Merlin's Shadow (7 page)

Per his typical bad luck, Bedwir ended up in Vortigern's boat.

“Where are we going?” Vortipor asked his father as they set the lines and sailed out of the small cove.

Vortigern shook his head. “Eeh … Kembry. We're just going to Kembry.”

“But where? The coastline's forty leagues long here.”

“I'll worry about
where
after we land. Sure, the hens slipped the net, but we'll get ‘em.”

Ganieda tried to put the orb back into her bag, but her grandfather grunted.

“We have watched for hours, yes, but we are not done, my daughter's daughter,” he said, his voice shaking with excitement. “We have learned the secret that Merlin and Arthur will land at Baegower — but where is our servant, Vortigern, going? How will he find his way?”

“We could tell him ourselves,” Ganieda said, as if she knew how to do such a thing. Had the voice told her how? That low whisper she heard in the back of her head? The voice had begun speaking to her in her dreams over the last two weeks ever since she saw the Stone in all its magnificence — but now she only heard it whenever she held the orb or the fang.

Did the voice come from the orb? The longer she looked into it, the more she felt that
it
looked at her. But that was silly. It was just a ball, a ball with power. A ball that gave
her
power.

But the voice knew about the orb. Sighed, even wept about its secrets.

“How? How can we tell Vortigern where to go?” Grandfather asked. “I see him at the prow of his ship, but he is not here in our tent to glean our knowledge.”

“I can talk to him. The voice has told me so.”

Her grandfather sat back. “You? You have heard the Voice? I, too, heard it when I would touch the Druid Stone, our Stone of
Abundance, which Merlin has intruded with Uther's blade. Since then, I no longer hear it.”

“But I hear it. And other voices, who are in pain,” Ganieda said, as her hand holding the orb shook. “I hear them crying in the dark …”

“Vengeance, yes, yes. The Druid Stone too seeks vengeance for the offense committed against it. Do it. Tell Vortigern where to go — tell Vortigern to kill Merlin …”

Ganieda looked into the orb and saw the warrior Vortigern, his chin uplifted and his beard blowing in the wind.

The orb grew in her hand, until it became heavy, so heavy. It expanded until she could hold it no more and it rolled off from her hand. Soon it was larger than Ganieda, and it split and opened up like a maw with great teeth. She felt a tug on her heart to lean forward and look at it, but she tripped and fell.

Ganieda screamed, her chest frozen and her arms outstretched to push the evil teeth away. They clamped down, and a great tongue swept her down its slimy throat.

The world went black.

A dank light appeared, and Vortigern loomed suddenly above her. Ganieda could breathe now. She tasted the salt, smelled the foaming waves, and felt the breeze in her hair. The now-bright world rose and fell with the flowing boat, and she stood before Vortigern, whose eyes grew wide and whose jaw trembled. She pointed beyond the prow, and said to him, “Baegower. They land at the village of Baegower.”

She wanted to tell Vortigern to kill Merlin, to kill Arthur — but could not bring herself to say it. Why did she … hesitate? Did not her mother command it? Did not the Voice require it? Did not Grandfather seek it?

Death hunted her, hunted her family — her father buried in the cairn, her dead mother — and now her brother. Did she really want him to die?

Despite the curses of her mother, Merlin had rarely been unkind
to Ganieda. He had even brought her gifts now and then — a boat folded out of a bad parchment from the Abbey, or a honey-scented flower. He would hold her hand when she was scared. Caress her hair as if, just maybe, she meant something to him.

She drew in a breath, and Vortigern faded … falling to his knees and dropping his spear … faded. The fresh air was sucked away, and the rolling of the boat steadied. Only the shade of her grandfather's tent remained, the bones tied to its ceiling cackling in the wind.

“I have told him,” she said.

Grandfather coughed in glee.

M
erlin awoke to someone nudging him. His bed swayed, and his gut wished to empty itself.

Colvarth's face appeared, too bright for Merlin's tired eyes, and the old man nudged him again. “Awake, my Merlin. You and I must speak in private while the others sleep.”

Sitting up, Merlin rubbed his eyes, and they felt gritty. “How close are we?” It was still day, but the sun had begun its descent in the west. Perhaps six hours had passed during their journey across the Kembry Sea.

“If I judge correctly, we will sight land soon. I have something to show you … and we must have a plan.”

Merlin followed him to the prow of the boat where they could be alone, and there, with their backs turned to the fishermen, Colvarth pulled a dull, tin metal box from his leather bag. It was about as long as Merlin's hand, and slightly wider. For height, it was no more than the length of his index finger.

“This was found by Uther before he died,” Colvarth said. “But I know not its contents. Will you help me open it?”

Merlin touched it, and felt a strange tingling in his palms. He let go, and then touched it again. This time, the feeling was gone. Strange. He held it up. The box weighed very little, but something clacked inside when he turned it. Inscribed shapes formed complicated patterns across its sides, and on the back lay the cross of Jesu between two odd-looking trees.

“It is tin,” Colvarth whispered. “But old, perhaps from years beyond our lifetime.”

In one corner the metal lay brighter where it had been scratched. Upon the front, there was a small, rusted, rectangular iron plate with a hole for a sliding key that must unlatch the box. There was writing as well, but Merlin couldn't read it.

“Where did this come from?” he asked, feeling the weight of the box.

“From the island of Inis Avallow. It was buried inside the old tower. Uther had a vision — but to my shame, I thought he was drunk.”

Merlin examined the narrow gap between the lid and the base. “Shall I try a blade to force it open?”

Colvarth hesitated, and then closed his eyes. “You may try — only be careful. It was bought with the blood of Uther and his wife.”

“So Arthur owns it now?”

Colvarth nodded.

Merlin took out a small knife and slipped it lightly into the gap near the latch. Pressing gently, he heard a click, and the lid loosened. Not opening it, he handed the box back to Colvarth, and the old man received it with trembling hands.

Colvarth opened the lid — slowly.

Inside lay a small wooden bowl, dark from age, and it was cracked on one side. Merlin reached in and took it up, and its base was covered in a band of gold with more writing.

“That is all?” Colvarth said. “A circlet of gold, and black dust?”

Merlin looked inside, but saw no dust — the box lay empty. The wooden bowl in his hand did not have any dust in it either. “I see no dust, Colvarth,” he said, “but the bowl is very old.”

Colvarth squinted his eyes. “I see no bowl, but you hold an empty circlet.” The old man reached out and took the band from Merlin — but his hands passed right through the wooden bowl as if it didn't exist.

Merlin blinked. He grabbed Colvarth's wrist to hold the man's hand steady. He felt the bowl again — and sure, it was there, rough, solid, and wooden.

“You can't see the bowl?” Merlin asked. “I can see and feel it. And your hand passes through it.” Merlin received the bowl back, and held it by its wooden edge.

Colvarth gasped. “The ring floats! You are not touching it, yet it floats before your hand. Truly this is a mystery. And you say you cannot see the dust in the box? The bottom is filled with it.” Colvarth reached his hand in and stirred around the nothingness.

Inktor, who'd been chatting with Crothak and Henktor at the rudder, stood and began walking toward them. He ducked under the sail, stepped over the sleeping, and sauntered over, whistling.

“Hide this mystery,” Colvarth whispered. “Put it back …”

Merlin returned the bowl to the box and closed the lid loosely. Colvarth hastily threw his cloak over it just as Inktor came close.

“With wind like this, we'll land before sunset,” Inktor said. “You a little sick, uhh?”

Merlin forced a smile. “We're fine,” he said, hoping Inktor would leave so he could look at the strange bowl again.

“If you're Christian and need help,” Inktor said, “there's a church near the village. You might consider there, uhh? But if you're all druidow …”

“I am a
former
druid, but am now Christian,” Colvarth said. “Do you know of a priest?”

“What? You think I live in Baegower? You think I know everything, uhh?”

“Surely —”

“Just cause I say
there's a church
, you think I know all about it, uhh?”

“Well, no, but —”

“His name's Anfri, and he lives up the hill beyond the village. Take the main road a good walk, and you won't miss it.”

With that, he walked back to the sail, adjusted a line, and then joined his companions at the rudder.

“So we make for the church, and get help there?” Merlin asked.

“I am not sure,” Colvarth whispered. “If this Anfri is one I have heard of, it may be better to ask the nearest thief.” Colvarth brought out the tin box again and opened it. “Now help me — what can this be? In my lore as a bard and druid, I have heard of such things, mage-made things. By the power of demons I would now say. But this is not pagan — it has the cross of Jesu Christus upon the box.”

Colvarth felt inside, his fingers passing through the bowl and stirring the “dust,” as he put it. He sighed, and then prayed aloud in his slow and halting speech. Merlin closed his eyes and lowered his head.

Colvarth finished and held the open box out to Merlin. “Tell me what you see,” he said.

Merlin lifted the bowl and studied it carefully. He described its grained ridges, flecks of wood, and texture. This was all amazing to his newly healed sight, and he wondered if the miracle had given him the ability to see spiritual things as well. Either way, he hoped his wonder would never fade at being able to see again after seven years of blindness.

Next he described the bowl's shape as simple, even plain. He himself had drunk from many carved bowls in his life. But the wood of this one was unique. He told Colvarth he couldn't guess the type of tree, or its age. “If only we could read the writing on the box,” he said.

“Would it hold water?” Colvarth asked, pulling a draught-skin from his belt. He pulled the stopper with his teeth and poured a little into the bowl — but it passed right through the bottom and splashed his knee.

Merlin was surprised — the bowl felt so real to him! “It must be for some other liquid — heavenly, maybe,” he mused.

Colvarth held the box out again, and Merlin put the bowl back inside. Colvarth then closed it, wrapped a twine around to keep it closed, and placed it carefully in his leather bag.

Merlin remembered his awful dream about the boat pursuing them. “Do you think Vortigern will follow us?”

“This man is the grandson of a ruthless, usurper High King who slew Uther's grandfather. He will not rest until Arthur is either out of his reach or is dead. We must ride north and hide like the wren — with those loyal to Uther's house.”

Merlin grimaced, for the time had come to tell Colvarth of his decision. Natalenya's mother had asked them to bring news to their uncle, but Merlin had wondered if it was best, in light of the dangers ahead, to leave Natalenya with him instead. Now that Merlin knew how ugly his face was, he had to release her from their betrothal.

“First I must deliver Natalenya to her relatives in Oswistor … to her uncle Brinnoc.”

Colvarth squinted. “Why? Will you two not marry?”

A lump rose in Merlin's throat. “You think I don't … want to? I saw my scars for the first time, and I can't subject her to —”

Colvarth waved a hand. “Nonsense. She does not see your scars, she only sees the love in your eyes.”

Merlin swallowed. “I won't talk about it again. It's best this way. She'll understand.”

When Vortigern collapsed to his knees, Bedwir started to run to him, but stopped. He feared the battle chief's anger if anyone thought him weak-footed in such placid waves.

After Vortigern found his feet, Bedwir picked up the fallen spear and handed it back.

Vortigern beat his chest and blinked as if a salt spray had stung his eyes. “Where? Where did the witch go?”

Bedwir looked warily at the crew and warriors. A witch? There wasn't even a woman among them. “What did you say?” Bedwir asked, but the battle chief pushed him aside and stepped over to the fisherman who manned the sail.

“Take us to Baegower.”

Vortigern's lips nearly frothed, and the fisherman studied him with a wrinkled brow. “Take us to Baegower!”

“All'un right,” he said. “Nay need fer yellin a' me.” After signaling the man at the rudder, he adjusted the sail until the boat cut northeast. The other boat saw their veer and followed suit.

Like most of the other warriors, Bedwir settled down and leaned back against the side of the boat. In some ways this was best — you couldn't lose your footing. But it didn't help the stomach any, and Bedwir's gurgled.

Vortigern kept pacing, his eyes darting here and there. No doubt looking for his witch. The man even poked his head into a deck hatch. After a short inspection, he walked back to the fisherman
managing the knotline and scowled at the limp sail and quiet wind. “How long to Baegower?”

“May'en be four hours, I'd conject.”

“You can't go any faster?”

“Nay, unlessen the wind bites a mite more.”

A gust suddenly snatched the sail, and one of the ropes whipped loose and welted the fisherman across the face.

Vortigern grabbed the snaking line and pulled it tight. The boat sped now across the sea, and Vortigern's laugh was lost amongst the waves.

“Tell me … what it was like?” Grandfather asked her. “How did you tell Vortigern where to go? You never left here, yet when I looked into the orb at Vortigern, I saw
you
standing in front of him.”

Ganieda blinked. “I was only there. The orb ate me … Didn't you hear me scream?”

Grandfather clucked his tongue. “Yes, yes, of course you screamed … but the orb didn't eat you. You embroider the tale, my daughter's daughter.”

“It was scary.”

Grandfather patted her on the head. “Well, it is done, and now that Vortigern has been told, you don't need to do it again.”

“Why do you want my brother to die?”

“I?”

Ganieda slipped the orb back into her bag and wrinkled her nose at him. “You said I should tell Vortigern to kill my brother.”

Grandfather's lower lip wrinkled, and he lifted his bloody, bandaged right forearm and thrust it toward her face. “You … you want to know
why
?”

Ganieda tried to step back, but the hot fabric of the tent pressed against her hair. “You want your hand again …”

“I want your brother's neck to look like this.” He stripped off the bandage and revealed his arm, with the skin dying and red at
the stump of bone where his wrist had been sliced through. He fingered its end with his remaining hand, disturbing the scabs that surrounded the wound.

She couldn't look anymore and darted to the side.

Grandpa caught her by the shift and pulled her back.

She screamed.

“I want revenge. I want Vortigern to kill him and Belornos to afflict him evermore.”

Ganieda beat at Grandfather, but his hand wouldn't let go. “I didn't tell that warrior to do it. I couldn't.”

Grandfather shook her like a rag and then dragged her to the center of the tent. “Then you … will … go … back to him. Bring forth the orb!”

She remembered the white teeth. The leeching, slavering tongue. The scaly throat that had sucked her down. She wanted to shout, “No!” but the Voice called to her instead. Its words coiled in her head like smoke, and she shut her mouth.

The bagged orb grew warm at Ganieda's side. Before she knew it, her hand had reached in and taken it out.

Grandfather fell to his knees before it, and she held the sphere aloft. Purple light streamed from it, and mist rolled inside. The image cleared, and before her rushed two hundred warriors. They wore loincloths and leggings, and their lean, muscled bodies shone in the light. Blue paint striped their limbs and naked chests, and feathers decorated their long spears and bows. Most of them bore a round shield, bronze-spiked and dangerous. Their greased hair
lay dark, and over each of their shoulders was draped a cloak of checkered cloth.