Nyneve grinned. “You’ll see.”
King Lodegrance regarded his daughter in amazement. “Merlin, you’ve worked a miracle. And I thought you were an old fraud.”
“Old I may be,” said Merlin with dignity, trying to conceal his equal amazement, “but fraud I am not. There’s a strange magic in these ancient hands.”
Gwen stood before them, fully dressed, a changed girl. “Nyneve says I can go and stay with her in Mara Zion for a while,” she said.
Her father bit back an instant refusal. “We’ll think about it,” he said.
“We’d be happy to have her stay,” said Nyneve.
“Let her go,” said the queen. They were the first words she’d uttered all evening.
“No,” he said automatically. Then, seeing the change in Gwen’s expression, he said quickly, “Not at present. It’s autumn now. I’m not having you spend the winter in some forest hovel. We’ll talk about it in the spring.”
She eyed him closely. “Are you just putting me off?”
He favored her with a rare smile. “No, Gwen. We’ll really talk about it, and I’ll make a few inquiries. And if I get the right answers, you can go.”
“Father!” She threw her arms around his neck. Then she moved away a little, looking into his face. “Why? You hardly know Nyneve.”
“Neither do you.” He glanced at Nyneve, puzzled. “What the hell has come over me? Are you some kind of a witch?”
“Of course not. Merlin thinks he’s a wizard, but I’m just a girl.”
The queen said in flat tones, “Her witchcraft stems from her beauty. Any fool could see that, except my husband.”
“Well, I think it’s about time Gwen saw something of the world,” said the king, “and she can’t come to much harm in Mara Zion. It’s only two days’ ride away. Vortigern’s never come that close—and if he did, Baron Menheniot’s more than a match for him. They say there’s a new fellow on the way up too. Name of Tristan. I daresay you’ve heard of him, Nyneve.”
“He has a magic sword,” said Nyneve. “Merlin made it. It’s called Excalibur. It’s such a good sword that we use it in the stories.”
“A sword with a name? That’s not a bad idea.” He glanced at his own weapon, leaning against the fireplace. “I think I’ll call my sword Charles. Charles is a dignified kind of name. Anyway”—he recalled himself to the business at hand—”time’s getting on. You people have a reputation as storytellers. So tell your story.”
He settled back in his chair, gulping wine and gazing expectantly at Nyneve.
She walked to the center of the chamber and looked around. “Here will be fine,” she said after a moment. “And you bring that chair over and sit beside me, Merlin. I’ll stand. We’ll go over what we rehearsed last night, except I want to make one or two changes to my part. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Who’s in charge of this story, that’s what I’d like to know,” grumbled Merlin, setting down his chair heavily and slumping into it. He still wore the washed-out smock, but he’d put on his conical hat to try to enhance his presence.
“This is the story we’ve been telling in Mara Zion,” Nyneve told the audience. “Avalona and Merlin started it, and I joined in soon after. It’s not like a normal story, because we’ve hardly invented any part of it ourselves. It just comes into our minds like a dream. It’s a very real story and it follows its own path—we hardly guide it at all. It seems to have no end, although Avalona says it will finish thirty thousand years in the future.
“Sometimes I think it is real,” she confided. “Avalona talks about happentracks—you know, other worlds near our world, like where the gnomes live—and I sometimes think the world of Arthur really exists on another happentrack very close to ours. Because sometimes we put real people into our stories, and they fit perfectly. And that tells me Arthur’s world can’t be far away. Tonight I want to put a real person in.” She smiled at Gwen.
She brought her audience up-to-date on the saga as it had unfolded so far. She told them of King Uther Pendragon and his desire for the beautiful Igraine, and the underhanded way he got her into bed. She spoke of the birth of Arthur, then Merlin took over and described his part in teaching the boy. The audience listened attentively because the couple spoke so well; but this was ordinary storytelling, nothing more. Then Nyneve introduced the Sword in the Stone.
“When matins were over, the archbishop led his congregation out into the yard. Here was a marble block with an anvil in it, into which had been thrust a beautiful sword. Letters of gold were inscribed on the anvil:
WHOSO PULLETH OUTE THIS SWERD OF THIS STONE AND ANVYLD IS RIGHTWYS KYNGE BORNE OF ALL BRETAGNE.
That’s what it said.”
And there was a sudden restlessness in her audience, and cries of astonishment.
“I can see it,” said someone. “By the Lord Jesus, I can see the Sword in the Stone!”
The chamber had become a theater. “The nobles all tried to pull it out,” cried Nyneve, and her audience saw a succession of grunting, sweating men laying hands on the handle, pulling, jerking, cursing, turning away in disgust. The men were real, with faces and hopes and families, and the audience knew all this. A murmur of wonder arose. This was better than a troupe of traveling players. It was better than anything they’d ever experienced before. It was also a little frightening.
“She’s a witch,” a voice cried.
“I don’t care if she is!” shouted King Lodegrance. “Don’t interrupt!”
Now Merlin took over, taking the part of the archbishop. “Nobody will ever move this sword,” he cried. “You’re all wasting your time. We will hold a tournament on New Year’s Day to decide who will be king!”
And the audience saw winter close over the land, and they felt the Siberian winds blow.
The knights gathered for the tournament, helmeted, armored, and armed. Slipping easily into the part of Sir Kay, Merlin said, “Arthur, I’ve left my sword behind at our lodgings. Go and fetch it for me, there’s a good fellow.”
“Certainly, brother,” said Nyneve.
She walked a few paces across the chamber, but her audience saw a young man walking through the streets of London. She stopped, and Arthur stopped. Before him was a marble slab with an anvil and a sword protruding from it.
“Then he caught sight of the sword stuck in the stone, and thought it was worth trying to pull it out. The marble slab sat in the churchyard under the trees, glowing in the January sunlight. There was a sound like angels singing. Arthur’s hand tingled as he touched the sword.”
Nyneve had told this part of the story before, so the words came easily, as did the visions. She felt her heart pounding as she said, “He took hold of the sword. He braced his foot against the rock. And then … he drew the sword out easily, as if it had been embedded in butter. For a while he stood with it in his hand.”
The audience saw the sunlight on his auburn hair, and they heard the angels—which might have been birds—singing. And because they saw everything, felt everything, and knew everything, they knew he hadn’t even seen the words on the anvil, and had no idea what a wonderful moment this was. He felt glad that he’d found a sword for Sir Kay, his foster brother; and that was all.
Arthur took the sword back to Sir Kay and the revelation took place, and the audience felt just as amazed as the characters in the story, even though they already knew it was the sword. They shared the emotions, they shared the joy. “So they crowned him king of all England,” said Nyneve. “Nobody disputed him. It was right and proper.”
Nyneve gave her audience a chance to relax, describing in words the subsequent events, giving them occasional glimpses of battles and tournaments, but saving the next big event for Gwen.
“A king should marry,” said Merlin eventually. “England needs a queen. Tell me, Arthur, is there anyone you have in mind?”
The transition from narrative to action was smoothly done. Nyneve became Arthur in the audience’s eyes, talking to a
n ancient magician of somehow greater stature than the real-life Merlin before them. That was one of the secrets of the story’s appeal. Everybody was a little larger than life. “I love Guinevere,” said Arthur, “the daughter of King Lodegrance of the land of Camyliard. She is far and away the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s good,” said Merlin. “It saves me having to find someone for you. That kind of quest is doomed to failure before it starts. Now, I know you’ve made up your mind, but I have to tell you—Guinevere will cause you grief. The time will come when she’ll fool around with a fellow called Lancelot. When that happens, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Nyneve. “Go and break it to Lodegrance, Merlin, and bring Guinevere to me.”
Then came the most amazing part of the performance, as though the audience hadn’t had enough to marvel at. In their minds, they followed Merlin on a journey that culminated with the arrival at Camyliard and an audience with King Lodegrance. They saw Merlin walk into the same chamber in which he now sat. And they saw Lodegrance in their minds, and in reality at the same time.
And then: “This is my daughter Guinevere,” said the vision of the king.
Into the chamber walked a fair, pale girl.
The real Gwen smiled, enchanted. “Bravo!” murmured the real Lodegrance.
“I can see why King Arthur is in love,” said Merlin. “Your daughter is the fairest lady I have seen in all England.”
“Thank you, Merlin. I find myself well satisfied with the match too. Arthur is a worthy man for Gwen’s hand. Indeed, he could have all my lands, if he needed them. But he has enough land of his own, so I will give him something else.”
“And what is that, Sire?”
“It is the Round Table, which Uther Pendragon gave me. It seats a hundred and fifty knights. I can let Arthur have a hundred knights to go with it, but I’m fifty short after beating off the Irish last autumn. I’m sure Arthur can raise the other fifty.”
“Arthur will be highly pleased,” said Merlin, and departed.
It took a fortnight to prepare for the departure of Guinevere and the hundred knights. The villagers set to work with a will, seamstresses working on Guinevere’s wedding dress, ostlers preparing the horses and harness, carpenters dismantling the Round Table and loading it into carts. Meanwhile in the castle there was a fortnight of feasting and celebration, music and dancing, and Guinevere was the belle of the occasion.
By the time Guinevere and her escort departed, Nyneve’s audience was as exhausted as if they’d danced for a fortnight themselves.
The storytellers fell silent. The images faded. The audience returned to the present, blinking like people coming in from the dark.
“That was amazing,” said King Lodegrance.
“Wonderful,” Gwen sighed.
“But I must tell you I never knew King Uther, if there was such a man; and I have no Round Table.”
“It’s just a story,” said Nyneve, “I think. But it’s had quite an effect on people. Tristan’s based his whole behavior on it, and built a Round Table himself. Even Baron Menheniot’s introduced the idea of chivalry to his court. With some difficulty, because they’re a rough bunch of people. Anyway, it seems to be spreading around, the way Avalona hoped it would. Or,” she said, correcting herself, “the way Avalona knew it would. She knows everything.”
“Well …” The king yawned and stretched thick arms. “It’s long past midnight. I must thank both of you for a very entertaining evening. You lived up to all the reports I’d heard.”
“Are you going to continue the story tomorrow night?” asked Gwen.
“We must leave in the morning,” said Merlin testily. It was well past his bedtime, and lack of sleep made him irritable.
“I’ll tell you the rest when you come to Mara Zion, Gwen,” said Nyneve.
She awakened the next morning to gray daylight and a tap on the door.
“Who’s that?” She’d bolted the door in case Merlin came shuffling into her chamber during the night, on the pretext of sleepwalking.
“It’s me, Gwen. I’ve brought your clothes. They’ve been washed and dried.”
Nyneve unfastened the door. Gwen was dressed and, Nyneve was pleased to see, looking much brighter than yesterday. “Come in. I think I must have overslept. Telling the story often does that to me.”
Gwen sat on the bed while Nyneve pulled on her clothes. “The story. How does it end?”
“I told you. I don’t know.” In the cold light of day, Nyneve was beginning to regret her impulse in inviting this girl to Mara Zion. Without the lamplight to flatter her, Gwen had a vapid look. “Last night was as far as the story’s gotten so far,” she explained, relenting.
“Do you suppose they really do get married?”
“I suppose so.”
“This Arthur. He’s so real. I … I dreamed about him last night, Nyneve. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? It’s difficult to believe he doesn’t exist. I mean, how could everything be so exact?”
“I told you last night. I have a suspicion that it might be a real world on a different happentrack.” Looking out of the window, Nyneve saw the tiny, half-seen figures of gnomes flitting about their business. Obviously they had a village here; some of their dwellings were probably under the castle. The umbra: that was what the Mara Zion gnomes called the shadowy worlds of other people. You could see people in the umbra—just—but you couldn’t hear them. When she got back, she must ask her friend Fang. Apart from her own world, had he ever glimpsed any other world in the umbra—a world of chivalry and honor, peopled by humans?
And if she could step through the fairy ring into Fang’s world, could she perhaps take a further step into Arthur’s …?
Suddenly she was impatient to get back to Mara Zion.
“Arthur—” Gwen began.
“You’d better forget about Arthur,” said Nyneve, more sharply than she’d intended.
Gwen said, “You’re jealous, aren’t you!”
2
WORLD-SHAKING EVENTS IN MARA ZION
IN THOSE FAR-OFF DAYS THE ROMAN EMPIRE WAS MEN-aced on all sides by barbarians. The Vandals, the Suevi, and the Burgundians had attacked Gaul in the early part of the century, and Alaric, King of the Visigoths, had besieged Rome itself. Small wonder that the Empire had begun to withdraw its troops from Britain.
In the Scepter’d Isle itself, the old ways were changing. Scottish, Pictish, and Anglo-Saxon raiders swept across the land, bringing new fears and new ways of life. Appeals to Rome fell on deaf ears. By the middle of the century the Great King, Vortigern, ruled most of England with the aid of Anglo-Saxon mercenaries. They held the Picts and Scots at bay, and some measure of prosperity returned to the land.
Then came the Saxon revolt in Kent, led by Hengist and Horsa. Vortigern’s empire fell apart. The last remnants of civilized Roman rule came under siege as faction fought faction. Anglo-Saxon mercenaries fought for all sides, and many Britons fled to their hill forts, to the forests, and to the farthest corners of the land. The old aristocracy of Roman Britain struggled to unite against the mercenaries—but they lacked a leader. …
* * *
In a cottage in the forest of Mara Zion, an old woman explored the future.
Her two companions, Nyneve and Merlin, had been sent away for a month while Avalona pondered. Mara Zion was a small place in relation to the galaxy and the infinite great-away; but it was the place where she lived and worked. And she had a great Purpose that was incalculably more important than a handful of warring savages, because it affected every time and every place. She could not tolerate this local unrest. It would not be allowed to continue.
The seeds had been sown. The legend of Arthur—and so far it was no more than that—had spread across the country. Nyneve and Merlin had done a good job with the modicum of talent she’d supplied. It hadn’t been difficult. Humans were credulous creatures, and in their minds an alternative world had been created: a
world of chivalry and honor, yet a world of violence and bloodshed and death. A world where men would die for their king or their principles, and where their women would encourage them and bury them. A simple world where right conquered wrong. Camelot.
So now people were looking around for a strong leader to unite the factions, restore peace to the land, and hold it against invaders. A leader they could respect; a leader of principle; a just and honorable leader.
A leader like Arthur, for instance.
For the present time, and for a certain time of hideous danger in the far distant future, Arthur was the man Avalona and England needed.
But Arthur was two happentracks away.
Avalona examined the happentracks. On the nearest was an Earth that for a long time had been empty of animals. Then, thousands of years ago, a gentle space-faring race had seen it and sent down several exploratory parties of small bipeds. They were still there, tailoring their Earth for full-scale colonization.
And one happentrack beyond lay the world of Arthur, its history molded to suit Avalona’s purposes. Underpopulated, simple, waiting to be put to her, use.
Unusually, these two happentracks had not continued to diverge after the original branchings. Quite the opposite had happened. They had converged to the point that two of them could actually see each other, faintly. And all of them could see one another’s moons. All that was required was the finishing touch.
Avalona concentrated. …
Two days’ ride east of Castle Camyliard lay a stretch of rolling moorland topped by a pinnacle called Pentor. If you walked due south from the moor at the time of our story, you would pass through the forest of Mara Zion on your way to a cliff-girt beach. If you then picked your way over the rocks at the base of the western cliffs for a distance of perhaps two hundred yards, you would find a cave. If you looked closely at a point about a foot from the ground, where the limpet-encrusted rocks disappeared into the blackness within, you would see a pair of eyes. The eyes belonged to a gnome named Pong.
The time of the year was spring, several months after the journey of Nyneve and Merlin.
King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) Page 2