At Colvarth’s urging, Merlin had finally found the strength to stand on his wobbly legs — and then Natalenya had come to him and fallen at his feet. He knelt down to her, but pain throbbed into his eyes and blinded him for a moment.
“Are you all right?” he asked, but it was a stupid question, for she was sobbing. Of course she wasn’t all right.
“I’m … I’m …” but she didn’t say more, so he reached out and touched her shoulder to offer some comfort, and found she was trembling.
“Don’t touch me!” she said, and slapped his hand.
Merlin recoiled just as his vision cleared. Her sleeve had been ripped open past the upper arm, and the skin was covered in black and purple boils. Her sickness wasn’t just making her tired, or giving her a fever. It was infecting her flesh.
“Did Necton hurt you?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.
She shook her head, and Merlin took a deep breath. He’d been unable to protect her, sure, but at least he didn’t have to add that to his list of failures. But her sickness — this black death creeping over her body — it made his insides churn in wrath until tears slipped from his eyes.
He had to find a way to help her … but how? Then his dream floated back to him of the fisherman who had really been a king, wounded and bleeding … and the Sangraal had healed him. All this time Natalenya’d been sick. and they had held this relic in their possession — the very cup of Christ!
Merlin needed to get it back from Necton.
Now.
Her suffering must end.
But how could he retrieve it while he was chained to Garth and Bedwir? He turned to talk to them — only to find that Necton had failed to pin his collar on again. He’d been set free to challenge Scafta, and so for the moment he was still free. He saw Necton’s tent within a stone’s throw, and the man himself nowhere in sight. Most of the warriors slept on the ground in the open, but Necton, along with a dozen others, had been afforded the privilege of a tent.
Around Merlin, the Picts milled about their newly lit campfires preparing food and laughing. But Merlin needed a way to hide his face, or else one of the warriors would stop him. At his feet Colvarth and the others were sorting through a new pile of tunics, breeches, and cloaks taken in the raid, and Merlin found a tunic with a hood. He slipped it on, ignoring the lifeblood spilled through a rend in its side.
Garth stood up from talking to Peredur, the young man who’d been chained behind Caygek. He tugged at Merlin’s elbow. “What’re you doin’?” he asked.
“Quiet.”
“I said, what’re you doin’? We’re supposed to be sortin’ these.” He pointed to the clothes.
“Since when do you care about work?”
“Necton’s not goin’ to like it, and I don’t want’a miss dinner.” Garth sniffed the smoke wafting through the camp from the many spits of roasting meat.
“You think you’ll get anything other than dry bread, huh? Well, I’m going to get something from his tent.”
“Food? If’n so, then we’ll come with.” He made to grab a few tunics. “Maybe we can get me bagpipe from Scafta’s tent while we’re at it.”
“No! I’m not getting food, and you’re staying put. If you want any kind of dinner, then distract Necton if you see him.”
Merlin slipped off toward the tent. He tried to appear as relaxed as possible, and this suited him for it minimized the pounding in his head. A strong urge to glance left and right came over him — to see if anyone was approaching to stop him — but the hood blocked his vision.
He was now only ten paces from the tent, and still no one had noticed. He walked forward and ducked under the opening. The air was hot inside, and he tied the flap behind him. Before him lay an unfolded cot, an empty pewter mug, a small cask of drink — and a large bag.
Merlin knelt down and began sorting through the bag. It contained items of plunder, including rings and jewelry, clothing and cloaks, a leather satchel of dried meat, a woven bag with ground horseradish root, various coins amounting to a small fortune, and many other things stolen from the people of Kembry. At the very bottom Merlin discovered Colvarth’s tin box.
He pulled it out from the bag, but found the box had been locked once again. Not having his knife, he needed something to unlatch it. Looking through the bag, he found a slim but large coin, and attempted to slip it into the gap near the lock and wedge it open. This had worked before when he and Colvarth had first examined the Sangraal — but this time it didn’t open.
Sweat began to form at his hairline and trickle down to his eyebrows. He dug back into the bag and found a woman’s copper hairpin, with many tines, and using that began working at the lock, but still the box would not open.
Outside, he heard some footsteps.
His heart began to beat wildly, making his cheeks hot. He blinked away sweat dripping into his eyes and tried to remember the iron locks his father had made in their blacksmith shop. They had different kinds of mechanisms, and that gave him an idea. Taking the hairpins in his teeth, he bent it and tried fishing it deeper into the mechanism.
Necton’s voice called from near the tent entrance, and a distant warrior hailed him.
Click. The box opened. The bowl was still there with its golden circlet upon the bottom, but he’d be caught with it and …
Necton began untying the tent flap.
To get away, Merlin tried to find a place to slide under the side of the tent, but there were too many tent pegs, and the fabric was held too tightly to the ground.
There was no escaping before Necton entered.
Ganieda pulled the broom back, ready to swing it upward at the tall girl, who wouldn’t expect something fierce like that from one as short as Ganieda. No one ever did, and Ganieda prided herself at that.
The tall girl stepped forward again.
Ganieda knew it was the last time the girl would look at her like that. The broom would strike her in the face before she knew what was coming.
But the girl acted quicker than Ganieda … and pulled a rag doll from behind her back. She held it forth, saying, “We made this for you, and want you to have it.”
Ganieda gulped. She still wanted to strike the girl, but how could she do that now? Maybe if the doll were ugly, but it wasn’t. The cloth was a bright blue, maybe the brightest blue Ganieda had ever seen. Bluer than the flax flowers that grew near her house. Her house that had burned down such a short time ago.
Ganieda had no doll. Had nothing to love. Not anymore. And these horrible girls had made it … for her? She wanted to reach out and touch it, take it, hold it, but she was afraid it would become smoke, like everything else in her life.
The girl gave it to her, and then knelt down and tried to hug her.
Ganieda scrunched up her shoulders and stepped back. She’d sit in Safrowana’s lap, receive the dress, and maybe even a doll — but she surely wouldn’t hug this strange girl.
A look of pain — of fear and confusion — passed over the girl’s face. The smirk was gone.
This girl had been afraid too, Ganieda realized.
Safrowana returned with the second bowl of soup and exchanged it for the broom.
The earthenware bowl felt warm, and the steaming goodness wafted upward. Ganieda sniffed deeply. After replacing the broom in the corner, Safrowana left the room with the girls, and Ganieda was alone.
She set the soup on a small table next to the bed, bent down, and pulled out the fang from her shoe. What was this thing? This white length, sharp as a needle, that could hurt those who tried to love her? Even Grandpa had been hurt by it, for she remembered clearly his pressed lips and blinking, tightened eyes when she had first cut his remaining hand. She had betrayed him in that moment … had cut her own grandfather.
If she kept the fang, would she keep hurting people? Would she hurt this family that was trying, however awkwardly, to love her?
But the Voice called again.
Take it and use it, dark haired one,
And you will have power over your enemies.
Consume it, my beloved, and take it into your life,
And it will consume you with a fire
more dear than even your family,
more dear than all who call themselves friends.
The sharp fang vibrated, pulsed, and slowly writhed upon her palm, making her itch to close her small fingers upon it. Making her want to grow again into Gana the great. To become Mórgana. To take hold of the vigor and power of a life obedient to the Voice.
CHAPTER 18
GIVING UP
Garth’s voice rang out, and Necton paused from untying the tent flap.
Merlin let out his breath. The boy had bought him a few moments. He pulled at the side of the tent again, but couldn’t make a space big enough to slip out.
Necton yelled at Garth to get back to work and commenced untying the last set of laces holding the door flap closed.
Remembering that the wooden bowl portion of the Sangraal had been completely invisible to Colvarth, he yanked at the gold circlet, but it refused to come off. Pulling furiously now, he bent it, wedging it from the bottom of the bowl.
The tent door flapped wide.
Merlin hid the bowl under his tunic, between his belt and his breeches. Then he quickly dropped the circlet back into the tin box.
Necton roared, grabbed Merlin by his hood, yanked him to his feet, and slammed his fist into Merlin’s face.
A crunching sound came from Merlin’s nose as pain jolted through his head. Crumpling to the ground, he tried to make sure the Sangraal stayed in his belt, but his arms buzzed and he could barely move them.
Necton dragged him out and across the field by his hood, and threw him to the ground at Peredur’s bare feet. Someone brought the hammer, and within thirty heartbeats Merlin found himself chained again to Garth and Bedwir — and only then did Necton begin searching him.
Merlin panicked as he felt the Pict’s fingers on him, not wanting the Sangraal to be taken. He just had to heal Natalenya. He couldn’t fail her now. The Sangraal was his only hope, his only way to heal her, and this Pict couldn’t have it.
Necton ripped off Merlin’s tunics and began violently searching him. The Pict’s fingers were rough and his nails scratched at Merlin’s skin, but Merlin didn’t fight back. Instead, he slipped his hand to his belt and pushed the Sangraal out from its place where it was wedged. The wooden bowl fell softly to the grass, and he hoped Necton wouldn’t notice it.
When the Pict couldn’t find anything hidden, he ran off to a roaring campfire, snarling at Merlin as he went. A warrior with long black hair sat nearby gutting a young boar in preparation for roasting it. Necton yanked a sizzling iron spit from the fire, ignoring the complaints of the warrior, and marched back to Merlin.
Merlin blanched. Instinctively, he reached out to where the Sangraal had fallen, pulled it into his hand, and hid it behind his leg. It had healed the Fisher King — could touching it shield him from injury? Maybe.
Necton approached the place where Merlin lay on the grass. His face was red, his lips were pulled back from his teeth, and his neck was knotted with bulging veins. The iron spit smoked and hissed, and Necton brought it down at an angle across Merlin’s bare chest.
Agony poured from where the spit touched his skin, a river of blazing fire. Merlin screamed and tried to wriggle away, but Necton jammed his boot onto Merlin’s neck and pressed. Quickly, Merlin was worried more about getting air. He twisted to get out from under the boot, but this pressed his chest harder into the burning spit.
Necton removed the spit but then rammed it down again, this time diagonal to the previous burn, but higher up. And he didn’t let up on his boot.
Merlin wanted to call for help, but nothing came out but tears stealing from his eyes. The light began to fail.
“In the name of God, leave him alone,” Colvarth said, trying to pull Necton away. “You will kill him!”
Necton backed off, but not before slapping the bard and knocking him down.
Garth was crying nearby, and Bedwir sat behind him. Natalenya — who had crawled behind Colvarth so his chain could reach Merlin — pleaded with a rasping voice. Caygek stood in the background, aloof, and Peredur had closed his eyes.
Merlin sucked in the air, a brutal, choking effort. He glanced down at his new wounds, and they were ugly. The spit had not just burned him, but had charred his skin, leaving it red, black, and bloody. He had endured it for Natalenya. He loved her so much. But the Sangraal had failed him. It hadn’t protected him from the branding … could he trust it to heal Natalenya? Anyone?
“Next time-an, kill-idh yiu I will,” Necton said, and then marched off.
Merlin lay there breathing and weeping for some time, until Colvarth crawled over. His cheekbone was red, and some blood had dripped from his nose into his moustache and beard. “You are marked now … as one of God’s servants,” he said, helping Merlin to sit up.
Merlin couldn’t answer him, but shook his head to disagree. He wanted to keep crying, but tightened his throat and wiped his eyes on the torn edge of Colvarth’s sleeve.
“It was and is and will be … painful … yes,” Colvarth said. “But look … it is the sign of the cross … the sign of the name of Christus.”
And it was true, for Merlin could see it now. Necton had branded him twice, each time diagonally across his chest … and what was Merlin to make of this? Suffering! And more suffering. “It is the mark of a slave,” he said, pouring out his anger like sickened, sour milk. And what good was the Sangraal? What good had his dream accomplished? Not only did he have scars on his face and his back, but now he had them on his chest as well. How much could he endure?
He looked at Natalenya now, and saw that she lay propped upon the pile of clothes, coughing. A new boil had formed on her neck, and so no matter how upset Merlin was at his new misfortune, he still needed to try and heal her. Retrieving the Sangraal had cost him greatly, and so he would at least try. He slowly unstrung Colvarth’s waterskin from the man’s belt and tried pouring it into the wooden bowl.
Like before, the water poured right through as if it didn’t even exist, but when he finished, he looked inside, and there, in the bottom, remained a single drop of water. This he brought to the coughing Natalenya, and gently pulling on her chin, he poured it from the bowl into her mouth.
She swallowed, looking up at him with puzzled eyes. And then … nothing. He waited, enduring his own burning pain, but nothing changed with Natalenya. She coughed some more. Her forehead felt as hot as ever. And the boils … the boils still infected her skin in dark, rumpled masses.
The Sangraal had failed to heal her. Had failed him when it was needed the most. He wanted to chuck it into the woods. Throw it in the nearest campfire. Bile rose in his throat, and he lifted the Sangraal and cocked his arm back.
But Colvarth grabbed his wrist. “Though I cannot see it, I know what you hold. You shall not do this!”
“Why not?”
“It is holy.”
Merlin shook his head. “It mocks me. You mock me.”
“Have you forsaken God?”
“If this is holy, then God has forsaken me.” Merlin pulled harder to break Colvarth’s grip.
Colvarth increased his hold on Merlin’s arm. “Are you yet blind?”
That was it. That was enough. Merlin stood, roaring, and he pulled Colvarth up until the old man lost his footing, let go, and slipped back to the ground. Merlin stepped forward, tugging the startled Garth and Bedwir along with him. He approached the same campfire Necton had taken the spit from, now temporarily unattended, and he dropped the Sangraal into the flames.
Colvarth called out, still winded, crying for him to stop.
Merlin waited for the old wood to catch fire and turn back to the dust Colvarth claimed that it was — but it did not. The flames didn’t even seem to touch it, and yet it began glowing, brighter and brighter. Golden it was, now shining with a living splendor that filled all of Mer
lin’s vision. What was this thing? Like a star, clear and beautiful, yet its dazzling light became so intense that he had to shut his eyes lest they be burned.
He fell to his knees, then, and reaching out blindly, he felt for the Sangraal until he found it and pulled it from the flames that wanted to scorch his flesh. The bowl was strangely cool to his touch, the light faded, and he was once more able to look upon its dark wood.
“Though I cannot see it, I know that it is holy,” Colvarth said. “It was bought with Uther’s blood, and perhaps others. Do not destroy it. Do not cast it away.”
Merlin, ashamed and yet full of wonder, gave up. After he tied it inside a cloth from the pile, he gave it back to Colvarth. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.
After all this, Natalenya still coughed.
Merlin didn’t understand. He just didn’t understand.
The Voice spoke once more to Ganieda, the words breathing upon her ears like soft rain. “Come, my little servant, claim again that which has been taken from you. Strike, and do not desist! And all that you desire will be given to you.”
But Safrowana had already offered that. Love. A place to stay … and belong.
She looked at the fang once more, and a shadow crept over her heart. And in that chill she made a decision that she knew deep down, somehow, seemed right. It rested upon the hope of being loved by Safrowana, her second mammu — and for that chance she rejected the fang.
She held her palm out, placing the fang as far from her body as she could get it, walked over to the window, and dropped it upon the dusty sill behind two old loom shuttles. The sun was setting outside, and for a brief moment its light shone brightly through the slats of the shutter — and upon her hope of a new life.
Ganieda turned her back upon the fang. “May a raven take it away!” she said. Then she ran to the feather bed, threw herself upon it, and began crying.
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