“We both might have died. And Gwevian as well.”
“Die with me, then!”
Igerna knelt beside her husband with a steady hand on Uther’s sword arm. “Mercy, Uther,” she pleaded. “Did you not risk all for me? For my love?”
“That was different.” Uther swore, but the blade backed off, and Owain dared a breath.
“What price for our love?” she asked Uther. “What would you do to save my life?”
Uther leaped off Owain and away from his wife. He threw his sword into the tall grass and yelled on his way back to the Rock of Judgment, “A thousand Prithager! And you wouldn’t stand beside me. Ahh! The death I saw that day.”
Owain sat up and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry … I ask your forgiveness.” His gaze shifted briefly to the crowd, which looked on as if in shock.
Igerna returned to her place on the bench and looked to her husband, pity and hope reflecting in her eyes.
“As a token of my sorrow,” Owain said, “I bring you a gift.”
He called Merlin, who stood and stepped over to Owain. Receiving the sword from his son, he unwrapped it and held it carefully by the blade with the hilt aloft. Reflecting the morning light, its newly polished steel blazed forth before the silent crowd. Its bronze handle glowed warmly, and the red glass inlay on the guard and pommel shimmered before the High King’s startled eyes.
“My lord, I failed to be the blade beside you, so I now offer you this blade. I am but a smith now. A swordsmith. And I give to you my most excellent work.”
Stepping forward, Owain placed the hilt in Uther’s hand, then backed away.
Uther looked vacantly at the blade … and then his shoulders began to shake. He raised the sword up, and shouted, “I should strike your head off for all you deserve.” He threw the sword down on the Rock of Judgment with a clang and turned away.
Sadness rolled through Owain as part of his soul dashed away with the discarded sword. It had been bitter parting the first time. Could he bear it twice? How could he show his sorrow? Was there anything to break through Uther’s pain?
Movement from behind caught Owain’s eye. Colvarth, the old bard, took a step forward, holding his harp and staring with luminous eyes. At Owain? Or someone else? Who was the man looking at?
Merlin.
The bard gazed at Owain’s son, who was sitting on the grass and had unslung his own small harp from its bag. Merlin’s eyes were tightly shut, and he silently fingered the strings as if to relieve the pressure of the situation.
Colvarth. Yes, of course. An idea buried deep within Owain sprang to life. A chance, though slim. Owain raised his voice. “My king! If you cannot forgive and if you cannot receive my sword, then in sorrow and grief I offer you my most cherished as a gift.”
“What can you offer me?” Uther said, not bothering to turn around. “There is nothing more precious than your life. Begone from here, or I will take it from you.”
“My king, please …”
Uther turned in a rage. “I said —”
“I offer you my son!”
The king faltered.
Like a partridge from the brush, Merlin burst upward and gripped Owain’s shoulder tightly. “Tas,” he whispered, “what are you doing?”
“What I do is for your best. You’ll be provided for when I’m gone.”
Worry lines knotted his son’s brow. How had Merlin aged so much in these few short weeks? Would he be grateful for being placed where his needs would always be met? His future had always weighed heavily on Owain. One day his own arm would fail by injury or old age, and he dreaded to see his son a beggar.
But what would happen if Uther agreed? Owain prayed he would allow Merlin to serve Colvarth, as the two were so alike in spirit. Otherwise, his son would be forced to do menial chores at Uther’s fortress in Kembry. Owain consoled himself that at least the work wouldn’t be harder than smithing. If only they’d spoken about it. But he’d not fully foreseen this, and now it was too late.
“Your son?” Uther asked as he surveyed Merlin.
“Yes.”
“How is it he wears a torc of such majesty? And yet … and yet …”
The High King stepped closer and peered into Merlin’s disfigured eyes. “Are you the son of Gwevian myr Atleuthun? Though you have suffered, you bear the face of that house.”
Pride coursed through Owain as Merlin answered the king with shoulders square and head high. “I am of that lineage, my lord. And though not wholly blind, I am told eyes are ever deceptive. I also know God’s strong hand holds more boons than just sight.”
“Well said.” Uther answered. “And what are you called?”
“In the tongue of the Romans, I am named Merlinus, but my mother named me Merlin.”
“Where is your mother?” Uther stepped back and scanned the crowd. “Is she present? It’s been many years since your father and I stood upon the great rock of her house.”
Merlin blinked a few times and then answered. “She is dead, my lord. Fourteen years.”
Uther looked to Owain for confirmation. Blinking back tears, Owain nodded in confirmation. The king closed his eyes, tightened his lips, and nodded.
“I see,” he said. “You have both suffered.”
The king limped back to his bench and sat down. “If you entered my service, young Merlin, what would you do? How could you serve me? You cannot —”
“Fight?” Merlin answered. “No, I cannot. But I am strong and can do tasks that many hands are unwilling to do. I can garden. I can haul wood and work a bellows. I can hoe out dung. I can —”
Colvarth stepped forward, and Owain’s heart swelled with hope. The bard straightened as far as he was able, raised his thin hand, and in his slow, halting manner said, “Nay, son born of the wild-water … you are not fit for such tasks! You shall be a … bard. Wisdom shall grace your speech, and angels … dance upon your harp. Though now you see not, Merlin, yet in the darkness you shall … light the path of Jesu for all the kings of the world. And though humble, yet in God’s strength you shall … uphold your people!”
As if struck, Uther looked at his chief adviser. “What are you saying?”
“A prophecy, my king,” the bard said.
“Can you be sure of this?”
Sticking his bristly white beard out, Colvarth took one of his long fingers and tapped Uther on the chest. “So has the … voice of the Most High spoken. Do not doubt, my king. Though the young man is … beyond the usual age, yet I will teach him.”
At that moment the druidow made their appearance.
Preoccupied with the discussion, Owain hadn’t heard their approach. They marched four abreast onto the green until all one hundred or so stood around the Druid Stone. They turned to face Uther and the assembly.
Owain looked for Mônda among them but did not see her. He had to find her soon to make sure that she was being cared for properly, even if it meant visiting the camp of the druidow. Though it seemed a futile effort, he had to try once more to persuade her to forsake her pagan ways and follow Jesu.
Mórganthu stood serenely at the front of the gathering wearing a green linen robe with a leather belt. Around his neck hung a large silver amulet shaped like a crescent moon lying with the horns pointing upward. Close by stood a half circle of seven druidow, including Anviv, and their robes were similar to Mórganthu’s.
Uther’s eyes opened wide, and he asked Colvarth, “My bard, what of this? Vortigern mentioned they were here with some rock, but so many? Do you know these?”
Colvarth stared at the druidow, his eyes neither moving nor blinking.
“Colvarth,” Uther said, shaking the old man gently. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Speak, man!”
“Ah, my king. I see the sickle … and it is sharpened for a harvest of woe!”
“But do you know them?”
“In your father’s time, before he … claimed the Christ, I helped lead and dwelt among these druido
w. Though I am not familiar with all, yet I know … Mórganthu, their leader, for his thirst for power and devotion to the … old gods is unsurpassed.”
“So he is the one you’ve told me about. What am I to make of this?” Uther asked.
“It is a challenge. The people … have them give fealty to you and your heir. Do it now before Mórganthu speaks and … tries to draw their hearts to himself. It is his way.”
Uther hesitated but finally went to his wife and spoke to her. She called for her eldest daughter, Eilyne, who brought the young Arthur.
The High King stood upon the bench above the people and called to them, arms outstretched in welcome. “Citizens and Britons! Hear your High King. I have come to visit you, not only to have your fortifications inspected, which aids in your protection” — the people turned and murmured assent — “but also to receive your fealty.”
Dwarfed by the large frame of Uther, the bard spoke next. “Each of you, come forward and kiss the leather of the High King’s boot … and the boot of his son. And so receive his protection.”
The crowd mumbled and looked to one another. A few of them shrugged their shoulders and stepped forward. Until Mórganthu raised his voice.
“People … my people! Do not give fealty to the High King. He neither honors your gods nor worships them. All who call on his foreign god will be cursed.” Mórganthu struck the Stone with his staff, and from deep inside the blue light gleamed.
Most of the villagers turned and walked toward Mórganthu, their arms stiff and their heads swaying slightly as drums began to beat beyond the Stone.
Owain held his breath as he looked to Uther and saw rage flash in the king’s eyes and play at the corners of his mouth.
CHAPTER 23
THE BLADE STRIKES
Owain saw Uther baring his teeth. Colvarth tugged on the king’s belt, whispered in his ear, and then pointed at Mórganthu.
“Vortigern,” Uther called, and his battle chief attended him at once. They conferred for a moment, and then Vortigern summoned half the warriors. These stepped forward and slid their steel from their sheaths.
“What’s happening?” Merlin asked in Owain’s ear.
Owain placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It looks like Uther’s going to confront Mórganthu.”
Merlin blew out a short breath. “How could he not? This is treason.”
“Aye.” Owain watched as Uther reached to pull his own sword from its sheath but found it missing. He jumped down and kicked among the tall grasses for the blade, which he’d thrown there, but not finding it, he returned to the Rock of Judgment and — to Owain’s delight — picked up the new sword. The sunshine blazed off of its lustrous surface as Uther tested its weight and balance.
He seemed satisfied, and Owain told Merlin the news.
Uther stalked off, stiffly, toward the druidow with Vortigern and his twenty warriors behind. The other half stayed behind in vigilant guard over Igerna and the children.
Onward they advanced, as fast as the High King could move with his uneven stride. How the sight of that limp pained Owain now, but he pushed the thought aside. Taking Merlin’s arm, he followed the king’s company at a distance as the villagers parted to admit the wave of armed men.
The advance of fierce-eyed warriors sent a panic through the ranks of druidow. One druid in a brown cloak tried to run but smacked into another, and both fell. Yet another druid ran sideways near Vortigern, and the battle chief shoved him face-first into the dirt. Only the center held as Mórganthu pulled Anviv and his robed druidow close to the Stone.
Owain had fully expected to see blood, but none was shed. The warriors had bluffed their way through, and now Uther stood before Mórganthu, whose eyes flashed as he stood firm, staff held at the ready.
“You call for rebellion, druid. Leave this island and let your name never be spoken of again. You will be forgotten, and your gods along with you. I command it.”
“It is we who are in power here,” Mórganthu answered with a sneer.
Uther pressed the tip of his sword through Mórganthu’s beard and brought it near the man’s heart. “You are a fool. Take your magician’s rock and go.”
“We will take it. In truth, we have come to remove it back to the Gorseth Cawmen. Tonight we light the Beltayne fires after the double descent of the moon and the Seven Torches, and then” — Mórganthu smiled — “and then …”
“What?” Uther demanded, now pushing the blade against Mórganthu’s chest. “You waste your speech calling on the old gods.”
“Our gods have power, and woe to any who oppose.” Mórganthu spit on the sword.
In response, Uther sliced the chain of Mórganthu’s crescent-moon amulet, and it fell to the dirt. “You test my patience. Leave this place now!”
Mórganthu glared at Uther as he picked up his amulet. “You malign me because you do not believe. You malign me because your criminal of a bard does not believe. But the Druid Stone is before you, O doubter. Look and behold true power!”
And as Mórganthu stepped aside, he struck the Stone twice with his staff, and from its surface blazed a blue fire higher than Owain had ever seen.
Uther eyed the Stone in surprise.
Merlin pulled closer to Owain. “Tas? What’s happening?”
“I’m trying not to look at the Stone, but Uther sure sees it. We should’ve warned him.”
Uther’s face lost all expression. His hands and arms relaxed, causing the tip of the new sword to descend until it touched the grass.
Anviv stepped up to the High King and mocked him, saying, “Ha! You see, O father, even the mighty Uther falls before the power of our Stone!”
Owain shuddered and turned to Merlin. “We have to stop this. Uther’s become enchanted.”
He stepped forward, but Merlin pulled his arm. “No, we need to pray! I’m convinced that’s the only way to save him.”
“He has to look away from it.” Owain shook off his son’s hand, but before he could take another step, Merlin wrapped his arms around his father’s chest in a powerful hold, restraining him.
“Father God, we pray for our king, the king you have appointed to rule over us. Free him from this sorcery …”
Owain tried to agree in his mind with the prayer, yet the events before him fought for his attention.
Anviv waved his hand in front of Uther’s face. “Where is your strength, O forceful one? Where is your justice?”
Uther blinked.
Anviv almost danced around the High King. “His majesty … servant of the Stone!”
Uther’s lips twitched, and he shook his head.
Mórganthu tried to pull Anviv back, but he ignored his father.
“Fall prostrate, mighty king,” Anviv jeered up at Uther’s face. “Touch the Stone of Abundance, and then kiss the foot … kiss the foot of the arch druid!”
A rage crept onto Uther’s face, and he jerked backward from the Stone as if escaping the talons of an invisible beast. Lifting his new sword, he swung with astonishing speed, and in that deadly arc, he sliced through Anviv’s neck.
Owain gasped as the head and body fell to the ground at the same instant, the face of Anviv frozen in mockery, and his copper torc rolling away, bloody, on the grass.
“What is it, Tas? Has Uther —?”
“No … he didn’t … he didn’t touch the Stone.”
Owain fell to his knees, and his tongue caught in his throat. He’d seen much worse before, but it had been a long time.
“What? Tas!”
“Anviv is dead.”
Mórganthu fell stricken beside the body of his son, his beard trailing in the blood as he picked up the fallen head. All the druidow retreated from Uther, who still held his sword at the ready, his eyes aflame.
“Noooo!” Mórganthu cried, and tears rolled from his eyes.
Uther pointed to Anviv’s head with the sword. “What of this wolfish druid? Let the dead die!”
“He … was my son,” Mórganthu shriek
ed.
The High King stepped back, his mouth pressed in a firm line and his warriors gathered silently around him.
Mórganthu smoothed back Anviv’s hair, his hand leaving a slick of blood across the strands. “A curse … on you, Uther mab Aurelianus … a curse on your life! May Belornos drink deep of the blood of your house!”
Mórganthu stood and called the druidows to him. They picked up the body and torc of Anviv while others took up the leather tarp with the Stone suspended inside.
Mórganthu turned to the speechless villagers and said through his tears, “Come this night, O people! Bring your animals for purification to the Beltayne Feast and the Night of Fire. There, with smoke, we will cleanse ourselves from the rot of” — his voice broke — “this High King and his false god. We will have roasted meat, bread, and drink in abundance for all. And we will dance and dedicate ourselves to Belornos … and the Stone which he sent.”
All around, the people nodded, but the thought sickened Owain. How could they be so easily led astray?
With Mórganthu in the rear, the druidow departed the village green as quickly as they had come. Before passing through the gate, Mórganthu pointed at Uther and mouthed words that couldn’t be understood. Then cradling the head of his son, the arch druid departed with wailing and cursing.
And there, even as storm clouds blew in from the west, Owain saw Garth walking alongside Mórganthu and holding on to the old man’s belt.
Merlin’s frustration rose as the moments went by. What had just happened? Being nearly blind was tolerable during mundane activities, but it stretched his patience to breaking when important events rolled past all around him. And his father explained all too little.
Then someone called his name. “Merlinus! It is Uther speaking. As of this day, you are my servant. Take my sword and clean it.”
With a deep breath, Merlin let go of his father’s reassuring shoulder and walked toward the voice until he stood before Uther.
“This weapon has served me well. Clean it, and I will receive your fealty.”
Merlin reached out his hands, palms open, and Uther placed the heavy blade there.
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