I drew a deep, unsteady breath. “The world has tilted from its course, Pelleas.”
He stared—not in disbelief, but in sympathy. “What is to be done?”
“That I cannot say. But we will be long repairing the breach, I fear.”
He turned his head and looked back into the feast hall where the High King stood with his lords. Gorlas and Ygerna had moved away to find their places at the board. The food was being served now, and it would have been sweet delight to have forgotten, if for only a moment, that what happened had ever taken place.
But that is not how the world is made. Once spoken, a word cannot be called back; once loosed, an arrow cannot return to the bow. What happens, for good or ill, happens forever, and that is the way of it.
The feast proceeded, but I had no appetite for it. I left Pelleas to watch for Uther, knowing he would not be found, and slipped away to my room. There was nothing to be done.
* * *
I did not sleep well and rose with a throbbing head and a bitter taste in my mouth. The sun was rising on a grey, rainswept day. Londinium lay strangely quiet; most of its citizens must have found their rest but late and were still abed. From the church nearby I heard the light tolling of a bell. The brothers were telling Prime and would soon be at prayer.
I rose, threw my cloak over my shoulder and went down, slipping through the silent house and across the wet yard to the church. I pushed open the door and entered. A number of monks were kneeling before the altar, and I started toward them.
“Merlinus!” The whisper echoed in the room. Several of the monks turned around to look at me. I stopped and Urbanus hurried forward, his sandals slapping the stones at his feet. “I did not think to find you here. I was about to send for you.”
I heard the note of strain in his voice. “I am here. What is it?”
“It is Dafyd,” he said. “Come with me; I will take you to him.”
Urbanus led me out across the inner court to the cells. Monks had gathered outside one of the doors. They parted when we came up, and Urbanus ushered me into the room. Dafyd lay on a pallet of fresh straw in a room illumined by a candletree brought from the altar. He smiled as I came in and lifted a hand in greeting. Gwythelyn was with him, kneeling beside him, praying; he turned to me, and I understood from his grave expression that Dafyd was dying.
“Ah, Myrddin, you have come. That is good. I hoped to see you here.”
I sank down beside Gwythelyn, my heart a bruise in my chest. “Dafyd, I—” I began and faltered. Where were the words?
“Shhh,” Dafyd hushed me. “It was in my mind to thank you.”
“Thank me?” I shook my head.
“For letting me see the future, lad.” We were once again master and pupil in his mind, ending as we had begun. “I had a dream last night, wondrous and terrible: I saw Aurelius striving mightily against a black and raging storm. He was beaten down and his cloak torn in rags from his shoulders. But when it seemed that he must be ground into dust, his hand closed upon a sword. He grasped it and it was his strength. Up he rose, holding the sword before him. Oh, the lightning flashed and the thunder rent the heavens. But Aurelius—I knew him, for I saw his golden torc shining at his throat—raised his great sword and would not be moved.”
“Truly it is a dream of great significance,” I told him, taking his hand.
“Oh, aye!” Dafyd’s eyes shone with the wonder of it. He bore no pain and rested comfortably. But I could feel his life slipping away from him. “It was a fine kingmaking, was it not? I would not liked to have missed it.”
“Rest you now,” urged Gwythelyn, fingering a small wooden cross.
“Son,” Dafyd replied lightly, “I have rested and soon must begin my journey hence. Have no fear for me, neither grieve. For I go to join my Lord and take my place in his retinue. Look! Here is Michael himself come to escort me!” He pointed toward the door. I saw no one, but did not doubt him. His face shone with the light of his vision.
Tears started into my eyes; I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it. “Farewell, Dafyd, most noble friend. Greet Ganieda for me, and Taliesin.”
“That I will do,” he replied, his voice a whisper between his teeth. “Farewell, Myrddin Bach. Farewell, Gwythelyn.” He raised an admonitory hand to us, saying, “Grow strong in faith and mighty in love, my friends. Be bold in goodness, for the angels stand ready to aid you. Farewell…”
The smile lingered on his face even as his spirit departed. He died as he had lived: peacefully, gently, lovingly.
My heart split in two and I cried—not for grief, but because a great soul had gone out of the world and men would know it no more.
Gwythelyn bent his head and prayed quietly, then took Dafyd’s hands and folded them upon his still breast. “I will take him home now,” he said. “He wished to be buried beside his church.”
“That would be best,” I replied.
“You bear no blame in this, Myrddin,” Gwythelyn said unexpectedly. I looked up. “It was his desire to come here. He told me last night that crowning Aurelius was one of the chief acts of his life. He was glad you asked him to do it.”
I gazed at Dafyd’s face, which seemed now to have taken on something of its former youthful appearance. And I remembered when he had held the crown above my head. There were few alive who would remember that, except perhaps as a tale told by a grandfather to his grandchildren. But remembering, I bent and kissed Dafyd’s cheek.
“Farewell, good friend,” I murmured, then rose abruptly and left—not for lack of feeling or respect—but because Dafyd had gone, and I had seen him on his way. And now I must be about this world’s affairs if I was to salvage anything from the ruin of last night.
11
Tell me what I could have done? You who see all things so clearly, tell me now, I invite you: give me your infallible counsel. You who cover yourselves in everlasting ignorance and display it like a priceless cloak, who embrace blindness and count it a virtue, whose hearts quail with fear and call it prudence, I ask you plainly: what would you have done?
Great Light, deliver me from the venom of small-souled men!
The Enemy is subtlety itself, keen, vigilant, tireless, and infinite in resource. Ah, but evil ever overreaches itself, and very great evil overreaches itself greatly. And Lord Jesu, High King of Heaven, bends all purposes to his own, laboring through all things to turn all ends to the One. That is worth remembering.
But in the thin grey light of that cheerless morning, I despaired: The small kings would soon hear of the rift between the brothers. There are always those who will seize even the most unlikely weapons and use them most effectively. And some of the lords needed little enough encouragement. They would use Ygerna as a wedge between Aurelius and Uther, to divide them. Once divided, they would rebel against Aurelius and advance Uther—only to throw off Uther as soon as Aurelius was put down.
Then the kingdom would split once more into a wild scattering of fractious, warring, self-important clans and kingdoms. And the Island of the Mighty would go down into the dark.
Well, Aurelius loved Ygerna and would have her. Knowing nothing of Uther’s love, he wooed her with passion. Gorlas approved, indeed he encouraged the match, doing all he might to further it. To have his daughter, treasure that she was, married to the High King increased his own status immeasurably. In any event, Gorlas would never have assented to Uther.
And Uther, too stubborn to utter a word of his desire to his brother, and too proud to press his claim, endured his agony in bitter silence.
So, recognizing the hopelessness of Uther’s position, I supported Aurelius. Uther resented this, but would say nothing directly. He loved Ygerna, but he loved his brother more. Bound by three strong coils—duty, honor, and blood—he was forced to stand by and watch his brother steal the light from his life.
Naturally, no one thought to ask Ygerna her thoughts on the matter. She would obey her father in any event, and it was abundantly clear where Gorlas’ sentiments l
ay. Once he saw his opportunity, he wasted not a moment in arranging the marriage.
Accordingly, Aurelius and Ygerna were betrothed and planned the celebration of their union at the Feast of Pentecost.
I will not tell of their wedding; you can hear that tale from any of the itinerant harpers wandering the land, much embroidered and exalted, to be sure. But that is how men wish to remember it.
In truth, Aurelius very nearly was not married at all. He was busy in the months following his crowntaking: organizing the kingdom’s defenses; building and rebuilding in Londinium and Eboracum and elsewhere; creating churches where there was need. In all, binding his lords to his kingship in a hundred different ways.
To lead the new churches, he made new bishops—and one to replace Dafyd at Llandaff; he chose Gwythelyn for that, and rightly. The others were Dubricius at Caer Legionis, and Samson at Eboracum. Good and holy men each one.
Uther brooded and stormed through the wet end of winter. And spring brought him no joy. He grew gaunt and ill-tempered—like a dog long chained and denied the comfort of his master’s hearth. He snarled at all who approached him and he drank too much, seeking to numb his heart’s wound with strong wine—which only increased his misery. A more doleful, disagreeable man would be hard to imagine.
The attack on Gorlas during the previous winter was not forgotten. And with spring opening the land, other attacks began taking place in the middle kingdoms and in the west. It was soon learned that Pascent, Vortigern’s last living son, was responsible. Inflamed by the notion of avenging the blood debt of his father, he had sought and won the support of Guilomar, a minor Irish king ever eager to increase his fortunes through plunder.
Evidently, Gorlas had surprised Pascent on the road as the young man was making good his return to the island. Pascent, waiting with his few followers for Guilomar’s warband, attacked out of fear lest his war be finished before it was begun. Aurelius deemed Pascent no great threat—save that the rebellious lords might find it in their interest to throw in with Vortigern’s son. Therefore, the High King was anxious that Pascent and Guilomar be dealt with firmly and finally before anyone else could become involved.
So it was that spring found Aurelius preparing for his wedding and for war. The wedding could wait perhaps, but the war could not. This is where I made the decision which has earned me such scorn and contempt, although at the time it was the only wise course.
In order to help ease Uther’s pain at his brother wedding the woman he loved, I suggested to the High King that Uther should lead the warband out to deal with Pascent and Guilomar. Aurelius, much preoccupied with his various works, readily agreed and gave the order, saying, “Go with him, Merlin, for I worry after him. He has become contrary and keeps to himself. I fear these long months away from sword and saddle weigh too heavily on him.”
And Uther, glad for any excuse to quit Londinium, where life had grown so distasteful to him, became the image of a man afire. After hasty preparations we left the city a few days before Aurelius’ and Ygerna’s wedding. Uther could not have endured that; nor was he greatly cheered to have me with him.
Although he was too proud to say as much, he blamed me for not taking his part with Ygerna, forgetting that his lady had a father who would in no wise see his daughter married to him. As long as Gorlas lived, Aurelius was the only choice for his daughter.
Men will tell you that the war with Pascent was bloody and brief, and that Uther, in his smouldering rage, swept all before him. I wish it had been like that. Deeply, deeply, I wish it.
In truth, the campaign was a maddening chase across most of the kingdom for the simple fact that Pascent would not fight. Instead, the coward would strike any undefended holding or settlement farm, plunder the storcs and valuables and set fire to the buildings, killing any brave enough to oppose him. In this, he was no better than the worst Saecsen. Worse, in fact, for at least the barbarian do not slaughter their own kinsmen.
But as soon as Uther appeared, Pascent vanished. Oh, the rogue was shrewd, and quite skillful in choosing his targets and evading confrontation. Time and again we glimpsed the black smudge of smoke on the horizon, whipped our horses into a lather in our mad flight…only to find the grain burned, the blood soaking the ground, and Pascent long gone when we arrived.
Spring passed and summer settled full on the land, and still we chased, no nearer to catching Pascent than when we left Londinium.
“Why do you sit there doing nothing?” the duke demanded of me one evening. We had lost Pascent’s trail yet again that day in the hills of Gwynedd, and Uther was in a dangerous mood. “Why do you refuse to help me?” An empty wineskin lay on the board next to his cup.
“I have never refused you aid, Uther.”
“Then where is this famed sight of yours?” He leapt to his feet and began stalking the tent, beating the air with clenched fists. “Where are your visions and voices now when we need them?”
“It is not so simple as you think. The fire, the water—they reveal what they will. Like the bard’s awen, the sight comes as it comes.”
“Were you a true druid, by the Raven, you would help me!” he cried.
“I am not a druid, nor have ever claimed to be.”
“Bah! Not a druid, not a bard, not a king—not this and not that! Well, what are you, Merlin Ambrosius?”
“I am a man and I will be treated so. If I have been summoned to suffer your insults, you must find someone else to abuse.” I rose to take my leave of him, but he was far from finished.
“I will tell you what you are. You are whatever you want to be—everything and nothing. You come to us, smooth as a serpent on a sun-warmed rock, speaking your subtle words, stealing Aurelius from me…turning him against me.” Uther was shaking now. He had worked himself up to it and gave vent to the fury pent inside him. Blaming me was easier than facing the true source of his misery.
I turned and walked from the tent, but he followed me outside, still shouting. “I tell you, Merlin, I know you for what you are: schemer, deceiver, manipulator, false friend!”
It was his anger speaking, and I did not listen.
“Answer me! Why do you refuse to answer me?” He grabbed me roughly by the arm and pulled me around to face him. “Ha! You are afraid! That is it! I have spoken the truth, and you are afraid of me now!” Stinking sweat dripped from him, and he swayed on his feet.
Some of the warband standing near turned and gawked at us. “Uther, have a care,” I snapped. “You are embarrassing yourself before your men.”
“I am exposing a fool!” he gloated. His grin was grotesque.
“Please, Uther, say no more. The only fool you have exposed is yourself. Go back into your tent and go to sleep.” I made to turn away again, but he held me fast.
“I defy you!” he screamed, his face darkening in drunken rage. “I defy you to prove yourself before us all. Give me a prophecy!”
I glowered hard at him. Were he and I alone, I might have ignored him or found a way to calm him. But not with his men looking on—and not his alone, for, since we were in Gwynedd, Ceredigawn had supplied men too. Uther had forced the matter too far to abandon; it was a matter of honor to him now. “Very well, Uther,” I answered, loud enough for all to hear, “I will do as you demand.”
He smiled in stupid triumph.
“I will do it,” I continued, “but I will not answer for the consequence. For good or ill, the responsibility is yours.”
I said this not because I feared what might happen and wished to evade the consequence, but because I wanted Uther to know that it was not child’s play, or a trick to impress the ignorant.
“What do you mean?” he demanded, suspicion flattening his tone.
I answered directly. “It is not like deciphering scribbles from a book. It is a strange and unsettling thing, fraught with many dangers and uncertainties. I do not control it any more than you control the wind that blows through your hair or the flames of your fire.”
“If you a
re trying to warn me off, save your breath.” Some of the men voiced agreement. They did not like to see their lord bested in anything.
“What I do will be done in the sight of all, so that you all may know the truth,” I told them. “You there,” I pointed to the men close to the fire, “stir up the flames, put on more logs! I want live embers, not cold ash.”
This was not strictly necessary, I suppose, but I wanted time to compose myself and allow Uther’s temper to cool. In any event it worked, for Uther shouted, “Well? You heard him. Do as he says, and be quick about it.”
While the men heaped oak branches onto the fire, I went to my tent to get my cloak and staff. Neither were these necessary, but it would make a better show, I thought, and impress those looking on with the seriousness of what I did. The art should never appear too easy or people will not respect it.
Pelleas did not like what was happening. “Lord, what will you do?”
“I will do what Uther has asked me to do.”
“But, Lord Myrddin—”
“He must learn!” I snapped, then softened. “You are right to be concerned, Pelleas. Pray, my friend. Pray that we do not loose on the world a danger greater than we can safely contain.”
* * *
A steward came to me a little while later saying that the fire was ready. I wrapped myself in my cloak and took up my staff. Pelleas, praying silently, rose solemnly to his feet and joined me. Night was full upon the land wh from the tent. We walked to the fire, which had burned down to a heap of fireshot coals, white-hot with crimson and orange flames. As good a bed for birthing the future as any.
The moon shone pale, its light tangled in the branches of trees whose trunks blushed red in the fireglow. The warband had assembled and stood around the pit, eyes glittering, silent now that I was come, almost reverent. Uther had moved his camp chair outside and sat before his tent—the image of a homeless king holding court in the wilderness.
He drew breath to speak when he saw me, but thought better of it and closed his mouth again and merely nodded toward the firepit, as if to say, “There it is, do your work.”