The Third Magic

by Molly Cochran

  Melwas hated the woman. To make matters worse, she decreed that Melwas' job henceforth would be to serve as young Morgause's nursemaid. To him had fallen the task of changing the baby's soiled wrappings and seeing that no harm came to her. The young prince protested, but his father only waved him away.

  "It's what you're good for," he said in a drunken haze.

  "Oh, it's not so bad," Morgause's mother told him as she swaddled the baby tightly and then hung her by the wrappings on a hook on the wall. "I'll be back to feed her. You just change the cloths when she starts to drip." She walked out of the room, then returned, shaking her finger at Melwas. "And bind her good and tight, mind you. I don't want her falling off."

  After she left, Melwas could only stare at the baby hung up on the wall like a moosehead. It was the custom, even in the civilized kingdoms, as his mother had told him. Babies died too easily. To become attached to a newborn was to ask for heartache, as well as the displeasure of the gods. Most were not even named until they were two years old.

  Melwas himself had been spared this fate, however, as Branwyn had been so lonely and neglected as a young wife that she had gone against all common sense and allowed herself to indulge in the company of her baby. Fortunately, she told him, her son had lived. Had he not, her bizarre method of child rearing would undoubtedly have been blamed for his death.

  Now he was ten years old, alienated from every other male in the tribe, including his own father, untrained in any skills necessary for a warrior, and less valuable even than the dogs used for hunting. Absolutely the only being of his acquaintance who was considered to be less useful than Melwas was this red-faced infant hanging on the wall.

  He took her down. Gently, cooing softly, he held her in his arms. The baby gurgled.

  "I'll be your protector," he said, kissing the infant's downy head. "We'll be outcasts together."

  That was not, however, to be the case, for even though Morgause and her mother lived in the fortress with Octa and Melwas, from the age of four she spent her days at the women's quarters, where she learned the ancient arts of healing and sorcery. She proved to be quite adept, perhaps the greatest natural witch the women had ever seen, and therefore gained an early reputation for herself, becoming anything but an outcast.

  But Melwas was another story. Shortly after Morgause left to learn from the women, the young prince had begun training to succeed his father as chief, although he showed little talent in the arts of war. Octa was so disappointed in Melwas and in his own misfortune at being unable to father another, better, son, that he barely spoke to the boy. Overall, it was a miserable experience for Melwas, made worse by the fact that without Morgause, there was absolutely no one who wanted to spend any time with him.

  The break came from an unlikely source: Trees. Although Orkney had little to offer in the way of goods, it was rich in timber. The Romans, who had felled nearly all the trees on the once wooded island of Britain, either by building or by burning by the time they left, had never journeyed to the far reaches of Orkney. It had simply been too much trouble. There were no roads, and the hill passes were narrow and invited ambush by the barbaric tribesmen who dwelled there.

  By the time of King Leodegranz's offer of his daughter Guenevere's hand in marriage, lumber was at a premium. With the ever-growing incursions of the Saxons, settlements grew into strongholds of stone and wood. Stone lasted longer, but it took years to build a fortress of stone. Wood was needed, and Leodegranz was willing to sell his own daughter for a forest of big trees.

  So when Morgause suggested that her half-brother kidnap Guenevere, Melwas eventually had to consider her plan.

  “What if she doesn’t want to go to Orkney?” he asked.

  Morgause shrugged. "Then we'll poison her," she said.

  Melwas had laughed. "Stuff some white berries down her throat at dinner," he said.

  The girl had smiled in the enigmatic way that she had, with a small, lovely movement of her lips, but no hint of mirth in her eyes. "I've got something much better," she said softly. "Everyone will think it's her gut. My mother showed me how to make it."

  Melwas frowned, remembering that his own mother had died of a burst gut.

  "She only learned the other day how it's made," Morgause added quickly. "Anyway, if you marry the princess Guenevere, Leodegranz won't make war on you," Morgause said, looking over at the tent where Guenevere had been taken to be nursed by the wise women. "And if you kill her, you can give her fat greedy father some trees in compensation. He'll be so happy to get them that he'll forget all about his stupid daughter."

  "Oh, I don't think she'll die," Melwas said abstractly. "After all, she was only thrown from a horse."

  "I suppose not." Morgause arched an eyebrow. "You can never tell, though. She seems as if she'd be easy to kill."

  Chapter Thirty

  THE FACE OF EVIL

  The next morning, Arthur and Leodegranz rode out early to fetch Guenevere back to the castle. They had both agreed the night before that the princess would be best off staying off her feet after a bad spill.

  "She'll be fit and rosy-cheeked, you'll see," Leodegranz said confidently as they trotted toward the dismal huts of the Orkney contingent. "Ghastly women, those," he added in a whisper, as if they could hear him. "Eat like pigs. Hello!"

  He cupped his hand beside his mouth and shouted again. "I say, is anyone about?"

  Not even a dog emerged from the huts.

  "Odd. You wouldn't think them the sort to sleep so—"

  "They're gone," Arthur said quietly, feeling a shiver. He dismounted and drew his sword before examining the huts.

  "Is Guenevere..." Leodegranz dared not ask the question.

  "They've taken her."

  The old king closed his eyes. "Thank all the spirits. I thought perhaps they'd—"

  "She'll be all right. We'll catch up to them."

  It took Arthur less than three hours to assemble all of Leodegranz's and Uther's troops under Ector's command. He'd sent envoys to the neighboring petty kings, but all of them found some excuse for delay.

  "Bloody cowards," Ector fumed, saddling his horse.

  "That isn't it." Arthur looked over the troops. They were seasoned and well trained. More than a match for the barbaric Orkneyans, if they could be caught before they reached Octa's stronghold and the treacherous northern hills. "They want to see how I handle things. If I make a fool of myself, they'll attack me themselves."

  "Aye, that snake Lot of Rheged will be glad to lead them, too," Ector said.

  Arthur gave a philosophical shrug. "If I fail against the Orkneyans, I'll deserve whatever they give me."

  "Now, boy—"

  "But I won't lose Guenevere. No matter what else happens, I'll get her home." He said that with such conviction that Ector knew it was the truth.

  "The Orkneyans are tough men, but they haven't any decent weapons. Octa's got them all carrying spears. He must keep them in caves, like beasts."

  "They've got good horses, though."

  "That they have," Ector conceded. "But a lot of baggage. And women."

  Arthur was thoughtful. "I don't think their women hold them back much," he said.

  Ector grunted. "No, not by the look of them."

  Arthur nodded toward the troops. "Find me ten of your fastest riders," he said. "And give them all the best weapons."

  The old soldier looked appalled. "Are you going into battle with but ten fighting men, then?" he asked, his hands on his hips.

  "Yes," Arthur said. "You'll lead the rest at a more measured pace. But you'll have to be quick, too. We'll hang on as long as we can. But we've got to stop Melwas."

  "Melwas!" Ector spat on the ground. "Arthur, you're High King now, and I'll do what you ask," he said, his jowls trembling. "But by Mithras, I swear if you fall, I'll roast young Melwas on a spit and have him for my dinner."

  Arthur grinned. "You do that, Ector."

  Melwas and his entourage made excellent time. They might well have r
eached Orkney without incident if it hadn't been for one mistake. He had not taken sufficient care to watch his younger half-sister, Morgause. Because of this lapse, he did not realize until it was nearly too late that Guenevere was dying.

  The princess had recovered from her fall within hours; that had not been the problem. When the Orkney women moved out, swift and spare as warriors, Guenevere had to be bound and her wrists tethered to her horse to prevent her escape.

  "What are you doing? Where are you taking me?" she had demanded.

  The women, who hours before had comforted her with fragrant compresses and soothing teas, now wordlessly wound ropes around her waist and neck so that she could only breathe if she sat perfectly erect. If her horse stumbled, she would be strangled.

  "Can't you loosen her bonds a little?" Morgause asked, her eyes filled with pity for the poor princess.

  "The master says keep 'em tight," one of the women answered.

  The little girl touched Guenevere's hand, already chafing under the rough rope. "I'm sorry," she said in a whisper.

  "Thank you for your concern," Guenevere said. "I shall remember your kindness when I am free."

  Morgause turned to mount her own horse. It had been her idea, not her brother's, to tie Guenevere up like a trussed pig. It would make the journey much more difficult for the princess who, Morgause knew, could not have kept pace with the Orkneyan riders under the best of circumstances. Soft southern women like Guenevere never rode harder than a canter. By that evening, the princess would feel like a piece of wood.

  Morgause kicked her horse and shot forward.

  That night the Orkneyans stopped for less than an hour to water their horses and eat a meal of hard bread. They were accustomed to living rough while traveling, at top speed and with few provisions. From their sloth and drunkenness as guests of King Leodegranz, everyone thought the contingent from Orkney to be slow-witted, slow-moving hayseeds, especially with such a high percentage of women in tow. But the women of Orkney rode as well as the men, and fought as well, and killed far better, because they knew the arts of poison better than any people on earth.

  There was a saying that circulated around the noble houses of Britain: To kill a criminal, cut off his head; to kill your enemy, run him through with a sword. But to kill your mother-in-law, you must send for a woman from Orkney.

  Guenevere watched them as they sat around the fire, bolting their bread and laughing like soldiers. She herself could barely maintain consciousness. Her wrists and neck were rubbed raw from the ropes that bound her, and her back was sore from the breathtaking pace at which she had had to travel. Whenever her horse had slowed enough to give her a chance to breathe, someone came up from behind with a mighty smack on the animal's rump to send it galloping again.

  The princess was too tired to eat. She accepted a little water, which mixed with the sweat and dirt on her lip and tasted of salt. There was a burn on her skin from the relentless sunlight during the long ride. At one point, she fell asleep while sitting up, and crashed headfirst into the cinders around the fire.

  "Set her back up," one of the soldiers ordered. "Don't want to burn the little lady bald, do we?" There was much hooting and laughter in response. Guenevere felt hot tears trickle down her face, and because her hands were tied, she could not even wipe them away. All she could do was to close her eyes and pretend she was elsewhere.

  "I've brought you something for your skin," the girl named Morgause said softly in her ear. "Don't give me away."

  Guenevere looked straight ahead while the child rubbed some strong-smelling but soothing unguent on her rope burns.

  "I'm tying some cloth around your wrists, too, so the ropes won't touch your skin."

  The princess began to sob in gratitude.

  "You'll be all right," Morgause said. "They just want money from your father. I can give you something for your pain, too."

  Guenevere blinked.

  "It's not very strong. Not enough to make you sleep or anything. They give it to women in childbirth. It will make the journey more bearable."

  "How..." Guenevere croaked. "How much longer will the journey be?"

  "Oh, quite a long way, I'm afraid. Another two days."

  That was a lie. They planned to be in Orkney by dawn.

  "I'll give it to you in a drink, if you wish."

  Guenevere hesitated for a moment. Then she nodded her head. A moment later the child was holding a brass bowl to her lips. "Drink it all," Morgause whispered. "Quickly."

  The concoction was foul tasting, but Guenevere obeyed the child and consumed it. And just in time, because one of the elder women saw her and yanked Morgause away by her arm.

  "Hey, what are you doing giving drink to her? She had her turn."

  "I'm sorry, Lady Goodbody," Morgause said, using the ancient form of address. She slid her lovely green eyes toward Guenevere. There was gratitude on the princess's face. The potion was working.

  By the time they remounted, Guenevere was feeling much better.

  A half hour later, she fell off her horse and was dragged twenty feet before someone could stop the animal and cut the rope that was strangling Guenevere.

  "What did you do?" Melwas hissed.

  Morgause shrugged. The other women moved away. One gave the sign of the evil eye.

  Guenevere lay on the ground, her skin so pale it was almost blue.

  "You've poisoned her, haven't you?" he accused.

  "She needed to rest."

  "She could have rested in Orkney! We'll be there in another three or four hours. Or we could have. I haven't any idea what we'll do now. Why, Arthur and half of Britain will be waging war on us." He turned away, but was too filled with anger and fear to leave. "Why on earth did you do such a thing, Morgause?

  The child looked up at him with her lovely, somber face. "I wanted to see what it would do," she said innocently.

  Melwas backed away slowly. He realized at that moment, and never forgot until the moment of his death, that his half sister was that rarest of beings, a true monster.

  It was a strange drug. On the outside, Guenevere appeared to be all but dead. Her skin was ashen, her breath indiscernible. But inside her mind, images swirled stronger than any dream: images of someone she knew was herself, although the woman she saw looked nothing like Guenevere.

  1275   B.C.E.

  She was tall, with long fair hair that fell in waves almost to her knees, and wore the plainest of robes. Standing before a great yellow stone, she held aloft a sacred knife made of obsidian.

  "Attend me, ye greater and lesser spirits!" she began, and the knife in her hands seemed to glow. "I am Brigid, priestess of the Cailleach. My voice speaks the words of the Goddess; my body is Her form in life. With the authority of the Great Hag do I call upon you…"

  It felt so familiar, the invocation of the spirits. She had spoken the words many times since she had been accepted, at the age of fifteen, to serve the Cailleach as one of Her priestesses.

  The Cailleach, the Watcher, was among the most powerful of the ancient Celtic gods, and the Tor was her special place. Some believed that the hag goddess had once, long before the advent of man, lived on the Tor. There were tales, passed down through countless generations, about how she had created the mountain and the lakes with a stomp of her mighty foot, and filled her apron with boulders to bury those unfortunate enough to have come into her orbit. She was said to have transformed men into wolves, who served as her minions and brought her sheep that she would devour, whole, to keep up her colossal strength.

  But even the gods can grow lonely, and one day, according to legend, the Cailleach felt the need to be with others of her kind in the god-world of the summer country. And so she invited a tribe of good people to inhabit her special place on earth, with only one condition: Her memory was to be kept alive through a sisterhood of priestesses, special women who had been born with the Sight.

  "But how shall we find such creatures?" the humans asked. The gift of the Sight was
rare, and sometimes frightening. Clans did not speak of these special ones. Often they were killed as children.

  "You are to search all the land for them, and you shall bring them here, to the Tor, and provide them with safety and shelter and food. You will treat them with respect and reverence, and anyone who harms them will die in agony. In return for your care, they will give you good counsel, and will keep the magic of the Tor strong. Promise me these things, and you may live here in peace and prosperity forever."

  The people agreed, and bowed down to the goddess. As a reward for their obedience, she created the great yellow stone on the Tor's summit to be the eye of the Watcher, and then engraved upon it her own sign, the sign of the dawn, that would ensure the people's protection from evil.

  That had been untold eons ago, years beyond counting; yet all of the priestesses knew the story of how their order had begun, how the first of the great prophetic holy women had been brought to the Tor as young girls and how, in consequence, the people of the mountain had prospered and grown rich, and had never forgotten their covenant with the Cailleach.

  Brigid was special, even among these special ones, for she had been born here on the Tor, the first among the villagers to have been born with the Sight.

  Others with her gift were the daughters of the priestesses, who were permitted congress with anyone they desired, provided they did not marry. This was because a priestess, who embodied the physical form and voice of the Goddess, was required to be absolutely free. To be bound to a husband like ordinary women would necessitate making compromises, and to do this would be to deny her connection with the Goddess and hence her psychic power.

  Therein lay Brigid's problem. Unlike the gifted children of the priestesses who, boys and girls alike, were raised from birth to be servants of the Cailleach, and unlike those with the Sight who journeyed from distant places in order to be among their own kind on the Tor, Brigid had a family. Until the age of fifteen, when she was chosen to live among the priestesses, she had helped her mother with the babies and fallen asleep on her father's knee and run through the woods with her brothers and sisters. And she had loved Macsen.