Merlin's Harp (24 page)

  "Not so! You went for the adventure!"

  "Yes, when I was young. Niviene, we are no longer young. Have you noticed?"

  I studied Mellias by gentle firelight. "You have not a gray hair on your head!" But wrinkles of anxiety had creased his face.

  He continued. "I went for adventure, and for Lugh. Lugh was to me what a brother should be to a Human. Later, I went for you. To look after you. To be your…shield."

  I broke gaze with him and looked down into the fire. I think what I felt was what Humans called shame.

  "Niviene, I lived a long time among Humans. Longer than you, for I went out there earlier. You know, when you live among strangers you learn their language. You learn their thought too.

  "I never despised the Humans as you did, so I learned from them. I learned…love from them. I came to love Merlin, and Aefa, and you most of all."

  (I remembered Merlin's words, painfully gasped by the stone table. "The holy power instructs our Mellias. He stole a spark of it from the Humans.")

  I looked up to Mellias. "And yet…now I go into danger, you will not come."

  "Listen, Niviene. In two days the moon will flower. I had hoped that this time you would be there, but if you are gone to Arthur's battle, never fear for me; I will find myself a merry companion, as I have done before.

  "For years I have followed you like a hound and covered you like a shield. Now that is finished. We are home. Merlin is dead. Lugh has left us. Now let this Human folly die out of me! If you choose now to jump into a coracle and float back out there to a kingdom battle, that is your choice, for you. You shall not choose for me any longer. I, Mellias, choose to roll up in my otter skin robe and sleep for two days. Then I will dance, with you if you are there. Or with another. Then I will mend my nets and pick a few apples. I may dry them for winter, Human-style. I choose to return now to my true self and my true life, and forget all that has been, and all that fantastic, grim world out there. It can go about its business, and I will go about mine."

  Never had Mellias spoken at such length before, or with such emphasis. Never had I seen him utterly humorless till now.

  Faintly I murmured, "Merlin's last words. I must go."

  "Then that is your choice. I do not fear for you. You do not know what you are going into, but you will survive it. True Fey are survivors." And Otter Mellias picked up his pipe, thrust it into his belt, and rose up away from my fire like silent gray smoke. I did not watch him go. Shivering with a strange chill, I fastened my gaze on the fire and willed to see Arthur. But the fire told me nothing.

  Had the fire shown me a moment of what Merlin had called the Battle of Camlann, I might have rolled up and slept for two days like Mellias. Shivering beside the fire, I might have reconsidered his earlier words. "Have you ever seen battle? By the Gods, I have."

  Mellias had seen battle, and he was not going. A prudent Fey would have considered this, and her tiredness; she would have asked herself what claim a dead man could have on her, that she should do his will.

  But that night, and the next morning, I was not true Fey. I was not a heartless mage. I was…By the Gods, I acted like a bewitched Human woman!

  Single-minded, I obeyed Merlin. Never before had I ventured into the kingdom alone. Alone now, I put on the warm woolen shirt and trousers my mother had left for me, and my Child Guard invisible cloak. (Mellias's crystal hid, as always, under my shirt.) Alone, I packed a pouch of nuts, climbed into a coracle, and poled downstream, following Merlin's directions.

  So it was that I came to crouch in the coracle in a forest of reeds, while the Battle of Camlann raged on the bank.

  The sun looked calmly down on this amazing horror and passed on his way. Buzzards circled slowly, patiently waiting. Sun and buzzards had seen Human battle before. They did not have to smell it, or hear it close to, as I did.

  The screams of men and horses rent the air, to a constant accompaniment of groans, grunts, and the clash of steel. Fecal matter and blood stank together. My head throbbed and I retched, though my stomach had long since emptied itself. Most of the fighting took place out of my sight, over the bank; but now and then a desperate pair of antagonists, mounted or on foot, came rolling or sliding down the bank and fought in the water, which now burbled pink through the reeds. Three human corpses and a dead horse clogged the reeds near me. Looking up I saw the battle-aura dark as a storm cloud in the sky, and the Morrigan Crow circling among the patient scavengers. That huge black bird screaming bloodlust and delight could only have been She.

  Why these men sacrificed their healthy bodies I could not imagine. Most of them would live no differently under King Mordred than under King Arthur. They fought no Saxons here, but their own Angle brothers, with whom they were drinking ale a moon ago. It was as incomprehensible to me as the game of Tournament Lugh used to play with the village boys. Now and then a boy would fall and break a leg, or narrowly escape blinding, and Elana and I would marvel at their folly. So now I marveled at the folly of battle, where a healthy man was killed every moment for no clear reason.

  I crouched hidden in the coracle, safe except from a direct hit by a combatant rolling down the bank, and listened, smelled, retched and ached. Rightly had Mellias asked, What will you do there?

  But wait. The roar of battle was less. The shouts, groans, and clashes sounded farther away. As when a thunderstorm draws away, and thunder growls and mutters and sinks into silence while lightning still flashes, so the battle seemed to ebb from the bank.

  The hopeful buzzards circled lower.

  Just as I began to think of climbing the bank and peering over, a knight came reeling along, pursued by two others; and I crouched low and pulled reeds close before me.

  The fugitive was small, slight, armed in black. A black plume dangled askew from his helmet; blood drenched his left side. A giant followed him closely, swinging a sword that shone through all the blood that slimed it. This man hardly bled, though armor and tunic were shredded. He must have been wounded, yet the sheath that slapped against his thigh was free of blood, and so were the remnants of his cuirass and tunic.

  
(And Merlin said, "This is the magic sword, Caliburn, who always
draws blood. And this is his sheath, even more precious, for he who
wears this enchanted sheath, however wounded, will never bleed.")

  I blinked, remembering the song in the tavern, the listening giants and the spell that Merlin laid on them, so that they forgot their grievances and rallied again in their hearts to Arthur and his Peace.

  That part of the song about the sheath was here proven. Here came Arthur, whom I had twice loved, who had cost me my power and my brother, who had given me a son he never knew; here came this proud giant, staggering under wounds that should have stretched him dead by now, but shedding no blood, swinging magic Caliburn at his enemy nephew.

  And behind him, some way behind, blundered a blood-blinded giant, also swinging his sword. I could not decide which man he meant to fight, but it did not matter. He reeled and stumbled and fell over corpses, so it seemed the first two would finish their business before he caught them up.

  On the bank just above me Mordred paused, wheeled slowly around and faced Arthur. Neither man carried a shield. Each raised sword high above head with both hands and rushed upon the other.

  Had I been a bard hiding in the rushes, I could have sung this duel at feasts and fairs for the rest of my life. I could have lived on this duel. I knew exactly how it should sound, where the harp should thrum, how to sing the tremendous clash of swords; how the heroes swayed, struck and fell and rose again; how they drove one another back and forth along the bank; how nothing ever grew again where their bloody feet pressed; how forever after this stretch of bank would be barren and lifeless. One struck the other to his knees and the other pulled the one's feet from under him. They rolled in bloody mud, dropping swords, groping for knives. A fine song this would be, with a chorus about the river running red.

  Together as one they found their knives, drew their knives, drove their knives each through riven cuirass and chest.

  Together as one they rolled apart, writhed, lay still.

  The giant follower ran up and bent over Arthur. He crashed to his knees and cradled Arthur in his arms. He was Bedevere.

  I found myself climbing the bank and stood between Arthur and Mordred, and looked from Arthur to Mordred.

  Both still breathed. As I turned his way, Mordred opened a narrow red eye and croaked. I leaned down to listen, and heard, "M-Ma, M-Ma," like the bleat of a separated lamb.

  I knelt down and took Mordred's even-fingered, gloved hand. Low I bent to hear his bleats, and I felt power rise tingling up my spine as though it had never slept; I sank down through Mordred's tight, white face and through his skull and into his mind.

  The iron door that had been locked in his mind stood open. Through the door I saw apple trees, summer sun, sparkling water. Avalon Island. But I was seeing it from low to the ground. Ferns brushed my face.

  I, tiny Bran, stumbled over roots and rocks, calling to my Ma. She strode ahead, not looking back. Her long black braid swung down her back. A reed basket bounced against her shoulder. Her stride rustled no undergrowth, snapped no twig. Silent, she disappeared behind a giant apple tree.

  Huge gray trees bent down to stare at me. Something stepped in a thicket. I cried, "M-Ma!" fell over a rock and landed in a bawling heap.

  Ma appeared again. Like a doe, she seemed to grow from the apple tree, peering around it.

  I was not really crying, just bawling, so I saw her clearly. I saw her wry, disapproving face, the thin lips twisted. I knew she did not like noise. I knew if I bawled again she would disappear, and leave me alone with the staring trees and the thing that stepped in the thicket.

I tempered my bawl to a whimper. "M-Ma!"

  She shrugged. Swift and silent, making not a whisper of sound, she came back and stood over me. I saw her like a tree, looking down her deerskin tunic at me.

  I snuffled. I hurt very badly, much worse than from a fall over a rock.

  My mother knelt down before me. Her warm brown arms came around me. I buried my face in her breasts that smelled of sweet milk.

  Sun shone, cuckoo called. I lay content in M'ma's arms, and she stroked my hair. And now I did not hurt any more.

  I, Niviene, drew back out of Mordred, to myself. I was Niviene, Lady of the Lake. I held my son Bran in my arms; his blood drenched my breasts and belly; I felt his heartbeat, erratic and feeble, against my own. I had pushed off his helmet and was stroking his black, soaked curls, and murmuring to him.

  He convulsed, and I held him. He died and I held him, murmuring to him, till I felt the spirit rise away out of him.

  Mordred was free. This was a bad life I had given him. My little Bran had not been himself since he was small. He did not remember being my Bran till a moment ago, when death broke down the iron door in his mind. Now he was free.

  And I had stood in his brain with Death. Through his eyes I had seen the Goddess, disguised as myself. How could I ever fear again?

  Without haste I laid the body down. I took the small, gloved hands with the even fingers and crossed them on the breast. I thought forgiveness to Merlin. He had not known.

  Now that Mordred/Bran had passed, as Merlin had passed, I was free. Let buzzards strip his once-beloved bones. I sat back on my heels and looked around me.

  Sir Bedevere still knelt by Arthur, who still breathed. Caliburn's magic sheath could no longer dam the tide of blood from his savage wounds. He bled richly from side and thigh and breast.

  Bedevere sobbed.

  Arthur gasped, "Caliburn. Give him to the Lady. Throw him in the river."

  
And Merlin said, "The Lady of the Lake gives you Caliburn to drive
the Saxons from our land. The day you fail your people, young king,
She will require him back from you."

  I stood up.

  Bedevere had been killing men all day. His small aura shone red against the storm-clouded air. I approached him warily, holding out empty hands. I said, "Bedevere, I am the Lady of the Lake. Give Caliburn to me."

  Bedevere looked up at me through blood and tears. He saw a boy, someone's squire—disheveled, blood-smeared and dripping from the river. He looked beyond me.

  I said, "Bedevere, I am the Lady of the Lake. Mage Merlin and I gave Caliburn to Arthur. Now I require him back."

  Arthur gave a heave and flop, like a landed fish. "Give," he croaked. "Give Caliburn…to the Lady." He tried to lift Caliburn himself, but could not.

  Bedevere took up the sword. Once again he looked beyond and around me, seeking the fabled "lady."

  I stood close enough to grasp the hilt myself; also close enough to take the blade through my chest. Patiently I held out my hands and said, "Bedevere. Give me the sword." And I added a short, sharp Fey phrase that Humans know from old songs.

  At that, Bedevere's wavering gaze focused on me. Slowly, he gave Caliburn into my hands.

  A shock ran up my arms and down my sides.

  Caliburn pulsed power. I had always assumed the Caliburn story was one of those Fey inventions that gather power from Human minds, like the tales of cloud-castles and hundred-year nights and transformations, tales that we invent to safeguard our forests from invasion.