Sword of the Rightful King (10 page)

Merlinnus pulled up the keys that were hooked by a golden chain to his belt. It took three keys and a spell spoken in a strange tongue before the door opened.

“Not Celtic,” Gawen whispered. “Nor Gallic. Nor Latin.”

“Greek,” Merlinnus told him.

Gawen shook his head. “I do not know Greek.”

“I will teach you.” It was a promise, spoken like a threat.

The king seemed little impressed. “Why so much security, Merlinnus? No one who values his soul would dare come here.” He laughed quietly. “Except me, of course.”

“Of course,” Merlinnus grumbled.

“You used to let me wander into your rooms whenever I wanted to, back at Sir Ector's,” Arthur added.

Merlinnus turned. “Back at Sir Ector's I was a simple apothecary and you were the foster son. No one cared what we did there.”

The door creaked open.

“And now?”

Gawen answered for him, piping in brightly. “Now you are the High King and he is the High Kings mage. A spy would be well paid to gain entrance to this place.”

Arthur reached over and grabbed Gawen up by the collar. “And are you such a spy?”

“If he were, would he have warned you?” Merlinnus said.

 

G
AWEN GAZED
around the room. It was a hodgepodge of tables both large and small on which stood pottery amphorae, glass bottles, and metal burners encrusted with foul matter. Hanging from the beams were bunches of dried herbs, still fragrant from the last spring: moly and mint, yarrow and lambsfoot, tansy and thyme.

A small pallet lay in the corner. Gawen guessed it was a daybed for naps.
Who would sleep here, surrounded by so much dampness and dark?
Gawen knew the answer. The mage slept here when he was deep into his work.

Merlinnus beckoned with one crabbed finger and Arthur picked up a torch. Then he and Gawen followed the old man down a long hall that seemed carved out of stone, more cave than castle. Gawen put out a steadying hand to one of the walls. It was damp.

They came at last to a huge vaulted room with stone pillars hanging from the ceiling. A stream ran along one side of the place. Gawen shivered. The room was cold and unwelcoming and strange. In the middle of the place stood a block of white marble with veins of red and green running through.

“I wrapped the thing with cloth,” Merlinnus said, nodding at the stone. “It took seven men to get it down the castle stairs and into the dungeon. They knew not what they were carrying, of course. They transferred it to a small open wagon with wheels. I hauled it the rest of the way into this cavern myself.”

This made Gawen wonder even more. The mage did not look strong enough for pulling any such thing.

“They were eager enough for the payment of gold coins,” Merlinnus said, “and even more eager to leave the dungeon behind.” He chuckled and Arthur laughed with him.

Gawen did not see the humor.

Sticking out of the top of the stone was the hilt of a sword that was covered with wonderful runes.
In silver
, or so Gawen thought.

Merlinnus led them right up to the stone. On its white marble face was a legend lettered in gold:

 

WHOSO PULLETH OUTE THIS SWERD OF THIS STONE
IS RIGHTWYS KYNGE BORNE OF
ALL BRYTAYGNE

 

F
OR A LONG TIME
none of them spoke. Then Arthur read the thing aloud, his fingers tracing the letters in the stone. When he finished, he looked up. “But I am king of all Britain.”

“Then pull the sword, sire,” said Merlinnus.

Arthur smiled and shrugged. He knew he was a strong man. Except for Lancelot, possibly the strongest man in the kingdom. It was one of the reasons Merlinnus had chosen him to be king. He handed the torch to Gawen, who held on to it with both hands.

Then Arthur put his hand to the hilt of the sword, tightened his fingers around it till his knuckles were white, and pulled.

The sword remained in the stone.

“Merlinnus,” he growled, furious at the old wizard, “what goes into stone must come out of it.” He bit his lower lip. “This is witchery and I will not have it.”

“And with witchery you, Arthur, will pull the sword from the stone when all others have failed. You—and no one else.” Merlinnus smiled benignly.

Arthur let go of the sword. “But why do we need this... this legerdemain? I am
already
High King of all Britain.”

Merlinnus looked at him sorrowfully. “Because I hear grumblings in the kingdom. Oh, do not look slantwise at me, Arthur. There is no magic that I cannot counter.” He shook a finger in the kings direction. “I have spies, and they tell me who is unhappy with the High King and who is not. There are those who refuse to follow you, who refuse to be bound to you and so are not bound to this kingdom, because they doubt the legitimacy of your claim.”

The king snorted. “And they are right, old man. I am king because the arch-mage wills it.
Per crucem et quercum
.”

Gawen seemed startled at Arthur's use of the Latin.

Merlinnus was startled, too. “How did you know that?”

“Oh, old friend, you are not the only one with reliable spies.” He laughed, but little mirth was in it this time. “And some of them even know Latin.”

Merlinnus stared into Arthur's eyes. “Yes, you are king because I willed it. But also because you earned it. This bit of legerdemain, as you call it—”

“This witchery!” interrupted the king.

Merlinnus persisted, “This legerdemain will have them all believing in you, as I already do.”

“And I,” whispered Gawen.

“
All
of them,” Merlinnus said, ignoring the boy's obvious adoration. “To bind Britain you will need
all
the tribes.”

Arthur looked away to stare at the stream, which was making a soft
shu-shush
ing sound as it wound by the side of the wall. He looked at it for a very long time. At last he smoothed down his tunic, as if wiping his hands, and turned back to stare at the mage.

“Do those few tribes matter?” he asked Merlinnus. “The ones who paint themselves blue and squat around small fires. The ones who wrap themselves in filthy woolen blankets and blow noisily into animal bladders, calling it song. The ones who dig out shellfish with their toes and eat the fish raw. The ones who hang their enemies in wooden baskets from trees and let them starve. Do v/e really want to bring
all
of them into our kingdom?”

Merlinnus turned to Gawen. “Can you answer him, boy?”

Gawen drew in a deep breath, as though he knew this was a test he dared not fail. For a moment he seemed to be framing his answer in his mind, testing it for clarity, then said, “They are already part of your kingdom, Majesty. They just do not know it yet.”

Merlinnus smiled. “The kingdom of which you are the king now and for the future,” he added. “It is not you who has to be convinced, it is the people.”

Arthur said softly, “I thought the people loved me.”

For a moment it looked as if Gawen was going to reach out and touch the king on his arm but then, as if thinking better of it, pulled his hand back, saying simply, “The ones who know you do.”

Arthur smiled at that, then shifted his eyes back to the stream. “Are you positive I will be able to draw the sword at the proper time?” He looked back at Merlinnus and the boy. “I will
not
be made a mockery to satisfy some hidden purpose of yours.”

“Put your hand on the sword once more, Arthur.”

Arthur turned slowly, as if the words had a power to command him. He went back to the marble stone, which now seemed to be glowing with power. He reached out, but before his hand actually touched the hilt of the sword, he stopped, which took an incredible act of will.

“I am a good soldier, Merlinnus,” he said over his shoulder. “And I love this land.”

“I know,” the old man told him.

With a resonant slap, the kings hand grasped the sword.

Merlinnus muttered something unintelligible in a voice soft as a cradlesong.

Arthur gave a tug and the sword slid noiselessly from the stone.

Holding the sword high above his head, Arthur turned and looked steadily at the mage. “If I were a wicked man, I would bring this down on your head.”

“I know.”

Gawen drew a breath and held it.

Slowly the sword descended. When it was level with his eyes, the king put his left hand to the hilt as well. He hefted the sword several times and made soft, comfortable noises deep in his chest. Then carefully, like a woman threading a needle, he slid the sword back into its slot.

“I will have my men take this and place it in the chapel courtyard so that all might see it,” he said. “All my people shall have a chance to try pulling the sword.”

“All?” Merlinnus asked.

“Even the ones who paint themselves blue or blow into bladders?” added Gawen.

“Even the ones who do other more disgusting and uncivilized things,” Arthur said, laughing. “I even have in mind to let the kingdoms mages try.”

Merlinnus smiled back. “Is that wise?”

“I am the one with the strong arm, Merlinnus. You are the one who provides the wisdom.”

Merlinnus nodded. “Then let the mages try, too. Even the North Witch. For all the good it will do them.”

Arthur put his hand back on the sword's hilt.

“But one thing more,” Merlinnus said.

Arthur looked over his shoulder. “It is always one thing more with you, old man.”

Merlinnus smiled. “We will leave the sword and stone here and let them be discovered by a shepherd.”

“Why?” asked Gawen. “Does that not make things more difficult?”

Arthur smiled, too. But his smile suddenly had much sadness in it, as if knowledge and kingship lay heavy on his shoulders. “He wishes to be removed from the sword and stone. He wants no one to know that he had a hand in it. In that way it will not be magic that names me king—but fate.”

“But you are
already
the king,” Gawen said. “And a great one.”

“No, boy, I am a good king. But I
would
be a great one.”

“With my help,” Merlinnus said.

“And mine,” added Gawen, passion in his voice.

Once again Arthur's fingers curled around the hilt. “It is a fine sword, Merlinnus. It shall honor its wielder. Whoever he may be.” He pulled at the sword.

This time it did not move.

14

A
RTHUR TURNED
and left and they followed.

As they walked back through the dungeon, Merlinnus said, “I shall find a shepherd and make his sheep lead him here, through the tor.”

Arthur turned and glared at him. “Do it,” he said to the old man. “Only do not tell me when or how.” He left them, taking the steps two at a time.

Merlinnus, with Gawen following, made his way back to the inner room.

“I do not understand,” Gawen said.

“Admitting one does not understand is the beginning of wisdom,” Merlinnus said. He smiled paternally at the boy. “What is it that puzzles you particularly?”

“How King Arthur could not pull the sword at all, and then a second time and it slid out easily,” Gawen said.

Merlinnus gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Magic.”

But Gawen was not so easily satisfied. “I
know
it is magic. But what kind? Surely if I am to be yours...” He stopped and a shadow passed across his face. Then he resumed speaking, “Yours, and not pledged to the master of swords, I should know this.”

The mages face turned dark and a series of deep lines suddenly etched across his brow. “That I will not tell you,” he said. “I was once guiled by a child to reveal more than I should. And now she squats like a toad on that knowledge.”

“The North Witch?” breathed the boy.

Merlinnus nodded. “So I will not be beguiled again. I like you, boy. You are quick and subtle and know when to be quiet and when to make noise. That last, by the way, is an admirable quality not usually found in a boy your age. But—”

“But you do not yet know me well enough to trust me.” Gawen's voice was soft.

“I trust few,” the wizard said softly. “And even those few I trust I tell little.”

The boy's face grew thoughtful. At last he said, “I, too, Magister.”

Merlinnus knew better than to pursue that gift. But he tucked the information away to think about it later. “Come, we must clean this place of its secrets so that when the shepherd finds this miracle”—his hand gestured broadly at the stone wall, which was now grey in the fading light—“there will be no other secret for him to steal.”

“He would not dare...” Gawen said.

“Would he not?” Merlinnus' voice was suddenly hard. “Then you do not understand the real world, boy, shut up as you were in a monastery.”

“A monastery?” The boy's voice broke on the words, and then his eyes shuttered. “Yes,” he said quickly, “we had little knowledge of spying in a monk's cell.”

But it was too late. Merlinnus knew then for certain what he had already guessed. This boy, whoever he was, had not been trained by monks. Which meant he was some sort of noble runaway come to Cadbury to make his name. Living rough in the woods for a while would explain the callused hands. He was possibly a second or third son. Which, of course, meant more politics. Merlinnus sighed.

“Anyone
would
dare,” he told Gawen, “but they would not know what it is they see. Still, if they sold their knowledge to a mage...”

“Like the Witch of the North...” Gawen added.

“... my secrets
could
be discovered.” Merlinnus did not add what they both knew, that if young Gawen was a spy, the secrets were already compromised. But he did not for a moment believe that behind such an innocent face stood a wicked master, no matter what else lay hidden in the boy's past. And if he were wrong about the boy—well, boys disappear all the time and no one finds them again. He shuddered. It compromised his magic to think that kind of thought.