by J A Cummings
Tomorrow would be interesting, to say the least.
He woke with a pounding headache and a feeling of bottomless emptiness. Arthur turned his head toward where Amren had lain, but as he both expected and feared, his lover was gone as if he had never been. The sunlight streamed through the open flap to his hut like an insult, and he closed his eyes against it with a groan.
He wondered if Amren had really come to him last night, or if it had been a dream caused by the herbal drink he had consumed. He didn’t know if it would be better or worse for it to have been real. He wished that the whole night had been nothing but a phantasm, but the thick smell from the pyre outside told him that certain things had been real enough.
Arthur sat up slowly, moving carefully until he could catch his balance. It was well into the day, judging by the brightness of the sky, but the grove was silent and still. No doubt the rest of the denizens of this place were as undone by the celebration as he was, himself. He sighed and put his head in his hand.
His body felt both relaxed and tired, and there was an unaccustomed ache between his legs. He reached down and touched himself, and he found the sticky proof that last night had been no dream. He stared at the evidence on his fingers. Amren had been here, and had been real enough. He was caught by the moment, his rational mind trying to hold onto what his heart was telling him. He had been with his lover again last night, as if death had never come between them.
Arthur closed his eyes and said a prayer for the peaceful repose of his lover’s soul. He prayed to the Christian God, then almost guiltily added a prayer to Arawn, the god of the underworld. Between the two of them, he thought, they should have been able to protect his love on his journey to whatever came after this life ended.
He managed to stand without falling over and dressed again, this time putting on his armor as well. He gathered up his saddlebag, still packed from the day before, and went to find his horse.
When he emerged from his hut, he was surprised to find Merlin leading Avona toward him. Instead of his druid robes, Merlin was wearing his black armor, a sword at his hip. The old warhorse was fully saddled and ready, and when they reached him, Arthur put the saddlebag over the animal’s back. He turned and looked at the place where the wicker man had stood, where now there was just a pile of ashes with a thin trail of smoke still rising from its center. There was no sign of Enfys.
Merlin said softly, “I know you don’t approve, but this has been our people’s way for centuries.”
“I don’t care.” Arthur turned angry, judgmental eyes onto the druid. “I will never support the slaughter of innocents, people or animals, in that way. It was brutal and perverse.”
“There are more perverse practices in the world, my boy, and you can trust me on that.” Merlin sounded unimpressed and almost bored with Arthur’s argument. “You are a true idealist. That, in its way, is good. It will serve you in the role you are to play in the future.”
Arthur groaned and turned back toward the horse. “I’m getting very tired -”
“Tired of me and my vagueness. I know.” Merlin put a hand on Avona’s flank, stroking him. “You will know the answers you seek before the end of Yuletide. I promise you that.”
He was surprised. Merlin had never promised him anything before. “You promise?”
“On my honor.” He smirked. “Such as it is.”
“I will hold you to that.”
“By all means, do. If I have not told you everything by the end of your Christmas celebration, then something has gone seriously amiss.” He held Avona while Arthur swung up into the saddle. “Now… let us return you to your father, shall we?”
“Absolutely.”
The feeling of drowning on dry land overtook him again, and suddenly he was in the courtyard of his childhood home. The sight of the old keep filled him with happiness, and the scent of something wonderful cooking in the kitchen made him smile. It was good to be home.
In the tiltyard, two knights were jousting, their lances straight and steady as they hurtled together. The horses’ hooves pounded like thunder. They collided in the center of the lists, lances striking shields with a crash. One knight was propelled backward out of the saddle and fell head over heels into the dirt, where he landed face down. Griflet, the squire on the field, ran to the fallen man, and Arthur dismounted to follow. Merlin stopped him with a shake of his head.
“He’s fine.”
Griflet helped the fallen knight sit up while the victorious rider came closer, leaning down in the saddle to speak to his vanquished foe. The loser of the bout flipped up his visor, and Sir Kay’s face, red with embarrassment, appeared. Arthur grinned to see his brother once again. The other knight turned so that Arthur could see his shield, and he knew from the heraldry that this was Sir Brastias.
“See?” Merlin asked. “No harm done. He ends most of his jousts that way.”
Arthur chuckled. A shout rose from the keep, and he turned to see Sir Ector racing toward him, arms outstretched, a wide smile on his bearded face. Arthur turned and met his foster father with an embrace of his own. They held one another tightly, manfully pounding one another on the back. Sir Ector stood back.
“Let me take a look at you. I do believe you’ve grown taller.” He put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and beamed at him. “Welcome home, son.”
Behind him, Lady Garwen smiled and joined them at a more leisurely pace. “Good day, Arthur,” she greeted. “Everyone will be thrilled that you’ve come back.”
Sir Ector turned to Merlin. “Thank you for keeping him safe while he was away.”
“It was my solemn duty.” He looked at Arthur and said, “I think he found his stay with us most enlightening.”
Arthur hesitated, then said, “I learned a great deal.”
“Excellent.” Sir Ector gripped his shoulder. “You look so like a man now, it’s hard to believe you’re still just a boy.”
“With all due respect, Sir Ector,” Merlin said softly, “this is no boy who stands before you now. He is a man in all the ways that matter.”
There was a strangeness in the druid’s tone that made Arthur stare, and Sir Ector seemed uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and put his arm around his shoulders, pulling him subtly closer, as if he was trying to take Arthur away from Merlin and out of his control. He led him toward the paddock.
“Kay! Brastias! The prodigal has returned!”
Arthur grinned as he was enthusiastically welcomed by his brother, who grabbed him in a punishing hug that nearly suffocated him. Arthur was grateful for his breastplate, which kept him from being completely smashed by Kay’s armor.
“So good to see you!” Kay enthused, showing more warm emotion than he had ever shown before. It was almost enough to make Arthur wonder if perhaps he was an impostor. They thumped one another’s backs, and his brother said, “Now that you’re back, you can start being my squire again. Having one squire for three knights has been ridiculous.”
He chuckled. Of course Kay had to couch his welcome in self-centeredness to make it seem less loving than it was. He stepped back and smiled into his brother’s face. “I’m happy to see you, too. I’ve missed you, believe it or not.”
Kay smirked. “Impossible.”
Brastias greeted Arthur with a smile and a nod. “Welcome back, young Arthur. You will have to tell us all about life at Ynys Môn.”
Sir Ector turned to Merlin. “Will you be staying for dinner?”
The druid shook his head. “I thank you for the offer of hospitality, but I have many places to go and not much time. There is much I need to do before I see you again.” He clasped Arthur’s forearm. “When we meet again, I will answer your questions.”
Arthur nodded. “Thank you. That will be greatly appreciated.”
Merlin smiled. “I know.” He took a step back and disappeared into a shimmer of light.
Sir Brastias shook his head. “I hate when he does that.”
Garwen crossed herself. “They say he’s part
devil.”
“People say many things,” Arthur said. “I don’t know if he’s part demon or part devil, but he has amazing powers and has done some horrible things.”
“To you?”
The alarm and implicit growl in his foster father’s voice made Arthur smile. “Near me.”
“Well…” Ector put his arm around him again as Ewain appeared to take care of Avona and Lucan saw to Brastias’s mount, waving happily to Arthur as he took control of the reins. “I won’t let him take you away from me again.”
“Thank you, Father.” His voice sounded far more relieved than he had intended it to, and he felt Ector stiffen. He took a breath. “Father, they killed a girl in the grove. They murdered her and burned her body as a sacrifice.”
His father stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, his eyes fierce. Arthur took a step back automatically. “Did you participate in their ritual?”
“No, sir,” he said quickly. “But… but I also didn’t do anything to stop them.”
Ector clenched his jaw and chewed on his silence for a moment, then said, “You were outnumbered and in no position to resist a grove full of druids. That is the bloody side of the Old Ways. I am sorry that you witnessed it.”
“So am I.” Arthur felt a wave of guilt crash over him, and he asked, “Am I in time for Mass today?”
“You are.”
“I need to see Father Marcus first.”
Sir Ector faced him. “My son, witnessing something horrible does not make you a party to it. You saw pagan sacrifice, but you were not responsible for it. You have nothing to confess.”
Arthur looked away. If only that were true. “I drank their herbal drug last night. I saw Amren.”
His father blinked in surprise. “You saw him how?”
“He came to me. In my hut. He…” He caught himself before he said too much, altering the words he was going to say. “He came to me and he took my hand, and he was solid and real. Father, can a ghost be real? Can a ghost feel like flesh and blood?”
“I…” Ector clenched his teeth again, and Arthur could see him mulling over his words. Finally he said, “I have no knowledge of ghosts or revenants, but in the magic of a druid grove, I suppose anything is possible. You were unharmed, though, I can tell. You look strong and fit. Think no more about it.”
He wanted to say more, but his father’s expression told him that questions would be unwelcome. Ector was clearly uncomfortable with the subject and wanted it to be changed as soon as possible. Arthur nodded. “Yes, Father.”
“Good. Now come inside and unpack. You’re not leaving again anytime soon.”
Merlin went first to Londinium to check on the sword in the stone. It still stood the way he’d left it, although now there were people gathering around it to tug at the weapon. It refused to budge, as Merlin knew it would. He knew the only one who could free that sword.
When he was satisfied that no enterprising fool had decided to resort to a hammer and chisel to take the prize, he went to make his rounds. It was time that the petty kings knew about the test to come.
His first stop was in Rheged, where he found King Uriens teaching young Prince Owain how to use a sword. When Merlin arrived, the king had just knocked the weapon from his child’s hand. Uriens raised his booted foot and kicked Owain in the chest, sending him sprawling. The boy looked up with a ferocious glare and sprang back up onto his feet.
“Pick it up,” Uriens ordered, “and by all the gods, if you drop it again, I will give you a thrashing you will never forget!”
“I suppose straight-forward abuse is one way to train a swordsman,” Merlin said, startling the king, who had not seen his appearance.
Uriens scowled at him. “I will teach my boy as I see fit,” he spat. “What do you want?”
“I come with news about the High Kingship.”
He now had Uriens’ undivided attention. The king turned to face him. “What news?”
“A test has been devised that will reveal the true High King to us all. If you wish to contend for the title, then come to Londinium on Yule and try your hand.”
With narrowed eyes, he asked, “What test?”
Merlin folded his arms. “There is a sword in a stone in the cathedral courtyard. The sword is enchanted, and only Pendragon’s true heir will be able to draw it free.”
“Enchanted?” Uriens snorted. “By you?”
“Of course.”
“Then it will only move for the one you have chosen. That is not a valid test.”
“I enchanted it to detect truth, not to detect one man over another,” he protested mildly, “but you will believe what you like. Come to Londinium or don’t...it makes no difference to me.”
The king of Rheged slashed at the air with his sword in frustration, and Owain ducked out of the way. “Fine! We will go to Londinium. Bloody hell… that’s a long ride, and with winter coming in…”
Merlin shrugged. “Take your chance or don’t. I don’t care.”
Uriens glowered at him. “You know that I won’t stay away.”
The druid smiled. “Yes. I know.”
Merlin busied himself with visiting a host of petty kings. He went to King Leodegrance of Cameliard and to King Escanor of the White Mountain. He went to Lyonesse, where King Rivalen was too busy mourning his dead wife to receive his visit. He went to King Pelles of Corbenic, who suffered from a wounded thigh that would not heal, and to Marcus Cunomorus in Kernow. He went to King Ban and King Bors, the brother kings in Armorica, and told them of the test at the same time. He even told their Frankish neighbor, the insatiable King Claudas, who was mid-orgy when Merlin arrived. He went from court to court, calling upon the likeliest and unlikeliest candidates in turn. He even went to Prince Madoc, Uther Pendragon’s illegitimate son, and told him of the contest. Madoc set out for Londinium before Merlin had even left his camp. His last set of visits took him north, first to the Pictish warlord Huail and then to King Bagdemagus of Gore. Last, by design, he called upon King Lot.
Lot’s realm was in the far north of Britannia, spanning from Lothian in the south to the Orkney Islands that reached across the sea toward the land of his birth, Norway. Lot had been born in that cold country as Lothar, and he had come with his fellows to the Orkneys, borne in a dragon boat and blessed with a singularly bloody mind. Merlin had watched in a combination of concern and admiration as the simple sea raider had turned himself into a king, conquering the islands and the highlands of Caledonia and slaughtering all dissent until he sat uncontested upon his dragon throne. He had served beside Uther Pendragon in his wars against the Saxons, and for his trouble, he was given the eldest of Queen Igraine’s daughters, the beautiful Morgause.
Unlike Uriens, who had treated his princess bride with cruelty and contempt, Lot had taken Morgause as a true wife. He did not lay with her until she accepted him freely, and their marriage bed had been blessed by four strong sons. The eldest of these, Gawain, was now beginning to serve his father as a squire, and Merlin had seen greatness in the boy. Of all of the petty kings, he expected the most trouble out of Lot, if only because he was both calculating and competent, a combination that none of the others had been able to manage.
Lot summered in the Orkney Islands at the Broch of Brodgar, but with winter coming, he had moved his court farther south to Din Eidyn, close by the water. Merlin enjoyed the city, recently taken by force from the Gododdin. It was one of the few cities in Britannia that had never heard the clamor of Roman soldiers.
The keep was essentially a massive stone tower with a cluster of square buildings around its base. It had begun as a broch, one of the Pictish tower forts, and Lot had fortified it and added on stone constructions based on the Norse longhouses of his childhood. It was a difficult place to breach, and Lot had only taken it because of subterfuge. Exactly what that skullduggery had been and how it had come to pass was anyone’s guess, but the fact remained that somehow, despite the fortress’s nigh-impregnability, Lot had taken the place with
barely any losses among his men. The feat had made him a legend.
Merlin walked up to the south-facing gate and announced himself to the guards who stood there in scale mail and bronze plate emblazoned with Lot’s double-headed eagle standard. “Merlin the Enchanter to see King Lot.”
He spoke in Gaelic, and the first guard looked at him so blankly that he wondered if he should have chosen Pictish. The second guard, though, was more alert, and he banged his halberd on the gate while he shouted to the men inside. “Open the gate and send a herald to His Majesty! Merlin is here!”
There was a flurry of activity on the parapet and on the other side of the gate, and then the drawbridge opened with the grinding clank of chains. It fell at Merlin’s feet, fitted perfectly into the paving stones of the courtyard. He smiled at the dim-witted guard and walked inside.
He repeated the process at three more gates before he reached the entrance to the keep. The last door was opened by the seneschal, a tattooed Pict whose name was unknown to him. The man bowed as Merlin passed.
In the keep, Lot sat on his dragon throne, his beautiful young queen perched on his lap. Morgause had flashing dark eyes and masses of ebon hair braided into one shining plait. Her lips were dark red from cosmetics, and kohl lined her eyes to make her look like a cat. Merlin had seen similar eyes in Alexandria and Memphis in centuries gone by. The style suited her well, for Morgause had always reminded him of a feline, one that was only as tamed as she wished to be.
Lot himself was an imposing figure, even seated. His shoulders were broad, and he had a barrel chest with thick, muscular thighs. His hands were large and square, a warrior’s hands, and his back was unbowed. His blond hair was beginning to show strands of gray, but his piercing blue eyes were just as sharp and acute as they’d ever been. Merlin smiled.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted, deliberately violating local custom by speaking before the sovereign.
Morgause smirked and Lot said, “Enchanter.”
Beside the throne, standing nearly as tall as a grown man and displaying early hints of a powerful physique, Lot’s heir Gawain watched and listened. He had inherited shrewd intelligence from both of his parents, and his own sharp blue eyes, darker than Lot’s but still the color of a summer sky, missed little.
