Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) (58 page)

T
WO WEEKS LATER

I
t was twilight, and Arthur stood on the upper walkway of Dinas Camlin’s massive, round feasting hall, staring through one of the many lookouts. Although he gazed past the harbor to the fleeing clouds that had so recently buffeted the bay of Lake Camlin, all he could think about was his thirst.

And it was the kind of thirst that couldn’t be quenched by the rains that had fallen upon the isle of Britain. For the first time in many months, a storm had blown in from the western ocean and its showers had drenched the long-parched land in waves of life-giving water.

Arthur sighed.

Gwenivere.

Just the thought of her name sent a longing through his bones.

And if he would just turn around, step toward the railing, and look down, he could see her sitting at the feast near one of the four hearth fires.

But Culann was with her.

And try as he might, Arthur had to sit upon the central dais at the champion’s table with Merlin, old Pelles one-ear, and the newly arrived king who had rescued Arthur from the wolf-heads — Bors the Elder, a ruler of Silures and Culann’s distant, puffed-up relation.

Besides these, the feast was thick with folk from Kernow, for the word had spread through the countryside that the High King had returned and slain the Great Werewolf along with his plague of wolf-heads. Also, the recent rainfall only increased Arthur’s fame, for all the people saw it as a miracle. And truly it was, though none of Arthur’s doing, but who would convince them of that?

The real problem for Arthur, however, was that all of these people and their cousin’s crusty cat wanted to wish him well. Toast the return of Uther’s son to the High Kingship. Speak with him about their petty problems. Keep him so busy that he had no time to do anything but walk past Gwenivere, make idle chit-chat, and then attend to the next interruption.

And worse was that Gwenivere always responded to him with a formality that bordered on coldness. It was clear that she and her sister were still grieving the loss of their father, and rightfully so. But why did she blame
him
? Was it really Arthur’s fault? He hadn’t asked Gogi to help in the fight!

Nevertheless, perhaps all his focus on Gwenivere was simply an attempt to distract himself from Dwin’s death. The man’s absence felt to Arthur like his right arm had been cut off, and perhaps all his pining over Gwenivere was just a lot of useless chaff.

Had it been only twelve days since Dwin’s burial? And though Arthur had been the one to place the last rock upon the cairn covering his friend’s body, he could still hardly believe the man had died. It seemed so unreal, yet the ghastly nightmare lurched after Arthur, ready to catch and smother him.

And the worst was that Arthur would see some sandy-headed young man walking just out of the corner of his gaze, and his heart would quicken. Until, of course, he saw the man’s face and knew that he wasn’t Dwin.

His best friend was gone, and Arthur was stunned. Absolutely shaken.

And the madness of all this desire and grief was the reason he’d escaped to the upper, circular walkway of the feasting hall. At least here the guards ignored him, what with their duties to watch over the fortress, abbey, village, and surrounding countryside through the many open arches.

Arthur covered his face with his hands, wiped his eyes, and shook his head. Could he conquer the tempest raging inside?

And what of Gwenivere’s sister, Gwenivach? If Culann took to the former, couldn’t Arthur court Gwenivach? Weren’t the girls nearly twins? One like sunshine, and the other the radiance of the moon? Neverthless, their spirits weren’t the same. Where Gwenivere was quiet, with a strong streak of serene independence, Gwenivach was petulant and pouty — even if she did follow Arthur around like she was his lost puppy.

All in all, Arthur was just glad to have had Gwenivere so near for the last fortnight. In his anger, Melwas had abandoned his sisters, leaving them alone to build a cairn over Gogi’s body — and none of them knew where Melwas had gone. Arthur, Culann, and the others had assisted in transporting Gogi to Inis Avallow, where they held a painful, harrowing burial. Arthur had even delayed Dwin’s burial because of it, but the girls were oblivious to his own suffering.

And Gwenivere had refused his offer to pay for a carved stone marker to commemorate Gogi’s deeds at the battle of Bosventor.

“We Walkers do not mark our graves,” she had said, blinking away her tears. “We walk in this life from under the dappled shadows to the next world — the place where the unknown King reigns over the pool of mysteries. We will never forget the woven story of our father’s life and the place of his rending. Neither will this place forget us.”

These memories cut him, but just as painful was his initial failure to find his father. Immediately after Gogi’s burial, Arthur had led a party of warriors on horseback to try to find Merlin, but nothing could be discovered. And because of the physical needs of Natalenya, the children, and the wounded, Arthur was forced to abandon his search and bring everyone to safety.

And that meant lifting Dwin’s body onto the wagon reserved for the stricken. This act almost crushed Arthur’s heart, for the man’s skin was cold . . . cold as the never-sated grave. Yes, Arthur would come back with men to bury all of their fallen comrades, but Arthur couldn’t abandon Dwin for so long.

After considering the dangers of the open country, Gwenivere and Gwenivach had chosen to come along to the protective walls of Dinas Camlin. Once there, the good Abbess Trevenna, Natalenya’s mother, took the girls under her care, giving the girls words of comfort, truth, and wisdom to help their crushed spirits. Truth that Arthur prayed they nourished still.

Myrgwen had come along as well, but her demeanor unnerved Arthur and made him worry all the more for Merlin’s safety. Not only did she refuse to speak, but she stared ahead, unseeing. And when Arthur looked into that one beautiful eye of his sister — a depth of fearful portent lurked there that took his breath away.

At first light they’d prepared a second sortie to find Merlin as well as to bury the fallen — but to everyone’s surprise, the bard himself knocked on the gates before they could mount the horses . . . even bringing a monk with him!

But their appearance was like prophets of doom, both covered in blood, with wounds and news of a dragon loose upon the land.

Arthur didn’t know what to think, even now.

A dragon?

There were tales of such monsters, of course, passed down from ancient times, but no creature of that ilk had entered into the known history of Britain. What was Mórgana up to?

After washing his wounds, receiving fresh clothes, and seeing to
his joyful wife and children, Merlin had led the mounted warriors to the entrance of the cave, hoping to catch and kill the dragon.

But when they unbarred its inner door, they found no sign of the beast, even after searching the farthest depths of the cave. In fact, all evidence of Merlin and Dybris’s fight with the creature was conspicuously absent as well. Even the shattered iron pot was gone.

Some of the warriors began to doubt the story, but Arthur knew his father better than that.

The man’s word was his bond.

And the gouges on Dybris’s arms also testified to the encounter.

The feasting hall below became quiet, waking Arthur from his thoughts. Soon a harp began to play, and Arthur recognized his mother’s elegant style. It was a beautiful song commemorating the coronation of Aurelianus, who was Arthur’s grandfather. He had heard it many times growing up, but never understood the tune’s significance to his own life.

But the song also reminded Arthur of the last time he’d heard Natalenya play: at Dwin’s funeral. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the images out.

Thankfully, the song ended, and Arthur opened his eyes as a man began to chant — Dybris, the monk, who would be standing in the center upon the dais. The champion’s table would also have been cleared away and the chapel’s altar placed upon it. The man’s words lifted to the upper reaches of the hall.

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus — Dominus Deus Sabaoth.

Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua.

Hosanna in excelsis.

Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.

Hosanna in excelsis!

And then a chorus of male and female voices responded by singing it again in British:

Holy, holy, holy is the Lord — the God of mighty warriors.

Heaven and earth are filled with Thy glory.

Hosanna in the highest.

Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest!

As Arthur turned to approach the rail to see what Gwenivere was doing, someone climbed the stairs about five paces away.

“Arthur! There you are . . .”

It was Merlin, and he had a worried look on his face.

“It’s time for your coronation.”

Arthur paused.

“Are you coming?”

Sighing, he bowed his head and moved to follow Merlin. Though he knew he had to go through with it, he hated standing in the center and having everyone look at him. The only thing that made him follow was the fact that he would now be allowed to wear the torc of Uther, his birth father. Arthur and Merlin descended the steps while Dybris sang in Latin, followed by the chorus in British:

Sanctus Deus, Sanctus Fortis, Sanctus Immortális, miserére nobis.

Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy and Immortal, have mercy on us.

The singing ended as Arthur and Merlin stepped onto the ground floor at the east end of the circular hall. Dybris stood in the center, and Arthur was glad that the man’s wounds had healed enough for him to lead the coronation.

There was not one chorus, but two — on the north and south sides of the feasting hall. The north was made up of the abbey’s sisters, led by Trevenna. The southern chorus consisted of the abbey’s brothers, and these were led by their abbot, Offyd — a monk who’d left Bosventor after the troubles with the Stone.

Arthur and Merlin stood, waiting for their separate cues.

Two boys began snuffing out the large oil lamps that had brightened the room for the feast. While this was done, the people lit small beeswax candles, one from another. The hall darkened and a hush fell over the people.

Dybris nodded to Arthur, and he knew it was time to walk forward.

But before he could step out, someone touched his shoulder — Merlin, the only father Arthur had ever known — and he was smiling with such hope, confidence, and assurance that it seeped and finally swelled into Arthur’s own heart.

He could do this. He was made for this, to take the mantle of the High Kingship and, come what may, to do his best.

Arthur grinned back.

Dybris raised his hands; everyone stood and turned to look at Arthur as he stepped forward to walk westward down the candlelit aisle. Garth began to play a martial tune on his bagpipe, and the double-chanters produced an exquisite refrain that filled the hall.

From both sides of the hall came the thrilling sound of drummers.

Everyone’s gaze was locked on Arthur, their expressions varying widely. Most of them had hopeful smiles spread across joyful faces. Taliesin was one of these, and he stood on his bench with his mop of hair trembling in excitement. Tinga, who peeked out from behind her older brother, had a radiant smile on her lightly freckled face.

Gwalahad, the son of Chieftain Pelles, was another who smiled. The lad was a little younger than Arthur, with white-blond hair that fairly shone in the dark. And Arthur’s warriors were there to support him: Mabon, Percos, Tethion, Ol, and Neb, along with all the others. Near the aisle stood Peredur, his grin contagious.

Until Arthur remembered Dwin’s absence. How could he not be here?