"It doesn't make sense.” Unconsciously he whispered aloud. “She came this way, and yet she's vanished. Somehow I feel I'll never find her."
"Never find her ... never find her,” the echoes whispered back derisively.
"You'll never find her,” a voice said softly from behind, making him gasp. It was as though the echoes found a more substantial voice. However, unlike the echoes, the voice didn't mock; rather, it was heavy with grief.
At the same time white light poured down the stairwell, nearly blinding Peter. His heart leapt. Instinctively his mind reached out to the apparition. But no evil emanated from the tall figure, cloaked and hooded, outlined against the light. As he rose slowly to his feet, Peter realized the swift beating of his heart wasn't fear but hope.
He squinted into the light, looking straight at the hidden face.
"Why can't I find her, Merlin?” he asked boldly. He started climbing the stairs, keeping his gaze firmly on the unseen face. “What's happened to her?” He reached the stair just below where the figure stood. The cloak brushed against his hand. Its fur lining felt luxuriously soft against his skin.
The figure made no answer. All Peter could divine when he sent out a mind probe was a pathetic mind-whisper. “I'm sorry—so sorry."
"Why can't I find her? Do you know something I don't?"
A hand emerged from the cloak's folds and dropped on Peter's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Peter.” The sorcerer's voice was croaky. “Don't look for her any more. You won't find her. She's lost to both of us."
The echoes repeated with relish, “She's lost to both of us ... lost to both of us." And the light behind Merlin's suddenly bowed figure faded. The figure seemed to stoop even lower, and Peter opened his eyes to find himself stretched out on something hard and cold. A figure, hooded and cloaked, stood beside him. A dim light coming from behind it outlined the figure in sharp relief. It bent over him, apparently about to shake him by the shoulder. Its face was turned from Peter, looking over its shoulder.
"...or he'll be lost to both of us,” he thought he heard the sorcerer's voice say to someone unseen.
Peter swallowed to ease his parched throat.
"Who's lost to both of us?” His voice came out in a croak.
The figure started and jerked its head round to face Peter. It was Merlin. “Thank goodness! I thought I wasn't going to be able to reach you. It was as though you were in another world."
As Merlin straightened up, Peter saw his face. At sight of its gauntness, the question on his lips instantly died. He would get no answer to his entreaty. There was no sense, he reasoned, asking questions that couldn't—or was it wouldn't?—be answered. Especially when they only seemed to cause pain.
Peter made to sit up but found himself feeling light-headed and giddy. He knew at once where he was—back on the slab of obsidian where he had lain before Judita took him to the Hall of the Lightwell. He absorbed this unconsciously. Consciously he was looking for the recipient of the remarks Merlin made while he, Peter, lay unconscious on the slab. He hardly began trying to sit up, however, before the object of his searching glance moved forward.
The Lady, robed in white and wearing, like Merlin, a heavy hooded cloak over her robe, held out her hands. Peter clasped them eagerly and stood up with apparent ease, but he would have swayed and possibly fallen but for those steadying hands.
"You'll be all right directly,” her soft voice assured him. “We've brought you some food and drink."
"Where's John?” His voice still came out as a croak.
"Safe. But I'm afraid you can't see him yet."
Merlin now set out food and dishes on the obsidian slab and placed a candle in a silver candlestick at either end of the slab. “It's not much of a table, but it's all we've got."
The food wasn't much either, Peter reflected ruefully as he looked at the hunks of Merlin's special travelers’ bread set out on their plates. He had eaten it before. While very nourishing, it failed to satisfy an appetite craving something hot and savory. To make matters worse, there was no butter. The drink, in its cut-glass decanter, looked like red wine of a deep ruby color that winked at Peter in the candlelight as the Lady led him by the hand to the center of the makeshift table. Merlin took up a stand at one end of the slab and the Lady at the other.
"Eat up, lad,” Merlin exhorted as Peter stood looking at his plate. The expression in the sorcerer's eyes suggested he knew Peter's thoughts.
Suddenly realizing how hungry he was, Peter picked up the bread and sank his teeth into it. Only then did the Lady and Merlin pick up their own bread.
The piece of bread seemed a lot bigger than it had looked, and the one bottle of wine gave them all two very large glasses each.
"That was really good—one of the best meals I've ever had,” he said in surprise as he put down his empty glass. “However did you manage to make it taste so good?"
Merlin chuckled. “Hunger is always the best sauce.” He moved to the center of the slab on the opposite side to where Peter stood. From there, he swept the empty dishes, glasses and decanter together and mumbled a few words over them. They vanished.
When Merlin looked up again, Peter noticed how much more relaxed the gaunt face now looked in the candlelight. Perhaps I can ask my questions now. He plunged in boldly before he could change his mind.
"Merlin, have—have you been sending dreams to me?” To his annoyance, despite his determination, he stammered the question.
The gaze of Merlin's dark eyes seemed to bore right into him. Peter returned the stare steadily and steeled himself to face an irascible reply.
"What makes you ask that?"
The even, almost expressionless, tone of Merlin's voice encouraged him to persist. “The Sleepers weave dreams while invoking the revival of their power. Doesn't that refer to you and the Lady?"
Peter caught a flicker of what looked like sympathy in the wizard's eyes. Almost as though he knows what dreams I'm talking about.
"It's true we are two of the Sleepers. But we merely weave dreams; we are not responsible for dispensing them.” The reply was careful, almost reluctant.
Peter chose to ignore the reluctance. “Can you tell me why I've dreamt three times that I'm looking for Aunt Angela and can't find her? Then you turn up at the end of the dream and tell me she's gone and I'll never find her?"
Merlin's mouth tightened. Then it seemed he deliberately wiped all expression from his face. Even his eyes, although they still looked directly at Peter, appeared veiled. “I cannot tell you, Peter."
"Can't or won't?” Involuntarily, Peter's voice was harsh—at least to his own ears.
He caught a brief flicker—was it annoyance?—in Merlin's eyes. But when the sorcerer replied his voice held no anger—just gentleness—and his shoulders seemed to sag with resignation. “I may not tell you anything, Peter. It is in the hands of the Earthlight."
"The Earthlight is not without mercy,” the Lady reminded them softly.
She had stood at her end of the slab so still and silent they had all but forgotten her presence. Peter felt unaccountably guilty. It seemed strangely sacrilegious to him that he should have allowed concern for his aunt to dismiss the Lady from his mind. He turned his head in her direction. Although her gaze rested on him—had apparently been on him all the time—Peter somehow felt her words were addressed to Merlin.
She now walked around the obsidian slab towards him. “The Sleepers weave many dreams, Peter, for many purposes.” She laid her hands on his shoulders. They rested gently there like two white doves. Her eyes commanded his, piercing his very mind. “Some of those dreams are not dreams at all. But you'll always be aware of the difference when you wake up from one of them."
Two white doves—harbingers of peace—floated from his shoulders. Their soft wingtips seemed to touch his face. Their piercing bright gaze bored into his. Then it was as though they fluttered through his mind, soothing its troubled depths. Finally, it was as though their wings expanded until
they filled his vision. Soft white feathers enfolded him as the doves carried him up and away.
Chapter 11
The Northlight
JAMIE STOOD looking at the empty bed in horror. Where was Bart? Why hadn't he come up to bed? He looked from the door to the window. His mind raced even faster than his heart. What should he do now? Hide? Go looking for Bart? Or leave through the window the best way he could? Jamie pulled on his socks. Even as he dressed, his mind weighed the pros and cons of each course of action. I'll stand a better chance of getting away if I go right now. But I can't leave Bart to the mercy of Morgause. And where would I go on my own anyway?
He snatched his cloak from the bed and threw it round his shoulders. Then, boots in hand, he raced from the room and down the stairs. He all but collided with Bart at the parlor door. Bart jerked him into the room, closed the door and jammed a chair under the handle. “Thank God! I was just coming to get you! Quick! Put your boots on and get through that window! The horses are waiting."
Jamie jammed his feet into his boots and leapt across the room. Even as he clambered through the window, followed by Bart, the door-handle rattled. Next moment came the crash of a heavy shoulder against the wood.
Jamie nearly sobbed aloud with relief at the sight of the waiting horses. Their silvery coats glimmered in the moonlight. Jamie flung himself across the yard and into Silvera's saddle. The mare took off like a rocket. Even above the pounding of her hooves Jamie heard the crash as the door gave way.
As they left the yard, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The inn door now stood wide open, spilling lamplight over the cobblestones. He caught a glimpse of Morgause's cloaked figure outlined against the light. Other figures ran vainly after the horses while two were still scrambling over the window-sill. He felt glad it was too dark—and they were too far away—to see the expression on the witch's face.
He urged Silvera forward to come abreast of Bart. “How come you had the horses ready? How did you know she was coming?"
To his surprise Bart answered at length in mind-speech. “After you'd gone to bed I nodded off and had a most peculiar—and very vivid—dream in which our gentle green-eyed witch consulted her crystal ball. I don't know what she was looking for, but she saw us—or at least me. It was as though she looked straight at me. When I opened my eyes I was alone so I crept out to the stables. A stable hand helped me saddle the horses. I left them under the trees and came back to get you. I didn't know how long I had—I certainly didn't realize Morgause would get here so quickly. I only knew I'd no wish to meet her face to face. The look she gave me in her crystal ball when she realized I'd seen her was enough to freeze my blood."
"I know the feeling. When I heard her voice at the door and opened one of the shutters to look out, I'll swear she could see me even in the dark."
They galloped on in silence for a while until Bart risked a quick look back. “They're following."
To Jamie, Dark-Age Britain in daylight would have been as alien as the moon. On a mid-winter night it was even more so. He found it impossible to imagine any place capable of granting protection, even the cold, austere convent with the glowing warmth at its heart that was its Abbess. In this alien world the Enemy seemed more terrifying—more powerful even—than in the twentieth-century. And it's not even the Enemy following us—just one of his servants.
"Where are we going?"
Bart's grim answer did nothing to allay Jamie's anxiety. “Wherever the horses take us."
* * * *
PETER OPENED his eyes. As he did so, something white, like feathery clouds, passed over his face, momentarily obscuring everything else. Something soft, almost like cotton wool, brushed his forehead.
He seemed to be still lying on a hard, unyielding slab, although he knew instantly he was no longer underground. The fresh-smelling air and biting cold were clear evidence of that. And the light!—a light such as one imagined must have greeted the Resurrection.
The cloud-like things—whatever they were—disappeared, leaving him looking up at a wintry sky washed with feathery, pink-and-gold-streaked clouds. On his left the gold deepened.
Where am I?
He turned his head to the source of the light—and found himself staring into the face of the setting sun. What it lacked in warmth it made up for in beauty and grandeur. Great clouds flanked it on the horizon—clouds that stretched up to the very heavens, towering like mountainous cliffs awash with color.
Peter sat up and turned to face the setting sun. He dangled his legs over the edge of whatever he was sitting on. His heel struck the side of the slab. The sound was strangely loud in the this eerie, silent world. He looked down—and instantly knew where he was.
"Stonehenge!” He was perched, more than twenty-two feet from the ground, on the lintel of the central trilithon making up the giant horseshoe. How on earth did I get up here? And how am I going to get down?
"Don't worry about that, Peter. Just concentrate on what you're here for.” The deep, slow voice of the Power of Obsidian, speaking into his mind, made him start. Relief flooded through him and he laughed shakily.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're still with me.” He turned his gaze back to the sunset, huddling into the fur-lined cloak that now covered his white robe and pulling the hood closely around his face. “What am I here for?"
"To keep vigil."
"What for?"
"You'll find out all in good time."
"Maybe I can find out from the Obsidian Orb."
"Consult it whenever you wish, Peter. It's yours to command."
Peter closed his eyes and muttered the few words required to free the Obsidian Orb from its spell of invisibility. A moment later he was staring at the Orb's shiny black surface washed by the sunset gold.
"Show me everything I need to know,” he urged in a whisper as he bent his head over it.
The reflection of the sunset's last rays slowly faded as the Orb clouded over. Peter waited. Seated in a trance-like state, he couldn't say how long he waited. Finally something round—almost a reflection of the Orb itself, except it wasn't black—showed on the Orb's surface. As though coming closer, it grew steadily larger until it filled most of the surface facing Peter. Then it receded slightly and he realized what it was: a crystal ball. Even as awareness came to him, he saw the tips of a pair of pale, delicate hands extend over the top of the ball. A face bent down to its surface. Something that looked like red-gold silk fell forward, partially covering the crystal ball. Only when he saw one of the hands raise itself to flick the curtain back did he recognize the red-gold silk as hair. Finally he saw the eyes of the crystal ball-gazer. Their green depths blazed into his. Triumph and malice ruled within them. Peter's blood seemed to turn to ice.
"She's already seen me,” he whispered. All the same, he frantically threw up a shield.
He heard Morgause's voice, also whispering. “Tell me who it is that sees me. Who has such power? Is it the miserable Child of the Earthlight? Show him to me. I would see my enemy before I grind his face into the dust."
Slowly Morgause's face dissolved. A small flame replaced it, gradually growing. It took Peter a moment to realize he was staring into a fire blazing in some unknown hearth. He saw a man's face in three-quarter profile. Dark stubble covered both cheeks and chin; exhaustion stamped itself in lines that made the face look older than it was. Peter saw lids close over dark eyes as the man fell into sleep. And his heart nearly stopped as he realized he knew the face. It belonged to Bart Brown. In its turn, Bart's face dissolved, to be replaced by that of Morgause.
"I see him! I see him! It is the one who held the horses on the day I sent Jadus out to help wreak my revenge. And he must have the Chosen One—he whom they call the Son of Arthur—with him, for I know he is here. I cannot see him—he hides from me—but I know he's here.” One hand left the crystal ball to pick up something lying beside it—something Peter hadn't noticed. It was the little wax image.
Peter's mind reeled again. The last time he saw
the dreadful wax doll that looked so much like himself it was in the possession of the Lord in Blue, who took it from the fallen Lord of Obsidian. How had Morgause managed to get it back?
Even as Peter asked himself this question, he received the answer. As Morgause held up the doll, gloating over it and looking up at someone Peter couldn't see, the picture in the Obsidian Orb receded. The person standing beside Morgause came within Peter's vision. It was the Lord in Blue. He had grown immensely in power even since the last time Peter saw him. The evil emanating from the blue figure seemed equal to that of the Evil One.
Peter had little time to ponder this puzzle, however. Morgause put the wax doll back on the cloth beside the crystal ball and picked up something else—a sharp, black pin shaped like a dagger. She handed this to the Lord in Blue.
As the Blue Lord took the thing and lifted his hand to plunge it into the doll, Peter looked up from the Obsidian Orb with a start. The stars seemed to have come down from the sky. They were whirling around him in furious flight. Desperately fighting down his panic, he reached out to the spinning constellation for the spell of protection against all things sharp. The hand of the Lord in Blue stayed in its raised position. However, Peter hadn't stayed it; the Lord was simply savoring his revenge to the full.
On finding the spell, Peter cried the words aloud. He saw the Blue Lord's hand descend with vicious force. Then he came to—to find himself staring at the surface of the Obsidian Orb, glinting in the light of the long-risen moon. Despite the cold, his palms and forehead were damp with perspiration. Although he managed to do something for himself, he knew he could do nothing for Bart and Jamie—if they were still together.
"Bart's out there somewhere, Essence of Obsidian. He's in danger and I have to sit here doing nothing, though I know the witch is after him because she thinks I'm with him.” His voice was bitter with frustration.
The Third Age of Obsidian [Quest for Earthlight Trilogy Book Three] Page 12
