A strange bird whistled. It stopped Arthor cold. At first, he feared the Picts had spied him. When he dared bend forward and peer into the bottom of the summer morning so far below, he spotted a gangly, bare-chested old man in buckskins waving cheerfully at him. The stranger, chirping like a bird, whistled for him to come down.
Arthor resumed his descent, and when he arrived among tangles of ivy at the foot of behemoth trees, the old man had laid out a small meal for him upon a rush mat: oatcakes, salt fish, and apples split to show the star in them.
"I am Falon," the stranger introduced himself in lucent Latin. "And you are King Arthor. I watched your battle party arrive the other day. Very impressive."
Arthor accepted Falon's invitation to sit and partake of his simple fare. He noted streaks of orange in long, braided hair the color of ash—and a vague scar at the side of his throat where once the man had worn a torc. "I see you are a Celt of the old way," Arthor said around a bite of apple. "Where is your clan?"
"I have no clan. I am fiana." Falon looked to see if Arthor knew of the fabled horsemen of no home who served the Celtic queen by defending her highways and countryside from marauders. He smiled at the look of awe in the boy's face and revealed strong, white teeth. "I became your mother's champion when she was just a peasant maiden and taken by the Druids from her village in the hills. She was my queen—until she gave herself to your father and took upon herself the way of the Cross-worshipers."
A fleeting shadow of sadness crossed the lad's face. "I have never seen my mother."
"Nor will you if the Picts who stole Aidan's daughter find you as easily as I."
Arthor's eyes gleamed. "You know why I am here?"
"I exiled myself to the Spiral Castle after your mother freed me from her service," Falon said, nibbling at an oatcake. "Aidan is unaware of me. But I know all that transpires in these glens."
"Then you can lead me to Eufrasia?"
"Perhaps." Falon's pale gaze narrowed. "I have no love for Cross-worshipers. That is why your mother freed me."
"You must help me, Falon." Shame tainted Arthor's pleadful voice. "I am the one who put that maiden in the hands of our enemies."
"I will help you if you are a good king," Falon answered, closing one eye. "And for me to know that, you must answer this question. What is more important to a king—Mercy or Justice?"
"Justice is about truth," Arthor replied almost at once, for he had pondered the matter before, when Kyner insisted his ward study the old philosophers. "And truth has many sides, Falon. Justice and Truth have shapes that change among the nations and throughout the seasons of history. But Mercy—Mercy is Love, and that has the same strength and beauty for all people, for all time. As king, I serve Mercy, not Justice."
Falon showed his strong, white teeth again. "Then you are my king, as well."
Magic on the Tor
Morgeu the Fey left her husband's bed in the hour when the moon mists over on its way west with the dark. Chanting sleep to the gatekeeper whose predecessor had died only hours before, she left the stockade and wandered in her red raiment and silver slippers through wood shadows and up a path of blue slate to a tor beneath the rustling stars. Fury powered her steps. She moved with enraged vigor to the summit of the rocky pinnacle.
From this height, she could see across the Spiral Castle to where her half-brother, the king, would try his fate against the Picts. The child of his that she carried in her womb had lost his soul to Merlin—and now she would see that Merlin lost his child, as well.
No matter now that without Arthor, the throne she coveted for her children would fall to contention again among the warlords. No matter the chaos that would ensue. She had striven to be noble, to reach a reconciliation of love and magic with her brother, as the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt had accomplished with their sisters. He had refused her, and now she determined to strike back.
A red band of mist appeared in the east. The fissure between worlds.
Angrily intoning the names of the north gods' chieftain, she summoned Lailoken's most powerful foe: "All-Father, Great Father, One-Eye-All-Seeing, Furor and Rune-Master, Frenzied God of the Wild Hunt, Sacrifice of the Storm Tree, hear my call!"
A soundless flash of lightning crossed the clear sky. The moon in the west gleamed like a blind eye.
"Furor, know that Aquila Regalis Thor, your enemy, descends into the chasms of the Spiral Castle. Send your Raven to spy him out and guide your faithful warriors like wolves to him wherever he may hide. Flense the flesh from his bones and stretch it upon the wardrums that salute you. Think how sweet its music will sound, the drumbeat, heartbeat of a dead foe who will thwart you no more."
Another mute stroke of lightning shuddered across the dawn and shook the last stars from their sockets.
"These words are chanted for this day, from the secret depths of my being, where blood and flesh of brother and sister knit the promise of a tomorrow that will never come. My future is violated—and I am enraged that what is most intimate to me is stolen. By this wrath and the little death in me, I summon a wrathful and larger death for a king. May it be so."
The dawn world fell quiet. No birds announced the sun. No matin breeze stirred the leaves on the trees below the barren peak. The shadow of death rose like mist.
Eufrasia and the Picts
A warrior with one eye white as a boiled egg put his hand to the side of Eufrasia's head and stroked her flaxen hair. She stood naked, arms outspread, feet apart, thong-tied between two beech trees. Chin high, she stared defiantly at her captors. Until now, none had touched her, save to secure her between the trees. She did not flinch at the Pict's caress, for she was fearless of fate.
A chieftain's daughter, desired by every unbetrothed Celtic warrior in the land, she fully intended to die a death worthy of her station and the beauty the gods had bestowed on her. She would not grovel before these ugly men. Throughout the night, she had mocked them openly for their cowardice in creeping like rats through the darkness to steal her.
"Get away from her, White-Eye," Guthlac called as he returned from relieving himself in the bushes. Their captive's bravery and insults prevented him and his warband from molesting her. Not only was she far more valuable as an intact hostage but their honor as warriors destined for the Skyward House demanded respect for all people of spirit, even their enemies and especially their prisoners. "Do you want to damn us all to the House of Fog?"
"Her spirit is on her skin, Guthlac," White-Eye said, running a thumb under Eufrasia's chin. "Touch her deeper, and her insults will turn to frightened tears and fearful sobs. I know women."
Eufrasia spat in White-Eye's good eye and rasped in a voice husky from a night of shouting insults, "All you know of women you learned from cows, you son of a mare."
Guthlac put a firm hand on White-Eye's shoulder and guided him to where the others sat cracking triangular beech nuts on the creek rocks, whetting their knives on the shale, unbraiding their battle tresses to let summer in their hair, or lying on the boulders in the naked light, listening to the bird-loud morning.
No one else paid any heed to the woman. All had hoped she would have cringed; then, Guthlac would have broken her maidenhead as was the right of brave men with craven maidens, and the others would have broken their lust upon her afterward. Clearly, she carried the favor of the gods, who bestowed spirit and admired those who displayed it proudly. None would look at White-Eye who had touched her, for fear that they would lose their battle-luck.
"Our men in the tree-crowns see no one coming for you," Guthlac informed the maiden. "You are your father's youngest, and he has abandoned you. He has accepted your loss, for he has other daughters and grandchildren by them. He will not trade you for alliance with our mighty king, Cruithni. No gold will come for your safe return, for Aidan is too proud a chieftain to trade gold for a woman's life. So, we wait out this day and then you will have a choice to make, brave maiden." The Pict's knife sighed as it left its sheath. "The scalp of a maiden with your s
pirit is a useful talisman and the painful cries of your slow death a worthy song for our gods." He showed his pointed teeth in a smile akin to a sneer. "Or you may choose life and come away with us as our comfort bride—and your beauty will serve us all."
The Soul's Task
Merlin filled the pockets of his robes with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. The monkey with Dagonet's soul within watched from where he squatted on a stumpy outcrop the color of raw meat.
By the spectral glow of the Dragon Pool, the wizard rolled up and tied off his long robes so that they fit his dwarfed body. "Come along, Dagonet," he said, straightening the hat on his head. "Let uth climb back to Avalon. With the magic in thith hat and the Tweathureth of the Otherworld, we will have our audienth with the Nine Queenth."
As Merlin promised, the Isle of Apples disclosed its secrets when he and Dagonet emerged from the hole under the elm. With the hat on, the wizard could once again read the futhorc of the menhirs. He read a few of the poems to Dagonet—song-rhymes full of code about seasons past and yet to come, prophecies spent and fulfilled. They proceeded among the apple trees and down mossy rock shelves to an odd round lodge, brown as gingerbread and squatly lopsided as a mushroom cap.
After knocking three times on the crooked wooden door, Merlin entered. Dagonet followed into a spare interior of earth-tamped floor and walls decorated in spirals and wavy lines of warm color. Slant rays of azure light from small, round windows high in the dome illuminated nine veiled women sitting all in a line upon bulky block-cut thrones. The mulchy taint of autumn filled the air.
"Rna, queen of the Flint Kniveth," Merlin called to the one farthest to their left. She lifted her veil and revealed a young face as near to falcon as human, with blue dusk pressed into her temples and coils of hair the color of a thrush's breast. "We've lotht our way. Help uth."
"Oh, Merlin." Sadness closed Rna's stern face almost to tears. "What of the work your mother set you to do? What of Arthor? How will he take my place if he does not fulfill the prophecies?"
"Rna—I—I ..." Merlin stammered to silence, stunned. He had not expected this rebuke, and his ears burned with shame.
"You stole a soul, Merlin." The solemnly beautiful woman shook her head ruefully. "How could you do that? You, Optima's son. How dare you interfere with what comes from God? You are not a demon anymore. Or are you? Are you Lailoken? Or are you Merlin?"
"Rna—I—I don't know." Merlin trembled from scalp to toes, his heart tight as a knot. Humiliation flustered through him at the queen's reproach. "I—I did what I thought betht. The child ith an inthetht cweature ... the bwutal Gorlois ..."
"Merlin!" Rna held him with a fierce look. "A child is always a child and belongs to God. Go and return the soul to where he belongs—if it is not already too late."
"But—I don't know how to get back." The wizard opened his arms helplessly, long robes dragging on the ground. "I'm lotht."
"Of course you're lost. The Fire Lord that escorts Dagonet was sent to watch over you and Arthor. He is angry you've become a demon again. He has set you a task that will undo your pride."
"I'm thorry!" Merlin shuffled with mortification before the Nine Queens. "Thith won't happen again!"
"It may already be too late." Rna's heron-gray lids fluttered sleepily. "You thought you knew better. What did you know, Merlin? What did you know?" She lowered her black veil. "What the mind learns, the soul must unlearn. That is the soul's task."
Out of the Hollow Hills
Gorlois soared above the bramble and skinny trees of the netherworld. The landscape glowed below him in the winey light of sunset like a wilderness of dreams. He had no attention for that. His mind fixed above, on the sky of the underworld, the canopy of faint stars and spongy moon.
As he flew closer, powered by the giddy magic coursing through his wizard body, he noticed that the stars and moon only luminesced as shadows in the sod and root mats that dangled from the ceiling of this enormous subterranean cavern. He drove himself like an arrow into the mulchy underside of the earth. With frenzied laughter, he dug at the loam, pulling away huge clumps of peat. His magic gave him superhuman strength. Like an avalanche, masses of earth toppled past him, and soon threads of sunlight shone through the scrim of roots and loose soil above.
Gorlois pulled himself into dazzling daylight, racked with laughter. Even as he skidded out of the tight crevice he had dug, the wounded earth healed behind him. He rolled down a knoll under a morning sky polished with cottony rags of cloud. Pines moaned in the passing wind, full of brine and surf sounds, and the stones under him burned where the sun had beaten them. He stood up, exultant, exuberant, exiled from death.
Gazing about to orient himself, he observed that he stood upon a grassy escarpment above a herd of dunes. Shrieking gulls swooped over mussel shoals where giant combers rolled to shore like fantastic, silver-haired gods. "The Cantii Coast," he said aloud, recognizing the wide strand where the alluvial plains of the Tamesis River met the sea. "The Saxons hold this land."
As if summoned by the magic of his words, four burly fishermen appeared from over the crest of the scarp carrying a flat-bottomed Saxon boat between them. The sight of the naked old man elicited shouts from them. "You, codger! What are you about?"
Gorlois did not understand their language. The laughter that had opened the gates of power throughout his body widened apertures in his head that caught the echoes of what they had said and rendered meaning from them. Likewise, his throat flexed with mirth, and the sheer merriment of standing before these foes naked in Merlin's body gave voice to his thoughts in the language of these strangers, "Do you not recognize me, fools?"
"Fools, are we?" The fishermen lowered their boat and came jogging toward him. "You're addlepated enough to stand here naked and call us fools? Tell us who you are or we'll give you a good dunking to refresh your memory."
Gorlois barked with laughter and clapped his hands. Wheeling gulls swooped toward the fishermen, screaming at their heads so that the men fell to the ground before the naked stranger like prostrate worshipers. "I am Merlin, the greatest wizard in all Britain. When you've had your fill of sand, get up and take me to your King Wesc. I have a proposition for him."
[]
Mother Mary, my life is in God's hands. All that has been given may be taken from me easily now if He so wills. And if what I am—a lustful and incestuous man—displeases God more than what I could be—a king who places love above power—then destroy me here in the Spiral Castle among my enemies. I would die this way, by the sword that has been my life and the hope of my redemption.
The Ale-Minstrel
Along the creek bed he came, plucking a rota, a zither of five strings with bone-yoke facings and a beaverskin carrying-bag thrown over his shoulder. At his hip, he wore a horn of liquor. Purple tattoos etched his face and arms with elder runes in the Saxon style—and by the rune-eye between his eyes, all could plainly recognize an ale-minstrel devoted to the Rune-Master himself, the Furor.
He came singing with a Saxon's ardor, "Lead me to true knowledge, lead me on the future paths. All-Father, Great Father, lead me on, lead me on!"
Guthlac himself met him at the ford and asked in the dialect of the north, "Ale-minstrel—how came you here to this Celtic place? And from whence among our brother Saxons do you hail?"
"The Great Father has led me here. I hail from nowhere—and to nowhere am I bound. Did you not hear my song?"
"All of the Spiral Castle hears your song, loudmouth!" White-Eye shouted from the creek bank. "Are you calling our foes?"
"Foes?" The ale-minstrel looked baffled. "There are no foes where I am. For where I go, goes our Great Father, the Furor."
"Pay no heed to that one, minstrel." Guthlac summoned him across the ford. "He'd as soon set our course for the House of Fog with his ire. The rest of us have only hospitality for the Rune-Master's own."
Guthlac led the ale-minstrel up the bank, through a barberry bush and into the encampment, where six of the warband's t
welve sat about, cracking nuts and cleaning weapons beside a naked woman bound between two trees.
While the minstrel passed his horn of liquor around and strolled, strumming his rota, the chieftain told the tale of her capture in a bold night raid. Midway through the tale, a flash of rain poured from the clear sky—an obvious blessing from the Furor for their hospitality to his minstrel.
An outraged shout went up from White-Eye at the sight of the ale-minstrel's tattoos running blue in the rain. "Impostor!"
With blurring speed, Arthor smashed the rota over the head of the nearest Pict, and from the beaverskin carrying-bag, he drew Excalibur. It sang, and two heads rolled, the toppling bodies jetting blood.
With one deft circular stroke, he severed Eufrasia's bonds. She collapsed and seized the sword of a decapitated Pict, lifting it with desperate strength and impaling a charging warrior—White-Eye.
The Picts flew at Arthor, leaping like singed wildcats, blades flashing sunlight from their keen edges. The young king whirled before them, slicing his sword in a low scything sweep that cut the assailants' thews and dropped them screaming.
Great and sinewy Guthlac came howling, ax held high, and Excalibur spilled his bowels and sent him on the black ride to Skyward House. Before the other Picts could return from their sentinel posts, Arthor covered Eufrasia's nakedness with the beaverskin bag, hoisted her weakened body on his shoulders, and fled into the primordial forest.
Aidan's Pledge
Falon, who had watched the slaughter from a covert among the profusion of creek bracken, quickly led Arthor and his frail burden along the secret gorge paths he knew. Soon they disappeared into the maze of glens, well away from the Pictish camp.
"That rain was unnatural," the fiana said, guiding the way up goat steps to a sward at the summit. Arthor's palfrey grazed there. "Someone works fell magic against you, sire. Only your lethal skills saved you."
The Wolf and the Crown (The Perilous Order of Camelot Book 3) Page 8