The Silver Tower

by TJ Green

  She admitted to herself that she felt a little scared. She was about to participate in a ceremony to summon Herne. A God. Nerian had stressed that he needed as many people as possible, because it raised the energy levels. Part of her expected absolutely nothing to happen; that it would be a ceremony of words and gesticulations only. But the other part of her thought something would happen, because this was the Other, a place of magic and strange creatures, where the laws of reality were reversed. And she wanted to experience that more deeply than ever. And of course, she wanted Tom and Arthur to return.

  The ground was cold, and she sat on a folded blanket, her cloak pulled around her. Woodsmoke was to her right, with Brenna next to him. A young female Cervini sat to her left. The Cervini seemed impervious to the cold, sitting cross-legged on the bare earth, patiently waiting for the ceremony to begin.

  Beansprout turned to Woodsmoke and whispered, “Have you done this before?”

  “No, but I’ve heard about such ceremonies. They can be quite long. Are you all right? You don’t have to join in.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just curious. Do you think he’ll come? That Nerian will actually summon a god?”

  “Let’s hope so. Gods are stubborn beings.”

  Nerian had lit a small fire in the centre of the cave, the smoke drifting up into the unseen heights. He sat next to it, bare-chested, wearing an elaborate headdress of antlers and a necklace of feathers and bones, his appearance grotesque in the flickering light. Next to him he’d arranged various items, and something bright glinted in the pale light. It had a familiar shape, and Beansprout squirmed in her seat trying to get a better view. It looked like Tom’s silver branch, but a little bigger.

  Satisfied the fire was burning as he needed it, Nerian gestured to the circle. When the steady beat of drums started, he dropped a bunch of herbs into the flames. Beating another rhythm on his own small skin drum, he began to chant. The effect was hypnotic. Very quickly, Beansprout lost all track of time and settled in, mesmerised.

  13 Insidious Spells

  Tom had found a shelf filled with very old books – and that was saying something, considering everything here looked ancient. They were high, out of reach, and tucked to the back of the shelf, so it was quite by chance that he saw them. Were they hidden for a reason? He pulled a stool over and stepped onto it, clutching the shelves for support.

  One of the books drew his gaze immediately. It had a deep green leather cover and was unembellished, except for an image of bound hands. He reached for the book, and as soon as he touched it he felt a tingle in his fingers, so much so that he nearly dropped it. Did he just imagine that? It had felt like an electric shock.

  He reached forward again, preparing himself for another jolt, but this time felt only a residual hum, as if it was vibrating in his hands. Breathing deeply to steady himself, he opened the book. Most of the pages were blank, but the half a dozen or so spells it did contain were spells of imprisonment. There were spells to lock the tongue, to bind the mind to a single moment, to bind within the form of an animal, to imprison within rocks or trees, to imprison within a nightmare, and ... to imprison a person. Tom’s heart raced and his mouth became dry as he realised he’d found it. But he still needed to know how to reverse it.

  He put the book down and looked at the others it was shelved with. There was a book of poisons, one of blood rites and sacrifices which looked particularly gruesome, and then a thin ragged-edged book with a white cover, which had no markings on at all. Opening it, he found it contained one long spell: The spell of reversal for all spells worked under the sun and moon, by fire or blood, and in which the will is bound by insidious means. There was a warning next to it: Only to be used in times of direst need as reversal of a spell cast by another involves the release of potent energies which can be fatal.

  Great. The spell that might release him could kill him. And Merlin. And maybe the others.

  The spell of reversal stressed that specific ingredients from the original spell must be used. Scanning through both spells, he found a list of the things he needed, but both specified that it was important to cast the spell in a place of power, such as in a grove of sacred trees. Now that did sound familiar. Nimue had said there was one here. Looking out of the tower windows, he saw a small circle of trees, in the centre of which was a flat rock and blackened fire pit. That would do. Now he needed to find everything else.

  Almost an hour later, Tom sat within the circle of trees, a small fire burning in front of him. There were bowls of herbs within easy reach, and in one there was also a cutting of Merlin’s hair and a clipping of his nails. Tom reached into his pocket and took out his silver branch, resting it in his lap. His heart pounding, he double- and triple-checked everything, then started the spell. Whether he messed this up or got it right, he could easily die.

  14 The Summoning

  Beansprout felt disembodied as the smoke drifted through the cave, and the circle became indistinct. Nerian sat immobile by the fire, his drum on the floor in front of him. Strange shadows cast by the flames made his face appear to change shape, morphing into someone, or something else. Time had lost all meaning, and she was aware of only the drumming, her heartbeat, her breath, and the fire flickering in the centre of the room.

  Then Nerian threw his head back and howled. The sound was so unearthly and unexpected that shivers rippled across her skin, the sound reaching into her very being until it seemed she was howling too. But she couldn’t move and couldn’t speak, and she couldn’t take her eyes off Nerian.

  Nerian wasn’t Nerian any more. He seemed to have swelled in size, becoming huge and imposing, his chest strong and muscled, and the antlers large and many tined. His eyes were black, and he looked slowly around the room, his gaze raking through her. A scene imposed itself over the cave, flickering in and out of focus ... a grove of tall trees, mossy grass, and lichen-covered boulders, and beyond them a glinting silver tower.

  Beansprout saw Tom, sitting on the far side of the fire, looking small in such an ancient place. Whatever Nerian had become stood and gazed towards the silver tower and howled again and again, until she thought she would go mad or deaf. Then he strode around the fire and reached out to Tom.

  There was an enormous booming sound as if the earth itself had shattered.

  The fire flared brilliantly into a column of flame, shooting high into the cave, and with another wild keening that seemed to come from all directions, a fierce wind carrying the dust of a thousand years ran through the cave, whipping Beansprout’s hair around her face and into her mouth, and she covered her eyes until it had passed. Then the fire shrank to the smallest pin-prick of light. The cave now felt as if it encompassed a universe, and the fire was the sun that burnt a galaxy away. Beansprout felt tiny, lost in the void, and she tipped forward, dizzy and terrified, having lost all sense of who and where she was; and then it was over.

  The cave was just a cave again and the fire had returned to normal. Sprawled unconscious in a heap by the fire, was Nerian, and next to him were the inert bodies of Tom, Arthur, Orlas, and an old man with a long white beard.

  Beansprout wasn’t quite sure of the order of what happened next, but after seconds in which everyone seemed to be in a state of immovable shock, Woodsmoke and two of the Cervini recovered and ran to the bodies in the centre of the room. Woodsmoke crouched beside Tom and then Arthur, and one of the Cervini checked Orlas, and with relief they shouted that they were still alive.

  And then Rek spoke. “Merlin is dead.”

  A sigh swept around the room as the news sank in. Beansprout stood on weak legs that protested beneath her – how long had she been sitting? – and made her way to the centre of the room. The Cervini crouched around Merlin, touching his hands and hair.

  Beansprout was curious to see Merlin, but was more worried about Tom and Arthur. A chill seemed to have descended as the fire burned low. She threw some logs on and prodded it into life, then gathered some blankets and with Brenna and Woodsmoke’s
help, wrapped the unconscious bodies to keep them warm.

  Arthur, Orlas and Tom were pale and clammy, their breathing shallow. The strange markings on Orlas’s skin stood out against his pallor, making his otherness more apparent. It seemed they were only just clinging to life.

  “Do you think they’ll be OK?” she asked Brenna.

  “I don’t know. But they’re strong. I’m sure it will just take a while,” she answered, but her expression did not carry the conviction of her words.

  A groan disturbed Beansprout’s thoughts, and next to her Nerian stirred back to life.

  Rek moved quickly to his side. “Nerian, it’s Rek. Can you hear me?”

  Nerian mumbled something and blinked rapidly, and in a few seconds his confusion cleared and he muttered hoarsely, “Did it work?”

  Rek smiled thinly. “Well you summoned Herne and broke the spell.”

  Nerian groaned again. “I know I summoned Herne! That’s why my head pounds!” He closed his eyes as if to shut out bad news. “And I know Merlin’s dead. The others?”

  “Alive. But only just.”

  Nerian opened his eyes again, looking more hopeful. “Good! Help me sit up.”

  Rek lifted him, putting an arm behind him to support his shoulders, and offered Nerian a warm smoky drink that smelt of peat fires.

  After a few mouthfuls Nerian said, “That was a strong spell. It’s a wonder they weren’t all killed. I think Tom’s attempt to break the spell helped.”

  “Tom did what?” Beansprout asked, confused.

  “He was trying to break the spell. I saw him, through Herne, as we crossed between the real and the illusion.”

  Woodsmoke smiled. “Really? Very enterprising.”

  “Herne has given me instructions.” Nerian paused and looked at Rek. “When we have recovered, we go to Ceridwen’s Cauldron.”

  “We do what?” Rek spluttered.

  Nerian looked bemused. “Surprising, yes?”

  “But no one has been there for years!”

  Beansprout interrupted. “Will someone please tell me what that is?” She turned to Woodsmoke and Brenna. “Have you heard of this cauldron place?”

  They shook their heads, equally confused.

  Nerian’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “It is an ancient place. A place of rebirth. The place where we bring Merlin back to life.”

  Beansprout thought she must have misunderstood. Bring Merlin back to life?

  Rek sounded nervous. “It is forbidden ground.”

  “Forbidden by Herne. And now it is not. I told you he would do anything for Merlin.”

  Woodsmoke and Beansprout looked out across the moors. Dawn was breaking and a sliver of pale green light illuminated the horizon. The rain and heavy mist of the previous days had rolled away, revealing a sodden landscape pockmarked with pools and streams. And it was cold. Beansprout pulled her cloak close around her shoulders.

  “Just when I think I’m getting use to this place, I find out something new, and it leaves me feeling weird again.”

  Woodsmoke smiled. “The trick is to never presume too much here.”

  “I suppose so,” she sighed, “but I’m worried about this Cauldron place. It sounds dangerous.”

  “Well at least Tom and Arthur won’t need it.”

  “But they’re not awake yet.”

  “No. But they’re not dead. And we’ll be leaving for the Great Hall later. They’ll be better cared for there. It will be warmer than a cave, at least.”

  “What happens after Merlin’s resurrection – if it works?”

  Woodsmoke shrugged. “Maybe we look for Nimue. Maybe we go home.”

  Beansprout frowned. Part of her was desperate to meet the witch with the amazing magic, but the other part of her was worried. “What’s the point in looking for her? She’ll be hiding somewhere. Or even if she’s not, what could we do? She might put a spell on us.”

  “I guess it depends on how vengeful Arthur is.”

  “I thought you were annoyed with Arthur?”

  Woodsmoke stared absently over the moors. “I am. But I’m not about to let him run off with Tom again.”

  “But Tom isn’t a child. If he wants to go with Arthur we can’t stop him. He might be feeling pretty vengeful himself.”

  It took a couple of days travel to reach the White Woods. Some of the Cervini were harnessed to a large cart carrying Merlin and the unconscious bodies of the others. They pulled it along at a funereal pace, and Beansprout was tired by the time they arrived.

  The White Woods were named for the ghostly white trees that grew there. Their tall, spindly trunks stretched high above their heads, the leaves turning from a pale green to red in the autumn weather.

  A large group of Cervini in human form greeted them at the main door of the Great Hall, a solid single-storied building made from the pale wood that surrounded them. Half a dozen Cervini lifted the lifeless body of Merlin onto a pallet and carried him into the recesses of the hall, while Orlas was moved with equal ceremony to his chambers. Tom and Arthur were carried to a room for the sick, and once they were tended to, Rek led Beansprout, Brenna, and Woodsmoke to a series of interlinked rooms with simple beds and rugs.

  “I’ll make sure you have food bought to you later,” he told them. “And I’ll let you know when we have planned the ceremony at the Cauldron. Rest while you can. In case you hadn’t realised, you’re coming too.”

  15 The White Woods

  As Tom drifted into consciousness he became aware of a pale light flickering beyond his closed eyes, and a splitting headache. The weight of blankets pressed against his stiff limbs. He opened his eyes and squinted against the light, edging himself to a sitting position. That was a mistake. His headache got worse and he was violently sick on the floor next to his bed. He collapsed back onto the bed and passed out.

  Several hours later he woke up again. His headache had now subsided to a dull thump, his stomach felt horribly empty, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. He cautiously looked round the room, careful not to move too much. It was dim; a candle burned on the table next to him, beside a jug of water and a glass. Overhead he could make out the wooden beams of the low ceiling.

  He really needed some water. Slowly he sat up and leaned back against plump pillows, taking a few steadying breaths. Where the hell was he? He remembered sitting next to a fire in a grove of trees and seeing a tall powerful man with huge antlers striding across the clearing towards him, and then nothing. Blackness.

  He poured himself a glass of water and sipped slowly, his throat painfully dry. A fire burned in a stone fireplace, the only source of light other than the flickering candle. It showed a small room with half a dozen wooden-framed beds in it, and one long narrow window high in the wall opposite him. It was dark outside. Arthur lay in the bed next to him, still sleeping.

  None of this explained where he was or how he had got here. But as he was wondering what to do, the door opened and a young male Cervini appeared. He smiled when he saw Tom sitting.

  “You’re awake. Good. I’ll fetch Nerian. Do you need anything before I go?”

  Tom shook his head, bewildered, and croaked, “No.”

  A few minutes later the dreadlocked shaman appeared.

  “You survived then,” Nerian said as he walked over to Tom. “Remember me?”

  Tom nodded. “Vaguely.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible. My head aches and my throat hurts. Where am I?”

  Nerian sat on a chair next to the bed. “In the Great Hall of the Cervini. Your friends are here too. You’re lucky you only have a bad head. Do you remember what happened?”

  “I remember sitting by a fire in a grove of trees, but I don’t know why I was there.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Tom realised he couldn’t remember much of anything. “I remember the cave, and Nimue started the spell, and then nothing. Nothing at all until the antlered man.”

  “You remembe
r Herne?” Nerian looked surprised. “Don’t worry, hopefully your memories will return in time. The spell Nimue cast was powerful, and when it broke it nearly killed you all. It did kill Merlin.”

  “Oh, Merlin. I’d forgotten about him.” Tom clutched his head again as the headache started to return.

  “That’s OK Tom, enough now. I’ll bring you a drink that will help, and then I want to you to rest again.”

  When Tom next woke it was morning, and Arthur was awake in the bed next to him.

  “About time! Get up lazy bones!”

  Tom groaned as he sat up. “Funny aren’t you, Arthur?”

  Arthur’s face was ashen, and his long dark hair looked wild and unkempt. He leaned back on a mound of pillows and gazed wearily at Tom. “I’m trying to find humour in our situation.”

  “Mmm. Keep trying. I feel half dead.”

  “I know that feeling. This is better than that. But from what Nerian said, we almost died. Merlin did, you know.” Arthur gazed into space, his mind clearly elsewhere.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Tom plumped up his pillows and leaned back. “Can you remember anything? I can remember flashes of things. Nimue, a silver tower, lots of trees.”

  “More than me. It seems like a dream. All I can see is trees, trees and more trees. I feel like I’m drunk just thinking about it. I didn’t even see Merlin. To be so close ...” His voice was full of an aching regret.

  “There was nothing you could have done, Arthur,” Tom said, trying to console his friend. To distract him, he asked, “How long were we unconscious?” And then another thought struck him and he sat up straighter. “How long were we in the spell?”

  “Not long, fortunately. These Cervini work quickly. About a day in the spell, and three days unconscious.”

  “Wow. Four days lost. Better than four years, I suppose. Or more.” He paused, contemplating their possible fate and lucky escape. Memories now started to trickle back, of their time in the spell and their deliberate abandonment by Nimue. He looked at Arthur, horror spreading across his face. “What were we thinking, Arthur? We should have known better.” He felt sick at the thought of how long they could have been trapped.