Merlin's Shadow (16 page)

Raindrops fell upon his cheek as a sharp pain cracked his temple — the echo filling his head like bees in a hive. He covered his face with his hands, but Scafta kicked him again, and again.

Ganieda slept, uncomfortable as it was with her hands and ankles tied. Images floated through her dreams of the man attacking her with his bloody spear — and of the woman screaming and scratching her with long, orange fingernails. Once she dreamed that a dark beast had come and hung her upside down by her feet and dangled her over a pit of snakes whose glowing tongues spat fire through their flashing white fangs. Ganieda called for help, but none came. She called for her mother and father, weeping and struggling against the grip of the beast, but no one ever came to save her.

She awoke, suddenly, upon a feather-stuffed mattress. A thick blanket covered her, and she felt warm. Someone must have moved her in the night, for she had fallen asleep on the hard, earthy floor. The sun shone through the shutters and onto a nearby stone wall, but Ganieda could tell neither the time of day nor how long she'd slept.

She rested while scheming her escape from the ropes. Soon the blankets became too warm, and she wanted to thrust them off. She thrashed wildly and unsuccessfully until her frustrations came out in a scream. And slowly the blanket crept up until it covered her face and stifled her raw voice. She wanted to hurt these people — to kill them and run away back to Grandpa.

The blanket was pulled back — and there stood Ganieda's mother, Mônda, come to rescue her. Ganieda tried to breathe the fresh air, but could not make her lungs move from the joy and shock. Her mother's dark tresses hung down toward Ganieda, and she wanted to touch them with her hands, to have them trail across her face, to smell them once again. Only the hair smelled different than her mother's, like rotten bark … with a hint of onion?

Ganieda's vision changed, and her mother was replaced by another woman — the one whom Ganieda had scratched the night before. Her headwrap had been removed and Ganieda saw that the hair was not quite as dark as her mother's.

“Are you hungry?” the woman asked, and only then did Ganieda notice the smell of bread, yeasty and fresh. Beside the woman sat a tray of buns, and a steaming mug. The smell of salty boiled carrots and cabbage wafted over her.

“You let me go,” Ganieda yelled, fresh tears streaming from her eyes and running across her nose and cheeks.

“And what will you do, lass? Will you hurt me again?”

“Yes! I'll kill you …”

The woman arced an eyebrow. “Will you now? Then I shouldn't let you go, should I?”

“Let me go. Let me go, and I'll scratch you again!” Ganieda would find the fang and then … but she knew her words didn't make sense. With these threats, why would this stranger ever let her go?

“Well then, I only have one choice, don't I?” The woman's lip trembled — and she shucked off Ganieda's blanket.

Ganieda braced herself for the blow. The woman would beat her, and Ganieda would scream. She filled her lungs for it, waiting.

But the woman picked at the knot holding her legs tight. Soon Ganieda's ankles moved free, and she considered kicking the woman, but decided to wait and land the blow when it was least expected after her hands were free.

The woman's fingers shook as she undid the knot at Ganieda's wrists.

Ganieda tensed. Why was she doing this? The woman's arm was wrapped in a thick bandage, with dried blood soaking one side where Ganieda had cut her. Didn't she know Ganieda would hurt her and then run away?

The smell of the soup filled the small room fully now, and the bread with it, and Ganieda's stomach growled. Maybe she would eat
first … and then shatter the empty bowl in the woman's face … and then run.

The knot slipped away, and the rope was set down, and the woman kissed Ganieda's wrists where the skin had been chafed. “I'm sorry,” she said, and her hair teased Ganieda's arms and knees. Ganieda wanted to feel those locks for just a moment, but then they slipped away and the woman brought the tray of steaming goodness and set it before Ganieda.

“My name's Safrowana, and it's going to be all right.”

S
cafta finally stalked off, leaving Merlin hurting and stunned. Colvarth and the others helped Merlin to stand and guided him over to a spot under a tree. There he rested while the warriors hunkered down until nightfall, when they would travel again.

Merlin's dreams were strange, beginning with a reliving of Scafta's attack. The witch doctor's boot, sharp like a broken rock, came down again and again on Merlin's head, and he was kicked until he shrunk so small that he tumbled into a tiny crack that opened in the ground. He fell into smothering earth, which covered his face. It became impossible to breathe. He flailed for a handhold, anything, to pull himself up, but the soil came off in lumps. Darkness took him.

When he awoke, it was night and he lay in the bottom of a small boat, its wooden ribs creaking and water lapping the sides. Merlin sat up. A thick, peat-scented fog covered the world, and though he could see neither oar nor sail, the boat plied through the water on
a will of its own. Hazy reeds passed by and frogs drummed their throats in the distance.

A loud splash fell near the front of the boat, and Merlin's heart skipped a beat. He tried to calm himself, but his skin prickled as if a hundred centipedes crawled inside his tunic. He leaned over the edge of the boat, and there, deep down in the water, he saw two large eyes staring at him, luminous with green fire. The creature's white hide covered it like scabbed bark, and it was larger than any living thing Merlin had ever seen, maybe forty feet long. It swam below the surface, mostly in the shadowy depths, and its tail knocked Merlin's boat to the side with a loud crack. The boat tipped, but did not capsize. Water began to fill the bottom of the boat and wet Merlin's boots — the creature's blow had sprung a leak!

He grabbed for his sword, only to find it missing, and he couldn't find his knife. But then the fog parted and another boat appeared. A man rowed it, whistling quietly. Didn't he see the creature?

“Stay back,”
Merlin yelled, but the man ignored him and rowed his boat nearer. Then the man set his oars down and stood in his boat, a dark, hooded cloak upon his frame and his face in darkness. He held in his hand a fishing net, and tossed it into the water using a long rope. He was still whistling.

The creature below the water paused, the green fire of its eyes glaring upward. Then, as if spooked, it shot away into the depths.

Merlin's boat had now sunk partway into the water, and Merlin abandoned it, swimming over and grabbing onto the net, still dangling from the man's hands. “Help me up,” he called, looking frantically into the water to make sure the creature wasn't returning.

The fisherman reached down and pulled him into the boat. He then lifted the net in, and it was filled with seven large perch, gray-green with black stripes.

“Where am I?” Merlin asked, his wet clothes dripping on the bench.

The man did not answer. He took hold of the oars and rowed. Merlin tried to glimpse his face, but the hood drooped too low for that.

They rowed through the fog for a long time, and yet it seemed to Merlin that they stood still. Nothing could be seen on the left or the right, and time slowed until Merlin felt they would go on like that, the man bumping the oars, splash into the water, raising them — dripping years across the surface of Merlin's life — and then back down again for another row. Perpetually.

Just as Merlin began to shiver, the boat bumped something. Turning around, he saw a wide shore, gray with rocks. Merlin climbed out and pulled the boat up the shingle.

The fisherman gathered his catch, still flopping slightly, and climbed onto the shore. He lit a small lantern from a tinder box, and then led the way up a narrow track.

“Who are you?” Merlin asked, trying to keep up, but the man ignored him. Merlin wanted to grab his sleeve, turn him around, and pull back the hood — but began to fear what he might find.

Soon they passed through a forest of stout but short trees, their wide, pointed leaves motionless in the lifeless air. A stone fortress loomed out of the thinning fog. Its granite blocks had been weathered from hundreds of years of wind and rain, and they towered over Merlin, more imposing than even Dintaga. To the left stood a high tower with a conical roof, its windows black. The gate was open, but it was dark inside, and a stillness pressed down over the place like a blanket, thick and moldy.

The man entered, his lantern too small to light up anything beyond the gate but for a foot or so.

Merlin hesitated. If he stepped inside, would the doors close behind and trap him?

The fisherman turned and beckoned him. His hand was thick and calloused, and there was no hint of evil in his motion — but could Merlin trust him? Yes, he had seemed to scare off the creature in the water, but what if it was for some fouler purpose?

Merlin turned back and looked the way he had come. He knew the boat was still there on the shore, and he could take it and — but the creature was there, so he could not go back.

“There is nothing to fear,” the man said, his fish gleaming in the lantern light.

Merlin had forgotten about the fish, and that is what made his decision. The simple act of catching fish hearkened back to his own memories as a child, when his father would take him out on the marsh. They would spend hours filling the bottom of the boat, cleaning their catch, smoking them, and hanging them from the ceiling to provide meat through the long winter.

How bad could this man be? Merlin stepped forward, and together they entered the shadowed interior of the fortress wall. The man walked slowly across the courtyard and to a timbered hall where they entered. The floor was littered with rocks, and the hearth in the center lay dead, its ashes sodden and the charred logs old and broken. On one end of the room lay a dais, and upon it stood two granite thrones whose stonework was cracked. They were framed by blood-red vines that grew up the wall.

The man handed the net of fish to Merlin, and though it was heavy it gave him something to do — something to hold on to — and that net of fish felt more real to him than all the rest.

The fisherman stepped up to the dais, turned, and sat down heavily upon the throne. And in that instant, all the world changed. Lights burst out in the room. The net of fish changed suddenly to a tray of salted and baked fillets. Servants appeared dressed in finely woven clothes of yellows, blues, and crimson, and they carried platters of steaming breads, troughs of meaty stews, and crocks of spicy soups. Above the blazing hearth lay a spitted boar, roasting, with fat sizzling and dripping.

The fisherman had changed too. His dark cloak was gone, replaced by a mantle of plum and argent. His tunic was plaid, like the princes of Kembry, and his pants made from handsome gray leather. Next to him, upon the other throne, sat a woman. Her hair was red like a flaxen fire, and her elegant dress was the most brilliant blue Merlin had ever seen. Upon her head and the king's lay simple silver circlets with neither gem nor ornamentation.

A servant came and relieved Merlin of the tray of fish. He was hungry but didn't care, for the sight was feast enough. He dropped to his knees before the king and queen, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“Rise, Merlin, and be at ease, for you are an honored guest,” the lady said, and her voice was like a songbird freshly lit amongst the dew-dripped flowers.

Merlin looked up, and her face was radiant such that he had to turn away lest she steal his very soul. That was when he saw the man's face. His jaw was strong under a handsome nose, and his brown hair fell thick past his shoulders. But a sadness hung upon him unlike any Merlin had seen before. His lips hung down at the corners as if a smile had never been seen across his face. The skin of his cheeks lay tense and brooding, and his eyes — the sadness was most pronounced in his eyes — they were sunken as if all the tears of the world had been shed through them and had left them hollow. The crease of his brow was so pronounced that Merlin shuddered.

“My lord,” Merlin dared utter, still on his knees, “what burden do you bear, and how may I cheer you?”

The king said nothing, but only pointed to the plaid of his chest … and there Merlin spied a stain. Blood it was, trickling down from his heart, pooling in his lap, running down the throne, across the dais, and soaking into the ground. There was so much of the blood that it was a wonder Merlin had not seen it before.

Even the queen was concerned now, and she rose to help her husband, but he waved her back. “Nothing can be done for my wound, and you know it well,” he declared.

“That may be,” the queen said, “but that is why Merlin is here. He holds the power to heal your wound, if he is willing.”

Merlin felt himself go pale. If he was willing? Heal the king's wound? Merlin had no power to heal. His prayers for Natalenya's healing had gone unanswered. His prayers for release from their slavery had gone unheeded. A fool he was. A powerless fool, with a God who had abandoned them to sickness and death. He wanted to
believe — to trust — but his faith was beginning to fade as the trials mounted and the impossibility of their situation pressed upon him.

But the queen spoke again, her voice soft as the waters of a gently flowing stream. “Do not doubt, brave Merlin, but believe the gospel! Within the bag at your side hides the power to heal the great wound of my husband.”

Merlin did not even bother to look down at his waist. He knew there was no bag there — he had already searched himself when the creature had slunk by in the marsh. But … what was this knot at his elbow? He felt with his hand, and sure, a bag was mysteriously present where none had been before. He untied it and reached inside, felt something wooden, and pulled it out.

It was the small, strange bowl he and Colvarth had found in the tin box. The bowl Necton had stolen from them without knowing what it was. Its wood was aged to a deep brown, and its base was covered in a circle of decorated gold.

“You hold the
Sancte Gradale
, the Sangraal,” the queen said, stepping down from her perch and falling on her knees beside Merlin. “The cup of the Christ! At the Last Supper, it held the wine that was poured out for us all, and the
Pergiryn
who built this fortress, this shrine, used it to catch our Lord's blood when he lay dying upon the cross. It is most holy.”

Merlin studied it again, holding his breath, for now its bottom was filled with blood, dark and dread. He almost dropped the thing, his hands shaking, but the queen reached out and steadied them, her eyes shining with wonder.

“To think that you have brought it here again,” she said. “To think that I have now touched the cup of the living Christ. May I bring it to my husband? For his wound is grievous.”

Merlin stood, and giving her the Sangraal, she held it out to the king's lips, who drank of the blood, all of it, and in that instant was healed. The stain upon his tunic faded and was gone, the pooled blood evaporated, and a joy filled his face. Raising his arms to heaven, he sang forth a song Merlin had never heard:

The light of the Sangraal flashed then, more intense than any light Merlin had ever seen. The world was covered in that light, and the dream faded away.

Merlin opened his eyes to a world unlike the one he had dreamed about. His head felt like a dead fish — bloated, washed ashore, and ready to pop.

Colvarth was there, trying to rouse him with insistent whispers. “He has taken Natalenya! Awake!”

“I know. I know …” Merlin said. Of course Scafta'd taken Natalenya's harp and smashed it. Even in his drowsiness, Merlin's heart began to burn in anger at such a desecration.

“Not the harp — Natalenya herself, Necton has …”

“Necton?” This didn't make sense to him. Necton couldn't play the harp, certainly not a broken one. Merlin sat up, the world tilting around the rock steadiness of Colvarth's hand.

“You must be up — Necton has taken Natalenya to make her his wife!”

Ganieda ate and was satisfied, wondering who these people were such that they treated her so harshly … and yet so kindly. Her mother had always warned her to avoid the other people of the village. None of them were descended from the glorious Eirish, like her
mother. They were cruel, ignorant, and foolish. Certainly the tall man's treatment of her grandfather had been cruel — but the woman treated Ganieda gently despite the fact that Ganieda had cut her.

Wasn't that how the world worked … cut those who cut you? Why did Safrowana unbind her while being threatened? Ganieda had fully expected to be beaten, and yet here she sat in the woman's lap — dallying over her bread, smelling her hair, and feeling warm and truly safe for the first time in many weeks.

But what of the others? Those girls? That cruel man?

Someone knocked on the door and entered. It was the man.

She wanted to scream, but her mouth was full of bread, so Ganieda stuffed the remaining piece in and clung to Safrowana. That man wouldn't dare hurt her then!

“It's okay, little girl. I'm called Troslam, and I'm sorry for the rough handling. I've made you a dress, and I hope you like yellow.”

He laid upon the bed a bright yellow dress, cross-woven with orange and red strands. It was more beautiful than any dress Ganieda had ever seen, and she just stared at it as the man left and closed the door.

Ganieda reached out and felt the cloth, smooth and soft.
Is it mine?
she thought to herself, but didn't realize she had spoken it aloud until the woman answered her.