The Old Magic

by James Mallory

  Let Uther be my heir, Vortigern thought sullenly. If only the boy would meet him on the field. Vortigern yearned for a proper war instead of the endless skirmishes that had plagued every day of the last fifteen years of his rule. Things had not worked out the way he’d expected them to on that night so long ago in Saxony, when somehow he had realized that the Romans were gone and Britain was ripe for plunder. His body ached with the scars of many battles, but the British continued to defy him, no matter how many of them he killed. He couldn’t even trust his friends.

  A king has no friends, he thought to himself. No. Instead, a king has … opportunities. And one of them had just arrived.

  Vortigern settled himself more comfortably in the high-backed chair of state—there was a plate of painted iron between the wood and the cushion, placed there expressly to discourage daggers in the back—and regarded the man who had slunk through the formidable protection of his army specifically to meet with him.

  Yvain the Fox regarded the King of Britain just as warily. He was a slender nondescript man wearing dark clothes of very good quality that had nevertheless seen better days. The only jewelry he wore was a thick gold hoop in his left ear and a signet of grey agate set in yellow gold on the first finger of his right hand, the ring that served as his pass through Vortigern’s army. He wore a narrow beard, well-barbered, after the fashion of Prince Uther’s court. There was grey in the beard, as in the curls of the short dark hair, yet Yvain did not appear to be an old man. Neither was he young; he simply was: an ordinary-looking, commonplace man who could be forgotten the moment he passed from sight.

  It was a highly desirable trait for a spy to possess.

  Yvain had just come from France. By ship to Dover, by fast horse to a stronghold of Vortigern’s a few miles from here, and then by much inferior horse here to this camp in the hours between moonset and dawn—the wolf’s hour, when treason was plotted and murder done.

  Now he awaited Vortigern’s signal to begin his report. There was a silver-chased glass decanter that had come all the way from Byzantium on the table between them, filled with the finest Cyprian wine, but neither man made a move toward it.

  Vortigern, because he did not rule out the possibility that it was poisoned. His visitor, because to take such a liberty in the presence of his master would be to sign his death-warrant. The king’s temper was widely known to be increasingly erratic, and Yvain feared to overstep its bounds.

  “Tell me the news, and don’t pretty it up,” Vortigern said at last.

  “Uther is coming,” Yvain said.

  Vortigern snorted and reached for the decanter. He poured two goblets full—blue glass, to match the decanter, set with opals and the cloudy green emeralds that came from the Far East—and pushed one toward Yvain.

  “I heard that last year and the year before. Uther’s always coming, but he never quite gets around to launching his ships,” Vortigern sneered.

  “This time he will. Lionors died last spring. Without the Old Queen to urge caution on him, Uther is hot for battle. He’s bought mercenaries and ships, and he’ll sail soon from Normandy. I have heard that he plans to summon the countryfolk to the Red Dragon standard when he lands, and then take whichever of the old Roman walled cities—Winchester, York—will open to him for his headquarters. He’ll winter there, consolidating his gains, and attack your strongholds with the spring.”

  “Because nobody fights in winter,” Vortigern said, as if to himself. He sighed, as if giving up a cherished plan. “And neither do I. The weather’s uncertain … supplies run low. I can’t push the men that far without a good reason, not with a fire-breathing dragon raiding the countryside from Londinium to the Wall. Sooner or later the peasants are going to get tired of placating the beast with virgins, and then I’ll have to come up with something else. Where is Uther landing?”

  Yvain shook his head, unfazed by the rapid change of subject. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. If I waited to find that out, I would have been sailing with the Prince, instead of bringing you this warning.”

  “It might have been better if you had,” grumbled Vortigern. “You could have brought me facts instead of another cycle of rumors. What’s wrong with the wine?”

  “Nothing, sire,” Yvain said bravely, and drained the cup.

  There was a moment’s pause, while both men decided the wine was not poisoned, then Vortigern emptied his own cup.

  “I can return to them as soon as Uther lands, infiltrate his camp, and bring you fresh news,” Yvain suggested. “No one notices me. They’ll probably think I sailed with them, like as not.”

  “Never mind that,” Vortigern said irritably, pouring himself more wine. “I need you here. When Uther lands, who will remain loyal to the White Dragon—and who will go skulking off to join Uther? I need to know so I can take precautions.”

  Yvain thought for a moment. “I shall see what I can discover. But Your Majesty might simply ask himself who among his army fought for King Constant. There aren’t many lords from those days left.”

  “Ah …” Vortigern stared unseeing past Yvain, toward the hangings of the tent and the night outside. “I thought that would be your answer. Now go—and seek me out again when Uther lands his ships.”

  Morning. The sky was white with high clouds and a thin monotonous wind blew, lofting the pennants of the tents in a brave display. In all directions away from the towering spine of rock upon which the masons toiled fruitlessly to build his castle, the land swept flatly toward the Cornish sea. The wind off the sea was cold and damp. Every place in Cornwall was cold and damp, so far as Vortigern had ever been able to tell. The salt tainted the air with the faint scent of blood.

  It would have been warmer inside the tent. The side facing the construction was pegged open, revealing a large table spread with building plans and leaving one side open to the mercy of the elements, but Vortigern preferred to study the view rather than huddling beneath oil lamps conferring with Gwennius. On top of the ridge in the middle distance, workmen crawled, tiny as ants, over the scaffolding that half-concealed the curtain wall of Vortigern’s new castle. After six years of building, they were no closer to completing their work than they had been on the first day of construction. He turned his head and spoke.

  “How goes the building of my stronghold?” He watched, pleased, as all the color faded from Gwennius’s face, leaving it a sickly greenish white. By now Vortigern knew that it was not the architect’s fault that the building continued to fail, but executing them was one of his few remaining pleasures.

  Lailoken effaced himself at the back of the tent as the king spoke to Gwennius, trying to stay as far away from Vortigern as possible without actually leaving the vicinity, something that was sure to be noticed.

  Lailoken was the Royal Soothsayer. He was an old man, and he concealed his inadequacy beneath a facade of sheer terror. He had been in Vortigern’s service for the last six weeks, ever since the King had run his predecessor through with a handy spear. He was the third Royal Soothsayer since the spring, and would have been happy to give up the job if he could think of any way to leave it alive.

  Lailoken couldn’t actually imagine what Vortigern wanted with a Royal Soothsayer, since the King never took anyone’s advice but his own. As far as he could tell, Vortigern wanted to be agreed with, and this the aged soothsayer did as vehemently as possible on every occasion. It didn’t bother him that his behavior was undignified. He’d lost all pretense to dignity years ago.

  Once he’d been a Druid, a priest of the Sacred Groves. But Constant had cut down his holy oaks, and then Vortigern had cut down everybody. Bitterly, Lailoken remembered the day at the sacred well of the priestess Ambrosia, when Vortigern’s riders had come to slaughter the refugees from his tyranny, so that none would remain to sow discontent against the king. He’d run for his life, but it hadn’t been flight that had saved him, but the luck to have tumbled into a midden heap, there to lie hidden from sight until the killing was done. When he’d finally dared
to creep out of hiding, he’d seen no other survivors of the carnage. He’d never even seen Ambrosia’s body among the dead.

  Luck. That’s one name for it, I suppose.

  After the massacre, Lailoken had drifted from place to place, doing his best to hide what was left of his priestly powers, but even that hadn’t helped him in the end. In the last few years, Vortigern had started rounding up the old and useless, executing them so that the food that would have gone to feed them could feed his army instead. Caught in such a roundup and faced with his immediate execution, the old Druid had been willing to claim magical powers in order to win a reprieve from death. He’d never dreamed that the claim would get him employment as the king’s new soothsayer, for exactly as long as he remained amusing.

  However long that might be.

  Nimue had not slept, but despite her wakefulness, morning had come all too soon, and with it, her appointment to meet the king. She’d taken as long as she could over her bathing and dressing that morning, but Nimue dared not delay her father too much with her preparations. Vortigern was known to be impatient with late arrivals—Vortigern was known to be impatient with everything—and her father was so frightened these days. …

  Resolutely Nimue turned back to her mirror and set the golden coronet of her rank upon her shining brown hair. She was wearing her finest gown, a dress of rich brocade, and looked every inch the noble lady that she was. Now she and Lord Ardent would go to answer Vortigern’s summons, and she would discover that all her fears had been moondust and nonsense. What could Vortigern do to her without angering her father? And Vortigern still needed Lord Ardent, and his troops.

  “Father? I’m ready,” Nimue said, rising from her dressing table.

  The day was cold and inclement, whipping her long hair into a tangle the moment Nimue stepped from the tent. A few yards away she could see the tent that Vortigern had set up for his architect’s use. The king’s black banner with its white dragon fluttered like a pirate’s flag from the roof-spire.

  That’s all that he is—just an old pirate! Nimue thought stormily, but she did not say the words aloud. The lines of care in her father’s face were enough reason not to do so.

  She studied the king curiously as they approached him, for Ardent had kept her away from him when she had been brought to court, and Nimue had never seen him. The Saxon had much the look of an aging lion, she thought, the gold of his youthful good looks faded to the dross of age. The pale eyes glittered with suspicion, and perhaps even with madness, and the smile he turned upon her father was false and feral.

  “It’s a fine position for a new castle, don’t you think, Lord Ardent?” Vortigern asked dulcetly.

  “It will be impregnable, Your Majesty,” Ardent said quickly. “No army could take it.”

  “Not even Uther’s?” Vortigern asked cannily.

  He saw Ardent hesitate. The girl beside him must be Ardent’s daughter, Nimue. She was a beautiful creature, and for a moment Vortigern toyed with the notion of marrying her. But he was through with marrying—it was bad luck for him.

  “My spies tell me he’s raising an army and getting ready to sail for England,” Vortigern added, watching Ardent’s face. “He wants to kill me. I can’t blame him. I killed his father, King Constant.” And I would have killed the whelp at the same time, if I’d gotten my hands on him. But he escaped. Was that your doing, Ardent?

  “King Constant was a tyrant,” Ardent choked out.

  “Not unlike myself,” Vortigern pointed out helpfully.

  “Yes, sire,” Ardent said. Vortigern saw his face change as he thought better of the remark. “No, sire, no—”

  “You don’t sound very convincing, Ardent. What I’m interested in is—in case we have to fight—whose side will you be on? Mine or his?”

  Vortigern didn’t trust Ardent, but he needed him. The question was, how could he ensure Ardent’s loyalty—or at least compliance—without seeming weak?

  “I’ve always been loyal to Your Majesty!” Ardent said, mustering as much conviction as he could manage.

  “True, true,” Vortigern said agreeably. “Up until now. The trouble is, I don’t trust anyone anymore. I want guarantees.”

  “You have my word on it,” Ardent quavered, baffled and beginning to be afraid.

  “Not enough,” Vortigern said shortly. “I’m keeping your daughter as surety. Guards!”

  He raised his voice and half a dozen men in the White Dragon livery stepped forward to take Nimue into custody. Ardent fell back before them, but the old warrior wasn’t quite cowed.

  “This is outrageous … sire,” he protested.

  “I’m sorry,” Vortigern said, though not as if he meant it. The guards marched past him, thrusting Ardent out of their way.

  “My father will do what is right!” Nimue said as they approached. Her voice held all the defiance that her father dared not show. Vortigern smiled—a surprising, genuine smile.

  “I hope he will; he never has before.” He spoke directly to the princess. When their gazes locked it was like a clash of swords between equals. “If your father stays loyal to me, you’ll be safe. If he betrays me, I will kill you.”

  She glared into his eyes defiantly, but for all her bravery, she was still only a young woman, and when the soldiers seized her, Nimue’s nerve broke. “Father!” she cried as she was dragged away.

  Vortigern watched Ardent’s face carefully. Its expression never changed. The strategy had worked, then. Ardent was Vortigern’s man.

  For now.

  In the Palace Under Hill, Mab watched events unfold in her scrying crystal. The image showed her the windy plains of Britain, and Vortigern’s guards dragging a struggling screaming girl—Nimue—away to imprisonment. She could see Vortigern, Ardent, Lailoken … all threads in her weaving, little though they knew it.

  Merlin thought he’d defeated her, years ago when Ambrosia died, but the boy had no idea what true patience was. Let him think himself free. The last tool that she needed in order to force him to use his magic was about to fall into her hand.

  With no more than a thought, Mab transported herself to the architect’s tent.

  No one would be able to see her unless she wished it, and upon this occasion the Mistress of Magic did not wish to be seen. As she had in causing Queen Ganeida to die on her wedding night many years before, she would work behind the scenes to achieve her ends.

  Now that he had settled Lord Argent, Vortigern turned his attention back to Gwennius.

  “How does it go?”

  He glanced toward the top of the ridge. The walls of the castle tower were obscured by a lattice of scaffolding, but all the timber in Britain could not conceal the fact that each time Gwennius’s masons raised the walls of Vortigern’s castle higher than six courses, their work toppled like blocks pushed over by a giant’s impatient child. There was no reason for it, but there was also nothing anyone could do to stop it, Gwennius included.

  “Are you making any progress?” Vortigern asked, turning his back to the scene of the construction. Even he could see that no progress had been made since the spring. He knew it, Gwennius knew it, and Gwennius knew he knew it, but still the man tried frantically to bluff, mispronouncing the terms of his craft in his haste.

  “Fine, sire, fine. The linnets on the west side need bolstering—”

  Vortigern found such desperate persistence vaguely charming; he made a pact with himself that if the walls managed to stay up for the next ten minutes, he would spare Gwennius’s life.

  At that moment a familiar rumbling began behind him. Vortigern did not need to turn around to see that once again the walls were falling. The scaffolding flew apart like straws in a windstorm. Men screamed desperately as they were crushed beneath an avalanche of tumbling blocks of stone.

  Vortigern’s face did not change.

  “Please tell me exactly what happened,” he said mildly, as if requesting a report on the weather.

  Gwennius stared into the king’s eyes wi
th the mute entreaty of a drowning man. “I don’t know, sire,” he answered, too stunned to be anything but completely honest. So every one of Vortigern’s architects had said in the end.

  “Guards,” Vortigern said without raising his voice. “Take him away.”

  As the guards approached, Gwennius seemed to discover some last spark of self-preservation. He clutched at the rolls of plans, holding them against his chest as if vellum and ink could save him.

  “It shouldn’t have done that!” he cried as the guards reached him. As they dragged him away, Vortigern could hear him, still shouting: “It’s the linnets! I’m sure it’s the linnets!”

  Vortigern looked over his shoulder, toward his castle and away from its latest builder. Dust was still rising from the site of the latest disaster, and those who had not been caught in the collapse ran back and forth trying to help their buried fellows.

  “And get me a different architect,” the king added, almost as an afterthought.

  Invisible, Mab inspected her handiwork from beside the king. Since that long ago day when he had decided to build here, she had toppled every single castle Vortigern had raised on this site, waiting patiently for him to despair. But not to give up—Vortigern never gave up, Mab knew that, from all the years of watching him turn against her plans to further his own. But he could certainly be driven beyond common sense.

  “Why won’t the tower stand?” Vortigern demanded. And at last the moment Mab had been waiting for came: Vortigern consulted his soothsayer.

  It had been years since Mab had managed to put into the king’s mind the notion that he should have a soothsayer, but even the Queen of the Old Ways could not influence Vortigern to consult him. But what magic could not do, desperation could, providing you had enough patience.

  And Mab had patience . . .

  “I’m a soothsayer, Your Majesty. Not an architect,” Lailoken quavered. His eyes darted desperately from side to side, searching for an escape that didn’t exist. Mab smiled, awaiting her moment.