Authors: Andre Norton
“We ride for the coast with this guard the King has sent. There shall be a ship waiting, and with it a company of warriors. For it may be that we must fight our way to the stone, buying it back in blood,” the Druid was continuing.
Myrddin shook his head slowly. “I would we did not take it by force. . . .”
Yet he knew that in the end they would do whatever they must to get the Stone of Kings.
As they journeyed Lugaid told him more of the new ruler.
Ambrosius had never claimed that title, holding strictly to the one granted by the Emperor overseas,
Dux Britanniae.
But it seemed with Vortigen dead, his forces crushed or withdrawing sullenly from the field after an overwhelming defeat, Uther was willing to reach his hand for the High King’s crown and no man protested.
“He has the tribes declaring for him,” Lugaid remarked, “more so than they would for one of Roman blood. Yet those who followed his brother will also cleave to him, since he is now the only hope left. The Saxons have suffered such a pounding as they will not forget for a space. Still, I think Pendragon’s men will ride often and swords will not rest long or easily in their sheaths.
“Uther has all the virtues, and also the faults of the tribes. Because he is a mighty fighter, they will follow him as they have always followed an open-handed hero. But such a hold on one’s men is hard to keep. He lacks, I think, the deep-rooted fervor of his brother. Ambrosius knew only one task in all his life, to restore safe rule to Britain, though he was wrong in believing that it would come again from Rome. The day of emperors overseas is done. We fight our own battles and do not expect to see the Eagles march again along the roads they built.”
“You find some flaw in Uther?” They had drawn apart from their escort and those warriors appeared very content to let them go at a distance, as if they did not desire close company with the Druid and his companion.
“No more flaw than lies in any man who is apt to follow his own desires too much. Just now Uther’s desire is to forge a disturbed land into a peaceful one under his hand. Thus his wish serves a good purpose. But in the future . . .” Lugaid shrugged. “I do not try to read a man’s fate too deeply, therein lie the seeds of despair. It is enough that he has given you your chance, Sky Son, to do what you feel must be done.”
Myrddin was sure that Lugaid was evasive and had some uneasiness. He did not press. As the Druid had said, it was enough that Uther was minded to give them this chance to snare the King Stone.
They had a good wind to take them across the channel to the Western Isle. There they made harbor in a small bay with no sign of man. For the first day it was as if they traveled through a deserted land, though the men of the company were constantly wary and sent scouts ahead.
This was their power, that of battle, and they knew it well.
It was near noon on the second day when a scout came pounding back with the news that he had marked an ambush in a narrow glen. His wariness saved them, for the men dismounted and slunk through the countryside using any cover offered, until they were able to ambush those in turn and the battle became a bloody rout. Myrddin and Lugaid saw only the hurt bodies which they tended. But the trained attack of their escort brought in a prisoner of note.
He held his head high, though a gash in his face had opened like a second mouth and his sword arm was broken.
“Patch him up so he will live,” the captain of their force advised. “For this is Gilloman who claims to rule that mountain land where the King Stone now stands. With him in our hands we can perhaps strike a goodly bargain.”
But the young ruler spat on the ground at their feet and tried to laugh, though he could not do it well because of his hurt face.
“Are you giants?” he mouthed. “You do not look like giants, but like men even smaller than my people. If you strive to uproot the King Stone and take it hence you will fail.”
“For that matter,” Myrddin answered him, “we shall wait and see. But your hurt we tend now.”
At first it seemed that he would struggle in their hands even though they meant him good. But at last he surrendered. Lugaid set the bones of his arm, binding the limb tight between two lengths of wood. And Myrddin put a plaster of herbs over the gash in his face. While he held it so the boy concentrated his will on the uniting of the torn flesh as the voice from the mirror had said how to do it.
And even if the prisoner did not believe, he looked oddly at Myrddin, saying: “What manner of youth are you? The pain is gone out of my flesh. There is true healing in your hands.”
“It is my gift, even as battle might is your gift, King. And I would not have your death. Listen to a bargain: if I can move this stone, lift it from off the ground by the efforts of my hands and the summoning of my voice, then
will you swear a truce for your people and let us take the stone to Britain without raising weapons against us again?”
Once more Gilloman strove to laugh. “No man living can keep that bargain. So if it is not some jest, then I give my bond of honor. Lift the stone by hand and voice and I shall bespeak my people. They will give you safe conduct to it. But when you fail, then stand ready to meet our attack.”
“It is well,” was Myrddin’s answer.
Thus they rode across the country and on both sides, and behind and before, gathered those who had kind bond with Gilloman, ready to cut them down at the failure of the trial Myrddin had taken on himself. There came the day when he fronted not a single stone, but a dozen such, some set end in earth and towering, others lying prone. Yet he did not hesitate but walked swiftly among them until he came to one of middle size. It bore on its side a carving he knew well—the spiral circle of the Sky People.
He freed the sword from its covering of bark and the sun struck rainbows of light from it, so that he heard all those watching murmur. He raised the sword over the stone, not edge down, but rather so that the flat of the blade would meet its surface. Then he began to tap slowly while he chanted, this time finding it easier to reach those lower, more guttural notes which he sought. Faster grew the tapping, deeper the notes of his chant. And the flash of light from the moving sword veiled both blade and the hand which held it.
Now the sound of metal on stone was almost continuous, so that one could not detect the pauses when the sword was raised, so fast did Myrddin strike. And the growl of his chant mingled with the ring of the sword so that the sound made a whole which could not be divided one from the other.
The stone moved, raised from its earth bed. Yet Myrddin did not pause, only beat out his furious rhythm, singing stronger, deeper. With the stone so raised, he did not reach down to strike any longer, but his arm was held at shoulder level as he kept up the beat.
He began to pivot, moving slowly, scarcely a quarter of an inch at a time. The stone also swung with him until it was crosswise of the furrow in which it had lain. Now he took one step and another, and with him came the stone. He had no eyes for anything but it and the flash of the
sword. And in this moment he held back the weariness of his body, putting all his will and determination into what he would do.
On he moved and, through the air, well off the ground, came the stone, controlled by the vibrations as the mirror had told him might be done—given the right stone, the right metal to use. Thus he passed from among the other standing stones and brought his burden a little way down the slope.
Then Myrddin lowered the sword and the stone settled under it, lying once more on the earth. He raised his blade and held it quiet and his voice, hoarse and strained, was stilled. But he looked beyond the length of the block to where Gilloman stood.
The face of the young ruler was practically covered with bandages; above them his eyes were wide and filled with awe. Now he raised his hand in salute.
“You have done what I would have sworn no man could accomplish, save one of the God-born Heroes. As I bargained so shall it be. Since the King Stone comes to your summons it is free to go, and you and your men with it. I know not the source of your magic, but I wish it well out of my land, for it is hard to live under the threat of such Power.”
Thus did Myrddin win the King Stone without further bloodshed. And so it was brought back to Britain, to rest in the place from which it had been drawn so long ago. It was raised openly to the glory of Ambrosius—yet Myrddin knew that it had another use also, and one he must strive to discover in the days to come.
7.
Uther Pendragon was High King and there was a measure of peace in Britain. Myrddin stood in the Place of the Sun. Although the King Stone lay where it must be placed for the purposes of those he served—and he knew he served them blindly—yet his task was not finished. For Uther, as Ambrosius before him, was not the king he sought.
Lugaid had been right. Although Uther had the virtues of his warrior blood, he also had its faults. Quick to anger, his control over that anger was not contained with such iron bonds as Ambrosius had in his time set upon himself. Handsome, hot-tempered and hot-blooded, he was one to follow his own desires. Now he came riding out of the morning to front Myrddin across the King Stone.
He waved back his shield companions so that he stood alone and there was puzzlement open in his face as he faced the youth.
“You are he whom they call Myrddin?” he asked abruptly, as if he could not believe that.
“I am he.”
“Yet you are but a youth. How can such as you be this prophet, this one who moves rocks by his will and the tapping of a sword? Who are you in truth?”
“I have been told I am son of no man,” Myrddin returned. “As for my gift, it was given to me for a certain purpose, first that the King Stone return into its place for the good of this land.”
Uther set his hands on his hips; his chin was thrust forward a little as if he were about to utter a challenge.
“Who are you to decide the good of Britain? You have not even bloodied that sword of yours in her service, if rumor speaks true.” He nodded toward the blade, once more hidden by its bark trappings, where it hung from Myrddin’s belt.
“The sword is not mine, lord. I only hold it guardian for a space. And my gifts are other than the gifts of war.”
“I have heard that you prophesy. If that is true, tell me if Pendragon has won!”
“He has won,” agreed Myrddin. “Yet shall the white dragon return and return again. Lord King, hammer this land into one kingdom, if you would rule in truth.
Uther nodded. “That needs no prophecy, boy. It is only what any man knows must be done. Tell me something which I cannot foresee for myself. My brother did not like sorcery, and those of the belief of the Christus, who now come into the land, say such is of the Dark and should be driven out. I am of two minds yet, boy. Tell me something I can believe and I shall give protection in return, a place for you at my hall, honor due—”
Myrddin shook his head. “Lord King, I am not for courts nor the honors you offer. Your brother once said to me that as a warrior I might ride with him, but as a prophet I had no place among his liege men. If you lean even the slightest on my words, then this fear of theirs will touch you also. It is better you have no such forces of dissension in your court. But you have asked for a foreseeing, and I shall give you one:
“You will breed an heir, but do this in a hidden fashion. And he will be such a king as this land has not seen since the days of the Emperor Maximus, perhaps even greater than that one who seized the Purple and made us safe for a space. His name shall be remembered through the centuries. And if he does as he is designed to do, then shall this land be blessed above all others of the world.”
“Most men breed sons,” Uther returned, “if they have not daughters. And who will come after me—that is of no matter now. Nor shall
I
know to prove you true or false. Do better than this, sorcerer, if you would show your magic.”
“Lord King, do you expect me to summon a clap of thunder, or turn your men yonder into a pack of hounds? I deal not with what you call magic but with Old Wisdom. This much I can say: before next year winds to its end you shall have a use for me. When that moment comes let your messenger ride to where stood the clan house of Nyren and there among its ruins light a fire. I shall answer to your sending.”
Uther laughed. “Boy, I cannot think what use I would have for you. It seems to me that your talents are small ones, mainly dealing with illusions and making men see what is not. You are right that my men are mistrustful of your magic and you are better apart. I do not know what manner of man you will make when your years are ripe, but I think that we cannot deal easily together, you and I.”
He swept his cloak about him and walked away. Myrddin watched him go but in those moments he had a flash of vision. That tall man in his scarlet cloak, his bronze armor, was suddenly bent and shrunk, his face drawn and bluish, his strong-muscled arms hardly more than sticks over bone; death looked from his eyes. Not in battle would death come to Uther, Myrddin knew in that moment of other sight, but by treachery and slow degrees. And he would have called after Uther in warning, but he knew any words he spoke would be shrugged aside.
He sighed, thinking his a perilous gift if it would show him what he could not aid; he would be better off without it if he could see a man’s death lying behind his face and had to keep still about it. But he did not turn away at once from the King Stone, rather rested his hand on its surface and wondered mightily what there was about this one stone, out of the many in this place, that made it so necessary to the purposes of the Sky People. The mirror had told him it was a beacon, but he could not understand its properties as such. He only knew that it held within it the same feeling of leashed energy he had sensed in many of the other stones of this place.
Lugaid was waiting for him when he trudged back to the hut. The Druid had made a bundle of Myrddin’s few possessions. He held the pony bridled and ready for riding.
“You must go.”
The abruptness of that startled the boy.
“Why?”
“There is a seeking now reaching toward this place. You have done what those of the Dark did not want you to, therefore they may well seek to end your life before you can accomplish anything further. Last night there were Shadow Dancers among the circles. As yet none has the power to take substance from the stones to build a body. But I think they shall return as long as you linger here. And with each of their visits they shall grow stronger,
until they can indeed prove a threat against body as well as mind.
“I have not asked you the source of the power you have learned to use. Nor, I think, will that be given me to know. But now I warn you, Myrddin, go to that place and thereby renew your own strength. For that which has taught you must have defenses beyond the weaving of our race and, I hope, may be impervious to penetration by the Dark Ones.”
“Come with me!” Myrddin said impulsively.
The Druid shook his head. “To each his own. What you have found is for your use alone because you are of the breed you are. No, I shall remain here.”
“And the Shadow Dancers, then?” Myrddin turned to look down the avenues of standing stones. Under this sun there were slight shadows reaching from the foot of each, that was true, but there was no threat or mystery in them. He knew what Lugaid spoke of those things which Nimue had threatened him with on the night of their meeting.
“I am no fit prey for them, being of little account in the game they have been sent to play. Just as I am of little account in what you must do.”
Myrddin thought of the loneliness of the cave, its nearest neighbor being the destroyed clan house, which he never wished to look on again.
“You are not of small account to me,” he said. “To live only with the wild things among the high places, that is little to look forward to.”
“There speaks fear,” Lugaid replied sternly. “Each man walks his own road in his life; only a few times may he reach out and in truth touch another. You, being who you are, must accept that you stand alone in this world. If you would have company of your kind, then do what you are lessoned in doing.”
So Myrddin rode from the Place of the Sun, leaving behind him a newly set stone among the many, and holding in him the stark knowledge that indeed he could look for nothing but loneliness, as was the lot of one who would use the Old Power. He went back to the hillside with its cleft entrance by ways which were little traveled.
It was far more difficult for him to force an entrance to the cave this time, for his body had grown. At length he won into the inner chamber where the installations still
clicked and purred. Tired in both body and mind, he settled down before the mirror.
“You have returned,” the voice observed, speaking as monotonously as ever. “And that beacon is now in place. So far you have answered to your birthright.”
Myrddin did not know how the mirror could know of his success, unless, by some art similar to sorcery, it picked the thoughts from his mind. And he did not like that suggestion. Was he only the servant of this alien thing, a slave not allowed any desires or actions of his own? Ill then was his birth, for no man should be born subject to a destiny he could not choose nor change.
“It is done,” he answered the mirror voice tonelessly.
“Rest, and wait,” chimed the voice in return. And at once it seemed to Myrddin that he was freed from some compulsion he had not even been aware of carrying. He blinked and stretched like one who had awakened from a long sleep filled with dreams. Then he turned and edged out of the chamber of the mirror, filling his lungs with the fresh air of the mountain winds.
He did not return to the ruined clan house. Instead he fashioned a small hut, partly of stone, partly of branches. The high point of summer came and he busied himself with the matter of food and stores for the winter. He found herbs and growing things which he could harvest; and he hunted a wild cow, perhaps lost from the ravaging of the clan house, killed it and smoked the meat.
When the ravens gathered to pick the hide he had flung over a bush, a wild cat and her kitten moved in to dispute their ownership by feline hissing and growls. The ravens screamed their battle cries in return, greedy for all they could get Myrddin watched the engagement until the hide was picked clean of all remnants of flesh. Then he scraped and worked it as best he could. Thereafter he left the offal of any animals he took in hunting for his feathered and furred neighbors.
It was a strange life, far removed even from the comforts the clan house provided. He grew lean and spare, taller, darker of skin where the sun burned him. There came the day when he used the newly honed edge of his belt knife to shave down off his lip and chin, at the same time hacking away his hair so it grew no longer than his earlobes.
His tunic and breeches were too small so he fashioned
new breeches, awkwardly, from the crudely tanned hide, using the thicker portions to make sandals. He tore the sleeves from his tunic and wore it loosely around the upper part of his body.
Now the short summer was drawing to a close. He must prepare for the cold months. Though he hated the task, he climbed each morning after sunrise to a point from which he could look down at the clan house. He was too far aloft to see much of the ruin and desolation which had taken the domain of Nyren, but he made sure that the signal he had asked of Uther was not set.
Almost reluctantly he also made visits to the mirror, but there were few times when the voice spoke to him and some of the questions he asked went unanswered. At last he was driven to chanting as he worked, fixing in his mind the lore from past learning sessions and exercising a voice he had little use for.
One day he found one of the raven kind with its foot trapped in a twist of briar, croaking its terror to the world. Freeing the creature in spite of its frenzied pecks, some of which drew blood, he found its foot broken and tended the bird as he would the victim of man’s blood lust
When at last the raven mended, the bird seemed unwilling to depart wholly to the wild. It would often fly to a perch near the log Myrddin had drawn up at the door of his hut and which he used for a work place, weaving baskets from osiers brought from a mountain lake, grinding some half-wild grain from a weed-run field.
Myrddin named the raven Vran and was surprised at the creature’s response to his own tentative offers of food and his attempts to echo the bird’s harsh cries. After a while, when he appeared from out of the hut in the morning, Vran would wing to him, darting down to perch on his shoulder and cackle in softer tones, as if in some unknown speech, into the boy’s ear.
That winter was harsh and Myrddin, on the days of the worst storm winds, withdrew into the cave of the mirror. He had to pry and pick away at the crevice to force the doorway, his shoulders had grown so squared, his height increased. Vran disappeared, seeking out some shelter of his kind, and the boy missed his company.
He did not approach the mirror, for he felt a certain constraint now, as if this were not the time when he was
to use the installation from the stars. In fact some of the lights across the cubes no longer appeared. He wondered, almost with a stab of panic, if they would ever work again, or if the mirror was growing old after a fashion, its power waning.
The days were no longer marked by any numbering of time. Myrddin had tried to keep a calendar of stones as he had by Lugaid’s hut; but after a storm had dislodged a score of them and he could not remember their exact number, he did not attempt to renew them. There were days when he ate only one light meal and drowsed away the rest of the hours in a lethargy which was not normal.
At least no one troubled the peace of the mountain. In all the time since his return he had seen no human being. Nor had his special sense warned him that he was being watched, as it had when Nimue had stalked him.
He wondered where she was and what she might be doing. The uneasiness of that wondering aroused him to the thought that perhaps he might be well engaged in trying to track her, just as she had tracked him. But when he at last asked that of the voice of the mirror, the answer came quick and emphatic:
“Do not approach any who serve those Others, for they will lead you to battle and the time for that is not yet.”
Myrddin was about to turn away from the question bench when the voice spoke again:
“The time is nigh now for your second task. Listen well. There must be a child born, even as you were born, one of our blood, unflawed. But all men must believe that he is of the High King’s begetting. When you are asked to aid Uther in this matter, you shall use the powers given you. Let the King believe that he lies with the woman of his choice and enjoys her favors for a night. Let the woman believe that she entertains her lord. But within her chamber you must open the window and leave her alone.