The Old Magic (13 page)

“Get on with it,” Mab snapped, impatient. She snapped her fingers, and the motionless water resumed its interrupted journey,
drenching Frik thoroughly and even spraying Merlin with a few icy-cold droplets.

Frik bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said. Mab flickered and vanished.

Merlin gaped at the place where she’d been.

“And now, Master Merlin, we will begin with a few simple drills,” Frik said. “Raise your right hand. …”

After a couple of hours of Frik’s lecturing, Merlin found it impossible to keep his mind on what Frik was saying. To his dismay,
it appeared that Frik intended that he learn everything about becoming a wizard tonight.

“What on earth—or under Hill—is the matter with you, young sir?” Frik demanded in exasperation after yet another attempt to
gain Merlin’s attention.

“I’m hungry,” Merlin said simply. “The white horse took me away before I had my supper—and Auntie A was making my favorite,
buttered parsnips—”

He stopped, as Frik made apprehensive shushing motions.

“A word to the wise, young sir. It’s just as well not to mention, well,
difficult
subjects where Madame can hear. It could be quite
awkward,
if you take my meaning.”

Merlin didn’t. He was an active young man used to regular meals, and the fact that there was bad blood between his foster-mother
and the Queen of the Old Ways did not occur to him. He regarded Frik hopefully.

“Oh, very well, dinner it is,” the gnome grumbled. He gestured, and the worktable changed its shape and became covered with
a checked red and white cloth.

“Would M’sieur care to see the wine list?” Frik, too, had changed his form and dress. He bowed low, offering Merlin an enormous
sheet of parchment that had a red tassel and cord holding the pages together.

“No, of course not,” Frik said, whisking the card away just as Merlin’s fingers closed on it. “I have it. We shall leave the
matter to Gaston, and allow inspiration to take its course—if that meets with M’sieur’s approval?”

Merlin wasn’t quite sure what Frik had said. “Thank you for your kindness,” he answered doubtfully.

To his relief, the meal appeared almost at once. It was a strange and delightful phenomenon, completely different from the
simple home cooking Merlin had been used to. Dish after dish was presented to him on silver and crystal platters carried in
by swarms of sprites. When he picked up the chicken with his hands, Frik
tsk
ed sadly.

“I’m afraid we must teach you more than magic, Master Merlin,” the gnome said.

Merlin stared at him blankly, a chicken leg in one hand and a piece of bread in the other.

“Oh, go on, go on. Camelot wasn’t built in a day—or won’t be,” Frik said, waving permission at Merlin. “Or Pendragon, either.
You’ll see, I’m sure. But everything in its own good time.”

Merlin ate until he felt he could not hold another bite of the wonderful, unfamiliar food. If things like this were what magic
was all about, he thought he was going to like it.

“And now,” Frik said, whisking the dishes out of existence, “we can return to first principles. Repeat after me, Master Merlin:
‘Eko, eko, azarak …’”

After several more hours of lecturing by the tireless Frik, Merlin began to nod off over his books, unable to keep his eyes
open any longer no matter how hard he tried. Though Frik had remembered (when prompted) to feed Merlin, it had not occurred
to the gnome that Merlin needed to sleep, since neither Mab nor Frik needed to sleep or eat as mortals did.

“Master Merlin!” Frik shook him by the shoulder anxiously. “Master Merlin, is something wrong?”

Merlin yawned, squinting up at Frik through sleep-blurred eyes. “Ohhh … What time is it?” he asked.

“Time?” the gnome echoed blankly. “What has that got to do with …” his voice trailed off as comprehension dawned. “Oh, I say!
You were
asleep!
It must be that touch of mortal in the woodshed; you know, I’ve heard it often comes out in the most amazing ways. Very well,
then, come with me if you would, Master Merlin.”

Still half-asleep, Merlin followed Frik out of the schoolroom and down a long corridor where hands of living stone came out
of the wall, handing between them the pair of flaming torches that lit Frik’s and Merlin’s way. Groggy and disoriented, Merlin
did not even note this latest wonder.

“Here you are, sir, our best rooms, with hot and cold running water nymphs and a lovely view out over the mermaid’s lagoon
…” Frik said in round plummy accents. He’d shed his schoolmaster’s costume for a tight red jacket with several rows of gold
buttons down the front and a pillbox hat trimmed with golden braid.

The walls were encrusted with clumps of crystals, as though they’d grown there. The furnishings consisted of a large wardrobe
and a bed that Frik had plucked out of the time-stream because it had looked so inviting, all gleaming brass and bed-knobs
and patchwork quilts. It was completely strange to Merlin, but not so much so that he didn’t recognize it as a bed. He staggered
toward it and was asleep before he lay down.

Frik tugged off his shoes and tucked him beneath the covers. When he was finished, he gazed down at the sleeping boy.

“What strange little creatures you mortals be,” Frik said.

“But how did you get all that mud on your skirts?” Mistress Ragnell demanded. “I think the dress is quite ruined, my lady.”

“I fell into a sinkhole,” Nimue admitted, before she thought. She was determined to keep her promise to Merlin, but she hadn’t
realized how difficult it would be.

Aneirin and all the rest of her party stared at her with expressions of shock and disbelief. “And how did you get out again?”
Aneirin asked. He handed his cloak up to her and Nimue wrapped it around herself, grateful for the warmth. Her gown was wet
and the day had turned cold, and she already missed Merlin’s company.

“A hermit,” Nimue said quickly. It was not quite a lie. She did not know for sure that Merlin was not a hermit, and such creatures
were commonly known to live in woodlands such as Barnstable Forest.

“Praise God that you were delivered from such a terrible fate!” Mistress Olwen said, crossing herself piously. The others—including
Nimue—echoed her gesture out of habit.

But Nimue suspected somehow that it was not God she had to thank for her rescue, but an older, darker power that the new Church
wished very much to forget.

A hour later the little party stood before the gates of Lord Lambert’s castle. Nimue was relieved to have reached their destination
before the sun set. The forest that had been welcoming in daylight had become dark and forbidding with the onset of twilight.

Lord Lambert was very solicitous once he heard of Nimue’s misadventure, and soon she was soaking in a hot tub of perfumed
water, sipping mulled wine as her servants did what they could to repair her muddy gown.

She wished she had not let Merlin leave. She was a noblewoman—she should have
commanded
him to stay beside her. She would have liked to present him to stuffy old Lord Lambert and seen the man’s eyes pop with shock,
especially when Merlin did more of his magic.

Nimue shook her head, smiling at her own foolishness. As well order the tide not to ebb as order Merlin. Even having known
him for only a few scant hours, Nimue already thought of Merlin as embodying the same untamed spirit of freedom that filled
the forest and other wild and lonely places. She wished she had that sort of bold courage, but she suspected she did not.
The rebellion, the defiance that others talked of so easily was something Nimue could not easily imagine in herself. The years
she had spent at Avalon Abbey made her hate the thought of setting her will against someone else’s, of the willfulness and
argument that led to open conflict—and, between nobles, to skirmishing and worse.

Yet in Britain today, it seemed as if everyone must rebel in the end.

When Merlin awoke again, he barely had time to remember where he was before Frik bustled in with a large tray covered with
food. The gnome rushed Merlin through his meal, and then hustled him back to the library to resume his studies of First-Stage
wizardry.

“Why is there such a hurry?” Merlin wanted to know.

“You must master every facet of the Art Magical before you can become Mab’s champion,” Frik answered. “We’ve no time for idle
questions.”

“But—” Merlin began. Frik hushed him and pointed to a stool at the end of the table. Today the table had been swept clean
of books, and all that stood upon it was a large white candle in a heavy squat silver holder in the shape of a gargoyle. Merlin
sat down at the foot of the table as he had been ordered, and Frik took his usual place at the head.

Merlin wished Frik were willing to talk about things he wanted to know, and not just about the things Frik wanted him to know.
What did they mean about him becoming Mab’s champion? Would that be like being a knight? What would he have to do?

Frik rapped his cane on the end of the table, and Merlin, caught woolgathering, jumped guiltily.

“Now, Master Merlin,” Frik said, “kindly light the candle.”

Merlin looked around, but there was nothing in sight to light the candle with. He looked back at his teacher.

Frik rattled off a quick sentence, and suddenly the candle was alight. Frik let it burn for a moment, and then snuffed it
out.

“Now you try, Master Merlin,” he said. “Just do what I did.”

Merlin reached out and concentrated on the fat stub of white candle in the heavy squat silver candlestick.

“Alika-nick-ka-nock-ka-nick, fire light and candlestick,”
he chanted.

At first Merlin felt slightly silly, but then he felt the same tingle he had on the day he’d made the branch grow, as if he
were a jug and magic was some bubbling effervescent liquid that rushed up to fill him and then spill over. A spark leaped
from his pointing finger to the candle wick, and the candle was alight.

Frik carefully blew it out.

“Now again, Master Merlin,” he said.

“But I just—”

“If you please, young sir,” Frik said severely.

Sighing, Merlin did it again.

They practiced for hours. Merlin lit one candle, then several candles all at once, then several candles one after the other,
then candles he couldn’t see, candles in glass jars, candles in clay vases. The novelty of his new ability was wearing off
fast, and Merlin wished that Frik would go on to something else, even if whatever it was would probably be just as boring.
If he were going to be a wizard, Merlin wanted to do useful magic, magic that people could use—not just magic that did what
people could do for themselves anyway, like light fires.

He was about to suggest that to Frik when Queen Mab appeared, flickering into existence like a black flame. She looked expectantly
at Frik.

“Ah.” The gnome got to his feet. “Master Merlin and I were just about to … that is to say, he’s not quite ready yet to, ah—”

“Go ahead, Merlin,” Mab cooed dotingly. “Show him what you can do.”

Merlin gaped at Frik in consternation, and stared at the fat silver candlestick upon the table, but there was no help to be
found there. Suddenly everything he’d learned that morning had gone right out of his head. Frik looked as nervous as Merlin
felt, and motioned him to quickly go ahead.

“Alika—Um … Alika—” Merlin stammered. What were the words? Five minutes ago he’d have sworn he’d never forget them! He stared
at Frik in horror.

“Go on, Master Merlin,” Frik said desperately.

Merlin didn’t dare look at Mab. He clenched his fists and concentrated as hard as he could: light, light, light the candle.
…

“Fire light and candle—oh,
thorns and weeds!”
he shouted desperately, forgetting the end of the spell in his agitation.

The candle remained unlit, but flowers of all description began to rain down from the ceiling: nasturtiums, daffodils, roses,
daisies. They fell into the fireplace and burned with a hiss. They fell into the torches and the other candles and put them
out. They landed on the table and the floor and the shelves with soft plopping sounds. And they showed no sign of stopping.
They rained down especially hard over Frik, who soon found himself buried in flowers.

“No, no,” Frik said irritably. “Alika-nick-ka-nock-ka-zam! That’s
flowers,
not
flames!”

The flowers rained down harder.

“I’ll fix it,” Merlin said hastily.

“No!”
Frik howled, but it was too late.

“Alika-nick-ka-nock-ka-zound!”
Merlin yelled.

An enormous alligator fell from the ceiling and landed directly atop Frik, flopping and snapping.

“Removal,
not
reptiles!”
Frik sputtered. The alligator vanished in a puff of smoke, only to be replaced by a gentle rain of salamanders, newts, and
garter snakes.

Merlin looked around to see how Mab was taking this, but the Queen of the Old Ways had vanished.

After that occasion, Merlin never caught Mab watching him at his lessons again, though Frik assured him that Her Majesty was
pleased with his progress. The training continued. Merlin’s day was portioned out in measures marked by the turning of the
enormous hourglass that Frik kept on the mantel in the library, and his entire world narrowed to the Great Hall where he took
his meals, the bedroom where he slept, and the library where he studied.

He began to feel trapped, like a wild animal that dies when confined to a cage. Though Mab’s underground domain was vast,
there was no
outdoors
to it. Even when he did manage to steal a moment to leave the palace itself, there was no sun nor moon nor stars above his
head—only the vaulting roof of the cavern.

When he’d asked about going outside, Frik had feigned puzzlement until Merlin had realized the gnome was deliberately refusing
to give him an answer.

Was there no way back to the world he’d left? What good was being a wizard if it meant he had to give up the feel of the wind
and the smell of the long grass in the summer?