The Old Magic (7 page)

He took a deep breath and peered up at his friend. “I’m going to see Blaise,” Merlin said. He held out his free hand, and
the speaker floated down through the air to perch on his hand.

“Are you bringing him food?” the raven asked eagerly. “Do you think he might share?”

“You’re always hungry, Bran,” Merlin said with amusement. The impulse of cruelty vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Well,
hop aboard. We’ll see.”

The raven hopped up his arm and perched on Merlin’s shoulder. He reached up and stroked its feathers with one finger, and
the bird preened its enjoyment.

“Oh, Merlin! Don’t listen to him. Bran never tells the truth!” a pair of red squirrels chattered. They stopped halfway up
a tree to regard Merlin with bright black eyes.

“Oh, you can believe Bran when he says he’s hungry, because its almost always true. Hello, Rufus. Hello, Rusty,” Merlin said,
waving as he continued along his way. The squirrels chased each other, scolding and chattering, up into the high branches
of the ancient oak.

He did not find it odd to be able to talk to the animals, since nobody had ever told him that people didn’t do things like
that. In all his seventeen years, Merlin had seen very few people other than Blaise, Herne, and his Aunt Ambrosia, and they
were mostly taciturn shirefolk who came to see Ambrosia for herbs and medicines. If he had not had the birds and beasts of
the forest for company, Merlin would have been very lonely indeed, but until recently he had never been tempted to leave the
wood to seek out others of his own kind.

While he knew that there was a whole world beyond the forest edge, until lately he’d been content to confine his explorations
to the forest itself. But for the last several months a new restlessness had been growing in him, something for which he had
no name. Part of him feared that this nameless feeling was linked to the ugly thoughts he had, and part of him longed to understand
it. It seemed to him as if this peculiar new uneasiness was like a cluster of bright berries that hung just out of reach—you’d
never be able to tell if they were sweet or sour until you found some way of reaching them.

“Ow!”

Bran pecked him sharply on the ear, and Merlin realized that he was standing still, stopped at the place where the little
forest path he was following crossed the wide track of the main road that passed through Barnstable Forest. Ambrosia had forbidden
him ever to follow it to see what lay beyond the forest, and as it was the only thing she’d ever forbidden him, Merlin had
always assumed the prohibition was for his own good. He’d never questioned it—until now.

“Hurry up!” the greedy raven demanded.

Merlin stepped out of the bushes and stood in the middle of the road, peering down its length. There was a whole world out
there—wonders he’d never glimpsed, let alone imagined. How dangerous could it be to follow the road and find them?
You have the power to do just as you please, and no one can stop you,
the inner voice wheedled. Merlin tried to ignore it.

“Bran, do you ever wonder what’s out there?”

“No!” the raven said positively. “Don’t think about such things, young Merlin—it only leads to trouble.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Merlin sighed, and crossed the road. He knew enough to stick to the path in this area, because this
part of the forest was filled with treacherous mudholes wide and deep enough to suck down a horse and cart in seconds. All
the forest animals knew enough to avoid the mudholes, and they had taught Merlin the location of all of them over the years.

A few minutes more brought him to Blaise’s forest dwelling. Blaise lived in a hut much smaller than the one that Merlin shared
with Ambrosia. When Merlin had befriended him, the hermit had been hardly more than skin and bones, living entirely on eggs
and mushrooms and whatever he could gather in the forest. Now, with the help of years of Ambrosia’s cooking, the old hermit
was decidedly plump.

“Blaise!” Merlin shouted, as he entered the clearing. “Blaise, where are you?”

“Here, young Merlin.” Blaise crawled out through the low door of his hut and stood up.

The old hermit’s hair and beard were long and white, and winter and summer he wore nothing more than a simple tunic of deerskin,
going barefoot and cloakless no matter how deep the snow upon the ground. When Merlin had been much younger, he’d asked Blaise
why.

“So that I can pay more attention to what’s important in this life. It’s the only one we have, young Merlin, so we have to
pay attention while we can,” the hermit said.

Merlin laughed, not understanding. “I’ve had many lives before this one, and I’ll have many more,” he answered.

“Perhaps you will,” Blaise had told him. “But it’s to your advantage to live each life as if it were your only one, so that
you can be proud of it.”

Merlin had not known what Blaise meant at the time, but more and more these days, his mind turned back to those words. How
did you live a good life, one you could be proud of? He’d asked the deer and the wolves and the ravens, but none of them had
understood his question.

“Is that a basket I see?” the old hermit asked, smacking his lips in anticipation. Merlin held it out to him.

“Aunt Ambrosia baked yesterday. She sent me to bring you some bread and butter—and the last of the apple preserves she put
up last winter.”

Bran flew up off of Merlin’s shoulder and settled on a low tree branch, watching the food closely.

“It will be berrying season soon,” Blaise said, coming to take the basket and peering inside. “I’m looking forward to another
pot of Ambrosia’s black-berry jam. But come, lad, sit down. I was just making tea, and I’ve got a nice large honeycomb for
you to take back to Ambrosia.”

Merlin sat down on a stone beside the door of Blaise’s hut. Bran fluttered from the tree to the roof of the hut, where he
could get a better look at the basket.

“You stay out of that,” Merlin warned.

“Eh?” the hermit said. He lifted the steaming kettle from the fire and carefully poured its contents into two thick clay cups.

“Oh, I was just talking to Bran. He’s hoping for a hand-out,” Merlin said.

“Charity is always a virtue, unless it is motivated by conceit,” Blaise said. “Then it ceases to be charity, and becomes cruelty.”
He handed Merlin his cup, then reached into the basket and broke off a chunk of bread. He held it out to the bird, which seized
it eagerly in its beak and flew up into a tree to enjoy its feast.

“How can charity be cruel?” Merlin asked, puzzled. In the years they’d known each other, Blaise had told Merlin many things—the
names of the trees in the forest and the stars in the sky. His talks with Blaise always challenged his mind, filling his mind
with questions that lasted for weeks. Whatever Ambrosia did not know, Blaise did, and Merlin had always assumed that between
the two of them, they knew everything there was to know. But lately Merlin had begun to realize that there was something outside
their vast store of knowledge, something that maybe he had to discover for himself. He listened closely to Blaise’s reply,
still hoping to find his answers there.

“When charity is given only to impress its recipient with how superior the giver is, then its purpose is to sow anger and
despair. The charity of princes leads to wars, more often than not, because only the truly humble and good can dispense true
charity.”

“Can’t a king ever be humble and good?” Merlin asked.

Blaise smiled. “Have you ever known one who was?”

“I’ve never known any kings,” Merlin admitted, sipping his sweet herb tea. “Everyone says we have two—Vortigern and Uther—and
that Uther is our true king, because he’s the son of King Constant. But if Uther’s our rightful king, why isn’t he here? And
if Vortigern isn’t our true king, how does he rule?”

Blaise sighed. “You ask deep questions, Master Merlin, and I have no easy answers for you. All the answers to that sort of
question lie outside this forest—and the world out there is a cold and wicked place.”

“It’s because the king is wicked,” Merlin said dreamily, staring at the dancing dust-motes in a beam of sunlight. Sometimes
the new inner voice told him interesting things, and this was one of them. “Because the land follows the king, and the king
serves the land. If
I
were king, I’d be humble and good, and teach others to be good also.”

“You cannot teach goodness,” Blaise said tartly. “It comes from the heart—it isn’t something you can slap on like a coat of
whitewash.”

Merlin sighed, shrugging himself out of his daydream. There were so many voices, both inner and outer, that at times it was
hard to know which to listen to. “I have so much to learn, Blaise. There’s something I need to know—only I don’t know what
it is. But it’s as if there’s something inside me, and it’s a part of me, but not like me at all. I want to be good, and fair,
and just—but how can I tell if I’m being good, when I’m not sure what being good is?”

The old hermit sighed. He reached out and patted Merlin’s knee reassuringly. “Patience, young sir. Have patience. You’ll know
all the answers to your questions with time. But be wary in your search for truth. You tread a dangerous path.”

“I know,” Merlin said, although he didn’t. It seemed these days that more and more of his talks with Blaise ended in warnings.
It was frustrating to be warned about something, but not to be told what that something was.

His Aunt Ambrosia knew. Merlin was sure of it. But no one could get Aunt Ambrosia to talk about something if she didn’t want
to.

Perhaps he could find his answers outside the forest. But everyone told him that the outside world was a big place—if he went
in search of answers there, how would he even know where to begin looking?

They talked for a while longer, and Blaise gave him a honeycomb wrapped in oiled muslin—“And mind you, don’t eat it all before
you get home, young sir!”

But somehow Merlin didn’t feel like going straight home today. When he left the hermit’s hut, Merlin wandered aimlessly through
the forest, but none of his usual diversions had the power to distract him from his brooding today.

It was springtime. The birds were building nests for their eggs; the young bucks, their antlers still covered in velvet, locked
horns over the does in contests that were still half in play; the she-wolves in their dens guarded new litters of downy cubs
with the help of the proud fathers.

All the animals of the forest had families—except him. Aunt Ambrosia was all the family he had, and Merlin sensed that there
was something missing. He could not share this confused feeling with his foster-mother, and that saddened him. Once he had
shared his every thought with her, but more and more these days, Merlin found himself brimming over with thoughts and ideas
and questions he could not even form into words.

Disconsolately, he kicked at a stone in his path and watched it skitter off into the bushes, disturbing a colony of hares.
The sentry-hare drummed at him angrily with its powerful feet before following the others in flight. Merlin sighed, leaning
against a tree. Even hares had families.
I’m all alone,
he realized with surprise. He’d never thought about it before; somehow it had never mattered. But now it did. It mattered
very much.

“Why isn’t there anyone like me?” he demanded plaintively. He wanted companions of his own kind. He couldn’t be the only one
like himself in all the world. The world was
huge
—Blaise had said so.

But what if he was? What if he was going to be alone forever?

Herne watched Merlin. Though he was only a few feet away, Merlin did not see him—nor would he, unless Herne wished it. He
shook his head sadly at Merlin’s words. Both he and Ambrosia had known this time would come. The boy was lonely without knowing
what he longed for.

Herne knew. Merlin was not a child any longer. The boy was nearly a man. The same restlessness that drove all the creatures
of the springtime forest drove him as well. Soon he would want to claim his rightful heritage—but what was that? Did Merlin
belong to Mab and the Old Ways? To Avalon and the faith of his dead mother Elissa? Or was there a third path that Merlin must
find for himself, if he could?

Perhaps I can help him find his answers—and perhaps give him something that will shield him from the harm that may come.

Herne made a cryptic gesture with his right hand. Like Ambrosia, he had given up much when he had forsaken the Old Ways, but
just as she retained her knowledge of herbs and healing, some small magics were left to him.

A shining figure appeared in the distance, stepping grandly out of concealment and into Merlin’s sight. It was a great silver
stag, its branching antlers shining like fire in the spring sunlight. Its white coat shone with the soft pale brilliance of
the full moon, and it gazed at Merlin with wide knowing eyes.

Run, boy. And find only the good that the world holds,
Herne commanded silently. A flick of his fingers sent the stag leaping away, with Merlin running after it.

When it ran, Merlin chased it almost without thought. The glorious creature was like nothing he’d ever seen in all his life
and he wanted to get close enough to touch it. In the thick undergrowth of the forest, Merlin was as fast as any deer, but
somehow no matter how hard he tried, he never seemed to gain on it. The beast ran tirelessly ahead of him, just out of reach,
and the longer he chased it, the more determined Merlin was to catch it.

It seemed as if he ran for hours at its heels without it tiring or slowing. He was breathing hard, with the sweat running
in salty trickles down his face and into his eyes, but just as he was about to give up, he realized that he’d been gaining
on it for the last few minutes. Victory was within his grasp, and Merlin gathered all his strength and made a wild leap for
the stag’s back.

But as he jumped, his foot caught in a tree root, and instead of landing on the stag’s back, Merlin crashed full-length to
the forest floor. As he lay gasping for breath, he heard a distant crackling of branches, and by the time he scrambled to
his feet, he couldn’t even see in which direction the creature had fled.