The Old Magic

by James Mallory

  “In the old days we were worshiped,” Mab whispered dreamily, staring down into her cup of wine. “No king ruled save with our consent—and in return, we saw to it that there was no lack. Everywhere there was plenty and contentment. …”

  But Mab’s stories of a golden age of plenty and contentment only confused Merlin further. If everything had been so wonderful in those days, why had anybody turned away from the Old Ways to follow the New Religion?

  Time passed, and Merlin became more involved in his studies. He reluctantly mastered the Twenty-Seven Basic Incantations for Most Purposes. He learned about Atlantis and Lemuria and drowned Lyonesse, about how to use mandrake root and unicorn horn, about reading palms and reading minds. For a while he was even able to forget the peculiarities of the Land Under Hill, but if half of him thought of it as his home, then the other half was homesick for the forest.

  It’s just the way it was before, except in reverse, Merlin thought sadly. When he’d lived in the forest, he’d longed for the Land of Magic, even though he hadn’t known that was what he wanted. And now, in the Land of Magic, he longed to be back in the woods again. It just isn’t fair, Merlin thought, sighing. Wasn’t there any place where all of him would feel at home?

  “Frik?” Merlin asked one day. “How do you know if you’re living a good life?”

  “Good?” the gnome asked blankly.

  “You know,” Merlin prompted. “How do you know if you are doing good? Living the right sort of life and acting with justice and mercy toward everyone?”

  Frik removed his bifocals and polished them briskly on the tail of his gown.

  “What does justice have to do with anything?” Frik demanded irritably. “Oh, Master Merlin, I do hope you’re not too attached to those sorts of ideas about good and justice and right. They’re for humans, not for wizards.”

  “But Aunt A—”

  Frik whisked around the table in an eyeblink and covered Merlin’s mouth before he could utter the fatal words.

  “Mmmph!” Merlin said.

  “I really do think it would be so much better if we just didn’t mention that name, don’t you?” Frik said hastily. “And as you’ve been such a particularly good pupil, I’ve arranged a very special treat for you. A sort of a field trip. You’ll like it.”

  “Where are we going?” Merlin asked eagerly, willing to drop the ticklish subject for the moment. Frik might well have made up this field trip on the spur of the moment to distract him, but after the length of time he’d spent in Mab’s palace, the chance to see anything else was intoxicating.

  “Come with me,” Frik said mysteriously.

  With a shimmer Frik changed from his cap and gown to a new costume that included shorts, a butterfly net, and a tan-colored hat shaped a little like a mushroom cap, and led Merlin out of the library and down a long hallway lined with dark gilt-framed pictures of various notables wearing crowns and dour expressions.

  Eventually they stopped before a large carved door.

  “What’s in there?” Merlin asked.

  “Open it,” Frik said.

  Merlin pushed the door open. Despite all that he had seen here so far, he gasped in awe.

  Through the door lay the trees of an enormous forest. The trees grew right up to within feet of the open door. Outside, the day was dim and misty, and each tree was so tall that Merlin could not see the tops, for they soared into the mist and were lost.

  “This,” said Frik importantly, “is the Forest of the Night.”

  “But it isn’t night,” Merlin pointed out.

  “Well, of course it isn’t night,” Frik said fussily. “It’s never night here—not without sun nor moon it isn’t. ‘Night’ is just a sort of expression. A metaphor, you might say, for the deeper reaches of the human mind.”

  “The forest is in my mind?” Merlin asked, becoming more confused by the moment.

  “No, of course it isn’t! It’s in everybody’s mind. Impossible boy,” Frik muttered to himself, striding through the doorway.

  Merlin followed, and soon was caught up in the smells and sounds of the forest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the woodland until he’d come here. Mab’s palace was lavish beyond his wildest imagination, but it was all indoors, and something deep inside him chafed at the confinement. It was as if he couldn’t breathe freely except in the wilds.

  Merlin wandered along happily through the trees for some time until he saw a flicker of brighter light up ahead. Though it wasn’t night here, beneath the trees the light was so dim that the light ahead was quite distinct. He looked for Frik, to ask him what it was, and realized he hadn’t seen his tutor for quite some time.

  “Frik?” Merlin whispered. “Where are you?”

  “Oh, don’t mind him,” a soft voice advised. “I’m sure he’s around somewhere. Don’t you want to go see what that light is?”

  Merlin looked up in surprise, and saw a small wildcat perched on a tree branch above him, watching him with glowing green eyes. Its soft thick fur was striped and speckled until it seemed to blend into the tree trunk. Its ears were tufted, and its long plumy tail was ringed with black bands. Herne had told him about such creatures, but Merlin had never seen one until now. They lived in forests far away to the north, where snow fell heavily all winter.

  “Who are you?” Merlin asked.

  “I’m the Cath Palug,” the cat replied. “I’m extremely well-known in some circles.”

  Merlin looked back toward the light.

  “Is Frik there?” he asked.

  “Why don’t we go see,” the cat suggested. It backed down the tree, its claws scrabbling on the rough bark, then turned and sprang into Merlin’s arms.

  It was heavier than it looked, and its fur tickled Merlin’s nose. He shook his head and tried not to sneeze as the Cath Palug climbed up onto his shoulder, balancing there by digging its heavy claws into his shirt.

  “Let’s go that way,” the cat suggested, nipping at his right ear.

  Without Frik to guide him, one direction was as good as another, Merlin supposed. Putting one hand up to balance the cat, he began walking toward the light.

  When he got closer, he could see that the bright light came from a ring of torches set around the edge of a large forest clearing. He stopped, some instinct warning him of peril. As he crouched down, the Cath Palug jumped off his shoulder and padded off. Carefully, Merlin peered through the bushes.

  He was looking out into a wide forest clearing filled with people and baggage carts. The men in the clearing seemed to be soldiers from two different armies. One group was tall, fair-haired men wearing heavy studded leather corselets over wolfskins and leggings. They were bearded and wore their hair twisted into long plaits. They carried axes and long spears, and wore gold neck rings and armlets.

  The other group of men seemed to be their prisoners. They were shorter and darker, wearing elaborate bronze armor with kilts and high sandals, and long red cloaks. None of them was armed, and only a few of them still had their crested helmets. Their hands were tied behind them with strips of leather, and many of them were battered and bloody.

  “I know these men,” Merlin whispered excitedly to the cat. The men in the bronze armor were Romans—but according to Blaise, the last of the Imperial Legions had left Britain long before Merlin had been born. How could he be seeing them here?

  The bearded men seemed to be arguing with each other in a language Merlin didn’t understand. The argument stopped when a tall, grey-haired, bearded man in a long white sleeveless hooded robe walked into the clearing. The old man had coiled snakes tattooed on his arms from shoulder to wrist, and he was barefoot. His robe was tied at the waist with a braided red wool cord, and from the cord hung a golden sickle.

  He must be a Druid, Merlin thought excitedly. Long before he was born there had been many Druids in Britain and on the mainland, but most of them had died off long before Merlin’s birth. This must be why Frik had brought him here to the Forest of the Night—to see the
Old Ways for himself. He parted the bushes, striving for a better view.

  The old Druid turned toward the sound, and perhaps would even have investigated if one of the bound Romans had not chosen that moment to make an attempt to gain his freedom. Instantly all attention was diverted toward him, with the bearded men gathering around and clubbing the helpless captive with their spear-ends until he lay still. Merlin froze as well, as still as any deer in the forest. He was beginning to realize that he would be in a very awkward and dangerous position if they happened to see him.

  As he watched, the Druid selected several of the captives, including the one who had tried to escape. These were separated from the rest and remained in the clearing. The others were yoked together with wooden collars and leather ropes and herded off behind the wagons until Merlin could no longer see them.

  All this had taken place directly in front of Merlin, so he had not been paying much attention to things upon the periphery of his vision. But now, at the Druid’s command, several of the warriors began dragging a large wooden platform upon which stood a most peculiar object.

  It was almost twenty feet tall, and carefully constructed from branches woven together. It was vaguely man-shaped, in that it resembled the scarecrows the farmers around Barnstable put out in their fields to drive thieves like Bran away from their grain. But this wicker man seemed to have a far more sinister purpose.

  Its sturdy legs and the lower portion of its belly were filled with wood and brush, and its arms and head were filled with livestock: pigs, chickens, goats, and rabbits. There was a sturdy door in the central chest cavity, which was pegged open. The bearded warriors brought a ladder, and by means of threats and spear-points induced three of the Romans, carrying their unconscious comrade, to enter the enormous basket that made up the chest area of the wicker man. Then they tied the door shut.

  In the distance, Merlin heard a faint mellow sound, like a hunting horn blowing. Another answered it, and slowly a chair decked with pine boughs and colored berries and borne upon the backs of several younger Druids made its way into the clearing. Sitting in the chair was a woman dressed in white, wearing a golden crown set with amber and carved with the spiral and crescent symbol of the Old Ways.

  It was Mab, but not as Merlin had come to know her. The ageless Queen of the Old Ways looked somehow younger now. Her hair was not coiled in the elaborate designs in which she wore it now; instead it flowed freely down her back, blowing a little in the wind. She smiled and laughed in response to remarks the warriors shouted out at her, and accepted gifts—posies of flowers, or twisted knots of grain, or tiny dolls carved and painted to resemble her. The young Druids carried her chair into the center of the clearing and stopped, still holding it, so that Mab was high above everyone save the Romans imprisoned in the wicker man. One of them was shouting down at the bearded men in what sounded like their own language; the other two crouched on the open-weave floor, supporting their injured comrade.

  Surely she is going to order them to set the Romans free! Merlin thought wildly. But he didn’t really expect it of her. Something inside him already understood that Mab loved and hated with all the fiery fury of her Pagan heart, and restraint was foreign to her nature. The bearded blond warriors were her people, and therefore Mab fought for them to the limit of her strength.

  “Who are they?” Merlin breathed. He was not really expecting an answer, but he got one.

  “Germanii and Varengi, mostly, with a few Saxons thrown in,” the cat said, bumping its head beneath his elbow. “Part of the western Celtic migration. The Romans are one of Quintilius Varus’s legions—see the Roman standard propped up against that cart? Scratch my ears. Ooh, they’re going to set it on fire now. I always like this part. Look at those birds.”

  “But why?” Merlin asked despairingly, doing as he was bid. The Cath Palug arched its back and closed its eyes, purring as he stroked it.

  “Because its always been done this way. This is the Forest of the Night,” the cat said proudly. “We follow the Old Ways here.”

  While Merlin had been looking at the cat, the chief Druid had taken one of the torches and thrust it into the brushwood that filled the legs of the wicker man. The tinder caught immediately with a bright, almost smokeless fire. Inside the figure’s torso, the Romans were praying.

  Merlin glanced toward Mab. She was seated in her chair, watching the spectacle with every evidence of satisfaction. The chief Druid stepped back from the flames and stood beside her chair, and she reached down and patted his head just as Merlin had patted the cat.

  The animals imprisoned in the upper limbs of the wicker man began to feel the heat of the flames and struggled frantically to escape. The pigs squealed shrilly and the geese bugled. The doves and chickens in the wicker head cried loudly, and the moans from the trapped men were louder. One of the Romans began to sob loudly as the color of the smoke changed from pale grey to oily black. In only a few moments, the flames had eaten their way halfway up the wicker body, and the animals in the lower part of the arms were dead.

  “Stop it!” Merlin shouted, springing up out of the bushes. He ran into the clearing. “Mab! Queen Mab! Stop it!”

  He clutched at her skirts, but somehow he could not get her attention. He grabbed the Druid standing beside her and shook him, but the man did not even look at him when Merlin pushed him out of his place. It was as if Merlin weren’t here.

  Frantically, Merlin looked around for something he could use to quench the flames. He saw a water bucket standing beside one of the carts and tried to pick it up. But the bucket was as heavy as if it had been bolted to the ground, and the water inside was as thick as honey. When he cupped a handful up to throw on the flames, it trickled through his fingers and sprang back into the bucket, not even leaving ripples in its wake.

  This was magic.

  “Stop! Stop! I order you to stop!” Merlin cried frantically, gesturing at the flames. “Stop burning!”

  Nothing happened.

  The men inside were screaming now, crawling over each other as they desperately sought any way out of the fire.

  “Stop!” Merlin screamed at the top of his lungs. Nobody either saw or heard him. He ran toward the wicker man, hoping that at least he could tear it open and thus save the men inside, but it was as impossible as moving the bucket had been. The flames didn’t even burn him when he thrust his hands into them, though the stench of smoke was everywhere, making him cough.

  At last he could stand his helplessness no longer. He ran from the scene of that horror, unable to watch as men were burned alive, and kept on running until he fell, dizzy and breathless, to the forest floor.

  He did not know how long he lay, half-unconscious in the pearly twilight, his fists clutching handsful of forest loam. The Cath Palug was gone, back to its treetop home, and Merlin did not miss the creature. All he knew was that something deep inside him had changed today, and that he didn’t like the way the change made him feel.

  Were these what the Old Ways were? Was this what Frik had brought him here to see?

  He might have lain there forever, unwilling to move or go on with his life, but Frik found him.

  “Well,” Frik said brightly, “how was your outing?”

  Merlin stared up at him in disbelief, suspecting a trick. But the gnome looked just as he always had. If Frik suspected what Merlin had seen, he gave no sign of it.

  “I saw a cat,” Merlin said slowly. He sat up and looked around. A few feet away a bright red door with a brass knocker was set into the trunk of an enormous tree. It must be the way back to Mab’s palace.

  “Ah,” Frik said, in the polite fashion of one who does not know what to say. “Well, the Forest always has something new and interesting in it—or old and interesting, perhaps I should say. You oughtn’t have wandered off that way, but perhaps we’ll come back again sometime and you can get the full tour. Well, come along now. You’ll be late for dinner.”

  It was not until he had studied for some time longer that M
erlin realized what he had seen that day. The Forest of the Night was the memory of the past, and that was what he had seen. An echo of things past, before the New Religion had come to trouble the Old Ways, a memory from the days when Mab was at the height of her power. A ghost, nothing real at all, safely buried in the past.

  But forever after, Merlin could not summon fire without flinching.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE COURTS OF DECEPTION

  It was the day of his most important triumph, and Vortigern wanted to look his best. Today he would marry—though not for the first time—and cement his ties to Britain for all time. Let that raddled old hag Lionors bray and posture in Normandy with her puling brat Uther. From now on, Vortigern would be able to ignore them.

  You know the old saying: Lucky in war, unlucky at love, he thought to himself. He inspected himself in the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring the gleam of the crown on his head. This was not the first time Vortigern had dressed for a wedding.

  His first bride had been a beauty, a young nun from a convent his men had sacked. Vortigern had once had high hopes for Brede. In marrying her he could cement the ties between the New Religion and the Old Ways, and beget a son to inherit the crown when he was gone. Unfortunately, Brede had not fully appreciated the great honor Vortigern was bestowing upon her, and had jumped from the castle’s highest tower when the Bishop of Winchester had come to bring her to the ceremony. As Vortigern recalled, he had been very irritated by her behavior, and even beheading the bishop had not made him feel better.

  Several years later, he’d tried again. Princess Argante had been the daughter of one of Britain’s oldest families. A marriage with her would cement Vortigern’s social position and put an end to a certain amount of rebellious grumbling among his barons.

  Unfortunately, Argante’s family had not approved the match. Her father had besieged the castle where the wedding was to be held, and Vortigern had been forced to take the girl hostage to compel her father’s good behavior. Unfortunately, Argante’s father hadn’t been very flexible, so Vortigern had beheaded both him and his daughter. So, in a manner of speaking, the marriage hadn’t worked out.