Merlin's Shadow (25 page)

Atle touched one of the scars on Merlin's face. “Vat is dis? Tears? Did ye nott know dat I always play a hard bargain?”

V
ortigern banged again, and finally Tregeagle opened the door. When the Magister saw Vortigern, his jaw fell open, and the light of the morning sun reflected strangely in his eyes.

“Ehh, shut your mouth,” Vortigern said. “You smell like a dead lizard.”

Over Tregeagle's shoulder, he spied the man's wife about twenty paces back.

“V-v-vorti —” Tregeagle stammered. His hair was long and matted, and the man hadn't shaved his white beard in weeks.

Vortigern clamped his hand over the man's filthy lips. “My name's Ivor, yes?”

Tregeagle nodded.

Vortigern took his hand away and wiped the spit on Tregeagle's tunic — once brilliant white, now soiled with dirt and oil.

“Ivor … Ivor,” Tregeagle said. “I'd been expecting you … months ago.”

Vortigern grabbed Tregeagle's shoulder, pulled him outside into the falling snow, and closed the door. “It's hard being a traveling merchant. Do you know if anyone in the area has something to sell? Perhaps
two
of something?”

“Two … yes, two.”

“Where would I find them?”

Tregeagle pointed down the mountainside. “There …”

“Ehh, which crennig?”

“The one with the high stone wall. The weavers live there, and you'll have no trouble buying
two
yards of cloth from them.”

“Ah … so I can purchase two yards there,” Vortigern said.

“And how much
gold
will you pay them?” Tregeagle asked, holding out his empty palm.

“No payment until my goods are received.”

Tregeagle gritted his teeth and contorted his bottom lip.

“B-but —”

“No payment until
receipt
, I said.”

Tregeagle started pawing at Vortigern's money bag, which hung from his right hip.

Contempt filled Vortigern, and he backhanded the man's face, slamming him into the door. Tregeagle slipped in the snow and fell to the ground. “I-I was just making … sure … sure they were there. I —”

“Try it again and you'll get no gold from Ivor, do you hear?”

Tregeagle's right eyelid started fluttering.

What a wretched, skulking, skunk of a man
, Vortigern thought. Vortipor should be glad he wouldn't have
him
for a father-in-law.

Vortigern turned to his men. “Let's get down there and purchase our cloth,” he said.

Mórganthu nearly jumped when Troslam opened the door with his sharp spear in hand. Did he know? Or was this his usual precaution? Perhaps Mórganthu hadn't watched him quite enough with the orb.

Dybris raised his hand through the falling snow, “Peace, Troslam. It's
urgent
we talk.”

“And who's this?” Troslam asked, pointing his spear at Mórganthu.

“An old beggar who needs to rest his lungs by your fire. We
need
to talk.”

“What's his name?”

“Ahh …” Dybris turned and looked at Mórganthu. “You're not Muscarvel, are you?”

Mórganthu panicked. Why hadn't he thought of a name? He shook his head no.

Troslam tapped his spear impatiently. “Look, of course he's not Muscarvel. He doesn't smell like a marsh rat, does he? The answer, Dybris, is that you don't know this fellow.”

The first thing that popped into Mórganthu's head was, “Hobble, my name is Hobble.” He had barely remembered to hide his Eirish lilt.

“That's not a proper name … Where are you from, and who's your father?”

Dybris was now waving his hand. “
Troslam
… I need to speak to you
now
.”

Any delay was good, and Mórganthu spun his tale quickly. “My name is Hoyt mab Hagan, but my friends call me Hobble. I am journeying to Isca from the northern coast. I have family there. My father —”

“— has lungs colder than yours,” Dybris interrupted. “Troslam, there is no time!”

Troslam nodded. “All right. I have to be careful.”

Mórganthu entered after Dybris, and Troslam barred the door. The room felt hot, almost stuffy after having been out in the cold wind. The aroma of a rich pea soup assaulted him, and he breathed it in with vigor.

“The fire's back there,” Troslam said, pointing to a central room with a hearth. Mórganthu shuffled past Dybris and sat down next to
the flames. He held out his good hand to warm it, keeping the false hand resting on his leg. The enticing pot of soup hung from a chain over the fire, and he was tempted to take up one of the nearby mugs and fill it — when three girls ran through the room, followed by a slow, somber Ganieda.

The three jumped up and down. “Dybris, Dybris, Dybris!”

But Ganieda did not. She sat near Mórganthu, looking at her shoes.

“Why are you sad, little one?” Mórganthu whispered in the druid language that only Ganieda would know.

She stood up, her eyes wide open. “Grandpa,” she whispered back to him in the same tongue. Then she sat down again and looked away, blinking rapidly.

He switched to the language of Kernow so as to avoid attracting attention. “You are wise,” he whispered, “yes, wise to not betray me. It is not safe here.”

She turned and stared at him. Her dark eyes were so deep. “How did you find me?”

“The orb.”

“I thought you might have died. Or left me. Or forgotten.” She looked down again and scuffed the heel of her shoe in the dirt.

“Where is the fang? Is it where you left it before?”

“I won't tell, Grandpa.” She looked up then at Safrowana, who was walking quickly through the room in answer to her husband's summons. “I-I think … I think I like it here.”

“Why? Why not with me, my daughter's daughter? I have come to take you away.”

“I'm not afraid here.”

He arched his eyebrow and said in as insinuating of a tone as he could, “Is not
Merlin
behind this? Did not
he
arrange this?”

She swiveled toward him, and curled her lips. “No!”

“Are you … are you quite sure?”

“If he were,” she said loudly, “I would kill them all.”

“Shah!” he said, “Keep your voice down, they will —”

But it was too late. Troslam had heard, and, leaning in from the other room, was looking at them with wary eyes. “It's the druid,” he yelled.

Mórganthu only had a moment to act. Ganieda would not go with him willingly, and this outraged him. If that was her choice, then fine, let her die with the dogs. But he could still recover the fang if he could get it from behind the loom shuttles on the windowsill. Then that devilish Troslam would pay dearly for his previous violence against his personage.

He jumped up and ran past a huge loom toward the back … but there were two doorways. Which one?

Behind him, Troslam shouted.

Left? Or right? He reversed the image in his mind and tried to picture the outside of the house and where he had stood.

Troslam thumped past the hearth and was nearly upon him.

Left it was! Mórganthu jumped through the door and flung himself toward the window. And there, still sitting in the dust behind the shuttles, was the fang — white, and sharp as death.

Troslam yelled behind him.

Mórganthu reached for it — but the weaver had grabbed him by the tunic. He was pulled backward.

Mórganthu's hand swiped out, but he couldn't reach the weapon.

“What are you doing here?” Troslam yelled.

Mórganthu leaned forward, reaching, but missed. In a last, swinging effort, he popped open the iron lock of the shutter just before Troslam yanked him away.

“You'll not leave that easily!”

Mórganthu was dragged into the main room where the hearth lay. He kicked and scratched at Troslam, but the man pinned Mórganthu's arms and tied a cord tightly around his wrists. Mórganthu struggled against this at first, but then realized the man wasn't accounting for his fake hand. To make sure they didn't realize this foolishness, Mórganthu clasped the fake hand in his good one.

Troslam had just finished tying up Mórganthu's feet when
Dybris rushed into the room, shouting. “They're coming down the road … Vortigern and his men are coming!”

Merlin stood in the doorway to Atle's private chamber. For the first time in many months he felt clean. They had all been offered baths and clothing, and Merlin chose a long blue tunic sewn with a thick sea-green thread, as well as black leggings, leather boots, and a broad sash of white fabric for a belt. And his sense of cleanness went yet further, for the awful monster of slavery had been pulled off of his back, slain, and thrown into a deep pit, never to escape.

Atle beckoned. “Kome in … kome in,” he said. “Ye haf refreshed yerself, I see, andd are now kome to dank me fer yer freedom.”

Merlin entered, and dropped to one knee before the king. “That I am, and most gratefully.” Atle's dog came from around the corner, barked, and then sniffed him.

“Rise, Merlin, andd sit before me.”

Merlin took his place on a padded chair, smaller than the king's, though of similar design, with fish and sea creatures carved upon its surfaces. Though it was only late morning, the room was without windows and very dark, and a white, tallow candle sat in a golden stand on the table directly between them.

King Atle leaned forward, into the light, and his eyes looked even more sunken, if that were possible. A torc lay upon his throat, but of different design than Merlin had seen before — it was made of solid gold, not twisted wire, and the two ends had been fashioned into disks, each like the giant eye of a silent, hungry sea creature. The thought of four eyes staring at Merlin unnerved him, and the bright candlelight had already begun to make his head hurt.

“King Atle … sir, I …”

“Enough formalities. We are family, ye and I. Ye may call me Atleuthun, or simply Atle.” The king's words were soft, but his face showed little emotion.

The candle light still hurt Merlin's eyes, so he reached out to slide its golden base to the left and out from between them.

Just as he touched it, Atle put his hand out and stopped it. Merlin tried to keep sliding it, but Atle was too strong.

“Ye are a guest here — no? We are family — ya? Does dat mean dat you vil inherit the tings of me house? Dat ye can touch dem as if dey are yer own? No.”

Atle's arm lay skinny upon the table. How could he have such strength at his age?

“Loth ess me heir … He has served me vell, and participates vit me by blood. Ye are a beggar here, andd ye shan't forget it.” The king withdrew his hand as quickly as it had come.

“Of course … of course. I did not presume I would inherit anything simply because you have freed my friends and me from slavery.”

“Ya, ya, ya … ess true. Ye'f been bought vit me geld, and should be me slave. Never presume. Neferless, I haf freed ye, against de vishes o' some, and alotted ye all a sum to help ye on yerr vay.” He threw a small bag of coins on the table in front of Merlin.

“Et ess not much,” Atle continued, “but de least I can do … considering yerr great help to me. But” — and here he wagged his finger — “nefer presume et ess as great o' help as I daily receive from me son, Loth. I am most proud o' him.”

Much of Atle's words puzzled Merlin. He was grateful for the gift, but didn't want Atle to think he was greedy for anything that belonged to the king. “You do well to be proud of Loth. As a faithful son, he will inherit all that you own when you die —”

The king laughed then, long and loud, and the dog barked too. “A good jokke, yes. Yerr muther must haf thought de same … or she wouldn't haf run off. May I ask how she fares?”

Merlin paused. How could he explain that he'd thought his mother dead for fourteen years — drowned — only to find she was alive? That she'd been changed by the Stone's enslavement so that she could only live in water?

“She's fine,” was all he could think to say. “She's … ahh … staying in Kernow.”

“She has drifted so far, den? And vat has she told … about me? And me house's history?”

“Nothing … only your name and the name of your fortress.” She'd given him some vague instructions as well, but Merlin couldn't remember them now. What had she said? The candle continued to burn, but Merlin's headache had eased. The chair felt so soft, and Merlin's limbs … so tired. He needed sleep after their long march.

“And yerr father? Vat has become o' him?” Atle leaned forward and turned his head a little to better hear the answer. There was an odd, burning gleam in his eye.

“He's dead … six months ago.”

“The judgment o' de cursed always katches up vit dem, does et not?”

Merlin bit his lip and said nothing, though he wanted to defend his father and his heroic death. If Atle hadn't just freed them from slavery, Merlin would —

“Ah, but I like ye. Ye have a different sort o' pluck, and ye have also brought de child. I am indebted to ye. De villagers will be happy too, and ye haf saved me much trouble vith dem. So tell me about de boy — about his parents. I must know everything.”

“You mean Arthur?” Merlin blanched … for he realized he hadn't consulted Colvarth about what to say. How much should he reveal?

“Yes, dis Arthur … How did his parents die?”

“They … uh … were killed.”

Atle clucked his tongue. “Both o' dem? Yes?”

Merlin's throat felt suddenly dry. “Yes.”

“Are ye sure? Derr couldn't be a mistake?”

Merlin had to think. He hadn't personally seen Uther die, having been blind. But his father had witnessed the king's death, and Colvarth had witnessed Igerna's. “No mistake. Why does it matter?”

“The boy has had lots of de anguish, and I vant an end o' suffering ferr him.”