by Zoë Archer
God—he’d made more than his share of leaps in his life: down cliffs, across ravines, from the back of a racing horse. This was, by far, the most terrifying.
“Catullus—” Her voice was low, but her tone … he couldn’t tell if it was reproach, uncertainty, joy. Please let it be joy.
“Here! Here!” Bryn whizzed by, through the space between Catullus and Gemma. The pixie darted in quick, abrupt angles, revealing his agitation. “The sorcerer in the tree! Just over this ridge.”
Deciding he’d rather take his chances with a legendary and mad enchanter entombed in a tree than the doubt of his own heart, Catullus said, “I’ll take the lead.” If the sorcerer was as dangerous as Bryn claimed, Catullus had to protect Gemma.
Thoughts of love, reciprocated or denied, dwindled when they entered a clearing. In the center of the glade stood the largest oak tree Catullus had ever seen. Six grown men could not encircle the trunk—wider than most sitting rooms. Huge gnarled branches spread out over what had to be at least an acre, twisting in all directions as if feeding on the energy of life itself. A mosaic of serrated leaves shifted in the breeze, and they sounded like the hands of time applauding.
The size of this oak held only part of Catullus’s amazement. Within the tree—no, part of the tree—was a man.
Slowly, on cautious feet, Catullus approached, with Gemma behind him.
The man’s face bore lines and crags of age, deep runnels from years too numerous to count. Silvery hair covered his cheeks and chin, growing out into a sage’s beard, and what hair topped his head also shone silver in the clearing’s light. His eyes remained closed, even as Catullus and Gemma neared. He wore a robe, embroidered knotwork along the collar and at the cuffs of his long, hanging sleeves. Could this man be alive? Catullus could not understand if this was so, for the lower half of the old man’s body was entirely encased in bark, was, in fact, enmeshed within the tree, and what had initially appeared to be the folds and pleats of his robe were actually tree roots spreading out into the ground as thickly as the branches above.
Ashen, Bryn pointed to the ground close to the tree. Light reflected off of at least a dozen pairs of faerie wings. And there did seem to be an inordinate amount of slugs clinging to one of the tree’s roots.
“I’ll wait over there,” he whispered, glancing toward the edge of the clearing. The pixie zipped away to huddle in green shadow.
“Holy hell,” whispered Gemma, turning back to the man in the tree. “Is that—”
The man’s eyes opened. Catullus felt himself drawn in, through the darkest and most arcane pathways of history, of myth. The blackness of the man’s eyes was absolute. Within, they contained the whole of experience, mortal and immortal, and one could not help feeling very small when presented with such immensity.
Within those eyes also glowed the forge of madness, the blaze of a mind and power too old and too long confined.
Instinctively, Catullus and Gemma sought and then took each other’s hands. Their touch grounded them.
“A river of mercury!” the man shouted. “The rose devours the serpent!” His deranged, wise eyes fixed on the two mortals standing before him. “Bright sparks in the tinder. Douse the flame.”
He raised his hands. Gemma gasped and Catullus grunted as invisible bindings trapped them where they stood. Catullus fought to move, but his arms were pinned to his sides.
“Cannot have a fire in the forest,” the old man muttered. “Choke it, choke it out.”
The bonds around Catullus and Gemma tightened. She squeaked. Catullus felt his ribs compress as an unseen hand slowly crushed him.
Catullus summoned his thinning breath. “Merlin, wait!”
The sorcerer held up a hand. Though the invisible vise halted in its slow, agonizing crush, neither did it release its captives.
“Merlin, Merlin,” the old man muttered. His gaze sharpened, losing some of its madness. “Have not heard that name in centuries.”
“But you are Merlin,” Gemma gasped. “Aren’t you?”
“I have been. I have been many names, many faces. I am the oak and the wind. The darkness in the diamond.” He shook his head, as if scattering a momentary lucidity. “No more. The flames feed the blaze. Choke it out.” With a wave of his hand, the unseen binds resumed their agonizing crush.
Good God—had he and Gemma come all this way, fought Heirs and immense magic and devastating odds, only to be choked to death by a mad sorcerer?
Chapter 17
Courage
Blackness swam in Catullus’s vision. “It’s Arthur,” he managed to rasp. “He’s … been summoned. He needs … you.”
Clarity returned to the sorcerer’s gaze. With another gesture, he stopped the grip. He cocked his head to one side, catching a familiar name. “Arthur?”
“Magic. Brought him back. He marches now. To London. Devastation.” Catullus fought to keep conscious. He saw Gemma struggle to do the same. Pain lanced through him, not only from the chokehold around him, but also because she was being gradually strangled right in front of him, and he couldn’t do a damned thing to stop it.
“He has been summoned, has he?” Merlin asked abruptly.
“Men. Called the Heirs. Stolen magic.”
The sorcerer’s eyes grew more alert. “I shall see,” answered Merlin, “here.” He lifted his arms and gave a small wave of his hands.
A metallic gleam appeared before the sorcerer. It hovered in the air, a small flash of light; then, as Catullus and Gemma watched, it spun and grew. From the size of a ha’penny, it unfolded outward, growing, turning the atmosphere alive. When it was as big as a wagon wheel, Merlin waved again, and the light stopped its expansion. The sorcerer muttered something. The light coalesced, becoming liquid, reflective.
“What … is it?” Gemma asked, battling for consciousness.
“My eyes,” came the answer. “And now they must focus.”
As everyone watched, the surface of the circle clouded, becoming hazy. Shapes began to coalesce within it. Catullus saw the greenish, low forms sharpen, until they became the familiar figures of hills. Several houses dotted the hills, bound together by a ribbon of road. Night covered the landscape, but moonlight revealed enough details for Catullus to recognize the placid English countryside.
“Where?” Gemma whispered to Catullus.
“Anywhere. From Salisbury. To Epsom.”
It seemed a quiet enough scene, but then the ground shook and Arthur strode into view. Merlin gave an opaque mutter to see his old protégé again. The king looked just as determined as before, advancing eastward toward the capital, while a contingent of Heirs followed behind on horseback. Neither Arthur nor the Heirs paid any mind to the isolated village they passed. Frightened villagers watched the procession from the shelter of their homes.
Catullus expected at any moment for Arthur to strike out with Excalibur and level this village as he had done in the past. These fears went unfounded. Catullus exhaled as Arthur and his disciples-cum-masters left the village behind, moving onward, out of the range of Merlin’s vision.
Suddenly, thick roots exploded up from the ground surrounding the houses. They shot into the air, fast as snakes, as if with the minds of serpents, too. The vines engulfed the houses, choking windows, winding over rooftops. People inside the homes tried to open their doors, but the vines grew too impenetrably over the doorframes. The windows offered no escape, either. From the distance of Merlin’s scrying disk, the people appeared tiny and pitiful as they fought to free themselves from the leafy prisons growing rampant over their homes.
Within minutes, nothing could be seen of any of the houses, not a candle flicker, not a stone. Only dense, thorny vines. Sleeping Beauty’s castle could not have been more impassable.
“Help them,” Gemma urged. “They’ll starve. Or worse.”
There wasn’t much Catullus could do, trapped as he was, and fighting unconsciousness. Had he been free, he would have tried to mix up a corrosive or herbicide. Yet he wasn
’t free, and, even if he was, didn’t know where he might find the necessary chemicals, but he, too, needed to help the trapped villagers.
“See.” She tipped her head toward the vision. “Someone has … an ax.”
From the inside out, a man chopped away his front door, then hacked at the vines blocking his way. It took some time, but at last he cut his way free. He ran toward the snare of vines choking another nearby house, and set about chopping into them. He was a rough country fellow, strong of arm and shoulder, and freed an elderly man and woman from their prison. A goodly while later, all of the villagers were at liberty, and they took flight, some on horseback and cart, some on foot. They took a few possessions. But their homes were lost to them.
Merlin waved his hands, and the scrying surface vanished.
With another movement, the bindings around Catullus and Gemma released. They both fell to the ground, sucking in shuddering gulps of air.
“Bitter root,” the sorcerer muttered, frowning.
“Things like that have been happening ever since Arthur was summoned,” rasped Catullus on his hands and knees.
“So I have seen.”
“Then you know,” Catullus continued, getting to his feet and helping Gemma to stand, “what will happen if he should reach London, if he touches the Primal Source.”
“Disaster,” said Merlin, weary. He seemed to have fully regained his sanity, only to emerge as a tired old man.
“You have to speak with Arthur,” Catullus urged. “Let him know that he is being misled by the Heirs of Albion. He believes he is to be England’s savior, but he will doom not only this nation, but all nations, all people.” Purpose shored Catullus’s words. “There is only one voice, besides the Heirs, that Arthur will heed, and that is yours.”
Merlin spread his hands. “Little I can do, whilst I am like this.”
“We can break the spell,” said Gemma. The color was at last returning to normal in her face. “Get you free and take you to Arthur.”
The sorcerer’s smile held only traces of humor. “My enchantress bound me here using my own magic. Powerful magic, I must admit. To extricate me from this oaken prison is beyond your mortal capabilities. Not even,” he said to Gemma, “using what little magic you do possess.”
“This must be done,” said Catullus with resolve. “If we haven’t magic of our own to liberate you, tell us where it can be found.”
“Wherever it is,” Gemma added, “we’ll grab it for you.”
Merlin contemplated Catullus and Gemma for some time, his infinitely dark, unblinking eyes searching their faces, their souls. It felt like an exploratory root reaching, testing, within Catullus. The profoundest appraisal, which saw its way into Catullus’s core, wherein lay his wishes and desires, fears and strengths, thoughts and feelings he shared with no one, not even himself. What would the sorcerer find there? Catullus could not know, but he held himself motionless under Merlin’s study.
Gemma, too, felt the same scrutiny. The tight set of her lips showed it unsettled her as much as it did Catullus. Yet, like him, she forced herself still, submitting to this scouring of the soul.
Then it was done. Merlin blinked, and the subtle pressure receded.
“One way,” the sorcerer intoned. “One chance. A hazardous path.”
“Naturally.” For the over two decades Catullus served the Blades, no journey or quest ever came easily. Anyone who expected a mission to be straightforward and safe either quickly learned otherwise or wound up dead. He’d seen it happen—reckless, overconfident Blades falling because of their own hubris. Those that survived, including himself, bore scars on their bodies and minds, emerging stronger, tempering their strength with wisdom.
At least, Catullus hoped he was wise. In some ways, he believed he was. In others … He cast a glance at Gemma, who watched the sorcerer with avid interest.
No—it was the wisest thing he’d ever done, and could not regret it. He loved her. The words, once spoken aloud, resounded within him with their truth. And if she could not reciprocate his feelings … it would hurt like hell. He’d be blasted and torn. But a better man, for all that.
“Any hazard, we’ll gladly face,” Catullus said.
Merlin gave another enigmatic smile. “We shall see.”
“Give us our marching orders,” said Gemma.
The sorcerer tipped his head. “At your own peril.” His eyes focused on a point beyond their sight. “It is water that I require.”
An abundance of water was nearby—en route to Merlin, they had passed countless streams, creeks, ponds, and rills—but it would not be so easy.
“From where should we get this water?” Catullus asked.
“Mab’s Cauldron,” replied Merlin.
From his hiding spot just outside the clearing, Bryn gasped.
“I take it Mab’s Cauldron isn’t an ice-cream parlor,” said Gemma.
The pixie flew tentatively forward, his wings fluttering in agitation. He glanced warily at Merlin. “The Faerie Queen’s cauldron lies in the Night Forest.”
“Is it far?” asked Catullus.
“No,” Bryn answered as he twisted his tiny hands. “But its name tells you what you need to know: In the Night Forest, it is eternally night. No sun ever lights the sky.”
“I’m not afraid of the dark,” said Gemma.
“Oh, but you should be.” A forbidding note frosted Merlin’s voice. “The Night Forest is home to Otherworld’s most dangerous creatures. The sort that journey to your mortal world in the depths of night to lurk in shadow and bring terror. It is the native soil for the creatures of your nightmares.”
“Lovely,” muttered Catullus. Being a Blade meant traveling through and combating danger, but just once he wouldn’t mind if a quest took him someplace innocuous and pleasant. Perhaps the Land of Feather Mattresses and Endless Almond Tarts.
“You know that I see well at night,” said Gemma.
“Good—don’t want us both stumbling heedlessly into the dark.”
Gemma could take her liquor. Scotch. Whiskey. Bourbon and rye. Her strong stomach came from years in the newsroom. When starting out, at the end of her very first day at the Trib, her male colleagues pulled bottles from their desks, along with battered tin cups, and drank straight shots of liquor. They snickered and offered her a dainty raspberry cordial. She had poured herself a cupful of Tennessee whiskey and bolted the whole thing down. Took everything she had not to bend over and breathe fire, her eyes streaming tears, but she didn’t. They respected her a little more, after that, and she grew to actually like the taste—the smoke and burn.
She didn’t drink often, but it had its social and medicinal uses. Right now, she’d take on a ring full of bare-knuckle brawlers to have a single shot of whiskey. Bryn, the little lush, had polished off the contents of the flask. She never would have guessed that so tiny a creature could put away so much alcohol, and without a slurred word or tipsy loop in his flying.
She was going to have to face the Night Forest entirely sober.
And what she had to say to Catullus—that demanded a little fermented courage, too.
They made their way silently through the forest of Otherworld, following Bryn through woods that grew increasingly more dense, the path tangled. Vines and brambles. Thick stands of trees nearly impassable. Surly brownies throwing rocks and insults. Bits of sod that were actually faerie creatures with grass growing on their backs, who’d snap and snarl if you accidentally stepped on them. Rough going.
“Is it a lot farther?” she asked Bryn.
The pixie had not yet recovered from his encounter with Merlin. This was made worse by his anxiety growing by the minute, if minutes existed in Otherworld. Bryn fluttered closer. “Not too much. So eager are you to face the banshees and fachans?” He shuddered.
She didn’t know what a fachan was, and had even less desire to meet one, judging by Bryn’s reaction. “I want to get started on this search,” she answered. Journalism required patience, and she had that
by the barrel, but the edgier she got about the Night Forest, the more she wanted to just be there already and face whatever it was she would have to face.
“I’ll get you there,” the pixie said, “by and by.” He zipped away, though with a little less vim than usual.
Catullus sent her an unreadable glance, but continued to stride ahead of her, his eyebrows drawn down in intense contemplation as he threaded through the overgrown forest. She allowed herself a brief indulgence to admire him. He did move magnificently. Surprising, given how much time he spent in his mind, and yet it shouldn’t be such a surprise—he’d made love to her with a fierce beauty that made her head light and body liquid, even now.
It had been more than his body he’d shared. His heart, his love—those he gave to her, too.
He wanted something from her—acceptance, reciprocation, rejection. He liked exploration and learning, but he liked definitives even more, and her silence had to grate.
Catullus nimbly vaulted over a huge tree root nearly as tall as Gemma. She tried to leap over with the same dexterity. Skirts, and lack of experience, had her scrabbling for a grip. She floundered, slipping, then felt his firm grasp around her wrists holding her steady. Gently, he pulled her up and over, until she stood on the other side of the root with his hands clasping her arms just beneath her elbows, less than a few inches separating them.
Warmth at his nearness enveloped her, the potency of his active body, his scholar’s face.
The moment grew fraught as they stared at one another. He hadn’t spoken much since they had left Merlin, and even those few words were subdued, pensive. Now his onyx eyes moved over her face, searching and guarded and yearning, all at once.
“Words are my business, Catullus.” She chose them now, very carefully, as one might search for flakes of gold amongst the silt. “I know their value. Their significance and weight. I can’t just toss them out there.”
