The Old Magic (15 page)

It was Mab, but not as Merlin had come to know her. The ageless Queen of the Old Ways looked somehow younger now. Her hair
was not coiled in the elaborate designs in which she wore it now; instead it flowed freely down her back, blowing a little
in the wind. She smiled and laughed in response to remarks the warriors shouted out at her, and accepted gifts—posies of flowers,
or twisted knots of grain, or tiny dolls carved and painted to resemble her. The young Druids carried her chair into the center
of the clearing and stopped, still holding it, so that Mab was high above everyone save the Romans imprisoned in the wicker
man. One of them was shouting down at the bearded men in what sounded like their own language; the other two crouched on the
open-weave floor, supporting their injured comrade.

Surely she is going to order them to set the Romans free!
Merlin thought wildly. But he didn’t really expect it of her. Something inside him already understood that Mab loved and
hated with all the fiery fury of her Pagan heart, and restraint was foreign to her nature. The bearded blond warriors were
her people, and therefore Mab fought for them to the limit of her strength.

“Who are they?” Merlin breathed. He was not really expecting an answer, but he got one.

“Germanii and Varengi, mostly, with a few Saxons thrown in,” the cat said, bumping its head beneath his elbow. “Part of the
western Celtic migration. The Romans are one of Quintilius Varus’s legions—see the Roman standard propped up against that
cart? Scratch my ears. Ooh, they’re going to set it on fire now. I always like this part. Look at those birds.”

“But why?” Merlin asked despairingly, doing as he was bid. The Cath Palug arched its back and closed its eyes, purring as
he stroked it.

“Because its always been done this way. This is the Forest of the Night,” the cat said proudly. “We follow the Old Ways here.”

While Merlin had been looking at the cat, the chief Druid had taken one of the torches and thrust it into the brushwood that
filled the legs of the wicker man. The tinder caught immediately with a bright, almost smokeless fire. Inside the figure’s
torso, the Romans were praying.

Merlin glanced toward Mab. She was seated in her chair, watching the spectacle with every evidence of satisfaction. The chief
Druid stepped back from the flames and stood beside her chair, and she reached down and patted his head just as Merlin had
patted the cat.

The animals imprisoned in the upper limbs of the wicker man began to feel the heat of the flames and struggled frantically
to escape. The pigs squealed shrilly and the geese bugled. The doves and chickens in the wicker head cried loudly, and the
moans from the trapped men were louder. One of the Romans began to sob loudly as the color of the smoke changed from pale
grey to oily black. In only a few moments, the flames had eaten their way halfway up the wicker body, and the animals in the
lower part of the arms were dead.

“Stop it!” Merlin shouted, springing up out of the bushes. He ran into the clearing. “Mab! Queen Mab! Stop it!”

He clutched at her skirts, but somehow he could not get her attention. He grabbed the Druid standing beside her and shook
him, but the man did not even look at him when Merlin pushed him out of his place. It was as if Merlin weren’t here.

Frantically, Merlin looked around for something he could use to quench the flames. He saw a water bucket standing beside one
of the carts and tried to pick it up. But the bucket was as heavy as if it had been bolted to the ground, and the water inside
was as thick as honey. When he cupped a handful up to throw on the flames, it trickled through his fingers and sprang back
into the bucket, not even leaving ripples in its wake.

This was magic.

“Stop! Stop! I order you to stop!” Merlin cried frantically, gesturing at the flames. “Stop burning!”

Nothing happened.

The men inside were screaming now, crawling over each other as they desperately sought any way out of the fire.

“Stop!”
Merlin screamed at the top of his lungs. Nobody either saw or heard him. He ran toward the wicker man, hoping that at least
he could tear it open and thus save the men inside, but it was as impossible as moving the bucket had been. The flames didn’t
even burn him when he thrust his hands into them, though the stench of smoke was everywhere, making him cough.

At last he could stand his helplessness no longer. He ran from the scene of that horror, unable to watch as men were burned
alive, and kept on running until he fell, dizzy and breathless, to the forest floor.

He did not know how long he lay, half-unconscious in the pearly twilight, his fists clutching handsful of forest loam. The
Cath Palug was gone, back to its treetop home, and Merlin did not miss the creature. All he knew was that something deep inside
him had changed today, and that he didn’t like the way the change made him feel.

Were these what the Old Ways were? Was this what Frik had brought him here to see?

He might have lain there forever, unwilling to move or go on with his life, but Frik found him.

“Well,” Frik said brightly, “how was your outing?”

Merlin stared up at him in disbelief, suspecting a trick. But the gnome looked just as he always had. If Frik suspected what
Merlin had seen, he gave no sign of it.

“I saw a cat,” Merlin said slowly. He sat up and looked around. A few feet away a bright red door with a brass knocker was
set into the trunk of an enormous tree. It must be the way back to Mab’s palace.

“Ah,” Frik said, in the polite fashion of one who does not know what to say. “Well, the Forest always has something new and
interesting in it—or old and interesting, perhaps I
should
say. You oughtn’t have wandered off that way, but perhaps we’ll come back again sometime and you can get the full tour. Well,
come along now. You’ll be late for dinner.”

It was not until he had studied for some time longer that Merlin realized what he had seen that day. The Forest of the Night
was the memory of the past, and that was what he had seen. An echo of things past, before the New Religion had come to trouble
the Old Ways, a memory from the days when Mab was at the height of her power. A ghost, nothing real at all, safely buried
in the past.

But forever after, Merlin could not summon fire without flinching.

I
t was the day of his most important triumph, and Vortigern wanted to look his best. Today he would marry—though not for the
first time—and cement his ties to Britain for all time. Let that raddled old hag Lionors bray and posture in Normandy with
her puling brat Uther. From now on, Vortigern would be able to ignore them.

You know the old saying: Lucky in war, unlucky at love,
he thought to himself. He inspected himself in the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring the gleam of the crown on
his head. This was not the first time Vortigern had dressed for a wedding.

His first bride had been a beauty, a young nun from a convent his men had sacked. Vortigern had once had high hopes for Brede.
In marrying her he could cement the ties between the New Religion and the Old Ways, and beget a son to inherit the crown when
he was gone. Unfortunately, Brede had not fully appreciated the great honor Vortigern was bestowing upon her, and had jumped
from the castle’s highest tower when the Bishop of Winchester had come to bring her to the ceremony. As Vortigern recalled,
he had been very irritated by her behavior, and even beheading the bishop had not made him feel better.

Several years later, he’d tried again. Princess Argante had been the daughter of one of Britain’s oldest families. A marriage
with her would cement Vortigern’s social position and put an end to a certain amount of rebellious grumbling among his barons.

Unfortunately, Argante’s family had not approved the match. Her father had besieged the castle where the wedding was to be
held, and Vortigern had been forced to take the girl hostage to compel her father’s good behavior. Unfortunately, Argante’s
father hadn’t been very flexible, so Vortigern had beheaded both him and his daughter. So, in a manner of speaking, the marriage
hadn’t worked out.

This time, however, matters were different. This time, his marriage would last, and secure his northern border from invasion
into the bargain. Vortigern’s new intended was Ganeida, Queen of the Border Celts. She was a warrior from a sorcerous lineage,
and he was holding her entire army hostage for her good behavior.

Ganeida and her men had surrendered to his army at Badon after weeks of heavy fighting, but Vortigern had no intention of
ransoming an enemy army back to their norther kinfolk to cause him more trouble. He’d proposed an alternative to the queen
who led them: Marry him, or he’d execute every one of her men.

Ganeida had been a good general with proper concern for her troops. She’d agreed to his terms at once. And today they would
wed, cementing an alliance that would defeat, once and for all, Uther’s hopes of retaking the throne.

Deep under the Fairy Hill, Mab watched Vortigern in one of her scrying crystals. She’d kept her eye on him down through the
years; he’d been a huge disappointment to her, but she did have to admit that he had certain uses.

For one thing, he occupied the throne until her Merlin would be ready to claim it as a ruler of spirit as well as flesh who
would lead her people back to the Old Ways. After Vortigern’s rule, the people would greet Merlin with tears of joy. So Vortigern
had his uses.

But meanwhile the Saxon despot would take careful handling. She didn’t want to get rid of him before she was finished with
him, but she had no intention of allowing Vortigern to found a dynasty whose successors would trouble Merlin after his death.
Unfortunately, kings took a real interest in having heirs, so Mab had been forced to keep a close watch on matters.

She’d been pleased when Brede had jumped from the highest tower of Winchester Castle, and it had taken very little manipulation
to get the Lady Argante’s father to raise his standard against Vortigern at that very opportune moment, but Ganeida was another
matter entirely.

Queen Ganeida was no flighty young girl, but a warrior princess used to ruling her Border Celts with pitiless efficiency.
She was pragmatic enough to wed Vortigern for power, and the two of them together would pose a serious obstacle to Mab’s ambitions
for Merlin and Britain.

This time, Mab mused, she would have to intervene more directly. …

The wedding festivities had gone on all day, and the wedding feast would continue for some hours yet, but the Lady Ganeida,
now Queen of England, had already retired to the royal bedchamber to await her eager groom.

He was not what she’d looked for in a husband, but Ganeida doubted very much that she was exactly what Vortigern had looked
for in a bride. Past her first youth, hard and battle-scarred as the men she led, Ganeida was more a warrior than a queen.

But perhaps, she thought, gazing into the mirror as she brushed out her long red hair, one needed to be both to rule Britain.
And for a share in Vortigern’s power, she would gladly wed the Devil himself, did that bogeyman of the New Religion really
exist. And as for the King himself, well, she’d had worse. She was still young enough to bear him strong sons to rule Britain
and the Border after he was dead. And so long as Vortigern kept his promises, she would keep hers.

Unseen by any mortal eyes, Mab flickered into existence in a corner of the chamber. This Ganeida was trouble—she could smell
it. Best to get rid of her at once, before she could pose too great a threat to Merlin. For the throne must be his, as soon
as his training was complete.

Invisibly, Mab appeared at Ganeida’s side.
“Are you sure you can trust Vortigern to keep his word?”
Mab whispered soundlessly in Ganeida’s ear.
“You know how ruthless he is. What if this is all some sort of trap? Perhaps he has already slain your men … and will kill
you as well, when he’s done with you. There’s no escape from his castle. There’s no one you can turn to. Everyone within these
walls is his ally, and what of the future? When Uther returns you will be branded a traitor to Britain, your children slain
before your eyes, and your lands put to the sword. That is your future. There is no hope at all. …”

On and on Mab whispered into the new Queen’s ear, as Ganeida gradually grew pale and still, staring into her mirror with wide
grey eyes.

Vortigern was accompanied to his bedchamber by several of his more trusted barons, as well as some he simply wanted to keep
a particular eye on. There were a large number of steps in the winding staircase that led to his tower bedroom, but Vortigern
didn’t mind. He would only have to traverse them in one direction.

He was not, the King assured himself silently, drunk. He had perhaps had a few more horns of mead than was strictly wise,
but if a man couldn’t celebrate on his own wedding day, when could he celebrate? And this alliance would put an end to those
whispers from across the Channel that his days were numbered. Uther was still only a boy, and if the people of Britain had
to choose between the unknown quantity of Uther and their own prince, born and raised in Britain, Vortigern knew which they’d
choose—assuming they knew what was good for them.

I shall name him … Vortigern. It’s a good name for a king. He shall be Vortigern II, and Uther will not even be a memory.
…

His thoughts made Vortigern smile, and he was smiling when he opened the door to his bedchamber.

The sight that he saw then made him stop dead, but the men behind him had quite as much to drink as he had, and their momentum
jostled him on into the room, before the man at his back—Ardent, it was—saw what Vortigern had seen and stopped short with
a strangled cry.

The curtains of the royal bed were pulled back, and Ganeida lay in the middle of it, dressed in her wedding-night finery.
The small gold-and-pearl dagger that had been, by Saxon custom, Vortigern’s wedding present to her was buried to its hilt
in her heart, and her hands were still clasped about it.