She could find no answer. Laying the Gold Staff close by she composed herself again for sleep. Memories, some pleasant, some not so pleasant, rose up to swim before her mind. Presently, she began to dream.
*
Alys was dreaming, too. She knew she was dreaming, but she could not control what was happening. She could not even control herself. In fact, she was not herself, she was someone else, someone strange and familiar… .
Of course! How silly of her not to have realized. She was Morgana the sorceress, called by some Morgana of the Sidhe, wielder of a Gold Staff, and she was absolutely furious—
*
Morgana strove to keep her voice calm as she addressed the young man before her. It never did any good to let Merlin know you were angry; he only enjoyed it.
“What you have done is evil,” she said, wondering even as she said it if the term had any meaning for him. Like her, Merlin was half Quislai and half human. Such half-breeds were unusual; in fact, there were no records of any others.
It was not uncommon for a human to fall in love with one of the beautiful, unfathomable Faerie breed, but few children were ever born of such unions, and fewer still survived.
Morgana’s own life was a case in point. For many years— she would never know how many—she had lived at the side of her Quislai mother, wandering between the worlds and riding the Wild Hunt, scarcely aging, remaining eternally a child.
Then, as always happened sooner or later with the Quislai, her mother had misplaced her, or forgotten about her, and left her behind in a wilderness in the human world. A Quislai child, being immortal, would not have come to harm, but Morgana was not a full Quislai. She would have died if a human had not found her and taken her home and given her food and drink and a fire. And it was then, with her first taste of human food, that she had begun to age.
She had come to love her adoptive father. But she was always different. When a sorcerer of the Wildworld passed through her village he knew her heritage at once, and sent word to the Weerul Council. From that point on, the Council had taken charge of her, allowing her to study the Wild Arts as an apprentice. But even they were astonished—and not pleased—when the ragged halfling won a Gold Staff at the great contest. Worse still, she did not even need the Elixir of Days to extend her life, as the sorcerei did. Her Quislai blood kept her young, and though she was not immortal no one could tell how long she might live. Understandably, the sorcerei were wary of Morgana. She had no kin in the Wildworld, belonged to none of the great houses.
She was neither human nor Quislai, not entirely a sorceress. There was no place for her in their world.
So Morgana chose to live in the other one. She found humans to be generally unreliable, often dangerous, and sometimes cruel. The brevity of their lives made their passions hot and their perspective narrow. And yet among them she had a place. Even those that feared her, needed her; she filled a niche in their view of the world. At a time when many of the other Wildfolk were retreating uneasily from human civilization, she stayed and represented magic.
Merlin was in much the same position. Born to a human mother, he had been in less danger of being accidentally mislaid, but danger had come from another source. The midwife who tended his mother ran from the room shrieking that she had helped deliver a changeling. No human newborn was so eerily beautiful, no human child had hair the color of moonlight and silver eyes. The townspeople had come close to putting mother and child to death, and though he was allowed to live he grew up as one apart. Word of him reached the Weerul Council while he was still a boy and they had reluctantly consented to let him undergo apprenticeship as Morgana had. Their misgivings were well founded, for when the time came and another Gold Staff was offered in competition, the boy named Merlin claimed it.
And if Morgana had difficulty in fitting herself to Weerul society, Merlin was worse. He had incomparable talents— which he used at whim, for no fixed purpose, and certainly not on the Council’s behalf. He laughed at custom and tradition. He did not even keep a house in the Wildworld, but instead went back to his native village. When he did visit Findahl it was mainly to wander through Chaotic Zones, areas of magic so wild and unpredictable they usually killed anyone but full Quislai. In fact, he behaved very much like a Quislai, except that he had power such as no Quislai had ever held. He had a Gold Staff.
And unfortunately, thought Morgana, looking at him now, he had the human ability to plan and to strategize, which no full Quislai ever had, either. He had ambition. She wondered what on earth was going on at this moment behind those beautiful, unfathomable silver eyes.
“It was wrong, Merlin,” she said again quietly.
He put a hand over his heart and bowed. “I merely obeyed the orders of Uther, my master. These are times of war—”
“It was not war to clothe Uther in King Gorlois’s likeness and send him to Ygraine so disguised! She thought it was her husband come back—and all the while her husband was lying dead on the field of battle.”
“Slain by Uther’s hand,” agreed Merlin modestly. “I helped a bit—the mist cast round the field was mine—”
“Chaos take your mist,” Morgana interrupted fiercely. “Merlin, listen to me for once. I tell you that you will not do such a thing again.”
“There is no need.” The young man smiled cheerfully and laced his fingers over his stomach. “Uther has conquered Cornwall already. Ygraine was his price, you see. He has been mad with love for her since he first beheld her six years ago. He was not eager to wage war until I swore to help him win her.”
Morgana shut her eyes, feeling sick. She whispered, “How can you so misuse your powers?”
He repeated the bow. “I am reproved.”
“You are irresponsible and mad,” she said flatly. “But, mark me, you will do no further harm to Ygraine. She is a brave and gentle lady, and she and all her line are under my protection. Also … she is my friend.”
Ygraine was one of the few truly noble people Morgana had ever met. She was valiant, honest, and generous to a fault. Moreover, she was one of the few humans who neither feared magic nor desired to turn it to her own ends, but wished merely to live in harmony with it. Morgana seldom interfered in human affairs—and especially not in politics or human conflict—but she was willing to break the custom of centuries now, to protect Ygraine.
“Very well,” said Merlin equably. “I assure you, madam, I have never wished her harm.”
Absurd as it was, he seemed perfectly sincere about that. Morgana shook her head at him wearily.
“Merlin, why?” she said. “Why do you do it? Why play at politics on this lonely island? If your mind turns that way you could have a leading voice on the Council. Here, you can only serve. And your master may be bold and ruthless, but he is a very little king.”
Merlin’s smile was far away. “I know. But his son will be a greater one.”
“What do you mean? What son?”
“The child Ygraine carries now. The child of Ygraine and Uther. The blood of both runs in his veins and he will be a king such as this world has never known. He will rule all of Britain.”
“All of what?”
“Britain. Not Albany or Cornwall or Logris, but an empire embracing all of them. All the kingdoms united. It does not exist yet, but it will. He will bring it together, and with my aid he will hold it. And it will be the greatest empire in this world one day, and his name will never be forgotten. You see, Morgana”—all at once the silver-eyed sorcerer suddenly looked very young and almost haunted—“I see things. Things that are not yet, but will be. I cannot help it. And I have seen this.”
Morgana said dryly, “He will have to be an extraordinary man, indeed.”
“He will. But he must be prepared for the task. And that is why,” he added, almost offhandedly, “he is to be given into my keeping. Uther has already agreed.”
“Are you mad? What has Uther to do with it? The child—if there is a child, which I doubt—is Ygraine’s. You could not take
it from her. Should you even try I would call in the Council.”
“You?”
“Yes, I! They would interfere for that, they would not allow it. / would not allow it.”
The silver eyes, so vulnerable a moment ago, flamed with passion. “I must have the child! I must! He cannot be trained like an ordinary king. He needs to learn things only I can teach him—no, not sorcery, but how to see the world through different eyes. He must be innocent of the petty quarrels of his fathers. He must be mine.”
Morgana said coldly, “You will not have him.”
For a moment or so Merlin looked wild. Then a change seemed to come over him; he paused, as if listening to distant music, and then he calmed himself. At last he smiled his brief, flashing smile.
“Very well,” he said to Morgana. “I make you this bargain. You do not wish me to take the child against Ygraine’s desire. And I tell you, that if when I come to take him, Ygraine says even one word in protest, I will not.”
Morgana looked at him with mistrust. “I will send to the Council for a Feathered Serpent to be present at the birth. You will be held to your word.”
Merlin said simply, “I agree.”
*
The Council did indeed send a Feathered Serpent, an arbiter of justice, to assure that no treachery was done. But Merlin was able to keep his word. Ygraine died in childbirth and was able to speak no word of protest when he came to claim her son.
Morgana herself stood by, cold with grief and anger but helpless, as the gray-cloaked figure appeared and took the child from the queen’s lifeless arms. For a moment Merlin cradled him, then he touched the very top of the tiny head with his lips.
The sorceress felt some of her fury ebb away, to be replaced by bewilderment. Her voice shook a little when she spoke.
“He is still of Ygraine’s line, and under my protection. Be sure you do him no hurt, Merlin. Be very sure.”
The young man raised his silver eyes, startled, as if he had forgotten she was still in the room. His surprise and affront seemed genuine.
“Hurt him? This is Arthur of Britain,” he said, as if that were answer enough. Then he cast his gray cloak around himself and the baby and was gone.
The legends about Arthur began that night. Rumor spread that Ygraine had given birth to an heir in the lonely tower at Tintagel where she had cloistered herself since the death of her husband, Gorlois, and at midnight a great dragon, red and black in the moonlight, was seen to spread its wings and burst from the battlements. The Feathered Serpent was returning to the Council. But the simple folk in the town below took it as a sign and were filled with wonder and fear. A very great king—son of the dragon— must have been born.
The Council was satisfied that no treachery had been done, but Morgana was not. At that time she lived on an island in the enclosed Sea of Cornwall, near the Forest of Darnantes. The inhabitants of the region knew of her presence on the “lake” and wove legends around it, but seldom had any dealings with her. Every so often some of them would venture out in a small boat with gifts or a plea for help, where they would row in confusion and befuddlement until she took pity on them and guided them through the mists. If there was sickness or drought in the village she sometimes lent aid, and if her peace was disturbed for no reason she could be swift in anger, but otherwise she and the villagers did not disturb one another. But in these troubled days she made it a point to hire messengers and keep herself abreast of all Merlin’s doings.
What she found left her puzzled and pleased. Merlin seemed at last to have forsaken his wild ways and to have found a purpose. He had given the baby to a very decent country family to raise and from all reports the child was growing strong and healthy, learning hunting lore and swordsmanship, but no statecraft. And of course, thought Morgana, learning whatever lessons Merlin deemed it necessary to teach him. In any case, the boy had come to no ill, and while his father continued to wage war and bicker over borders with his neighbors, Arthur reached young manhood in happy ignorance of his own lineage.
He was sixteen years of age when Uther died. Rival kings and warlords at once began to quarrel with one another over the late king’s lands, and civil war seemed certain. Morgana, who had relaxed her vigilance in watching Merlin some time ago, now wondered with dry humor how the young sorcerer intended to convince anyone that Arthur was even the rightful king of Logris, much less of this mythical empire he spoke of. She could see no way for Arthur to claim his throne without bloodshed.
The answer came quickly, and already wrapped in the glamour of legend. A great rock had appeared in a square in London, and on the rock was an anvil of steel, and imbedded in the anvil was the point of a sword. The words on the blade could be read clearly and proclaimed that whoever should draw the sword from the anvil was rightwise born king of Britain. So far, many had tried to draw the sword out, but none could do so.
It was a very neat trick, and Morgana admired it. Merlin always had had a flair for dramatics. An air of expectancy fell over the kingdom as all waited for the true heir to be revealed. When at last Arthur was brought to London by his foster family and induced to try his hand, he succeeded in full view of the assembled populace. It was beautifully staged and perfectly executed, and Arthur’s claim was established beyond dispute. The rival nobles withdrew.
Morgana heard this and was relieved. So far Merlin had kept his word to the letter, and had behaved not only sensibly, but even honorably. She began to feel that perhaps she had misjudged him.
But that, of course, was before she saw the sword with her own eyes, and understood what he had done… .
*
In a human forest far away in time as well as space from the island near Darnantes, Morgana Shee came awake with a start and jumped up. The vivid dream, which had been like a walk in memory, disappeared from her mind. This was no time for dreaming. She was near, the wards were thrumming with suppressed energy. She had not found Morgana yet, nor indeed the other thing she sought, but she was close enough to be a threat.
A faint smile touched the lips of the little sorceress standing in the moonlight. Now, what shall we have for a distraction, she thought: fire or flood or wild beasts? Not an earthquake, that would do more damage than it was worth.
She laid light fingers on the Gold Staff and above her lightning flashed and crackled in the sky.
*
Alys woke and started, too, flinging off her covers. Her mind was full of strange things, which dissolved even as she tried to grasp them. Her right arm was one solid blaze of pain, as if she had been wrestling all night with some great enemy.
She stumbled to the window and pulled the drapes open, looking out. For an instant, on the moonlit lawn below, she caught a glimpse of something dark and shining and thought she heard a loud, wet smack. But then it was gone and she wondered if it had ever really been there.
Wincing and rubbing her arm, she fell back on the bed. On the floor the sword caught a stray glint of moonlight, which quickly dimmed as the sky outside darkened with clouds. Alys pulled up the covers and went back to sleep almost at once, this time without dreaming at all.
SEVEN
The Dark Thing
The next morning the skies over Villa Park were thick with clouds that seemingly couldn’t make up their minds whether or not to rain, but instead grudgingly released a continuous hazy drizzle which depressed everyone who saw it. Alys woke with a stiff neck and a headache, and wished she could just stay in bed.
Cold water on her face and cold orange juice in a glass revived her a little, but in the back of her mind lurked images which would not quite come to the surface, images which disturbed her. She could not tell if they were memories or dreams or memories of dreams, but they haunted her.
Her arm cramped when she moved it. Feeling dull and heavy, she helped the others make breakfast and get off to school. Her own performance in class that day was of the least inspired kind.
After school they all met at Morgana’s where Alys began reading to Ch
arles and Janie from her book about King Arthur. She had carried it around with her all day and felt somehow compelled to keep returning to it. It seemed to hold secrets.
In the kitchen Claudia was reading, as well, to the vixen. This usually worked out all right because though Claudia was a poor reader, the vixen was worse. Claudia told most of the story from the pictures, anyway, the way she had in kindergarten.
But today the vixen wasn’t listening. She was pacing back and forth along the counter under the kitchen window, the gold of her collar gleaming dully against her red fur. She went very quickly, almost running, to the end of the counter, then swung without slowing to go the other way. It disturbed Claudia. It reminded her for some reason of the mongoose she had seen at the Los Angeles Zoo, which had paced endlessly from one end of its cage to the other, never slackening speed to glance at the people who were looking curiously in at it.
Claudia closed the book. The vixen did not seem to notice.
“Maybe … maybe I should read this another time. Maybe tomorrow. We could do something else… .”
The vixen stopped, but she was not looking at Claudia. She was staring out the window, at a sky billowing with clouds so dark they were almost blue. Droplets of moisture had collected on the glass.
Claudia hugged the book to her, feeling strangely uneasy. She had never seen the vixen act this way before.
“Is something wrong?” she asked hesitantly. “If something’s wrong I could go get Alys …”
The vixen made no reply.
“I guess I should go, then,” said Claudia humbly. “I guess you want to be alone.”
After another minute of silence, she rose to leave.
“Too many years!”
The vixen’s voice was strange and hoarse. Claudia froze where she was, and the vixen turned. She went on speaking in that rough, new voice.
Heart of Valor - V1 Dec 2004 Page 6
