Tomorrow's Magic

by Pamela F. Service

  “Well, Earl,” Lady Brecon was saying. “I may call you that, mayn't I? Tell us how our dear girl is doing. We've heard from her twice since she left Llandoylan School. Once from Devon saying she'd gone on some important mission with you and another friend, and then a year later from somewhere up in Cumbria saying she'd fallen in with this new King Arthur. I do hope you can tell us a little more.”

  “Yes, madam, I will try.” Merlin launched into an account of Heather's activities since leaving the Glamorganshire school. It was carefully edited for parental consumption, playing down the hardships and dangers and highlighting the girl's important roles and her place in Arthur's court. He also glossed over the magical elements and their confrontations with Morgan, feeling most people weren't ready to take magic too matter-of-factly.

  As he talked, servants brought out a meal that was notably better than most he'd had with Arthur recently. There was rich barley beer as well, and toward the end of the meal, Lord Brecon had a green glass bottle brought out.

  “An occasion worth celebrating, I believe. This wine, all the way from Kent, is made from carefully cultured gooseberries. I think you'll like it.”

  Servants carried out rare glass goblets and poured into them the pale gold contents of the bottle. Merlin sipped at his appreciatively. He hadn't tasted anything calling itself wine in two thousand years. This could hardly compare with the grape wine he had known when Britain was still on the fringes of the Roman world. But it was heady and sweet and had a pleasant fruity taste. He had several glasses while Lord Brecon talked about weather and farming and about their border clashes with the dukedoms of Dyfed and Gwent.

  As the man droned on, Merlin began to feel slightly unwell. Maybe it was the heat of the firelit room, but he could feel himself breaking into a clammy sweat. The voices around him sounded distant and tinny, and a fuzzy heaviness began settling over him. He wondered if his body was currently too young to deal with that much wine.

  It was with relief that he heard Lady Brecon say, “But, my dear, I do believe our guest looks tired. I'll have the servants show him to his room.”

  Gratefully Merlin stood up. Suddenly he was wrenched with a violent dizziness. The room spun like a cartwheel, and the table rose up to meet him. As he smashed to the hard oak, he saw the precious glass goblet roll past him and crash to the floor. That, and a laugh, were the last sounds he heard for some time.

  A VISIT CUT SHORT

  When Merlin's mind finally struggled to consciousviness, it was with the sense that a good deal of time had passed. He seemed to be lying on a thin straw pallet. He could feel its prickliness along the length of his body and the cold rising through it from the stones below.

  He tried to sit up. Nothing happened. He tried again, but there wasn't the slightest twitch from any muscle. His head would not turn even a fraction of an inch. He was completely paralyzed. Though his eyes were slightly open, he wasn't able to raise the eyelids farther.

  Through the fringe of dark lashes, he could see a stone wall glistening with damp. Ten feet from the floor was a small barred window with the grayness of daylight beyond. He could see nothing else.

  For several more hours, he lay trapped in his cold, motionless body. Only the involuntary muscles of heart and lungs seemed to work at all. He drifted in and out of consciousness until he heard distant voices coming his way.

  The sound of a heavy door opening, then the voice of Lord Brecon. “Well, she was certainly right about that drug. Three days now, and he hasn't twitched.”

  Lady Brecon answered, “I wasn't certain about the dosage when I saw how young he was. But I guess I cut it enough. If we'd killed him, she would have been furious. This should keep him out long enough for your message to reach Cardiff and for Nigel to send someone to fetch him.”

  Lord Brecon stepped closer, the torchlight gleaming off his bald head. He poked Merlin roughly in the shoulder. There was a slight rattling of chains. “I still don't know why we had to do it this way. A swift blow on the head would have been easier.”

  “That's what you know! Morgan said he's a powerful wizard, despite his looks. If he could even move a finger or mutter a charm, he'd turn your chains to grass.”

  “What superstitious rot! You've been taken in by that Morgan woman and her parlor tricks. She's just someone who wants power and found that an alliance with King Nigel is a way to get it.”

  “Then why do they want this boy so badly?”

  “On Nigel's part, a personal vendetta, perhaps; and that woman, I believe, wants to use this kid in some power play against your Heather's precious King Arthur. But that's none of our affair, so long as Nigel comes through with the troops and weapons we need against Dyfed.”

  Lady Brecon moved into Merlin's line of sight. He was struck again by her distorted resemblance to Heather. “Are those chains fastened securely?”

  “Afraid of this pip-squeak? I thought you said we didn't even need chains.”

  “Yes, but who knows how long it'll take those soldiers to get here. If he got loose, he'd turn us into worms.”

  “Will you shut up about magic! I've put up with your petty witch tricks, but I won't have that woman dazzling you with her blather about ‘high powers.’ The only power we need is swords and swordsmen.”

  Footsteps out in the hall and a gruff deferential voice. “Begging your pardon, Your Lordship, but there's a party at the door to see you.”

  “Ah, maybe they're here,” Lady Brecon said. “Now this brat'll be someone else's headache.” The pair hurried out of the room, leaving cold and silence behind them.

  But when they reached the front door, it was not soldiers from Glamorganshire awaiting them.

  “Mother,” said a slim girl in a hooded jacket. “May my friend and I stay the night? ”

  The woman stared at the two with blank astonishment, only slowly pulling herself together. “Heather … what … ? That is, of course. Come in.”

  She turned to her husband standing behind her in the shadows. “Look who's here, dear. It's Heather.”

  The man muttered something and disappeared down the hallway. Lady Brecon led the newcomers to the room with the fireplace.

  “My, Heather … such a surprise. Whatever brought you here?”

  “We're looking for a friend of ours. He was coming this way and said he might stop here. Calling himself Earl Bedwas, maybe. Have you seen him?”

  Turning away, the woman took a small log from beside the hearth and threw it into the fire. “Why, yes, dear, he was here. About three days ago.”

  “And where did he go afterward?”

  “I don't know. He didn't say, dear. Just south, I suppose. You'll be wanting to go after him right away, then?”

  “Yes, but I thought we could spend the night here. We're awfully tired and so are our horses, and it's raining rather hard.”

  “Certainly, certainly. I'll see that you're awakened early, in time to make a good start.”

  Just then, a servant poked in his head. “My lady, are those persons staying?”

  “Yes, Clive, just for the night.”

  “I'll tend to their horses, then, but I'll not deal with that dog!”

  “Oh, Rus,” Heather said. “Yes, send him in here to me. He's rather leery of strangers.”

  “He's not the only one what's leery, miss. You can have him.”

  Dinner that night was a strained affair. Lady Brecon chattered nervously, and occasionally Heather pretended to listen. Welly concentrated on eating. The food was excellent, but the atmosphere was so tense that it hurt his digestion. Lord Brecon scowled silently throughout the meal and excused himself before it was over. Only Rus seemed to enjoy himself, sprawling over the hearth, each head chewing a meaty bone.

  When the servants had cleared the table, Lady Brecon said, “Now, I'm sure you're both tired. Heather, you can have your old room, and Wellington may take the little one next to it. I'll have you awakened early.”

  Heather stood up. “All right, Mother. Thank you
for putting us up.” Briefly she glanced at her mother's tense face. There was something to read there, but it certainly wasn't love.

  “Good night, then.” Hurrying out of the room, Heather was followed by Welly and then Rus, a bone in each mouth.

  Lord Brecon returned to the room after they had left. He held a green glass bottle in his hand. “Perhaps a little bedtime wine for our guests?”

  “No! Morgan didn't say anything about wanting those two. She did give me some trinket for Heather if I should see her. I'll give her that, but I won't have her harmed.”

  Lord Brecon snorted disdainfully and left.

  When Heather had shown Welly his room, she went into her own and sat on the bed, dejectedly twisting her braids. She wished they hadn't come here. They'd had to, of course, following Earl, but she had also hoped in the back of her mind that maybe it would feel like home. It didn't.

  She had moved to this house after the death of her father, when her mother married Lord Brecon. But it had been clear from the start that this plain, awkward child of a Scottish refugee father was an embarrassment to the household, and she'd been sent off to Llandoylan as soon as possible. Sighing, she looked around at the cold stone walls. She'd actually spent little time among them, and they certainly exuded no feeling of homecoming now.

  She began undressing, angrily tossing her clothes on an old, ornate chair. Her mother seemed anxious to have her out of here. Well, she was no less anxious. Get some sleep and go. The less time she wasted in this cold dump, the better.

  A knock on the door startled her. “Yes?”

  “It's your mother, Heather. May I come in?”

  Mechanically Heather walked to the door and opened it. The woman stepped in, looking around distractedly. Then, moving Heather's wet clothes to the bed, she gingerly sat down on the chair. “I … I'd like to talk a moment.”

  Heather felt herself tensing up, inside and out. Resignedly she sat on the bed.

  Her mother smiled awkwardly. “I'm sorry we haven't been quite as close as we might have been, Heather. There are things we really don't know about each other, aren't there?”

  Heather said nothing.

  “I mean, for example, over the years I've discovered I have certain … talents. I picked up little skills, you know. And since I understand such things are often hereditary, I was just wondering if you'd found you had any?”

  Heather frowned at her. “Magic, you mean? ”

  “Yes, I suppose you might call it that.”

  The girl was silent a moment. “Yes, I guess I do have a little power.”

  “Good. Well, you see, I have something for you, then. It's an amulet. An old heirloom, really. It sort of helps with those things. I don't use it much. Lord Brecon doesn't approve, you know. And I'd like you to have it.”

  She reached into a pouch and held out a lump of black stone, trailing a fine gold chain. When Heather looked at it closely, she could see it was not shapeless but roughly carved like the head of some beast. Two shallow depressions formed its eyes.

  “Take it, dear. It's old and I'm sure quite valuable, as well as useful. I do want you to have it. After all, I've never given you much, have I?”

  Heather reached out and took the amulet into her hand. It felt cold and smooth.

  “Here, let me help you.” Her mother quickly slipped the chain over Heather's head, disentangling it from her braids.

  “Yes, it's right for you. I can see that. Well, I'd better let you get some sleep.” She moved quickly to the door. “Good night, Heather.”

  “Good night, Mother.”

  Heather stood staring at the closed door. Her mother had some powers, too? And she'd given her a gift, an old family thing. Maybe she should have tried to know her better. Unexpectedly she felt a trickle of regret.

  She fingered the worn amulet. It was pretty enough in an odd sort of way. And it did feel as though it had something to it. But she was too tired to experiment now. Sighing, she moved to the window to check that it was fastened against the rain—and almost screamed. A horrible yellow face was plastered against the glass panes. Bald, with a scraggly yellow beard, it had close-set eyes and two enormous ears. And it was saying something through the glass.

  Curiosity vied with horror, and she moved closer. She could just make out the whiny words.

  “Nice Lady. Glad you come. Help Great Wizard. Me show.”

  “Wizard! You know where Earl is? He needs help?”

  “Plenty help. You bring other friend, too?”

  “Other friend? Oh. Oh, I know you! You're the troll from the bridge.”

  “Yes, Nice Lady. But Troll not good at sticking to walls. Let in, maybe?”

  Hurriedly Heather opened the other half of the window, and the troll scuttled in like a hairy yellow spider, rain dripping from his bedraggled fur. Rus jumped up and smelled him with both noses, then wagged his tails approvingly.

  “Where is Earl? What happened? Oh, wait, let me get Welly.”

  She rushed to the next room where Welly was already asleep. Soon he was standing beside her, staring with sleepy amazement at the troll.

  “The little fellow from the bridge. I can't believe it!”

  “Me not little fellow. Me fierce troll warrior, companion to Great Wizard!”

  “Last I remember,” Welly said skeptically, “that great wizard threw you off a bridge.”

  “Oh, that's water under bridge now. Hee hee!” For a moment, the troll curled up, laughing at his own pun. Then he straightened proudly. “But we good friends now. Great Wizard needs help.”

  “Where is he?” Heather asked anxiously.

  “Downstairs. Way down in old cold dungeon. Troll look in window. Wizard not move for days.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “He alive, or why they chain him?”

  “Good thinking,” Welly said. “But who are ‘they’?”

  “Lord and Lady here. Bad people. Trolls never nasty to guests.”

  Heather was already throwing on her clothes, a look of grim determination on her face. “Maybe not. But some people can be.”

  Minutes later, the two were fully dressed with sword belts around their waists and, with the troll, were moving down a darkened flight of stairs. Rus, having been admonished to keep quiet, slunk along behind like a nightmare shadow. In a room below, they could hear Lord and Lady Brecon talking. Heather wanted to listen, to catch them in their treachery, but she knew she had to hurry on.

  She had led the party through several passages when a servant suddenly stepped from a doorway. They threw themselves back around a corner. After a breathless moment, Heather peered out, then scurried across an open space to a small wooden door, hurrying down the narrow stairway beyond. Shadow-like, the others followed.

  Smoky, widely spaced torches lit the stairs and the dank passage beyond. Jumping anxiously about, the troll pointed to the end of the corridor. “Great Wizard there. They not lock door.”

  But when they cautiously peered into the far room, they could see no sign of the wizard.

  Summoned to the manor door, Lord and Lady Brecon had hurried out of the cell, leaving Merlin gripped by despair as well as paralysis. In minutes, he thought, Glamorganshire soldiers would throw him over a horse and haul him like a sack down to Cardiff for that poisonous little Nigel to gloat over.

  Still, it did seem as though his hostess had given him slightly the wrong dose. His mind was fully alert even if his body remained like stone. Perhaps if he tried focusing his mind.

  He slipped into relaxed coolness. Like rivulets of water, his thoughts ran through his body, feeling out the poison and flowing around it. It was everywhere, stretching its barbs into every fiber of his body. He tried gripping his thoughts around it, seeking to pry it loose. But the poison tendrils were too thin and widespread. There was little to get hold of. He struggled on and on until his mind, too, was exhausted and numb. Weakly he floated back to the surface.

  The room around him was still empty, and his body was still motionles
s. Yet there was a certain tingling about his face and hands. Maybe he had pulled something loose. But it would never be enough, not to work an escape before the troops came, even if that hadn't been them arriving.

  No, without some control of his body, he could not work the proper spells. Yet his mind … There were certain personal magics that didn't use the body, or even speech, that worked instinctively without deliberate action. He'd learned that several years ago before regaining the memory of who he was. Maybe if he couldn't escape, he could appear to have escaped.

  He sank back into his mind. Unfettered by paralysis, his thoughts raced over his body, changing the way it reflected light. Lying motionless on the pallet, he slowly faded from sight until nothing but the dented straw was visible and the empty-seeming manacles.

  Now if they came, they'd think he was gone. But suppose they searched, suppose they touched the pallet? They'd feel him there even if they couldn't see him. There must be some other clue he could lay.

  The small, high window was dark now with night. And it was still latched shut. But if they were to find it open, they might think he'd escaped that way and search the room no further.

  He concentrated on the vague tingling around his face. If he could just get out one word. His thoughts battled with the heaviness of his lips and tongue. He tore at it, shred by shred, like clinging vines. Slowly, slowly, it began to drag away. Inside his mouth, his tongue twitched. Painfully his lips tingled, feeling less and less like stone.

  He tried to form the word, tried again and again. Slowly he came nearer. There was a noise in the corridor. It must be now!

  Like a spear, his thoughts shot across the room, dragging with them a word. Poorly formed and faint, still it was spoken. The window unlatched and blew open, letting in a cold, wet gust of wind.