The Third Magic

by Molly Cochran

  Guenevere, long silent, could not quite suppress a rather unladylike laugh.

  "But if he pulls the sword from the stone, I'll serve him nonetheless," Leodegranz said stolidly.

  "Well, I won't. Unless I approve of this person who is to be our King, I'll challenge him with the full force of my army." This from Northumberland.

  Lot struck a haughty pose. "That's true for me as well."

  "It'd be true for you if the man were Macsen himself," Cheneus said dryly.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  EXCALIBUR'S SONG

  Not far away from the ancient graveyard where Guenevere had discovered the great sword, the household of another noble was making ready for the short journey to the lands of King Leodegranz to celebrate the festival of Brigid.

  "Damn this thing!" Ector shouted, throwing his crossbow across the hall, where it hit the stone wall and splintered.

  He winced. The bow was a copy of an old Roman weapon, and had never balanced well, but now it was beyond repair.

  "Use mine, Father," his strapping son Kay offered.

  They were both big men, of the type of Celtic stock that visitors often described as gigantic. Fair, ruddy-skinned, and prone to fits of temper, Ector and his son cut a swath wherever they went, although both were known for their good-heartedness and loyalty.

  Even now, with Uther Pendragon dead without an heir, Ector, who served as head of Uther's army, had made no attempt to take over his throne. He maintained iron discipline over his troops, whose loyalty had always been more to Ector rather than Uther, but used them only to keep away would-be usurpers.

  He took Kay's bow with a grunt. "Don't know why we have to go to this blasted festival in the first place," he muttered. "The troops need drilling on holidays, too."

  "We'll have a good time, father," Kay said good-naturedly, pulling on his jerkin. Though it was so cold in the moldy old stone house where they lived that the two were surrounded by a cloud of their own breath, neither of them noticed.

  "Where's the damned food?" Ector boomed.

  "I've got it, sir," his foster son called from the doorway.

  "Well, don't be all day. Arthur. Get my sword."

  "And mine," Kay added. "Since that's what I'll be using to hunt the boar."

  Ector chuckled. "That I want to see," he said. When Arthur brought his sword to him, Ector ruffled his hair the way he always did, as if he were patting a good dog. "By the gods," he said, his gaze following his own arm to the top of the boy's head. "Look how you've grown."

  "Aye," Kay said with a wink. "Arthur's only a baby from the neck up now."

  The boy blushed. He took Kay's remark as a compliment. Arthur had always admired Kay, whom he thought of as an older brother, since he had no recollection of ever living anywhere else. Ector made sure that the boy knew that he was only fostering with them, which meant that he had another family elsewhere, and that it was a noble one, since no one but nobles followed the practice. Unfortunately, he could not tell Arthur who his family—or even his father—was, since he did not know.

  It was an exceedingly odd arrangement, and more than once Ector had cursed the druid who had brought the baby to his keeping. To add to the knight's burdens, Ector's wife had died two years after Arthur's arrival, leaving only himself and the twelve-year-old Kay to look after the child.

  Ector was a soldier, accustomed to living roughly, and did not relish the idea of playing nursemaid to some druid foundling. That had become clear to Ector fairly early. If the boy were really the son of a noble, or even a petty king, as the holy man who brought him had indicated, then surely Ector would have heard from the family within two years. But there had been no word, either from the tribal chiefs or the druids at Mona.

  A little sorcerer, no doubt. Ector had thought bitterly as the infant had toddled about the stone hall. The boy was probably some druid bastard conceived during one of their weird doings at the full moon. Ector pictured himself feeding and clothing the boy for twenty years, only to be rewarded by being turned into a frog. And there was nothing to be done about it, for to cross a druid was the most dangerous thing one could do. A man—any man, even a king—could do no more than kill you. But everyone knew that the druids of Mona, the great Merlins as they were called, the magical ones taught by a witch with no eyes, could pluck the very stars from the sky if they wanted to.

  No, he would do exactly as the druid had instructed.

  And so Ector raised the boy like his own—which was to say, in the manner of a soldier with no taste for luxury and little thought of homely comforts. If the child was as sickly as the druid had said he was. Ector thought, he'll die anyway. Even the druids could not fault a man if his child succumbed to the myriad deaths that lay in wait for tiny souls.

  But the boy thrived in the austere atmosphere of Ector's world, and soon both he and his son found themselves completely taken by the little boy who had come into their lives. Arthur was bright, hardworking, and always cheerful. When Kay, because of his size and strength, had begun to practice with the army—a privilege that was afforded to no other boys his age, and therefore a source of great pride—he had brought the four-year-old Arthur with him to watch. And afterward, while he was practicing, Arthur served as a wildly appreciative audience, cheering his brother as Kay went through his paces with his wooden sword. There was no jealously between them, and indeed, for all their lives, the two men would remain fast friends. As for Ector, very early on he ceased to wonder or even care who Arthur's real father was. The boy was welcome in his home and his life.

  And so it was that on this day, on the morning of the festival of Brigid in the year 506, that the three of them set out to hunt wild boar on King Leodegranz's lands. They had deliberately missed the ceremony of Imbolc, which Ector considered to be one of the sillier traditions of the aristocracy, of which he was not a member.

  "Damn fools," he muttered as they approached the site of the ancient graveyard of Camlod. "The bones of great warriors are in this ground, and these fat kings are standing on them so they can watch a garter snake." He spat in disgust.

  "Look on the bright side, father," Kay said pleasantly. "We're lucky to be invited. We never were before."

  "Well, somebody's got to represent Uther, I suppose," Ector said. Both Kay and Arthur could detect the smallest hint of pride in his voice. They looked at one another and smiled.

  "And don't forget, Arthur, you're to be squire to both of us."

  Arthur beamed. It was a great honor, but typical of Ector, to bring along his foster child to such an occasion.

  "Damn and blast, they're all standing about," Ector said, picking up the pace. "I hope they're not waiting for us." Sweat popped on his brow as the stocky man marched up the hill in military double-time.

  At the crest of the hill, however, he found not a gaggle of rich men wasting time before a hunt, but a hushed and reverent assembly gathered around a sword which apparently grew out of a piece of solid rock.

  "By Mithras," he said under his breath.

  One of the princes—young Melwas, he thought it was, the pup with the soft face and vicious eyes—was kneeling before the sword, while King Cheneus of Dumnonia stood over him, incanting like a druid.

  "Whoso pulleth this sword from this stone shall be rightwise named King of all England," he said.

  Ector stopped short. "What?" he said aloud, his hands on his hips.

  Several of the kings gave him a hard stare. Melwas ignored the interruption, rising serenely to grasp the sword's jeweled hilt. He gave a mighty pull. Spittle flew from his rubbery lips. His fair face grew instantly red and shiny.

  "Damn it!" he shouted finally, releasing the thing with disdain. "No one can get that out of there! It's some kind of joke."

  Old Cheneus gave the young man little more than a pitying glance. "Whoso—" he began.

  "Oh, shut up!" Melwas snapped.

  "Can anyone try?" Ector said suddenly.

  A number of heads swiveled toward him. "Not you, if th
at's what you mean," Melwas said, still red-faced and irritable.

  "And why not?" Cheneus asked, his chin jutting out.

  "Ector?" Lot of Rheged said. "He's not a king."

  "But he's got Uther Pendragon's army under his thumb, by the gods," King Leodegranz whispered to Dorcas of Northumberland, who stood beside him.

  Dorcas nodded in agreement. "King or no, that one could wage war on us all if he gets a mind to, make no mistake."

  "I'll not be led by a commoner!" Melwas shouted.

  "We agreed that the gods would decide the matter," Cheneus said.

  "Aye." Leodegranz waved the prince down. "It was agreed by all, including you. This is in the hands of the gods."

  By this time Ector was quite embarrassed, having spoken before he'd had time to think. He hadn't meant to presume to be the equal of the Kings; he'd simply wanted to try his hand at taking the sword from the stone.

  "Go on, Father," Kay said, grinning. "You can do it." He bent toward Arthur and added, "He's surely the strongest of this lot, I'd say,"

  "And the smartest," Arthur whispered, and they both laughed.

  "Oh, well, no," Ector waffled good-naturedly.

  "Please, sir," Leodegranz offered graciously, extending his hand.

  Cheneus gathered himself into his new wise elder persona. "Whoso pulleth this sword—"

  "Very well, very well," Ector said with relish, rubbing his hands together as he approached the sword.

  "Do you suppose this is real?" Kay asked.

  Arthur shrugged. "Perhaps it's part of the festival of Brigid."

  Kay reddened. "If they've done this to mock my father, I'll..." His jaw clenched as Ector pulled and tugged, his barrel-like arms bulging with effort.

  "I cannot," Ector said at last, with the dignity of a soldier who had done his best.

  Kay's body tensed, waiting for laughter, but there was none. "I suppose it was all right, then," he said.

  "I'd like my boy to try," Ector announced from the rock.

  Cheneus raised his eyebrows. Melwas and Lot scowled, but no one voiced an objection.

  "Me?" Kay was stunned.

  "Go ahead," Arthur prompted.

  Kay stumbled toward the sword. With Ector beaming behind him, he tried to pull it from the rock.

  And failed.

  Afterward, he rubbed his sore palms. "Father," he said quietly, "do you suppose Arthur—"

  Ector shook his head. He had ruffled enough feathers already. He wasn't about to rub the kings' noses in muck by proposing a teenage druid foundling of unknown parentage as their leader. "Come on down, Kay," he said. "We'll leave this matter to the nobles."

  But below, something had happened. As Arthur watched Kay mount the hill, the sword embedded in the rock began to sing. It was an eerie, otherworldly sound, a song of distant stars, keening, mournful, surpassingly beautiful.

  And then the sword spoke its name to him. One perfect word:

  Excalibur.

  Arthur gasped. He looked around, certain that everyone had heard it, but not one face showed any response.

  No, there was one face. Only one.

  It-was the girl's, Leodegranz's daughter, Guenevere, who had been standing silently near her father. At the moment when the sword spoke its name, she had lifted her head and her eyes had locked into Arthur's with a recognition both of them felt in the deepest part of their souls.

  "Excalibur," he whispered; and as he did, Guenevere's lips formed the name along with him.

  They are mine, Arthur thought. He blushed. He had no right to think any such thing. And yet he knew it to be true: Both the sword and the woman were meant to be his.

  They belonged to him as much as the blood in his veins and, even then, he loved them both as much.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  LONESOME ROADS

  Emily began to choke on her chicken salad as soon as she saw the old man on television.

  It was the same one, she was sure of it, the strange old man with the phony name.

  She stood up, still hacking, and gestured toward the TV set. The waitress behind the counter paid no attention to her.

  Taliesin, Emily thought as she strode across the restaurant, her napkin pressed to her lips. Yes, that was it, Taliesin. The name Merlin the Magician was supposed to have called himself in the legend of King Arthur. She had picked up on that as soon as she had met the old coot. Englishmen always assumed Americans were illiterate.

  He had told her that he was a curator of the British Museum. Naturally, when she had called, her inquiry had been met with some amusement. Taliesin, you say? No, madam, I'm afraid there's no one here by that name.

  What shame she had felt at being taken by such a blatant hoax! But by then, of course, it had been too late. Arthur had already gone.

  The television, still nearly silent, showed the old man frowning as a reporter spoke. Emily reached up and turned the volume up to full.

  "Four years ago a boy named Arthur Blessing was kidnapped off the streets of New York by a gang of motorcyclists..." the reporter was blaring.

  "For heaven's sake, it was nothing of the kind," the old man answered. Then he gave the newsman an exasperated look and stormed away into the crowd. The reporter tried to follow him, but apparently lost his quarry.

  He disappeared. Emily thought.

  She had seen him do it before. Vanish, right before her eyes. He had done that just before Arthur went off with Hal.

  "The motorcyclists, who are apparently from England; would not reveal the whereabouts of the boy whose mesmerizing appearance on a news telecast covering a sinkhole in midtown Manhattan four years ago caused a nationwide uproar. Some who heard young Arthur Blessing speak believe that he is mentally ill and has been abducted. Others are convinced that the entire performance was a hoax. And yet others have speculated that the boy is some sort of Messiah, after stunned viewers witnessed one of the most remarkable ..."

  "People are trying to eat here, you know," the counter waitress said. Casting Emily the dirtiest of looks, she set down a macaroni and cheese platter and then turned down the volume on the television to zero. The picture switched to footage of a fourteen-year-old boy standing amid the rubble of a collapsed building.

  At that moment Gwen Ranier entered the diner. The sketchbook in her hands fell out of her hands to the floor. "Ms. B," she said, her voice quavering.

  "What is it?" Emily asked irritably.

  "Him," Gwen said, pointing at the television. "That's him. The one I dreamed about."

  "Yes, I know," Emily said.

  "Is ... is he in some kind of trouble?" Gwen asked.

  Emily swallowed. "I don't know," she said, and walked past her out the door.

  The girl followed her. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to get him back," she said.

  She called the Christian Science Monitor, a publication which she felt would not seek to exploit her and Arthur, and promised an exclusive interview with herself in exchange for one favor: a reporter was to get a message to Hal Woczniak as quickly as possible. The message said only:

  Come immediately to Dawning Falls.

   Bring Arthur. Emily.

  The rest of the message, which was that Emily had been searching for her nephew for eight years and that she would make sure that Hal was arrested and sent to jail on a more or less permanent basis unless he complied with her request, was tacit.

  "He's... he's coming here?" Gwen asked. She had been sitting across from Emily as she conducted her business with the newspaper.

  "I hope so," Emily said. She looked at the girl. "What did he say to you?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "In your dream. The one in which you saw his face."

  Gwen turned the pages of her sketchbook carefully. "I had more than one dream," she said. There were at least ten drawings of Arthur, as a small boy, a teenager, and as a man older than Arthur Blessing was now. In all of them he wore odd clothing and his shaggy hair looked as if it had been cut with a k
nife. "I've seen him again and again," she said softly, looking at the portraits. "But each time he says the same thing."

  "What's that?"

  "That he's coming back for me," Gwen said simply. "He's coming back."

  By the time they reached Buffalo County, South Dakota, Hal and the knights thought they had lost the last of the diehard news people. It was important that they be able to pick up Arthur and return to the farm unnoticed, unless they were prepared to pull up stakes yet again. If necessary, they would have ridden in circles for the next week; but the media had given up after less than fifty miles.

  For the past several hours, the only vehicle that had shared the road with them had been a U-Haul with a baby carriage tied to its roof. Finally, a few miles west of Fort Thompson, they stopped at a diner so that the knights could eat and Hal could assess the damage done to his wound by the rigors of the road. His bandage was sodden with blood. Although he said nothing to the others about it, Hal was feeling every mile they had traveled since Rapid City.

  He was sitting alone at the counter when the reporter from the Christian Science Monitor approached him.

  "Oh, hell, it’s the guy in the U-Haul," he moaned.

  "I've brought you a message," the man said, handing over the note he had copied, word for word, from his editor, who had copied it word for word from Emily Blessing.

  Hal read it without expression.

  "Is there a response?" the reporter asked eagerly.

  Hal read it again. Come immediately to Dawning Falls.

  She was alive. His heart was pounding. Emily had made it out of the burning hotel, after all.

  He licked his cracked lips. "You going to print this?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir. That's the deal. If I get it to you, we get to print it."

  Then everyone and his brother would know where Arthur was. Who he was. Hal wondered if Emily knew what she was letting herself in for.

  But then, he told himself, it wasn't as if she didn't have the right. She was Arthur's legal guardian, whose nephew had been taken away by a virtual stranger. It was a testament to Emily Blessing's good sense that she had not instituted a full-scale manhunt years ago. If she had, all three of them would have been dead by now.