Merlin's Mirror Read online

  9.

  * * *

  The message came to Myrddin on the eve of the Feast of Briganta. He had already made his own provisions for the care of the child. In the slave market he had ransomed one of the small, dark, Pictish women taken on a raid across the ancient wall of the Romans. She had borne a dead child three days earlier and was so sunk in despair that the dealer asked no great price. But Myrddin, using the powers of the mirror, was able to communicate with her, promising her eventual freedom if she would take care of the baby he would bring her. She might not have believed the truth of his promise, but she did not protest when he took her back to the inn, asked that she be given water to wash and then provided her with a plain woolen tunic and a cloak perhaps warmer than any she had ever known.

  The child was a son, even as Myrddin had been sure. And, since there had been no name given him, just as Lugaid had once named him, standing in place of the father who should have held the babe in his arms, so did Myrddin look down into that small red face and call him after the name the mirror had spoken: “Arthur.”

  Three weeks later he hired a horse litter and made contact with a levy of men riding to reinforce the northern borders, that they might ride with a measure of protection through lands which were still debatable. Thus they journeyed to Ector’s holding where he was welcomed as kin come home. Ector pressed Myrddin to stay there also. But such an uneasiness had ridden with the younger man since he had left the King’s house that he would not agree. The sooner he was well away from here, the less chance there would be of any secret man of the King or the King’s enemies tracing Arthur.

  Myrddin doubted that Uther would mean the boy any fatal harm, but the High King would doubtless be a happier man if he should lose this unwanted child overseas. And there were still many ties with families in Lesser Britain. Among those Uther could find someone to hide Arthur past any finding.

  “When he is ready for schooling,” Myrddin had returned in answer to Ector’s urging, “then shall I come.” For he was certain that Arthur must be given those same sources of knowledge which had shaped his own life. “Until then, forget that he is not truly of your blood kin.”

  And Trynihid, holding her own son Cei to her full breast, smiled.

  “Kinsman, he shall abide safe.”

  Ector nodded vigorously. “Blood oath on that if you wish—”

  Myrddin smiled in return. “Kinsman, what need of oaths between those of one blood? I have no doubt that you will make him a true fosterling of this house.”

  Thus he rode in the early spring, heading south, but setting to a path which would take him again to the Place of the Sun, for he was very lonely. Perhaps in Lugaid he could find a certain companionship. Such a way would also confuse his trail for anyone who followed, for he could not rid himself of the feeling that he was indeed the object of a hunt.

  The King’s men, he believed, would be more open in their seeking, if Uther had changed his mind. No, this was more subtle, like being pursued by a shadow, a cloud, something he could not seize on nor confront, but which was there. And he knew only one who could command such a shadow—Nimue.

  There could be, he speculated, some way in which each use of his powers might be made known, wherever Nimue hid to weave her spells. And, because he had no inkling of the depth of her knowledge, a prudent man would assess her skill at maximum in order to go prepared. So his haunted feeling as he rode north meant that she had now learned of Arthur.

  His first fear lay with the child. If, when he himself traveled forth from Ector’s land, that sensation of being watched vanished, then it must be the child who was in danger. Learning that, he himself would return immediately to make other plans, set up such protective barriers as he could. But, to his relief on that point, he went accompanied by the invisible watcher.

  Now he searched the land around as he rode, set up certain mind-alarms of his own each night while he slept, lest he be ambushed unaware. Still there came no attack, only that continual foreboding feeling. . . .

  He thought he could perhaps throw it off when he reached the Place of the Sun, remembering that sense of renewed power which had flowed into him when he touched those tall-standing sentinels of a lost age. How strong was Nimue? So much depended on the answer to that question. And what moves had she been making over the years since their last meeting? For he was certain that she had not been idle.

  So he came into the giant circle of standing stones and there dismounted and stood to watch dawn banished by the rising sun. He had been right: here he was free of surveillance for the first time. Yet he knew he must not allow Nimue to be baffled long; there was always the fear in his mind that she might backtrail—that she would strike at Arthur. Above all else, Arthur must endure!

  Myrddin crossed the turf to the hut Lugaid had built. He urgently wanted the advice the Druid might give him, the feeling of one comrade on his side if a strange battle was to be enjoined. But even before he reached the crude building he saw that its roof of branches was broken, that it no longer was the home place of any man.

  “Lugaid!” He could not choke back his own dispairing cry, though the name seemed to ring far too loudly in the air. The hide curtain was gone from the doorway, so he could look into the cramped single room. No one had been here for a long time.

  A little forlornly he stooped and went in, kicking at the powdery ash which had been a fire. The bronze cooking pot, the wooden bowls and spoons were gone. There was nothing left to say when or where the Druid had left. At least Myrddin could read no sign of violence—Lugaid had not fallen prey to any roving war band or slinking outlaws such as might visit this deserted place.

  Slowly the youth returned to the King Stone, setting his hands palm-down on its rough surface. This was indeed a thing of power! Within him he could feel his own energy and will rising to blend with the emanation from the stone. That confidence which had ebbed when he found Lugaid gone came back to him.

  There were things he could do here, certain forces he could evoke, which he thought would make Arthur secure, remove from his own journey that watching presence. And those he did, using word and thought, a certain rhythm beat on the rock face with the blade of his belt knife. He felt the answer from the stones, the gathering of what was like an invisible war band. And he marshaled that force, aimed it—released it like an arrow from a bow toward the north and Ector’s small valley.

  Then he was tired, drained. He dropped down in the grass, his shoulders against the King Stone, his eyes on the sky where clouds whiter than the whitest linen sailed slowly and impressively to affairs outside the understanding of man. Beyond the clouds, beyond the higher sky, lay other worlds, many more than a man might count. Life inhabitated those distant worlds—though the mirror had shown him little of that and only fleetingly. Yet, if the Sky People returned, their ships would be bridges to those worlds. Would he have the courage to voyage outward, seeking another sun? He did not know, though the idea excited him. How long would the waiting continue?

  Men thought in years, in seasons; the Star Lords in centuries. Man’s life was short. How long was that of a Star Lord? Perhaps three, four, a hundred times that of man? At the moment he felt all man, awed, a little afraid of those who would come to his summoning if he could fulfill everything the voice of the mirror asked of him.

  Myrddin slipped into a half-sleep as his pony cropped the new-springing grass around the stones. In that sleep his imagination woke and showed him even stranger things than the mirror had ever hinted at. Yet there was nothing threatening in those sights, unearthly as they were. He only felt wonder and delight.

  Cities—such cities!—with shining towers of rainbow glass reached high into skies that were not the blue of the earth he knew. And some others were set under the restless waves of seas, sharp pinnacles, as red as the precious coral he had seen shown by merchants from the southern lands. Yes, he could imagine the cities, but he could not bring to life the people who had built them. Perhaps man could only see life equal t
o his own image. That was the fatal shortness of man’s sight.

  The sun passed behind one of the clouds; more were gathering. Myrddin was roused by a wind with a sharp promise of rain and storm. He caught at the reins of the pony, started back to the hut which had been Lugaid’s. He sheltered there that night while wild winds raged across the land. Twice he cowered as lightning struck with explosive force against the King Stone, as if that rock drew the full fury of what lashed across the sky.

  He had weathered such storms before, but it seemed to him that he had never faced one with such fury wrapped within it. He plugged his ears with his fingers, closed his eyes—still he could not escape either sight nor sound. There was a strange odor in the air. . . . This was the force men could never hope to control, now gone mad and striving to wipe the earth clean of life.

  In spite of his fear Myrddin was also gripped by a wild exultation which made him wish to run out into that chaos, leap and shout, abandon all to become a part of the fury, free himself from restraint, of his mind’s control.

  But in the morning there was nothing to show the passing of such force. Not until he had ridden outward from the circle did he see trees overthrown, their roots pointing accusingly like crooked fingers at the sky from which their deathblows had come. In Myrddin there was a new kind of peace. The storm might have drawn with its disappearance all his unease, his fears. He still had some of the freedom which had grown in him during those dark hours.

  His sense of being spied on was also gone with the storm. Yet he took no chances and approached the cave only after some days of travel by a circuitous route, using the caution he had always maintained. This time Vran did not greet him, even though he whistled for the raven and laid out an offering on the ground. In fact he became aware, as he watched and listened, that there was an odd silence over the slope. There were no other birds. Even the wind had ceased to blow here.

  He listened not only with his ears, but also with that mental sense. The very absence of any life was in itself a warning. And he could guess what might have happened; he had been too sure he had thrown off that questing. The mind so engaged had not wasted time trying to trail him, instead it had come straight here!

  Nimue!

  He stripped saddle and bridle from the pony and turned the animal loose, trying to conceal any outward sign that he was conscious of what might soon face him here. He decided, after several quick glances in that direction that the crevice entrance to the cave was undisturbed. Stones he had piled there to hide the opening had not been moved. It was the sword which lay at the back of his mind now. He was sure it would be impossible to transport any of the space things from here—they were all too large to be drawn through the crevice. How they had entered into the mountain he never knew; perhaps they had been left there through the centuries.

  But the sword was a different matter and Nimue knew that he possessed it. It could well be that she wished to take the weapon from him. He shifted his plump saddle-bags to his shoulder, went to the crevice. This Nimue knew also, so he was betraying no secret. But let him get inside and she would discover that she had been left behind. He well understood that the mirror had its own safety devices and that he alone was able to approach it.

  He worked quickly, refusing to turn around, to look over one shoulder or the other. There was a growing pressure on him, a command—but not to the extent that his own will could not counter it. As if he could hear her laughter ringing again, he believed she was watching— waiting—applying the burden of her will, intent on making him obey. But she was too confident, too sure of her own use of the power. He must not be so overconfident in return; rather he must be wary.

  Perhaps she had easily been able to compel obedience by use of the same hallucinations which he had employed to his own purposes during the years. Now her confidence was supreme, because she had not previously met resistance such as he could offer.

  So far he had not resisted because his will marched with hers: she wanted him in the cave, he wanted to make sure that the sword was safe. The last stone was aside; he stooped to wriggle through. Once more he discovered that not even the enlarged entrance was big enough to admit him without a struggle. His tunic tore on hip and shoulder and skin beneath suffered painful grazes.

  The cave was deeper in gloom, with only one small line of lights alive. Myrddin dropped his saddlebags, went directly to the niche where he had concealed the sword. The wrapped bundle lay there in safety, but he stripped off the sheath to make sure that the blade still rested within. In the dark it shone with a wan light of its own, and he held the hilt in his right hand, ran the fingertips of the left along that smooth length. Like the stone, this touch reported to him the feeling of unleashed strength, of energy which might be released on command. This was more an object of destiny than just a tool to move the King Stone. It had a future use also, and that he would learn in time. But now it was safe and he wound the wrappings about it again hiding its luminosity.

  “Merlin!” A voice, but not the familiar one.

  He rounded the nearest square to look into the dark surface of the mirror. There was a strange silvery sheen across it and in the midst of the eerie light stood Nimue. She was now a woman and that quality in her which had moved Myrddin at the Place of the Sun was stronger, far stronger. He was dazzled by the woman who looked at him as if she were indeed behind the mirror, her eyes meeting his.

  “Merlin!” Now she made his name not a demand for attention, but a soft greeting which stirred an answer within him. Breed called to breed in spite of all he knew.

  “Alas, poor Merlin.” Her voice held no mockery, though he might have expected it, rather a touch of pity. “You have entered the trap and it is sprung. All your meddling with the affairs of man—and woman—will be put to naught by time itself. Clever are those who fashioned you to carry out their actions, be their hands and feet in this tormented land. But not quite clever enough. They set guards about their mirror and everything else they landed from star voyages, but perhaps they did not know that guards can be placed around guards. Merlin, you have gone to earth like the fox which is hunted, but unlike the canny fox you will not come forth again!

  “I have set an outer force field to keep you in and you shall abide there until your human part fails through hunger and thirst. This deed is terrible, aye, but worse would you in time bring to pass if you are not so halted. Your Arthur will live, but he will be no more than any other man. Thus falls to dust your dream of kingdom. He will never claim a crown, and death unknown will also be his portion. Farewell, Merlin. It is a pity we could not deal together as distant kin should.”

  She was gone in a flicker of light. Myrddin had flung out a hand as if to try to arrest her disappearance, though he knew that the real Nimue had not stood so, only a sending she had released. Now he whirled and in a minute was at the crevice.

  The opening was there, he could put an arm into it. Yet before his fist was out into the open it met, with a shock of force, an invisible wall.

  Two more testings, top and near ground level, made it plain that the barrier formed a tight plug. He wasted no time in useless physical struggle. Only the mirror might have an answer for this and he returned to it in two strides, crouched down on the viewer’s bench he had so often occupied in the past. Gazing intently at his own reflection, he thought his problem, aware, though he knew not how it was done, that his query or plea for aid registered somewhere.

  He saw the installation, so long dark and quiet, waken to life. Then the mirror voice spoke:

  “The force field is too strong to break . . . now. And it is true that you wear a body which was not fashioned to withstand much physical stress. But for that there is an answer. You will sleep, Merlin, and during that sleep all body processes shall be slowed down. Thus, when the moment comes that time thins the field, you can awake and issue forth once again, alive and whole. This is the manner by which such can be accomplished.”

  His own face and body were not gone from the mirror
this time, but he saw himself going to a long, low machine at the far end of the row. There he pressed his hands, fingers deep into small holes. The lid of the machine rose on upward-reaching pillars. Then the man he watched stripped off his clothing and he climbed through the wedge between the chest and lid to lie down. The pillars slid toward the cave floor, sealing him in.

  Myrddin shivered. He could not doubt the wisdom of the mirror and the voice. Yet this way seemed to be entering his tomb while he still lived. To follow such action needed all the courage he could summon.

  The mirror had cleared again. He saw only his own form as it was, while he reluctantly rose to his feet. Slow starvation, death by thirst—or the offer of the tomb? The chances were very slim on either side. Bat because he trusted the mirror he followed instructions now.

  That long box opened as he applied the pressure, just as the mirror had shown. He stared down into the interior as the lid rose. Within was a rosy glow, pale, but strong enough to reflect on his hands. And the bottom was awash in a liquid from which came a pleasant, aromatic scent. He stripped off his clothes, piled them to one side and slung a leg over the edge of the box. The liquid was about his ankle, rising up his shin; it was warm, soothing somehow.

  He pushed through the rest of his body, settled himself at the bottom of the box. Now the liquid washed over his chest, caressed his cheeks. And that was the last thing he remembered, except that the lid was settling swiftly downward to lock him out of the world.

  There were dreams, strange dreams of cities whose like he had never thought could exist, so high did their narrow buildings tower into the air. Men flew in things which were not birds, but made stiffly of metal cunningly fashioned. The dreamer sometimes abode for a small time in the body of one or another of those men, though he was then beseiged by thoughts so different from his own time that he could not understand them.