by Andre Norton
He whistled and the horse, which had strayed a little, grazing on the ragged grass about the standing stones, nickered an answer, trotted to him and butted its head against Merlin’s chest while he fondled its ears, the stand of mane between. It was one of the famous black mounts, larger and sturdier than the hill ponies Merlin had known years earlier, and more docile, lacking those quirks of independence which sometimes moved the ponies to resent the control of any rider.
After he swung up into the saddle Merlin still lingered to look on the stones wistfully. He could see the barrow they had raised over Ambrosius, that dark, forceful man who had endeavored so hard to bring back the past because only in its ways could he see any security.
Uther did not lie here. The foreign priests had claimed his body, set it under the floor of one of their rough-walled churches which had been erected on the site of a Roman temple, the very stones of that temple riven and reset to the service of this new god.
Merlin could see also the barrow they had invaded to bring forth the sword. Who had lain there? One of the true Sky Men who had come to death so far from his home? Or one like himself, a son of a mixed union? Merlin would never know, but now he found his hand rising in a warrior’s salute, not only to the man called the Last of the Romans, but also to that unknown one of a far earlier age.
As he rode out of the Place of the Sun he buttressed his own resolve. He would appeal to Arthur, take him to the mirror. Arthur was far from a stupid man; he could tell the difference between ancient knowledge and that which ignorant men of this age termed magic.
Also it was time, surely it was time that Merlin put the King Stone to its intended use. There was a certain object in the cave of the mirror. That must be brought forth, placed under the stone meant from the first to be its guardian, and then—then the summons would go forth!
Ships from the stars, ships which themselves were older than man could reckon, would come in answer. Once more men would rise to conquer sky, earth and sea! The glory of that belief exalted him, gave warmth to melt quickly the ice encasing his hopes. Man stood on the first step of a new and glorious age.
So was he borne up by his thoughts during the long journey back to Camelot, and his night dreams were the brightest he had ever had. Arthur and the mirror—the signal and the stone—
Days later Merlin rode up the rise of the ring-and-ditch fortress which Arthur had held and reworked into the most formidable hold in all of Britain. The guards knew him well enough so that there was no challenge at the inner gates. And he paused only to change his travel-stained robe for one more in keeping with the splendor of the court before he sought out the King.
Arthur was inclined to be expansive. “Hail, Merlin.” He beckoned across the center of the board which was one of Merlin’s own ideas, a circular dining place where no quick-tempered chief or petty king could claim that he was slighted by being placed below another with a lesser claim for notice. Being round, none could say that his fellow was more advantageously placed than he.
“Hail, Lord King.” Merlin was quick to notice a new face among the familiar ones. Cei was no longer at Arthur’s right hand, though the foster brother, for all his uncertain temper, had been the King’s comrade from the beginning. No, here was a new youth, hardly more than a boy.
Looking on the dark face of that stranger, Merlin suppressed a sudden shiver. If Arthur had nothing in his features of the presence of the Blood, this youth showed it more plainly than Merlin had yet seen it, except in his own mirrored face.
Familiar was that look, yet also strange. For the eyes which peered from under the veiling lids were hard, unreadable. Those sullen and watchful eyes were old beyond the apparent years of the boy’s body; they more than hinted at some vengeance. . ..
Merlin took his imagination firmly to task. He should be glad at this moment that one of the Old Race was here. Yet there was nothing in the youth to which he could warm.
“You are in time.” Arthur gestured and his own cupbearer hastened to produce another cup of hammered silver, fill it with the wine from overseas and hand it respectfully to Merlin. “You are in time, bard, to drink to the health of one of the Pendragon blood new come into our service.” He nodded to the youth. “This is Modred, who is son to the Lady Morgause, and so my own nephew.”
Merlin’s hand closed tightly about the goblet. He did not even need that sly, darting look from the boy’s eyes, a look which measured him in a way alerting him to danger, to know the truth.
Arthur’s nephew? Nay, Arthur’s son by that slut whom Nimue had taken into hiding. And by that single glance at him, Merlin was also sure the boy knew the truth—or the part of it which could cause the most harm for Arthur— that he was indeed the King’s son, and by a lady who was reputed the King’s half-sister.
Merlin drank, knowing that his long training in hiding his feelings must now serve him better than ever before. “Lord Modred.” He nodded to the boy. “The Pendragon blood is in honor.”
“Aye.” Arthur smiled. “He is in good time to blood bis sword and show what mettle he has in him. For we have had the coast lights up along the Saxon shore. These war dogs yet sniff around for some mouthful of prey to snatch. We ride hunting again—”
The King’s face was a little flushed, his eyes alight Merlin, looking at him, knew that no argument he might use now would stop Arthur. He must set aside his own plan of confronting the King with the mirror, so letting Arthur learn bis heritage and true purpose. And Modred ... Modred who was the King’s son was fostered by Nimue. That Merlin also instinctively knew. She had had a long time, as earth men measured time, to prepare the shaft. Now she had launched it. To the malice of one who sees himself bereft of a rightful place, add the iron will of Nimue. She had a formidable weapon in this youth.
Though caution moved in Merlin, so did anger begin to rise. It was always Nimue and from the first he had been far too influenced by her good fortune. Now he would seek her out And how better find a road to her than through this Modred who was her creature?
Merlin listened to the excited talk of a new expedition against the Saxons. But as he sat in his place at that round board he raised his eyes to the gallery of the great hall, there looking from one fair face to another. It was the boast of the Queen that she had in her train the most beautiful women of Britain, having no jealousy in any threat of comparison.
There sat Guenevere. Her richly embroidered robe was a clear yellow, like ripening grain. There was a thin crown of red gold on her hair, which was so near the color of her robe that hair melted into cloth and cloth seemed a part of hair. A heavy necklace of amber was around her throat, and earrings of that same mystic gem dangled against each cheek as she leaned forward, her eyes narrowly intent on—whom?
Merlin traced her gaze. She was looking at Modred and about her lips there lay a faint shadow of a lazy smile. For a long moment Merlin studied her intently, for he knew that something lay in that look which he could not read. And his inability to do so was disturbing. That the women of the tribes were puzzles for him was perhaps a kind of maiming, though that thought was startling in itself and he did not have time to consider it now. He had believed Guenevere a doll, a plaything, without any thoughts which might be of service to his own goal. Was she more?
He was searching now for another face, however. So he turned from the bright sunlight of the Queen to the more subdued rainbow of her ladies. Some he knew by name, others were but flower faces which he had never chosen to study with as much interest as he now gave them. Nowhere was the one he sought. There was no dark lady as vivid, or perhaps more vivid, than the Queen. If Nimue had introduced Modred to the court, she had not come here herself, or else she chose not to attend this feast.
Slowly Merlin sought for her with that other sense which he rarely used in such a large company, mainly because it could be overwhelmed and lost when there were so many minds and personalities all emitting energies of their own. No, he would take blood oath his enemy was not present.
> But her will was here, in the person of the King’s “nephew.” Merlin began to plan anew. He could not believe that this sudden news of Saxons at the coast signified any great difficulty. It would seem that Arthur himself looked on this ride as a diversion, a chance to show his new-found nephew the dexterity and invincible force of the Black Horse troops.
Now—Merlin knew it inside himself, swelling, pushing aside, erasing all the doubts of his half-human heritage— now was the time for him to do what should be done in this hour. Summon the Sky ships at long last—with or without Arthur’s concordance!
He had withdrawn, even in the midst of the feasters, into his own thoughts. Now he was suddenly aware that the men about him were rising, calling on their armor bearers, making ready to ride. There was excitement in them, that fiery thirst for battle that always marked the tribesmen. He could feel the force of their emotions kindling an answer in himself. And he was quick to control it with that other part of him which was not of this world, but of the Star Lords; that part of him thought, planned and used invisible forces to accomplish its ends, not the sharp-edged primitive weapons about him.
There was one standing before him, looking into his eyes. Merlin, now alert, stared back at Modred.
“They call you bard.” Modred’s voice was low-pitched, to pass unheard in the clamor about them now. “They also name you sorcerer, son of no man.” There was an insolence in his tone which would have brought any of the tribesmen to his feet, sword half out, ready to offer an open challenge in return.
“All that is the truth.” Merlin was a little mystified by this open approach, though he had felt from the first that Nimue’s man would in some way make plain his feeling.
“And how much of it is true?” The challenge in the youth’s voice was even more marked.
Merlin smiled. “How much truth do any of us know concerning ourselves? Or are able to convey that truth even a little to others? We all have our own powers and forces, much or little. What matters is how we use the gifts and learning given us.”
“There is learning from the dark as well as from the light,” the other answered him flatly. “The High King listens to the priests of light, bard. The old days are done—”
Now Merlin laughed. The same battle fever which gripped those around him at the message that there were Saxons to be met arose in him, but for another reason. Nimue, through this youth, was delivering her challenge. And when it came to war, then his doubts vanished. He could draw on the forces he had used that day when the stone rose to his signal and moved. What had eaten him lately in this court? He was no useless tool; he was a commander of such powers as none in this hall had ever seen. Now his mind moved rapidly as he enumerated those powers in part, even as his surface thoughts probed at Modred.
“Have you never heard this, Lord Modred,” he asked, making a mockery of that name, light mockery which the boy caught, for there was a dark flush rising under his skin, “that there is that which was, is and will be? I think she who taught you knew that promise well.”
He had half turned away when Modred caught at the sleeve of his robe.
“You are insolent, bard! And what mean you by ‘she’?”
Merlin laughed again. So Nimue had not been able to establish full control of this nursling of hers. He might look like one of the Old Blood but he had the ways of the tribes, with that spark of angry fire rising at the first crossing of mental swords.
“Boy”—he gave him no “lord” this time—“you have not learned manners, whatever else you have been taught.” Merlin twitched the sleeve of his robe from between the other’s fingers. “Most of all, you should learn the nature of your man before you speak.”
Perhaps he had given the boy a hint too much with those words. But he was also of tribe blood and royal as Modred. He also thought that Nimue must not have done too well in choosing this tool for her meddling. He was not another Ector, nor even a Cei—he was partly a fool.
Merlin made his way through the throng of excited men. He had his own mission, now that he had at last made up his mind. However, at the door he paused to look back. Modred was still staring after him, and now the boy’s hand lay on another arm, that of one of the priests from overseas. The priest’s shaved face was alive with emotion and Merlin saw that Modred’s lips were moving. That he stirred some pot of trouble, Merlin had no doubt. But what kind of trouble ... He shrugged.
He went swiftly to his own quarters and put aside the bard’s robes. Those white lengths made him too conspicuous. He pulled on a simple tunic over breeches, picked up a hooded cloak. Thus garbed, he found a fresh mount, filled saddlebags with bread and cheese from the kitchens where the servants milled about doing the same for the troops gathering at the King’s orders. But Merlin rode out first, and in the direction of the mountains.
It had been several years now since he had taken this way, but he could never forget each twist and turn of its going. And the time he had spent living wild in the woods never departed from his mind either, so that he made small camps at night without fire, and was able to hide his going well, which had become habit with him.
The ruins of Nyren’s hold showed now only as a single rumbled outer wall overgrown with bramble and bush. There were no longer any ghosts left there to trouble him. But Merlin halted for a long moment as he came near it, trying wistfully to remember how it had been when that was the clan home for one Myrddin.
Then came the upward slope. There he stripped his mount of bridle and saddle, hobbled it and turned the horse loose to graze while he went to the mirror. He picked free the stones of his door to go inside. The cave was very dim. Not one of the cubes showed any light, and he did not approach the mirror. This time he had no question to ask. He knew well what must be done.
Edging along the wall he came to a cylinder as tall as his forearm, as big around as a circle his two hands could make, thumb touching thumb, little finger against little finger. Stooping he gathered that up. Long ago the mirror voice had told him of this, of how it must be used. The instructions were as clear in his mind now as if they had been issued within the hour. This was the full purpose of his life. There must be no more hesitation, no more trying to work through men whose natures betrayed over and over the will of the Star Lords.
The beacon was lighter than he thought it would be as he carried it out into the open. He set it to one side, re-closed the door with the stones. He was not finished with the mirror. Arthur would come sooner or later, even as had been planned. There would be time for that. How long it might take for his message to reach the ships, he had no idea. Months, years ... it was his task to keep Arthur king until that hour when those others would come.
Holding the cylinder close against him as one embraces a longed-for treasure, Merlin started down the slope.
12.
* * *
There was no light this time when Merlin reached the Place of the Sun. The year was late, harvest was well in and cold bit fiercely at a man in the frost-tinged early mornings, the long dark nights. And the stones seemed to stand bleakly aloof now, as if they had withdrawn from all possible contact with the men of this earth.
If he still had the shining sword his task would have been comparatively easy. But now that was Arthur’s, and Merlin must make do as best he could with his knowledge alone. As he penetrated the pillared circles he shivered with more than the reaching fingers of the cold wind. The kinship which he had always felt waiting for him here was missing, closed off like a door to shut out the unwanted in the dark of night.
Nor did Merlin lift his hand to caress any of the stones as he had been wont to do on his earlier visits here. Necessity drove him directly to the task. So he approached the King Stone where it lay, flanked on either side by the rude arches in all their strength.
Carefully putting down on the ground what he had carried through these days of travel from the cave in the mountains to this site, Merlin considered the stone.
It was plain that he could not merely set hi
s burden out, enthroned on the stone, as he had once naively thought to do. Anyone passing here, shunned though the site generally was, might be moved by curiosity to inspect the beacon. No, it must be well hidden and his training told him exactly where: under the massive block of stone itself.
He had moved the rock once to prove his strength, therefore he could move it again, though the task was a formidable one without the sword. He had only the short blade of his belt knife and that was not fashioned from the wondrous metal. Nevertheless he must use it
It was dusk when he had reached the stones. Their shadows cut deep, and there was something about those shadows. He found himself jerking his head around now and then to stare intently at one or another of the pools of dark. Though he knew that Nimue had previously used only such illusions as he himself could call up at command, still there remained a residue of the uncanny, the not-to-be-known in this place.
Merlin recalled what Lugaid had once said, that a temple where the worship of certain forces had continued for a long time absorbed into itself the power of belief rising from those worshipers. That power, too, could be drawn on by the men who know how to awaken it.
Only this was not a place of the night. It needed dawn or the full beams of the sun, which had long been honored here as a source of life, to bring forth its full energy. He must wait out the hours of the night. But he could use that time to prepare himself for what would be the greatest effort he had yet made, greater even than the parade of illusions which had brought about Arthur’s fathering.
Picking up the beacon once again, he moved over to the tumbled mound which had been Lugaid’s dwelling. There he made his rude camp, drinking from a small spring, now almost silted up again since the Druid had not come to clear passage for the water, eating the last of the provisions he had carried from Camelot.
