Once again it began to grow heavy in her hand until it rolled to the floor. Soon it was beyond her height, and still it grew, changing shape now into the head of a phantasmal lizard. Like a dragon it was; red, gigantic, and powerful, with great curled horns like that of a ram’s. Its mouth opened and a flickering light could be seen down its throat. This time she did not scream. She did not flinch. She lunged within, and the ghostlike creature swallowed her whole. The great tongue pushed her down the greasy, palpating throat, the world darkened, and she floated down. The air chilled and her feet rested upon a slushy, bloody hilltop not three paces from Merlin.
Merlin had to decide between the knife and the Sangraal, for his left arm throbbed uselessly at his side.
Without more than a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed the knife.
But after two steps, he realized he was holding the Sangraal. He turned back angrily and saw the knife laying on the ground. He dropped the bowl, grabbed the knife, and again the same thing happened. The bowl, with its gritty wooden rim, was pinched between the fingers of his right hand. He fell to his knees, set the bowl down, and picked up the knife.
Why would the Sangraal be here? Now? And why couldn’t he get rid of it? The fool thing hadn’t worked. Yet a voice from his vision filled his head. It was the fisherman turned king, singing in joy as his great and painful wound had been healed:
Trust not in guile, or in a hoard —
trust in the power of Christ, your Lord.
Not in the wood, or in a sword —
here lays the blood of Christ, yes, poured.
Let death break forth, and blade’s bright rust —
at the judgment they turn to dust.
And when you fail, in thick disgust —
there, in the Christ of heaven, do trust.
No greed for life, or soul who’s dead —
can steal you from the Son, who bled.
And for your sin, and feeble dread —
Christ brought his blood to earth, to shed.
When fools must choose, and black the night —
when all is wrong and wrong seems right —
Then take the cup, your faith in Christ,
and wage the war, with His great might.
The words echoed in Merlin’s ears, and for the first time he really listened to them. Like the gentian tea his mother had made him drink when he was young, the words were bitter yet cleansing. He’d been wrong. So wrong. Wrong to trust in the Sangraal rather than the God of the Sangraal. Wrong to trust in his own abilities apart from the God who had made him. Wrong to lose faith in God.
He cried out then, and tears began to blur his eyes. But there was no time for that — for Arthur’s dying screams filled the air.
A spark of hope — and of faith — filled Merlin’s heart. Faith in the God who had led him during each painful step of his life: his childhood, his blindness, his battle with the Stone — even during this journey of suffering over the last half of a year. Faith in the One who had, up until now, protected them all. Protected them in the midst of Natalenya’s sickness. She hadn’t died, had she? At least not yet as far as Merlin knew. Could he trust God even for that?
But what if she did die? What if Merlin died — all of them? The worst thing that would happen was God would enfold them in His arms and lead them on high to a feasting hall so great and mighty that the richest kings of the world would be as beggars at the door.
Begging to see God.
God.
The true reward.
Merlin had been such a fool.
He dropped the knife and picked up the bowl — such a simple bowl, really, blackened with antiquity. There in the bottom lay a single drop of blood. And this wasn’t at all like the blood shed by Atle — who lusted after the life of others — but rather it must be, somehow, the blood of Christ, who had given it willingly for his children. The smell of a flower radiated from the bowl more fragrant than if all the bursting, tender rose petals of Kernow had been gathered togethe.
Merlin ran, then, in faith. Not at Atle for revenge — but to the pagan altar next to Atle where Arthur jerked against the impaled knife.
And there she stood. Little Ganieda. His sister. Once more she had appeared to him, and now stood in his way. A torc with the heads of dragons lay curled around her throat, and an icy hatred gleamed from her eyes. She put up a hand to stop him.
“Dear brother … where are you going with that?”
He edged sideways, but she turned to block him.
“What are you holding? Let me look.”
So he held it out to her.
She backed away.
He pushed it closer.
“Don’t touch me with it!” she hissed.
Another step, and he held it right under her nose. “Please, this is for you as well. Take it.”
She screamed, dodged past Loth — and disappeared among the black pulses of the web.
Merlin spun around. Where had she gone?
Arthur cried again — hardly more than a whimper.
The boy had fallen onto his blood-soaked knees. The crackling darkness engulfed him and he fell prone. His body grew, as in a vision: his legs and arms lengthened until soon Arthur lay there on the altar as a mighty man with a glorious torc upon his throat — the torc of a king! Light shown from his flesh and Merlin started to cover his eyes. But then the blobs of shadow grew upon his chest into two, huge ravens, black and fell, and they clawed at his wound and ripped at his flesh with their beaks. Arthur’s light began to fade.
Merlin shouted at the birds and tried to scare them away, but they turned on him and the right one scratched his shoulder with its talon, cutting deeply.
Merlin yelled in pain and backed up. Then, holding the Sangraal before him, he shoved it at the birds.
They screeched, the smell of death issuing from their throats.
Merlin stepped closer, holding his breath, and the birds flapped off into the air and burst like rain clouds, pouring their blackness down to the ground in great, sizzling drops.
Arthur was now little again, the kingly vision having faded.
Yet the freakish smile covering Atle’s face was no vision, and his transformation was almost complete. His arms had become three times as strong. His hair had darkened, and lay upon his shoulders in long and wavy tendrils. His torso and legs were muscled, and even his clothes had been renewed. But the king’s eyes were dead, with only a lust for more blood written around the pupils.
Well, Merlin would give him one drop more. He poured out the solitary trickle upon the altar between Arthur’s little knees, trusting Christ that no matter what came, all would be well.
And nothing happened.
Arthur fell down in a heap.
The black web had left Atle now, and he released the rope and withdrew the knife. The man looked with pleasure upon his hands and arms.
Poor Arthur rolled onto his back, his lifeless eyes looking up to the dark sky.
Clutching the Sangraal, Merlin lifted the boy up and held him close.
Atle turned and saw Merlin. He clenched his teeth and raised the knife to strike.
Merlin kissed Arthur on his cold cheek and bowed his head before Atle. He wanted to die with the boy, and tensed himself.
But the stroke didn’t fall.
Atle stepped back even as water began to trickle down the altar.
There was something strange about this water, however — it was bright with a crystal shine unlike anything Merlin had ever seen. It bubbled up from where he had poured the drop from the Sangraal, and the previous gore fizzled away. Even the altar itself began to disappear — like a chunk of snow thrown into a stream.
At first the water poured past Merlin’s boots. Then it made waves over his ankles. The altar broke apart and sunk so that the water burst from the ground itself, as if a well had opened up in the earth. The mountain shook, and a roaring sound echoed from its depths.
Atle and the others of his household stepped away, but fis
sures opened all around them.
A youthful Kensa screamed as geysers of glowing water poured from the ground, charring her beautiful purple gown and flawless skin. The old columns of the temple crashed down, crushing many. Atle shouted as he was knocked into the swirling cataclysm of water, his body burning and smoking until nothing more could be seen of it.
Merlin slipped and fell — the deluge washing him away. The trees cracked off around him, the mountainside shook, and the roar of the water washed downward. He gasped for air, holding tightly to Arthur’s body, and trying to keep his head up.
Down the mountain he rolled, first on his side, then on his back. The bright water gushed over his face and he coughed. Arthur’s body began to escape his grip, but he scooped him closer. His knee hit a rock, and a tree limb slammed into his back. Kicking with his legs, he broke to the air and struggled for breath. Down the mountainside, faster and faster he spun until the first walls of the ruined city passed by, and still the water poured from the top of the mountain.
He reached out to a wide ledge of rock, grabbed on, and pulled himself up with help from his legs. Only at that time did he realize his left arm didn’t hurt. A winter breeze picked up across the island, tousling his hair, but his skin had been strangely warmed by the water, and he didn’t feel cold. He sat up wearily and laid Arthur’s body on his knees.
All around him the old, dead trees caught fire, snapped, and fell into the water. The bodies of the sacrificed fell with them and disappeared beneath the flood. Above him, the night sky lit up with undulating swirls of blue, green, purple, and red. The strange lights illuminated the devastation flowing by: broken trees, brush, and vegetation were mixed with the smoking bodies of Atle’s household.
Arthur sneezed.
Merlin saw, then, that the dreadful wound in the boy’s stomach had been healed, though a great scar remained. Merlin picked him up again just as Arthur opened his eyes. The boy reached out, clasped Merlin’s wet hair — and sighed.
Only then did Merlin weep.
Ganieda panicked. Merlin was pushing the bowl closer and closer, and it smelled more foul than anything she had ever encountered. She started to gag.
And then the bowl began to glow, just as it had when she’d seen it in the orb. She could feel its white-hot heat on her neck. “Don’t touch me with it!” she said, backing away.
But Merlin came closer and pressed the horrible thing to her nose as if to brand her. Yes, he wanted to scar her face just as his had been. Vile revenge! His mouth spoke some words, but they were lost in her own screaming.
She whirled to the side, slipped behind Loth’s black, pulsing body, and watched.
Merlin looked confused for a moment, searching for her. Then he brought the gleaming bowl to the king’s altar — and poured forth a liquid brighter than the sun itself. It burned her vision and she hid her eyes.
A deep sense of doom gripped her heart. They would die, yes, all of them, unless she … But what could she do? Her grandfather had foolishly not remembered to give her the fang. If only he’d given her the fang!
Then the Voice whispered in her ear — giving her a new task. Yes, she would do it — for this man before her was attractive and his soul would serve the Voice’s cause well.
Ganieda reached forward, grabbed on to Loth’s belt, and pulled him backward until his grip broke with those around him.
When he realized what had happened, he turned angrily upon her.
She embraced him, calling upon the orb to take her back. Her vision blurred and they lifted from the mountaintop. Far away, as if through a tunnel, she saw water pour forth from the altar. King Atle perished in a puff of smoke, as did the others. The vision fled away from her sight, and through darkness and wind she tumbled, gripping Loth tightly, until her vision cleared.
Once again she stood in Grandfather’s tent — this time with Loth beside her. The orb rested in her hand once again, but where was the fang? She needed it to kill Merlin. Her grandfather had it, had kept it from her … and his surprised face at their arrival told her that now was the time to take what was by rights hers alone.
“Give it to me,” Ganieda demanded.
He shook his head, confused. “What, what? You come back so soon? And with Loth? But why … What has happened?”
“Merlin isn’t dead, and I know nothing of Arthur.” She narrowed her eyes. “Give me the fang!”
“I will not. You have trifled with it for too long, and I found it at the risk of my life. You are a foolish child, and I will not give it.”
“Where am I?” Loth demanded. “What happened to my father … the others?”
“All will be answered,” Ganieda said, glancing at his youthful strength. Yes, he would be very helpful to the Voice. But she would need more. A very army of loyal servants.
She turned back to her grandfather — for he had to submit as well. The Voice had told her so. “Give it to me,” Ganieda said once more, this time with more vehemence. The orb in her hand began to burn purple before her, and sparks flew from its center. She advanced on her grandfather.
He backed up, fumbling in his bag with his one hand.
Ganieda would need help here. If only Loth were trained … but no, he was not yet useful. He would not understand. She whistled, and the tent ripped behind her. Within moments, Tellyk stood at her side, growling at her grandfather.
“Give me the fang!”
“I will not!” He had it out now, threatening her. Jumping to the side to put Ganieda between himself and the wolf, he lunged at her and jabbed the fang into her shoulder.
She didn’t recoil, for it didn’t hurt. The Voice had said that the fang was hers and it could not harm her. Strength emanated from the bloodless wound, and Ganieda grew. Taller. Stronger.
Grandfather staggered back, gasping. He shrunk down before her.
No longer Ganieda the little, she would now and always be Gana the great … Mórgana. A fear to all Britons who followed the Christ. High servant of the Voice. True master of the Stone, the Fang, and the Orb. A worthy wife for Loth. Yes, she would return the rule of Britain to the Voice, and no one — not even Merlin — would stop her.
Tellyk lunged at Grandfather and knocked him down. Ganieda — no, Mórgana — stepped over and wrenched the green glowing fang from his quivering grasp.
The deadly power of the fang writhed in her hand, bringing even more strength. Lifting high the orb, she commanded it to take her to Merlin. Its flame rekindled, and it grew within her palm. But then the orb paused … and then shrunk back to its normal size.
“Take me to Merlin!” she screamed, but it refused. She yelled in rage. Lightning split the heavens and a thunderous wind buffeted the tent. Loth fell to his knees before her rage; even Tellyk crouched and whined.
Then a whisper tickled her ear, and her temper receded. The answer, the Voice said, lay not with the orb or fang, but within the Stone — and she must go and speak with it. Truly it had been injured by Merlin’s blade, and even though Grandfather was too old to hear its weakened voice, she could.
To the Stone, then … To the Stone!
CHAPTER 40
NATALENYA
Merlin knelt in a silent prayer of thanksgiving once their boat set sail.
Everyone was accounted for and on board — everyone that is except Kensa, who had died with Atle and the others whose lives relied on the pagan ritual. Merlin had fished Bedwir from the water as he floated by. Peredur had found his way to a pillar and held on until the flood passed. Garth had pulled two small logs together and climbed on top. And Caygek, poor Caygek; he’d grabbed on to a shattered tree stump at the top of the hill and had nearly been drowned by the onrush.
And each one of them rejoiced in Arthur’s return — not only to health, but also to their safekeeping. Before they left, Peredur found a needle used to repair sails and stitched up a tunic and small cloak for the boy, and soon he was running around on the deck of the ship as if nothing had happened to him.
The ship
itself was provided by Atle, for his death left many boats abandoned in a small harbor on the other side of the mountain. Garth picked the biggest — provisioned, seaworthy, and ready to sail.
As Merlin prayed, there at the prow of the ship he heard and felt the old boards creak under his knees as someone knelt next to him. Not wanting to disturb the other, he kept his eyes closed and kept praying. His companion was praying too, for Merlin caught a few of his whispered words. The two of them stayed there for a good while, and only then did Merlin sit up and open his eyes.
And blinked. Caygek, praying? When he finished, he laid his arm over the rail and eyed Merlin with a solemn face.
“Were you …?” Merlin asked.
“What of it? You’ve seen it before.”
“Not you.”
“I’ve offered up prayers all my life. Is there a problem?”
“But I heard you … you were praying … to Jesu Christus.”
“Let’s just say that I’ve never seen anything like what happened up there. The others saw it too. Bedwir says it was the Sangraal you held, the bowl that caught the blood of Christ at his death.”
But Merlin guessed there was something more, and had been suspecting it for a long time. “Is that the only thing that brought you to believe?”
Caygek looked away toward the west. “No. It was your love for Arthur. Your willingness to sacrifice yourself for him. You … and everyone else.”
Merlin felt very humble. Where Caygek had seen faith, all Merlin had felt was doubt and failure. If God could use such an imperfect servant, then God was great indeed.
Caygek reached out and touched Merlin on the shoulder. “I’ve been a man of principle all my life,” he said, “and I have rarely found it in others. And so I was ashamed that you all — even Peredur — were willing to risk everything when all I wanted to do was run away like a hunted buck.”
“We were all afraid,” Merlin said. “Most of all me.” He held Caygek’s shoulder in return. “I’m glad you came.”
“Not that I had much choice with those warriors chasing me down the dock. I guess God had other ideas.”
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