by Ember Lane
As the sun began to sink below the horizon, Merl pondered the seer’s words. The seer appeared comfortable with silence, and merely stared at the sky as stars popped upon its canvass. If Ricklefess was a traitor, then Frank had been his tool, yet Frank didn’t seem the type to be fooled by that sort of stuff. Billy yelled out as his thoughts drifted to his friends, and in doing so, startled Merl so much he knocked his tea everywhere.
Billy stood in the middle of a fancy pair of topiaries. He had his hands on his hips. “Merl Sheepherder, did you get a faster pair of legs or did Quaiyl carry you up?”
“It wasn’t Ricklefess,” said Frank, thumping the table.
The seer had insisted that the others wash and rest before they settled in. Desmelda was certainly pleased by his hospitality, as was Frank. Billy begged for some food and was escorted away by one of the servants. The seer and Merl walked the gardens, coming to their end and then continuing on. They passed through a small copse, and towards the edge of the island. The seer sat upon a bench that faced outward. Merl sat next to him, though a little more gingerly.
The bench looked across the isles of the Hidden Eye, and over the burnished crescent of The Sea of the Stranded Fool, which was hemmed by circling cloud lit golden by the setting sun. Over the storm’s squall and across the stretching sea, sat a land so dark it swallowed the star-filled sky. Merl sensed its cold, and shivered, even though he knew there was no way he could feel its influence from his vantage point. A plume of orange light glowed brightly and then dulled. Another followed. A flash of lightning blinked across the land, and then it sank to black.
“Is that Darlencia?” Merl asked.
“It is,” the seer said. “Closer than you thought?”
“Much.”
“So, let’s complete our train of thought. If you wanted to protect Morgan Mount, where would you prefer to battle?”
Merl pointed out over the isles, over the still sea and the squall, to Darlencia. “There.”
“Indeed. You must succeed where The Knights of Tintagel failed. You, Merl, no other.”
“Why—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Hmmph.”
Merl was getting fed up with falling into the seer’s traps. It was clear the man had a brain the size of the world, and how he packed it into his bonce Merl had no clue. The seer’s constant nudging to get information out of him was beginning to grate on his patience. It had been one heck of a climb just to say what he already appeared to know, and that was that.
“Tell me,” Merl blurted out. “Do you know who I am? You talk a lot about what I should be, and you said I needed foundations or something, so do you know?” Merl tore his eyes away from Darlencia, from its flashing black and popping orange. “Well?”
“I do,” said the seer. “I’ve known for a long while. Do you want to know? Remember, I told you that you have a choice.”
Merl wasn’t quite ready to hear it yet. “Who told you? If you know who I am, who told you?”
The seer stared blindly over the sea. He pushed his tongue to the side of his mouth, then around, licking his lips in quiet contemplation. He twiddled his thumbs. His foot tapped.
“Do you want a reason to hate Daemon Mercer? A reason that would trump him razing entire towns and valleys? Do you need to hate Daemon Mercer to take him on, or would that make you weak? Because I guarantee one thing, you’ll need all your wits to best him.”
“Who told you?” Merl asked again, but the seer evaded the question.
“Your mother, Merl, was a spellsword attending the Court of Arthur14579. She held a high seat at his round table—Arthur was insistent his knights sat at one, though I have no idea why. Her name was Soorafell, and a fine, fine warrior, mage, and knight she was too. Arthur14579 and his court thrived while peace held, and the Land of the Crescent Moon and beyond enjoyed an unheard-of era of peace and prosperity. But you, Merl, were barely dry when war came. Your cord was still twitching when Daemon Mercer began scuttling Arthur’s ships and burning his outposts. Without thought or compassion, Arthur dispatched your still-bleeding mother to Darlencia. Most attending his table were furious. Your birth wasn’t an easy one, and your mother was weak, but she always did anything Arthur bid. She died at Daemon Mercer’s hand not thirty days later. That was the beginning of the end for Arthur14579. He’d lost one of his heroes, and his others lost faith in him.”
“What did she look like?” Merl asked, knowing that his question had no importance, but he wanted to picture her, to understand her, to focus on anything other than her death. He needed to focus on anything other than her death, because during that long, drawn-out moment, his hatred lay not with Daemon Mercer, but with Arthur14579. Wasn’t he supposed to be the hero, the lord amongst lords, whose knowledge they all thirsted for? Shouldn’t he have gone to slaughter Daemon Mercer himself? “Please, give me that at least.”
“She was no beauty,” the seer said, and barked his tree-trunk-splitting laugh again.
Merl’s hackles instantly rose. He tensed. The seer waved him down.
“She was no beauty in the classic sense. Arthur’s court was attended to by many a female warrior. Most hardly wore any armor, favoring scant covering, a bare belly and legs—such was the fashion at the time. They were lucky Daemon Mercer was hemmed in across the seas and they didn’t have to fight him. That armor could barely stop them catching a cold, let alone stopping a Westerman’s axe. No, your mother despised those beautiful fashions, she wore mail, and dathrel armor, and trained day and night. She ran in full armor, miles and miles every day until that armor became a second skin. Though her muscles rippled, she still caught the eye.” The seer huffed. “I suppose I’ve changed my mind. Your mother was a rare beauty, in her own fine way. None could beat the spark in her eye when she felled a man. None could match the fire in her heart when she sniffed victory. Yes, there was beauty there, but not the classic sort. Merl, there is one thing you should be in no doubt about; your mother loved you, but she was bound to her duty like a tree to soil.”
Merl looked at Gloomy Joe. The dune dog was curled up by his feet. He was no classic beauty either, Merl supposed, as tears dripped from his eyes. He wasn’t crying, not in the normal way—weeping, perhaps, but more through an immense sorrow for a life never lived. He imagined her, a true warrior, head held high, chin jutted out, marching through columned halls while clad in glinting silver armor. He imagined her in battle, chopping down foes, firing blasts of white magic, laying asunder all before her. But most of all, he imagined her sitting next to him, on his favorite rock, looking out over Buttercup Valley.
Hatred poured into Merl’s heart, though it wasn’t for Daemon Mercer, it was for Arthur14579.
The seer rose. “Grieve, and return. We will dine with your friends, and then I will tell you more.” He turned and walked away.
The amber glow on the black horizon popped. Merl imagined it was a dragon blowing hot fire into the air. He tried to focus on it, to rip out his hatred and throw it at a foe who was tangible, who actually existed, but it rebounded back, time and again, and all he could see was some ruthless bastard seated upon a throne. A tilted, golden crown on his jolly head.
Billy came. He sat close, but he said nothing, just sat, like a good friend should, and Merl’s burden of anger and sorrow became a little more bearable.
Light, wooden, columns paraded like soldiers and held up a plain, white ceiling. White-plastered walls lent the seer’s dwelling a clean look that Merl had never associated with a building before. The planks that made up its floor were smooth underfoot, as if just one great board made up its entire length. A roaring hearth stood proudly at one end, and an elongated table was positioned centrally. The seer sat at the table’s head, Desmelda at its other end. Frank had on one side all to himself, and Billy and Merl sat together on the other side, just like friends should. They ate in silence and drank their spring wine the same way. It wasn’t a heavy silence, more like a busy silence where food and drink and quiet conte
mplation took precedent over idle chatter.
Merl was still a mix of emotion. He was numb. He was excited. He felt like a volcano; stoic rock on the outside, bubbling lava within. Billy had broken their earlier silence after letting Merl stew for a while. It was like he’d known Merl was last and needed his greatest friend to give him a path to follow. So Billy had simply said that Daemon Mercer was the only enemy left. Or rather, he’d said: “Way I see it, yer can’t poke the pig if the pig ain’t there, like. Yer can only poke the bastard in front of you.”
Merl had never really had any ambition, nor direction, and with neither in his arsenal, it was hardly surprising he’d spent his whole life drifting. But now he had both. Merl had decided he wanted to become a warrior, preferably a spellsword like his mother, but if he had no magic, then he supposed any type would do. That part was his direction. His ambition was also clear. He would avenge his mother’s death by killing Daemon Mercer. He would poke the pig in front of him.
The fires of his hatred still burned for the man who’d ordered his mother to her death, not the one who’d killed her. But Merl couldn’t kill Arthur14579, because he simply didn’t exist any longer.
Merl had ambition and direction. The seer had told him his mother had trained by running in full armor, and just as soon as he got some, he’d do that too. He’d also make Frank teach him harder, and he’d finished learning to read, and he’d see if Desmelda would test him for magical affinity. Merl had a path, and nothing would stop him.
Once they’d finished with their eating, the seer retired to sit by a fire. He’d had five chairs evenly arranged around it in a semicircle, and Gloomy Joe lay in its center. The seer stared blindly at the flames.
“So, have you come to terms with it, Frank?” the seer asked.
“That Ricklefess was a traitor? No. Never.”
“What about fool? Could you believe your mentor was a fool, on a fool’s errand?”
“I can believe that he wanted to warn me about something, and that whoever is the traitor infected him.”
The seer cocked his head. “Possible. Cling to that hope.” He twiddled with his mustache and let his gaze fall upon the Witch from Falling Glen. “Desmelda, what about the witches of Wormloe Tump? Could they be involved in Daemon Mercer’s dread plot?”
Desmelda pursed her lips. “I’m no fool. I can only vouch for myself and no other. I only know my own heart. If needs be, I will not return or report to them, although they may be of use, so perhaps some communication would be beneficial.”
“Fine,” said the seer. “You, Billy?” The seer turned his sightless sockets to Billy.
Merl saw Billy shiver.
“Me? I ain’t got no business other than standin’ with Merl. That’s that, innit? That’s all, an’ I hope it’s enough.”
The seer nodded. “Oh, it’s enough all right. It’s more than any could ask you. You have no idea how dark his path may become. He’ll need all the help he can get to tread it. Billy, you are truly a diamond in a soot-blanketed world.”
Billy fair beamed.
“That just leaves you, Merl. Are you set on a course? Do you think following in your mother’s footsteps is the right path?”
Merl considered his words, but Merl wasn’t used to the idea of considering just yet. He jerked, he reflected, but rarely considered. That was for folk more highfalutin than him. Was it the right path? It was the only path he had. “It’s a start,” Merl said, thankful for that small boon. “A start,” he repeated.
The seer bridged his hands. “A cat who chases a mouse can go around and around until it’s so dizzy it’s forgotten why it chased the mouse in the first place. You go chasing your revenge, and that will become you. Your mother had but half of the potential you have. You cannot be half of yourself, Merl, that would be a terrible waste.”
Desmelda cleared her throat. “Stop dancing, old man, and spill the other half. How else how else can the boy run? Who was Merl’s father?”
“Old man?” the seer chuckled. “It was an age ago that I was an old man. Tell me, my witch, what would you have me do on the day I told him Daemon Mercer killed his mother? That dagger’s cold steel is still breaking his heart. Blood still pumps from its wound. Would you have me twist it?”
“Better to twist the blade when the skin is already punctured than open another wound when it’s healed and scarred. Tell him who his father was. Better punch a man while he’s still reeling.” Desmelda gulped down the last of her wine.
Merl wasn’t sure he liked the witch’s words, but he desperately wanted an ally in a world of swirling strangers. “He probably doesn’t know who my father is.”
“Probably does,” said Billy, “but probably doesn’t want t’tell you.”
“Telling… Telling’s easy.” The seer’s head swiveled slowly until his empty eyes rested on Merl. “It’s living with it that’s the hard part. Merl is a Lord’s bastard. He’s the bastard son of Arthur14579.”
31
Merl woke with a start. He curled his hand to a fist, ready to punch out. A still flame lit the seer’s face, highlighting previously unseen cracks and creases. The hollows of his eyes glowed like amber caves. His white mustache draped down over Merl’s face like twin waterfalls, as the seer leaned over him . One hand held a dish, upon which a candle sat. The other, he raised to his lips and, after bringing one finger up, he bid Merl to be quiet. Then beckoned him to follow, before turning and sneaking away.
Merl prized himself from the Billy-Gloomy sandwich he’d fallen asleep in and followed the seer toward the gardens. He crept out onto the dais. The seer disappeared around a corner of the dwelling. Merl followed in his path, bringing his sail-cloth tunic’s collar up, snuggling his chin tight to his chest as the chilly night bit at him. The seer followed a path that led into a stand of trees. Merl hurried after him, aware the flimsy candlelight might go out at any time and the seer would be none the wiser.
The trees closed on him. Starlight shone through their patchy canopy, mere sprays of leaves radiating from drooping branches that were too supple to be true wood. Merl closed to with a few feet of the seer. The man’s flowing white robes had a tinge of blue to them, like an aura. For the first time, the undercurrent of the seer’s power buffeted Merl as he was swept along in its wake.
“It’s not far,” the seer called back. “Nothing is on this island.”
The path twisted and turned, and then headed in one direction for an age.
“Where are we going?”
The seer didn’t break his stride. “East,” he said. “We’re going east.”
East, west, north, south, Merl had already decided that directions were an over-rated thing. Lately, he’d managed to find trouble whichever way he went. It had been that way ever since he’d met up with Frank, though he doubted Frank was the problem.
Merl’s sleep had been patchy. Merl was pleased the seer had roused him. Knowledge, it was about as much use as directions. Finding out who his mother was had given him direction. Discovering what his father had done had ripped that away and replaced it with roiling confusion. It had stolen his fledgling foundation before its mortar had even set. Desmelda’s quest to unmask his past had plunged him into a place his mind had no business being. Now he just longed to be Merl the sheepherder from Three Face Mountain. Now he just wanted to be that loner.
Although he did wonder where the seer was taking him.
The moon spread a milky glow about them as they left the shelter of the strange trees behind. A brief belt of sloping pasture led up to a small building. Chiseled columns supported a shallow roof, which curled at its ends like the seer’s dwelling. Its smooth, precise walls were made of interlocking blocks of white stone that glowed silver. The heavy moon sat partly over it. Merl checked his stride, but the seer began hurrying, as if he was being drawn to the place.
“We’re here,” he called back, though his words swirled in Merl’s mind rather than piercing his ears.
Merl quickened his step when h
e felt the seer’s urgency pull him along. They came to the building, skirting its edge and stepping up onto a small stone path that trimmed the building’s front. It also marked the end of the island. Merl swayed a little, suddenly giddy. The land far below was cloaked in black, just the flowing lines of braking waves relentless under the stars.
“This,” the seer said. “This is her place. Your mother’s, and it looks east. It looks toward Three Valleys, to Morgan Mount. It looks towards you, Merl. For all these years, she’s watched over you. It was her last wish, her final essay to me.”
“But she died in Darlencia,” Merl said, turning slowly away to face the building.
It was surprisingly plain inside. The smooth walls weren’t adorned with tapestries, nor was there any furniture. A stone sarcophagus stood vertical at its end, a carving portraying a woman etched into its top. On one side of it stood a rack holding a long, thinly curved sword alongside a shorter one. On the other was a statue clad in burgundy armor.
Merl stepped in. He stopped before he’d passed over one flag. “How?”
“She had magic. It ran strong in her. When Daemon Mercer ended her, her body instantly translocated. She sent me word and gave me instruction. First, I was to send Stoor Broderick away. He was to kidnap you and take you to a sprite named Melody, and there he would receive further instruction.”
“Stoor Broderick was…” Merl enquired.
“Your father, in all but seed. Stoor Broderick was the man you knew as Dad. He was a Knight of Tintagel. He played the part of a fool very well—your life depended on it.”
“If he was a knight, why didn’t he teach me to fight?”
“And give away that you weren’t a simple peasant boy? Any deviation from your mother’s wishes would have meant failure. Stoor Broderick wasn’t a man to fail. Besides, a man can fall into a new life and forget an old one. Stoor had to become a simple man who wanted simple things. In the end, I think he actually forgot who he was, but don’t think for a minute that he was anything other than a hero. The path he followed was more testing than any battle.”
