Merlin's Shadow (26 page)

“Our slavery's been quite hard. Arthur had it easier, though.”

Atle clasped his hands and smiled — each of his gray teeth had been worn flat as if he ate the shale from the cliffs for dinner every day. “Today at de mid-meal ve are having our ninth year celebration, and dis boy vit-out a father —”

“Arthur.”

Yes … de boy … and ye … haf come just in time. I am most grateful. Ye won't leave until after de feast?”

“Of course not. We will be honored to be your guests.”

The dog yapped as if he wanted to be included as well.

“Ah, but ye are nott de guest o' honor, and should nott presume such. Velcome, ya. Honored, no. De little one, Arthur, ess me guest o' honor, and shall feast by me side in great finery. Et ess a ninth year celebration, after all.”

“Ninth year?” Merlin asked. The candle had burned lower now, and he could hardly keep his eyes open.

“Ah, but dat's right,” Atle said, relaxing his smile. “Yer muther hasn't told ye dese dings. Every nine years ve hold a vonderful feast. Et ess our oldest tradition on Dinpelder, we say.”

“I saw the preparations going on in the kitchen,” Merlin said. “It looks like you've been preparing for many days.”

Atle nodded to Merlin, then he leaned forward and blew out the candle. Merlin was blind for a moment and saw only a hazy floating outline of Atle in the darkness.

“Ye are tired from yer travels,” Atle said, “and now our audience ess at an end. I shall see ye shortly at de feast.”

Merlin rose, took the small bag of money, bowed in thanks, and left.

As Merlin closed the door, something fell into his hair. He shook his head and brushed it out — a small piece of wood. Rotten, it was, and it crumbled in his hands. He looked up, and, in the dim light coming from the main hall, noticed that the log above Atle's doorway looked peculiar. He touched it, and sure, it was rotting away. In fact, as he made his way to his assigned room, he noticed other
logs that had the same decayed appearance. Funny, but it seemed to him like the whole building might come down soon under its own weight. How old
was
the place?

He tried to put it out of his mind as he closed his door, wearily flopped onto his heather and fern stuffed mattress for a quick nap, and fell asleep. But visions of Atle's face haunted him, and in his dreams he couldn't get the king's hand to let go of his arm.

P
anic ensued all around Mórganthu as he pretended to struggle against his bonds. If they would leave him alone for even a few breaths, he could slip his fake-handed-stump out of the cords and free himself. But no, they all had to run around in fear of Vortigern like the little fools they were.

At least Troslam had some wits. He gathered the others and presented a plan. “There's five of them, and we've no choice but to escape.”

Safrowana could hardly catch her breath, and made it worse by covering her mouth and nose with her hands.

“But how?” Dybris asked. “They'll see us climb your wall, and they'll guard the gates.”

“Not if we go
under
the wall. We've never used the old kiln built into our land's wall. The stones in the back are loose, and I can push them out.”

Dybris shuffled them all toward the back of the house. “Then go! I'll guard the door and give you time to get away.”

“No,” Safrowana said, finding her voice, “I'll stay as well — with Ganieda and Imelys. We'll pretend you're on a journey, and that the girls never lived here … won't we?”

Imelys nodded.

Ganieda looked confused but nodded anyway.

Troslam took hold of his wife's hands and shook his head. “I can't let you do this.”

“You have no choice. You're the only one who can protect them.”

Troslam closed his eyes for a moment and then embraced her.

There was a knock on the door, and everyone jumped.

“And Mórganthu?” Troslam whispered. “He'll tell.”

“I'll gag him. Now go!” Dybris handed over the spear.

While Troslam and Uther's girls snuck out the back door of the house into their high-walled pasture, the monk made good on his word and tied the gag firmly around Mórganthu's head. It hurt, and so Mórganthu pretended to shake his head in protest, but knew he could take it off quickly when needed.

There was another loud knock at the door.

Safrowana set Imelys to spinning in the corner, told Ganieda to pretend to stir the pot of soup, and set herself on the loom's bench and began unwinding the shuttle. She nodded to Dybris and took a deep breath.

Vortigern and his men were banging now. “Anyone home?!” they called.

“Pray,” Dybris said as he went to the door.

Mórganthu swiveled his body on the floor to get a better vantage point. Dybris had just begun to lift the bar when someone rammed into the door from the outside. One of the hinges cracked away from the frame, and Dybris fell to the floor with the bar on his chest.

Three men burst in — one with a spear and two with swords.

Safrowana screamed, and the girls both jumped.

Ganieda ran to Imelys, and the two held hands behind two wooden vats of dye.

The spear came within inches of the monk's belly, and the monk
flinched. “Peace!” Dybris yelled. “We are Christians here and mean you no harm.”

The two swordsmen charged into the room. One went straight for the girls, and they screeched as he cornered them. The other warrior sought out Safrowana, who, after her initial fright, stood up and held her arms out to show she held no weapon. Within moments the room was silent, a hushed breath against a blade.

Vortigern walked in, an archer at his side. “Tethion … check the rooms and the pasture.”

Tethion stepped over Mórganthu, who wanted to pull out his arm and release his gag, but found the scene playing out before him a delicious morsel upon his tongue. He would tell, and quickly, but not instantly. The girls could not get far.

Tethion ran back to the room and shook his head. “No one else is here.”

Dybris and Safrowana glanced at each other.

The swordsman with the girls, a bully of a man with his front teeth missing, snarled and shook his blade at them. “I gots ‘em, Ivort, I gots the two! Does I's gets a reward?”

Vortigern stepped over and cuffed the man across the face. “Not them … that's not
them
.” He swiveled to face Safrowana. “Where are they — Uther's girls? We're here to … bring them back to their clan … protect them.”

At these words, the man with the spear upon the monk blinked at Vortigern, confused.

Safrowana said nothing. Her chin was out in defiance, but Mórganthu could see the corners of her eyes twitching.

Vortigern grabbed onto her hair and yanked it back, almost pulling her over. But he held her close, suspended against his chest — neck out and face up. Then he pulled out a short blade and brought the tip near her eyes.

“Tell me now.
Where did the girls go?
”

Mórganthu looked up at Vortigern's blade. Would he kill Safrowana? Mórganthu would dearly like that, and it made his slight
delay revealing himself and the truth well worth it … a small bit of revenge for all his troubles.

Someone banged a loud gong in the central hall, waking Merlin up. It was almost mid-day and the time for the ninth year feast had come, but Merlin wanted to visit Natalenya before the festival meal. She had informed Colvarth that she was not going to attend so that she could rest. Her sickness had taken a turn for the worse during their recent journey.

Her room faced north at the far end of the highest inhabitable level of Atle's hall, and Merlin climbed the stairs up three floors to reach her. As he approached the door, he found it ajar, and peeking in, he saw Loth sitting in a chair near her bed. They were chatting.

Merlin knocked and pushed the door open.

Loth stood to face Merlin. “Ye've come at ane good time,” he said. “I hae just brought this beautiful lass a trencher from our feast, and was preparing tae leave.” He gave a slight bow to Natalenya and then slipped past Merlin without making eye contact.

“What was that about?” Merlin asked, taking the seat where Loth had sat. It was warm. At a small table nearby lay a pewter mug full of red wine and a tray of sliced meats, cheeses, and bread.

“He's quite nice, you know.”

“And handsome.”

Natalenya pulled up the blanket and faced the wall. “He looks like you —”

“Without the scars. Yes, I know.” He reached up to his face and traced the lines again — the ever-present curses.

She spun back, her face pinched. “Loth is helping me with my sickness. The royal physician has already been up twice to visit me.”

“And that's more than I've ever done. You don't need to —”

“What? I don't need to get better? The sickness has wormed its way into my bones now — I can feel it — and unless I get help
I'm going to die. Can't you understand that, Merlin? But you're too trapped in the prison of your own scars.”

She threw the mug at him. It missed and thudded into the wall, splashing its blood upon the rotting wood.

Her tears flowed freely now, and her voice was hoarse. “Your eyes can see, but I think you're just as blind as ever.”

She might as well have plunged a knife in.

He reached out and took her trembling hand. “I'm sorry,” was all he could say, and it was true. He had come expecting her to be happy that their slavery had ended — but she wasn't. Of course not! And he'd been a fool to think it. What did slavery to the Picts matter when her very veins were enslaved by this sickness? He'd reveled in his freedom, his cleanliness, his new clothes, in Arthur's recovery — but none of these things mattered to her.

“I'm sorry for everything. I don't know how to help anymore, and I've failed you.”

But it wasn't just him that had failed her. Why hadn't the Sangraal healed her? Had Merlin been a fool to trust God?

Maybe Atle's physician could help.

She pulled her hand away and didn't say anything, and so he picked up the empty mug, set it on her table once again, and left.

Merlin could hear the revelers down below, and he looked over the rail as he descended. The central hearth had been lit and veritable racks of hot meats roasted in its steady blaze — beef, fowl, mutton, venison, and a small boar. And there was seafood too — huge fish, speared, and dripping their rich fat over the fires next to pots of boiling rust-colored crustaceans.

All this wafted upward with the smoke, but his stomach was sour, slowing his descent.

As he walked along the final landing, he could see that the area all around the hearth had been filled with guests — warriors and their wives — seated at tables piled high with cheeses, trenchers of
dried apples and berries, baskets filled with steaming flatbreads, and pots of hearty broth. There were also bowls of nuts, toasted and salted, along with platters of orange and white boiled roots, smothered with melted butter.

Stepping onto the main floor, Merlin approached the table where his entire party sat and pulled up a low bench between Bedwir and Garth. The boy had just drained some scalded cream with curds from a bowl and had a white moustache draped across his upper lip.

“We told him to wait until Atle officially starts the feast,” Peredur said, leaning over and crunching on some nuts. “But he just
wouldn't
wait.”

Atle stood, shakily, and declared to the crowd, “Velcome, family, friends, and distant kin. We haf gathered, upon de day o' de great departure o' de glorious ninth year — and ve are ready, yes, ve are ready — danks to our guest o' honor.”

And here he pointed to Arthur, smartly dressed in a red tunic and sitting upon a little raised throne beside Atle's. Before him lay a platter of succulent venison, bread smeared with raspberry preserves, and fresh honeyed apples. The boy had a finger in his mouth, and seemed both pleased and confused at the cheers that arose from the crowd.

“Life! Tonight ve celebrate life! Given by the good Woden to all who valk upon de earth andd sail upon de deep.”

The king talked on and on like this and Merlin ignored his speech, as well as the barking dog that ran around the room eating scraps the warriors threw him. Instead, he turned his attention to the two barrels in the center of their table — one of ale, and another of spiced cider that Garth kept glugging down. Merlin set his mug below the ale spigot and pulled the plug.

Today, he needed to forget.

Mórganthu held his breath as Vortigern moved the knife closer to Safrowana's face.

She spoke. “My husband took them on a trip. He'll be back next month.” She grabbed onto Vortigern's tunic to keep from falling.

Vortigern brought the blade closer and let it hover over her eyes. “A trip? Is that right? And why would he take Uther's girls and not these,
eh
?”

“That's my daughter. She … she's my helper with the … loom.”

“And the other?” Vortigern said. He was baiting her and trying to get her talking, Mórganthu thought, for the man knew the answer to this question.

“She's not one of Uther's daughters, I promise … We were given charge of her.”

“By who?”

“Merlin.” She reached into a small bag hanging from her belt and slipped out a pewter ring with a white stone in it. “Merlin gave us … some money to care for her … and this ring to prove the authority. It was her father's. Please, I'm telling the truth.”

Mórganthu had never seen this trinket before, and it meant nothing to him — but it must have meant something to his granddaughter. Upon hearing Merlin's name and seeing the ring, Ganieda shrieked and yelled. She splashed a dye vat onto her guard's feet, poked him in the ribs with her soup spoon, and slipped around his drooping blade.

Screaming, she ran out the open front door and was gone.

Merlin drank until his stomach loosened and he was able to eat. The food satisfied him in a way he'd thought impossible over the last six months. Slabs of bumpy white cheese. Salted roast boar and a savory mutton leg. Slices of saffroned fish as thick as any steak, yet it would flake apart at the slightest touch. Ale. Bread, warm and soft upon his tongue. Fruit. Crab appendages, sucked sweet from their shells. Ale, and more ale, until he felt so full he could hold no more. Everyone else joined in with relish. Even Colvarth ate more than expected. But Garth topped them all — the boy ate
four full trenchers of food and by the end looked so sleepy that Merlin could have pushed him over by squishing the cheese curd stuck to his cheek.

Then one of Atle's bards got up and sang a lingering, slow ballad about a battle from times of yore. It seemed to be about the warriors from Dinpelder repelling an attack from the Picts, but the details became a bit fuzzy to Merlin. Somehow the Romans were involved. Or were they? Merlin was confused.

Throughout the song, Peredur's face leaned closer and then faded backward. Why couldn't the man sit still, his jaw flapping as he ate, fergoodnesssakes?

On and on the bard droned, and the sunlight streaming into the hall seemed to become very bright as the ale cask emptied. Merlin laid his head down and closed his eyes against the glare. Thankfully, the grating voice of the bard faded and Merlin soon found himself in a tapestry of darknesses where uncounted days and nights passed, yet, strangely, the sun never rose to snuff out the stars that spun their winking heads. Below him the drifts of snow shone with thousands of gems, each laughing at Merlin's frozen hands and windbitten face.

He trudged on through the snow, neither leaving footprints behind, nor finding any ahead. Over an endless plain he trudged until he came to a glade of trees. Upon one of the branches swayed a cloth — red and ragged. He pulled it off, smelled it, and held it to his frozen cheek, but could not remember where he had seen it before. It had an opening, smallish like, and he put his hand in as if it were a bag — thinking only to warm himself — and found three holes at the other end. It was a tunic. A small tunic with an opening for a young head. Two sleeves, finely stitched.

Arthur?

Merlin had last seen it on Arthur! Why was it here? He looked at it again, hoping to find some clue as to the mystery of its presence, but the red cloth broke into a cloud of fluttering moths, each bursting into droplets of blood that fell to the snow. The drops sprouted
into lithe birch saplings, pushing upward like snakes. Thicker they grew until, twisting and coiling, a square table was formed with four benches.