Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

Merlin Am­b­ro­si­us sta­yed se­ven days with Be­rach Ui Ne­ill. To stay less wo­uld be to in­sult the hos­pi­ta­lity of a king. They tal­ked of many things, but mostly of tho­se men of Eire who set­tled in the north of the Bri­ton’s land, and how pe­ace might be got bet­we­en them and the mo­re so­ut­herly lords. When Mer­lin spo­ke aga­in with the bard, it was only of small mat­ters, and small sto­ri­es.

  At the end of his stay, the king bid Mer­lin a co­ur­te­o­us fa­re­well and gif­ted him with a gold-hil­ted dag­ger to hang be­si­de his sword. The sor­ce­rer was gi­ven a go­od es­cort of six men to walk him to the bor­ders of the Ui Ne­ill lands. The­re, the men tur­ned back to the­ir ho­mes, and Mer­lin Am­b­ro­si­us and the gre­at ho­und Ci­ar wal­ked on, Mer­lin wrap­ping his clo­ak tight abo­ut him­self, for even in the brig­h­t­ness of the day, the winds we­re grew cold.

  The bles­sed is­le may be li­ke­ned to a gre­at bowl flo­ating on the oce­an. All its ste­ep hills and mo­un­ta­ins ring its co­asts. On­ce be­yond the­ir he­ights, the land rolls and slo­pes ple­asantly dow­n­ward and one may walk be­si­de pu­re stre­ams of run­ning wa­ter thro­ugh fo­rests of mighty oak and ash, bo­un­ti­ful ha­zel and ap­ple. But when one re­ac­hes the cen­ter, one finds all the wa­ters ha­ve mi­xed and min­g­led and set­tled to­get­her to cre­ate black fens, dark as night and mo­re fo­ul than any mid­den. The­ir mi­as­ma hangs he­avy over them, bre­eding di­se­ase and di­sas­ter. The sec­ret lights in­si­de lu­re tra­ve­lers from the nar­row paths and brid­ges so that they di­sap­pe­ar fo­re­ver. Only the po­orest pe­op­le cling to the­ir ed­ges. Tho­se wit­ho­ut king or clan or any ot­her pro­tec­ti­on eke out sad li­ves be­ne­ath the to­we­ring tre­es that are fed by the black wa­ters.

  As he be­gan the dow­n­ward slo­pe, Mer­lin ca­me to a pla­ce whe­re three stre­ams cros­sed each ot­her, min­g­ling in­to one. He to­ok Ci­ar’s gol­den col­lar and tos­sed it in­to the ri­ver. Then, he dip­ped his staff in­to the wa­ters and he sa­id. “In the na­me of the mot­her of all the wa­ters, are you the ri­ver men call Ba­li­do­ire?”

  And from the ri­ver ca­me the an­s­wer. “I am that wa­ter and I will ta­ke you whe­re you ne­ed to go.”

  So, Mer­lin wal­ked on.

  Merlin fol­lo­wed the path of the ri­ver and the fall of the land down thro­ugh the gre­at fo­rests and me­adows of de­ep gre­en. When men stop­ped him and as­ked his bu­si­ness, he was al­ways ca­re­ful to gi­ve co­ur­te­o­us an­s­wer, and to ha­ve a to­ken gift of sil­ver re­ady for who­ever they na­med as the­ir king. Whet­her the­se gifts fo­und the­ir way to the­se kings, Mer­lin ne­it­her knew or ca­red. He ca­red only that he was al­lo­wed to go his way un­mo­les­ted.

  At last, the land’s slo­pe gen­t­led and the rol­ling hills spre­ad out and smo­ot­hed. The air over the land to­ok on the tin­ge of sul­p­hur and de­ath, gro­wing warm and clo­se des­pi­te the de­epe­ning of the autumn. So it was that Mer­lin knew the dar­k­ness be­fo­re him was the gre­at fen. The Ba­li­do­ire, his go­od gu­ide, spre­ad out as well, gro­wing flat, slow and murky whe­re be­fo­re it had be­en sprightly and sil­ver. The tre­es hud­dled clo­ser to­get­her, dip­ping the­ir bran­c­hes down to catch at his ha­ir and clot­hes. Even his sto­ut ho­und grew une­asy, al­ter­na­tely grow­ling at the stran­ge no­ises and pres­sing clo­se to Mer­lin’s si­de. Mer­lin pat­ted the ho­und and ur­ged him along, but he al­so kept tight grip on his whi­te staff.

  At last, thro­ugh a gro­ve of wil­lows, mangy with autumn, he saw a thin stre­am of smo­ke ri­sing in the fe­tid air. Be­ne­ath it hun­c­hed a small ho­vel. The ho­use was so low and co­ve­red so much in turf that it might ha­ve grown the­re rat­her than be­en ra­ised by the hand of man. Even Mer­lin’s eyes wo­uld ha­ve mis­sed it we­re it not for the smo­ke.

  Merlin stop­ped so­me small dis­tan­ce away, and com­man­ded Ci­ar to sit pe­ace­ably be­si­de him. “I sa­lu­te the ho­use!” he cal­led. “I se­ek La­sa­ir Ui Fi­an, and wo­uld spe­ak with her if she is he­re!”

  He wa­ited pa­ti­ently. The birds and the frogs ma­de the­ir calls to one anot­her. The wa­ters mut­te­red at his fe­et, and the tre­es whis­pe­red over­he­ad in the cold, fo­ul wind. Then, slowly, he he­ard a dif­fe­rent rus­t­ling and saw mo­ve­ment wit­hin the dar­k­ness of the ho­use. The blan­ket han­ging over the low do­or­way mo­ved asi­de and out craw­led an old wo­man.

  She was filthy be­yond des­c­rip­ti­on, mo­re a cre­atu­re of mud and earth than of flesh. Her clot­ted ha­ir was whi­te be­ne­ath the gri­me and stuck out wildly in every di­rec­ti­on. It was im­pos­sib­le to say what co­lor her un­gir­ded gar­ment had on­ce be­en, but now it was stre­aked gre­en and black. So thin was she that Mer­lin co­uld see all the bo­nes be­ne­ath her skin, and her fin­gers we­re de­li­ca­te twigs. Her eyes we­re still cle­ar and gre­en, but as he saw the pa­in in them, Mer­lin’s he­art was mo­ved to gre­at pity.

  She smi­led, a hor­rib­le ga­ping grin that sho­wed her shri­ve­led gums and sin­g­le to­oth. “And what is it you se­ek he­re, a fi­ne man such as yo­ur­self?” Her vo­ice crac­ked and whe­ezed as she spre­ad her bony hands and tot­te­red to­ward him. Her legs we­re ba­re, her fe­et black with muck. and her odor that of the fen it­self. “Is it a lo­ve charm, per­haps?” She le­ered. “So­me pretty yo­ung thing not su­re that a man of sil­ver as well as gold is up to ke­eping her fat and full?”

  Despite his pity and his hor­ror, Mer­lin kept his co­un­te­nan­ce and bo­wed low. “I wo­uld not pre­su­me to bring such a mat­ter be­fo­re you, re­ve­rend one, mot­her of the oak and the mis­t­le­toe.”

  Lasair Ui Ne­ill stop­ped whe­re she was. The le­er dra­ined from her le­an fa­ce and her arms fell to her si­des. “That is not myself,” she sa­id, wag­ging her he­ad. “That was long ago.”

  “Not so long ago. A mo­ment. A fold of ye­ars.”

  “Stop!” she cri­ed, her vo­ice sud­denly so strong and cle­ar, that Mer­lin ra­ised his brows. “That is go­ne, I say.” She jab­bed one long fin­ger at him. “Go­ne, and bet­ter so.”

  Merlin lo­oked abo­ut at the yel­lo­wing wil­lows and the wa­iting fen. He lo­oked at the low ho­use and bre­at­hed in the stench of the air. “How bet­ter, re­ve­rend one?” he as­ked qu­i­etly.

  She clo­sed her mo­uth, and he saw aga­in that for all her fa­ce was ra­va­ged by ti­me and har­d­s­hip her eyes we­re as cle­ar as the stre­ams flo­wing down the slo­pes. “Bet­ter hid­den than des­t­ro­yed,” she sa­id softly. “Bet­ter sle­eping than de­ad.” Her jaw har­de­ned and her sho­ul­ders stra­ig­h­te­ned. It was as if twenty ye­ars slip­ped from her, and he saw how well she had per­fec­ted her dis­gu­ise. “You are one who se­es, fi­ne man.” She spo­ke judi­ci­o­usly now, lo­oking him up and down. “I can still tell that much. You know the ti­me lo­ops aro­und it­self, and all things co­me aga­in to the­ir be­gin­nings. The age of mi­rac­les will co­me aga­in, and the vo­ice will be ne­eded to spe­ak on­ce mo­re.”

  Merlin let out a long, slow bre­ath. “That vo­ice do­es still exist then.”

  Slowly, she nod­ded, all gu­ile, all ter­rib­le hu­mor go­ne from her. “For tho­se who can find it and he­ar, yes it do­es.”

  “The way to he­ar that vo­ice must be gre­atly sec­ret.”

  At his words, her le­ering smi­le re­tur­ned all in a mo­ment. “And you’d know that sec­ret wo­uld you, with yo­ur hawk’s eyes and yo­ur he­art gre­edy for know­led­ge?” She tap­ped his bre­ast with one twig-fin­ger, and when Mer­lin lo­oked dis­con­cer­ted, she la­ug­hed.

  Merlin hung his he­ad, as if bes­ted. At his fe­et, Ci­ar whi­ned to see him dis­t­res­sed. “I will not lie,” sa­id Mer­lin. “Yes, I wo­uld know it. I ha­ve wal­ked and so­ught long to find i
t.”

  “Ha!” La­sa­ir Ui Fi­an step­ped back, and squ­at­ted down in front of her do­or, set­tling the mask of the hag on­ce mo­re over the pri­es­tess. “You’ll not ha­ve it he­re. It is all that I ha­ve left.” She lo­oked past him, up the slo­pe of the wo­ods, to­ward the pla­ces whe­re men li­ved in the­ir snug ho­uses. “Even that fo­ol girl who swo­re she wan­ted to study with me left when Pat­rick and his band ca­me tram­ping thro­ugh sin­ging of the­ir Whi­te Christ. My last acol­y­te, she ran away with them.” Bit­ter­ness so­aked her words and Mer­lin saw the hard glit­ter of te­ars in her eyes. “And it was all go­ne, all of it, sa­ve the vo­ice that sle­eps and wa­its.”

  Merlin mo­ved for­ward. La­ying down his staff, he knelt be­fo­re her. “If you wo­uld ha­ve a acol­y­te, I wo­uld le­arn from you.”

  She ga­zed at him, and ho­pe sho­ne be­hind the glit­te­ring te­ars, but only for a mo­ment. She drop­ped her ga­ze, and pic­ked at the brow­ning grass bet­we­en her fe­et with her twig-li­ke fin­gers. “No, you wo­uldn’t,” she mut­te­red harshly. “You don’t want to le­arn. You want to know.”

  On his kne­es, Mer­lin le­aned for­ward. He pit­c­hed his vo­ice soft and low, a lo­ver’s vo­ice, a se­du­cer’s. “And we­re you the one to bring me that know­led­ge, yo­ur na­me wo­uld be ma­de gre­at,” he sa­id softly. “You wo­uld co­me to a land of ho­nor and plenty and be gi­ven rings by the gre­atest of ru­lers.”

  Her res­t­less hands stop­ped the­ir me­anin­g­less scrab­bling and she lif­ted her ga­ze. “Lo­ok at me, man.”

  Merlin la­id one hand softly on his staff. “Lo­ok all you want,” he told her. “See wha­te­ver you wish.”

  Her eyes we­re gre­en as the he­ath in the sun­light, and both ol­der and yo­un­ger than her­self. Mer­lin felt the po­wer of her ga­ze re­ac­hing de­ep, run­ning along the well-worn gro­oves of truth and pos­si­bi­lity that lay wit­hin her he­art, and his. “You stand be­si­de kings,” she spo­ke dre­amily, in the way of the orac­le. “They are brot­hers the­se kings. Mighty men, both. They are not to be de­fe­ated by ho­no­rab­le me­ans. One is go­ne now, ta­ken by ste­alth and by po­ison. The ot­her, he is gre­ater than brot­her or fat­her ever we­re, but fe­ars the po­ison. He sha­kes in the night with fe­ar of it and he knows that fe­ar crip­ples him. You can­not be­ar to see this fe­ar for you know the gre­at­ness of the man. He is brot­her in yo­ur he­art, but he is yo­ur ven­ge­an­ce too. Oh, yes, yo­ur ven­ge­an­ce and yo­ur tri­umph is this fat­her of dra­gons. He sent you he­re. You told him the me­ans to gu­ard aga­inst fe­ar and fu­tu­re co­uld be fo­und in the­se hills. You co­me to walk the an­ci­ent ways. You ha­ve he­ard the old na­mes and the old wis­dom. You wo­uld drink from that fo­un­ta­in at my hands… the­re is re­ve­ren­ce in you… you un­der­s­tand the de­ep ro­ots… you…

  “No!” she shri­eked the word, thro­wing her­self bac­k­wards in­to the folds of the blan­ket that co­ve­red her do­or­way,

  “Lasair Ui Fi­an, lo­ok at me!” com­man­ded Mer­lin, se­du­cer no mo­re.

  “Liar!” She scre­amed, scram­b­led bac­k­wards, her blan­ket fal­ling abo­ut her ri­di­cu­lo­usly. “You try to hi­de yo­ur he­art be­hind yo­ur eyes but even you can­not hi­de so de­ep.”

  “Look at me, and you will see the truth,” Mer­lin gras­ped her wrist and its bo­nes dug in­to his palm. “You can see. Yo­ur po­wer will show you the truth!”

  But she to­re her­self away with a strength he wo­uld not ha­ve gu­es­sed she had. “Yes, I am shown the truth, hawk-eyed man!” she spat. “I see you know whe­re po­wer li­es, and you co­me to cla­im it.” She hud­dled be­ne­ath her blan­ket, dra­wing in on her­self, hol­ding all she knew be­hind the walls she had bu­ilt wit­hin her so­ul. “You hi­de too much too de­eply, and will one day be hid­den from all se­eking. Oh, yes.” She grin­ned aga­in, the hor­rib­le ga­ping le­er with which she had first gre­eted him. “It is true I am not blind. I see the long dar­k­ness.” Her vo­ice fell, gro­wing low as her eyes grew dis­tant. The blan­ket slip­ped from her grip, drop­ping to the gro­und. “The age, the ti­me of the world cre­eping by, the worms se­eking and se­eking but ga­ining not­hing from yo­ur flesh. Fro­zen, trap­ped, eyes fi­xed on a sin­g­le po­int as the fli­es gat­her and the wa­ters ri­se and fall and…” She stop­ped, swa­ying on her kne­es, her eyes blin­king. She ra­ised her hands, brus­hing asi­de not­hing he co­uld see. Then, her ru­ined fa­ce bro­ke in­to a scowl of un­be­arab­le fe­ar. “Get away from me!” she scre­amed at him, her trem­b­ling arm re­ac­hing out to sketch old signs of war­ding. “De­mon! De­ath brin­ger! Get away!”

  Screaming, she scrab­bled back in­to her ho­use, di­ving be­ne­ath her blan­ket. Mer­lin did not try to fol­low her. He sto­od and he bo­wed to the trem­b­ling, we­eping form he co­uld no lon­ger see. With a word to Ci­ar, he wal­ked up the slo­pes in­to the wo­ods. Only when he was su­re he was out of sight and he­aring of the ho­vel and its an­ci­ent oc­cu­pant, Mer­lin tur­ned and squ­at­ted on his he­els be­fo­re his ho­und. Gently, he to­uc­hed the tip of his staff to the be­ast’s he­ad.

  “Now then, Ci­ar. The­re was a girl in that ho­use with the old wo­man. She left so­me­ti­me ago, and I ne­ed to know whe­re she went. You ca­ught her scent, go­od dog, I know that you did. Will you find her for me?”

  The dog lo­oked in­to Mer­lin’s eyes for a long mo­ment and then bar­ked on­ce, a che­er­ful, ag­re­e­ab­le so­und. The sor­ce­rer sto­od back, and let the ho­und no­se abo­ut at his fe­et for a bit. Then, Ci­ar bar­ked aga­in and lo­ped off up the slo­pes on a stra­ight and ste­ady track that no­ne but him­self co­uld see.

  Smiling to him­self, Mer­lin fol­lo­wed the dog in­to the wo­ods.

  *****

  For three days Mer­lin fol­lo­wed whe­re the ho­und led. They cros­sed stre­ams and ri­vers and trek­ked thro­ugh many fa­ir wo­ods af­la­me with the co­lors of autumn, al­ways up­wards un­til they re­ac­hed the windy he­ights of the wes­tern hills. The­re, he ca­me to a small dwel­ling-pla­ce, well-fen­ced, with a cross hung upon the ar­c­h­way of its ga­te. Just out­si­de the ga­te, a sto­ut wo­man with a wag­ging dew­lap ten­ded a flock of grey ge­ese. She wo­re a pla­in brown clo­ak over a sim­p­le whi­te dress gir­d­led with bra­ided le­at­her. She had her hems tuc­ked in­to the belt, ex­po­sing her san­da­led fe­et, and ba­re, thick legs. Her only or­na­ment was the wo­oden cross hung on a thong abo­ut her neck. She glo­we­red as she saw him ap­pro­ach with his lo­ping ho­und. Mer­lin pat­ted Ci­ar and com­man­ded him to sit a dis­tan­ce away whi­le he ap­pro­ac­hed the wo­man.

  “God be with you, Sis­ter,” he sa­lu­ted her.

  “And with you, stran­ger,” she sa­id, but the­re was no sin­ce­rity in the gre­eting as she to­ok in his fa­ce, his sword and his staff. “And what brings you to this ho­use?”

  “I am se­eking a wo­man of the Ui Fi­an he­re.”

  She squ­in­ted at his fa­ce aga­in, and sho­ok her he­avy he­ad. “No one such as that he­re.” One of the ge­ese hon­ked and wad­dled away from the rest of the flock. The wo­man flic­ked her switch, and the bird me­an­de­red obe­di­ently back. “The only ones he­re are da­ug­h­ters of Christ.”

  “It may be she to­ok a new na­me when she ca­me to Christ,” sa­id Mer­lin pa­ti­ently. He le­aned he­avily on his staff, sho­wing mo­re we­ari­ness than he truly felt.

  She shrug­ged, but did not turn her at­ten­ti­on from the ge­ese. “It may be. Many do.”

  “May I ha­ve le­ave to in­qu­ire af­ter her with the ot­her sis­ters?”

  That ma­de the go­ose wo­man turn to him, as he had known it wo­uld. “We are a ho­use of wo­men he­re. You are not of the bret­h­ren of Christ,” she snap­ped the ac­cu­sa­ti­on and
ac­com­pa­ni­ed it with anot­her hard lo­ok. “You ha­ve no fo­un­da­ti­on to en­ter he­re.”

  “Forgive me, Sis­ter,” Mer­lin rep­li­ed, bo­wing as humbly be­fo­re the go­ose wo­man as he had be­fo­re the king. “But I ha­ve wal­ked a long way, and my er­rand is ur­gent.”

  She nar­ro­wed her eyes. “Who are you that you co­me to cla­im her?”

  Ah. Now he un­der­s­to­od the hos­ti­lity. Even now that most of this is­le fol­lo­wed the Chris­ti­an ri­te, the­re we­re many fa­mi­li­es who we­re less than ple­ased when the­ir mar­ri­age­ab­le da­ug­h­ters dec­la­red the­ir in­ten­ti­ons to jo­in a po­or ho­use of wo­men and li­ve the li­fe of a per­pe­tu­al vir­gin. “I do not co­me to cla­im her, only to spe­ak with her.”

  “But who are you?” de­man­ded the go­ose-wo­man aga­in.

  Merlin spre­ad his hands. “I am not brot­her, nor son, nor hus­band, nor fat­her, nor chi­ef, nor mas­ter. I am only anot­her se­eker who wo­uld le­arn what she can tell me. He­re­with, is my to­ken to the ma­in­te­nan­ce of this pla­ce and this ho­use.” He re­ac­hed in­to his pur­se and held out two sil­ver rings.

  “Hmph,” grun­ted the wo­man, but she to­ok the rings and tuc­ked them in­to her sle­eve.

  She pe­ered at him aga­in, and Mer­lin spo­ke mildly, le­aning the­re on his staff. “You see, I ha­ve no bad in­ten­ti­on, nor do I me­an to tro­ub­le this ho­use. I only wish to spe­ak with she who was on­ce the da­ug­h­ter of the Ui Fi­on, who tur­ned asi­de from wit­c­h­c­raft to co­me to Christ.”

  The go­ose-wo­man grun­ted aga­in, and then sa­id, “The­re is a wo­man of the Ui Fi­on he­re. Her na­me is Ag­nes now. You may wa­it whi­le I see if she’s abo­ut. Don’t let the ge­ese stray.” She stum­ped thro­ugh the ga­te.

  Merlin set­tled on­to his he­els to wa­it. Pa­ti­ently, he wat­c­hed the grey ge­ese, who hon­ked and chat­te­red and pul­led at the we­eds and pre­ened, and did not one of them stray from the­ir patch of grass whe­re the­ir mis­t­ress left them.