“He had word that his brothers are coming! His brothers! He rode out to meet them!”
With broad gestures and pointing, he finally made himself understood. Merlin disappeared into the building.
“Guinevere, have you any wine handy?” Geraidus croaked. “I hate to shout like that; it spoils my voice for singing.”
She poured cups for them both.
“What do you think Merlin wants Gawain for?” he asked.
Guinevere shrugged. Merlin never confided in her.
“It is rumored that tonight he is going to bring the Round Table here,” Geraidus prodded.
“He and Arthur were closeted together for several hours yesterday,” she admitted. “But they didn’t tell me why. Arthur has been so excited since we came here that I can’t tell if something new is being planned.”
“If you don’t mind, I will go down there to see what I can find out.” Geraidus drained the wine. The cup tipped itself away from him and then back.
“Sorry,” he said to the air. “Next time you may have some.”
He returned to his conversation with Guinevere. “I wasn’t born when that Table was put in the cave under Leodegrance’s villa, and I have never seen it. I have heard that it is enormous, though, and would dearly love to see how he intends to move it.”
“Father never spoke of it at all, other than to tell us that it was not ours to touch. The cave was too dark to see it well, but I remember that it seemed to go on forever into the blackness. Yes, go and see what they are doing. Let me know what is happening. If Cousin Merlin is ready to place the Round Table at Camelot, then it would appear that Arthur plans to start enlisting his brotherhood of knights. That might be worth seeing.”
Geraidus considered that an understatement. The men of Britain had dreamed of nothing else for the past five years. Some had been training themselves or their sons all that time. When word got out that the Table was in place, they would arrive from every corner of the country to vie for a seat. Arthur was wise to wait so long. Not only was interest at the straining point, but the men were that much readier. The selection would be greater and the standards tougher. Once the Table. . . .
His mind returned to his first question. How was Merlin ever going to be able to move it?
Merlin was even more closemouthed than usual, though, and Geraldus could get no answers from him. Arthur looked worried.
“He sent word to my father-in-law not to be surprised or concerned if the ground shook a bit at his villa tonight. He keeps telling me he has no doubts, that what he did once, he can do again. But I don’t like the way he looks. He’s withdrawn into himself more than I’ve ever seen him and he won’t tell me what his plans are. He just says that everyone must stay indoors tonight and no one must light a fire of any kind. In the morning the Table will be in the Hall.”
“But how will he get it in? The doors are in place and the glass in the roof. And even if they weren’t, the Table is supposed to almost fill one end of the building. Any entry will be much too narrow.”
“Do you want to tell him that?”
Geraldus shook his head. He noticed that his singers were nowhere around him or, if they were, they were silent. Even they seemed disinclined to meddle with wizards.
Merlin sat on the ground some distance from them. He paid them no attention. He didn’t like the looks of the sky. Too many clouds tonight could ruin everything. It had been almost thirty years since he had done this sort of thing. He had been a boy then, eager and without respect for the forces he was dealing with. Now he felt his age. He had lived enough to learn fear and he tried to avoid trafficking in magic. But it had to be done. One last great foray between the worlds, into and, he hoped, out of sorcery and ice. He felt a touch of excitement. The boy he had been was not dead yet. He stroked his beard, mindful of the gray rimming the brown. Yes, it would be worth it, not only for Arthur and his dreams. Britain would remember him for this and maybe credit it against the deceptions he had been forced into in Uther’s time. He studied the sky again. It would be hours yet until night and there was a wind coming up which might blow away the clouds. That would help. For now, he would rest.
• • •
There were still clouds scudding across the sky by the time it was full night. But they were few and fleeting. Merlin gazed around at the sleeping Camelot. His orders had been obeyed. Not so much as a candle glowed from the buildings and the Great Hall was hollow and waiting. Merlin let himself in and barred the doors behind him. A clear circle of moonlight shone through the thick glass above the spot ordained for the Table. As he studied it, the glow flickered as the clouds raced over. It steadied again. Whatever might happen, it must be done now. The moon was full and close to the earth. He couldn’t wait another year for the chance.
He removed his robe and tunic and, wearing only his woolen trews, stood bathed in the light. The bronze bands on his wrists, normally so tarnished that they went unnoticed, were burnished to a red-gold brilliance. He held himself motionless, not even breathing, and slowly tensed every muscle, like a lion preparing to pounce. With a sudden motion, he leaped into the air and vanished.
There was a gasp from the corner deepest in shadow. Caet’s hand thrust out quickly as if to grasp what wasn’t there. He alone had disobeyed the order. The lure of the old magic was too strong. He had been born to it. His family had given the old religion its priests and scholars, drui and fili for generations. But he had believed the old gods dead and that he himself had been the last to speak with them. Even though the memory of his encounter with the goddess still terrified him, he had hoped that it was not true that she had gone, that Merlin had come tonight to make sacrifice and to beg for divine intercession and help. He should have known Merlin better than to think he was merely a passive medium for the gods. Merlin had been a part of Caet’s life as long as he could remember. He was kin to his mistress Guenlian and her daughter, Guinevere. Caet had often seen him, talked with him, even caught his horse once after it had thrown him. He had believed, unlike many others, that Merlin was only a man, not the demon that some called him. But he was not merely a crusty old magician or teller of tales. He was a man of action. He did not rely on anything to create his magic for him. Caet felt no supernatural fear of him, only intense admiration that this human, whatever his connections, would dare to cross the abyss between worlds.
• • •
Merlin did not dare to look around, to examine the place where he now walked, so cold that his breath froze on his beard and ice crystals formed on the hair of his chest and arms. He felt the cold to his marrow, but ignored it. He had to keep the image of the Table before him, first as a picture and then as reality. He knew that the most difficult part was yet to come, in the deep cave where no light pierced. The darkness about him grew. He felt the Table take shape beneath his hands and knew it was real. His eyes closed and he imaged the circle of light back at Camelot. The Table rose.
The cold increased so that the metal on his wrists contracted and froze. His hands and fingers grew numb and his forearms were shot through with pain. He faltered. Was it from his weakness or was a cloud across the face of the moon? He could not let his mind wander enough to speculate. He must only take each step carefully, knowing that the Table floated before him, but totally concentrating on the circle of light waiting empty for him to return.
• • •
Caet waited, ten minutes, twenty. He had never thought to know someone who would attempt this. His grandmother had told him stories of those who had peered through the passageway when they were looking through the eyes of the gods. It was said that the sight erased all color from the eyes until they were as gray as old ice and that those who had seen could never again bear the light of day. How long did it take? Caet began to fear that his presence had taken some power from Merlin. What if he came back too late? How long could a man live where only gods should tread?
• • •
Merlin could feel his strength evaporating with the hea
t from his body. He had no idea of how close or far he was from his goal. Only at the last second would the image fade and reality appear again. He had no way of judging time, but he thought he was slowing. His left foot skidded on something and he lurched to that side. He caught his breath in fear, but the image didn’t fade. The Table was heavier, though, than last time, harder to guide. It might have been easier to bring from light into darkness than the other way around. His side was beginning to ache and his throat to burn when he thought he felt the burden lighten a fraction, as if there were someone on the other side of the Table, pulling. His pace steadied and quickened, eight steps, ten, thirteen, and then a sensation of choking on thick fog—those damn clouds again! But it meant he was almost through. Another push. Yes, something was tugging him from the other side. With one huge effort, Merlin shoved the table before him and fell on top of it with a thud, slightly askew in the Hall at Camelot.
He lay panting on the Table as the ice encrusting him melted in the summer heat. His lungs felt as if splinters had been driven into them. It was some time before he was aware that someone else was in the room. A face appeared above him. His back was to the light and his features were blurry. Merlin tried to rise.
“No, don’t move yet, Master Merlin.” The voice was familiar. “I’ll get your robe and some water. Just rest. I won’t be long.”
Merlin’s eyes closed. Lord, he was tired. The solid wood beneath him was reassuring. He had done it. The Table was in place, Arthur was in place. He had fulfilled his part of it. There would be no more need for magic. At last he could rest without worry. The weight was gone. Whatever happened now, for good or evil, was not his responsibility.
“I think I may go visit Guenlian now,” he thought sleepily. “It would be nice to retreat for a while, to go back to the old world, with no threats of dire prophecy looming.”
The man had returned. He forced a cup to Merlin’s mouth. The water had been mixed with wine and herbs. He knew the blend. It was an old remedy for frostbite. The thought amused him so that he laughed and splattered the liquid down his chest.
“Careful, Master. It was all I could think of,” the voice warned. “Does it help?”
Who was this man? Merlin squinted to bring him into focus. How could he know about the cold? Of course, there had been this ice. His hair was still wet and his skin clammy, but. . .
He sat up. “Let me look at you. Weren’t you told to stay away from here?”
The cup shook. “Yes, Master Merlin.”
“Well, have you no explanation? Wait, you seem familiar. Who are you?”
“I’m Briacu. King Arthur has made me his horsemaster.”
There was some bitterness in his voice, as though that had not been the post he had hoped for. Merlin studied him.
“Briacu? No. You had another name. I can’t remember now. But I know you. You were the boy at Leodegrance’s. Your great-grandmother was the high priestess of Epona. A remarkable woman. Did she teach you? Were you the one who guided me here?”
“I . . . I don’t know. You were gone so long. I thought of a charm, a spell my family used to use. But it wasn’t magic, just a blessing for travelers. It was all I could think of.”
“A blessing?” Merlin laughed again. “Well, the gods may be gone, but there’s life in the old spells yet! Thank you, friend Briacu. You must have come here to remind me that even an old wizard can learn humility. But listen to me! There are those who would be horrified at what we did here tonight. I have some immunity because of my position and power, but there are still those who have complained about my trafficking with the old ways. They also fear me. You are young, Briacu, and will have to spend more time in this world with its growing fear of what it cannot touch. I advise you never to speak of what has happened here. Never think of it, if you can help it. If the horses which Arthur brought with us are an example of your skill, then you will never need magic to aid you, nor will you end your life on a pyre, with the flames licking your feet.”
Caet nodded. He did not need to be told. He glanced up. The texture of the light was changing. It would be dawn soon. Merlin followed his look.
“I agree,” he said. “The Table is now where it should be. They will discover it soon and we can examine it further then. Now all I wish is to find my way to bed. Can you help me? My joints are a bit stiff.”
They hobbled out together, shutting the door without a backward glance. In the growing sunlight, the carving on the Table began to show and, in a clearing a day’s journey away, Lancelot prepared to ride.
Chapter Five
The first thing everyone did upon seeing the Table for the first time was to reach out and touch it. All that day people filed past, running their hands over the ancient, silken wood. They spoke in whispers, as if in the presence of a sacred relic. Arthur stood nearby, watching. His excitement was too great for him even to sit down.
He had awakened that morning at first light and hurried out to the balcony. It was not high enough for him to look down into the main Hall and see if anything were there. The sun rose higher and caught the glass in the roof so that it was reflected. It seemed to him that the glow was a good omen, like a huge golden chalice. Arthur couldn’t wait any longer. He returned to the room and began throwing on his clothes. He was glad that it was summer; a tunic and a belt and quickly-laced sandals were all he needed. He started to run out, then stopped and looked back at the bed. Guinevere had burrowed down into the sheet until only a truant braid could be seen. He hesitated, went over, and folded down the linen to find her face. She winced and mumbled something as the light hit her eyes. Arthur laughed.
“Wake up, my love. Don’t you want to see the Table? You must come with me. It’s your dowry, after all.”
She mumbled something more and tried to turn her face back into the sheet, but Arthur lifted her by the shoulders, propping her head against his chest as he continued to exhort her.
“The Table, Guinevere! Merlin said it would be in the Hall by morning. I want you with me when I see it for the first time and I will not wait another minute. Wake up, dearest, please! What did you say?”
“I said,” she spluttered, pulling a loose strand of hair from her mouth, “I said, I will come with you.” She yawned. “Only couldn’t it wait? I need my hair done and a clean robe.”
“You look beautiful, Guinevere,” Arthur assured her and meant it. “This robe is clean enough. No one will see us. Just run over there with me and then we can come back and get properly dressed.”
“All right,” she said as she stretched and yawned again. “I hope we don’t awaken the rest of Camelot. Hand me the robe, please.”
Arthur watched patiently as she tossed off her nightdress and pulled on the robe. Even after five years her body was still so beautiful to him that he felt something close to awe every time he saw her undressed. Perhaps that was why he still felt so clumsy making love to her. It was more like the violation of a shrine than the tender union of two people. He blamed himself that Guinevere had never learned to enjoy it.
She caught his intense stare and felt unsure. Her fingers twisted her braids, disheveled after the night. She undid them and her hair fell loose, almost to her knees. From the protection of that cloak, she smiled at her husband.
“Do you really believe the Table will be there?”
The robe slipped over her head. She pulled her hair out from under it.
Arthur grabbed her hand. “Yes, I do and I want to be the first one to see it. Let’s go.”
They ran across the courtyard like guilty children, laughing in whispers, and arrived breathless at the doors. Arthur stared at the grain of the wood. At the moment of truth, he almost doubted. Then he raised his arms and, with a dramatic sweep, pushed the doors inward.
The Great Hall was still dark except for the ring of golden light pouring down on the Table. Carving could now be made out on the legs and around the rim. It was enormous, practically brushing against the pillars supporting the roof. Guinevere had nev
er seen it before in the light. Her memories of it were of a hulking shape lurking in the dark. Her brothers had taken her with them to see it and had dared her to touch it. The sight of it then had terrified her into weeks of nightmares and they had all been forbidden to enter the cave without an adult. Now it stood before her, solid and with form. It was her dowry. Arthur had asked nothing else of her father. In a sense, it was hers. But she wanted no part of it. It still unnerved her. The wood was almost black with age. Where had it come from? Who could have built it and why? Could any tree have been so huge as to be sliced to make the top of it? Against her will, she was drawn to it. She started to walk around it, feeling the top with her fingers. Suddenly she stopped and traced the grooves she had felt.
“Arthur, look at this! Merlin has put your name here!”
“What? That shouldn’t be. There was to be no sign of rank.”
“I don’t know anything about that, but here it is.”
His hand covered hers as again they felt the carving. They needed touch as well as sight before they could believe what was written there.
“ARTURUS REX”
Despite his protest, Arthur stared at it in delight. “Merlin couldn’t have carved this here. The edges of the letters are smooth and as worn as the table itself. Could it be that it was always here, that it was meant for me from the beginning?”
Guinevere shrugged. She never speculated on the impossible.
She continued wandering around the Table, suppressing a strong temptation to see if she could slide across its smooth surface. She wanted to do something that would reduce its mystery.
Arthur could not move from the spot that bore his name and title. His throat constricted as he tried to force back the tears. It had been here waiting for him all along. There was a purpose, a destiny for him to follow. His knees buckled and he knelt on the rough new floor, his cheek against one of the Table’s legs. A great surge of relief and hope swept over him. He was not alone! In spite of Merlin, Guinevere, Gawain, and Cei; in spite of all the tenets of religion he had been taught; in spite of his long-ago vision of the Virgin, he had doubted and feared. Too many nights it had seemed to him that the fate of all civilization in Britain lay with him and the weight was suffocating. Here at last was proof that somehow things had been ordained, that someone somewhere had known he would exist and had cared enough to leave him a message. Perhaps even now someone was watching, helping in secret. Thank God, at last he could believe that he did not dream alone.
The Chessboard Queen Page 7
