Merlin's Shadow (18 page)

G
arth's voice rang out, and Necton paused from untying the tent flap.

Merlin let out his breath. The boy had bought him a few moments. He pulled at the side of the tent again, but couldn't make a space big enough to slip out.

Necton yelled at Garth to get back to work and commenced untying the last set of laces holding the door flap closed.

Remembering that the wooden bowl portion of the Sangraal had been completely invisible to Colvarth, he yanked at the gold circlet, but it refused to come off. Pulling furiously now, he bent it, wedging it from the bottom of the bowl.

The tent door flapped wide.

Merlin hid the bowl under his tunic, between his belt and his breeches. Then he quickly dropped the circlet back into the tin box.

Necton roared, grabbed Merlin by his hood, yanked him to his feet, and slammed his fist into Merlin's face.

A crunching sound came from Merlin's nose as pain jolted through his head. Crumpling to the ground, he tried to make sure the Sangraal stayed in his belt, but his arms buzzed and he could barely move them.

Necton dragged him out and across the field by his hood, and threw him to the ground at Peredur's bare feet. Someone brought the hammer, and within thirty heartbeats Merlin found himself chained again to Garth and Bedwir — and only then did Necton begin searching him.

Merlin panicked as he felt the Pict's fingers on him, not wanting the Sangraal to be taken. He just
had
to heal Natalenya. He couldn't fail her now. The Sangraal was his only hope, his only way to heal her, and this Pict couldn't have it.

Necton ripped off Merlin's tunics and began violently searching him. The Pict's fingers were rough and his nails scratched at Merlin's skin, but Merlin didn't fight back. Instead, he slipped his hand to his belt and pushed the Sangraal out from its place where it was wedged. The wooden bowl fell softly to the grass, and he hoped Necton wouldn't notice it.

When the Pict couldn't find anything hidden, he ran off to a roaring campfire, snarling at Merlin as he went. A warrior with long black hair sat nearby gutting a young boar in preparation for roasting it. Necton yanked a sizzling iron spit from the fire, ignoring the complaints of the warrior, and marched back to Merlin.

Merlin blanched. Instinctively, he reached out to where the Sangraal had fallen, pulled it into his hand, and hid it behind his leg. It had healed the Fisher King — could touching it shield him from injury? Maybe.

Necton approached the place where Merlin lay on the grass. His face was red, his lips were pulled back from his teeth, and his neck was knotted with bulging veins. The iron spit smoked and hissed, and Necton brought it down at an angle across Merlin's bare chest.

Agony poured from where the spit touched his skin, a river of blazing fire. Merlin screamed and tried to wriggle away, but Necton
jammed his boot onto Merlin's neck and pressed. Quickly, Merlin was worried more about getting air. He twisted to get out from under the boot, but this pressed his chest harder into the burning spit.

Necton removed the spit but then rammed it down again, this time diagonal to the previous burn, but higher up. And he didn't let up on his boot.

Merlin wanted to call for help, but nothing came out but tears stealing from his eyes. The light began to fail.

“In the name of God, leave him alone,” Colvarth said, trying to pull Necton away. “You will kill him!”

Necton backed off, but not before slapping the bard and knocking him down.

Garth was crying nearby, and Bedwir sat behind him. Natalenya — who had crawled behind Colvarth so his chain could reach Merlin — pleaded with a rasping voice. Caygek stood in the background, aloof, and Peredur had closed his eyes.

Merlin sucked in the air, a brutal, choking effort. He glanced down at his new wounds, and they were ugly. The spit had not just burned him, but had charred his skin, leaving it red, black, and bloody. He had endured it for Natalenya. He loved her so much. But the Sangraal had failed him. It hadn't protected him from the branding … could he trust it to heal Natalenya? Anyone?

“Next time-an, kill-idh yiu I will,” Necton said, and then marched off.

Merlin lay there breathing and weeping for some time, until Colvarth crawled over. His cheekbone was red, and some blood had dripped from his nose into his moustache and beard. “You are marked now … as one of God's servants,” he said, helping Merlin to sit up.

Merlin couldn't answer him, but shook his head to disagree. He wanted to keep crying, but tightened his throat and wiped his eyes on the torn edge of Colvarth's sleeve.

“It was and is and will be … painful … yes,” Colvarth said. “But look … it is the sign of the cross … the sign of the name of Christus.”

And it was true, for Merlin could see it now. Necton had branded him twice, each time diagonally across his chest … and what was Merlin to make of this? Suffering! And more suffering. “It is the mark of a slave,” he said, pouring out his anger like sickened, sour milk. And what good was the Sangraal? What good had his dream accomplished? Not only did he have scars on his face and his back, but now he had them on his chest as well. How much could he endure?

He looked at Natalenya now, and saw that she lay propped upon the pile of clothes, coughing. A new boil had formed on her neck, and so no matter how upset Merlin was at his new misfortune, he still needed to try and heal her. Retrieving the Sangraal had cost him greatly, and so he would at least try. He slowly unstrung Colvarth's waterskin from the man's belt and tried pouring it into the wooden bowl.

Like before, the water poured right through as if it didn't even exist, but when he finished, he looked inside, and there, in the bottom, remained a single drop of water. This he brought to the coughing Natalenya, and gently pulling on her chin, he poured it from the bowl into her mouth.

She swallowed, looking up at him with puzzled eyes. And then … nothing. He waited, enduring his own burning pain, but nothing changed with Natalenya. She coughed some more. Her forehead felt as hot as ever. And the boils … the boils still infected her skin in dark, rumpled masses.

The Sangraal had failed to heal her. Had failed him when it was needed the most. He wanted to chuck it into the woods. Throw it in the nearest campfire. Bile rose in his throat, and he lifted the Sangraal and cocked his arm back.

But Colvarth grabbed his wrist. “Though I cannot see it, I know what you hold. You shall not do this!”

“Why not?”

“It is holy.”

Merlin shook his head. “It mocks me. You mock me.”

“Have you forsaken God?”

“If this is holy, then God has forsaken me.” Merlin pulled harder to break Colvarth's grip.

Colvarth increased his hold on Merlin's arm. “Are you yet blind?”

That was it. That was enough. Merlin stood, roaring, and he pulled Colvarth up until the old man lost his footing, let go, and slipped back to the ground. Merlin stepped forward, tugging the startled Garth and Bedwir along with him. He approached the same campfire Necton had taken the spit from, now temporarily unattended, and he dropped the Sangraal into the flames.

Colvarth called out, still winded, crying for him to stop.

Merlin waited for the old wood to catch fire and turn back to the dust Colvarth claimed that it was — but it did not. The flames didn't even seem to touch it, and yet it began glowing, brighter and brighter. Golden it was, now shining with a living splendor that filled all of Merlin's vision. What was this thing? Like a star, clear and beautiful, yet its dazzling light became so intense that he had to shut his eyes lest they be burned.

He fell to his knees, then, and reaching out blindly, he felt for the Sangraal until he found it and pulled it from the flames that wanted to scorch his flesh. The bowl was strangely cool to his touch, the light faded, and he was once more able to look upon its dark wood.

“Though I cannot see it, I know that it is holy,” Colvarth said. “It was bought with Uther's blood, and perhaps others. Do not destroy it. Do not cast it away.”

Merlin, ashamed and yet full of wonder, gave up. After he tied it inside a cloth from the pile, he gave it back to Colvarth. “I'm sorry,” was all he could say.

After all this, Natalenya still coughed.

Merlin didn't understand. He just didn't understand.

The Voice spoke once more to Ganieda, the words breathing upon her ears like soft rain. “Come, my little servant, claim again that
which has been taken from you. Strike, and do not desist! And all that you desire will be given to you.”

But Safrowana had already offered that. Love. A place to stay … and belong.

She looked at the fang once more, and a shadow crept over her heart. And in that chill she made a decision that she knew deep down, somehow, seemed right. It rested upon the hope of being loved by Safrowana, her second mammu — and for that chance she rejected the fang.

She held her palm out, placing the fang as far from her body as she could get it, walked over to the window, and dropped it upon the dusty sill behind two old loom shuttles. The sun was setting outside, and for a brief moment its light shone brightly through the slats of the shutter — and upon her hope of a new life.

Ganieda turned her back upon the fang. “May a raven take it away!” she said. Then she ran to the feather bed, threw herself upon it, and began crying.

Mórganthu gulped the air in, hoping he had not been seen. If that man caught him hiding here, he would be beaten again, and then how would he fare? More precisely, what would happen to the worthy cause of all the druidow? Ah, to be younger, with two stout hands, and be able to defend oneself with sword or club. Mórganthu would have to be spry, even sneaky, to accomplish his goal, what with his right hand cut off by the scheming of that Merlin — curse his body to burn over the fires of a thousand solstices.

Ah, but that weaver was the true thief. Stealing into Mórganthu's tent and taking his granddaughter away. Such a gangrenous worm as that would curse the day he crossed the arch druid, his gods, and their blessed followers!

Hah, and did that weaver forthrightly think he could get away with such insolence? Did he imagine Mórganthu was so ignorant as to not know him, his name, and all the names of his family?
Troslam
,
Safrowana
, and
Imelys
they were, for Mórganthu knew the names of everyone in the village as well as their business and history. It was his duty to know everything, and he had paid good money for the information from Connek and a few others when he had first come back to the stone circle.

Mórganthu steadied himself against the cold rock wall that surrounded Troslam's pasture. Thankfully no one lived on this land adjoining the weaver's, making it the ideal spot for him to spy from. He had discovered an old kiln built into the far back corner of the wall, and the stones were a bit loose there. He inched his eye downward toward a hole which allowed him to spy on the back of the crennig. The weaver's house was silent, and Mórganthu watched until dusk fell upon the mountainside like the shadow of a vulture.

The time had come to sneak into the pasture, so he tried pulling the stones out from the kiln, but found it too difficult with only one hand. Perhaps he could kick them out, but that would make far too much noise, so he abandoned the idea.

Ahh, maybe he could slip
over
the wall if he could find something to help him climb. Sneaking into the doorway of the old, abandoned crennig next door, he sorted through the rubbish, broken furniture, smashed pots, and rat-eaten old clothes until he found an old bench and barrel. Taking these one at a time, he set them upon each other next to the rock wall and slipped over, the clever fox that he was. Getting out again might be harder, but he would see to that once he located Ganieda — and her fang — and verified that both were safe.

Pattering feet were heard inside the house, and Mórganthu slunk over to the shuttered window where the sound had come from. Peeking inside he saw … yes … Ganieda laying upon a bed, crying. These devils who worshiped a foreign god had hurt her, and druidic anger rose in Mórganthu's chest. He started to form her name on his lips to call her quietly over to the window when a woman walked into the room, thumping her feet across the floor. The witch.

But he saw it before he ducked down below the window. There, on the sill in between the shutters, lay the fang! He had almost
missed it there in the dust, but it glimmered, long and white in the glow of the moon. He reached out his hand to pull open the outer shutter, and —

The woman turned around and faced the window.

Mórganthu bent down and slunk against the wall of the house. Had she seen him? Had she heard him?

“I thought it was a beautiful night … but there's a foul stink on the wind,” she said. And then she pulled the shutters tight. Something clicked.

Mórganthu bit his cheek, for she had locked them, and he would not be able to take back the fang without making a great deal of noise. But she must not have seen the fang, for the sound of her footsteps brisked away from the window, and he heard her talking quietly to Ganieda.

Daring a little, he lifted his head and peeked through the now narrower slit that remained at the bottom of the shutters — and he jerked back, for now four people had gathered around Ganieda. Mórganthu looked again: the mother, that cursed Safrowana, was still there, but now she had been joined by her daughter, Imelys — and two other girls. Two? Who were these? Some local urchins, no doubt … but no! Their garments were too fine — too fine for such as this somnolent, filthy village.

He squinted, and started to gasp before he stopped himself. They were Uther's daughters — alive! Mórganthu's Eirish warriors had lied to him, yes, lied about their deaths. Just like Arthur, claiming the girls were killed at Inis Avallow as Mórganthu had demanded. Yet here the girls were, right within his grasp. He raised his eyebrows and wiggled his jaw, imagining all the wonderful possibilities this new truth offered him.