Mórganthu stared darkly at the man. “I have thrown it in the eastern wood. If you like, remove the new and put back the old.”
The druid examined the new Stone, clearly suspecting some trap.
Mórganthu arched an eyebrow. “You are strong. Throw the new Stone away. If you dare.”
“I will.” He strode forward, and with his scar-tattooed arms, he seized one end of the dark Stone. “Curse you and your stupid Stone.”
He pushed it up, planted a hand on the other side … and howled as a blue fire simmered from the surface of the Stone.
The Stone fell back into place with a thud.
He held up his hands, and the palms were red, possibly blistered, but Garth couldn’t tell at his distance.
“Water! Water on ‘em,” the man yelled.
Trothek fumbled for a water skin at his belt and poured the liquid onto the man’s hands. They were shaking so badly that most of the water fell to the ground, useless. So Trothek steadied them with his free hand, and as he touched the man’s fingers, he exclaimed, “Your hands are cold. How is it they’re … burned?”
Others brought water as well, and the man bit his lip until a red line of blood poured down his chin.
“Who now dares move the Stone?” Mórganthu shouted. “Who dares question its power? Let him step forward.”
No one stirred.
Garth studied the rock. What secrets did it hide? Soon he couldn’t look away, nor did he want to. As he gazed, a new and delightful feeling welled up within him. A vision filled his eyes — of himself, older and stronger, dancing in celebration with thousands of revelers before Mórganthu, who sat on a golden throne. Tables and tables of smoked and roasted meats lay piled up on all sides, and Garth ate until his stomach was near to bursting.
Glory!
The pain in his stomach completely eased at last.
He longed to bow down and worship the Stone.
In his glee, Garth forgot to breathe, and dizziness made him lurch. He grabbed the side of the standing stone beside him and closed his eyes. The ache in his stomach returned, and he realized he was neglecting Mórganthu’s speech.
“… and so, as instructed by our great god Belornos,” Mórganthu continued, “we will celebrate Bel’s High Day of Fire in less than two weeks. For with fire is life and death, protection and power. Then our complete authority on the moor will be sealed as we make a sacrifice in the old way.”
Whispers of discontent rippled through the crowd. Garth didn’t understand what they grumbled about, but many of the druidow seemed to have a complaint against these last words.
Mórganthu strutted around the Stone, ignoring them. “On Beltayne night we will see who pleases Belornos to be his servant in the underworld.”
Trothek limped forward and faced Mórganthu. “S-stop! I have supported you … my arch druid, but now … you go too far. Would you strip away all our … laws of the last two hundred years?”
“What? What is this?” Mórganthu asked, his neck snaking around to peer at Trothek.
“I said … stop.” Trothek pointed his staff at Mórganthu, but his speech grew even more breathless. “Our law no longer allows … the old way of sacrificing … and … we will not … do it.”
“You question the power of the Stone?”
Trothek glanced at the powerful rock, a blue fire emanating from inside. “Not the Stone … rather your authority, your power … to command such a rite.” He spoke louder. “You lead the … druidow. But we filidow will not sacrifice … as of old.” Now he coughed violently, and a younger druid with a braided blond beard stood and supported him.
Mórganthu bent his head near Trothek’s and squinted at him. “Do not oppose me, I say.” Mórganthu’s voice sizzled. “Arch fili though you be, I will throw you out!”
Trothek cleared his throat and looked Mórganthu in the eyes with a steady gaze. “Only by lawful vote … of the six brihemow judges … could you … do such.”
“Yes, yes. Do not insult me. I know our laws,” Mórganthu said. “But you have lost your head, for your friend the arch brihem died last week at the chief gorseth of Boscawen and is not present.”
Trothek closed his mouth.
“I was with him when he died,” Mórganthu said. “Go ahead — try to oppose me!”
Trothek started to speak, but just a wheeze escaped.
The druid with the blond beard spoke up. “Shall I call the filidow to council?”
Trothek nodded. “Yes … young Caygek … do so.”
Caygek stood as tall as he could, still a head shorter than Mórganthu, and lifted his voice. “Filidow and all who would join. Hear me. The arch fili has called a council to weigh the matters before us. Convene in the pines on the eastern side of the circle!”
The news spread like fire, but hardly any from the crowd walked past Garth to join the council.
As Trothek began to limp off, Mórganthu bared his teeth and grabbed the old man’s arm.
With great difficulty Trothek ripped free and limped toward Garth. As he passed, Garth noted a large black mole on the man’s cheek, just above his beard.
Mórganthu took a few deep breaths and raised his voice. “Brothers, we shall ignore this filidow foolishness, for now is our time to worship this Stone that has been given to us for our power and freedom!”
The druidow each got on their knees and held out their hands to the Stone. A chant arose in a foreign tongue, and the men fanned their arms up and down as the song floated on. A drum beat in time to the swaying.
At first Garth saw nothing different about the Stone. But he felt his head sway with the slow rhythm of the hands. His fingers twitched to the beating of the drum. He tried to look away from the Stone to glance at Mórganthu but couldn’t.
The Stone grew larger in his vision until every detail of it gleamed. He wished to touch it, and he almost let go of the chicken leg as he lifted his hands in hopes of feeling such a delightful rock. When he found it too far away, he wanted to run to it.
The Stone emanated power.
It pulsed with the people.
Vibrated with their voices.
His heart beat to its rhythm.
Strength coursed in his blood.
He wanted to serve the Stone.
To belong to these people.
Wasn’t that odd? He’d never seen anything so beautiful.
A hand clamped over Garth’s eyes and pulled him backward. A man’s voice echoed as if from a cave, “Don’t look at the Stone … Stone. You must leave this place. Bad things are planned here … here.”
Garth pulled the hand away and blinked. He felt dizzy. The man had a blond beard, and Garth realized it was Caygek. Behind him stood Trothek.
Caygek’s brows knotted and his lips quivered.
Something dangled from Garth’s hand … a chicken leg? He became aware of the strange people around him, and a great fear clutched at his heart.
Garth slowly moved away from the circle, then taking a bite of chicken, he bolted through the woods, back the way he had come.
When Merlin next opened his eyes, everything was blurry again. The straw of his bed prickled his burning back, and he felt a wet rag hanging across his forehead. As his mind cleared, the familiar sounds of the smithy filled his ears.
He moaned, and his father stepped over from the anvil to feel his forehead. “Hopefully your fever’s gone for good.”
Merlin shook his head as his mind reeled with the things he had seen: his mother’s death and the discovery of the strange stone in the lake — the very stone Mórganthu and Anviv carried in the woods days ago. Were they visions or delirium? His throat felt as if wool had been stuffed down it, and he drank some water. “What hour is it?”
“You’ve been asleep for nearly a day. I found you on the floor yesterday afternoon, and you’ve had me worried ever since.”
“I’m feeling a bit better,” he said, and it was true.
His father slicked the hair away from Merlin’s eyes an
d went back to stoke the forge. Moments later someone rapped at the open door, a large shadow framed by the morning sun.
Merlin hoped it wasn’t Mórganthu.
“Owain, my good, good friend!” the man’s voice boomed.
Merlin’s father set his poker down. “Come in, Kiff.”
Kifferow stepped into the smoky room. “Heard Merlin was whipped. The news is everywhere.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.” Owain sighed.
Kifferow went straight to the mead bucket, just as he always did, glugged some, and belched. “D’I interrupt sumtin’?”
“Just your drinking, eh?”
Kifferow took another swig. “First drop today.”
Merlin’s father walked over, yanked the pail from the big man, and whacked him in his bulging belly. “And the last from my bucket.”
“I’m not fat … Merlin, am I fat?” Kifferow stretched taller but not any thinner.
Merlin laughed. He remembered the last time he’d shaken Kifferow’s hands. Besides smelling of sawdust, the man’s fingers had been as thick as oat bannocks and his hands slippery with sweat, the right hand more calloused than the other. But Kiff’s round silhouette told all. “Let’s just say you swallowed the bucket too.”
Kifferow burped again. “Ahh, you can’t see me through them scratches.”
“My eyes see better’n a drunkard’s, Kiff. And well enough to know you’re the biggest blur in Bosventor.”
Why did Kifferow and so many others act as if Merlin couldn’t see at all? Sure, everything looked like colored smudges and shadows, but he could get around. Take care of himself. Even —
“Hey, Kiff,” his father said, “did you hear Merlin killed a wolf two nights ago?”
“A wolf? Really? Sure it wasn’t Muscarvel dressed up in a rug? Yesterday I heard he crept near the fortress and threatened ‘em with a rotten eel.”
“Yes, Kiff, a wolf. Right here in the smithy. Broke through that window.”
“Musta wanted a drop o’ your good mead, then.”
Merlin’s father pulled some iron from the forge and hammered it into shape on the anvil. “Well, then, take a lesson, Kiff, since the wolf swallowed Merlin’s blade for it.”
Kifferow picked up a heavy pouch and shook it. Recently forged nails clinked inside. “Enough here to begin fixin’ the roof for them monks. Got any more braces?”
Owain pulled a set of iron braces from a barrel and handed them over. “Five. But I’ve got to work on the wagon. You need more?”
Kifferow grunted as he tested the strength of one of the braces. “I’ll need three more by tomorrow. Double the nails too. Hey, you got plenty o’ coal now, I hear, thanks to that wagon thief.”
Merlin took his boot and threw it at Kifferow. “He’s my friend, Kiff.” The room spun, and pain exploded through Merlin’s head, making him regret his outburst.
His father spoke up. “Leave him alone, Kiff. Just take your stuff and go, all right?”
Kifferow dragged his feet toward the door. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Keep yer mead bucket full, Owain.” And with a somber whistle, he walked out.
Owain set his hammer down and walked over to Merlin.
“By the way, I’ve got something for you.” He placed a leather-wrapped bundle in Merlin’s hands. The seams had been stitched tightly, and the parcel had a long carrying strap. At one end Merlin’s fingers found a buckle, clasped with a wooden peg.
“Where’d this come from? What is it?” he asked.
“You were sleeping when a certain someone dropped it off.” He lightly punched Merlin’s arm with the side of his fist.
Merlin winced and hoped his father didn’t notice.
“I almost sent her away before I understood. She said you can keep it. Anyway, there it is. And now I gotta get to work on that axle.”
Merlin sat in silence as his father pressed the bellows, pumping the coals into a hot orange glow. Could it have been Natalenya? After a moment Merlin found the wooden peg, loosened the buckle, and reached his hand inside the bundle. It was her practice harp.
He drew out the beautiful instrument and admired its workmanship. His fingers explored every nook and cranny, and when he touched the strings, they fairly sang on their own.
A rush of gladness swept over Merlin. Suddenly he looked forward to the hours of recovery stretching before him. He would learn to play.
Thank you, Natalenya.
CHAPTER 8
NOTHING TO HOLD ON TO
It’s been a week and a half since the trial, and you say Garth is still sulking?” Prontwon set his bone-handled quill down on the table and slid some smooth rocks around to hold the parchment flat. “How can we help him?”
Dybris sat on a bench nearby. “I don’t know. Garth hardly speaks to me.”
“Has he told you anything more about the crash? What scared him? Why’d he drive the horses so fast?”
“He’s refused to say, and I didn’t want to bother Merlin until he’s on his feet again.”
“You saw him this morning, yes? How does his back fare?”
“It’s healing well now. There’s been no more sign of infection after that first scare. Ten days of rest has done him a lot of good.”
Prontwon shook his ink pot and removed the stopper. “Good. I shall speak with him soon. As for Garth, well … I have my own suspicions as to what happened with him.”
“Anything you can share?” The whole matter had puzzled Dybris. The tales he’d heard over the last month gave him great pause. When Prontwon had asked him to join the abbey, Dybris hadn’t expected the area to be so wild and strange. Whatever had appeared in the woods, it had caused the boy to drive the magister’s wagon like a crazed fiend.
“The time may come for telling, but not yet.” Dipping his quill in the ink pot, Prontwon began copying a portion of Scripture.
“You don’t think it has anything to do with the legends about Lake Dosmurtanlin?”
“No … Garth and Merlin were up by the old stone circle when the boy got scared, not down by the lake. How many years has our good God given you, Dybris?”
“Thirty winters. Why?”
“Well, you seem too mature to be listening to Bosventor’s old wives’ tales. I never guessed you had such a fanciful imagination.”
“You don’t believe them? Isn’t it true about all of the drownings? What about Merlin’s mother?” Dybris studied Prontwon’s expression carefully. Did he imagine it, or did a flicker of tension touch Prontwon’s eyes?
“People drown all the time. That was an unfortunate accident.”
“But I’m told their bodies were never found.” Dybris paused, then decided he might as well ask what had been bothering him. “Are you sure there’s not some creature in the lake?” He leaned over, setting his elbows on the table.
“Ach, now look. You’ve made my quill slip.”
“Sorry, Abbot.” But the table hadn’t moved.
Prontwon fetched some light-brown pigment from a shelf and covered over the mistake with a brush. “People drown in the marsh too, but no one says that some dark creature lives there. And crazy Muscarvel doesn’t count.”
Dybris glanced at Prontwon. “Who’s Muscarvel?”
“An old man who lives in the marsh in some God-hidden hut. Oh yes, I’ve seen him and his rusty sword, and he is definitely no spook.” Prontwon sighed. “Anything else wrong with Garth?”
Dybris said nothing for a short time. A hundred more questions burned to be asked, but he swallowed them. “He’s still not eating much even though he’s no longer served oatmeal at every meal as punishment. Just plays with his dinner and doesn’t ask for more.”
Prontwon stopped copying and stared at Dybris. “That bad?”
Dybris nodded.
“If it is as you say, then the remedy is in his repentance.”
“Yet the bagpipe … Can we buy it back?”
Prontwon scratched his quill carefully across the page again. “It is impossible to know where the
merchant went.”
Dybris rubbed his temples and then covered his eyes. “I haven’t told Garth yet that I found it hidden in my barrel — or that we sold it.”
“For God’s love, Dybris —”
“He still thinks it’s there … I didn’t want to make matters worse. His nose twitches every time I go near the barrel.”
Prontwon slapped the table. “But the boy needed to know. It was sold last week!”
Dybris sat in silence.
Prontwon bowed his head, and his lips moved in whispered prayer.
After some time, Dybris finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Abbot, for my delay. I’ll go and tell him now.” He rose to leave, but Prontwon put a hand on his arm.
“One other thought. Garth might need a break from the abbey. Get away for a while and come back with fresher thoughts.”
“Who would take an orphan?”
“Troslam and Safrowana have a girl Garth’s age, and the Lord has given them wide and loving hearts. Garth could even earn his keep by helping with the weaving. Shall I talk with them?”
Dybris nodded, his heart lifting somewhat. “A change would certainly do him some good. But please pray while I let Garth know about the bagpipe. And forgive me, again, Abbot.”
He ducked out the door of the round house they used as a scriptorium and walked along the path to the fields, dreading what he had to tell Garth. The sun had begun to sink, and soon the small abbey bell would ring, calling the brothers in for their evening meal.
There in the distance, Offyd worked near Garth, and beyond them Brother Neot instructed a group of other monks.
Offyd was breaking up the earth, and his wooden mattock sent up sprays of dirt, while Garth’s hoe barely dented the soil.
“God’s blessing, Offyd,” Dybris called. “How is the planting today?”
“Fine … if you count blows to the ground.” He glanced at Garth. “Poor … if you count the earth we’ve broken up.”
Garth glared at Offyd but said nothing.
Dybris sat down on a hump of earth about ten yards from them and called out, “Garth, come sit with me a bit.”
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