The Hallowed Isle Book One

by Diana L. Paxson

  As the fire burned down he continued to speak of the herbs of the forest and their lore, and which plants were good for food and where they could be found. Artor’s eyelids began to droop, for it had been a strenuous day, and presently he sank down upon his leafy bed.

  Merlin rubbed out the remains of the fire, but he did not sleep. The stars pricked through the velvet of the sky and the moon rose, and still he watched over the child.

  It was nearing midnight when his senses told him that Artor had passed through the borders of sleep and lay now in the deepest slumber, and he arose. First he stripped off his own clothing and rolled it into a tight bundle to carry, for it would only slow him, and in truth, his own body heat made clothing a formality. Then, murmuring spells to keep the boy dreaming, he lifted him in his arms. Artor was no great burden, for he was small for his age, and Merlin’s strength was beyond that of humankind. Moving quietly, the druid bore him away.

  His long strides carried him through the forest and into the next valley, over a second ridge and down into woodlands that grew beside another stream that like the first flowed into the Wae, but several miles away. There he found a drift of leaves beneath an oak tree and carefully laid the boy down. Chanting softly, he paced a circle around him and sealed it with a sigil of power.

  Then he climbed into the tree and curled his long limbs into a fork where the foliage would prevent him from being easily seen from the ground. His situation did not permit deep slumber, but as the night turned from midnight toward dawn he passed into a state halfway between wakefulness and sleeping, suspended between the earth and the stars.

  In that dream his spirit hovered above the clearing. With spirit sight he saw the life-force flow through every tree; each leaf outlined in light. And as he watched, the light grew stronger, resolved itself into forms which his mind interpreted as human as they stepped forth from the trees. Merlin’s circle had been meant to repel all evil, but these beings were beyond such considerations, like the land itself. The hazels, the green herbs, even the blades of grass had spirits, and all of them gathered around the sleeping boy.

  Were they simply curious, or were they drawn by something within him? As Merlin hovered, wondering, he saw Artor’s lifelight pulse, and the spirit of the boy, detaching itself as often happens during dreaming, rose up from his body, connected only by a silver cord. He laughed with delight, seeing those bright beings around him, and they bent—in homage, or in welcome?

  The rippling stream made a soft background for the chirring of the crickets as the tree-spirits began to dance. At first Artor simply watched in wonder, but presently they drew him into their round. They continued to dance until the moon disappeared behind the hill. Then, one by one, the bright spirits drifted back to shrub or tree, until only the spirit of the oak remained. She it was who escorted the boy’s spirit back to his slumbering body, and then herself merged into the solid trunk of the tree once more.

  When Merlin woke, it was a little past dawn, and the pile of leaves that covered Artor was beginning to stir. The druid peered through the branches, watching as the boy sat up, rubbing his eyes. It took him some time to realize that not only was the druid not sleeping on the other side of the fire, but that this clearing and this stream were not the ones beside which he had fallen asleep the night before. Merlin could see the moment when his eyes went still and watchful, count the minutes it took for Artor to decide that though he might be lost, he was in no immediate danger.

  He got to his feet, brushing off the leaves, and with an instinctive courtesy whose source his waking mind did not remember, relieved himself against a rock instead of a tree. Then he went to the stream to drink, and stayed there for a time, gazing at the light on the trees.

  Good, thought the druid, he is getting his directions from the angle of the sun.

  Artor had already passed the first test, having neither wept nor run screaming in circles, though his face was rather pale. Now he proceeded to pass another, cutting reeds whose tender inner stems were edible and catching several of the big frogs that hid among them. He gathered tinder and managed to get a spark from his flints to light it, and soon the frogs’ legs were sizzling on twigs above the fire. Some rather squishy bilberries from his pouch completed his meal—a better breakfast than the druid was having, still perched in his tree.

  Then, when the sun was high enough to cast a good shadow, the boy put out his fire and buried the remains of his meal, rolled up his cloak and tied it across his back. But before he set out he paused, looking around him.

  “Green lord of the forest,” he whispered, “it is not by my own will that I must pass through your realm. Guard my ways until I come to the lands of men.”

  From what he remembered of the night, Merlin thought the prayer would be heard. But whether it was or not, he himself, unseen, would keep watch until the boy reached safety. With considerable relief he slipped down from the oak tree as Artor moved off down the stream.

  The boy went slowly, and Merlin had time to take care of his own necessities before he followed. Woodland streams could be deceptive, but eventually they all flowed downhill. Artor had correctly judged that this tributary would in time reach the Wae, where he could find the road that Would take him southward again and home. It was only a matter of keeping his nerve and keeping on.

  Will he thank me for the adventure? wondered the druid, or will he be angry with me for abandoning him?

  Perhaps it was a little of both, for as the journey continued, Artor’s set features relaxed, and he paused more often to watch the glittering dance of the dragonflies over the water, or the swift dart of a swallow above the trees. Once he surprised a lordly stag who had come down to drink, and they stared at each other in mutual astonishment that turned on the boy’s part to awe before the deer, deciding this two-legged creature posed no threat to him, stalked away.

  This is my gift to you, thought Merlin, watching. Whatever you may inherit from your father, this is your inheritance from me.

  And so they continued on as the sun rose past her nooning and began to arch westward. The trees were still too thick to see the end of the forest, but Merlin knew that the road was near. He lagged behind to put on his crumpled garments, intending to double around to meet the boy on the road. And so, Artor was out of sight when the wind shifted and Merlin smelled the rank scent of a bear.

  For an instant, shock held him immobile. He had encountered bears in the northern hills and avoided them, for their tempers were uncertain, and nothing less than a band of armed men could make them afraid. He had not thought any still roamed in these hills.

  Then, skirts flapping, he began to run. Self-castigation could come later, when he had saved the boy, or failed. Even in the tunic he went swiftly, but before the boy was in sight he heard the bear’s cough of warning. Moving silently, lest his presence set off the attack he feared, he covered the last few feet to the stream.

  The bilberries were thick here, growing nearly to the water, and Artor had stopped to pick them, apparently surprising a bear who had come this way with the same thing in mind. It was still standing half-reared in the midst of the bushes, trying to decide whether this two-legged being was a threat.

  It was a young bear, perhaps a season separated from its mother, big enough to be dangerous, but perhaps not old enough to have learned to hate humankind. Artor stood absolutely still, the bilberries he had already picked still cupped in his hand. All the color had left his face, but his eyes were very bright. He looked, thought Merlin, present, as if by danger the essence of his being had been focused and revealed. At that moment he saw in Artor a spirit that burned like a flame, and knew that men would follow him.

  If he lived.

  The bear’s wet black nose wrinkled as it sniffed the unfamiliar scent mingled with that of the fruit. Branches crackled as it moved toward Artor. The druid drew breath to cry out, but the boy was stretching out his hand, fingers folded flat as if he were offering grain to a pony. The bear lowered its heavy head, and a
rough pink tongue swept the berries from Artor’s palm. Its sun-bleached brown fur was exactly the color of the boy’s hair.

  The bear nosed at his hand, then licked his berry-stained cheek, and Artor lifted his other hand and gently stroked the thick fur. For a few moments they stood, man-cub and bear-cub together, then the bear snorted, dropped to all fours, and moved off through the bushes.

  The blood pounded in Merlin’s head as he remembered to breathe. Artor blinked a few times, then he turned, eyes widening only a little as if after what had just happened the appearance of the druid was no surprise.

  “Did you see?” he whispered.

  “I saw—” Years of discipline gave Merlin his voice again. “You are Arktos, the Bear, and your totem has blessed you.”

  IX

  THE BIRDS OF BATTLE

  A.D. 473

  “THE COMMAND WILL HAVE TO GO TO LEUDONUS—” THE KING’S words came out like a curse. “If he can stop ploughing your daughter’s field long enough to get into his armor!”

  The warm light of a summer’s morning on the Tamesis reflected through the window of the old Roman tower and glimmered on the whitewashed ceiling; a clear, pitless light that illuminated his face and showed every line worn there by the past year’s pain.

  “Uthir!” Igierne shook her head, torn between anxiety and exasperation. He must be feeling particularly bad today, for in general when she was present he guarded his tongue. “Morgause is pregnant with their second child, and Gualchmai is just a year old.”

  “Two brats in three years is a good yield,” growled the king. “Time we made sure there’s something for them to inherit. Leudonus is the best of the lot—if I can’t take the field he’ll have to command.”

  “That is why you gave him Morgause in marriage,” Igierne reminded him.

  “Hoped it wouldn’t come to this—Damn!” He swore again as he tried to shift position on the bed. It was as comfortable as his household could make it, but the old garrison fort had never been intended for long habitation. Londinium was a commercial city, not a fortress, and the old tower, with the river to the south and a rampart and ditch between it and the city, was the safest place they could find.

  In the past three years the episodes of joint pain and muscular weakness had become ever more frequent. At times, when the weather was mild, Uthir would be free of it, but Octha and his warband would not wait on the king’s convenience. Hengest’s son had kept the oath he swore when he escaped from Londinium, and the army he had raised among the tribes of Germania had made a landfall in the country south of Eburacum.

  “My lord, be easy,” said Jordanus. “I will send the message by swift riders. If the enemy strikes north, he will be ready.”

  “And if they move south?” asked Igierne.

  Uthir frowned. “Cataur of Dumnonia is energetic, and so are his brothers, but he doesn’t have the experience. Catraut is a good fighter, but headstrong. Maybe Eldaul . . . but some still don’t trust him. We’ve worn out our best men in these endless wars! If they come south . . . I’ll have to get myself out of this damned bed . . . somehow.” He tried to raise himself and fell back again, grunting with pain.

  Igierne knelt by his side, wiping the sudden perspiration from his brow. She kept a smile on her lips, but she was weeping within. All his life Uthir had been a warrior—he could have faced death in battle gladly, but not this invisible enemy that was making him a prisoner in his own body. There must be something that would ease this lingering agony!

  That night she dreamed of blood and battle, but just as the darkness was about to engulf both friend and foe, light flamed in the west, and she saw riding through the carnage a figure with Uthir’s brown hair, grasping in his hand a blazing sword. Where its radiance fell, the Saxons hid their eyes and fled, but the British rose up like souls on the Day of Judgment, crying out in praise of the High King.

  “The Sword of Kings. . . .”

  She woke in the dawning, whispering its name. Her dream fled away, but the image of that burning blade remained before her. She sat up, drawing the covers around her against the morning chill.

  Decision came to her. “I will bring the Sword from the Isle of Maidens. Its power will make the High King whole!”

  The House of the Sword had that indefinable air of damp and emptiness that marks a place not often used. Or perhaps not quite empty—Igierne’s gaze moved to the shrouded shape in the center of the chamber. Even covered, she could sense the presence of the Hallow it concealed, but the energies of the Chalybe blade were muted, as if it dreamed. Brows bent in concentration, she returned to her sweeping. It had always been her task to clean this chamber when she lived on the Isle. But today would be different. Today, she would unsheath the Sword.

  Ebrdila had sought to dissuade her, but she could not stand against the queen’s resolve. Morgause might well have argued, for she had never had any great love for Uthir, but Morgause was Leudonus’s broodmare now.

  Igierne had made her preparations carefully. The old sheath had fallen to dust years ago, but she had prepared a box, bound in iron and lined with crimson silk, to carry the Sword. For a week she had taken no fleshmeat, and today, only water. She could not rival Merlin in knowledge of the stars, but she knew enough to calculate an auspicious configuration, and to perform this rite at the waxing of the moon.

  When she had cleansed the chamber, she went back to the lake for her own purification, shivering as the chill water touched her skin. Only the lapping of the little wavelets against the shore disturbed the hush that lay upon the lake. It had often seemed to her that the great hills gave off silence as the sun gives off light. Here, it was very easy to listen to the voice of the soul. Perhaps that was why the priestesses had made it their sanctuary.

  She sat back on her heels, letting the cool morning air dry her skin. I may be a grandmother, but I am still young and strong. And the Sword will restore my beloved! That was the voice of her will, she knew it. But if her soul had any different wisdom, even in this silence she could not hear.

  As the sun was nearing the heights of noon, Igierne put on her crimson robe and entered the House of the Sword. Twelve dark-clad priestesses stood in a circle around her, chanting softly, drawing power from the earth as she drew strength from them.

  “Cocidius, Belutacadros, Mars of the Soldiers—” she whispered.

  “Hear and bless us . . .” chorused the priestesses.

  “Star of Hope, Hand of Justice, Pillar of Power—” And indeed, Igierne could feel the power increasing; she scarcely heard the other women now.

  “Sword of the Defender, Sword of Kings, Sword of God!”

  She twisted the red cock’s neck and the blood flowed over the stone, and then, as in the world outside the sun reached her zenith, grasped the swordhilt, twisted, and pulled the Sword out of the stone.

  “For Britannia I draw this blade, and for her lawful king!” With trembling arms she held the weapon high, and the shining steel refracted the light of the torches in red lightnings around the room.

  The priestesses recoiled, but Igierne stiffened, shuddering as she tried to control the uprush of power. Behind her closed eyelids cities burned; she saw a crimson sky, swinging swords and bloody spears. In another instant the bloodlust of the blade would overcome her—

  —and in that moment of panic the spirit of the sword-priest who was her ancestor spoke within her and she remembered the words that she must say.

  “Fortitude binds fury. . . . Strength binds savagery. . . . Right binds rapine. . . . Lord of the Sword I summon Thee; control Thy power!”

  For a breath longer the blade’s hunger blazed; then something immense and ancient and cold descended from on high to enclose it, and Igierne was left gasping, hanging onto the sword. With her last strength she dragged it into the box, for it had grown heavy with the power it contained. She closed the lid, and then her knees gave way and she sat down beside it on the cold floor.

  Igierne had waited almost too long. While she was trave
ling to the Isle of Maidens and claiming the Sword, Leudonus and his army were halting Octha’s northern campaign. Just after Beltain they fought a great battle near Eburacum, and though it ended in victory for the British, Leudonus’s forces had been too well savaged to pursue their advantage, and the Saxons retreated unhindered toward Londinium.

  Now, the great city’s inadequate defenses turned to its advantage, for the enemy wanted a walled town where they could halt and lick their wounds in safety. Just north of Londinium lay Verulamium, and there Octha took refuge.

  As Igierne came back down the Roman road, she encountered roving scouts who told her that the army of Southern Britannia was beseiging Verulamium, where the martyr Albanus had his shrine, and that the Pendragon had had himself carried there in a litter so that he could command.

  “You should have stayed on the Isle,” said Uthir when he saw her. “You’d have been safe there.”

  “My mother may have been Lady of the Lake, but my father was a warrior who died on the Night of the Long Knives. I hope my courage is no less than his.”

  Uthir cleared his throat gruffly, but his eyes had kindled when he saw her, and she knew he was glad to have her at his side. Indeed, the excitement seemed to have distracted him from his troubles, and though he looked feverish, he did not seem to be in so much pain as before.

  They had found quarters for the king in a partly ruined villa near the town. That evening, the British commanders gathered in what had been the dining chamber for a council of war.

  “Another few days of siege and we’ll have them!” exclaimed Cataur.

  Still young enough to be enthusiastic, there were times when he reminded Igierne painfully of his uncle Gorlosius, but he seemed to bear the High King no enmity for a death which had, after all, put him in line to inherit Dumnonia. His wife had recently borne him a son whom they named Constantine, for they were descended from the grandfather of Uthir in the female line.