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Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 40

by Edited by Eric Flint


  Nor was this all, for at the king’s right hand wa­ited a bard all clad in gre­en with gol­den cuffs on his wrists and a whi­te-fra­med harp in his hands. No less than twel­ve war­li­ke men ran­ged the hall with the­ir sharp spe­ars and gil­ded helms on the­ir he­ads. All wat­c­hed the ap­pro­ach of Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us.

  Before this we­alth and nob­le dis­p­lay, Mer­lin knelt. The sol­di­ers who had bro­ught him this far ma­de the­ir bows and re­ti­red, le­aving the sor­ce­rer alo­ne be­fo­re Be­rach Ui Ne­ill.

  “Be wel­co­me to this pla­ce, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us,” sa­id the king. His vo­ice bo­omed out to fill his ho­use. Fi­re­light set his gold or­na­ments and red-gold ha­ir to shi­ne and glit­ter, but sha­dows hid his eyes. "We are glad to re­ce­ive the am­bas­sa­dor of Ut­her of the Bri­ta­ins.”

  The king ges­tu­red for him to ri­se. King Be­rach’s wi­fe ca­me for­ward with a cup of gold stud­ded with blue gems fil­led with the me­ad of that pla­ce. Mer­lin ac­cep­ted it and drank the who­le of it down in a sin­g­le dra­ught.

  “I thank you for yo­ur gre­at co­ur­tesy, king of the Ui Ne­ill,” he sa­id as he re­tur­ned the cup to the qu­e­en with a bow. “I bring to you the gre­etings and lo­ve of Ut­her who is na­med the fat­her of dra­gons, and as a to­ken the­re­of, my king com­mands I pre­sent to you this sto­ne.” From the pur­se on his belt, Mer­lin bro­ught forth an eme­rald the si­ze of a pi­ge­on’s egg co­lo­red the de­ep blue gre­en of the se­as be­ne­ath the sun. The king re­ce­ived this sto­ne with gre­at ple­asu­re and pri­de. His chest swel­led and his fa­ce sho­ne to be­hold the jewel. Mer­lin’s ke­en eye no­ted this and in his si­len­ce he was de­eply ple­ased to be­hold, it, for it told him what man­ner of man was be­fo­re him.

  The king han­ded the sto­ne to his wi­fe, who lo­oked shrewdly at the sor­ce­rer. She held her pe­ace, ho­we­ver, and let her hus­band spe­ak. “That is a stran­ge sword you we­ar, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us,” he went on, dis­p­la­ying to all his ke­en and dis­cer­ning eye.

  Merlin smi­led and drew it slowly, la­ying the bla­de out flat aga­inst his palm. “A po­or thing,” he sa­id. “Once the to­ol of the Ro­mans who ru­led our land whi­le the men of Eire li­ved fre­ely. Bron­ze only, but it su­its me.” He held it out. “It is yo­urs, Ma­j­esty, if it ple­ases you.”

  This puf­fed out King Be­rach’s chest even fur­t­her. He wa­ved the of­fe­ring away re­gal­ly and then com­man­ded that Mer­lin be gi­ven a bed and all he wan­ted for his ref­res­h­ment un­til the fe­ast for his wel­co­me co­uld be set be­fo­re them. Ple­ased with all he had se­en, Mer­lin per­mit­ted the king’s da­ug­h­ters to le­ad him away.

  The fe­ast was con­duc­ted with all the splen­dor that pla­ce had to of­fer. Mer­lin sat at the king’s right hand be­hind a bo­ard la­id with cloths of de­li­ca­te and brightly em­b­ro­ide­red li­nen. Who­le swans we­re bro­ught on sil­ver dis­hes, with oaten bre­ads, as well as suc­k­ling pigs co­oked in ap­ples and sprin­k­led over with salt and the pep­pers of Spa­in. To drink, they had the wi­ne of the Me­de­ter­ri­ne and the fi­ery li­qu­or the men of that is­le call the wa­ter of li­fe. The­re was a gra­ci­o­us plenty for all the com­pany, for King Be­rach me­ant to dis­p­lay his we­alth in his ge­ne­ro­sity. All the whi­le the fe­ast went on, the bard, who­se na­me was Ail­f­rid mac Ri­an, sat be­si­de the fi­re and pla­yed on his harp. He sang the gre­at his­tory of the Ui Ne­ill, dwel­ling with the most lo­ve on the le­gends of Fi­onn mac Cum­ha­il, the gi­ant and king, and whom he sa­id was gre­atest an­ces­tor of the Ui Ne­ill. If Mer­lin knew it to be ot­her­wi­se, he pru­dently kept si­lent. Sec­retly, tho­ugh, he wat­c­hed the bard as clo­sely as he wat­c­hed the king. For Mer­lin knew the wis­dom and sec­rets of the true bards, and wan­ted to ta­ke the me­asu­re of this one be­fo­re him.

  When the fe­as­ting was over, and the bard fell si­lent to re­ce­ive the ap­pla­use and pra­ise of all the ho­use, Mer­lin ro­se to his fe­et and bo­wed be­fo­re the king.

  “Majesty, I ha­ve be­en fe­as­ted he­re in a man­ner most worthy of the gre­at and ge­ne­ro­us re­pu­ta­ti­on that is the na­me of the Ui Ne­ill. If it is yo­ur de­si­re, I shall exer­ci­se my own hum­b­le skills for the amu­se­ment of this ho­use, and to in so­me small me­asu­re show my gra­ti­tu­de for the rich wel­co­me I ha­ve he­re re­ce­ived.”

  King Be­rach in­c­li­ned his he­ad mag­na­ni­mo­usly and Mer­lin bo­wed on­ce mo­re, very low. He step­ped out in­to the cen­ter of the ho­use be­si­de the fi­re. Bard Ail­f­rid to­ok his harp and mo­ved asi­de, but the­ir eyes met in that small mo­ment, the bard’s the pa­le blue of the win­ter sky and Mer­lin’s the bright blue of the sum­mer morn. Each saw sec­rets, and the know­led­ge of sec­rets, and each smi­led a small smi­le at the ot­her, kno­wing the­re wo­uld be much spe­ech bet­we­en them la­ter.

  But for now, Mer­lin only ra­ised his whi­te staff. “See then Be­rach Ui Ne­ill! See then all the so­uls of this land! See you the wor­kings of Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us!”

  He swept the staff over the bright red fi­re. A gre­at wind blew cold thro­ugh the ho­use and in an in­s­tant, the fla­mes we­re qu­en­c­hed le­aving not even the scent of the smo­ke. All gas­ped in the sud­den glo­om. Mer­lin smo­te the ear­t­hen flo­or with the butt of his staff, and from the cir­c­le of ash sprang up an ap­ple tree co­ve­red in whi­te blos­soms. The­ir per­fu­me fil­led the ho­use, and was so swe­et that all bre­at­hed de­ep and sig­hed with the won­der of it. Mer­lin then ra­ised his right hand. The tree’s blos­soms clo­sed and shrank to be­co­me gre­en fru­it. He ra­ised his left hand, and the fru­its swel­led, ri­pe­ned and tur­ned red. He cal­led out a sin­g­le word, and every red fru­it be­ca­me a red bird that to­ok wing. All the as­sembly sho­uted for won­der. The scar­let flock flew abo­ut the ho­use, sin­ging songs as swe­et of the scent of blos­soms had be­en and set­ting all the ho­unds to bar­king. On­ce mo­re, Mer­lin smo­te the earth with his staff. Birds and tree all va­nis­hed, and whe­re they had be­en the­re bur­ned the ho­mely fi­re of the he­arth.

  Astonishment ti­ed the ton­gu­es and hands of all who wit­nes­sed this mi­rac­le un­til the king let out a lo­ud la­ugh and be­at his gre­at hands upon the tab­le, ro­aring his ap­pro­val. His pe­op­le jo­ined him with ap­pla­use and la­ug­h­ter and many ex­c­la­ma­ti­ons. Mer­lin bo­wed humbly.

  King Be­rach ro­se to his fe­et, hol­ding out his cup to drink to the sor­ce­rer. “Such a mar­vel I ha­ve ne­ver se­en!” he cri­ed out. “What re­ward can I gi­ve you for such a fe­at?”

  Merlin’s eyes lo­oked this way and that, ta­king in the we­alth of all the hall, but mo­re than that.

  “Will you gi­ve me the ho­und that sle­eps at Yo­ur Ma­j­es­tiy’s fe­et?” he as­ked, po­in­ting to one of the fo­ur dogs that wa­ited so pa­ti­ently be­ne­ath the tab­le at Be­rach’s fe­et.

  “And gladly,” la­ug­hed the king. The ho­und Mer­lin cho­se was one of the gre­at ca­ni­nes they bre­ed on that is­le that are pri­zed even by the Ro­man lords. It was hu­ge and shaggy, he­avy-jawed and black, such as might ta­ke down elk or bo­ar. Its gol­den col­lar might ma­ke the for­tu­ne of a fre­eman. The king snap­ped his fin­gers and po­in­ted. Obe­di­ent to his mas­ter, the ho­und lo­ped to Mer­lin’s si­de and lap­ped at his hand in sim­p­le lo­yalty.

  “His na­me is Ci­ar. But su­rely the­re is mo­re you de­si­re?” sa­id the king, awash in won­der and the ne­ed to show him­self gre­at in his ge­ne­ro­sity.

  Merlin let him­self ap­pe­ar to con­si­der this as he res­ted one hand on the back of his new ho­und, Ci­ar. “It is not gold I se­ek, gre­at king,” he sa­id slowly, as if ma­king this ad­mis­si­on re­luc­tantly. “But if you wo­uld gi­ve
me what I de­si­re, you will gi­ve me an an­s­wer.”

  Berach spre­ad his hands. “What an­s­wer wo­uld that be?”

  “I ha­ve he­ard that in this land the­re is one of the last of the old pri­ests, one who wor­ked of the gro­ves and prop­he­ci­es such as used to be so com­mon in this land. I wo­uld spe­ak with that per­son.”

  Berach’s fa­ce fell slowly in­to harsh li­nes, and the men of the ho­use be­gan to mut­ter among them­sel­ves. “We are all Chris­ti­ans he­re,” sa­id the king, but now his vo­ice was cold. “No­ne of this clan know an­y­t­hing of such a pa­gan witch.”

  Merlin cast a glan­ce then at Be­rach’s wi­fe and saw how her eyes shif­ted away from his. He lo­oked at Bard Ail­f­rid, and saw how his fa­ce re­ma­ined bland and wit­ho­ut ex­p­res­si­on. “Of co­ur­se,” sa­id Mer­lin, in­c­li­ning his he­ad in all hu­mi­lity. “But this witch had a dwel­ling in for­mer ti­mes, or a gro­ve whe­re she prac­ti­ced her pa­gan ri­tes. It may be that so­me an­ci­ent among yo­ur pe­op­le might re­mem­ber whe­re that was.”

  “None he­re wo­uld ha­ve know­led­ge of such a thing.” The king’s fists har­de­ned as he sa­id it, and he lo­oked abo­ut at all his com­pany, ma­le and fe­ma­le, his wi­fe and da­ug­h­ters most of all. All bo­wed the­ir he­ads and Mer­lin un­der­s­to­od, He too bo­wed on­ce mo­re.

  “It is su­rely as Yo­ur Ma­j­esty says. I ask yo­ur par­don.”

  This so­ot­hed Be­rach and res­to­red his go­od spi­rits. He in­vi­ted Mer­lin to sit and drink with him on­ce mo­re, and cal­led upon the bard for a new song.

  So pas­sed the night un­til all the ho­use was ex­ha­us­ted from drink and re­velry. Mer­lin was con­duc­ted to the pla­ce set asi­de for him, but he did not lay down on the soft bed. In­s­te­ad, he wa­ited in the dar­k­ness, scrat­c­hing the he­ad and ears of his black ho­und, un­til all the no­ises of the ho­use fell away. Then, with Ci­ar trot­ting obe­di­ently at his he­els, he step­ped out of the king’s ho­use, wa­ving to the men on watch who nod­ded over the­ir spe­ars. Out­si­de be­ne­ath the stars, he fo­und Bard Ail­f­rid. Ail­f­rid sat with his harp, and a pla­te of fo­od and a mug of drink. He pla­yed softly upon the strings, a tu­ne Mer­lin had ne­ver be­fo­re he­ard. He pa­used, to­ok a bi­te of me­at and a swig from his mug, lost in tho­ught. Then to­uc­hed his fin­gers to the strings on­ce mo­re. Mer­lin mo­ved asi­de, thin­king to wa­it un­til this mo­ment of cre­ati­on was fi­nis­hed, but the bard tur­ned, un­sur­p­ri­sed to see the sor­ce­rer co­me out in­to the chill night. The bard ra­ised his mug and bec­ko­ned to Mer­lin to co­me clo­ser.

  Merlin sat down be­si­de him. “A cold night.”

  “Ah, well.” Ail­f­rid drank his me­ad and ate a pi­ece of oaten bre­ad.

  “You co­uld ha­ve fe­as­ted bet­ter in­si­de.” The sor­ce­rer wa­ved a hand at the pla­te and its me­ager of­fe­rings.

  “Well eno­ugh,” Ail­f­rid ac­k­now­led­ged with a shrug. “But the­re are nights I pre­fer my tho­ughts as com­pany for a smal­ler fe­ast.” He fol­ded his arms over the top of his harp and ga­zed for a mo­ment at the autumn stars shi­ning so brightly down.

  “And may I ask, Bard Ail­f­rid, what are yo­ur tho­ughts?”

  The cor­ner of the bard’s mo­uth twit­c­hed. “They are of you, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us, and of yo­ur er­rand.” He tra­ced the di­amond paths of the stars with his ga­ze for a mo­ment lon­ger, be­fo­re he lo­oked to Mer­lin on­ce mo­re. “You are right in what you he­ard. The­re is such a one in the­se lands. She is old now, and much di­mi­nis­hed from what she was, as are all who on­ce spo­ke to the oak and the mis­t­le­toe.”

  “You do not fe­ar to tell me this?” Ail­f­rid sho­ok his he­ad. “Are you not a Chris­ti­an?”

  Ailfrid shrug­ged aga­in. “I am a bard on the ed­ge of win­ter.” He ga­zed at the dar­ke­ning tre­es. So­me had al­re­ady be­gun to lo­se the­ir clo­aks of le­aves and the wind rat­tled the­ir ba­re twigs, brin­ging the scent of ice as well as the scent of warm smo­ke from the ho­uses be­low. “I am what my king wo­uld ha­ve me be.”

  “Yours are sa­id to be gre­ater than kings.”

  Ailfrid la­ug­hed a lit­tle at this, run­ning his fin­gers gently over the fra­me of his harp, al­most as one wo­uld to­uch the fa­ce of a be­lo­ved child. “The gre­atest of us are. I am not as gre­at as all that, and pre­fer a fi­re to the win­ter pri­de of my cal­ling.”

  This an­s­wer sa­tis­fi­ed the sor­ce­rer, and he tur­ned qu­ickly to his own bu­si­ness, lest the bard think the bet­ter of it, or, mo­re im­por­tantly, one of the king’s men sho­uld co­me to over­he­ar them. “Do you know of this pri­es­tess?”

  The bard’s eyes clo­uded over as he se­ar­c­hed wit­hin him­self. “As I cros­sed the bor­ders in­to the land of the Fi­an, it grew la­te and I so­ught shel­ter with a shep­herd fa­mily. Glad I was to ha­ve it, as the ra­ins ca­me down fi­er­cely when night fell. With them was an old wo­man who as­ked for the most an­ci­ent sto­ri­es, of the kings and qu­e­ens of the el­der days. She sho­ok her he­ad and sig­hed he­avily at all I re­ci­ted. When it grew la­te, and she and I we­re the only ones left wa­king, I as­ked what ma­de her sigh so. This she sa­id to me; ‘It is all fa­ding. The gre­at­ness of the world. Pat­rick and his fol­lo­wers ha­ve ta­ken it all away.’ I tri­ed to com­fort her, to say that the se­asons wo­uld turn, and the gre­at wo­uld ri­se aga­in, but she wo­uld not he­ar me.

  “’All go­ne,’ she sa­id aga­in. “The sec­rets of the earth and the fu­tu­re, all go­ne. Fi­onn mac Cum­ha­il sle­eps and will not wa­ke for the­re is no de­ed gre­at eno­ugh for him to do. The prop­hets ha­ve all lost the­ir sight. No­ne ho­nor the pri­est and pri­es­tess. My own sis­ter was cal­led away to the dru­id’s gro­ve, and for ye­ars she did what was ne­ed­ful that we might pros­per and be sa­fe. What is she now? A wi­ze­ned thing in her hut whe­re the ri­ver Ba­li­do­ire me­ets the bog, and no­ne will bring her from that lo­nely spot for the com­fort of her age.’ I as­ked the na­me of this sis­ter, so I wo­uld know her if ever I met her, and was told her na­me was La­sa­ir Ui Fi­an.”

  Merlin was si­lent for a long ti­me af­ter that. He ga­zed at the stars, gold, blue, red and blin­ding whi­te, the­ir gra­ce­ful, cur­ving tra­il and mighty pat­terns all fro­ze abo­ve him. “Thank you,” he sa­id at last, to the bard and the stars. Bard Ail­f­rid lo­oked ste­adily at him, wa­iting. “What might I gi­ve you in re­turn for such a go­od an­s­wer?”

  The bard smi­led and he drank his me­ad and ate of his me­at. “Answer for an­s­wer, Mer­lin,” he sa­id. He fol­ded his arms and res­ted them on his kne­es. “Her words ha­ve we­ig­hed on me sin­ce that day. You ha­ve eyes that see. Is it true what she sa­id, that all the gre­at­ness is go­ne from the world?”

  Merlin did not even ne­ed to lo­ok to the he­avens for his an­s­wer. “It is not true. Gre­at kings are yet to co­me, and long are the ta­les that are to be told in the world. It is writ­ten that my king, Ut­her Pen­d­ra­gon, will bring forth the gre­atest age of he­ro­es the Bri­tons shall ever know. Not one ye­ar shall go by from now un­til the end of days that its ta­les are not told.”

  “Well.” The bard dra­ined his mug and then stret­c­hed his long legs. “I am glad to he­ar it. I had tho­ught my days short.” He spo­ke lightly, but Mer­lin he­ard mo­re be­ne­ath the bard’s words. It was not ta­les he was con­cer­ned of, it was the he­arts and he­ights of men, for such are the char­ges of even the le­ast of the bards. But Ail­f­rid smi­led, set­ting that away for sim­p­le pri­de of his pe­op­le. “And if such an age co­mes to pass for the Bri­tons, then how much gre­ater will the men of Eire be? We may even wa­ke Fi­onn mac Cum­ha­il with the thun­der of our stri­ding ac­ross the world!”

  Both la
­ug­hed at this, ma­king the ho­und ra­ise his he­ad and prick up his ears. Mer­lin to­uc­hed the bard on the sho­ul­der. “Walk yo­ur ways, Bard Ail­f­rid. He­ar the sto­ri­es and spe­ak them with a full he­art. And if ever you fe­el cram­ped on this gre­en is­le, co­me find me ac­ross the wa­ters. I will show you the gre­at­ness I ha­ve se­en the­re with the fat­her of dra­gons.”

  Ailfrid lo­oked at him for a tho­ug­h­t­ful mo­ment and for that mo­ment, Mer­lin co­uld not re­ad what was in the ot­her man’s he­art. “Per­haps I will,” sa­id the bard. “If only to re­turn ho­me and sing of the­se gre­at he­ro­ics yo­ur King Ut­her is to bring forth.” Ail­f­rid sto­od, ta­king his harp ten­derly in­to his arms. “I wish you well in yo­ur er­rand, Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us, but per­haps you’ll ac­cept one word from me.”

  Merlin spre­ad his hands. “And what word is that?”

  “My kind must go abo­ut on fo­ot, and he­re is a thing we all le­arn; be su­re you’ve lo­oked long and hard at the path whe­re you step be­fo­re you dec­la­re you know yo­ur way along it.”

  With the­se words, the bard to­ok his harp back in­to the king’s ho­use. Mer­lin sat aw­hi­le be­ne­ath the stars, pon­de­ring the lights and the words, and the er­rand which bro­ught him the­re.

  *****

 

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