They walked through a final stand of trees and found the druidow’s camp. There sat two dozen or so of their number — all that was left of the hundred who had breathed freely of the wind of Ogmios the day before, hoping the Stone would restore them to power in the land. They sat before fires, along with their wives and a few children Ganieda recognized, and there they smeared smoking charcoal on their bodies to appease the multitude of the gods.
None spoke, yet they looked to their leader, Mórganthu, with gaunt faces and twisted, frowning lips. Grandfather ignored them, but Ganieda saw a tear escape his eye as she rode Tellyk beside him.
Half of the tents had been ransacked and ripped but the other half were strangely untouched, including Grandfather’s tent, which sat in a private clump of thick pines at the far end. Entering within, Ganieda looked up and beheld again the bones hanging from the ceiling, and once again they made that wonderful tinking, clinking sound as the wind caressed the tent. Ganieda felt safe here, as her mother had before getting sick.
He gave her some smoked venison, and she lay upon an animal fur and devoured the meat.
Grandfather did not eat anything. He sat and watched her, and when she was halfway through, he inched closer and whispered to her. “Darling daughter of my offspring, do you love your grandfather?”
“Yes, Grandpa.” The meat was cold, but it lined her empty stomach, and the grease upon her fingers was sweet.
“Then, oh, then, may your grandfather see what you have hidden in your bag?”
Ganieda flared her nostrils at him, and sat up.
“I will not touch, I promise, I promise. Only a look …”
She finished the deer meat, and he gave her some more.
Grandpa tilted his head, and his eyebrows softened. “Your mother, you know, would want you to share with me these secrets.”
Ganieda looked at him, at his long nose and wrinkled eyes. How old he looked and how sad. His soft, black beard had grown more gray over these few weeks, and Ganieda felt sorry for him. “I have two things, you know …” she said.
“Two, yes, but what mysteries? How thoughtful of you to save them!”
She smacked her lips, feeling sleepy. “… But I will only show you one.”
She reached into her bag and touched the fang’s sharp tip, almost pricking her finger. No, she would keep that hidden — in case Grandfather tried to take the orb. Reaching deeper, she found the orb, slipped it out, and held it before Grandfather.
In the morning light, the inside of it seemed dark, with a tinge of red worming its way throughout. Ganieda looked deeper inside, and suddenly it lit up with a pale purple flame.
Grandfather snapped his head back as if his eyebrows had caught fire. He circled around, keeping his hand obviously behind his back, until he sat next to Ganieda on her left and pressed his furry cheek up to hers. “What is this, my daughter’s daughter? What remnant of the Stone have you found? Surely its power —”
His voice stopped abruptly as the flame faded, and an image appeared in the orb. It was a bush, burning brightly, yet surrounded by a ghostly mist. And below the bush, five people climbed a stairway cut into the rock. They came to a door in a high wall, and beat upon it with their fists.
These five waited for a long while, shivering in the dark, until finally a porter opened the door, his lantern falling upon their faces.
Grandfather hissed, for the scarred face of Ganieda’s brother was revealed, and that of another man, white of beard and with a harp. These two entered, and as they passed by the porter, three others were revealed: a druid whom Ganieda did not know, a girl holding a child, and a young boy whom she had seen with her brother and then later with the druidow.
“The child!” her grandfather bellowed. “It is Arthur, the High King’s son, and he yet lives when mine was cruelly treated and slain. My Eirish warriors told me the boy had died. They lied to me … lied and failed me.”
Ganieda did not know who this Arthur was, but she knew her brother and she hated him for ruining her life. And if Grandfather hated this Arthur, then she would hate him too. She would hate them all.
Ganieda hugged Grandfather’s shaking shoulder. “It’s all right, G’andpa. We will hurt them. We can hurt them.”
CHAPTER 4
GORLAS
Merlin ducked under an arch as the porter led them into the rock-walled fortress of Dintaga and through passages choked with debris and mud.
Colvarth stopped, lifted a filthy boot, and studied it intently. “Your lord Gorlas,” he called loudly, “needs his warriors to become his muckers.”
The porter turned, and with his right eyebrow raised below his black, puffy hat, said, “These are but the lower passages, and his warriors have finer things to attend to.”
Indeed, Merlin was taken aback at what these “finer” things entailed as they entered the feasting hall. All around the men slept, some in their kidneyed mead and some in their bile-soaked supper. The place stank, and the tables were filled with animal bones and rotting fruit amongst broken jars of foreign pottery — perhaps from the seat of the now-crumbled empire.
The porter sniffed as he took them up a broad and winding stair. “It matters not that you are sent from Uther — you must apologize to King Gorlas for coming at an inconvenient time.”
Natalenya climbed the stairs beside Merlin, holding his belt. Her eyes were wide and her breath labored as Arthur slept against her shoulder.
They entered an alcove, nearly hidden behind a curtain, and beyond that stood a large oaken door. The porter knocked, and his thuds echoed into the chamber beyond. There was no answer. Again he knocked, but this time he did not cease.
Inside, footsteps crossed the floor, there was a scuffling sound, a bang, and then cursing. “What is the meaning of waking me so early?”
The door was unbarred and flung wide, and a man emerged into the lantern light. His thick hands fumbled with a yellow embroidered tartan of indigo, white, and teal, and his swarthy face had sunken, bloodshot eyes. Upon his neck lay a silver torc, almost hidden by his wildly thick, black beard. His wide mouth grimaced as he yelled again. “A curse on you, Sulain … I’ll cut your seven spleens out for this —” He stopped speaking when the porter lifted his lantern so the whole party could be seen.
Colvarth stepped forward. “King Gorlas, we have come bearing news of great import concerning the High King. May we enter, and rest our tired legs?”
Gorlas scowled and blinked at them. “Yes, yes,” he said, but his expression said no.
He studied each of them in turn, pausing on Natalenya and Arthur. Lastly his eyes met Merlin’s, and his frown twisted as he traced unkempt fingernails along his own face — over the same path as Merlin’s gouges. He did this for his other cheek as well.
“My lord,” the porter interrupted, “may I return to my duties?”
Gorlas looked at his porter as if for the first time. “No, no,” he said, but then nodded in affirmation, and the porter left them.
The pale light of dawn misted through a few high windows, but the room behind Gorlas slept in gloom. He turned from them without a word, entered, and walked around an open hearth near a broad table. At the back wall he sat upon a chair with his face hidden in shadow. “What is it?” he said. “Has that pig sent you to torment me again?”
Colvarth entered first, and the others followed. Merlin brought up the rear and closed the door, but did not bar it.
Colvarth cleared his throat and stuck out his scruffy white beard. “The Boar of Britain is no pig, young Gorlas, and you will speak in kinder terms of the dead.”
“The dead?” Gorlas said. His legs snapped as if to stand up, but the rest of him remained leaning against the back of the chair.
Natalenya blew on a half-burnt twig from the hearth and lit some candles set in a silver pedestal set upon a tablecloth.
The light began filling the room.
Merlin stepped back, for the glow revealed a woman sitting to the left of Gorlas, and a man to his
right. The man’s thin face scowled down as if he were about to raise the thick blade laying in his lap — and smite off Merlin’s head.
But the two were only flat tapestries, cleverly stitched so as to appear alive.
The man, bald and wearing a battle-red cloak under bright mail, sat upon a wide throne. At his throat lay a golden torc, and upon his head rested a crown of laurel. Above him, amongst the woven storm-clouds, were embroidered some words. Merlin’s eyes had trouble making these out, having not read anything during the prior seven years of blindness. After puzzling a bit, he determined its meaning: “Vitalinus, High King of the Britons.”
Merlin pulled his gaze away and studied the tapestry of the woman, also lifelike. Her hair was flaxen-red and her face lovely. Her dress, with pearls and silver thread, bore the same plaid as Gorlas’s wrinkled tartan. Upon her throat rested a braided silver torc, and she held a slim yet deadly blade. Above her head had been embroidered the words, “Igerna, Beloved Queen of the people of Kernow.”
Queen? Kernow had no queen. As far as rumor told, Gorlas, the king, had never married. Merlin blanched. This image was of Uther’s wife. The rivalry for her love was deeper than Colvarth had let on. Maybe deeper than Colvarth knew.
Gorlas put a hand over one of his eyes to block the sudden intrusion of candlelight. “Uther is dead, you say? That swindler is dead?” He jumped up and danced, growling like some animal. He nearly ran into Garth, who bounded backward.
Prancing around to Merlin, Gorlas jerked to a stop and pulled at the curls of his beard. “The crook is dead! He, he stole her away … By dressing up like me he tricked her, but no more, do you hear? She’s my love, and she’ll come back.”
Colvarth thunked his staff onto Gorlas’s foot. “Cease. Igerna is dead as well. They were both murdered by the traitor Vortigern. We have brought her son, Arthur, here for your protection, for Vortigern stands outside your walls ready to … ready to claim the throne of the High King by killing Uther’s heir.”
Gorlas blinked at Colvarth and nodded as if in agreement, but said, “No … no. Igerna is alive. She’ll never, never die …”
A door creaked from the left, and a woman stepped forth holding a stubby candle. Behind her lay a room with a wide and rumpled bed. She pulled a robe tightly around her shoulders and looked at all of them in surprise. “What is it, my love? What has wakened you?”
Her tousled hair was red with a tinge of brown, and Merlin thought she resembled the Igerna of the tapestry a little too much.
Gorlas looked at her, and his eyes brightened. “She is here … Igerna is here, you see? She has come back. She always and only loves me.”
The woman stepped next to Natalenya and peered at the sleeping Arthur. “I am Ewenna, from a fishing village down the coast,” she whispered, “but he often forgets when we are together.” She touched Arthur’s soft head and smiled.
Gorlas glared at Arthur, and then turned on Ewenna. “How could you carry his child,” he said, gnashing his teeth and biting his lip bloody. “Why did you betray me?” And he slapped her in the face and then turned on Natalenya, trapping her against the table and a large chair. Arthur awoke and cried out.
Gorlas raised his fist to strike the child.
Merlin ran. Grabbing the back of Gorlas’s neck, he thumped him face-first down upon the wood table. The candles fell over onto the tablecloth, and Natalenya rushed away.
Gorlas roared, broke free, and lashed his hand out.
Merlin ducked, and after leaping back put his fingers on the hilt of his sword. “We have come for your protection.”
“The bastard child of Uther shall not stay in my house!” Gorlas darted to the door, banged it open, and was gone.
The spilled wax from the candles spread out on the tablecloth, and it caught fire.
Merlin fetched a goblet and threw the contents on the fire, but it was strong drink, and the fire leapt even higher.
Garth yanked the cloth down to the stone floor. Colvarth slung off his wet cloak and smothered the flames.
Ewenna sobbed, her cheek red with the handprint of Gorlas. After Natalenya had quieted Arthur some, she went and touched Ewenna’s shoulder.
“He usually treats me better,” Ewenna said through her tears. “But he’s all that I have. No one else will take me now.” She smiled at Arthur again through her tears and held his hand while the child studied her shaking candle with his soft, brown eyes.
The tramping of feet could be heard beyond the open door, and soon a bevy of warriors entered the room with spears, swords, and bows leveled at the group.
Merlin stepped forward and spoke to them, hands out. “Do not hurt us, simply let us leave.”
The warriors marched them out of the fortress, and set them free out the door they had come — but with Vortigern guarding the causeway, there was no escape.
Above them and through the mist, Gorlas yelled, his smiling face leaning out from a ledge. “Igerna is mine, and her bastard is thrown to the cowering rocks where he belongs!” He laughed — a howling, barking laugh that sent a chill down Merlin’s back. “When the tide goes out I shall go and parley with Vortigern — the faithful brother of my love — and together we will decide your fate.”
Merlin wandered aimlessly across the island, climbing boulders and crossing fissures until he found himself on the summit where the pale sunlight had begun to burn the mist away. The others probably followed, but he hoped they would stay away.
He had failed them by bringing them here. Every disaster Colvarth had warned him about had come, and what could he do now? Vortigern guarded the causeway, the sea surrounded them, and the only boat in sight was so far away that the sailors would never hear their shouts, or see them wave.
Colvarth, breathing hard, finally caught up with Merlin and leaned on his staff. “I told you we might regret coming here.”
“It’s my fault.”
“I am not here to bring blame.”
Merlin turned away from him. “Yes, you are. I’ve failed you. Failed Arthur.”
Pointing toward the coast, Colvarth said, “They would have caught us in the forest or on the road. Vortigern has too many warriors.”
“And I have what — a boy, a druid, a girl, and an old man?” Merlin regretted these words, but they were out. He looked back, and saw Colvarth’s expression droop.
“The child Arthur is not your burden,” Colvarth said, pulling up his hood against the whistling wind. “He is the burden of this decrepit old man — but I have something Vortigern does not have.”
“What do you have?” Merlin asked. “Can your harp turn into a magic boat?”
“What I have is you.” Colvarth tugged Merlin’s sleeve and made him look eye to eye. “You are the wise one through whom our Creator has spoken. You are the brave one who overcame the Druid Stone. You are the blind one who has been healed. We may yet find a way, if —”
“Leave me alone.”
“The tide will not tarry —”
“Leave me alone.” Merlin pulled away and ran off, leaving Colvarth’s empty words to echo on the summit.
Down the hill he went and hid in a scrubby hollow, where a small pool had been caught. A foul-looking gull came and brushed its bill in the rainwater. The reflection of the bird lay upon the surface, and Merlin realized it was like a mirror. He shooed the bird away, and leaned over the water to see his own face for the first time in seven years.
He cringed.
The scars were worse than he’d imagined. Though they had aged, and faded some, they were ugly. Bulges of flesh had grown on his eyelids, and scratches had dug deep into his nose, cheeks, and forehead. At best, he looked like a bird of prey, evil and outcast — at worst, a monster. Long ago, it seemed, he had felt the scars with his fingers in the darkness of his wounded eyesight. But now, in the full light of day, he saw them for what they were. Only now did he fully understand why he had been a pariah in Bosventor. Why people whispered around him. Why children ran away at his coming.
&nbs
p; So how could Natalenya love him? She was so beautiful, with her dark hair and darker eyes. He had never dreamed someone could care for him. And now he knew the truth: No one could. Ever. Sure, her heart seemed steadfast, but she was just trying to get away from Vortipor, leaving with Merlin only because it was better than having to marry that scoundrel. Someday soon she would meet a handsome, unscarred someone — and they would fall in love. She would forget about foolish, ugly Merlin, and the bond that had grown between them in these difficult days would wither away.
He loved her and cared for her so deeply, and his heart ached to marry her, but now that he could see his own repulsiveness he could also see the future, and it hurt.
He wanted to weep, but held back the tears, and he was angry at God for not taking his scars away along with his blindness. And because of that, he would have to protect himself. Harden his heart like a sword from his father’s smithy. She would be snipped from his life like everyone else had been — cut off by a chisel on an anvil of pain. He had to face it. He was a wanderer now, forsaken, lost — and now trapped. The best he could do was to protect Natalenya, Arthur, and the others. Maybe by some miracle get them off the island … and then set her free.
And if he died here, then it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
Ganieda rested upon a white bull’s furred hide, and soon her hatred of Merlin faded from memory. She slept, a great, drowsy, tumbling sleep. There in a dream, in a dark cove near the sea, her mother visited her. She lay down upon the rocks; her infected arm wept from its wound, and she called to Ganieda, screaming for vengeance. The sea crashed over them and swept her mother off.
Ganieda awoke, startled — but still the pained visage of her mother’s face swam before her eyes. And then was gone. She became aware of Grandfather sitting upon his carved chair, watching her. His eyes reflected the coals of the fire, and he breathed in its herbed smoke deeply through his nostrils. “You have slept only a little, and the remnant of the druidow have come to me and gone, and the Honor Pit is being dug.”
Merlin's Shadow Page 4
