With his spells, the sorcerer has no trouble opening
the locked gates or sliding aside the marble slab that inters the young king. Necrotic vapors sigh from the crypt, filling the sepulcher with a mephitic stench that scalds his
nostrils. Uther lies in the black cavalry armor and purple tunic in which he died. The sword Lightning remains in his grasp, hilt held to his heart, scabbard lying across his torso and legs.
The summer heat has done its work. White worms
writhe in the soured flesh stretched tautly over his skull, and the ardent, eternal grin of his jaws already shows through the blackening shrivel of his lips. The life, love, and virtue of the man have fled this place and frolic now with the elk-king's dancers, leaving behind this exiguous flesh.
Merlinus requires spelled strength to pry the sword
from the locked grip of the corpse. The sword Lightning slides from its scabbard in a transport of ethereal heft and liquid light. He lifts the sword in salute to the memory of the Aurelianus brothers and their service to the angels.
In the reflectant surface of the broad blade, he
shudders to see over his shoulder the blanched moonface of Morgeu.
"Is there no depravity beneath you, demon
Lailoken?" The sorceress leers angrily. "Now I shall add desecration and grave-robbing to the evils of pandering and murder that I have witnessed of you."
Slowly, Merlinus faces about and levels the sword at
the pallid creature. Is she a wraith, or actually before me?
he wonders. City lights inkling through her frizzled hair lift a henna sheen from those tresses, and the scarlet silk of her robe drapes voluptuously from her nubile frame. He thrusts the blade, and it passes cleanly through her.
She flares a laugh. Quickly, he reaches behind for
where he has leaned his staff against a funereal frieze, and her white face hardens. "All you have," she gnashes, "you have stolen. Your body you whored on your mother. Your knowledge you filched from the angels. And your
weapons—the sword Lightning and the Stave of the Storm Tree—they belong to the Furor."
"Your master," Merlinus derides.
"My master is no stealthy thief, Lailoken. The Furor takes what he wants by fighting, not by craven and
deceptive murder."
Merlinus snatches his staff, and the wraith backs
away.
"I have searched long to find you," Morgeu claims.
"Hear me, wizard."
"What do you want?"
"What I want I will have to take," the sorceress says.
"I want your death. And I will have that. In time."
"Not you and all the demons of the void," he swears, and stamps the staff hard on the marble floor. "I serve God."
" Ha! You serve madness."
"Begone, witch!"
"First, tell me where you have hidden my half
brother."
Then Merlinus laughs, which he immediately
regrets. It can only inflame her further and deepen her already-profound conviction that he is insane. He finds such boundless ire in a mortal blackly comical.
"What is it you hope for, Lailoken?" Her tiny eyes tighten. "Do you really believe that the child of so obscene a lust merits life? What is it you hope he will attain with his smutched existence?"
"He will serve as high king of the Britons and lord of the Celts, as his parents before him."
"Will he?" She snorts. "I think not. The time of the Britons is over. The Furor will take their lives and their lands. This is cut in the crystal of time and cannot be undone. You should know, Lailoken. You were one of the demons who destroyed the Fauni, the only ones who could have thwarted the Furor. Now, all that was Rome's belongs to the god of the north!"
"My king will unite the Britons and the Celts,"
Merlinus asserts, "and the Furor will taste defeat again—"
Even if only for a generation.
"A madman's dream," she sneers. "The Britons are doomed. As for the Celts, I am the daughter of the Celtic queen and the duke of the Saxon Coast. If there is to be a king of the Celts, he will be my son."
"And who will sire him? The Furor?"
"Mock me, as you will, demon. My kith will laugh through history at your pathetic efforts to rule this land. I am to be wed to Lot of the North Isles. This war chief reveres the old Celtic ways, and he will father true warrior-kings—by me."
"Does he know he marries a demon-worshiper? And
is he aware of your alliance with the Furor? Does he want the mother of his children the pawn of an enemy god?"
Morgeu's stare flinches, hinting of fear. "He would
never believe you. I have ensorcelled him with a love stronger than all your magic."
"I will not even try to break your hold on Lot—if you will leave Ygrane and Uther's son in peace."
Anger speaks in Morgeu: "Peace! Is that what you believe you cast upon the world with this child conceived of lust and murder?" She sweeps closer. "I will do all I can to destroy you and the stable boy's son before you work any further malevolence in this world."
Merlinus swings his staff, and it slices through the
wraith with a sound like sheared tin. Ectoplasmic fire spurts across the sepulcher, lifting the funereal sculptures brashly out of darkness—warhorses, angels, victory wreaths—only to plunge them back into deeper darkness in the next
instant.
Morgeu is gone.
Quickly, with the gloom of her hatred thick about
him, the wizard seals Uther's corpse in its tomb, locks the gates behind, and carries the sword Lightning away with him under the star-hooded night.
*
An unquenchable joy possesses the Dragon. The
energy it has absorbed from the unicorn provides vivid, vibrant connections with selves that before had been faint and discordant echoes. Dreamsongs rise out of this joy and roll slowly away into outer space, toward the many worlds of the One Dragon.
In hours, the nearest worlds reply excitedly from
their secret interiors. Pulse-thickening music returns from the morning star. The Dragon basks in this lucid dream-singing. It sings more strongly knowing that it has evoked joy in others by its own greater strength.
Purling outward, the Dragon's ecstasy attracts an
ever-wider circumference of interest. Each hour, new, more distant worlds respond with their joyful reactions. Year by year, across centuries, millennia and aeons, the singing will intensify within the narrow, smoldering traverse of the galactic arc. A sense of destiny expands in the Dragon.
Searching for ways to vary the dreamsongs and
deepen their beauty, the world beast draws on the
holographic models of island galaxies that the unicorn passed along. So much comes clear with these accurate maps. The Dragon cells who possess these coordinates
and who have the power can better direct their singing at the most remote worlds. Given enough time,
communications can extend well beyond the galaxy, with little risk of squandering energy on the vacuoles between
galactic clusters.
The Dragon includes the sidereal holograms in its
singing, enriching its closest neighbors. Their beatific reactions exalt the Dragon to the brink of paroxysm.
Teetering happily there, it remembers how it came upon these holograms from the unicorn. They had been left in payment for the energy that the unicorn took for itself.
At the time, without the strength to use them, the
ivory peelings of horn had only potential interest for the Dragon. Now the true significance of the unicorn's gift reveals itself in the cascade of joyful song returning from across the deep horizons.
What has become of that fragile creature, the
unicorn?
The dreamsong stops. The Dragon unfurls from its
deep communion and feels outward for the unicorn. The solar creature curls upon itself, motionless.
Naturally, the beast is situated on the ridge of a mountain, out of reach, though this is unnecessary now, for its body-light flimmers too dimly to stir the glutted Dragon's appetite.
The Dragon calls, and the unicorn stirs slowly, too
weak to rise. Its current has faded almost entirely away, and its field has little more charge than a common horse.
The unicorn sits in a grove of blasted cypress on a
mossy crag where rivulets fall in threads from a rock spring. Across the resined air, a falcon whistles and green finches scatter in caroming bursts through those shaggy trees.
The Dragon calls again. This time, the unicorn
moves not at all. Shadows lengthen. The unicorn's silence thickens toward emptiness, and the Dragon sinks back
toward its center.
Wait— the vague voice of the unicorn calls from far away, a silver mist of a voice, unraveling like smoke.
The Dragon pushes to the rim of itself, and thick fog rises from the boggy stream.
Dragon— the unicorn's voice ghosts from its still body.
I hear you. The Dragon strains to reach out. Fog crawls up moss shelves and into the grove of twisted
cypress, and then at last the Dragon feels the unicorn's frail lightness again. The maps you gave inform my
dreamsongs. I understand now your gift.
Help me— This plea floats on a wind of non-being.
Its helplessness cuts across all their misconstrued history.
How?
I am dying. I need your strength, so I may live.
The Dragon involuntarily clenches, coiling back into
itself at this thought. To lose its unfading power now—to
fall back from such bliss—
It stops itself from pulling entirely away. Still
thrumming with the prestige it has received from the others for sharing the star maps, the Dragon cannot deny the unicorn.
To give this much energy will silence my dream-
singing a long while, the Dragon knows and yet reluctantly agrees, You shall have back the strength I took from you.
Dragon, I need more.
The request tears the planetary beast's heart, and
thunder from below shakes dew from the cypress. More?
The Dragon's question encloses the cypress grove in the silence of a gathering storm. Why should I give you more power than you gave me?
To carry away the demon Lailoken.
The Dragon reels backward at this, and a chill wind
drives the fog off in waves across the wooded bluff. To give so much, I will lose myself in sleep.
The unicorn speaks in whispery filaments: Then you must sleep. I will not leave without Lailoken.
The Dragon wants the freedom to sing, to share with
the others, and so it pulls away from the unicorn.
Fog slips back through the trees like a pack of
cadaverous dogs. The unicorn lies perfectly still, profoundly enraptured. It uses all its tenuous strength to communicate with the Dragon.
Sleep—and know that you glorify the One Dragon.
The unicorn's plaintive voice stops the Dragon. As
much as it would like to, the planetary beast cannot turn away from this request. The other parts of itself scattered across the universe will never abide such ingratitude. If it pulls entirely away out of selfishness, the others will spurn it when they learn what has happened, and the dream-singing will stop forever. It must obey.
The Dragon turns back toward the surface and the
unicorn. Directly into the unconscious animal, it emanates its strength. Gently, slowly, so as not to overwhelm the fragile creature's waveform, the terrestrial beast pours forth its magnetic power. Dimly at first, then gradually brighter, the unicorn phosphoresces, and the fog-hung grove shines as though moonstruck.
The Dragon fades to its inmost mind, where the
dreamsongs have already dimmed to silence glisteny with inner lights. The songs have fled for now, and only
dreaming remains. Fatigue widens to exhaustion, and
longing saturates the creature. It wants to hear again the inexhaustible beauty of its brethren beyond the galaxy. And it will, it promises itself as the sleep of a thousand years lowers its tonnage on the Dragon.
*
The unicorn opens its eyes. The air glints as though
hung with fish scales. Closer than ever, the Dragon's presence tightens. Its fumes and drastic stink have thinned away, leaving the grove of stunted cypress thick with conifer resins and fiery sunlight.
The sun-stallion can see the Dragon's power
aquiver in the air. It sparkles over the unicorn where it lies on its side as before, pale as a pool of fog.
The music of that power soaks the wounded
creature's brain. The motley of hurts and bruises that embroiders its long body vanishes. Even the black lips of the knife wound gradually smear away, like so much ink in a thin current.
By noon, the unicorn stands.
The animal touches its horn to the ground,
transmitting its gratitude into the Earth. The Dragon, of course, does not hear, for sleep carries it across a broad netherland, a thousand years long, where only dreams can reach.
*
Remembering how the sword Lightning stuck fast to
the star stone until the magnetic core separated, Merlinus understands the purpose of the aerolite. It is a machine.
The Annwn have built it for him. And with that realization, he begins to see how the stone serves Arthor's destiny.
His horse lengthens its stride on the road out of
Londinium, and he feels his way across the September
landscape. With the brails of his heart, he finds the fastest route to the star stone. Beyond the forests, moorlands range, blue horizons stacked like clouds. Many times in the coming days, when not even magic can coax his
exhausted steed, he wishes for the unicorn to gallop him across those patched distances.
When finally he climbs high into the mountain
kingdom of the River Amnis, he must let the horse go or risk its life on the sheer ascent. By foot, he mounts the last steep miles into the sylvan outcrops of the cloud forest.
There ferns and club-worts grow among giant cedars that the Romans planted while the first Christians worked the busy shores of Galilee.
Looking back east from this height, into the emerald
haze of the lowlands, Merlinus samples the vista Camelot will encompass from these tall hills. The kingdom is in his
hand when he extends his arm to the horizon and paces the clear-cut promontory.
Colors of silence shine from panels of sunlight in the hill forests and from silver storms over the river plains. This eagle's prospect of the countryside is a map of the rain, and the wizard is satisfied that it will serve his king well.
Construction continues. Timbermen clear a ridge
above the Amnis, and the tents of craftsmen and laborers bloom like mushrooms on the wooded bluffs. The wizard will see to it that the six warlords of the round table continue to fund construction of the fortress. With God's help, by the time Arthor reaches kinghood, he will have the finest capital in the land.
Vision shimmers in convection ripples, and a wind
rises from the river gorge and blows brightly through him.
Merlinus looks nervously for where the sword and his staff lie in the grass. An explosive wind in the nearby trees pulls his attention to the sky.
The unicorn streams through a foam of clouds.
Merlinus leaps with astonishment and falls to his
knees before the creature resplendent as sun-driven snow.
Its energy is so strong that, like a memory of lightning, it stains his sight when he looks away.
"Unicorn!" Merlinus shouts, squinting and crouching against the radiance. "You are transfigured!"
The unicorn walks a circle, its white star-silence
bleaching colors
from nearby grass and rocks.
"The Fire Lords!" Merlinus reels drunkenly to his feet, his heart a hummingbird. "The angels have saved you!"
The unicorn steps closer, the infinite sky above it
shining like a blue halo. Power! To ride to the black sun!
Come, brother! Heaven begins here!
The unicorn lowers its head before Merlinus so that
he may mount, and the startled wizard leaps backward and falls to his haunches.
"To heaven?" Merlinus croaks, pressed to the ground by surprise. "Now?"
Immediately! the unicorn's voice flares telepathically.
Merlinus pushes to his elbows, stunned head empty,
slamming heart full. "I did not expect this. To heaven?
Now? I—I must think."
Demons, gods, giants, trolls, witches, and sorcerers
abound, Lailoken well knows. All wild to steal this power from a wayward unicorn.
The solar stallion tosses its head impatiently. Come!
Merlinus stands transfixed. Yes, he must go—back
to heaven! He has done the bidding of the Fire Lords and brought Arthor into the world. What else is there to look
forward to? Arthor is born, and his birth warrants his death.
And then? Millennial darkness. Why must Lailoken sit vigil on the coming night?
The meat of his flesh hangs heavily on his skeleton,
because even as he thinks these thoughts he knows why he must stay. The same knowing has haunted him
whenever he has considered the possibility of escaping with the unicorn.
"I cannot go with you, beautiful being," he answers, staring down at his shadow burning in the dirt. "I must stay.
I have purpose in this world."
Purpose? The unicorn stands abruptly taller, its nostrils widening at Merlinus' diffidence. Come away!
Merlinus remembers the terrible uprooting from
heaven and his bones shudder with the expectation of
going home. These bones want to lead the mutiny of all his senses against purpose and meaning, because they
remember wholeness; they have not forgotten bliss. If they could speak, there would be no hesitation about joining the unicorn.
But my bones are mute in their suffering as they are blind in their joy.
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