The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex (2 page)

“Nothing,” answered the wanderer. “Your fate is west; your fate is broken. Your lands will burn behind you. Your citadel will become an open space for wild and scavenging animals.”

Cailum stepped over to him and leaned down, wincing with the odour that curled off the man like a rotting elemental force. He placed the fishing spear on the wanderer’s lap. The two men’s eyes locked.

“Never,” said Cailum softly. “I will never go to the west in the manner in which you have seen. The fortress is my inheritance, my home, my place of birth, my earthmound for when I die. Not until this salmon spear hooks out the guts of the moon will I leave that hill and its city. By the good, strong hand of Belenos and by the hard heart of Rigaduna, I wish your prophecy to be unthreaded and wound around your neck.”

He turned away abruptly. The wanderer felt his neck gingerly, then grinned through his beard.

Durandond had drawn to ask last, so now Orogoth stood up, reaching for the flagon of southern wine. He shook it and smiled, then took it to the seer. “This will only serve to blur your vision,” he said. “So I think I’ll keep my question unasked. Like my foster brother, Cailum, I suspect I can already guess the answer. And ‘west’ will feature heavily. By the way, which way
is
west from here? I might as well get started.”

He laughed, tugged his moustaches, an insolent gesture, then walked back along the gully, an expression of wry amusement on his sun-burnished features as he winked at Durandond.

The fifth of the brash princes now stood, holding the short green cloak that he had brought as his gift for a gift. The wanderer watched him without expression. Durandond asked, “Do you have a name?”

“I’m very old. I’ve been around a long time. I’ve had many names.”

“A path around the world, you said. That must take a long time to walk.”

“It does. And I’ve done it many times. Some parts of it—the Northlands, in particular—are a tribulation. I do not now, and never have, enjoyed the cold. Sometimes I leave the route to go to interesting places; sometimes I stay in those places for a generation or more. It all serves to break the tedium. I come from a world of forests and plains, the sort of wild hunting you can only imagine, the sort of magic that would be incomprehensible to you, a world in many layers, with spirits and what you call gods in many strange and wonderful forms. It is invisible now, but as I shed lives, so they return there. One day I should go back and visit. But the countries through which I wander become more interesting with every passing century. Old lives must wait while new ones are forged.”

Durandond thought hard about this, perplexed, certainly, but also amused, as if he were enjoying being in the presence of such mystery. After a few moments he shook his head, picked up the gift of the green mantle, and placed it in the wanderer’s hands. He stepped away, tying his own cloak at the left shoulder and drawing it round to be pinned at his midriff. He bobbed his head in respect then picked up his sheathed sword, winding the belt around it.

It was now the wanderer who was puzzled, surprised by this sudden dismissal. “No question to ask?”

But Durandond nodded. His pale eyes narrowed. He stroked his chin, head cocked to the side, perhaps listening to the future.

“Yes. I have a question. When I am in that other country … When I am in the west…” He hesitated for a moment before adding quietly, “What is the first thing I will do?”

The wanderer laughed, stood up from his wooden seat. He looked down at the mantle and said, “You will find a hill as green as the dye on this garment. You will climb it. You will proclaim it as yours. And you will start to build.”

“A fortress?”

“More than that. Much more than that.”

“Much more than that,” the young prince repeated thoughtfully, his gaze distant. “Much more than that. I like the sound of it.”

*   *   *

His gaze was distant for a moment only. He looked at me, searching. He was curious, caught up in the uncertainty and excitement of what must have seemed a profound prophecy. “Will I meet you again?” he asked.

How could I answer? I never looked ahead into time to see my own presence. Far too dangerous. That I would be a presence in his world for all of his life was not in doubt. And in his sons’ world, and in their sons after them. Not in doubt.

Prologue Two

That Was Then …

And centuries later I discovered the green hill that I had seen in my vision, and lived for a while in the great fortress in Alba that the young, cautious, curious man had created out of the ashes of his life. Taurovinda. But that
also
was then, and I am older now, and back in the place of my childhood, writing down dreams, writing down memories, calling back Time, called back to remember. Memory is hazy. And much that I have written before, now sealed in the deep caves, below the song-paintings, is beyond my grasp.

When I came to Alba it marked the end, for a long while, of my walking around the wide Path. Alba had embraced me, and the ghost of a future king began to haunt me and to shape me. That is another story and for another time. I was still attached to my new loves and my first loves: and one of my first loves was beautiful, very beautiful indeed. And this is as much her story as it is of the land to which, one day, she had quietly returned in shame.

Sometime during a cool summer …

PART ONE

WATER FROM THE WELL

Chapter One

Omens

… Argo, Jason’s enchanting ship, came back to Taurovinda, Fortress of the White Bull, a year after she had sailed away. She came back along the river known as “the Winding One.” I had always held a secret suspicion that she would return, but she stayed quiet for a full turn of the seasons, resting below the fortress hill in the subterranean waterways: the springs, streams, and hidden tributaries that connected Taurovinda to the otherworldly Realm of the Shadows of Heroes. And so for a while I was unaware of her presence.

Jason and those who were left of his crew of Argonauts slept in her embrace, belowdecks, close to the Spirit of the Ship, the heart of the vessel. Argo protected them: her captain, her crew drawn from lands across the known world, some from out of time itself. Perhaps she thought of them as her children.

But why had she returned? When I first realised that she was there, she closed herself off from my gentle probing, hull-silent, denying her spirit to me after her first breath of greeting. Why had she returned from the warm seas of the south?

The strange changes in the sanctuaries of the fortress itself should have given me the clues.

Niiv, the enchantress from the Northlands, daughter of a shaman—bane of my life since I had first encountered her with Jason—had joined the women who guarded the well. Now there were four of them, all young, wild, unkempt, capable of the most astonishing and terrifying shrieks of laughter and amazement, or of horror and despair: all the screams of the “far-seeing and deep-sensing” that make such guardians of the sacred so disarming, so dissociated from the people who live around them.

Niiv, by this time, had become my lover. She shared my cramped quarters in the fortress, but not my squalid hut in the heart of the evergroves, by the river, a living space among the honoured dead.

In the early hours of each morning, when she crawled across me, seeking me out for satisfaction, she stank of mysteries. The smell of old earth and sour sap filled our small lodge. We lived close to the guarded orchard where the Speakers for Land, Past, and Kings—the oak men, as they were known—held their ceremonies. Our own ceremonies were noisier. Niiv was primal and eager. Delight glowed from her. There were times when she was brighter than the moon.

As she scoured my body, her cries of pleasure echoed with recent memory: of the way she had also scoured the world of spirits during her time by the well. When she finally collapsed across me, sighing deeply, the sigh of softening was more to do with her waxing understanding of enchantment than with my own waning presence inside her.

I loved her; I feared her. She had learned to treat me with just enough disdain to draw me closer. She was aware that I knew what she was doing. It made no difference to either of us. Passion flourishes with teasing.

*   *   *

All the signs were that the hill below the fortress of Taurovinda was coming alive in a way that signalled danger from the west, from across the sacred river Nantosuelta—the Winding One—from the otherworldly Realm of the Shadows of Heroes.

To Urtha, High King of the Cornovidi, and to his Speakers and High Women, the signs were sudden and dramatic: sweeping storm clouds that formed unnatural shapes above the hill before abruptly shattering in all directions; then the thundering of a stampede of cattle, though no cattle were to be seen; other physical manifestations that were frightening and suggestive. But there were subtler marks of the change that was in progress, and I had been aware of them for almost a full cycle of the moon.

The first phenomenon was the backwards movement of creatures. When a flock of birds is swarming in the dusk sky, it’s easy to see only the shadow movement without noticing that the flock is flying tail-feathers first. Deer seemed to be swallowed by the edge of the woods, pulled back into the green rather than retreating from view. At dawn, as first light cast its faintest glow, the dogs and bigger hounds of Taurovinda all seemed to be cowering, as if at bay, facing some unseen aggressor, walking stiffly, tails first, into the shadows from which they had emerged to scavenge.

As fast as these moments of disorientation occurred, so they ceased, but there was no doubt in my mind that the past and the future were becoming entangled in a deadly weave.

Secondly, there was riddle-speaking. Again, it passed as quickly as it had been manifest. A quick greeting, a passing remark by a blacksmith to his apprentice, and the words were meaningless, though spoken meaningfully. To the listening ear they made no sense, a sequence of sounds, guttural gibberish. But the riddle-speakers themselves saw no difficulty. It was as if a forgotten tongue had briefly possessed them. Which indeed it had.

This was something I knew well.

As I saw Time begin to play tricks, I looked for its source of entry into the fortress. I went first to the orchard, the grove guarded by Speaker for Kings, tight spinneys of fruit trees, hazel and berry, hidden behind a high fence of tangled wicker and thorn, dense enough to stop even the sleekest animal entering the enclosure. The trees were in blossom, their branches reaching to the setting sun. This was quite natural for the orchard.

Next, I visited the well.

The well was situated at the centre of a high-walled maze of carved stones. At the heart of the maze was a grove of dwarf oaks, green with moss, boughs dripping with fronds of lichen. Within the grove lay the smaller stone enclosure that protected the rising water source itself.

Around the wide mouth of the well were seats made of a pink crystalline rock that was familiar to me not from Alba, but from countries in the hotter, drier, more fragrant south: Massila, Crete, Korsa. Those were the lands of the
ma’za’rai
—the dreamhunters—who prowled the forested hills at night, carrying curses and distributing them. Like the
ma’za’rai
of those far-off islands, the three women who served the well of Taurovinda were often to be seen racing like hares across the hill in the moonlit darkness, feeding on insects and small animals, leaping in the manner of mad hounds to catch a bird in flight, taking on strange shapes, though by dawn they were once again as mischievously pretty as in their sixteenth year.

When a new woman-at-the-well came, it was always when an older one had gone. Downwards, no doubt, into the waterways below the fortress itself. But one day a fourth woman joined them, and three became four, and there was no disruption to the enchantment.

The new woman was Niiv.

After the first signs that the Shadows of Heroes were active again, I spied on the women every day. They spent most of their time seated on their crystal benches, staring into the open throat of the hill, occasionally casting blood-smeared stones or plaits of grasses and herbs into the mouth, and singing out the insights of what they called the “glory-vision,”
the vision of strangeness, dreams of distance.
When the water responded, it bubbled to the surface, almost playfully, and then the wild celebration started. I took no pleasure in witnessing the activities. Suffice it to say that the women manipulated the water, and drew forms from it. All of that was normal. It had been normal water-magic since long before the citadel had been built upon the hill.

Now, though:

I watched the four women from my hiding place. Were they aware of my presence? Niiv, perhaps, but Niiv trusted me, believing that I trusted her. They were excited, peering into the well shaft, clearly puzzled by something.

This time when the subterranean flow shifted to the surface it came up as a great spout of angry water, roaring from the deep, punching out and knocking over the nymphs who had summoned it. It flexed and shimmered, a creature waiting, watching, liquid muscle swaying like a liquid tree, reaching out and probing the shivering women.

Gradually they found their courage, Niiv most noticeably. They let the fronds of water embrace them, stretching and spreading into its grasp. And when they were entwined with the blood of the earth, so the deep world of the hill began to surface and show itself, to reveal that which was buried there.

Faces from a past older than Taurovinda leered and peered from the water, unblinking gazes that were lost as soon as they had glimpsed the living world.

These once-living forms, these memories of men and women, had become elemental. Their decay in the flesh had left them as mere dreams, shadows haunting the stone below the hill. But now they were released. Some fled, hollow birds breaking from the water, dispersing through the air. Others sank back down, preferring to remain at rest.

Horses emerged, racing from the well, manes flowing, sending the guardians screaming into a crouch as the grey shapes leapt over them, disappearing into the stone maze. Then dogs, hounds of all shapes and sizes, but muzzle-bared and hot for the hunt, backs ridged, bodies flowing with speed as they bounded across the walls, baying fiercely then mournfully as they vanished into the world of men, shades only, but alive again.