Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I had half-hoped he might have cooled to the idea and would release me from my promise. But having fastened onto a thing, Uther was not a man to let go easily. Come what may, he would see it through.

  So, gathering my cloak about me, I began walking in sunwise circles around the fire, holding my staff high. In the Old Tongue, the secret tongue of the Learned Brotherhood, I uttered the ancient words of power that would part the veil between this world and the Otherworld. At the same time I prayed Lord Jesu to give me wisdom to discern aright the things I saw.

  I stopped walking and turned to the fire, opening my eyes to search among the glowing coals. I saw the heat shimmer, the deep hot crimson…the images:

  A woman standing on the wall of a fortress on a high promontory, her hair flying in auburn streams as the wind lifts her unbound tresses, and gulls flying, shrieking above her while the sea beats restlessly below…

  A milk-white horse cantering along a river ford, riderless, the high-backed, heavy saddle empty, the reins dangling, dangling…

  Yellow clouds lowering over a dusky hillside where a war-host lies slaughtered, spears bristling like a grove of young ash trees, while ravens gorge on the meat of dead men…

  A bride weeping in a shadowed place, alone…

  Bishops and holymen bound in fetters of iron and marched through the ruins of a desolated city…

  A huge man sitting in a small boat on a reed-fringed lake, the sun glinting in his golden hair, eyes lightly closed, his empty hands folded upon his knees…

  A Saecsen war axe hacking at the roots of an ancient oak…

  Men with torches bearing a burden up a hill to a great burial mound set within an enormous stone circle…

  Black hounds baying at a white winter moon…

  Starving wolves tearing one of their own to pieces in the snow…

  A man in a monk’s woolen tunic skulking along a deserted street, glancing backward over his shoulder, sweating with fear, his hands clutching a vial such as priests carry for anointing…

  The cross of Christus burning above a blood-spattered altar…

  A babe lying in the long grass of a hidden forest glade, crying lustily, a red serpent coiled about his tiny arm…

  The images spun so fast as to become confused and disjointed. I closed my eyes and raised my head. I had seen nothing of Pascent, nor anything that would help Uther directly. Nevertheless, when I opened my eyes again I saw a strange thing:

  A newborn star, brighter than any of its brothers, shining like a heavenly beacon high in the western sky.

  In the same moment, my awen descended over me. “Behold, Uther!” I cried, my voice loud with authority. “Look you to the west and see a marvel: a new-made star flares in God’s heaven tonight, the herald of tidings both dire and wonderful. Pay heed if you would learn what is to befall this realm.”

  Men exclaimed around me as they found the star. Some prayed, others cursed and made the sign against evil. But I watched only the star, gathering brightness, growing, soon shining as if to rival the sun itself. It cast shadows upon the land, and its rays stretched forth to the east and the west, and it seemed to me that it was the fiery maw of a fierce, invincible dragon.

  Uther stood up from his chair, his face bathed in the unnatural light. “Merlin!” he shouted. “What is this? What does it mean?”

  At his words my body began to tremble and shake. I staggered dizzily and leaned on my staff, overswept by a sudden onrushing of sorrow which pierced me to the heart. For I understood the meaning of the things I had seen. “Great Light, why?” I cried aloud. “Why am I born to such sorrow?” So saying, I sank to my knees and wept.

  Uther came and knelt beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder and whispered softly, “Merlin, Merlin, what has happened? What have you seen? Tell me; I will bear it.”

  When at last I could speak, I raised my head and peered into his anxious face. “Uther, are you there? Uther, prepare yourself,” I sobbed. “Woe and grief to us all: your brother is dead.”

  This revelation caused a sensation. Men cried out in disbelief and anguish.-“Aurelius dead! Impossible!…Did you hear what he said?…What? The High King dead? How?”

  Uther stared in astonished disbelief. “It cannot be. Do you hear, Merlin? It cannot be.” He turned his gaze to the star. “There must be some other meaning. Look again and tell me.”

  I shook my head. “Great is the grief in this land tonight and for many nights to come. Aurelius has been killed by Vortigern’s son. While we chased Pascent throughout the realm, he has dealt in treachery, sending a kinsman to murder the High King in his own chamber with poison.”

  Uther groaned and fell forward, stretching himself full-length upon the ground. There he wept without shame, like an orphaned child. The warband looked on, tears shining in more than one pair of eyes, for there was not a man among them who would not have gladly traded life for life with his beloved Aurelie.

  When at last Uther raised himself up, I said, “There is more, Uther, that is betokened. You are a warrior without peer in all this land. In seven days’ time you will be made king, and great shall be your renown among the people of Britain. You will reign in all strength and authority.”

  Uther nodded unhappily, not much consoled by these words.

  “This also I have seen: the star that shines with the fire of a dragon is you, Uther; and the beam cast out from its mouth is a son born of your noble lineage, a mighty prince who will be king after you. A greater king will never be known in the Island of the Mighty until the Day of Judgment.

  “Therefore, arm the warband at once and march boldly with the star to light your path, for at sunrise tomorrow in the place where three hills meet you shall put an end to Pascent and Guilomar. Then let you return to Londinium, there to take up the crown of your dead brother.”

  Finished, my awen left me and I slumped back, suddenly weak with exhaustion. Sleep rolled in dark waves over me, drowning all senses. Pelleas lifted me to my feet and guided me to my tent, where I fell asleep at once.

  Well, it was a night for dreams. Though my body slumbered, my mind was filled with restless images that fought in my fevered brain. I remember I saw much of blood and fire, and men whose lives in this worlds-realm had not yet begun. I saw the swarming Darkness massing for war, and the land trembling under a vast impenetrable shadow. I saw children growing up who had never known a day’s peace. I saw women whose wombs were barren from fear, and men who knew no craft or trade but battle. I saw ships fleeing the shores of Britain, and others hastening toward the Island of the Mighty. I saw disease and death and kingdoms wasted by war.

  And, dread of all dreads, I saw Morgian.

  She, who I most feared to see in the flesh, met me in a dream. And though it chills the marrow in my bones to tell it, she appeared most happy to see me. She welcomed me—as if I were a traveler come to her door—saying, “Ah, Merlin, Lord of the Fair Folk, Maker of Kings, I am glad to see you. I was beginning to think you had died.”

  She was formidable; she was beautiful as dawn, and deadly as venom. Morgian was hate in human form, but she was not human anymore: the last of her humanity she had given over to the Enemy in exchange for power. And she was powerful beyond imagining.

  But even her power did not extend to harming men through their dreams. She might frighten, she might insinuate, she might persuade, but she could not destroy. “Why do you not speak, my love? Does fear bind your tongue?”

  In my dream, I answered forthrightly, “You are right when you speak of fear, Morgian, for I do fear you full well. But I know your weakness, and I have learned the strength of the Lord I serve. I will live to see you destroyed.”

  She laughed charmingly, and darkness leapt up around her. “Dear nephew, what must you think of me? Have I ever done you harm? Come, you have no reason to speak so to me. But as you profess an interest in the future, I would speak to you.”

  “We have nothing to say to one another.”

  “Nevertheless, I will spea
k and you will listen: your unreasoning hatred of the Old Way, of your own past, cannot continue. It will not be tolerated, Merlin. If you persist, you will be sacrificed. And that would be such sorrow to me.”

  “Who has told you to tell me this?” I already knew, but I wanted her to say.

  “Fear not him who has the power to destroy the body, rather fear him with the power to destroy the soul—is that not what poor, blind Dafyd taught?”

  “Name your lord, Morgian!” I challenged her.

  “You have had your warning. If not for me, you would have been killed long ago, but I interceded for you. See? You owe me a debt, Merlin. Do you understand? When next we meet, I will be repaid.”

  “Oh, you shall indeed have your reward, Princess of Lies,” I told her boldly—much more boldly than I felt. “Now get you away from me.”

  She did not laugh this time, but her icy smile could have stopped the warm heart beating in the breast. “Farewell, Merlin. I will wait for you in the Otherworld.”

  While I slept, Uther heeded the counsel I had given him. He ordered the warband to be armed and when the horses were saddled, they made their way to the place I had indicated: Penmachno, a high valley formed by the convergence of three hills, well known from ancient times as a gathering place.

  They traveled all night, the strange star lighting their way, and arrived at Penmachno as a sullen dawn colored the sky in the east. There, just as I had said, lay Pascent and Guilomar encamped. At the sight of the elusive foe, all fatigue left the warriors and, lashing their horses to speed, they fell like silent death upon the unsuspecting enemy.

  The battle proved a bloody and brutal affair. Guilomar, naked from his bed, led his warriors to the fight and was run through by the very first spear thrust. Seeing their king fall in the foremost rank, the Irish voiced a great shout of anguish and determined to avenge their chieftain.

  Pascent, on the other hand, had not the stomach for a fair fight and immediately sought how best to make his escape. He pulled an old cloak over himself, caught the reins of a horse, and galloped from the battlefield. Uther saw him fleeing and gave chase, crying, “Stay, Pascent! We have a debt to settle!”

  Uther caught the coward and struck him with the flat of his sword; Pascent fell from the saddle and sprawled on his back on the ground, squealing with fear and pleading for his life.

  “As you would have your father’s portion,” Uther said, dismounting, his sword lowered, “come, I will give you your desire.” With that he thrust the sword through Pascent’s mouth so the point went deep into the earth. Pascent died writhing like a snake. “There, dwell you now with Guilomar, your trusted companion, and possess the land together.”

  Leaderless and unmanned, the Irish made a poor fight as Uther’s warriors, frustrated by the long and futile campaign, exacted revenge for their dead countrymen.

  The fight was over by the time Pelleas and I reached the battlefield. We sat our horses in a yellow dawn atop one of the hills overlooking Penmachno and saw what I had foreseen in the embers: warriors lying dead upon a hillside thick with spears like an ash grove. Carrion birds croaked, flocking to their morbid feast, their gleaming black beaks worrying the flesh from the corpses in bloody strips.

  Uther allowed the warband to plunder the Irish camp and then remounted them and turned back toward Londinium. Five days later we were met on the road by some of Lord Morcant’s chieftains. “Hail, Uther,” they called as they joined us. “We bear grievous tidings from Governor Melatus. The High King is dead of poison from one called Appas, a kinsman of Vortigern.”

  Uther nodded, his mouth tight, and glanced at me. “How was this accomplished?”

  “By stealth and trickery, lord,” the foremost rider answered bitterly. “The craven clothed himself after one of Urbanus’ kind and gained Aurelius’ confidence. Thus, he won his way to the High King’s chamber and gave him to drink of a draught he had made—to celebrate the King’s wedding, he said.” The rider paused, distaste twisting his mouth. “The High King drank and slept. He awoke in the night screaming with the fever and died before morning.”

  “What of Ygerna?” asked Uther, his voice betraying no emotion. “Did she drink as well?”

  “No, lord. The queen had returned with her father to Tintagel for her dower and was to join the king at Uintan Caestir.”

  Uther appeared thoughtful. “What of this Appas?”

  “He could not be found in the governor’s palace. Nor was he to be found in all the city, lord.”

  “Yet, I say that he will be found,” uttered Uther softly. The cold menace in his voice cut like a blade of ice. “All gods bear witness: on the day that he is discovered he shall share in his friends’ reward which he has won by his own hand.” Then he straightened in his saddle and asked aloud, “Where have they lain my brother?”

  “By his own wish, and by Urbanus’ order, the High King has been buried at the place of the hanging stones, called the Giant’s Ring.” The rider hesitated, then said, “It was also his wish that you hold the realm after him.”

  “Very well, we will turn aside there and pay him honor,” replied Uther simply. “Then let us ride to Caer Uintan where I will have my kingmaking. I tell you the truth, Londinium has grown abhorrent to me and I will never again enter that odious city while I draw breath.”

  That was one vow Uther held all his remaining days.

  12

  When the false-hearted Lord Dunaut heard of Aurelius’ death, he called his advisors together and rode to Lord Gorlas’ holding in Tintagel to discuss how they might best profit by this sudden and unexpected turn of events. He also sent word to Coledac, Morcant, and Ceredigawn to join them. It did not take the Sight to see what they intended.

  To his credit, Gorlas, although he welcomed Dunaut and extended the hospitality of hall and hearth to him, refused to participate in any talk of rebellion. Even later, when Coledac and Morcant arrived, Gorlas kept faith with Aurelius, out of respect for the High Kingship and for his daughter’s sake.

  “But Aurelius is dead,” Dunaut argued. “Your oath returns now to you. And until you give it again, you are free.”

  “You yourself might be High King,” put in Coledac, believing no such thing. “Then you would not be breaking faith at all.”

  “I have more honor than that!” protested Gorlas. “Yours is a trick of words and has no substance.”

  “It makes no sense to me,” Morcant complained. “You speak of honor and trickery in the same breath—as if we had no thought at all for the good of the realm. We need a strong king to hold the land. Aurelius is gone and since from death there is no return, we must do what we can to honor him by keeping the peace of this land.”

  “I will honor him keeping my oath.” Gorlas would not be moved.

  Although he loved Aurelius and wished with all his heart to honor him, he loved his daughter most dearly. And, in the end, it was his love for Ygerna that proved his undoing.

  Uther, of course, could not abide this insult to his kingship, and it angered him that he was not unanimously acclaimed as High King—all the more since before his death Aurelius had ordained that Uther should follow him and complete the good works he had begun. Also, he loathed the prospect of having to fight old battles over again, battles he had himself won the first time.

  Nor was that all that labored in Uther’s heart, to be sure.

  Therefore, when Ceredigawn, whose lands Uther had saved by vanquishing Pascent and Guilomar, sent word that the kings were meeting in secret in Gorlas’ rockbound stronghold in the west country, Uther delayed not a moment, but gathered such warriors as he commanded and any who could be summoned at once, and off they rode to Tintagel.

  It was high summer, with days bright as new-burnished blades and nights mellow as honeyed mead, and, our work finished, Pelleas and I had returned to Ynys Avallach.

  My pact had been with Aurelius, not with Uther. And despite all I had done for him, Uther made it abundantly clear to me after his crowning that he did
not require my services as counselor. So be it. In truth, I was glad for a rest.

  Thus, knowledge of the events at Tintagel reached me slowly and very late. By then the deeds were accomplished and the seeds well and truly sown.

  It is a curious thing, I am thinking, that I, who have so often stood at the center of world-shaping events I could not prevent, should so often be absent from those I could have done something about. When I think of the wounds I could have prevented, the bloodshed I could have saved…well, it makes my heart ache.

  Great Light, you do not make it easy on a man!

  Yet, I sojourned with the Fair Folk a goodly while, and allowed the serenity of Avallach’s excellent isle to mend my troubled spirit. I had nursed such hopes for Aurelius; he possessed such high promise. His death could not be lightly borne. Still, I remembered the prophecy given me, which I had spoken to Uther, that a son of his noble line should be born which would surpass even Aurelius. In this I took comfort, though I little knew or guessed how or when this should come about.

  As I have said, the illumining spirit, like the wind, goes where it will, and sheds a light that all-too-often obscures as much as it reveals.

  Charis was pleased to have me with her again. She had learned to treasure our times together—she always did that, yes—without yearning for them to be something more. There is a love which suffocates, just as there is a love which quenches the flame that gives it light and life. These loves are false, and Charis had long ago learned the difference between false love and true.

  She now spent her days in healing works; she had learned much of medicines and their properties, and how to cure various wounds and diseases. She traded knowledge with the monks of the Holy Shrine—as well as with those of the Hill Folk she came in rare contact with—and practiced her art at the nearby monastery where those suffering from illness or hurt came seeking aid.

  We spent many happy days together, and I would have remained content on the Tor indefinitely if not for Uther’s urgent summons. Two riders appeared one evening looking for me at the church below the Hill Shrine. The monks told them where to find me, and although the sky still held daylight enough, they waited until the next day to come—fearing to approach the Tor after sunset.