Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

  In all it was a close and comfortable dwelling, now filling with other families of the settlement, all talking excitedly in hushed voices. As Bervach produced horn cups, the people of the holding continued to crowd in until the small house could hold no more. And still they came: man, woman, and child; thirty souls in all—the entire settlement.

  Women bustled about, bearing vessels of wood and pottery, whispering, working efficiently. They were assembling an impromptu feast in our honor. Clearly, the visit of the Emrys was an event not to be missed. And none, apparently, would.

  Bervach ap Gevayr was, for this night at least, the equal of any lord in the Island of the Mighty, for tonight the Emrys slept beneath his roof. What happened this night would be remembered and discussed, and all events following would date from it for years to come. Future generations would be told that on this night the Emrys passed by, and he stayed in this house, ate our food and drank our mead, and slept on this very hearth.

  And he sang! Oh, yes, he sang…

  Merlin was well aware of the expectations his presence created. Although tired, and desiring nothing but food and sleep, he would please his hosts.

  So, after the meal—and it proved as good and satisfying a meal as any we had enjoyed in far richer houses—Merlin motioned to me for his harp. I had tuned it, of course, and brought it out to squeals of delight and sighs of pleasure.

  “Were I a king,” declared Merlin loudly so all could hear, “I could not have obtained a better supper. But since I am no king, I must do what I can to reward you.”

  “Please, you are our guests. Do not feel you must repay us,” said Bervach seriously. “But,” he paused, flashing his gap-toothed smile suddenly, “if it would please you to ease the hardship of the road in this way, we will bear it for your sake.”

  Merlin laughed heartily. “Once again, I am in your debt. Still, it would please me if you would endure a song—for my sake.”

  “Very well, since you insist. But a short song only—nothing of length. We would not want you to tax yourself overmuch on our account.”

  Merlin sang the The Children of Llyr, a very long and intricate tale of great and haunting beauty. I had heard it twice before—once in Aurelius’ war camp, and once in Ban’s hall—but never have I heard it sung as Merlin sang it.

  The harp spun its shining silver melodies in the still air, and Merlin’s voice followed, weaving among them a melody of its own, reciting again the age-old words. The words! Each word, every note and breath, sprang to life newborn: bright and fresh as creation, whole, untainted, innocent.

  To hear him sing…Oh, to hear him was to witness the birthing of a living thing. The song was alive!

  Those crowded beneath Bervach’s roof that night heard the work of a true bard, as few ever would. And they were blessed by it as few are ever blessed in this sorry age.

  When the song was finished, and Merlin laid the still-quivering harp aside at last, it was late indeed. But it seemed that the evening had passed in a blink, the little space of time between one heartbeat and the next; it seemed—and I believe in some way it did happen—that while Merlin sang we who heard him were lost to time, having passed through it and beyond to that place where time no longer touches us.

  For the duration of the song we breathed the air of a different world wherein is lived a different kind of life—richer, higher, and more complete in every way.

  Merlin possessed the gift; it was, I imagine, much like his father’s.

  “Now I know what men heard when Taliesin sang,” I told him later when we had a word alone together.

  He shook his head firmly, the corners of his mouth bending in a frown. “Taliesin’s gift was as high above mine as the sighted man’s vision above that of the wretch born blind. The two are not to be compared.”

  Early the next morning, a little before dawn, we took our leave of Bervach and the rest of the holding who had gathered in the yard to watch us away. As we mounted our horses, some of the mothers stepped forward and lifted their small children to Merlin to receive the Emrys’ blessing. He gave it with good grace, but it disturbed him.

  We made our way through the valley in silence, and on into the lowlands beyond. It was not until we stopped at midday to rest and water the horses and take a small meal ourselves that Merlin would voice what was on his heart.

  “This should not be,” he muttered. “I am no holyman that babes should receive blessing from my hand.”

  “Where is the harm?” I asked. “The people need someone they can look to.”

  “Let them look to the High King!” The words were out before he knew it. Arthur winced as if pricked by a thrown knife.

  “No…no,” Merlin said quickly, “I did not mean it. I am sorry, Arthur. It is nothing to do with you.”

  “I understand,” said Arthur, but the pain lingered in his pinched expression. “I am no king, after all.”

  Merlin shook his head sadly. “Oh, the Enemy has set a most subtle trap. There is danger here, and we must tread lightly.”

  The unhappy spirit of this exchange reigned over the rest of the journey like the dark, wet clouds that hung above our heads—and continued until reaching Ynys Avallach.

  Coming in sight of the Glass Isle lifted our hearts. There was food and drink and warmth, blessed warmth, awaiting us in the Fisher King’s hall. And, though the cold wind lashed our frozen flesh and stung our eyes, we slapped leather to our horses and fairly flew down the hillside toward the lake. Arthur shouted at the top of his lungs, glad to arrive at last.

  The lake and salt marshes remained open and ducks of all kinds had gathered to winter there. We raised flocks of them as we galloped along the lakeside.

  Even though the groves were empty, the trees bare and lifeless, the pall of white snow on the ground made the isle appear as if made of glass indeed. The sudden flaring of the afternoon sun as it burned through the clouds lit the Tor with a shattering light: a beacon against the gathering storm.

  But as we came to the causeway leading to the Tor, Merlin halted and said, “We will seek shelter at the abbey tonight.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. Why spend the night in a monk’s cell when all the comforts of the Fisher King’s palace lay just across the lake? We could be there in less time than it takes to tell it!

  Before I could voice my astonishment at Merlin’s suggestion, he turned to Arthur. “The sword you are to have is near. You will spend the night in the Shrine of the Savior God, praying and preparing yourself to receive it.”

  Arthur accepted this without question, however, and we turned off the track and made our way around the lake to the abbey below Shrine Hill. Abbot Elfodd gave us good greeting and bade us warm ourselves by the hearth. He offered a blessing for Arthur, whom he knew by sight though they had never met.

  “You are welcome here, of course,” the abbot said, pressing cups of mulled wine into our hands, “but Charis and Avallach will be expecting you.”

  “They do not know of our journey,” replied Merlin.

  “Oh?”

  “We will see them soon, but we have a purpose to accomplish first.”

  “I see.”

  “Arthur has come to consecrate himself to the saving of Britain.”

  Elfodd raised his eyebrows. “Is this so?” He regarded Arthur with renewed interest.

  “It is,” Arthur answered evenly.

  “We thought to hold vigil in the shrine,” explained Merlin.

  “As you wish. So be it. I have no objection—save that it is cold, as there is no place for a fire.”

  “It will serve.”

  Merlin and the abbot talked briefly of the affairs of the realm, and Arthur joined in from time to time, but I noticed the Duke glancing toward the door as if eager to be away. Finally, Merlin rose. “Thank you for the wine and the warmth, Elfodd. We would stay, but we must be about our business.”

  “Please, as you see fit. We will not hinder you.”

  So saying, we took our leave and returne
d to the yard. The sky was nearly dark, the setting sun all but obscured by the clouds which had moved in once more. “There is the shrine,” Merlin said, indicating the small white chapel atop the nearby hill. “Go now and begin your vigil.”

  “Will you join me?”

  Merlin shook his head slightly. “Not now. Later, perhaps.”

  Arthur nodded solemnly, turned, and began climbing the hill to the shrine. It came to me that Merlin’s words—about a vigil of prayer and preparation, of consecration to the task of saving Britain—had begun to work in Arthur, answering the brooding in his soul manifest since losing Macsen’s sword.

  “This is well and good, Pelleas,” Merlin said quietly, watching Arthur walk away. “You will stay here with him tonight, and I will return at daybreak tomorrow.”

  The horses were nearby, and he swung up into the saddle and started away. I walked a few paces after him. “Where are you going?”

  “To arrange for Arthur to get his sword,” he called over his shoulder as he galloped away.

  * * *

  We spent a long, cold night together, Arthur and I. I slept somewhat, huddled in my cloak. Arthur knelt before the altar of the little round building, head bowed down, hands crossed over his chest.

  Once I stirred, thinking it was morning, and awakened to a sight I shall never forget. The sky outside had cleared, and a bright midwinter moon had risen and was shining full through the narrow, cross-shaped window above the altar.

  Arthur was kneeling in the pool of light—in the same attitude I had seen him before—head down, arms folded. I thought he had certainly fallen asleep. But as I watched, the Duke of Britain raised his head and slowly turned his face to the light, at the same time lifting his arms as if to embrace it.

  He stayed like that the longest time. Head up, arms open wide in acceptance and supplication—all the while bathed in the soft, silvery light. And I heard the quiet murmur of his whispered prayer.

  As I listened, the chapel filled with such peace and tranquillity, I knew it to be a high and holy sign. I had no doubt that Arthur had entered the presence of Jesu, whose kindly light shone upon him in benediction. My heart swelled to bursting with the wonder of it, for I knew myself to be favored among men to witness this sign.

  But a little while later, I heard a low whistle outside. I rose and went out to meet Merlin leading the horses. “It is time,” he said. “Fetch Arthur.”

  I looked, and the sun was rising in the east. The moon, so bright only moments before, now waned as the sky lightened. Crisp and sharp, the cold dawn air pricked me fully awake, and I went back into the shrine to summon Arthur. At the sound of his name, he rose and came forth.

  We mounted and silently made our way along the lakeside path leading to the causeway. The world seemed new-made, delicate, yet invincible in its beauty: the pale white snow underfoot and deepest blue night above…the smooth black water of the reed-fringed lake…the red-gold of the rising sun flaming the eastern sky.

  I first thought we would go to the Tor directly, but Merlin led us along the causeway and continued on around the lake, stopping at a clump of leafless willow trees. Here we stopped and dismounted. Merlin faced the placid, dawn-smooth lake and pointed to the bank of reeds before us.

  “There is a boat,” he told Arthur. “Get into it and pole yourself across the lake to the island. There you will meet a woman. Heed her well. She will give you the sword.”

  Arthur said nothing; there was no need. His face shone with all the hope and glory of the rising sun. He walked calmly to the reeds and stepped into the boat—which I recognized as Avallach’s fishing boat. Taking up the pole, Arthur pushed away from the bank. The reeds rasped and rustled as he passed, and then he was gliding out onto the dark water.

  Merlin sensed the questions whirling inside me. “Charis will meet him and give him the sword,” he told me. “She is waiting for him in the grove.”

  “Why?” I asked, for I found this elaborate diversion most confusing. Why not simply ride to the Tor and give Arthur the sword outright? “It is just a sword, is it not?”

  “Not to Arthur,” Merlin replied, watching the Duke raise and lower the dripping pole. “It will be his life from this day forth, until the Island is rid of the enemy.”

  He turned to me. “Besides, it is a good sword. There is not another like it in all the world.”

  “Whose sword is it?”

  “Arthur’s.”

  “But—”

  “It is the one Charis had made for Avallach. I wore it for a time, you will remember. But it was never mine. It was, I think, made for Arthur. He alone will truly possess it.”

  I looked across the lake and saw that Arthur had reached the island. He jumped from the boat and walked up the slope toward the grove. The trees all stood bare, their leafless branches dark under a thin coating of snow.

  In a moment, I saw Charis step lightly from among the trees. He saw her and stopped. She raised her right hand in greeting, and I saw that she clasped the naked blade in the left. Then she lifted the sword and placed it across her palms and offered it to him.

  Arthur approached, his face solemn, his tread purposeful and slow. Charis offered the sword, but the Duke did not take it. He knelt before her and raised his hands. She spoke to him, and then placed the sword across his upraised palms.

  Then did Arthur rise, lofting the sword. New sunlight dazzled along its tapered length in a keen flash of gold. He waved the blade in the air, and an expression of awe slowly transformed his features.

  “Come,” said Merlin, turning again to the horses. “We will join them now.”

  We rode back to the causeway, crossed it, and turned toward the grove, leading Arthur’s horse behind us. Charis greeted her son with a kiss, and me as well.

  “Have you seen it, Myrddin?” cried Arthur, holding the sword reverently, his face alight with the singular beauty of the weapon. For indeed it was a thing of dire beauty: long and slender, cold, deadly. Two crested serpents, their red-gold bodies entwined, jeweled eyes winking, formed the hilt. Forged long ago of an art far surpassing any now known, it was, as Merlin said, the weapon of a dream, made for the hand of a champion.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Merlin, touching the blade with his fingertips, “I have seen it once or twice. What will you call it?” He did not say that he himself had once worn it.

  “Call it?”

  “A weapon like this must have a name.”

  “Has it a name, my lady?” Arthur asked Charis.

  “No name that I know,” she replied.

  “The Lady of the Lake has told me that the blade is made of steel far stronger than any in Britain,” said Arthur.

  “Call it Caliburnus,” suggested Merlin.

  Arthur’s brow wrinkled. “Latin—meaning?”

  “Caledvwlch, the Cymry would say.”

  “Cut Steel!” declared Arthur, lofting the weapon once more. “Very well, as I am a Roman Celt, I will call it Caledvwlch.”

  Arthur was well pleased with his new weapon. He lightly held the sword in his hands and fingered the strange markings on the blade near the hilt. “These figures,” he said, turning once more to Charis, “I cannot read them. What do they mean?”

  “It is Atlantean script,” she explained. “It says here, Take Me Up.” She turned the blade over. “And here: Cast Me Aside.”

  Arthur frowned over this. “I will never cast it aside,” he vowed, and raising his eyes to hers, said, “I am in your debt, my lady. Whatever you ask of me, if it is in my power, I will do.”

  Charis smiled. “The sword is a gift—obtained for one king and given to another. I ask nothing in return.”

  “Yet,” Arthur replied, letting his glance slide once more along the flawless length of the sword, “I would deem it an honor to repay you in any way I can.”

  “Come,” said Merlin, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Let us go into the hall and break fast. Have you forgotten what day it is? It is the day of the Christ Mass. Let us b
egin the celebration at once.”

  With that, we began threading our way up the narrow track to the Fisher King’s palace. Arthur gazed out as the landscape fell away below, watching the radiant fingers of sunlight sweep the hills and hollows round about. By the time he stepped through the great arched gates and into the palace yard, he was firmly captured by the natural enchantment of the place.

  We did not wait to be greeted, but hurried into the hall to warm ourselves. Avallach was there, and upon seeing us he came forth to greet us with glad welcome on his lips. His hand, however, was pressed to his side, as it always was when his wound distressed him.

  “God be good to you!” he called, his voice a low thunder in the hall. “Merlin! Pelleas! How often I have thought of you these last days and longed for your company. Come, sit by the hearth. Have you travelled far?”

  “Merlin came to us last night, but you were in your chambers and we did not like to disturb you,” Charis explained, linking her arm through her son’s.

  “Grandfather,” said Merlin, holding his hand out to Arthur, “I present to you Arthur ap Aurelius, Duke of Britain.”

  King Avallach looked long on the young Duke, holding him in his gaze that became at once sharp and formidable. Arthur endured this scrutiny with good grace; he did not flinch, nor did he counter it by growing haughty as I have seen men do. Arthur stood square-shouldered, head erect, eyes level, motionless, letting the other make of him what he would.

  In all the years I had known him, I had never seen Avallach react this way with anyone—certainly not with a guest in his house. Charis opened her mouth to intercede, but Merlin urgently pressed her hand and she subsided.

  His appraisal finished, the Fisher King raised his palm shoulder high, saying, “Hail, Arthur, Duke of the Britons, I greet you. Long have we awaited your coming.” Avallach then stepped forward and enwrapped Arthur in a great embrace. A simple enough gesture, but more than that somehow.

  Merlin looked on with narrowed eyes. The significance of this act stirred him, and his senses quickened. He was, I knew, seeing far more in Avallach’s welcoming embrace than Charis or I did.