The Raven Warrior (18 page)

Reason enough for music; reason enough to send his hands groping for the harp in its case at his side even as he spoke to the tavern mistress in gentle reproof.

“Madam! I will sing for a bit. It doesn’t matter. Share a bit of drink with the thirsty and dry. I will pay the score.”

The woman looked about to be angry until Alex proffered a silver coin. She made the coin vanish so quickly, Uther almost wondered if he had seen it in the first place.

When his hand touched the harp, Uther heard the music twining, rising, falling, rippling in his mind. Dancing with the whispered sounds of sleet on the walls, the roof, the parchment-covered windows of the room.

Melodies he hadn’t thought of in years filled his mind. Alexia produced a double flute, Alex a shawm. His fingers wandered on the strings, testing, listening to sounds he couldn’t believe
he
was making. So beautiful they were even in their individual purity to his unaccustomed ears.

The fire on the logs before him hissed as the damp, wind-driven sleet blew into the grating above it. He began to play to the flames, blue, yellow, and then warm orange and even dull red as they ate into the green logs. Softy, he called them, summoned them to warm the room and the people crowded into it. The fire rose a bright yellow, glowing like a sun on water, flames in a silken presence fluttering above the logs in the joyous combustion, the glow of life itself.

The central log on the fire disintegrated, splitting in the center and drenching the other two logs that hadn’t quite caught in glowing, dull-red embers and flaring white sparks. The wood hissed again. Steam rose and then was whisked away by rising flame.

Uther didn’t hear the gasp of awe behind him or the tremble in the rippling, flooding notes of the flute Alexia played. He was gone, entering his music the way light transforms mist into columns of haze, turning a many-pillared forest into a cathedral of illusion.

The firelight filled the room, glowing on the rapt faces of his audience listening to a paean of delight, and swept them away with him into the contemplation of a universe fashioned, transfiguringly loved, and ordered by God.

When he was done, not finished but simply too weary to continue, the storm was past and the night sky blessed by uncountable stars, the air crisp and cold. The fire on the northern hearth was burned to ruby coals. The crowd took their leave quietly, the only sound the crunch of footsteps in the frozen grass. They had all had as much as they wished to eat and drink, and the hostess was enriched by not one but two silver coins. He was trembling with weariness when he and the others sought their beds on the floor.

The dog woke him, slobbering, whimpering, moaning. He opened his eyes. Alex was resting against his back, Alexia snuggled at his stomach. He had known a time when a warm female body would have filled him with a frenzy of desire. In the morning he would tell them to change places, but otherwise, he was only annoyed. And even so not very annoyed. Together they were warm as a blanket.

He looked toward the fire and saw a kind of silver haze over the coals. It triggered the memory of the last time he had seen his son. Arthur had come to him in the night, calling him to witness Merlin and Igrane working black magic. Later, upon thinking of the fact that his son got into his room unchallenged, he had come to the conclusion that a subtle but powerful spell had been at work.

He had seen the same haze near the fire, but thought it only moonlight. But tonight there was no moon. He remembered the absolute dominion of the stars when he stood at the door to say farewell to his audience.

Magic, and tonight of all nights. The thought wearied him. He was a man of his hands—as it is said—be his hands on a harp or a sword.

His right hand closed on the hilt of the sax in his belt. The dog was silent now, but Uther heard paws scrabbling on the floor. The sound was frantic.

Uther thought of the miserable, mutilated animal. Perhaps it would be a good thing if he took the sax and struck the animal in the ribs on the left side where the heart thuds. A good deed, but what was using the dog to seek him?

“Yes, a good deed!”

The voice was a whisper that came from near where the dog lay. Uther knew the voice.

“Merlin!”

Laughter, audible laughter originating in the dog’s throat.

“I am tormenting it, trying to get it to rise and rend you.” This voice was only in his mind. Then, “I am lost. Lost, lost,” the dog moaned. “In hell—in the dog—in the forest. In hell, in hell.”

“Merlin, what has got its claws in you?” Uther asked.

“The king, the king.”

“I am the king. I have done nothing to you,” Uther whispered.

“Bade. Bademagus!” Sobbing, cursing incoherence succeeded this statement. The sounds were separate. The voice in his mind, the struggles of the animal near the fire, were loud in the room.

“Stop,” Uther whispered. “You will wake the rest. Is that what you want? The woman will take a strap to the dog and you will feel it. How long have you been in the dog?”

“A night, a day, a night. Until the tally was two weeks.”

The animal’s mind is winning,
Uther thought.

“It wanted respite for its suffering,” Merlin’s voice continued. “It got meeeeeeee.” The word trailed off in a wail of despair.

“You tried the magic of Dis. But hell is where you belong, sorcerer. You and your bitch, fuck, you tortured my son.” Uther was surprised at the grim satisfaction in his soft voice.

“You tried. You failed. You didn’t save him. You didn’t stop us in time.” There was a vicious spite in the answer.

“Be still!” Rage choked Uther. “I’ll kick the dog’s ribs in—and enjoy it. I know the damage you and she did. I know. I see it sometimes in his eyes. But not, thank God, always. No, not always.”

The animal panted, whimpered.

“Come here!”

“No,” Uther answered. “Ruined as that animal is, I’ll not step within reach of its chain.”

The animal’s teeth ground. “Would you know what path to take to defeat the Saxons?”

The last thing Uther wanted was the advice of whatever was left of the sorcerer. It was obvious there had been a falling-out between the two villains. And Bade, Lord of the Summer Country, had gotten the better of the encounter. But from the first that devil Merlin had been the most politically astute of his advisors.

As a king, he had no right to turn away useful information, no matter how repellent or dangerous the source. He rose, pushing himself slowly and carefully to his feet. As he did, he drew the sax, smothering the blade in the folds of the mantle. It might take a second to deploy it, but that couldn’t be helped. The dog was blind, but he didn’t know if the sorcerer’s spirit also was.

He took the few steps, which brought him to where the dog lay near the spit wheel. The panting breaths of the crippled beast were rapid and harsh.

“You will kill me.”

“Yes!”

“It and I long for death. I want your word.”

“You have it. Now tell me.”

“They come tomorrow.”

“Who?” Uther was bewildered.

“The horses and the sacrifices. What you must do is—”

Uther saw the dog’s haunches twitch. That was all the warning he got. It had been a mastiff, a battle dog bigger and stronger than even he had realized. He didn’t know the lunge had begun until he saw the rotten, blackened but still-long, ragged fangs rising toward his throat.

There was no time to get the sword into it. But he swung the pommel ball down toward the rising black skull. Steel, a war hammer in a pinch, the pommel split the dog’s skull even as Uther was blinded by a brilliant flash of light.

                  CHAPTER THREE

Albe and I took another path back to the shore.

“A wondrous place,” she said, and turned to look back to Ure’s lair. Both awe and longing were in her voice.

I seized her by the hair and jerked her head around. She cried out in pain.

“Don’t!” I snarled. “Don’t give him any more power than he already has.”

She stood obedient next to me, looking down the path across the rocks that led down next to the white-water rapids beneath the forest road. My fingers slipped free of the thick curls springing now from her scalp. He had taken our hair before the battle, making no distinction between boys and girls. And I thought that sacrificial rite might also have added to this unlikely sorcerer’s spells. Though, God, he didn’t need any additional ammunition! His power still staggered me.

Wic had been hurt too much—too long—by the treachery of those she looked to for love for her to resist him. She became one of his acolytes, there to remain mistress, lover, servant, follower, trusted companion, friend all, and in a certain way none of these things. Until . . . until . . . I didn’t know how long. Time stopped at his lair. We would never know. No life could be long enough.

I’m not sure Albe knew what we had turned away from. Not really comprehended it. I had a better idea, but my muscles knotted with fear as I remembered that the Faun told me I must return. For some reason, I must return.

“You cannot take the dragon,” the Faun had said. “There is no sea. She will accompany you, be your companion.”

The sea, the ocean realm of dragons, had been a constant in my life since the day I was born. How could I go where there was no sea?

There were tears on Albe’s face, and I saw I had hurt her. I think she is impervious to bodily pain, but to be treated roughly by one she adored . . . me . . . was such as to bring her grief.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it. I’m afraid.”

She glanced at me, pain in her eyes, but didn’t reply. I stopped, sat down on a log, and watched the white water rush past us in the half dark. She paused and, still standing, turned her back to me, looking at the water.

I began to unlace the shoes Talorcan had given me when we trod the mage of Dis. I was going to do magic, and my feet must touch the ground. The Faun said so.

“Here, you wear them.” Holding them by the laces, I extended them to her.

She looked complimented and frightened at the same time.

“Here,” I repeated. “You may need protection.”

She gave a brief laugh. “Yes, from the real owner of these shoes.”

“I don’t think he would object to . . .” But then I broke off. He might, and then God knows what the Death Pig might do.

But then, while I watched, they changed—developed a bit of heel and ended looking a bit like the campaign sandals Roman officers commonly wore with a metal plate in the center and many small straps holding the sole to the plate. They were just her size.

My feet are big and were Kyra’s despair. When I was young, some convention demanded ladies—great ladies—have small feet. The greater the lady, the smaller the feet. But there was no keeping me from running barefoot, so I ended with a firm foundation.

But though Albe’s face was scarred and most of her looks gone, she still had a good figure, long, graceful legs, and small feet. She must have been a beautiful girl until the raid that destroyed her family and before she sacrificed her face in token grief.

“You see,” she had told me, “I must not be a woman, for I am the only one left to avenge them. And vengeance must be taken, or their spirits can never rest.”

I shivered. That is one of the worst things about us—us and the Saxons. It is why we are so interested in law. Why we worry about justice and spend more time on trivial cases at law than the Romans ever thought of. These blood feuds. It would be too long and complex to explain here, but vengeance is not a matter of hot blood with us. It is a duty, and if Albe felt chained to the need for vengeance, then she would likely never have any life at all.

But then, perhaps after having been raped, then thrown into the sea to die—and that’s what had happened to her—perhaps she had no wish for a conventional woman’s life.

“Best put the shoes on then,” I told her. “If you are going with me, I think you will need their protection.”

She sat down beside me. “Where are you going?” she asked as she began doing up the laces.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “The Faun gave me directions. He said follow the coast till the sea is gone. Do this before dawn.”

Albe looked up. “But how? If you are following the coast, how can the sea be gone? You can’t follow the coast and escape the sea.”

I studied the water rushing past. “I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m warning you to consider your hide before you follow me. You have money now. Your honor is restored. Marry, reestablish your family. It is said ‘a woman clad in gold is the most beautiful of all.’ ”

“I’m not such a fool. Most men would despise me—as I am now. And would any who would take me for the wealth I bring to a match be worth having?”

“I cannot say.” I shrugged.

“Besides, I’ve a mind to see the world. And I must find out how one escapes the sea by running along the shore.”

She had finished with the shoes. “So comfortable,” she said, standing and trying them out.

“By the stars,” I said, looking up through the lattice of pine branches above. “It is near first light. We have not much time.”

I felt the damp rocks with my toes. The millrace river sent up enough spray to wet everything on its banks. I was wearing Maeniel’s sword on my back. Her sword was shorter, more of a sax. A falchion, Eure called it. She found it somewhere in the ruins of the pirate fortress we had destroyed. The hilt was walrus ivory, cunningly carved with hollows for the fingers. Like a sax, the blade was sharp on both sides up to the middle, where it humped.

Albe was strong. Most men would have had difficulty using that blade, it was so heavy, but she wielded it like a child’s toy. I watched her try it on a branch three inches thick once. On the downstroke, the weight of the blade sheared through the wood as though it were warm butter. I didn’t like to think what it would do to a human being.

But I think her favorite weapon was still the sling. She always wore it in her belt and constantly replenished the sack of smooth, round stones of the kind she favored most. It was always close to her hand and ready.

I settled the sword on my back, straightened my belt, and made sure my mantle was well wrapped around my shoulders.

“We run,” I said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“I feel it,” I said.

We began to run, flying down the path beside the river. When Mother was alive, we ran often: she, myself, Black Leg as either wolf or boy. Starting out early, we ran downhill until we reached the beach, then flew along the shingle. Black Leg, when he was wolf, followed Mother. But two-legged, I must pick a path, thinking each time where my feet would land.

It was like playing chess. My mind emptied of all else. Whatever trouble was in my thoughts when I began to run, it was always wiped away by the concentration necessary to cover ground swiftly while climbing steep hills, racing across the treacherous slopes, dodging through the ravines. Or even simply dashing along in and out of the waves that sometimes foamed to my knees while keeping my footing on water-slick stone. Mother felt it was good exercise for any young animal to learn to pick a path and travel swiftly in any and all circumstances.

I forgot Albe. I forgot the battle. I forgot the dying and the destruction. I simply ran as the Faun told me. I felt a communion with the earth through my feet. The rocks that channeled and protected the river were measured strength, pine needles a drift of sweet-scented softness.

There were more pools, still places among the sometimes savage rapids, than I had realized. We splashed through them as soft, broad-leafed plants, the whipping reeds, velvet moss, and clean mud touched and pleasured my feet and legs. I ran as Mother taught me, with absolute concentration on each spot my foot fell.

Yet I was also aware of the world around me. The sky was beginning to lighten before we reached the shore. I knew, because though there were many stars, I could now see the pine shapes as beautiful gray silhouettes against the bowl of heaven. When we reached the bottom of the road and headed across sand toward the shore, I saw light on the water. The tide was out, the sea quiet, the waves only gentle, curling forms that fanned out, then sank into the sand. Seen only from the corner of my eye, the drinking hall where we had dined last night was now dark and silent, as dawn, like an unannounced visitor, began to call at its doors.

I saw no one. We met no one. And indeed, I wondered if any were awake at this hour besides myself and Albe.

I sensed as much as saw the water reacting to the first touch of light, like glowing silver brightening imperceptibly as the sun approached the edge of the world. Albe and I turned at last, running in those shallow combers so soft, so smooth, yet not quite silent, whispering as though the great sea had some secret knowledge to impart to this place of boundaries between one world and another. This was the dream, I thought, remembering how Kyra long ago told me she knew Dugald had gone to the other world, but growing fearful, had turned back.

Was the Faun right? Was I journeying to another world?

No. I still felt the sea, saw it shimmering brighter and brighter as the world, like some great vessel, carried me and all living things toward sunrise. I saw the waters, silver, white, gray, gold, gleaming ahead and spreading out on my right side. In a moment the sun would rise and the water give back red, gold, purple, amethyst, blue, and sheer silver to the sky above.

For the first time I stumbled, and looking down, found I was running on stone. Puzzled for a moment, I slowed, and Albe crashed into me. We both staggered.

I laughed, but she gave a stifled shriek and said, “Oh, God! God! Look!”

I stopped because she had and looked where her finger pointed, out to sea. Or where the sea had been, for it was as the Faun promised—gone!

Igrane woke and found it still dark in the chamber where she slept, though she realized the tide must be out, because she could see stars through the dome above her. The robe she was wearing seemed to want her to go back to sleep, because it moved gently, swathing her more tightly, and it seemed to warm her feet and hands. It had frightened her when she first put it on. Clothing that moved of its own volition was a rather terrifying experience. But now that she was used to the gentle clasp, the caressing touch, the silken velvet texture, the way it warmed her hands and feet, she was seduced by the luxury of the experience.

Until she saw the light approaching. It came from beyond the room, where Merlin had pulled her into this world. Moving at a walk, it crossed the upper room where he had forced her to eat the plum that rendered her helpless before his spells. Then it began to descend the stair that led to the temple (this was how she thought of it) where he’d placed her on the glowing symbol that nearly drained away her life.

That same symbol flared to red brightness as whatever being that carried the light reached the foot of the stair, paused, and moved toward her. The dark-red symbol pulsed as though keeping time to the beating of a human heart.

Igrane sat up. The living mantle accepted her change of position submissively, draping her shoulders and lifting a fold over her head. Igrane became aware the room was very cold, and her breath steamed in the air. But she was warmed by fear and, most of all, by growing rage. He had very nearly destroyed her, and the sheer indignity of being rendered so helpless, and subjected to degradation so complete, woke a deep, visceral anger that shook her body. Whatever this was, if it made even the slightest threatening gesture toward her, she would kill it.

It came close enough to see that a cowled figure held a lamp. Or was it a lamp? It seemed a star trapped in the center of a crystal teardrop.

“So it is true. My dream is true. He is gone,” a voice whispered.

“For the present,” Igrane answered.

The reply was laughter, laughter that sounded like a stirring of dead leaves moved by a cold autumn wind.

“If he was taken in the way my dream informed me, he is not gone for the present, unless your idea of the present is a hundred or more years.”

“That long.” Igrane sighed.

“That and more. He treads the maze of Dis. Bade sent him there. He couldn’t kill him. No, Merlin . . . the Merlin, is too powerful.”

Igrane laughed, a silvery tinkle. “That makes me very happy.”

“Then we share the same feelings about the fell necromancer. I see he tried to kill you the way he
did
kill me.”

Igrane glanced at the ruined bodies of the two golem undead servants who had tied her up, readying her for the whip.

“You are one of them. Don’t come near me, and I don’t want to see your face, either.” The hysteria in her voice astounded even Igrane herself.

Again the serpent laughter. “Don’t be so haughty, my fine lady. Once he was done with draining you dry, flaying your corpse, rendering muscles into gristle, changing your fat to tallow by boiling your bones, you too would have looked much like me. The smooth, warm, rounded curves of life beneath honeyed, soft skin, all would have departed. Those fine white teeth of yours would have grinned from between dried lips, as mine do, and the demon fires glow in your eye sockets.”