He took her hand as they walked along together. They interlaced their fingers.
“I’m just jealous. I hate to think about losing you. But I’ve heard all the stories about mortals and beings like you. They never come to a very good end.”
“That’s why you hear about them,” she said. “Nobody tells stories about the ones that work.”
“Some of them work?”
“Most of them work. We’re very stable individuals. We know what we like, what we don’t, and none of us are shy about speaking our minds. I think ours is a very promising one.”
“That makes me feel better,” he said. “I just hope when we find Merlin the sun won’t have fried his brain.”
“No. There are structures all along the coast. One of them probably materialized for him.”
“What? There are other buildings around here?”
“Yes, but you can’t see them easily.”
“Dead people’s clothes. Invisible buildings. What else are you . . . ?”
“Settle down. They are not dead people’s clothing. When they were devoured on the funeral pyre, they belong to me. And as for the structures, I’m not sure you would call them buildings. They aren’t invisible. They just are a little bit somewhere else.”
“How did they do that?” he asked.
“It’s like the tunnel between worlds. No one knows,” she said.
“Why?”
“We don’t know. What we do know is that their ability to dematerialize preserves them. And when we studied the matter long ago, that was the best and only explanation we could come up with. When you want something to last a long time, you build it of sturdy materials. But if you want something to last forever, you arrange it so that it can widen the spaces between the little thingamajiggies that make up matter and avoid the deterioration caused by heat, cold, wind, rain that batters structures.”
“You sure that’s the explanation?” he asked.
“No, but have you got a better one?” She pointed ahead. “Look!”
He saw what appeared to be a small forest of white columns on a promontory overlooking the ocean.
“He will be there,” she said confidently.
“How do you make them come into being?” he asked.
“Sometimes you can’t,” was her rueful answer. “Once my house went away. I hadn’t visited it in a long time, maybe a few hundred years, and I guess it got tired of waiting. I had to camp out in the spring that supplies the bathing pool and drinking water. Nothing wrong with that. There’s a beautiful cave down there that is filled with sunlight from holes in the rock above. The walls and floors are lined with tiny quartz crystals. They shine like new snow on a bright day when the light filters in. But it does get cold there at night. You’d need your fur.”
“The house?” he prompted.
“Oh. After a while, it came back. I’ve been careful to check on it periodically every twenty-five years or so since.”
The ground was broken here. The beach changed to shingle and the dark rocks that looked like the remnants of an ancient lava flow formed a small peninsula that stretched out into the ocean. A broad, shallow stair led to the top of the promontory.
He was sitting in a stone chair in the middle of a slightly sunken garden, staring out to sea. He was, as she had said, clean-shaven with thick, salt-and-pepper gray hair. He was wearing a clean cotton robe the butternut color of homespun. When they reached the top of the stair, he turned to look at them. The expression of controlled horror in his eyes struck Lancelot like a blow.
“I thought I’d be seeing you again,” he said. “And the bird. There are no birds here. I knew it had to be a messenger.”
The pavilion was to Lancelot like a scattering of mushrooms. Slender white, or were they white? Somehow they seemed to pick up the blue in the sky. Columns rose from fissures in the polished rock at his feet. Each column opened into a delicate stone parasol. They overlapped one another in a random pattern that created areas of both light and heavy shade. And like mushrooms, they were arranged in a ring around a sunlit garden.
The outer ring was small fig trees laden with fruit. The second ring held gooseberry bushes, again burdened with abundant red, translucent fruit. The innermost ring around a small pool held roses. They reminded Lancelot of dog roses, white with a pink blush at the edges and multiple golden stamens.
But no dog roses he’d ever seen were so large, each blossom wider across than the palm of his hand. Or so fragrant. Whenever the sea breeze dropped, the air was suddenly and seductively saturated with their fragrance.
The sorcerer shivered as with a chill. “How long,” he asked in a tormented voice, “will I stay sane?”
There were two more chairs and a bench around the garden. She pointed at one chair and a couple of pillows appeared in it.
“Here, have a cushion,” she said to Merlin as she handed him one. “And,” she continued, “you will stay sane as long as you stay here.”
“So I’m trapped,” he said.
“You could put it that way, if you want to. You could also say I rescued you. But whatever you say, there’s not one damn thing I can do about King Bade’s curse.”
“Nothing you can, or nothing you will?”
“Both,” she said, sitting down in the chair with the remaining cushion. Lancelot took the bench.
“Bade’s not a god. But if there’s such a thing as close with god, he’s there. No, I don’t want any part of a squabble between a cheap necromancer like you and the last remnant of beings who once aspired to comprehend the whole known universe.”
“He’s half-mad,” Merlin snapped.
“Let me tell you something. At half-mad, Bade is still a hundred times smarter and more competent than you ever dreamed about being on the sharpest day of your life.”
He gave her a poisonous look.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said.
The hot, dark eyes rested on Lancelot. “Your paramour?” he asked.
“None of your business. I brought him here because he’s Guinevere’s foster brother and he needs to know what’s happened to her and her intended, the young king. You were eager enough to tell me everything a day or so ago. What’s the matter now? You trying to figure an angle? Some way to work out a quid pro quo? If that’s what’s in your devious skull, forget it. You start screwing with me, I’ll drag you out in the ocean and hold your head under until you beg me to let you talk. You aren’t the first slimy vulture, potted-up scrounger who wanted to exploit the remains of a magnificent civilization for your own personal profit. Types like you get on my last nerve, and it gripes me to have to share my personal getaway spot with a creep like you. But in the interest of limiting your suffering and in return for your help, I’ll do it. But that’s all I’ll do. That’s all you get. I will not help you make a nuisance of yourself to the rest of the long-suffering human race.”
“Everybody always knows where they stand with you, don’t they?” Lancelot said.
“True,” Merlin said. “You could not be clearer.” Then he continued, “The truth is, I don’t know as much as I wish. But what there is, I will share. The oracles began to speak of both of them before they were ever born. But I believe you, my lady, are well informed about divination.”
She nodded. “A tricky and treacherous process.”
“Just so. I couldn’t tell what they portended, only that it was something big. Very big. Unbelievably big. And the worst of it was, I couldn’t tell what. I consulted other diviners. They seemed to know even less than I did. So . . .”
“You tried to kill us,” Lancelot said.
“Yes, I did that at first. I tried very hard. Then I used my credit with the Lord of the Dead to try to tie her to another man. He failed. I was surprised. Certainly the power of his hand exceeds the force of any mortal will. But she was not only able to defeat him, she acquired an ally in the Boar, servant of Dis, Talorcan. God help me, he liked her!”
“I do too,” Lancelot said.
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Merlin sighed. “I’m sure there is much that is likable about her. Arthur was certainly smitten. Together they might be an unbeatable combination.”
The Lady of the Lake seemed saddened. Lancelot kept his eyes on the restless movement of the sea. Merlin made as if to rise.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m dry. Talking is thirsty work.”
A second later a cup appeared in her hand. She held it out to him.
“What’s in it?” he asked, accepting it gingerly.
“Whatever you want,” she said.
He took a swallow. “Tolerably good wine,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Fine,” she said. “Keep it. You don’t have to worry about emptying it.”
“The cup remains full?” he said, looking down into the vessel.
“Yes. I have a whole set. These are ornamented with moonstones. Get on with the story.”
“You know whose side I’m on. Don’t you?” he asked.
She snorted. “Your own.”
“No!” He sounded angry. “I’m on that of the civilized southern landowners. In the end, they will dominate the country. Arthur wasn’t reliable. As high king I saw clear evidence that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. And he would allow the barbarian tribesmen an equal voice in the government.”
“So you decided to imprison him also.”
Merlin looked almost sad. “The High Kingship has endured so long. Even before the Romans came, groups from the Continent tried to bring it down. They failed. Most thought the Romans would succeed, but I think in a way, in the long run, resistance to their rule only strengthened those kings of legend. The Roman tide crashed against the mountains of Scotland. Then receded slowly, leaking away until they were gone. The only remnants of their greatness are a few very hard to heat villas and an abandoned wall.”
He sighed. “Those oracles didn’t warn me enough. He hasn’t remained imprisoned by Bade. He’s loose, and he’s been successful in challenging Bade for power.”
“That part was not clear to me,” she said. “How in the hell did you get Bade to act as Arthur’s jailer?”
Merlin’s face was stiff.
“Don’t. Don’t lie to me. Not if you value your life, don’t.” She spoke quietly. “I want the truth.”
“He . . . he was in my debt,” was the answer.
“For what?”
“I sent him a lot of slaves.”
She began laughing.
“Arthur is a king, and they have the right to ask for his help. But if this Bade is as powerful as you tell me he is, how could any human defeat him?” Lancelot asked.
“He doesn’t have to defeat him, just limit him. And that can be done,” Merlin said.
She added, “I think that may be where you come in.”
“Me?” Lancelot said. “What can I do?”
She didn’t answer, only looked into his eye. He met her stare for a moment, then turned away.
“Are you there?” he asked quietly. A half dozen ravens flew down, and his helm, belt, and sword appeared on the bench beside him.
“Yes, there are things I can do,” he said. “But what about her?”
“She is at the City of Fire,” Merlin said. “Her journey is her own, and you are not part of it.”
He sat silent for a moment, eyes closed. “No, she has already won or lost. I cannot say which. I don’t know. But there is no way for you to get there. If victorious, she will overtake you in the Summer Country. If not, I cannot name her fate. But this I say last.”
And he glanced at Lancelot. “In this I speak truth and only truth. The three of you are treasured among the immortals and in many senses, you will never die. Part of the reason I pursued you so relentlessly is because my soul burned with envy of you. The king is a dream of power. She, Guinevere, is a dream of beauty and you are a dream of courage. And among the three of you, there is a dream of love. I cannot think she will lose. You and Arthur are her destiny. No lesser beings could destroy her.”
He turned to the Lady of the Lake. “There. Are you satisfied?”
She nodded. “Yes. You meet and exceed my expectations, sorcerer.”
The sun was still bright in the sky, but moving down close to the horizon. The shadows were long and the breeze was picking up. Merlin lifted the wine cup again and drank deeply.
“Any fish in that large body of water?” He nodded toward the sea.
“Some,” Lancelot said. “But you sort of have to crack them like oysters. They have big plates all over their bodies, but the meat inside is really good.”
“Back there—” The sorcerer indicated the strip of low-growing scrub beyond the beach. “I found some sleep rooms and a hearth. I suppose I had best make myself at home. There’s also a net.”
“We could run it through the surf,” she said. “I’ve never been short of things to eat, and I’ve spent a lot of time here.”
“Any further advice?” Lancelot asked Merlin.
“I wouldn’t presume,” he said. “Besides, you and she and Arthur have handled things perfectly up until now. In this, I came off the loser.”
“I’ll go get the net,” she said. Then she pointed to Merlin. “You build a fire. And don’t hit that cup too hard while you’re at it. Wait until you get some food in your stomach.”
“What about these fancy getups?” Lancelot objected. “You’ll ruin that expensive gown. And what about my tunic?” he asked as he rose to follow her.
“The ravens can bring you some armor and I’ll wear kelp.”
“Kelp? What the hell is kelp?” he asked.
“Seaweed,” she told him. “It gets chilly around here at night, and it will keep me warm.”
“How in the hell is cold, clammy seaweed going to keep you warm?”
“Enough!” she said. “I’ve been explaining things to you all day. Give it a rest and let’s go find that net.”
CHAPTER NINE
Arthur visited the eagle again. He studied the way the forest sloped down to the river and decided that there must be a game trail that paralleled the river and would take him without undue exertion down to the bottomlands that surrounded King Bade’s fortress.
He sometimes stayed longer than necessary with the great bird. He liked her mind. It was clear and calm, utterly without fear or even anxiety. She knew what she was and what her people had been since time immemorial. When they had been without feathers and hunted in the shadowed glades of a primordial forest, thick with cycads and tree ferns. The insects were winged, but they were not. But clawed fingers and feet gave them command of the high canopies where they dashed from tree to tree with an agility only equaled now by monkeys.
At first the skies were filled with rain. The clouds were thick and the green of forests where tree was piled on tree burned against the racing gray cloud wreck that seemed to fly past without end. In time the skies cleared, cold came, and with it the feathers that made the miracle of flight possible.
He basked in her serenity, her assurance. It felt good to slough off his complex humanity and join with her simple, clear vision.
Perhaps, he thought, riding the thermals of a morning and being carried higher and higher, this was what happened to the wanderers lost in this dark forest. They yielded up their souls to an experience that brought their mortal torments to an end and filled them with peace.
There was an absolute certainty about her life. There were no gray areas. She loved her mate and greeted him with a very pure passion as they clung together, spiraling down toward the treetops below. They made love over and over again, and they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other.
Eggs and chicks. She was filled with youth and strength.
They honed their skills in the vast chasm of air between the clouds and the forest below, making sure their young were fed. Then the chicks were gone and he and she were alone together. Today was as yesterday, and tomorrow would change nothing, but be the same. World without end, not a prayer but a
reality that glowed with absolute peace.
It came to him then that he knew who he was, also. He had no doubts, and his mind reached that point of rest, the vast stillness that is the knowledge of God. He watched the sunset with his arm over the dog’s back. The sun painted the horizon gold, and a blue-green light blazed in the forest.
“Did you betray me?” he asked the dog. “Take me to face the greatest enemy of my kind in this world?” Of course, he got no answer. But he was able to sleep very peacefully.
The next day he felt the first stirrings of hunger as he and Bax worked their way into a more conventional forest. There were game trails here and clearings where he could see the sun by day and the moon and stars by night. The first night out, he set rabbit snares and got three. He took the sinew and gut he needed to make a bow drill and fed the rest to Bax. Then he hunkered down near a small stream that was tributary to the river that bisected the valley.
He placed his hands in the water. He felt a coldness in the symbols that marked the palms of both hands. He’d made his first bow drill from a yew tree. The coolness penetrated his palms and ran up his arms and entered his heart.
The king had one other duty. He was priest, general-warrior, head of state, and it was his duty, as it had been that of the Roman and Etruscan kings, to consult the gods. Both pagan and Christian priesthoods had done the best they could to wrench the responsibility for the sacred trance from the ruler, but no one had ever been able to completely deny them.
No high king had ever been chosen who did not come from one of the great warrior societies, and simply in order to join one, both men and women had to be able to make the sacred journey. He made one himself, and “She” had come to him. The memory made him shiver. He had the marks; the four claws of a bear scored his right shoulder from neck to waist. But he was glad he had them.
He had gone to his father the morning of his first awareness that he was no longer a child. He didn’t know what or who came to him in the shadows between sleep and waking. Some boys and men told tales about what they met. Most kept their mouths shut, at least until they were much older and the memory was no longer raw. Or perhaps until they could make up something to their credit. But he remembered only the pleasure, and being naturally truthful, told his father so.
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