VORTIGERN’S MEN found us at sunset.
We were asleep, both of us, curled together on the floor of the tunnel, my head still on his shoulder, my palm spread flat on his chest. I could hear, even through the hazy sweetness of whatever I dreamed, the steady beat of his heart, feel the solid warmth of his arms fitted around me.
I had not even realized how much time had passed until he started up, waking me as well, and I saw how the patterns of sunlight had faded to faint, pale streaks of orange.
Dusk’s shadows blurred the air, but there was yet light enough for me to see my companion’s face. Merlin. Even as my heart stumbled in my chest and quickened, the name came with strange, natural ease. As though he truly had been named and reborn in this place that might have been some secret, close-protected womb of the earth itself.
But protected no more; he was alert, now every muscle taut, poised. And as I sat up, he put a hand across my mouth, warning me to silence.
I heard it a moment later, the noise that must have awakened him: men’s voices, low and angry, though the words were indistinct, and a crunch of dry bracken under heavy booted feet.
Just for a moment, in the heart-pounding stillness of the tunnel, I let myself hope that it might be my father’s men, at last returned. But in the next heartbeat I heard one of the men’s voices, louder than the rest: “Spread out and start searching. He can’t have got far.”
Vortigern’s men. I felt as though a giant hand was clenched round my chest, wringing the air from my lungs. Vortigern’s men, searching for the man beside me.
And they would find him. The knowledge pulsed in my stomach like sickness. The branches covering the mouth of the tunnel might be enough to deceive an ordinary patrol, weary of the duty and eager to return to the warmth of the ale hall. But searchers, sent out to comb the hillside methodically for any trace of the fugitive man—we could have only a bare handful of moments before they discovered the tunnel’s entrance.
I was looking up at Merlin’s face, and saw the same knowledge reflected in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders and tight line of his mouth. But there was no fear, nor even hesitation. So much so, indeed, that until he put me gently aside and stepped towards the mouth of the tunnel, I did not even realize what he intended to do.
“You can’t!” My voice was a whisper, a breath of sound, no more, but I caught hold of his arm and held him tightly, trying to pull him back. “You can’t go out there. They’ll kill you!”
“And if I wait any longer, we’ll both die.” His voice was the same soundless murmur, but his face was as focused with grim intent as ever I had seen it, even during the days he’d spent in Vortigern’s cell. “If they find us both here, they’ll know it was you helped me escape. They’ll kill you, too.” His mouth twisted. “And that’s the least they’ll do once they discover you’re not a boy.”
I could feel hot tears scalding my eyes, threatening to spill over. I shook my head, unable to trust myself to speak, and he said, his face softening, “Please. I made you a vow. My hands—my self—pledged to your service and protection.” He framed my face, brushed my cheek with his thumb. “Please, don’t make me betray that vow already. I’ve small enough time to make Merlin into a man I’m not ashamed to live—or die—as.”
And then I Saw it, swift as a lightning flash, and knife-edged in its intensity: the visions came more keenly now across the channel between us. I saw him, Merlin, fighting for his life amidst a group of Vortigern’s warriors. He had—from somewhere—gotten a sword, and he moved like a serpent striking, swinging the blade in a fierce, terrible blur. But he was outnumbered, twenty or more against one. His mouth was torn and bleeding freely, and a crimson stain spread on his side. One of his eyes was so bruised it was swollen near shut, but the other eye looked at his attackers with flat, exhausted calm: the look of a man who sees death approach on razored wings.
He kissed me again, just the briefest, gentlest touch of his lips to mine, before the vision had even faded from my sight. And then he took my hand and pressed his mouth against my wrist, resting his forehead a long moment against my arm.
And then before I could move, before I could speak, he was gone, smashing through the branches at the tunnel entrance in one step and sweep of his arm. I heard him shout out a challenge to the warrior’s outside, heard him running hard up the hill, leading them away from where I still hid.
Still, I heard Vortigern’s men fall on him, the volley of kicks and punches that drove him to the ground, before one of Vortigern’s guards—the leader, he must be—snarled an angry reminder that they were to bring back the prisoner alive. And then I heard them coming back, closer to where I hid. I pressed myself back against the earthen wall, heart pounding, feeling as though the air I breathed had thickened and been edged with grit.
He had given me this chance, this one chance, I could not fail him by letting them capture me, as well. That much pierced the numb, icy feeling that had enclosed me like sea fog.
In the end, the warriors passed by the tunnel all unseeing; they were too flushed with bloodlust and triumph to search the hillside more. I felt as though I were encased behind a solid wall of ice, as though my chest had been locked with iron bonds. And I wished—the Goddess knew how hard—that I could have been cowardly enough to close my eyes. But I saw them, just a glimpse as they marched past, dragging their captive back up towards the summit of the hill and the fort.
His head lolled on one shoulder and his arms looked dragged from their sockets by the ropes they had used to bind his wrists. And his face was blood-smeared. I saw that much, through the gathering shadows of night, before they passed by and were gone.
I let myself sink, boneless, to the ground, let myself bury my face against my raised knees. But only for a moment. I dragged in one breath, then another, and another after that. Pressed the heels of my hands fiercely against my eyes.
And then I found my clothes and yanked them on with shaking hands. Boy’s tunic, boy’s ragged breeches. By the time I had dealt with the laces on my boots, I had forced my hands to steadiness and my breathing to slow.
I had let him go, had not stopped him as he saved me from discovery and bartered his life in exchange for mine. But I had made no promise that I would cower here, weeping in the dark, while he went out to meet the death we had both Seen.
PART III