Tomorrow's Magic

by Pamela F. Service

  On the battlefield, she'd felt part of herself crumble when she'd thought Earl had been killed. She ought to tell him now that she'd go with him, help him, share the exile of power. But her mind recoiled from that. She had a whole life to lead. Could she bear to lead it like that— shunned, feared, self-tormented as he was? The taste she'd had of that was chilling enough.

  Choked by fear and indecision, she said nothing.

  At last Merlin broke the silence. “I'll leave tonight. Arthur will know I have to go, but I'd rather not face any more leave-taking. If … when I find the bowl or learn what became of it, I'll return. Tell him that for me, will you?”

  She nodded bleakly.

  “And, Heather …”

  “Yes?”

  “No, nothing. Yes, maybe there is something. I'll be taking the route past your family's home in Brecon. Do you want me to stop with any message?”

  “Oh.” She looked away. “Yes, I suppose so. You know my mother and I haven't had much to do with each other since she remarried. She'd rather produce heirs for Lord Brecon than bother with her homely firstborn. But still, she is my mother. If you stop, let her know I'm all right. At least they should give you a warm meal and a bed. Knowing my stepfather, he wouldn't offend anyone important.”

  She tried to think furious thoughts about her uncaring family, but her mind was too numb for real emotions of any sort.

  Merlin looked down at her, his own face tight against unspoken feelings. “I'll try to stop at Brecon, then. Goodbye, Heather.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He started to turn.

  “Earl …”

  “Yes?”

  “I … Please come back.”

  He smiled tautly. “I'll try.”

  As he walked away, the words she wanted to cry after him fell silently down inside her. She leaned against the parapet, wishing she could be as cold and hard and unheeding as the stones.

  IN QUEST OF VISION

  It was several hours before dawn when Merlin rode his horse down to the city's main gate. The guards halted him, then, seeing who it was, blanched and hurried to open the gate. Merlin smiled wryly. The reputation of the King's wizard must have spread rapidly. The guards probably thought that if they questioned his doings, he'd turn them to stone or disintegrate their guardhouse.

  The great gate creaked open, and the lone figure on a black horse rode out, hoofbeats echoing hollowly in the cold and silence.

  The hazy moon was near to setting in the west. He rode toward it along the dark, lonely road, his thoughts equally dark and lonely. It had been right, what he had said to Heather, but he felt as if he'd just torn out a part of himself and left it on the walls of Chester. His had been a false hope, he knew, but it had sustained him these past two years. Now he felt empty.

  The sky grayed toward dawn, and he tried turning his thoughts ahead. As he passed the first dragon-tooth peak of the Welsh mountains, his mind told him he was coming home. But his heart did not. Too much had changed. The mountains of his Wales had been green and fair, clothed in forest and in rich grazing land. Now the rocky slopes were bare of all but dry, gray grass. A few trees huddled in the valleys where rivers fell in wild tumult over rocks, unsoft-ened by fern and moss.

  He passed abandoned farms and villages and an occasional inhabited one, where he stopped for provisions. He traded for Arthur's newly minted coins or more often for news from the outside world. These rugged folk had little dealings with the world beyond their mountains, but they were always hungry for news and tales that could be repeated around an evening's fire.

  The wizard concealed his name, calling himself Earl Bedwas, a traveler from King Arthur's court. But though hospitality was always extended, at night he chose to camp by the wayside. He had no wish to depend again on human companionship. Not that he found his own very cheerful, but it was less demanding. And he knew he had nothing to fear from brigands or muties. His few encounters of that sort ended in a flash of power that sent his assailants fleeing back into the rocks and hills.

  One morning, Merlin rolled from his blankets to find that instead of frost there was a light dusting of snow. Not unusual for July, but it depressed him. He wanted the wildflowers and chorusing birds of those ancient mornings. Looking up, he wished for a lightly blue sky, a sky with honest clouds, not atmospheric veils of soot and dust. He sighed. This world, he knew, was slowly improving, but it would never be the same. All that seemed the same were the ways of people and his pain in dealing with them.

  Thoroughly dejected, he walked to his saddlebags, near where his mare was cropping at the short grass, and fumbled around for a chunk of bread and a turnip. Taking these to the stream, he sat on a flat rock and began sluicing the turnip through the cold, clear water. He was just pulling it out, clean and white, when a pale, clawed hand shot from the water and grabbed one end.

  Startled, he gripped the turnip and tugged back. For a moment, two pairs of hands struggled back and forth for their prize. Then, with a sudden jerk, Merlin found himself flying off his rock and into the icy stream. The cold slammed his breath away. Letting go of the turnip, he flailed at the water, slipped under the surface, then gasped and sputtered into the air again.

  Through strands of dark hair dripping over his face, he saw another face bobbing before him in the water. Yellow skin drawn tightly over a misshapen skull made huge ears stand out even more. Little, close-set eyes stared at him in alarm.

  Suddenly the thing lunged, grabbing him around the chest with long, hairy arms. Swallowing water as he sank beneath the surface, Merlin struggled with his captor, managing only to hit his own head against a rock. Vaguely he realized he was being dragged out onto a boulder.

  He lay gasping and coughing in the cold air while a whiny voice muttered beside him. When he'd regained his breath and coughed out most of the water, Merlin sat up dizzily. His assailant squatted near him on the rock, wringing long hands and looking miserable.

  “Great Wizard turn me into toad now. Troll nearly drown Great Wizard. Spend rest of life as toad.”

  “Troll,” Merlin said weakly. “You're the troll from the Severn Bridge.”

  The creature hung its head. “Me was. Me be toad now.”

  “I'm not turning anyone into toads at present.” Merlin shivered in the icy air. “But I've got to get out of these wet clothes.”

  The troll brightened. “Yes, change clothes. Troll help, like loyal servant. Wizard can turn Troll into toad later.”

  He scurried like a spider over to Merlin's pack. The horse gave him a sideways stare and shuffled aside. As soon as Merlin had peeled off his wet clothes, the troll eagerly handed him dry ones. He'd clearly had little experience with clothing and presented everything in the wrong order, but soon Merlin was dressed and relatively warm again. “Well, Troll,” he said as he looked through his other pack, “since you brought the subject up, would you care to share breakfast with me?”

  The wispy beard twitched, and a broad smile spread above it. Then the creature dropped his eyes. “Me still deserve to be toad.”

  “Perhaps, but we'll put that off for the moment.” Handing him a turnip, Merlin pulled out another for himself. He broke the chunk of bread in half. Sitting on a rock well away from the stream, Merlin took a bite of his turnip. “Tell me, Troll, what brings you so far from the Severn? You had a pretty good arrangement there, accosting travelers on that bridge. Did you change over from threats to riddles, as I suggested? ”

  The troll smiled through a huge bite of bread. “Oh, yes, me very clever riddling troll. Not big enough to scare folks with ‘grind your bones’ lines.”

  “So why did you leave? There're not as many travelers in this part of the world.”

  The little troll shook his head sadly. “Spot too good. Bigger troll take it. Many folks come from Faerie, from all parts of Faerie, now that things get better here. Little runts like me not keep good spots.”

  “So you thought you'd find a small, untenanted bridge in Wales?”

&nb
sp; His breakfast companion smiled broadly. “Oh, no. Me clever troll. Me remember once meet Great Wizard and friends. Hear they find Avalon and High King. Me go join them. Troll be fierce warrior!”

  Merlin laughed. “Yes, I guess you could be, as long as we're not fighting larger bridge trolls.” He sobered again. “If you want to find Arthur and … the others, I can tell you where they are.”

  “Great Wizard not go there?”

  “No, not now. Maybe later. I need to find something first. Something I lost a long time ago.”

  The troll thought a moment, head nodding violently on his spindly neck. “Then Troll stay with Great Wizard and help find lost thing.”

  Merlin felt a jab of happiness, which he quickly suppressed. “No, you should go on. I've no way of knowing if I'll find it or if I'll ever rejoin the others. Besides, it may be dangerous where I'm going.”

  “Then Great Wizard need Troll for guard. We find lost thing and go back to friends. Nice Lady who feed Troll there, too?”

  “Heather. Yes, she and Welly are with Arthur.”

  “Then must get Great Wizard back safe. Troll help.”

  Merlin smiled—for the first time in weeks, it seemed. “All right, I'll take you on as a traveling companion and guard. We'll forget all about the toad business.”

  Grinning from ear to huge ear, the troll leaped to his feet and began wadding up the wet clothes and cramming them into a saddlebag. Merlin winced. A traveling companion, maybe, but a valet, never.

  The Northern armies stayed in and around Chester while wounds were tended and emissaries sent to negotiate a truce with Manchester and perhaps an alliance with York and Lancaster.

  Welly, Heather, and the ever-eager Rus explored the old walled city. It was the largest settlement they had ever seen, though parts were still uninhabited. The natives took pride in pointing out features of interest, such as the canal and the ancient red-stone cathedral. Welly enjoyed these excursions and the training of new recruits, but Heather's thoughts kept drifting off. She spent more and more time on the castle walls looking out to the purple mountains of Wales.

  She stood one afternoon on a favorite spot above the spreading branches of Chester's famed oak. Somehow the ancient giant had survived the rigors of the Devastation and continued growing against the castle's sheltering walls. Now in brief summer, its gnarled branches were in leaf. Heather thought that looking down on it was almost like being a bird in flight.

  Just then, a real bird flew into view. It was a small hawk and soared with effortless beauty, gliding between herself and the tree below. She reached out her mind and felt the peace and purposefulness of its flight. It circled once, then settled itself on a branch below her, calmly folding its wings.

  There was sudden motion. A large snake, which had been stretched along the branch, whipped a coil around the bird. The hawk shrieked, flailing with wing and claw. Both creatures fell from the branch, disappearing over a ledge.

  Heather gasped, staring in horror at the spot. But she heard or saw nothing more. Suddenly she was buffeted by a cold wind, a wind of fear and terrible certainty. She wanted to scream, to tear the vision from her mind, but it persisted. And, real or illusion, she knew its meaning. Earl had once shown her a picture of a merlin hawk. It had been like this one.

  She leaned against the stone parapet as her world swirled around her and suddenly fell into place. If she hadn't been so worried, she would have laughed with strange relief. Earl was in danger, and in an instant, all her uncertainties vanished.

  Her power had warned her of Earl's danger, and now perhaps she could help him. Yet this was the same power she had feared would cut her off from the normal world. Well, if it did, then let it. It was Earl that mattered. Until now, she'd been too blind to see that! She'd let him go off alone while she'd crouched, undecided, behind useless shreds of “normality.”

  She laughed, feeling as if great weights had fallen from her. Then, recalling the vision, she hurried down a series of stone steps. In the courtyard, Arthur and Margaret were just riding out to inspect the troops camped beyond the city walls.

  “Your Majesties!” Heather called. “Wait a moment, please!” They turned in their saddles and watched her run toward them, braids flying.

  “Please,” she gasped, “I would like your permission to leave, to go into Wales.”

  “You, too?” Arthur said. “What is it about Wales that's calling away all my sorcerers?”

  “I'm not much of a sorcerer, Your Majesty. But Earl, Merlin, is in danger. I … saw it.”

  The King frowned. “What sort of danger?”

  “I don't know. But I know there is danger waiting for him where he least expects it. I have to warn him.”

  Queen Margaret spoke up. “I should think young Merlin could take care of himself. I've seen a sample or two of his powers.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I'm sure he could if he were prepared. That's why I must warn him.”

  “Mightn't he have received a warning as you did?” Arthur asked.

  Now it was Heather's turn to frown. “I don't know. But if my help wasn't needed, why did I have the vision?”

  The King shook his head. “I don't know, Heather, and I've learned enough not to meddle in affairs of magic. Yes, certainly you may go. Merlin means a great deal to me, adolescent troublemaker as he may be at present.” He smiled. “How many should I send with you?”

  “Oh, just me, sire.”

  “No. Too dangerous.”

  “Perhaps,” the Queen suggested, “the young warrior who was so effectively multiplied at our … alliance?”

  The King nodded. “Welly. Yes, of course. I doubt that he could be kept back anyhow. But wouldn't more be advisable?”

  “No, sire. It's speed, not force, that's needed, I think.”

  “Well, then, take two of the faster horses, not your hairy barrels on legs. That will please Welly, I imagine. And, Heather …”

  “Yes, sire?”

  “Whether he finds that trinket or not, bring my wizard back to me.”

  Welly, when she told him, was indeed pleased with the chance to ride a tall, slimmer horse. He couldn't begin to understand why Heather knew she had to go; but if Earl was in danger, then he, too, was determined to help.

  They set out at dawn the next day, Welly and Heather on tall, swift horses with Rus trotting beside them. They took the road they supposed their friend would have taken. Stops at inns and farmhouses confirmed that a gangly, pale youth on a black horse had passed that way. Each day, Heather urged them on to greater speed. She saw no further portents, but her sense of danger and urgency increased.

  For days, Merlin and the troll traveled south through Wales. On and off, the wizard was annoyed with himself for deriving pleasure from such simple companionship. But since that was the best he could probably ever expect, he decided he might as well enjoy it.

  The troll clearly did, sometimes catching fish for their supper and always making a big production of guarding while the wizard slept. Merlin quietly set up additional guarding spells—a wise precaution, he realized, since whenever he woke in the night, he found the troll asleep sitting up.

  As they neared Brecon, Merlin considered whether to stop at Heather's home. He wasn't anxious to do so since it meant revealing who he was. But whether she admitted it or not, he knew Heather had some feelings for her mother and would like some news of her. Besides, the thought of stopping with Heather's kin made him feel somehow closer to her. Angrily he tried to dismiss the feeling. He had no right to any special closeness with her. Still, he had said he would try to stop.

  After asking directions at the Griffin Inn, he took a side road to Lord Brecon's manor. The building had clearly started as a sturdy farmstead with house and barns forming an open courtyard. Over the years, it had been added to and fortified into an imposing residence.

  It was twilight when, advising his companion to spend the night outside, Merlin rode through the courtyard and up to a heavily barred door. Dismounting, he p
ounded on the metal-studded wood. A hatch slid open and a squinty-eyed guard peered out.

  “I am Earl Bedwas,” he announced, “friend of Heather McKenna, daughter to Lady Brecon. I request entry to convey messages between daughter and mother.”

  The little window slammed shut, leaving Merlin to stand impatiently on the stone steps, wondering if, after all, it wouldn't have been better to pass the night with Troll in some quiet ravine. Nonhuman company was usually far less stressful.

  He had almost given up hope that his message would be delivered when the door was flung open and torchlight poured out over the steps. Against it, a woman stood silhouetted.

  “Young sir, welcome. Heather mentioned you in her letters, and I am pleased to meet you. Come in.”

  He followed the woman inside and down a long stone corridor. The place smelled of age, but even in the hallway, woven tapestries hung from the walls. Clearly Lord Brecon was as wealthy as his stepdaughter had said.

  They entered a large paneled room. With boastful wastefulness, a fire burned in the stone fireplace, even though it was the middle of summer. In the center of the room stood a carved oak table set with pre-Devastation china. The colorful mix of patterns gleamed softly in light from tallow lamps.

  A large, broad-shouldered man stood by the fireplace. He was completely bald and had dark, severe eyes, which lighted in a semblance of welcome as he walked across the room.

  “Mr. Bedwas, is it? I understand you are a friend of my stepdaughter's. As such, you are welcome. My wife and I were about to dine. We have no other guests this evening and would be honored if you would join us.”

  “The honor is mine.”

  Servants appeared from another door and set a third place. Lord Brecon took his seat at the head of the table and motioned the guest to his right. As Merlin sat, he looked carefully for the first time at the woman seated opposite him. He was struck with painful similarities.

  Everything about her recalled Heather, but it was as if the mother was the model after which the daughter had been inexpertly copied. Where Heather's hair was dark blond and thin, the mother's was pale gold, full, and wavy. Where Heather's eyes were a muddy gray, the ones across from him glinted like pure sapphires. And Heather's face could only be described as long and thin, while this woman's was slender and delicate. Yet for all that, he couldn't find this person beautiful. She was like an ancient porcelain figurine, perfect in every detail yet cold and hollow inside. There was none of the life and warmth that bubbled up around Heather.