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Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 45

by Edited by Eric Flint

The king tur­ned his he­ad, and, with so­me ef­fort, twit­c­hed his mo­uth in­to a smi­le for his wi­fe. His too-bright ga­ze lin­ge­red on her whi­te, ta­ut fa­ce, and then drif­ted down to her belly swol­len with child be­ne­ath her oc­h­re red gown. “I will do that so­on eno­ugh, be­lo­ved. I wo­uld talk un­til then.” He swal­lo­wed. His be­ard was flec­ked with spit, and with blo­od. “Tell me of my son, Mer­lin,” he cro­aked, and the sen­ten­ce en­ded in a rac­king co­ugh. Ygra­ine re­ac­hed for him, but Ut­her lif­ted two fin­gers and she let her hands fall. “Tell me what you see for the child she car­ri­es,” he sa­id.

  Merlin twis­ted his staff in his hands, re­mem­be­ring Sis­ter Ag­nes, and how she twis­ted her hands, not wan­ting the truth to be what it was, wis­hing he had ne­ver co­me to ma­ke her spe­ak the words she held wit­hin her. How he un­der­s­to­od that now. “He will com­p­le­te all that you ha­ve be­gun,” sa­id Mer­lin to his king. “He will fight twel­ve bat­tles that will be­co­me le­gend. His re­ign will be cal­led a gol­den age, and his na­me will be on the ton­gu­es of men for ge­ne­ra­ti­ons to co­me. He will ru­le sur­ro­un­ded by lo­yalty and lo­ve, and he will be de­ser­ving of all.”

  Again, hal­tingly, the king’s mo­uth spre­ad in­to a smi­le. He lif­ted one ga­unt hand, and Ygra­ine, des­pi­te the ful­lness of her belly drop­ped to her kne­es be­si­de him and grip­ped that hand. “The­re,” whis­pe­red Ut­her. “The­re, you see Ygra­ine? It has not be­en in va­in. Not if it brings such a li­fe in­to the world.”

  But Ygra­ine ma­de no an­s­wer. She only clut­c­hed her lord’s hand and sta­red at Mer­lin with her hat­red bla­zing in her eyes. Men spo­ke of ra­pe and tre­ac­hery and the in­con­s­tancy of wo­men when Ygra­ine’s back was tur­ned, but a few knew the truth. Ygra­ine and Ut­her had lo­ved strongly sin­ce Go­lo­ris had pa­ra­ded his new war-bri­de be­fo­re his fel­low lor­dings. They bu­ri­ed the­ir sec­ret de­ep lest Go­lo­ris do­ubt the pa­ren­ta­ge of her twin da­ug­h­ters. But Ygra­ine flew to Ut­her’s arms when he ca­me to her. Des­pi­te all Mer­lin’s dis­gu­ises, which fo­oled sol­di­er, lord, and ke­en-eyed mer­ce­nary, Ygra­ine had known exactly who ca­me to free her from the pri­son of Tin­ta­gel.

  And it se­emed to Mer­lin that she knew now exactly who had fa­iled him so badly this ti­me.

  “You sho­uld rest now, lord king,” Mer­lin sa­id, and his vo­ice crac­ked. He sto­od. “Let yo­ur lady wi­fe com­fort you.”

  Turning swiftly, Mer­lin all but stum­b­led out of the tent and past the gu­ard. Out­si­de, he drew in a de­ep bre­ath of night air, fil­led with the scents of for­ge and fi­re, of men and hor­ses. The who­le of the army had en­cam­ped on the pla­in; a city’s worth of men and hor­ses ma­king a de­fen­si­ve ring wit­hin the fen­ce of the gre­at sto­nes. This pla­ce was me­ant to be the an­s­wer for Ut­her’s only fe­ar. Po­ison co­uld not be bro­ught he­re, nor he­art of evil in­tent. This was a sac­red pla­ce, a for­t­ress for the true man and true he­art. This was the pla­ce whe­re the mind of He­aven might be pla­inly se­en if one had but sharp eno­ugh eyes.

  Even the light of so many tor­c­hes and fi­res co­uld not dim the di­amond bril­li­an­ce of the stars over­he­ad, each one a mes­sen­ger of He­aven car­rying its own spark of des­tiny. The­se mil­li­on sparks spre­ad out from aro­und the wa­ning mo­on and lo­oked down upon him. The mind of He­aven, se­e­ing as well as be­ing se­en.

  Merlin had known his er­ror. He had known sin­ce the child be­gan to qu­ic­ken wit­hin Ygra­ine, whom he had hel­ped Ut­her to res­cue from Go­lo­ris. Un­til then, he had tho­ught this pla­ce bu­ilt on wis­dom, but it was bu­ilt only on the cold fo­un­da­ti­on of a des­tiny he had fa­iled to see. Fa­iled to see be­ca­use he had not wan­ted to. Oh, he co­uld ga­in all the an­s­wers that man co­uld ha­ve, but only if he as­ked the right qu­es­ti­ons, and in that as­king, in se­emed he was as va­in and as blind as any ot­her mor­tal.

  Forgive me, he sa­id to the dar­k­ness, the stars, but who it was he beg­ged for­gi­ve­ness from he did not know. The­re we­re so many wron­ged. For­gi­ve me.

  But the stars had no an­s­wer. Ne­it­her did the sto­nes that cast the­ir long sha­dows in the light of mo­on and fi­re. And yet, not­hing had chan­ged. All the re­ading fo­und in the et­he­re­al and the in­vi­sib­le was as it had be­en ten ye­ars ago. It was only his fa­iled un­der­s­tan­ding that had chan­ged.

  “Merlin.”

  The sor­ce­rer win­ced at the so­und of his own na­me and tur­ned. The­re sto­od Ygra­ine. She was stark whi­te. Gri­ef had all but was­hed the be­a­uty from her. Her strength re­ma­ined tho­ugh, ho­ned sharp by lo­ve.

  Ygraine la­id her hand aga­inst her belly. “Is it as you sa­id? Of our son?”

  Merlin bo­wed his he­ad. “I ha­ve do­ne many things my lady, but I ha­ve not li­ed to him, or to you.”

  She sto­od the­re for a long mo­ment. He co­uld not ma­ke him­self lo­ok in­to her fa­ce, but he co­uld not fa­il to he­ar her bre­at­hing, rag­ged, harsh and fil­led with the pa­in she wo­uld not let her­self re­le­ase. You sho­uld cry, my lady. Set that pa­in free. Do not push it in­to yo­ur child.

  Ygraine drew in one mo­re de­ep bre­ath and let it out aga­in slowly. “Then, I ha­ve a com­mand from our king to lay be­fo­re you.”

  These words lif­ted Mer­lin’s ga­ze and Ygra­ine met it sto­nily. He co­uld see not­hing past the sur­fa­ce of her blue eyes. Not­hing at all. “What com­mand, my lady?”

  She to­ok a de­ep bre­ath aga­in, stro­king her own belly, cal­ming the child wit­hin her. “You will kne­el be­fo­re me,” she sa­id, her vo­ice was as cold and fi­nal as a cur­se. “You will ta­ke an oath to the child in my belly that you will be be­si­de him al­ways. Ne­ver will you le­ave him. All you do will be to gu­ide and pro­tect him un­til he ri­ses to the kin­g­s­hip his fat­her must now aban­don.”

  Merlin he­ard the­se words and they ro­oted him to the gro­und. He wan­ted to cry out aga­inst her lie. This was no com­mand of Ut­her’s. This was hers alo­ne. He co­uld not see it, but he knew it. Tho­se words of con­f­ron­ta­ti­on wo­uld not co­me to him. He co­uld only ple­ad. “No, my lady. Do not so con­demn yo­ur son.”

  Grim fa­ced, she ca­me to­ward him. “Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us, you do not get to aban­don us in yo­ur gu­ilt and fe­ar. You will stay, and you will do this thing, or I will go and proc­la­im it thro­ugh this camp that it was yo­ur hand that po­iso­ned Ut­her Pen­d­ra­gon, for no ot­her co­uld bre­ak the bles­sing of the sto­nes. Then, I will stand back and let the mob ha­ve you.”

  He lo­oked in­to her eyes, and saw the­re the ra­ge born of gri­ef. She was ne­ar to bre­aking, Ygra­ine had al­re­ady en­du­red so much. She knew that it was only her body that pro­tec­ted Ut­her’s son. She su­rely knew that the hand which po­iso­ned the king wo­uld easily do as much to this son, who bo­re no na­me yet, but al­re­ady had a des­tiny writ­ten over the fu­tu­re in li­nes of fi­re.

  There, ca­ught bet­we­en the flic­ke­ring tor­c­h­light and mid­night’s dar­k­ness, with the do­omed camp go­ing blindly abo­ut its bu­si­ness, Mer­lin knelt. He la­id his cro­oked hand on Ygra­ine’s warm belly.

  “I swe­ar,” he whis­pe­red. “I swe­ar that all my li­fe shall be to pro­tect and aid the son of Ut­her Pen­d­ra­gon. I swe­ar that he shall ha­ve not­hing but the best of my ser­vi­ce as long as I walk this earth, and af­ter­wards if it is so per­mit­ted.”

  As he spo­ke, vi­si­ons flas­hed be­fo­re him, as swift and sharp as me­mory; the strip­ling boy le­aping up on the sto­ne, hol­ding aloft the shi­ning sword; the flash and fury of bat­tle with that boy ri­ding thro­ugh it pro­ud as a ship on the storm-tos­sed sea; the grey-eyed wo­man on her whi­te hor­se dis­mo­un­ting to ta­ke th
e hands of the yo­ung king; the black-ha­ired sor­ce­ress; the war­ri­or who sho­ne li­ke bron­ze, the cup of iron, the so­und of harps, the clash of swords. Too much to hold in one mind, too much to be com­pas­sed by a sin­g­le age, all the ye­ars of man­kind, and thro­ugh them all he ro­de.

  Merlin ro­se sha­king. He tur­ned away from Ygra­ine and wal­ked in­to the dar­k­ness. When he sto­od be­ne­ath the squ­are arch of sto­nes and co­uld no mo­re fe­el the he­at of the fi­res on his back, he bo­wed his he­ad.

  Hoarsely, he­si­tantly, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us be­gan to we­ep.

  And in his we­eping he did not know that Ygra­ine’s la­bors had be­gun, nor did he see the co­met ar­c­hing over­he­ad to he­rald the birth of the new king.

  Classic Stories

  The Light of Other Days

  Bob Shaw

  Leaving the vil­la­ge be­hind, we fol­lo­wed the he­ady swe­eps of the ro­ad up in­to a land of slow glass.

  I had ne­ver se­en one of the farms be­fo­re and at first fo­und them slightly eerie-an ef­fect he­ig­h­te­ned by ima­gi­na­ti­on and cir­cum­s­tan­ce. The car’s tur­bi­ne was pul­ling smo­othly and qu­i­etly in the damp air so that we se­emed to be car­ri­ed over the con­vo­lu­ti­ons of the ro­ad in a kind of su­per­na­tu­ral si­len­ce. On our right the mo­un­ta­in sif­ted down in­to an in­c­re­dibly per­fect val­ley of ti­me­less pi­ne, and ever­y­w­he­re sto­od the gre­at fra­mes of slow glass, drin­king light. An oc­ca­si­onal flash of af­ter­no­on sun­light on the­ir wind bra­cing cre­ated an il­lu­si­on of mo­ve­ment, but in fact the fra­mes we­re de­ser­ted. The rows of win­dows had be­en stan­ding on the hil­lsi­de for ye­ars, sta­ring in­to the val­ley, and men only cle­aned them in the mid­dle of the night when the­ir hu­man pre­sen­ce wo­uld not mat­ter to the thirsty glass.

  They we­re fas­ci­na­ting, but Se­li­na and I didn’t men­ti­on the win­dows. I think we ha­ted each ot­her so much we both we­re re­luc­tant to sully an­y­t­hing new by dra­wing it in­to the ne­xus of our emo­ti­ons. The ho­li­day, I had be­gun to re­ali­ze, was a stu­pid idea in the first pla­ce. I had tho­ught it wo­uld cu­re ever­y­t­hing, but, of co­ur­se, it didn’t stop Se­li­na be­ing preg­nant and, wor­se still, it didn’t even stop her be­ing angry abo­ut be­ing preg­nant.

  Rationalizing our dis­may over her con­di­ti­on, we had cir­cu­la­ted the usu­al sta­te­ments to the ef­fect that we wo­uld ha­ve li­ked ha­ving chil­d­ren-but la­ter on, at the pro­per ti­me. Se­li­na’s preg­nancy had cost us her well-pa­id job and with it the new ho­use we had be­en ne­go­ti­ating and which was far be­yond the re­ach of my in­co­me from po­etry. But the re­al so­ur­ce of our an­no­yan­ce was that we we­re fa­ce to fa­ce with the re­ali­za­ti­on that pe­op­le who say they want chil­d­ren la­ter al­ways me­an they want chil­d­ren ne­ver. Our ner­ves we­re thrum­ming with the know­led­ge that we, who had tho­ught our­sel­ves so uni­que, had fal­len in­to the sa­me bi­olo­gi­cal trap as every min­d­less rut­ting cre­atu­re which ever exis­ted.

  The ro­ad to­ok us along the so­ut­hern slo­pes of Ben Cru­ac­han un­til we be­gan to catch glim­p­ses of the gray At­lan­tic far ahe­ad. I had just cut our spe­ed to ab­sorb the vi­ew bet­ter when I no­ti­ced the sign spi­ked to a ga­te­post. It sa­id: “SLOW GLASS-Qu­ality High, Pri­ces Low-J. R. Ha­gan.” On an im­pul­se I stop­ped the car on the ver­ge, win­cing slightly as to­ugh gras­ses whip­ped no­isily at the bod­y­work.

  “Why ha­ve we stop­ped?” Se­li­na’s ne­at, smo­ke-sil­ver he­ad tur­ned in sur­p­ri­se.

  “Look at that sign. Let’s go up and see what the­re is. The stuff might be re­aso­nably pri­ced out he­re.”

  Selina’s vo­ice was pit­c­hed high with scorn as she re­fu­sed, but I was too ta­ken with my idea to lis­ten. I had an il­lo­gi­cal con­vic­ti­on that do­ing so­met­hing ex­t­ra­va­gant and crazy wo­uld set us right aga­in.

  “Come on,” I sa­id, “the exer­ci­se might do us so­me go­od. We’ve be­en dri­ving too long an­y­way.”

  She shrug­ged in a way that hurt me and got out of the car. We wal­ked up a path ma­de of ir­re­gu­lar, pac­ked clay steps no­sed with short lengths of sap­ling. The path cur­ved thro­ugh tre­es which clot­hed the ed­ge of the hill and at its end we fo­und a low far­m­ho­use. Be­yond the lit­tle sto­ne bu­il­ding tall fra­mes of slow glass ga­zed out to­wards the vo­ice-stil­ling sight of Cru­ac­han’s pon­de­ro­us des­cent to­wards the wa­ters of Loch Lin­nhe. Most of the pa­nes we­re per­fectly tran­s­pa­rent but a few we­re dark, li­ke pa­nels of po­lis­hed ebony.

  As we ap­pro­ac­hed the ho­use thro­ugh a ne­at cob­bled yard a tall mid­dle-aged man in ash-co­lo­red twe­eds aro­se and wa­ved to us. He had be­en sit­ting on the low rub­ble wall which bo­un­ded the yard, smo­king a pi­pe and sta­ring to­wards the ho­use. At the front win­dow of the cot­ta­ge a yo­ung wo­man in a tan­ge­ri­ne dress sto­od with a small boy in her arms, but she tur­ned di­sin­te­res­tedly and mo­ved out of sight as we drew ne­ar.

  “Mr. Ha­gan?” I gu­es­sed.

  “Correct. Co­me to see so­me glass, ha­ve you? Well, you’ve co­me to the right pla­ce.” Ha­gan spo­ke crisply, with tra­ces of the pu­re hig­h­land which so­unds so much li­ke Irish to the unac­cus­to­med ear. He had one of tho­se calmly dis­ma­yed fa­ces ones finds on el­derly ro­ad-men­ders and phi­lo­sop­hers.

  “Yes,” I sa­id. “We’re on ho­li­day. We saw yo­ur sign.”

  Selina, who usu­al­ly has a na­tu­ral flu­ency with stran­gers, sa­id not­hing. She was lo­oking to­wards the now empty win­dow with what I tho­ught was a slightly puz­zled ex­p­res­si­on.

  “Up from Lon­don, are you? Well, as I sa­id, you’ve co­me to the right pla­ce-and at the right ti­me, too. My wi­fe and I don’t see many pe­op­le this early in the se­ason.”

  I la­ug­hed. “Do­es that me­an we might be ab­le to buy a lit­tle glass wit­ho­ut mor­t­ga­ging our ho­me?”

  “Look at that now,” Ha­gan sa­id, smi­ling hel­p­les­sly. “I’ve thrown away any ad­van­ta­ge I might ha­ve had in the tran­sac­ti­on. Ro­se, that’s my wi­fe, says I ne­ver le­arn. Still, let’s sit down and talk it over.” He po­in­ted at the rub­ble wall then glan­ced do­ub­t­ful­ly at Se­li­na’s im­ma­cu­la­te blue skirt. “Wa­it till I fetch a rug from the ho­use.” Ha­gan lim­ped qu­ickly in­to the cot­ta­ge, clo­sing the do­or be­hind him.

  “Perhaps it wasn’t such a mar­ve­lo­us idea to co­me up he­re,” I whis­pe­red to Se­li­na, “but you might at le­ast be ple­asant to the man. I think I can smell a bar­ga­in.”

  “Some ho­pe,” she sa­id with de­li­be­ra­te co­ar­se­ness. “Su­rely even you must ha­ve no­ti­ced that an­ci­ent dress his wi­fe is we­aring? He won’t gi­ve much away to stran­gers.”

  “Was that his wi­fe?”

  “Of co­ur­se that was his wi­fe.”

  “Well, well,” I sa­id, sur­p­ri­sed. “Anyway, try to be ci­vil with him. I don’t want to be em­bar­ras­sed.”

  Selina snor­ted, but she smi­led whi­tely when Ha­gan re­ap­pe­ared and I re­la­xed a lit­tle. Stran­ge how a man can lo­ve a wo­man and yet at the sa­me ti­me pray for her to fall un­der a tra­in.

  Hagan spre­ad a tar­tan blan­ket on the wall and we sat down, fe­eling slightly self-con­s­ci­o­us at ha­ving be­en tran­s­la­ted from our city-ori­en­ted li­ves in­to a ru­ral tab­le­au. On the dis­tant sla­te of the Loch, be­yond the wat­c­h­ful fra­mes of slow glass, a slow-mo­ving ste­amer drew a whi­te li­ne to­wards the so­uth. The bo­is­te­ro­us mo­un­ta­in air se­emed al­most to in­va­de our lungs, gi­ving us mo­re ox­y­gen than we re­qu­ired.

  “Some of the glass far­mers aro­und he­re,” Ha­gan
be­gan, “gi­ve stran­gers, such as yo­ur­sel­ves, a sa­les talk abo­ut how be­a­uti­ful the autumn is in this part of Argyll. Or it might be the spring, or the win­ter. I don’t do that-any fo­ol knows that a pla­ce which do­esn’t lo­ok right in sum­mer ne­ver lo­oks right. What do you say?”

  I nod­ded com­p­li­antly.

  “I want you just to ta­ke a go­od lo­ok out to­wards Mull, Mr…”

  “Garland.”

  “… Gar­land. That’s what you’re bu­ying if you buy my glass, and it ne­ver lo­oks bet­ter than it do­es at this mi­nu­te. The glass is in per­fect pha­se, no­ne of it is less than ten ye­ars thick-and a fo­ur-fo­ot win­dow will cost you two hun­d­red po­unds.”

  “Two hun­d­red!” Se­li­na was shoc­ked. “That’s as much as they char­ge at the Sce­ne­dow shop in Bond Stre­et.”

  Hagan smi­led pa­ti­ently, then lo­oked clo­sely at me to see if I knew eno­ugh abo­ut slow glass to ap­pre­ci­ate what he had be­en sa­ying. His pri­ce had be­en much hig­her than I had ho­ped-but ten ye­ars thick! The che­ap glass one fo­und in pla­ces li­ke the Vis­tap­lex and Pa­ne-o-ra­ma sto­res usu­al­ly con­sis­ted of a qu­ar­ter of an inch of or­di­nary glass fa­ced with a ve­ne­er of slow glass per­haps only ten or twel­ve months thick.

  “You don’t un­der­s­tand, dar­ling,” I sa­id, al­re­ady de­ter­mi­ned to buy. “This glass will last ten ye­ars and it’s in pha­se.”

  “Doesn’t that only me­an it ke­eps ti­me?”

  Hagan smi­led at her aga­in, re­ali­zing he had no fur­t­her ne­ces­sity to bot­her with me. “Only, you say! Par­don me, Mrs. Gar­land, but you don’t se­em to ap­pre­ci­ate the mi­rac­le, the ge­nu­ine ho­nest-to-go­od­ness mi­rac­le, of en­gi­ne­ering pre­ci­si­on ne­eded to pro­du­ce a pi­ece of glass in pha­se. When I say the glass is ten ye­ars thick it me­ans it ta­kes light ten ye­ars to pass thro­ugh it. In ef­fect, each one of tho­se pa­nes is ten lig­ht-ye­ars thick-mo­re than twi­ce the dis­tan­ce to the ne­arest star-so a va­ri­ati­on in ac­tu­al thic­k­ness of only a mil­li­onth of an inch wo­uld…”

 

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