“It is tin,” Colvarth whispered. “But old, perhaps from years beyond our lifetime.”
In one corner the metal lay brighter where it had been scratched. Upon the front, there was a small, rusted, rectangular iron plate with a hole for a sliding key that must unlatch the box. There was writing as well, but Merlin couldn’t read it.
“Where did this come from?” he asked, feeling the weight of the box.
“From the island of Inis Avallow. It was buried inside the old tower. Uther had a vision — but to my shame, I thought he was drunk.”
Merlin examined the narrow gap between the lid and the base. “Shall I try a blade to force it open?”
Colvarth hesitated, and then closed his eyes. “You may try — only be careful. It was bought with the blood of Uther and his wife.”
“So Arthur owns it now?”
Colvarth nodded.
Merlin took out a small knife and slipped it lightly into the gap near the latch. Pressing gently, he heard a click, and the lid loosened. Not opening it, he handed the box back to Colvarth, and the old man received it with trembling hands.
Colvarth opened the lid — slowly.
Inside lay a small wooden bowl, dark from age, and it was cracked on one side. Merlin reached in and took it up, and its base was covered in a band of gold with more writing.
“That is all?” Colvarth said. “A circlet of gold, and black dust?”
Merlin looked inside, but saw no dust — the box lay empty. The wooden bowl in his hand did not have any dust in it either. “I see no dust, Colvarth,” he said, “but the bowl is very old.”
Colvarth squinted his eyes. “I see no bowl, but you hold an empty circlet.” The old man reached out and took the band from Merlin — but his hands passed right through the wooden bowl as if it didn’t exist.
Merlin blinked. He grabbed Colvarth’s wrist to hold the man’s hand steady. He felt the bowl again — and sure, it was there, rough, solid, and wooden.
“You can’t see the bowl?” Merlin asked. “I can see and feel it. And your hand passes through it.” Merlin received the bowl back, and held it by its wooden edge.
Colvarth gasped. “The ring floats! You are not touching it, yet it floats before your hand. Truly this is a mystery. And you say you cannot see the dust in the box? The bottom is filled with it.” Colvarth reached his hand in and stirred around the nothingness.
Inktor, who’d been chatting with Crothak and Henktor at the rudder, stood and began walking toward them. He ducked under the sail, stepped over the sleeping, and sauntered over, whistling.
“Hide this mystery,” Colvarth whispered. “Put it back …”
Merlin returned the bowl to the box and closed the lid loosely. Colvarth hastily threw his cloak over it just as Inktor came close.
“With wind like this, we’ll land before sunset,” Inktor said. “You a little sick, uhh?”
Merlin forced a smile. “We’re fine,” he said, hoping Inktor would leave so he could look at the strange bowl again.
“If you’re Christian and need help,” Inktor said, “there’s a church near the village. You might consider there, uhh? But if you’re all druidow …”
“I am a former druid, but am now Christian,” Colvarth said. “Do you know of a priest?”
“What? You think I live in Baegower? You think I know everything, uhh?”
“Surely —”
“Just cause I say there’s a church, you think I know all about it, uhh?”
“Well, no, but —”
“His name’s Anfri, and he lives up the hill beyond the village. Take the main road a good walk, and you won’t miss it.”
With that, he walked back to the sail, adjusted a line, and then joined his companions at the rudder.
“So we make for the church, and get help there?” Merlin asked.
“I am not sure,” Colvarth whispered. “If this Anfri is one I have heard of, it may be better to ask the nearest thief.” Colvarth brought out the tin box again and opened it. “Now help me — what can this be? In my lore as a bard and druid, I have heard of such things, mage-made things. By the power of demons I would now say. But this is not pagan — it has the cross of Jesu Christus upon the box.”
Colvarth felt inside, his fingers passing through the bowl and stirring the “dust,” as he put it. He sighed, and then prayed aloud in his slow and halting speech. Merlin closed his eyes and lowered his head.
Father of rich wisdom — we beseech thee in poverty.
Spirit of bright power — we call thee in weakness.
Son of high royalty — we call thee in humbleness.
O hear our praying — you who dwell on the mountain.
O hear our calling — you who sing upon the thunder.
O hear our weeping — you who reign over the whole earth.
Reveal to us thy mysteries — mighty Father of the fathoms.
Reveal to us thy secrets — sweetest Spirit of the whispers.
Reveal to us thy riddles — gentlest Son hiding in shadows.
For we praise thee — in our rising we praise thee.
And we praise thee — in our journey we praise thee.
Always we praise thee — in our resting we praise thee.
O God — to your Threeness we lift our voice.
O God — to your Oneness we lift our eyes.
O God — to your Glory we lift our prayer.
Colvarth finished and held the open box out to Merlin. “Tell me what you see,” he said.
Merlin lifted the bowl and studied it carefully. He described its grained ridges, flecks of wood, and texture. This was all amazing to his newly healed sight, and he wondered if the miracle had given him the ability to see spiritual things as well. Either way, he hoped his wonder would never fade at being able to see again after seven years of blindness.
Next he described the bowl’s shape as simple, even plain. He himself had drunk from many carved bowls in his life. But the wood of this one was unique. He told Colvarth he couldn’t guess the type of tree, or its age. “If only we could read the writing on the box,” he said.
“Would it hold water?” Colvarth asked, pulling a draught-skin from his belt. He pulled the stopper with his teeth and poured a little into the bowl — but it passed right through the bottom and splashed his knee.
Merlin was surprised — the bowl felt so real to him! “It must be for some other liquid — heavenly, maybe,” he mused.
Colvarth held the box out again, and Merlin put the bowl back inside. Colvarth then closed it, wrapped a twine around to keep it closed, and placed it carefully in his leather bag.
Merlin remembered his awful dream about the boat pursuing them. “Do you think Vortigern will follow us?”
“This man is the grandson of a ruthless, usurper High King who slew Uther’s grandfather. He will not rest until Arthur is either out of his reach or is dead. We must ride north and hide like the wren — with those loyal to Uther’s house.”
Merlin grimaced, for the time had come to tell Colvarth of his decision. Natalenya’s mother had asked them to bring news to their uncle, but Merlin had wondered if it was best, in light of the dangers ahead, to leave Natalenya with him instead. Now that Merlin knew how ugly his face was, he had to release her from their betrothal.
“First I must deliver Natalenya to her relatives in Oswistor … to her uncle Brinnoc.”
Colvarth squinted. “Why? Will you two not marry?”
A lump rose in Merlin’s throat. “You think I don’t … want to? I saw my scars for the first time, and I can’t subject her to —”
Colvarth waved a hand. “Nonsense. She does not see your scars, she only sees the love in your eyes.”
Merlin swallowed. “I won’t talk about it again. It’s best this way. She’ll understand.”
When Vortigern collapsed to his knees, Bedwir started to run to him, but stopped. He feared the battle chief’s anger if anyone thought him weak-footed in such placid waves.
After
Vortigern found his feet, Bedwir picked up the fallen spear and handed it back.
Vortigern beat his chest and blinked as if a salt spray had stung his eyes. “Where? Where did the witch go?”
Bedwir looked warily at the crew and warriors. A witch? There wasn’t even a woman among them. “What did you say?” Bedwir asked, but the battle chief pushed him aside and stepped over to the fisherman who manned the sail.
“Take us to Baegower.”
Vortigern’s lips nearly frothed, and the fisherman studied him with a wrinkled brow. “Take us to Baegower!”
“All’un right,” he said. “Nay need fer yellin a’ me.” After signaling the man at the rudder, he adjusted the sail until the boat cut northeast. The other boat saw their veer and followed suit.
Like most of the other warriors, Bedwir settled down and leaned back against the side of the boat. In some ways this was best — you couldn’t lose your footing. But it didn’t help the stomach any, and Bedwir’s gurgled.
Vortigern kept pacing, his eyes darting here and there. No doubt looking for his witch. The man even poked his head into a deck hatch. After a short inspection, he walked back to the fisherman managing the knotline and scowled at the limp sail and quiet wind. “How long to Baegower?”
“May’en be four hours, I’d conject.”
“You can’t go any faster?”
“Nay, unlessen the wind bites a mite more.”
A gust suddenly snatched the sail, and one of the ropes whipped loose and welted the fisherman across the face.
Vortigern grabbed the snaking line and pulled it tight. The boat sped now across the sea, and Vortigern’s laugh was lost amongst the waves.
“Tell me … what it was like?” Grandfather asked her. “How did you tell Vortigern where to go? You never left here, yet when I looked into the orb at Vortigern, I saw you standing in front of him.”
Ganieda blinked. “I was only there. The orb ate me … Didn’t you hear me scream?”
Grandfather clucked his tongue. “Yes, yes, of course you screamed … but the orb didn’t eat you. You embroider the tale, my daughter’s daughter.”
“It was scary.”
Grandfather patted her on the head. “Well, it is done, and now that Vortigern has been told, you don’t need to do it again.”
“Why do you want my brother to die?”
“I?”
Ganieda slipped the orb back into her bag and wrinkled her nose at him. “You said I should tell Vortigern to kill my brother.”
Grandfather’s lower lip wrinkled, and he lifted his bloody, bandaged right forearm and thrust it toward her face. “You … you want to know why?”
Ganieda tried to step back, but the hot fabric of the tent pressed against her hair. “You want your hand again …”
“I want your brother’s neck to look like this.” He stripped off the bandage and revealed his arm, with the skin dying and red at the stump of bone where his wrist had been sliced through. He fingered its end with his remaining hand, disturbing the scabs that surrounded the wound.
She couldn’t look anymore and darted to the side.
Grandpa caught her by the shift and pulled her back.
She screamed.
“I want revenge. I want Vortigern to kill him and Belornos to afflict him evermore.”
Ganieda beat at Grandfather, but his hand wouldn’t let go. “I didn’t tell that warrior to do it. I couldn’t.”
Grandfather shook her like a rag and then dragged her to the center of the tent. “Then you … will … go … back to him. Bring forth the orb!”
She remembered the white teeth. The leeching, slavering tongue. The scaly throat that had sucked her down. She wanted to shout, “No!” but the Voice called to her instead. Its words coiled in her head like smoke, and she shut her mouth.
Reach out thy hand, small one, and take this orb.
Behold, I have called my servants from the north.
Without rest they pillage, burn, and capture.
Call them to strike, with sharpened spear and axe,
Against our foe who has stricken us down.
Against Merlin — death to Merlin the fool!
The bagged orb grew warm at Ganieda’s side. Before she knew it, her hand had reached in and taken it out.
Grandfather fell to his knees before it, and she held the sphere aloft. Purple light streamed from it, and mist rolled inside. The image cleared, and before her rushed two hundred warriors. They wore loincloths and leggings, and their lean, muscled bodies shone in the light. Blue paint striped their limbs and naked chests, and feathers decorated their long spears and bows. Most of them bore a round shield, bronze-spiked and dangerous. Their greased hair lay dark, and over each of their shoulders was draped a cloak of checkered cloth.
They chanted as they ran. Ahead of them rode two leaders in chariots made of wicker, pulled by sweating horses.
“Who are these warriors?” Ganieda asked.
Mórganthu sneered. “Prithager from the north, a brutal people, backward and with only rumors of the true knowledge of the druidow. The Romans call them Picti. Why does the orb show us these … these swine?”
“They are near to Baegower. Near to Merlin. So very near.”
“They must be raiding Kembry. The Saxenow invasion has taken the British warriors away to battle there, leaving the heartland weak.”
A purple flame snapped inside the orb, and its focus changed to the bristly face of one of the Prithager leaders. He had dark eyes under a bony brow. His nose was lumped, with a deep scar across it, and his lips sneered in anger.
Grandfather clapped his hands. “Tell him to kill Merlin. Tell him to kill Arthur! With Vortigern behind, and these warriors in front, our foes cannot escape.”
Ganieda pulled the orb close and ran to the water bucket. “I can’t.” And she doused the orb in it, causing steam to whirl upwards and fill the tent.
The world turned white and spun around her. Ganieda tumbled into the empty air.
CHAPTER 8
BROKEN PROMISES
Natalenya tried to sleep but for her hacking cough. She had cried at first, but now with the sun well below the sail, there was nothing left of her tears except dried salt on her cheeks. If only she could catch a little sleep before dark — but no, it felt like a thistle had been jabbed inside her throat.
The sailors had given her a small mat stuffed with flax to sleep upon, but it was damp and stank of fish. Worst of all, Merlin hadn’t even said good night to her. He had slept for a long while — until Colvarth had come. The two had talked privately at the far end of the boat, and then Merlin had gone silently back to bed.
Apparently Natalenya wasn’t wanted.
She didn’t understand him anymore. Everything made sense back in Bosventor. Even when his eyesight had been healed, he had looked upon her with such love and devotion that it made her ears hot and her nose itch.
When had it changed? Had it been yesterday on Dintaga? At the pool in the cleft of rock? He had been crying. She had tried to cheer him, but he would hardly look at her. And then that pain had ripped into her gut like a gladius from hell. Worse, he hadn’t comforted her the way she had wanted. After making sure no insect or snake had slithered behind her, he had wrapped his arms around his own selfish knees and looked away. He had rejected her, and she didn’t know why.
When had she offended him? What had she done? What had she said? A thousand questions raced through her mind, but there was no answer that made sense.
Only that she was ugly.
Now that he could see her, he didn’t love her anymore. He didn’t love the mole on her cheek, the way her eyebrows grew together, her teeth. The hundred little things she didn’t like about herself. And his perfect, blind dream had been shattered by the reality of seeing who she was.
And then she had gotten sick, and he hadn’t even found enough love in his heart to help her. To find something to soothe her cough. To pray over her.
He had withdrawn his l
ove just that fast, and she wanted to sob, and the tears came pouring out once again. Maybe he had never loved her. Maybe in her haste to flee from Vortipor’s slobbering flattery she had misjudged Merlin’s desire to marry her. Better if he had never brought her. She could be home comforting her mother.
The sun slowly lowered in the west, and Inktor finally hailed the sight of the Kembry coast. Natalenya overheard him and the other fishermen determine their location based on the familiar hills and cliffs.
Natalenya dried her tears as Merlin woke from his slumber. He pulled off his cloak and stood unsteadily as the waves rolled the boat. After speaking with Inktor, he went to wake them all, but chose Caygek first, perhaps because he snored the loudest.
Once up, Caygek grabbed Merlin’s arm. “I have a bone of yours to pick at,” he said. “Seems like you’d be in trouble without me helping.”
Merlin glared at him. “What do you want with us?”
“A little appreciation and understanding. I’ve taken a liking to Garth. The boy doesn’t have a father, you know.”
“And you think you’re his guide in life, yes?”
“Without my private advice before Uther was captured, I doubt Garth would’ve saved Arthur. He’s told me himself. Your precious quest would have died before it ever began.”
“Caygek the hero …” Merlin said. “What will you think of next?”
“Maybe saving your skin again the next time you foul up.”
Natalenya saw Merlin tighten his jaw and take a deep breath through his nose. “Listen, I appreciate everything you’ve done to help. But the difference between you and us is that we’ve pledged our fealty to Christ’s kingship.”
“And what kind of king is this Christ? What is his claim?”
“He claims the hearts of all the Britons.”
Caygek stood and pinned his cloak once more over his shoulders. “So you want me to bow down, eh? You’re starting to sound like Mórganthu and his Druid Stone, deciding what we all must do.”
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