The Sword of Aradel (3 page)

He had never seen a real Bible, and he had once asked Brother Benedict why it was forbidden. The burly blacksmith had peered around carefully, then said in a low voice, “Watch your tongue on that subject, lad. Now, to boil it all down, it's just a matter of power. Those who have it are always fighting to keep it. Those who don't have it are always oppressed. You see?”

“I'm beginning to. I've heard that the Bible is full of magic, which was put in there by the devil. Is that true, and is that really why it's banned?”

“It is full of miracles and magic, but the devil didn't put them there. That is a great lie, told by the righteous rascals in power. To keep their power, they must destroy those who know the truth.”

“Then—then there really is magic?”

“There is, and there are those among us who are able—but no. You are too young to know more. I have told you enough. For your life's sake, and mine, forget what I have said.”

That had been years ago, Brian remembered, not long after he had come to the abbey. Today he had fled from it, with more questions than ever unanswered.

Why, for one thing, had Brother Benedict been so anxious for him to cover his pale hair? What was there about pale hair that should be hidden?—and why had Albericus stared at him so strangely when his cap was knocked off?

Then there was the matter of defeating Rupert so easily. Had he really handled the quarterstaff so skillfully—or had someone put a spell on Rupert?

In spite of what Brother Benedict had once told him, he had never really believed in spells and magic. But now he was beginning to wonder.

As he trudged deeper into the forest, following a game trail that wound along the stream, the undergrowth gradually vanished and the trees became immense. Several times herds of deer faded into the shadows, and once he saw a great wolf regarding him with a sort of cold but speculative interest from the other side of the stream. It gave him a moment of sharp fright. The sword, which he had been carrying over his shoulder, was swept down instantly to a ready position. But the wolf did not move, and he hurried thankfully on his way.

Having eaten no breakfast, and only a bowl of thin gruel the night before, he was very hungry by midmorning. But he knew little of the woods and saw nothing that seemed edible. Even the few strawberries he found were green.

He stopped at times to drink hastily from the stream, and as the day grew warmer he was tempted to shed his ragged and none-too-clean garments and plunge into the cool water. Only the fear of Albericus, who surely had sent men to hunt him, kept him on the move.

Brian had lost all sense of time when he stumbled finally into an open glade. The place was covered with a lush growth of wild strawberries. He did not at once notice the wide crystal pool ahead, and the ancient oak beside it—an oak so huge that it entirely dominated this parklike corner of the forest. All he saw were the berries. There were thousands of berries, lusciously red and ripe.

He fell eagerly on his knees and began stuffing them into his mouth as fast as his hands could pick them.

Suddenly a mischievous voice somewhere behind him said, “Are you enjoying my strawberries, Brian of the horse trough?”

He grabbed at his sword and managed to scramble to his feet. Juice was running from his mouth, which was far too full for speech. He could only gulp and stare.

A few yards away a small slender figure, arms on hips and dressed like a boy in green doublet and hose, was watching him with amusement. The lively face under the green cowled cap was a girl's, and it seemed curiously familiar. But where could he have seen anyone like her? She was dressed entirely in green—but the greenest things about her, from the bright feather in her cap to her small green boots, were her eyes. They were as brilliantly green as the jewels in the hilt of his sword.

He was wondering about her eyes when a small bird fluttered down and alighted on her shoulder. It was a nightingale.

“You—you're that strawberry girl!” he stammered.

She gave a gay little laugh. “Of course! I'm Merra.” Suddenly she took a step forward, her nose crinkling. “Give me your sword,” she demanded.

Hesitantly he held it out, hilt first.

She took it firmly in both hands and thrust the point toward him, forcing him backward. “You stink,” she said, green eyes dancing. “Brian of the horse trough, you smell of the stable. Back you go—into the cleansing waters! Whee!” she cried, as he fell with a great splash into the crystal pool.

He came up gasping, then found his footing and shook the water from his face, and saw her crouched on the bank in front of him. Eyes bright, she was watching him like an impish kitten.

“Off with your filthy rags!” she ordered imperiously, pointing the sword at him. “Off with the dirt beneath them! And when you are clean as a lamb, you may come forth and don your new clothes. They are here by the ferns.”

Utterly bewildered by her, he watched her turn away and vanish across the glade. Then he drew off his rags and began to wash. When he crawled out finally, he found a towel and a complete outfit in green almost exactly like her own. There were even a leathern pouch with coins in it and a small sheath knife to hang from his belt.

The moment he was dressed she appeared, sword over her shoulder, and studied him critically. “What a change!” she exclaimed in her gay little voice. “Why, you could almost pass for one of your betters!”

Her silvery laugh tinkled, as if at some private joke. Then abruptly she became very serious. Drawing herself up to her full height, which was hardly to his chin, she ordered in a truly regal manner, “On your knee, Brian of the horse trough! Kneel!”

He submitted, deciding that so strange a person had much better be humored.

She brought the point of the sword down and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Brian of the horse trough,” she went on, switching easily from Latin to English, “by right of my birth and powers, and because of thy pale hair and valor, I dub thee Sir Brian the Fair. Arise, Sir Brian, and take thy well-won blade—and a murrain seize our enemies! All those wretched rogues and devil's whelps who fain would stop us!”

“Stop us from what?” he could not help asking as he took the sword. For he realized all at once that she was deadly serious and meant every word she had said.

“From saving Aradel!” she replied hotly. “From destroying that horrible Albericus before he burns all the good people! But most of all, from succeeding in our search—for if we fail in that, then everything is lost! Everything!”

He could only gape at her, wondering what incredible sort of creature she was.

“Oh fie!” she exclaimed. “I see you don't understand. But of course you don't! I forget. How could you possibly understand—after the spell that was put upon you?”

“What spell?”

“The one that changed your memory. It was a powerful spell, and I don't know how to break it. So I suppose I must explain it all to you. You see, to begin with—”

“To begin with,” he interrupted, “there's nothing wrong with my memory. But I'd like to know how you learned I was coming here. And—and these clothes I'm wearing. How—”

She sighed, rolling her eyes as if fighting for patience. “It's very simple, Sir Brian. I was told from afar what happened this morning at the abbey. How you bested that stupid and unmannered lout of a Rupert, and escaped—”

“Told from afar?” he interrupted again. “I—I've never heard of such a thing! It's impossible!”

She stamped her foot. “If it's impossible, you silly goose, how is it that I know all about you, and even sent Tancred ahead to watch for you? But I suppose you didn't even notice him.”

“I—I didn't see anybody. Who is he?”

“Tancred isn't a person—though he's certainly smarter than most people. He's my nightingale.”

“Oh.” She was becoming stranger to him all the time. “Is—is it Brother Benedict you talk to from afar?”

“Of course. He's much more than a monk, though few at the abbey know it.” She hesitated, then added, “And he happens to be my uncle.”

“Your—your
uncle?
”

She nodded. “My father's brother. The family has long been a great one in Aradel.”

“Then what are you doing way out here, so far from everything?”

“I live with my mother's people. And all my friends are here.” She flashed him a quick look with her green eyes, and added quietly, almost hopefully, “They are hard for most mortals to see, but they are all around us. Can you not hear them singing?”

He stared at her a moment, then turned quickly and peered about him. For the first time he became fully aware of the crystal pool in which he had been forced to wash, the stream joining it on the left, and the tremendous oak on the right, the greatest of all the trees in this ancient grove. Something stirred deep within him, and unconsciously he crossed himself. Did he really hear singing—or was it only the soft music of running water and the wind?

He started to ask Merra about it, but at that moment the nightingale, which he had not seen since his bath, swooped down to her shoulder, burbling excitedly.

“What's the matter, Tancred?” she asked. “What is it?”

She listened to it a moment, lip caught between her teeth. Suddenly she said, “I sent him back to see if you were being followed. You are. Hunting dogs are on your trail. Some men-at-arms are behind them, and Albericus is leading them!”

Shock held him rigid a moment. Had he made Albericus so very angry that the gaunt monk would come after him in person?

Merra clutched his sleeve. “Hurry! I've got to hide you!”

3

The Secret of Cerid

A
S
M
ERRA DREW HIM IN THE DIRECTION OF THE
great oak, Brian suddenly remembered the rags he had discarded. “My old clothes,” he gasped. “I'd better get them! If the dogs find them, Albericus will know I'm somewhere near.”

He ran back along the edge of the pool, caught up the sodden rags, wadded them into a bundle, and hurried to overtake his guide. But she had stopped abruptly at the side of the oak and was looking up at it intently, chanting something in a language that was strange to him. Even so, he found he understood the words:

“Oh ancient tree, most noble tree,

Please open wide a door for me.”

Brian was almost certain the great tree had had a smooth trunk when he first saw it, but now there seemed to be a hollow place in front of him. It looked so natural, however, that he wondered if it hadn't been there all the time. But before he could make up his mind about it, Merra caught his sleeve and drew him through the opening.

When he glanced quickly back over his shoulder, he was somewhat jolted to see the opening close behind him. Then he forgot it as he glanced around at the cozy circular room with its fireplace on one side, and a stairway carved out of the tree winding upward on the other. No windows were in evidence, but the room was softly lighted by a warm glow that came from recesses in the walls. Curiously, the room seemed larger than the tree.

“Welcome, Brian,” said a musical voice. “I am Nysa, Merra's aunt. I've heard so much about you—”

“Albericus is coming!” Merra interrupted. “He's got men-at-arms and dogs! We've got to do something!”

“Heaven preserve us!” replied the musical voice, whose owner Brian could not see. “This calls for extreme measures. Merra, speak to Grinder. Ask him to get his friends and drive those dogs away. And I will see what I can do about the weather. A storm has been brewing. If I can draw it nearer …”

Brian stood frozen, with his mouth agape, looking first at Merra, then about the room for the invisible Nysa. Merra had seated herself on a stool by the hearth; eyes closed, small hands clenched, her lips began moving soundlessly. Beyond her, unseen, he could hear someone softly chanting. He became aware of a faint keening of wind in the distance. It grew louder and sharper. Suddenly there was a great roaring of wind outside. Then down drummed the rain, furiously as if it would wash the earth away.

Brian shook his head. He had been seeing and hearing things he did not believe in. Even now, with the storm raging outside, he could not bring himself to admit that an invisible person—if Nysa was a person—had brought it about. Then he realized that Merra had opened her eyes and was looking at him mischievously.

“Have we shaken you mightily, Sir Brian?” she asked.

“I—I wish you wouldn't call me that,” he managed to say. “You know I'm not a knight. Why, I'm not even old enough to be a squire.”

“I knighted you,” she said tartly. “And if I wish to call you Sir Brian the Fair, I will.”

“And I think you'd better let her, Sir Brian,” came the voice of Nysa, laughing. “Though very young, she is still a great lady in her own right. And I may as well tell you that, if she safely reaches her next birthday, she will live to bestow knighthood upon many before she leaves this realm. It is only fitting that you should be the first.” A pause, then she asked, “Merra, what did Grinder tell you?”

“Ha! He's calling the packs together. And he promised not only to get rid of the dogs, but to chase Albericus and his men out of the forest. Oh, I'd love to see that!”

“Who—who is Grinder?” Brian found himself asking.

“The king of the wolves,” Merra said promptly. “He's one of my best friends. He told me he saw you earlier, when you were on your way here.”

Brian swallowed and ran his tongue over dry lips. “You—you talk to people from afar, and to birds and wolves. And you have relatives who are invisible. What—what are you, anyway?”

It was the unseen Nysa who answered. “We are of the Dryads,” she told him softly. “Many of us live in this grove. We preside over the forests, and the things of the forests.”

“Wood nymphs!” he burst out. “But—but there are no such creatures! Anyhow, I don't believe in them. I—I just can't!”