sat be­si­de him, and the fury in her eyes lan­ced thro­ugh Mer­lin as he knelt on his stiff kne­es to ma­ke his duty to the man who was lord and king to them both.

  Uther drew in one ras­ping, rat­tling bre­ath. “Sit and talk aw­hi­le with me, Mer­lin.”

  Merlin ope­ned his mo­uth, but Ygra­ine spo­ke mo­re swiftly. “You sho­uld rest, my hus­band.”

 

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