Cursed

by Frank Miller

  “I’ve seen that slaughter with my own eyes and require no lectures on it,” Nimue shouted at Gawain, who took a seat on a rock and simmered. “This was my mother’s dying wish. And this Merlin has given me no reason not to trust him.”

  Yeva chuckled at this.

  “You can leave the sword here,” Morgan offered.

  “He asks me to bring the sword.”

  “I don’t like it.” Morgan shook her head.

  Nimue decided. “I will go. I will bring the sword.” She took Morgan’s hand. “And you will ride with me.”

  “With Kaze as well,” Gawain added. “I trust Kaze with my life.”

  The woman in purple robes simply nodded beneath her cowl. The tip of her leopard tail flicked on the floor.

  “It’s decided, then,” Nimue said, rising and turning to Yeva. “Tell Merlin I will meet with him at sunset in three days at Graymalkin Castle.”

  Yeva wiped the blood from her hands as Marguerite swallowed the last of the mouse down her throat.

  The Widow stood at the edge of a jutting cliff above the freezing green surf of the Bay of Horns. Looming in the distance along the same cliffside, atop a sheer black tower of ancient volcanic rock, were the windswept ruins of Graymalkin Castle. Gulls and blackbirds cried and battled for nests in craggy pockets of the tall sea walls as Merlin rode up behind her, shoulders hunched against the biting winds. He climbed down from his horse and approached.

  “Aren’t you cold?” he asked her, as she wore only a black dress with a high collar up to her neck, black sleeves and gloves, and her customary veil.

  “I like the cold,” she said, producing the Snake clay of Fey Fire that Merlin had hidden in the saddlebag of her horse.

  Merlin took the fire and placed it in a large pouch on the belt of his robes. “I thank you.”

  “Do you still plan to use the Fey Fire to destroy the sword?”

  “Aye,” Merlin said sadly. “I no longer believe in a ‘one true king.’ Nor in an old Druid’s skills to guide him. The sword is too powerful a weapon for this barbaric age.”

  “You could claim the sword for yourself. And the Shadow Lords could rule once more.”

  “You know that can never happen,” Merlin warned. “In a distant age I once tried to unite humankind and the Fey”—he paused, his eyes clouded—“and failed.”

  “Well, the Leper King will not forgive your betrayal. By now he’s put a high price on your head. Your best course is to disappear for another hundred years.”

  “Once this business with the sword is complete, that is my intention.”

  “And what about this Fey girl?”

  “Left to her own, she will drown in a sea of fire or Viking swords. I hope to reason with her, but one way or another, this Wolf-Blood Witch will deliver me the sword.”

  Merlin mounted his horse and turned to the castle, beard blowing in the sea air, unaware of Lady Lunette’s spy in the high grasses on a nearby hill. She watched Merlin cross the fields until he dismounted at the perilous walking bridge connecting the cliffs to Graymalkin Tower. Then she crept backward through the grass to send the signal.

  Nimue could not sleep. She tossed and turned, but the ground in the low hills of the Minotaurs was hard and full of small rocks. They had agreed to camp without a fire, so it was also miserably cold, though Morgan seemed to sleep without complaint.

  Kaze had agreed to stand guard. Nimue had never seen the mysterious woman sleep. She just sat atop a fallen tree, alert to every sound, yellow eyes gleaming in the moonlight, her tail drooping lazily to the ground.

  “Your tail is very beautiful,” Nimue whispered.

  “Thank you.” Kaze smiled, baring her white fangs.

  “Have you known Gawain for very long?”

  “Not very long.”

  A waterfall of conversation, Nimue mused. “Well, I thank you for accompanying us.”

  “Yes, I am interested to see this Merlin who causes so much argument.”

  “Have you heard of him?” Nimue asked, curious. Given Gawain’s travels, Kaze’s thick accent and unique robes, she naturally assumed the woman came from lands far from Francia.

  “Not by this name,” Kaze said.

  “You know him by other names?” Nimue said.

  “He live a very long time,” Kaze offered. “You must know this. You bring him the sword of your people.”

  Nimue was embarrassed by her ignorance of the world. “My mother asked me to bring the sword to Merlin. Prior to that, all I’d heard of Merlin had been in children’s stories.”

  “Then he was very important to your mother,” Kaze assumed.

  Nimue shook her head. “No, she—he wasn’t. She would have said something.”

  “To your father, then.”

  “My father left,” Nimue started, but hesitated. “He left when I was very young.”

  Kaze stared at the moon. “Your mother kept secrets.”

  Nimue frowned. “No. Not usually.”

  “Did she tell you she possessed the great sword?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Your mother kept secrets,” Kaze repeated, her point made. As though tiring of the conversation, she leaped lightly down from the fallen tree and vanished silently into the forest.

  Cold sweat trickled down the back of Nimue’s neck. She felt so unprepared for this. Her heart was fluttering.

  She brings darkness on this house!

  Every time she shut her eyes to sleep, the memory kept creeping in. Her father’s voice.

  She’s your child!

  And Lenore, furious, throwing a clay jug of water. Nimue could still hear it shatter against the stone hearth.

  I don’t know what she is.

  Her parents screamed all night through her fitful dreams.

  THIRTY-THREE

  THE BITING, SALTY WIND HIT the riders hard as the trees thinned and low, grassy hills opened up to the sea and the distant towers of Graymalkin Castle. Nimue felt exposed in the open like this. Perhaps sensing her fear, Kaze picked up their pace to a gallop as Morgan rode up beside Nimue.

  “Offer nothing. Let him make the proposal.”

  “I know,” Nimue said.

  I don’t know anything, she thought. Part of her felt anxious for this gauntlet to end, anxious to hand the sword over and be done with it. Yet she felt duty bound to the Fey refugees who were counting on her, to her friends, even to the sword. That’s absurd. It’s only a sword. Yet the sword had saved her from the wolves and spared her in the thorn maze. The sword had given her the courage to challenge Bors and had served justice in the glade. It has served me well. And my thanks is to hand it over to a Man-Blood king? Who might use the very same steel to slay what’s left of my kind?

  “Make sure your thoughts are yours!” Kaze called back. “Don’t let Merlin crawl into your mind!”

  How am to know if my thoughts are mine? Such a thing had never even occurred to her.

  Mists rose from the bottom of the sea cliffs to envelop Graymalkin Castle, making it seem like the castle towers hovered above a bubbling cauldron. For reassurance, Nimue glanced back at Kaze and Morgan holding the reins of their horses. Kaze nodded to her from beneath her purple cowl.

  Morgan said, “You’re not Nimue. You’re the Wolf-Blood Witch.”

  Nimue turned back to the broken towers looming over her, then glanced down between her boots and the wet boards of the walking bridge and saw only fog beneath her, but she could hear the crashing surf. She crossed the bridge as quickly as she could, holding her breath through most of it, and then walked the muddy path to the rotted drawbridge and entered into the shadows of the castle.

  Her footsteps echoed as she passed under the crumbling gatehouse. She looked up at the rusted chains of the drawbridge. Somewhere water was dripping. The feel of the sword against her back gave her some security as she crossed into the overgrown bailey. Here the vast size of the castle became real. Seven wretched black towers tilted over her like the fingers of a closing fis
t. Someone whispered behind her, and she turned to a dark doorway of the gatehouse. For a moment she thought she saw a shadow move within.

  “Hello?” Nimue called out.

  There was no answer.

  Unnerved, Nimue backed away from the gatehouse and walked through the mists of the bailey, crossing to the wide keep, which was one of the few structures of the castle still largely intact.

  “Is anyone there?” Nimue called as she entered the winding stairway. She detected a flickering green glow above her. She climbed into the darkness, her hand sliding along the timeworn walls until she reached the Great Hall.

  Green fire crackled in a large brazier in the center of the vast, empty chamber, offering warmth against the chill of the sea air.

  The man in ragged blue robes standing by the window was younger than Nimue expected. His brown hair and beard were unkempt and his cold gray eyes alert and suspicious. On his belt were pouches overstuffed with what looked like various plants and branches. Even from across the hall, Nimue could smell notes of cedar and lemongrass, geraniums and clove. This was not a snobbish, self-important royal envoy but an authentic Druid, a human versed in many magical languages, Fey and otherwise, and a stew of wild energy.

  When he saw her, something took him aback, but only for a moment, and he tried to smile, but its effect was not comforting.

  “You must be Merlin,” Nimue said, hoping he could not detect the wobble in her voice.

  “And you are the Wolf-Blood Witch, dreaded wielder of the Devil’s Tooth,” Merlin said.

  Merlin’s tone stiffened her spine. “You mock me.”

  “No,” he said, softening, “but you are playing a dangerous game.”

  A thin, silvery thread crept up her neck and thunder rumbled in the distance. Merlin noted this.

  “You think this is a game?” Nimue asked.

  Keeping the green Fey Fire between them, Merlin circled the brazier. “How did you come upon the sword?”

  “My mother gave it to me.” Nimue’s lip trembled. “And with her dying breath, she bade me give it to you.”

  Nimue saw Merlin’s face change. He suddenly seemed more present. In a whisper he asked, “You are the daughter of Lenore?”

  Nimue’s heart beat fiercely in her chest, a revelation dawning. “I am.”

  Merlin’s expression was inscrutable.

  Nimue pressed, “You knew her?”

  “I did,” he answered softly. Then, almost shaking off a reverie, he returned to the sword. “Her instructions to you were very wise. We can—”

  “Look at me,” Nimue interrupted. She took a step toward him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Look at me.”

  The ancient Druid’s tired eyes looked into hers. It seemed to take an effort to stay locked in her gaze.

  “What do you see?” she asked gently.

  “You have her eyes,” Merlin said through emotion.

  “Anything else?” she asked him.

  “What name were you given?”

  She smiled. “Nimue.”

  Merlin nodded. “Nimue. That is indeed a beautiful name.”

  “I have been asking myself, ‘Why you?’ Why did she ask me to bring the sword to you?”

  “And what is your answer?”

  Nimue took a shuddering breath.

  “She did not wish for me to bring you the sword. She wanted the sword to bring me to you.” Nimue smiled. “Because you are my father.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  YES,” MERLIN WHISPERED, “YES, THAT—that would . . .” He trailed off and turned away, overwhelmed. “I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t know,” Nimue finished for him.

  Merlin shook his head, marveling at her, a wry grin cracking his cheek. “You are Lenore made flesh again.”

  Nimue wiped her wet eyes, her heart warming.

  Merlin walked toward her and softly took her hand. He looked at it in his own. They stood there awkwardly.

  “Did you love her?”

  Merlin nodded. “Very much.”

  “And did she love you?” Nimue pressed, her questions returning in a flood.

  “I like to flatter myself that she did,” Merlin answered, a touch of sadness in his voice. He released Nimue’s hand and crossed back to the window.

  “When did you meet her? Why did you part?”

  “I’ve never spoken of this.”

  “But I need you to now,” she insisted.

  “In time, Nimue. What is imperative is that you comprehend the powerful forces gathering to acquire that sword. Right now you stand in opposition to the crown, to the Church, and to northern invaders. Every moment you possess that sword magnifies the danger.”

  “And yet I have survived.”

  Merlin turned on her, fierce. “Yes, I see, sustained by a certain boldness that cannot last, which will be snuffed out like a candle flame in the wake of the armies of Uther Pendragon!”

  But Nimue was defiant. “You will not frighten me into giving you the sword. For I am no child, I assure you. I’ve lived lifetimes in these past days.” She did nothing to squelch the anger rising in her throat. “You are not trusted by my kind, sir. They tell me you are a traitor and a drunkard and a fraud. If you seek to earn my trust, you will tell me the truth about my past and your history with my mother.”

  The hall was quiet but for the flickering of the Fey Fire. Merlin weighed Nimue’s words. Then a furtive whispering from the stairwell swung her head around. For a moment she thought she saw shapes, figures, slip behind the wall.

  “Who is there?” Nimue called out, fearing an ambush. On instinct she ripped the Sword of Power from its sheath and pointed it at Merlin. His eyes shone at the sight of the blade in a way that Nimue could not discern. Was it fear she saw? Or desire? “Who else is with us?” she demanded to know.

  The whispers, two young voices, a boy and a girl, seemed to flutter across the ceiling and into the distant canyons of the castle.

  “They are the young lovers Festa and Moreii, born of rival clans, who barricaded themselves in this castle more than a thousand years ago and drank hemlock so they would never be separated. It is their voices you hear,” Merlin confided. “They are drawn to you for what I sense is a strong connection to the Hidden.”

  Disturbed by the spirits’ presence but no longer fearing attack, Nimue sheathed her sword but remained alert.

  Merlin shifted his approach. “Your companions have judged and found me wanting. And it is true I am guilty of many crimes. For this you can neither trust me with the sword nor as a potential father, I understand. But the truth can be painful, Nimue. Are you sure you wish to know it?”

  “I do.”

  “Then perhaps these young lovers will help guide us into memory, so that you may know my story. The story of Merlin.”

  By Fey Fire torchlight, Merlin led Nimue through the groaning and gusty tunnels of Graymalkin to a narrow gallery above the Great Hall. In the distance, broken shutters banged against the sea winds.

  “This is where they died,” Merlin whispered, gesturing to a stone corner. “Wrapped in each other’s arms.”

  Nimue felt the familiar hum in her stomach and the presence of others in the room. She froze as a shadow lengthened across the wall.

  “Where are you?” a girl’s voice spoke, from very far away.

  The hair rose on Nimue’s arms.

  Merlin put a comforting hand on her shoulder. They sat on the stones. “Any visions that may come, do not fight them,” he advised.

  The Fey torch flared and danced as shadows pressed in around them. Nimue fought the urge to panic and, instead, tried to open her mind to the visitors. She saw a young face in her mind, a girl her age with pale skin and freckles on her cheeks, a silver tiara and a long braid.

  Then Nimue was in the Iron Wood. She was home. But something was different. The light was hazy. She looked at her hands and saw through them, as though they were made of mist. She turned at footsteps and saw Merlin stagger betwe
en the trees, collapse briefly, then drag himself up. His eyes were dark pins, he wore rags and animal furs and looked half man, half beast. A foul purplish wound colored his chest and neck and his breathing was thick and wet. To ease his path, Merlin waved his hand and with a thunderclap buckled two oak trees like kindling. Nimue recoiled, stunned. Clutching his side, Merlin came within a foot of Nimue but paid no mind to her, as though she were invisible to him, and stumbled along.

  Nimue followed him to the Sunken Temple.

  Merlin’s legs gave out on the long pathway to the altar. He crawled across the floor, gasping, wheezing, clawing at his side, clearly in agony. Reaching the altar, he curled up into a ball, shuddered, and was still.

  The light in the temple changed and the shadows shifted as though several hours had passed. In all that time, Merlin did not move. Nimue was about to reach out to him when a rustle of skirts distracted her and Lenore, in the blush of youth, knelt beside Merlin. As she touched him, he groaned. “Leave me to the Gods. Leave me to die.”

  “You may die outside if you wish, but not in this temple. Not in the house of the Hidden. This is a place of healing.” The sound of her mother’s voice brought fresh tears to Nimue’s eyes. Lenore wrenched the protesting Merlin to his feet, put his arm around her shoulder, and half carried him to an alcove of the temple, where she laid him on top of a blanket.

  The light flickered again. Candles now lit the alcove. Nimue saw Lenore in the corner, grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle, eyes darting nervously to Merlin, who was racked with fever, muttering and shouting, “Fie! Let Alaric have these dead monuments! Burn it! Burn it all! Stack the bodies in the basilica!”

  Again the lights flickered, and Nimue was following Lenore through the Iron Wood as she captured cold stream water in a bucket and carried it back to the temple. Nimue relished watching her mother, watching her confident strides, her beautiful strong arms, feeling her strength and her goodness.

  She could not help but smile as Lenore dunked Merlin’s head in the icy bucket against his protests. She remembered well that her mother’s healing arts came with a strong hand. Merlin was learning this firsthand.