The Raven Warrior (61 page)

There were two more chairs and a bench around the garden. She pointed at one chair and a couple of pillows appeared in it.

“Here, have a cushion,” she said to Merlin as she handed him one. “And,” she continued, “you will stay sane as long as you stay here.”

“So I’m trapped,” he said.

“You could put it that way, if you want to. You could also say I rescued you. But whatever you say, there’s not one damn thing I can do about King Bade’s curse.”

“Nothing you can, or nothing you will?”

“Both,” she said, sitting down in the chair with the remaining cushion. Lancelot took the bench.

“Bade’s not a god. But if there’s such a thing as close with god, he’s there. No, I don’t want any part of a squabble between a cheap necromancer like you and the last remnant of beings who once aspired to comprehend the whole known universe.”

“He’s half-mad,” Merlin snapped.

“Let me tell you something. At half-mad, Bade is still a hundred times smarter and more competent than you ever dreamed about being on the sharpest day of your life.”

He gave her a poisonous look.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said.

The hot, dark eyes rested on Lancelot. “Your paramour?” he asked.

“None of your business. I brought him here because he’s Guinevere’s foster brother and he needs to know what’s happened to her and her intended, the young king. You were eager enough to tell me everything a day or so ago. What’s the matter now? You trying to figure an angle? Some way to work out a quid pro quo? If that’s what’s in your devious skull, forget it. You start screwing with me, I’ll drag you out in the ocean and hold your head under until you beg me to let you talk. You aren’t the first slimy vulture, potted-up scrounger who wanted to exploit the remains of a magnificent civilization for your own personal profit. Types like you get on my last nerve, and it gripes me to have to share my personal getaway spot with a creep like you. But in the interest of limiting your suffering and in return for your help, I’ll do it. But that’s all I’ll do. That’s all you get. I will not help you make a nuisance of yourself to the rest of the long-suffering human race.”

“Everybody always knows where they stand with you, don’t they?” Lancelot said.

“True,” Merlin said. “You could not be clearer.” Then he continued, “The truth is, I don’t know as much as I wish. But what there is, I will share. The oracles began to speak of both of them before they were ever born. But I believe you, my lady, are well informed about divination.”

She nodded. “A tricky and treacherous process.”

“Just so. I couldn’t tell what they portended, only that it was something big. Very big. Unbelievably big. And the worst of it was, I couldn’t tell what. I consulted other diviners. They seemed to know even less than I did. So . . .”

“You tried to kill us,” Lancelot said.

“Yes, I did that at first. I tried very hard. Then I used my credit with the Lord of the Dead to try to tie her to another man. He failed. I was surprised. Certainly the power of his hand exceeds the force of any mortal will. But she was not only able to defeat him, she acquired an ally in the Boar, servant of Dis, Talorcan. God help me, he liked her!”

“I do too,” Lancelot said.

Merlin sighed. “I’m sure there is much that is likable about her. Arthur was certainly smitten. Together they might be an unbeatable combination.”

The Lady of the Lake seemed saddened. Lancelot kept his eyes on the restless movement of the sea. Merlin made as if to rise.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m dry. Talking is thirsty work.”

A second later a cup appeared in her hand. She held it out to him.

“What’s in it?” he asked, accepting it gingerly.

“Whatever you want,” she said.

He took a swallow. “Tolerably good wine,” he said, sounding surprised.

“Fine,” she said. “Keep it. You don’t have to worry about emptying it.”

“The cup remains full?” he said, looking down into the vessel.

“Yes. I have a whole set. These are ornamented with moonstones. Get on with the story.”

“You know whose side I’m on. Don’t you?” he asked.

She snorted. “Your own.”

“No!” He sounded angry. “I’m on that of the civilized southern landowners. In the end, they will dominate the country. Arthur wasn’t reliable. As high king I saw clear evidence that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. And he would allow the barbarian tribesmen an equal voice in the government.”

“So you decided to imprison him also.”

Merlin looked almost sad. “The High Kingship has endured so long. Even before the Romans came, groups from the Continent tried to bring it down. They failed. Most thought the Romans would succeed, but I think in a way, in the long run, resistance to their rule only strengthened those kings of legend. The Roman tide crashed against the mountains of Scotland. Then receded slowly, leaking away until they were gone. The only remnants of their greatness are a few very hard to heat villas and an abandoned wall.”

He sighed. “Those oracles didn’t warn me enough. He hasn’t remained imprisoned by Bade. He’s loose, and he’s been successful in challenging Bade for power.”

“That part was not clear to me,” she said. “How in the hell did you get Bade to act as Arthur’s jailer?”

Merlin’s face was stiff.

“Don’t. Don’t lie to me. Not if you value your life, don’t.” She spoke quietly. “I want the truth.”

“He . . . he was in my debt,” was the answer.

“For what?”

“I sent him a lot of slaves.”

She began laughing.

“Arthur is a king, and they have the right to ask for his help. But if this Bade is as powerful as you tell me he is, how could any human defeat him?” Lancelot asked.

“He doesn’t have to defeat him, just limit him. And that can be done,” Merlin said.

She added, “I think that may be where you come in.”

“Me?” Lancelot said. “What can I do?”

She didn’t answer, only looked into his eye. He met her stare for a moment, then turned away.

“Are you there?” he asked quietly. A half dozen ravens flew down, and his helm, belt, and sword appeared on the bench beside him.

“Yes, there are things I can do,” he said. “But what about her?”

“She is at the City of Fire,” Merlin said. “Her journey is her own, and you are not part of it.”

He sat silent for a moment, eyes closed. “No, she has already won or lost. I cannot say which. I don’t know. But there is no way for you to get there. If victorious, she will overtake you in the Summer Country. If not, I cannot name her fate. But this I say last.”

And he glanced at Lancelot. “In this I speak truth and only truth. The three of you are treasured among the immortals and in many senses, you will never die. Part of the reason I pursued you so relentlessly is because my soul burned with envy of you. The king is a dream of power. She, Guinevere, is a dream of beauty and you are a dream of courage. And among the three of you, there is a dream of love. I cannot think she will lose. You and Arthur are her destiny. No lesser beings could destroy her.”

He turned to the Lady of the Lake. “There. Are you satisfied?”

She nodded. “Yes. You meet and exceed my expectations, sorcerer.”

The sun was still bright in the sky, but moving down close to the horizon. The shadows were long and the breeze was picking up. Merlin lifted the wine cup again and drank deeply.

“Any fish in that large body of water?” He nodded toward the sea.

“Some,” Lancelot said. “But you sort of have to crack them like oysters. They have big plates all over their bodies, but the meat inside is really good.”

“Back there—” The sorcerer indicated the strip of low-growing scrub beyond the beach. “I found some sleep rooms and a hearth. I suppose I had best make myself at home. There’s also a net.”

“We could run it through the surf,” she said. “I’ve never been short of things to eat, and I’ve spent a lot of time here.”

“Any further advice?” Lancelot asked Merlin.

“I wouldn’t presume,” he said. “Besides, you and she and Arthur have handled things perfectly up until now. In this, I came off the loser.”

“I’ll go get the net,” she said. Then she pointed to Merlin. “You build a fire. And don’t hit that cup too hard while you’re at it. Wait until you get some food in your stomach.”

“What about these fancy getups?” Lancelot objected. “You’ll ruin that expensive gown. And what about my tunic?” he asked as he rose to follow her.

“The ravens can bring you some armor and I’ll wear kelp.”

“Kelp? What the hell is kelp?” he asked.

“Seaweed,” she told him. “It gets chilly around here at night, and it will keep me warm.”

“How in the hell is cold, clammy seaweed going to keep you warm?”

“Enough!” she said. “I’ve been explaining things to you all day. Give it a rest and let’s go find that net.”

                  CHAPTER NINE

Arthur visited the eagle again. He studied the way the forest sloped down to the river and decided that there must be a game trail that paralleled the river and would take him without undue exertion down to the bottomlands that surrounded King Bade’s fortress.

He sometimes stayed longer than necessary with the great bird. He liked her mind. It was clear and calm, utterly without fear or even anxiety. She knew what she was and what her people had been since time immemorial. When they had been without feathers and hunted in the shadowed glades of a primordial forest, thick with cycads and tree ferns. The insects were winged, but they were not. But clawed fingers and feet gave them command of the high canopies where they dashed from tree to tree with an agility only equaled now by monkeys.

At first the skies were filled with rain. The clouds were thick and the green of forests where tree was piled on tree burned against the racing gray cloud wreck that seemed to fly past without end. In time the skies cleared, cold came, and with it the feathers that made the miracle of flight possible.

He basked in her serenity, her assurance. It felt good to slough off his complex humanity and join with her simple, clear vision.

Perhaps,
he thought, riding the thermals of a morning and being carried higher and higher,
this was what happened to the wanderers lost in this dark forest. They yielded up their souls to an experience that brought their mortal torments to an end and filled them with peace.

There was an absolute certainty about her life. There were no gray areas. She loved her mate and greeted him with a very pure passion as they clung together, spiraling down toward the treetops below. They made love over and over again, and they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other.

Eggs and chicks. She was filled with youth and strength.

They honed their skills in the vast chasm of air between the clouds and the forest below, making sure their young were fed. Then the chicks were gone and he and she were alone together. Today was as yesterday, and tomorrow would change nothing, but be the same. World without end, not a prayer but a reality that glowed with absolute peace.

It came to him then that he knew who he was, also. He had no doubts, and his mind reached that point of rest, the vast stillness that is the knowledge of God. He watched the sunset with his arm over the dog’s back. The sun painted the horizon gold, and a blue-green light blazed in the forest.

“Did you betray me?” he asked the dog. “Take me to face the greatest enemy of my kind in this world?” Of course, he got no answer. But he was able to sleep very peacefully.

The next day he felt the first stirrings of hunger as he and Bax worked their way into a more conventional forest. There were game trails here and clearings where he could see the sun by day and the moon and stars by night. The first night out, he set rabbit snares and got three. He took the sinew and gut he needed to make a bow drill and fed the rest to Bax. Then he hunkered down near a small stream that was tributary to the river that bisected the valley.

He placed his hands in the water. He felt a coldness in the symbols that marked the palms of both hands. He’d made his first bow drill from a yew tree. The coolness penetrated his palms and ran up his arms and entered his heart.

The king had one other duty. He was priest, general-warrior, head of state, and it was his duty, as it had been that of the Roman and Etruscan kings, to consult the gods. Both pagan and Christian priesthoods had done the best they could to wrench the responsibility for the sacred trance from the ruler, but no one had ever been able to completely deny them.

No high king had ever been chosen who did not come from one of the great warrior societies, and simply in order to join one, both men and women had to be able to make the sacred journey. He made one himself, and “She” had come to him. The memory made him shiver. He had the marks; the four claws of a bear scored his right shoulder from neck to waist. But he was glad he had them.

He had gone to his father the morning of his first awareness that he was no longer a child. He didn’t know what or who came to him in the shadows between sleep and waking. Some boys and men told tales about what they met. Most kept their mouths shut, at least until they were much older and the memory was no longer raw. Or perhaps until they could make up something to their credit. But he remembered only the pleasure, and being naturally truthful, told his father so.

But Uther only nodded and brought him to Morgana, who made arrangements for him to use the mountain house. He wasn’t happy. He was afraid. He didn’t tell his father that. It wasn’t in him to admit fear. He never had, he never would. But this passage was greatly feared by both boys and girls.

The rites girls faced weren’t as painful or lonely as the boys’ were, but she was sequestered in a small, lonely place and shunned for at least part of the time. For two weeks she was not allowed to speak, nor could she let her shadow fall on anyone’s food or weapons, or any newborn child. And, as with the boys, they must partake of the cup.

The priestess mixed the drink and the visions it produced brought knowledge of the future to those engaged in the passage. Girls were—frankly—used by the older women during the rite. Used to foretell the future.

Each night the girl drank from the ceremonial vessel and then was left in isolation until the morning, when she was questioned about what she had seen. Two weeks of this could bring a woman near madness if the revelations were ugly or unpleasant.

The boys faced a shorter, but no less fearful, ordeal. They went to the mountain house where for six days they were not allowed to eat and drank only water. As the bolder girls did, they each night sought the trance and the knowledge it brought. They prayed for a true dream, a guide to their future status.

It was cold, and on the way up, Arthur passed the night with the shepherds just moving their flocks up for summer pasture. He took his last allowable meal with them, porridge with some sweet cow’s milk. The ewes weren’t lactating yet. The flat bread he ate with it was more barley than wheat, but the butter was rich and good. Then he took his leave of them and hiked up to the thatch-covered pavilion called the forest house.

There were no other trees so high up but pines, and a thick mist covered them. The forest house was only four stone posts, a low stone wall between them. The roof was thick with thatch. When he reached it, the low mist had dampened the walls and floor. Water was dripping down from the thatch and making plopping sounds on the brown needle-covered earth around the door. He was tired. The low clouds hovering over the mountaintop reduced visibility to only a few feet.

He made a bed with an extra blanket and slept through most of the day. When he woke, it was evening. The wind had blown the clouds away, and he sat wrapped in his mantle, watching the sun go down in the distant sea. From here he could tell he was on a mountaintop now. As he watched, the scarlet blaze of the dying light painted the trees on the hills that stretched out below him until they met the ocean. The air was clear and cold, and somewhere in his soul he mourned the departing light. He drank the first cup of the journey. Fire was forbidden, and the darkness thick around him until he saw the beauty of the stars.

His spirit soared. They had always been there, those stars, but somehow he had never really seen them. There was always a door to enter, or when sleeping outdoors when they were on the hunt, the fire flared. It needed to be tended and fed. When he was on watch or having the lessons, they taught him how to know them—tell time by their eternal consistency or find his way out on the open sea using them as beacons or do the same on a cross-country march: look for those patterns that would mark the houses and the direction he needed to follow to shelter, or at darker times, an ambush or a killing. The stars were among the tools he had been taught to master.

But now he needed nothing from them, and it was as though he had never seen them before. They cast the network of their splendor over him and greeted him as one of their own. He wrapped himself in his mantle and wandered through the dark, silent forest, watching them, keeping them company as they marked the long, slow passage of the night. Marveling at the beauty and imagination of what/whoever called them from the deeps of eternity and taught the mind of man to love their splendor.

He never remembered how or when he found his bed, but sometime before dawn, he did. He slept deeply and without dreams.

When he woke, the morning was well under way. He rose, washed. A bath in the cold water of a spring nearby caused such spasms in his muscles that he thought he might end in a permanent crouch. He didn’t, but felt much better when his skin glowed with the flush of blood his heart sent to chase away the chill.

He took some time to make a rough broom from a fallen bough and some small pine branches so he could sweep the dusty floor and dispose of his used bedding. Then he remade his bed and sat outside, listening to the endless breeze that troubled his ears with its mild roaring, watching the sun cross the sky.

Near the spring where he bathed, a pair of birds was raising young.
Exhausting,
he thought. The adults ran themselves ragged trying to keep the four triangular yellow mouths full. The chicks rested between feedings, but as soon as Mother or Father—he couldn’t tell which was which—came in for a landing at the edge of the nest, four heads were up, four mouths open, four sets of lungs screaming for nourishment.

Why did they go to all the trouble? Was it worth it? His mother hadn’t seemed to think so. But there was that frantically working pair of birds.

Birds had no kings, no laws, and no families. What was there in a bird’s world to keep them from dumping the worrisome chicks out of the nest and flying away to eat the tidbits they were so assiduously feeding to their chicks? The birds were hard at it.

He wondered what Igrane would have done with him if she’d been a bird. Probably fed him to the nearest snake. Remembering the years he’d spent with her, he thought perhaps he might have been better off.

When he looked up at the sky, he saw the clouds were moving in from the sea, drowning the golden light in gray shadow. That night, after he emptied the cup, he found himself haunted by the terror of memory. He slept and dreamed of her the way he always remembered her, bending over him (children are so small). The cold anger on her face reaching for him. He would wake himself up screaming, waiting for the pain to begin. Each time he slept, this same dream jolted him awake, shivering with fear, and oddly enough at the same time drenched with the sweat of fear.

He woke in the gray dawn glad the night was over to find the clouds had moved in, wrapping the world in silent gray vapor. He was lean, spare. He carried little or no extra fat. Hunger and the terror of the long night had taken its toll.

He didn’t try to bathe in the spring today. He found that with the drug gone from his blood, he was able to sleep in peace, and he did for the most of the morning and afternoon. When he woke, it was still raining and the sky was lighter. He went down to the spring and bathed. But a look at the clouds flying past up high told him the night would be cold. Weather from the north was pushing them. So he didn’t dare use his spare blanket to dry himself. He did have a clean change of clothing, so he dressed while still damp and then watched the cottony clouds dabbled in blood by the sunset.

He drank the cup, wrapped himself in his blanket and mantle, and tried to stay out of the icy wind while the forest moaned and cried out around him. Between the low clouds and the intermittent gusts of rain, he seemed wrapped in absolute darkness. The pines around him cried out in a thousand voices. A long, whispering rush as the tree limbs thrashed, loud cracks when something, tree or branch, gave way, a long, vast sigh that began as a whisper and gradually grew louder and louder, until its roar seemed to encompass the whole world.

As he looked up, he could see the tall pines bending, whipping in the blast, and the wild clouds, dim shapes above the darker trees, flying past, driven like shadows before the wind. In the dark, something roared. Once—his mind told him—there were no fires, and when the sun set by day or the moon by night, the world was an abyss of darkness. This must have been what it was like. To sit alone in the cold and the fireless dark and hear the creatures of fang, tusk, and claw—those born with all the armaments they needed to survive—yell a warning into the night that they were on the hunt. The roar came again, closer, and it sounded as though something moved among the brush and small trees growing along the narrow trail he had taken to come here. Something big.

He was trembling. Wild boar? No, not by night. Cat, or worse yet, bear? Either could be death in the night, in the cold, to an unarmed man. He had no weapon. They, like fire, were forbidden.

He heard the scream of a cat then. It came from near the pool where he bathed. The roars changed to snuffing and woofing. Dog. His disordered mind wished to believe it was a dog, but the sounds were too loud to belong even to a large dog, and the crashing and plunging in the undergrowth bespoke a massive creature.