Merlin

  In contrast to this wraith’s wasted appearance, his robe was rich velvet, embroidered with fantastic symbols and cunning designs in threadwork of gold and silver. Still, it hung on him like the rags of a corpse.

  He did not seem at all surprised to see me, and I knew he was not. “So,” he said after a moment. Just that. I felt Pelleas tug my sleeve.

  “I am Merlin,” I said, using the form of my name most common among my mother’s people.

  He made no sign of recognition, but said, “Why have you come?”.

  “To find you.”

  “You have found me.” He lowered his hands to his knees where they lay twitching feebly.

  Yes, and having found him I did not know what to say to him.

  “What will you now, Merlin?” he asked after a moment. He did not look at me when he spoke. “Kill me?”

  “Kill you! I have not come to harm you in any way.”

  “Why not?” the wretched creature snapped. “Death is all that is left me, and I deserve it.”

  “It is not for me to take your life,” I told him.

  “No, of course not. You believe in love, do you? You believe in kindness—like that ridiculous Jesu of yours, eh?” The mockery in his words was stinging sharp. As he spoke I did feel foolish for believing in such things. “Well?”

  “Yes, I believe.”

  “Then kill me!” he shouted suddenly, his head snapping around. Spittle flecked his lips. “Kill me now. It would be kindness itself!”

  “Perhaps it would,” I allowed. “But I will not take your life.”

  He glared at me with those dead eyes of his. “How not, if I told you I was responsible for your father’s death.” His grisly grin sickened me. “Yes, I murdered Taliesin. I, Annubi, killed him.”

  Even as he said those hideous words, I did not believe him. He hated, yes, but it was not me he hated, nor my father. If he could have killed, I think he would have killed himself instead, but he could not. This was part of the thing that was poisoning him. Still, he knew…oh yes, he knew who killed Taliesin.

  “You are Annubi?”

  I had heard of him—not from my mother, but from Avallach, who, in his stories of Lost Atlantis, had told me about his seer. The man I had imagined bore no resemblance to the shrunken wretch before me.

  “What do you want here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why have you come?”

  I lifted a hand helplessly. “I had to come…to find out—”

  “Go away from here, boy,” Annubi said, turning his dead eyes away from me. “If she found you here…” He sighed, then added in a whisper, “…but it is too late…too late.”

  “Who?” I demanded. “You said ‘‘she’—who did you mean?”

  “Just go. I can do nothing for you.”

  “Who did you mean?”

  I saw a flicker of something cross his face—the vestige of an emotion other than hate or despair—but I did not know what it was. “Need you ask? There is only Morgian…” When I said nothing, he looked at me. “The name means nothing to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Wise Merlin…Intelligent Merlin…Hawk of Knowledge. Ha! You do not even know who your enemies are.”

  “Morgian is my enemy?”

  A spasm twisted his mouth. “Morgian is every man’s enemy, boy. Supreme Bitch Goddess, she has the hunger and the hate. Her touch can freeze the blood in your veins; her look can stop your heart beating. Death is her delight…her sole delight.”

  “Where is she?” I asked, my voice a whisper in the fading light.

  He only wobbled his head. “If I knew, would I stay here?”

  Pelleas, behind me, tugged on my arm. With the setting sun I felt the doom of the place increasing and wanted suddenly to be away. Yet, if there was something I could do I must do it.

  “Yes, go,” rasped Annubi, as if reading my thoughts. “Go and never come back lest you find Morgian here when you return.”

  “Do you need anything?” He was so pathetic in his misery, I could not help asking.

  “Belyn looks after me.”

  I nodded and turned away. I had to run in order to keep up with Pelleas, who led the way back through the tower as though Morgian’s breath singed the back of his neck. He reached the front door, still standing open as we had left it, and dashed outside.

  I was right behind him. But before leaving that place, I knelt on the threshhold and prayed a prayer against evil. Then, taking up a handful of white pebbles from the path, I marked out the sign of the cross before the door. Let it be a warning, I thought. Let her know who it was she had chosen to fight.

  * * *

  Our party left Llyonesse the next day, but the sense of lingering doom stayed with me a very long time. Riding back through that cheerless land was no great help, serving only to reinforce my already doleful mood. Gwendolau and Baram felt it too, but less keenly. For a time Gwendolau tried to keep up his usual travel banter, but it became too much and eventually he lapsed into moody silence like the rest of us.

  I did not feel myself until the Tor came into view across the marshland. By then, just seeing the Glass Isle was enough to make our hearts leap in wild relief. In any event, my mother was waiting for me at the gate—which I wondered about, until I realized that she had guessed about Morgian and Annubi.

  “They left here the night your father was killed,” she told me, her voice soft and low. We were sitting in a corner of the hearth, and it was very late at night. Nearly everyone else had gone to their beds. Charis had waited until we were alone to tell me. “I never found out where they had gone.”

  “But you guessed.”

  “Llyonesse? Of course it was a possibility.” She made a small, empty gesture. “I should have told you.”

  I remained silent.

  “I know I should have told it all long before now…but I could not bring myself to it—and then you were gone. So—” She made that curious gesture again, a small warding-off movement of her hand against an unseen adversary. But then she settled herself, straightened her back, and squared her shoulders. “Well, you must know the truth.

  “After my mother was killed in that ghastly ambush—” She broke off but continued in a moment. “Forgive me, Merlin, I did not know how hard these words would be.”

  “Your mother was killed?”

  “That is what started the war between Avallach and Seithenin. Well, in the ninth year Avallach was wounded in a battle—I knew nothing about it; at the time I was bull dancing in the High Temple. When I returned home, my father had taken another wife, Lile. She was a young woman who had a knack for healing, and she nursed my father. He was grateful to her and married her.”

  “Lile? I do not remember her. What became of her?”

  “No, you would not remember. She disappeared when you were very young.”

  “Disappeared?” That was an odd way to put it. “What happened to her?”

  Charis shook her head slowly, but more from puzzlement than sorrow. “No one knows. It was only a few months after Taliesin was killed; I had come back here to live. And although Lile and I were not the best of friends, we had learned to respect one another, there was no trouble between us.” Charis smiled, remembering. “She liked you, Merlin. ‘How is my little Hawk today?’ she always asked when she saw you. She liked holding you, rocking you…” She shook her head once more. “I never understood her, Merlin. I never did.”

  “What happened?”

  “The last anyone remembers seeing her was in the orchard; Lile loved her apple trees. Many of them she had brought with her from Atlantis—can you believe it? Apple trees…all that way, through so much turmoil. And they live, they thrive here…Such a long way from home we all are…” Charis paused and swallowed, then continued.

  “It was dusk. The sun had set. One of the grooms saw her riding out earlier, she told him she was going to the orchard. She spent so much time among her trees. But when she did not come back, Avallach sent men to
the orchard. They found her horse tethered to a tree. The animal was half-crazed with fear. Its haunches were streaked with blood and there were deep scratches across its shoulders as from a wild beast, although no one had ever seen anything like them before.”

  “And Lile?”

  “Of Lile there was no sign. She was not found, nor ever seen again from that night.”

  “And you never spoke of her after that,” I said.

  “No,” my mother admitted, “we did not. If you ask me why, I cannot tell you. It did not seem appropriate somehow.”

  “Perhaps she was carried off by a wolf or bear,” I suggested, knowing full well that was not the answer.

  “Perhaps,” answered Charis, as if considering it for the first time. “Perhaps by someone or something else.”

  “You have not mentioned Morgian,” I reminded her.

  “Morgian is Lile and Avallach’s daughter. When I returned home to meet Lile, Morgian was already three years old. She was a beautiful little girl. I liked her then. I did not see much of her, however, because preparations for leaving Atlantis took absolutely every moment. And yet, I remember her playing in the gardens…and, even then, with Annubi. She was always with Annubi.”

  “She is not with him now.”

  Charis considered this. “No, I suppose not. Anyway, after the Cataclysm we came here and she grew up like any other child. I did not pay much attention to her; she had her interests, I had mine. But she came to dislike me for some reason, and I always felt awkward and ill-at-ease with her. Things were not well between us, and I never understood why.

  “Once, after Taliesin’s people had come, she tried to steal Taliesin’s affection for herself. It was done very clumsily and did not succeed, of course. But it set her against me.” Charis paused, choosing her next words carefully. “And this is why I believe she caused Taliesin’s death. I do not know how it was done, or whether she meant me to die instead, but I have always known she was behind it.”

  I nodded. “You are right, Mother. Annubi told me he was responsible, but he was lying.”

  “Annubi?” There was pain and pity in the word.

  “I think he hoped to anger me so that I would kill him. He wanted release, but I could not do it.”

  “Poor, poor Annubi. Even now I do not have it in me to despise or hate him.”

  “Annubi is Morgian’s creature now. His misery is complete.”

  “He was once my friend, you know. But our world changed, and he could not. It is sad.” She raised her eyes from the dying embers on the hearth and smiled weakly. “Now you know it all, my son.”

  She stood and kissed my cheek, resting her hand lightly on my shoulder. “I am going to my bed. Do not sit up too long.” She turned to go.

  “Mother?” I called after her. “Thank you for telling me.”

  She nodded and moved off, saying, “It was never meant to be a secret, Hawk.”

  13

  I will say nothing of the journey north to Goddeu, except that it was opposite in most respects from the journey south the winter before. Such is the difference in traveling one season to another. Avallach sent men with us, as did Maelwys. Both men were anxious to secure the friendship with a powerful ally in the north.

  This is not to say that men in the north were not anxious for the same thing. The mood in the land had changed with the seasons: fear was growing; slowly it was creeping across the wide, empty hills to touch men’s hearts and minds. I saw this in the faces of those who watched us pass; I heard it in their voices when they spoke; I tasted it on the wind, which seemed to cry:

  The Eagles are gone! All hope is lost! We are doomed!

  That such a change could take place in so short a time amazed me. The legions were greatly diminished, true, but they were not all gone. We were not abandoned. And our hope had never rested entirely with Rome in any case.

  Always, from the very first, a man trusted the blade in his hand, and the courage of his kinsman. Pax Romana, well and good, but the people looked to their king for protection first, and only after to Rome. The tangible, present king protected his people, not the vague rumor of an emperor who sat on a golden throne in some far-off land no one knew.

  Had we grown so weak and soft that the shift of a few thousand troops made us faint with fear? If we were doomed, fear is what doomed us, not invasion or threat of invasion by screaming Saecsen hordes and their woad-washed Picti minions. After all, there had been invasions and threats of invasions for many years now, and the presence of the Eagles had not prevented either.

  So now the Eagles had flown. What of that? Was Britain no longer a foe to be feared? Could we not look after ourselves?

  I was convinced that we could. If Elphin and Maelwys could raise again their warbands, others could do the same. And that, not the presence or absence of Roman legionaries, was where our future lay. I knew this with a certainty that increased with every Roman mile north.

  * * *

  Custennin received us in good spirits. He was delighted to see that his investment had borne such a rich return. Gifts were exchanged again and again. Even I received a gold-handled dagger from him for my negligible part in bringing everyone together. The expansive mood was such that he declared a feast for the third night of our stay in order to properly celebrate the new pledges between all our peoples.

  As feasts go, it was an elaborate affair, taking fully two days to prepare. And yet there was something austere about it. It was the same austerity I had noticed on my first visit—as in the small matter of the lack of a bard. I had remarked on it then, but did not know its cause. Now, of course, I did: Custennin, despite his British name, was of Atlantean descent. This meant that the wilder, more passionate expressions of emotion were not to be indulged. It was the same with Avallach.

  Nevertheless, the inclusion of so many Britons in Custennin’s court meant that austerity and revel achieved an amiable balance. There was food enough, and the smoky-tasting heather beer of the Hill Folk by the barrel—how he had come by that, I cannot say, unless someone had learned from one of the fhains how to brew it—so that the festivities were indeed vivid.

  I seem to remember singing a great deal, loudly, and not always with my harp. Although it is doubtful anyone noticed any lapse on my part.

  Except Ganieda.

  Everywhere I turned…Ganieda. Watching me, her dark eyes shining, waiting and watching, silent, keeping her own counsel. In truth, since our frosty reunion she had not spoken three words to me in as many days.

  I had expected a warm welcome from her when I returned. Not a shower of kisses, certainly—but a smile, a welcome cup, something. Instead, as I stood awkwardly just inside the doorway of her father’s hall, fresh from the trail, she merely looked at me, neither smiling nor frowning, but as one judging the value of a pelt offered for trade.

  The feeling was so strong in me, I made a joke of it, holding my arms out and turning around slowly. “What will you give for this handsome hide, lady?”

  Apparently she did not appreciate the jest. “Handsome indeed! Why on earth would any noble-born lady be interested in a hide as dirty and smelly as the one I see before me?” she replied coolly.

  I must admit that my time in the saddle had exacted a price. I was not the freshest flower to bloom in the forest. A bath in the lake would put matters right, I thought, but the exchange began our reunion uncomfortably. And I thought that perhaps I had been mistaken about how it was between us; or that Ganieda had second thoughts about me. She had, after all, had plenty of time to change her mind.

  To make matters worse, it was late on the fourth day before I finally found another chance to speak to her alone—had she been avoiding me?—and that left only two days before we were due to depart once more. I felt the time fleeing away, so cornered her in the kitchen behind the great hall.

  “If I have said something to offend you,” I told her directly, “I am sorry. Only tell me and I will make it right.”

  She appeared pensive, her mout
h pulled into a pretty pout, her brows wrinkled. However, her voice was cold and clear as ice. “Surely, you flatter yourself, wolf boy. How could you possibly offend me?”

  “That is for you to say. I can think of nothing I have done.”

  “What you do makes no difference to me.” She turned and started away.

  “Ganieda!” She froze at her name. “Why are you doing this?”

  Her back was toward me, and she did not turn around to answer. “You seem to imagine that there was something between us.”

  “It was not all my imagining, surely.”

  “Was it not?” She turned to look at me over her shoulder.

  “It was not.” At the moment, I was less certain than I sounded by far.

  “Then that is your mistake.” Still, she turned toward me once more.

  “Perhaps you are right,” I conceded. “Are you not the dauntless maid who hunted Twrch Trwyth, Lord Boar of Celyddon, and killed him with a single thrust? Are you not the lady of this great house? Is not your name a delight on the tongue, and your voice a joy to the ear? If not, then I am indeed mistaken.”

  This made her smile. “Your tongue wags well, wolf boy.”

  “That is no answer.”

  “Very well, the answer is yes. I am the one of whom you speak.”

  “Then I have made no mistake.” I stepped toward her. “What is wrong, Ganieda? Why this coldness at our meeting?”

  She crossed her arms and turned away again. “Your people are in the south, and my place is here. It is as simple as that, and nothing can change it.”

  “Your logic is unassailable, lady,” I replied.

  That spun her around. Her eyes snapped angrily. “Do not think to make me out a fool!”

  “Then why are you behaving so foolishly?”

  Her face contorted in a frown. “You have said it, and you are right. It is foolish to want something that you cannot have and know you cannot have, and yet go on wanting.”