Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  "Saladin." The voice was soft. "I'll teach you English if you like."

  It was an offer Saladin could not refuse. He had five more weeks remaining on this miserable island before the Roman ship came. To fill the long days with learning a new language was enticing.

  "I've nothing better to do with my time," he said.

  "After dinner, then."

  Saladin left. But for an hour or more, he could not rid himself of the feeling that he had already said too much to the old man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The beginning of the end was, of all things, an act of kindness.

  Saladin had been at the castle for several weeks. October was cold, and it promised to be a bad winter. The sea was savage, and already a few dry flurries of snow had blown through the inner bailey of the courtyard at Camelot.

  Each day for weeks Saladin had ridden to the docks to await the arrival of the Roman vessel which would take him away from this forlorn island; each day he returned, frozen and disappointed. By the first week of November, he knew in his heart that the ship would not come.

  His only consolation in those days were his lessons in the native language and the attendant company of Merlin. The two men, he learned, had much in common. They were both well traveled, although naturally Saladin had visited more distant places; both were scholars by inclination; and, most surprisingly, they were both physicians.

  Merlin's knowledge of medicine was not modern. During the course of their lessons, the old man had sometimes spoken of the "Old Religion," the pagan worship which had dominated Brittania until the Roman occupation, when the druid priests were driven off or executed. The Romans' own polytheism had never taken root here among the ordinary people, and had recently been replaced by Christianity, whose missionaries were as strictly against the old ways as the Romans had been.

  Yet still, the Old Religion was practiced in secret. Shrines set up long ago to gods so ancient that their names were no longer remembered were nevertheless tended with care by passersby. The stone bowls were filled with clean water, and often small sacrifices of food were left at the shrines to appease the Old Ones, the mystical deities who had watched over the land since the beginning of time. The priests of this ancient cult, the druids, still performed their rituals in secret places deep in the woods, as they had for centuries since the old ways were outlawed.

  Merlin was one of these.

  Not that he attempted to bring the Old Religion to the court at Camelot; indeed, he lived among the crosses and other accoutrements of the new foreign religion with as little notice as he had taken of the Roman statues during his childhood.

  "Christianity," he told Saladin matter-of-factly, "is the way of the future. Arthur must maintain a Christian court, at least nominally, if he's ever to unite all the warring tribes of the island."

  "I should think you'd be offended," Saladin said archly. "Or frightened. The Christians apparently wish to eradicate your religion completely."

  The old man smiled. "So did the Romans. And for four hundred years, they thought they'd succeeded. As far as the Christians know, the druids have been gone for centuries."

  "But what about you? You're here to prove them wrong."

  "I am just an eccentric old man favored by a king who is well beloved," he said. "And so they call me not a druid, but a wizard." He laughed. "And they attribute my long life to magical immortality."

  It was with the druids that he had learned the arts of medicine. And truly, Saladin felt, no mortal man could know more about the properties of herbs and minerals than Merlin. The two of them spent long hours in the parlor by candlelight, their respective unguents and plants spread about on the floor between them, discussing various ailments and their cures. Despite his long life of secrecy, Saladin found himself enjoying the exchange of medical information. When he told Merlin of his technique in treating heart attack victims, the old man had listened, fascinated.

  "No medicine is used?" He asked. "None at all?"

  "Not during the initial attack. Only physical movements are required to stimulate the heart to beat again." Saladin showed him the movements, strong, almost rough, applied directly to the chest. "You must replace the heart's rhythm artificially until it has revived. Naturally, this does not always succeed. Your best chance is with a young person, but even then, you may fail."

  The two men discussed the procedure for hours. In the end, they determined that the physical manipulation, combined with the essence of foxglove, a plant found in the region with highly stimulative properties, would be a worthwhile experiment.

  Through Merlin, Saladin learned how to prepare many new medicines. He bundled himself up in a fur cloak and the two walked the fields outside the castle together for long hours, searching for plants that had not already been killed by the early frosts. Afterward, Saladin always complained of the cold, but he never passed up Merlin's invitations.

  "Truly, Saladin, I can scarcely believe you to be only twenty-five years old," Merlin said as they were trudging through the shallow caves of the area looking for pyrite, which Saladin claimed could be packed into infected wounds from tooth extraction.

  Saladin pulled his cloak higher around his neck. "Sometimes it feels more like twenty-five centuries," he said.

  Merlin smiled. He touched the younger man's back lightly, and they moved on.

  "They say the hills are hollow here," he said. "It's because of all the small caves cut into the land. Some parts of Britain are honeycombed with them. In the old days, when the Romans were establishing rule here, many people fled the legions by living in these caves. Some of my ancestors were among them." He picked up a rock, studied it, then cast it away.

  "Actually, they're not bad places to live. When the court travels north, I often stay in one myself, near the border of Dumnonia. It's every bit as comfortable as the drafty castle where Arthur and the others stay, and there's far less noise."

  "I am acquainted with the merits of cave dwelling," Saladin said.

  Merlin stopped suddenly. "Why, that's where you learned your medicine, isn't it? In a cave."

  Saladin stared at him. Then the old man could read his mind. He felt a mixture of panic and anger rise up inside him.

  "No, no, please don't bolt. It's a small gift, I assure you," Merlin stammered. "The fact is, I'm not sure it's a gift at all. I don't really read thoughts. Just a random image now and again. Sometimes it's nothing more than a feeling. It confuses me, more than anything."

  Saladin relaxed a little.

  "But I would like to ask you . . ." His gaze wandered down to the velvet pouch hanging from Saladin's belt.

  Unconsciously, Saladin's fingers wrapped around it.

  "I see that quite often when I'm talking with you. It's a ball of some kind, a metal ball. Am I right?"

  Saladin was silent for a long moment. The old man seemed to be exhibiting nothing more than curiosity. "It's a talisman I carry for luck. A charm," he said finally.

  Merlin frowned. "May I look at it?"

  "No." He walked ahead.

  The incident occurred in one of the small caves. It was not dark there, nor particularly deep, and the two men walked about without much caution, gathering rocks by feel.

  "Do you dislike darkness?" Merlin asked.

  Saladin took a moment to answer. "No," he said finally. "I far prefer it to rooms filled with smoking candles."

  "I quite understand," the old man said. "Darkness is often solitary. There's much to be said for being alone—"

  He broke off as Saladin uttered a hoarse cry, and Merlin heard the sound of falling rock. "Saladin!" he called, rushing toward the noise.

  There was no doubt about what had occurred. Even in the hazy darkness, Merlin could see the cloud of dust that had risen from the rockfall. He cast about frantically, trying to discern where Saladin might be in the rubble.

  Working as fast as he could, he lifted stones and hurled them aside. If he could uncover a part of the man, he reasoned, he would be able to ap
proximate where his head was and possibly save him from suffocation.

  "Hold on!" he shouted, ignoring the pains that had already begun shooting through his arms and chest. He regretted his age. If his guest—a fellow physician—died because his rescuer was too slow to help him, Merlin would never forgive himself.

  He worked harder, hearing his own breath coming ragged and loud. At last he uncovered part of Saladin's shoulder and was quickly able to clear the area near Saladin's nose and mouth.

  He was breathing. "Thank the gods," he said, gently lifting the stones from over the prone man's eyes. "Don't panic, now," he said. "You probably have some broken bones, so I'm going to clear enough of this away to make you comfortable before I go back for help."

  "There's no need. I'm unhurt." Saladin blinked dust out of his eyes.

  "Marvelous," Merlin said, although he knew that the man's lack of pain was probably due to shock, and would not be surprised if he uncovered a severed limb beneath the mound of stones. "Can you move?"

  "No."

  "Then don't try."

  He patiently continued removing rocks one by one. Before long he found the reason for Saladin's immobility: A large flat boulder had fallen directly onto his midsection.

  Merlin groaned inwardly. Fractured ribs, certainly; a broken hip, perhaps two; possible damage to the spine; internal injuries. If he lived for an hour, it would be a long time.

  "I've got to get this off you," he said. "I'll come back in a moment." With that, he ran out of the cave and into the woods beyond it.

  When he returned, puffing with the exertion, he carried a long, straight branch, which he worked gently between the rock and Saladin's abdomen. "There's going to be some pressure," he grunted as he formed a small mound of stones beside it. "I've got to lever that thing away. I'll try not to hurt you, but . . ."

  "Get on with it," Saladin snapped.

  Merlin finished constructing his fulcrum, then rested the center of the branch on top of it. "Prepare yourself, Saladin," he said, then pushed down on the end of the branch with all his might. Slowly the big rock creaked.

  The old man pressed down harder, his arms trembling with the effort. If he slipped, he knew, if his strength failed him for a moment, the rock would come crashing atop a man who had already suffered any number of injuries. It would kill him at once.

  "It's . . . moving," Merlin said, squeezing out the words. The cords on his neck stood out starkly. His face, shaking with strain, felt as if it were about to explode.

  Finally the rock gave. It tumbled over once, then thudded with a cloud of dust near the cave entrance.

  "I'll get myself out," Saladin said.

  "No, no." Merlin scrambled over to where he lay. "It won't take long now . . ."He began to cough. It was deep and searing, and each spasm was worse than the last.

  "Move out of the way," Saladin shouted, lifting his arm. A shower of stones sprayed out from the spot where the arm had lain.

  Merlin rolled aside, unable to stop the wracking cough. His breathing did not return to normal until all four of Saladin's limbs were in view and the tall man was able to extricate himself from the rubble.

  "You can walk?" Merlin wheezed. It seemed incredible.

  "I told you I was uninjured," Saladin said irritably. "But I refuse to stay here any longer."

  He walked from the cave as if he had been sitting on a soft cushion rather than buried within a mountain of rock.

  Merlin himself was far more exhausted than his companion seemed to be. The physical ordeal he had been through, combined with the nerve-wracking worry about Saladin's condition, left him feeling every one of his seventy-one years.

  He sat on the cave floor, his breath as audible as a donkey's bray. He tried to stand up, but a tightening in his chest forced him to sit down again immediately.

  He felt lightheaded. For a moment he bent forward—slowly, so as not to aggravate the pain in his chest—to dispel a fierce ringing that had begun in his ears.

  "Are you coming?" Saladin called from outside.

  "Yes," Merlin answered, but he knew his voice was too feeble to hear. "Yes," he repeated, louder.

  He stood up. His legs were wobbly, but functional. With a shuffling gait, they led Merlin out into the light.

  "You look ashen," Saladin said.

  "The dirt, most likely," Merlin answered with a weary smile.

  Saladin dusted off his long black robe. "Yes, I'm filthy. I'll need someone to wash my garments immediately." With an air of deep disgust, he picked a cobweb out of his hair.

  "First things first," Merlin said, walking over to him. "Let me take a look at you before we head back. Sometimes injuries don't . . ." He peered closely at the tall man's face. He lifted one of Saladin's hands. "There isn't a scratch on you," he murmured in amazement. "Not even on your feet."

  "I should like to go back now," Saladin said. "My fur cloak is gone, and it's cold here." Not waiting for a reply, he strode toward the castle.

  Merlin barked out a laugh that turned into a cough. "But it's remarkable! I've never seen such a thing. Surely, with the amount of rock that fell, you must have suffered something . . . something."

  His hand clutched unconsciously at the collar of his robe as he struggled to keep up with Saladin's long strides. "There isn't even a mark on your skin, such as might be left by a fingernail." He gasped for air. "Not a bruise . . . Saladin . . . Ah. . . ."

  He fell to the ground.

  Saladin whirled around, recognizing the choking sound of a man whose heart was undergoing a monumental seizure.

  Merlin was lying on the grass, his arms and legs flailing wildly. This was no small attack, Saladin knew; those were characterized by a concerted stillness of the limbs. Men who feared they were suffering from heart attack took pains to move nothing and breathe shallowly. But those in the full throes of pain no longer cared for such precautions. The agony overwhelmed them. That had been Saladin's experience, and he knew it was what he was witnessing now.

  The old man's lips were blue. His eyes were bulging, and sweat coursed off his face. Saladin knelt down beside him and began the treatment at once, pressing into the bone above the heart with the heels of both hands in rhythm.

  Merlin's wild movements increased. At one point he cried out, some sort of incantation in a language Saladin did not understand. Then the old man's eyes rolled back in his head and he shuddered and lay still.

  Saladin continued the movements, not knowing what else to do. Every five beats he rested briefly to take Merlin's pulse. It was weakening to nothing. Had Merlin been a patient in his practice, Saladin knew, he would give up at this point and inform the family.

  For all the rest of his long life, in fact, Saladin could not answer why he did not do exactly that. Was it fear of the king and his barbaric knights, perhaps, who would surely have accused Saladin of murdering their beloved wizard, whom they believed to be immortal? Was that all? Or was it the sudden, irrational urge to preserve the life of the only man, in all his life, who had ever called him friend?

  Friends were irrelevant to Saladin; people aged and died and passed into dust. Their lives were as meaningless to Saladin as those of ants. Some of them had tried to understand him. Some had actively sought his company for a time. Some had even possessed qualities worth knowing— brilliance, wit, beauty—but he had never felt even the slightest desire to save any of them from death. Why now, he wondered for ages to come, why at this moment, on this empty field, did he take the metal orb from its pouch and hold it over the still body of a dying man?

  He swallowed. He should walk away. Merlin was nothing to him. He was old; his time had come.

  Perhaps he dropped the sphere. There were many times in the future when Saladin was certain that was what had happened: He simply dropped it. It fell on the old man's chest.

  And the moment when he heard the great rush of air fill Merlin's lungs, he hid the ball away, cursing himself for using it.

  Merlin sat up. He touched his chest with flut
tering hands.

  "It was warm," he whispered.

  Saladin stood up.

  "You used it."

  "I resuscitated you by the method I explained," he answered coldly.

  With an effort, the old man pulled himself upright. "I saw you," he said quietly.

  "You were unconscious."

  Merlin examined his hands as if they were things of wonder. "It was more than that. I was dead, or nearly so. I saw a light, Saladin, and heard the voices of a thousand people calling to me." His face lit up. "People I had not thought of in fifty years. My old nurse, whom I loved. The shepherd who first led me to the cave in the north. A young druid priest, killed by the Romans . . ."

  "You've suffered a strain," Saladin interrupted. "These are delusions."

  "No." The bony fingers touched Saladin's robe. "I saw myself, as if from a great height. I was lying on the ground, and you were bending over me. The ball was in your hand. You touched it to my chest." He blinked. "In that instant, I felt myself rushing back toward earth, toward the body I had left behind. And then there was a warmth, a great warmth emanating from the spot where your magic had begun its healing." He let go of the sleeve. "You know I speak the truth."

  Saladin regarded him for a long moment, his face pale. "Rubbish," he said at last, and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Merlin did not mention the incident again. The stranger whom the courtiers at Camelot called the Saracen Knight stayed alone in his room for several weeks, venturing out of the castle only to inquire futilely at the frozen docks, where it soon became apparent that no ship would come until spring to carry him home—wherever that was.

  Saladin had spoken of Rome, but he was no Roman. From his manner, Merlin imagined that the tall physician had always been an outsider of one sort or another, looking at life through a perspective that even one of Merlin's age could not comprehend.

  It was the ball, Merlin knew. Although Saladin had studiously avoided him since his near-death experience in the meadow, the old man had been haunted by the memory. It had been no delusion, as Saladin had insisted. His training with the druids had taught him to distinguish the fine line between imagination and the supernatural.