Heart of Valor - V1 Dec 2004

by Lisa Jane Smith

  Charles spared him one look. “So do I,” he muttered. “So what?” Alys poked him again.

  Elwyn, however, had lost interest. She swatted at one of the pale green moths absently and turned away, her anklet jingling.

  The voice of the white-haired man on the stag rose from behind them. “Fair game, oh my mistress?”

  ‘Wo, ” hissed Janie to Charles just as Elwyn turned and said, “Yes,” in tones of completely nonmalicious indifference.

  Something went whoosh beside his foot and Charles, staring at it, recognized a highly ornamented but perfectly serviceable spear. He flung back his head and gaped at the white man.

  The gesture seemed to arrest the rider. “This one hath a Mark,” he commented, in the sort of voice Charles’s mother might use to say, “this melon has a soft spot.”

  Elwyn was still devoting most of her attention to slapping the moths which circled her adoringly. But Charles did not need the jabbing of Alys and Janie in order to catch on. He took a step toward her and was arrested only by two more spears, one from either side, that crossed in front of him as he frantically pushed the hair back off his forehead.

  “Elwyn! Look! It’s me! Remember?”

  Elwyn clearly didn’t. She regarded him with absent repudiation. One of the nonhorses whickered impatiently.

  “Come on, you’ve got to remember. You kissed me. Here. See?”

  Elwyn was shaking her head, diverted but not convinced. Suddenly she bent forward and looked at the mark on his forehead. She reached one tapered finger to touch it and laughed with glee.

  “I do remember. Why, you’re the Charles boy!”

  “That’s right,” said Charles, holding up his empty hands and turning as he said it to make sure all the riders heard. “The Charles boy, that’s me, all right.”

  A spear was plucked out of the ground on either side of him. The white man leaped gracefully off the stag to retrieve the last one; he bent the knee to Charles briefly before leaping back on. Most of the riders followed as he rode away, taking the five-foot hedge as if it were a mere twig in the road. Charles felt a shaky breath hiss out of him and stared after them.

  “There,” said Janie, sounding somewhat tremulous herself. “I told you. Beasts of air and field and water; certain sprites and elementals—”

  “I remember all of you,” put in Elwyn, in self-congratulatory tones. “You,” she said to Alys, “hurt my head.”

  “You already forgave her for that,” said Charles. Now that his initial relief was over what he felt was the all-too-familiar sinking feeling of trying to engage in rational conversation with Elwyn. “Remember?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Elwyn vaguely, clearly not remembering but willing to take his word for it. “And you and I danced in the moonlight and counted stars till the dawn,” she added, warming.

  “No,” said Charles. “We talked about doing that. You talked about it. But we didn’t.”

  “We didn’t?” said Elwyn, genuinely surprised.

  “No!” There was only so much he could bear, even to save his sisters’ lives.

  “Well, then, we must do so now,” Elwyn said brightly and whistled. It was a bird trill, but what came in answer was some magnificently antlered animal heavier of bone than the stag, with a shaggy-furred neck. An elk, maybe. In one fluid motion she leaped upon its back; and gracefully, effortlessly, she caught Charles up by the arm in front of her. With another trill, but without a backward glance at the three females left gaping, she disappeared into the night.

  FOURTEEN

  A Savage Place

  “I was wrong,” said Janie in an utterly detached voice, looking at the place where Charles had been, “when I counted three hot spots of magic already in this world. I remembered Morgana, Thia Pendriel, and us. I forgot about Elwyn.”

  “And those—things?” said Alys. “They’re what Morgana sensed coming through the Passage?”

  Janie nodded. “It’s the Wild Hunt. They’re wood elementals. It’s sport to them.”

  Claudia made a faint sound. “But what about Charles?” she demanded. “What do we do?”

  “We do nothing,” said Janie quietly. “There’s nothing we can do. He’s riding the Wild Hunt with a Quislai. Not even the Weerul Council could stop that. The councillors are as scared of them as anybody.”

  “But Elwyn won’t hurt him?” Claudia quavered.

  “No,” said Janie, communicating the qualifier silently to Alys alone. Elwyn might not hurt him deliberately, but it was at least even money that she would drop him, or forget him in some inconvenient place, or absentmindedly lead him into a Chaotic Zone if she could find one. Alys shut her eyes and turned away, taking her self-control in both hands.

  “Back to the car,” she said thickly.

  The noise of the hunt got fainter and fainter as they went, intermingled with yelling and the distant crash of glass.

  Alys couldn’t help but ask it. “What do they do with the people who do run from them?”

  A muscle twitched in Janie’s jaw. “Run them till they drop,” she said. “The stories don’t agree about what happens if they catch you. I only know that sorcerei get out of the way fast if they hear the Fava-se-rá—that’s the opening bars of the hunting call.” She gave the strange syllables an even stranger intonation, very staccato and dissonant, rising in both tone and volume. The fine hairs erected on the back of Alys’s neck. Those four notes spoke to some part of her brain that was afraid of giant lizards and which wanted to scurry up a tree or burrow underground for safety.

  “Janie … Morgana never rode with them, did she?”

  “I hardly think this is the time,” said Janie, but of course that answered Alys’s question perfectly clearly. They got into the car and drove.

  But they were driving blind now. The visioning circle remained empty, or at least empty of anything but the writhing reddish shapes that Janie called background noise. It was Janie who said it at last.

  “Alys, it’s over. We’ve got nothing to go on. Morgana said north, but that could mean anywhere from here to Anchorage. A needle in a haystack is nothing in comparison. We tried.”

  “No,” said Alys harshly.

  “Alys, face facts.”

  Alys clenched her teeth to keep from yelling at Janie. But the falling feeling in her stomach and the ache in her throat told her what she knew inside. Janie was right.

  She took the next off ramp, turned around, and started back toward home. It was going to be hard to stay awake during the rest of the drive. She rolled down the window and switched on the radio.

  “… at eleven twenty-eight a temblor measuring four point five on the Richter scale,” the resonant voice of the DJ said. “No injuries have been reported, but power lines are out all over the northern Bay Area. PG and E says three thousand homes will be without electricity until morning… .”

  Alys switched it off. They had all had enough of this kind of talk to last them a lifetime.

  Claudia shivered. “If Thia Pendriel is making those earthquakes I wish Morgana would stop her.” Alys gasped. “Janie!” “Yes! Where’s the epicenter?” Alys stabbed wildly at the radio controls. “… centered in Point Reyes but felt as far away as San Jose. We’ll have an update at midnight—”

  “Find it!” shouted Alys, throwing the map over her shoulder in Janie’s general direction as she sped out the next exit, heading north again.

  Janie shook the map open, simultaneously clouting the bewildered Claudia on the shoulder. “Aristotle! Albert Einstein! What a genius!” she said.

  Claudia looked as if she might try to jump out of the car while it was still moving. “What’s going on?” she wailed. “I don’t understand! Where are we going?”

  “To the place where Thia Pendriel’s got to be if she’s causing the quakes. To the place where Morgana’s got to be if she followed her. To Point Reyes, you silly child. Point Reyes!”

  *

  When the initial exhilaration had worn off, Alys once again found her jaw
aching and her eyes blurring.

  “Let me drive a while.”

  “I’m fine, Janie.” The car wove and hit speed bumps on the left-hand side. She overcorrected and suddenly they were bumping along the gravel shoulder. She hit the brakes and they stopped.

  “Yes, I can see you are. Now get out and let me do it. I’m perfectly competent, you know.”

  Janie didn’t even have a temporary permit, Alys reflected as she stretched out in the backseat. Ah, well, she thought, if anyone tries to give her a ticket she can just turn them into a ring-tailed lemur. Morrow Krinkle Frazetta.

  *

  In the dark and majestic wood Morgana lightly touched each of the ward anchors in turn, gazing earnestly up into the night sky. She could not hear the Fava-se-rá, but something set her skin to prickling. She had not slept last night, but she was completely awake and alert.

  Her vigil was almost over. Thia Pendriel, her old rival, the Guildmistress who could not be content with the most powerful Silver Staff in the Wildworld, had failed. By this time tomorrow she would be in irons or in exile—and Morgana would be responsible. Even armed with a Gem, the councillor could not defeat her.

  Because the wards were impregnable. Enclosure, entrapment, the control or diversion of power—these had always been Morgana’s forte. And the ground on which she stood thrummed with the power she had set in it. A savage place, as holy and enchanted as e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted by woman wailing for her demon lover, she thought.

  Nothing from outside could get in.

  She was thinking this as the clocks in San Francisco struck twelve. At that moment her skin prickled again. She sprang up, her instincts warning her clearly at last, but it was too late. The explosion of power slammed into her from behind. The wards collapsed on her at once, cradling her in invisible armor, knocking her unconscious before she could even cry out. She was unharmed, but her mind fell into darkness.

  *

  The latter years of Arthur’s reign were painful. Merlin, for all his power and elaborate scheming, was gradually supplanted in Arthur’s affections by the most unlikely person imaginable—Guinevere. Guinevere was shy, plain, and modest, and had been chosen as queen by Merlin for exactly those qualities. She was also gentle, loyal, and unfailingly honest, qualities which escaped Merlin entirely but which captured Arthur’s heart, especially as Merlin was now so often whimsical and unreliable.

  Morgana believed that had the sorcerer undertaken to restore Arthur’s full faith in him he would easily have succeeded. Arthur was like that. Instead, as time went on Merlin’s behavior only became more and more erratic. If he could not have Arthur’s sole confidence as a friend, at least he would have Arthur’s attention as a troublemaker. This worked well enough at first, but gradually he had to go to greater and greater extremes to achieve the same effect. What had started as a means to an end eventually became an end in itself. He was no longer working mischief in order to make Arthur make him stop. He was doing it because he enjoyed it.

  Apprehensive, Morgana sent one of her apprentices to spy on him. Viviane was her best, with a mind like bright steel and hair like copper. But though Merlin might by then have lost his sanity he had not lost his charm. The girl fell in love with him, and her reports to Morgana were virtually useless.

  Worst of all, Morgana suspected—no, she knew—that Merlin was surreptitiously using the Gem. The effects on him, the paranoia and madness, were unmistakable. The effects were apparent in Arthur’s court as well—or perhaps what happened was merely the result of human nature. It scarcely mattered; the end was going to be the same. Arthur’s dream was falling apart at his feet.

  Slowly at first, old feuds over land and honor resurfaced. Old grudges flared up and new ones developed. The rumors Merlin had started long ago about Lancelot’s love for Guinevere by now had worked their way like a poison through the court. The Knights of the Table were divided and fought one against the other. Only Arthur, trying as always to love and trust everyone, refused to see what lay ahead.

  It was Morgana who opened his eyes at last. She had no choice. Sketchy though Viviane’s reports had become, it was clear that Merlin had tired of petty intrigues and minor harassments. He had already succeeded in driving Lancelot from Arthur’s side; now he succeeded in making Lancelot Arthur’s enemy. He even lent secret aid to the army Lancelot was raising.

  Telling Arthur was one of the hardest things she had done in her life. He was alone by then, Guinevere having been sent back to Wales for her own safety; Lancelot waiting on his borders to attack.

  “I am sorry,” Morgana said when she had finished. In her house his blue eyes had shone with self-assurance, conviction, and determination. Now the assurance was gone, but to Morgana’s shock the conviction and determination were not. Arthur was not giving up. It was then that she knew what had to be done with Merlin.

  To Chaos with the Council and the Council’s rules. Their methods were too slow and she feared it might already be too late. She summoned Viviane and cast a portal.

  The place she chose for Merlin was twilit even at midday. Far from the cultivated fields of England, far from the joyous festivity of May Day, Viviane had lured him. Morgana sat and absorbed the stillness and the beauty around her as she waited for the girl to return.

  “It’s done,” said Viviane quietly, appearing from the shadows of the great trees like a wood sprite of the Wildworld. Her head was high, her sea green eyes remote. Morgana would have said, “I’m sorry,” to her, too, but she walked on past without another word, without a glance. Her copper hair flared in a column of sunshine just before she was lost to sight.

  Morgana went to him.

  On the ground before the tree lay Viviane’s White Staff, broken in two pieces. Broken, Morgana knew, by her own hand. Beside it among the sheltering leaves were Merlin’s Gold and the sword he had stolen from Arthur.

  From the depths of the hollow where he stood, frozen into near-stillness already, Merlin smiled at her.

  “What a wonderful trick,” he said. “How I wish I had thought of it first.”

  Morgana picked up his Gold Staff and slipped it in beside him. The thick reddish brown bark had already reached his waist and was quietly creeping upward. A tendril of thorny blackberry vine wound about the staff, binding it to him.

  “And using Viviane, too. That was very clever. And so amusing for you both, I’m sure.”

  Morgana said steadily, “Viviane is gone. Although the Passage to Weerien is only a few miles away I don’t think that’s where she is going. I do not expect to see her again.”

  Merlin dropped his eyes. His breathing, normally so quick and light, was slowing.

  Morgana picked up the sword. Mirror of Heaven flashed and shimmered in the perpetual twilight.

  “All this,” chided Merlin gently, “when you might simply have asked for it nicely.”

  Morgana glanced up. He was looking at her again. “I did,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Ah, yes, so you did.”

  Morgana drove the blade into the ground and watched the bark begin to encase it. Such heavy bark, nearly a foot thick. It would be safe, as would he.

  “I never wanted the Gem, Merlin, not for myself. And I would rather hold harmless than destroy. You know that.”

  “Morgana the Merciful. But has it occurred to you that I would rather be destroyed than held harmless?”

  Fuzzy-leafed thimbleberry crept up to his chest. At his feet clumps of wild iris and sorrel were rising. Morgana watched them and didn’t answer.

  When she looked up she was shocked to see he was laughing. Those long-lashed eyes were heavy.

  “At home,” he explained, still chuckling, “they are decorating the trees. Here, the trees are decorating me. I am a Maypole.”

  Morgana’s throat closed. She steadied herself against the trunk. “Merlin. Oh, Merlin. If I let you out …”

  “I would go on exactly as I have always done. But you know that, don’t you, Morgana? Y
ou can’t ever let me out, can you?” The furrowed red bark had nearly reached his shoulders by now. He leaned his head back to breathe slowly and deeply, eyelids drooping shut.

  “No, Merlin. I can’t.”

  “But … will you just stay with me a while?” All at once he sounded very young, almost afraid.

  “As long as you like.” Honeysuckle vines just barely brushed his chin.

  “I have really been tired for quite some time now. I think perhaps it is best to have a rest.”

  “Yes, Merlin.” His face was pale and beautiful against the red-brown background, his lashes dark crescents on his cheeks. Below, both the sword and the staff had been swallowed by the wood.

  He gave one last flashing smile. “A rest—yes, perhaps that is best now.”

  They stood for a while in silence. Red trumpets of flowering currant caressed his silver hair.

  Suddenly his eyes were open. “Morgana.”

  His voice was very soft, those mocking eyes no longer mocking. For a moment she saw once again the earnest young man she had seen in Ygraine’s birthing chamber, the one who had said, “Hurt him? This is Arthur of Britain.”

  “You will … save him, won’t you? Arthur?”

  “Merlin, I—”

  “Promise me.” His breathing was almost stilled now, his hair garlanded with woodroses and tiny clusters of elderberry blossoms. “You must help him. The army …”

  “I know, Merlin. Lancelot—”

  “Not Lancelot. The other.”

  Morgana felt a chill inside. “What other? Merlin, what have you done?”

  “The other … that is to attack at dusk …”

  Here, it was midmorning. But in England, half a world away, twilight was falling.

  Anger shook her. “How could you, Merlin? How could you have done this? And why?”

  He seemed not to hear her. He seemed, in memory, to be reliving times long past. “Such a great king … so important … to train the child … keep the child …”

  She leaned closer to catch the whisper, but it trailed off into silence. The living wall rose between them, and over it all the flowers of spring. She was alone.