by J A Cummings
She raised a slender eyebrow. “And how do you know this?”
“Because you referred to the Fair Folk as ‘them.’ If you were a faery, you would have said ‘us.’”
The woman chuckled. “Very clever. It is true, I am no faery. I am a goddess, and you are in my domain.”
Arthur bowed low to her. “Forgive me, my lady. I did not know you.”
Her horse bore her forward again, and this time her raven circled him before it landed on the hanging shield. It studied him closely, then returned to her shoulder.
She spoke in a quiet, almost menacing voice. “I am birth, and I am death. I am the creator and the destroyer of men. I am the lover of great warriors, and when I choose a man for mating, he will be my chosen war-leader for as long as he retains my favor. I am the ground on which you stand, the blood within your veins, and the blow that will take your head when I am finished with you. Do you know me yet?”
He went down onto his knees and bowed his head. “You are the Morrigan.”
She laughed. “The Morrigan is one of my names. I am Sovereignty. I am embodied in the queen who takes the king beside the Beltane fires. And you, little man. Who are you to be talking to me and beating on my shield?”
Arthur thought quickly, then said, “I am your next Champion, madam.”
The Morrigan rode closer. “You are a mere boy.”
He dared to look up into her face and saw a look of amusement in her eyes. “Boys become men, my lady. I will not be young forever.”
“No. Perhaps not. But then… perhaps you will.” She alit from the horse, the goblet still in her hand. Now that she was closer to his level, he could see that the cup was full of blood. “Are you brave, They-Call-Me-Arthur?”
He rose and stood before her. “I am not afraid.”
She smiled. “No?”
“No.”
“Not of anything?”
“Not of you.”
“Hmm.” She touched his face with one finger, running it down his cheek and to his bottom lip, leaving a tingling trail. She looked into his eyes, and he felt something inside him spark and start to burn. One corner of her red-lipped mouth turned up. “I see who and what you will be. If I give you my favor, what will you do with it? Will you subjugate the people in my name, for your fame and glory?”
“No.”
The Morrigan pulled back, surprised. “No?” she echoed.
“I will not subjugate the people in your name, because that would teach them to hate you. I will defend them in your name, and my honor will be your honor, and the land I take will be your land.” He took a step closer to her. “I will protect the weak and punish evil. I will deliver the heads of your people’s enemies to you in a pile.”
The goddess took his mouth in a fiery kiss, which he returned with enthusiasm. She grasped his breastplate in her hands and pulled him to her, bending her lithe body backward as she did. He went where she led him, daring to put his arms around her, spearing his tongue into her mouth. She pushed his tongue out with hers, then pushed into his mouth instead, diving in to trace lips and teeth. He tasted blood. Finally, she pulled away, smiling with lust.
“Arthur,” she said, “you have no stench of death upon you.”
“I have not killed yet,” he admitted, “but I am not afraid. If I must fight, I promise you, I will fight to win, and I will do such killing that the most bloodthirsty of the gods will be surfeited.”
She stepped away from him, her eyes sparkling. “I believe you.” She took a black ribbon from her sleeve and tied it to his right wrist. “Take this, then, Arthur, and know that you have my favor. I will be watching you.”
He held her horse so she could climb back into the saddle, and she gave him one last mischievous look. “When I come to you, you will know me by my words.”
“What words will you say?” he asked.
“I will say, ‘your destiny is here.’” She took the goblet in her hand and sipped from the ruby liquid inside of it, then held it out to him. “Here is our marriage cup. Do you drink to me, my Champion?”
He took the cup and drained it down, the salty-sweet, coppery taste filling his mouth and coursing down his throat like liquid fire. He saluted her with the empty cup. “I drink to you.”
As he spoke, the earth opened up beneath him and he was falling.
Merlin sat on the grass beside the boy, who lay trapped in the arms of his dreams. The druid chewed on a piece of grass, staring straight ahead. He was watching the children play, but in his mind, he was in the Otherworld, watching over Arthur.
Vivienne came to him from the hut where she had been watching them, her green cloak brushing over the ground like a whisper. She knelt and let her scarlet tresses fall around her face as she bent over the boy’s insensible form. With her marble-white hand, she turned his young face toward her.
“He has all the strength of his father with his mother’s grace,” she said, “and beauty all his own. His soul is touched by Arawn, without a doubt, and his destiny is shining. He will be a magnificent man.”
Merlin nodded. “If he survives that long.”
“He will, because he must. We will ensure it.” She rose and looked down at the druid, the late afternoon sun behind her head like a halo. The irony of the image made Merlin smile.
Vivienne said, “Guard him well. He will need your guidance.”
“I know.” He looked at the boy’s right wrist, which was swelling and bruising before their eyes, a thick black line appearing around it as if it had been tattooed there. The druid nodded. “He has done well.”
She touched Arthur’s face once more, a distant soft look in her eye. “When it is time, he shall shake the world.”
The summer passed like a whirlwind. Arthur spent his days practicing his fighting skills with Merlin, who was much stronger and wilier than he appeared. He continued his lessons about the old gods and the ways of the druids, and he participated in druidic ceremonies. He passed hours in philosophical conversation with Guto, the old man who had given him the dandelion wine, learning logic and rhetoric. Merlin taught him about politics, religion, military tactics and history. He grew stronger and taller, and his mind grew, as well.
He found that the biggest benefit of this constant stream of activity and lessons was that he had no time to miss Amren. The acute pain of his grief began to ease into a constant ache, still present but less biting. He still thought of him, and he missed him deeply, but he found that he was able to keep living. Now he only wept for him at night. The awkward moments in the day when something would rise up in his mind, a memory or a reminiscence that would drive him to tears, were gone.
He helped the grove with their business of living. He hunted for meat with the men, and Carys, one of the druidess healers, taught him about herbs and took him with her into the wood to search them out. He learned how to make poultices to ease swelling and the right herb pastes that kept wounds from festering. He learned which berries were good for food, which were good for visions, and which were best left alone. He only prayed to the Christian God when he thought about it, and he never saw the inside of a church. He found that the forest was a good enough substitute, and he felt no lack of closeness to divinity.
On the eve of the autumnal equinox, Merlin pulled Arthur aside and said, “We are going to on a little trip.”
“A trip? To where?”
“I want to show you the difference between a good king and a bad king. I’m going to show you one of each.”
The young man frowned. “How will you do that?”
“We’re going to observe them in action. There are two kings that I have in mind. They each have harvest festivals, where they call their people together to pay their taxes and to offer up a share of their crops. They approach the matter in distinctly different ways. I want you to watch, and when we’re done, I want you to tell me what you would do.”
Arthur nodded. “I will try to learn.”
“Good lad.”
The shimmering
overtook him, and when the disorienting feeling passed, he was standing at Merlin’s side in a dark corridor that smelled of wood smoke and sweat.
The druid gave him a moment to get his bearings, then said, “Follow me.”
They went through a labyrinth of small tunnel-like hallways, finally emerging into the bailey of a large and well-appointed castle. There were dozens of people there, along with carts filled with food stuffs and fat sheep and cattle. There were pikemen on all sides of the throng, and one by one, the people were being funneled into the keep.
“This is Gwent,” Merlin told Arthur. “The king’s name is Rions.”
“Is he the good king or the bad king?”
“Watch and tell me.”
The druid whispered a word of power, and they walked past the guards at the door without being seen. A servant bustled past them, his arms full of sacks of grain, nearly knocking them over in the process. It was clear that he didn’t see them, either.
On a high throne at the far end of the great hall, a hawk-nosed man in a hair-fringed cloak and a gleaming crown sat, leaning forward, inspecting a nanny goat that had been brought before him. The farmer who had presented her stood by nervously, his hat in his hands.
King Rions sat back. “This goat is old. Does she still give milk?”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” the farmer stammered. “Every day, she does.”
“Is this the only tribute that you’ve brought?” The king fixed his subject with a withering glare. “I hope you say no, because this is a disappointing offering.”
The farmer’s face went white. “I… this is all I have to offer, sire.”
The king glowered. “Guard! Ten.”
Arthur leaned toward Merlin. “Ten what?”
“Watch.”
A guard stepped forward and seized the farmer by the bicep, then threw him to the ground. In his right hand, he held a scourge, and he proceeded to beat the farmer ten times with the monstrous implement. The man wailed in pain and shame, but the punishment was unrelenting. Rions looked on with a smile.
“Now perhaps you will remember that when you tithe, you bring me the best of what you have.” He nodded to a soldier standing nearby. “Take this fool back to his shack and make certain he’s not holding out.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The soldier bent and hauled the whimpering farmer to his feet. He dragged the hapless men from the room.
Arthur scowled. “That was unjust.”
“So… good king or bad king?”
“I don’t have to answer that. It’s self-evident.”
“Is it?”
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and turned a withering look onto Merlin. “Of course it is.”
The druid nodded. “Well, wait until you compare him with the king we’ll see later.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Because I want you to learn.”
They stayed and watched as more farmers came before their king, bringing what they could from their harvests. It seemed to Arthur that the portions that Rions took were far more than any man could need for a winter, royal or not, and he wondered how much these peasant farmers had been able to retain to see themselves and their families through the lean months. Rions clearly didn’t care if he caused harm to his people, as the beatings he liberally ordered clearly showed.
When an old man was put to the lash, Arthur turned to Merlin. “Why is he so cruel?”
“Because he is a king, and he can do as he pleases. Nobody here will tell him otherwise.”
“Let me tell him,” he said, putting his hand to the hilt of his sword.
The druid stopped him with a strong grip on his wrist. “Do not draw that weapon. This is not the time or the place for foolish heroics.”
“If I am not allowed to intervene, then you should take me from this place. I cannot bear it.” He glared ferociously at the king. “I will remember the face of this evil man.”
“To what end?”
“To someday cut it from the rest of his head.”
Merlin was silent for a moment, his vision turned inward. He came back to himself and looked at Arthur. “So you shall. Now… for the next king.”
The strange feeling of magic travel overtook him, and when he was breathing again, he was in the middle of a throng of people wandering amid market stalls. A large and elegant but ageing castle stood nearby, its gates thrown open, a lazy guard leaning against the open oaken door with an apple in his hand. The sound of laughter and happy voices filled his ears, and there was none of the fear or anxiety that had attended the court of King Rions. There were small kiosks set up all over the castle green, set in three neat rows. Farmers and artisans were selling their wares to the happy crowd, and a juggler was performing on an upturned log. A smattering of applause accompanied his tricks.
“This is Cameliard,” Merlin told him. “The king here is Leodegrance.”
“The people seem much happier here.”
“They are. And is the happiness of the common people the best measure of the quality of the king?”
“It’s a significant measure, but I’m sure that there are others.” He stopped to allow a woman and her over-excited son to pass, smiling indulgently at the child. Merlin stopped with him.
“What others are there?”
“The security of the kingdom, the quality of the harvests, and the strength of the army,” he said immediately.
Merlin chuckled. “And what if I told you that King Rions has a more devoted army than King Leodegrance?”
Arthur considered this. “When King Rions steals from his peasants, does he share the booty with his soldiers?”
“I believe he does. And his kingdom is very strong and well defended as a result.”
The young man nodded. “But it’s not true loyalty.”
They continued walking. Merlin stopped at a kiosk and purchased two brilliantly red apples, and he gave one to Arthur. The boy took a bite and the druid asked, “Why is the loyalty not true?”
“Because it’s purchased, not freely given. As soon as he stops paying them, they will find someone else who will, and then his kingdom might as well have no army at all.” He took another bite and chewed it contemplatively. “Loyalty should be given out of love, not in return for material wealth.”
“In a perfect world, yes, I suppose,” Merlin allowed. “But this is no perfect world, and you are an idealist.”
Arthur frowned. “What’s wrong with being idealistic? You sound like you’re equating ideals with foolishness.”
“Not with foolishness. With inexperience.” He finished his apple and tossed the core to the ground, where it vanished into the soil. “As you get older and see more of life, you will realize that ideals frequently need to be compromised.”
“Compromise is all well and good, but right is always right, and wrong is always wrong.”
“Arthur,” Merlin sighed, “you will find that sometimes you must do wrong for the right reasons, and sometimes you must do hellish deeds to ensure that heavenly goals are achieved.”
A shiver of excitement pulsed through the crowd, and a trio of guards marched out of the gate ahead of a silver-haired man in a red velvet robe. At his side was a beautiful young woman, tall and willowy with raven hair that cascaded down her back. She was clad in gleaming white and silver, and she seemed to shimmer as she walked. She was the most beautiful woman Arthur had ever seen.
“Merlin,” he breathed, “who is that?”
“That is King Leodegrance.”
“But who is with him?”
The druid looked at the king’s beautiful companion, and a flicker of dismay crossed his face. “That is Guinevere. She is one of the Ladies of the Lake.”
Arthur’s eyes were fixed on her. “She is fey?”
“A sea nymph princess, daughter of Manawydan fab Llyr. She is the ward of the Fey King, Fergus Mor Mac Eirc.” Merlin looked at Arthur, then away again. “She is here with Leodegrance as his guest, learning the ways of
humans.”
Guinevere was leaning close to the king, a smile on her face as she listened to him. The people bowed to them as they passed, and Leodegrance graced his subjects with nods and kind words. It was evident that the people adored their sovereign, and that he doted upon the beauty at his side.
“Why does she need to learn the ways of humans?” Arthur asked.
“Fey politics. Pay it no mind at the moment,” Merlin hedged. “Arthur, stop staring. It’s becoming awkward.”
The fey princess looked up at that moment, and her extraordinary deep blue eyes met Arthur’s. She stopped walking, her hand slipping from the king’s arm, and the two of them stared at one another in surprise. Without taking his eyes from her face, Arthur bowed to her. She inclined her head to him. Merlin rolled his eyes.
Guinevere noticed the druid standing at Arthur’s side, and her delicate brows rose. Merlin cursed and took Arthur’s arm.
“Enough of this. Now is not the time.”
He shook him, but Arthur barely noticed. Guinevere was walking toward him, gliding like a swan on the surface of a placid lake. His palms were beginning to sweat. Just before she reached him, Merlin cast his spell, and they vanished into the swimming energy of magical travel.
They emerged in the druid grove, just outside Merlin’s own hut. Arthur was frustrated and angry. “Why did you take us? She was going to speak to me!”
“That is precisely why I took us. You cannot meet her yet. You should not have seen her at all. She is not meant for you. Believe me, Arthur, she looks like a treasure, but she will be the greatest sorrow of your life and will be the cause of your ruin.”
The youth threw his hands up in agitation. “That’s nonsense. What could she do to ruin me? And why would a princess, a Lady of the Lake, no less, ruin anyone?”
Merlin sighed. “Trust me on this, Arthur. Put her from your mind.”
“But -”
“Have you forgotten Amren so soon?”
It was a low blow, and they both knew it. Arthur’s face blanched, and he blinked as if Merlin had just slapped him. In a way, he had. He answered in a husky voice. “I have never forgotten him, and I never will.”
