Woodley unsheathed his dagger. He ducked under Sir Bohart’s thrust and slashed up at the knight’s arm. It was like striking at glass. His point slid off harmlessly, and only by a frantic writhe was he able to avoid being impaled.
How the devil could he fight against this sort of magic?
“Look,” he said, “I don’t want Vivienne.”
“You dare to insult my lady,” the knight bellowed, crimson-faced, as he plunged forward. “By the spiked tail of Sathanas, I’ll—”
“Sir Bohart!” It was Vivienne’s voice, iron under the velvet. She was standing at the curtain, Nurmala quivering behind her. “Hold!”
“Nay, nay,” Bohart puffed. “This knave is not fit for black beetles to eat. Have no fear for me; I can slay him easily.”
“And I promise to slay you if you harm him, despite your magic cuirass that can turn all blows!” Vivienne shrilled. “Let be, I say! Let be! Else—”
Sir Bohart hesitated, sending a wary glance at the girl. He looked toward the shrinking Woodley and snarled silently.
Vivienne said, “Must I summon Morgan?”
The knight’s face went gray as weathered stone. He swung around, a sick horror in his eyes.
“My lady—” he said.
“I have protected you till now, for old time’s sake. Often the queen has wanted a partner to play at chess—and often she has asked me for you. In truth, there are few humans beneath the lake, and I would be sorry to lose your company, Bohart. But Morgan has not played at chess for long and long.”
The knight slowly sheathed his dagger. He licked his lips. Silently he went to the hanging drapery, passed through, and was gone.
“Perhaps Bleys should bleed him,” Nurmala suggested. “Sir Bohart grows more choleric each day.”
Vivienne had lost her angry look. She smiled mockingly at the green girl.
“So you can get the blood, eh? You naiads. You’d strip yourself clean for a drop of human blood, if you weren’t stripped already.” Her voice changed. “Go now. My new gown must be ready, for we sup with Morgan le Fay tonight after the testing.”
As Nurmala vanished, Vivienne came forward and put her arms around Woodley’s neck. “I am sorry for this, messire. Sir Bohart will not offend again. He is fiercely jealous—but I never loved him. For a little time I amused myself, some centuries ago—that was all. It is you I love, my Arthur, you alone.”
“Look,” Woodley said, “I’d like a little information. Where am I, for one thing?”
“But do you not know?” Vivienne looked puzzled. “When you said you could fly, I felt sure you were at least a wizard. Yet when I brought you here, I found you could not breathe under water—I had to ask Morgan to change you.”
“Change me?” Instinctively Woodley fingered his throat.
The girl laughed softly. “You have no gills. Morgan’s magic works more subtly. You have been—altered—so that you can live under water. The element is as air to you. It is the same enchantment Morgan put upon this castle when she sank it in the lake, after Camelot fell and the long night came upon Britain. An old enchantment—she put it upon Lyonesse once, and lived there for a while.”
“And I thought all that was just legend,” Woodley muttered.
“How little you mortals know! And yet it is true—in some strange paradoxical way. Morgan told me once, but I did not understand. Well, you can ask her tonight, after the testing.”
“Oh—the testing. I’m not too happy about that. What is it, anyway?”
Vivienne looked a him with some surprise. “An ancient chivalric custom. Before any man can dwell here, he must prove himself worthy by doing some deed of valor. Sir Bohart had to slay a Worm—a dragon, you know—but his magic cuirass helped him there. He’s quite invulnerable while he wears it.”
“Just what is this testing?”
“It is different for each knight. Morgan has made some being, with her sorcery, and placed it behind the Shaking Rock. Ere sundown, you must go and kill the creature, whatever it is. I would I knew what manner of thing lairs there, but I do not, nor would Morgan let me tell you if I knew.”
Woodley blinked. “Uh . . . suppose I don’t want to take the test?”
“You must, or Morgan will slay you. But surely you are not afeared, my lord!”
“Of course not,” he said hastily. “Just tell me a little more, will you? Are we really living under water?”
Vivienne sighed, pressed Woodley down to a sitting position on the bed, and relaxed comfortably in his lap. “Kiss me,” she said. “There! Now—well, after the Grail was lost and the table broken, magic went out of Britain. There was no room for the fairy folk. Some died, some went away, some hid, here and there. There are secrets beneath the hills of Britain, my Arthur. So Morgan, with her powers, made herself invisible and intangible, and sank her castle here under the lake, in the wild mountains of Wales. Her servants are not human, of course. I had done Morgan a service once, and she was grateful. So when I saw the land sinking into savagery, I asked to go with her to this safe place. I brought Bohart with me, and Morgan took Merlin’s old master, Bleys the Druid. Since then nothing has changed. Humans cannot feel or see us—or you either, now that you have been enchanted.”
“Merlin?” Woodley was remembering the legend. “Didn’t you shut him up in an oak—” He stopped, realizing that he had made a faux pas. But it was so damnably hard to realize that legend had become real!”
Vivienne’s face changed. “I loved him,” she said, and her lips pinched together. “We will not speak of that!”
Woodley was thinking hard. Apparently he was breathing water, though he didn’t notice any difficulty with his lungs. Yet there was an extraordinary—thickness—to the atmosphere, and a glassy, pellucid clarity. Moreover, the angles of refraction were subtly alien. It was true, then.
“So I’m living in a legend.”
She smiled. “It was real for all that, in a way. I remember. Such scandals we had in Camelot! I recall once Launcelot rescued a girl named Elaine, who’d been shut up in a boiling bath in a tower for years and years—she said. I got the truth of it later. It was all over the court. Elaine was married to an old knight—a very old knight—and when she heard Launcelot was in town, she decided to hook him. So she sent her page to Launcelot with a cock-and-bull story about a curse—said her husband wasn’t her husband at all, but a wicked magician—and had a bath all ready in the tower, for the right moment. When Launcelot broke down the door, she hopped into the tub, naked as a needle, and yelled like the Questing Beast. It hurt, certes, but Elaine didn’t mind that. Especially when her husband rushed in. She pointed at him and cried, ‘The wizard!’ So Launcelot drew his sword and made Elaine a widow. Not that it did her any good, with Guenevere in Camelot waiting for her lover. Though Guenevere had reason for behaving as she did, I think. The way Arthur behaved with Morgawse! Of course that was before he married, but just the same—
“Legends, indeed,” went on Vivienne. “I know legends! I suppose they gloss over the truth nowadays. Well, I could tell them a thing or two! I’ll wager they’ve even made a hero out of that notorious old rake Lot. He certainly got what was coming to him. Indeed yes! But bad blood tells, I always feel. There was King Anguish, with his hunting lodge in the forest, and his unicorn hunts. Oh, yes!
“Unicorn hunts, forsooth,” said Vivienne. “It’s true you need a virgin to lure the unicorn, but there weren’t many horns Anguish of Ireland brought home, I can tell you! And look at his daughter Yseult! She was her father all over again. She and Tristran—a minstrel! Everybody knows about minstrels. True enough, Yseult’s husband wasn’t any Galahad. Not Mark! For that matter, let me tell you about Galahad. It wasn’t only the bar that was sinister about him. They say that over in Bedigraine Forest one hot summer—”
Nurmala’s bubbling voice interrupted. The naiad stood by the drape that masked the door.
“My lady, I have done all that I can to the gown without you. But it must be fitted.”
“Lackaday!” said Vivienne, rising. “I’ll tell you about Uther and that widow some other time. Ten children, mind! Well, you need not go to the Shaking Rock till after midday meal, so would you like to view the castle?”
“Now wait a minute!” Woodley was beginning to feel anxious. “About this testing, Vivienne—”
“It is simple. You gird on a sword, go to the Shaking Rock—someone will guide you—and slay whatever creature Morgan has created there. Then you come back to sup.”
“Just like that, eh?” Woodley said, with rather feeble irony. “But how do I know a sword will kill the thing? Suppose it’s a dragon?”
Nurmala gave a quickly suppressed giggle. Woodley glanced at the naiad, remembering something she had let drop earlier. What was it? Nurmala had begun to say that she had swum out and seen—
The creature behind the Shaking Rock? Woodley’s eyes widened. He could make use of the naiad!
Not yet, of course. There was still plenty of time. It would be better to familiarize himself with the aqueous life of the castle first.
Vivienne said, “Shall I have Bleys show you around?”
Bleys? The Druid wizard—not a bad idea. He might be a valuable source of information, and perhaps something more. If one could use magic to fight magic—
Not that Woodley had any intention of visiting the Shaking Rock, he pondered. At the first opportunity, he was getting out of this place. He could swim. If Bleys would show him the front door, he’d show Bleys a clean pair of heels.
“Fine,” Woodley said. “Let’s go.”
Vivienne swept to the door. “Nurmala will take you to Bleys. Do not linger, naiad. That gown must be finished—”
She was gone. Woodley waited till the sound of soft footfalls had died. Nurmala was eying him curiously.
“My lord—”
He stopped her with an outthrust arm and closed the door with the other. “Just a minute. I want to talk to you.”
The naiad’s green jello face became slightly tinged with blue. She was blushing, Woodley surmised, and gulped. He went on swiftly:
“I want you to tell me what’s behind the Shaking Rock.”
Nurmala looked away. “How can I do that? Only Morgan knows.”
“You swam out there this morning, didn’t you? I thought so. Well, I’m not blaming you for curiosity, especially since I need the information. Come on, now. Give. What is it? A dragon?” he hazarded.
The naiad shivered around the edges. “Nay, my lord, I dare not say. If Morgan were to find out—”
“She won’t.”
“I cannot tell you!”
Woodley took out his dagger and touched the point to his arm. Nurmala watched with suddenly avid eyes.
“Vivienne said naiads were crazy about human blood. Like vampires, eh? Even for a drop or two—”
“No! No! I dare not—”
Woodley pricked his finger—
“Well,” said Nurmala some time later, “it’s this way. Morgan le Fay created an undine and placed it behind the Shaking Rock.”
“What’s an undine?”
“It’s about fifteen feet long, and—like hair,” the naiad explained, licking her lips.
“Like hair?”
“You can’t see its body, which is very small. It’s covered with long hairy filaments that burn like fire when they touch you.”
“I see,” Woodley nodded grimly. “A super-Portuguese man-of-war. Electric jellyfish. Nice thing to fight with a sword!”
“It is a demon,” Nurmala agreed. “But you will slay it easily.”
“Oh, sure. Any idea how?”
“I fear not. I can tell you how to find it, though. Take the root of a mandrake and squeeze out the juice. That will bring the undine posthaste, if it tries to hide from you.”
“Catnip,” Woodley said cryptically. “Well, at least I know what the thing is.”
“You will not tell Morgan I told you? You promised!”
“I won’t tell her . . . Hm-m-m! I wonder if—” Nurmala jumped. “I have kept the Lady Vivienne waiting. Come, now, my lord. Quickly!”
Woodley thoughtfully followed the naiad into a tapestried hall, and along it to a carved door, which Nurmala pushed open. “Bleys!” she called.
“Bip!”
“Drunken oaf of a Druid,” the naiad said impatiently. “There is a task for you.”
“Has the dragon’s fire gone out again?” a squeaky voice asked, rather plaintively. “By Mider, a salamander would be more dependable. But I suppose the water keeps putting the fire out. I keep telling the dragon not to take such deep breaths. Bip!”
“This is Messire Arthur of Woodley. Show him the castle. He is the Lady Vivienne’s lover,” Nurmala added as an afterthought, and Woodley blushed hotly.
It was very dark in the chamber. Sea spiders had spun webs all around, and it looked very much like an ancient alchemist’s chamber, which it was. There were stacks of heavy tomes, a crucible or two, several alembics, a stuffed crocodile, and Bleys.
Bleys was a withered little gnome of a man, wispy enough to be blown away by a vagrant gust of wind. His dirty white beard hung in the aqueous atmosphere like a veil before his wrinkled brown walnut of a face. Bleys wore a long mud-colored robe with a peaked hood, and he sat cross-legged, an earthenware jug in his skinny hands.
“Messire Arthur of Woodley,” Bleys squeaked. “Greeting. Bip!” He drank from the jug. “Bip! again.”
Woodley said at random, “You’ve . . . uh . . . got a nice place here.” It would be wise to make friends with the Druid, as a first step in enlisting his aid.
Bleys waved casually at the alembics and retorts. “Those. Used to do all sorts of magic with ’em. Philosopher’s Stone—you know. But not now. I just make liquor. Bip!”
“Liquor?”
“All sorts. Mead, wine—all by magic, of course. Real liquor wouldn’t last long under water—you know. Bip! I haven’t been drunk since I came down here with Morgan. Magic ale hasn’t got the kick of the real stuff. Eheu!”
“Bleys,” Nurmala murmured.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes.” The wizard peered blearily through his beard. “Vivienne wants me to show you around. Not worth it. Dull place, the castle. How’d you like to stay here with me instead and have a few drinks?”
As Woodley hesitated, the naiad said, “I’ll tell the Lady Vivienne, Bleys.”
“Oh, all right.” The Druid stiffly rose and moved unsteadily forward. “Come along, then, Messire Arthur. Arthur . . . Arthur?” He squinted up sharply at Woodley’s face. “For a moment I thought . . . but you’re not Pendragon. There was a prophecy, you know, that he’d come again. Get along with you, Nurmala, or I’ll turn you into a polliwog and step on you.”
“You’ll show Messire Arthur the castle, now?”
“Yes, yes,” Bleys said snappishly. As Nurmala rippled away, he made an angry sound in his beard. “They all kick me around. Even the damned naiads. But why not?” He drank from the jug. “I’m just an old has-been. Me, who taught Merlin all he knew. They hate me because I won’t work magic for them. Why should I? I make this instead. Have a drink. “No,” he added hastily, drawing back. “You can’t have any. I made it, and it’s mine. Not that it’ll get me drunk! Magic ale, forsooth! Sometimes I wish I were dead. Bip!”
He headed for the door, Woodley at his heels. “What do you want to see first?”
“I don’t know. There’ll be plenty of time to look around after I pass the testing. You know about that, don’t you?”
Bleys nodded. “Oh, yes. But I don’t know what sort of creature Morgan put behind the Shaking Rock.” He glanced up shrewdly. “Before you go on—I can’t help you. I can’t give you any magic, because the queen won’t let me, and I’ve no valuable information you’d be glad to hear.
The only thing I have to give is a sword, and I’m holding that for—one who will come later.” His voice had changed oddly. “You must meet the testing with true courage, and that will be your shie
ld.”
“Thanks,” Woodley said, his lips twisting wryly. No information, eh? Well, Bleys must know how to get out of the castle. Yet that secret must be wormed out of him subtly. He couldn’t ask point-blank—
“Well,” the Druid said, guiding Woodley along the hall, “the place is built in a hollow square, around the courtyard in the middle. No windows. The fishes are worse than mosquitoes. Snatch the food out of your hands. We keep the dragon in the courtyard. Scavenger. He takes care of the garbage problem. Bip!”
Vague memories of museums stirred in Woodley. “I don’t see any suits of armor.”
“Think you’ll need one?” Bleys cackled unpleasantly. “They’re in the armory.” He toddled unsteadily on with a certain grim fortitude. “This isn’t Joyouse Garde or the Castle of the Burning Hart. Environment’s different. No pots of lead for melting on our towers. We can’t be besieged. For that matter, the whole design of a castle is functional, quite useless under the lake.”
“Why don’t things get wet?”
“Same reason the water seems like air. Wet magic. That type of enchantment was perfected in Atlantis—it’s beyond me, but I’m a Druid. We work with fire mostly. Oak, ash, and thorn,” Bleys reminisced. “When I was a boy at Stonehenge . . . oh, well. Sic transit—you know. Bip. Mider curse this ale—it’s like dish water. How I’ve longed for a sippet of dry-land liquor! But of course I can’t live out of water now. What are you looking at? Oh, that. Recognize the scene?” The Druid tittered unpleasantly.
Woodley was examining a great tapestry that covered one wall of the room they had just entered. Faded and ancient, but still brilliantly colored, it was covered with scenes that evoked a familiar note. A man and a woman—a tree—a snake—and, in the background, another woman who was strikingly beautiful even through this medium.
“Lilith,” Bleys said. “The castle’s full of tapestries. They show legends, battles, sieges—you know.” He peered through the veil of his floating beard. “Ars longa—but the rest of the tag isn’t exactly appropriate, eh? Bip!”
“Come along,” he added, and tugged at his guest’s arm.
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