by Andre Norton
When he returned. . . .?
He must twist his thoughts away from all such speculations, concentrate instead on weaving such a course toward his goal as would throw off any hunters. Because he was not trained in such evasions, he must make doubly sure that he did all he could.
So he kept apart from any dwelling, unless it was one of those ruins that men had abandoned long ago. Twice he spent a night in one, fireless and lightless, yet marveling at the building which still had signs of refinements of living that had never been known in the clan house. The boy stretched the food he had brought as far as he could and then snared a rabbit. At least he was woodsrover enough to do that, and bring down a duck with a slinger’s good aim.
The meat he ate raw, forcing himself to such grisly meals because he dared light no fire. And never was he entirely free from the fear that he might indeed be followed. Twice he hid deep in bushes, his cloak tightly wrapped around his mount’s head to stifle any whinny, while parties of horsemen trotted by. He thought they were levies who followed Ambrosius, but he could never be sure and wisdom told him to avoid any possible discovery.
Then, with the ache of hunger acute in him, and the drive of his own uncertainty heavy on him, Myrddin came at last to the plain and saw before him, as if wrought by some giant, the great standing stones. He had reached the Place of the Sun.
5.
* * *
Myrddin huddled in his cloak. Outside rain dripped from the roof of the rough hut, but within was a fire and between his hands a wooden bowl of steaming rabbit soup thickened with herbs. The door of the hut was only a curtain of hide at which the wind twitched now and again. He squatted in a daze of fatigue, still too tired to try to eat, though the smell of the food brought saliva flooding into his mouth.
Lugaid did not break the silence but sat cross-legged, fingering a fold of a robe now gray instead of white, one which was clumsily patched and much frayed. He who had once been given the seat of honor in the clan house was now like any beggar haunting the roads where men passed. But there was no beggar’s whine in his voice, and the eyes which watched Myrddin were both serene and shrewd.
“Eat and sleep,” the Druid said. “There is nothing here to threaten a man.”
“How do you know that I am threatened?” Myrddin swallowed the soup he had scooped up in a wooden spoon.
“How did I know that you would come?” countered Lugaid. “The gods give men ways if they have the wit to use them. Did you yourself not forecast our meeting?”
Myrddin, remembering his dream, nodded. “I dreamed . . .”
Lugaid shrugged. “Who can say what is a dream? For it may well be a message sent or received. I think,” he added slowly, “that you have learned very much, Son of a Stranger.”
“I have learned . . .” Myrddin sipped again at the soup. He wanted to pour out all that had happened to him in that hidden cave, yet there was still a bridle set upon his tongue. Perhaps he would never be able to share what he had discovered with anyone on this earth. “I have learned what has brought me to this place, for there is a task to be done here.” At least he encountered no hindrance in saying that much.
“That I also knew. But not within this hour must you begin it. Sleep when you have eaten, for rest is also something which must be given any man.”
And the sleep Myrddin had on the pile of leaves and hides within Lugaid’s hut was dreamless, bringing no threat to make him restless. He woke to find the rain vanished, the sun full on his face. The hide of the doorway had been looped back to let in the day.
Through that door he could also see some of the standing stones of the Sky People, ring upon ring. And they were more strange than any ancient building of man, even those deserted ones in which he had taken shelter during his journey here. Between two of them now moved a figure robed in white. As it came closer he saw it was Lugaid, his beard, now whiter than his robe, untrimmed and growing down to his waist cord, while his mane of hair touched his shoulders.
Yet the Druid did not move like an old man, but rather with the firm step of one still in middle years. In his hands he carried a bag from which protruded leafed stems of plants. Myrddin guessed that he had been harvesting wild herbs and growing things, as he had often done when he had lived-at the clan house.
The boy shook off the cloak which had been his covering. In place of the chill which yesterday’s rain had brought, the sun now gave a gentle warmth. He was grateful as he stretched his cramped arms and got to his feet, ducking as he went out of the doorway of the hut. The passage was a low one, even for his slight height.
“Master,” he greeted the Druid.
Lugaid shifted his bag. “You call me master, yet you are no follower of mine. There is something you want.” The old man smiled. “Aye, you would ask something of me, and yet you know not just how to frame the words. But seek not for the pretty phrases. There need be no ceremony between us. I gave you your name on your birth-night.”
“Aye,” the boy repeated. “The name you gave me, Myrddin, I have heard it was once granted to a god of hills. There is another name which has also been set upon me, that being Merlin.”
“Merlin.” Lugaid said it slowly, as if he was trying the sound of it. “It is no name of the clan. Yet if it was granted to you, then it was done for a reason. So, Merlin-Myrddin, what is it you ask of me?”
“To gain me the ear of Ambrosius the Roman.”
There was no astonishment to be read on the face of the Druid. He asked quietly: “For what reason do you seek the favor of Ambrosius? And why not speak for yourself?”
Myrddin answered the second question first, swiftly baring his story of Vortigen, the prophecy and his interview with Ambrosius thereafter.
“And you believe that he will not listen, thinking your wish smacks of sorcery? Does it?”
“If the old knowledge is sorcery, yes. But for this must I have his favor: a stone must be returned to this Place of the Sun, a stone which raiders carried to the Western Isle. It must be reset in its proper place.”
Lugaid was nodding slowly before he had finished. “That tale I have also heard. But Ambrosius is one who deals with the things of this world, what can be seen, held, heard, tasted. Legends will not move him. However . . .”
“You know a way to reach his favor in this matter?” Myrddin’s voice rose a little as the Druid paused.
“Perhaps. Even the Roman emperors of old had monuments raised to the triumphs of their arms in wars. And truly this stone is rightly of Britain, stolen from us. Were Ambrosius to win a notable victory, then, in the flush of rejoicing, he might be approached on this matter.”
“That will need time. Fortune. Chance . . .” protested the boy.
“Youth is ever impatient. I have lived long with time. Enough to know that you must make it your servant, not let it be master. There is no way you can do this thing otherwise. For you cannot move a stone such as these”—the Druid waved his hand to the rings behind him—“except with men, a ship and warriors to clear a path for you. Do you believe those of the Western Isle will easily give up what they believe to be a powerful trophy?”
Myrddin strode back and forth, impatience eating at him. He had little faith in the Druid’s suggestion. It rested on too many strokes of fortune which might go either way. Yet for all his tutoring by the mirror, at this moment he could see no other choice if Lugaid would not help him. Going again himself to Ambrosius after the firm dismissal he had received would gain him nothing.
He came to a stop and placed his hand on a tall blue stone set in the outer ring. Somehow through that touch there flooded into him a sense of age so great that it awed his spirit. Small crystals, pea-sized and cream in color, were sprinkled over the bluish surface. And it towered so that in the shadow of its bulk he felt dismay. He did not know the size of the stone he must seek, but if it were like this one, then half a hundred men, a hundred even, might not stir it.
No, Myrddin took hold on his confidence. Men with all their strength migh
t not stir these from their beds. But the beings who had built this place had their own secrets and the mirror had given him some of them. Doubt now made him wish to try that power.
He looked beyond the stone he touched. The next in line had fallen and lay with tough, withered grass rising about it. He reached for his belt knife. No staff could serve him, not even one such as Lugaid carried cut from wood, even though that wood might be the sacred oak. His tool must be metal, and one which would give forth the right ringing tone.
Unsheathing the knife, Myrddin stooped to set its tip against the fallen stone. He began to tap, slowly, with a certain rhythm. And, as he tapped, he voiced the guttural sounds which the mirror’s voice had made him repeat over and over again until he could give them the right inflection.
Faster and louder grew the tapping. His throat ached a little as he strove to utter sounds almost beyond the range of his own vocal chords. Suddenly he was aware that another chanting had joined his, that Lugaid was facing him across the bulk of the stone.
Tap—tap—his hand moved so fast, building up the sound’s measures—thus and thus and thus—Myrddin’s face grew shiny with sweat, his arm was weary, yet he would not surrender to the weaknesses of his body. Tap—chant—tap—
He was so intent on what he did that the first movement of the stone caught him nearly unaware. It was stirring in the furrow which its weight had caused when it toppled generations ago, stirring as some animal aroused from a long sleep.
Tap—chant—
The rock was rising, he had not been deceived! Yet he could not hold it so and, as his hand dropped, his wrist weak with the effort, the megalith settled back into its groove. Myrddin sank to his knees beside it, drawing his breath in long gasps, the strength gone out of him. If he had tried to move at that moment he would have measured his length beside that of the stone.
“Well done, Sky Son!”
His ears rang but not enough to deafen them to Lugaid’s words. The Druid also leaned against the stone on the other side, gazing at Myrddin in astonishment.
“But,” he continued, “you must have a better tool than a knife for this work.” He swung around, still resting one hand to steady himself against the stone. “And you may gain it, if you are strong enough in spirit.”
“Where?”
“From the grasp of those gone before.” The Druid pointed to the low ring-mounds beyond the circle of stones. “For such did they work with in their own time. And when they died their tools were buried with them, for they were not to be fitted to the hands of lesser men.”
“To take from the dead!” That part of Myrddin which was of his own world revolted from the suggestion. The dead were jealous of their treasures. Men must be very reckless, and without normal clan feeling, to break the rest of those gone before.
“You only take what they would give you if they were alive to put such a tool into your hand,” Lugaid replied. “There are those resting here who are of Sky Blood also. And when a man dies, he lays aside one body for another, as worn-out clothing is dropped and forgotten. There are no guardians here, only methods to prevent such tools from coming into the wrong possession.”
“But—” Myrddin struggled up, wavering, needing to cling to the stone to keep his feet. “A man could search a lifetime among all these graves and not find the right one.”
“Like calls to like,” Lugaid replied calmly. “Look.” He touched the neck of his robe and, from beneath that covering, drew out a tiny bag of linen stained with sweat as if he had worn it a long time. He loosed the drawstring, which was also the thong to hold it suspended, and into the palm of one hand he shook a scrap of metal which gleamed almost with a jewel’s fire. “Take it, feel it,” he ordered. Reluctantly Myrddin held out his own hand, felt the Druid drop that scrap into it.
Then he brought it closer to his eyes, rolled the fragment across his palm with a fingertip. The thing was not bronze, he was sure, nor had it the softness of pure gold. With that coloring it could be neither tin nor iron nor silver . . . perhaps like bronze it was a mixture of more than one metal, but if so he could not guess which. In color the scrap was a very light silver, yet across it, small as the piece was, there played a rainbow of colors, changing with the movement of the bit.
“That is of the Sky People,” Lugaid told him. “We have not handled such material since the age before the world turned over. But if those who wrought this Place of the Sun lie here, then this shall let us know where any of its matter lies hidden. As those who have the gift seek for water with a rod and their own senses, so can this be used.” He pulled up the hem of his robe and carefully unraveled a thread from its frayed edge. He tested the thread’s strength by jerking it between his fingers.
Next he carefully tied it to the small fragment of metal and wound the other end of the string between two fingers, then held out his hand so the metal swung freely below. “Thus do we seek,” he said.
Together they prospected the ring-mounds. Some were shaped like disks and some were circles, broken at one side or the other. They climbed each one, Lugaid’s hands outstretched, the fragment dangling from the thread.
By nightfall Myrddin’s confidence was broken. He was near to denying that there was any hope of Lugaid’s device showing them some strange other-world tool. Yet the Druid seemed quietly content with their labors and his spirits, when they returned to the hut, were unshaken.
“If not today,” he said as he fed bits of leaves into a pot he hung to boil, “then tomorrow.”
“And tomorrow and tomorrow . . .” the boy commented sourly.
“If necessary.” Lugaid nodded. “Myrddin-Merlin, above all else you must learn patience, for you seem lacking in that. But so is ever the fault of youth.”
“As you said before,” Myrddin commented as he fed their small fire with another stick, “I must wait for Ambrosius’ possible favor, I must wait for searching by metal, I must wait—perhaps too long!”
“I do not ask for the reason for your need.” Lugaid stirred the pot with vigor. “But now I do ask the need for haste.”
“There are two things I must do,” the boy said, “though why these have been laid on me, I do not know. I did not ask to be born of a Sky Lord.” He sat back on his heels, staring moodily into the fire. “Little have I had of my heritage except trouble upon trouble.”
“No heritage is free from that,” observed Lugaid. “If you were to lay aside your life’s labor, then what would you choose? The sword of a warrior with perhaps a quick death, achieving nothing by your dying but the cutting down of the life of another?”
Myrddin thought of the clan house as he had seen it last. That was the fruit of war. That was the way of brute man, the way to which his people were condemned unless there was the promised change. He had no choice, being who and what he was, except to carry the orders and the burden laid on him by the voice of the mirror.
“I must do what I must do,” he said heavily. “And if this waiting is a part of it, then I must endure it. But I have also been warned.” He wondered if he could find his tongue free to mention that other to Lugaid, since so much of the mirror’s knowledge was locked within his silence. “There is”—he discovered that he could continue—“another abroad whose mission is to defeat what I would do.”
“One of the Dark Ones,” Lugaid agreed.
Myrddin was surprised. How much did the Druid know of that?
He saw Lugaid smile. “Ah, it is true that here”—he tapped his forehead with one finger—“I have the lore of old. Those who would be of our number must study the lore for twenty years. Never can it be put in writing after the manner of the Romans, but rather kept from one generation to the next by memory alone. Aye, there are the Dark Ones who in the Sky times brought full measure of trouble upon our world. That they, too, have their servants—what could be more believable? So there is a Dark One sent to defeat you. Do you know the manner of the enemy so you can be warned?”
“She is a girl.” Without closing his eyes My
rddin had a sudden vision of Nimue standing on the mountainside, her fine hair lifted playfully by the wind, her gaze as intent as when the mirror had first shown her to him. “I know only that her name is Nimue, though of what clan or tribe or where she may be . . .” He shook his head.
“Nimue—a name of Power, for it was one given in the old days to a water goddess. I shall remember.”
They ate in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, and just as silently they lay down to sleep. Yet Myrddin felt a companionship which he had lacked before and a sense of well-being he had seldom known, except perhaps in the cave of the mirror. Nor did he dream.
As the sun broke on the next day they were back at their search. This time Myrddin went with more eagerness. Lugaid’s belief in what he was doing seemed to be catching. And if patience was what he himself must cultivate, then the sooner he was about that, the better.
The sun was hot overhead as they climbed a ring-mound slightly larger than its neighbors. And that sun was reflected in small glitters, for the metal bit had begun to swing, moving ever faster. Lugaid laughed.
“Did I not promise that like would greet like? Here is given proof, boy!” He stamped the heel of his sandal on the turf which roofed the mound. “Beneath this lies what we seek.”
He tucked the fragment into its hidden pocket and hurried back to the hut, returning with a bronze ax. “Since we lack a proper spade,” he said, “this must serve, this and that knife of yours.”
With a strength which belied his appearance of age, Lugaid straightaway cut into the root-bound turf. It was hard work, and they took turns at using the ax and scraping away the loosened soil with knife and large bowl. By sundown they had reached a length of massive stone which must roof in the grave space. Lugaid was clearing along that, seeking the end where they might find an opening.
