Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  The only task she had not mastered was keeping the house clean. Saladin had been appalled that she could walk repeatedly over the piles of broken pottery in the dining room without bothering to pick any of it up. She exhibited the same indifference when it came to matters of simple hygiene. On more than one occasion she had served the dinner on plates still crusted from an earlier meal. In the end, Saladin had given up berating her for her squalid ways—she didn't do a good job of cleaning even when forced to—and had taken on the responsibility himself. He was tidy by nature, and cleaning was not a task he particularly disliked, although it offended him to have to pick up after a woman.

  But, he thought resignedly, it would not be his problem for long. One way or another, Nimue was going. With some luck, Saladin’s investment in her would have been worth the effort.

  "Do you remember what to say?" he asked, trying not to seem anxious.

  "Yes."

  She rode along behind him, breathtakingly beautiful in her shimmering silk clothing, her golden hair streaming behind her. The hands resting on Saladin's chest were small, like feathers. But they were trembling. He could feel her whole small body shaking.

  "What on earth is wrong with you now?" he snapped.

  She pressed her forehead to his back. "I don't want to leave you."

  He made a sound of disgust. "Don't be a fool."

  "I can make you happy."

  "Hardly," he said, though there had been times when, because of the long, cold winter, he might almost have believed it. Nimue was quite beautiful; there was no denying that. Under Saladin's tutelage she had learned some basic tenets of civilized behavior, which had rendered her quite agreeable. She could now eat properly, without covering her face with food, and had learned to control her facial expressions somewhat, so that she no longer stared dead-eyed with her jaw slack and her mouth open when she had nothing particular on her mind. She had learned to smile prettily and to speak in a low voice. Saladin had even taught her a few songs from Egypt, which no one would recognize, to show off her lovely voice. She already knew how to walk with such grace that she made no sound and left no tracks. Her general competence and basic intelligence were impressive, and her warm disposition made good company, even for someone as easily annoyed as Saladin.

  All in all, she was becoming a most desirable woman. Under different circumstances, Saladin might have been tempted to make love to her, but that was out of the question. He had examined her thoroughly to confirm that she was a virgin. That, too, was important. No, she was a gift for someone else. Someone who would pay a very high price for her.

  He brought the stallion to a halt near the caves where he and the old wizard had gone to gather rocks.

  "Wait in there," he said.

  "But what if he doesn't come?"

  "Sing," Saladin said. "Sing one of the songs I taught you. He'll come."

  "And then?"

  "Let things happen as they will, Nimue." He watched her vault off the horse, her fine things swirling around her like shimmering mist, and felt a twinge of sadness. For what he planned was not likely to happen, and he had grown almost fond of the girl. "If you are still alone by spring, come back to me," he added in an impetuous moment.

  Nimue beamed. "Oh, I will!"

  He grabbed her by the wrist and squeezed hard. "But never mention my name, Nimue. Our lives will both be forfeit if you do."

  "I swear I'll obey you," she said.

  She waited for a moment, perhaps expecting the tall, elegant man from a far distant land to kiss her, but he made no move toward her.

  "Go quickly," Saladin said. He mounted his horse and rode away.

  The bells from the small chapel inside the walls at Camelot were ringing brightly, but they failed to lift Merlin's spirits. As the king and his knights prepared themselves for the morning's church service, the old wizard skulked around his rooms like a shadow of gloom. He wouldn't be expected to attend, of course; everyone at Camelot knew that Merlin followed the Old Religion, and though many of the knights believed wholeheartedly in Christianity and professed to spurn the workings of sorcery, they were all grateful to the old man for using his magic to heal Arthur's terrible wounds.

  Merlin himself had rarely given a thought to the Christian chapel or its bells. Yet today he thought they would drive him mad with their cheerful noise.

  For weeks now, since the expulsion of the "evil Saracen Knight"—as the men called Saladin—and the King's miraculous recovery, Merlin had shut himself up in his rooms like an invalid, not even answering the King's summons.

  Arthur and the others attributed the old man's withdrawal from society to the sorcery he had used. It had drained him, they said. The magic had caused him to draw too near to death, in order to do battle with it.

  They could think what they liked, for whatever they imagined would be better than the truth.

  The chapel bells made him want to scream. Slamming the door behind him, he stalked from his rooms and out of the castle, ignoring the greetings of those he passed.

  It was Christianity, he told himself. The new religion had taken root like an unwanted weed. With its confounded promise of eternal life, it had taken people away from nature and the natural order. He would go back to the grove where the druids used to meet. He could think there, away from the ceaseless pealing of the bells.

  But the grove brought him no solace. The spring of Mithras, where the priests had cleansed themselves before their rituals, had dried to a trickle. The sounds of the forest, once pleasant and welcome, now seemed deafening. They blotted out his thoughts. They made his soul boil over in confusion. There was no place for him anymore, not since the magic had spilled out of him. It had changed him forever.

  But it was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? To perform real magic, to give vent to the power he had stored up for a lifetime? To cease to be human?

  Merlin folded his arms over his knees and wept. "Gods forgive me," he whispered.

  For he knew it was not any of the things he had sought to blame that had caused the agitation of his spirit. It had not been the new religion, or the disuse of the sacred grove, or even the magic he had somehow summoned out of himself on that frightening day. It had been the evil in his own heart.

  He had called forth the magic with his anger and had used the magic to try to kill a man who had once saved his life.

  Oh, it had been for a good cause; no one could doubt that. The king could not have been allowed to die, not if there were any possible way Merlin could prevent it. And there was only one way—to take the magic cup from the Saracen. Had the man not tried to kill Arthur with his own hands? Would the king not surely be dead now, if not for Merlin's actions?

  Yes, yes . . . he pounded his head against his arms. He had gone over it all a thousand times. It was all sensible, understandable, all for the good. And yet he could find no peace. The dream still haunted him, the dream in which the Christ held out the chalice of eternal life. If He was the manifestation of the true God, why had He taken the cup away?

  And Merlin's own magic still frightened him. He remembered little about it. The power had simply boiled out of him, blinding and numbing him. But he remembered the feeling afterward, that terrifying certainty that he had somehow changed completely, that he would never again find death, or release, or peace.

  Was that the meaning of eternal life? Had that been the meaning of the dream—that life, lived beyond its normal span, was a curse far worse than death?

  Yet it could not be. Saladin had not been an unhappy man, particularly. And he surely did not want to part with the cup that Merlin stole from him.

  It has already caused me to steal, Merlin thought. It nearly caused me to kill.

  What would it do to Arthur?

  He heard a sound and looked up. A lovely sound, like a woman's voice, singing a strangely beautiful song. It was distant, faint; when it disappeared, Merlin thought he must have imagined it. But it began again, high, soft, filled with mystery.

  Almost unc
onsciously he stood up in the grass of the grove and walked toward the music.

  Ancient, it was, ancient and perfect, serene yet somehow hopeless. It came from the caves.

  He walked faster, half-expecting whoever it was to vanish before he arrived, but the music grew louder as he drew near to the cave.

  He stopped short. It was the same cave where he had taken Saladin. He was standing almost on the exact spot where his heart had ceased to beat. He would have died there, if the stranger had not saved him with the cup.

  A life for a life, he thought. The debt was paid. He had the cup. Now he would have to learn to live with it.

  The music stopped for a moment. Merlin felt himself covered with perspiration. He would never be free from his own guilt, he knew. Even death would not release him.

  But the singing came again, and it washed over him like cool balm. How long had it been, he wondered, since he had heard a woman sing? Certainly none had ever sung to him. His mother might have, he imagined, if she had lived longer. But in all his long life, he had never heard a woman's tender voice even speak his name in love.

  Slowly he walked into the cave. Shafts of sunlight streamed in behind him. His shadow filled the space momentarily; then he knelt in wonder. For sitting inside the sun-dappled tunnel, the crystals sparkling like diamonds around her, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  She was not shocked by his sudden appearance. She did not even cut off the haunting refrain of the melody she was singing, but sang on until it ended. The last note hung in the cave like a promise.

  He could think of nothing to say. Her beauty was unearthly. He blinked, thinking she might vanish like a thought.

  "Who are you?" he whispered at last.

  "I am Nimue," she said. "Come to me, Merlin. I have waited for you."

  She held her arms out to him.

  The old man hesitated. If she was not imaginary, she must have been sent for some ill purpose.

  Saladin. Saladin was using her to get back the cup.

  "Why are you here?" He tried to make himself sound stern, but could not disguise the quaver in his voice.

  She rose, as gracefully as a plume of smoke. "If you cannot trust me, I will wait until you can," she said softly.

  She ran to the back of the cave, through the dark tunnel where there was no light.

  Merlin followed her, but he did not find her. He even went back to the castle and returned with a candle, but she was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Merlin looked for the mysterious woman all that day and the next, feeling like an old fool. He tried to convince himself that he was merely conducting an experiment: He wanted to find out how a fully grown, flesh-and-blood human being could have vanished from the cave without a trace. Other men might have stuck on the point that the individual who called herself Nimue was a human being at all. She looked human, certainly, but it was well known among the common folk that nymphs, wood sprites, and other ethereal creatures could appear quite human under the right circumstances. Merlin did not believe in the lore of the fairy folk. He was an educated man, and a bona fide sorcerer, besides. People did not simply vanish.

  In the early afternoon of the third day of his search, he found a back entrance to the cave. It was not much bigger than a badger's hole, situated in an outcropping of rock a few hundred yards from the cave's main entrance. It was neatly covered over with a broad flat stone.

  So she was human, after all. Merlin thought, somewhat annoyed with himself that the discovery had disappointed him. He waited near the opening for an hour or two, then gave up and returned to Camelot.

  The castle was in a topsy-turvy state, with preparations under way to move the court north to the summer residence at Garianonum. During the long winter, local food supplies had been nearly depleted, and the lavatories and sewage moat were full and stinking. It was time to vacate the place so that the permanent staff could clean up and begin restocking for the following autumn.

  In his anguished state of mind of recent weeks, Merlin had forgotten completely about the move and was quite astonished to see the wagons already being loaded in preparation for the journey.

  "When do we leave?" he asked a passing page.

  The boy winced. "The day after tomorrow, sir," he answered, cringing. Even before the incident with Saladin and the well, most of the castle residents had been reluctant to speak with the sorcerer for fear he might turn them into frogs or toss them into a bubbling cauldron of witch's brew, and now it was worse since the tale had been spread about how he had cast the evil Saracen knight down to hell.

  "Isn't it rather early for the summer residence?"

  "Yes, sir," the page acknowledged. "But it's the king's orders." He ran away without waiting for any more questions, making the sign to ward off the evil eye behind his back.

  Merlin sighed. It was pointless to live here. In spite of the crowd of people, the king's court was a lonelier place for him than the deserted grove of the druids. And with the noise and the stench it was a far less pleasant place, besides. He had remained only because of the king, but Arthur was now a grown man who no longer depended on Merlin except for advice in matters of diplomacy, such as it was in a land that was still woefully lawless. He was certainly not needed to help the king plan his war strategies; no one in Britain was a better leader on the battlefield than Arthur.

  And increasingly during the past few years, the battlefield was where the king spent his time. Despite Arthur's plans for a united world, the Saxons had been attacking more and more frequently, each year with larger and more organized armies, and the king had had no recourse but to fight them. There was no diplomacy to speak of, except between Arthur and the other British chieftains, and they were all too busy warding off the growing hordes of invaders to argue much with the High King, or even with one another. Merlin's only contact with Arthur in the past five years had been the rare conversations they had during brief periods of peace.

  They were wonderful conversations, though. Arthur had grown into a fine man, humorous and wise, though still as straight as an arrow in his personal discipline. He always spoke Latin with Merlin, although with no one else, as a gesture of respect. Together they discussed philosophy and poetry and passed the time like gentlemen of leisure.

  Merlin smiled. He had not realized before how difficult those quiet hours must have been for Arthur, the High King of a country now virtually under siege. Yet it was part of the man's towering self-discipline that he would give his precious time to his old mentor out of remembrance and gratitude.

  Merlin had always thought of Arthur as a son, but he was a grown son now, a son who had exceeded even his father's wildest expectations. It was time to go. It was time to show Arthur his destiny and then stand aside to let him fulfill it.

  Arthur was in the solar, being helped into his chain mail.

  "I must speak with you," Merlin said.

  The king laughed. Whenever he laughed, he still looked like a boy, but his red beard, Merlin noticed, showed a few strands of gray, and fine lines were beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes. "It had better be quick, I'm afraid," he said. "The scouts have spotted a Saxon ship thirty miles to the south. If we don't stop them, we're likely to be besieged here in Camelot, with barely a chicken among the lot of us."

  "It is urgent, your Majesty."

  The king's smile left his face. The old man almost never addressed him as anything except Arthur. He dismissed his servants. "What is it, Merlin?" he asked.

  "I don't believe I'll be going with the court to Garianonum. I have bought a small house on the lake. The owners have moved north. They feared the Saxons have struck too often . . ."

  He realized he was babbling, and silenced himself abruptly.

  "You aren't ill?" Arthur asked gently.

  "No, I'm fine, Arthur. It's just that I've had enough of court life. Garianonum is no more than two days' ride, should you need me, and when you're here—"

  "Of course. That won't be a pro
blem. But I'll miss you. I suppose I've taken you for granted. I always assumed you would be with me until the end of my days, like my arm or my leg. Or my brain." He grinned, and suddenly all the signs of age were wiped out. He was a child again, the frightened, skinny boy standing before the rock with the great sword of Excalibur gleaming in his hands.

  He walked over to Merlin and put both arms around the old man.

  How strong he is, Merlin thought. How frail I must seem to him.

  "There's something else," he said. "I had planned to tell you later, when there was more time, but since I won't be going with you . . ." He saw Arthur glance toward the door. The king was in a hurry, and would not be able to listen to an old man's prattle for long.

  He took a leather pouch from the folds of his robe and opened it. Inside was the metal sphere he had taken from Saladin. He handed it to Arthur.

  "What's this?" the king asked, unconsciously opening and closing his fingers around the object.

  "It's what cured you when you were wounded," Merlin said. "You were dying, Arthur. There was no other way to save your life."

  "Yes, they said you'd used magic to heal me." He laughed again. "Well, perhaps I shouldn't allow you to leave the court. It's not every king who can boast a proven wizard among his friends."

  "Don't joke, Arthur. I had nothing to do with it. Not the healing, at any rate. The other . . ." He fluttered his hands in dismissal.

  When the king did not answer, Merlin went on irritably, "The cup . . . the thing in your hands. It heals wounds." He swallowed. "It will make you immortal."

  The king stared at the cup. It was singing its song through his body. His eyelids fluttered. "It's warm," he said softly.

  "It carries the gift of life," Merlin said. "Eternal life. Please do not doubt me, Arthur."

  Arthur watched a bruise on his wrist disappear. "I don't," he whispered. Then, with a deep breath, he tore his eyes away from it and gave it back to Merlin. "Use it well," he said.

  Merlin was appalled. "It's yours!" he shouted. "I stole it for you!"