Merlin's Shadow (33 page)

His anger flared. Why had this useless thing come back to him? He picked up the bowl, cocked his arm back … and threw it far into the waves. It hit the water, floated for a moment, tilted — and sunk.

“Hey!” Caygek yelled at him. “We needed that bowl for bailing!”

Merlin turned to him in shock. “You saw it?”

Caygek scowled at Merlin as he bailed with his hands. “Why wouldn't I see a bowl flung from the hands of a fool!”

“Merlin!” Garth called. “Use your bag to bail, or we're sunk.”

Merlin turned to face Garth. “Did
you
see the bowl?”

“What? Dump your grain into mine, and bail!”

Merlin did as he was told, and his leather sack worked excellently for scooping up the water and throwing it out. Kensa had found some wooden cups in front, and she, Bedwir, and Peredur bailed from there. That, and with Garth steering true, the storm finally seemed survivable, even if it frightened him when each wave sent them plummeting downward.

But Merlin didn't understand. How had the Sangraal gotten into his bag?

And how had Caygek seen it?

Mórganthu shook the orb when he saw Merlin and the others survive — even overcome — his best efforts to drown them. Mórganthu's own tent had nearly been knocked over in the first blast of wind, and even now the rain poured through the moth-eaten holes in the roof. Only a few moments before he'd had to retie the doorflap, for the wind had blown it open, and it was cold enough as it was.

So what next? How could he stop Merlin if his fog and even his storm had failed? Maybe he needed to dispirit them all. Freeze them in their boat until they begged for death. But how would that affect Bosventor? The ice would come here too, and fall upon his own tent.

Ah, but he had to try it. He checked the knots on his doorflap once again and threw more wood upon his fire until it blazed. Finally,
he wrapped himself in a blanket, and then, and only then, did he pull out the orb and fang once more. And looking at it reminded him of how tired it made him to give the fang such a command. Did he have the strength? He felt weak from the two previous attempts. Maybe just one more. And so his voice called forth:

His vision blurred, and he almost passed out. The sound of the rain changed. Small pellets began to assault his tent. Mórganthu fell to his knees, took a breath, and crawled to the door to look out. Within less time than it took his fire to need another log, all the land was covered in ice, from the smallest leaf to the thickest trunk. And his tent began to hang low as its roof and sides froze solid. Then the snow began to blow — great swathes of it furiously swirling around. Mórganthu broke the ice from the flaps and tied them tight. Then he sat and warmed himself by the fire to nurse his strength while he watched Merlin and his companions suffer.

Ganieda tripped and fell down upon a rock. She'd been running recklessly and hadn't seen the stone until too late. She cried out, for the sniffing beast was almost upon her. She could hear him. Slavering behind her in the fog. A shadow approached. Monstrously tall.

She forced herself up and ran.

The beast loped behind her. A deep growl. Chasing her.

She ran behind a pine. If only she had the fang, she could kill it. She peeked through the branches. Two gleaming eyes stared at her from twelve feet off of the ground. The monster was huge!

It stepped forward, and its foul breath blew the fog away from its face.

It was a black wolf. Not Tellyk. Ganieda had never been threatened by a wolf before, but this one's teeth were so long. So sharp. She ran, screaming.

It was behind her again, yet somehow always just beyond her fog-shrouded sight. It could easily catch her and kill her in one swift bite.

Then it began to rain. The trees bent, pushed by a gale that sucked the breath from Ganieda's mouth. She ran on, propelled by the wind, covering her eyes to keep the lashing rain from blinding her.

Up and down hills. Through a stream. Under the dark and thick canopy of a forest, which kept most of the rain out. To a spring. Only then did she realize the monstrous wolf was gone. She had lost it in the fog. Falling down, she drank from the earthy burbles of water, and laid upon her side. A great drowsiness crept over her. Nevertheless, before she gave in to its forgetful call, she tried once more to pull the iron torc from her neck, but could not remove it.

She gave up and fell asleep.

When she awoke, something kept stinging and pestering her face and hands. Ice was falling from the black god of the sky, nipping at her flesh.

She wanted to sleep again where it had been warm. Her dream had been so warm. But she forced herself to climb stiffly to her feet. If she stayed, she would freeze and the monster of a wolf would find her and eat her.

She set off once more. Her feet felt like ice, but she had to find her grandfather.

T
he murky sun whirled above Troslam, slowly dipping downward, and finally — along with the distant screams and cries — fell beyond his remembrance. Shadows. Rocking. Creaking. Cold. Darkness. Shivering. The sound of water splashing. Of his own breath. Fading. Fading.

He awoke within a boat.

Where was he?

It was night. The stars shone in the sky like brilliant candles out of his reach, each one lit by the hand of an angel and held there just for him. He had been so cold, he remembered, but here the warmth soaked into his skin and filled his bones with strength. Reeds floated by. Frogs chirruped, announcing that all was right in the world.

He sat upon a broad bench with two young girls, one on each side. The left wore a white gown, luminous as the moon, and her hair lay as a flower of gold intertwined with strands of silver. The girl on his right was smaller than the other, and her gown shone
like the blue of the most radiant sky, with dark tresses as fine as the feathers of a black swan, smooth and pure.

The boat moved through the marsh seemingly of its own accord. Neither rower nor tower could be seen, and none pushed from behind. Yet they moved steadily and slowly through the mazes of rushes, reeds, and water channels. Hours passed. Maybe days. The sun rose and set. Stars twinkled again. Abruptly, the boat came to rest upon the bank of a broad island jacketed in green grass with tufts of fragrant daisies. Here and there stood outcroppings of rocks where wild roses grew. And everywhere stood ancient apple trees. Gleaming fruit hung from every branch, sweet-scented and beckoning.

The peace of the island settled over Troslam, and he departed from the boat with the girls just behind. Walking there amongst the trees, he reached out and touched a branch, and felt it pulsing — with life and beauty, deeper than what he had ever experienced. He cradled one of the fruit in his hands and just held it, looking intently as a heavenly light shown from its flesh.

“Here! Come here!” It was Eilyne's voice. Yes, it was her, Uther's daughter, the one in the moon-lit dress. How had he forgotten who she was? She waved to him and pointed to where a fortress stood upon a little hill with a single tower. Its stones were a rich, milky white, and their radiance fairly blinded him.

“It's Father's hall!” she declared with a smile. “Come and see!” She grabbed Myrgwen by the hand, and they raced to the open gate and leapt inside.

Troslam was right on their heels and stepped through the door. Wonders met his gaze. Hundreds of warriors and their spouses and children reclined at tables filled with steaming salmons, spiced grains, soups, and overladen with yeasty breads. Hearty drinks were passed around, and with a cheer all the people raised their bowls to their lord and lady, who sat upon twin thrones raised above the feast. The lord, like a prince of old, wore a coat of purple threaded richly with argent knotwork. Next to him sat his wife graced in a gown so blue it rivaled the brightest ocean.

The queen smiled, looking out upon her subjects — and then spotted Troslam and the girls, who had quietly stopped in front of him. The queen stood, and a hush fell upon the room. “Who are these that enter this hall unbidden?”

Troslam felt foolish. They didn't belong here and had come without welcome. Yet, like a dog at the door, he wished with all his heart to join the feast. He stepped forward to the aisle leading to the thrones and fell to a knee. “It is I, Troslam, a poor weaver, and one unworthy to enter this great house …”

The king stepped down from his throne, walked to Troslam, took him by the hand, and lifted him up. “Arise, fellow son of the Britons, for all are welcome who come in through the gate, bidden or not.”

At that point the king observed the two girls. Their eyes shown as wide as dumplings, and their mouths formed hesitant smiles.

“Sir,” Myrgwen said, “do you know us?”

“Know you?” the king said, a strange look upon his face.

The queen stepped down and rested a loving hand upon the heads of each of the girls. “Only one of you is supposed to be here, although all shall be welcome at this table in time. Yet for the others, the full weaving of your lives is not ready to be unrolled from God's loom. Go back,” she said. “Go back.”

“But, Mammu!” little Myrgwen said, and she rushed into the queen's arms. “Surely you wish me to stay. I never want to leave you. Don't make me go.”

“You have been brave before, little one, and I ask you to be brave once again. It is your elder sister who is to stay.”

Myrgwen burst into tears and hugged tighter to the queen.

It was all Troslam could do not to cry with her.

“But you must go back. There are tasks left for you to accomplish. You are privileged to be the Lord's handmaid to aid your brother in his mighty tasks.”

The king hugged Eilyne. “And you, dear one, will stay here, even while your sister and companion return.”

His soothing tone brought peace even to Troslam, whose heart was troubled. But he was still unsure of how to proceed. “I don't know the way back,” he said, “for I do not know how I have come.”

Then the king went to the high table that stood before his throne, and there he retrieved a wooden bowl. Simple in design it was, yet apparently ancient — even to Troslam's untrained eyes.

“The Sangraal will be your guide,” the king said, “for Merlin has given it back to us.” As he lifted it up, the bowl shown with a holy light so pure and lovely that it appeared to Troslam as a doorway to the throne of heaven itself.

The Sangraal began to float above the king's hands, illuminating the whole feasting hall. Then it rose through the ceiling, and the island outside the doorway became bathed in majestic brilliance. A longing filled Troslam's heart to behold this light again, and he and Myrgwen, holding hands, left the hall.

And now the Sangraal had become much more than a bowl, for it was a veritable star above them, lighting their path and leading them back to the boat whence they had come. And there, on the very edge of the island, Myrgwen paused.

A voice floated from behind. “Dearest …”

It was the queen, caressing a luscious apple that still hung from one of the trees. “This, my dearest daughter, has been granted as a boon from the most High God to be yours and yours alone. Take it now.”

Myrgwen reached forth and wrapped her small hands upon the fruit.

She plucked, she ate.

Unlike any apple Troslam had ever seen, red juice flowed from it, but there was no stain left upon her lips or cheek — only a happy smile.

“This gift will be sweet upon your tongue,” the queen said, “and then for a little while it will be bitter to your soul, for with it will come knowledge both dire and puzzling, yes, but such that will be needed in the deadly time that is coming upon the world.”

With that costly gift in hand, Myrgwen joined Troslam, and together they returned to their positions in the boat. And just as before, the boat moved off under no apparent oarsman, although this time it followed the light of the Sangraal that lit the way through the marsh and led them onward into the night.

The king stood upon the distant shore and waved good-bye to them, and next to him stood the queen, and a shining Eilyne, all in bright array. A deep sleep fell over Troslam, and soon he lost all track of time and place and only knew two things: the rocking and creaking of the boat upon the water — and that an old man was with them. His combed hair was long and gray, and he wore clothes both clean and bright.

“Stay still,” the man said, “and poor Musca will take good care of you.”

Merlin felt the tightness leave his shoulders as the storm eased. The waves had raged all night, and Merlin's eyes stung with salt and lack of sleep. His limbs ached as well, and his clothes were completely soaked. He longed to crawl into one of the little tents, sleep, and forget the horror that was the sea.

Thankfully, the sun had finally risen, even if Merlin couldn't tell from what direction. The clouds and rain were that thick, making it a dim, pale light. At least the seas had finally calmed to the point that Merlin wasn't worried about drowning for awhile.

“So where are we?” he asked.

Garth stretched, yawned, and shook water from his hair. “I don't really know. Navigatin's near impossible with these clouds, and the wind's prob'ly changed a lot since we set out.”

Small ice pellets began assaulting Merlin's face — softly at first, but then more solidly. Soon they stung. If he thought the rain was bad, this was worse. The wooden ribs of the boat began to slicken, and soon ice had covered most of the surface.

Merlin had been shivering before, but now it grew worse. And
poor Peredur; he had left his cloak on shore, and couldn't keep his teeth from chattering. Merlin had offered him his, but it was so wet that Peredur didn't think it would help.

Bedwir filled the bailing bowls with fresh water and passed them around, followed by a helping of smoked herring for everyone.

Merlin could hardly taste his herring, for even his tongue was numb with cold. But it filled the barrenness in his stomach, and brought a measure of warmth back to his limbs.

Then it began to snow, and soon it blinded them to the point that Merlin could hardly see the mainsail in front of him. And it collected inside the boat, making movement dangerous.

“We can't see!” Merlin said. “We need to furl the sail and drop anchor!”

“No!” Garth said. “Let's keep sailing.”

“But you don't know where we're going —”

“God knows the way.”

And with Garth's proclamation, a light appeared in the distance — to the left. Caygek saw it too, and he shouted for everyone to look. Just below the clouds, like a star, yet brighter than any Merlin had ever seen, its beams penetrating the thickest blast of snow.

And it seemed to be moving away from them.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Merlin asked.

Garth shrugged. “What? I don't see anything.”

“There's a star, lighting up the sky … can't you see it?”

But no one could except Merlin and Caygek.

“Could God be showing us the way?” Garth asked.

“I suppose it's possible.”

“Then set the sail toward the steerboard side. You tell me where, and I'll guide us toward it.” In no time they had the boat sailing toward the light, and it led them through the snow as sure as any guide.

Garth began to sing a hymn. His voice quavered, and even squeaked here and there, but it was sincere and humbled Merlin for his lack of faith.

“You remember all that?” Merlin asked. “I didn't think you paid attention to the monks.”

“Ahh, I learned that from me father. Them monks only sang about plantin', harvestin', and scribblin'. That sort o' thing. What we needed was a right sailin' sorta thanks.”

A bird landed on one of the oarlocks, a strange kind of gull, and it stayed through the rest of their watch. “It must be exhausted,” Peredur remarked, and he held out a herring to it, but the bird turned its beak away.

By morning it was dead.

Mórganthu smashed the sharp edge of his sword again and again into the blazing logs of his fire, sending sparks and ashes high into the air. He wanted to cut Merlin and slice him. Kill him. For the orb had shown him how they sailed on even through the worst of his snow and ice.

Ah, but the fang could kill them! He set his useless blade down and lifted the fang up toward the orb, which sat upon his throne, burning and crackling in purple flame around Merlin's upturned face. Mórganthu raised his voice, calling for Merlin's death, the shattering of their boat, the piercing of their hull, and the shredding of their sail.

But nothing happened. He felt no power in the fang.

He tried again, but … there was nothing.

Inside the orb, Merlin kept on adjusting the ropes for the sail. Garth kept at his steering. The boat sailed incessantly on. Mórganthu cursed the fang. He understood it a little, but evidently not enough to use it rightly. If only Ganieda were present, then she could teach him its inestimable secrets.

But where were Merlin and his ragged crew sailing? Mórganthu had always assumed southward to Kernow for the purpose of troubling him further. But really, he didn't know. He set the fang down and touched the top of the orb. “Where, O master of all visions, does Merlin go? To what end shall he come?”

The inside of the orb flashed, shifted, and churned. The image changed.

Mórganthu studied the images for a long time, fascinated. Their destination was not Kernow. Rather they traveled
northward
. To darkness. And death.

He laughed then — a hearty, gut-heaving guffaw that tickled his being in devious places he hardly knew existed. How could he have been wrong all this time? He had only been slowing the inevitable, for Merlin and his fellows would surely die, and swiftly at that.

Ganieda was horribly lost. And behind her, the wolf's massive claws clicked upon the frozen ground. She ran as fast as she could through the blowing snow, but kept slipping, banging her knees bloody. Over the hills, through icy streams, and around rocks and boulders — she ran. Soon she found a road, but ignored it and ran to the cover of the pines, hoping the wolf couldn't fit underneath its low branches. The scented needles brushed against her face, both pricking her and wiping away her tears.