Cold. Blood chilling, bone-freezing cold. Biting enough to make Kate shiver. Aching enough to make her cry out in pain.
She awoke, shivering.
She grabbed the worn blanket at the base of the bed and pulled it over herself. It did no good. The bitter wind seemed to pass straight through the cover. Where did all that warm humidity go so suddenly?
Glancing at Geoffrey, she could see him snoring peacefully in the chair, apparently unaware of the extreme chill. Teeth chattering, she started to call to the old monk. But before she could utter a sound, something halted her.
A small shred of mist was forming in the window, curling over the sill like a sinewy finger. Yet this mist was darker, heavier, than any Kate had seen before. Through the window it snaked, stretching toward her.
Slowly, the dark finger flowed through the air to the edge of the desk. It oozed across the bronze astrolabe, through the twin handles of the gold cup, and around the slender red volume. Onward it moved, gradually approaching the bed where she clung to her blanket, transfixed.
She tried to scream, but she had no voice. She tried to rush from the bed to wake Geoffrey, but she had no strength. She felt helpless, caught in the icy grip of an irresistible power.
The flowing finger of mist stopped above the bed, hovering before her face. As she watched, it began to metamorphose. The mist condensed into the body of an infant, round and chubby, with an almost cherubic face. Clad in a graceful, silken robe, the infant hung in the air with no apparent effort. His full cheeks and gentle nose gave him a comforting, jovial appearance. Only the eyes, bright but deeply recessed, seemed oddly out of place.
As Kate stared in disbelief, the infant smiled at her kindly. Despite her shivering, she felt herself relax ever so slightly. At that moment a low, melodic laughter filled the room, and the infant’s body shook with humor.
“You look cold,” he purred. “Here, let me help you.”
With that the infant blew upon Kate, and his breath was as warm as the desert sun. Her skin tingled, her muscles loosened, her heart expanded. Soon the chill wind had vanished. Cautiously, she allowed the blanket to slip from her shoulders.
“Thanks,” she said hesitantly. “How did you do that?”
“It matters not,” he replied in a soothing tone. “All you need to know is that I have come to protect you.”
“And,” she asked, dropping the blanket completely, “who are you?”
Again the infant smiled. “I am your friend. My magic is strong, and I am here to help you.”
“Can you—can you help me get out of here?”
“If that is your desire.”
“It is!” shouted Kate, so loud she was sure her cry would wake Geoffrey. Yet he slumbered on, slumped in the chair.
“Good.” The hovering infant laughed, swaying with pleasure. “I will be happy to return you home.”
“You can really do that?”
“With ease.” The cherubic face beamed. “I need ask only one small favor in return.”
“What favor?”
“I would like you to help me get . . . the Horn.”
Astonished, Kate leaned closer. “The Horn of Merlin?”
“It does not belong to Merlin,” said the infant, a hint of raspiness creeping into his voice. “It never did.”
“But I don’t have any idea where it is,”
“You will.” The soothing tone had returned. “I am sure you will.”
She cocked her head. “If your magic is so strong, why can’t you get it yourself?”
For a split second, the deep-set eyes glinted with something resembling anger. Then, just as swiftly, it passed. “I could, of course. But before I can help you, you must prove your worth.”
“And what would you do with it?”
“I would simply . . . enjoy its power.”
“Which is?”
“The power to live forever, of course.”
Something about that definition did not seem quite right to Kate, but she was not sure what. “I don’t think Geoffrey would like this idea.”
“That old fool? You can disregard him. He is of no consequence.” Floating in the air, the infant started circling the bed, as if tying a noose around her. “It is a simple matter, really. All you need to do is await my instructions.”
Something about the way he said the word instructions made Kate feel a bit chilly again. She drew a deep breath and said, “I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Think about it?” snarled the infant. Then an aroma, sweet as apple blossoms, filled the room. The infant’s eyes flamed once more, then began to sink deeper and deeper until finally they disappeared altogether, leaving only two holes, vacant as the void. At the same time, the cherubic face swelled into the face of a woman, whose long black hair fell over her shoulders. The rest of her body returned to mist, dark as smoke, with two wispy arms curling like tentacles. One of her vaporous hands brandished a blackened dagger.
Kate shrank back on the bed. A single word came to her, a word that chilled her anew. “Nimue.”
“Yessss,” said the enchantress, her voice like a jet of steam. “It issss I, or more precissssely, my image. For my body cannot yet passss through the wallssss of the whirlpool. Not yet, but ssssoon. Very ssssoon.”
“What d-d-do you m-mean?” asked Kate, clutching the blanket again.
Nimue hissed in satisfaction. “You will ssssee. And if you do not help me, you will regret it.”
“I w-won’t,” she said with effort.
“Then you will ssssuffer.”
“Geoffrey!” she shrieked, shaking with cold. “Geoffrey, wak-ke up!”
The old man did not stir.
“He cannot hear you,” declared Nimue, swimming lazily in the air above her. “Sssso lissssten. I sssseek only one thing, and that issss the Horn. Whether you help me or not, I will get it. Of that I am ccccertain! For ssssome reasssson, though, I feel mercccciful today, enough to give you a ssssecond chancccce. If you assisssst me, I will sssspare your life.”
Kate tried, without success, to stop shivering. “I w-w-will n-never help y-you.”
“True?” spat Nimue. “I ssssuspect not. Here issss ssssomeone I shall ssssoon desssstroy, unless you change your mind.”
The enchantress waved a misty hand. Another image, wavering in the dim light of the room, appeared beside her own. It was a face, one Kate recognized instantly.
“Dad!”
“Sssso you know him, do you? Then mark my wordssss. He issss my prissssoner.”
“Let him go!” she wailed.
Nimue’s mouth curled. “Hissss fate issss in your handssss.”
The face of her father cringed, as if he were in pain. Kate herself cringed at the sight.
“All r-right,” she answered in torment. “I will h-help you, if you p-p-promise not to harm him.”
“Good choicccce,” pronounced Nimue. “I will not harm him.”
“P-promise?”
“I promisssse,” said the enchantress, twirling her smoke-like form. “Now here issss what I assssk of you.”
Raising one of her hands, Nimue swept it before Kate’s face. A ring on one thin finger flashed with ruby light, so bright that it hurt her eyes.
“Look into my ring,” Nimue commanded.
Kate averted her gaze, unwilling to do as she said.
Then the enchantress bellowed, “Look into my ring, or I will kill your father.”
Biting her lip, Kate slowly lifted her head. The ruby light exploded in her eyes, but this time she did not turn away. All she could see was the powerful pulsing of the ring. All she could feel was its light burning into every corner of her brain.
“Very good,” echoed the voice of the enchantress through the red fog that clouded Kate’s vision. “That issss much better. I will give you no instructionssss now, but for thissss one command. Whenever you hear my voicccce, wherever you may be, you will do only what I ssssay. Issss that undersssstood?”
“Yes, Nim
ue,” replied Kate slowly.
“Then let ussss tesssst your loyalty,” the enchantress continued. “Raisssse your right arm, near to your mouth.”
With stilted movements, Kate obeyed.
“Now bite your wrisssst. Hard.”
Unable to resist, she clamped down her teeth on her own skin.
“Harder,” ordered Nimue.
Kate bit fiercely, until a drop of blood swelled on her wrist and trickled down her arm.
“You may ceasssse,” said Nimue, satisfied at last. As Kate lowered her arm, the enchantress declared, “You will not remember any of our meeting, nor any of our converssssation. You will only remember my voicccce, whenever you hear it. And that will be ssssoon. Very ssssoon.”
Ruby light burst before Kate’s eyes. Nimue disappeared, and with her, the cold.
XV: The Red Volume
Kate awoke, more tired than when she had lain down to rest. Her mouth tasted strangely rancid, despite a lingering sweetness in the air. She stared at the glassless window, watching the vapors swirling outside, trying to recall a vague memory. Something about the window . . .
She rolled over, exhausted. It must be the constant half-light down here. How could Geoffrey ever sleep well, let alone keep track of the months and years? He had no sunrises and sunsets to guide him, no waxing and waning moon, no stars swimming overhead.
Besides, it was hot. Uncomfortably hot. Why did she have any need for a blanket? She threw aside her cover, then felt a piercing pain in her wrist.
Seeing the bloody wound on her skin, she gasped. Tearing a strip of cloth from the tail of her blue cotton shirt, she gingerly wrapped the injured arm. Such a deep cut! Strange I don’t remember getting it. She paused before tying the bandage. Something else was odd about this cut, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It looked almost like . . . teeth marks. But of course that was impossible.
At that moment, Geoffrey yawned with the subtlety of a fog horn. Stretching his bony arms skyward, he shook his wild mane, scratched behind his neck, and, only then, opened his eyes.
“Yes,” he crowed, “nothing like a good nap.” He glanced her way. “Good morning to you, Miss Gordon.”
“Call me Kate, all right?”
“Would you prefer Maid Kate?”
“Kate is fine.”
The hawklike nose grew slightly pink. “My, such familiarity! As you wish, then. Good morning to you, Kate.” With sudden concern, he added, “Why, you’re wounded.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, tying the knot. “Just a scratch.”
“Happens to me at least once a fortnight,” consoled Geoffrey. “Did you find any success with the riddle?”
Kate merely frowned.
“Have a date, then.” He picked one off the floor himself. “We shall eat something more substantial later. But first, I must practice my lessons.”
“Lessons?”
Sliding the chair closer to the desk, he reached for the leather book. “A few of Merlin’s gems, that’s all. After centuries of practice, I have mastered only a few. Still, progress is progress.”
Kate eyed the battered volume. “What is it, a magician’s handbook?”
“You might call it that. It is a compendium of some of my mentor’s wisdom, which I collected from learned sources over many years, then recorded in my own hand. Otherwise I could never remember any of it.”
Cracking open the book, he paused at the first page, greeting it like an old friend. To Kate’s surprise, the page was covered with slashes, curves, and crosses—the same secret language her father had spoken about. All except for six lines at the top, which were written in letters, but not words, she could recognize.
“What language is that?” she asked, pointing to the first six lines.
“Why, it’s Latin, of course.” Geoffrey looked at her askance. “Did you never go to school?”
“Sure,” she answered. “I just, ah, missed Latin. What does it say?”
“Well,” he sniggered, “it’s my personal inscription. Books are precious, you know, so such things are customary.”
“But what does it say?”
Geoffrey held the book closer. “My, such abominable handwriting,” he muttered. “Even if it is my own.”
Then he read:
The man who dares to steal this book
Shall soon be hanged upon a hook,
His entrails pulled, his liver cooked,
His eyes gouged out, his backbone crook’d.
For I would rather lose my purse,
And he would rather die in curse.
Lowering the book, he observed, “Rather makes the point, doesn’t it?”
Kate gulped. “Rather.”
He flipped through the pages, each one decorated with a small illustration at the top. After a time, he came to one showing a spoon with feathered wings.
“What’s that?” asked Kate, pointing to the picture.
“Oh, that is the charm for levitation. One of the least useful but most entertaining ones in the book.”
“Can you do it?”
“I can try,” agreed the monk. “Let me see.” He studied the page, mouthing some mysterious words to himself. Then he set down the book, pointed a long finger at the cooking pot of spices resting on the upturned barrel, and cleared his throat.
“Arzemy barzemy yangelo igg lom,” he chanted.
Nothing happened.
Geoffrey pulled up his sleeve, cleared his throat again, and tried once more. “Arzemy barzemy yangelo igg lom,” he intoned. Quickly, he added, “Abra cadabra.” Turning to Kate, he whispered, “That sometimes helps.”
At that moment, the cooking pot quivered slightly. It slid toward the rim of the barrel. Then, with a slight crackling sound, it slowly lifted into the air, hovering a few inches above the barrel.
“You did it,” said Kate in wonderment.
Geoffrey lowered his finger. The pot clattered back to its place, with a small amount of liquid sloshing over the top. He sighed wearily, but his dark eyes gleamed. “Just a little parlor trick, really.”
“That’s amazing! What else can you do?”
Geoffrey thumbed through the book, stopping at a page displaying an ant strolling beside an elephant. Underneath was a strange, convoluted design, surrounded by dozens of pictures of animals, plants, and constellations. “This is one of my favorites, the charm to change your shape. All you need to do is imagine very clearly what you want to become and say the proper words. Or, if you prefer, you can say nothing but concentrate deeply on this page, and something will happen.”
His mouth twisted doubtfully. “Of course, it might not be what you want to happen.” He slapped the side of his head. “Drat those sea lice! As I was saying, these things can be tricky. The first time I tried to change myself into a robin, it was a bit too close to mealtime. My poor stomach rumbled just as I was concentrating, and I came out a rather spindly worm. Took me three whole days just to climb back up to the desk. Then I had to open the book again, which was no small feat for a worm.”
Ignoring Kate’s stifled laugh, he went on, “Still, it remains one of my most handy charms, as it was for Merlin himself. Do you know all the creatures he turned Arthur into? A fish, a hawk, a butterfly, a unicorn, and more. I find it oddly comforting to know that I can change myself into a totally different being any time I choose. Like starting life over, in a way.” He sighed. “The difficult part is deciding just what I want to become.”
He flipped to a page embroidered with intricate green-and-gold vines. “This one allows you to learn the languages of animals and plants. It has its pitfalls as well—Boar is perilously close to Camel, and Mosquito quite frankly gives me a headache—but it has proved invaluable to me. I have even used it to communicate with the whales.”
“The gray whales?” asked Kate.
Geoffrey blinked his eyes slowly. “The ever-singing whales.”
Kate spun her head toward the window. Somewhere out there, beyond the mist, beyond the whir
ling wall of water, swam those elusive creatures. She thought, with a pang, of the young whale she had tried to help. How long could he have survived with that severed tail? She would never know. Just as she would never know where and how her father was right now, although she could not suppress the uneasy feeling that something was wrong.
Without warning, the brass latch lifted and the door to the captain’s quarters swung open. A large figure shadowed the doorway.
“Where the hell am I?” demanded a husky voice.
XVI: Magma
Kate’s mouth went dry. “How did you get here?”
Turning sideways to fit through the door, Terry stepped inside. A swollen bruise marked his forehead, his glasses were gone, his Bermuda shorts hung ripped, and his entire body was smeared with wet sand.
“I’m the last one to answer that question,” he muttered, leaning against the wall for support. “The boat, that storm . . . It happened so fast.” He squinted at her. “I thought you were dead.”
“No thanks to you, I’m not.”
Terry looked down at his feet, started to say something, then caught himself. He thrust his chin at her. “You can’t blame me because you fell overboard.”
“I can blame you for not grabbing me when you had the chance,” she retorted.
“I did what I could.”
“Right.”
Patting the bruise on his head, he winced. “I suppose you also blame me for what happened to the submersible.”
The submersible. Suddenly it all came back to Kate. The hammer. The jammed lever. The cable releasing at last—from the wrong end.
“How could that happen?” she demanded.
Terry shrugged. “I have no idea. It wasn’t supposed to happen, just as we weren’t supposed to get thrown into the sea.”
“But Dad and Isabella might be in danger! The submersible might be damaged or something.”
“I doubt it. That thing is built to withstand a tidal wave. Probably has, more than once. Isabella must have had some way to release the cable from her side.”
“Then why didn’t she ever use it before? That doesn’t add up.”
“Look, quit the interrogation, will you? I know only as much as you do. They could be dead, for all I know.”