Mary Stewart

THE

HOLLOW HILLS

William Morrow & Company, Inc. New York

Copyright (c) 1973 by Mary Stewart

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized i
n any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy
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t permission in writing from the Publisher. Inquiries should be addressed
 to William Morrow and Company, Inc., 105 Madison Ave., New York, N.Y. 10
016.

Printed in the United States of America.

- Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 72-102
ISBN 0-688-00179-3

the memory of my father
CONTENTS

BOOK 1: The Waiting

BOOK II: The Search

BOOK III: The Sword

BOOK IV: The King

The Legend Author's Note


  There was a boy born,
    A winter king.
    Before the black month
    He was born,
    And fled in the dark month
    To find shelter
    With the poor.

    He shall come
    With the spring
    In the green month
    And the golden month
    And bright
    Shall be the burning
    Of his star.

    MS.
    NORTHERN -JANGLES



BOOK I

THE WAITING



1

There was a lark singing somewhere high above. Light fell dazzling against
my closed eyelids, and with it the song, like a distant dance of water. I o
pened my eyes. Above me arched the sky, with its invisible singer lost some
where in the light and floating blue of a spring day. Everywhere was a swee
t, nutty smell which made me think of gold, and candle flames, and young lo
vers. Something, smelling not so sweet, stirred beside me, and a rough youn
g voice said: "Sir?"

  I turned my head. I was lying on turf, in a hollow among furze bushes.
These were full of blossom, golden, sweet-smelling flames called out by the
spring sun. Beside me a boy knelt. He was perhaps twelve years old, dirty,
 with a matted shag of hair, and clad in some coarse brown cloth; his cloak
, made of skins roughly -stitched together, showed rents in a dozen places.
 He had a stick in one hand. Even without the way he smelled I could have g
uessed his calling, for all around us his herd of goats grazed among the fu
rze bushes, cropping the young green prickles.

    At rny movement he got quickly to his feet and backed off a little, peer
ing, half wary and half hopeful, through the filthy tangle of hair. So he ha
d not robbed me yet. I eyed the heavy stick in his hand, vaguely wondering t
hrough the mists of pain whether I could help myself even against this young
ster. But it seemed that his hopes were only for a reward. He was pointing a
t something out of sight beyond the bushes. "I caught your horse for you. He
's tied over there. I thought you were dead."

   I raised myself to an elbow. Round me the day seemed to swing and dazz
le. The furze blossom smoked like incense in the sun. Pain seeped back slo
wly, and with it, on the same tide, memory.
  "Are you hurt bad?"

  "Nothing to matter, except my hand. Give me time, I'll be all right. You
caught my horse, you say? Did you see me fall?"
   "Aye. I was over yonder." He pointed again. Beyond the mounds of yellow
 blossom the land rose, smooth and bare, to a rounded upland broken by grey
 rock seamed with winter thorn. Behind the shoulder of the land the sky had
 that look of limitless and empty distance which spoke of the sea. "I saw y
ou come riding up the valley from the shore, going slow. I could see you wa
s ill, or maybe sleeping on the horse.'Then he put his foot wrong-a hole, l
ikely-and you came off. You've not been lying long. I'd just got down to yo
u."
   He stopped, his mouth dropping open. I saw shock in his face. As he spo
ke I had been pushing myself up till I was able to sit, propped by my left
arm, and carefully lift my injured right hand into my lap. It was a swollen
, crusted mass of dried blood, through which fresh red was running. I had,
I guessed, fallen on it when my horse had stumbled. The faint had been merc
iful enough. The pain was growing now, wave on wave grinding, with the stea
dy beat and drag of the tide over shingle, but the faintness had gone, and
my head, though still aching from the blow, was clear.
  "Mother of mercy!" The boy was looking sick. "You never did that fallin
g from your horse?"
  "No. It was a fight."

  "You've no sword."

   "I lost it. No matter. I have my dagger, and a hand for it. No, don't be a
fraid. The fighting's done. No one will hurt you. Now, if you'll help me onto
my horse, I'll be on my way."

   He gave me an arm as I got to my feet. We were standing at the edge of a
high green upland studded with furze, with here and there stark, solitary tre
es thrust into strange shapes by the steady salt wind. Beyond the thicket whe
re I had lain the ground fell away in a sharp slope scored by the tracks of s
heep and goats. It made one side of a narrow, winding valley, at the foot of
which a stream raced, tumbling, down its rocky bed. I could not see what lay
at the foot of the valley, but about a mile away, beyond the horizon of winte
r grass, was the sea. From the height of the land where I stood one could gue
ss at the great cliffs which fell away to the shore, and beyond the land's fa
rthest edge, small in the distance, I could see the jut of towers.

  The castle of Tintagel, stronghold of the Dukes of Cornwall. The impregn
able fortress rock, which could only be taken by guile, or by treachery from
 within. Last night, I had used both.

   I felt a shiver run over my flesh. Last night, in the wild dark of the s
torm, this had been a place of gods and destiny, of power driving towards so
me distant end of which I had been given, from time to time, a glimpse. And
I, Merlin, son of Ambrosius, whom men feared as prophet and visionary, had b
een in that night's work no more than the god's instrument.

   It was for this that I had been given the gift of Sight, and the power
that men saw as magic. From this remote and sea-locked fortress would come
the King who alone could clear Britain of her enemies, and give her time to
 find herself; who alone, in the wake of Ambrosius, the last of the Romans,
 would hold back the fresh tides of the Saxon Terror, and, for a breathing
space at least, keep Britain whole. This I had seen in the stars, and heard
 in the wind: it was I, my gods had told me, who would bring this to pass;
this I had been born for. Now, if I could still trust my gods, the promised
 child was begotten; but because of him-because of me-four men had died. In
 that night lashed by storm and brooded over by the dragon-star, death had
seemed commonplace, and gods waiting, visible, at every corner. But now, in
 the still morning after the storm, what was there to see? A young man with
 an injured hand, a King with his lust satisfied, and a woman with her pena
nce beginning. And for all of us, time to remember the dead.

   The boy brought rny horse up to me. He was watching me curiously, the w
ariness back in his face.

  "How long have you been here with your goats?" I asked him.
  "A sunrise and a sunrise."

  "Did you see or hear anything last night?"

  Wariness became, suddenly, fear. His eyelids dropped and he stared at the
ground. His face was closed, blank, stupid. "I have forgotten, lord."

    I leaned against my horse's shoulder, regarding him. Times without numbe
r I had met this stupidity, this flat, expressionless mumble; it is the only
 armour available to the poor. I said gently: "Whatever happened last night,
 it is something I want you to remember, not to forget. No one will harm you
. Tell me what you saw."

   He looked at me for perhaps ten more seconds of silence. I could not gu
ess what he was thinking. What he was seeing can hardly have been reassurin
g; a tall young man with a smashed and bloody hand, cloakless, his clothes
stained and torn, his face (I have no doubt) grey with fatigue and pain and
 the bitter dregs of last night's triumph. All the same the boy nodded sudd
enly, and began to speak.

  "Last night in the black dark I heard horses go by me.

   Four, I think. But I saw no one. Then, in the early dawn, two more follo
wing them, spurring hard. I thought they were all making for the castle, but
 from where I was, up there by the rocks, I never saw torches at the guard-h
ouse on the cliff top, or on the bridge going across to the main gate. They
must have gone down the valley there. After it was light I saw two horsemen
coming back that way, from the shore below the castle rock." He hesitated. "
And then you, my lord."

   I said slowly, holding him with my eyes: "Listen now, and I will tell y
ou who the horsemen were. Last night, in the dark, King Uther Pendragon rod
e this way, with myself and two others. He rode to Tintagel, but he did not
 go by the gate-house and the bridge. He rode down the valley, to the shore
, and then climbed the secret path up the rock and entered the castle by th
e postern gate. Why do you shake your head? Don't you believe me?"

   "Lord, everyone knows the King had quarrelled with the Duke. No one coul
d get in, least of all the King. Even if he did find the postern door, there
's none would dare open it to him."

  "They opened last night. It was the Duchess Ygraine herself who received
the King into Tintagel."

  "But-"

  "Wait," I said. "I will tell you how it happened. The King had been cha
nged by magic arts into a likeness of the Duke, and his companions into lik
enesses of the Duke's friends. The people who let them into the castle thou
ght they were admitting Duke Gorlois himself, with Brithael and Jordan."
   Under its dirt the boy's face was pale. I knew that for him, as for most
 of the people of this wild and haunted country, my talk of magic and enchan
tment would come as easily as stories of the loves of kings and violence in
high places. He said, stammering: "The King-the King was in the castle last
night with the Duchess?"

  "Yes. And the child that will be born will be the King's child."

  A long pause. He licked his lips. "But-but-when the Duke finds out . . ."

   "He won't find out," I said. "He's dead.", One filthy hand went to his
mouth, the fist rammed against his teeth. Above it his eyes, showing white,
 went from my injured hand to the bloodstains on my clothing, then to my e
mpty scabbard. He looked as if he would have liked to run away, but did not
 dare even do that. He said breathlessly: "You killed him? You killed our D
uke?"

   "Indeed no. Neither I nor the King wished him dead. He was killed in batt
le. Last night, not knowing that the King had already ridden secretly for Tin
tagel, your Duke sallied out from his fortress of Dimilioc to attack the King
's army, and was killed."

  He hardly seemed to be listening. He was stammering: "But the two I saw
this morning ... It was the Duke himself, riding up from Tintagel. I saw h
im. Do you think I don't know him? It was the Duke himself, with Jordan, hi
s man."

 "No. It was the King with his servant Ulfin. I told you the King took the
Duke's likeness. The magic deceived you, too."

  He began to back away from me. "How do you know these things? You-y
ou said you were with them. This magic -who are you?"
  "I am Merlin, the King's nephew. They call me Merlin the enchanter."

  Still backing, he had come up against a wall of furze. As he looked this w
ay and that, trying which way to run, I put out a hand.

  "Don't be afraid. I'll not hurt you. Here, take this. Come, take it, no se
nsible man should fear gold. Call it a reward for catching my horse. Now, if y
ou'll help me onto his back, I'll be on my way."
   He made a half movement forward, ready to snatch and run, but then he c
hecked, and his head went round, quick as a wild thing's. I saw the goats h
ad already stopped grazing and were looking eastwards, ears pricked. Then I
 heard the sound of horses.
   I gathered my own beast's reins in my good hand, then looked round for
the boy to help me. But he was already running, whacking the bushes to chas
e the goats in front of him. I called to him and, as he glanced over his sh
oulder, flung the gold. He snatched it up and then was gone, racing up the
slope with his goats scampering round him.

   Pain struck at me again, grinding the bones of my hand together. The c
racked ribs stabbed and burned my side. I felt the sweat start on my body,
 and round me the spring day wavered and broke again in mist. The noise of
 approaching hoofs seemed to hammer with the pain along my bones. I leaned
 against my horse's saddle, and waited.

   It was the King riding again for Tintagel, this time for the main gate,
and by daylight, with a company of his men. They came at a fast canter along
 the grassy track from Dimilioc, four abreast, riding at ease. Above Uther's
 head the Dragon standard showed red on gold in the sunlight. The King was h
imself again; the grey of his disguise had been washed from his hair and bea
rd, and the royal circlet glinted on his helmet. His cloak of kingly scarlet
 was spread behind him over his bay's glossy flanks. His face looked still,
calm and set; a bleak enough look, and weary, but with over all a kind of co
ntentment. He was riding to Tintagel, and Tintagel was his at last, with all
 that lay within the walls. For him, it was an end.

     I leaned against my horse's shoulder and watched them come level with m
e.

    It was impossible for Uther not to see me, but he never glanced my way.
 I saw, from the troop behind him, the curious glances as I was recognized
. No man was there but must have some inkling now of what had happened last
 night in Tintagel, and of the part I had played in bringing the King to hi
s heart's desire. It was possible that the simpler souls among the King's
companions might have expected the King to be grateful; to reward me; at
the very least to recognize and acknowledge me. But I, who had dealt all my
 life with kings, knew that where there is blame as well as gratitude, blam
e must be allotted first, lest it should cling to the King himself. King Ut
her could only see that, by what he called the failure of my foreknowledg
e, the Duke of Cornwall had died even while he, the King, was lying with
the Duchess. He did not see the Duke's death for what it was, the grim iron
y behind the smiling mask that gods show when they want men to do their wil
l. Uther, who had small truck with gods, saw only that by waiting even one
day he might have had his way with honour and in the sight of men. His ange
r with me was genuine enough, but even if it were not, I knew that he must
find someone to blame: what ever he felt about the Duke's death-and he coul
d hardly fail to see it as a miraculously open gate to his marriage with Yg
raine-he must in public be seen to show remorse. And I was the public sacri
fice to that remorse.

   One of the officers-it was Caius Valerius, who rode at the King's shoul
der-leaned forward and said something, but Uther might never have heard. I
saw Valerius look doubtfully back at me, then with a half-shrug, and a half
-salute to me, he rode on. Unsurprised, I watched them go.

   The sound of hoofs dwindled sharply down the track towards the sea. Abov
e my head, between one wing-beat and the next, the lark's song shut off, and
 he dropped from the bright silence to his rest in the grass.

  Not far from me a boulder jutted from the turf. I led the horse that way
and somehow, from the boulder's top, scrambled into the saddle. I turned the
beast's head east by north for Dimilioc, where the King's army lay.
2

Gaps in memory can be merciful. I have no recollection of reaching the camp
, but when, hours later, I swam up out of the mists of fatigue and pain I w
as within doors, and in bed.

    I awoke to dusk, and some faint and swimming light that may have been f
irelight and candle flame; it was a light hazed with colour and drowned wit
h shadows, threaded by the scent of wood-smoke and, it seemed distantly, th
e trickle and splash of water. But even this warm and gentle consciousness
was too much for my struggling senses, and soon I shut my eyes and let myse
lf drown again. I believe that for a while I thought I was back in the edge
s of the Otherworld, where vision stirs and voices speak out of the dark, a
nd truth comes with the light and the fire. But then the aching of my bruis
ed muscles and the fierce pain in my hand told me that the daylight world s
till held me, and the voices that murmured across me in the dusk were as hu
man as I.

  "Well, that's that, for the moment. The ribs are the worst of it, apart fr
om the hand, and they'll mend soon enough; they're only cracked."
   I had a vague feeling that I knew the voice. At any rate I knew what h
e was: the touch on the fresh bandages was deft and firm, the touch of a p
rofessional. I tried to open my eyes again, but the lids were leaden, gumm
ed together and sticky with sweat and dried blood. Warmth came over me in
drowsy waves, weighting my limbs. There was a sweet, heavy smell; they mus
t have given me poppy, I thought, or stunned me with smoke before they dre
ssed the hand. I gave up, and let myself drift back from the shore. Over t
he dark water the voices echoed, softly.
   "Stop staring at him and bring the bowl nearer. He's safe enough in this st
ate, never fear." It was the doctor again.

   "Well, but one's heard such stories." They were speaking Latin, but the
 accents were different. The second voice was foreign; not Germanic, nor ye
t from anywhere on the Middle Sea. I have always been quick at languages, a
nd even as a child spoke several dialects of Celtic, along with Saxon and a
 working knowledge of Greek. But this accent I could not place. Asia Minor,
 perhaps? Arabia?
   Those deft fingers gently turned my head on the pillow, and parted my h
air to sponge the bruises. "Have you never seen him before?"

  "Never. I hadn't imagined him so young."

  "Not so young. He must be two and twenty."

    "But to have done so much. They say his father the High King Ambrosius n
ever took a step, in the last year or two, without talking it over with him.
 They say he sees the future in a candle flame and can win a battle from a h
illtop a mile away."

   "They would say anything, of him." The doctor's voice was prosaic and
 calm. Brittany, I thought, I must have known him in Brittany. The smooth
 Latin had some overtone I remembered, without knowing how. "But certainl
y Ambrosius valued his advice."

 "Is it true he rebuilt the Giants' Dance near Amesbury, that they call the
Hanging Stones?"

    "That's true enough. When he was a lad with his father's army in Britta
ny he studied to be an engineer. I remember him talking to Tremorinus-that
was the army's chief engineer-about lifting the Hanging Stones. But that wa
sn't all he studied. Even as a youth he knew more about medicine than most
men I've met who practise it for a livelihood. I can't think of any man I'd
 rather have by me in a field hospital. God knows why he chooses to shut hi
mself away in that godforsaken corner of Wales now-at least, one can guess
why. He and King Uther never got on. They say Uther was jealous of the atte
ntion his brother the King paid Merlin. At any rate, after Ambrosius' death
, Merlin went nowhere and saw no one, till this business of Uther and Gorlo
is' Duchess. And it seems as if that's brought him trouble enough. . . . Br
ing the bowl nearer, while I clean his face. No, here. That's right."

  "That's a sword cut, by the look of it."

   "A glancing scratch from the point, I'd say. It looks worse than it is, wi
th all the blood. He was lucky there. Another inch and it would have caught hi
s eye. There. It's clean enough; it won't leave a scar."

  "He looks like death, Gandar. Will he recover?"
  "Of course. How not?" Even through the lulling of the nepenthe, I recogn
ized the quick professional reassurance as genuine. "Apart from the ribs and
 the hand, it's only cuts and bruising, and I would guess a sharp reaction f
rom whatever has been driving him the last few days. All he needs is sleep.
Hand me that ointment there, please. In the green jar."

   The salve was cool on my cut cheek. It smelled of valerian. Nard, in the
green jar ... I made it at home. Valerian, balm, oil of spikenard . . . The s
mell of it took me dreaming out among the mosses at the river's edge, where w
ater ran sparkling, and I gathered the cool cress and the balsam and the gold
en moss . . .

  No, it was water pouring at the other side of the room. He had finished,
and had gone to wash his hands. The voices came from farther off.

 "Ambrosius' bastard, eh?" The foreigner was still curious. "Who was his
mother, then?"

    "She was a king's daughter, Southern Welsh, from Mari-dunum in Dyfed. Th
ey say he got the Sight from her. But not his looks; he's a mirror of the la
te King, more than Uther ever was. Same colouring, black eyes, and that blac
k hair. I remember the first time I saw him, back in Brittany when he was a
boy; he looked like something from the hollow hills. Talked like it, too, so
metimes; that is, when he talked at all. Don't let his quiet ways fool you;
it's more than just book-learning and luck and a knack of timing; there's po
wer there, and it's real."

  "So the stories are true?"

   "The stories are true," said Gandar flatly. "There. He'll do now. No need
 to stay with him. Get some sleep. I'll do the rounds myself, and come and ta
ke a look at him again before I go to bed. Good night."
   The voices faded. Others came and went in the darkness, but these were v
oices without blood, belonging to the air. Perhaps I should have waited and
waked to listen, but I lacked the courage. I reached for sleep and drew it r
ound me like a blanket, muffling pain and thought together in the merciful d
ark.

    When I opened my eyes again it was to darkness lit by calm candle-ligh
t. I was in a small chamber with a barrel roof of stone and rough-hewn wal
ls where the once bright paint had darkened and flaked away with damp and
neglect. But the room was clean. The floor of Cornish slate had been well
scrubbed, and the blankets that covered me were fresh-smelling and thick,
and richly worked in bright patterns.

   The door opened quietly, and a man came in. At first, against the strong
er light beyond the doorway, I could only see him as a man of middle height,
 broad shouldered and thickly built, dressed in a long plain robe, with a ro
und cap on his head. Then he came forward into the candle-light, and I saw t
hat it was Gandar, the chief physician who travelled with the King's armies.
 He stood over me, smiling.

  "And about time."

  "Gandar! It's good to see you. How long have I slept?"

  "Since dusk yesterday, and now it's past midnight. It was what you need
ed. You looked like death when they brought you in. But I must say it made
my job a lot easier to have you unconscious."
   I glanced down at the hand which lay, neatly bandaged, on the coverlet i
n front of me. My body was stiff and sore inside its strapping, but the fier
ce pain had died to a dull aching. My mouth was swollen, and tasted still of
 blood mingled with the sick-sweet remnants of the drug, but my headache had
 gone, and the cut on my face had stopped hurting.

  "I'm thankful you were here to do it," I said. I shifted the hand a little to
ease it, but it was no use. "Will it mend?"
   "With the help of youth and good flesh, yes. There were three bones brok
en, but I think it's clean." He looked at me curiously. "How did you come by
 it? It looked as if a horse had trodden on you and then kicked your ribs in
. But the cut on your face, that was a sword, surely?"
  "Yes. I was in a fight."

    His brows went up. "If that was a fight, then it wasn't fought by any rule
s I ever heard of. Tell me-wait, though, not yet. I'm on fire to know what hap
pened-we all are- but you must eat first." He went to the door and called, and
 presently a servant came in with a bowl of broth and some bread. I could not
manage the bread at first, but then sopped a little of it in the broth, and at
e that. Gandar pulled a stool up beside the bed, and waited in silence till I
had finished. At length I pushed the bowl aside, and he took it from me and se
t it on the floor.
   "Now do you feel well enough to talk? The rumours are flying about lik
e stinging gnats. You knew that Gorlois was dead?"

  "Yes." I looked about me. "I'm in Dimilioc itself, I take it? The fortress
surrendered, then, after the Duke was killed?"

   "They opened the gates as soon as the King got back from Tintagel. He'd
 already had the news of the skirmish, and the Duke's death. It seems that
the Duke's men, Brithael and Jordan, rode to Tintagel as soon as the Duke f
ell, to take the Duchess the news. But you'd know that; you were there." He
 stopped short, as he saw the implications. "So that was it! Brithael and J
ordan-they ran into you and Uther?"

    "Not into Uther, no. They never saw him; he was still with the Duchess
. I was outside with my servant Cadal- you remember Cadal?-guarding the do
ors. Cadal killed Jordan, and I killed Brithael." I smiled, wryly, with my
 stiff mouth. "Yes, you may well stare. He was well beyond my weight, as y
ou can see. Do you wonder I fought foul?"

  "And Cadal?"

  "Dead. Do you think otherwise that Brithael would have got to me?"

   "I see." His gaze told again, briefly, the tally of my hurts. When he spok
e, his voice was dry. "Four men. With you, five. It's to be hoped the King cou
nts it worth the price."

  "He does," I said. "Or he will soon."

   "Oh, aye, everyone knows that. Give him time only to tell the world that
 he is guiltless of Gorlois' death, and to get him buried with honour, so th
at he can marry the Duchess. He's gone back to Tintagel already, did you kno
w? He must have passed you on the road."

   "He did," I said dryly. "Within a yard or two." But didn't he see you?
Or surely-he must have known you were hurt?" Then my tone got through to hi
m. "You mean he saw you, like that, and left you to ride here alone?" I cou
ld see that he was shocked, rather than surprised. Gan-dar and I were old a
cquaintances, and I had no need to tell him what my relationship had been w
ith Uther, even though he was my father's brother. From the very beginning,
 Uther had resented his brother's love for his bastard son, and had half fe
ared, half despised my powers of vision and prophecy. He said hotly: "But w
hen it was done in his service-"

    "Not his, no. What I did, I did because of a promise I made to Ambrosius.
 It was a trust' he left with me, for his kingdom." I left it at that. One di
d not speak to Gandar of gods and visions. He dealt, like Uther, with things
of the flesh. "Tell me," I said, "those rumours you were talking of. What are
 they? What do people think happened at Tintagel?"
   He gave a half-glance over his shoulder. The door was shut, but he lowe
red his voice. "The story goes that Uther had already been in Tintagel, wit
h the Duchess Ygraine, and that it was you who took him there and put him i
n the way of entering. They say you changed the King by enchantment into a
likeness of the Duke, and got him past the guards and into the Duchess's be
dchamber. They say more than that; they say she took him to her bed, poor l
ady, thinking he was her husband. And that when Brithael and Jordan took he
r the news of Gorlois' death, there was 'Gorlois' sitting large as life bes
ide her at breakfast. By the Snake, Merlin, why do you laugh?"

   "Two days and nights," I said, "and the story has grown already. Well, I
suppose that is what men will believe, and go on believing. And perhaps it is
 better than the truth."
  "What is the truth, then?"

   "That there was no enchantment about our entry into Tintagel, only disg
uise, and human treachery."

   I told him the story then, exactly as it had happened, with the tale I h
ad given the goat-herd. "So you see, Gandar, I sowed that seed myself. The n
obles and the King's advisers must know the truth, but the common folk will
find the tale of magic, and a blameless Duchess, better to believe-and, God
knows, easier-than the truth."

  He was silent for a while. "So the Duchess knew."
  "Or we would not have got in," I said. "It shall not be said, Gandar, that
this was a rape. No, the Duchess knew."

   He was silent again, for rather longer. Then he said, heavily: "Treachery
is a hard word."
   "It is a true one. The Duke was my father's friend, and he trusted me. It
 would never have occurred to him that I would help Uther against him. He kne
w how little I cared for Uther's lusts. He could not guess that my gods deman
ded that I should help him satisfy this one. Even though I could not help mys
elf, it was still treachery, and we shall suffer for it, all of us."

    "Not the King." He said it positively. "I know him. I doubt if the King wi
ll feel more than a passing guilt. You are the one who is suffering for it, Me
rlin, just as you are the one who calls it by its name."

    "To you," I said. "To other men this will remain a story of enchantment
, like the dragons which fought at my bidding under Dinas Emrys, and the Gi
ants' Dance which floated on air and water to Amesbury. But you have seen h
ow Merlin the King's enchanter fared that night." I paused, and shifted my
hand on the coverlet, but shook my head at the question in his face. "No, n
o, let be. It's better already. Gandar, one other truth about that night mu
st be known. There will be a child. Take it as hope, or take it as prophecy
, you will see that, come Christmas, a boy will be born. Has he said when h
e will marry her?"

  "As soon as it's decent. Decent!" He repeated the word on a short bark of
laughter, then cleared his throat. "The Duke's body is here, but in a day or
two they'll carry him to Tinta-gel to bury him. Then, after the eight days'
mourning, Uther is to marry the Duchess."

  I thought for a moment. "Gorlois had a son by his first wife. Cador, he
was called. He must be about fifteen. Have you heard what is to become of hi
m?"

   "He's here. He was in the fight, beside his father. No one knows what ha
s passed between him and the King, but the King gave an amnesty to all the t
roops that fought against him in the action at Dimilioc, and he has said, be
sides, that Cador will be confirmed Duke of Cornwall."

  "Yes," I said. "And Ygraine's son and Uther's will be King."
  "With Cornwall his bitter enemy?"

   "If he is," I said wearily, "who is to blame him? The payment may well b
e too long and too heavy, even for treachery."
  "Well," said Gandar, suddenly brisk, gathering his robe about him, "tha
t's with time. And now, young man, you'd better get some more rest. Would y
ou like a draught?"

  "Thank you, no."

  "How does the hand feel?"

  "Better. There's no poison there; I know the feel of it. I'll give you no
more trouble, Gandar, so stop treating me like a sick man. I'm well enough, no
w that I've slept. Get yourself to bed, and forget about me. Good night."

   When he had gone I lay listening to the sounds of the sea, and trying to g
ather, from the god-filled dark, the courage I would need for my visit to the
dead.

   Courage or no, another day passed before I found the strength to leave
my chamber. Then I went at dusk to the great hall where they had put the old
 Duke's body. Tomorrow he would be taken to Tintagel for burial among his fa
thers. Now he lay alone, save for the guards, in the echoing hall where he h
ad feasted his peers and given orders for his last battle.

   The place was cold, silent but for the sounds of wind and sea. The wind
 had changed and now blew from the northwest, bringing with it the chill an
d promise of rain. There was neither glazing nor horn in the windows, and t
he draught stirred the torches in their iron brackets, sending them sideway
s, dim and smoking, to blacken the walls. It was a stark, comfortless place
, bare of paint, or tiling, or carved wood; one remembered that Dimilioc wa
s simply the fortress of a fighting man; it was doubtful if Ygraine had eve
r been here. The ashes in the hearth were days old, the half-burned logs de
wed with damp.

   The Duke's body lay on a high bier in the center of the hall, covered wi
th his war cloak. The scarlet with the double border of silver and the white
 badge of the Boar was as I had seen it at my father's side in battle. I had
 seen it, too, on Uther as I led him disguised into Gorlois' castle and his
bed. Now the heavy folds hung to the ground, and beneath them the body had s
hrunk and flattened, no more than a husk of the tall old man I remembered. T
hey had left his face uncovered. The flesh had sunk, grey as twice-used tall
ow, till the face was a moulded skull, showing only the ghost of a likeness
to the Gorlois I had known. The coins on his eyes had already sunk into the
flesh. His hair was hidden by his war helm, but the familiar grey beard jutt
ed over the badge of the Boar on his chest.
   I wondered, as I went forward soft-footed over the stone floor, by whic
h god Gorlois had lived, and to which god he had gone in dying. There was n
othing here to show. Christians, like other men, put coins on the eyes. I r
emembered other death-beds, and the press of spirits waiting round them; th
ere was nothing here. But he had been dead three days, and perhaps his spir
it had already gone through that bare and windy gap in the wall. Perhaps it
 had already gone too far for me to reach it and make my peace.
   I stood at the foot of his bier, the man I had betrayed, the friend of m
y father Ambrosius the High King. I remembered the night he had come to ask
me for my help for his young wife, and how he had said to me: "There are not
 many men I'd trust just now, but I trust you. You're your father's son." An
d how I had said nothing, but watched the firelight stain his face red like
blood, and waited my chance to lead the King to his wife's bed.

   It is one thing to have the gift of seeing the spirits and hearing the
gods who move about us as we come and go; but it is a gift of darkness as w
ell as light. The shapes of death come as clear as those of life. One canno
t be visited by the future without being haunted by the past; one cannot ta
ste comfort and glory without the bitter sting and fury of one's own past d
eeds. Whatever I had thought to encounter near the dead body of the Duke of
 Cornwall, it would hold no comfort and no peace for me. A man like Uther P
endragon, who killed in open battle and open air, would think no more of th
is than a dead man dead. But I, who in obeying the gods had trusted them ev
en as the Duke had trusted me, had known that I would have to pay, and in f
ull. So I had come, but without hope.

   There was light here from the torches, light and fire. I was Merlin; I shou
ld be able to reach him; I had talked with the dead before. I stood still, watc
hing the flaring torches, and waited.
   Slowly, all through the fortress, I could hear the sounds dwindling and
 sinking to silence as men finally went to rest. The sea soughed and beat b
elow the window, the wind plucked at the wall, and ferns growing there in t
he crevices rustled and tapped. A rat scuttled and squeaked somewhere. The
resin bubbled in the torches. Sweet and foul, through the sharp smoke, I sm
elled the smell of death. The torchlight winked blank and flat from the coi
ns on the dead eyes.

  The time crawled by. My eyes ached with the flame, and the pain from my
hand, like a biting fetter, kept me penned in my body. My spirit was pared
 down to nothing, blind as the dead. Whispers I caught, fragments of though
t from the still and sleepy guards, meaningless as the sound of their breat
hing, and the creak of leather or chime of metal as they stirred involuntar
ily from time to time. But beyond these, nothing. What power I had been giv
en on that night at Tintagel had drained from me with the strength that had
 killed Brithael. It had gone from me and was working, I thought, in a woma
n's body; in Ygraine, lying even now beside the King in that grim and batte
red near-isle of Tintagel, ten miles to the south. I could do nothing here.
 The air, solid as stone, would not let me through.

   One of the guards, the one nearest me, moved restlessly, and the butt of
 his grounded spear scraped on the stone. The sound jarred the silence. I gl
anced his way involuntarily, and saw him watching me.

    He was young, rigid as his own spear, his fists white on the shaft. The
 fierce blue eyes watched me unwinkingly under thick brows. With a shock th
at went through me like the spear striking I recognized them. Gorlois' eyes
. It was Gorlois' son, Cador of Cornwall, who stood between me and the dead
, watching me steadily, with hatred.

   In the morning they took Gorlois' body south. As soon as he was buried,
Gandar had told me, Uther planned to ride back to Dimilioc to rejoin his tro
ops until such time as he could marry the Duchess. I had no intention of wai
ting for his return. I called for provisions and my horse and, in spite of '
Gandar's protestations that I was not yet fit for the journey, set out alone
 for my valley above Maridunum and the cave in the hill which the King had p
romised should remain, in spite of everything, my own.



3

No one had been inside the cave during my absence. This was hardly to be
wondered at, since the people held me in much awe as an enchanter, and mo
reover it was commonly known that the King himself had granted me the hil
l Bryn Myrddin. Once I left the main road at the water-mill, and rode up
the steep tributary valley to the cave which had become my home, I saw no
 one, not even the shepherd who commonly watched his flocks grazing the s
tony slopes.
    In the lower reaches of the valley the woods were thick; oaks still rust
led their withered leaves, chestnut and sycamore crowded close, fighting for
 the light, and hollies showed black and glinting between the beeches. Then
the trees thinned, and the path climbed along the side of the valley, with t
he stream running deep down on the left, and to the right slopes of grass, b
roken by scree, rising sharply to the crags that crowned the hill. The grass
 was still bleached with winter, but among the rusty drifts of last year's b
racken the bluebell leaves showed glossy green, and blackthorn was budding.
Somewhere, lambs were crying. That, and the mewing of a buzzard high over th
e crags, and the rustle of the dead bracken where my tired horse trod, were
all the sounds in the valley. I was home, to the solace of simplicity and quiet.

   The people had not forgotten me, and word must have gone round that I w
as expected. When I dismounted in the thorn grove below the cliff and stabl
ed my horse in the shed there I found that bracken had been freshly strewn
for bedding, and a netful of fodder hung from a hook beside the door; and w
hen I climbed to the little apron of lawn which lay in front of my cave I f
ound cheese and new bread wrapped in a clean cloth, and a goatskin full of
the local thin, sour wine, which had been left for me beside the spring.

   This was a small spring, a trickle of pure water welling out of a ferny
crack in the rock to one side of the entrance to the cave. The water ran dow
n, sometimes in a steady flow, sometimes no more than a sliding glimmer over
 the mosses, to drip into a rounded basin of stone. Above the spring the lit
tle statue of the god Myrddin, he of the winged spaces of the air, stared fr
om between the ferns. Beneath his cracked wooden feet the water bubbled and
dripped into the stone basin, lipping over into the grass below. Deep in the
 clear water metal glinted; I knew that the wine and bread, like the thrown
coins, had been left as much as an offering to the god as to me; in the mind
s of the simple folk I had already become part of the legend of the hill, th
eir god made flesh who came and went as quietly as the air, and brought with
 him the gifts of healing.
    I lifted down the cup of horn which stood above the spring, rilled it f
rom the goatskin, then poured wine for the god, and drank the rest myself.
The god would know whether there was more in the gesture than ritual homage
. I myself was tired beyond thought, and had no prayer to offer; the drink
was for courage, nothing more.

   To the other side of the cave entrance, opposite the spring, was a tumb
le of grass-grown stones, where saplings of oak and mountain ash had seeded
 themselves, and grew in a thick tangle against the rocky face. In summer t
heir boughs cast a wide pool of shade, but now, though overhanging it, they
did nothing to conceal the entrance to the cave. This was a smallish arch,
regular and rounded, as if made by hand. I pushed the hanging boughs aside
and went in.

   Just inside the entrance the remnants of a fire still lay in white ash o
n the hearth, and twigs and damp leaves had drifted over it. The place smell
ed already of disuse. It seemed strange that it was barely a month since I h
ad ridden out at the King's urgent summons to help him in the matter of Ygra
ine of Cornwall. Beside the cold hearth stood the unwashed dishes from the l
ast, hasty meal my servant had prepared before we set out.

   Well, I would have to be my own servant now. I put the goatskin of wine
and the bundle of bread and cheese on the table, then turned to re-make the
fire. Flint and tinder lay to hand where they had always Iain, but I knelt d
own by the cold faggots and stretched out my hands for the magic. This was t
he first magic I had been taught, and the simplest, the bringing of fire out
 of the air. It had been taught me in this very cave, where as a child I had
 learned all I knew of natural lore from Galapas, the old hermit of the hill
. Here, too, in the cave of crystal which lay deeper in the hill, I had seen
 my first visions, and found myself as a seer. "Some day," Galapas had said,
 "you will go where even with the Sight I cannot follow you. It had been tru
e. I had left him, and gone where my god had driven me; where none but I, Me
rlin, could have gone. But now the god's will was done, and he had forsaken
me. Back there in Dimilioc, beside Gorlois' bier, I had found myself to be a
n empty husk; blind and deaf as men are blind and deaf; the great power gone
. Now, weary though I was, I knew I would not rest until I saw if, here in m
y magic's birthplace, the first and smallest of my powers was left to me.

   I was soon answered, but it was an answer I would not accept. The weste
ring sun was dropping red past the boughs at the cave mouth, and the logs w
ere still unkindled, when finally I gave up, with the sweat running scaldin
g on my body under my gown, and my hands, outstretched for the magic, tremb
ling like those of an old man. I sat by the cold hearth and ate my supper o
f bread and cheese and watered wine in the chill of the spring dusk, before
 I could gather even strength enough to reach for the flint and tinder and
try with them.

   Even this, a task that every wife does daily and without thought, took m
e an age, and set my maimed hand bleeding. But in the end fire came. A tiny
spark flew in among the tinder and started a slow, creeping flame. I lit the
 torch from it, and then, carrying the flame high, went to the back of the c
ave. There was something I still must do.
   The main cavern, high-roofed, went a long way back. I stood with the tor
ch held high, looking up. At the back of the cave was a slope of rock leadin
g up to a wide ledge, which in its turn climbed into the dark, high shadows.
 Invisible among these shadows was the hidden cleft beyond which lay the inn
er cave, the globed cavity lined with crystals where, with light and fire, I
 had seen my first visions. If the lost power lay anywhere, it lay there. Sl
owly, stiff with fatigue, I climbed the ledge, then knelt to peer through th
e low entrance to the inner cave. The flames from my torch caught the crysta
ls, and light ran round the globe. My harp still stood where I had left it,
in the center of the crystal-studded floor. Its shadow shot towering up the
shimmering walls, and flame sparked from the copper of the string-shoes, but
 no stir of the air set it whispering, and its own arching shadows quenched
the light. I knelt there for a long time, eyes wide and staring, while round
 me light and shadow shivered and beat. But my eyes ached, empty of vision,
and the harp stayed silent.

    At length I withdrew, and made my way down into the main cave. I rememb
er that I picked my way slowly, carefully, like a man who has never been th
at way before. I thrust the torch under the dry wood I had piled for a fire
, till the logs caught, crackling; then went out and found my saddle-bags,
and lugged them back into the human comfort of the firelight, and began to
unpack them.

   My hand took a long time to heal. For the first few days it pained me co
nstantly, throbbing so that I was afraid it was infected. During the day thi
s did not matter so much, for there were tasks to do; all that my servant ha
d done for me for so long that I hardly knew how to set about it; cleaning,
preparing food, tending my horse. Spring came slowly to South Wales that yea
r, and there was no grazing yet on the hill, so I had to cut and carry fodde
r for him, and walk farther than I cared to in search of the healing plants
I needed. Luckily food for myself was always forthcoming; gifts were left al
most daily at the foot of the small cliff below the lawn. It may have been t
hat the country folk had not yet heard that I was out of favour with the Kin
g, or it may simply have been that what I had done for them in the way of he
aling outweighed Uther's displeasure. I was Merlin, son of Ambrosius; or, as
 the Welsh say it, Myrddin Emrys, the enchanter of Myrddin's Hill; and in an
other way, I suppose, the priest of the old god of the hollow hill, Myrddin
himself. What gifts they would have brought for him they brought now for me,
 and in his name I accepted them.
  But if the days were full enough, the nights were bad. I seemed always w
akeful, less perhaps from the pain of my hand than from the pain of my memor
ies: where Gorlois' death chamber had been empty, my own cave was full of gh
osts. Not the spirits of the loved dead whom I would have welcomed; but the
spirits of those I had killed went past me in the dark with thin sounds like
 the cry of bats. At least, this is what I told myself. I believe now that I
 was often touched with fever: the cave still housed the bats that Galapas a
nd I had studied, and it must have been these I heard, passing to and from t
he cave mouth during the night. But in my memory of this time they are the v
oices of dead men, restless in the dark.

   April went by, wet and chill, with winds that searched you to the bone.
 This was the bad time, empty except for pain, and idle except for the bare
st efforts to live. I believe I ate very little; water and fruit and black
bread was my staple diet. My clothes, never sumptuous, became threadbare wi
th no one to care for them, and then ragged. A stranger seeing me walking t
he hill paths would have taken me for a beggar. Days passed when I did litt
le but huddle over the smoking fire. My chest of books was unopened, my har
p was left where it stood. Even had my hand been whole, I could have made n
o music. As for magic, I dared not put myself to the test again.

   But gradually, like Ygraine waiting in her cold castle to the south, I
 slid into a sort of calm acceptance. As the weeks went by my hand healed,
 cleanly enough. I was left with two stiff fingers, and a scar along the o
uter edge of the palm, but the stiffness passed with time, and the scar ne
ver troubled me. And as time passed the other wounds healed, too. I grew u
sed to loneliness, as I had been accustomed to solitude, and the nightmare
s ceased. Then as May drew on the winds changed, grew warm, and grass and
flowers came springing. The grey clouds packed away, and the valley was fu
ll of sunlight. I sat for hours in the sun at the mouth of the cave, readi
ng, or preparing the plants I had gathered, or from time to time watching-
but no more than idly-for the approach of a rider which would mean a messa
ge. (Even so, I thought, must my old teacher Galapas have sat here many a
time in the sunlight, looking down the valley where, one day, a small boy
would come riding.) And I built up again my stock of plants and herbs, wan
dering farther and farther from the cave as my strength came back to me. I
 never went into the town, but now and again when poor folk came for medic
ines or for healing, they brought snatches of news. The King had married Y
graine with as much pomp and ceremony as such a hasty union would permit,
and he had seemed merry enough since the wedding, though quicker to anger
than he used to be, and would have sudden morose fits when folk learned to
 avoid him. As for the Queen, she was silent, acceding in everything to th
e King's wishes, but rumour had it that her looks were heavy, as if she mo
urned in secret. . . . Here my informant shot a quick sidelong look at me,
 and I saw his fingers move to make the sign against enchantment. I let hi
m go on, asking no more questions. The news would come to me in its own time.

  It came almost three months after my return to Bryn Myrddin.

   One day in June, when a hot morning sun was just lifting the mist from
the grass, I went up the hill to find my horse, which I had tethered out to
 graze on the grassland above the cave. The air was still, and the sky was
full of singing larks. Over the green mound where Galapas lay buried the bl
ackthorns showed green leaves budding through fading snowbanks of flowers,
and bluebells were thick among the fern.

  I doubt if I actually needed to tether my horse. I usually carried with
me the remnants of the bread my benefactors left for me, so when he saw me c
oming he would advance to the end of his tether and stand waiting, expectant
.
   But not today. He was standing at the far stretch of his rope, on the e
dge of the hill, head up. and ears pricked, apparently watching something a
way down the valley. I walked over to him and, while he nuzzled in my hand
for the bread, looked where he had been looking.
   From this height I could see the town of Maridunum, small in the distanc
e, clinging to the north bank of the placid Tywy as it wound its way down it
s wide green valley towards the sea. The town, with its arched stone bridge
and its harbour, lies just where the river widens towards the estuary. There
 was the usual huddle of masts beyond the bridge, and nearer, on the towpath
 that threaded its way along the silver curves of the river, a slow grey hor
se towed a grain barge up to the mill. The mill itself, lying where the stre
am from my own valley met the. river, was hidden in woodland; out of these t
rees ran the old military road which my father had repaired, straight as a d
ie through five open miles, to the barracks near Maridunum's eastern gate.

   On this road, perhaps a mile and a half beyond the water-mill, there wa
s a cloud of dust where horsemen skirmished. They were fighting; I saw the
flash of metal. Then the group resolved itself, clearer through the dust. T
here were four mounted men, and they were fighting three to one. The lone m
an seemed to be trying to escape, the others to surround him and cut him do
wn. At length he burst free in what looked like a desperate bid for escape.
 His horse, pulled round hard, struck one of the others on the shoulder, an
d its rider fell, dislodged by a heavy blow. Then the single man, crouched
and spurring hard, turned his horse off the road and across the grass, maki
ng desperately for the cover afforded by the edge of the woodland. But he d
id not reach it. The other two spurred after him; there was a short, wild g
allop, then they had caught him up, one on each side, and as I watched he w
as dragged from his horse and beaten to his knees. He tried to crawl away,
but he had no chance. The two horsemen circled, their weapons flashing, and
 the third man, apparently uninjured, had remounted and was galloping to jo
in them. Then suddenly he checked his horse, so sharply that it reared. I s
aw him fling up an arm. He must have shouted a warning, for the other two,
abruptly abandoning their victim, wheeled their beasts, and the three of th
em galloped off, full stretch, with the loose horse pelting behind them, to
 be lost to sight eastwards beyond the trees.

   Next moment I saw what had startled them. Another group of horsemen was
 approaching from the direction of the town. They must have seen the retrea
ting trio, but it soon appeared that they had seen nothing of the attack, f
or they came on at a canter, riding at ease. I watched them as they drew le
vel with the place where the fallen man- injured or dead-must be lying. The
y passed it without slackening pace. Then they, too, were lost to sight bel
ow the woodland.

   My horse, finding no more bread, nipped me, then jerked his head away sha
rply, ears flattened. I caught him by the halter, pulled up the tether, peg a
nd all, and turned his head downhill.

   "I stood on this spot once before," I told him, "while a King's messenge
r came riding to see me and bid me go and help the King to his desire. I had
 power that day; I dreamed I held the whole world cupped in my hands, shinin
g and small. Well, maybe I've nothing today but the hill I stand on, but tha
t might be a Queen's messenger lying down yonder, with a message still in hi
s pouch. Message or not, he'll need help if he's still alive. And you and I,
 my friend, have had our fill of idleness. It's time to be doing again."

    In a little less than twice the time it would have taken my servant to do
  the job, I had the horse bridled, and was on my way down the galley. Reachin
g the mill road, I turned my horse's head to the right, and drove my heels in
.

   The place where I had seen the horseman fall was near the edge of the w
oods, where the bushes were thick, a place of bracken and undergrowth and s
cattered trees. The smell of horses still hung in the air, with the tang of
 trampled bracken and sweet briar and, foul through it all, the smell of vo
mit. I dismounted and tethered my horse, then pushed my way forward through
the thick growth.

    He lay on his face, half hunched as he had crawled and collapsed, one han
d still trapped under his body, the other outflung and gripping a tuft of bra
cken. A youth, lightly built but well grown, fifteen, perhaps, or a little mo
re. His clothes, torn and grimed and bloodstained by the fight and his crawl
through the thorns, had been good, and there was a glint of silver on one wri
st, and a silver brooch at his shoulder. So they had not managed to rob him,
if robbery had been the motive for the attack. His pouch was still at his bel
t, and fastened-

   He made no move as I approached him, so I thought him insensible, or de
ad, put when I knelt beside him I saw the slight movement as his hand clenc
hed more tightly on the stems of bracken, and I realized that he was exhaus
ted or hurt beyond all caring. If I were one of his murderers come to finis
h him off, he would lie there and let me.
   I spoke gently. "Be easy, I shan't hurt you. Lie still a moment. Don't try
to move."

   There was no response. I laid careful hands on him, feeling for wounds
and broken bones. He flinched from my touch, but made no sound. I satisfied
 myself soon that no bones were broken. There was a bloodied swelling near
the back of his head, and one shoulder was already blackened with bruising,
 but the worst that I could see was a patch of crushed and bleeding flesh o
n the hip, which looked-and indeed later proved-to be where a horse's hoof
had struck him.

  "Come," I said at length, "turn over, and drink this."

   He moved then, though wincing from the touch of my arm round his shoulde
r, and turned slowly round. I wiped the dirt and sickness from his mouth and
 held my flask to his lips; he gulped greedily, coughed, and then, losing st
rength again, leaned heavily against me, his head drooping against my chest.
 When I put the flask back to his mouth he turned his head away. I could fee
l him using all his strength not to cry out against the pain. I stoppered th
e flask and put it away.

   "I have a horse here. You must try and sit him somehow, and I'll get yo
u home, where I can see to your hurts." Then, when he made no response: "Co
me now. Let's get you out of this before they decide to come back and finis
h what they started."
  He moved then, abruptly, as if these were the first words that had got th
rough to him. I saw his hand grope down to the pouch at his belt, discover it
 was still there, and then fall limply away. The weight against my chest sagg
ed suddenly. He had fainted.

   So much the better, I thought, as I laid him down gently and went to br
ing up my horse. He would be spared the painful jolting of the ride, and by
 the gods' mercy I might have him in bed with his hurts bandaged before he
woke. Then in the very act of stooping to lift him again I paused. His face
 was dirty, grime mingled with bloodstains from scratches and a cut above t
he ear. Under the mask of dirt and blood the skin was drained and grey. Bro
wn hair, shut eyes, a slack mouth. But I recognized him. It was Ralf, Ygrai
ne's page, who had let us into Tintagel that night, and who with Ulfin and
myself had guarded the Duchess's chamber until the King had had his desire.

  I stooped and lifted the Queen's messenger, and heaved his unconscious
body across my waiting horse.



4


Ralf did not regain his senses during the journey up to the cave, and only
after I had washed and bound his wounds and put him into bed did he open hi
s eyes. He stared at me for a few moments, but without recognition.

  "Don't you know me?" I said. "Merlinus Ambrosius. You brought your messa
ge safely enough. See." I held up the wallet, still sealed. But his eyes, cl
oudy and unfocused, slid past it, and he turned his head against the pillow,
 wincing as he felt the pain from the bruising on the back of his neck. "Ver
y well," I told him, "sleep now. You're in safe hands."

   I waited beside him till he drifted back into sleep, then took the wallet a
nd its contents out to my seat in the sunlight. The seal was, as I had expected
, the Queen's, and the superscription was mine. I broke the seal and read the l
etter.

   It was not from the Queen herself, but from Marcia, Ralf's grandmother an
d the Queen's closest confidante. The letter was brief enough, but held all I
 wanted to know. The Queen was indeed pregnant, and the child would be born i
n December. The Queen herself-said Marcia-seemed happy to be bearing the King
's child, but, where she spoke of me at all, spoke with bitterness, throwing
on me the responsibility for her husband Gorlois' death. "She says little, bu
t it is my belief that she mourns in secret, and that even in her great love
for the King there will always be the shadow of guilt. Pray God her feeling f
or the child may not be tainted with it. As for the King, it is seen that he
is angry, though he is as ever kind and loving to my lady, and there is no ma
n who doubts but that the child is his. Alas, I could find it in me to fear f
or the child at the King's hands, if it were not unthinkable that he should s
o grieve the Queen. Wherefore, Prince Merlin, I beg by this letter to commend
 to you as your servant my grandson Ralf. For him, too, I fear at the King's
hands; and I believe that, if you will take him, service abroad with a true p
rince is better than here with a King who counts his service as betrayal. The
re is no safety for him in Cornwall. So pray you, lord, let Ralf serve you no
w, and after you, the child. For I think I understand what you were speaking
of when you said to my lady, 'I have seen a bright fire burning, and in it a
crown, and a sword standing in an altar like a cross.' "

    Ralf slept until dusk. I had lit the fire and made broth, and when I took
 it to the back of the cave where he lay I saw his eyes open, watching me. Th
ere was recognition in them now, and a wariness that I could not quite unders
tand.

  "How do you feel now?"

   "Well enough, my lord. I-this is your cave? How did I come here? How d
id you find me?"

   "I had gone up to the hill above here, and from there I saw you being
attacked. The men were frightened off, and ran away, leaving you. I went d
own to get you, and carried you up here on my horse. So you recognize me n
ow, do you?"

   "You've let your beard grow, but I'd have known you, my lord. Did I spea
k to you before? I don't remember anything. I think they hit me on the head.
"

  "They did. How is it now?"

  "A headache. But not bad. It's my side"-wincing-"that hurts most."
  "One of the horses struck you. But there's no real damage done; you'll
be well enough in a few days. Do you know who they were?"

  "No." He knitted his brows, thinking, but I could see the effort hurt him,
so I stopped him.

  "Well, we can talk later. Eat now."

  "My lord, the message-"

  "I have it safely. Later."

   When I went back to him he had finished the broth and bread, and looked
 more like himself. He would not take more food, but I made him drink a lit
tle wine, and watched the colour come back into his face. Then I drew up a
chair, and sat down beside the bed.

  "Better?"

  "Yes." He spoke without looking at me. He looked down at his hands, ner
vously plucking at the covers in front of him. He swallowed. "I-I haven't t
hanked you yet, my lord."
  "For what? Picking you up and bringing you here? It was the only way to
get your news."

   He glanced up at that, and for a startled second I realized that he. thoug
ht it was no more than the truth. I saw then what there was in that look he ha
d given me; he was afraid of me. I thought back to that night in Tintagel, the
 gay youth who had dealt so bravely for the King, and so truly with me. But fo
r the moment I let it go. I said:
 "You brought me the news I wanted. I've read your grandmother's letter.
You know what she tells me in it about the Queen?'"

  "Yes."

  "And about yourself?"

   "Yes." He shut his mouth on the syllable, and looked away, sullen, like
 someone unfairly trapped and held for questioning, who is determined not t
o answer. It seemed that, whatever Marcia's motives for sending him to me,
he himself was far from willing to offer me service. From which I guessed t
hat she had told him nothing about her hopes for the future.

   "All right, we'll leave that for the moment. But it seems, that somebo
dy wants to harm you, whoever it may. be. If those men this morning weren'
t just roadside cutthroats, it would help to know who they were, and who p
aid them. Have you no idea who they might have been?"

  "No," still mumbling.

   "It's of some interest to me," I said mildly. "They might conceivably want
to kill me, too."

  That startled him out of his resentment. "Why?"

   "If you were attacked out of revenge for the part you played at Tintagel
, then presumably they will attack me as well. If you were attacked for the
message you carried to me, I want to know why. If they were plain thieves, w
hich seems the most likely, then they may still be hereabouts, and I must ge
t a message to the troopers down at the barracks."

   "Oh. Yes, I see." He looked disconcerted and slightly ashamed. "But it's t
rue, my lord; I don't know who they were. I-it was of interest to me, too. I'v
e been trying to think, all this time, but I've no idea. There's no clue that
I can remember. They didn't wear badges; at least I don't think so . . ." His
brows drew together, painfully. "I'd have noticed badges, surely, if they'd ha
d them?"

  "How were they dressed?"

   "I-I hardly noticed. Leather tunics, I think, and chain-mail caps. No shie
lds, but swords and daggers."

  And they were well mounted. I saw that. Did you hear their speech?"

   "Not that I remember. They hardly spoke, a shout or two, that was all. Bri
tish speech, but I couldn't tell where from. I'm not good at accents."

  "There was nothing you can think of that might have marked them for Ki
ng's men?"
  This was probing too near the wound. He went scarlet, but said levelly en
ough: "Nothing. But is it likely?"
  "I wouldn't have thought so," I said. "But kings are queer cattle, and q
ueerest of all when they have bad consciences. Well, then, Cornishmen?"

   The flush had ebbed, leaving him if possible more sickly pale than befo
re. His eyes were sullen and unhappy. This was the wound itself; this was a
 thought he had lived with. "Duke's men, you mean?"
   "They told me before I left Dimilioc that the King was to confirm young
 Cador as Duke of Cornwall. That's one man, Ralf, who will have no love for
 you. He won't stop to consider that you were the Duchess's man, and were s
erving her as you were bidden. He is full of hatred, and it might extend to
 vengeance. One could hardly blame him if it did."

   He looked faintly surprised, then in some odd way set at ease by this
dispassionate handling. After a bit he said, with an attempt at the same t
one: "They might have been Cador's men, I suppose. There was nothing to sh
ow it, one way or the other. Maybe I'll remember something." He paused. "B
ut surely, if Cador intended to kill me, he could have cut me down in Corn
wall. Why come all the way here? To follow me to you? He must hate you as
much." "More," I said. "But if he had intended to kill me, he knew where
to find me; the whole world knows that. And he'd have come before this."

   He eyed me doubtfully. Then he appeared to find an explanation for my a
pparent lack of fear. "I suppose no one would dare come after you here, for
 fear of your magic?"

   "It would be nice to think so," I agreed. There was no point in telling
him how thin my defenses were. "Now, that's enough for the: moment. Rest aga
in, and you'll find you feel better tomorrow. Will you sleep, do you think?
Are you in pain?"

    "No," he said, not truthfully. Pain was a weakness he would not admit to
me. I stooped and felt for the heartbeat in his wrist. It was strong and even
. I let the wrist drop, and nodded at him. "You'll live. Call me in the night
 if you want me. Good night."

   Ralf did not in fact remember anything more next morning that would give
a clue to the identity of his attackers, and I forbore for a few days from qu
estioning him further about the contents of Marcia's letter. Then one evening
, when I judged he was better, I called him to me. It had been a damp day, an
d the evening had brought a chill with it, so I had lit a fire, and sat with
my supper beside it.

   "Ralf, bring your bowl and eat beside me where it's warm. I want to talk t
o you."

   He came obediently. He had somehow managed to mend and tidy his clothes
, and now, with the cuts and bruises fading, and with colour back in his fa
ce, he was almost himself again, except for a limp where the wound on his h
ip had not yet mended; and except, still, for his silence, and the sullen s
hadow of wariness in his face. He limped across and sat where I pointed.

   "You said you knew what else was in your grandmother's letter to me be
sides news of the Queen?" I asked him.

  "Yes."

   "Then you know she sent you to take service with me, because she feared
 the King's displeasure. Did the King himself give you any reason to fear h
im?"

   A slight shake of the head. He would not meet my eyes. "Not to fear hi
m, no. But when the alarm came of a Saxon landing on the south coast, and
I asked to ride with his men, he would not take me." His voice was sullen
and furious. "Even though he took every other Cornishman who had fought ag
ainst him at Dimilioc. But myself, who had helped him, he dismissed."
   I looked thoughtfully at the bent head, the hot averted cheek. This, of
course, was the reason for his attitude to me, the wary resentment and anger
. He could only see, understandably enough, that through his service to me a
nd the King he had lost his place near the Queen; worse, he had incurred his
 Duke's anger, had been disgraced as a Cornish subject and banished from his
 home to a kind of service he disdained.

   I said: "Your grandmother tells me little except that she feels you had b
etter seek a career for yourself outside Cornwall. Leave that for a moment; y
ou can't seek anything much until your leg is healed. But tell me, did the Ki
ng ever say anything to you directly about the night of Gorlois' death?"

   A pause, so long that I thought he would not answer. Then he said: "Yes
. He told me that I had served him well, and he-he thanked me. He asked me
if I wanted a reward. I said no, the service was reward enough. He didn't l
ike that. I think he wanted to give me money, and requite me, and forget it
. He said then that I could no longer serve him or the Queen. That in servi
ng him I had betrayed my master the Duke, and that a man who had betrayed o
ne master could betray another."

  "Well?" I said. "Is that all?"

   "All.?" His head jerked up at that. He looked startled and contemptuous.
 "All? An insult like that? And it was a lie, you know it was! I was my lady
's man, not Duke Gorlois'! I did not betray the Duke!"

   Oh, yes, it was an insult. You can't expect the King to be level-headed ye
t, when he himself feels as guilty as Judas.

   He's got to put the betrayal on someone's shoulders, so it's yours and mi
ne. But I doubt if you're in actual danger from him. Even a doting grandmothe
r could hardly call that a threat."
   "Who was talking about threats?" said Ralf hotly. "I didn't come away
because I was afraid! Someone had to bring the message, and you saw how sa
fe that was!"

   It was hardly the tone a servant uses. I hid my amusement and said mil
dly: "Don't ruffle your feathers at me, young cockerel. No one doubts your
 courage. I'm sure the King does not. Now, tell me about this Saxon landin
g. Where? What happened? I've had no news from the south for over a month
now."

    In a little while he answered me civilly enough. "It was in May. They lan
ded south of Vindocladia. There's a deep bay there, they call it Potters' Bay
. I forget its real name. Well, it's outside federated territory, in Dumnonia
, and that was against all the agreements the Federates made. You would know
that."

   I nodded. It is hard to remember now, looking back down the years to th
e time I write of, Uther's time, that today men hardly remember even the na
me of Federate. The first of the Federated Saxons were the followers of Hen
gist and Horsa, who had been called in by King Vortigern as mercenary help
to establish him on his stolen throne. When the fighting was done, and the
rightful princes Ambrosius and Uther had fled to Brittany, the usurper Vort
igern would have dismissed his Saxon mercenaries; but they refused to withd
raw, demanding territory where they could settle, and promising, as federat
ed settlers, to fight as Vortigern's allies. So, partly because he dared no
t refuse them, partly because he foresaw that he might need them again, Vor
tigern gave them the coastal stretches in the south, from Rutupiae to Vindo
cladia-the stretch that was called the Saxon Shore.

   In the days of the Romans it had been so called because the main Saxon
 landings had been there; by Uther's time the name had taken on a direr an
d truer significance. On a clear day you could see the Saxon smoke from Lo
ndon Wall.

   It had been from this secured base, and from similar enclaves in the no
rth-east, that the new attacks had come when my father was King. He had kil
led Hengist and his brother, and had driven the invaders back, some northwa
rds into the wild lands beyond Hadrian's Wall, and others behind their old
boundaries, where once again-but this time forcibly- they had been bound by
 treaty. But a treaty with a Saxon is like writing in water: Ambrosius, not
 trusting to the prescribed boundaries, had thrown up a wall to protect the
 rich lands which marched with the Saxon Shore. Until his death the treaty-
or the Wall-had held them, nor had they openly joined in the attacks led by
 Hengist's son Octa and Eosa his kinsman in the early days of Uther's reign
; but they were uneasy neighbours: they provided a beach-head for any wande
ring longships, and the Saxon Shore grew crowded and still more crowded, ti
ll even Ambrosius' Wall looked frail protection. And everywhere along the e
astern shores raiders came in from the German Sea, some to burn and rape an
d sail again, others to burn and rape and stay, buying or extorting new ter
ritory from the local kings.
  Such an attack, now, Raff was describing to me.

   "Well, of course the Federates broke the agreement. A new war-band-thir
ty ships it was-landed in Potters' Bay, well west of the boundary, and the
Federates welcomed them and came out in force to help them. They establishe
d a beach-head near the river's mouth and started to push up towards Vindoc
ladia. I think if they had once got to Badon Hill-what is it?"

  He broke off, staring at me. There was amazement in his face, and a touch
of fear.

  "Nothing," I said. "I thought I heard something outside, but it's only the w
ind."
  He said slowly: "You looked for a moment the way you did that night at T
intagel, when you said the air was full of magic. Your eyes went strange, al
l black and blurred, as if you were seeing something, out there beyond the f
ire." He hesitated. "Was it prophecy?"

   "No. I saw nothing. All I heard was a sound like horses galloping. It wa
s only the wild geese going over in the wind. If it was prophecy, it will co
me again. Go on. You were speaking of Badon Hill."

   "Well, the Saxons can't have known that King Uther was in Cornwall, wi
th all the force he'd brought down to fight Duke Gorlois. He gathered his
army and called on the Dum-nonians to help him, and marched to drive the S
axons back." He paused, compressing his lips, then finished briefly: "Cado
r went with him."

  "Did he indeed?" I was thoughtful. "You didn't happen to hear what had
passed between them?"

  "Only that Cador had been heard to say that since he couldn't defend his
part of Dumnonia alone he didn't mind fighting alongside the Devil himself,
as long as the Saxons could be cleared from the coast."

  "He sounds a sensible young man."
  Ralf, hot on his grievance, was not listening. "You see, he didn't exactl
y make peace with Uther-"

  "Yes. One gathers that."

  "-but he did march with him! And I could not! I went to him, and to my l
ady, and begged to go, but he wouldn't take me!"

   "Well," I said, reasonably, "how could he?" That stopped him. He stared
 at me, ready to be angry again. "What do you mean? If you think me a trait
or-"

   "You're the same age as Cador, aren't you? Then try to show as much co
mmon sense. Think. If Cador was to go into battle beside the King, then th
e King, for your sake, could hardly take you. Uther may surfer a few pangs
 of conscience when he lays eyes on you, but Cador must see you as one of
the causes of his father's death. Do you think he would bear you near him,
 however much he may need the King and his legions? Now do you see why you
 were left at home, and then sent north to me?"
   He was silent. I said, gently: "What's done is done, Ralf. Only a child e
xpects life to be just; it's a man's part to stand by the consequence of his
deeds. As we both shall, believe me. So put all this behind you, and take wha
t the gods send. Your life is not over because you have had to leave the cour
t, or even because you have had to leave Cornwall."

   There was a longer silence. Then he picked up his empty bowl and mine an
d got to his feet. "Yes, I see. Well, since for the moment I can't do much e
lse, I'll stay and serve you. But not because I'm afraid of the King, or bec
ause my grandmother wants to get me out of Duke Cador's way. It's because I
choose. And indeed"- he swallowed-"I reckon I owe it to you." His tone was n
either grateful nor conciliatory. He stood there like a soldier, stiffly, th
e bowls clutched to his ribs.

   "Then start paying your debt and wash the supper dishes," I said equably
, and picked up a book.
   He hung on his heel a moment, but I neither spoke nor looked up. He wen
t then, without another word, to draw water from the spring outside.


5


Bruises on the young heal quickly, and Ralf was soon active again, and insi
stent that he no longer needed doctoring. The wound on his hip, however, ga
ve some trouble, and left him limping for a week or two.

   In "choosing" to stay with me, he had made the best of a bad job, since
for the time being he was tied to the cave by his injury and by the loss of
his horse, but he served me well, mastering what resentment he might yet fee
l towards me and his new position. He was silent still, but this suited me,
and I went quietly about my affairs, while Ralf gradually fell into my ways,
 and we got along tolerably well together. Whatever he thought of my quarter
s in the cave, and the menial tasks which between us we had to do, he made i
t clear that he was a page serving a prince. Somehow, through the days that
followed, I found myself relieved, bit by bit, of burdensome work which I ha
d begun to take for granted; I had leisure again to study, to replenish my s
tore of medicines, even to make music. It was strange at first, and then in
some way comforting, to lie wakeful in the night and hear the boy's untroubl
ed breathing from the other side of the cave. After a while, I found I was s
leeping better; as the nightmares receded, strength and calmness came back;
and if power still withheld itself, I no longer despaired of its return.

   As for Ralf, though I could see that he still fretted against his exile-
to which, of course, he could see no clear end- he was never less than courte
ous, and as time went on seemed to accept his banishment with a better grace,
 and either lost or hid his unhappiness in a kind of contentment.
   So the weeks went by, and the valley fields yellowed towards harvest, a
nd the message came at last from Tintagel. One evening in August, towards d
usk, a messenger came spurring up the valley. Ralf was not with me. I had s
ent him that afternoon across the hill to the hut where the shepherd, Abba,
 lived all summer. I had been treating Abba's son Ban, who was simple, for
a poisoned foot; this was almost healed, but still needed salves.

   I went out to meet the messenger. He had dismounted below the cliff, an
d now clambered up to the flat alp in front of the cave. He was a young man
, spruce and lively, and his horse was fresh. I guessed from this that his
message was not urgent; he had taken his time, and come at his ease. I saw
him take in my ragged robe and threadbare mantle in one swift, summing glan
ce, but he doffed his cap and went on one knee. I wondered if the salute wa
s for the enchanter, or for the King's son.

  "My lord Merlin." .

  "You are welcome," I said. "From Tintagel?"

  "Yes, sir. From the Queen." A quick upward glance. "I came privily, wit
hout the King's knowledge."

  "So I had imagined, or you would have borne her badge. Get up, man. T
he grass is damp. Have you had supper?"

  He looked surprised. It was not thus, I reckoned, that most princes receiv
ed their messengers. "Why, no, sir, but I bespoke it at the inn."

   "Then I won't keep you from it. I've no doubt it will be better than you'
d get here. Well then, your business? You've brought a letter from the Queen?
"
  "No letter, sir, just the message that the Queen desires to see you."
   "Now?" I asked sharply. "Is there anything wrong with her, or with the ch
ild she bears?"

   "Nothing. The doctors and the women say that all is well. But"-he droppe
d his eyes-"it seems she has that on her mind which makes her want to talk w
ith you. As soon as possible, she said."

  "I see." Then, with my voice as carefully neutral as his: "Where is the Ki
ng?"

  "The King plans to leave Tintagel in the second week of September."

  "Ah. So any time after that it will be 'possible' for me to see the Queen."

   This was rather more frank than he cared for. He flashed me a glance, t
hen looked at the ground again. "The Queen will be pleased to receive you t
hen. She has bidden me make arrangements for you. You will understand that
it will not do for you to be received openly in the castle of Tintagel." Th
en, in a burst of candour: "You must know, my lord, there is no man's hand
in Cornwall but will be against you. It would be better if you came disguis
ed."
  "As for that," I said, fingering my beard, "you will see that I'm half dis
guised already. Don't worry, man, I understand; I'll be discreet. But you'll h
ave to tell me more. She gave no reason for this summons?"
  "None, my lord."

   "And you heard nothing-no gossip from among the women, things like tha
t?"
   He shook his head, then, at the look in my face, added quickly: "My lord,
 she was urgent. She did not say so, but it must concern the child, what else
?"
   "Then I will come." I thought he looked shocked. As he lowered his eyes,
 I said, sharply: "Well, what did you expect? I am not the Queen's man. No,
nor the King's either, so there's no need to look scared."

  "Whose, then?"
    "My own, and God's. But you can go back to the Queen and tell her I w
ill come. What arrangements have you made for me?"

    He hurried, relieved, on to his own ground. "There is a small inn at a
ford of the river Camel, in the valley about five miles from Tintagel. It i
s kept by a man called Caw. He is a Cornishman, but his wife Maeve was one
of the Queen's women, and he will keep his counsel. You can stay there with
out fear; they will expect you. You may send messages to Tintagel, if you w
ill, by one of Maeve's sons- it would not be wise to go near the castle unt
il the Queen sends for you. Now for the journey. The weather should still b
e fine in mid-September, and the seas are usually calm enough, so-"

   "If you are about to advise me that it is easier to go by sea, you're wast
ing your breath," I said. "Has no one ever told you that enchanters can't cros
s water? At least, not with any comfort. I should be seasick did I so much as
cross the Severn River in the ferry. No, I go by road."

   "But the main road takes you past the barracks at Caerleon. You might b
e recognized. And then the bridge at Glevum is guarded by King's troops."

   "Very well. I'll take the river crossing, but make it a short one." I kn
ew that he was right. To go by the main road through Caerleon and then by th
e Glevum Bridge would, even without the prospect of discovery by Uther's tro
ops, put several days on my journey. "I'll avoid the military road. There's
a good track along the coast through Nidum; I'll go that way, if you can bes
peak me a boat at the mouth of the Ely River?"
   Very well, my lord." And so it was arranged. I would cross from the Ely
 to the mouth of the Uxella in the country of the Dumnonii, and from there
I would find my way south-west by the tracks, avoiding the roads where I mi
ght fall in with Uther's troops or Cador's men.
  "Do you know the way?" he asked me. "For the last part, of course, Ralf
can guide you."

   "Ralf will not be with me. But I can find it. I've been through that count
ry before, and I have a tongue in my head."

  "I can arrange for horses-"

   "Better not," I said. "We agreed, did we not, that I would be better disgu
ised? I'll use a disguise that has served me before. I'll be a travelling eye
doctor, and a humble fellow like that doesn't expect to post with fresh horses
 all the way. Have no fear, I shall be safe, and, when the Queen wants me, I s
hall be there."

   He was satisfied, and stayed for a while longer answering my questions
 and giving me what news there was. The King's brief punitive expedition a
gainst the coastal raiders had been successful, and the newcomers had been
 pushed back behind the agreed boundaries of the Federated West Saxons. Fo
r the moment things were quiet in the south. From the north had come rumou
rs of tougher fighting where Anglian raiders, from Germany, had crossed th
e coast near the Alaunus River in the country of the Votadini. This is the
 country that we of Dyfed call Manau Guotodin, and it is from here that th
e great King Cunedda came, invited a century ago by the Emperor Maximus, t
o drive the Irish from Northern Wales and settle there as allies to the Im
perial Eagles. These were, I suppose, the first of the Federates; they dro
ve the Irish out, and afterwards remained in Northern Wales, which they ca
lled Gwynedd. A descendant of Cunedda held it still; Maelgon, a stark king
 and a good warrior, as a man would have to be to keep that country in the
 wake of the great Magnus Maximus.

    Another descendant of Cunedda still held the Votadini country: a young
king, Lot, as fierce and as good a fighter as Maelgon; his fortress lay nea
r the coast south of Caer Eidyn, in the center of his kingdom of Lothian. I
t was he who had faced and beaten off the latest attack of the Angles. He h
ad been given his command by Ambrosius, in the hope that with him the kings
 of the north-Gwalawg of Elmet, Urien of Gore, the chiefs of Strathclyde, K
ing Coel of Rheged-would form a strong wall in the north and east. But Lot,
 it was said, was ambitious and quarrelsome; and Strathclyde had sired nine
 sons already and (while they fought like young bull seals each for his squ
are of territory) was cheerfully siring more. Urien of Gore had married Lot
's sister and would stand firm, but was, it was said, too close in Lot's sh
adow. The strongest of them was still (as in my father's time) Coel of Rheg
ed, who held with a light hand all the smaller chiefs and earls of his king
dom, and brought them together faithfully against the smallest threat to th
e sovereignty of the High Kingdom.
   Now, the Queen's messenger told me, the King of Rheged, with Ector of
Galava and Ban of Benoic, had joined with Lot and Urien to clear the north
 of trouble, and for the time being they had succeeded. On the whole the n
ews was cheering. The harvest had been good everywhere, so hunger would no
t drive any more Saxons across before winter closed the seaways. We should
 have peace for a time; enough time for Uther to settle any unrest caused
by the quarrel with Cornwall and his new marriage, to ratify such alliance
s as Ambrosius had made, and to strengthen and extend his system of defens
es.

   At length the messenger took his leave. I wrote no letters, but sent ne
ws of Ralf to his grandmother, and a message of compliance to the Queen, Wi
th thanks for the gift of money she had sent me by the messenger's hand to
provide for my journey. Then the young man rode off cheerfully down the val
ley towards the good company and the better supper that awaited him at the
inn. It remained now for me to tell Ralf.

   This was more difficult even than I had expected. His face lit when I
told him about the messenger, and he looked eagerly about for the man, see
ming very disappointed when he found that he had already gone. Messages fr
om his grandmother he received almost impatiently, but plied me with quest
ions about the fighting south of Vindocladia, listening with such eagernes
s to all I could tell him of that and the larger news that it was obvious
that his forced inaction in Maridunum fretted him far more than he had sho
wn. When I came to the Queen's summons he showed more animation than I had
 seen in him since he had come to me.

  "How long before we set out?"
  "I did not say 'we' would set out. I shall go alone."

   "Alone?" You would have thought I had struck him. The blood sprang unde
r the thin skin and he stood staring with his mouth open. Eventually he sai
d, sounding stifled: "You can't mean that. You can't."

    "I'm not being arbitrary, believe me. I'd like to take you, but you must see
it isn't possible."
  "Why not? You know everything here will be perfectly safe; in any case,
you've left it before. And you can't travel alone. How would you go on?"

  "My dear Ralf. I've done it before."

   "Maybe you have, but you can't deny I've served you well since I've bee
n here, so why not take me? You can't just go to Tintagel-back to where thi
ngs are happening-and leave me here! I warn you"-he took a breath, eyes bla
zing, all his careful -courtesy collapsing in ruins-"I warn you, my lord, i
f you go without me, I shan't be here when you come back!"
   I waited till his gaze fell, then said mildly: "Have some sense, boy.
Surely you see why I can't take you? The situation hasn't changed so much
since you had to leave Cornwall. You know what would happen if any of Cado
r's men recognized you, and everyone knows you round about Tintagel. You'd
 be seen, and the word would go round."

  "I know that. Do you still think I'm afraid of Cador? Or of the King?"
  "No. But it's foolish to run into danger when one doesn't need to. And th
e messenger certainly seemed to think there was still danger."

  "Then what about you? Won't you be in danger, too?"

  "Possibly. I shall have to go disguised, as it is. Why do you think I've be
en letting my beard grow all this while?"

   "I didn't know. I never thought about it. Do you mean you've been expec
ting the Queen to send for you?"

   "I didn't expect this summons, I admit," I said. "But I know that, come Ch
ristmas, when the child is born, I must be there."
  He stared. "Why?"

   I regarded him for a moment. He was standing near the mouth of the cave,
 against the sunset, just as he had come in from his trip across the hill to
 the shepherd's hut. He was still clutching the osier basket which had held
the salves. It held a small bundle now, wrapped in a clean linen cloth. The
shepherd's wife, who lived across in the next valley, sent bread up weekly t
o her man; some of this Abba regularly sent on to me. I could see the boy's
fists clenched bone-white on the handle of the basket. He was tense, as angr
y and fretting as a fighting dog held back in the slips. There was something
 more here, I was sure, than homesickness, or disappointment at missing an a
dventure.
   "Put that basket down, for goodness' sake," I said, "and come in. That's
 better. Now, sit down. It's time that you and I talked. When I accepted you
r service, I did not do so because I wanted someone to scour the cooking pot
s and carry gifts from Abba's wife on baking day. Even if I am content with
my life here on Bryn Myrddin, I'm not such a fool as to think it contents yo
u-or would do so for long. We are waiting, Ralf, no more. We have fled from
danger, both of us, and healed our hurts, and now there is nothing to do but
 wait."

  "For the Queen's childbed? Why?"

   "Because as soon as he is born, the Queen's son will be given to me to car
e for."

 He was silent for a full minute before he said, sounding puzzled: "Does
my grandmother know this?"

   "I think she suspects that the child's future lies with me. When I last s
poke with the King, on that night at Tintagel, he told me he would not acknow
ledge the child who would be born. I think this is why the Queen has sent for
 me."

  "But . . . not to acknowledge his eldest son? You mean he will send h
im away? Will the Queen agree? A baby-surely they would never send it to
you? How could you keep it? And how can you even know it will be a boy?"

   "Because I had a vision, Ralf, that night in Tintagel. After you had let
 us in through the postern gate, while the King was with Ygraine, and Ulfin
kept guard outside the chamber, you diced with the porter in the lodge by th
e postern. Do you remember?"

  "How could I ever forget? I thought that night would never end."
  I did not tell him that it had not ended yet. I smiled.

   "I think I felt the same, while I waited alone in the guardroom. It was
 then that I saw-was shown-for certain why God had required me to do as I h
ad done, shown for sure that my prophecies had been true. I heard a sound o
n the stairs, and went out of the guard-room onto the landing. I saw Marcia
, your grandmother, coming down the steps towards me from the Queen's room,
 carrying a child. And though it was only March, I felt the chill of midwin
ter, and then I saw the stairs and the shadows clear through her body, and
knew it was a vision. She put the child into my arms and said, 'Take care o
f him.' She was weeping. Then she vanished, and the child too, and the wint
er's chill went with her. But this was a true picture, Ralf. At Christmas I
 shall be there, waiting, and Marcia will hand the Queen's son into my care."
  He was silent for a long time. He seemed awed by the vision. But then h
e said, practically: "And I? Where do I come into this? Is this why my gran
dmother told me to stay with you and serve you?"

   "Yes. She saw no future for you near the King. So she made sure you wou
ld be near his son."

    "A baby?" His voice was blank. He sounded horrified, and far from flatt
ered. "You mean that if the King won't acknowledge the child, you'll have t
o keep it? I don't understand. Oh, I can see why my grandmother concerns he
rself, and even why you do, but not why she dragged me into it! What sort o
f future does she think there is in looking after a king's bastard that won
't be acknowledged?"

  "Not a king's bastard," I said. "A king."

   There was silence but for the fluttering of the fire. I had not spoken wi
th power, but with the full certainty of knowledge. He stared, open-mouthed,
and shaken.

   "Ralf," I said, "you came to me in anger, and you stayed from duty, and
 you have served me as well and as faithfully as you knew how. You were no
part of my vision, and I don't know if your coming here, or the wounds that
 held you here with me, were part of God's plan; I have had no message from
 my gods since Gorlois died. But I do know now, after these last weeks, tha
t there is no one I would sooner choose to help me. Not with the kind of se
rvice you have given till now: when this winter comes it isn't a servant I
shall need; I shall need a fighting man who is loyal, not to me or to the Q
ueen, but to the next High King."

  He was pale, and stammering. "I had no idea. I thought ... I thought . . ."

   "That you were suffering a kind of exile? In a way, we both were. I tol
d you it was a waiting time." I looked down at my hands. It was dark now ou
tside the cave; the sun had gone, and dusk drew in. "Nor do I know clearly
what lies ahead, except danger and loss and treachery, and in the end some
glory."

  He sat quiet, without moving, till I roused myself from my thoughts and
smiled at him. "So now, perhaps, you will accept that I don't doubt your cou
rage?"
  "Yes. I'm sorry I spoke as I did. I didn't understand." He hesitated, ch
ewing his lip, then sat forward, hands on knees. "My lord, you really don't
know why the Queen has sent for you now?"

  "No."

  "But because you know that your vision of the birth was a true one, you
know that you will go safely this time to Cornwall, and return?"

  "You could say so."

  "Then if your magic is always true, might it not be because I go with you
to protect you that you make the journey safely?"

   I laughed. "I suppose it's a good quality in a fighting man, never to admi
t defeat. But can't you see, taking you would only be taking two risks instead
 of one. Because my bones tell me I shall be safe, it doesn't mean that you wi
ll."
   "If you can be disguised, so can I. If you even say that we must go as be
ggars and sleep in the ditches . . . whatever the danger . . ." He swallowed,
 sounding all at once very young. "What is it to you if I run a risk? You are
 to be safe, you told me so. So taking me can't endanger you, and that's all
that matters. Won't you let me take my own risks? Please?"

   His voice trailed away. Silence again, and the fire flickering. Time wa
s, I thought, not without bitterness, when I would only have had to watch t
he flames to find the answer there. Would he be safe? Or would I carry the
burden of yet another death? But all that the firelight showed me was a you
th who needed to find manhood. Uther had denied it to him; I could not let
my conscience do the same.

   At length I said heavily: "I told you once that men must stand by their
own deeds. I suppose that means I have no right to stop you taking your own
risks. Very well, you may come. . . . No, don't thank me. You'll dislike me
thoroughly enough before we're done. It will be a damned uncomfortable journ
ey, and before we set out, you'll have work to do that won't suit you."

  "I'm used to that," he said, and straightened, laughing. He was shining,
excited, the gaiety that I remembered back in his face. "But you don't mean
you're going to teach me magic?"
  "I do not. But I shall have to teach you a little medicine, whether you l
ike it or not. I shall be a travelling eye doctor; it's a good passport anywh
ere, and one can pay one's way easily without spending the Queen's gold abroa
d where questions might be asked. So you will have to be my assistant, and th
at means learning to mix the salves properly."

  "Well, if I must, but God help the patients! You know I can't tell one herb
from the other."

  "Never fear, I wouldn't let you touch them. You can leave me to select the
plants. You'll just prepare them."

  "And if any of Cador's men show signs of recognizing us, just try some of
my salves on them," he said buoyantly. "Talk about magic, it'll be easy. The
eye doctor's skilled assistant will simply strike them blind."

     We came to the inn at Camelford two days before the middle of Septembe
r.
   The Camel valley is winding, with steep sides clothed with trees. For t
he last part of the way we followed the track along the waterside. The tree
s were closely crowded, and the path where we rode was so thickly padded wi
th moss and small, dark-green ferns that our horses' hoofs made no sound. B
eside us the river wrangled its way down through granite boulders that glit
tered in the sun. Around and above us the dense hangers of oak and beech we
re turning yellow, and acorns crunched among the dead leaves where the hors
es trod. Nuts ripened in the thickets; the willows trailed amber leaves in
the tugging shallows; and wherever the bright sun splashed through the boug
hs it shimmered on the spiders' webs of autumn furred and glittering, saggi
ng deep with dew.

   Our journey had been uneventful. Once south of the Severn and beyond h
ourly danger of recognition, we had ridden at ease, and in pleasant stages
. The weather, as so often in September, was warm and bright, but with a c
risp feel to the air that made riding a pleasure. Ralf had been in high sp
irits all the way, in spite of poor clothes, an undistinguished horse (bou
ght with some of the Queen's gold) and the work he had had to do for me ma
king the washes and ointments with which I largely paid our way. We were o
nly questioned once, by a troop of King's men who came on us just short of
 Hercules Point. Uther kept the old Roman camp there garrisoned as a stron
gpoint, and by the purest mischance we fell foul of a scouting party which
 was making its way home by the moorland track we followed. We were taken
to the camp and questioned, though it seemed this was merely a matter of f
orm as, after a cursory look at our baggage, my story was accepted. We wer
e sent on our way with our flasks refilled with the ration wine, the riche
r for a copper coin given me by a man off duty who followed us out of camp
 and begged a pot of salve from me.

   I found the men's vigilance interesting, and would have liked to know mo
re of the state of affairs in the north, but that would have to wait. To hav
e asked questions here would have attracted attention I did not want. No dou
bt I would find out what I wished to know from the Queen herself.

   "Did you see anyone you knew?" I asked Ralf, as we headed over the moo
rs at a brisk canter away from the gate of the camp.

  "None. Did you?"

  "I'd met the officer before, a few years ago. His name is Priscus. But he
gave no sign of recognizing me."
   "I wouldn't have known you myself," said Ralf. "And it isn't just the bea
rd. It's the way you walk, your voice, everything. It's like that night at Ti
ntagel, when you were disguised as the Duke's captain. I'd known him all my l
ife, and I'd have sworn you were he. It's no wonder folks are talking about m
agic. I thought it was magic myself."

   "This is easier," I said. "If you carry a trade or a skill with you men thin
k about that, instead of looking at you too closely."
   Indeed, I had troubled very little with disguise. I had bought a new ri
ding cloak, brown, with a hood which could be pulled about my face, and I s
poke Celtic with the accent of Brittany. This is a tongue close to the Corn
ish one, and would be understood where we were going. This, with the beard,
 and my humble tradesman's bearing, should keep any but my intimates from k
nowing me. Nothing would part me from the brooch my father had given me, wi
th its royal cipher of the Red Dragon on gold, but I wore it clipped inside
 the breast of my tunic, and had threatened Ralf with every face in the Nin
e Books of Magic if he called me "my lord" even in private.

   We reached Camelford towards evening. The inn was a small squat building
 of daubed stone built where the coast road ran down into the ford. It was a
t the top of the bank, just clear of flood level. Ralf and I, approaching by
 the country track along the river, came on it from the rear. It seemed a pl
easant place, and clean. Someone had given the stones a wash of red ochre, t
he colour of the rich earth thereabouts, and fat poultry picked about among
the ricks at the edge of a swept yard. A chained dog dozed in the shade of a
 mulberry tree heavy with fruit. There was a tidy stack of firewood against
the byre, and the midden was fully twenty feet from the back door.

   As luck would have it, the innkeeper's wife was out at the back with a m
aidservant, taking in bedding which had been spread over the bushes in the s
un. As we approached the dog flew out, barking, at the length of his chain.
The woman straightened, shading her eyes against the light, and staring.

   She was a young woman, broadly built and lively looking, with a fresh,
high colour and prominent light-blue eyes. Her bad teeth and plump figure g
ave away a rash passion for sweetmeats, and the lively blue eyes spoke even
 more clearly of other pleasures. They ran now over Ralf, who rode ahead of
 me, appraised him as likely, but young for it; then, more hopefully, over
me, to dismiss me finally as less likely, and probably too poor to pay my s
hot anyway. Then, as her gaze returned to Ralf, I saw her recognize him. Sh
e stiffened, looking quickly back at me. Her mouth fell open, and I thought
 for an anxious moment that she was going to curtsy, but then she had comma
nd of herself. A word sent the maid packing indoors with an armful of beddi
ng, a shrill bidding to the dog drove him back, ears down and growling, int
o the mulberry shade, then she was greeting us, smiling widely, eyes curiou
s and excited.

  "You'll be the eye doctor, likely?"

 We drew our horses to a halt in the dust of the yard. "Indeed, mistress.
My name is Emrys, and this is my servant Ban."

   "We've been expecting you. Your beds is bespoke." Then under her breat
h as she came close to my horse's shoulder: "You be very welcome, my lord,
 and Ralf, too. I declare he do look a handspan taller than when I seen hi
m last. Will you be pleased to come in?"

  I dismounted and handed the reins to Ralf. "Thank you. It's good to be
here; we're both weary. Ralf will look after the horses himself. Now before
 we go in, Maeve, give me the news from Tintagel. Is all well with the Quee
n?"

 "Yes, indeed, sir, praise be to all the saints and fairies. You need have no
worries there, surely."
  "And the King? He's still at Tintagel?"
   "Aye, my lord, but the word goes that he'll ride out any day now. You'l
l not have long to bide. You're as safe here as anywhere in Cornwall. We'll
 have good enough warning of troops moving, and you can hear them on this r
oad a mile off. And never worry about Caw-that's my husband; he's a Duke's
man, sure enough, but he'll do nothing to harm my lady, and besides, he alw
ays does as I tell him. Leastways, not always. There's some things he don't
 do near often enough for my liking." This with a burst of cheery laughter.
 I saw Ralf grinning as he led the horses away, then Maeve, talking loudly
about beds and supper-time, and the sore eyes of her youngest which could d
o with looking at, led me through the back door of the inn.

   When I saw her husband later that evening I knew that I need have no fea
rs for his discretion. He was a dry stick of a man, and silent as an oyster.
 He came in as we were sitting down to supper, stared at Ralf, nodded at me,
 then went about his business of serving wine without a word spoken. His wif
e treated him-and all comers-with the same rough, frank kindliness, and saw
to it without fuss that we were well served and comfortably housed. It was a
s good a house of its kind as I have ever been in, and the food was excellen
t.

   Understandably, the inn was always busy, but there was little danger o
f our being recognized. My character as a travelling healer was not only m
y pass to people's incurious acceptance; it gave Ralf and me the excuse to
 be abroad in the countryside. Each day early we would take food and wine
with us, and make our way up by one of the deep, densely wooded glens that
 fed the Camel valley, to the windy upland that lay between Camelford and
the sea. Ralf knew all the ways. We would separate, more often than not, a
nd each choose some hidden point of vantage from which he could watch the
two roads which Uther and his men might take out of Tintagel. He might tur
n north-east along the coast for Dimilioc and the camp near Hercules Point
, or- if he was making straight for Winchester or the trouble centers alon
g the Saxon Shore-he would follow the valley tracks through Camelford and
from there climb south-east to the military road which ran along the spine
 of Dumnonia. Here on the wind-swept heights the forest thins, and there a
te great tracts of broken moorland treacherous with bog and watched over b
y strange stony hills. The old Roman road, crumbling fast in that wild cou
ntry, but still service-runs straight through Isca, into the kinder lands
behind Ambrosius' Wall. It was my guess that this latter was the way that
Uther would take, and I wanted to see who rode with him. Ralf and I gave i
t out that I was searching for plants for my medicines, and indeed I came
back each evening to my meeting-place with him with a pouch full of roots
and berries which did not grow at home, and which I was glad to have. Luck
ily the weather continued fine, and no one wondered to see us ride abroad.
 They were too glad to have a doctor staying there who, each evening, woul
d treat any who came to him, and ask no more than they could afford to pay.

  So the days went by, serene and still, while we waited for the King to m
ove, and the Queen to send word.
  It was a week before he rode out. He went the way I had expected, and I
was there watching.

   There is a place where the track from Tintagel to Camel-ford runs straig
ht for some quarter of a mile along the foot of a steeply wooded bank. For t
he most part the wood is too steep and thickly grown to penetrate, but there
 were places at the wood's edge open to the sun, stony banks deep in ferns a
nd drifting thistledown, where brambles and bracken grew in thickets over th
e rocks. The blackthorn bushes were high, and glinting with fruit. Some of t
he little sloe-plums were still greenish, but most were ready; black bloomed
 over pale blue with ripeness. There is an extract one can make of the fruit
 which is sovereign for a flux of the bowels: one of Maeve's children had be
en suffering in this way, and I had promised a draught that night. It would
need no more than a handful, but the fruit was ripe to perfection, and so te
mpting that I went on gathering. If the berries are crushed and added in a c
ertain way to juniper-wine they make a good drink, rich, astringent and powe
rful. I had told Maeve of it, and she wanted to try it.
   My bag was almost full when I heard, like a soft thunder in the distance
, horses coming steadily along the track below me. I withdrew quickly into t
he edge of the wood, and watched from hiding. Soon the head of the column ca
me in sight; then the long train of dust, filled with the beat of trotting h
oofs, the clash of mail, the coloured glint of pennants, rolled past along t
he foot of the slope. A thousand, perhaps more I stood stone-still in the sh
adow of the trees, and watched them go by.

   A horse's length to the front the King rode, and behind him, on his left
 hand, his standard-bearer carried the Red Dragon. Other colours showed thro
ugh the dust, but there was no wind to move the banners, and though I strain
ed my eyes the length of the column, I could not swear to most that I saw. N
or did I glimpse the one I was watching for, though it might well have been
there. I waited till the last horseman disappeared at a smart trot round a b
end in the road, then I made my way to the place where I had arranged to mee
t Ralf.
  He met me halfway, panting. "Did you see them?"

  "Yes. Where were you? I sent you to watch the other road."

  "I was watching. There was nothing stirring there, nothing at all. I was
on my way back here when I heard them, so I ran. I almost missed them-only sa
w the tail end. It was the King, wasn't it?"

  "It was. Ralf, could you pick out the devices? Did you see any that you
knew?"

    "I saw Brychan, and Cynfelin, but no others from Dyf-naint that I recog
nized. The men from Garlot were there, and Cernyw, too, I think, and others
 I thought I knew, but there was too much dust to make sure. They were roun
d that bend before I could get a good sight of them."
  "Was Cador there?"

  "My lord, I'm sorry, I didn't see."

  "No matter. If the others were there from Cornwall, you may be sure he
would be. No doubt they'll know at the inn. And had you forgotten that you
were not to call me 'my lord,' even when we were alone?"

   "I'm sorry . . . Emrys." It was a measure of our new, easier relationsh
ip that he should add, with a suspicious meekness: "And had you forgotten t
hat my name is Ban?" Then, laughing as he dodged my cuff at his head: "Do y
ou have to call me after the half-wit?"

  "It's the first name that came into my head. It's a king's name too, the
King of Benoic, so you can take your choice which was your sponsor."

  "Benoic? Where's that?"
    "In the north. Come now, we'll get back to the inn. I doubt if the Queen w
ill send before tomorrow, but I've a draught to make tonight, and it's a decoc
tion that takes time. Here, carry these."

  I was right; the messenger came next morning. Ralf had gone out down t
he road' to watch for him, and the two of them came back together, with th
e news that I was to ride to Tintagel immediately for my audience with the
 Queen.

    I had not confessed it to Ralf, nor even hardly admitted it to myself,
but I was apprehensive about the coming interview with Ygraine. On that nig
ht at Tintagel when the child was conceived I had been certain, in every wa
y a seer can be certain, that the boy who was to be born would be given to
me to foster, and that I should be the guardian of a great King. Uther hims
elf, in his bitterness and anger over Gorlois' death, had sworn to reject t
he "bastard" he had begotten, and from Marcia's letter I knew he was still
of the same mind. But in the six long months since that March night I had h
ad no direct message from Ygraine, and no means of knowing whether she woul
d obey her husband, or whether as the time drew near she would find it impo
ssible to face separation from her child. I had gone over in my mind a hun
dred times all the arguments I might bring to bear, remembering half incred
ulously the sureness with which I had spoken to her before, and to the King
. Indeed my god had been with me then. And in truth, and how bitterly, was
he gone from me now. There were even times when, lying wakeful in the night
, I saw my sure visions in the past as chances, illusions, dreams fed by de
sire. I remembered the King's bitter words to me. "I see now what your magi
c is, this 'power' you talk of. It is nothing but human trickery, an attemp
t at statecraft which my brother taught you to like and to play for, and to
 believe was your mystery. You use even God to gain your ends.'It is God wh
o tells me to do these things, it is God who exacts the price, it is God wh
o sees that others should pay . . .' For what, Merlin? For your ambition? A
nd who is it pays this debt to God for carrying out your plans? Not you. Th
e men who play your game for you, and pay the price. But you pay nothing."
When I listened to such words as these, heard clearly in the nights when no
thing else spoke to me, I wondered if I had read my vision of the future ar
ight, or if everything I had done and dreamed of had been a mockery. Then,
thinking of those who had paid with death for my dream, I would wonder if that death
der than this desert of self-doubt where I lay fixed, waiting in vain for ev
en the smallest of my gods to speak to me. Oh, yes, I paid. Every night of t
hose nine long months I paid.

   But now it was day, and I would soon find out what the Queen wanted wi
th me. I remember how restlessly I fidgeted around while Ralf saddled my h
orse and made ready. Maeve was with the maids in the kitchen, washing the
sloes for the wine-making. A pan of them was on the stove, coming to the s
immer. It seemed a strange memory to take with me on my visit to the Queen
, the smell of sloe wine. Suddenly I found the pungent sweetness intolerab
le, and made, choking, for the air outside. But then one of the girls came
 running to ask something about the mixing, and in answering her I forgot
my sickness, and then all at once Ralf was at my elbow to summon me, and t
he three of us-Ralf, the messenger and I-were heading for Tintagel at a ha
nd-gallop through the soft, blowing September noon.



7

It was only a few months since I had last seen Ygraine, but she seemed ver
y much changed. At first I thought this was only the pregnancy; her once-s
lim body was greatly swollen and, though her face was full of the bloom of
 health, she had that pinched and shadowy look that women get around the e
yes and mouth. But the change was deeper than this; it was in the expressi
on of her eyes, in her gestures, the way she sat. Where before she had see
med young and burning, a wild bird beating her wings against the wires of
the cage, now she seemed to brood, wings clipped, gravid, a creature of th
e ground.

   She received me in her own chamber, a long room above the curtain wall,
with a deep circular recess where the turret stood at the north-west corner.
 There were windows in the long wall facing south-west, and through these th
e sunlight fell freely, but the Queen was sitting by one of the narrow turre
t windows, through which came the breeze of the soft September afternoon, an
d the eternal noise of the sea on the rocks below. So much was still here, t
hen, of the Ygraine I remembered. It was like her, I thought, to choose the
wind and the sea sounds, rather than the sunlight. But even here, in spite o
f the light and air, one got the feeling of a cage: this was the room in whi
ch the young wife of Gorlois the old Duke had passed those pent years before
 the fateful trip to London where she had met the King. Now, after that brie
f flight, she was penned again, by her love for the King, and by the weight
of his child. I never loved a woman, except one, but I have pitied them. Now
, looking at the Queen, young, beautiful, and with her heart's desire, I pit
ied her even as I feared her for what she might say to me.

  She was alone. I had been led by a chamberlain through the outer room w
here the women span and weaved and gossiped. Bright eyes looked at me in mo
mentary curiosity, and the chattering was stilled, only to begin again as s
oon as I had passed. There was no recognition in their faces, only perhaps
here and there some disappointment at the sight of so ordinary and humble a
 fellow. No diversion here. To them I was a messenger, to be received by th
e Queen in the King's absence; that was all.

   The chamberlain rapped on the door of the inner chamber and then withdr
ew. Marcia, Ralf's grandmother, opened the door. She was a grey-haired woma
n with Ralf's eyes in a lined and anxious face, but in spite of her age she
 bore herself as straight as a girl. Though she was expecting me, I saw her
 eyes rest on me for a moment without recognition, then with a flicker of s
urprise. Even Ygraine looked startled for a moment, then she smiled and hel
d out her hand.

  "Prince Merlin. Welcome.", Marcia curtsied to the air somewhere betwe
en me and the Queen, and withdrew. I went forward to kneel and kiss the Q
ueen's hand.

  "Madam."

  She raised me kindly. "It was good of you to come so quickly for such a
strange summons. I hope the journey was easy?"

   "Very easy. We are well lodged with Maeve and Caw, and so far no one ha
s recognized me, or even Ralf. Your secret is safe."
  "I must thank you for taking so much care of it. I promise you I'd not h
ave known you until you spoke."

  I fingered my chin, smiling. "As you see, I've been preparing for some ti
me."

  "No magic this time?"

  "As much as there was before," I said.

   She looked at me straightly then, the beautiful dark-blue eyes meeting
mine in the way I remembered, and I saw that this was still the old Ygraine
, direct as a man, and with the same high pride. The heavy stillness was ju
st an overlay, the milky calm that seems to come on women in pregnancy. Ben
eath the stillness, the placidity, was the old fire. She spread her hands o
ut. "Looking at me now, do you still tell me that when you spoke to me that
 night in London, and promised me the King's love, there was no magic there?"
  "Not in the ruse that brought the King to you, madam. In what happened a
fter, perhaps."
   "'Perhaps'?" There was a quick lift to her voice that warned me. Ygrai
ne might be a Queen, with mettle as high as a man's, but she was a woman n
earing her seventh month. My fears were my own, and must stay my own. I he
sitated, searching for words, but she went on quickly, burningly, as if to
 convince herself across my silence: "When you first spoke with me and tol
d me you could bring the King to me, there was magic there, I know there w
as. I felt it, and I saw it in your face. You told me that your power came
 from God, and that in obeying you I was God's creature, even as you were.
 You said that because of the magic that would bring Uther to me, the king
dom should have peace. You spoke of crowns and altars. . . . And now, see,
 I am Queen, with God's blessing, and I am heavy with the King's child. Da
re you tell me now that you deceived me?"

   "I did not deceive you, madam. That was a time full of visions, and a pas
sion of dreams and desires. We are quit of those now, and we are sober, and i
t is daylight. But magic is here, growing in you, and this time it is fact, n
ot vision. He will be born at Christmas, they tell me." 'He'? You sound very
sure."

  "I am sure."
   I saw her press her lips together as if at a sudden spasm of pain, then
 she looked away from me, down at her hands which lay folded across her bel
ly. When she spoke, she spoke calmly, straight to her hands, or to what the
y covered. "Marcia told me of the messages she sent to you in the summer. B
ut you must have known, without her telling you, the way my lord the King t
hinks of this matter."

   I waited, but she seemed to expect an answer. "He told me himself," I sai
d. "If he's still of the same mind now as he was then, he won't acknowledge t
he child as his heir."

   "He is still of the same mind." Her eyes came swiftly up to mine again.
 "Don't misunderstand me, he has not the faintest doubt of me, nor ever had
. He knows that I was his from the first moment I saw him, and that from th
at moment, on one excuse or another, I never lay with the Duke. No, he does
 not doubt me; he knows the child is his. And for all his high speech"-ther
e was the glimmer of a smile, and suddenly her voice was indulgent, the voi
ce of a woman speaking of her child or of a loved husband-"and for all his
rough denials, he knows your power and fears it. You told him a child would
 come out of that night, and he would trust your word, even if he could not
 trust mine. But none of this alters the way he feels about it. He blames h
imself-and you, and even the child-for the Duke's death."

  "I know."

   "If he had waited, he says, Gorlois would still have died that night, an
d I would have been Queen, and the child conceived in wedlock, so that no on
e could question his parentage or call him bastard."

  "And you, Ygraine?"

   She was silent for a long time. She turned that lovely head of hers and g
azed out of the window, where the sea birds swung and tilted, crying, on the
wind. I saw, I am not sure how, that her calm was that of a soldier who has w
on one battle, and rests before the next. I felt my nerves tighten. I did not
 hold Ygraine lightly, should the battle be with me.
   She said, very quietly: "What the King says may well be true. I don't kn
ow. But what's done is done, and it is the child who must concern me now. Th
is is why I sent for you." A pause. I waited. She faced me again. "Prince Me
rlin, I fear for the child."
  "At the King's hands?" I asked.

   This was too straight, even for Ygraine. Her eyes were cold, and her voice
. "This is insolence, and folly, too. You forget yourself, my lord."

   "I?" I spoke as coldly. "It is you who forget, madam. If my mother had
 been wed to Ambrosius when he begot me, Uther would not now be King, nor
would I have helped him to your bed to beget the child you carry. There sh
ould be no talk of insolence or folly from you to me. I know, who better,
what chance there is in Britain for a prince conceived out of wedlock and
unacknowledged by his sire."

   She had flushed as red as she was pale before. Her eyes dropped from mine
, their anger dying. She spoke simply, like a girl. "You are right, I had for
gotten. I ask your pardon. I'd forgotten, too, what it was like to talk freel
y. There is no one here besides Marcia and my lord, and I cannot talk to Uthe
r about the child."
  I had been standing all this while; now I turned aside to bring up a ch
air and set it near her in the turret embrasure. I sat down. Things had cha
nged between us, suddenly, as when a wind changes. I knew then that the bat
tle was not with me, but with herself, her own woman's weakness. She was wa
tching me now as a woman in pain watches her doctor. I said gently: "Well,
I am here. And I am listening. What did you send for me to tell me?"

   She drew in her breath. When she spoke her voice was calm, but no more t
han a whisper. "That If this child is a boy, the King will not allow me to r
ear him. If it's a girl I may keep her, but a boy so begotten cannot be ackn
owledged as a prince and legitimate heir, so he must not remain here, even a
s a bastard." Visibly, she steadied herself. "I told you, Uther does not dou
bt me. But because of what happened that night, my husband's death, and all
the talk of magic, he swears that men may still believe that the Duke and no
t himself begot this child. There will be other sons, he says, whose begetti
ng no man will question, and among them he will find the heir to the High Ki
ngdom."

   "Ygraine," I said, "I know what a heavy thing it is-however it happens-f
or a woman to lose her child. Perhaps there is no heavier grief. But I think
 the King is right. The boy should not remain here to be reared as a bastard
 in times so wild and uncertain. If there should be other heirs, declared an
d acknowledged by the King, they might count him a danger to themselves, and
 certainly they would be a danger for him. I know what I'm talking about; th
is is what happened in my own childhood. And I, as a royal bastard, found fo
rtune as this prince may never find it; I had my father's protection."

   A pause. She nodded without speaking, her eyes once again on the hands th
at lay in her lap.

   "And if the child is to be sent away," I said, "it's better that he shoul
d be taken straight from the birth chamber, before you have had time even to
hold him. Believe me"- I spoke quickly, though she had not moved-"this is tru
e. I'm speaking now as a doctor."

  She moistened her lips. "Marcia says the same."
   I waited a moment, but she said no more. I started to speak, found my vo
ice come hoarsely, and cleared my throat.

   In spite of myself, my hands tightened on the arms of my chair. But my v
oice was calm and steady as I came to the core of the interview. "Has the Ki
ng told you where the child is to be fostered?"
  "No. I told you it wasn't easy to talk to him about it. But when he last s
poke of it he said he would take counsel; and he spoke of Brittany."

   "Brittany?" For all my care, the word came out with a cutting edge. I f
ought to recover my calm. My hands had clenched on the chair, and I relaxed
 them and held them still. So, my doubts were real. Oddly enough, the knowl
edge hardened me. If I must fight the King as well as Ygraine- yes, and my
Delphic gods as well-then I would do so. As long as I could see the ground
to fight from . . . "So Uther will send him to King Budec?"

   "It seems so." She seemed to have noticed nothing strange in my manner.
 "He sent a messenger a month ago. That was just before I sent to ask you t
o come. Budec is the obvious choice, after all."

   This was true. King Budec of Less Britain was a cousin of the King's.
It was he who, some thirty years ago, had taken my father and the young Ut
her under his protection when the usurper Vortigern murdered their elder b
rother King Constans, and in his capital of Kerrec they had assembled and
trained the army which had won the High Kingdom back from Vortigern. But I
 shook my head. "Too obvious. If anyone should look for the boy to harm hi
m, they'll guess where to go. Budec can't protect him all the time. Besides-"
   "Budec cannot care for my child as he should be cared for!" The words c
ame forcibly, stopping me short, but the interruption was not uncivil. It c
ame almost like a cry. It was plain that she had not heard a word I had sai
d. She was fighting herself, choosing words. "He is old, and besides, Britt
any is a long way off, and less secure even than this Saxon-ridden land. Pr
ince Merlin, I-Marcia and I-we think that you-" The hands suddenly twisted
together in her lap. Her voice changed. "There is no one else we can trust,
 And Uther-whatever Uther says, he knows that his kingdom, or any part of i
t, would be safe in your hands. You are Ambrosius' son, and the child's clo
sest kinsman. Everyone knows your power, and fears it-the child would be sa
fe with you to protect him. It's you who must take him, Merlin!" She was be
gging me now. "Take him safe, somewhere away from this cruel coast, and rea
r him for me. Teach him as you were taught, and rear him as a King's son sh
ould be reared, and then when he is grown, bring him back and let him take
his place as you did, at the next King's side."

    She faltered. I must have been staring at her like a fool. She fell quie
t, twisting her hands. There was a long silence, filled with the scent of th
e salt wind and the crying of the gulls. I had not been aware of rising, but
 I found myself standing at the window with my back to the Queen, staring ou
t at the sky, Below the turret wall the gulls wheeled and mewed in the wind,
 and far below, at the foot of the black cliff, the sea dashed and whitened.
 But I saw and heard nothing. My hands were pressed down hard on the stone o
f the sill, and when at length I lifted them and straightened they showed a
mottled bar of bloodless flesh where the stone had bitten in. I began to cha
fe them, only now feeling the small hurt as I turned back to meet the Queen'
s eyes. She too had hold of herself again, but I saw strain in her face, and
 a hand plucked at her gown.

    I said flatly: "Do you think you can persuade the King to give him to me?
"

  "No. I don't think so. I don't know." She swallowed. "Of course I can talk
to him, but-"

  "Then why send for me to ask me this, if you have no power to sway the
King?"

  She was white, and her lips worked together, but she kept her head up a
nd faced me. "I thought that if you agreed, my lord, you could-you would-"

   "I can do nothing with Uther now. You should know that." Then, in sudden
, bitter comprehension: "Or did you send for me as you did last time, hoping
 for magic to order, as if I were an old spell-wife, or a country druid? I w
ould have thought, madam-" I stopped. I had seen the flinching in her eyes,
and the drawn pallor round her mouth, and I remembered what she carried in h
er. My anger died. I turned up a hand, speaking gently: "Very well. If it ca
n be done, Ygraine, I will do it, even if I have to talk to Uther myself to
remind him of his promise."

    "His promise? What did he promise you, and when?"

   "When he first sent for me, and told me of his love for you, he swore to o
bey me in anything, if only he could have his way." I smiled at her. "It was m
eant as a bribe rather than a promise, but no matter, we'll hold it to him as
a royal oath."

   She began to thank me, but I stopped her. "No, no, keep your thanks. I
may not succeed with the King; you know how little he loves me. You were wi
se to send secretly, and you'll be wiser not to let him know we talked of t
his together."
  "He shan't know from me."

    I nodded. "Now, for the child's sake and your own, you must put your fea
rs aside. Leave this to me. Even if we can't move the King, I promise you th
at wherever the child is fostered, I shall make it my business to watch over
 him. He will be kept safely, and reared as a King's son should be reared. W
ill that content you?"
  "If it has to, yes."

   She drew a long breath then and moved at last, rising from her chair and
, still gracefully in spite of her bulk, pacing down the long room to one of
 the far windows. I made no move to follow her. She stood there for a while
with her back to me, in silence. When at length she turned, she was smiling.
 She lifted a hand to beckon me and I went to her.

  "Will you tell me one thing, Merlin?"

  "If I can."

   "That night when we spoke in London, before you brought the King to me
here. You talked of a crown, and a sword standing in an altar like a cross.
 I have wondered so much about it, thinking . . . Tell me now, truly. Was i
t my crown you saw? Or did you mean that this child-this boy who has cost s
o much-that he will be King?"
    I should have said to her: "Ygraine, I do not know. If my vision was true,
 if I was a true prophet, then he will be King. But the Sight has left me, and
 nothing speaks to me in the night or in the fire, and I am barren. I can only
 do as you do, and take the time on trust. But there is no going back. God wil
l not waste all the deaths."

   But she was watching me with the eyes of a woman in pain, so I said to h
er: "He will be King."
   She bent her head and stood silent for a few moments, watching the sunligh
t on the floor, not as if thinking, but as if listening to what stirred within
 her. Then she looked up at me again.

  "And the sword in the altar?"
  I shook my head. "Madam, I don't know. It has not come yet. If I am to k
now, I will be shown."

   She put out a hand. "One more thing . . ." From something in her voice, I
 knew that this mattered most to her. Not knowing what was coming, I braced m
yself to lie. She said: "If I must lose this child . . . Shall I have others,
 Merlin?"

  "That is three things you have asked me, Ygraine."

  "You won't answer?"

   I had spoken only to gain time, but at the flash of fear and doubt in her
eyes I was glad to tell her the truth. "I would answer you, madam, but I do no
t know."

  "How is that?" she asked sharply.
   I lifted my shoulders. "That again I cannot answer. Further than this boy
 you carry, I have not seen. But it seems probable, since he is to be King, t
hat you will have no other sons. Girls, maybe, to bring you comfort."

   "I shall pray for it," she said simply, and led the way back to the embr
asure. She gestured me to sit. "Will you not take a cup of wine with me now,
 before you leave? I've received you poorly, I'm afraid, after asking such a
 journey of you, but I was in torment until I had talked with you. Won't you
 sit down with me now for a little while, and tell me what the news is with
you?"

   So I stayed a short while longer and, after I had given her my meager n
ews, I asked where Uther was bound with his troops. She told me that he was
 heading, not for his capital at Winchester as I had supposed, but northwar
ds to Viro-coninm, where he had called a council of leaders and petty kings
 from the north and north-east. Viroconium is the old Roman town which lies
 on the border of Wales, with the mountains of Gwynedd between it and the t
hreat of the Irish Shore. It was still at this time a market center, and th
e roads were well maintained. Once out of the Dumnonian Peninsula, Uther co
uld make good speed north by the Glevum Bridge. He might even, if the weath
er stayed fair and the country quiet, be back for the Queen's lying-in. For
 the moment, Ygraine told me, the Saxon Shore was quiet; after Uther's vict
ory at Vindocladia the invaders had retired on the hospitality of the feder
ated tribes. There was no clear news from the north, but the King (she told
 me) feared some kind of concerted action there in the spring between the P
icts of Strathclyde and the invading Angles: the meeting of the Kings at Vi
roconium had been called in an attempt to thrash out some kind of united pl
an of defense.

  "And Duke Cador?" I asked her. "Does he stay here in Cornwall, or go
on to Vindocladia to -watch the Saxon Shore?"

     Her answer surprised me. "He is going north with the King, to the council
."

   "Is he indeed? Then I'd better guard myself." Ac her quick look I nodded.
 "Yes, I shall go straight to the King. Time grows short, and it's luck for m
e that he's travelling north. He's bound to take his troops by the Glevum Bri
dge, so Ralf and I can cross by the ferry and get there before him. If I inte
rcept him north of the Severn, there's nothing to show him that I ever left W
ales."
   Soon after that I took my leave. When I left her she was standing by th
e window again. Her head was held high, and the breeze was ruffling her dar
k hair. I knew then that when the time came the child would not be taken fr
om a weeping and regretful woman, but from a Queen, who was content to let
him go to his destiny.

   Not so with Marcia. She was waiting for me in the anteroom, bursting with
 questions, regrets, and anger against the King which she barely smothered in
to discretion. I reassured her as best I could, swore several times on every
god in every shrine and hollow hill in Britain that I would do my utmost to g
et possession of the child and keep him safe, but when she started to ask me
for spells for protection in childbed, and to talk of wet-nurses, I left her
talking, and made for the door.
   Forgetting herself in her agitation, she followed me and grabbed my sle
eve. "And did I tell you? The King says she must have his own physician, a
man he can trust to put the right stories about afterwards, and say nothing
 about where the poor mite goes for fostering. As if it wasn't more importa
nt that my lady should be properly looked after! Give any doctor enough gol
d, and he'd swear his own mother's life away, everybody knows that."

  "Certainly," I said gravely. "But I know Gandar well, and there's no one
better. The Queen will be in good hands."
  "But an army doctor! What can he know about childbirth?"
   I laughed. "He served with my father's army in Brittany for a long time
. Where there are fighting men, there are also their women. My father had a
 standing army in Brittany of fifteen thousand men, encamped. Believe me, G
andar has had plenty of experience."

  With that she had to be content. She was talking again about wet-nurses wh
en I left her.

    She came to the inn that night, cloaked and hooded, and riding straight
as a man. Maeve led her to the room her family shared, drove out everyone-in
cluding Caw-who was still awake, then took Ralf in to talk to his grandmothe
r. I was in bed before she left.

   Next morning Ralf and I set out for Bryn Myrddin, with a flask or two o
f sloe wine to cheer us on our way. To my surprise, Ralf seemed every bit a
s cheerful as he had been on the way south. I wondered if, after the brief
spell back in the scene of his childhood, service with me had begun to look
 like freedom. He had heard all the news from his grandmother; he told it m
e as we rode; most of it was what I had learned already from the Queen, wit
h some court gossip added which was entertaining but hardly informative, ex
cept for the talk which was inevitably going round about Uther's rejection
of the child.

  Ralf, to my secret amusement, seemed as anxious now as Marcia for me to
get custody of the baby.

  "If the King refuses, what will you do?"

  "Go to Brittany to talk to King Budec,"
  "Do you think he'll let you stay with the prince?"

  "Budec is my kinsman too, remember."
  "Well, but would he risk offending King Uther? Would he keep it secret
from him?"

   "That I can't tell you," I said, "If it had been Hoel, now -Budec's son-th
at would be different. He and Uther always fought like dogs after the same bit
ch."
   I did not add that the description was in fact more accurate than was de
cent. Ralf merely nodded, chewing (we had stopped on a sunny hillside to eat
), and reached for a flask. "Have some of this?" He was offering me the sloe
 wine.

    "God of green grapes, boy, no! It won't be ready to drink for a year. Wai
t till next harvest's ripe, and open it then." But he insisted, and unstopper
ed the flask. It certainly smelled odd and, he admitted, tasted worse. When I
 suggested, not unkindly, that Maeve had probably made a mistake and given hi
m the medicine for the flux, he spat the mouthful out on the grass,-then aske
d me a little stiffly what I was laughing at.

   "Not at you. Here, let me taste the stuff. . . . Well, there's nothing i
n it that there shouldn't be; but I must have been thinking of something els
e when they asked me about the mixing. No, I was laughing at myself. All the
se months- these years, even-hammering at heaven's doors to get what? A baby
 and a wet-nurse. If you insist on staying with me, Ralf, the next few years
 will certainly bring new experiences for both of us."

    He merely nodded; he was busy pursuing present anxieties. "If we have to
  go to Brittany, you mean we might have to stay disguised like this? For ye
ars?" He flicked with a contemptuous finger at the coarse stuff of his cloak
.

   "That will depend. Not quite like this, I hope. Hold step till you reach you
r bridges, Ralf."

   His face showed me that this was not how enchanters were expected to ta
lk. They built their own bridges, or flew across without them. "Depend on t
he King, you mean? Must you seek him out? My grandmother says, if it's put
about that the baby's stillborn, it could be handed to you secretly, and th
e King never know."

   "You forget. Men must know if a prince is born. How else, when Uther di
es, can they be brought to accept him?"

  "Then what are you going to do, my lord?"

   I shook my head, not answering. He took my silence for refusal to tell
him, and accepted it with no more questions. For my part, I had perforce to
 take my own advice about crossing bridges; I was waiting to see a way over
. With the Queen won, the harder half of the game was played; now I must pl
an how best to deal with the King-whether to seek his consent openly, or go
 first to Budec. But as we sat finishing our meal I was not thinking overmu
ch about Brittany, or the King, or even the child; I was content to rest in
 the sun and let the time go over. What had just happened at Tintagel had h
appened without my contriving. Something was moving; there was a kind of br
eathing brightness in the air, the wind of God brushing by, invisible in su
nlight. Even for men who cannot see or hear them, the gods are still there,
 and I was not less than a man. I had not the arrogance-or the hardihood-to
 test my power again, but I put on hope, as a naked man welcomes rags in a
winter storm.



8

The weather held, so we went easily, taking care not to tread too closely o
n the heels of Uther's force; if we were caught west of the Uxella marshes-
or indeed south of the Severn at all-it would be only too obvious where we
had been, Uther usually moved fast, and there was nothing to delay him here
 in settled country, so we followed cautiously, waiting until his army shou
ld be clear of the southern end of the Severn ferry. If we were lucky with
the ferry and, once we were across the Severn, made good speed northwards,
we should be able (having apparently just come innocently for the purpose f
rom Maridunum) to fall in with the troops on their way up the Welsh border,
 and try to have speech with the King.

   On the way south we had avoided the main road, but had used the pack tr
acks which run near the coast, winding in and out of the valleys. Now, sinc
e we dared not fall too far behind Uther, we kept as closely as we dared to
 the straight route along the ridges, but avoiding the paved road where the
 posting stations might be left guarded in the army's wake. We were even mo
re careful than we had been formerly. After we had left the shelter of Maev
e's roof we sought out no more inns. Indeed, the ways we went boasted of no
 inns even had we looked for them; we lodged where we could- in wood-cutter
s' cabins, sheep shelters, even once or twice in the lee of a stack of brac
ken cut for bedding-and blessed the mild weather. It was wild country throu
gh which we went. There are high ridged stretches of moorland, where heathe
r grows among the granite tors, and the land is good to feed nothing except
 the sheep and the wild deer; but just below the rocky spine of the land th
e forest begins. On the uplands the trees grow sparsely, raked by the wind,
 already in early autumn half scoured of leaves. But lower, in every dip an
d valley, the forest is dense, of trees crowded and hugely grown, impassabl
e with undergrowth as toughly woven as a fisherman's net. Here and there, u
nnoticed until you stumble across them, are crags and bouldered screes of r
ock thickly clothed with thorn and creeper, invisible and deadly as a wolf
trap. Even more dangerous are the stretches of bog, some black and slimy, s
ome innocent and green as a meadow, where a man on horseback can sink from
sight as easily and almost as quickly as a spoon sinking into a bowl of gru
el. There are secret ways through these places, known to the beasts and the
 forest dwellers, but mostly men shun them. At night the soft ground flicke
rs with marshlights and strange dancing flames which, men say, are the soul
s of the wandering dead.

   Ralf had known the ways in his own country, but once we struck the low-l
ying marshy forests through which the Uxella and its tributaries flow toward
s the Severn we had to go more cautiously, relying on information from the p
eople of the forest, charcoal-burners and woodmen, and once or twice a solit
ary hermit or holy man who offered us a night's shelter in some cave or wood
land shrine. Ralf seemed to enjoy the rough travel and rougher lodging, and
even the danger that seemed to lie about us in forest and track, and the thr
eat of the army so few miles ahead. Both of us grew daily more unkempt and m
ore like the roles we had assumed. It might be said that our disguise was mo
re necessary here even than in Tintagel; woe betide the King's messenger or
merchant who rides off the guarded road in these parts, but the poor are rec
eived kindly, vagrants or holy men with nothing to steal, and Ralf and I, as
 poor travelling healers, met welcome everywhere. There was nowhere we could
 not buy food and shelter with a copper penny and a pot of medicine. The mar
sh folk always need medicine, living as they do at the edge of the fetid bog
land, with agues and swollen joints and the fear of fever. They build their
huts right at the borders of the scummed pools, just clear of the deep black
 mud at the edge, or even set them on stilts right over the stagnant water.
The huts crack and rot and fall to pieces every year, and have to be patched
 each spring, but in spring and autumn the flocks of travelling birds fly do
wn to drink, in summer the waters are full of fish and the forest of game, a
nd in winter the folk break the ice and lie in wait for the deer to come and
 drink. And always the place is loud with frogs; I have eaten these many tim
es in Brittany, and it is true that they make a good meal So the folk of the
 marshes cling to their stinking cabins, and eat well and drink the standing
 water, and die of the fever and the flux; nor do they fear the walking fire
s which haunt the marsh at night, for these are the souls of men they knew.
   We were still twelve miles short of the ferry, and it was growing dusk,
when the first hint of trouble came. The oak forests had given way to a ligh
ter woodland of birch and alder, the trees crowding so closely, to the sides
 of the track that we had to lie low on the horses' necks to avoid the whipp
ing branches. Though there had been no rain the ground was very soft, a
nd now and again our horses' hoofs splashed deep in the black mire. Soon, so
mewhere near us, I smelled the marsh, and before long through the thinning t
rees we could see the dull glimmer of the bog pools reflecting the last ligh
t from the sky. My horse stumbled, floundering, and Ralf, who was riding ahe
ad of me, checked and put a quick hand to my rein. Then he pointed ahead.

   Ahead of us, a different light pricked the dusk: the steady, yellow of can
dle or rushlight. The hut of a marsh dweller. We rode towards it.

   The dwelling was not set over the water, but the ground was very wet,
and was no doubt flooded in bad weather, for the hut was raised on piles,
and approached by a narrow causeway of logs sawn short and jammed together
 across a ten-foot moat of mud.

   A dog barked. I could see a man, a shadow against the dully lit interior
of the hut, peering out at us. I hailed him. The marsh dwellers speak a tongu
e of their own, but they understand the Celtic of the Dumnonii.
  "My name is Emrys. I'm a travelling doctor, and this is my servant. We'r
e making for the ferry at Uxella. We came by the forest because the King's a
rmy is on the road. We're looking for shelter, and can pay for it."
   If there was one thing the poor folk of these parts understood, it was t
he need for a man to keep out of the way of troops on the march. In a few mo
ments a bargain was struck, the dog was hauled back into the hut and tied up
, and I was picking my way gingerly across the slippery logs, leaving Ralf t
o tend the horses and tether them on the driest piece of ground he could find.

   Our host's name was Nidd; he was a short, agile-looking fellow with bla
ck hair and a black bristle of beard. His shoulders and arms looked immense
ly strong, but he limped badly from a leg which had been broken, then set b
y guesswork and left to knit crooked. His wife, who was probably little mor
e than thirty, was white-haired and bent double on herself with rheumatism;
 she looked and moved like an old woman, and her face was drawn into tight
lines round a toothless mouth. The hut was cramped and foul-smelling, and I
 would rather have slept in the open, but the evening had turned chilly, an
d neither Ralf nor I wished to spend a night out in the sodden forest. So w
hen we had had our fill of black bread and broth we accepted the space of f
loor offered us, and prepared to lie down wrapped in our cloaks, and take w
hat rest we could. I had mixed a potion for the woman, and she was already
asleep, huddled against the other wall under a pile of skins, but Nidd made
 no move to join her. He went instead to the doorway, peering again into th
e night, as if expecting someone. Ralf's eyes met mine, and his brows lifte
d; his hand moved towards his dagger. I shook my head. I had heard the ligh
t, quick footsteps on the causeway. The dog made no sound, but his tail bea
t the floor. The curtain of rough-tanned deerhide was pushed aside from the
 doorway, and a boy came running in, his mouth one huge grin in a filthy fa
ce. He stopped short when he saw Ralf and me, but his father said something
 in patois and the boy, still eyeing us curiously, dumped the bundle of fag
gots he carried on the table and undid the thong that held it together. The
n, with a swift wary look at me, he pulled from the middle of the faggots a
 dead fowl, a few strips of salted pork, a bundle which he shook out to rev
eal a pair of good leather trews, and a well-sharpened knife of the kind is
sued to the soldiers of the King's armies.
   I approached the table, holding out my hand. The man stood watchful, bu
t made no move, and after a moment the boy dropped the knife into my palm.
I weighed it in my hand, considering. Then I laughed and dropped it point d
own, to the table. It stuck there beside the fowl, quivering.
   "You've had good hunting tonight, haven't you? That's easier than waitin
g for the wild duck to flight in at dawn. So, the King's army lies nearby? H
ow near?"
  The boy merely stared, too shy to answer, but with the help of his father I
got the information bit by bit.

   It was not reassuring. The army had made camp barely five miles away.
The boy had lurked in a tree at the forest's edge, watching his chance to
steal food, and had overheard scraps of talk among the men who had gone in
 among the trees to relieve themselves. It seemed, if the boy had rightly
understood what he had heard, that though the main body of the army would
no doubt head on its way in the morning, a troop was to be detached and se
nt directly to Caerleon, with a message for the commander there. They woul
d obviously go by the quickest way, the river crossing. They would certain
ly commandeer whatever boats were available.

  I looked at Ralf. He was already fastening his cloak. I nodded, and turned
to Nidd.
   "We must go, I'm afraid. We must get to the ferry before the King's troops
, and no doubt they'll ride at first light. We'll have to leave now. Can the b
oy guide us?"

   The boy would do anything, it seemed, for the copper penny I gave him
, and he knew all the ways through the marsh. We thanked our host, left t
he fee and medicines we had promised, and were soon on our way, with the
boy- whose name was Ger-at my horse's head.

   There were stars, and a quarter moon, but hazed over with fitful cloud. I
 could barely see the path, but the boy never hesitated. He seemed able to se
e even in the dark under the trees. The beasts trod softly enough on the fore
st floor, but the boy made no sound at all.

   It was difficult to tell, what with the dark, the bad going and the wind
ing track, what kind of distance we were covering. It seemed a long time bef
ore the trees dwindled and thinned, and the way stretched clearer ahead of u
s. As the moon grew stronger, the clouds diffusing her pale light, I could s
ee more clearly. We were still in the marsh; water gleamed on either hand, i
slanded with blackness. Underfoot mud pulled and sucked at the horses' hoofs
. Rushes swished and rustled shoulder high. There was a noise of frogs every
where, and now and again a splash as something took to the water. Once, with
 a clap and a call and a flash of white, a feeding bird shot off not a yard
in front of my horse's hoofs, and, had it not been for the boy's hand on the
 reins, I must have been unseated and thrown into the water. After that my h
orse picked his way nervously, starting even at the faint sucking sounds fro
m the pools where the marshlights flickered and bubbles popped under the wis
ps of vapour which hung and floated over the water. Here and there, sticking
 up black out of the bog, was the stripped skeleton of a tree.

   It was a strange, dead-looking landscape, and smelling of death. From Ral
f's silence, I knew that he was afraid. But our guide, at my horse's head, pl
odded on through the wandering mists and the wisps of fire that were the soul
s of his fathers. The only sign he gave was when, at a fork in the track, we
passed a hollow tree, a thick trunk twice the height of a man, with a gaping
hole in the bark, and inside this a greenish glow that, with the help of the
moonlight, faintly lit a crouching shape of eyes, mouth, and crudely carved b
reasts. The old goddess of the crossways, the Nameless One, who sits staring
from her hollowed log like the owl who is her creature; and in front of her,
decaying with the greenish glow that folk call enchanter's light, an offering
 of fish, laid in an oyster shell. I heard Ralf's breath go in, and his hand
flickered in a defensive gesture. The boy Ger, without even looking aside, mu
ttered the word under his breath, and held straight on.

    Half an hour later, from the head of a rise of solid ground, we saw the wi
de, moonlit stretch of the estuary, and smelled salt on the clean and moving a
ir.

   Down by the shore where the ferry plied there was a red glimmer of light
, the flame of the cresset on the wharf. The road to it, clear in the moonli
ght, crossed the ridge not far from us and ran straight downhill to the shor
e. We drew rein, but when I turned to thank the boy I found that he had alre
ady vanished, melting back into the darkness as silently as one of the wande
ring marshlights fading. We headed our weary horses down towards the distant
 glimmer.

   When we reached the ferry we found that our luck had deserted us as swift
ly and as decisively as our guide. The cresset burned on its post at the stri
p of shingle where the ferry beached, but the ferry was not there. Straining
my ears, I thought I heard, above the ripple of water, the splashing of oars
some way out on the estuary. I gave a hail, but got no reply.

  "It looks as if he expects to come back to this side soon," said Ralf, who
had been exploring. "There's a fire in the hut, and he's left the door open."

   "Then we'll wait inside," I said. "It's not likely the King's troops will s
et out before cock-crow. I can't imagine his message to Caerleon is as urgent a
s that, or he'd have sent a rider posting last night. See to the horses, then c
ome in and get some rest."

   The ferryman's hut was empty, but the remains of a fire still glowed in t
he ring of stones that served for a hearth. There was a pile of dry kindling
beside it, and before long a comforting tongue of flame licked up through the
 wood and set the turf glowing. Ralf was soon dozing in the warmth, while I s
at watching the flames and listening for the return of the ferry.

   But the sound that roused me was not the sound of a keel grating on shing
le; it was the soft and distant thudding of a troop of horse coming at the ca
nter.

  Before my hand could reach Ralf's shoulder to shake him awake, he was on
his feet.
  "Quick, my lord, if we ride fast along the shingle-the tide's not full yet-"
  "No. They'd hear us, and in any case the horses are too tired. How far a
way would you say they were?"

    He was at the door in two strides, his head slanted, listening. "Half a m
ile. Less. They'll be here in a few minutes. What are you going to do? We can
't hide. They'll see the horses, and the country's open as a map in the sand."
   This was true. The road down which the horsemen were coming ran straigh
t up from the shore to the head of the ridge. To right and left of it lay t
he marshlands, glinting with water, and white with mist. Behind us the estu
ary stretched glimmering, throwing back the moonlight.

   "What you can't run from, you must face," I said. "No, not like that"-as
 the boy's hand went to his sword-"not against King's men, and we wouldn't s
tand a chance anyway. There's a better way. Get the bags, will you?"
   I was already stripping off my stained and ragged tunic. He threw me a d
oubtful look, but ran to obey. "You won't get away with that doctor disguise
 again."

  "I don't intend to try. When fate forces your hand, Ralf, go with it. It loo
ks as if I may get to see the King sooner than I'd hoped to."

  "Here? But you-he-the Queen-"
   "The Queen's secret will be safe. I've been thinking how ' to deal with
this if it happened. We'll let them think we've just come south from Maridun
um, hoping to see the King,"

  "But the ferryman? If they check with him?"

   "It could be awkward, but we'll have to chance it. Why should they, after
all? Even if they do, I can deal with it. Men will believe anything of the Kin
g's enchanter, Ralf, even that he could cross the estuary on a cloud, or ford
it knee high at flood-tide."

   While we were talking he had unstrapped one of the saddle-bags and pulle
d out of it the decent dark robe and stitched doeskin boots I had worn for m
y interview with the Queen, while I bent over the bucket of water by the doo
r and swilled the weariness of the journey and the stench of the marshlander
's hut off my face and hands. When fate forces you, I had said to Ralf. I fe
lt my blood running fast and light with the hope that this stroke-ill luck w
e had thought it-might be the first cold, dangerous touch of the god's hand.

   When the troop rode up, halting with a clatter and slither of shingle in
front of the ferryman's hut, I was standing waiting for them in the open door
way, with the firelight behind me, and the bright moonlight catching the roya
l Dragon at my shoulder.
    Behind me in the shadows I heard Ralf mutter thankfully: "Not Cornwal
l's men. They won't know me."

  "But they'll know me," I said. "That's Ynyr's badge. They're Welshmen f
rom Guent."

   The officer was a tall man, with a thin hawk face and a white scar twist
ing the corner of his mouth. I did not remember him, but he stared, saluted,
 and said: "By the Raven himself! How came you here, sir?"

  "I must have words with the King. How far away is his camp?"

   As I spoke, a kind of ripple of movement went among the troop, horses
fidgeting and one suddenly rearing as if curbed too nervously. The officer
 snapped something over his shoulder, then turned back to me. I heard him
swallow before he answered me.

  "Some eight miles off, sir."

   There was something more here, I thought, than surprise at finding me
in this deserted place, and the awe that I was accustomed to meeting among
 common men. I felt Ralf move up close behind me to my shoulder. A half-gl
ance showed me the sparkle in his eyes; show Ralf danger, and he came aliv
e.

   The officer said abruptly: "Well, my lord, this has saved us something.
 We were on the way to Caerleon. We had the King's orders to find you and b
ring you to him."

    I caught the sharp intake of Ralf's breath. I thought fast, through a sud
den quickening of the heart. This explained the soldiers' reaction; they thou
ght the King's enchanter must have had magical foreknowledge of the King's wi
ll. On a plainer level, it settled the matter of the ferryman; if this troop
was an escort for me, they would not now need to cross the ferry. Ralf could
buy the man's silence when I had gone with the troops. I would not risk takin
g the boy back within reach of Uther's displeasure.

  There was no harm in driving the point home. I said pleasantly: "So I h
ave saved you the trip to Bryn Myrddin.

  I'm glad. Where did the King plan to receive me? At Viroconium? I didn't
think he meant to lie at Caerleon."

   "Nor does he," said the man. I could hear the effort of control, but his vo
ice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

  "You-you knew the King was travelling north to Viroconium?"

  "How not?" I asked him. From the edge of my eye I saw the nods and he
ad-turning among the men that also asked
  How not? "But I had a mind to talk to him sooner than that.

  Did he charge you with a letter for me?"

  "No, sir. Instructions to take you to him, that was all."

   He leaned forward in the saddle. "I think it was on account of the messag
e he got last evening from Cornwall. Ill news,
  I think, though he told no one what it was. He seemed angry.

  Then he gave the order to fetch you."

  He waited, looking down at me as if I would be sure to know the contents
of the message.

    I was only too afraid that I did. Someone had recognized us, or made a
guess, and sent to tell the King. The messenger could easily have passed us
 on the road. So, whatever was to happen between Uther and myself, I had to
 get Ralf out of danger first. And although I was not afraid for the Queen
at Uther's hands, there were others-Maeve, Caw, Marcia, the child himself.
. . . The skin on my nape stung and roused like a dog's that smells danger.
 I took a long, steadying breath and looked about me. "You have a spare hor
se? My beast is weary and must be led. My servant will rest here, and go ba
ck at first light with the ferry, to make ready for me at home. The King wi
ll no doubt see me escorted there when my business with him is done."

   The officer's voice, apologetic but definite, cut across Ralf's furious wh
isper of dissent. "If it please you, sir, you will both come. Those were my or
ders. We have horses. Shall we ride?"

   At the lift of his hand the men were already moving forward to close us
 round. There was nothing to be done. He had his orders, and I would risk m
ore by arguing than by obeying. Besides, every minute's delay might bring t
he ferry back. I had heard nothing, but the fellow must have seen the soldi
ers' torches, and might even now be heading back for custom.

   A trooper came up with the spare horses and took our own beasts in hand
. We mounted. The officer barked an order, and the troop wheeled and fell i
n behind us.

   We were barely two hundred paces from the shore when I heard, clear behi
nd me, the sound of a boat's bottom grating on shingle. No one else paid any
 attention. The officer was busy telling me about the council to be held in
the north, and behind me I could hear Ralf's voice, gay and amused, promisin
g the troopers "a skin of sloe wine, the best stuff you ever tasted. A recip
e of my master's. It's what they give you with the rations now in Caerleon,
so you'll see what you've missed. That's what comes of sending messages for
a wizard, who knows everything that's happened before it's even happened at
all. . . ."
   The King was abed when we arrived at the camp, and we were lodged-and g
uarded-in a tent not far from his. We said nothing to each other that could
 not be overheard. And, danger or no danger, it was the most comfortable lo
dging we had had since we left the inn at Camelford. Ralf was soon asleep,
but I lay wakeful, watching the empty dark, listening to the little wind wh
ich had sprung up throwing handfuls of rain against the walls of the tent,
and telling myself: "It must happen. It must happen. The god sent me the vi
sion. The child was given to me." But the dark stayed empty, and the wind s
wept the tent walls and withdrew into silence, and nothing came.

   I turned my head on its uneasy pillow, and saw dimly the shine of Ralf's
 eyes, watching me. But he turned over without speaking, and soon his breath
ing slackened again into sleep.
  The King received me alone, soon after dawn.
   He was armed and ready for the road, but bareheaded. His helmet with its
 gold circlet lay on a stool beside his chair, and his sword and shield stoo
d propped against the box which held the travelling altar of Mithras that he
 always carried with him. The tent was hung with skins and worked curtains,
but it was chilly, and draughts crept everywhere. Outside were the sounds of
 the army breaking camp. I could hear the snap and flutter of the Dragon sta
ndard by the entrance.
   He greeted me briefly. His face still wore the bleak expression I rememb
ered, empty of friendliness, but I could see neither anger nor enmity there.
 His look was cool and summing, his voice brisk.

  "You and your Sight have saved me a little trouble, Merlin."

   I bent my head. If he asked no questions I need answer none. I came to
the point. "What do you want with me?"
   "Last time we spoke together I was harsh with you. I have since thought
 that this was perhaps unworthy of a king to whom you had just done a servi
ce."

  "You were bitter at the Duke's death."

   "As to that, he fought against his King. Whatever the circumstances, he r
aised a sword to me, and he died. It's done, and it is past. We, you and I, a
re left with the future. This is what concerns me now."

  "The child," I said, assenting.

   The blue eyes narrowed. "Who sent you the news? Or is this still the Sig
ht?"

  "Ralf brought the news. When he left your court, he came to me. He se
rves me now."
    He considered that for a moment, his brows drawing together, then smoot
hing as he found no harm in it. I watched him. He was a tall man, with redd
ish hair and beard, and a fair, high-coloured skin that made him look young
er than his years. It was just over a year, I thought, since my father had
died and Uther had lifted the Pendragon standard. Kingship had steadied him
; I could see discipline in his face as well as the lines drawn there by pa
ssion and temper, and kingship along with his victories clothed him like a
cloak. He moved a hand, dismissively, and I knew that Ralf need fear him no
 longer. "I said the past was past, but there is one thing I must ask you.
On that night in Tintagel when this child was begotten, I bade you keep awa
y from me and trouble me no more. Do you remember?"

  "I remember."

  "And you replied that you would not trouble me again, that I should not n
eed your service again. Was this foresight, or only anger?"

  I said quietly: "When I spoke, I spoke the words that came to me. I tho
ught they were foresight. All the words I spoke and the things I did throug
hout that night I took as if they came straight from the gods. Why do you a
sk? Have you sent for me now to command service of me?"

  "To ask it, rather."
  "As a prophet?"

  "No. As a kinsman."

   "Then I'll tell you, as a kinsman, that it was not prophecy that night, no
r was it anger, sir, but only grief. I was grieving for my servant's death, an
d for the deaths of Gorlois and his companions. But now, as you say, the past
is past. If I can serve you, you have only to command me."
   But, I thought, as I waited for him to speak, if it was no prophecy, t
hen none of that night was God's and He never spoke to me. No, I had told
the truth when I said that Uther would have no need of my service; it had
not been Uther whom I served that night; it was not Uther I would serve no
w. I remembered the words of the other King, my father: "You and I between
 us, Merlin, we will make such a king as the world has never known" It was
 the dead King, and the one still unborn, who commanded me.

   If there had been any hesitation in my manner, Uther had not noticed it.
He nodded, then set his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist and though
t for a while, frowning.

   "There is one other thing I said that night. I told you that I would not a
cknowledge the child begotten then. I spoke in anger, but now I speak coldly,
after taking thought and counsel, and I tell you, Merlin, that I'm still of th
e same mind."
    He seemed to expect an answer, but I was silent. He went on, half irrita
bly: "Don't misunderstand me, I don't doubt the Queen. I believe her when sh
e tells me that she never lay with Gorlois after he brought her to London. T
he child is mine, yes, but he cannot be my heir, nor can he be reared in my
house. If the child is a girl, then none of this matters, but if it is a boy
 it would be folly to rear him as heir to the High Kingdom, when men will on
ly have to count on their fingers to say that Gorlois begot him of his wife
Ygraine, half,a month before the High King married her." He looked at me. "Y
ou must know this as well as I do, Merlin. You have lived in kings' houses.
There will always be those who doubt his birth, so there will always be thos
e who would try to pull him off the throne in favour of men with a 'better c
laim,' and God knows there will always be claims in plenty. And the best cla
ims will be those of my other sons. So, even brought up as my bastard at my
court, the child is dangerous. He may try to come at the kingship by the dea
ths of my other children. By the Light, this is not unknown. I will not have
 my house a battleground. I must beget myself another son, an undoubted heir
, conceived in wedlock to the satisfaction of all men, and reared at my side
 when the kingdom is settled and the Saxon wars are over. Do you accept this
?"

   "You are the King, Uther, and the child's father." It was hardly an answ
er, but he nodded as if I had agreed. "There is more. This child is not only
 dangerous, he'll be a victim of danger. If men can say that he was not mine
, that he must have been begotten by Gorlois on Ygraine his wife, then it fo
llows that he is the true son of the Duke of Cornwall, with a claim on the y
ounger son's portion of the lands which Cador holds, now that I've confirmed
 him as Duke in his father's place. You see? King's son or Duke's, Cador is
bound to be the child's enemy, and there are some who'd follow him quickly e
nough."
  "Is Cador loyal to you?"

   "I trust him," He gave a short laugh. "So far. He's young, but hard-head
ed. He wants Cornwall, and he won't risk anything that could lose it-yet. Bu
t later, who knows? And when I am gone . . ." He let it hang. "No, Cador is
not my enemy, but there are others who are."

  "Who?"
  "God knows, but what king was ever without them? Even Ambrosius . . . t
hey're still saying he died of poison. I know you told me this was not true
, but even so I have Ulfin taste my food. Ever since I took Octa and Eosa p
risoner, they've been the storm center for every disaffected leader who thi
nks he can see his way to a crown like Vortigern's- backed with Saxon force
s, and paid for with British lives and lands. But what else can I do? Let t
hem go, to raise the Federates against me? Or kill them, and give their son
s in Germany a grievance to be wiped out in blood? No, Octa and his cousin
are my hostages. Without them, Colgrim and Badulf would have been here long
 since, and the Saxon Shore would have burst its bounds and be lapping at A
mbrosius' Wall. As it is, I'm buying time. You can't tell me anything, Merl
in? Have you heard anything, or seen?"

   He was not asking for prophecy; Uther looked askance and white-eyed at
things of the Otherworld, like a dog that sees the wind. I shook my head.

   "Of your enemies? Nothing, except that when Ralf came to me after leavi
ng your court, he was set upon, and nearly killed. The men had no badge. Th
ey may have thought he was your messenger, or perhaps the Queen's. Troops f
rom the barracks hunted the woods, but found no trace of them. More than th
at, I've heard nothing. But be sure that if I ever learn anything I will te
ll you."

   He gave a brief nod, then went on, slowly, choosing his words. His mann
er was abrupt, almost reluctant. For myself, my mind was spinning, and I ha
d to fight to hold myself calm and steady. We were coming now onto the batt
leground, but it must be a very different battle from the one I had planned
 for. "You and I," he had said. He would hardly have sent for me unless I w
as to have some concern in the child's future.

   He. was going over the same ground that Ygraine and I had covered. ". .
. so you see why, if the child is a boy, he cannot stay with me, yet if I se
nd him away, he is beyond my power to protect. But protection he must have.
Bastard or no, he is my child and the Queen's, and if we have no other sons
he must one day be declared my heir to the High Kingdom." He turned up a han
d. "You see where this leaves me. I must consign him to a guardian who will
keep him in safety for the first few years of his life ... at least until th
is torn kingdom is settled and safe, and in the hands of strong and loyal al
lies, and my own declared heirs."

   He waited again for my agreement. I nodded, then said, carefully neutral
: "Have you chosen this guardian?"
  "Yes. Budec."
   So the Queen had been right, and the decision was made. But still he had
 sent for me. I held myself still and said, so flatly that it sounded indiff
erent: "It was the obvious choice." He shifted in his chair and cleared his
throat. I saw with some surprise that he was uneasy, nervous even. He even l
ooked half pleased at my commendation of his choice. The knowledge steadied
me. I realized that I had been so single-minded-so wrapped in what I had bel
ieved was my and the child's driving fate-that I had seen Uther falsely as
 the enemy. He was not so concerned: the plain fact was that Uther was a wa
r-leader harassed perpetually by the strife in and around his borders, worki
ng desperately against time to patch a dam here, a sea-wall there, against t
he piling flood-water; and to him this affair of the child, though it might
prove one day vitally important, was now little but a rub in the way of majo
r issues, something he wanted out of the way and delegated. He had spoken wi
thout emotion, and indeed had set the thing out fairly enough. It was possib
le that he had sent for me, genuinely, to ask my advice, as his brother had
been used to do. In which case ... I wetted dry lips, and schooled myself to
 listen quietly, an adviser with a man beset by trouble.

   He was speaking again, something about a letter. The message which had
 come yesterday. He pointed to the stool beside him where the parchment la
y, crumpled as if he had thrown it down in anger. "Did you know about
 this?"

   I picked the letter up and smoothed it out. It was brief, a message from
 Brittany, that had been sent to the King at Tintagel and brought here after
 him. King Budec had fallen sick of a fever, it said, during the summer. He
had seemed on the way to recovery, then, towards the end of August, he had q
uite suddenly died. The letter finished with protestations of formal friends
hip from the new king, Hoel, Uther's "devoted cousin and ally . . ."
   I looked up. Uther had sat back in his chair, shifting a fold of the sca
rlet mantle over his arm. Everything seemed quite still. Outside, the wind h
ad dropped. The sounds of the camp came from far away, faintly. Uther's chin
 was sunk on his chest, and he was watching me with a mixture of worry and i
mpatience.

  I was noncommittal. "This is heavy news. Budec was a good man and a g
ood friend."
  "Heavy enough, even if it had not destroyed my plans. I was preparing t
o send messages even when this letter came. Now I can't see my way clear. H
ave they told you that I go to a council of kings at Viroconium?"

  "Audagus told me." Audagus was the officer who had escorted us from the
ferry.

 He threw out a hand. "Then you see how much I want to turn aside to deal
with this. But it must be dealt with now. This is why I sent for you."
   I flicked the seal with a forefinger. "You won't send the child to Hoel,
then? He swears himself your devoted cousin and ally."

   "He may be my devoted cousin and ally, but he's also a-" Uther used a p
hrase that became a soldier rather than a king in council. "I never liked h
im, nor he me. Oh, Mithras knows he would never mean harm to a son of mine,
 but he's not the man his father was, and he might not be able to protect t
he boy from his ill-wishers. No, I'll not send him to Hoel. But what other
court can I send him to? Reckon it for yourself." He told over a few names,
 all powerful men, all of them kings whose lands lay in the southern part o
f the country, behind the Wall of Ambrosius. "Well? Do you see my problem?
If he goes to one of the nobles or petty kings here in safe country he coul
d still be in danger from an ambitious man; or worse, become a tool of trea
chery and rebellion."

  "So?"

   "So I come to you. You are the only man who can steer me between these
 clashing rocks. On the one hand, the child must be sworn and acknowledged
 my own, in case there is no other heir. On the other, he must be taken aw
ay out of danger for himself and the kingdom, and brought up in ignorance
of his birth until the time comes when I send for him." He turned over a h
and on his knee and asked me as simply as he had asked me once before; "Ca
n you help me?"

   I answered him as simply. .The bewilderment, the confused whirl of thou
ght, settled suddenly into a pattern, like coloured leaves blown down into
a tapestry on the grass when the spinning wind drops still. "Of course. You
 need wreck no part of your kingdom on either of these rocks. Listen, and I
 will tell you how. You told me you had 'taken counsel.' Other men, then, k
now of your plans to send the boy to Budec?"
  "Yes."
  "Have you spoken to anyone of this letter, and your doubts of Hoel?"

  "No."

   "Good. You will give it out that your plan stays as formerly, and that t
he boy will go to Hoel's court at Kerrec. You will write to Hoel requesting
this. Have someone make all arrangements to send the boy with his nurse and
attendants as soon as the weather allows. See that it is given out that I wi
ll accompany him there myself."

   He was frowning, intent, and I could see protest in his face, but he mad
e none. He said merely: "And?"

  "Next," I said, "I must be at Tintagel for the birth. Who is her physician?"

   "Gandar." He seemed about to say something more, then changed his min
d and waited.

    "Good. I'm not suggesting I should attend her." I smiled. "In view of wha
t I shall suggest, that might lead to some rather dangerous rumours. Now, wil
l you be there yourself for the lying-in?"

  "I shall try, but it's doubtful."

   "Then I shall be there to attest the child's birth, as well as Gandar and
 the Queen's women, and whoever you can appoint. If it is a boy, the news wil
l be sent to you by beacon, and you will declare him your son by the Queen, a
nd, in default of a son begotten in wedlock, your heir until another prince s
hall be born."
   He took some time over that, frowning, and obviously reluctant to commit
himself. But it was only the conclusion of what he had himself said to me. Fi
nally he nodded and spoke a little heavily: "Very well. It is true. Bastard o
r not, he is my heir until I get another. Go on."

   "Meantime the Queen will keep her chamber, and once he has been seen an
d sworn to, the child will be taken back to the Queen's apartments and kept
 there, seen only by Gandar and the women. Gandar can arrange this. I mysel
f will leave openly, by the main gate and the bridge. Then after dark I sha
ll go down secretly to the postern gate on the cliff, to receive the child."
  "And take him where?"

   "To Brittany. No, wait. Not to Hoel, nor by the ship which everyone will
 be watching. Leave that part of it to me. I shall take him to someone I kno
w in Brittany, on the edge of Hoel's kingdom. He will be safe, and well care
d for. You have my word for it, Uther."

   He brushed that aside as if there had been no need for me to say it. He
was already looking lighter, glad to be relieved of a care that must, among
the weighty cares of the kingdom, seem trivial, and-with the child still onl
y a weight in a woman's womb-unreal. "I'll have to know where you take him."

   "To my own nurse, who reared me and the other royal children, bastard a
nd true alike, in the nurseries at Mari-dunum. Her name is Moravik, and she
's a Breton. After the sack by Vortigern she went home to her people. She h
as married since. While the child is sucking, I can think of no better plac
e. He won't be looked for in such a humble home. He will be guarded, but be
tter than that, he will be hidden and unknown."

  "And Hoel?"

  "He will know. He must. Leave Hoel to me."

   Outside a trumpet sounded. The sun was growing stronger, and the tent w
as warm. He stirred, and flexed his shoulders, as a man does when he lays o
ff his armour. "And when men find that the child is not on the royal ship,
but has vanished? What do we tell them?"

   "That for fear of the Saxons in the Narrow Sea the prince was sent, not by
the royal ship, but privily, with Merlin, to Brittany."
  "And when it is found he is not at Hoel's court?"

    "Gandar and Marcia will swear to it that I took the child safely. What w
ill be said I can't tell you, but there's no one who will doubt me, or that
the child is safe as long as he's under my protection. And what my protectio
n means you know. I imagine that men will talk of enchantments and vanishing
s, and wait for the child to reappear when my spells are lifted."

  He said prosaically: "They're more like to say the ship foundered and the
child is dead."
  "I shall be there to deny it."

  "You mean you won't stay with the boy?"

  "I must not, not yet. I'm known."

  "Then who will be with him? You said he would be guarded."
  For the first time I hesitated fractionally. Then I met his eyes. "Ralf."

   He looked startled, then angry, then I saw him thinking back past his ang
er. He said slowly: "Yes. I was wrong there, too. He will be true."

  "There is no one truer."

   "Very well, I am content. Make what arrangements you please. It's in yo
ur hands. You of all men in Britain will know how to protect him." His hand
s came down hard on the arms of his chair. "So, that is settled. Before we
march today I shall send a message to the Queen telling her what I have dec
ided."

  I thought it wise to ask: "Will she accept it? It's no easy thing for a wom
an to bear, even a queen."

  "She knows my decision, and she will do as I say. There's one thing, thou
gh, where she'll have her way; she wants the child baptized a Christian."

  I glanced at the Mithras altar against the tent wall. "And you?"

    He lifted his shoulders. "What does it matter? He will never be King. And
 if he were, then he would pay service where he had to, in the sight of the p
eople." A hard, straight look. "As my brother did."

  If it was a challenge I declined it, saying merely: "And the name?"
  "Arthur."

    The name was strange to me, but it came like an echo of something I had
heard long before. Perhaps there had been Roman blood in Ygraine's family .
. . The Artorii; that would be it. But that was not where I had heard the na
me. . . .
   "Ill see to it," I said. "And now, with your permission, I'll send the Queen
a letter, too. She'll lie the easier for being assured of my loyalty."

   He nodded, then stood up and reached for his helmet. He was smiling, a co
ld ghost of the old malicious smile with which he had baited me when I was a
child. "It's strange, isn't it, Merlin the bastard, that I should talk so eas
ily of trusting the body of my own ill-begotten son to the one man in the kin
gdom whose claim to the throne is better than his? Are you not flattered?"

  "Not in the least. You'd be a fool if you didn't know by now that I have
no ambitions towards your crown."

  "Then don't teach my bastard any, will you?" He turned his head, shouti
ng for a servant, then back to me. "And none of your damned magic, either."

   "If he's your son," I said dryly, "he won't take very kindly to magic. I
shall teach him nothing except what he has the need and the right to know. Yo
u have my word on it."

   On that we parted. Uther would never like me, nor I him, but there was
a kind of cold mutual respect between us, born of our shared blood and the
different love and service we had given to Ambrosius. I should have known t
hat he and I were linked in this as closely as the two sides of the same co
unter, and that we would move together whether we willed it or not. The god
s sit over the board, but it is men who move under their hands for the mati
ng and the kill.

  I should have known; but I had been so used to God's no voice in the fire a
nd stars that I had forgotten to listen for it in the counsels of men.

   Ralf was waiting, alone in the guarded tent. When I told him the result o
f my talk with the King, he was silent a long time. Then he said: "So it will
 all happen, just as you said it would. Did you expect it to come like this?
When they brought us here last night, I thought you were afraid."
  "I was, but not in the way you mean."

   I expected him to ask how, but oddly, he seemed to understand. His cheek
 flushed and he busied himself over some detail of packing. "My lord, I have
 to tell you . . ." His voice was stifled. "I have been very wrong about you
. At first I-because you are not a man of war, I thought-"
  "You thought I was a coward? I know."

   He looked up sharply. "You knew? You didn't mind?" This, obviously, w
as almost as bad as cowardice.

   I smiled. "When I was a child among budding warriors, I grew used to it
. Besides, I have never been sure myself how much courage I have."
   He stared at that, then burst out: "But you are afraid of nothing! All
the things that have happened-this journey- you'd have thought we were ridi
ng out on a summer morning, instead of going by paths filled with wild beas
ts and outlaws. And when the King's men took us-even if he is your uncle, t
hat's not to say you'd never be in danger from him. Everyone knows the King
's unchancy to cross. But you just looked cold as ice, as if you expected h
im to do what you wanted, just as everyone does! You, afraid? You're not af
raid of anything that's real."
   "That's what I mean," I said. "I'm not sure how much courage is needed t
o face human enemies-what you'd call 'real'-knowing they won't kill you. But
 foreknowledge has its own terrors, Ralf. Death may not lie just at the next
 corner, but when one knows exactly when it will come, and how . . . It's no
t a comfortable thought."

  "You mean you do know?"

  "Yes. At least, I think it's my death that I see. At any rate it is darkness,
and a shut tomb."

  He shivered. "Yes, I see. I'd rather fight in daylight, even thinking I
might die perhaps tomorrow. At least it's always 'perhaps tomorrow,' never '
now.' Will you wear the doeskin boots for riding, my lord, or change them no
w?"

   "Change them. Thank you." I sat down on a stool and stretched out a foot
for him. He knelt to pull off my boots. "Ralf, there is something else I must
 tell you. I told the King you were with me, and that you would go to Brittan
y to guard the child."

  He looked up at that, struck still. "You told him that? What did he say?"
  "That you were a true man. He agreed, and approved you."
  He sat back on his heels, my boots in his hands, gaping at me.

   "He has had time to think, Ralf, as a king should think. He has also had
time-as kings do-to still his conscience. He sees Gorlois now as a rebel, and
 the past as done with. If you wish to go back into his service he will recei
ve you kindly, and give you a place among his fighting men."

  He did not answer, but stooped forward again and busied himself fastening
 my boots. Then he got to his feet and pulled back the flap of the tent, call
ing to a man to bring up the horses. "And hurry. My lord and I ride now for t
he ferry."

    "You see?" I said. "Your own decision this time, freely given. And yet w
ho can say it is not as much a part of the pattern as the 'chance' of Budec'
s death?" I got to my feet, stretching, and laughed. "By all the living gods
, I'm glad that things are moving now. And gladder for the moment of one thi
ng more than any other."

  "That you're to get the child so easily?"

   "Oh, that, of course. No, I really meant that now at last I can shave off t
his damnable beard."



10

By the time Ralf and I reached Maridunum my plans, so far as could be at thi
s stage, were made. I sent him by the next ship to Brittany, with letters of
 condolence to Hoel, and with messages to supplement the King's. One letter,
 which Ralf carried openly, merely repeated the King's request that Hoel sho
uld give shelter to the baby during his infancy; the other, which Ralf was t
o deliver secretly, assured Hoel that he would not be burdened with the char
ge of the child, nor would we come by the royal ship or at the time ostensib
ly fixed. I begged his assistance for Ralf in all the arrangements for the s
ecret journey at Christmas that I planned. Hoel, easy-going and lazy by natu
re, and less than fond of his cousin Uther, would be so relieved, I knew, th
at he would help Ralf and myself in every way known to him. With Ralf gone,
I myself set out for the north. It was obvious that I would not be able to l
eave the baby too long in Brittany; the refuge with Moravik would serve for
a while, till men's interest died down, but after that it might be dangerous
. Brittany was the place (as I had said to the Queen) where Uther's enemies
would look for the child; the fact that the child was not-had never been-at
his publicly declared refuge at Hoel's court might make them believe that th
e talk of Brittany had been nothing but a false trail I would make certain t
hat no real trail would lead them to Moravik's obscure village. But this was
 only safe as long as the boy was an infant. As soon as he grew and began to
 go about, some query or rumour might start. I knew how easily this could ha
ppen, and for the child of a poor house to be so cared for and guarded as mu
st happen here, it would be very easy for some question to start a rumour, a
nd a rumour to grow too quickly into a guess at the truth.

   More than this, once the child was weaned from women and the nursery,
he would have to be trained, if not as a young prince, then as a young nob
le and a warrior. It was obvious that Bryn Myrddin, on no count, could be
his home: he must have the comfort and safety of a noble house around him.
 In the end I had thought of a man who had been a friend of my father's, a
nd whom I had known well. His name was Ector, styled Count of Galava, one
of the nobles who fought under King Coel of Rheged, Uther's most considera
ble ally in the north.

   Rheged is a big kingdom, stretching from the mountainous spine of Britai
n right to the western coast, and from the Wall of Hadrian in the north clea
r down to the plain of Deva. Galava, which Ector held under Coel, lies about
 thirty miles in from the sea, in the north-west corner of the kingdom. Here
 there is a wild" and mountainous tract of country, all hills and water and
wild forest; in fact, one of the names it goes by is the Wild Forest. Ector'
s castle lies on the flat land at the end of one of the long lakes that fill
 these valleys. There was in past time a Roman fortress there, one of a chai
n on the military road running from Glannaventa on the coast to join the mai
n way from Luguvallium to York. Between Galava and the port of Glannaventa l
ie steep hills and wild passes, easily defended, and inland is the well-guar
ded country of Rheged itself.

   When Uther had talked of fostering the child in some safe castle he had
thought only of the rich, long-settled lands inside Ambrosius' Wall, but eve
n without his fears of the nobles' loyalty, I would have counted that countr
y dangerous; these were the very lands that the Saxons, immured along the Sh
ore, coveted most dearly. It was these lands which, I guessed, they would fi
ght for first and most bitterly. In the north, in the heart of Rheged, where
 no one would look for him and where the Wild Forest itself would guard him,
 the boy could grow up as safely as God would allow, and as freely as a deer
.
   Ector had married a few years back. His wife was called Drusilla, of a
Romano-British family from York. Her father, Faustus, had been one of the c
ity magistrates who had defended the city against Hengist's son Octa, and h
ad been one of those urgent to advise the Saxon leader to yield himself to
Ambrosius. Ector himself was fighting at the time in my father's army. It w
as in York that he had met Drusilla, and had married her. They were both Ch
ristians, and this was possibly why their paths and Uther's had not often c
rossed. But I, along with my father, had been to Faustus' house in York, an
d Ambrosius had there taken part in many long discussions about the settlem
ent of the northern provinces.

   The castle at Galava was well protected, being built on the site of the
old Roman fort, with the lake before it, and a deep river on the one hand, a
nd the wild mountains near. It could be approached only from the open water,
 or by one of the easily watched and defended valley passes. But it did not
have the air of a fortress. Trees grew near it, now rich with autumn, and th
ere were boats out and men fishing where the river flowed deep and still thr
ough its sedgy flat-lands. The green meadows at the waters' head were full o
f cattle, and there was a village crowded under the castle walls as there ha
d been in the Roman Peace. Two full miles beyond the castle walls lay a mona
stery, and so secluded were the valleys that right up on the heights above t
he tree-line, where the land stretched bare of all but short grass and stone
s, one saw the strange little blue-fleeced sheep that breed in Rheged, with
some shepherd boy cheerfully braving the wolves and fierce hill foxes with t
he protection of a stick and a single dog.

   I travelled alone, and quietly. Though the hated beard had gone, and wi
th it the heavy disguise, I managed the journey unnoticed and unrecognized,
 and came to Galava towards late afternoon on a bright, crisp October day.
    The great gates were wide open, giving on a paved yard where men and bo
ys were unloading a wagon of straw. The oxen stood patiently, chewing their
 cud; near them a lad was watering a pair of sweating horses. Dogs barked a
nd skirmished, and hens pecked busily among the fallen straw. There were tr
ees in the yard, and to either side of the steps up to the main door someon
e had planted beds of marigolds, which blazed orange and yellow in the late
 sunshine. It looked like a prosperous farm rather than a fortress, but thr
ough an open door I could see the rows of freshly burnished weapons, and fr
om behind one of the high walls came shouted orders and the clash of men dr
illing.
   I had barely paused between the posts of the archway when the porter w
as barring my way and asking my business. I handed him my Dragon brooch, w
rapped in a small pouch, and bade him take it to his master. He came hurry
ing back to the gate within minutes, and the chamberlain, puffing in his w
ake, showed me straight in to Count Ector.

   Ector was not much changed. He was a man of medium height, growing now
 into middle age; if my father had lived they would have been of an age no
w, I reckoned, which made him something over forty. He had a brown beard g
oing grey, and brown skin with the blood springing healthily beneath it. H
is wife was more than ten years younger; she was tall, a statuesque woman
still in her twenties, reserved and a little shy, but with smoky-blue eyes
 that belied her cool manner and distant speech. Ector had the air of a co
ntented man.

   He received me alone, in a small chamber where spears and bows stood s
tacked against the walls, and the hearth was four deep in deer-hounds. The
 fire was heaped as high as a funeral pyre with pine logs blazing, and sma
ll wonder, for the narrow windows were unglazed and open to the brisk Octo
ber air, and the wind whined like another hound in the bowstrings that wer
e stacked there.
   He gripped my arms with a bearlike welcome, beaming. "Merlinus Ambrosiu
s! Here's a pleasure indeed! What is it, two years? Three? There's been wat
er under the bridge, aye, and stars fallen, since we last met, eh? Well, yo
u're welcome, welcome. I can't think of any man I'd rather see under my roo
f! You've been making a name for yourself, haven't you? The tales I've hear
d tell . . . Well, well, but you can tell me the truth of it yourself. God'
s sweet death, boy, you get more like him by the day! Thinner, though, thin
ner. You look as if you've seen no red meat for a year. Come, sit down by t
he fire now, and let me send for supper "before we talk."

   The supper was enormous and excellent, and would have served me ten ti
mes over. Ector ate enough for three, and pressed me to finish the rest. W
hile we ate we exchanged news. He had heard of the Queen's pregnancy, and
spoke of it, but for the moment I let it go, and asked him instead what ha
d happened at Viroconium. Ector had attended the King's council there, and
 was but newly returned home.

  "Success?" he asked, in reply to my question. "It's hard to say. It was
well attended. Coel of Rheged, of course, and all from these lands"-he named
 half a dozen neighbours- "except Riocatus of Verterae, who sent to say he w
as sick."

  "I gather you didn't believe it?"

   "When I believe anything that jackal says," said Ector forcibly, "I'm a sp
it-licker too. But the wolves were there, all of them, so the scavengers hardl
y matter."
  "Strathclyde?"

   "Oh, aye, Caw was there. You know the Picts in the western half of his
 land have been giving trouble-when haven't they given trouble, come to that
? But for all Caw's Pictish himself, he'll co-operate with any plan that'll
help him keep control of that wild territory of his, so he was well disposed
 to the idea of the council. He'll help, I'm sure of it. Whether he can cont
rol that pack of sons he's sired is another matter. Did you know that one of
 them, Heuil, a wild young blackguard scarcely old enough (you'd have though
t) to lift a spear, took one of Morien's girls by force last spring when she
 was on her way to the monastery her father had promised her to since birth?
 He lifted his spear to her easily enough; by the time her father got the ne
ws she was over the border with him, and in no condition for any monastery,
however broad-minded." He chuckled. "Morien cried rape, of course, but every
one was laughing, so he made the best of it. Strathclyde had to pay, natural
ly, and he and Morien sat on opposite benches at Viroconium, and Heuil wasn'
t there at all. Ah, well, but they agreed to sink their differences. King Ut
her managed it well enough, so what between Rheged and Strathclyde, there's
half the northern frontier solid for the King."

  "And the other half?" I asked. "What about Lot?"

   "Lot?" Ector snorted. "That braggart! He'd swear allegiance to the Devil
and Hecate combined if it would get him a few more acres for himself. He care
s no more for Britain than that hound by the hearthstone. Less, He and his wi
ld brood of brothers sitting on that cold rock of theirs. They'll fight when
it pays them, and that's all." He fell silent, scowling at the fire, poking w
ith a foot at the hound nearest him; it yawned with pleasure, and flattened i
ts ears. "But he talks well, and maybe I'm blackguarding him. Times are chang
ing, and even barbarians like Lot ought to be able to see that unless we band
 together with a strong oath, and keep it, it'll be the Flood Year all over a
gain."
   He was not referring to an actual flood, but to the year of the great i
nvasion a century ago, when the Picts and Saxons, joined with the Scots fro
m Ireland, poured across Hadrian's Wall with axe and fire. Maximus commande
d then, in Segontium. He drove them back and broke them, and won for Britai
n a time of peace, and for himself an empire and a legend.

   I said: "Lothian is a key to the defense that Uther's planning, even more
 than Rheged or Strathclyde. I'd heard tell-I don't know if it's true?-that t
here are Angles settled on the Alaunus, and that the strength of the Anglian
Federates south of York along the Abus has doubled since my father's death?"

   "It's true." He spoke heavily. "And. south of Lothian there's only Urien
on the coast, and he's another carrion crow, picking at Lot's leavings. Nay,
that may be another one I'm doing an injustice to. He's married to Lot's sist
er, when all's done, so he'd be bound to cry the same way. Talking of which-"

   "Talking of what?" I asked, as he paused. "Marriage." He scowled, then b
egan to grin. "If it wasn't so plaguy dangerous, it would be funny. You knew
 Uther had a bastard girl, I forget her name, she must be seven or eight yea
rs old?"

  "Morgause. Yes, I remember her. She was born in Brittany."
   Morgause was a sideslip of Uther's by a girl in Brittany who had follow
ed him to Britain hoping, I suppose, for marriage, since she was of good fa
mily, and the only woman, so far as anyone knew then for certain, who had b
orne him a child. (It had always been a matter of amazement, and a good dea
l of private and public conjecture among Uther's troops, how he managed to
avoid leaving a train of bastards in his wake like seedlings following the
sower down a furrow. But this girl was, to public knowledge, the only one.
And I believe to Uther's knowledge, too. He was a fair man and a generous o
ne, and no girl had suffered any loss worse than maidenhead through him.) H
e had acknowledged the child, kept both child and mother at one of his hous
es, and after the mother's marriage to a lord of his household, had taken t
he girl into his own. I had seen her once or twice in Brittany, a thin pale
-haired girl with big eyes and a mouth folded small.

  "What about Morgause?" I asked.

   "Uther was casting out feelers for marrying her to Lot, come the time she'
ll be ready for bedding."
  I cocked an eyebrow at him. "And what did Lot think about that?"
   "Eh, you'd have laughed to watch him. Black as a wolverine at the sugge
stion that Uther's byblow was good enough, but careful to keep his talk swe
et in case there's no other daughter born in the right bed now the King's w
edded. Bastards-and their mates-have inherited kingdoms before now. Saving
your presence, of course."

   "Of course. Lot casts his eyes as high as that, then?" He gave a short no
d. "High as the High Kingdom itself, you can take my word for it."

   I digested that, frowning. I had never met Lot; he was at this time sca
rcely older than myself-somewhere in his early twenties-and though he had f
ought under my father, his path and mine had not crossed. "So Uther wants t
o tie Lothian to him, and Lot wants to be tied? Whether it's for his own am
bition or not, it means surely that Lot will fight for the High King when t
he time comes? And Lothian is our main bulwark against the Angles and the o
ther invaders from the north."

   "Oh, aye, he'll fight," said Ector. "Unless the Angles offer him a better b
ribe than Uther does."

   "Do you mean that?" I was alarmed. Ector, for all his bluff ways, was
a shrewd observer, and few men knew more about the changing shifts of powe
r along our shores.

  "Maybe I was putting it a trifle high. But for my money Lot's unscrupled
and ambitious, and that's a combination that spells danger to any overlord
who can't placate him."

  "How is he with Rheged?" I was thinking of the child to be lodged here p
erhaps at Galava, with Lot east by north across the Pennines.

   "Oh, friends, friends. As good friends as two big hounds each with his o
wn full platter of meat; No, it's not yet a matter for concern, and may neve
r be. So forget it, and drink up." He drank deeply himself, set down his cup
 and wiped his mouth. Then he fixed me with a sharp and curious eye. "Well?
You'd better get to it, boy. You didn't come all this way for a good supper
and a brattle with an old farmer. Tell me how I can serve Ambrosius' son?"

   "It is Ambrosius' nephew you will be serving," I said, and told him the
rest. He heard me out in silence. For all his warmth and heartiness, there w
as nothing impulsive or over-quick about Ector. He had been a cold-brained a
nd calculating officer; a valuable man in any circumstance, from a pitched f
ight to a long and careful siege. After- a sharp glance of surprise and a li
ft of the brows when I spoke of the King's decision and my guardianship of t
he child, he listened without moving and without taking his eyes off me.

   When I had finished, he stirred. "Well . . . I'll say one thing to start
with, Merlin; I'm glad and proud you should have come to me. You know how I f
elt about your father. And to tell you the truth, boy"-he cleared his throat,
 hesitated, then looked away into the fire as he spoke-"it always sorrowed my
 heart that you yourself were a bastard. And that's between these four walls,
 I don't have to tell you. Not that Uther's made a bad shot at being High Kin
g-"

   "A far better shot than I'd ever have made," I said, smiling. "My father
 used to say that Uther and I, between us, shared out some of the qualities
of a good king. It was a dear dream of his that some day, between us, we mig
ht fashion one. And this is the one." Then, as his head went up, "Oh, I know
, a baby not yet born. But all the first part has happened as I knew it must
 happen: a child begotten by Uther and given to me to raise. I know this is
the one. I believe he will be such a king as this poor country has never had
 before, and may never see again."
  "Your stars tell you this?"

  "It has been written there, certainly, and who writes among the stars but
God?"

   "Well, God grant it is so. There's coming a time, Merlin, maybe not next
 year, or for five years, or even for ten, but it is coming-when the Flood Y
ear will come again, and pray God that this time there's a king here to rais
e the sword of Maximus against it." He turned his head sharply. "What's that
? That sound?"

  "Only the wind in the bowstrings."
  "I thought it was a harp sounding. Strange. What is it, boy? Why do you
look so?"

  "Nothing."
  He looked at me doubtfully for a moment longer, then grunted and fell s
ilent, and behind us the long humming stretched out, a cold music, somethin
g from the air itself. I remembered how, as a child, I had lain watching th
e stars and listening for the music which (I had been told) they made as th
ey moved. This must, I thought, be how it sounded.

   A servant came in then with logs to replenish the fire, and the sound die
d. When he had gone, and the door had shut behind him, Ector spoke again in q
uite a different tone. "Well, I'll do it, of course, and proud to. You're rig
ht; in the next few years I can't see that Uther will have much time for him,
 and for that matter he'd be hard put to it to keep the child safe. Tintagel
might have done, but as you say, there's Cador there . . . Does the King know
 that you've come to me?"

  "No. Nor will I tell him, yet."

   "Indeed?" He thought it over for a moment, frowning a little. "Do you thin
k he'll be content with that?"
   "Possibly. I don't know. He didn't press me too hard about Brittany. I thi
nk that just now he wants as little to do with it as need be. The other thing
is"-I smiled a little wryly-"the King and I have a truce declared, but I would
n't bank on its staying that way; and out of sight, out of mind. If I'm to hav
e anything to do with the child's teaching, then it had better be at a fair di
stance from the High King."

   "Aye, I've heard that, too. It's never a wise thing to help kings to their he
art's desire. Will the boy be a Christian?"

   "The Queen wants it, so he'll be baptized in Brittany if I can arrange it. H
e's to be called Arthur."

  "You'll stand for him?"

   I laughed. "I believe the fact that I. was never baptized myself puts me ou
t of the running."
   His teeth showed. "I forgot you were a pagan. Well, I'm glad to hear abou
t the boy. There'd have been a peck of trouble else."

  "Your wife, you mean? She's so devout?"
  "Poor lass," he said, "she has nothing else since our second died. There'
ll be no more, they say. In fact it will be God's mercy if we take this boy i
nto our house; my son Cei's a headstrong little ruffian for all he's only thr
ee, and the women spoil him. It will be good to have the second child. What d
id you say his name was to be? Arthur? You'll leave this with me to talk over
 with Drusilla? Though there's no question, she'll be as glad as I am to have
 him. And I can tell you that she's close-mouthed enough, for all she's a wom
an. He'll be safe with us."

  "I was sure of it. It doesn't need the stars to tell me that." But when I be
gan to thank him, he cut me short.

   "Well, then, that's settled. We can talk over the details later. I'll speak w
ith Drusilla tonight. You'll stay a while, of course?"

   "Thank you, but I can't-no longer than it takes to rest myself and my ho
rse. I have to be at Tintagel again in December, and before that I must be h
ome when Ralf gets back from Brittany. There's a lot to be arranged."
    "A pity. But you'll be back. I'll look forward to it." He grinned, stirri
ng the hounds again. "I'll enjoy seeing you installed as tutor to the househo
ld, or whatever you think will give you some claim on the boy. And I own I sh
ould like to see Cei licked into shape. Maybe he'll mind his manners with you
, if he thinks he can be turned into a toad for disobeying you."

   "Bats are my speciality," I said, smiling. "You are very good, and I'll nev
er be out of your debt. But I'll find a place of my own."
  "Look, boy, Ambrosius' son doesn't wander the countryside looking for a
home while I have four walls and a fireplace to offer him. Why not here?"

   "Because I might be recognized, and where Merlin is for the next few yea
rs, men will look for Arthur near him. No, I must stay unknown. A household
as big as this is too risky, and, with all my thanks to you, four walls are
not always the best shelter for such as me."

   "Ah, yes. A cave, isn't it? Well, there are a few hereabouts, they tell
 me, if you turn the wolves out first. Well, you know your own business. Bu
t tell me, what of the Queen? You didn't say where she stood in this? What
woman would let her first child be taken from the bed where she bore him, a
nd never try to see him again or make herself known to him?"
  "The Queen herself sent for me secretly, and asked me to take him. She h
as suffered, I know, but it's the King's will, and she knows that it's more
than a whim born of anger; she sees the dangers as "well as he. And she is a
 queen before she is a woman." I added, carefully: "I think that the Queen i
s not a woman for a family, any more than Uther is a family man. They are ma
n and woman for each other, and outside their bed they are King and Queen. I
t may be that in the future Ygraine will wonder, and ask questions; but that
 is with the future. For the moment she is content to let him go."

   After this we talked on, late into the night, arranging as far as we could
 the details of the time ahead. Arthur would be left in Brittany until he was
three or four years old, then at a safe time of year Ralf would bring him acro
ss from Brittany to Ector's home.

  "And you?" asked Ector. "Where will you be?"

   "Not in Brittany, for the same reason that I can't live here. I shall va
nish, Ector. It's a talent that magicians have. And when I do appear again,
it will be somewhere that draws men's eyes away from Brittany and Galava." W
hen he questioned me further, I laughed, and refused to enlighten him.

   "Truth to tell, my plans are not yet fixed. Now, I've kept you out of y
our bed for long enough. Your wife will be wondering what sort of mystery m
an you have been closeted with all these hours. I'll make my apologies when
 you present me in the morning."

   "And I'll make my own now," he said, getting to his feet. "But that's o
ne apology I enjoy making. You miss a lot, you know, Merlin-but then you ca
n't know."

  "I know," I said.

  "You do? Then you must think it's worth it, life without women?"

  "For me, yes."

   "Well, then, come this way to your cold bed," he said, and held the door f
or me.



11
The boy was born on the eve of Christmas, an hour before midnight.

   Just before the birth I and the two nobles appointed as witnesses were
 called into the Queen's chamber, where Gan-dar attended with Marcia and o
ther women of the Queen's household. One of these was a girl called Branwe
n who had lately been brought to bed of a dead child; she was to be the ch
ild's wet-nurse. When all was done, the baby washed and swaddled, and the
Queen sleeping, I took my leave and rode out of the castle and along the t
rack towards Dimilioc. As soon as the lights of the gate-house were out of
 view I turned my horse aside down the steep path into the valley which ru
ns from the high fields above the headland down to the shore.

   The castle at Tintagel is built on a promontory of rock, or near-island, a
 crag jutting up out of the fearsome seas, which is joined to the cliffs of th
e mainland only by a narrow causeway. To either side of this causeway the clif
fs drop away sheer to small bays of rock and shingle tucked in under the cliff
. From one of these a path, narrow and precarious, and passable only on a rece
ding tide, leads up the face of the cliff to a small gate let into the roots o
f the castle wall. This is the postern, the secret entrance to the castle. Ins
ide is a narrow stairway of stone leading up to the private door of the royal
apartments.
    Halfway up the steep stairway was a broad landing, and a guard-room. Her
e I was to wait, until the child was judged fit to be taken abroad into the
winter's cold. There were no guards: months past, the King had had the poste
rn sealed, and the guard-room's other door, giving on the main part of the c
astle, had been built up. For tonight the postern gate had been opened, but
no porter manned it; only Ulfin the King's man, and Valerius, his friend and
 trusted officer, waited there to let me in. Valerius took me up to the guar
droom, while Ulfin went out down the path into the bay to take my horse. Ral
f was not with me. He had gone to ensure that the Breton ship was waiting as
 it had promised, and he was also to bring horses and to keep watch each nig
ht in the bay below the secret path.

   I waited for two days and nights. There was a pallet in the guard-room,
and Ulfin himself had kindled a fire to banish the disused chill of the plac
e, and from time to time brought food and fuel, and the news from above stai
rs. He would have waited on me if I had let him; he was grateful still for s
ome kindness I had shown to him in the past, and I think the King's disfavou
r had distressed him. But I sent him back to his post at the Queen's door, a
nd spent the waiting time alone.
   At the other side of the landing, in the outer wall of the castle and op
posite the guard-room door, was another door leading out onto a narrow, leve
l platform skirted waist-high by a battlement. It was not overlooked by any
of the castle windows, and below it, between the castle wall and the sea, wa
s an apron of grass sloping down to the edge of the sheer cliffs. In summer
the place was alive with nesting sea birds, but now, in midwinter, it was ba
rren and crisp with frost. From below, incessantly, came the suck and hush a
nd thud of the winter sea.

   Each day, at dawn and sunset, I walked out to this platform to see if the
 weather had changed. But for three days there was no change. The air was col
d, and below me the grass, grey with rime, was barely distinguishable in the
thick mist that held the whole place shrouded, from the invisible sea below t
he invisible cliffs to the pale blur where the winter sun fought to clear the
 sky. Below the blanket of mist the sea was quiet, as quiet as it ever is on
that raging coast. And every midnight, before I slept, I went out into the ic
y dark and looked upwards for the stars. But there was only the blank pall of
 the mist.

    Then on the third night, the wind came. A small wind from the west, tha
t crept across the battlements and in under the doors and set the flames fl
uttering blue round the birch logs. I stood up, listening. I had a hand to
the latch of the door when I heard a sound, in the quiet, from the head of
the stairway. The door to the Queen's apartments had opened and shut again,
 gently. I opened the door and looked upwards. Someone was coming softly do
wn the stairs; a woman, shrouded in a mantle, carrying something. I stepped
 out onto the landing, and the light from the guard-room door came after me
, firelight and shadow.

   It was Marcia. I saw the tears glisten on her cheeks as she bent her he
ad over what lay-in her arms. A child, wrapped warm against the winter nigh
t. She saw me and held her burden out to me. "Take care of him," she said.
"Take care of him, as God loves him and you."

   I took the child from her. Inside the woollen wrappings I caught the gli
nt of cloth of gold, "And the token?" I asked. She handed me a ring. It was
one I had often seen on Uther's hand, made of gold, enclosing a stone of red
 jasper with a dragon crest carved small. I slipped it on my own finger, and
 saw her instinctive movement of protest, stilled as she remembered who I wa
s.
  I smiled. "For safekeeping only. I shall put it away for him."
   "My lord prince . . ." She bent her head. Then she threw a quick glance
 over her shoulder to where the girl Branwen, hooded and cloaked, was comin
g down the stairway, with Ulfin behind her carrying a pack with her effects
. Marcia turned back to me swiftly and laid a hand on my arm. "You will tel
l me where you are taking him?" It was a plea, whispered.

  I shook my head. "I'm sorry. It's better that no one should know."

   She was silent, her lips working. Then she straightened herself. "Very w
ell. But you promise me that he will be safe? I'm not asking you as a man, o
r even as a prince. I'm asking you from your power. He will be safe?"

   So Ygraine had said nothing, even to Marcia. Marcia's guess at the futur
e was still only a guess. But in the days to come both these women would fee
l the bitter need for each other's confidence. It would be cruel to leave th
e Queen isolated with her knowledge and her hopes. It is not true that women
 cannot keep secrets. Where they love, they can be trusted to death and beyo
nd, against all sense and reason. It is their weakness, and their great stre
ngth.

  I met Marcia's eyes full for a moment. "He will be King," I said. "The Que
en knows it. But for the child's sake, you will tell no one else."

   She bent her head again, without replying. Ulfin and Branwen were besid
e us. Marcia leaned forward gently and drew back a fold of the shawl from t
he child's face. The baby was sleeping. The eyelids, curiously full, lay ov
er the shut eyes like pale shells. There was a thick down of dark hair on h
is head. Marcia stooped and kissed him lightly on the head. He slept on, un
disturbed. She pulled the fold of wool back to shelter him, then with gentl
e expert hands settled the bundle closer into my arms. "So. Hold his head s
o. You will be careful going down the path?"

  "I will be careful."
  She opened her mouth to speak again, then shook her head quickly, and I s
aw a tear slide from her cheek to fall on the child's shawl. Then she turned
abruptly away, and started back up the stairs.

  I carried the baby down the secret path. Valerius went ahead, with his
sword drawn and ready, and behind me, with Ulfin's arm to help her, came Br
anwen. As we reached the bottom and stepped on the grating pebbles, Ralf's
shadow detached itself from the immense darkness of the cliffs, and we hear
d his quick, relieved greeting, and the tread of hoofs on the shingle.

   He had brought a mule for the girl, tough and sure-footed. He settled he
r in the saddle, then I handed the baby up to her, and she folded him close
in the warmth of her cloak. Ralf vaulted to the back of his own horse and to
ok the mule's rein in hand. I was to lead the pack-mule. This time I planned
 to travel as an itinerant singer---a harper is free of kings' courts where
a drug-peddler is not-and my harp was strapped to the mule's saddle. Ulfin g
ave me the lead-rein, then held my gelding for me; it was fresh, and anxious
 to be moving and warm itself. I said my thanks and farewells, then he and V
alerius started back up the cliff path. They would seal the postern again be
hind them.

   I turned my horse's head into the wind. Ralf and the girl had already pu
t their mounts to the bank. I saw the dim shapes pause above me, waiting, an
d the pale oval of Ralf's face as he turned back to watch me. Then his arm w
ent out, pointing.

  "Look!"

  I turned.

   The mist was lifting, drawing back from a sparkling sky. Faintly, high ov
er the castle promontory, grew a hazy moon of light. Then the last cloud blew
 clear, billowing before the west wind like a sail blowing towards Brittany,
and in its wake, blazing through the sparkle of the lesser stars, grew the gr
eat star that had lit the night of Ambrosius' death, and now burned steady in
 the east for the birth of the Christmas King.

  We set spurs to our horses and rode for the ship.



12

The wind stayed fair for Brittany, and we came in sight of the Wild Coast a
t dawn on the fifth day. Here the sea is never quiet; the cliffs, high and
dangerous, towered black with the early light behind them and the teeth of
the sea gnawing white at the base; but once round Vindanis Point the seas f
lattened and ran calmer, and I was even able to leave my cabin in time to w
atch our arrival at the wharf south of Kerrec which my father and King Bude
c had built years back when the invasion force was being assembled here.

   The morning was still, with a touch of frost and a thin mist pearling t
he fields. The country hereabouts is flat, field and moorland stretching in
land where the wind scours the grass with salt, and for miles nothing grows
 but pine and wind-bitten thorn. Thin streams wind between steep mud-banks
down to the bays and inlets that bite everywhere into the coast, and at low
 tide the flats teem with shellfish and are loud with the cries of wading b
irds. For all its dour- seeming it is a rich country, and had provided a ha
ven not only for Ambrosius and Uther when Vortigern murdered their brother
the King, but for hundreds of other exiles who fled from Vortigern and the
threat of the Saxon Terror. Even then, they found parts of the country alre
ady peopled by the Celts of Britain. When the Emperor Maximus, a century be
fore, had marched on Rome, those British troops who survived his defeat had
 straggled back to the refuge of this friendly land. Some had gone home, bu
t a great many had remained to marry and settle; my kinsman, King Hoel, cam
e of one such family. The British had indeed settled in such numbers that m
en called the peninsula Britain also, dubbing it Less Britain, as their hom
eland was known as Greater Britain. The language spoken here was still reco
gnizably the same as that of home, and men worshipped the same gods, but th
e memories of older gods still visibly held the land, and the place was str
ange. I saw Branwen gazing out over the ship's rail with wide eyes and wond
ering face, and even Ralf, who had travelled here before as my messenger, h
ad a look of awe as we drew nearer the wharf and saw, beyond the huts and t
he piles of casks and bales, the first ranks of the standing stones.

   These line the fields of Less Britain, rank on rank, like old grey warri
ors waiting, or armies of the dead. They have stood there, men say, since ti
me began. No one knows why, or how they came there. But I had long known tha
t they were raised, not by giants or gods or even enchanters, but by human e
ngineers whose skill lives on only in song. These skills I learned, when as
a boy I lived in Brittany, and men called it magic. For all I know they may
be right. One thing is certain, though men's hands lifted the stones, and ar
e long since dust under their roots, the gods they served still walk there.
When I have gone between the stones at night, I have felt eyes on my back.

   But now the sun was up, gilding the granite surfaces, and throwing the
shadows of the stones slanting blue across the frost. The wharf-side was al
ready busy; carts stood ready for loading, and men and boys ran about the b
usiness of tying up and unloading the ship. We were the only passengers, bu
t no one cast more than a glance at the travellers in their decent, sober c
lothes; the musician with the harp in his baggage and his wife and baby bes
ide him, with his servant in attendance. Ralf had lifted the baby from Bran
wen's arms, and supported her as she trod gingerly down the gangplank. She
was silent and pale, and leaned heavily on him. I saw, as he bent over her,
 how-suddenly, it seemed-he had grown from boy to man. He would be turned s
ixteen now, and though Branwen was perhaps a year older than he, Ralf might
 well be taken for her husband, rather than I. He looked brisk and bright,
sleek as a springtime cockerel in his neat new clothes. He was the only one
 of our party, I thought sourly, feeling the wharf tilt and sway under me a
s if it had still been the heaving deck, who had weathered the passage well.

   The escort he had arranged was waiting for us. Not the escort of troops
 which King Hoel had wanted to provide, but simply a mule litter for Branwe
n and the child, with a muleteer and one other man, who had brought horses
for Ralf and myself. This man came forward now to greet me. From his bearin
g I judged him to be an officer, but he was not in uniform, and there was n
othing to show that the escort came from the King. Nor apparently had the o
fficer been told anything about us, beyond the fact that we were to be led
into town and housed there until the King should send for us.

   He greeted me civilly, but without the courtesies of rank. "You are welc
ome, sir. The King sends his greetings, and I am here to escort you into tow
n. I trust you had a good voyage?"

  "They tell" me so," I said, "but neither I nor the lady are inclined to belie
ve them."

   He grinned. "I thought she looked a little green. I know how she feels. I'm
 not a great one for the sea, myself. And you, sir? Can you ride as far as the
town? It's little more than a mile."
   "I can try," I said. We exchanged courtesies while Ralf helped Branwen i
nto the litter and drew the curtains against the morning chill. As she settl
ed herself into the warmth the baby woke and began to cry. He had very good
lungs, had Arthur. I suppose I must have winced. I saw a gleam of amusement
in the officer's face, and said dryly:

  "Are you married?"

  "Yes, indeed."
     "I used to think sometimes what I might be missing. Now I begin to know
."

   He laughed at that. "One can always escape. It's the best reason I know fo
r being a soldier. Will you mount, sir?"

   He and I rode side by side on the way into the town. Kerrec was a sizeab
le settlement, half civil, half military, walled and moated, clustered round
 a central hill where the King's stronghold lay. Near the ramp which led up
to the castle gate was the house where my father had lived during his years
of exile, while he and King Budec assembled and trained the army which had i
nvaded Britain to claim it back for him, her rightful King.

   And now, perhaps, her next and greater King was here at my side, still ye
lling lustily, muffled in a litter, and being carried over the wooden bridge
that spanned the moat, and in through the gate of the town.

   My companion was silent beside me. Behind us the others rode at ease; t
hey chatted among themselves, the sound of their voices and the sharp clop
of the horses' hoofs on the cobbles and the jingling of bits sounding loud
in the still and misty daybreak. The town was just waking. Cocks crowed fro
m yards and middens; here and there doors were opened and women, shawled ag
ainst the cold, could be seen moving with pails or armfuls of kindling to s
tart the day's work.

   I was glad of my companion's silence as I looked about me. Even in the
five years since I had left it the place seemed to have changed completely.
 I suppose one cannot pull a standing army out of a town where it has been
built and trained for years, and not leave an echoing shell. The army, inde
ed, had been mainly quartered outside the walls, and the camps had long sin
ce been dismantled and gone back to grassland. But in the town, though King
 Budec's own troops remained, the orderly bustle and the air of purpose and
 expectancy which had characterized the place in my father's time had gone.
 In the street of the engineers, where I had served my apprenticeship with
Tremorinus, there were a few workshops open and already clanging in the ear
ly dawn, but the air of high purpose had gone with the crowd and the clamou
r, and something almost like desolation had taken its place. I was glad tha
t the way to our lodging did not pass my father's house.

  We were lodged with a decent couple, who made us welcome; Branwen and t
he baby were carried straight off to some women's fastness, while I was sho
wn to a good room where a fire blazed and breakfast was spread waiting besi
de it. A servant carried the baggage in, and would have stayed to wait on m
e, but Ralf dismissed him and served the meal himself. I bade him eat with
me, and he did so, cheerful and brisk as if the last week or so had been sp
ent holidaying, and when we had done asked if I wanted to go out to explore
 the town. I gave him leave, but said that I would stay within doors. I am
a strong man, and do not readily tire, but it takes more than a mile on dry
 land and a good breakfast to dispel the grinding sickness and exhaustion o
f a winter voyage. So I bade Ralf merely see to it that Branwen and the chi
ld were comfortable, and, after he had gone, composed myself to rest and wa
it for the King's summons.

   It came at lamplighting, and Ralf with it, wide-eyed, with a robe over h
is arm of soft combed wool dyed a rich dark blue, with a border worked in go
ld and silver thread. "The King sent this for you. Will you wear it?"

  "Certainly. It would be an insult to do anything else."

  "But it's a prince's robe. People will wonder who you are."

   "Not a prince's, no. A singer's robe of honour. This is a civilized count
ry, Ralf, like my own. It's not only princes and soldiers who are held in hig
h esteem. When will King Hoel receive me?"
  "In an hour's time, he says. He will receive you alone, before you sing in
the hall. What are you laughing at?"

   "King Hoel being cunning from necessity. There's only one catch about goi
ng as a singer to Hoel's court; he happens to be tone deaf. But even a tone d
eaf king will receive a travelling singer, to get his news. So he receives me
 alone. Then if the barons in his hall want to hear me, he doesn't have to si
t through it."
  "He sent that harp along, though." Ralf nodded to the instrument which s
tood shrouded near the lamp.

   "He sent it, yes, but it was never his; it's my own." He looked at me in s
urprise. I had spoken more curtly than I had meant to. All day the silent harp
 had stood there, untouched, but speaking to me of memories, of most, indeed,
that I had ever had of happiness. As a boy here in Kerrec, in my father's hous
e, I had played it almost nightly. I added: "It was one I used here, years ago
. Hoel's father must have kept it for me. I don't suppose it's been touched si
nce I last played it. I'd better try it before I go. Uncover it, will you?"
   A scratch at the door then heralded a slave with a ewer of steaming wate
r. While I washed, and combed my hair, then let the slave help me into the s
umptuous blue robe, Ralf uncovered the harp and set it ready.

   It was bigger than the one I had brought with me. That was a knee harp, e
asy to transport; this was a standing harp, with a greater range and a tone w
hich would reach the corners of a King's hall. I tuned it carefully, then ran
 my fingers over the strings.

   To remember love after long sleep; to turn again to poetry after a year i
n the market place, or to youth after resignation to drowsy and stiffening ag
e; to remember what once you thought life could hold, after telling over with
 muddied and calculating fingers what it has offered; this is music, made aft
er long silence. The soul flexes its wings, and, clumsy as any fledgling, tri
es the air again. I felt my way, groping back through the chords, for the pas
sion that slept there in the harp, exploring, testing as a man tests in the d
ark ground which once he knew in daylight. Whispers, small jags of sound, bun
ches of notes dragged sharply. The wires thrilled, catching the firelight, an
d the long running chords lapsed into the song.

 There was a hunter at the moon's dark
 Who sought to lay a net of gold in the marshes.
 A net of gold, a net heavy as gold.
 And the tide came in and drowned the net,
 Held it invisible, deep, and the hunter waited,
 Crouching by the water in the moon's dark.
 They came, the birds fighting the dark,
 Hundred on hundred, a king's army.
 They landed on the water, a fleet of ships,
 Of king's ships, proud with silver, silver masted,
 Swift ships, fierce in battle,
 Crowding the water in the moon's dark.
 The net was heavy beneath them, hidden,
 waiting to catch them.
 But he lay still, the young hunter, with idle hands.
 Hunter, draw in your net. Your children
 will eat tonight, And your wife will praise you, the cunning hunter.
 He drew in his net, the young hunter,
 drew it tight and fast.
  It was heavy, and he drew it to shore, among the reeds. It was heavy as
gold, but nothing was there but water. There was nothing in it but water, he
avy as gold, And one grey feather, From the wing of a wild goose.

  They had gone, the ships, the armies, into the moon's dark.

   And the hunter's children were hungry, and his wife lamented. But he sle
pt dreaming, holding the wild goose feather.

   King Hoel was a big, thick-bodied man in his middle thirties. During the
 time I had spent in Kerrec-from my twelfth to my seventeenth year-I had see
n very little of him. He had been a lusty and dedicated fighting man, while
I was only a youth, and busy with my studies in hospital and workshop. But l
ater he had fought with my father's troops in Greater Britain, and there we
had come to know and to like one another. He was a man of big appetites and,
 as such men often are, good natured and tending to laziness. Since I had la
st seen him he had put on flesh, and his face had the flush of good living,
but I had no doubt he would be as stalwart as ever in the field.
  I started by speaking of his father King Budec and the changes that had c
ome, and we talked for a while of past times.

   "Ah, yes, those were good years." He stared, chin on fist, into the fire.
 He had received me in his private chamber, and after we had been served
with wine, had dismissed the servants. His two deer-hounds lay stretched o
n the skins at his feet, dreaming still of the chase they had had that day. H
is hunting spears, freshly cleaned, stood against the wall behind his chair,
their blades catching the firelight. The King stretched his massive shoulder
s, and spoke wistfully. "I wonder, when will such years come again?"

  "You are talking of the fighting years?"

  "I am talking of Ambrosius' years, Merlin."

   "They will come again, with your help now." He looked puzzled, then sta
rtled, and uneasy. I had spoken prosaically enough, but he had caught the i
mplications. Like Uther, he was a man who liked everything normal, open and
 ordinary. "You mean the child? The bastard? After all we've heard about it
, he'll be the one to succeed Uther?"

  "Yes. I promise you."
  He fidgeted with his cup, and his eyes slid away from mine. "Ah, yes. Wel
l, we shall keep him safely. But tell me, why the secrecy? I had a letter fro
m Uther asking me openly enough to care for the boy. Ralf couldn't tell me mu
ch more than was in the letters he brought. I'll help, of course, every way I
 can, but I don't want a quarrel with Uther. His letter to me made it pretty
clear that this boy's only his heir in default of a better claim."

   "That's true. Don't be afraid, I don't want a quarrel, either, between yo
u and Uther. One doesn't throw a precious morsel down between two fighting-do
gs and expect it to survive. Until there is a boy with what Uther calls a bet
ter claim, he's as anxious as I am to keep this one safe. He knows what I'm d
oing, up to a point."

   "Ah." He cocked an eye at me, intrigued. I had been right about him. He
 might be well disposed towards Britain, but he was not above doing a quiet
ly back-handed turn to Britain's King. "Up to what point?"

    "The time when the baby is weaned, and grown enough to need men's company
 and to be taught men's arts. Four years, perhaps, or less. After that I shal
l take him back from you, and he must go home to Britain. If Uther asks where
 he is, he will have to be told, but until he does-well, there's no need to s
eek him out, is there? Myself, I doubt if Uther will question you at all. I t
hink he would forget this child if he could. In any case, if there is blame,
it is mine. He put the boy in my charge, to rear as I thought fit."

  "But will it be safe to take him back? If Uther's sending him here now be
cause of enemies at home, are you sure it will be better then?"
   "It's a risk that will have to be taken. I want to be near the child as h
e grows. It should be in Britain, and therefore it must be in secret. There a
re bad times coming, Hoel, for us all. I cannot yet see what will happen, bey
ond these facts; that this boy-this bastard if you like-will have enemies, ev
en more than Uther has. You call him bastard; so will other men with ambition
. His secret enemies will be more deadly even than the Saxons. So he must be
hidden until the time comes for him to take the crown, and then he must take
it with no cast of doubt, and be raised King in the sight of all Britain."
    " 'He must be?' You have seen things, then?" But before I could answer h
e shied quickly away from the strange ground, and cleared his throat. "Well,
 I'll keep him safe for you, as well as I may. Just tell me what you want. Y
ou know your own business, always did. I'll trust you to keep me right with
Uther." He gave his great laugh. "I remember how Ambrosius used to say that
your judgment in matters of policy, even when you were a youngling, was wort
h ten of any bedroom emperor's." My father, naturally, had said no such thin
g, and in any case would hardly have said it to Hoel, who had a fair reputat
ion himself as a lover, but I took it as it was intended, and thanked him. H
e went on: "Well, tell me what you want. I confess I'm puzzled. . . . These
enemies you talk of, won't they guess he's in Brittany? You say Uther made n
o secret of his plans, and when the time comes for the royal ship to sail an
d it's seen that you and the child aren't on it, won't they simply think he
was sent over earlier, and search first for him here in Brittany?"
   "Probably. But by that time he'll be disposed of in the place I've arrang
ed for him, and that's not the kind of place where Uther's nobles would think
 of looking. And I myself will be gone."

  "What place is that? Am I to know?"

   "Of course. It's a small village near your boundary, north, towards Lanasc
ol."
   "What?" He was startled, and showed it. One of the hounds stirred and o
pened an eye. "North? At the edge of Gorlan's land? Gorlan is no friend to
the Dragon."

   "Nor to me," I said. "He's a proud man, and there is an old score betwee
n his house and my mother's. But he has no quarrel with you?"

   "No, indeed," said Hoel fervently, with the respect of one fighting man fo
r another.

   "So I believed. So Gorlan isn't likely to make forays into the edge of yo
ur territory. What's more, who would dream that I would hide the child so nea
r him? That with all Brittany to choose from, I'd leave him within bowshot of
 Uther's enemy? No, he'll be safe. When I leave him, I'll do so with a quiet
mind. But that's not to say I'm not deeply in your debt." I smiled at him. "E
ven the stars need help at times."

   "I'm glad to hear it," said Hoel gruffly. "We mere kings like to think we
have our parts to play. But you and your stars might make it a bit easier for
us, perhaps? Surely, in all that great forest north of here, there must be saf
er places than the very edge of my lands?"

   "Possibly, but it happens that I have a safe house there. The one person
in both the Britains who'll know exactly what to do with the child for the ne
xt four years, and will care for him as she would for her own."
  "She?"

   "Yes. My own nurse, Moravik. She's a Breton born, and after Maridunum w
as sacked in Camlach's war she left South Wales and went home. Her father o
wned a tavern north of here at a place called Coll. Since he'd grown too ol
d for work, a fellow called Brand kept it for him. Brand's wife was dead, a
nd soon after Moravik returned home she and Brand married, just to keep thi
ngs right in the sight of God . . . and, knowing Moravik, I'm not just talk
ing about the inn's title deeds.....They keep the place still. You must hav
e passed it, though I doubt if you'd ever stop there-it stands where two st
reams join and a bridge crosses them. Brand's a retired soldier of your own
, and a good man-and in any case will do as Moravik bids him." I smiled. "I
 never knew a man who didn't, except perhaps my grandfather."

   "Ye-es." He still sounded doubtful, "I know the village, a handful of huts
by the bridge, that's all. ... As you say, hardly a likely place to hunt a High
 King's heir. But an inn? Isn't that in itself a risk? With men-Gorlan's, too,
since it's a time of truce-coming and going from the road?"

   "So, no one will question your messengers or mine. My man Ralf will stay
 there to guard the boy, and he'll need to stay abreast of news, and get mes
sages to you from time to time, and to me."

  "Yes. Yes, I see. And when you take the child there, what's your story?"
    "No one will think twice about a travelling harper plying his trade on a
 journey. And Moravik has put a story round that will explain the sudden app
earance of Ralf and the baby and his nurse. The story, if anyone questions i
t, will be that the girl, Branwen, is Moravik's niece, who bore a child to h
er master over in Britain. Her mistress cast her from the house, and she had
 no other place to go, but the man gave her money for the passage to her aun
t's house in Brittany, and paid the travelling singer and his man to escort
her. And the singer's man, meanwhile, will decide to leave his master and st
ay with the girl."

  "And the singer himself? How long will you stay there?"

  "Only as long as a travelling singer might, then I'll move on and be for
gotten. By the time anyone even thinks to look farther for Uther's child, ho
w can they find him? No one knows the girl, and the baby is only a baby. Eve
ry house in the country has one or more to show."
   He nodded, chewing it over this way and that, and asked a few more ques
tions. Finally he admitted: "It will serve, I suppose. What do you want me
to do?"

  "You have watchers in the kingdoms that march with yours?"

  He laughed shortly. "Spies? Who hasn't?"

   "Then you'll hear quickly enough if there's any hint of trouble from Gor
lan or anyone else. And if you can arrange for some quick and secret contact
 with Ralf, should it be necessary-?"

  "Easy. Trust me. Anything I can do, short of war with Gorlan . . ." He g
ave his deep chuckle again. "Eh, Merlin, it's good to see you. How long can
you stay?"
   "I'll take the boy north tomorrow, and with your permission will go unesc
orted. I'll come back as soon as I see all is safe. But I'll not come here ag
ain. You might be expected to receive a travelling singer once, but not actua
lly to encourage him."
  "No, by God!"

  I grinned. "If this weather holds, Hoel, could the ship stay for me for a f
ew days?"

  "For as long as you like. Where do you plan to go?"

  "Massilia first, then overland to Rome. After that, eastwards."
   He looked surprised. "You? Well, here's a start! I'd always thought of yo
u being as fixed as your own misty hills. What put that into your head?"

   "I don't know. Where do ideas come from? I have to lose myself for a few
 years, till the child needs me, and this seemed to be the way. Besides, the
re was something I heard."

  I did not tell him that it had only been the wind in the bowstrings. "I've
had a mind lately to see some of the lands I learned about as a boy."
   We talked on then for a while. I promised to send letters back with news
from the eastern capitals, and, as far as I could, I gave him points of call
to which he would send his own tidings and Ralf's about Arthur.

  The fire died down and he roared for a servant. When the man had been
and gone-

   "You'll have to go and sing in the hall soon," said Hoel. "So if we've go
t all clear, we'll leave it at that, shall we?" He leaned back in his chair.
One of the hounds got to its feet and pushed against his knee, asking for a c
aress. Over the sleek head the King's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Well now,
 you've still to give me the news from Britain. And the first thing you can d
o is to tell me the inside story of what happened nine months ago."

  "If you in your turn will tell me what the public story is."

   He laughed. "Oh, the usual stories that follow you as closely as your cl
oak flapping in the wind. Enchantments, flying dragons, men carried through
the air and through walls, invisibly. I'm surprised, Merlin, that you take t
he trouble to come by ship like an ordinary man, when your stomach serves yo
u so ill. Come now, the story."

   It was very late when I got back to our lodging. Ralf was waiting, half
 asleep in the chair by the fire in my room. He jumped up when he saw me, a
nd took the harp from me.

  "Is all well?"

   "Yes. We go north in the morning. No, thank you, no wine. I drank with
the King, and they made me drink again in the hall."

  "Let me take your cloak. You look tired. Did you have to sing to them?"

   "Certainly." I held out a handful of silver and gold pieces, and a jewel
led pin. "It's nice to think, isn't it, that one can earn one's keep so hand
somely? The jewel was from the King, a bribe to stop me singing, otherwise t
hey'd have had me there yet. I told you this was a cultured country. Yes, co
ver the big harp. I'll take the other with me tomorrow." Then as he obeyed m
e: "What of Branwen and the baby?"

  "Went to bed three hours since. She's lying with the women. They seem v
ery pleased to have a baby to look after." He finished on a note of surpris
e which made me laugh.
  "Did he stop crying?"

  "Not for an hour or two. They didn't seem to mind that, either."

   "Well, no doubt he'll start again at cock-crow, when we rouse them. Now g
o to bed and sleep while you can. We start at first light."


13


There is a road leading almost due north out of the town of Kerrec, the old
Roman road which runs straight as a spear-cast across the bare, salty grassl
and. A mile out of town, beyond the ruined posting station, you can see the
forest ahead of you like a slow tidal wave approaching to swallow the salt f
lats. This is a vast stretch of woodland, deep and wild. The road spears str
aight into it, aiming for the big river that cuts the country from east to w
est. When the Romans held Gallia there was a fort and settlement beyond the
river, and the road was built to serve it; but now the river marks the bound
ary of Hoel's kingdom, and the fort is one of Gorlan's strongholds. The writ
 of neither king runs far into the forest, which stretches for countless hil
ly miles, covering the rugged center of the Breton peninsula. What traffic t
here is keeps to the road; the wild land is served only by the tracks of cha
rcoal-burners and wood-cutters and men who move secretly outside the law. At
 the time of which I write the place was called the Perilous Forest, and was
 reputed to be magic-bound and haunted. Once leave the road and plunge into
the tracks that twist through the tangled trees, and you could travel for da
ys and hardly see the sun.
   When my father had held command in Brittany under King Budec, his troop
s had kept order even in the forest, as far as the river where King Budec's
 land ended and King Gorlan's began. They had cut the trees well back to ei
ther side of the road, and opened up some of the subsidiary tracks, but thi
s had been neglected, and now the saplings and the bushes had crowded in. T
he paved surface of the road had long since been broken by winter, and here
 and there it crumbled off into patches of iron-hard mud that in soft weath
er would be a morass.
  We set out on a grey, cold day, with the wind tasting faintly of salt. B
ut though the wind blew damp from the sea it brought no rain with it, and th
e going was fair enough. The huge trees stood on either hand like pillars of
 metal, holding a weight of low, grey sky. We rode in silence, and after a f
ew miles the thickly encroaching growth of the underwood forced us, even on
this road, to ride in single file. I, was in the lead, with Branwen behind m
e, and Ralf in the rear leading the pack-mule. I had been conscious for the
first hour or so of Ralf's tension, the way his head turned from side to sid
e as he watched and listened; but we saw and heard nothing except the quiet
winter life of the forest; a fox, a pair of roe deer, and once a shadowy sha
pe that might have been a wolf slipping away among the trees. Nothing else;
no sound of horses, no sign of men.

   Branwen showed no hint of fear. When I glanced back I saw her always se
rene, sitting the neat-footed mule stolidly, with an unmoved calm that held
 no trace of uneasiness. I have said little about Branwen, because I have t
o confess that I remember very little about her. Thinking back now over the
 span of years, I see only a brown head bent over the baby she carried, a r
ounded cheek and downcast eyes and a shy voice. She was a quiet girl who-th
ough she talked easily enough to Ralf-rarely addressed me of her own will,
being painfully in awe of me both as prince and enchanter. She seemed to ha
ve no inkling of any risk or danger in our journey, nor did she seem stirre
d-as most girls would have been-by the excitement of travelling abroad to a
 new country. Her imperturbable calm was not due to confidence in myself or
 Ralf; I came to see that she was meek and biddable to the point of stupidi
ty, and her devotion to the baby was such as to blind her to all else. She
was the kind of woman whose only life is in the bearing and rearing of chil
dren, and without Arthur she would, I am sure, have suffered bitterly over
the loss of her own baby. As it was, she seemed to have forgotten this, and
 spent the hours in a kind of dreamy contentment that was exactly what Arth
ur needed to make the discomforts of the journey tolerable.

   Towards noon we were deep in the forest. The branches laced thick overh
ead, and in summer would have shut out the sky like a pitched shield, but a
bove the bare boughs of winter we could see a pale and shrouded point of l
ight where the sun struggled to be through. I watched for a sheltered place
 where we could leave the road without showing too many traces, and present
ly, just as the baby woke and began to fret, saw a break in the undergrowth
 and turned my horse aside.

   There was a path, narrow and winding, but in the sparse growth of winter
it was passable. It led into the forest for a hundred paces or so before it
divided, one path leading on deeper among the trees, the other-no more than
 a deer-trod -winding steeply up to skirt the base of a rocky spur. We follo
wed the deer-trod. This picked its way through fallen boulders tufted with d
ead and rusty fern, then led upwards round a stand of pines, and faded into
the bleached grass of a tiny clearing above the rock. Here, in a hollow, the
 sun came with a faint warmth. We dismounted, and I spread a saddle-cloth in
 the most sheltered spot for the girl, while Ralf tethered the horses below
the pines and threw down feed from the hay nets. Then we sat ourselves down
to eat. I sat at the lip of the hollow, with my back against a tree, a post
from which I could see the main path running below the rock. Ralf stayed wit
h Branwen. It had been a long time since we had broken our fast, and we were
 all hungry. The baby, indeed, had begun to yell lustily as the mule scrambl
ed up the steep path. Now he found his cries stifled against the girl's nipp
le, and fell silent, sucking busily.

   The forest was very quiet. Most wild creatures lie still at noon. The o
nly thing moving was a carrion crow, which flapped heavily down onto a pine
 above us, and began to caw. The horses finished their feed and dozed, hip-
shotten, heads low. The baby still fed, but more slowly, drowsing into milk
y sleep. I leaned back against the stem of the tree. I could hear Branwen m
urmuring to Ralf. He said something, and I heard her laugh, then through th
e murmur of the two young voices I caught another, distant, sound. Horses,
at the trot.
   At my word the boy and girl fell abruptly silent. Ralf was on his feet i
n the blink of an eye, and kneeling beside me to watch the path below. I sig
ned Branwen to stay where she was. I need not have troubled; she had turned
a wondering look on us, then the baby hiccupped, and she held him to her sho
ulder, patting him, all her attention on him again. Ralf and I knelt at the
edge of the clearing, watching the path below.

    The horses-there were two of them by the sound of it- could not be wood-
cutters' beasts nor the slow train of the charcoal-burners. Trotting horses,
 in the Perilous Forest, meant only one thing, trouble. And travellers who c
arried, as we did, gold for the baby's keep were quarry for any outlaws and
disaffected men. Hampered as we were by Branwen and Arthur, both fighting an
d flight were impossible. Nor was it easy, with the baby, to keep silent and
 let danger pass by so closely. I had made it clear to Ralf that whatever ha
ppened he was to stay with the girl and, at the least hint of danger, leave
it to me to devise some way of drawing the danger away. Ralf had protested,
mutinied, then finally seen the sense of it and sworn to obey.
  So now when I whispered, "Only two, I think. If they don't come up this
way, they'll not see us. Get to the horses. And for God's sake tell the girl
 to keep the baby quiet," he merely nodded, melting back from my side. He st
ooped to whisper to Branwen, and I saw her nod placidly, shifting the child
to her other breast. Ralf slipped like a shadow among the pines where the ho
rses stood. I waited, watching the path.

    The riders were approaching. There was no other sound except the crow, st
ill cawing high in the pine tree. Then I saw them. Two horses, trotting singl
e file; poor beasts, heavy bred and none too well fed by the look of them, ca
reless how they put their feet, and having to be hauled up by their cursing r
iders at every hole or root across the path. It was a fair enough guess that
the men were outlaws. They were as unkempt as their beasts, and looked half s
avage, and dangerous. They were dressed in what looked like old uniforms, and
 on the arm of one of them was a dirty badge, half torn away. It looked like
Gorlan's. The fellow in the rear rode carelessly, lolling in the saddle as if
 half drunken, but the man in front pricked at the alert, as such men learn t
o do, his head moving from side to side like that of a questing dog. He held
a bow at the ready. Through the rotten leather of the sheath at his thigh I s
aw the long knife, burnished to a killing point.

   They were almost below me. They were passing. There had been no sound
from the baby, nor from our horses, hidden among the pines. Only the carri
on crow, balancing high in the sunshine, scolded noisily.

   I saw the fellow with the bow lift his head. He said something over his s
houlder, in a thick accent I could not catch. He grinned, showing a row of ro
tten teeth, then lifted his bow, notched it, and sent an arrow whizzing into
the pine. It hit. The crow shot upwards off the bough with a yell, then fell,
 transfixed. It landed within two paces of Branwen and the child, flapped for
 a second or two, then lay still.

    As I dodged back and ran for the pines I heard both men laughing. Now th
e marksman would come to retrieve his arrow. Already I could hear him forcin
g his beast through the underbrush. I picked up the arrow, crow and all, and
 flung it out over the edge of the hollow. It landed down among the boulders
. From the path the man could not have seen where the bird fell; it was a ch
ance that he might believe it had fluttered there, and would ride no farther
. I saw Branwen's eyes, startled and wondering, as I ran past her. But she d
id not stir, and the baby slept at her breast. I gave her a sign which was m
eant to convey reassurance, approval, and warning all in one, and ran for my
 horse.
   Ralf was holding the beasts quiet, heads together, muffling eyes and no
strils with his cloak. I paused beside him, listening. The outlaws were com
ing on. They must not have seen the crow; they came on without pausing, mak
ing for the pines.

   I seized my sorrel's bridle from Ralf, and turned it to mount. The hors
e circled, treading the dry stalks and snapping twigs. I heard the sudden c
latter and tramp as the outlaws dragged their beasts to a standstill. One o
f them said, "Listen!" in Breton, and there was the rasp of metal as weapon
s came hissing out. I was in the saddle. My own sword was out. I pulled the
 sorrel's head round, and had opened my mouth to shout when I heard another
 cry from the path, then the same voice yelling "Look! Look there!" and my
horse reared sharply back on its haunches as something broke out of the bus
hes beside me and went by so close that it almost brushed my leg.

   It was a hind, white against the winter forest. She scudded through the
pines like a ghost, bounded along the top of the hollow where we had lain, s
tood poised for a moment in view at the edge, then vanished down the steep,
boulder-strewn slope, straight into the path of the two outlaws. I heard sho
uts of triumph from below, the crack of a whip, the sudden thud and flurry o
f hoofs as the men wrenched their horses back to the path and lashed them to
 a gallop. They were giving hunting calls. I jumped from the saddle, threw t
he sorrel's reins to Ralf, and ran back to my place above the rock. I reache
d it in time to see the two of them going back full tilt the way they had co
me. Ahead of them, dimly seen for a moment, like a scud of mist through the
bare trees, fled the white hind. Then the laughter, the hunting cries, the h
ammer of hard-driven horses, echoed plunging back through the forest, and wa
s gone.



14


The river which marks the boundary of Hoel's kingdom flows right through th
e heart of the forest. In places it cuts a deep gorge between overhanging b
anks of trees, and everywhere in the central part of the forest the land is
 seamed by small, wild valleys where tributary streams wind or tumble into
the main. But there is a place, almost in the center of the forest, where t
he river valley is wider and more gentle, forming a green basin where men h
ave tilled the fields, and over the years have cut back the forest to make
grazing land round the small settlement called Coll, which in Breton means
the Hidden Place. Here there had been, in past times, a Roman transit camp
on the road from Kerrec to Lanascol. All that remained of this now was the
squared outline where the original ditch had been dug beside the tributary.
 Here lay the village. On two sides of it the stream made a natural defense
 or moat; for the rest, the Roman ditch had been cleared and widened, and f
illed with water. Inside this were steep defensive earthworks, crowned with
 palisades. The bridge had been a stone one in Roman times; the piles still
 stood and were spanned now with planking. Though the village lay near Gorl
an's border, it was accessible from it only through the narrow pass cut by
the river, and there the road had crumbled almost back to the original rock
y path that wolves and wild men had used before the Romans ever came. Coll
was well named.

   Brand's tavern lay just inside the gate. The main street of the village
 was little more than a dirty alley floored unevenly with cobbles. The inn
stood a little way back from this, on the right. It was a low building, rou
ghly built of stone, with mortar slapped haphazardly into the gaps. The out
buildings round the yard were no more than wattle huts, daubed with mud. Th
e roof was newly thatched, with good close work of reeds held down by a net
 of rope weighted with heavy stones. The door was open, as the door of an i
nn should be, with a heavy curtain of skins hung across the opening to keep
 the weather out. Through the chimney hole at one end rose a sluggish colum
n of smoke that smelled of peat.

   We arrived at dusk when the gates were closing. Everywhere mingled wit
h the peat smoke came the smells of supper cooking. There were few people
about; the children had been called in long since, and the men were home a
t their supper. Only a few hungry-looking dogs skulked here and there; an
old woman hurried past with a shawl held over her face and a fowl squawkin
g under her other arm; a man led a yoke of weary oxen along the street. I
could hear the clink of a smith's anvil not far away, and smell the sharp
fume of burned hoofs.

    Ralf eyed the inn dubiously. "It looked better in October, on a sunny day. I
t's not much of a place, is it?"
   "All the better," I said. "No one will come looking in a place like this fo
r the son of the King of Britain. Go in now and play your part, while I hold th
e horses."

   He pushed aside the curtain and went in. I helped Branwen dismount, an
d settled her on one of the benches beside the door. The baby woke, and be
gan to whimper, but almost immediately Ralf came out again, followed by a
big, burly man and a boy. The man must be Brand himself; he had been a fig
hting man and still bore himself like one, and I saw the puckered seam of
an old wound across the back of one hand. He hesitated, uncertain how to g
reet me. I said quickly: "You'll be the innkeeper? I'm Emrys the singer, w
ho was to bring your wife's niece along with us, with the baby. You're exp
ecting us, I believe?"

   He cleared his throat. "Indeed, indeed. You're most welcome. My wife's
been looking for you this week past." He saw the boy staring, and added sha
rply: "What are you waiting for? Take the horses round the back."

   The boy darted to obey. Brand, ducking his head at me and indicating the
 door of the inn with a gesture that was half invitation, half salute, said:
 "Come in, come in. Supper's cooking." Then, doubtfully, "It's mighty rough
company we get here, but maybe-"

  "I'm used to rough company," I said tranquilly, and preceded him through
the door.

  This was not a time of year for much coming and going on the roads, so t
he place was not crowded. There were some half-dozen men, dimly seen in a ro
om lit only by one tallow candle and the light from the peat fire. The talk
hushed as we went in, and I saw the looks at the harp I carried, and the whi
sper that went round. Nobody spared a glance for the girl carrying the baby.
 Brand said, a shade too quickly; "On through there. That far door, behind t
he fire." Then the door shut behind us, and there in the back room stood Mor
avik, fists on her hips, waiting to greet us.

   Like everyone else whom one has not seen since childhood, she had shrun
k. When I had last seen her I had been a boy of twelve, and tall for my age
. Even then she had seemed much bigger than I was, a creature of bulk and c
ommanding voice, surrounded by the aura of authority and infallible decisio
ns left over from the nursery. Now she came no higher than my collar-bone,
but she still had the bulk and the voice, and-I was to find-the authority.
Though I had turned out to be the favoured son of the High King of all Brit
ain, I was still, obviously, the wayward small boy from her first nursery.

   Her first words were characteristic. "And a fine time of night to come,
with the gates just shutting! You could have been out in that forest all nig
ht, and a precious lot there'd have been left of you by morning, what with t
he wolves, and worse, that lives out there. And damp, too, I shouldn't wonde
r-sweet saints and stars preserve us, look at your cloak! Get it off this mi
nute, and come to the fire. There's a good supper cooking, special for you.
I remember all the things you like, and I never thought to see you sitting a
t my table again, young Merlin, not after that night when the place burned d
own round you, and there was nothing to be found of you in the morning but a
 few burned bones in your room." Then suddenly she came forward with a rush
and had hold of me. There were tears on her face. "Eh, Merlin, little Merlin
, but it's good to see you again."
   "And you, Moravik." I embraced her. "I swear you must have got younger
 every year since you left Maridunum. And now you're putting me in your de
bt again, you and your good man here. I'll not forget it, and neither will
 the King. Now, this is Ralf, my companion, and this"-drawing the girl for
ward-"is Branwen, with the child."

   "Eh, the baby! The good Goddess save us all! What with seeing you, Merlin,
 I'd forgotten all about him! Come near the fire, girl, don't stand there in t
he draught. Come to the fire, and let me see him . . . Eh, the lamb, the bonny
 lamb. . . ."

   Brand touched my arm, grinning. "And now, what with seeing him, she'll f
orget everything else, my lord. It's lucky she got the supper ready for you
before she got a sight of the baby. Sit you down here. I'll serve you myself
."

    Moravik had made a rich mutton stew, satisfying and very hot. The mutt
on of the Breton salt flats is as good even as anything we get in Wales. T
here were dumplings with the stew, and good new bread hot from the oven. B
rand brought a jug of red wine, very much better than anything we can make
 at home. He waited on us while Moravik busied herself with Branwen and th
e baby, whose whimpering had broken now into lusty crying, only to be stil
led by Branwen's breast. The fire blazed and crackled, the room was warm a
nd smelled of good food and wine, the firelight traced the shape of the gi
rl's cheek, and the baby's head. I became conscious of someone watching me
, and turned my head to see Ralf's eyes on my face. He opened his mouth as
 if to speak, but at that moment some clamour from the outer room made Bra
nd set the wine-jug down on the table, excuse himself quickly to me, and h
urry out. He left the door slightly ajar. Beyond it I could hear voices ra
ised in what sounded like persuasion or argument. Brand answered, quietly,
 but the clamour persisted.
  He came back into the room, looking worried, and shut the door behind h
im. "My lord, there's those outside who saw you come in, and saw you'd a ha
rp with you. Now, well, it's only natural, my lord, they want a song. I tri
ed to argue them out of it, said you were tired, and had come a long way, b
ut they insisted. Said they'd pay for your supper, between them, if the son
g was a good one."

  "Well," I said, "why not let them?"

  His mouth dropped open. "But-sing to them? You?"

 "Don't you hear anything in Brittany?" I asked him. "I really am a singer.
And it wouldn't be the first time I've earned my fee."

   From her place near Branwen beside the fire, Moravik looked up quickly
. "Here's a new start! Potions and such I knew about, learned from that ol
d hermit above the mill, and even magic-" crossing herself. "But music? Wh
o taught you?"
   "Queen Olwen taught me the notes," I said, adding, to Brand, "That was
 my grandfather's wife, a Welsh girl who sang like a laverock. Then later
when I was here in Brittany with Ambrosius I learned from a master. You ma
y have heard him, perhaps? An old blind singer, who had travelled and made
 music in every country in the world."

   Brand nodded as if he knew the man I spoke of, but Moravik looked doubt
fully at me, tut~tutting, and shaking her head. I suppose no one who has re
ared a boy from babyhood, and not seen him since his twelfth year, ever thi
nks he can be a master at anything. I grinned at them. "Why, I played in fr
ont of King Hoel, back there in Kerrec. Not that he's anything of a judge,
but Ralf has heard me, too. Ask him, if you think I can't earn my supper."

   Brand said doubtfully; "But you'll not want to be singing to the likes of
them, my lord?"

   "Why not? A travelling minstrel sings where he's hired to sing. And that'
s what I am, while I'm in Less Britain." I got to my feet. "Ralf, bring me th
e harp. Finish the wine yourself, and then get to bed. Don't wait for me."

   I went out into the tavern's public room. This had filled up now; there
were about twenty men there, crowded in the smoky warmth. When I went in the
re were shouts of "The singer, the singer!" and "A tale, a tale!"
   "Make room for me then, good people," I said. A stool was vacated for m
e near the fire, and someone poured me a cup of wine. I sat down and began
to tune the harp. They fell still, watching me.

   They were simple folk, and such folk like tales of marvels. When I ask
ed them what they would have, they asked for this tale and that of gods an
d battles and enchantments, so in the end-my mind, I think, on the child s
leeping in the next room-I gave them the story of Macsen's Dream. This is
as much a tale of magic as any of the rest, though its hero is the Roman c
ommander Magnus Maximus, who was real enough. The Celts call him Macsen Wl
edig, and the legend of Macsen's Dream was born in the singing valleys of
Dyfed and Powys, where every man claims Prince Macsen as his own, and the
stories have gone from mouth to mouth until, if Maximus himself appeared t
o tell them the truth, no one would believe him. It's a long story, the Dr
eam, and every singer has his own version of it. This is the one I sang th
at night:

   Macsen, Emperor of Rome, went hunting, and being tired in the heat of
the day lay down to sleep on the banks of the great river that flows towar
ds Rome, and he dreamed a dream.

   He dreamed that he journeyed along the river towards its source, and cam
e to the highest mountain in the world; and from there followed another fair
 flowing river through the rich fields and broad woodlands till he reached t
he mouth of the river, and there at its mouth was a city of turrets and cast
les crowded round a fair harbour. And in that harbour lay a ship of gold and
 silver with no man on board, but with all sails set and shivering to the wi
nd out of the east. He crossed a gangplank made of the white bone of a whale
, and the ship sailed.

   And soon, after a sunset and a sunset, he came to the fairest island of
 all the world, and leaving the ship, he traversed the island from sea to s
ea. And there on the western shore he saw an island at hand across a narrow
 strait. And on the near shore where he stood was a fair castle, with an op
en gate. Then Macsen entered the castle and found himself in a great hall w
ith golden pillars, and walls dazzling with gold and silver and precious st
ones. In that hall two youths sat playing chess on a silver board, and near
 them an old man in an ivory chair carved chessmen for them out of crystal,
 But Macsen had no eyes for all this splendour. More beautiful than silver
and ivory and precious stones was a maiden, who sat still as a queen in her
 golden chair. The moment the Emperor saw her he loved her, and, raising he
r, he embraced her and begged her to be his wife. But in the very moment of
 the embrace he woke, and found himself in the valley outside Rome, with hi
s companions watching him.

   Then Macsen leaped to his feet and told his dream; and messengers were
sent the length and breadth of the world, to find the land he had traversed
, and the castle with the beautiful maiden. And after many months, and a sc
ore of false journeys, one man found them, and came home to tell his master
. The island, most beautiful in all the world, was Britain, and the castle
by the western sea was Caer Seint, by Segontium, and the island across the
shining strait was Mona, isle of druids. So Macsen journeyed to Britain, an
d found everything just as he had dreamed it, and requested the hand of the
 maiden from her father and her brothers, and made her his Empress. Her nam
e was Elen, and she bore Macsen two sons and a daughter, and in her honour
he built three castles, in Segontium, Caerleon and Maridunum, which was cal
led Caer Myrddin in honour of the god of high places.

   Then, because Macsen stayed in Britain and forgot Rome, they made a ne
w emperor in Rome, who set his standard on the walls and defied Macsen. So
 Macsen raised an army of the Britons, and, with Elen and her brothers at
his side, set out for Rome; and he conquered Rome. Thereafter he stayed in
 Rome, and Britain saw him no more, but Elen's two brothers took the Briti
sh forces back to their homes, and to this day the seed of Macsen Wledig r
eigns in Britain.

   When I had done, and the last note had hummed away to nothing in the sm
oky stillness, there was a roar of applause, cups thumping on the tables, a
nd rough voices calling for more music, and more wine. Another cupful was p
ressed on me, and while I drank and rested before singing again, the men we
nt back to talking among themselves, but softly, lest they disturb the sing
er's thoughts.

   It was as well they could not guess at them; I was wondering what they w
ould do if they knew that the last and latest scion of Maximus lay sleeping
on the other side of the wall. For this part of the legend, at least, was tr
ue, that my father's family was descended straight from Maximus' marriage wi
th the Welsh princess Elen. The rest of the legend, like all such tales, was
 a kind of dreaming distortion of the truth, as if an artist, reassembling a
 broken mosaic from a few worn and random fragments, rebuilt the picture in
his own shimmering new colours, with here and there the pieces of the old, t
rue picture showing plain.
  The facts were these. Maximus, a Spaniard by birth, had commanded the a
rmies in Britain under his general Theo-dosius at a time when Saxons and Pi
cts were raiding the coasts constantly, and the Roman province of Britain l
ooked like crumbling to its fall. Between them the commanders repaired the
Wall of Hadrian, and held it, and Maximus himself rebuilt and garrisoned th
e great fortress at Segontium in Wales, and made it his headquarters. This
is the place that is called Caer Seint by the British; it is the "fair cast
le" of the Dream, and here it must have -been that Maximus met his Welsh El
en, and married her.
   Then in the year that Ector had called the Flood Year it was Maximus (
though his enemies denied him the credit) who after months of bitter fight
ing drove the Saxons back and constructed the provinces of Strathclyde and
 Manau Guotodin, buffer states, in whose shelter the people of Britain-his
 people-might live in peace. Already "Prince Mac-sen" to the folk of Wales
, he was declared Emperor by his troops, and so might have remained, but f
or the events everyone knows of which took him abroad to avenge his old ge
neral's murder, and thereafter to march on Rome itself.
   He never came back; here again the Dream is true; but not because he c
onquered Rome and stayed to rule it. He was defeated there, and later exec
uted, and though some of the British forces who had gone with him came hom
e and pledged themselves to his widow and his sons, the brief peace was ov
er. With Maximus dead the Flood came again, and this time there was no swo
rd to stop it.

   Small wonder, in the dark years that followed, that the short stretch of
 Maximus' victorious peace should appear to men like a lost age as golden as
 any the poets sing. Small wonder that the legend of "Macsen the Protector"
had grown and grown until his power compassed the earth, and in their dark t
imes men spoke of him as of a god-sent saviour. . . .

   My thoughts went back to the baby sleeping in the straw. I lifted the ha
rp again, and when they hushed for me, sang them another song:

 There was a boy born,
 A winter king.
 Before the black month
 He was born,
 And fled in the dark month
 To find shelter
 With the poor.
  He shall come With the spring In the green month And the golden month A
nd bright Shall be the burning Of his star.

   "And did you earn your supper?" asked Moravik. "Plenty to drink, and thr
ee copper coins." I laid them on the table and put the leather bag containin
g the King's gold beside them. "That's for your care of the child. I'll send
 more when it's needed. You'll not regret this, you and Brand. You've nursed
 kings before, Moravik, but never such a king as this one will be."
   "What do I care for kings? That's nought but a bonny bairn, that should
never have been set to such a journey in this weather. He should be home in
his own nursery, and you can tell your King Uther that from me! Gold, indeed
!" But the leather bag had vanished into some fastness of her skirt, and the
 coins with it.

  "He's come to no harm on the journey?" I asked quickly.

  "None that I can see. That's a good, strong boy, and like to flourish as
 well as any of my children. He's abed now, and those two young things with
him, poor children, so keep your voice down and let them sleep."

   Branwen and the child' lay on a pallet in the far corner of the room, aw
ay from the fire. Their bed was underneath the flight of rough wooden steps
which led up to a platform, like a small loft such as they use for hay in ki
ngs' stables. Indeed there was hay stacked there, and our beasts had been le
d in from the yard at the back, and were tethered now under the loft. A donk
ey, which I suppose was Brand's own, stood near them in the straw.

   "Brand brought yours in," said Moravik. "There isn't much room, but he da
ren't leave them outside in the byre. That sorrel of yours with the white bla
ze, someone might know it for King Hoel's own, and there'd be questions asked
 that weren't too easy to answer. I've put you up above, and the boy. It's ma
ybe not what you're used to, but it's soft, and it's clean."

   "It'll be fine. But don't send me to bed yet, please, Moravik. May I stay u
p and talk to you?"

    "Hm. Send you to bed, indeed! Aye, you always did look meek and talk sof
t, and you doing exactly as you wanted all the time. . . ." She sat down by
the fire, spreading her skirts, and nodded to a stool. "Well, now, sit down
and let me look at you. Mercy me, and here's a change! Who'd ever have thoug
ht it, back there in Maridunum, with hardly a decent rag to your name, that
you'd turn out a son of the High King himself, and a doctor and a singer . .
 . and the sweet saints only know what else besides!"

  "A magician, you mean?"

    "Well, that never surprised me, the way I heard you'd been running off to
 the old man at Bryn Myrddin." She crossed herself, and her hand closed on an
 amulet at her neck. I had seen it glinting in the firelight; it was hardly a
 Christian symbol. So Moravik still hedged herself around with every talisman
 she could find. In this she was like most of the folk bred in the Perilous F
orest, with its tales of old haunt-ings, and things seen in the twilight and
heard in the wind. She nodded at me. "Aye, you always were a queer lad, with
your solitary ways, and the things you'd say. Always knew too much, you did.
I thought it was with listening at doors, but it seems I was wrong. 'The King
's prophet,' they tell me you're called now. And the doings I've heard about,
 if the half of them's to be believed, which I doubt they're not . . . Well,
now, tell me. Tell me everything."
   The fire had burned low, almost to ash. There was silence from the next
room now; the drinkers had either gone home, or settled to sleep. Brand had
climbed the ladder an hour since, and snored softly beside Ralf. In the corn
er beside the dozing beasts, Branwen and the child slept, unmoving.
   "And now here's this new start," said Moravik softly. "This baby here, yo
u tell me he's the son of the High King,

   Uther himself, that won't own to him. Why do you have to take it on yourse
lf to look after him? I'd have thought there's others he might ask, that could
 do it easier."

   "I can't answer for King Uther," I said, "but for myself, you might say th
e child was a trust left to me by my father, and by the gods."

  "The gods?" she asked sharply. "What talk is this for a good Christian ma
n?"
  "You forget, I was never baptized."

  "Not even yet? Aye, I remember the old King would have none of it. Well,
that's no concern of mine now, only of your own. But this child here, is he
christened?"
  "No. There's been no time. If you want to, then have him christened."
  " 'If you want to'? What way is that to talk? What 'gods' were you talking
of just now?".

   "I hardly know. They-he-will make himself known in his own good time.
Meanwhile have the boy christened, Moravik. When he leaves Brittany he's t
o be reared in a Christian household."
   She was satisfied. "As soon as may be. I'll see him right with the dear Lo
rd and his saints, trust me for that. And I've hung the vervain charm over his
 crib, and seen the nine prayers said. The girl says his name's Arthur. What s
ort of a name is that?"

   "You would say Artos," I told her. This is a name meaning "Bear" in Celt
ic. "But don't call him by that name here. Give him some other name that you
 can use, and forget the other."
  "Emrys, then? Ah, I thought that would make you smile. I'd always hoped t
hat one day there'd be a child I could call after you."

   "No, after my father Ambrosius, as I was called." I tried the names over
to myself, in Latin and then in the Celtic tongue. "Artorius Ambrosius, last
of the Romans . . . Artos Emrys, first of the British . . ." Then aloud to Mo
ravik, smiling: "Yes, call him so. Once, long ago, I foretold it, the coming
of the Bear, a king called Arthur, who would knit past and future. I had forg
otten, till now, where I had heard the name before. Christen him so."

   She was silent for a few minutes. I saw her quick eyes searching my fac
e. "In trust to you, you said. A king such as there hasn't been before. He
will be King, then? You swear he will be King?" Then suddenly: "Why do you
look like that, Merlin? I saw you look the same way a while back when the g
irl put the child to her breast. What is it?"

   "I don't know ..." I spoke slowly, my eyes on the last glimmer of fire w
here the burned logs hollowed round a red cave. "Moravik, I have done what I
 have done because God-whichever god he is-drove me to do it. Out of the dar
k he told me that the child which Uther begot of Ygraine that night at Tinta
gel would be King of all Britain, would be great, would drive the Saxons out
 of our shores and knit our poor country into a strong whole. I did nothing
of my own will, but just for this, that Britain might not go down into the d
ark. It came to me whole, out of the silence and the fire, and as a certaint
y. Then for a time I saw nothing and heard nothing, and wondered if, in my l
ove for my father and my father's land, I had been led astray, and had seen
vision where there was nothing but hope and desire. But now, see, there it l
ies, just as the god told me." I looked at her. "I don't know if I can make
you understand, Moravik. Visions and prophecies, gods and stars and voices s
peaking in the night . . . things seen cloudy in the flames and in the stars
, but real as pain in the blood, and piercing the brain like ice. But now ..
." I paused again. ". . . now it is no longer a god's voice or a vision, it
is a small human child with lusty lungs, a baby like any other baby, who cri
es, and sucks milk, and soaks his swaddling clothes. One's visions do not ta
ke account of this."

   "It's men who have visions," said Moravik. "It's women who bear the chil
dren to fulfill them. That's the difference. And as for that one there"-she
nodded towards the corner -"we shall see what we shall see. If he lives-and
why should he not live, he's strong enough?-if he lives he has a good chance
 to be King. All we can do now is see that he makes a man. I'll do my part a
s you've done yours. The rest is with the good God."

   I smiled at her. Her sturdy common sense seemed to have lifted a great w
eight from me. "You're right. I was a fool ever to doubt. What will come, wi
ll come."
  "Then sleep on that."

   "Yes. I'll go to bed now. You have a good man there, Moravik. I'm glad of
it."

  "Between us, boy, we'll keep your little King safely."

   "I'm sure of that," I said, and after we had talked a little longer I climbed
the ladder to bed.

   That night I dreamed. I was standing in a field I knew near Hoel's town
 of Kerrec. It was a place of ancient holiness, where once a god had walked
 and I had seen him. In my dream I knew that I had come in the hope of seei
ng him again.

   But the night was empty. All that moved was the wind. The sky arched high
, bright with indifferent stars. Across its black dome, soft through the glit
ter of the fiercer stars, lay the long track of light they call the Galaxy. T
here was no cloud. About me stretched the field, just as I remembered it, bit
ten by the wind and sown by the sea's salt, with bare thorn trees hunched alo
ng the banks, and, solitary in the center, a single giant stone. I walked tow
ards it. In the scattered light of the stars I cast no shadow, nor was there
a shadow by the stone. Only the grey wind blurring the grass, and behind the
stone the faint drifting of the stars that is not movement, but the heavens b
reathing.

   Still the night was empty. My thoughts arrowed up into the shell of sile
nce, and fell back spent. I was trying, with every grain of skill and power
which I had fought and suffered for, to recall the god whose hand had been o
ver me then, and whose light had led me. I prayed aloud, but heard no sound.
 I called on my magic, my gift of eyes and mind that men called the Sight, b
ut nothing came. The night was empty, and I was failing. Even my human visio
n was failing, night and starlight melting into a blur, like something seen
through running water. . . .

   The sky itself was moving. The earth held still, but heaven itself was mo
ving. The Galaxy gathered and narrowed into a shaft of light, then froze stil
l as a stream in the bite of winter. A shaft of ice-no, a blade, it lay acros
s the sky like a king's sword, with the great jewels blazing in the hilt. Eme
rald I saw, topaz, sapphires, which in the tongue of swords mean power and jo
y and justice and clean death.
   For a long time the sword lay there, still, like a weapon newly burnished,
 waiting for the hand which will lift and wield it. Then, of itself, it moved.
 Not as a weapon is lifted in battle, or in ceremony, or sport. But as a blade
 slides home to its housing it slid, how gently, down towards the standing sto
ne, dropping into it as a sword slips resting into its scabbard.

  Then there was nothing but the empty field and the whistling wind, and a
grey stone standing.
   I woke to the darkness of the inn room, and a single star, small and br
ight, showing through a gap above the rafters. Below me the beasts breathed
 sweet breath, while all around were the snores and stirrings of the sleepe
rs. The place smelled warmly of horses and peat smoke and hay and mutton st
ew.

   I lay unmoving, flat on my back, watching the little star. I hardly tho
ught about the dream. Vaguely, I remembered that there had been talk of a s
word, and now this dream . . . But I let it pass me. It would come. I would
 be shown. God was back with me; time had not lied. And in an hour or two i
t would be morning.


BOOK II

THE SEARCH



1

The gods, all of them, must be accustomed to blasphemy. It is a blasphemy
even to question their purposes, and to wonder, as I had done, who they we
re or if they even existed is blasphemy itself. Now I knew my god was back
 with me, that his purpose was working, and though I still saw nothing cle
arly, I knew that his hand would be over me when the time was right, and I
 would be guided, driven, shown-it did not matter which, nor in what form
he came. He would show me that, too. But not yet. Today was my own. The dr
eams of the night had vanished with the stars that made them. This morning
 the wind was only the wind, and the sunlight nothing but light.
   I do not think I even looked back. I had no fear for Ralf or the child.
 The Sight may be an uncomfortable thing to possess, but foreknowledge of c
atastrophe relieves the possessor of the small frets of day to day. A man w
ho has seen his own old age and bitter end does not fear what may come to h
im at twenty-two. I had no doubts about my own safety, or the boy's whose s
word I had seen-twice now-drawn and shining. So I was free to dread nothing
 worse than the next sea voyage, which took me, suffering but alive, to the
 port of Massilia on the Inland Sea, and landed me there on a bright Februa
ry day which, in Britain, we would have called summer.

   Once there, it did not matter who saw me and reported meeting me. If it
 should be noised abroad that Prince Merlin had been seen in Southern Gaul,
 or Italy, then perhaps Uther's enemies would watch me for a while, hoping
for a lead to the vanished prince. Eventually they would give up and search
 elsewhere, but by that time the trail would be cold. In Kerrec the visit o
f the inconspicuous singer would be forgotten, and Ralf, quietly anonymous
in the forest tavern, would be able to come and go without fear between Col
l and the castle at Kerrec, with news of the child's progress for Hoel to t
ransmit to me. So, once landed in Massilia, and recovered from my voyage, I
set about making open preparations for my journey eastwards.
   With no need this time for disguise, I travelled in comfort, if not in p
rincely style. Appearances had never troubled me; a man makes his own; but I
 had friends to visit, and if I could not do them honour, at least I must no
t shame them. So I hired a body-servant and bought horses and baggage mules
and a slave to look after them, and set off for my first destination, which
was Rome.
   The road out of Massilia is a straight, sun-beaten ribbon of white dust
 running along the shore where the villages built by Caesar's veterans cro
uch among their carefully tended olive groves and vines. We set out at sun
rise with our horses' shadows long behind us. The road was still dew
ed, and the air smelled of dung and peppery cypress and the smoke of the
 early fires. Cockerels crowed and curs ran out yapping at our horses' h
eels. Behind me the two servants talked, low voiced, not to intrude on me.
They seemed decent men; the freeman, Gaius, had seen service before, and
 came to me well recommended. The other, Stilicho, was the son of a
Sicilian horse-dealer who had cheated himself into debt and sold his son
 to pay it. Stilicho was a thin, lively youth with a cheerful eye and unque
nchable spirits. Gaius was solemn and efficient, and more conscious of my d
ignity than I had ever been myself. When he discovered my royal status he t
ook on an aura of pomp which amused me, and impressed Stilicho into silence
 for almost twenty minutes. I believe that thereafter it was continually us
ed as a threat or a bribe for service. Certainly, whatever means the two of
 them employed, I was to find my journey almost a miracle of smoothness and comfor
   Now, as my horse pricked his ears at the morning sun, I felt my mood lift
 to meet the growing brilliance. It was as if the griefs and doubts of the la
st year streamed back from me like my horse's shadow. As I set off eastwards
with my little train I was for the first time in my life free; free of the wo
rld in front of me, and free of the obligations at my back. Until this moment
 I had lived always towards some goal; I had sought for and then served my fa
ther, and after his death had waited in grief until, with Arthur, my servitud
e might start again. Now the first part of my work was done; the boy was safe
 and, as my gods and my stars could be trusted, he would remain so. I was sti
ll young, and facing the sun, and, call it solitude or call it freedom, I had
 a new world in front of me and a span of time ahead when at last I could tra
vel the lands of which as a boy I had been taught so much, and which I had lo
nged to see.
  So in time I came to Rome, and walked on the green hills between the cy
presses, and talked with a man who had known my father when he was the age
I was now. I lodged in his house, and wondered how I had ever thought my fa
ther's house in Kerrec a palace, or seen London as a great city, or even a
city at all. Then from Rome to Corinth, and overland through the valleys of
 the Argolid where goats grazed the baked summer hills, and people lived, w
ilder than they, among the ruins of cities built by giants. Here at last I
saw stones greater even than those in the Giants' Dance, lifted and set jus
t as the songs had told me, and as I travelled farther east I saw lands yet
 emptier with giant stones standing in desert sunlight, and men who lived a
s simply as roving wolf-packs, but who made songs as easily as the birds, a
nd as marvellously as the stars moving in their courses. Indeed, they know
more about the movements of the stars than any other men; I suppose their w
orld is made up of the empty spaces of the desert and the sky. I spent eigh
t months with a man near Sardis, in Maeonia, who could calculate to a hair'
s breadth, and with whose help I could have lifted the Giants' Dance in hal
f the time had it been twice as great. Another six months I spent on the co
ast of Mysia, near Pergamum, in a great hospital where sick men flock for t
reatment, rich and poor alike. I found much that was new to me there in the
 art of healing; in Pergamum they use music with the drugs to heal a man's
mind through dreams, and his body after it. Truly the god must have guided
 me when he sent me to learn music as a child. And all the time, on all my
journeys, I learned smatterings of strange tongues, and heard new songs and
 new music, and saw strange gods worshipped, some in holy places, and some
in manners we would call unclean. It is never wise to turn aside from knowi
ng, however the knowing comes.

   Through all this time I rested, steady and secure, in the knowledge that, b
ack there in the Perilous Forest in Brittany, the child grew and thrived in saf
ety.

   Messages from Ralf came occasionally, sent by King Hoel to await me at
certain prearranged ports of call. This way I learned that, as soon as migh
t be, Ygraine was pregnant again. She was delivered in due time of a daught
er, who was called Morgian. By the time I read them, the letters were of co
urse long out of date, but as far as the boy Arthur was concerned I had my
own more immediate source of reassurance. I watched, in the way I have, in
the fire.

   It was in a brazier lit against the chill of a Roman evening that I first
 watched Ralf make the journey through the forest to Hoel's court. He travell
ed alone and unremarked, and when he set out again in the misty dark to make
for home he was not followed. In the depths of the forest I lost him,
but later the smoke blew aside to show me his horse safely stabled, and
 Branwen smiling in the sunlit yard with the baby in her arms. Several times
after that I watched Ralf's journey, but always smoke or darkness seemed
 to gather and lie like mist along the river, so that I could not see the tav
ern, or follow him through the door. It was as if, even from me, the place wa
s guarded. I had heard it said that the Perilous Forest of Brittany was spell
bound land; I can affirm that this is true. I doubt if any magic less potent
than mine could have spied through the wall of mist that hid the inn. Glimpse
s I had, no more than that, from time to time. Once, fleetingly, I saw the ba
by playing among a litter of puppies in the yard while the bitch licked his
 face and Brand looked on, grinning, till Moravik burst scolding out of
her kitchen to snatch the child up, wipe his face with her apron, and vanish
with him indoors. Another time I saw him perched aloft on Ralf's horse while
it was drinking at the trough, and yet again astride the saddle in front of R
alf, hanging on to the mane with both hands while the beast trotted down to t
he river's edge. I never saw him closely, or even clearly, but I saw enough
to know that he thrived and grew strong.
  Then, when he was four years old, the time came when Ralf was to take h
im from the Forest's protection and seek Count Ector's.

   The night his ship set sail from the Small Sea of Morbihan I was lying u
nder a black Syrian sky where the stars seem to burn twice as big and ardent
 as the stars at home. The fire I watched was a shepherd's, lit against the
wolves and mountain lions, and he had given me its hospitality when my serva
nts and I were benighted crossing the heights above Berytus. The fire was st
acked high with wind-dried wood, and blazed fiercely against the night. Some
where beyond it I could hear Stilicho talking, then the rough mutter of the
shepherd, and laughter shushed by Gaius' grave tones, till the roar and crac
kling of the fire drowned them. Then the pictures came, fragmentary at first
, but as clear and vivid as the visions I had had as a boy in the crystal ca
ve. I watched the whole journey, scene by scene, in one night's vision, as y
ou can dream a lifetime between night and morning. . . .

    This was my first clear sight of Ralf since I had parted from him in Brit
tany. I hardly knew him. He was a tall young man now, with the look of a figh
ter, and an air of decision and responsibility that gave him weight and
  sat well on him. I had left it to Hoel's and his discretion whether or not
an armed escort would be needed to convoy his "wife and child" to the shi
p: in the event they played safe, though it was obvious that the secret was s
till our own. Hoel had contrived that a wagon-load of goods should be dispat
ched through the forest under the escort of half a dozen troopers; when it
set off back towards Kerrec and the wharf where the ship lay, what more natur
al than that the young man and his family should travel back to Kerrec with t
he return load-I never saw what was in those corded bales-using its protectio
n for themselves? Branwen rode in the wagon, and so, in the end, did Arthur.
It looked to me as if he had already outgrown women's care; he would have spe
nt all his time with the troopers, and it took Ralf's authority to make hi
m ride concealed in the wagon with Branwen, rather than on the saddle-bo
w at the head of the troop. After the little party had reached the ship and e
mbarked safely, four of the troop took ship along with Ralf, apparently conv
oying those precious bales to their destination. So the ship set sail. Li
ght glittered on the firelit sea, and the little ship had red sails which spr
ead against a breezy sky of sunset, till they dwindled and vanished small in
the blowing fire.

   It was in a blaze of sunrise, perhaps lit only by the Syrian flames, tha
t the ship docked at Glannaventa. I saw the ropes made fast and the party cr
oss the gangplank to be met by Ector himself, brown and smiling, with a full
-armed body of men. They bore no badge. They had brought a wagon for the car
go, but as soon as they were clear of the town the wagon was left to follow,
 while out of it came a litter for Branwen and Arthur, and then the party ro
de as fast as might be for Galava, up the military road through the mountain
s which lie between Ector's castle and the sea. The road climbs through two
steep passes with between them a low-lying valley sodden with marsh, which
 is flooded right through till late spring. The road is bad, broken by storm
 and torrents and winter frosts, and in places where the hillsides had slipp
ed in flood time the road has vanished, and all that remains of it are the g
hosts of the old tracks that were there before the Romans came. Wild country
 and a wild road, but straight going on a May day for a body of well armed m
en. I watched them trotting along, the litter swinging between its sturdy mu
les, through flame-lit dawn and firelit day, till suddenly with evening the
 mist rolled down dark from the head of the pass, and I saw in it the glitte
r of swords that spelled danger.

    Ector's party was clattering downhill from the second summit, slowing to
 a walk at a steep place where crags crowded the edge of the road. From here
 it was only a short descent to the broad river valley and the good flat roa
d to the waterhead where the castle stands. In the distance, still lit by ev
ening, were the big trees and the blossoming orchards and the gentle green o
f the farmlands. But up in the pass among the grey crags and the rolling mis
t it was dark, and the horses slipped and stumbled on a steep scree where a
torrent drove across the way and the road had collapsed into the water's bed
. The rush of water must have blanketed all other sound from them. No one
saw, dim behind the mist, the other men waiting, mounted and armed. Count E
ctor was at the head of the troop, and in the middle of it, surrounded, the
litter lurched and swung between its mules with Ralf riding close beside it.
 They were approaching the ambush; were beside it. I saw Ector's head turn s
harply, then he checked his horse so suddenly that it tried to rear and inst
ead plunged, slipping on the scree as Ector's sword flashed out and his arm
went up. The troopers, surrounding the litter as best they might on the rush
ing slope, stood to fight. At the moment of clashing, shouting attack I saw
what none of the troop appeared yet to have seen, other shadows riding down
out of the mist beyond the crags.

   I believe I shouted. I made no sound, but I saw Ralf's head go up like a
 hound's at his master's whistle. He yelled, wheeling his horse. Men wheeled
 with him, and met the new attack with a crash and flurry that sent sparks
up from the swords like a smith's hammer from the anvil. I strained my ey
es through the visionary firelight to see who the attackers were. But I coul
d not see. The wrestling, clashing darkness, the sparkling swords, the shout
ing, the wheeling horses-then the attackers vanished into the mist as sudde
nly as they had come, leaving one of their number dead on the scree, and car
rying another bleeding across a saddle.

   There was nothing to be gained by pursuing them across mountains thick w
ith the misty twilight. One of the troopers picked up the fallen man and flu
ng him across a horse. I saw Ector point, and the trooper searched the body
looking, apparently, for identification, but finding none. Then the guard fo
rmed again round the litter, and rode on. I saw Ralf, surreptitious, winding
 a rag round his left arm where a blade had hacked in past the shield. A mom
ent later I saw him, laughing, stoop in the saddle to say through the curtai
ns of the litter: "Well, but you're not grown yet. Give it a year or two, an
d I promise you we'll find you a sword to suit your size." Then he reached t
o pull the leather curtains of the litter close. When I strained my sight to
 see Arthur, smoke blew grey across the scene and the shepherd called someth
ing to his dog, and I was back on the scented hillside with the moon coming
out above the ruins of the temple where nothing remains now of the Goddess b
ut her night-owls brooding.
   So the years passed, and I used my freedom in travels which I have told o
f in other places; there is no room for them here. For me they were rich year
s, and lightly borne, and the god's hand lay gently on me, so that I saw all
I asked to see; but in all the time there was no message, no moving star, not
hing to call me home.
  Then one day, when Arthur was six years old, the message came to me n
ear Pergamum, where I was teaching and working in the hospital.

    It was early spring, and all day rain had been falling like whips on the
 streaming rock, darkening the white limestone and tearing ruts in the pathw
ay which leads down to the hospital cells by the sea. I had no fire to bring
 me the vision, but in that place the gods stand waiting by every pillar, an
d the air is heavy with dreams. This was only a dream, the same as other men
's, and came in a moment of exhausted sleep.

   A man had been carried in late in the night, with a leg badly gashed and
 the life starting to pump out of the great vein. I and the other doctor on
duty had worked over him for more than three hours, and afterwards I had gon
e out into the sea to wash off the blood which had gushed thick and then har
dened on me. It was possible that the patient would live; he was young, and
slept now with the blood staunched and the wound safely stitched. I stripped
 off my soaked loin-cloth-that climate allows one to work near naked on the
bloodier jobs-swam till I was clean, then stretched on the still warm sand t
o rest. The rain had stopped with evening, and the night was calm and warm a
nd full of stars.

   It was no vision I had, but a kind of dream of wakefulness. I lay (as I t
hought) open-eyed, watching, and watched by, the bright swarm. Among that fie
rce host of stars was one distant one, cloudy, its light faint among the othe
rs like a lamp in a swirl of snow. Then it swam closer, closer still, till it
s clouded air blotted out the brighter stars, and I saw mountains and shore,
and rivers running like the veins of a leaf through the valleys of my own cou
ntry. Now the snow swirled thicker, hiding the valleys, and behind the snow w
as the growl of thunder, and the shouting of armies, and the sea rose till th
e shore dissolved, and salt ran up the rivers and the green fields bleached t
o grey, and blackened to desert with their veins showing like dead men's bone
s.

   I woke knowing that I must go back. It was not yet, the flood, but it wa
s coming. By the next snow-time, or the next, we would hear the thunder, and
 I must be there, between the King and his son.



2
I had planned to go home by Constantinopolis, and letters had already gone a
head of me. Now I would have preferred to take a quicker way, but the only s
hip I could get was one plying north close inshore towards Chalcedon, which
lies just across the strait from Constantinopolis. Arrived here, delayed by
freakish winds and uncertain weather, luck still seemed against me; I had ju
st missed a westbound ship, they told me, and there was no other due to leav
e for a week or more. From Chalcedon the trade is mostly small coastbound cr
aft; the bigger shipping uses the great harbour of Constantinopolis. So I to
ok the ferry over, not averse, in spite of the need I felt for haste, to see
ing the city of which I had heard so much.

   I had expected the New Rome to surpass the old Rome in magnificence, but
 found Constantine's city a place of sharper contrasts, with squalor crowdin
g close behind the splendour, and that air of excitement and risk which is b
reathed in a young city looking forward to prosperity, still building, sprea
ding, assimilating, and avid to grow rich.

   Not that the foundation was new; it had been capital of Byzantium since
Byzas had settled his folk there a thousand years before; but it was almost
a century and a half now since the Emperor Constantine had moved the heart o
f the empire eastwards, and started to build and fortify the old Byzantium a
nd call it after himself.
   Constantinopolis is a city marvellously situated on a tongue of land wh
ich holds a natural harbour they call the Golden Horn, and rightly; I had n
ever imagined such a traffic of richly laden ships as I saw in the brief cr
ossing from Chal-cedon. There are palaces and rich houses, and government b
uildings with corridors like a maze and the countless officials employed by
 the government coming and going like bees in a hive. Everywhere there are
gardens, with pavilions and pools, and fountains constantly gushing; the ci
ty has an abundance of sweet water. To the landward side Constan-tine's Wal
l defends the city, and from its Golden Gate the great thoroughfare of the
Mese runs, magnificently arcaded through most of its length, through three
  fora decorated with columns, to end at the great triumphal arch of Con-s
tantine. The Emperor's immense church dedicated to the Holy Wisdom sits hig
h over the walls that edge the sea. It was a magnificent city, and a splend
id capital, but it had not the air of Rome as my father had spoken of it, o
r as we had thought of it in Britain; this was still the East, and the city
 looked to the East. Even the dress, though men wore the Roman tunic and ma
ntle, had the look of Asia, and, though Latin was spoken everywhere, I hear
d Greek and Syrian and Armenian in the markets, and once beyond the arcades
 of the Mese you might have supposed yourself in Antioch.
   It is a place not easy to picture, if one has never been beyond Britain
's shores. Above everything it was exciting, with an air full of promise. I
t was a city looking forward, where Rome and Athens and even Antioch had se
emed to be looking back; and London, with its crumbling temples and patched
-up towers and men always watching with their hands to their swords, seemed
 as remote and near as savage as the ice-lands of the northmen.

    My host in Constantinopolis was a connection of my father's, distant,
but not too distant to let him greet me as cousin. He was descended from o
ne Adean, brother-in-law of Maximus, who had been one of Maximus' officers
 and had followed him on the final expedition to Rome. Adean had been woun
ded outside Rome and left for dead, but rescued and nursed back to health
by a Christian family. Later he had married the daughter of the house, tur
ned Christian, and though he never took service with the Eastern Emperor (
being content with the pardon granted him through his father-in-law's inte
rcession) his son entered the service of Theodosius II, made a fortune at
it, and was rewarded with a royally connected wife and a splendid house ne
ar the Golden Horn.

   His great-grandson bore the same name, but pronounced it with the accen
t of Byzantium: Ahdjan. He was still dis-cernibly of Celtic descent, but lo
oked, you might say, like a Welshman gone bloodless by being drawn too high
 towards the sun. He was tall and thin, with the oval face and pale skin, a
nd the black eyes set straight, that you see in all their portraits. His mo
uth was thin-lipped, bloodless too; the court servant's mouth, close-lipped
 with keeping secrets. But he was not without humour, and could talk wisely
 and entertainingly, a rarity in a country where men-and women- argue perpe
tually about matters of the spirit in terms of the more than stupid flesh.
I had not been in Constantinopolis half a day before I found myself remembe
ring something I had read in a book of Galapas': "If you ask someone how ma
ny obols a certain thing costs, he replies by dogmatizing on the born and u
nborn. If you ask the price of bread, they answer you, the Father is greate
r than the Son, and the Son is subordinate to Him. If you ask is my bath re
ady, they answer you, the Son has been made out of nothing."
   Ahdjan received me very kindly, in a splendid room with mosaics on the w
alls and a floor of golden marble. In Britain, where it is cold, we put the
pictures on the floor and hang thick coverings over walls and doors; but the
y do things differently in the East. This room glittered with colour; th
ey use a lot of gold in their mosaics, and with the faintly uneven surface o
f the tesserae this has the effect of glimmering movement, as if the wall-pi
ctures were tapestries of silk. The figures are alive, and full of colour, s
ome of them very beautiful. I remembered the cracked mosaic at home in Marid
unum, which as a child I had thought the most wonderful picture in the world
; it had been of Dio-nysos, with grapes and dolphins, but none of the pictur
es was whole, and the god's eyes had been badly mended, and showed a cast. T
o this day I see Dionysos with a squint. One side of Ahdjan's room opened to
 a terrace where a fountain played in a wide marble pool, and cypress an
d laurel grew in pots along the balustrade. Below this the garden lay, scent
ed in the sun, with rose and iris and jasmine (though it was hardly into Apr
il) competing with the scent of a hundred shrubs, and everywhere the dark fi
ngers, of cypress, gilded with tiny cones, pointing straight at the bri
lliant sky. Below the terraces sparkled the waters of the Horn, as thickly p
opulated with ships as a farm pond at home is with water-beetles.

  There was a letter waiting for me, from Ector. After Ahdjan and I had exc
hanged greetings, I asked his leave, then unrolled and read it.

   Ector's scribe wrote well, though in long periods which I knew were a gl
oss on what that forthright gentleman had actually said. But the news, sorte
d out from the poetry and the perorations, bore out what I already knew or s
uspected. In more than guarded phrases he conveyed to me that Arthur (for th
e scribe's sake he wrote of "the family, Drusilla and both the boys") was sa
fe. But for how long "the place" might be safe, said Ector, he could not gue
ss, and went on to give me the news as his informers reported it.

   The danger of invasion, always there but for the last few years sporadi
c, had begun to grow into something more formidable. Octa and Eosa, the Sax
on leaders defeated by Uther in the first year of his reign, and kept priso
ner since then in London, were still safely held; but lately pressure had b
een brought to bear-not only by the Federates, but by some British leaders
who were afraid of the growing discontent along the Saxon Shore-on King Uth
er to free the Saxon princes on terms of treaty. Since he had refused this,
 there had been two armed attempts to release them from prison. These had b
een punished with brutal severity, and now other factions were pressing Uth
er to kill the Saxon leaders out of hand, a course he was apparently afraid
 to take for fear of the Federates. These, firmly ensconced along the Shore
, and crowding too close for comfort even to London, were again showing thr
eatening signs of inviting reinforcements from abroad, and pressing up into
 the rich country near Ambrosius' Wall. Meanwhile there were worse rumours:
 a messenger had been caught, and under torture had confessed, that he carr
ied tokens of friendship from the Angles on the Abus in the east, to the Pi
ctish kings of the wild land west of Strathclyde. But nothing more, added E
ctor, than tokens; and he personally did not think that trouble could yet c
ome from the north. Between Strathclyde and the Abus, the kingdoms of Rhege
d and Lothian still stood firm.

  I skimmed through the rest, then rolled up the letter. "I must go straight
home," I told Ahdjan.

   "So soon? I was afraid of it." He signed to a servant, who lifted a silv
er flagon from a bowl of snow, and poured the wine into glass goblets. Where
 the snow had come from I did not know; they have it carried by night from t
he hilltops, and stored underground in straw. "I'm sorry to lose you, but wh
en I saw the letter, I was afraid it might be bad news.

   "Not bad yet, but there will be bad to come." I told him what I could of
 the situation, and he listened gravely. They understand these things in Con
stantinopolis. Since Al-aric the Goth took Rome, men's ears are tuned to lis
ten for the thunder in the north. I went on: "Uther is a strong king and a g
ood general, but even he cannot be everywhere, and this division of power ma
kes men uncertain and afraid. It's time the succession was made sure." I tap
ped the letter. "Ector tells me the Queen is with child again."

   "So I had heard. If this is a boy he'll be declared the heir, won't he?
Hardly a time for a baby to inherit a kingdom, unless he had a Stilicho to l
ook after his interests." He was referring to the general who had protected
the empire of the young Emperor Honorius. "Has Uther anyone among his genera
ls who could be left as regent if he were killed?"
  "For all I know they'd be as likely to kill as to protect."

   "Well, Uther had better live, then, or allow the son he's already got
to be his legitimate heir. He must be-what? Seven? Eight? Why cannot Uther
 do the sensible thing and declare him again, with you to become regent if
 the King should be killed during the boy's minority?" He looked at me sid
eways over his glass. "Come, Merlin, don't raise your brows at me like tha
t. The whole world knows you took the child from Tintagel and have him hid
den somewhere."

  "Does the world say where?"

   "Oh, yes. The world spawns solutions the way that pool yonder spawns fro
gs. The general opinion is that the child is safe in the island of Hy-Brasil
, nursed by the white paps of nine queens, no less. It's no wonder he flouri
shes. Or else that he is with you, but invisible. Disguised perhaps as a pac
k-mule?" I laughed. "How would I dare? What would that make Uther?"

  "You'd dare anything, I think. I was hoping you'd dare tell me where the b
oy is, and all about him . . . No?"

  I shook my head, smiling. "Forgive me, but not yet."

   He moved a hand gracefully. They understand secrets, too, in Constantinop
olis. "Well, at least you can tell me if he's safe and well?"

  "I assure you of it."

  "And will succeed, with you as regent?"

   I laughed, shook my head, and drained my wine. He signalled to the sla
ve, who was standing out of hearing, and the man hurried to refill my glas
s. Ahdjan waved him away. "I've had a letter, too, from Hoel. He tells me
that King Uther has sent men in search of you, and that he doesn't speak o
f you with kindness, though everyone knows how -much he owes you. There ar
e rumours, too, that even the King himself does not know where his son is
hidden, and has spies out searching. Some say the boy is dead. There are a
lso those who say that you keep the young prince close for your own ambiti
ous ends."

  "Yes," I agreed equably, "there would be some who say that."
  "You see?" He threw out a hand. "I try to goad you into speaking, and y
ou are not even angry. Where another man would protest, would even fear to
go back, you say nothing, and-I'm afraid-decide to take ship straight for h
ome."
  "I know the future, Abidjan, that's the difference."

   "Well, I don't know the future, and it's obvious you won't tell me, but
 I can make my own guess at the truth. What men are saying is just that tru
th twisted: you keep the boy close because you know he must one day be King
. You can tell me this, though. What will you do when you get back? Bring h
im out of hiding?"

   "By the time I get back the Queen's child should be born," I said. "What
I do must depend on that. I shall see Uther, of course, and talk to him. But
the main thing, as I see it, is to let the people of Britain know-friend and
enemy alike-that Prince Arthur is alive and thriving, and will be ready to sh
ow himself beside his father when the time comes."

  "And that's not yet?"

   "I think not. When I reach home I hope I shall see more clearly. With your
leave, Ahdjan, I'll take the first ship."
  "As you will, of course. I shall be sorry to lose your company."

   "I regret it, too. It's been a happy chance that brought me after all to
Constantinopolis. I might have missed seeing you, but I was delayed by bad we
ather and lost the ship I should have got at Chalcedon."

   He said something civil, then looked startled as he saw the implicati
ons. "Delayed? You mean you were on your way home already? Before you saw
 the letter? You knew?"

  "No details. Only that it was time I was home."

   "By the Three!" For a moment I had seen the Celt looking out of his eye
s, though it was the Christian god that he swore by; they only have one oth
er oath in Constantino-polis, and that is "By the One," and they fight to t
he death over them. Then he laughed. "By the Three! I wish I'd had you besi
de me last week in the Hippodrome! I lost a cool thousand on the Greens - a
 sure thing, you'd have sworn, and they ran like three-legged cows. Well, i
t seems that whatever prince has you to guide him, he's lucky. If he had ha
d you, I might have had an empire today, instead of a respectable governmen
t post - and lucky to get that without being a eunuch besides."

   He nodded as he spoke at the great mosaic on the main wall of the room b
ehind us. I had noticed it already, and wondered vaguely at the Byzantine st
rain of melancholy which decorates a room with such scenes instead of the li
velier designs one sees in Greece and Italy. I had already observed, in the
entrance hall, a crucifix done life-size with mourning figures and Christian
 devices all round it. This, too, was an execution, but a noble one, on the
battlefield. The sky was dark, done with chips of slate and lapis hammered i
nto clouds like iron, with among them the staring heads of gods. The horizon
 showed a line of towers and temples with a crimson sun setting behind. It s
eemed meant to be Rome. The wide plain in front of the walls was the scene o
f the battle's end: to the left the defeated host, men and horses dead or dy
ing on a field scattered with broken weapons; to the right the victors, clus
tered behind the crowned leader, and bathed in a shaft of light descending f
rom a Christ poised in blessing above the other gods. At the victor's feet t
he other leader knelt, his neck bared to the executioner's blade. He was lif
ting both arms towards his conqueror, not for mercy, but in formal surrender
 of the sword which lay across his hands. Below him, in the corner of the pi
cture, was written Max. On the right, below the victor, were stamped the wor
ds Theod. Imp.
 "By the One!" I said, and saw Ahdjan smile; but he could not have known
what had brought me so quickly to my feet. He rose gracefully and followed
me to the wall, obviously pleased at my interest.

   "Yes, Maximus' defeat by the Emperor. Good, isn't it?" He smoothed a h
and over the silken tesserae. "The man who did it can't have known much of
 the ironies of war. In spite of all this, you might say it came out even
enough in the end. That hang-dog fellow on the left behind Maximus is Hoel
's ancestor, the one who took the remnants of the British contingent home.
 This holy-looking gentleman shedding blood all over the Emperor's feet is
 my great-greatgrandfather, to whose conscience and good business sense I
owe both my fortune and the saving of my soul."

   I hardly listened. I was staring at the sword in Maximus' hand. I had s
een it before. Glowing on the wall behind Ygraine. Flashing home to its sca
bbard in Brittany. Now here, the third time, imaged in Maximus' hand outsid
e the walls of Rome.
  Ahdjan was watching me curiously. "What is it?"

  "The sword. So it was his sword."

  "What was? Have you seen it, then?"

   "No. Only in a dream. Twice, I've seen it in dreams. Now here for the thi
rd time, in a picture ..." I spoke half to myself, musing. Sunlight, striking
 up off the pool on the terrace, sent light rippling across the wall, so t
hat the sword shimmered in Macsen's hands, and the jewels in its hilt showed g
reen and yellow and vivid blue. I said, softly: "So that is why I missed the s
hip at Chalcedon."

  "What do you mean?"
  "Forgive me, I hardly know. I was thinking of a dream. Tell me, Ahdjan,
this picture . . . Are those the walls of Rome? Maximus wasn't murdered at
Rome, surely?"

   "Murdered?" Ahdjan, speaking primly, looked amused. "The word on our
side of the family is 'executed.' No, it wasn't at Rome. I think the artist
was being symbolic. It happened at Aquileia. You may not know it; it's a sma
ll place near the mouth of the Turrus River, at the northern end of the Adri
atic."

  "Do ships call there?" His eyes widened. "You mean to go?"

  "I would like to see the place where Macsen died. I would like to know
what became of his sword."

  "You won't find that at Aquileia," he said. "Kynan took it."

  "Who?"

   He nodded at the picture. "The man on the left. Hoel's ancestor, who to
ok the British back home to Brittany. Hoel could have told you." He laughed
 at my expression. "Did you come all this way for that piece of information
?"

  "It seems so," I said. "Though until this moment I didn't know it. Are you
telling me that Hoel has that sword? It's in Brittany?"
   "No. It was lost long since. Some of the men who went home to Greater B
ritain took his things with them; I suppose they would have taken his sword
 to give his son."

  "And?"

  "That's all I know. It's a long time ago and all it is now is a family tale,
and the half of it's probably not true. Does it matter so much?"
   "Matter?" I said. "I hardly know. But I've learned to look close at most
things that come my way."

  He was watching me with a puzzled look, and I thought he would question
me further, but after a short hesitation he said merely: "I suppose so. Will
you walk out now into the garden? It's cooler. You looked as if your head h
urt you."
  "That? It was nothing. Someone playing a lyre on the terrace down there. It
isn't in tune."

    "My daughter. Shall we go down and stop her?"

   On the way down he told me of a ship due to leave the Horn in two days'
 time. He knew the master, and could bespeak me a passage. It was a fast sh
ip, and would dock at Ostia, whence I would certainly find a vessel plying
westwards.

    "What about your servants?"

   "Gaius is a good man. You could do worse than employ him yourself. I free
d Stilicho. He's yours if he'll stay, and he's a wizard with horses. It would
 be cruelty for me to take him to Britain; his blood's as thin as an Arabian
gazelle's."

   But. when the morning came Stilicho was there at the quayside, stubborn
 as the mules he had handled with such skill, his belongings in a stitched
sack, and a cloak of sheepskin sweltering round him in the Byzantine sun. I
 argued with him, traducing even the British climate, and my simple way of
living which he might find tolerable in a country where the sun shines, but
 would be hardship itself in that land of icy winds and wet. But, seeing fi
nally that he would have his way even if he paid his own passage with the m
oney I had given him as a parting gift, I gave way.

   To tell the truth I was touched, and glad to have his company on the lon
g voyage home. Though he had had none of Gaius' training as a body-servant,
he was quick and intelligent, and had already shown skill in helping me with
 plants and medicines. He would be useful, and besides, after all t
hese years away life at Bryn Myrddin looked a little lonelier than it had us
ed to, and I knew well that Ralf would never come back to me.



3

It was late summer when I reached Britain. Fresh news met me on the quay, i
n the person of one of the King's chamberlains, who greeted me with passion
ate relief, and such a total absence of surprise that I told him: "You shou
ld be in my business."

   He laughed. He was Lucan, whom I had known well when my father was Kin
g, and he and I were on terms. "Soothsaying? Hardly. This is the fifth shi
p I've met. I own I expected you, but I never thought to see you so soon.
We heard you went east a long while back, and we sent messengers, hoping t
o reach you. Did they find you?"
  "No. But I was already on my way."

  He nodded, as if I had confirmed his thoughts. He had been too close t
o my father, Ambrosius, to question the power that guided me. "You knew th
e King was sick, then?"

 "Not that, no. Only that the times were dangerous, and I should get home.
Uther ill? That's grave news. What's the sickness?"
   "A wound gone bad. You knew he's been seeing to the rebuilding of the Sa
xon Shore defenses, and training the troops there himself? Well, an alarm wa
s raised about longships up the Thames-they'd been seen level with Vagniacae
-too near London for comfort. A small foray, nothing serious, but he was fir
st into it as usual, and got a cut, and the wound didn't heal. This was two
months since, and he's still in pain, and losing flesh."

  "Two months? Hasn't his own physician been attending him?"
  "Indeed yes. Gandar's been there from the beginning."

  "And he could do nothing?"

    "Well," said Lucan, "according to him the King was mend- ing, and he sa
ys-along with the other doctors who've been consulted-that there's nothing
to fear. But I've watched them conferring in corners, and Gandar looks worr
ied." He glanced at me sideways. "There's a kind of uneasiness-you might ev
en call it apprehenson-infecting the whole court, and it's going to be hard
 to keep it contained there. I don't have to tell you, it's a bad time for
the country to doubt if their leader's going to be fit to lead them. In fac
t, rumours have started already. You know the King can't have the bellyache
 without a scare of poison; and now they whisper about spells and hauntings
. And not without reason; the King looks, sometimes, like a man who walks w
ith ghosts. It was time you came home."
    We were already moving along the road from the port. The horses had bee
n there ready saddled at the quayside, and an escort waiting; this more for
 ceremony than for safety; the road to London is well-travelled and guarded
. It occurred to me that perhaps the armed men who rode with us were there,
 not to see that I came to the King unharmed, but that I came there at all.

  I said as much dryly, to Lucan. "It seems the King wants to make sure of
me."

   He looked amused, but only said with his courtier's smoothness: "Perhaps
 he was afraid that you might not care to attend him. Shall we say that a ph
ysician who fails to cure a king does not always add to his reputation."

  "Does not always survive, you mean. I trust poor Gandar's still alive?"

   "So far." He paused, then said neutrally: "Not that I'm much of a judge, b
ut I'd have said it's not the King's body that lacks a cure, but his mind."

  "So it's my magic that's wanted?" He was silent. I added: "Or his son?"

  His eyelids drooped. "There are rumours about him, too."
   "I'm sure there are." My voice was as bland as his. "One piece of news
I did hear on my travels, that the Queen was pregnant again. I reckon she s
hould have been brought to bed a month ago. What is the child?"
   "It was a son, stillborn. They say that it was this sent the King out of h
is mind, and fevered his wound again. And now there are rumours that the eldes
t son is dead, too. In fact some say he died in infancy, that there is no son.
" He paused. His gaze fixed on his horse's ears, but there was the faintest of
 queries in his voice.

  "Not true, Lucan," I said. "He's alive, a fine boy, and growing fast. Don't
be afraid, he'll be there when he's needed."
   "Ah." It was a long exhalation of relief. "Then it's true he's with you! T
his is the news that will heal the kingdom, if not the King. You'll bring the
boy to London now?"

  "First I must see the King. After that, who knows?"
   A courtier knows when a subject has been turned, and Lucan asked no more
questions, but began to talk of more general news. He told me in more detail
what I had already learned from Ector's letters; Ector had certainly not exag
gerated the situation. I took care not to ask too many questions about the po
ssible danger in the north, but Lucan spoke of it himself, of the manning of
strongpoints north of Rheged along the old line of Hadrian's Wall, and then o
f Lot's contribution to the defense of the north-east. "He's making hard goin
g of it. Not because the raids are bad- the place has been quiet lately-but p
erhaps because of that very fact. The small kings don't trust Lot; they say h
e's a hard man and niggardly with spoils, and cares little for any interests
except his own. When they see there's no fighting to be done yet, and nothing
 to win, they desert him wholesale and take their men home to till the fields
." He made a sound of contempt, as near to a snort as a courtier ever gets. "
Fools, not to see that whether they like their commander or not, they'll have
 no fields to till, nor families to till them for, unless they fight."

  "But Lot's whole interest lies in his alliances, especially to the south
ward. I suppose that that with Rheged is safe enough? Why do his allies dist
rust him? Do they suspect him of lining his own nest at their expense? Or pe
rhaps of something worse?"

     "That I can't tell you." His voice was wooden.
     "Is there no one else Uther can appoint as commander in the north?"

  "Not unless he goes himself. He can't demote Lot. His daughter is promis
ed to him."

   I said, startled: "His daughter? Do you mean that Lot accepted Morgause a
fter all?"

   "Not Morgause, no," said Lucan. "I doubt that marriage wasn't tempting e
nough for Lothian, for all the girl's turned out such a beauty. Lot's an amb
itious man, he'd not dangle after a bastard when there was a true-born princ
ess to be had. I meant the Queen's daughter; Morgian."
     "Morgian? But she can hardly be five years old!"

     "Nevertheless, she's promised, and you know that's binding between kings
."
     "If I don't, who should?" I said dryly, and Lucan knew what I was thin
king of: my own mother who had borne me to Ambrosius with no bond but a pr
omise made in secret; and my father who had let the promise bind him as se
curely as a ceremonial oath.

   We came in sight of London Wall then, and the traffic of the morning ma
rket thronged about us. Lucan had given me plenty to think about, and I was
 glad when the escort closed up, and he was silent, and left me to my thoug
hts.
   I had expected to find Uther attended, and about some at least of his affa
irs, but he was still keeping his own chamber, and alone.

   As I was led through the antechambers towards his room I saw nobles, o
fficers and servants all waiting, and there was an apprehensive quiet abou
t the crowded rooms which told its own tale. Men conferred in small groups
, low-voiced and worried, the servants looked nervous and edgy, and in the
 outer corridors, where merchants and petitioners waited, there was the pa
tient despondency of men who have already passed the point of hope.

    Heads turned as I went through, and I heard the whisper run ahead of m
e like wind through a waste land, and a Christian bishop, forgetting himse
lf, said audibly: "God be praised! Now we'll see the spell lifted." One or
 two men whom I knew started forward with warm greetings, and a spate of q
uestions ready, but I smiled and shook my head and went through with no mo
re than a quick word. And since with kings one can never quite rule out th
e thought of malice or murder, I checked the faces that I knew: somewhere
in this crowd of armed and jewelled lords there might be one who would not
 welcome my return to the King's side; someone who watched for Uther to fa
il before his son was grown; someone who was Arthur's enemy, and therefore
 mine.

  Some of them I knew well, but even these, as I greeted them, I studi
ed. The leaders from Wales, Ynyr of Guent, Mador and Gwilim from my own
country of Dyfed. Not Maelgon himself from Gwynedd, but one of his sons,
 Cu-nedda. Beside them, with a handful of their countrymen,
  Brychan and Cynfelin from Dyfnaint, and Nentres of Gar-lot, whom I had
 watched ride out with Uther from Tin-tagel. Then the men from the north;
Ban of Benoic, a big, handsome man so dark that he might have been, like A
m-brosius and myself, a descendant of the Spaniard Maximus. Beside Ban sto
od his cousin from Brittany, whose name I could not recall. Then Cadwy and
 Bors, two of the petty kings from Rheged, neighbours of Ector's; and
 another neighbour, Arrak, one of the numerous sons of Caw of Strath-clyde
. These I marked carefully, recalling what I knew of them. Nothing of impo
rtance yet, but I would remember, and watch. Rheged himself I did not see,
 nor Lot; it was to be assumed that their affairs in the north were more p
ressing even than the King's illness. But Urien, Lot's brother-in-law, was
 here, a thin, red-haired man with the light-blue eyes and high colour of
temper; and Tudwal of Dinpelydr, who ran with him; and his blood-brother A
guisel, of whose private doings in his cold fortress near Bremenium I had
heard strange tales.

   There were others I did not know, and these I scanned briefly as I pass
ed them. I could find out later who they were, from Lucan, or from Caius Va
lerius, who stood over near the King's door. Beside Valerius was a young ma
n I thought I should recognize; a strongly built, sunburned man of twenty o
r so, with a face that I found faintly familiar. I could not place him. He
watched me from his stance near Uther's doorway, but he neither spoke nor m
ade any sign of greeting. I said under my breath to Lucan: "The man near th
e door, by Valerius. Who is he?"

  "Cador of Cornwall."

   I knew it now, the face I had last seen watching by Gorlois' body in the
midnight hall of Dimilioc. And with the same look; the chill blue eyes, the f
rowning bar of brows, the warrior's face grown with the years more than ever
like his father's and every whit as formidable.

   Perhaps I need look no further. Of all those present he had most reason
 to hate me. And he was here, though Lucan had told me he was commander of
the Irish Shore. In Rheged's absence, and Lot's, I supposed that he was the
 nearest there to Uther, except only myself,

    I had to pass within a yard of him to get to the door of the King's room
. I held his eyes deliberately, and he returned my look, but neither saluted
 nor bent his head. The blue eyes were cold and impassive. Well, I thought,
as I greeted Valerius beside him, we should see. No doubt I could find out f
rom Uther why he was here. And how much, if the King failed to recover, the
young Duke stood to gain.

   Lucan had gone in to tell the King of my arrival. Now he came out aga
in and beckoned me forward. On his heels came Gandar. I would have paused
 to speak with him, but he shook his head quickly.
  "No. He wants you to go straight in. By the Snake, Merlin, I'm glad to see
you! But have a care . . . There, he's calling. A word with you later?"

    "Of course. I'll be grateful."

  There was another, peremptory call from inside the room. Gandar's eyes,
heavy with worry, met mine again briefly as he stood aside to let me pass.
The servant shut the door behind us and left me with the King.


4


He was up, and dressed in a house robe open at the front, with beneath it a
tunic girded by a jewelled belt with a long dagger thrust through. His sword
, the King's sword Falar, lay across its hangers below the gilded dragon tha
t climbed the wall behind the bed. Though it was still summer there had been
 through the night a chill breeze from the north, and I was glad-my blood th
in, I suppose, from my travels-to see a brazier glowing red on the empty hea
rth, with chairs set near.

   He came quickly across the room to greet me, and I saw that he limped. A
s I answered his greeting I studied his face for signs of the sickness or di
straction that I had been led to expect. He was thinner than before, with ne
w lines to his face which made him look nearer fifty than forty (which was h
is age), and I saw that drawn look under the eyes which is one of the signs
of long-gnawing pain or sleeplessness. But apart from the slight limp he mov
ed easily enough, and with all the restless energy I remembered. And his voi
ce was the same as ever, strong and quick with arrogant decision.

  "There's wine there. We will serve ourselves. I want to talk to you alone.
Sit down."

   I obeyed him, pouring the wine and handing him a goblet. He took it, but
 set it down without drinking, and seated himself across from me, pulling th
e robe about his knees with an abrupt, almost angry gesture. I noticed that
he did not look at me, but at the brazier, at the floor, at the goblet, anyw
here not to meet my eyes. He spoke with the same abruptness, wasting no time
 on civilities about my journey. "They will have told you that I have been i
ll."
   "I understood you still were," I said. "I'm glad to see you on your fee
t and so active. Lucan told me about the skirmish at Vagniacae; I understan
d it's about two months now since you were wounded?"

   "Yes. It was nothing much, a spear glancing, not deep. But it festered, an
d took a long time to heal."

  "It's healed now?"
  "Yes."

  "Does it still pain you?"

  "No."

   He almost snapped the word, pushing himself suddenly back in his chair
to sit upright with his hands clenched on the arms, and his eyes on mine at
 last. It was the hard blue gaze I remembered, showing nothing but anger an
d dislike. But now I recognized both look and manner for what they were, th
ose of a man driven against his will to ask help where he had sworn never a
gain to ask it. I waited.

  "How is the boy?"

   If the sudden question surprised me, I concealed it. Though I had told
Hoel and Ector that the King need only be told of the child's whereabouts i
f he demanded to know, it had seemed wise to send reports from time to time
-couched in phrases that no one but the King would understand-of the boy's
health and progress. Since Arthur had been at Galava the reports had gone t
o Hoel, and thence to Uther; nothing was to pass directly between Galava an
d the King. Hoel had written to me that, in all the years, Uther had made n
o direct enquiry about the boy. It was to be inferred that now he had no id
ea of his son's whereabouts.

  I said: "You should have had a report since the last one I saw. Has it not
come?"

   "Not yet. I wrote myself a month ago to ask Hoel where the boy was. He h
as not replied."

  "Perhaps his answer went to Tintagel, or to Winchester." "Perhaps. Or
perhaps he is not prepared to answer my question?"
  I raised my brows. "Why not? It was always understood, surely, that the
secrecy should not extend to you. Has he refused to answer you before?"

  He said coldly, disconcerted and covering it: "I did not ask. There has be
en no need before."

   This told me something beyond what I already knew. The King had only fel
t the need to locate Arthur since the Queen's last miscarriage. I had been r
ight in thinking that, if she had given him other sons, he would have prefer
red to forget the "bastard" in Brittany. It also told me something I did not
 like: if he felt a need for Arthur now, this summons might be to tell me th
at my guardianship was ended before it had really begun.

   To give myself time, I ignored what he had just said. "Then depend upon i
t, Hoel's answer is on its way. In any case it doesn't matter, since I am her
e to answer you instead."
  His look was still stony, allowing no guesses. "They tell me you have be
en abroad all these years. Did you take him with you?"

   "No. I thought it better to keep away from him till the time came when I
could be of use to him. I made sure of his safety, then after I had left Brit
tany I kept close touch." I smiled slightly. "Oh, nothing that your spies cou
ld have seen ... or any other man's. You know I have ways of my own. I took n
o risks. If you yourself have no inkling now of his whereabouts, you may be s
ure that no one else has."

    I saw from the brief flicker in his eyes before the lids veiled them th
at I had guessed rightly: messages and constant reports of my movements had
 been sent back to him. No doubt, wherever he could, he had had me watched.
 It was no more than I expected. Kings live by information, Uther's enemies
 had probably watched me, too, and perhaps the King's own informants might
have picked up some kind of lead to them. But when I asked him about this,
he shook his head. He was silent for a while, following some private track
of his own. He had not looked at me again. He reached for the goblet at his
 elbow, but not to drink; he fidgeted with it, turning it round and round w
here it stood. "He'll be seven years old now."

  "Eight this coming Christmas, and strong for his age and well doing. You
need have no fears for him, Uther."
   "You think not?" Another flash, of bitterness stronger than any anger.
In spite of my outward calmness I felt a violent moment of apprehension: if
, contrary to appearances, the King's sickness was in fact mortal, what cha
nce would the boy have at the head of this kingdom now, with half the petty
 kings (I saw Cador's face again) at his throat? And how was even I to know
, through the light and the smoke, what the god's smile portended?

   "You think not?" said the King again. I saw his finger-bones whiten wher
e he held the goblet, and wondered that the thin silver did not crush. "When
 we last spoke together, Merlin, I asked a service of you, and I have no dou
bt it has been faithfully performed. I believe that service has almost reach
ed its end. No, listen to me!" This though I had not spoken, nor even taken
breath to speak. He talked like a man in a corner, attacking before he is ev
en in danger. "I don't have to remind you what I said to you before, nor do
I have to ask if you obeyed me. Wherever you have kept the boy, however you
have trained him, I take it he is ignorant of his birth and standing, but th
at he is fit to come to me and stand before all men as a prince and my heir."
  The blood ran hot under my skin in a flush I could feel.

  "Are you trying to tell me that you think the time has come?"

   I had forgotten to school my voice. The silver goblet went back on the ta
ble with a rap. The angry blue eyes came back to me. "A king does not 'try to
 tell' his servants what they must do, Merlin."

   I dropped my eyes with an effort and slowly, deliberately unclenched the
 apprehension that gripped me, the way one levers open the jaws of a fightin
g dog. I felt his angry stare on me, and heard the breath whistle through hi
s pinched nostrils. Make Uther really angry, and it might take me years to f
ight my way back to the boy's side. I was aware in the silence that he shift
ed in his chair as if in sudden discomfort. In a breath or two I was able to
 look up and say: "Then supposing you tell me, King, whether you sent for me
 to discuss your health, or your son. Either way, I am still your servant."

   He stared at me in rigid silence, then his brow slowly cleared, and his
 mouth relaxed into something like amusement. "Whatever you are, Merlin, yo
u. are hardly that. And you were right; I am trying to tell you something,
something which concerns both my health and my son. By the Scorpion, why ca
n I not find the words? I have sent for you not to demand my son of you, bu
t to tell you that, if your healing skill fails me now, he must needs be Ki
ng."
  "You told me just now that you were healed."

   "I said the wound was healed. The poison has gone, and the pain, but it h
as left a sickness behind it of a kind that Gandar cannot cure. He told me to
 look to you."

   I remembered what Lucan had told me about the King who walked with gho
sts, and I thought of some of the things I had seen at Pergamum. "You don'
t look to me like a man who is mortally ill, Uther. Are you speaking of a
sickness of the mind?"

  He didn't answer that, but when he spoke, it was not in the voice of a
man changing the subject. "Since you were abroad, I have had two more child
ren by the Queen. Did you know that?"

  "I heard about the girl Morgian, but I didn't know about this last stillbirth
until today. I'm sorry."

    "And did this famous Sight of yours tell you that there would be no mor
e?" Suddenly, he slammed the goblet down again on the table beside his chai
r. I saw that the silver had indeed dented under his fingers' pressure. He
got to his feet with the violence of a thrown spear. I could see then that
what I had taken for energy was a kind of drawn and dangerous tightness, ne
rves and sinews twanging like bowstrings. The hollows under his cheekbones
showed sharp as if something had eaten him empty from within. "How can anyo
ne be a King who is less than a man?" He flung this question at me, and the
n strode across the room to the window, where he leaned his head against th
e stone, looking out at the morning.

   Now at last I understood what he had been trying to tell me. He had sent
 for me once before, to this very room, to tell me how his love for Ygraine,
 Gorlois' wife, was eating him alive. Then, as now, he had resented having t
o call upon my skill; then, as now, he had shown this same feverish and tigh
tly drawn force, like a bowstring ready to snap. And the cause had been the
same. Ambrosius had once said to me, "If he would think with his brains inst
ead of his body sometimes he'd be the better for it." Until this matter of Y
graine, Uther's violent sexual needs had served his ends-not only of pleasur
e and bodily ease, but because his men, soldiers like himself, admired the p
rowess which, if not boasted of, was at any rate unconcealed. To them it was
 a matter for envy, amusement and admiration. And to Uther himself it was mo
re than bodily satisfaction; it was an affirmation of self, a pride which wa
s part of his own picture of himself as a leader.
   He still neither moved nor spoke. I said: "If you find it hard to talk to m
e, would you rather I consulted with your other doctors first?"

  "They don't know, Only Gandar."

  "Then with Gandar?"
   But in the end he told me himself, pacing up and down the room with tha
t quick, limping stride. I had risen when he did, but he motioned me back i
mpatiently, so I stayed where I was, turned away from him, leaning back in
my chair beside the brazier, knowing that he walked up and down the room on
ly because he would not face me as he talked. He told me about the raid at
Vagniacae and the defending party he had led, and the sharp bitter skirmish
 on the shingle. The spear thrust had taken him in the groin, not a deep wo
und but a jagged one, and the blade had not been clean. He had had the cut
bound up, and, because it did not trouble him overmuch, had disregarded it;
 on a new alarm about a Saxon landing in the Medway, he" had followed this
up immediately, taking no rest until the menace was over. Riding had been u
ncomfortable, but not very painful, and there had been no warning until it
 was too late that the wound had begun to fester. In the end even Uther had
 to admit that he could no longer sit his horse, and he had been carried in
 a litter back to London. Gandar, who had not been with the troops, had bee
n sent for, and under his care, slowly, the poison had dried up, and the fe
stering scars healed. The King still limped slightly where the muscles had
knitted awry, but there was no pain, and everything had seemed to be set fo
r full recovery. The Queen had been all this time at Tintagel for her lying
-in, and as soon as he was better himself, Uther made ready to go to her. A
pparently quite recovered, he had ridden to Winchester, where he had halted
 his party to hold a council. Then, that night, there had been a girl-
   Uther stopped talking abruptly, and took another turn of the room, whic
h sent him back to the window. I wondered if he imagined I had thought him
faithful to the Queen, but it had never occurred to me. Where Uther was, th
ere had always been a girl. "Yes? "I said.

   And then at last the truth came out. There had been a girl and Uther had
 taken her to bed, as he had taken so many others in passing but urgent lust
. And he found himself impotent.
  "Oh, yes"-as I began to speak-"it has happened before, even to me. It h
appens to us all at times, but this should not have been one of the times.
I wanted her, and she was skillful, but I tell you there was nothing-nothin
g. ... I thought that perhaps I was weary from the journey, or that the dis
comfort of the saddle-it was no more than discomfort-had fretted me overmuc
h, so I waited there in Winchester to rest. I lay with the girl again, with
 her and with others. But it was no use, not with any of them." He swung aw
ay from the window then and came back to where I sat. "And then a messenger
 came from Tintagel to say that the Queen had been brought to bed early, of
 a stillborn prince." He was looking down at me, almost with hatred. "That
bastard you hold for me. You've always been sure, haven't you, that he woul
d be King after me? It seems you were right, you and your damned Sight. I'l
l get no other children now."

   There was no point in commiseration, and he would not have wanted it from
 me. I said merely: "Gandar's skill in surgery is as great as mine. You can h
ave no reason to doubt it. I will look at you if you wish, but I should like
to talk to Gandar first."
   "He has not your way with drugs. There is no man living who knows mor
e about medicine. I want you to make me some drug that will bring life ba
ck to my loins. You can do this, surely? Every old woman swears she can c
oncoct love potions-"
    "You've tried them?"

   "How could I try them without telling every man in my army-yes, and ev
ery woman in London-that their King is impotent? And can you hear the song
s and stories if they knew this about me?"

 "You are a good king, Uther. People don't mock that. And soldiers don't
mock the men who lead them to victory."
   "How long can I do that, the way I am? I tell you I am sick in more than
body. This thing eats at me ... I cannot live as half a man. And as for my so
ldiers-how would you like to ride a gelding into battle?"
   "They'd follow you even if you rode in a litter, like a woman. If you w
ere yourself, you would know that. Tell me, does the Queen know?"

    "I went on from Winchester to Tintagel. I thought that, with her ... but . . .
"
    "I see." I was matter of fact. The King had told me enough, and he was suf
fering. "Well, if there is a drug that will help you, be sure I shall find it.
 I learned more of these things in the East. It may be that this is only a mat
ter of time and treatment. We have seen this happen too often to think of it a
s the end. You may yet get another son to supplant the 'bastard' I hold for yo
u."

  He said harshly: "You don't believe that."
   "No. I believe what the stars tell me, if I have read them rightly. But y
ou can trust me to help you as best I can: whatever happens, it's with the go
ds. Sometimes their ways seem cruel; who knows this better than you and I? Bu
t there is something else I have seen in the stars, Uther; whoever succeeds y
ou, it will not be yet. You'll fight and win your own battles for a few years
 to come."

   From his face, I knew then that he had feared worse things than his impot
ence. I saw, from the lightening of his look, that the cure of mind and body
might well have begun. He came back to his chair, sat, and picking up the gob
let, drained it, and set it down.

   "Well," he said, and smiled for the first time, "now I shall be the first to
 believe the people who say that the King's prophet never lies. I shall be glad
to take your word on this. . . . Come, fill the cups again, Merlin, and we'll ta
lk. You have a lot to tell me; I can listen now."

   So we talked for a while longer. When I began to tell him what I knew o
f Arthur, he listened calmly and -with deep attention; I realized from the
way he spoke that for some time now he must, whether consciously or not, ha
ve been pinning his hopes on his eldest born. I told him where the boy was
now, and to my relief he raised no objections; indeed, after a few question
s and a pause for thought he nodded approvingly.

   "Ector is a good man. I might have thought of him myself, but as you know
I was telling over the kings' courts, and never spared a thought for such as h
e. Yes, it will do . . . Galava is a good place, and safe. . . . And by the Li
ght Himself, if the treaties I have made in the north hold good, I shall see t
hat it remains so. And what you tell me about the boy's status there, and trai
ning ... It will do well. If blood and training tell, he'll be a good fighter
and a man whom men can trust and follow. We must see that Ector gets the best
master-at-arms in the country."
    I must have made a slight movement of protest, because he smiled again.
 "Oh, never fear, I can be secret too. After all, if he is to have the most
 illustrious teacher in the land, then the King must try to match him. How
do you propose to get yourself up there to Galava, Merlin, without having h
alf Britain follow you looking for magic and medicines?" I answered with so
mething vague. My public coming to London had served its purpose; already t
he buzz would have gone out that Prince Arthur was alive and thriving. As t
o my next disappearance, I did not yet know how or when it must be done; I
could hardly think beyond the fact that the King had accepted all my plans,
 and that there was no question of Arthur's being removed from my care. I s
uspected that, as before, it was a decision taken with relief; once I had g
one to my secret post at Galava, the King would forget me more readily than
 ever would the good folk at Maridunum.

   He was speaking of it now. Unless the need came sooner, he said, he wou
ld send for the boy when he was grown- fourteen or so, and ready to lead a
troop-and present him publicly, ratifying the young prince as his heir.
  "Providing still that I have no other," he added, with a flash of the old
hard look, and dismissed me to go and talk with Gandar.


5


Gandar was waiting for me in the room which had been allotted to me. While
I had been talking with the King my baggage had been brought from the ship,
 and unpacked by my servant Stilicho. I showed Gandar the drugs I had broug
ht with me, and after we had talked the King's case over, suggested that he
 send an assistant to study their use and preparation with me over the next
 few days, before I left London. If he had no one whom he could sufficientl
y trust to tend the King and be silent about it, I would lend him Stilicho.

   At his look of surprise, I explained. As I have said, Stilicho had disco
vered a fair talent for preparing the dried plants and roots I had brought w
ith me from Pergamum. He could not read, of course, but I put signs on the j
ars and boxes, and to begin with allowed him to handle only the harmless one
s. But he proved reliable, and oddly painstaking for so lively a boy. I have
 learned since that men of his race have this facility with plants and drugs
, and that the little kings of that country dare not eat even an unblemished
 apple without a taster. I was pleased to have found a servant who could be
of use to me in this way, and had taught him a good deal. I would have been
sorry to leave him behind in London, so was relieved when Gandar replied tha
t he had an assistant he could trust, who should be sent to me as soon as I
was ready.

   I started work immediately. At my request Stilicho had been given a sm
all chamber to himself, with a charcoal stove, and a table, and the variou
s bows and implements he needed. The room adjoined my own, with no door be
tween, but I had had a double thickness of curtain hung across the doorway
. Stilicho had by no means come to terms with the British summer, and kept
 his room at eruption point with heat.

   It was about three days before I found a formula which promised some he
lp for the king, and sent a message to Gandar. He, gasping before he had fa
irly got through the curtains, came himself, but instead of the assistant I
 expected he brought a girl with him, a young maiden whom I recognized afte
r a moment as Morgaise, the King's bastard daughter. She could be no more t
han thirteen or fourteen, but she was tall for her age, and it was true tha
t she was beautiful. At that age many girls only slow promise of beauty; Mo
r-gause had the thing itself, and even I, who am no judge of women, could s
ee that this might be a beauty to send men mad. Her body was slight with a
child's slenderness, but her breasts were full and pointed and her throat
round as a lily stem. Her hair was rosy gold, streaming long and unbound ov
er the golden-green robe. The large eyes that I remembered were gold-green
too, liquid and clear as a stream running over mosses, and the small mouth
lifted into a smile over kitten's teeth as she dropped a deep reverence to me.
    "Prince Merlin." It was a demure child's voice, little more than a whisper
. I saw Stilicho glance round from his work, then stand staring.

   I gave her my hand. "They told me you had grown into a beauty, Morgau
se. Some man will be fortunate. You're not contracted yet? Then all the m
en in Condon have been slow."

   The smile deepened, folding itself into dimples at the corner of her mouth
. She did not speak. Stilicho, catching my glance, bent over his work again, b
ut not, I thought, with quite the concentration it required.

  "Phew," said Gandar, fanning himself. I could see the sweat already bea
ding his broad face. "Do you have to work in a tepidarium?"
  "My servant comes from a more blessed corner of the earth than this. The
y breed salamanders in Sicily."
  "More blessed, you call it? I'd die in an hour."

  "I'll have him bring the things out into my chamber," I offered.

   "No need, for me. I'll not stay. I only came to present you my assistant
, who will care for the King. Aye, you may well look surprised. You'll hardl
y believe me, but this child here is skilled already with drugs. Seems she h
ad a nurse in Brittany, one of their wise women, who taught her the gatherin
g and drying and preparing, and since she came over here she's been eager to
 learn more. But an army medical unit didn't seem quite the place for her."

   "You surprise me," I said dryly. The girl Morgause had moved near the ta
ble where Stilicho was working, and bent her graceful little head towards hi
m. A tress of the rose-gold hair brushed his hand. He labelled two jars at r
andom, both wrongly, before he recovered himself and reached for a knife to
melt the seals again.

   "So," said Gandar, "when she heard the King needed drugs, she asked to
look after them. She's practised enough, no fear of that, and the King has
consented. For all she's young, she knows how to keep her counsel, and who
better to care for him and keep his secrets than his own daughter?" It was
a good idea, and I said so. Gandar himself, though nominally the King's chi
ef physician, had charge of the army medical teams. Until this recent wound
ing the King had hardly needed his personal care, and in any action or thre
at of it Gandar's place would be with the army. In Uther's present predicam
ent his own daughter, so fortunately skilled, would answer very well.

   "She's more than welcome to learn all she can here." I turned to the girl
. "Morgause, I've distilled a drug which I think will help the King. I've cop
ied out the formula for you here-can you make it out? Good. Stilicho has the
ingredients, if he'll take time to label them correctly , . . Now, I'll leave
 him to show you how to compound the medicine. If you give him half an hour t
o get his apparatus out of this steam bath-"
  "No need, for me," she said in a demure echo of Gandar.

  "I like the heat."

   "Then I'll leave you," said Gandar with relief. "Merlin, will you come an
d sup with me tonight, or are you with the King?"
   I followed him out into the cool airiness of my own room. From beyond th
e curtain came the murmur, hesitant with shyness, of the servant's voice, an
d an occasional soft question from the girl.

  "It'll be all right, you'll see," said Gandar. "No need to look so doubtful."

   "Was I? Not about the medicine, at any rate, and I'll take your word for the
girl's skill."

  "In any case, you'll surely stay a little while, and see how she does?"

  "Certainly. I don't want to be too long in London, but I can give it a few
days. You'll be here yourself?"

   "Yes. But there's been such a marked change in him even in these last th
ree days since you came, that I can't see he'll need me in attendance much l
onger."

   "Let's hope it continues," I said. "To tell you the truth, I'm not much t
roubled . . . Certainly not for his general health. And for the impotence-if
he gets ease and sleep, his mind may stop tormenting his body, and the condit
ion may right itself. This seems to be happening already. You know how these
things go."

   "Oh, aye, he'll mend"-he glanced towards the curtained door and dropped h
is voice-"as far as need be. As to whether we can get the stallion back to th
e stand again, I can't see that it matters, now that we know there's a prince
 safe, and growing, and likely for the crown. We'll get him out of his distem
per, and if by God's grace and the drugs you brought he lives to fight . . .
and stays king of the pack-"
  "He'll do that."

   "Well . . ." he said, and let it go. I may say here that the King did in
 fact mend rapidly. The limp disappeared, he slept well and put on flesh, an
d I learned some time later from one of his chamberers that, although the Ki
ng was never again the Bull of Mithras that his soldiers had laughed over an
d admired, and though he fathered no more children, he took certain satisfac
tions in his bed, and the unpredictable violences of his temper declined. As
 a soldier he was soon, again, the single-minded warrior who had inspired hi
s troops and led them to victory.
   When Gandar had gone, I went back into the boy's room to find Morgause
slowly conning over the paper I had given her, while Stilicho showed her, o
ne by one, the simples for distillation, the powders for sleeping draughts,
 the oils for massage of the pulled muscles. Neither of them saw me come in
, so I watched for a few minutes in silence. I could see that Morgause miss
ed nothing, and that, though the boy still watched her sideways and tended
to shy from her beauty like a colt from fire, she seemed as oblivious of hi
s sex as a princess should be of a slave. The heat of the room was making m
y head ache. I crossed quickly to the table. Stilicho's monologue stopped s
hort, and the girl looked up and smiled.

  I said: "You understand it all? Good. I'll leave you now with Stilicho. If
there's anything you want to know that he can't tell you, send for me."

  I turned then to give instructions to the boy, but to my surprise Morga
use made a quick movement towards me, laying a hand on my sleeve. "Prince-"

  "Morgause?"

   "Must you really go? I-I thought you would teach me, you yourself. I wa
nt so much to learn from you."

   "Stilicho can teach you all you need to know about the drugs the King wi
ll want. If you wish, I will show you how to help him over the pain of the t
ightened muscles, but I should have thought his bath-slave would do that bet
ter."

   "Oh, yes, I know. I wasn't thinking of things like that: it's easy enough
 to learn what is needed for the King's care. It was-I had hoped for more. Wh
en I asked Gandar to bring me to you, I had thought-I had hoped-"

   The sentence died and she drooped her head. The rose-gold hair fell in a
gleaming curtain to hide her face. Through it, as through rain, I saw her eye
s watching me, thoughtful, meek, childlike.

  "You had hoped-?"

  I doubt if even Stilicho, four paces away, heard the whisper. "-that you m
ight teach me a little of your art, my lord Prince." Her eyes appealed to me,
half hopeful and half afraid, like a bitch expecting to be whipped.
    I smiled at her, but I knew my manner was stiff and my voice over-formal
. I can face an armed enemy more easily than a young girl pleading like this
, with a pretty hand on my sleeve, and her scent sweet on the hot air like f
ruit in a sunny orchard. Strawberries, was it, or apricots. . . ? I said qui
ckly: "Morgause, I've no art to teach you that you cannot learn as easily fr
om books. You read, don't you? Yes, of course you do, you read the formula.
Then learn from Hippocrates and Galen. Let them be your masters; they were m
ine."

  "Prince Merlin, in the arts I speak of you have no master."

   The heat of the room was overpowering. My head hurt me. I must have be
en frowning, because she came close with a gentle dipping movement, like a
 bird nestling, and said rapidly, pleadingly: "Don't be angry with me. I'v
e waited so long, and I was so sure that the chance had come. My lord, all
 my life I have heard people speak of you. My nurse in Brittany-she told m
e how she used to see you walking through the woods and by the seashore, g
athering the cresses and roots and the white berries of the thunder-bough,
 and how sometimes you went with no more sound than a ghost, and no shadow
 even on a sunny day."

  "She was telling stories to frighten you. I am a man like other men."

   "Do other men talk to the stars as if they were friends in a familiar ro
om? Or move the standing stones? Or follow the druids into Nemet and not die
 under the knife?"

   "I did not die under the druids' knife because the arch-druid was afrai
d of my father," I said bluntly. "And when I was in Brittany I was hardly a
 man, and certainly not a magician. I was a boy then, learning my trades as
 you are learning yours. I was barely seventeen when I left there." She see
med hardly to have heard. I noticed how still she was, the long eyes shadow
ed under the curtaining hair, the narrow white hands folded below her breas
t against the green gown. She said: "But you are a man now, my lord, and ca
n you deny that you have worked magic here in Britain?

   Since I have been here with my father the King, I have heard you spoken
of as the greatest enchanter in the world. I have seen the Hanging Stones, w
hich you lifted and set in their place, and I have heard how you foretold Pe
ndragon's victories and brought the star to Tintagel, and made the King's so
n vanish away to the isle of Hy-Brasil-"
   "So you heard that here, too, did you?" I tried for a lighter tone. "You'd
 better stop, Morgause, you're scaring my servant, and I don't want him runnin
g off, he's too useful."

  "Don't laugh at me, my lord. Do you deny that you have the arts?"

   "No, I don't deny it. But I couldn't teach you the things you want to kn
ow. Certain kinds of magic you can learn from any adept, but the arts which
are mine are not mine to give away. I could not teach them to you, even if y
ou were old enough to understand them."

  "I could understand them now. I already have magic-such magic as young
 maids can learn, no more. I want to follow you and learn from you. My lor
d Merlin, teach me how to find power like yours."

   "I've told you it isn't possible. You will have to take my word for that.
 You are too young. I'm sorry, child. I think that for power like mine you wi
ll always be too young. I doubt if any woman could go where I go and see what
 I see. It is not an easy art. The god I serve is a hard master."

  "What god? I only know men."
   "Then learn from men. What I have of power I cannot teach you. I have tol
d you it is not my gift."

   She watched me without comprehension. She was too young to understand.
The light from the stove glimmered on the lovely hair, the wide, clever bro
ws, the full breasts, the small, childish hands. I remembered that Uther ha
d offered her to Lot, and that Lot had rejected her in favour of the young
half-sister. I wondered if Morgause knew; and, compassionately, what would
become of her.

   I said gently: "It's true, Morgause. He only lends his power for his ow
n ends. When they are achieved, who knows? If he wants you, he will take yo
u, but don't walk into the flames, child. Content yourself with such magic
as young maids can use."

  She began to speak, but we were interrupted. Stilicho had been heating
something in a bowl over the burner, and was no doubt so busy straining to
hear what was being said that he let the bowl tilt, and some of the liquid
spilled onto the flames. There was a hiss and a spitting, and a cloud of he
rb-smelling steam billowed thick between me and the girl, obscuring her. Th
rough it I saw her hands, those still hands, moving quickly to fan the pung
ent mist away from her eyes. My own were watering. Vision blurred and glitt
ered. The pain in my head blinded me. The movement of the small white hands
 through the steam was weaving a pattern like a spell. The bats went past m
e in a cloud. Somewhere near me the strings of my harp whimpered. The room
shrank round me, chilled to a globe of crystal, a tomb . . .

    "I'm sorry, master. Master, are you ill? Master?"

   I shook myself awake. My vision cleared. The steam had thinned, and the
 last of it was wisping away through the window. The girl's hands were stil
l again, folded as before; she had shaken her hair back, and was watching m
e curiously. Stilicho had lifted the bowl from the burner, and peered at me
 across it, anxious and scared.

    "Master, it's one you mix yourself. You said there was no harm in it . . ."
   "No harm at all. But another time, watch what you're doing." I looked do
wn at the girl. "I'm sorry, did I frighten you? It's nothing, a headache, I
get them sometimes. Sudden, and soon gone. Now I must go. I leave London at
the end of the week. If you need my help before then, send to me and I shall
 be glad to come." I smiled, and reached out a hand to touch her hair. "No,
don't look so downcast, child. It's a hard gift to have, and not for young m
aids."

 She curtsied to me again as I went out, the small lovely face hidden once
more behind the curtaining hair.



6


I think this was the only time in my life that I saw Bryn Myrddin not as th
e home I was eager to reach, but as a mere halting place on a journey. And
once I had arrived in Maridunum, instead of welcoming the familiar quiet of
 the valley, the company of my books, the time to think and to work with my
 music and my medicines, I found myself fretting to be away, all my being s
training northwards to where the boy lived who was to be my life from this
time on.
   All I knew of him, apart from the cryptic reassurances which had come t
o me through Hoel and Ector, was that he was healthy and strong, though sma
ller for his age than Cei, Ector's own son, had been. Cei was eleven years
old now, to Arthur's eight, and as familiar to my visions as the young prin
ce. I had watched Arthur scuffling with the older boy, riding a horse that
to my coward's eye looked far too big for him, playing at swordsmanship wit
h staves, and then with swords: I suppose these must have been blunted, but
 all I saw was the dangerous flash of the metal, and here, though Cei had t
he strength and the longer reach, I could see that Arthur was quick as a sw
ord himself. I watched the pair of them fishing, climbing, racing through t
he edge of the Wild Forest in a vain bid to escape Ralf who (with the help
of Ector's two most trusted men) rode guard on Arthur at all times, day or
night. All this I watched in the fire, in the smoke or the stars, and once
where there were none of these and the message was straining to be through,
 in the side of a precious crystal goblet which Ahdjan was displaying to me
 in his palace by the Golden Horn. He must have wondered at my sudden inatt
ention, but probably put it down to indigestion after one of his lavish mea
ls, which to an Eastern host is rather a compliment than otherwise.

   I could not even be sure that I should recognize Arthur when I saw him,
nor could I tell what kind of boy he had grown to be. Daring I could see, an
d gaiety, and stubborn strength, but of his real nature I could be no judge;
 visions may fill the mind's eye, but it takes blood to engage the heart. I
had not even heard him speak. Nor had I as yet any clear idea how to enter h
is life when I did reach the north country, but every night of my journey fr
om London to Bryn Myrd-din I walked outside under the stars, searching for w
hat they had to tell me, and always the Bear hung there straight ahead of me
, glittering, speaking of the dark north and cool skies and the smell of pin
es and mountain water.

   Stilicho's reaction when he saw the cave where I lived was not what I ex
pected. When I had left home to go on my travels, since I was to be away for
 so long, I had hired help to look after the place for me. I had left money
with the miller on the Tywy, asking him to send one of his servants up from
time to time; it was apparent that this had been done, for the place was cle
an, dry and well provisioned. There was even fresh bedding for the horses, a
nd we had barely dismounted before the girl from the mill came panting after
 us up the track with goats' milk and fresh bread and five or six newly caug
ht trout. I thanked her, and then, because I would not let Stilicho clean th
e fish at the holy well, asked her to show him where the runaway water trick
led down below the cliff. While I checked over my sealed jars and bottles, m
aking sure that the lock on my chest was untouched and that the books and in
struments within were undamaged, I could hear the two young voices outside s
till clacking busily as the mill wheel, with a good deal of laughter as each
 tried to make the other understand the foreign tongue. When at length the g
irl went and the boy came in with the fish neatly gutted and split ready for
 roasting, he seemed happily prepared to find the place as convenient and co
mfortable as any of the houses we had stayed in on my travels. At
 first I put this down in some amusement to the compensation he had just dis
covered, but I found later that he had in fact been born and reared in just
such a cave in his own country, where people of the lower sort are so poor t
hat the owners of a well-placed and dry cavern count themselves lucky, and o
ften have to fight like foxes to keep their den to themselves. Stilicho's fa
ther, who had sold him with rather less thought than one would give to an
 unwanted puppy, had been well able to spare him out of a family of thirteen
; his room in the cave had been more valuable than his presence. As a slave,
 his quarters had been in the stables, or more usually out in the yard, and even since he
laces where the grooms were worse housed than the horses. The chamber he
had occupied in London was the first he had ever had to himself. To him m
y cave on Bryn Myrddin was spacious and even luxurious, and now it promis
ed further pleasures which did not often come the way of a young slave in
 the sharp competition of the servants' quarters.

    So he settled in cheerfully, and word soon got round that the enchanter
was back in his hill, and the folk came for drugs, and paid as they had alwa
ys done with food and comforts. The miller's girl, whose name was Mai, seize
d every opportunity to come up the valley with food from the mill, and somet
imes with the people's offerings which she brought for them. Stilicho, in hi
s turn, made a practice of calling at the mill every time he went down to th
e town for me. And before very long it appeared that Mai had made him welcom
e in every way known to her. One night when I could not sleep I went out ont
o the lawn beside the holy well to look at the stars, and heard, in the nigh
t's quiet, the horses moving and stamping restlessly in their shed below the
 cliff. It was a night bright with stars and a white scythe of a moon, so I
did not need a torch, but called softly to Stilicho to follow me and trod qu
ickly down to the thorn grove to find out what was disturbing the beasts. It
 was only when I saw, through the half-opened door, the two young bodies cou
pling in the straw, that I realized Stilicho was there before me. I withdrew
 without being seen, and went back to my own bed to think.

   A few days later when I talked to the boy, and told him that I planned t
o go north soon, but wanted no one to know of it, so would leave him behind
to cover my retreat, he was enthusiastic, and fervent in protestations of fa
ithfulness and secrecy. I was sure I could trust him; another gift he had be
sides his facility with drugs, he was a marvellous liar. I am told that this
, too, is a gift of his people. My only fear was that he might lie too well,
 like his horse-trading father, and cheat himself and me into trouble. But i
t was a risk I had to take, and I judged him too loyal to me, and too happy
in his life at Bryn Myrddin, to put it at risk. When he asked (trying not to
 sound too eager) when I would be gone, I could only tell him that I was wai
ting for a time, and a sign. As always, he accepted what I said, simply and
without question. He would as soon have questioned a priestess mouthing in h
er shrine-they hold the Old Religion in Sicily-or Hephaistos himself when he
 breathed flame from the mountains. I had found that he believed every tale
the people told of me, and would have shown no surprise if I had vanished in
 a puff of smoke or conjured gold from thin air. I suspected that, like Gaiu
s, he made the most of his status as my servant; certainly Mai was terrified
 of me, and could not be persuaded to set foot beyond the thorn grove. Which
 was just as well for the plans I had in mind.

   It was no magic sign that I was waiting for. If I had been certain it w
as safe, I would have set off for the north soon after I had reached home f
rom London. But I knew that I would be watched. Uther would almost certainl
y continue to have me spied upon. There was no danger in this-not, that is,
 from the King; but if one man can buy a spy's loyalty, so can another, and
 there must be many others who, even only for curiosity, would be watching
me. So I curbed my impatience, stayed where I was, and went about my busine
ss, waiting for the watchers to show themselves.

   One day I sent Stilicho down with the horses to the forge at the edge
of the town. Both animals had been shod for the journey from London, and t
hough normally the shoes would have been removed before winter, I wanted m
y own mare left shod in preparation for my journey. Her girth buckles, too
, were in need of repair, so Stilicho had ridden down, and was to do some
errands in the town while the smith looked after the animals.

   It was a day of frost, dry and still, but with the kind of thick sky that
 cuts the rays from the sun and lets it hang red and cold and low. I went ove
r the hilltop to the hut of Abba the shepherd. His son Ban, the simpleton, ha
d cut his hand a few days ago on a stake, and the wound had festered. I had c
ut the swelling and bound it with salve, but I knew that Ban could be trusted
 no more than a bandaged dog, and would worry the thing off if it hurt him.

   I need not have troubled; the bandage was still in place, and the woun
d healing fast and neatly. Ban-I have noticed this with simple folk-mended
 like a child or a wild animal. Which was just as well, since he was one o
f those men who can hardly pass a week without injuring themselves in some
 way. After I had tended the hand I stayed. The hut was in a sheltered par
t of the valley, and Abba's sheep were all in fold. As sometimes happens,
there were early lambs due, though it was only December. I stayed to help
Abba with a hard lambing where the simpleton's hand would not have served
him. By the time the twin lambs were curled, dry and sleeping, on Ban's kn
ee near the fire, with the ewe watching nearby, the short winter's day had
 drawn to a red dusk. I took my leave, and walked home over the hilltop. T
he way took me across my own valley higher up, and it was dark when I reac
hed the pine wood above the cave. The sky had cleared, the night was still
 and brightly starred, with a blurred moon throwing blue shadows on the fr
ost. And shadows I saw, moving. I stopped dead, and stood to watch.

   Four men, on the fiat lawn outside my cave. From the thorn thicket below
 the cliff came the movement and clink of their tethered horses. I could hea
r the mutter of the men's voices as they huddled together, conferring. Two o
f them had swords in their hands.

    Every moment the moonlight strengthened and fresh stars showered out in
to the frosty sky. Far away at the foot of the valley I heard the bark of a
  dog. Then, faintly, the clip of hoofs coming at a gentle pace. The intrude
rs below me heard it, too. One of them gave a low command, and the group tu
rned and made at speed for the path which would take them down to the grove
.

   They had barely reached the head of the path when I spoke from directl
y above them. "Gentlemen?"

   You would have thought I had fallen straight from heaven in a chariot of
 flame. I suppose it was alarming enough, to be addressed out of the dark by
 a man they thought they had just heard riding up the valley some half-mile
away. Besides, any man who sets out to spy on a magician starts more than ha
lf terrified, and ready to believe any marvel. One of them cried out in fear
, and I heard a stifled oath from the leader. In the starlight their faces,
upturned, looked grey as the frost.

  I said: "I am Merlin. What do you want with me?"

   There was a silence, in which the hoof-beats came nearer, quickening a
s the horses scented home and supper. I caught a movement below me as if t
hey were half minded to turn and run. Then the leader cleared his throat.
"We come from the King."
  "Then put up your foolish swords. I will come down."

  When I reached them I saw they had obeyed me, but their hands hovered
not far from their weapons, and they huddled close together.

  "Which of you is the leader?"
   The biggest of them stepped forward. He was civil, but with truculence
behind it. He had not relished that moment of fear. "We were waiting for yo
u, Prince. We bring messages from the King."

  "With swords drawn? Well, you are only four to one, after all."

  "Against enchantment," said the man, nettled.

   I smiled. "You should have known that my enchantment would never work a
gainst King's men. You could have been sure of your welcome." I paused. The
ir feet shuffled in the frost. One of them muttered something, half curse,
half invocation, in his own dialect. I said: "Well, this is hardly the plac
e to talk. My home is open to all comers, as you see. Why did you not kindl
e the fire and light the lamps and wait for me in comfort?"

   More shuffling. They exchanged glances. No one answered. Clearly where
 we stood, the scuffled frost showed their tracks up to the cave mouth. So
, they had been inside. "Well," I said, "be welcome now."

    I crossed to the holy well where the wooden image of the god stood, barel
y visible in its dark niche. I lifted down the cup, poured for him and drank.
 I invited the leader with a gesture. He hesitated, then shook his head. "I a
m a Christian. What god is that?"

  "Myrddin," I said, "the god of high places. This was his hill before it was
mine. He lends it to me, but he watches it still."
   I saw the movement I had been waiting for among the men. Hands were beh
ind backs as they made the sign against enchantment. One of them, then anot
her, came forward to take the cup, drink, and spill for the god. I nodded a
t them. "It does not do to forget that the old gods still watch from the ai
r and wait in the hollow hills. How else did I know you were here?"
  "You knew?"
   "How not? Come in." I turned in the cave mouth, holding back the boughs
that half screened the entrance. None of them moved, except the leader, and
he took one step only, then hesitated. "What's the matter?" I asked him. "Th
e cave is empty, isn't it? Or isn't it? Did you find something amiss when yo
u went in, that you are afraid to tell me?"

   "There was nothing amiss," said the leader. "We didn't go in-that is-" He
 cleared his throat, and tried again. "Yes, we went inside, only a pace over
the threshold, but-" He stopped. There was muttering, and more glances, and I
 heard, "Go on, tell him, Crinas."

   Crinas started again. "The truth is, sir-" His story was a long time coming
, with many hesitations and promptings, but I got it in the end, still waiting
in the cave mouth with the troopers standing round in a half circle, like wary
cattle.
   It seemed they had come to Maridunum a day or so before, waiting their
 chance to ride up to the cave unobserved. They had had orders not to appr
oach me openly, for fear that other watchers (whose presence the King sus
pected) might waylay them and take from them any message I might put into
their hands. "Yes?"

   The man cleared his throat. This morning, he said, they had seen my ma
re tethered outside the smithy, saddled and shod. When they asked the smit
h where I was he told them nothing, leaving them to assume that I was some
where in the town, with business to pursue that would keep me until the ma
re was ready. They had imagined that whoever else was watching me would be
 staying near me in the town, so had seized the chance and ridden up to th
e cave.
   Another pause. They could see nothing in that darkness, but I could feel
 they were straining to guess my reactions to their story. I said nothing, a
nd the man swallowed, and ploughed on.
   The next part of the story had, at least, the ring of truth. During thei
r wait in Maridunum they had asked, among other idle-sounding questions, the
 way to the cave. Be sure they had been told, with nothing spared about the
holiness of the place, and the power and awesomeness of its owner. The peopl
e of the valley were very proud of their enchanter, and my deeds would lose
nothing in the telling. So the men had ridden up the valley half afraid alre
ady
   They had found, as they expected, a deserted cave. The frost outside held
 the lawn blank and printless. All that had met them was the silence of the w
inter hills, broken only by the trickle of the spring. They had lit a torch a
nd peered in through the entrance; the cave was orderly but empty, and the as
hes were cold. . . . "Well?" I asked, as Crinas stopped.

   "We knew you were not there, sir, but there was a feeling about the plac
e . . . When we called out there was no reply, but then we heard something r
ustling in the dark. It seemed to come from the inner cave, where the bed is
 with the lamp beside it-"

  "Did you go in?"

  "No, sir."

  "Or touch anything?"

  "No, sir," he said quickly. "We-we did not dare."

  "It's just as well," I said. "And then?"
   "We looked all about us, but there was no one. But all the time, that soun
d. We began to be afraid. There had been stories . . . One of the men said yo
u might be there watching, invisible. I told him not to. be a fool, but indeed
 there was a feeling . . ."

   "Of eyes in one's back? Of course there was. Go on." He swallowed. "We
 shouted again. And then-they came down out of the roof. The bats, like a
cloud."
   We were interrupted then. Stilicho had reached the grove and seen the t
roopers' horses tied there. I heard the shed door slam shut on our horses,
then the boy came racing up the twisting pathway and across the flat grass,
 dagger in hand. He was shouting something. Moonlight caught the blade of t
he long knife, held low and level, ready to stab. Metal rasped as the men w
hirled to defend themselves. I took two swift strides forward, pushing them
 aside, and bore down hard on the boy's knife hand, bringing him up short.

  "No need. They're. King's men. Put up." Then, as the others put their w
eapons back: "Were you followed,
  Stilicho?"

   He shook his head. He was trembling. A slave is not trained to arms like
a free man's son. Indeed, it was only since we had come to Bryn Myrddin that
I had let him carry a knife at all. I let him go, and turned back to Crinas.
"You were telling me about the bats. It sounds to me as if you had let the st
ories trouble you overmuch, Crinas. If you disturbed the bats, they might cer
tainly alarm you for a moment, but they are only bats."

   "But that was not all, my lord. The bats came down, yes, out of the roof
, somewhere in the dark, and went past us into the air. It was like a plume
of smoke, and the air stank. But after they had gone by us we heard another
sound. It was music."

  Stilicho, standing close to me, stared from them to me, wide-eyed in the
dusk. I saw they were making the sign again.
   "Music all around us," said the man. "Soft, like whispering, running rou
nd and round the wall of the cave in an echo. I'm not ashamed, my lord, we c
ame out of that cave, and we did not dare go in again. We waited for you out
side."
   "With swords drawn against enchantment. I see. Well, there is no need t
o wait longer in the cold. Will you not come in now? I assure you that you
will not be harmed, so long as you do not raise a hand against me or my ser
vant. Stilicho, go in and kindle the fire. Now, gentlemen? No, don't try to
 go. Remember you have not yet given me the King's message."

   Finally, between threats and reassurance, they came in, treading very so
ftly indeed, and not speaking above a whisper. The leader consented to sit w
ith me, but none of the others would come in as far, preferring to sit betwe
en the fire and the mouth of the cave. Stilicho hurried to warm wine with sp
ices, and hand it round.

   Now that they were in the light I could see that they were not dressed i
n the uniform of the King's regular troops; there was neither badge nor blaz
on to be seen; they might be taken for the armed troops of any petty leader.
 They certainly carried themselves like soldiers, and though they paid Crina
s no obvious deference, it was apparent that there was some difference of ra
nk between them.
   I surveyed them. The leader sat stolidly, but the others fidgeted under my
 gaze, and I saw one of them, a thin, smallish man with black hair and a pale
face, still surreptitiously making the sign.

   At length I spoke: "You have come, you tell me, with messages from the K
ing. Did he charge you with a letter?" Crinas answered me. He was a big man,
 reddish fair, with light eyes. Some Saxon blood, perhaps; though there are
red Celts as fair as this. "No, sir. Only to convey his greetings, and ask a
fter his son's welfare."

  "Why?"

  He repeated my question in apparent surprise. "Why, my lord?"

   "Yes, why? I have been gone from the court four months. In that time th
e King has had reports. Why should he send you now, and to me? He knows the
 child is not here. It seems obvious"-I lingered on the word, looking from
one to the other of the armed men-"that he could not be safe here. The King
 also knew that I would wait at Bryn Myrddin for a while before I left to j
oin Prince Arthur. I expect to be spied on, but I find it hard to believe t
hat he sent you with such a message."

  The three beyond the fire looked at one another. A broad fellow with a r
ed, pimpled face shifted his sword-belt forward nervously, his hand playing
unthinkingly with the hilt. I saw Stilicho's eyes on him; then he moved roun
d with the wine-jug to stand nearby.
  Crinas held my eyes for a moment in silence, then nodded.

   "Well, sir, all right. You've smoked us out. I didn't hope to get away with
a thin tale like that, not with you. It was all I could think of at a jump, when
 you surprised us like that."

  "Very well. You are spies. I still want to know why?"

   He lifted his broad shoulders. "You know, sir, who better, what kings a
re. It wasn't for us to question when we were told to come here and look th
e place over without letting you see us." Behind him the others nodded, agr
eeing anxiously. "And we did no harm, my lord. We never came into the cave.
 That much was true."
  "No, and you told me why not."
   He turned up a hand. "Well, sir, I don't say but you do right to be angry.
I'm sorry. This isn't our normal business, as you'll guess, but orders are orde
rs."

  "What were you ordered to find out?"

    "Nothing special, just ask around, and take a look at the place, and fi
nd out when you were going." A quick look sideways, to see how I was taking
 it. "It was my understanding that there was a lot you hadn't told the King
, and he wanted to find out. Did you know he had you followed from the minu
te you left London?"

  Another grain of truth. "I guessed it," I said.

   "Well, there you are." He managed to say it as if it explained everything
. "It's a way kings have, trusting nobody and wanting to know everything. It'
s my belief-if you'll excuse me for saying it, my lord-"

  "Go on."

   "I think the King didn't believe what you told him about where you were
 keeping the young prince. Maybe he thought you'd shift him, and keep him h
idden, like before. So he sent us on the quiet, hoping we'd find some clue.
"

    "Perhaps. Wanting knowledge is a disease of kings. And speaking of tha
t, is there any worsening of the King's health which might have made him s
uddenly anxious for news?"

   I saw, as clearly as if he had said it, that he wished he had thought of t
his himself. He hesitated, then decided that where it could be told, the truth
 was safer. "As to that, my lord, we've no information, and I've not seen him
myself lately. But they say the sickness has passed, and he's back in the fiel
d."
   This tallied with what I had been told. I said nothing for a while, but
watched them thoughtfully, Crinas drank, with an assumption of ease, but his
 eyes on me were wary. At length I said: "Well, you have done as you were bi
dden, and found out what the King wanted. I am still here, and the child is
not. The King must trust me for the rest. As, for when I am going, I will te
ll him in my own good time."
   Crinas cleared his throat. "That's an answer we'd sooner not take, sir."
 His voice came over-loud, like a braggart's, but he was not bluffing. The o
thers shared his fear, but without his measure of courage; though this was n
o comfort to me; I knew that frightened men are dangerous. One of the troope
rs-the small fellow with black eyes shifting in a face pale with nerves-lean
ed forward and plucked at his leader's sleeve. I caught the mutter of, "Bet
ter go. Don't forget who he is ... Quite enough now . . . Make him angry." I
 said crisply: "I am not angry. You are doing your duty, and it is not your
fault if the King trusts no one, but must have each story ratified twice ove
r. You may tell him this" -I paused as if for thought, and saw them craning-
"that his son is where I told him, safe and thriving, and that I am only wai
ting for good weather to make the voyage."

     "Voyage?" Crinas asked sharply.

 I lifted my brows. "Come now. I thought all the world knew where Arthur
was. In any case, the King will understand."

  One of the men said hoarsely: "Yes, we knew, but it was only a whisper. T
hen it's true about the island?"

     "Quite true."

     "Hy-Brasil?" asked Crinas. "That's a myth, my lord, saving your presence
."
   "Did I give it a name? I am not responsible for the whispers. The place
has many names, and enough stories are told about it to fill the Nine Books
of Magic . . . And every man who sees it sees something different. When I to
ok Arthur there-"
   I paused to drink, as a singer wets his throat before touching the chords.
 The three in front of me were all attention now. I did not look at Crinas, bu
t spoke past him, giving my voice the tale-teller's extra pitch and resonance.
   "You all know that the child was handed to me three nights after he was
born. I took him to a safe place, then when the time was right and the world
 quiet, I carried him westwards, to a coast I know. There, below the cliffs,
 is a bay of sand where the rocks stand up like the fangs of wolves, and no
boat or swimmer can live when the tide is breaking round them. To right and
left of the bay the sea has driven arches through the cliff. The rocks are p
urple and rose-coloured and pale as turquoise in the sun, and on a summer's
evening when the tide is low and the sun sinking, men see on the horizon lan
d that comes and goes with the light. It is the Summer Isle, which (they say
) floats and sinks at the will of heaven, the Island of Glass through which
the clouds and stars can be seen, but which for those who dwell there is ful
l of trees and grass and springs of sweet water . . ."

   The pale-faced man was straining forward, open-mouthed, and I saw the sh
oulders of another shift under his woollen cloak as if with cold. Stilicho's
 eyes were like shield-bosses.

  ". . . It is the Isle of Maidens, where kings are carried at their endings.
And there will come a day-"

   "My lord! I have seen it myself!" That the pale man should interrupt a p
rophet apparently on the point of prophecy showed a nerve scraped raw. "I ha
ve seen it myself! When I was a boy I saw it! Clear, as clear as the Cassite
rides on a fair day after rain. But it seemed an empty land."

   "It is not empty. And it is not only there when men like you can see it.
It can be found even in winter, for those who know how to find it. But there
are not many who can travel to it and then return."
  Crinas had listened without moving, his face expressionless. "Then he's
on Cornish land?"

  "You know it too?"

   There was no hint of mockery in my voice, but he said with a snap: "I do
 not," and set down his empty cup and made ready to rise. I saw his hand go
to his sword-belt. "Is this the message we have to take back to the King?"
   At a movement of his head the others rose with him. Stilicho set the wine
-jug down with a clatter, but I shook my head at him and laughed. "It would g
o hard with you, I think, if that were all. And hard with me, to have fresh s
pies set on me. For all our sakes, I'll set his mind at rest. Will you bear a
 letter back to London for me?"

   Crinas stood still a moment, his eyes fast on mine. Then he relaxed, his
 thumb hooking harmlessly in his belt. When I heard his breath of relief I k
new how near he had been to questioning me further in the only way he knew.
"Willingly, sir."
    "Then wait a while longer, Sit down again. Fill their cups, Stilicho."

   The letter to Uther was brief. I began by asking after his health, then
wrote that, according to my private sources of information, the prince was w
ell. As soon as the spring came, I told him, I intended to travel and see th
e boy myself. Meantime I would watch him in my own way, and send the King al
l the news there was.
    After I had sealed the message I took it back into the outer cave. The m
en had been talking quickly among themselves in undertones, while Stilicho h
overed with the wine-jug. They broke off as I came in, and got to their feet
. I handed the letter to Crinas.

  "Anything else I have to say is in that letter. He will be satisfied." I
added: "Even if your mission did not work out precisely to orders, you have
nothing to fear from the King. Leave me now, and the god of going watch you
on your way."

   They went at last, perhaps not so grateful as they might have been for m
y parting invocation. As they hurried out across the frost I saw the quick s
idelong glances into the shadows, and the hunching of cloaks close round the
ir shoulders as if the night were breathing on their backs. As they passed t
he holy well every one of them made a sign, and I do not think that the last
-Crinas'-was the sign of the Cross.



7

The sound of their horses' hoofs dwindled down the valley track. Stilicho c
ame racing back from the cliff above the grove.

  "They've all gone." His eyes were wide, dilated not only with the frosty
dark. "My lord, I thought they were going to kill you."

   "It was possible. They were brave men, and they were frightened. It's a r
isky combination, especially as one of them was a Christian."

    He was on to that as quickly as a house dog on to a rat. "Meaning he didn
't believe you?"
   "Meaning just that. He was sure he didn't believe me, but he wouldn't hav
e staked anything on its being a lie. Now find me some food, Stilicho, will y
ou? It doesn't matter what, but hurry, and put together what you can for a jo
urney. I'll see to my clothes myself. Is the mare ready?"

  "Why, yes, lord, but-you're going tonight?"

   "As soon as I can. This is the chance I have been waiting for. They've sh
own themselves, and by the time they find that the trail I gave them is false
 I shall be gone-vanished to the island beyond the west. . . . Now, you know
what to do; we've talked of it many times."

   This was true. We had planned that, when I went, Stilicho would remain
at Bryn Myrddin, fetching and carrying supplies as usual, keeping up for as
 long as he could the illusion that I was still at home. I had built up a s
tore of medicines, and for some time now had let him compound the simpler o
nes himself and dispense them to the poor folk who came up the valley, so t
hey would not suffer by my absence, and it would be a little time before an
yone would raise a question. We might not gain much time in this way, but I
 should gain enough. Once I was across the nearer hills and had reached the
 valley tracks in the forest, I would be hard indeed to follow.
   So now Stilicho merely nodded, and ran to do as I bade him. In a very sho
rt time food was ready, and while I ate he packed together what I would need
for the journey. I could see he was bursting with questions, so I let him tal
k. I could talk to him haltingly in his own tongue, but mainly he got along w
ith his fluent but heavily accented Latin. Since we had left Constantinopolis
 most of his natural lively spirits had flowed in my direction; he had to tal
k to someone, and it would have been cruelty to insist on the silent respect
which Gaius had tried to instill. Besides, this is not my way. So, as he hurr
ied about his tasks, the questions came eagerly.

  "My lord, if that man Crinas didn't really believe in the Isle of Glass,
and he had to have the information about the prince, why did he go away?"
   "To read my letter. He thinks the truth will be in that." His eyes widened.
 "But he'll never dare open a letter to the King! Did you write the truth in it
?"

   I raised my brows at him. "The truth? Don't you believe in the Isle of Glas
s, either?"
   "Oh, yes. Everyone knows about that." He was solemn. "Even in Sicily we
 knew of the invisible island beyond the west. But that's not where you're
going now, I'd stake anything on that!"

  "Why so sure?"

   He gave me a limpid look. "You, lord? Across the Western Sea? In winter
? I'll believe anything, but not that! If you could use magic instead of a
ship, we'd have journeyed more easily in the Middle Sea. Do you remember th
e storm off Pylos?"

   I laughed. "With no magic but mandragora . . . Too well, I remember it. N
o, Stilicho, I gave nothing away in the letter. That letter will never get to
 the King. They weren't King's men."

   "Not King's men?" He paused, open-mouthed, to stare, then remembere
d himself and stooped again over the saddlebag he was packing. "How do
you know? Did you know them?"

    "No. But Uther doesn't use troops to spy; how could he hope to keep them
secret? These are troops, sent-as Crinas told me-to ask questions in the mark
et and the taverns in Maridunum, and then to search this place while we were
out of it, and find, if not the prince, some clue to him. They weren't even s
pies. What spy would dare go back to his master and say he had been discovere
d, but had been given a letter to carry for his victim, with the information
in it? I tried to make it easy for them, and it's possible they think they de
ceived me, but in any case they had to take the chance and get their hands on
 the letter. I give Crinas best, he's a quick thinker. When I caught them at
it, he did well enough. It wasn't his fault that the other man gave him away.
"
  "What do you mean, lord?"

   "The small man with the pale face. I heard him say something in his own
tongue. I doubt if Crinas heard it. He was speaking in Cornish. So later I s
poke of the Isle of Glass, and described the bay, and he knew of that, too,
and the Cas-siterides. They are islands off the Cornish coast, ones in which
 even Crinas must believe."

  "Cornish?" asked the boy, trying the word.
  "From Cornwall, in the south-west."
   "Queen's men, then?" Stilicho had not spent all his time in London in th
e stillroom with Morgause. He listened almost as much as he talked, and had
regaled me continually since we left Uther's court with what "they" were say
ing about every subject under the sun. "They said she was still in the south
-west after the last lying-in."

  "That's true. And she might use Cornishmen for secret work, but I think
not. Neither the King nor the Queen keep Cornish troops close to them these
days."

  "There are Cornish troops at Caerleon. I heard it in the town."

  I looked up sharply. "Are there indeed? Under whom?"

  "I didn't hear. I could find out." He was looking at me eagerly, but I sho
ok my head.

   "No. The less you know about it, the better. Leave it now. They'll stop w
atching me for the length of time it takes to read that letter, and by the ti
me they find someone who can read Greek-"
  "Greek?"

   "The King has a Greek secretary," I said blandly. "I didn't see why I sho
uld make it easy. And I doubt if they know I suspect them. They'll be in no h
urry. Besides, I put something in the letter to make them think I would stay
here until spring."

  "Will they come back?"
   "I doubt it. What are they to do? Come back to tell me they read the Kin
g's letter, and are not King's men? As long as they think I'm here, they wil
l be afraid to do that, in case I report to the King. They dare not kill me,
 and they dare not let me find out who they are. They will keep away. As it
is, the next time you go into Maridunum, see that a message is sent to the g
arrison commander to watch for these Cornishmen, and tell him to report what
 has happened to the King. We may as well use his spies to guard us from the
 others. . . . There, I've finished. You've packed the food? Fill the flask
now, will you? Meanwhile, if anyone does come up here, what is your story?"
  "That you have been out daily on the hillside, and that you went last to
wards Abba's valley, and that I think you must be staying to help him with t
he sheep." He looked up doubtfully. "They won't believe me."

  "Why not? You're an accomplished liar. Be careful, you're spilling that wi
ne."

  "A prince help with the sheep? It's not very likely."
   "I've done stranger things," I said. "They'll believe you. In any case, it'
s true. Where do you think I got the bloodstains on my old cloak today?"

  "Killing someone, I thought."

  He was quite serious. I laughed. "That doesn't happen often, and usually
by mistake."

  He shook his head in unbelief, and stoppered the wine. "If those men
had drawn swords on you, my lord, would you have stopped them with magic?
"

  "I hardly needed magic, with your dagger so ready. I haven't thanked you
yet for your courage, Stilicho. It was well done."

  He looked surprised. "You're my master."

   "I bought you for money, and gave you back the freedom you were born wi
th. What sort of a debt is that?"

    He merely looked without understanding, and presently said: "There, all'
s ready, lord. You will want your thick boots, and the sheepskin cloak. Shal
l I get Strawberry ready while you dress?"

   "In a moment," I said. "Come here. Look at me. I have promised you that
you will be safe here. This is true; I have seen no danger coming, not for y
ou. But once I am clear away, if you are afraid, go down to the mill and sta
y there."

  "Yes, lord."

  "Don't you believe me?" "Yes." "Then why are you afraid?"
 He hesitated, swallowing. Then he said: "The music they spoke of, lord.
What was it? Was it really from the gods?"

  "In a way. My harp speaks sometimes, of itself, when the air moves. I thi
nk that's what they heard and, because they were guilty, they were afraid."

   He glanced over to the corner where the big harp stood. I had had it sent
 across from Brittany, and since I had come home had used it constantly, rest
oring the other to its place. "That one? How could it, lord, muffled like tha
t against the air?"

   "No, not that one. That harp stays dumb until I touch it. I meant the littl
e one I travelled with. I made it myself, here in this cave with Galapas the ma
gician to help me."

  He wetted his lips. You could see that this was hardly a reassurance. "I'
ve not seen it since we got home. Where do you keep it?"
  "I was going to show you anyway, before I left. Come, boy, there's no ne
ed for you to fear it. You've carried it yourself a thousand times. Now, get
 me a torch, and come and see."

   I led him to the back of the main chamber. I had never shown him the cr
ystal cave, and, because I kept my chest of books and my table across the r
ough rock-slope that led to the ledge, he had never climbed that way and fo
und it. Now I motioned him to help me shift the table, and holding the torc
h high, mounted to the shadowy ledge where the crystal cave lay hidden. I k
nelt down at the entrance and beckoned him forward beside me.

   The torch in my hand threw firelight, glimmering through moving smoke,
round the globed walls of crystal. Here as a boy I had seen my first vision
s in the leap and flash of moving flame. Here I had seen myself begotten, t
he old King dead, the tower of Vortigern built on water, the dragon of Am-b
rosius leaping to victory. Now the globe was empty but for the harp which s
tood there, with its shadow thrown clear round the sparkling walls.
  I glanced down at the boy's face. Awe was stirring in it, even at the em
pty globe and the empty shadows.

   "Listen," I said. I said it loudly, and as my voice stirred the still air
the harp whispered, and the music ran humming round and round the crystal wall
s.
   "I was going to show you the cave," I said. "If ever you want to hide, hi
de here. I did myself, as a boy. Be sure the gods will watch over you, and yo
u will be safe. Where safer, than right in God's hand, in his hollow hill? No
w, go and see to Strawberry. I'll bring the harp down myself. It's time I was
 gone."

   When morning came I was fifteen miles away, riding north through the oak
 forest which lies along the valley of the Cothi. There is no road there, on
ly tracks, but I knew them well, and I knew the glass-blowers' hut deep in t
he wood. At this time of the year it would be empty.

    I and my mare shared its shelter half that December day. I watered her
at the stream, and threw fodder that I had brought into a corner of the hut
. I myself was not hungry. There was something else for me to feed on; that
 deep excited feeling of lightness and power which I recognized. The time h
ad been right, and something lay ahead of me. I was on my way.
  I drank a mouthful of wine, wrapped myself warmly in Abba's sheepskins,
and fell asleep as soundly and thoughtlessly as a child.

   I dreamed again of the sword, and I knew, even through the dream, that
this came straight from the god. Ordinary dreams are never so clear; they a
re jumbles of desires and fears, things seen and heard, and felt though unk
nown. This came clear, like a memory.

   I saw the sword close for the first time, not vast and dazzling, like the
 sword of stars over Brittany, or dim and fiery as it had shimmered against t
he dark wall in Ygraine's chamber. It was just a sword, beautiful in the way
of a weapon, with the jewels on the hilt set in gold scrollwork, and the blad
e glimmering and eager, as if it would fight of itself. Weapons are named for
 this; some are eager fighters, some dogged, some unwilling; but all are alive.

   This sword was alive; it was drawn, gripped in the hand of an armed man.
 He was standing by a fire, a camp fire lit apparently in the middle of a da
rkened plain, and he was the only person to be seen in all that plain. A lon
g way behind him I saw, dim against the dark, the outline of walls and a tow
er. I thought of the mosaic I had seen in Ahdjan's house, but it was not Rom
e this time. The outline of the tower was familiar, but I could not remember
 where I had seen it, nor even be sure that I had not seen it only in dreams.
  He was a tall man, cloaked, and the dark cloak fell in a long heavy line
 from shoulder to heel. The helmet hid his face. His head was bent, and he h
eld the sword naked across his hands. He was turning it over and over, as if
 weighing its balance, or studying the runes on the blade. The firelight fla
shed and darkened, flashed and darkened, as the blade turned. I caught one w
ord, KING, and then again, KING, and saw the jewels sparking as the sword tu
rned. I saw then that the man had a circle of red gold on his helmet, and th
at his cloak was purple. Then as he moved the firelight lit the ring on his
finger. It was a gold ring carved with a dragon.
   I said: "Father? Sir?" but, as sometimes happens in dreams, I could mak
e no sound. But he looked up. There were no eyes under the peak of the helm
et. Nothing. The hands that held the sword were the hands of a skeleton. Th
e ring shone on bone.

   He held the sword out to me, flat across the skeleton hands. A voice th
at was not my father's said: "Take it." It was not a ghost's voice, or the
voice of bidding that comes with vision: I have heard these, and there is n
o blood in them; it is as if the wind breathed through an empty horn. This
was a man's voice, deep and abrupt and accustomed to command, with a rough
edge to it such as comes from anger, or sometimes from drunkenness; or some
times, as now, from fatigue.

   I tried to move, but I could not, any more than I could speak. I have ne
ver feared a spirit, but I feared this man. From the blank of shadow below t
he helmet came the voice again, grim, and with a faint amusement, that crept
 along my skin like the brush of a wolf's pelt felt in the dark. My breath s
topped and my skin shivered. He said, and now I clearly heard the weariness
in the voice: "You need not fear me. Nor should you fear the sword. I am not
 your father, but you are my seed. Take it, Merlinus Ambrosius. You will fin
d no rest until you do."

    I approached him. The fire had dwindled, and it was almost dark. I put
my hands out for the sword, and he reached to lay it across them. I held st
ill, though my flesh shrank from touching his bony fingers; but they were n
ot there to touch. As the sword left his grip it fell, through his hands an
d through mine, and between us to the ground. I knelt, groping in the darkn
ess, but my hand met nothing. I could feel his breath above me, warm as a l
iving man's, and his cloak brushed my cheek. I heard him say: "Find it. The
re is no one else who can find it." Then my eyes were open and it was full
noon, and the strawberry mare was nuzzling at me where I lay, with her mane
 brushing my face.
8


December is certainly no time for travelling, especially for one whose busi
ness does not allow him to use the roads. The winter woods are open and cle
ar of undergrowth, but there are many places in the remoter valleys where t
here is no clear going save along the stream-side, and that is tortuous and
 rough, and the banks are apt to be dangerously broken- or even washed righ
t away-with floods and bad weather. Snow, at least, I was spared, but on th
e second day out of Bryn Myrddin the weather worsened to a cold wind with f
lurries of sleet, and there was ice in all the ways.

   Going was slow. On the third day, towards dusk, I heard wolves howling
somewhere up near the snow-line. I had kept to the valleys, travelling in d
eep forest still, but now and again where the forest thinned I had caught g
limpses of the hilltops, and they were white with fresh snow. And there was
 more to come; the air had the smell of snow, and the soft cold bite on one
's cheek. The snow would drive the wolves down lower. Indeed, as dark drew
in and the trees crowded closer I thought I saw a shadow slipping away betw
een the trunks, and there were sounds in the underbrush which might have be
en made by harmless creatures such as deer or fox; but I noticed that Straw
berry was uneasy; her ears flattened repeatedly, and the skin on her should
ers twitched as if flies were settling there.

   I rode with my chin on my shoulder and my sword loose in its sheath. "M
evysen"-I spoke to my Welsh mare in her own language-"when we find this gre
at sword that Macsen Wledig is keeping for me, you and I will no doubt be i
nvincible. And find it we must, it seems. But just at the moment I'm as sca
red of those wolves as you are, so we'll go on till we find some place that
's defensible with this poor weapon and my poorer skill, and we'll sit the
night out together, you and I."

   The defensible place was a ruinous shell of a building deep in the forest
. Literally a shell; it was all that remained of a smallish erection the shap
e of a kiln, or a beehive. Half of it had fallen away, leaving the standing p
art like an egg broken endways, the curving half-dome backed against the wind
 and offering some sort of protection from the intermittent sleet. Most of th
e fallen masonry had been removed-probably stolen for building stone-but ther
e was still a ragged rampart of broken stuff behind which it was possible to
take shelter, and conceal myself and the mare.
   I dismounted, and led her in. She picked her way between the mossed sto
nes, shook her wet neck, and was soon settled quietly enough with her noseb
ag, under the dry curve of the dome. I set a heavy rock on the end of her r
ope, then pulled the dead fronds of some fern from a dry corner under the w
all, dried her damp hide with it, and covered her. She seemed to have lost
her fears, and munched steadily. I made myself as comfortable as I could wi
th one saddle-bag for a dry seat, and what remained to me of food and wine.
 I would have dearly liked to light a fire, as much against the wolves as f
or comfort, but there might be other enemies than wolves looking for me by
now, so, with my sword ready to hand, I huddled into my sheepskins and ate
my cold rations and fell at last into a waking doze which was the nearest t
o sleep that danger and discomfort would allow.

   And dreamed again. No dream, this time, of kings or swords or stars movi
ng, but a dream half-waking, broken and uneasy, of the small gods of small p
laces; gods of hills and woods and streams and crossways; the gods who still
 haunt their broken shrines, waiting in the dusk beyond the lights of the bu
sy Christian churches, and the dogged rituals of the greater gods of Rome. I
n the cities and the crowded places men have forgotten them, but in the fore
sts and the wild hill country the folk still leave offerings of food and dri
nk, and pray to the local guardians of the place who have dwelled there time
 out of mind. The Romans gave them Roman names, and let them be; but the Chr
istians refuse to believe in them, and their priests berate the poorer folk
for clinging to the old ways-and no doubt for wasting offerings which would
do better at some hermit's cell than at some ancient holy place in the fores
t. But still the simple folk creep out to leave their offerings, and when th
ese vanish by morning, who is to say that a god has not taken them?

    This, I thought, dreaming, must be such a place. I was in the same fores
t, and the apse of stone where I sat was the same, even to the rampart of mo
ssed boulders in front of me. It was dark, and my ears were filled with the
roaring of the upper boughs where the night wind poured across the forest. I
 heard nothing approaching, but beside me the mare stirred and breathed gust
ily into the fodder-bag, and lifted her head, and I looked up to see eyes wa
tching me from the darkness beyond the rampart.

   Held by sleep, I could not move. In equal silence, and very swiftly, oth
ers came. I could discern them only as shadows against the cold darkness; no
t wolves, but shadows like men; small figures appearing one by one, like gho
sts, and with no more sound, until they ringed me in, eight of them, standin
g shoulder to shoulder across the entrance to my shelter. They stood there,
not moving or speaking, eight small shadows, as much part of the forest and
the night as the gloom cast by the trees. I could see nothing except-when hi
gh over the bare trees a cloud swept momentarily clear of the winter stars-t
he gleam of watching eyes.

  No movement, no word. But suddenly, without any conscious change, I k
new I was awake. And they were still there.

   I did not reach for my sword. Eight to one is not a kind of odds that m
akes sense, and besides, there are other ways to try first. But even those
I never got a chance to use. As I moved, taking breath to speak, one of the
m said something, a word that was blown away in the wind, and the next thin
g I knew I was being thrown back forcibly against the wall behind me, while
 rough hands forced a gag into my mouth, and my hands were pulled behind my
 back and the wrists bound tightly together. They half lifted, half dragged
 me out of the walled shelter, and flung me down outside with my back again
st the bruising stones that formed the rampart. One of them produced flint
and iron, and after a long struggle managed to set light to the twist of ra
g stuck in a cracked ox horn which did duty as a torch; the thing burned su
llenly with a feeble and stinking light, but with its help they set to work
 to hunt through the saddle-bags, and examine the mare herself with careful
 curiosity. Then they brought the torch to where I sat with two of them sta
nding over me and, thrusting the reeking rag almost into my face, examined
me much as they had done the mare.

   It seemed clear from the fact that I was still alive that they were not
simple robbers; indeed, they took nothing from the saddle-bags, and though t
hey disarmed me of sword and dagger, they did not search me further. I began
 to fear, as they looked me over closely with nods and grunted comments of s
atisfaction, that they had actually been looking for me. But in that case, I
 thought, if they had wanted to know my destination, or had been paid to fin
d it out, they would have done better to stay invisible, and follow me. No d
oubt I would have led them in the end to Count Ector's doorstep.

   Their comments told me nothing about their business with me, but they
did tell me something as important: these men spoke in a tongue I had neve
r heard before, but all the same I knew it; the Old Tongue of the Britons,
 which my master Galapas had taught me.

   The Old Tongue has still something the same form as our own British lang
uage, but the people who speak it have for so long lived away from other men
 that their speech has altered, adding its own words and changing its accent
 until now it takes study and a good ear to follow it at all. I could hear t
he familiar inflections, and here and there a word recognizable as the Welsh
 of Gwynedd, but the accent had changed, slurred and strange through five hu
ndred years of isolation, with words surviving that had long fallen out of u
se in other dialects, and sounds added like the echoes of the hills themselv
es, and of the gods and wild creatures that dwell there.

   It told me who these men must be. They were the descendants of those tri
besmen who had, long since, fled to the remoter hills, leaving the cities an
d the cultivable lands to the Romans, and after them to Cunedda's federates
from Guotodin, and had roosted, like homeless birds, in the high tracts of t
he forest where living was scarce and no better men would dispute it with th
em. Here and there they had fortified a hilltop and held it, but in most cas
es any hill that could be so fortified was desirable to conquerors, so was e
ventually stormed or starved out and taken. So, hilltop by hilltop, the remn
ants of the unconquered had retreated, till there was left to them only the
crags and caves and the bare land which the snow locked in winter. There the
y lived, seen by none except by chance, or when they wished it. It was they,
 I guessed, who crept down by night to take the offerings from the country s
hrines. My waking dream had been true enough. These, perhaps, were all who c
ould be seen by living eyes, of the dwellers in the hollow hills.

  They were talking freely-as freely as such folk ever do- not knowing I c
ould understand them. I kept my eyelids lowered, and listened.

  "I tell you, it must be. Who else would be travelling in the forest on a n
ight like this? And with a strawberry mare?"

  "That's right. Alone, they said, with a red roan mare."

   "Maybe he killed the other, and stole the mare. He's hiding, that's certa
in. Why else lie out here in winter without a fire, and the wolves coming dow
n this low?"

 "It's not the wolves he's afraid of. Depend on it, this is the man they were
wanting."

  "And paying for."

  "They said he was dangerous. He didn't look it to me."
  "He had a sword drawn ready."
  "But he never picked it up."

  "We were too quick for him."

  "He had seen us. He had time. You shouldn't have taken him like that, C
wyll. They didn't say take him. They said find him and follow him."

  "Well, it's too late now. We've taken him. What do we do? Kill him?"

  "Llyd will know."

  "Yes. Llyd will know."

   They did not speak as I have reported it, but in snatches one across the
other, brief phrases bandied to and fro in that strange, sparse language. Pre
sently they left me where I lay between my two guards, and withdrew a short d
istance. To wait, I supposed, for Llyd.

   Some twenty minutes later he came, with two companions; three more sha
dows suddenly no longer part of the forest's blackness. The others crowded
 round him, talking and pointing, and presently he seized the torch-which
was now little more than a singed rag smelling of pitch-and strode towards
 me. The others crowded after,

   They stood in a half circle round me as they had stood before. Llyd he
ld the torch high, and it showed me my captors, not clearly, but enough to
 know them again. They were small men, dark-haired, with surly lined faces
 beaten by weather and hard living to a texture like gnarled wood. They we
re dressed in roughly tanned skins, and breeches of thick, coarse-woven cl
oth dyed the browns and greens and murreys that you can make with the moun
tain plants. They were variously armed, with clubs, knives, stone axes chi
pped to a sheen, and-the one who had given the orders until Llyd came-with
 my sword.

  Llyd said: "They have gone north. There is no one in the forest to hear or
see. Take the gag out."

  "What's the use?" It was the fellow holding my sword who spoke. "He d
oesn't know the Old Tongue. Look at him. He does not understand. When we
spoke just now of killing him he did not look afraid."
   "What does that tell us except that he is brave, which we know already?
A man attacked and tied as he is might well be expecting death, but there is
 no fear in his eyes. Do as I say. I know enough to ask him his name and whe
re he is bound for. Take out the gag. And you, Pwul, and Areth, see if you c
an find dry stuff to burn. Let us have good light to see him by."

    One of the two beside me reached for the knot, and got the gag loosened
. It had cut my mouth at the corner, and was foul with blood and spittle, b
ut he thrust it into his pouch. Theirs was a degree of poverty that wasted
nothing. I wondered how much "they" had offered to pay for me. If Crinas an
d his followers had tracked me this far and set the hill-dwellers to watch
me and discover where I was bound, Cwyll's hasty action had spoiled that pl
an. But it had also spoiled mine. Even if they decided now to let me go, so
 that they could follow me in secret, my journey was fruitless. Forewarned
though I was, I could never elude these watchers. They see everything that
moves in the forest, and they can send messages as quickly as the bees. I h
ad known all along that the forest would be full of watchers, but normally
they stay out of sight and mind their own concerns. Now I saw that my only
hope of reaching Galava unbetrayed was to enlist them. I waited to hear wha
t their leader had to say.

  He spoke slowly, in bad Welsh. "Who are you?"
  "A traveller. I go north to the house of an old friend."

  "In winter?"
  "It was necessary."

  "Where . . ." He searched for the words. ". . . where do you come from?"

  "Maridunum."

   This, it appeared, tallied with what "they" had told them. He nodded. "A
re you a messenger?"
  "No. Your men have seen what I carry."

 One of them said quickly, in the Old Tongue: "He carries gold. We saw it.
Gold in his belt, and some stitched in the mare's girth."
  The leader regarded me. I could not read his face; it was about as tran
sparent as oak bark. He said over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off
 me: "Did you search him?" He was speaking his own language.

  "No. We saw what was in his pouch when we took his weapons."

  "Search him now."

   They obeyed him, not gently. Then they stood back and showed him what
they had found, crowding to look by the light of the meager torch. "The go
ld; look how much. A brooch with the Dragon of the King's house. Not a bad
ge; feel the weight, it is gold. A brand with the Raven of Mithras. And he
 rides from Maridunum towards the north, and secretly." Cwyll pulled my cl
oak again across the exposed brand and stood up. "It must be the man the s
oldiers told us about. He is lying. He is the messenger. We should let him
 go and follow him."

   But Llyd spoke slowly, staring down at me. "A messenger carrying a ha
rp, and the sign of the Dragon, and the brand of the Raven? And he rides
alone out of Maridunum? No. There is only one man it can be; the magician
 from Bryn Myrddin."

    "Him?" This was the man who held my sword. It went slack, suddenly, in
his grasp, and I saw him swallow and take a fresh grip. "Him, the magician?
 He is too young. Besides, I have heard of that magician. They say he is a
giant, with eyes that freeze you to the marrow. Let him go, Llyd, and we wi
ll follow him, as the soldiers asked us."
   Cwyll said, uncomfortably: "Yes, let him go. Kings are nothing to us, bu
t a magician is unchancy to harm."

  The others crowded close, curious and uneasy.
  "A magician? They said nothing about that, or we would never have touc
hed him."

  "He's no magician, see how he's dressed. Besides, if he knew magic, he c
ould have stopped us."

  "He was asleep. Even enchanters have to sleep."

  "He was awake. He saw us. He did nothing."
  "We gagged him first."
  "He is not gagged now, and see, he says nothing."

  "Yes, let him go, Llyd, and we will get the money the soldiers offered. T
hey said they would pay us well."

  More mutters, and nods of assent. Then one man said, thoughtfully: "He
has more on him than they offered us."

   Llyd had not spoken for some time, but now he broke angrily across the t
alk. "Are we thieves? Or hirelings to give information for gold? I told you
before, I will not blindly do as the soldiers asked us, for all their money.
 Who are they that we, the Old Ones, should do their work? We will do our ow
n. There are things here that I should like to know. The soldiers told us no
thing. Perhaps this man will. I think there are great matters afoot. Look at
 him; that is no man's messenger. That is a man who counts among men. We wil
l untie him, and talk. Light the fire, Areth."

   While he had been talking the two he had bidden had brought together a pi
le of boughs and fallen stuff, and built a pyre ready for lighting. But there
 could have been no dry twig in the forest that night. Though the sleet showe
rs had stopped some while back, all was dripping wet, and the ground felt spo
ngy as if it must be soaked right to the earth's center.

   Llyd made a sign to the two who guarded me. "Untie his hands. And one o
f you, bring food and drink."

   One of them hurried off, but the other hesitated, fingering his knife. O
thers crowded round, arguing. Llyd's authority, it seemed, was not that of a
 king, but of an accepted leader whose companions have the right to query an
d advise. I caught fragments of what they were saying, and then Llyd clearly
: "There are things we must know. Knowledge is the only power we have. If he
 will not tell us of his own will, then we shall have to make him. . . ."

   Areth had managed to set the damp stuff smouldering, but it gave neither
 heat nor light, only an intermittent gusting of smoke, acrid and dirty, whi
ch blew into all quarters as the wind wandered, making the eyes smart and ch
oking the breath.

   It was time, I thought, that I made an end. I had learned enough. I said,
clearly, in the Old Tongue: "Stand back from the fire, Areth."
   There was a sudden complete silence. I did not look at them, I fixed my e
yes on the smoking logs. I blotted out the bite of my bound wrists, the pain
of my bruises, the discomfort of my soaked clothes. And, as easily as a breat
h taken and then released on the night air, the power ran through me, cool an
d free. Something dropped through the dark, like a fire arrow, or a shooting
star. With a flash, a shower of white sparks that looked like burning sleet,
the logs caught, blazing. Fire poured down through the sleet, caught, gulped,
 billowed up again gold and red and gloriously hot. The sleet hissed in onto
the fire, and, as if it had been oil, the fire fed on it, roaring. The noise
of it filled the forest and echoed like horses galloping.

   I took my eyes from it at last, and looked about me. There was no one the
re. They had vanished as if they had indeed been spirits of the hills. I was
alone in the forest, lying against the tumbled rocks, with the steam rising a
lready from my drying clothes, and the bonds biting painfully into my wrists.

  Something touched me from behind. The blade of a stone knife. It slid b
etween the flesh of my wrists and the ropes, sawing at my bonds. They gave
way. Stiffly, I flexed my shoulders and began to chafe the bruised wrists.
There was a thin cut, bleeding, where the knife had caught me. I neither sp
oke nor looked behind me, but sat still, chafing my wrists and hands.
  From somewhere behind me a voice spoke. It was Llyd's. He spoke in th
e Old Tongue.

  "You are Myrddin called Emrys or Ambrosius, son of Ambrosius the son
of Constantius who sprang from the seed of Macsen Wledig?"

  "I am Myrddin Emrys."

  "My men took you in error. They did not know."

  "They know now. What will you do with me?"

  "Set you on your journey when you choose to go."

   "And meanwhile question me, and force me to tell you of the grave matte
rs that concern me?"

  "You know we can force you to do nothing. Nor would we. You will tell
us what you wish, and go when you wish. But we can watch for you while y
ou sleep, and we have food and drink. You are welcome to what we have to
offer."

   "Then I accept it. Thank you. Now, you have my name. I have heard yours
, but you must give it to me yourself."

  "I am Llyd. My ancestor was Llyd of the forests. There is no man here w
ho is not descended from a god."
   "Then there is no man here who need fear a man descended from a king.
I shall be glad to share your supper and talk with you. Come out now, and
share the warmth of my fire."

   The food was part of a cold roast hare, with a loaf of black bread. They
had venison, fresh killed, the result of tonight's foray; this they kept for
the tribe, but thrust the pluck into the fire to roast, and along with it the
 carcass of a black hen and some flat uncooked cakes that looked, and smelled
, as if they had been mixed with blood. It was an easy guess where these and
the hare had been picked up; one sees such things at every crossways stone in
 that part of the country. It is no blasphemy in these people to take the way
side sacrifices: as Llyd had said to me, they consider themselves descended f
rom the gods and entitled to the offerings; and indeed, I see no harm in it.
I accepted the bread, and a piece of venison heart, and a horn of the strong
sweet drink they make themselves from herbs and wild honey.

   The ten men sat round the fire, while Llyd and I, a little apart from them,
talked.

   "These soldiers," I said, "who wanted me followed. What sort of men wer
e they?"

  "Five men, soldiers fully armed, but with no blazon."

   "Five? One of them red-haired, big, in a brown jerkin and a blue cloak?
And another on a pied horse?" This was the only horse recognizable to Stilic
ho, who had glimpsed its white patches in the murk of the grove. They must h
ave had a fifth man, left on watch at the foot of the valley. "What did they
 say to you?"

  But Llyd was shaking his head. "There was no man such as you describe,
nor any such horse. The leader was a fair man, thin as a hay-fork, with a
beard. They asked us only to watch for a man on a strawberry roan mare, w
ho rode alone, on business that they had no knowledge of. But they said th
eir master would pay well to know where he went."

   He threw the bone he had been gnawing over his shoulder, wiped his mou
th, and met my eyes straightly. "I said I would not ask your business, but
 tell me this much, Myrddin Emrys. Why is the son of the High King Ambrosi
us and the kin of Uther Pendragon hiding alone in the forest while Urien's
 men hunt him, wishing him ill?"
  "Urien's men?"

   There was deep satisfaction in his voice. "Ah. Some things your magic
will not tell you. But in these valleys, no one moves but we know of it. N
o one comes here but he is marked and followed until we know his business.
 We know Urien of Gore. These men were his, and spoke the tongue of his co
untry."

   "Then you can tell me about Urien," I said. "I know of him; a small ki
ng of a small country, brother by marriage to Lot of Lothian. There is no
reason that I know why he should hunt me. I am on King's business, and Uri
en has no quarrel with me or with the King. He and his brother of Lothian
are allies of Rheged and of the King. Has Urien, then, become the creature
 of some other man? Duke Cador?"

  "No. Only of King Lot."

   I was silent. The fire roared and above us the forest stirred and ruffle
d. The wind was dying. I was thinking savagely. That Crinas and his gang wer
e Cador's I had no doubt; now it seemed that there had been other spies from
 the north, watching and waiting, and that somehow they had stumbled across
my trail. Urien, Lot's jackal. And Cador. Two of Uther's most powerful allie
s, his right hand and his left; and the moment the King began to fail they h
ad spies out looking for the prince. . . . The pattern broke and re-formed a
s a reflection in a pool re-forms after a rock has been thrown into it; but
not the same pattern; the rock is there in the center, changing everything.
King Lot, the betrothed of Morgian the High King's daughter. King Lot.

   I said at length: "I heard you say these men had ridden on north. Were the
y going straight to report to Urien, or still trying to find and follow me?"

   "To follow you. They said they would cast farther north to find some trac
e of you. If they find none they will seek us out at a place we arranged with
them."
  "And will you meet them there?"

  He spat sideways, not troubling to answer.

  I smiled. "I shall go on tomorrow. Will you guide me to a path that the t
roopers will not know?"
  "Willingly, but to do that I must know where you are making for."

   "I am following a dream I had," I told him. He nodded. These folk of the
 hills find this, reasonable. They work by instinct like animals, and they r
ead the skies and wait for portents. I thought for a minute, then asked him:
 "You spoke of Macsen Wledig. When he left these islands to go to Rome, did
any of your people go with him?"

  "Yes. My own great-grandfather led them under Macsen."

  "And came back?"

  "Indeed."
   "I told you I had had a dream. I dreamed that a dead king spoke to me, a
nd told me that before I could raise the living one I had a quest to fulfill
. Did you ever hear what became of Macsen's sword?"
   He threw up a hand in a sign I had never seen before. But I recognized w
hat it was, a strong sign against strong magic. He muttered to himself, some
 rune in words I did not know, then, hoarsely, to me: "So. It has come. Araw
n be praised, and Bilis, and Myrddin of the heights. I knew these were great
 matters. I felt it on my skin as a man feels the rain falling. So this is w
hat you seek, Myrddin Emrys?"

   "This is what I seek. I have been East, and was told there that the sword
, with the best of the Emperor's treasure, came back to the West. I think I h
ave been led here. Can you help me further?"

   He shook his head slowly. "No. Of that matter I knew nothing. But there
are those in the forest who can help you. The word was handed down. That is
all I can tell you."
    "Your great-grandfather said nothing?"
   "I did not say that. I will tell you what he said." He dropped into the
singsong voice that the tale-tellers use, I knew he would give me the exact
words; these people hand words down from generation to generation, changeles
s and as precisely worked as the chasing on a cup. "The sword was laid down
by a dead Emperor, and shall be lifted by a living one. It was brought home
by water and by land, with blood and with fire, and by land and water shall
it go home, and lie hidden in the floating stone until by fire it shall be r
aised again. It shall not be lifted except by a man rightwise born of the se
ed of Britain."

   The chanting stopped. The others round the fire had stopped their talking
to listen; I saw eyes glint white, and hands move in the ancient sign. Llyd cl
eared his throat, spat again, and said gruffly: "That's all. I told you it wou
ld be no help."

   "If I am to find the sword," I said, "help will come, no fear of that. An
d now I know I am getting near to it. Where the song is, the sword cannot be
far away. And after I have found it ... I think you know where I am going."

  "Where else should Myrddin Emrys be going, secretly and on a winter jour
ney, except to the Prince's side?"

   I nodded. "He is beyond your territory, Llyd, but not beyond the eyes o
f your people. Do you know where he is?"
    "No. But we will."

   "I'm content that you should. Watch me if you wish, and when you see wh
ere I am going, watch him for me. This is a king, Llyd, who will deal as ju
stly with the Old Ones of the hills as ever he does with the kings and bish
ops who meet in Winchester."

    "We will watch him for you."
   "Then I shall go north, as I was going before, and wait for guidance. Now
, with your permission, I should like to sleep."

    "You will be safe," said Llyd. "At first light we will see you on your way.
"
9


The way they showed me was a path no better and no worse than I had followe
d hitherto, but it was easier to follow by the secret signs they told me of
, and it was shorter even than keeping to the road. There were sudden twist
s and ascents to narrow passes which, without the signs, I would not have s
uspected of holding a way through. I would ride up some narrow, tree-filled
 gorge with an apparently solid wall of mountain straight ahead, and the so
und of a torrent swelling and echoing between the rocks; but always, when I
 reached it, there was the pass, narrow and often dangerous, but clear, lea
ding through some (till now) invisible cleft into the steep descent beyond.
 So for two days more I journeyed, seeing no one, resting little, and keepi
ng myself and the mare alive on what the Old Ones had given me.

    On the morning of the third day the mare cast a shoe. As luck would have
 it we were in easy ground, a ridge of smooth sheep-turf between valley and
valley, deserted at this season, but smooth going. I dismounted, and led Str
awberry along the ridge, scanning the valleys below me for signs of a road,
or the smoke of a settlement. I knew roughly where I was now; though mist an
d snowstorms veiled the higher crests, I had seen, when they lifted, the whi
te top of the great Snow Hill which holds up the winter sky. I had ridden th
is way before by the road, and recognized the shape of some of the nearer hi
lls. I was sure that I had not far to travel to find a road, and a smith.
   I had considered trying, myself, to remove Strawberry's other three shoe
s, but the going had been hard as iron, and if I had not kept her shod, she
would have been lame long since. Besides, we were running out of food, and t
here was none to find in the winter ways. I must take the risk of being seen
 and recognized.

   It was a still clear day of frost. At about noon I saw the smoke of a vil
lage, and a few minutes later the gleam of water in the valley below it. I tu
rned the mare's head downhill. We went gently down under the shelter of spars
ely set oaks, whose boughs still held a rustle of dead leaves. Soon I could s
ee, below ahead of us through the bare trunks, the grey glitter of the river
sliding between its banks.

   Just above it I halted the mare at the edge of the oak wood. No movemen
t, no sound, except the noisy river which drowned even the distant sound of
barking dogs that marked the village.
   I was certain that I was now not far from the course of the road. My bes
t hope for a forge was where road and river met. Such places are generally n
ear a ford or a bridge. Keeping just within the edge of the oak wood, I led
Strawberry gently on towards the north.

   So we journeyed for another hour or so, when suddenly the valley took a t
urn to the north-west, and there ahead of me, joining it from a neighbour val
ley, ran the open belt of green that spoke of a road. And I could hear, clear
 on the winter's stillness, the metallic clang of a hammer.

   There was no sign of the settlement, but where the road met the river t
he woods were very thick, and I knew that any village in these parts would
be built on some hillock or rising ground from which men might defend thems
elves. The smith, in his solitary forge down by the water, need have no suc
h fears. Such men are too useful, and have nothing worth the taking, and be
sides, there is still about them some of the old awe that hangs over the pl
aces where roads and waters meet.

   The smith himself might indeed have been another of the Old Ones. He wa
s a small man, bent by his trade, but immensely broad of shoulder, with arm
s knotted with muscle and covered with a pelt as thick as a bear's. His han
ds, broad and cracked, were almost as black as his hair.

   He looked up from his work as my shadow fell across the doorway. I gree
ted him, then tied the mare to a ring by the door and sat down to wait, gla
d of the heat of the fire which was being blown to a blaze by a boy in a le
ather apron. The smith answered my greeting, with a sharp stare from under
his brows, then without pausing in the rhythm of his work, went back to his
 hammering. He was making a share. With a hiss of steam and the gradual dul
ling of the strokes, the share slowly greyed and cooled to its cutting edge
. The smith muttered something to the boy at the bellows, who let the a
ir run out, then, picking up the water bucket, left the forge. The smith, s
etting down his hammer, straightened and stretched. He hooked a wine skin d
own from the wall and drank, then wiped his mouth. The expert eyes ran over
 the mare. "Did you bring the shoe?" I had half expected him to speak the O
ld Tongue, but it was plain Welsh. "Otherwise it'll take more time than yo
u like to spare, I dare say. Or will I just take the other three off?"

  I grinned. "And pay me for them?"
  "I'd do it for nothing," said the smith, showing a black-toothed grin.
  I handed him the cast shoe. "Put this back on and there's a penny in it for
you."

   He took the thing and examined it, turning it slowly in those horny hand
s. Then he nodded, and picked up the mare's foot.

  "Going far?"

    Part of a smith's payment was, of course, whatever news his customers co
uld give him. I had expected this, and had a story ready. He rasped and list
ened, while the mare stood quietly between us, head down and ears slack. Aft
er a while the boy came back with a full bucket and tipped water into the tu
b. He had taken a long time, and he breathed as if he had been hurrying. If
I thought about it at all, I imagined that he had seized, boy-like, the oppo
rtunity to spend as long over the errand as he could, and had had to hurry b
ack. The smith made no comment, other than to grunt at him to get back to hi
s bellows, and soon the fire roared up, and the shoe began to glow to red he
at.

   I suppose I should have been more alert, though to be here at all was a r
isk I had had to take. And there had been a chance that the troopers asking f
or the rider with the strawberry mare had not passed this way. But it seemed
that they had.

   What with the roar of the furnace and the clanging hammer I heard noth
ing of any approach, just saw, suddenly, the shadows between me and the do
orway, then the four men standing there. They were all armed, and they all
 held their weapons ready, as if they were fully prepared to use them. Two
 of them held spears, none the less deadly for being home-made, one had a
woodsman's hacking knife, its blade honed to a bright edge that would go t
hrough living oak, and the fourth held, with some expertness, a Roman shor
t sword.

 The last one was the spokesman. He greeted me civilly enough, while the
smith held his hammering, and the boy stared.

  "Who are you, and where are you bound for?"

   I answered him in his own dialect, and without moving from where I sat
. "My name is Emrys, and I am travelling north. I have had to come out of
my way because, as you see, my mare has cast a shoe."
  "Where are you from?"

  "From the south, where we do not send armed men against a stranger who
passes through our village. What are you afraid of, coming four to one?"

  He growled something, and the two with the spears grounded them, shuffl
ing their feet. But the swordsman stood firm.

  "You speak our language too well to be a stranger. I think you are the m
an we have been told to look for. Who are you?"

   "No stranger to you, Brychan," I said calmly. "Did you get that sword at
 Kaerconan, or did we take it when we cut Vortigern's troops to pieces at th
e crossroads by Bremia?"

 "Kaerconan?" The sword-point wavered and fell. "You fought there, for
Ambrosius?"

  "I was there, yes."

   "And at Bremia? With Duke Gorlois?" The point dropped completely. "W
ait, you said your name was Emrys? Not Myrddin Emrys, the prophet that w
on the battle for us, and then doctored our hurts? Ambrosius' son?"

  "The same."

   The men of my race do not easily bend the knee, but as he slid his sword
back into his belt and showed his blackened teeth in a wide grin of pleasure,
 the effect was the same. "By all the gods, so it is! I didn't know you, sir.
 Put your weapons up, you fools, can't you see he's a prince, and no meat of
ours?"

   "Small blame to them if they can't see any such thing," I said, laughing.
"I'm neither prince nor prophet now, Brychan, brand. I'm travelling secretly,
and I need help , . . and silence."

   "You shall have anything we can give you, my lord." He had caught my i
nvoluntary glance towards the smith and the staring boy, and added quickly
: "There's no man here will say a word, look you. No, nor boy neither,"
  The boy nodded, swallowing. The smith said gruffly: "If I'd known who
you were-"

  "You'd not have sent your boy scampering off to take the news to the vill
age?" I said. "No matter. If you are a King's man as Brychan is, I can trust
you."

    "We are all King's men here," said Brychan harshly, "but if you were Uth
er's worst enemy, instead of his brother's son and the winner of his battles
, I would help you, and so would my kinsmen and every man in these parts. Wh
o was it saved this arm of mine after Kaerconan? It's thanks to you that I w
as able to carry this sword against you today." He clapped the hilt at his b
elt. I remembered the arm; one of the Saxon axes had driven deep into the f
lesh, hacking a collop of muscle and laying the bone bare. I had stitched th
e arm and treated it; whether it was the virtue of the medicine, or Brychan'
s faith in anything "the King's prophet" might do, the arm had healed. A gre
at part of its strength was gone for ever, but it served him. "And as for th
e rest of us," he finished, "we're all your men, my lord. You're safe here,
and your secrets with you. We all know where the future of these lands lies,
 and that's in your hands, Myrddin Emrys. If we'd known you were the 'travel
ler' those soldiers were seeking, we'd have held them here till you came-aye
, and killed them if you'd so much as nodded your head." He gave a fierce lo
ok round him, and the others nodded, muttering their agreement. Even the smi
th grunted some sort of assent, and brought his hammer clanging down as if i
t was an axe on an enemy's neck.

   I said something to them, of thanks and acknowledgement. I was thinking
that I had been out of the country too long; for too long had been talking w
ith statesmen and lords and princes. I had begun to think as they were thin
king. It was not only the nobles and the fighting kings who would help Arthu
r to the high throne and maintain him there; it was the folk of Britain, roo
ted in the land, feeding it and drawing life from it like its own trees, who
 would lift him there and fight for him. It was the faith of the people, fro
m the high lands to the low, that would make him High King of all the realms
 and islands in a full sense which my father had dreamed of but had been una
ble to achieve in the short time allowed him. It had been the dream, too, of
 Maximus, the would-be emperor who had seen Britain as the foremost in a yok
e of nations pulling the same way against the cold wind from the north. I lo
oked at Brychan with his disabled arm, at his kinsmen, poor men of a poor vi
llage they would die to defend, at the smith and his ragged boy, and thought
 of the Old Ones keeping faith in their cold caves with the past and the fut
ure, and thought: this time it will be different. Macsen and Ambrosius tried
 it with force of arms, and laid the paving stones. Now, God and the people
willing, Arthur will build the palace. And then, suddenly: that it was time
I left courts and castles and went back into the hills. It was from the hill
s that help would come.

   Brychan was speaking again. "Will you not come to the village with us n
ow, my lord? Leave the smith here to finish your mare, and come yourself up
 to my house, and rest and eat and give us your news. We are sharp set, all
 of us, to know why troopers should come seeking you, with money in their h
ands, and as urgent about it as if there was a kingdom at stake."

  "There is. But not for the High King."

  "Ah," he said. "They would have had us believe they were King's troops,
bur I thought they were not. Whose, then?"

  "They serve Urien of Gore." The men exchanged glances. Brychan's look
 was bright with intelligence. "Urien, eh? And why should Urien pay for n
ews of you? Or maybe it was news of Prince Arthur he'd be paying for?"

  "The two are the same," I said, nodding. "Or soon will be. He wants to
know where I am going."
    "So he can follow you to the boy's hiding-place. Yes. But how would that
profit Urien of Gore? He's a small man, and not likely to get bigger. Or-wait
, I have it, of course. It would profit his kinsman, Lot of Lothian?"
   "I think so. I've been told that Urien is Lot's creature. You may be sure h
e is working for him."

    Brychan nodded, and said slowly: "And King Lot is promised to a lady that
's like to be Queen if Arthur dies . . . So he's paying troops to find where
the boy is kept? My lord, that adds up to something I don't like the smell of
."

  "Nor I. We may be wrong, Brychan, but my bones tell me we are right.
 And there may be others besides Lot and Urien. Were these men the only
ones? You had no Cornish-men pass this way?"

  "No, my lord. Rest easy, if any others come this way, they'll get no hel
p!" He gave a short bark of laughter. "I'd trust your bones sooner than most
 men's pledged word. We'll see no danger follows you to the little prince. .
.. If any pursuit of you comes through Gwynedd we'll see that it bogs down a
s surely as a stag's scent fails when he takes to water. Trust us, my lord.
We're your men, as we were your father's. We know nothing of this prince you
 hold in your hand for us, but if he's yours, and you tell us to follow him
and serve him, then, Myrddin Emrys, we'll be his men as long as we can hold
swords. That's a promise, and it's for you that we make it."

   "Then I'll accept it for him, and give you my thanks." I got to my feet.
 "Brychan, it would be better if I did not come to the village with you, but
 there is something you could do for me now, if you will. I need food for th
e next few days, and wine for my flask, and fodder for the mare. I have mone
y. Could you get these for me?"

   "Nothing easier, and you can put away your money. Did you take money
of me when you mended my arm? Give us an hour, and we'll get all you want
, and no word said. The boy can come with us-folk are used to seeing him
bring goods down to the forge. He'll bring what you need."
   I thanked him again, and we talked for a little longer, while I gave him
what news there was from the south; then they took their leave. It is a matte
r of fact that, then or at any time, none of them, down to the boy, said a wo
rd to any man about my visit.
   The boy had not yet returned from the village when the smith finished h
is job. I paid him his fee and commended him on his work. He took this as n
o more than his due, and, though he must have heard all that had passed bet
ween Brychan and me, showed no awe of me. Indeed, I have never seen why any
 man skilled in his trade, and surrounded by the articles of his craft, sho
uld be in awe of princes. Their task differs, that is all.

   "Which way do you ride?" he asked me. Then, as I hesitated: "I told you
 not to fear me. If that magpie Brychan and his brothers can be silent, the
n so can I. I serve the road and all men on it, and I'm no more a King's ma
n than any smith who is bound to serve the road, but I spoke to Am-brosius
once. And my grandfather's grandfather, why, he shod the horse of the Emper
or Maximus himself." He mistook the reason for the look on my face. "Aye, y
ou may well stare. That's a long time ago. But even then, my granda told me
, this anvil had been worked by father and son and father and son further b
ack than the oldest man in the village could remember. Why, it's said herea
bouts that the first smith who set up his iron here had been taught his tra
de by Weland Smith himself. So who else would the Emperor come to? Look,"
    He pointed at the door, which was set wide open, back against the wall.
 It was made of oak, adzed smooth as beaten silver, and age and weather had
 so bleached and polished it chat its surface was bone pale, meshed and rip
pled like grey water. From a hook nearby hung a bag of iron nails, and then
 a rack of branding irons. All over the silky wood of the door were the sca
rs of brands where the generations of smiths had tried them as they were fa
shioned.

   An A caught my eye, but the brand was new, still charred and black. Benea
th it and overlaid by it was some sign that looked like a bird flying; then a
n arrow, and an eye, and one or two cruder signs scrawled in with red-hot met
al by idle jesters waiting for the smith to finish a job. But to one side, cl
ear of them all, faded so that they were only dark silver on light, were the
letters M.I. Just below these was a deeper scar on the door, a half-moon inde
nted, with the marks of nails. It was at this that the smith was pointing. "T
hey say that's where the Emperor's stallion kicked out, but I don't believe i
t. When I and mine handle a horse, be he the wildest stallion straight off th
e hills, he doesn't kick. But that, there, above it, that's true enough. That
 brand was made here, for the horses Macsen Wledig took east with him, the ti
me he killed the King of Rome."

  "Smith," I said, "that is the only part of your legend that is false. Th
e King of Rome killed Maximus, and took his sword. But the men of Wales brou
ght it back here to Britain. Was the sword made here, too?"

   He was a long time replying, and I felt my heart quicken as I waited. But a
t last he said, reluctantly: "If it was, I have never heard of it." It was obvi
ous that it had cost him a struggle not to add the sword to the forge's credit,
 but he had told me the truth.

  "I was told," I said, "that somewhere in the forest is a man who knows
where the Emperor's sword is hidden. Have you heard of this, or do you know
where I can find it?"

  "No, how should I? They say there is a holy man a long way north of her
e who knows everything. But he lives north of the Deva, in another country.
"

  "That is the way I was riding," I said. "I shall seek him out."

   "Then if you don't want to meet yon soldiers, don't go by the road. Six mi
les north of here there's a crossroads, where the road for Segontium heads wes
t. Keep by the river from here, and it'll take you clear across the corner til
l the west-bound road crosses it."

  "But I'm not going to Segontium. If I bear too far to the west-"

   "You leave the river where it meets the road again. Straight across from t
he ford the track runs up into the forest, through a shaw of hollies, and afte
r that it's plain enough to see. It'll carry you on northwards, and never a gl
impse of a road you'll see till you reach the Deva. If you ask the ferryman th
ere about the holy man in the Wild Forest, he'll tell you the way. You go by t
he river. It's a good track, and impossible to miss."

   I have found that people never say this unless, in fact, the way is very
easy to miss. However, I said nothing and, the boy arriving at that moment wi
th the provisions, helped him stow them. As we did so he whispered: "I heard
what he said, lord. Don't listen to him. It's a bad track to follow, and the
river's high. Stay with the road."
   I thanked him and gave him a coin for his pains. He went back to his bel
lows, and I turned to take my leave of the smith, who had vanished into some
 dark and cluttered recess at the back of the smithy. I could hear the clatt
ering of metal, and his whistling between his broken teeth. I called out abo
ve it. "I'm on my way now. My thanks." Then my breath caught in my throat. S
uddenly, back in the dark clutter behind the chimney, the newly leaping flam
e had lit the outline of a face.

    A stone face; a familiar face once seen at every crossways. One of the
first Old Ones, the god of going, the other Myrd-din whose name was Mercury
, or Hermes, lord of the high roads and bearer of the sacred snake. As one
born in September, he was mine. He lay back now, the old Herm who had once
stood out in the open watching the passers-by, head propped against the wal
l, the moss and lichen on him long since dried to powdered grey. Clearly un
der the blurred and fretted lines of carving I recognized the flat face rim
med with beard, the blank eyes as oval and bulging as grapes, the hands cla
sped across the belly, the once protruding genitals smashed and mutilated.
  "If I had known you were there, Old One," I said, "I would have poured t
he wine for you."

 The smith had reappeared at my elbow. "He gets his rations, never fear.
There's none who serves the road would dare neglect him."
  "Why did you bring him in?"
   "He never stood here. He was at the ford I told you of, where the old tr
ack that they call Elen's Causeway crossed the river Seint. When the Romans
built their new road to Segontium they put their post station right in front
 of him. So he was brought here, I never heard how."

   I said slowly: "At the ford you told me of? Then I think I must go that w
ay after all." I nodded to the smith, then raised a hand in salute to the god
. "Go with me now," I said to him, "and help me find this way-which it is imp
ossible to miss."

   He went with me for the first part of the way; indeed, so long as the tr
ack clung to the river's bank it could hardly be missed. But towards late af
ternoon, when the dim winter sun hung low to its setting, a mist began to ga
ther and hang near the water, thickening with dusk into a damp and blinding
fog. It might have been possible to follow the sound of water, though under
the mist this was misleading, sometimes loud and near at hand, at others mut
ed and deceivingly distant; but where the river took a bend, the track cut s
traight across, and twice, following this, I found myself astray and picking
 a way through the deep forest with no sign or sound of the river. In the en
d, astray for the third time, I dropped the reins on Strawberry's neck, and
let her pick her own way, reflecting that, ironically, had I risked the road
 I would have been safe enough. I would have heard the troopers approaching,
 and have been safe from their eyes had I withdrawn only a few yards into th
e fog-bound forest.
   There must be a moon above the low-lying mist. This drifted like lighted
 cloud, not solid, but rivers of vapour with dark between, banks of pale stu
ff clinging round the trees like snow. Through it, hiding and showing, the g
aunt trees laced their black boughs overhead. Underfoot the forest floor was
 thick as velvet and as quiet to walk on.

    Strawberry plodded steadily on, without hesitation, following some path
unseen to me, or some instinct of her own. Now and again she pricked her ear
s, but at something I could neither hear nor see, and once she checked and f
lung up her head sideways, coming as near as she ever did to shying, but bef
ore I could pick up the reins again, she slacked her ears, dropped her head,
  and quickened her pace along the invisible line of her choosing. I let her
alone. Whatever was drifting past us in the misty silence, it would do us no
  harm. If this was the way-and I was sure now that it was--we were protected
.
  An hour after full dark, the mare carried me softly out of the trees, acr
oss a hundred paces or so of flat ground, and came to a halt in front of a lo
oming square of blackness that could only be a building. There was a water tr
ough outside. She lowered her head, blew, and began to drink.

   I dismounted and pushed open the door of the building. It was the postin
g station the smith had told me of, empty now and half derelict, but apparen
tly still in use by travellers such as myself. In one corner a pile of half-
charred logs showed where a fire had been lit recently, and in another stood
 a bed made from some tolerably clean planks laid across stones to raise it
from the draught. It was rough comfort, but better than some we had had. I f
ell asleep within the hour to the sound of Strawberry's munching, and slept
deeply and dreamlessly till morning.

  When I woke, it was in the dusk of dawn, the sun not yet up. The mare do
zed in her corner, slack-hipped. I went out to the trough for water to wash
with.

  The mist had gone, and with it the milder air. The ground was grey with f
rost. I looked about me.

   The posting station stood a few paces back from the road which ran stra
ight as a spear from east to west through the forest. Along this line the w
oodland had been cleared when the Romans made the road, the trees felled an
d the undergrowth hacked down a hundred paces back to either side from the
gravelled way. Now saplings had grown up again and the low growth was thick
 and tangled, but still, near where I stood, I thought I could see under it
 the line of the old track that had been there before the Romans came. The
river, smooth here and quiet-running, slid over the ruins of the causeway t
hat took the road through it, hock deep. Beyond this, at the farther edge o
f the cleared land, I could see, black against the grey winter oaks, the sh
aw of holly which marked my road to the north.

   Satisfied, I cracked the wafer of ice on the water of the trough and was
hed. As I did so, behind me the sun came up between the trees in the red of
a cold dawn. Shadows grew and sharpened, barring the stiff grass. The frost
sparkled. Light grew, like the smith's furnace under the bellows. When I tur
ned, the sun, low and dazzling, blazed into my eyes, blinding me. The winter
 trees stood black and unbodied against a sky like a forest fire. The river
ran molten.
   There was something between me and the river, a tall shape, massive and
yet insubstantial against the blaze, standing knee deep in the underbrush at
 the edge of the road. Something familiar, but familiar in another setting,
of darkness, and strange places, and outland gods. A standing stone.

  For a sharp moment I wondered if I was still asleep, and this was my dre
am again. I put up an arm against the light and narrowed my eyes under it, p
eering.
 The sun came clear of the tree-tops. The shadow of the forest moved back.
The stone stood clear against the sparkling frost.

   It was not after all a standing stone. Nothing strange at all, or out of
 place. It was an ordinary milestone, perhaps two cubits taller than was nor
mal, but bearing only the usual inscription to an emperor, and below this th
e message: A. SEGONTIO. M . P . XXII.

   When I approached it I saw the reason for its height; instead of being s
unk in the turf it had been mounted on a squared plinth of stone. A differen
t stone. The plinth where the Herm had stood? I stooped to push the frosted
grass aside. The red sunlight struck the stone, showing a mark on the plinth
 that might have been an arrow. Then I saw what it was: the remains of some
ancient writing, the ogam letters blurred and worn till they showed like the
 fletching on a shaft, and a barbed head pointing westwards.

    Well, I thought, why not? The signs were simple, but messages do not
always come from the gods beyond the stars. My god had spoken to me before
in ways as small as this, and I had told myself only yesterday to look low
as well as high for the things of power. And here they were-a cast horsesho
e, a word from a wayside smith, and some scratches on a stone-conspiring to
 turn me aside from my northern journey and take me westwards to Segontium.
 I thought again, why not? Who knew but that the sword might really have be
en made down at the forge yonder, and chilled in the Seint River, and that
after his death they had carried it home to his wife's country, where she l
odged still with his infant son? Somewhere in Segontium, the Caer Seint of
Macsen Wledig, the King's Sword of Britain might lie, waiting to be lifted
in fire.



10
The inn I stayed at in Segontium was a comfortable one, at the edge of the
town, but not serving the main highway. A few travellers lodged there, but
the place mostly served food and drink to the local men who attended the ma
rket, or who were on their way with goods down to the port.

   The place had seen better days, having been built to serve the soldiers
at the vast barracks above the town. It must have stood there, at the least,
 for a couple of hundred years; originally it had been well built of stone,
with one handsome room, almost a hall, where a vast fireplace stood, and oak
en beams as solid as iron held up the roof. The remains of the benches and t
he stout tables were still there, stained and burned, and here and there hac
ked where the daggers of drunken legionaries had carved their names, along w
ith other things less respectable. It was a marvel that anything remained: s
ome of the stone had been pillaged, and once at least the inn had been burne
d by raiders from Ireland, so that now the stone oblong of the hall was all
that remained, and the blackened beams held up a roof of thatch instead of t
iles. The kitchen was no more than a lean-to of daubed wattle behind the gre
at fireplace.

   But there was a big fire of logs blazing, and a smell of good ale, with
 bread baking in the oven outside; and a shed with decent bedding and fodde
r for the mare. I saw her warm and groomed and fed before I went into the i
nn myself to bespeak a bed-place and a meal.

   At that time of year the port was all but closed to traffic; few travelle
rs were on the roads, and men did not stay out late drinking, but got themsel
ves home to their beds soon after dusk. No one looked curiously at me, or ven
tured a question. The inn was quiet early, and I went to bed and slept soundl
y.

   In the morning it was fine, with one of those glittering sharp days that
December sometimes throws down like bright gold among the lead of winter's co
inage. I breakfasted early, looked in at the mare, then left her resting and
went out on foot.
   I turned east, away from the town and the port, along the river's bank
where, on rising ground about half a mile above the town, stood the remains
 of Segontium Roman fortress. Macsen's Tower stands just outside it, a litt
le way down the hill. Here the High King Vortigern had lodged his men when
my grandfather the King of South Wales had ridden up from Maridunum with hi
s train to talk with him. I, a boy of twelve, had been with them, and on th
at journey had discovered for the first time that the dreams of the crystal
 cave were true. Here, in this wild and quiet corner of the world, I had fi
rst felt power, and found myself as a seer.

   That had been a winter journey, too. As I walked lip the weedy road tow
ards the gateway set between its crumbling towers, I tried to conjure again
 the colours of cloaks and banners and bright weapons where now, in the blu
e shadows of morning, lay only the unprinted frost.
   The vast complex of buildings was deserted. Here and there on the nake
d and fallen masonry the black marks of fire told their story. Elsewhere y
ou could see where men had taken the great stones, stripping the very pavi
ng from the streets and carrying it off for their own building. There were
 dry thistles in the window spaces, and young trees rooted on the walls. A
 well-shaft gaped, choked with rubble. The cisterns brimmed with rain wate
r, which slopped out through the grooves on the edge where men had sharpen
ed their swords. No, there was nothing to see. The place was empty, even o
f ghosts- The winter sun shone down on a wide and crumbling waste land. Th
e silence was complete.

   I remember that as I walked through the shells of the buildings I was thi
nking, not of the past, not even of my present quest, but practically, as Amb
rosius' engineer, of the future. I was weighing up the place as Tremorinus th
e chief engineer and I had been used to do: shifting this, repairing that, ma
king the towers good, abandoning the north-easterly blocks to make good the w
est and south . . . Yes, if Arthur should ever need Segontium . . .
   I had come to the top of the rise, the center of the fort where the Com
mandant's house-Maximus' house-had stood. It was as derelict as the rest. T
he great door still hung on rotting hinges, but the lintel was broken and s
agging, and the place was dangerous. I went cautiously inside. In the main
chamber there was daylight spilling through gaps in the roof, and piles of
rubble half hid the walls where paint still showed, flaked and dark with da
mp. In the dimness I could see the remains of a table-too massive to take a
way, and not worth chopping for kindling-and behind it the shredded remnant
s of leather hangings on the wall. A general had sat here once, planning to
 conquer Rome, as formerly Rome had conquered Britain. He had failed, and d
ied, but in failing he had sown the seeds of an idea which after him anothe
r king had picked up. "It will be one country, a kingdom in its own right,"
 my father had said, "not merely a province of Rome. Rome is going, but for
 a while at least, we can stand." And through this came the memory of anoth
er voice, the voice of the prophet who sometimes spoke through me: "And th
e kingdoms shall be one Kingdom, and the gods one God."
   It would be time to listen to those ghostly voices when a general sat the
re once again. I turned back into the bright morning stillness. Where, in thi
s waste land, was the end of my quest?

   From here you could see the sea, with the small crowded houses of the p
ort, and across from this the druids' isle that is called Mona, or Von, so
that the people call the place Caer-y-n'ar Von. To the other side, behind m
e, reared the Snow Hill, Y Wyddfa, where if a man could climb and live amon
g the snows, he would meet the gods walking. Against its distant whiteness
showed, dark and ruined, the remains of Macsen's Tower. And suddenly, from
this new angle, I saw it afresh. The tower of my dream; the tower in the pi
cture on Ahdjan's wall ... I left the Commandant's house and walked quickly
 out of the fortress gate towards it.

   It stood in a wilderness of tumbled stones, but I knew that near it, dug
into the side of the little valley beyond the gate, and running in almost ben
eath the tower itself, was the temple of Mithras; and on the thought-I found
that my feet had led me, with no will of my own, down the path which led to t
he Mithraeum door.

   There were steps here, cracked and slippery. Halfway down the flight o
ne tread thrust upwards vertically, half blocking the stairway, and at the
 foot was a pile of mud and shards, fouled by rats and prowling dogs. The
place stank of damp and dirt and some ancient noisomeness that might have
been spilled blood. On the ruined wall above the steps some roosting birds
 had whitened the stones; the dung was greening over now with slime. A jac
kdaw's perch, perhaps? A raven of Mithras? A merlin? I trod cautiously for
ward over the slimy flags, and paused in the temple doorway.

   It was dark, but some sunlight had followed me in, and there was enough
light from a hole broken in the roof somewhere, so that I could see dimly. T
he temple was as filthy and forlorn as the stairway that led to it. Only the
 strength of the vaulted roof had saved the place from falling in under the
weight of the hillside above. The furnishings had gone long since, the brazi
ers, benches, carvings; this, like the scoured ruin overhead, was a shell em
pty of its tenant. The four lesser altars had been broken and defaced, but t
he central altar stood there still, fixed and massive, with its carved dedic
ation to the unconquered god, MITHRAE INVICTO, but above the altar, in the a
pse, axe and hammer and fire had obliterated the story of the bull and the c
onquering god. All that remained of the picture of the bull-slaying was an e
ar of wheat, down in one corner, its carving still sharp and new and miracul
ously unspoiled. The air, sour with the smell of some fungus, caught at the lungs.

   It seemed fitting to say a prayer to the god departed. As I spoke aloud,
 something in the echo of my voice came, not like an echo, but an answer. I
had been wrong. The place was not yet empty. It had been holy, and was strip
ped of its holiness; but something was still held down to that cold altar. T
he sour smell was not the smell of fungus. It was unlit incense, and cold as
hes, and unsaid prayers.

  I had been his servant once. There was no one here but I. Slowly, I walk
ed forward into the center of the temple, and held out my open hands.

   Light, and colour, and fire. White robes and chanting. Fires licking up
wards like light blowing. The bellow of a dying bull and the smell of blood
. Outside somewhere the sun blazing and a city rejoicing to welcome its new
 king, and the sound of laughter and marching feet. Round me incense pourin
g heavy and sweet, and a voice that said through it, calm and small: "Throw
 down my altar. It is time to throw it down."

   I came to myself coughing, with the air round me swirling thick with dust
, and the sound of a crash still echoing round and round the vaulted chamber.
 The air trembled and rang. At my feet lay the altar, hurled over on its back
 into the curve of the apse.

   I stared, dazed still and with swimming sight, at the hole it had torn i
n the floor where it had stood. My head sang with the echo; the hands I held
 stiffly before me were filthy, and one of them showed a bleeding gash. The
altar was heavy, of massive stone, and in my right mind I would never have l
aid hands to it; but here it lay at my feet, with the echo of its fall dying
 in the roof, followed by the whisper of settling masonry as the crumbled pa
vement began to slide down into the hole where the altar had stood.

  Something showed in the depths of the hole: a hard straight edge and a co
rner too sharp for stone. A box. I knelt down and reached for it.
   It was of metal, and very heavy, but the lid lifted easily. Whoever had b
uried it had trusted the god's protection rather than a lock. Inside, my hand
s met canvas cloth, long rotten, which tore; then inside that again, wrapping
s of oiled leather. Something long and slender and supple; here at last it wa
s. Gently, I took the wrappings off the sword and held it naked across my han
ds.
   A hundred years since they had put it here, those men who had made thei
r way back from Rome. It shone in my hands, as bright and dangerous and bea
utiful as on the day it had been made. It was no wonder, I thought, that al
ready in that hundred years it had become a thing of legend. It was easy to
 believe that the old smith, Weland himself, who was old before the Romans
came, might have made this last artifact before he faded with the other sma
ll gods of wood and stream and river, into the misty hills, leaving the cro
wded valleys to the bright gods of the Middle Sea. I could feel the power f
rom the sword running into my palms, as if I held them in water where light
ning struck. Whoso takes this sword from under this stone is rightwise King
 born of all Britain . . . The words were clear as if spoken, bright as if
carved on the metal. I, Merlin, only son of Ambrosius the King, had taken t
he sword from the stone. I, who had never given an order in battle, nor led
 so much as a troop; who could not handle a war stallion, but rode a geldin
g or a quiet mare. I, who had never even lain with a woman. I, who was no m
an, but only eyes and a voice. A spirit, I had said once, a word. No more.
  The sword was not for me. It would wait.

   I wrapped the beautiful thing up again in the filthy wrappings, and knel
t to replace it. I saw that the box was deeper than I had thought; there wer
e other objects there. The rotten canvas had fallen away to show the shape,
gleaming in the dimness, of a wide-mouthed dish, a krater such as I had seen
 on my travels in countries east of Rome. It seemed to be of red gold, studd
ed with emeralds. Beside it, still half muffled in wrappings, gleamed the br
ight edge of a lance-head. The rim of a platter showed, crusted with sapphir
e and amethyst.

   I leaned forward to lay the sword back in its place. But before I could
do it, without any warning, the heavy lid of the box fell shut with a crash.
 The noise set the echoes drumming again, and brought down with it a cascade
 of stone and plaster from the apse and the crumbling walls above. It happen
ed so quickly that in the single moment of my own sharp recoil the box, hole
 and all had vanished from view under the rubble.
   I was left kneeling there in the choking cloud of dust, with the shrouded
 sword held fast in my filthy and bleeding hands. From the apse, the last of
the carving had vanished. It was only a curved wall, showing blank, like the
wall of a cave.
11

The ferryman at the Deva knew the holy man of whom the smith had spoken. It
seemed he lived in the hills above Ector's fortress, at the edge of the grea
t tract of mountain land they call the Wild Forest. Though I no longer felt
myself to need the hermit's guidance, it would do no harm to talk to him, an
d his cell-a chapel, the ferryman called it-lay on my way, and might give me
 lodging until I considered how best to present myself at Count Ector's gate
s.

   Whether or not the possession of the sword had in fact carried power wit
h it, I travelled fast and easily, and with no more alarms. A week after lea
ving Segontium we-the mare and I-cantered easily along the green margin of a
 wide, calm lake, making for a light which showed pale in the early dusk, hi
gh as a star among the trees on the other shore.
   It was a long way round the lake, and it was full dark when at last I trott
ed the tired mare up the forest track into a clearing and saw, against the soft
 and living darkness of the forest, the solid wedge of the chapel roof.

    It was a smallish oblong building set back against the trees at the far s
ide of a large clearing. All round the open space the pines stood in a dark a
nd towering wall, but above was a roof of stars, and beyond the pines, on eve
ry side, the glimmer of the snow-clad heights that cupped this corrie high in
 the hills. To one side of the clearing, in a basin of mossy rock, stood a st
ill, dark pool; one of those springs that well up silently from below, for ev
er renewing itself without sound. The air was piercingly cold, and smelled of
 pines.

   There were mossed and broken steps leading up to the chapel door. This w
as open, and inside the building the light burned steadily. I dismounted and
 led the mare forward. She pecked against a stone, her hoof rapping sharply.
 You would have thought that anyone living in this solitary place would have
 come out to investigate, but there was no sound, no movement. The forest hu
ng still. Only, far overhead, the stars seemed to move and breathe as they d
o in the winter air. I slipped the mare's bridle off over her ears, and left
 her to drink at the well. Gathering my cloak round me, I trod up the mossy
steps, and entered the chapel.
  It was small, oblong in shape, with a highish barrel roof; a strange buil
ding to find in the wild heart of the forest, where at most one might have ex
pected a rough-built hut, or at least a cave, or dwelling contrived among the
 stones. But this had been built as a shrine, a holy place for some god to dw
ell in. The floor was of stone flags, clean and unbroken. In the center, oppo
site the door, stood the altar, with a thick curtain of some worked stuff hun
g behind it. The altar itself was covered with a clean, coarse cloth, on whic
h stood the lighted lamp, a simple, country-made thing which nevertheless gav
e a strong and steady light. It had recently been filled with oil, and the wi
ck was trimmed and unsmoking. To one side of the altar, on the step, was a st
one bowl of the kind I had seen used for sacrifice; it had been scoured white
, and held sweet water. To the other side stood a lidded pot of some dark met
al, pierced, such as the Christians use to burn incense. The air of the chape
l still held, faintly, the sweet gummy smell. Three bronze lamps, triple-bran
ched, stood unlit against a wall.

   The rest of the chapel was bare. Whoever kept it, whoever had lighted th
e lamp and burned the incense, slept elsewhere.
   I called aloud: "Is anyone there?" and waited for the echoes to run up int
o the roof and die. No answer.

   My dagger was in my hand; it had sprung there without conscious thought
on my part. I had met this kind of situation before, and it had only meant o
ne thing; but that had been in Vortigern's time, the time of the Wolf. Such
a man as this hermit, living alone in a solitary place, trusted to the place
 itself, its god and its holiness, to protect him. It should have been enoug
h, and in my father's time had certainly been so. But things had changed, ev
en in the few years since his death. Uther was no Vortigern, but it seemed s
ometimes that we were sliding back to the time of the Wolf. The times were w
ild and violent, and filled with alarms of war; but more than this, faiths a
nd loyalties were changing faster than men's minds could grow to apprehend t
hem. There were men about who would kill even at the altar's horns. But I ha
d not thought there were any such in Rheged, when I chose it for Arthur's sa
nctuary.

   Struck by an idea, I stepped carefully past the altar and drew back the
edge of the curtain. My guess had been right; there was a space behind the c
urtain, a semicircular recess which was apparently used as storage room; dim
ly the lamplight showed a clutter of stools and oil jars and sacred vessels.
 At the back of the recess a narrow doorway had been cut in the wall.
  I went through. It was here, obviously, that the keeper of the place liv
ed. There was a small square chamber built on the end of the chapel, with a
low window deeply recessed, and another door giving, presumably, straight on
 the forest. I felt my way across in the dimness and pushed the door open. O
utside the starlight showed me the rampart of pine trees crowding close, and
 to one side a lean-to shed, with its overhanging roof sheltering a stack of
 fuel. Nothing else.

   Leaving the door wide, I surveyed what I could see of the room. There was
 a wooden bed with skins and blankets piled on it, a stool, and a small table
 with a cup and platter where the remains of a meal lay half-eaten. I picked
up the cup; it was half full of thin wine. On the table a candle had burned d
own into a mess of tallow. The smell of the dead candle still hung there, mix
ed with the smell of the wine and the dead embers on the hearth. I put a fing
er to the tallow; it was still soft.

   I went back into the chapel. I stood by the altar, and shouted again. The
re were two windows, one to either side, high in the wall; they were unglazed
, open on the forest. If he was not too far away, he would surely hear me. Bu
t again there was no reply.

    Then, huge and silent as a ghost, a great white owl swept in through one
 window and sailed across the lamplit space. I caught a glimpse of the cruel
 beak, the soft wings, the great eyes, blind and wise, then it was gone with
 no more sound than a spirit makes. It was only the dillyan wen, the white o
wl which haunts every tower and ruin in the country, but my flesh crept on m
y bones. From outside came the long, sad, terrible cry of the owl, and after
 it, like an echo, the sound of a man moaning.

  Without his moaning I would not have found him till daylight. He was ro
bed and hooded in black, and he lay face down under the dark trees at the e
dge of the clearing, beyond the spring. A jug fallen from his hand showed w
hat his errand had been. I stooped and gently turned him over.

   He was an old man, thin and frail, with bones that felt as brittle as a
bird's. When I had made sure that none was broken, I picked him up in my arm
s and carried him back indoors. His eyes were half open, but he was still un
conscious; in the lamplight I could see how one side of his face was dragged
 down as if a statuary had run his hand down suddenly over the clay, blurrin
g the outline. I put him into his bed, wrapped warm. There was kindling left
 by the hearth, and what looked like a winter-stone ready among the ashes. I
 brought more fuel, then made fire and, when the stone, was warm, drew it ou
t, wrapped it in cloth, and put it to the old man's feet. For the moment the
re was nothing more that could be done for him, so after I had seen to the m
are I made a meal for myself, then settled by the dying fire to watch throug
h the rest of the night.

   For four days I tended him, while none came near except the forest creatu
res and the wild deer, and at night the white owl haunting the place as if it
 waited to convoy his spirit home.

   I did not think he could recover; his face was fallen in and grey, and I
had seen the same blue tinge round the mouths of dying men. From time to time
 he seemed to come half to the surface, to know I was beside him. At such tim
es he was restless always, fretting, I understood, about the care of the shri
ne. When I tried to talk to him and reassure him, he seemed not to understand
, so in the end I drew back the curtains that parted the room from the shrine
, so that he might see the lamp still burning in its place on the altar.

   It was a strange time for me, by day tending the chapel and its keeper,
and by night snatching sleep while I watched the sick man and waited for his
 restless muttering to make sense. There was a small store of meal and wine
in the place, and with the dried meat and raisins left in my pack, I had suf
ficient food. The old man could scarcely swallow; I kept him alive on warm w
ine mixed with water, and a cordial I made for him from the medicines I carr
ied. Each morning I was amazed that he had lived through the night. So I sta
yed, tending the place by day, and by night spending long hours beside him w
atching, or else in the chapel where the smell of incense slowly faded and t
he sweet air of the pines floated in and set the flame of the lamp aslant in
 its well of oil.

    Now when I look back on that time it is like an island in moving waters.
 Or like a dreaming night which gives rest and impetus between the hard days
. I ought to have been impatient to get on with my journey, to meet Arthur a
nd to talk with Ralf again and arrange with Count Ector how best, without be
traying either of us, I might enter the fabric of Arthur's life. But I troub
led myself with none of these things. The shrouding forest, the still and gl
owing shrine, the sword lying where I had hidden it under the thatch of the
shed, these held me there, serene and waiting. One never knows when the gods
 will call or come, but there are times when their servants feel them near,
and this was such a time.

  On the fifth night, as I carried in wood to build the fire, the hermit spo
ke to me from the bed. He was watching me from his pillows, and though he had
not the strength to lift his head, his eyes were level and clear.
  "Who are you?"

  I set down the wood and went over to the bedside. "My name is Emrys, I
was passing through the forest, and came on the shrine. I found you by the
well, and brought you back to your bed."

  "I ... remember. I went to get water ..." I could see the effort that the
memory cost him, but intelligence was back in his eyes, and his speech, though
blurred, was clear enough.

   "You were taken ill," I told him. "Don't trouble yourself now. I'll get yo
u something to drink, then you must rest again. I have a brew here which will
strengthen you. I am a doctor; don't be afraid of it."

   He drank, and after a while his colour seemed better, and his breathing
easier. When I asked him if he was in pain, his lips said, "No," without sou
nd, and he lay quietly for a while, watching the lamp beyond the doorway. I
made the fire up and propped him higher on his pillows to ease his breathing
, then sat down and waited with him. The night was still; from close outside
 came the hooting of the white owl I thought: You will not have long to wait
, my friend.
  Towards midnight the old man turned his head easily on the pillows and
asked me suddenly: "Are you a Christian?"

  "I serve God."

  "Will you keep the shrine for me when I am gone?"

   "The shrine shall be kept. Trust me for it." He nodded, as if satisfied,
and lay quiet for a time. But I thought something still troubled him; I could
 see it working behind his eyes. I heated more wine and mixed the cordial and
 held it to his lips. He thanked me with courtesy, but as if he was thinking
of something else, and his eyes went back to the lighted doorway of the shrine.
   I said: "If you wish, I will ride down and bring you a Christian priest. Bu
t you will have to tell me the way."

   He shook his head, and closed his eyes again. After a while he said, thin
ly: "Can you hear them?"
  "I can hear nothing but the owl."
  "Not that, no. The others."

  "What others?"

   "They crowd at the doors. Sometimes on a night of midsummer you can hea
r them crying like young birds, or like flocks on the far hills." He moved
his head on the pillow. "Did I do wrong, I wonder, to shut them out?"

   I understood him then, I thought of the bowl of sacrifice, the well outs
ide, the unlit lamps in the sacred nine of an older religion than any. And I
 think some part of my mind was with the white shadow that floated through t
he forest boughs outside. The place, if my blood told me aright, had been ho
ly time out of mind. I asked him gently: "Whose was the shrine, father?"

   "It was called the place of the trees. After that the place of the stone. Th
en for a while it had another name . . , but now down in the village they call i
t the chapel in the green."

  "What was the other name?"

   He hesitated, then said: "The place of the sword." I felt the nape of my
 neck prickle, as if the sword itself had touched me. "Why, father? Do you k
now?"

   He was silent for a moment, and his eyes watched me, considering. Then h
e gave the ghost of a nod, as if he had reached some conclusion that satisfi
ed him. "Go into the shrine and draw the cloth from the altar."

   I obeyed him, lifting the lamp down to the step in front of the altar, a
nd taking off the cloth that had draped it to the ground. It had been possib
le to see even through the covering cloth that the altar was not a table suc
h as the Christians commonly use, but as high as a man's waist, and of the R
oman shape. Now I saw that this was indeed so. It was the twin of the one in
 Segontium, a Mithras altar with a squared front and the edge scrolled to fr
ame the carving. And carving there had been, though it was there no longer.
I could make out the words MITHRAE and INVICTO across the top, but on the pa
nel below where other words had been, a sword had been cut clear through the
m, its hilt, like a cross, marking the center of the altar. The remains of t
he other letters had been gouged away, and the sword blade carved in high re
lief among them. It was rough carving, but clear, and as familiar to my eyes
 as that hilt was already ' familiar to my hand. I realized then, staring at
 it, that the sword in the stone was the only cross the chapel held. And abo
ve it, only the dedication to Mithras Unconquered remained. The rest of the
altar was bare.

   I went back to the old man's bedside. His eyes waited, with a question i
n them. I asked him: "What does Macsen's sword do here, carved like a cross
in the altar?"
    His eyes closed, then opened again, lightly. He fetched a long, light br
eath. "So. It is you. You have been sent. It was time. Sit down again, while
 I tell you." As I obeyed him, he said, strongly enough, but in a voice stre
tched thin as wire: "There is just time to tell you. Yes, it is Macsen's swo
rd, him the Romans called Maximus, who was Emperor here in Britain before th
e Saxons ever came, and who married a British princess. The sword was forged
 south of here, they say, from iron found in Snow Hill within sight of the s
ea, and tempered with water that runs from that hill into the sea. It is a s
word for the High King of Britain, and was made to defend Britain against he
r enemies."

  "So when he took it to Rome, it availed him nothing?"

   "It is a marvel it did not break in his hand. But after he was murdered the
y brought the sword home to Britain, and it is ready for the King's hand that c
an find it, and finding, raise.

  "And you know where they hid it?"

   "I never knew that, but when I was a boy and came here to serve the god
s, the priest of the shrine told me that they had taken it back to the coun
try where it was made, to Segontium. He told me the story, as it happened i
n this very place, years before his time. It was ... it was after the Emper
or Macsen had died at Aquileia by the Inland Sea, and those of the British
who were left came home. They came through Brittany, and landed here on the
 west, and took the road home through the hills, and they came by here. Som
e of them were servants of Mithras, and when they saw this place was holy,
they waited here for the summer midnight, and prayed. But most were Christi
ans, and one was a priest, so when the others had done they asked him to sa
y a mass. But there was neither cross nor cup, only the altar as you see it
. So they talked together, and went to where their horses were standing, an
d took from the bundles tied there treasure beyond counting. And among the
treasure was the sword, and a great krater, a grail of the Greek fashion, w
ide and deep. They stood the sword over against the altar for a cross, and
they drank from the grail, and it was said afterwards that no man was there
 that day but found his spirit satisfied. They left gold for the shrine, bu
t the sword and the grail they would not leave. One of them took a chisel a
nd a hammer and made the altar as you see it. Then they rode away with the
treasure, and did not come this way again."

  "It's a strange story. I never heard it before."
   "No man has heard it. The keeper of the shrine swore by the old gods and
 the new that he would say nothing save to the priest who came after. And I,
 in my turn, was told." He paused. "It is said that one day the sword itself
 will come back to the shrine, to stand here for a cross. So in my time I ha
ve struggled to keep the shrine clean of all but what you see. I took the li
ghts away, and the offering bowls, and threw the crooked knife into the lake
. The grass has grown now over the stone. I drove out the owl that nested in
 the roof, and I took the silver and copper coins from the well and gave the
m to the poor." Another long pause, so long that I thought he had gone. But
then his eyes opened again. "Did I do right?"

  "How can I tell? You did what you thought was right. No one can do more
than that."
  "What will you do?" he asked.

  "The same."
  "And you will tell no man what I have told you, save him who should kn
ow?"

  "I promise."
   He lay quietly, with trouble still in his face, and his eyes intent on some
thing distant and long ago. Then, imperceptibly but as definitely as a man step
ping into a cold stream to cross it, he made a decision. "Is the cloth still of
f the altar?"

  "Yes."

   "Then light the nine lamps and fill the bowl with wine and oil, and open
the doors to the forest, and carry me where I can see the sword again."
   I knew that if I lifted him, he would die in my hands. His breath laboured
 harshly in the thin chest, and the frail body shook with it. He turned his he
ad on the pillows, feebly now.

   "Make haste." When I hesitated, I saw fear touch his face. "I tell you I mus
t see it. Do as I say."

   I thought of the shrine scoured and swept of all its ancient sanctities; and
then of the sword itself, hidden with the King's gold in the roof-beams of the st
able outside. But it was too late even for that. "I cannot lift you, father," I s
aid, "but lie still. I will bring the altar here to you."

  "How can you-?" he began, then stopped with wonder growing in his face,
and whispered: "Then bring it quickly, and let me go."

   I knelt beside the bed, facing away from him, looking at the red heart o
f the fire. The logs had fallen from their blaze into a glowing cave, crysta
ls glimmering in a globe of fire. Beside me the difficult breathing came and
 went like the painful beat of my own blood. The beat surged in my temples,
hurting me. Deep in my belly the pain grew and burned. The sweat ran scaldin
g down my face, and my bones shook in their sheath of flesh as, grain by gra
in and inch by shining inch, I built that altar-stone for him against the da
rk, blank wall. It rose slowly, solid, and blotted out the fire. The surface
 of the stone was lucent against the dark, and ripples of light touched it a
nd wavered across it, as if it floated on sunlit water. Then, lamp by lamp,
I lit the nine flames so that they floated with the stone like riding-lights
. The wine brimmed in the bowl, and the censer smoked. INVICTO, I wrote, and
 groped, sweating, for the name of the god. But all that came was the single
 word INVICTO, and then the sword stood forward out of the stone like a blad
e from a splitting sheath, and the blade was white iron with runes running d
own it in the wavering water-light, below the flashing hilt and the word in
the stone, TO HIM UNCONQUERED . . .

   It was morning, and the first birds were stirring. Inside, the place was
very quiet. He was dead, gone as lightly as the vision I had made for him out
 of shadows. It was I who, stiff and aching, moved like a ghost to cover the
altar and tend the lamp.



BOOK III
THE SWORD


1


When I had promised the dying man to see that the chapel was cared for, I h
ad not thought of doing this myself. There was a monastery in one of the li
ttle valleys not far from Count Ector's castle, and it should not be hard t
o find someone from there who would live here and care for the place. This
did not mean I must hand over the sword's secret to him; it was mine now, a
nd the end of its story was in my hands.

  But as the days passed, I thought better of my decision to approach the br
others. To begin with, I was forced to inaction, and given time to think.

  I buried the old man's body, and just in time, as the next day the snow ca
me, falling thick, soft and silent, to shroud the forest deep, and island the
chapel and block the tracks. To tell the truth I was glad to stay; there was e
nough food and fuel, and both the mare and I needed the rest.

  For two weeks or more the snow lay; I lost track of days, but Christmas c
ame and went, and the start of the year. Arthur was nine years old.

   So perforce I kept the shrine. I supposed that whoever came as keeper wo
uld, like the old man, fight to keep the place clear for his own God, but in
 the meantime I was content to let what god would take the place. I would op
en it again to any who would use it. So I put away the altar cloth, and clea
ned the three bronze lamps and set them about the altar and lighted the nine
 flames. About the stone and the spring I could do nothing until the snow me
lted. Nor could I find the curving knife, and for this I was thankful; that
Goddess is not one to whom I would willingly open a door. I kept the sweet h
oly-water in her bowl of sacrifice, and at morning and evening burned a pinc
h of incense. The white owl came and went at will. By night I shut the chape
l door to keep out the cold and the wind, but it was never locked, and all d
ay it stood open, with the lights shining out over the snow.

   Some time after the turn of the year the snow melted, and the tracks th
rough the forest showed black and deep in mire. Still I made no move. I had
 had time to think, and I saw that I must surely have been led up to the ch
apel by the same hand that had guided me to Segontium. Where better could I
 stay to be near Arthur without attracting attention? The chapel provided t
he perfect hiding-place. I knew well enough that the place would be held in
 awe, and its guardian with it. The "holy man of the forest" would be accep
ted without question. Word would go round that there was a new and younger
holy man, but, country memories being long, folk would recall how each herm
it as he died had been succeeded by his helper, and before long I would sim
ply be "the hermit of the Wild Forest" in my turn and in my own right. And
with the chapel as my home and my cure, I could visit the village for suppl
ies, talk to the people, and in this way get news, at the same time ensurin
g that Count Ector would hear of my installation in the Wild Forest.

   About a week after the thaw started, before I would risk taking Strawb
erry down through the knee-deep mud of the tracks, I had visitors. Two of
the forest people; a small, thickset dark man dressed in badly cured deers
kins, which stank, and a girl, his daughter, wrapped in coarse woollen clo
th. They had the same swarthy looks and black eyes as the hill men of Gwyn
edd, but under its weather-beaten brown the girl's face was pinched and gr
ey. She was suffering, but dumbly like an animal; she neither moved nor ma
de a sound when her father unwrapped the rags from her wrist and forearm s
wollen and black with poison.

  "I have promised her that you will heal her," he said simply.
   I made no comment then, but took her hand, speaking gently in the Old T
ongue. She hung back, afraid, until I explained to the man-whose name was M
ab-that I must heat water and cleanse my knife in the fire; then she let hi
m lead her inside. I cut the swelling, and cleaned and bound the arm. It to
ok a long time, and the girl made no sound throughout, but under the dirt h
er pallor grew, so when I had done and had wrapped clean bandages round the
 arm I heated wine for both of them, and brought out the last of my dried r
aisins, and meal cakes to go with them. These last I had made myself, tryin
g my hand at them as I had so often watched my servant do at home. At first
 my cakes had been barely eatable, even when sopped in wine, but lately I h
ad got the trick of it, and it gave me pleasure to see Mab and the girl eat
 eagerly, and then reach for more. So from magic and the voices of gods to
the making of meal cakes: this, perhaps the lowest of my skills, was not th
e one in which I took least pride.

  "Now," I said to Mab, "it seems that you knew I was here?"

   "Word went through the forest. No, do not look like that, Myrddin Emrys
. We tell no one. But we follow all who move in the forest and we know all
that passes."
  "Yes. Your power. I was told so. I may need its help, while I stay here ke
eping the chapel."

  "It's yours. You have lighted the lamps again."

  "Then give me the news."
   He drank, and wiped his mouth. "The winter has been quiet. The coasts ar
e bound with storms. There was fighting in the south, but it is over and the
 borders are whole. Cissa has taken ship to Germany. Aelle stays, with his s
ons. In the north there is nothing. Gwarthegydd has quarrelled with his fath
er Caw, but when did that breed ever rest quiet? He has fled to Ireland, but
 that is nothing. They say also that Riagath is with Niall in Ireland. Niall
 has feasted with Gilloman, and there is peace between them."

   It was a bare recital of facts, told through with neither expression nor rea
l understanding, as if learned by rote. But I could piece it together. The Saxon
s, Ireland, the Picts of the north; threats on all sides, but no more than threa
ts: not yet.

  "And the King?" I asked.

   "Is himself, but not the man he was. Where he was brave, now he is angry
. His followers fear him."
  "And the King's son?" I waited for the answer. How much did these folk r
eally see?

   The black eyes were unreadable. "They say he is on the Isle of Glass, b
ut then what do you do here in the Wild Forest, Myrddin Emrys?"

  "I tend the shrine. You are welcome to it. All are welcome."

   He was silent for a while. The girl crouched beside the fire, watching me,
 her fear apparently gone. She had finished eating, but I had seen her slip a
couple of the meal cakes into the folds of her clothes, and smiled to myself.

  I said to Mab: "If I should need to send a message, would your people take
it?"
  "Willingly."
  "Even to the King?"

  "We would contrive that.it should reach him."

   "As for the King's son," I said, "you say that you and your people see all
 that passes in the forest. If my magic should reach out to the King's son in
his hiding-place, and call him to me through the forest, will he be safe?"

   He made the strange sign that I had seen Llyd's men make, and nodded. "
He will be safe. We will watch him for you. Did you not promise Llyd that h
e would be our King as well as the king of those in the cities of the south
?"

  "He is everyone's King," I said.

   The girl's arm must have healed cleanly, for he did not bring her back.
Two days later a freshly snared pheasant appeared at the back door, with a s
kin of the honey mead. In my turn I cleared the drifted snow from the stone,
 and put a cup in the place made for it above the spring. I never saw anyone
 near either, but there were signs I recognized, and when I left part of a n
ew batch of meal cakes at the back door they would vanish overnight, and som
e offering appear in their place-a piece of venison, perhaps, or the leg of
a hare.

    As soon as the forest tracks were clear I saddled Strawberry and rode do
wn towards Galava. The way led down the banks of the stream, and along the n
orthern shore of a lake. This was a smaller lake than the great stretch of w
ater at, whose head Galava lay; it was little more than a mile long, and per
haps a third of a mile wide, with the forest crowding down on every hand rig
ht to the water. About midway along, but nearer the southern shore, was an i
sland, not large, but thickly grown with trees, a piece of the surrounding f
orest broken off and thrown down into the quiet water. It was a rocky island
, its trees crowding steeply up towards the high crags which reared at the c
enter. These were of grey stone, outlined still with the last of the snow, a
nd looking for all the world like the towers of a castle. On that day of lea
den stillness there was about them a kind of burnished brightness. The isl
and swam above its own reflection, the mirrored towers seeming to sink, fat
homs deep, into the still center of the lake.
  From the other end of this lake the stream flowed out again, this time a
s a young river, swollen with snow water, cutting its way deep and fast thro
ugh beds of pallid rushes and black marshland seamed with willow and alder,
towards Galava. In a mile or so the valley widened, and the marsh gave way t
o the cultivated land and the walls of small farms, and the cottages of the
settlement crowding close under the protection of the castle walls. Beyond E
ctor's towers, jutting grey and uncompromising through the black winter tree
s, was the great lake which stretched as far as the eye could see, to merge
with the sullen sky.
   The first place I came to was a farm set a short way back from the river
-side. It was not the kind of farm we have in the south and south-west, buil
t on the Roman plan, but a place such as I had become used to seeing here in
 the north. There was a cluster of circular buildings, the farmhouse and the
 sheds for the beasts, all within a big irregular ring protected by a palisa
de of wood and stone. As I passed the gate a dog hurtled to the end of his c
hain, barking. A man, the owner by his dress, appeared in the doorway of a b
arn and stood staring. He had a billhook in his hand. I reined in and called
 a greeting. He came forward with a look of curiosity, but with the wariness
 that one saw everywhere in the country nowadays when a stranger approached.

  "Where are you bound, stranger? For the Count's castle of Galava?"

   "No. Only to the nearest place where I may buy food- meat and meal and
 perhaps some wine. I've come from the chapel up there in the forest. You
know it?"

   "Who doesn't? How does the old man up there, old Prosper? We've n
ot seen him since before the snow."

  "He died at Christmas," He crossed himself. "You were with him?"

   "Yes. I keep the chapel now." I gave no details. If he liked to assume
I had been there for some time, helping the chapel's keeper, that was all t
o the good. "My name is Myrddin," I told him. I had decided to use my own n
ame, rather than the "Emrys." Myrddin was a common enough name in the west,
 and would not necessarily be connected with the vanished Merlin; on the ot
her hand, if Arthur was still known as "Emrys," it might provoke questions
if a stranger of that name suddenly appeared in the district, and began to
spend time in the boy's company.

  "Myrddin, eh? Where are you from?"
  "I kept a hill shrine for a time in Dyfed."
   "I see." His eyes summed me, found me harmless, and he nodded. "Well,
 each to his task. No doubt your prayers serve us in their way as much as
 the Count's sword when it's needed. Does he know of the change up yonder?
"

   "I've seen no one since I came. The snow fell just after Prosper died. Wha
t sort of man is this Count Ector?"

  "A good lord and a good man. And his lady as good as he. You'll not lack
while they hold the forest." ' "Has he sons?"

   "Two, and likely boys both. You'll see them, I dare say, when the weath
er loosens. They ride in the forest most days. No doubt the Count will send
 for you when he comes home; he's away now, and the elder son with him. The
y expect him back at the turn of spring." He turned his head and called, an
d a woman appeared in the doorway of the house. "Catra, here's the new man
from the chapel. Old Prosper died at midwinter: you were right he wouldn't
last the new year in. Have you bread to spare from the baking, and a skin o
f wine? Good sir, you'll take a bite with us till the fresh batch comes fro
m the oven?"
   I accepted, and they made me welcome, and found me all I needed, bread
 and meal and a skin of wine, sheeps' tallow to make candles, oil for the
lamps and chopped feed for the mare. I paid for them, and Fedor-he told me
 his name-helped me pack my saddle-bags. I asked no more questions, but li
stened to all he told me of local news, and then, well content, rode back
to the shrine. The news would get to Ector, and the name; he would be the
one person who would immediately connect the new hermit of the Wild Forest
 with the Myrddin who had vanished with the winter from his cold hilltop i
n Wales.

   I rode down again at the beginning of February, this time to the village
 itself, where I found that the folk knew all about my coming and, as I had
guessed, accepted me already as part of the place. Had I tried to find a nic
he in village or castle I would still, I knew, have been "the foreigner" and
 "the stranger" and a subject of ceaseless gossip, but holy men were a class
 apart, and often wanderers, and the good folk took them as they came. I had
 been relieved to find that they never came up to the chapel; there was too
much of its ancient awesomeness still hanging about the place. They were mos
t of them Christians, and turned for their comfort to the community of broth
ers nearby, but old beliefs die hard, and I was regarded with more respect,
I believe, than the abbot himself.

   The same image of ancient holiness clung, I had found, about the island
in the lake. I had asked one of the hill men about it. It was known, he told
 me, as Caer Bannog, which means the Castle in the Mountains, and was said t
o be haunted by Bilis the dwarf king of the Otherworld. It was reputed to ap
pear and disappear at will, sometimes floating invisible, as if made of glas
s. No one would go near it, and though people fished on the lake in summer a
nd animals were grazed on the flat grassland at the western end where the ri
ver flowed into the valley, no one ventured near the island. Once a fisherma
n, caught in a sudden storm, had had his boat driven onto the island, and ha
d passed a night there.

   When he came home next day he was mad, and talked of a year spent in a
great castle made of gold and glass, where strange and terrible creatures g
uarded a hoard of treasure beyond man's counting. No one was tempted to go
and look for the treasure, for the fisherman was dead, raving, within the w
eek. So no man set foot now on the island, and though (they said) you could
 see the castle clearly sometimes of a fine sunset evening, when a boat row
ed nearer it vanished clear away, and it was well known that if you set foo
t on the shore, the island would sink beneath you.
   Such stories are not always to be dismissed as shepherds' tales. I had th
ought about it often, this other "isle of glass" that I found now almost on m
y doorstep, and wondered if its reputation would make it a safe hiding-place
for Macsen's sword. It would be some years yet before the boy Arthur could ta
ke and lift the sword of Britain, and meanwhile it was neither safe nor fitti
ng that it should be hidden in the roof of a beasts' shed out there in the fo
rest. It was a marvel, I had sometimes thought, that it did not set light to
the thatch. If it was indeed the King's sword of Britain, and Arthur was to b
e the King who would lift it, it must lie in a place as holy and as haunted a
s the shrine where I myself had found it. And when the day came the boy must
be led to it himself, even as I had been led. I was the god's instrument, but
 I was not the god's hand.
  So I had wondered about the island. And then, one day, I was sure.

   I went down to the village again in March for my monthly supplies. When
I rode back along the lake side the sun was setting, and a light mist wreath
ed along the water's surface. It made the island seem a long way off, and fl
oating, so that one might well imagine it ghostly, and ready to sink under a
 random foot. The sun, sinking in splendour, caught the crags, and sent them
 flaming up from the dark hangers of trees behind. In this light the strange
 formations of the rock looked like high embattled towers, the crest of a su
nlit castle standing above the trees. I looked, thinking of the legends, the
n looked again, and reined Strawberry in sharply and sat staring. There, acr
oss the fiat sheen of the lake, above the floating mist, was the tower of my
 dream again, Macsen's Tower, whole once more and built out of the sunset. T
he tower of the sword.
   I took the sword across next day. The mist was thicker than ever, and h
id me from anyone who might have been there to see.

   The island lay less than two hundred paces from the south shore of the l
ake. I would have swum the mare across, but found that she could go through
breast high. The lake was still as glass, and as silent. We forged across wi
th no more splashing than the wild deer make, and saw no living thing but a
pair of diver ducks, and a heron beating slowly past in the mist.
    I left the mare grazing, and carried the sword up through the trees till
 I reached the foot of the towered crags. I think I knew what I would find.
Bushes and young trees grew thickly along the scree at the foot of the clif
fs, but the boughs were barely budding, and through them I could see an open
ing, giving on a narrow passageway which led steeply downwards into the clif
fs. I had brought a torch with me. I lit it, then went quickly down the stee
p passage, and found myself in a deep inner cavern where no light came.

   In front of my feet lay a sheet of water, black and still, flooring half
the cavern. Beyond the pool, against the back of the cavern, stood a low bloc
k of stone; I could not tell if it was a natural ledge, or if men's hands had
 squared it, but it stood there like an altar, and to one side of it a bowl h
ad been hollowed in the stone. This was full of water, which in the smoky tor
chlight looked red as blood. Here and there from the roof water welled slowly
, dripping down. Where it struck the surface of the pool the water broke with
 the sound of a plucked harp-string, its echo rippling away with the widening
 rings of torchlight. But where it dripped dull on stone it had not, as you m
ight expect, worn the rock into hollows, but had built pillars, and above the
se from the dripping rocks hung solid stone icicles that had grown to meet th
e pillars below. The place was a temple, pillared in pale marble and floored
with glass. Even I, who was here by right, and hedged with power, felt my sca
lp tingle.
  By land and water shall it go home, and He hidden in the floating stone
until by fire it shall be raised again. So had the Old Ones said, and they w
ould have recognized this place as I did; as the dead fisherman did who came
 back from the Otherworld raving of the halls of the dark King. Here, in Bil
is' antechamber, the sword would be safe till the youth came who had the rig
ht to lift it.

   I waded forward through the pool. The floor sloped and the water deepen
ed. Now I could see how the dark passageway ran on, back and down behind th
e stone table, until the roof met the water's surface and the passage vanis
hed below the level of the lake. Ripples ringed and lapsed against the rock
, and the echoes ran round the walls and broke between the pillars. The wat
er was ice-cold. I laid the sword, still wrapped as I had found it on the s
tone table. I went back across the pool. The place sang with echoes. I stoo
d still, while they sank to a humming murmur and then died. My very breathi
ng sounded all at once too loud, an intrusion. I left the sword to its sile
nt waiting, and went quickly back up towards daylight. The shadows parted a
nd let me through.


2

April came, when Ector was expected home. For the first week of the month i
t rained and blew, weather like winter, so that the forest roared like the
sea and the draughts through the shrine kept the nine lights plunging sidel
ong and smoking. The white owl watched from the place where she sat her egg
s in the roof.

   Then I woke in the night to silence. The wind had dropped, the pines wer
e still. I rose and threw my cloak about me and went out. Outside the moon w
as high, and there in the north the Bear wheeled so low and brilliant that o
ne felt one could reach up and touch it, were it not that its touch would bu
rn. My blood ran light and free; my body felt rinsed and new clean as the fo
rest. For the rest of the night I slept no more than a lover does, and at fi
rst light rose and broke my fast and went to saddle Strawberry.

   The sun rose brilliant in a clear sky, and its early light poured into the
 glade. Yesterday's rain lay thick and glittering on the grasses and the new y
oung curls of fern; it dripped and steamed from the pines so that their scent
pierced the air. Beyond their bloomed crests the encircling hills smoked white
 towards the sky.
   I let the mare out of the shed, and was carrying the saddle over to her w
hen suddenly she lifted her head from her grazing, and put her ears up. Secon
ds later I heard what she had heard, the beat of hoofs, coming at a fast gall
op, far too fast for safety on a twisting path seamed with roots and overhung
 by branches. I set the saddle down, and waited.

   A neat black horse, galloped hard on a tight rein, burst out of the fore
st, came to a sliding stop three paces from me, and the boy who had been lyi
ng along his back like a leech slid, all in the same movement, to the ground
. The horse was sweating hard, and the bit dripped foam. Red showed inside t
he blown nostrils. That neat-footed gallop and the collected stop had been a
 matter of hard control, then. Nine years old? At his age I had been riding
a fat pony which had to be kicked to a trot.

    He gathered the reins competently in one hand and held the horse still when
 it tried to thrust past him to the water. He did it absently; his attention wa
s all on me.

  "Are you the new holy man?"

  "Yes."
  "Prosper was a friend of mine."

  "I'm sorry."
  "You don't much look like a hermit. Are you really keeping the chapel n
ow?"

  "Yes."
    He chewed his lip thoughtfully, regarding me. It was a look of appraisa
l, a weighing-up. Under it, as under no other I had encountered, I could fe
el my muscles clench themselves to hold nerves and heart-beats steady. I wa
ited. I knew that, as ever, my face gave nothing away. What he must be seei
ng was merely a harmless-looking man, unarmed, saddling an undistinguished
horse for his routine ride down the valley for supplies.

  He came apparently to a decision. "You won't tell anyone you saw me?"
  "Why, who's looking for you?"
   His lips parted, surprised. I got the impression that I had been supposed
to say: "Very well, sir." Then he turned his head sharply, and I heard it, too
. Hoofs coming, soft on the mossy ground. Fast, but not so fast as the hard-ri
dden black,

   "You haven't seen me, remember?" I saw his hand start towards his pouch
, then stop halfway. He grinned, and the sudden flash startled me: till tha
t moment he had been so like Uther, but that sudden lighting of the face wa
s Ambrosius', and the dark eyes were Ambrosius', too. Or mine.

  "I'm sorry." He said it politely, but very fast. "I do assure you I'm not
doing anything wrong. At least, not very. I'll let him catch me soon. But he w
on't let me ride the way I like to." He grabbed the saddle, ready to mount.

   "If you ride like that on these tracks," I said, "I don't blame him. Do yo
u need to go? Get inside there while I throw him off the scent, and I'll put y
our horse somewhere to cool off."

   "I knew you weren't a holy man," he said, in the tone of someone conve
ying a compliment, and throwing me the reins, he vanished through the back
 doorway.
   I led the black horse across to the shed, and shut the door on him. I st
ood there for a moment or two, breathing deeply as a man does when he comes
out of rough water, steadying myself. Ten years, waiting for this. I had bro
ken Tintagel's defenses for Uther, and killed Brithael its captain, with a s
teadier pulse than I had now. Well, he was here, and we should see. I went t
o the edge of the clearing to meet Ralf.

  He was alone, and furious. His big chestnut came up the track at a slam
ming canter, with Ralf crouched low on its neck. There was a thin scarlet m
ark on one cheek where a branch had whipped his face.

   The sun was full on the clearing, and he must have been dazzled. I thou
ght for a moment he was going to ride right over me. Then he saw me, and re
ined his horse hard to its haunches.

     "Hey, you! Did a boy ride through here a few minutes ago?"

     "Yes." I spoke softly, and put my hand up to the rein. "But hold a moment
-"
  "Out of the way, fool!" The chestnut, feeling the spurs go home, reared
violently, tearing the rein from my hand. On the same breath Ralf said, thun
derstruck: "My lord!" and hauled the horse sideways. The striking hoofs miss
ed me by inches. Ralf came out of the saddle as lightly as the boy Arthur, a
nd reached for my hand to kiss it.

   I drew it back quickly. "No. And get off your knee, man. He's here, so w
atch what you do."

  "Sweet Christ, my lord, I nearly ran you down! The sun in my eyes-I coul
dn't see who it was!"

   "So I imagined. A rather rough welcome, though, for the new hermit, Ral
f? Are those the usual manners of the north?"

   "My lord-my lord, I'm sorry. I was angry . . ." Then, honestly: "Only b
ecause he fooled me. And even when I sighted the young devil I couldn't com
e up with him. So I ..." Then what I had said got through to him. His voice
 trailed off, and he stood back, taking me in from head to foot as if he co
uld hardly believe his eyes. "The new hermit? You? You mean you are the 'My
rddin' of the shrine? ... Of course! How stupid of me, I never connected hi
m with you . . . And I'm sure no one else has-I haven't heard so much as a
hint that it might be Merlin himself-"

  "I hope you never will. All I am now is the keeper of the shrine, and so I s
hall remain, as long as it's necessary."

  "Does Count Ector know?"

  "Not yet. When is he due home?"
  "Next week."

  "Tell him then."
   He nodded, and then laughed, the surprise giving way to excitement, a
nd what looked like pleasure. "By the Rood, it's good to see you again, m
y lord! Are you well? How have you fared? How did you come here? And now-
what will happen now?"
  The questions came pouring out. I put up a hand, smiling. "Look," I said
 quickly, "we'll talk later. We'll arrange a time. But now, will you go and
lose yourself for an hour or so, and let me make the boy's acquaintance on m
y own?"

   "Of course. Will two hours do? You'll get a lot of credit for that-I'm no
t usually thrown off his track so easily." He glanced round the glade, but wi
th his eyes only, not moving his head. The place was still in the morning sun
, and silent but for the cock thrush singing. "Where is he? In the chapel? Th
en in case he's watching us, you'd better do some misdirecting."

   "With pleasure." I turned and pointed up one of the tracks which led out o
f the glade. "Will that one do? I don't know where it goes, but it might suffi
ce to lose you."

   "If it doesn't kill me," he said resignedly. "Of course it had to be that one
, didn't it? In the normal way I'd just call that a bad guess, but seeing it's yo
u-"
  "It was only a random choice, I assure you. I'm sorry. Is it so dangerous?"


   "Well, if I'm supposed to be looking for Arthur there, it's guaranteed t
o keep me out of the way for quite some time." He gathered the reins, miming
 hasty agreement for the benefit of the unseen watcher. "No, seriously, my l
ord-"

  " 'Myrddin.' No lord of yours now, nor of any man's."

   "Myrddin, then. No, it's a rough track but it's rideable- just. What's mor
e, it's just the way that devil's cub would have chosen to take ... I told you
, nothing you do can ever be quite random." He laughed. "Yes, it's good to hav
e you back. I feel as if the world had been lifted off my shoulders. These las
t few years have been pretty full ones, believe me!"

   "I believe you." He mounted, saluting, and I stepped back. He went acros
s the glade at a canter, and then the sound of hoofs dwindled up the ferny t
rack and was gone.

   The boy. was sitting on the table's edge, eating bread and honey. The h
oney was running off his chin. He slid to his feet when he saw me, wiped th
e honey off with the back of his hand, licked the hand and swallowed.
    "Do you mind very much? There seemed to be plenty, and I was starving.
"

    "Help yourself. There are dried figs in that bowl on the shelf."

  "Not just now, thank you. I've had enough. I'd better water Star now, I thi
nk. I heard Ralf go."

  As we led the horse across to the spring, he told me: "I call him Star for
that white star on his forehead. Why did you smile then?"

   "Only because when I was younger than you I had a pony called Aster; th
at means Star in Greek. And like you, I escaped from home one day and rode
up into the hills and came across a hermit living alone-it was a cave he li
ved in, not a chapel, but it was just as lonely-and he gave me honey cakes
and fruit."

    "You mean you ran away?"

   "Not really. Only for the day. I just wanted to get away alone. One has to
, sometimes."

    "Then you did understand? Is that why you sent Ralf away, and didn't tel
l him I was here? Most people would have told him straight away. They seem t
o think I need looking after," said Arthur in a tone of grievance. The horse
 lifted a streaming muzzle and blew the drops from its nostrils and turned f
rom the water. We began to walk back across the clearing. He looked up. "I h
aven't thanked you yet. I'm much obliged to you. Ralf won't get into trouble
, you know. I never tell when I give them the slip. My guardian would be ang
ry, and it's not their fault. Ralf will come back this way, and I'll go with
 him then. And don't worry yourself, either; I won't let him harm you. It's
always me he blames, anyway." That sudden grin again. "It's always my fault,
 as a matter of fact. Cei is older than me, but I get all the ideas."

   We had reached the shed. He made as if to hand me the reins, then, as h
e had done before, stopped in mid-gesture, led the horse in himself and tie
d him up. I watched from the doorway.

    "What's your name?" I asked. "Emrys. What's yours?"

  "Myrddin. And, oddly enough, Emrys. But then that's a common name w
here I come from. Who is your guardian?"
   "Count Ector. He's Lord of Galava." He turned from his task, his cheeks
flushed. I could see he was waiting for the next question, the inevitable qu
estion, but I did not ask it. I had spent twelve years myself having to tell
 every man who spoke to me that I was the bastard of an unknown father: I di
d not intend to force this boy through the same confession. Though there wer
e differences. If I was any judge, he had better defenses already than I had
 had at twice his age. And as the well-guarded foster son of the Count of Ga
lava, he did not have to live, as I had, with bastard shame. But then, I tho
ught again, watching him, the differences between this child and myself went
 deeper: I had been content with very little, not guessing my power; this bo
y would never be content with less than all.

   "And how old are you?" I asked him. "Ten?" He looked pleased. "As a matt
er of fact I've just had my ninth birthday."

  "And can ride already better than I do now."
  "Well, you're only a-" He bit it off, and went scarlet.

  "I only started work as a hermit at Christmas," I said mildly. "I've really
ridden around the place quite a lot."
  "What doing?"

  "Travelling. Even fighting, when I had to."
  "Fighting? Where?"

   As we talked I had led him round to the front entrance of the chapel, an
d up the steps. These were mossed with age, and steep, and I was surprised a
t the child's lightness of foot as he trod up them beside me. He was a tall
boy, sturdily built, with bones that gave promise of strength. There was ano
ther kind of promise, too, Uther's sort; he would be a handsome man. But the
 first impression one got of Arthur was of a controlled swiftness of movemen
t almost like a dancer's or a skilled swordsman's. There was something in it
 of Uther's restlessness, but it was not the same; this sprang from some dee
p inner core of harmony. An athlete would have talked of co-ordination, an a
rcher of a straight eye, a sculptor of a steady hand. Already in this boy, t
hey came together in the impression of a blazing but controlled vitality.
  "What battles were you in? You would be young, even when the Great Wars
were being fought? My guardian says that I will have to wait until I am four
teen before I go to war. It's not fair, because Cei is three years older, an
d I can beat him three times out of four. Well, twice perhaps . . . Oh!"

   As we went in through the chapel doorway the bright sunlight behind us ha
d thrown our shadows forward, so that at first the altar had been hidden. Now
, as we moved, the light reached it, the strong light of early morning, by so
me freak falling straight on the carved sword so that the blade seemed to lif
t clear and shining from its shadows on the stone. Before I could say a word
he had darted forward and reached for the hilt. I saw his hand meet the stone
, and the shock of it go through his flesh. He stood like that for seconds, a
s if tranced, then dropped the hand to his side and stepped back, still facin
g the altar.

   He spoke without looking at me. "That was the queerest thing. I thought it
 was real. I thought, 'There is the most beautiful and deadly sword in the wor
ld, and it is for me.' And all the time it wasn't real."
   "Oh, it's real," I said. Through the dazzling swirl of sun-motes I saw the
boy, hazed with brightness, turn to stare at me. Behind him the altar shimmered
 white with the ice-cold fire. "It's real enough. Some day it will lie on this
very altar, in the sight of all men. And he who then dares to touch and lift it
 from where it lies shall . . ."

  "Shall what? What shall he do, Myrddin?"

   I blinked, shook the sun from my eyes, and steadied myself. It is one th
ing to watch what is happening elsewhere on middle-earth; it is quite anothe
r to see what has not yet come out of the heavens. This last, which men call
 prophecy, and which they honour me for, is like being struck through the en
trails by that whip of God that we call lightning. But even as my flesh winc
ed from it I welcomed it as a woman welcomes the final pang of childbirth. I
n this flash of vision I had seen it as it would happen in this very place;
the sword, the fire, the young King. So my own quest through the Middle Sea,
 the painful journey to Segontium, the shouldering of Prosper's tasks, the h
iding of the sword in Caer Bannog-now I knew for certain that I had read the
 god's will aright. From now, it was only waiting.

  "What shall I do?" the voice demanded, insistent.

   I do not think the boy was conscious of the change in the question. He w
as fixed, serious, burning. The end of the lash had caught him, too. But it
was not yet time. Slowly, fighting the other words away, I gave him all he c
ould understand.

   I said: "A man hands on his sword to his son. You will have to find your
own. But when the time comes, it will be there for you to take, in the sight
of all men."

    The Otherworld drew back then, and let me through, back into the clear A
pril morning. I wiped the sweat from my face and took a breath of sweet air.
 It felt like a first breath. I pushed back the damp hair and gave my head a
 shake. "They crowd me," I said irritably.

  "Who do?"

   "Oh," I said, "those who keep wake here." His eyes watched me, at stret
ch, ready for wonders. He came slowly down the altar steps. The stone table
 behind him was only a table, with a sword rudely carved. I smiled at him.
"I have a gift, Emrys, which can be useful and very powerful, but which is
at times inconvenient, and always damnably uncomfortable."

  "You mean you can see things that aren't there?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Then you're a magician? Or a prophet?"

  "A little of both, shall we say. But that is my secret, Emrys. I kept yours."

  "I shan't tell anyone." That was all, no promises, no oaths, but I knew h
e would keep to it. "You were telling the future then? What did it mean?"
   "One cannot always be sure. Even I am not always sure. But one thing fo
r certain, some day, when you are ready, you will find your own sword, and
it will be the most beautiful and deadly sword in the world. But now, just
for the moment, would you find me a drink of water? There's a cup beside th
e spring."

  He brought it, running. I thanked him and drank, then handed it back. "N
ow, what about those dried figs? Are you still hungry?"
  "I'm always hungry."
  "Then next time you come, bring your rations with you. You might pick a
bad day."

  "I'll bring you food if you want it. Are you very poor? You don't look it.
" He considered me again, head aslant.

   "At least, perhaps you do, but you don't speak as if you were. If there's any
thing you'd like, I'll try and get it for you."

    "Don't trouble yourself. I have all I need, now, I said.



3

Ralf came back duly, with questions in his eyes, but none on his lips except
those he might ask a stranger.

    He came too soon for me. There were nine years to get through, and judg
ments to make. And too soon, I could see, for the boy, though he received R
alf with courtesy, and then stood silent under the lash of that eloquent yo
ung man's tongue. I gathered from Arthur's expression that if it had not be
en for my presence he might have been thrashed by more than words. I unders
tood that he lived under hard discipline: that kings must be brought up har
der than other men he must have known, but not that the rule applied to him
. I wondered what rule applied to Cei, and what Arthur thought the discrimi
nation meant. He took it well, and when it was finished and I offered Ralf
 the appeasement of wine, went meekly enough to serve it.

   When at length he was sent to lead the horses out, I said quickly to Ral
f: "Tell Count Ector I would rather not come down to the castle. He'll under
stand that. The risks are too great. He'll know where we can meet in safety,
 so I'll leave it to him to suggest a place. Would he normally come up here,
 or might that make people wonder?"

    "He never came before, when Prosper was here."

   "Then I'll come down whenever he sends a message. Now, Ralf, there's no
t much time, but tell me this. You've no reason to suppose that anyone has
suspected who the boy is? There's been no one watching about the place, not
hing suspicious at all?"
  "Nothing."

  I said slowly: "Something I saw, when you first brought him over from
Brittany. On the journey across by the pass, your party was attacked. Who
were they? Did you see?"

  He stared. "You mean up there by the rocks between here and Mediobog
dum? I remember it well. But how did you know that?"

  "I saw it in the fire. I watched constantly then. What is it, Ralf? Why do
you look so?"

   "It was a queer thing," he said slowly. "I've never forgotten it. That ni
ght, when they attacked us, I thought I heard you call my name. A warning, cl
ear as a trumpet, or a dog barking. And now you say you were watching." He sh
ifted his shoulders as if at a sudden draught, then grinned. "I'd forgotten a
bout you, my lord. I'll have to get used to it again, I suppose. Do you still
 watch us? It could be an awkward thought, at times."

   I laughed. "Not really. If there was danger it would come through to me,
I think. Otherwise it seems I can leave it to you. But come, tell me, did you
 ever find out who it was attacked you that night?"

   "No. They wore no blazon. We killed two of them, and there was nothing
on them to show whose men they were. Count Ector thought they must be outla
ws or robbers. I think so, too. At any rate there's been nothing since then
, nothing at all."

   "I thought not. And now there must be nothing to connect Myrddin the h
ermit with Merlin the enchanter. What has been said about the new holy man
 of the chapel in the green?"

   "Only that Prosper had died and that God had sent a new man at the appo
inted time, as he has always done. That the new man is young, and quiet-see
ming, but not as quiet as he seems."

  "And just what do they mean by that?"

    "Just what they say. You don't always bear yourself just like a humble herm
it, sir."
   "Don't I? I can't think why not; it's what I normally am. I must guard myse
lf."

   "I believe you mean that." He was smiling, as if amused. "I shouldn't wo
rry, they just think you must be holier than most. It's always been a haunte
d place, this, and more so now, it seems. There are stories of a spirit in t
he shape of a huge white bird that flies in men's faces if they venture too
far up the track, and-oh, all the usual tales you always get about hauntings
, silly country stories, things one can't believe. But two weeks back-did yo
u know that a troop of men was riding this way from somewhere near Alauna, a
nd a tree fell across the way, with no wind blowing, and no warning?"

  "I hadn't heard that. Was anyone hurt?"

  "No. There's another path; they used that."

  "I see."

  He was watching me curiously. "Your gods, my lord?" "You might call the
m that. I hadn't realized I was to be so closely guarded."

  "So you knew something like this might happen?"

  "Not until you told me. But I know who did it, and why."

  He frowned, thinking. "But if it was done deliberately . . . If I am to bri
ng Emrys this way again-"

  "Emrys will be safe. And he is your safe conduct, too, Ralf. Don't fear th
em."
   I saw his brows twitch at the word "fear," then he nodded. I thought h
e seemed anxious, even tense. He asked me: "How long do you suppose you wi
ll be here?"
   "It's hard to judge. You must know it depends on the High King's health.
If Uther recovers fully, it may be that the boy will stay here until he is fo
urteen, and ready to go to his father. Why, Ralf? Can you not resign yourself
 to obscurity for a few more years? Or do you find it too taxing riding guard
 on that young gentleman?"
    "No-that is, yes. But-it isn't that . . ." He stammered, flushing.
    I said, amused: "Who is she?"

  I did not quite understand his scowling look until, after a pause, he as
ked: "How much else did you see, when you watched Arthur in the fire?"

   "My dear Ralf!" It was not just the moment to tell him that the stars t
end only to mirror the fate of kings and the will of gods. I said mildly: "
The Sight doesn't as a rule take me beyond bedchamber doors. I guessed. You
r face is about as concealing as a gauze curtain. And you must remember to
call him Emrys even when you are angry."

   "I'm sorry. I didn't mean- Not that there was anything you couldn't hav
e watched-I mean, I've never even been in her bedchamber ... I mean, she's-
oh, hell and damnation, I should have known you'd know all about it. I didn
't mean to be insolent. I'd forgotten you never take anything the way other
 men do. I never know where I am with you, You've been away too long. . . .
 There are the horses now. He seems to have saddled yours as well. I though
t you said you weren't coming down today after all?"

   "I hadn't intended to. It must be Emrys' idea." It was. As soon as he saw
 us in the doorway, Arthur called out: "I brought your horse, too, sir. Will
you not ride down part of the way with us?"

    "If we go at my pace, not yours."
    "We'll walk the whole way if you like."

    "Oh, I won't subject you to that. But we'll let Ralf lead the way, shall we?
"
   The first part of the descent was steep. Ralf went in front and Arthur
behind him, and the black horse must have been very sure-footed indeed, for
 Arthur rode with his chin on his shoulder the whole way, talking to me. To
 anyone who did not know, it might have seemed that it was the boy who had
nine years to make up; I hardly had to question him; all the detail, small
and great, of his life came tumbling out, till I knew as much about Count E
ctor's household and the boy's place in it as he knew himself-and more besides.

  We came at length down from the edge of the pines into a wood of oak and
chestnut where the going was easier, and after half a mile or so struck int
o the easy track along the lake. Caer Bannog floated, sunlit, above its secr
et. The valley widened ahead of us, and presently, cloudy along its green cu
rve, showed the line of willows that marked the river.

  Where the river left the lake I checked my horse. As I took my leave of
them the boy asked quickly: "May I come back soon?"

  "Come whenever you like-whenever you can. But you must promise me o
ne thing."

    He looked wary, which meant that what he promised, he would keep. "Wha
t's that?"

   "Don't come without Ralf, or whoever escorts you. Don't break away next
time. This is not called the Wild Forest for nothing."

   "Oh, I know it's supposed to be haunted, but I'm not afraid of what lives
 in the hills, not now that I've seen-" He checked, and changed direction wit
hout a tremor "-not with you there. And if it's wolves, I have my dagger, and
 wolves don't attack by day. Besides, there are no wolves that could catch St
ar."

  "I was thinking of a different kind of wild beast."

  "Bears? Boars?"

  "No, men."

   "Oh." The syllable was a shrug. It was bravery, of course; there were o
utlaws here as well as anywhere, and he must have heard stories, but it was
 innocence as well. Such had been Count Ector's care of him. The most vulne
rable and sought-for head in the kingdoms, and danger was still only a stor
y to him.

  "All right," he said, "I promise." I was satisfied. The guardians from t
he hollow hills might watch him for me, but guarding him was another thing.
That took Ector's kind of power, and mine.

   "My greetings to Count Ector," I told Ralf, and saw that he had understoo
d my thoughts. We parted then. I stood watching them ride off along the turf
by the river, the black horse fighting to be away and snatching at the bit, R
alf's big chestnut simmering alongside, while the boy talked excitedly, gestu
ring. At length he must have got his way, for suddenly Ralf's heels moved, an
d the chestnut leaped forward into a gallop. The black, set alight a fraction
 later, tore after it. As the two flying figures vanished round a shaw of bir
ch trees, the smaller turned in the saddle, and waved. It had begun.

   He was back next day, trotting decorously into the clearing with Ralf h
alf a length in the rear. Arthur carried a gift of eggs and honey cakes and
 the information that Count Ector was still away, but the Countess seemed t
o think contact with the holy man might do good where it was most needed, a
nd was glad to let him come meanwhile. The Count would arrange to see me as
 soon as he got back.

   Arthur gave me the message, not Ralf, and obviously saw nothing in it b
ut the strict precautions of a guardian who he must have long ago decided w
as over-zealous to an uncomfortable degree.

  Four of the eggs were broken. "Only Emrys," said Ralf, "could possibly h
ave imagined he could carry eggs on that wild colt of his."

  "You must admit he did very well only to break four."

   "Oh, aye, only Emrys could have done it. I've never had a quieter ride sinc
e I last escorted you."

   He went off then on some excuse. Arthur washed the eggs out of his hors
e's mane and then settled down to help me eat the honey cakes, and ply me w
ith questions about the world that lay outside the Wild Forest.

  A few days later Ector returned to Galava, and arranged through Ralf to
meet me.

   Word would have gone round by now that the boy Emrys had ridden up two
or three times to the chapel in the green, and people might well expect Cou
nt Ector or his lady to send for the new incumbent to look him over. It was
 arranged that Ector and I were to meet as if by chance at Fedor's farm. Fe
dor himself and his wife could be trusted, I was told, with anything; the o
ther folk there would only see the hermit calling for supplies as usual, an
d the Count riding by and taking the opportunity to speak with him.

  We were shown into a smallish, smoke-filled room, and our host brought
wine and then left us.
   Ector had hardly altered, save to add a little grey to his hair and beard
. When, after the first greetings were over, I told him so, he laughed. "That
's hardly surprising. You tip a gilded cuckoo's egg into my quiet nest and th
ink to find me carefree? No, no, man, I was only jesting. Neither Drusilla no
r I would have been without the boy. Whatever comes of it in the end, these h
ave been good years, and if we've done a good job, we had the finest stuff in
 the world to work on."

    He plunged then into an account of his stewardship. Five years is a long
 time, and there was a great deal to say. I spoke hardly at all, but listene
d readily. Some of what he told me I knew already, from the fire, or from th
e boy's own talk. But if I was familiar enough with the tenor of Arthur's li
fe here in Galava, and could judge its results for myself, what came chiefly
 out of Ector's talk of him was the deep affection which he and his wife fel
t for their charge. Not only these two, but the rest of the household who ha
d no idea who Arthur was held him, apparently, in the same affection. My imp
ressions of him had been right; there was courage and quick wit and a burnin
g desire to excel. Not enough cool sense and caution, perhaps-faults like hi
s father's -"but who the devil wants a young boy to be cautious? That much h
e'll learn the first time he's hurt, or, worse, when he finds a man that can
't be trusted," said Ector gruffly, obviously torn between pride in the boy
and in his own successful guardianship.
   When I began to talk of this, and to thank him for what he had done, he c
ut me off abruptly.

   "Well, now, you've got yourself settled nicely in here, from all I hear abo
ut it. That was a fine chance, wasn't it, that led you up to the Green Chapel i
n time to take old Prosper's place?"

  "Chance?" I said.
   "Oh, aye, I'd forgotten who I was talking to. It's a long time since we
had an enchanter in these parts. Well, to a jogging mortal like me it would
have come as chance. Whatever it was, it's the best thing; you couldn't have
 taken a place in the castle, as it happens; we've got a man here who knows
you well; Marcellus, him that married Valerius' sister. He's my master-at-ar
ms. Maybe I shouldn't have taken him on, knowing you'd be likely to come bac
k, but he's one of the best officers in the country, and God knows we're goi
ng to need all we have, here in the north. He's the best swordsman in the co
untry, too. For the boy's sake, I couldn't miss the chance." He shot me a sh
arp look from under his brows. "What are you laughing at? Wasn't that chance
, either?"
    "No," I said, "it was Uther." I told him of the talk I had had with the
King on the subject of Arthur's training. "How like Uther to send a man who
knew me. But then he never did have room for more than one thought at a time
. . . . Well, I'll keep away. Can you find a good reason for letting the boy
 ride up to see me?"

   He nodded. "I've given it about that I know of you, and you're a learned
 man and have travelled widely, and there are things you can teach the boys
that they'd not learn from Abbot Martin or the fathers. I'll let it be known
 that they may ride up your way whenever they wish."

  " 'They?' Hasn't Cei outgrown a tutor, even an unorthodox one?"

   "Oh, he wouldn't come for the learning." His father's voice held a kind o
f rueful pride. "He's like me, is Cei, not a thought in his head but what you
 might call the arts of the field. Not that even so he'll be the kind of swor
dsman Arthur's shaping for, but he's dogged and takes all the pains in the wo
rld. He'll not come twice if there's book learning to be discussed, but you k
now what boys are, what one has the other wants, and I couldn't keep him awa
y if I tried, after all Arthur's been saying. He's talked of nothing else sin
ce I got home, even told Drusilla it was his holy duty to ride up there every
 day to see you got sufficient food. Yes, you may well laugh. Did you set a s
pell on him?"

  "Not that I'm aware of. I'd like to see Cei again. He was a fine boy."

   "It's not easy for him," said Ector, "knowing the younger one is near as
 good as he is already, for all the three years' difference, and is likely t
o surpass him when they both come to man. And when they were younger it was
always 'Remember to let Emrys have as much as you-he's the foster-son, and a
 guest.' It might have been easier if there'd been others. Drusilla's had th
e hardest time of it, not liking to favour one or the other, bur having to l
et Cei see all the way that he was the real son, without letting Arthur feel
 he was on the outside. Cei's done well enough by the other boy, even if he
does tend to jealousy, but there'll be nothing to fear in the future, I assu
re you. Show him where he can be loyal, and no one will shift him. Like his
father; a slow dog, but where he grips, he holds." He talked on a little lon
ger, and I listened, remembering my own very different upbringing as the bas
tard and outsider at another court. Where I had been quiet and showed no tal
ents that could rouse jealousy in boy or man, Arthur by his very nature must
 shine out among the other boys in the castle like a young dragon hatching i
n a clutch of pond newts.

   At last Ector sighed, drank, and set down his cup. "But there, those a
re nursery tales now, and long past. Cei stays by me now, among the men, a
nd there's Bedwyr to keep Arthur company. When I said 'they' I wasn't thin
king of Cei. We've another boy with us now. I brought him back with me fro
m York. Bedwyr, his name is, son of Ban of Benoic. Know him?"
  "I've met him."

   "He asked me to take Bedwyr for a year or two. He'd heard Marcellus was
 here with me, and wanted Bedwyr to learn from him. He's about the same age
 as Arthur, so I wasn't sorry when Ban made the suggestion. You'll like Bed
wyr. A quiet boy; not a great brain, so Abbot Martin tells me, but a good l
ad, and seems to like Emrys. Even Cei thinks twice before he tangles with t
he pair of them. Well, that's that, isn't it? It's just to be hoped Abbot M
artin doesn't try to spoke the wheel."

  "Is it likely?"

  "Well, the boy was baptized a Christian. It's thought that Prosper served
God in the later years, but it's well known that the Green Chapel has housed
other gods than the true Christ in its time. What do you do now, up there in
the forest?"

  "I believe in giving due honour to whatever god confronts you," I said.
"That's common sense in these days, as well as courtesy. Sometimes I think t
he gods themselves have not yet got it clear. The chapel is open to the air
and the forest, and they come in who will."

  "And Arthur?"

  "In a Christian household, Arthur will owe duty to Christ's God. What
he does on the field of battle may be another matter. I don't know yet whi
ch god will give the boy his sword-though I doubt if Christ was much of a
swordsman. But we shall see. May I pour you more wine?"

   "What? Oh, thank you." Ector blinked, wetted his lips, and changed th
e subject, "Ralf was saying you'd asked about that ambush at Mediobogdum
five years back. They were robbers, no more. Why do you ask? Have you rea
son to think that someone's interested now?"
  "I had some small trouble on the way north," I said. "Ralf tells me there
has been nothing here."

   "Nothing. I've been twice myself to Winchester and once to London, and
there's never a soul so much as questioned me, which they'd have been qui
ck to do if anyone had thought the boy might be anywhere in the north."

   "Lot has never approached you or shown interest?" Another quick look.
"Him, eh? Well, nothing would surprise me there, Some of the trouble we've
 been having in these parts might easily have been avoided if that same ge
ntleman had minded his kingdom's business instead of paying court to a thr
one."

  "So they say that, do they? It's the King's place he's after, not just a place
at the King's side?"

   "Whatever he's after, they're handfast now, he and Morgian: they'll be ma
rried as soon as the girl is twelve years old. There's no way out of that uni
on now, even if Uther wanted to end it."

  "And you don't like it?"
   "No one does, up in this part of the country. They say that Lot's stret
ching his borders all the time, and not always with the sword. There's talk
 of meetings. If he gets too much power by the time the High King fails, we
 might well find ourselves back in the time of the Wolf. The Saxons coming
every spring and burning and raping as far as the Pennine Way, aye, and the
 Irish coming down to join them, and more of our men taking to the high hil
ls and what cold comfort they can find there."

  "How recently did you see the King?"

   "Three weeks past. When he lay at York he sent for me, and asked private
ly about the boy."
  "How did he look?"

  "Well enough, but the cutting edge was gone. You understand me?"

  "Very well. Was Cador of Cornwall with him?"
  "No. He was still at Caerleon then. I have heard since-"
  "At Caerleon?" I asked sharply. "Cador himself was there?"

   "Yes," said Ector, surprised. "He'd be there just before you left home. D
id you not know?"

    "I should have known," I said. "He sent a party of armed men to search
 my home on Bryn Myrddin, and to watch my movements. I gave them the slip,
 I think, but what I didn't reckon on was being watched by two parties at
the same time. Urien of Gore had men there in Maridunum, too, and they tra
ced me north into Gwynedd." I told him about Crinas, and Urien's party, an
d he listened, frowning. I asked him: "You haven't heard reports of any su
ch up here? They'd ask no questions openly, but wait and watch, and listen."

  "No. If there were strangers, it would have been reported. You must ha
ve shaken them off. Be easy, Cador's men will never come this way. He's in
 Segontium now, did you know?"

  "When I was there I heard he was expected. Do you know if he plans to m
ake his headquarters at Segontium, now Uther's put him in charge of the Iri
sh Shore defenses? Has there been talk of re-investing it?"
   "There was talk, yes, but I doubt if it will ever come to anything. That
's a task that'll take more time and money than Uther is likely to spare, or
 to have, just yet. If I can make a guess, Cador will garrison Segontium and
 the frontier fortresses, and base himself inland where he can keep his forc
es moving to the points of attack. Perhaps at Deva. Rheged himself is in Lug
uvallium. We do what we can."

  "And Urien? I trust he's fixed on the east, where he belongs?"
   "Well dug in on his rock," said Ector, with grim satisfaction. "And one
thing's for sure. Until Lot marries Morgian with every bishop in the realm i
n attendance, and proof positive of consummation, he won't stir a hand to br
ing Uther down, or let Urien do so, either. Nor will he find Arthur. If they
 haven't had a sniff of the boy in nine years, they'll never pick the scent
up now. So be easy. By the time Morgian is twelve, and ready for bedding, Ar
thur will be fourteen, and coming to the time when the King has promised to
bring him before the kingdom. It will be.time then to. deal with Lot and Uri
en, and if the time comes before then, why, it is with God."
    On that we parted, and I rode back alone to the shrine.


4


After this Arthur, sometimes with the other two boys, but usually just with
Bedwyr, rode up to the chapel to see me two or three times a week. Cei was a
 big fair-haired boy, with a look of his father, and his manner to Arthur wa
s a compound of patronage and hectoring affection which must have been galli
ng at times to the younger boy. But Arthur seemed fond of his foster-brother
, and eager to share with him the pleasure (for so he seemed to find it) of
his visits to me. Cei enjoyed the tales I had to tell of foreign lands and t
he histories of fighting and conquests and battle, but he grew quickly tired
 of discussing the way the people lived and governed their countries, and th
e talk of their legends and beliefs, which Arthur loved. As time went by Cei
 stayed more often at home, going (the other two told me) on sport or busine
ss with his father; hunting sometimes, or on patrol, or accompanying Count E
ctor on his occasional visits to his neighbours. After the first year, I rar
ely saw Cei at all.

   Bedwyr was quite different, a quiet boy of Arthur's own age, gentle and
dreamy as a poet, and a natural follower. He and Arthur were like two sides
of the same apple. Bedwyr trailed, doglike in devotion, after the other boy;
 he made no attempt to hide his love for Arthur, but there was nothing soft
about him, for all his gentle ways and poet's eyes. He was a plain boy, with
 his nose flattened in some fight, and badly set, and the scar of some nurse
ry burn on his cheek. But he had character and kindness, and Arthur loved hi
m. As the son of Ban, a petty king, Bedwyr was the superior even of Cei, and
 as far as any of the boys knew, right out of Arthur's star. But this never
occurred to either Bedwyr or Arthur; the one offered devotion, the other acc
epted it.

   One day I said to them: "Do you know the story of Bisclavaret, the man w
ho became a wolf?" Bedwyr, without troubling to answer, brought the harp out
 from under its shroud, and put it gently by me. Arthur, prone on the bed wi
th chin on fist and eyes brilliant in the firelight-it was a chill afternoon
 of late spring-said impatiently: "Oh, let be. Never mind the music. The sto
ry." Then Bedwyr curled beside him on the blankets, and I tuned the strings
and started.
   It is an eerie tale, and Arthur took it with sparkling face, but Bedwy
r grew quieter than ever, all eyes. It was growing dark when they went hom
e, with a husky servant that day for escort. Arthur, alone with me next da
y, told me how Bedwyr had woken in the night with the nightmare. "But do y
ou know, Myrddin, when we were on the way home yesterday, when he must hav
e been full of the story, we saw something slink off beyond the trees and
we thought it was a wolf, and Bedwyr made me ride between him and Leo. I k
now he was frightened, but he said it was his right to protect me, and I
suppose it was, since he is a king's son, and I-"

  He stopped. It was as near as he had ever got to the boggy ground. I said
nothing, but waited.

  "-and I was his friend."

    I talked to him then about the nature of courage, and the moment passed
. I remember what he said afterwards of Bedwyr. I was to remember it many t
imes in later years, when, on even less certain ground, the trust between h
im and Bedwyr held true.

   He said now, seriously, as if at nine years old he knew: "He is the braves
t companion, and the truest friend in all the world."
   Ector and Drusilla had, of course, taken care to see that Arthur knew al
l that was good to know about his father and the Queen. He knew, too, as muc
h as everyone in the country knew about the young heir who waited-in Brittan
y, in the Isle of Glass, in Merlin's tower?-to succeed to the kingdom. He to
ld me once, himself, the story that was current about the "rape at Tintagel.
" The legend had lost nothing in the telling. By now, it seemed, men believe
d that Merlin had spirited the King's party, horses and all, invisibly withi
n the walls of the stronghold, and out again in the broad light of next morn
ing.

  "And they say," finished Arthur, "that a dragon curled on the turrets all n
ight, and in the morning Merlin flew off on him, in a trail of fire."
  "Do they? It's the first I heard of that."

   "Don't you know the story?" asked Bedwyr. "I know a song," I said, "whic
h is closer to the truth than anything you've heard up here. I got it from a
 man who'd once been in Cornwall."
   Ralf was there that day, listening silently, amused. I raised my brows
at him and he shook his head slightly. I had not thought he would have let
Arthur know he came from Tintagel, and indeed I doubt if anyone now would h
ave guessed. He spoke as nearly as might be with the accent of the north.

   So I told the boys the story, the truth as I knew it- and who knew bett
er?-without the extra trimmings of fantasy that time and ignorance had adde
d to it. And God knows it was magical enough without; God's will and human
love driving forward together in the black night under the light of the gre
at star, and the seed sown which would make a king.

  "So God had his way, and the King through him, and men-as men always
do-made mistakes and died for them. And in the morning the enchanter rode
 away alone, to nurse his broken hand."

  "No dragon?" This from Bedwyr.

  "No dragon," I said.

   "I prefer the dragon," said Bedwyr firmly. "I shall go on believing the d
ragon. Riding away alone, that's a let-down. A real enchanter wouldn't do tha
t, would he, Ralf?"
  "Of course not," said Ralf, getting to his feet. "But we must. Look, it's du
sk already."

  He was ignored. "I'll tell you what I don't understand," said Bedwyr, "a
nd that's a King who would risk setting the whole kingdom at blaze for a wom
an. Keeping faith with your peers is surely more important than having any w
oman. I'd never risk losing anything that really mattered, just for that."

   "Nor would I," said Arthur slowly. He had been thinking hard about it, I
could see. "But I think I understand it, all the same. You have to reckon wit
h love."

  "But not to risk friendship for it," said Bedwyr quickly.

   "Of course not," said Arthur. I could see that he was thinking in genera
l terms, where Bedwyr meant one friendship, one love.

  Ralf began to speak again, but at that moment something, a shadow, swept
silently across the lamplight. The boys hardly glanced up; it was only the
white owl, sailing silently in through the open window to its perch in the b
eams. But its shadow went across my skin like a hand of ice, and I shivered.

   Arthur looked up quickly. "What is it, Myrddin? It's only the owl. You loo
k as if you'd seen a ghost."

  "It was nothing," I said. "I don't know." I did not know, either, then,
but I know now. We had been speaking Latin, as we usually did, but the word
he had used for the shadow across; the light was the Celtic one, guenhwyvar.

   Be sure I told them, too, about their own country, and about the times r
ecently past, of Ambrosius and the war he had fought against Vortigern, and
how he had knit the kingdoms together into one, and made himself High King,
and brought to the length and breadth of the land justice, with a sword at i
ts back, so that for a short span of years men could go peacefully about the
ir affairs anywhere in the country, and not be molested; or if they were, co
uld seek, and get, the King's justice equally for high or low. Others had gi
ven them the stories as history; but I had been there, and closer to affairs
 than most, being at the High King's side and, in some cases, the architect
of what had happened. This, of course, they could not be allowed to guess: I
 told them merely that I had been with Ambrosius in Brittany, and thereafter
 at the battle of Kaerconan, and through the next years of the rebuilding. T
hey never asked how or why I was there, and I think this was out of delicacy
, in case I should be forced to confess how I had served in some humble capa
city as assistant to the engineers, or even as a scribe. But I still remembe
r the questions Arthur poured out about the way the Count of Britain-as Ambr
osius then styled himself -had assembled, trained and equipped his army, how
 he had shipped it across the Narrow Sea to the land of the Dum-nonii where
he had set up his standard as High King before he swept northwards to burn V
ortigern out of Doward, and finally to smash the vast army of the Saxons at
Kaerconan. Every detail of organization, training, and strategy I had to rec
all for him as best I could, and every skirmish of which I could tell them a
nything was fought over and over again by the two boys, poring over maps dra
wn in the dust.

   "They say there will be war again soon," said Arthur, "and I am too youn
g to go." He mourned over it, openly, like a dog which is bidden to stay at
home on a hunting morning. It was three months before his tenth birthday.

   It was not all talk of war and high matters, of course. There were days
 when the boys played like young puppies, running and wrestling, racing the
ir horses along the riverside, swimming naked in the lake and scaring ever
y fish within miles, or taking bows with Ralf up to the hills to look for
 hares or pigeons. Sometimes I went with them, but hunting was not a
sport I cared for. It was different when it occurred to me to rummage out t
he old hermit's fishing rod and take it to try the waters of the lake. We w
ould pass the time happily there, Arthur fishing with more fury than succes
s, myself watching him, and talking. Bedwyr did not care for fishing, and
 on these occasions went with Ralf, but Arthur, even on the days when wi
nd or weather made fishing useless, seemed to prefer to stay with me rather
 than go with Ralf or even Bedwyr to look for sport in the forest. Looking
back, I do not remember now that I ever paused to question this. The boy wa
s my whole life, my love for him so much a part of every day that I was con
tent to take the time as it came, accepting straight from the gods the fact
 that the boy seemed to like above all else to be with me. I told myself me
rely that he needed to escape from the crowded household, from the patronag
e of an elder brother preparing now for a position which he himself could n
ever hope for, and also a chance to be with Bedwyr in a world of imaginatio
n and brave deeds where he felt himself to belong. I would not allow mys
elf to ascribe it to love, and if I had guessed the nature of the love, cou
ld have offered no comfort then. Bedwyr stayed at Galava for more than a ye
ar, leaving for home in the autumn before Arthur's eleventh birthday. He wa
s to return the following summer. After he had gone Arthur moped visibly fo
r a week, was unwontedly quiet for another, then recovered his spirits with
 a bound, and rode up to see me, in defiance of the weather, rather more often than bef

   I have no idea what reasons Ector gave for letting him come so often. P
robably he needed no reason: as a rule the boy rode out daily except in the
 foulest weather, and if nothing was volunteered as to where he went, nothi
ng would be asked. It became known, as it was bound to, that he came often
to the Green Chapel where the wise man lived, but if people thought about i
t at all, they commended the boy's sense in seeking out a man known for his
 learning, and let it be.
   I never attempted to teach Arthur in the way that Galapas, my master, h
ad taught me. He was not interested in reading or figuring, and I made no a
ttempt to press them on him; as King, he would employ other men in these ar
ts. What formal learning he needed, he received from Abbot Martin or others
 of the community. I detected in him something of my own ear for languages,
 and found that, besides the Celtic of the district where he lived, he had
retained a smattering of Breton from his babyhood, and Ector, mindful of th
e future, had been at pains to correct his northern accent into something w
hich the British of all parts would understand. I decided to teach him the
Old Tongue, but was amazed to find that he already knew enough of it to fol
low a sentence spoken slowly. When I asked where he had learned it he looke
d surprised and said: "From the hill people, of course. They are the only o
nes who speak it now."

  "And you have spoken with them?"

   "Oh, yes. When I was little once I was out with one of the soldiers and
 he was thrown and hurt himself, and two of the hill people came to help me
. They seemed to know who I was."

  "Did they indeed?"

  "Yes. After that I saw them quire often, here and there, and I learned to sp
eak with them a little. But I'd like to learn more."

   Of my other skills, music and medicine, and all the knowledge I had so
 gladly amassed about the beasts and birds and wild things, I taught him n
othing. He would have no need of them. He cared only about beasts to hunt
them, and there, already, he knew almost as much as I about the ways of wi
ld deer and wolf and boar. Nor did I share with him much of my knowledge a
bout engines; here again it would be other men who would make and assemble
 them; he needed only to learn their uses, and most of this he was taught
along with the arts of war he learned from Ector's soldiers. But as Galapa
s had done with me, I taught him how to make maps and read them, and I sho
wed him the map of the sky.

  One day he said to me: "Why do you look at me sometimes as if I remin
ded you of someone else?"

  "Do I?"

  "You know you do. Who is it?"

  "Myself, a little."

  His head came up from the map we were studying. "What do you mean?"

  "I told you, when I was your age I used to ride up into the hills to see
my friend Galapas. I was remembering the first time he taught me to read a
map. He made me work a great deal harder than ever I make you."
   "I see." He said no more, but I thought he was downcast. I wondered why
 he should imagine I could tell him anything about his parentage; then it o
ccurred to me that he might expect me to "see" such things at will. But he
never asked me.



5

There was no war that year, or the next. In the spring after Arthur's twel
fth birthday Octa and Eosa at last broke from prison, and fled south to tak
e refuge behind the boundaries of the Federated Saxons. The whisper went th
at they had been helped by lords who professed themselves loyal to Uther.
Lot could not be blamed directly, nor Cador; no one knew who were the trait
ors, but rumours were rife, and helped to swell the feeling of unease throu
ghout the country. It seemed as if Ambrosius' forceful uniting of the kingd
oms were to go for nothing: each petty king, taking Lot's example, carved
and "kept his own boundaries. And Uther, no longer the flashing warrio
r men had admired and feared, depended too much on the strength of his alli
es, and turned a blind eye to the power they were amassing. The rest of tha
t year passed quietly enough, but for the usual tale of forays from north a
nd south of the wild debatable land to either side of Hadrian's Wall, an
d summer landings on the east coast which were not (it was said) wholehear
tedly repelled by the defenders there. Storms in the Irish Sea kept the wes
t peaceful, and Cador, I was told, had made a beginning on the fortificatio
ns at Segontium. King Uther, heedless of the advisers who told him that whe
n trouble came it would come first from the north, stayed between London a
nd Winchester, throwing his energies into keeping the Saxon Shore patrolled
 and Ambrosius' Wall fortified, with his main force ready to move and strik
e wherever the invaders broke the boundaries. Indeed there seemed little to
 turn him yet towards the north: the talk of a great alliance of invaders w
as still only talk, and the small raids continued along the southern coast
throughout the year, keeping the King down there to combat them. The Queen
left Cornwall at this time, and moved to Winchester with all her train. Whe
never the King could, he joined her there. It was observed, of course, that
 he no longer frequented other women as he had been used to do, but no rumo
ur of impotence had gone around: it seemed as if the girls who had known of it had se
 as a passing phase of his illness, and said nothing. When it was seen now
that he spent all his time with the Queen, the story went round that he had
 taken vows of fidelity. So, though the girls might mourn their lover, thos
e citizens rejoiced who had been wont to lock their daughters away when wor
d went round that the King was coming, and praised him for adding goodness
to his powers as a fighting man.

   These latter he certainly seemed to have recovered, though there were s
tories of the uncertain temper he showed, and of sudden ferocities in the t
reatment of defeated enemies. But on the whole this was welcomed as a sign
of strength at a time when strength was needed.
   I myself seemed to have managed to drop safely out of sight. If people
wondered from time to time where I had gone, some said that I had crossed t
he Narrow Sea again and resumed my travels, others, that I had retired once
 more into a new solitude to continue my studies. I heard from Ralf and Ect
or-and sometimes, innocently, from Arthur-that there were rumours of me fro
m all parts of the country. It was said that when the King first fell sick,
 Merlin had appeared immediately in a golden ship with a scarlet sail and r
idden to the palace to heal him, and afterwards vanished into the air. He h
ad been seen next at Bryn Myrddin, though none had seen him ride there. (Th
is in spite of the fact that I had changed horses at the usual places, and
stayed every night in a public tavern.) And since then, the talk went, Merl
in the enchanter had been wont to appear and vanish here and there all over
 the country. He had healed a sick woman near Aquae Sulis, and a week later
 had been seen in the Caledonian Forest, four hundred miles away. The host
of tales grew, coined by idle folk anxious for the importance that such "ne
ws" would give them. Sometimes, as had happened before, wandering healers o
r would-be prophets would style themselves "another Merlin," or even use my
 very name: this inspired trust in the healers, and if the patient recovere
d, did no harm. If the patient died, folk tended to say simply, "It cannot
have been Merlin after all; his magic would have succeeded." And since the
false Merlin would by that time have completely vanished, my reputation wou
ld survive the imposture. So I kept my secret, and lost nothing. Certainly
no wandering suspicion lighted on the quiet keeper of the Green Chapel.

   I had contrived from time to time to send messages of reassurance to th
e King. My chief fear was that he would grow impatient, and either send for
 the boy too soon, or by some hasty inadvertence betray Ector or myself to
the people who watched him. But he remained silent. Ector, speaking of it t
o me, wondered if the King still thought the danger of treachery too great
to have the boy by him in London, or if he still hoped against bitter hope
that some day he would get another son.
  Myself I think it was neither. He was beset, was Uther, with treachery an
d trouble and the lack of the fine health that he was used to; and besides, t
he Queen started to ail that winter. He had neither time nor mind to give to
the young stranger who was waiting to take what he himself found it harder an
d harder to hold.

    As for the Queen, there had been many times during the years when I had
 wondered at her silence. Ralf had, through means of his own, kept secretly
 in touch with his grandmother who served Ygraine, and through her had assu
red the Queen of her son's well-being. But from all accounts Ygraine, thoug
h she loved her daughter Morgian, and would have loved her son as dearly, w
as able to watch-indifferently enough, it seemed-her children used as tools
 of royal policy. Morgian and Arthur were, to her, pledges only of her love
 for the King, and having given them birth, she turned back to her husb
and's side. Arthur she had barely seen, and was content to know that one
  day he would emerge from his fastness safe and strong, in the King's ti
me of need. Morgian, to whom she had given all the mother-love of which she
 was capable, was to be sent (without a backward glance, said Marcia in a l
etter to Ralf) to the marriage lied which would join the cold northern king
dom and its grim lord to Uther's side in the coming struggle. When I had tr
ied to show Arthur something of the all-consuming sexual love which had obs
essed Uther and Ygraine, I had spoken only half the truth. She was Uther's
  first, then she was Queen; and though she was the bearer of princes, sh
e cared no more than the hawk does when its fledglings fly. As things . sto
od, for her sake, it was better so; and, I thought, for Arthur too. All h
e needed now, he had from Ector and his gentle wife.

   I kept no contact with Bryn Myrddin, but in some roundabout way Ector go
t news for me. Stilicho had married Mai, the miller's girl, and the child wa
s a boy. I sent my felicitations and a gift of money, and a threat of variou
s dire enchantments should he let either of his new family touch the books a
nd the instruments that remained at the cave. Then I forgot about them.
   Ralf married, too, during my second summer in the Wild Forest. His reas
on was not the same as Stilicho's; he had wooed the girl long enough, and o
nly found his happiness in her bed after a Christian wedding. Even if I had
 not known the girl was virtuous, and that Ralf had been fretting after her
 like a curbed colt for a year or more, I could have guessed it from his re
laxed and glowing strength as the weeks went by. She was a beautiful girl,
gay and good, and with her maidenhead gave him all her worship. As for Ralf
, he was a normal young man and had looked here and there, as young men wil
l, but after his marriage I never knew him to look aside again, though he w
as handsome, and in later years was not unnaturally high in the King's favo
ur and found many who tried to use him as a stepping stone to power as much
 as to pleasure. But he was never to be used.

   I believe that there were those in Galava who wondered why such an able
 young gentleman was kept riding guard on Ector's foster-son when even youn
g Cei joined his father and the troops whenever there was an alarm, but Ral
f had a high temper, and a fine self-assurance these days, and had, besides
, the Count's orders to quote. It might have been hard if his wife had taun
ted him, but she was soon with child, and too thankful to have him tied at
home near her ever to question it. Ralf himself fretted a little, I know, b
ut he confessed to me once when we were alone that if he could only see Art
hur acknowledged and set in his rightful place beside the High King, he wou
ld count it a good life's work.

   "You told me the gods were driving us that night at Tintagel," he said.
"I am no familiar of the gods, as you are, but I can think of no youth I hav
e known who is worthier to take up the High King's sword when he has to lay
it down."

   All reports bore this out. When I went down to the village for supplies, o
r to the tavern for gossip, I heard plenty about Ector's foster-son "Emrys." E
ven then his was a personality that gathers legend as a drip-stone gathers lim
e.

   I heard a man say once, in the crowded tavern room: "I tell you this, if y
ou told me he was one of the Dragon's breed, a bastard of the High King that's
 gone, I'd believe it you.

   There were nods, and someone said: "Well, why not? He could be a bastard
 of Uther's, couldn't he? It's always surprised me that there aren't more of
 those around. He was one for the women, sure enough, before his sickness pu
t the fear of hell on him,"

  Someone else said: "If there were more, you can be sure he'd have ackn
owledged them."
   "Aye, indeed," said the fellow who had spoken first. "That's true. He ne
ver showed any more shame than the farm bull, and why should he? They say th
at the girl he got in Brittany-Morgause, was it?-is high in his favour at co
urt, and goes everywhere with him. Those are all we know of, the two girls,
and the prince that's being reared at some foreign court."
   Then the talk passed, as it often did these days, to the succession, an
d the young Prince Arthur growing up somewhere in the foreign kingdom to wh
ich Merlin the enchanter had secretly spirited him away.

   Though how long he might be kept hidden I could not guess. Watching him
 come riding up the forest track, or diving and wrestling with Bedwyr in th
e summer waters of the lake, or drinking in the wonders I showed him as the
 earth absorbs rain, it was a marvel to me that everyone did not see, as I
could, the kingship shining from him as it had shone in that moment's flash
ing vision from the sword in the altar-stone.

   Then came the year that, even now, is called the Black Year. It was th
e year after Arthur's thirteenth birthday. The Saxon leader Octa died at R
utupiae, of some infection caught in the long imprisonment; but his cousin
 Eosa went to Germany, and there met Octa's son Colgrim, and it was not ha
rd to guess at their counsels. The King of Ireland crossed the sea, but no
t to the Irish Shore; where Cador waited for him at Deva, and Maelgon of G
wynedd behind the scrambled-up fortifications of Segontium; but his sails
were watched from Rheged's shore as he made landfall in Strathclyde and wa
s received kindly by the Pictish kings there. These latter had had a treat
y with Britain since Macsen's time, renewed with Ambrosius; but what answe
r they would make now to Ireland's proposals no man could guess.
   Other troubles hit nearer home and more immediately. It was a year of s
tarvation. The spring was Song and cold and wet, the fields everywhere floo
ded, long past the time when corn should have been sown and growing. Cattle
 disease was everywhere in the south, and in Galava even the hardy blue-fle
eced hill sheep died, their feet rotted away so that they could not move on
 the fells to feed themselves. Late frost blasted the fruit buds, and even
as the green corn grew, it turned brown and rotted in the stagnant fields.
Strange tales came north. A druid had run mad and attacked Uther for leadin
g the country away from the Old Religion; and a Christian bishop stood up i
n church and railed against him for being a pagan. There was a story of an
attempt on the King's life, and of the hideous way in which the King had pu
nished the men responsible.
   So spring and summer wore through, in disaster, and by the beginning of
 autumn the country lay like a waste land. People died of starvation. Folk
talked of a curse laid on the country; but whether God was angry because th
e country shrines still claimed their sacrifices, or whether the old gods o
f hill and woodland exacted vengeance for neglect, no one was sure. All tha
t was certain was that there was a blight on the land, and the King ailed.
There was a meeting of nobles in London demanding that Uther should name hi
s heir. But it seemed-Ector told me this-as if he still feared, not knowing
 friend from foe; all he would say was that his son lived and thrived, and
would be presented to the nobles at the next Easter feast. Meanwhile his da
ughter Morgian passed her twelfth birthday, and would be taken north for he
r wedding at Christmas.

   With the autumn the weather changed, and a mild, dry season set in. It w
as too late to help the crops or the dying cattle, but grateful to men starv
ed of the sun, and the bright weather came in time to ripen some of the frui
t that the spring storms and the summer rot had left on the trees. In the Wi
ld Forest the mists curled through the pines in the early morning, and the S
eptember dews glittered everywhere on the cobwebs. Ector left Galava to meet
 with Rheged and his allies at Luguvallium. The King of Ireland had sailed f
or home and there was still peace in Strathclyde, but the defense line along
 the Ituna Estuary from Alauna to Luguvallium was to be manned, and there wa
s talk of Ector as its commander. Cei went with his father. Arthur, scarce t
hree months from his fourteenth birthday, tall enough for sixteen, and alrea
dy (according to Ralf) a notable swordsman, fretted visibly, and grew daily
more silent. He spent all his days now in the forest, often with me (though
not so much as formerly), but most of the time, Ralf told me, hunting or tak
ing breakneck rides through the rough country.
   "If only the King would make some move," said Ralf to me. "The boy will ki
ll himself else. It's as if he knew that there was something in the future for
 him, something un-guessed at, but that gives him no peace. I'm afraid he'll b
reak his neck before it happens. That new horse of his- Canrith he calls it-I
wouldn't care to get astride it myself, and that's the truth. I can't think wh
at possessed Ector to give it to him; a guilt gift perhaps."

  I thought he was right. The white stallion had been left for Arthur whe
n Ector took Cei up to Luguvallium with him. Bedwyr had gone, too," though
he was no older than Arthur. Ector was hard put to it to explain to Arthur
why he could not go. But until Uther spoke, we could do nothing.

   The full moon came, the September moon that they call the harvester. It s
hone out in a dry mild night over the rotting fields, doing no good that anyo
ne could see except light the outlaws who crept out of their fastnesses to pi
llage the outlying farms, or the troops who were constantly on the move these
 days to one or the other point of threat.
  I could not sleep. My head ached, and phantoms crowded close, as they do
 when they bring vision; but nothing came forward into light or shape; nothi
ng spoke. It was like suffering the threat of thunder, as close as the blank
ets that wrapped me, but without the lightning to break it, or the cleansing
 rain to bring a clear sky. When day broke at last, grey and misty, I rose,
took bread, and a handful of olives from the crock, and went down through th
e forest to the lake, to wash the aching of the night away.

   It was a quiet morning, so still that you could not tell where the mist
ended and the surface of the lake began. The water met the flattened shingle
 of the beach without movement and without sound. Behind me the forest stood
 wrapped in the mist, its scents still sleeping. It seemed a kind of desecra
tion to break the hush and plunge into that virgin water, but the fresh chil
l of it washed away the clinging strands of the night, and when I came out a
nd was dry again and dressed, I ate my breakfast with pleasure, then settled
 down with my fishing rod to wait for the morning rise, and hope for a breez
e at sun-up to ruffle the glassy water.

   The sun came up at last, pale through the mist, but brought no breeze wit
h it. The tops of the trees swam up out of the greyness, and at the far side
of the lake the dark forest lifted, cloudy, towards the smoking hilltops. The
 water was bloomed with mist, like a pearl.

   No ring or ripple broke the glassy water, no sign of a breeze to come. I
 had just decided that I might as well go, when I heard something coming fas
t through the forest at my back. Not a horseman; too light for that, and com
ing too fast through the brake.
   I stayed as I was, half-turned, waiting. A prickling ran up the skin of my
 back, and I remembered the night's sleepless pain. The tingling ran into my f
ingers; I found I was clutching the rod until it hurt the flesh. All night, th
en, this had been coming. All night this had been waiting to happen. All night
? If I was not mistaken, I had been waiting for this for fourteen years.

   Fifty paces along the lake-side from where I sat, a stag broke cover. H
e saw me immediately, and stopped short, head high, poised to break the oth
er way. He was white. In contrast the wide branches on his brow looked like
 polished bronze, and his eyes showed red as garnet. But he was real; there
 were stains of sweat on the white hide, and the thick hair of belly and ne
ck was tagged with damp. A trail of yellow loosestrife had caught round his
 neck, and hung there like a collar. He looked back over his shoulder, then
, stiff-legged, leaped from the bank into the water, and in two more bounds
 was shoulder-deep and swimming straight out into the lake.
   The polished water broke and arrowed back. The splash was echoed by a
crashing deep in the forest. Another beast coming, headlong.

   I had been wrong in thinking that nothing could come through the forest a
s fast as a fleeing deer. Arthur's white hound, Cabal, broke from the trees e
xactly where the stag had broken, and hurled himself into the water. Seconds
later Arthur himself, on the stallion Canrith, burst out after it.
   He checked his horse on the shore, bringing it up rearing, fetlock deep
. He had his bow strung ready in his hand. He pulled the stallion sideways
and raised the bow, sighting from the back of the plunging horse. But deer
swim low; only the stag's head showed above water, a wedge spearing away fa
st, its antlers flat behind it on the surface like boughs trailing. The hou
nd, swimming strongly, was in line with it. Arthur lowered the bow, and tur
ned the stallion back to breast the bank. In the moment before his spurs st
ruck he saw me. He shouted something, and came cantering along the shingle.
   His face was blazing with excitement. "Did you see him? Snow-white, and a
 head like an emperor! I never saw the like in my life! I'm going round. Caba
l was closing, he'll hold him till I get there. Sorry I spoiled your fishing.
"
  "Emrys-"

  He checked impatiently. "What?"
  "Look. He's making for the island."

   He swung to look where I pointed. The stag had vanished into the mist, a
nd the hound with him. There was no sign of them but the fading ripples flat
tening towards the shore.

  "The island, is it? Are you sure?"

  "Certain."

   "All the devils of hell," he said angrily. "What a cursed piece of luck!
I thought I had him when Cabal sprang him so close." He hung on the rein, hes
itating, staring out over the clouded lake while the stallion fretted, sidlin
g. I suppose he was as much in awe of the place as anyone brought up in that
valley. Then he set his mouth, curbing Canrith sharply. "I'm going to the isl
and. I can say goodbye to the stag, I suppose-that was too good to be true-bu
t I'm damned if I lose Cabal. Bedwyr gave him to me, and I've no mind to lose
 him to Bilis or anyone else, either in this world or the other." He put two
fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. "Cabal! Cabal! Here, sir, here!"

  "It's no good, you'll hardly turn him now."

  "No." He took a breath. "Well, there's nothing for it, it'll have to be the
island. If your magic will reach that far, Myrddin, send it with me now."

   "It's with you always, you know that. You're not going to swim him acros
s, are you?"

   "He'll go," said Arthur, a little breathlessly, as he forced the reluctant st
allion towards the water. "It's too far to go round. If that beast rakes to the c
rags, and Cabal follows it-"

  "Why not take the boat? It's quicker, and that way you can bring Cabal ba
ck."

  "Yes, but the wretched thing'll need bailing. It always does."

  "I bailed it this morning. It's quite ready."

 "Did you? That's the first bit of luck today! You were going out, then?
Will you come with me?"
  "No. I'll stay here. Come now, Emrys, go and find your hound."

    For a moment boy and horse were quite still. Arthur stared down at me, s
omething showing in his face that was half speculation, half awe, but which
was quickly swallowed up in the larger impatience. He slid off the stallion'
s back and pushed the reins into my hand. Then he unstrung his bow and slung
 it across his shoulder and ran to the boat. This was a primitive flat-botto
med affair which usually lay beached in a reedy inlet a short way along the
shore. He launched it with one flying shove, and jumped in. I stood on the s
hingle, holding the horse, watching him. He poled it out through the shallow
s, then had the oars out, and began to row.

  I pulled the rolled cloth from behind the horse's saddle, slung it over t
he animal's steaming back, then tethered him where he could graze, and went b
ack to my seat at the edge of the lake.
   The sun was well up now, and gaining power. A kingfisher flashed by. Gau
ze-winged flies danced over the water. There was a smell of wild mint, and a
 dabchick crept out from a tangle of water forget-me-not. A dragonfly, tiny,
 with a scarlet body, clung pulsing to a reed. Under the sun the mist moved
gently, smoking off the glassy water, shifting and restless like the phantom
s of the night, like the smoke of the enchanted fire. ...

   The shore, the scarlet dragonfly, the white horse grazing, the cloudy fo
rest at my back, faded, became phantoms themselves. I watched, my eyes wide
and fixed on that silent and sightless cloud of pearl.

   He was rowing hard, chin on shoulder as he neared the island. It loomed
 first as a swimming shape of shadow, growing to a shoreline hung over with
 the low boughs of trees. Behind the trees, misty and unreal, the shapes of
 rocks soared like a great castle brooding on its crag. Where the strand me
t the water lay a line of gleaming silver, drawn sharp between the island a
nd its image. The cloudy trees and the high towers of the crags floated wei
ghtless on the water, phantoms themselves in the phantom mist.

  The boat forged ahead. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, calling the hou
nd's name.
  "Cabal! Cabal!"

   The call echoed loudly across the water, swam up the high crags, and died
. There was no sign of either hound or stag. He bent to his oars again, sendi
ng the light boat leaping through the water.

   Its bottom grated on shingle. He jumped out. He pulled it up and trod u
p through the narrow verge of grass. The light was stronger now as the sun
rose higher, reflecting from white mist and white water. Over the shore the
 boughs of birch and rowan reached low, still heavy with moisture. The rowa
n berries were red as flame, and glossy. The turf was powdered with daisies
 and speedwell and small yellow pimpernel. Late foxgloves crowded down the
banks, their spires thrusting through the trails of blackberry. Meadowsweet
, rusting over with autumn, filled the air with its thick honey-scent.

   The boy thrust the hanging boughs aside, plunged through the bramble tr
ails, and stood squarely on the flowery turf, narrowing his eyes at the cra
gs above him. He called again, and again the sound echoed away emptily, and
 died. The mist was lifting faster now, rolling upwards towards the tops, s
howing the lower reaches of rock bathed in a clear but swimming light. Sudd
enly he stiffened, gazing upwards. Midway up the crags, along what looked n
o more than a seam in the rock, the white stag cantered easily, light as a
drift of the mist that wreathed away to air below it.

  Arthur ran forward up the slope. His footsteps on the thick turf made no
sound. He brushed waist-high through brakes of yellowing fern, sending the br
ight drops scattering, and came out at the foot of the cliff.
   He paused again, looking about him. He seemed held by the same awe tha
t had touched him earlier. He looked, not afraid, but as a man looks who k
nows that by a movement he may start something of which he cannot see the
end. He craned his neck, searching the towering crags above him. There was
 no sign of the white stag, but the rocks looked more than ever like a cas
tle crowned with the sun.

  He took a breath, shaking his head as if he came out of water, then he sp
oke again, but quietly. "Cabal? Cabal?"

   From somewhere very near him, bursting the awed silence, came the baying
 of the hound. There was something in it of excitement, something of fear. I
t came from the cliff. The boy looked round him, sharply. Then, behind the g
reen curtain of the trees, he saw the cave. As he started forward Cabal baye
d again, not in fear or pain, but like a beast questing.

  With no more hesitation, Arthur plunged into the darkness of the cave.
   He could never say afterwards how he found his way. I think he must have
 picked up the torch and flint I had left there, and lit it, but he remember
s nothing of that. Perhaps what he does remember is the truth: there seemed,
 he said, to be everywhere some faintly diffused and swimming light, as if r
eflected from the burnished surface of the pool deep in the pillared cave.

   There, beyond the shining pool, the sword lay on its table. From the rock
above a trickle of water had run and dripped, the lime on it hardening through
 the years until the oiled leather of the wrappings, though proof enough to ke
ep the metal bright, had hardened under the dripping till it felt like stone.
In this the thing had rested, the crust of lime forming to hide all but its sh
ape, the long slenderness of the weapon and the hilt formed like a cross.

  It still looked like a sword, but a stone one, some random accident of dr
ipping limestone. Perhaps he remembered the other hilt he had grasped in the
Green Chapel, or perhaps for a moment he, too, saw the future break open in f
ront of him. With an action too quick for thought, and too instinctive to pre
vent, he laid his hand to the hilt.

  He spoke to me, as if I stood beside him. Indeed, I suppose I was as near
to him, and as real, as the white hound that crouched, whining at the pool's
edge.

   "I pulled at it, and it came clear of the stone. It is the most beautiful swor
d in the world. I shall call it Caliburn."

   The mist had gone from the forest now, sucked up by the sun. But it still la
y over the island; this was invisible, floating on its sea of pearl.

   I did not know how much time had passed. The sun was hot, beating down
on the lake cupped in its hills. My eyes ached from the glare of water. I b
linked them, moved, and stretched my. stiff limbs.
   There was a movement behind me; a sudden trampling, as if the white stal
lion had got loose. I turned quickly.

  Thirty paces away, softly as a cloud, Cador of Cornwall rode out of the w
ood on a grey horse, with a troop at his back.



7

I believe that the thought uppermost in my mind was anger that I had not be
en warned. I was not only thinking of Arthur's guardians among the hill peo
ple; but even for me, Merlin, there had been no hint of danger in the sky,
and the vision which had blanketed the troop's approach from my eyes and he
aring had held nothing but light and promise leaping at last towards fulfil
lment. The only mitigation of my anger was that Arthur had not been found w
ith me, and the only faint hope of safety lay in maintaining my character a
s hermit and trusting that Cador would not recognize me, and would ride on
before the boy returned from the island.

   All this went through my mind in the space it took Cador to raise a han
d to halt the men behind him, and for me to pick up the discarded fishing r
od and get to my feet. With some lie already forming on my lips I turned hu
mbly to face Cador as he rode forward, to halt his grey ten paces off. Then
 all hope of remaining unrecognized vanished as behind him among the troop
I saw Ralf with a gag in his mouth, and a trooper on either side of him.

  I straightened. Cador bent his head, saluting me as low as he would have
done the King. "Well met. Prince Merlin."

  "Is it well met?" I was savagely angry. "Why have you taken my servant
? He's none of yours now. Loose him."

  He made a sign, and the troopers released Ralf's arms. He tore the gag fr
om his mouth.

  "Are you hurt?" I asked him.

   "No." He was angry too, and bitter. "I'm sorry, sir. They fell on me as
 I was riding up through the forest. When they recognized me, they thought
you might be near. They gagged me so that I could not give warning. They wa
nted to take you unawares."

   "Don't blame yourself. It was no fault of yours." I had myself under co
ntrol now, groping all the while for the shreds of the vision which had fle
d. Where was Arthur now? Still on the island, with Cabal and the wonderful
sword? Or already on his way back through the mist? But I could see nothing
 except what was here, in plain daylight, and I knew that the spell was bro
ken and I could not reach him.
   I turned on Cador. "You go about your business strangely, Duke! Why di
d you lay hands on Ralf? You could have found me here any time you cared t
o ride this way. The forest is free to everyone, and the Green Chapel is o
pen day and night. I would not have run from you."
  "So you are the hermit of the chapel in the green?"

  "I am he." 'And Ralf serves you?"
  "He serves me."

   He signed to his men to stay where they were, and himself rode forward,
 nearer where I stood. The white stallion screamed and plunged as the grey
horse passed it. Cador drew to a halt beside me, and looked down, his brows
 raised. "And that horse? Is it yours? A strange choice for a hermit?"
    I said acidly: "You know it is not mine. If you caught Ralf in the fore
st, then no doubt you saw one of Count Ector's sons as well. They were ridi
ng together. The boy came here to fish. I don't know how long he'll be; he
often stays away half the day." I turned decisively away from the Water. "R
alf, wait here for him. And you, my lord Duke, since you were so urgent to
see me that you mishandled my servant, will you come with me now to the cha
pel, and say what you have to say in privacy? And you can tell me, too, wha
t - besides this private hunt of yours - brings you and the men of Cornwall
 so far north?"

   "War brings me; war, and the King's command. I doubt if even here you
have been too isolated to know of Colgrim's threats? But you might say it
was a happy chance that made me ride this way." He smiled, and added, plea
santly: "And this was hardly a private hunt. Did you not know, Prince Merl
in, that men have been searching the length and breadth of the land to fin
d you?"
  "I was aware of it. I did not choose to be found. Now, Duke, will you co
me with me? Leave Ralf to wait here for the boy - "

   "Count Ector's son, eh?" He had made no move to follow me away from the
 water's edge. He sat his big horse easily, still smiling. His manner was c
onfident and assured. "And you really expect me to ride with you and leave
Ralf to wait for this - son of Count Ector? No doubt to spirit him away for
 another span of years? Believe me, Prince - "
   From the water, sharply, came Cabal's bark, the warning of a hound aler
t to danger. Then a word from Arthur, silencing the hound. The sound of oar
s as the boat jumped forward, suddenly driven hard through the water.

  Cador swung his horse to face the sound, and in spite of myself I moved
with him. My look must have been grim, for two of his officers spurred for
ward.

   "Keep them back," I said sharply, and he flashed me a look and then lifte
d a hand. The men stopped short, a spear-cast off. I spoke quietly, for Cador
 alone:

   "If you don't want Ector at your throat, with all Rheged behind him- yes
, and Colgrim sweeping in to pick the fragments apart - let Ralf and the boy
 go now. Anything you have to say can be said to me. I shall not try to esca
pe you.
   But for my life, Duke Cador, the King himself will answer." He hesitated
, glancing from the misty lake to where his troopers stood. They had pricked
 to the alert. I did not think they had recognized me, or realized what quar
ry their Duke was hunting today; but they had seen his interest in the sound
s from behind the mist, and though they stayed where they were near the edge
 of the wood, the spears stirred and rattled like a reed-bed in the wind.
   "As to that-" began Cador, but he was interrupted. The boat ran out of
the mist's edge and cut through the shallows. Seconds before it grounded Ca
bal, with a growl in his throat, flung himself over the thwart and made for
 the shore. One of the officers swung his horse round and drew his sword. C
ador heard it, and shouted something. The man hesitated, and the hound, lea
ping up the bank, silent now, went in a rush for Cador himself. The grey ho
rse reared back. The hound missed his grab, caught the edge of the saddle-c
loth. It tore, and a piece came away in his jaws. Behind me, Arthur yelled
at the hound and ran the boat hard ashore. Ralf jumped forward, intending,
I could see, to grab Cabal, but the troopers nearest him spurred forward an
d crossed their spears with a clash, holding him back. Cabal tossed t
he torn cloth over his shoulder and turned snarling to attack the men who
 held Ralf. One of them hefted his spear ready, and swords flashed out. C
ador barked an order. The swords went up. The Duke lifted, not his sword, b
ut his whip, and spurred the big grey round as the hound gathered himself to spring,

   I took a stride forward under the whip, gripped the hound's collar, and
 threw my weight against his. I could scarcely hold him. Arthur's voice cam
e fiercely, "Cabal! Back!" and even as the hound's pull slackened the boy j
umped from the boat and in two strides was between me and Cador with the ne
w sword naked and shining in his hand.

   "You," he panted, "sir-whoever you are . . ." The sword's point slanted u
p at the Duke's breastbone. "Keep back! If you touch him, I swear I'll kill y
ou, even if you had a thousand men at your back."

   Cador slowly lowered the whip. I let Cabal go, and he sank to the groun
d behind Arthur, growling. Arthur stood squarely in front of me, angry and
undoubtedly dangerous. But the Duke did not even seem to notice the sword o
r its threat. His eyes were on the boy's face. They flicked to mine, moment
arily, then back.to the boy.
  All this had passed in a few breathless seconds. The Duke's men were st
ill moving forward, the officers ranging to his side. As someone shouted an
 order, I shot a hand out and caught Arthur's arm and swung him round to fa
ce me, with his back to the Cornishmen.

   "Emrys! What folly is this? There is no danger here, except from your h
ound. You should control him better. Take him now, and get yourself straigh
t back to Galava with Ralf."

   I had never spoken to him so in all the years he had known me. He stood
 still, his mouth slackening with surprise, like someone who has been struc
k for nothing. While he" still stared dumbly I added, curtly: "This gentlem
an and I are acquainted. Why should you think he means me harm?"

  "I-I thought-" he stammered. "I thought-they had Ralf-and swords drawn
on you-"

   "You thought wrongly. I'm grateful to you, but as you see, I need no hel
p. Put up your sword now, and go."

   His eyes searched my face again, briefly, then he looked down at the swor
d he held. The sunlight blazed from it and the jewelled hilt sparkled. His ha
nd looked young and tense on the hilt. I remembered the feel and fit of that
hilt, and the life that ran back from the blade, clear into the sinews and th
e leaping blood. He had braved the very halls of the Otherworld for this, and
 had brought the bright thing back from darkness into the light that owned it
, to find his first danger waiting, and himself-with the wonderful sword -its
 equal. And I had spoken to him like this.

  I gave his arm a little shake, and released it. "Go. No one will stop you."

   He rubbed it where I had gripped him, not stirring. His colour was just
beginning to come back, and with it a smoulder of anger. He looked so like U
ther that I said, brutal with apprehension: "Go now and leave us, do you hea
r? I shall have time for you tomorrow."

  "Emrys?" It was Cador, smoothly. Before I could stop him the boy had tur
ned, and I saw that it was too late for pretense. Cador was looking from Art
hur's face to mine, and there was excitement in his eyes.

  "That is my name," said Arthur. He sounded sullen, narrowing his eyes
up at the Duke against the sun. Then he seemed to notice the badge on the
other's shoulder. "Cornwall? What are you doing so far north of your comma
nd, and with what authority do you lead your troops across our land?"
  "Across your land? Count Ector's?"

   "I'm his foster-son. But perhaps," said Arthur, silky with cold courtesy
, "you have already passed Galava and spoken with his lady?"

   He knew, of course, that Cador had not; he had not long ridden out of Ga
lava himself. But Cador had given him the chance to recover the pride that I
 had damaged. He stood very straight, his back firmly turned to me, his eyes
 level on the Duke's.

   Cador said: "So you are a ward of Count Ector's? Who is your father, the
n, Emrys?"

   Arthur did not jib at this question now. He said coolly: "That, sir, I am
not at liberty to tell you. But my breeding is not something of which I need t
o be ashamed."

   This set Cador at pause. There was a curious expression on his face. H
e knew, of course. How could he not have known, the moment the boy flew ou
t of the mist to my defense? From before that moment, it had been beyond r
epair. But there was still a chance that the others might not guess; Cador
's big grey stood between Arthur and the troop, and even while the though
t crossed my mind he turned and made a sign, and the officers and men mo
ved back, once again beyond earshot.
   I was calm now, knowing what I must do. The first thing was to salvage
Arthur's pride, and whatever love I had not already destroyed by destroying
 this hour for him. I touched him gently on the shoulder. "Emrys, will you
give us leave now? The Duke of Cornwall will not harm me, and he and I must
 talk together. Will you ride up to the chapel now with Ralf, and wait for
me there?"

   I expected Cador to intervene, but he sat without stirring. He was not w
atching the boy's face now, but the sword, still bare and flashing in Arthur
's hand. Then he seemed to come to himself with a start. He signed to his me
n again, and Ralf, released, brought Canrith forward for Arthur, and mounted
 his own horse. He looked worried and questioning, wondering, probably, whet
her to take what I said at face value, or whether he must try to escape with
 Arthur into the forest.
  I nodded to him. "Up to the shrine, Ralf. Wait for me there, if you will. H
ave no fear for me; I shall come later."

   Arthur still hesitated, his hand on Canrith's bridle. Cador said: "It's tr
ue, Emrys, I mean him no harm. Don't be afraid to leave him. I know better tha
n to tangle with enchanters. He'll come to you safely, never fear."

    The boy threw me a strange look. He still looked doubtful, almost dazed
. I said gently, not caring now who heard me: "Emrys-"

    "Yes?"

   "I have to thank you. It is true that I thought there was danger. I Was afrai
d."

   The sullen look lifted. He did not smile, but the anger died from his fac
e, and life came back into it, as vividly as the bright sword leaping from it
s dull sheath. I knew then that nothing I had done had even smudged the edges
 of his love for me. He said, with little to be heard in his tone except exas
peration: "How long will it be before you realize that I would give my life i
tself to keep you from hurt?"

  He glanced down again at the sword in his hand, almost as if he wondered
how it had got there. Then he looked up, straight at Cador.

   "If you harm him in any way, the kingdoms will not be wide enough to hol
d us both. I swear it."

    "Sir," said Cador, speaking, warrior to warrior, with grave courtesy, "tha
t I well believe. I swear to you that I shall not harm him or anyone, save onl
y the King's enemies."
   The boy held his eyes for a moment longer, then nodded. He swallowed, a
nd the tension went out of him. Then he leaped astride his horse, saluted C
ador formally, and, without another word, rode off along the lake-side trac
k. Cabal ran with him, and Ralf followed. I saw the boy glance back as he r
eached the bend in the track that would carry him out of my sight. Then the
y were gone, and I was alone with Cador and the men of Cornwall.


8
"Well, Duke?" I said.

   He did not answer immediately, but sat biting his lip, staring down at
the saddle-bow. Then, without turning, he signalled one of his officers who
 came forward and took his bridle as he dismounted. "Take the men down the
shore a hundred paces. Water the horses, and wait for me there."
  The man went, and the troop wheeled and clattered out of sight beyond a
jut of woodland. Cador gathered his cloak over his arm and looked about hi
m. . "Shall we talk here?"

   We sat down where a flat rock overhung the water. He drew his dagger, fo
r no worse purpose than to draw patterns in the wild thyme. When he had done
 a circle, and fitted a triangle inside it, he spoke to the ground. "He's a
fine boy."
  "He is."

  "And like his sire."

  I said nothing.

 The dagger drove into the ground and stayed there. His head came up. "
Merlin, why should you think I am his enemy?"
  "Are you not his enemy?"

   "No, by all the gods! I shall tell no one where he is unless you give m
e leave. There, you see? You look amazed. You thought of me as his enemy, a
nd yours. Why?"

   "If any man has reason for enmity, Cador, you have. It was through my ac
tion and Uther's that your father was killed."
   "That is not quite true. You planned to betray my father's bed, but not m
y father himself. It was his own rashness, or bravery if you like, that cause
d his death. I believe that you did not foresee it. Besides, if I am to hate
you because of that night, how much more should I hate Uther Pendragon?"
  "And do you not?"
  "God's death, man, have you not heard that I ride beside him and serve hi
m as his chief captain?"

  "I had heard it. And I wondered why. You must know how I have doubted
you."

   He laughed, a harsh laugh, like his father's rough bark. "You made it cle
ar. I don't blame you. No, I don't hate Uther Pendragon; neither, I confess,
do I love him. But when I was a boy I saw enough of divided kingdoms; Cornwal
l is mine, but she cannot stand alone. There is only one future for Cornwall
now, and this is the same future as Britain's. I am linked to Uther, whether
I like it or not. I will not bring division again, to see the people suffer.
So I am Uther's man ... or, which is nearer the truth, the High King's."

   I watched the kingfisher, reassured now that the troop had gone, dive i
n a jewelled splash below us. He came up with a fish, shook his feathers, a
nd flashed away. I said: "Did you send men to spy on me in Maridunum, years
 back, before I came north?"

  His lips thinned. "Those. Yes, they were mine . . . and fine work they ma
de of it! You guessed straight away, didn't you?"
   "It was an obvious conclusion. They were Cornish, and your troops were a
t Caerleon. I learned later that you yourself had been there. Am I to be bla
med if I thought you were trying to find Arthur?"
   "Not at all. That is exactly what I was trying to do. But not to harm h
im." He frowned down again at the dagger. "Remember those years, Prince Mer
lin, and think how it was with me then. The King ailing, and for all one co
uld see, pledging more and more power to Lot and his friends. He offered Mo
rgause in marriage before ever Morgian was born, did you know that? And eve
n now, I doubt if he really sees where Lot's ambition is leading him ... I
tried to tell him myself, but from me it came like an echo of the same ambi
tion. I feared what would happen to the kingdoms should Uther die-or should
 Uther's son die. And though I didn't doubt your power to protect that son
in your own way, there's a place for my way as well." The dagger thudded ba
ck into the turf. "So I wanted to find him, and watch him. As, for a differ
ent reason, I have been watching Lot."

    "I see. You never thought of approaching me yourself and telling me this?
"
  He looked sideways at me, the corners of his mouth lifting. "If I had, w
ould you have believed me?"

  "It's probable. I am not easy to deceive."

  "And told me where the boy was?"

  I smiled. "That. No."

   He hunched a shoulder. "Well, there's your answer. I sent my foolish sp
ies, and found nothing. I even lost you. But I never meant you harm, I swea
r it. And though I may once have been your enemy, I was never Arthur's. Wil
l you believe that now?"

   I looked around me at the tranquil day, the sunlit trees, the light mist
lifting from the lake. "I should have known it long ago. All day I have been
wondering why I had had no warning of danger."

   "If I were Arthur's enemy," he said, smiling, "I would know better than
to try and snatch him from under Merlin's arm and eye. So if there had been
danger in the air today, you would have known it?"
   I drew a breath. I felt light again as the summer air around me. "I am sur
e of it. It worried me, that I had let you come so close today, and never felt
 the cold on my skin. Nor do I feel it now. Duke Cador, I should ask your forg
iveness, if you will give it me."

   "Willingly." He began to clean the tip of his dagger in the grass. "But if
 I am not his enemy, Merlin, there are those who are. I don't have to tell you
 about the dangers of this Christmas marriage; not only for Arthur's claim to
the throne, but the dangers for the kingdom itself."

   I nodded. "Division, strife, the dark end to a dark year. Yes. Is there a
nything more you can tell me about King Lot, that all men do not already know
?"

   "Nothing definite, not more than before. I am hardly in Lot's private co
uncils. But I can tell you this; if Uther delays much longer over proclaimin
g his son, the nobles may decide to choose his successor among themselves. A
nd the choice is there, ready, in Lot who is a tried and known warrior, who
has fought at the King's hand, and is-will be soon- the King's son-in-law."
  "Successor?" I said. "Or supplanter?"

   "Not openly, no. Morgian would not see Lot stepping across her father's
body to the kingdom. But once he is married to her, and is the King's appare
nt heir until Arthur is produced, then Arthur himself, when he does appear,
will have to show both a stronger claim and a stronger backing."

  "He has both."

   "The claim, yes. But the backing? Lot has more men at his back than I." I
said nothing, but after a bit he nodded. "Yes. I see. If he is backed by you,
yourself in person . . . You can enforce his claim?"

  "I can try. I shall have help. Yours, too, I hope?"

  "You have it."
  "You shame me, Cador"

   "Hardly that," he said. "You were right. It was true that I hated you. I
 was young then, but I have come to see things differently; perhaps more cle
arly. For my own sake, if for nothing else, I cannot stand by and see Uther
so bound to Lot, and Lot succeeding in his ambition. Arthur's is the one str
ong claim which can't be denied, and his is the one hand which can hold the
kingdoms together-if any hand can do it now. Oh, yes, I would support him."
   I was reflecting that even at fifteen Cador had been a realist; now, hi
s tough-minded common sense was like a gust of cold air through a musty cou
ncil-chamber. "Does Lot know this?" I asked him.

   "I have made it clear, I think. Lot knows I would oppose him, and so
would the northern lords of Rheged, and the kings of Wales. But there are
 others I am not sure of, and many who will be swayed either way if their
 lands are threatened. The times are dangerous, Merlin. You knew Eosa wen
t to Germany, and was consorting with Colgrim and Badulf? Yes? Well, news
 came a short while ago that long-ships had been massing across the Germa
n Sea from Sege-dunum and that the Picts have opened their harbours to them."

  "I had not heard that. Then there'll be fighting before winter?"
  He nodded. "Before the month is out. That's why I am here, Maelgon stays
on the Irish Shore, but the danger is not on the west; not yet. The attack
will come from east and north."

    "Ah." I smiled. "Then certain things will be made clear very soon, I think.
"

   He had been watching me intently. Now his mouth relaxed, and he nodded
 again. "You see it? Of course you do. Yes, one good thing may come out of
 this clash-Lot must declare himself. If, as rumour has it, he has been ma
king advances to the Saxons, then he will have to declare for Colgrim. If
he wants Morgian, and the High Kingdom along with her, he'll have to fight
 for Uther." He laughed with genuine amusement. "It's Octa's death that ha
s brought Colgrim raging straight across the German Sea, and forced Lot's
hand. If he'd waited for the spring, Lot would have had Morgian, and could
 have received Colgrim too, and used the Saxons to set himself up as High
King, like Vortigern before him. As it is, we shall see."

    "Where is the King?" I asked.

    "On his way north. He should be at Luguvallium within the week."

    "He'll lead the field himself?"
   "He intends to, though as you know he's a sick man. It seems that Colgri
m may have forced Uther's hand, too. I think he will send for Arthur now. I
think he will have to."
    "Whether he sends or not," I said, "Arthur will be there." I saw the exc
itement spring to Cador's face again, and asked him: "Will you give him esco
rt, Duke?"

    "Willingly, by God! You'll come with him?"

    I said: "After this, where he is, I am."

   "And you'll be needed," he said meaningly. "Pray God Uther has not left i
t too late. Even with proof of Arthur's parentage, and the King's own sword f
ast in his hand, it won't be easy to persuade the nobles to declare for an un
tried boy . . . And Lot's faction will fight back every foot of the way. Bett
er to take them by surprise, like this. The boy will need all you can throw i
nto the scale for him."
   I smiled. "He can throw in quite a lot himself. He's to be reckoned with
, Cador, make no mistake. He's no kingmaker's toy."

   He grinned. "You don't need to tell me that. Did you know he was more l
ike you than ever like the King?"

 I spoke with my eyes on the glittering surface of the lake. "I think it is
my sword, not Uther's, which will carry him to the kingship."
  He sat up sharply. "Yes. That sword. Where in middle-earth did he find t
hat sword?"

  "On Caer Bannog."

   His eyes widened. "He went there? Then, by God, he's welcome to it and
all it brings him! I'd not have dared! What took him there?"

   "He went to save the hound. It had been given him by his friend. You migh
t call it chance that took him there."

  "Oh, aye. The same kind of chance that brought me along the lake-side t
oday, to find a poor hermit, and a boy called Ambrosius, who holds a sword
which might well befit a king?"

  "Or an emperor," I said. "It's the sword of Macsen Wledig,"

   "So?" He drew in his breath. I saw the same look in his eyes as there h
ad been in the Cornish troopers' when I spoke of the enchanted island. "Thi
s was the claim you were speaking of? You found that sword for him? You cas
t your net wide, Merlin."

  "I cast no net. I go with the time."

   "Yes. I see." He drew another long breath, and looked about him as if he
saw the day for the first time, with all its sunlight and moving breezes and
the island floating on the water. "And now for you, and for him and all of us
, the time is come?"

   "I think so. He found the sword where I had laid it, and you came, hard
on its finding. All the year the King has been urged to make proclamation an
d he has done nothing. So instead, we will do it. You lie tonight at Galava?"
   "Yes." He sat up, pushing the dagger home in its sheath with a rap. "You'l
l join us there? We ride at sun-up."

   "I shall be there tonight," I said, "and Arthur with me. Today he stays wi
th me in the forest. We have things to say to one another."

    He looked at me curiously. "He knows nothing yet?"

    "Nothing," I said. "I promised the King."

 "Then until the King speaks publicly, I'll see he learns nothing. Some of
my men may suspect, but they are all loyal. You needn't fear them."

   I got to my feet, and he followed suit. He raised a hand to his watching
 officer in the distance. I heard the words of command, and the sounds of th
e troop mounting. They rode towards us along the lake-side.

    "You have a horse?" asked Cador. "Or shall I leave one with you now?"

  "Thank you, no. I have one. I'll walk back to the chapel when I'm ready. T
here's something I have to do first."

    He looked again at the sunlit forest, the still lake, the dreaming hills, a
s if power or magic must be ready to fall on me from their light. "Something st
ill to do? Here?"

   "Indeed." I picked up the fishing rod. "I still have to catch my dinner,
and for two now, instead of one. And see, this day of days has even produced
a breeze for me. If Arthur can lift the sword of Maximus from the lake, surel
y I shall be granted at least two decent fish?"



9

Ralf met me at the edge of the clearing, but we could not have much talk, bec
ause Arthur was nearby, sitting in the sun on the chapel steps, with Cabal at
 his feet.

   I told Ralf quickly what he must do. He was to ride down now to the ca
stle and tell Drusilla what had happened, that Arthur was safe with me, an
d that we would join Duke Cador on the ride north tomorrow. A message was
to go ahead to Count Ector, and one to the King. Meanwhile Ralf was to ask
 the Countess to arrange with Abbot Martin to have the shrine tended durin
g my absence.

  "And are you going to tell him now?" asked Ralf.

  "No. It's for Uther to tell him."
 "Don't you think he may guess already, after what happened down yonder?
He's been silent ever since, but with a look to him as if he'd been given
more than a sword. What is that sword, Merlin?"

   "It's said that Weland Smith himself made it, long ago. What is sure is
that the Emperor Maximus used it, and that his men brought it home for the K
ing of Britain."

   "That one? And he tells me he found it on Caer Bannog ... I begin to se
e ... And now you take him to the King. Are you trying to force Uther's han
d? Do you think the King will accept him?"

   "I am sure of it. Uther must claim him now. I think we may find that he has
 sent for him already. You'd better go, Ralf. There'll be time to talk later. Y
ou'll ride with us, of course.

   "You think I'd let you leave me behind?" He spoke gaily, but I could se
e that he was torn between relief and regret; on the one hand the knowledge
 that the long watch was over, on the other, that Arthur would now be taken
 from his care and committed to mine and the King's. But there was happines
s, too, that he would soon be back in the press of affairs in an open posit
ion of trust, and able to wield his sword against the kingdom's enemies. He
 saluted me, smiling, then turned and rode off down the tracks towards Galava.

   The hoof-beats faded down through the forest. Sunlight poured into the c
learing. The last of the water-drops had vanished from the pines, and the sm
ell of resin filled the air. A thrush was singing somewhere. Late harebells
were thick among the grass, and small blue butterflies moved over the white
flowers of the blackberry. There was a hive of wild bees under the roof of t
he chapel; their humming filled the air, the sound of summer's end.

   Through a man's life there are milestones, things he remembers even into
the hour of his death. God knows that I have had more than a man's share of r
ich memories; the lives and deaths of kings, the coming and going of gods, th
e founding and destroying of kingdoms. But it is not always these great event
s that stick in the mind: here, now, in this final darkness, it is the small
times that come back to me most vividly, the quiet human moments which I shou
ld like to live again, rather than the flaming times of power. I can still se
e, how clearly, the golden sunlight of that quiet afternoon. There is the sou
nd of the spring, and the falling liquid of the thrush's song, the humming of
 the wild bees, the sudden flurry of the white hound scratching for fleas, an
d the sizzling sound of cooking where Arthur knelt over the wood fire, turnin
g the trout on a spit of hazel, his face solemn, exalted, calm, lighted from
within by whatever it is that sets such men alight. It was his beginning, and
 he knew it.

   He did not ask me much, though a thousand questions must have been kno
cking at his lips. I think he knew, without knowing how, that we were on th
e threshold of events too great for talk. There are some things that one he
sitates to bring down into words. Words change an idea by definitions too p
recise, meanings too hung about with the references of every day.

   We ate in silence. I was wondering how to tell him, without breaking m
y promise to Uther, that I proposed to take him with me to the King. I tho
ught that Ralf was wrong; the boy did not begin to guess the truth; but he
 must be wondering about the events of the day, not only the sword, but wh
at there was between myself and Cador, and why Ralf had been so handled. B
ut he said nothing, not even asking why Ralf had gone away and left him he
re alone with me. He seemed content with the moment. The angry little skir
mish down by the lake might never have been.

   We ate in the open air, and when we had finished, Arthur, without a word
, removed the dishes and brought water in a bowl for me to wash with. Then h
e settled beside me on the chapel steps, lacing the fingers of his hands rou
nd one knee. The thrush still sang. Blue and shadowed, and misty with presen
ce, the hills brooded, chin on knees, round the valley. I felt myself crowde
d already by the forces that waited there.

  "The sword," he said. "You knew it was there, of course."

  "Yes, I knew."

   "He said . . . He called you an enchanter?" There was the faintest of que
ries in his voice. He wasn't looking at me. He sat on the step below me, head
 bent, looking down at the fingers laced round his knee.
  "You knew that. You have seen me use magic."

    "Yes. The first time I came here, when you showed me the sword in the sto
ne altar, and I thought it was real ..." He stopped abruptly, and his head ca
me up. His voice was sharp with discovery. "It was real! This is the one, isn
't it? The one the stone sword was carved from? Isn't it? Isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "What sword is it, Myrddin?"

 "Do you remember my telling you-you and Bedwyr- the story of Macsen
Wledig?"

   "Yes, I remember it well. You said that was the sword carved in the alta
r here." Again that note of discovery. "This is the same? His very sword?"
  "Yes."

  "How did it come there, on the island?"

  I said: "I put it there, years back. I brought it from the place where it had
been hidden."

  He turned fully then, and looked at me. A long look. "You mean you found
it? It's your sword?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "You found it by magic? Where?"
  "I can't tell you that, Emrys. Some day you may need to search for the pl
ace yourself." ' "Why should I?"

   "I don't know. But a man's first need is a sword, to use against life, and co
nquer it. Once it is conquered, and he is older, he needs other food, for the spi
rit . . ."

  After a bit I heard him say, softly: "What are you seeing, Myrddin?"
  "I was seeing a settled and shining land, with corn growing rich in the v
alleys, and farmers working their fields in peace as they did in the time of
the Romans. I was seeing a sword growing idle and discontented, and the days
of peace stretching into bickering and division, and the need of a quest for
the idle swords and the unfed spirits. Perhaps it was for this that the god t
ook the grail and the spear back from me and hid them in the ground, so that
one day you might set out to find the rest of Macsen's treasure. No, not you,
 but Bedwyr ... It is his spirit, not yours, which will hunger and thirst, an
d slake itself in the wrong fountains."
   As if from far away, I heard my own voice die, and silence come back. T
he thrush had flown, the bees seemed quiet. The boy was on his feet now, an
d staring.

  He said, with all the force of simplicity: "Who are you?"

  "My name is Myrddin Emrys, but I am known as Merlin the enchanter."

   "Merlin? But then-but that means you are-you were-" He stopped, and sw
allowed.

  "Merlinus Ambrosius, son of Ambrosius the High King? Yes."

   He stood silent for a long time. I could see him thinking back, remember
ing, assessing. Not guessing about himself- he had been too deeply rooted, a
nd for too long, in the person of Ector's bastard foster-son. And, like ever
yone else in the kingdom, he assumed that the prince was being royally reare
d in some court beyond the sea.

   He spoke at length quietly, but with such a kind of inward force and joy
that one wondered how he could contain it. What he said surprised me. "Then t
he sword was yours. You found it, not I. I was only sent to bring it to you.
It is yours. I will get it for you now."

  "No, wait, Emrys-"

  But he had already gone. He brought the sword, running, and held it out t
o me.

   "Here. It's yours." He sounded breathless. "I ought to have guessed who
you were . . . Not away in Brittany with the prince, as some people have it,
 but here, in your own country, waiting till the time came to help the High
King. You are the seed of Ambrosius. Only you could have found it, and I fou
nd it only because you sent me there. It is for you. Take it."
  "No. Not for me. Not for a bastard seed."

  "Does that make a difference? Does it?"

  "Yes," I said gently.

    He was silent. The sword sank to his side and was quenched in his shadow
. I mistook his silence, and I remember that at the time I was relieved mere
ly that he said no more.

   I got to my feet. "Bring it now into the chapel. We'll leave it there, wher
e it belongs, on the god's altar. Whichever god is sovereign in this place will
 watch it for us. It must wait here till the time comes for it to be claimed in
 the sight of men, by the legitimate heir to the kingdom."

  "So. That's why you sent me for it? To bring it for him?"

  "Yes. In due time it will be his."

   A little to my surprise he smiled, apparently satisfied. He nodded calmly
. We took the sword together into the chapel. He laid it on the altar, above
its carved replica. They were the same. His hand left the hilt, lingeringly,
and he stepped back to my side.

  "And now," I said, "I have something to tell you. The Duke of Cornwall
brought news-"

   I got no further. The sound of hoofs, approaching rapidly through the f
orest, brought Cabal up, roach-backed and growling. Arthur whipped round. H
is voice was sharp.

   "Listen! Is that Cornwall's troop back again? Something must be wrong .
. . Are you sure they mean you well?"
  I put a hand to his arm and he stopped, then, at the look on my face, ask
ed: "What is it, then? Were you expecting this?"

 "No. Yes. I hardly know. Wait, Emrys. Yes, this had to come. I thought it
must. The day is not over yet."
  "What do you mean?"
    A I shook my head. "Come with me and meet them." It was not Cornwall's
 troops that came clattering into the clearing. The Dragon glittered, red
on gold. King's men. The officer halted his troop and rode forward. I saw
his eye take in the wild clearing, the overgrown shrine, my own plain robes
; it touched the boy at my side, no more than a touch, then came back to my
 face, and he saluted, bowing low.
   The greeting was formal, in the King's name. It was followed by the new
s I had already had from Cador; that the King was marching north with his a
rmy, and would lie at Luguvallium, there to face the threat from Colgrim's
forces. The man went on to tell me, looking troubled, that of late the King
's sickness seemed to have taken hold of him again, and there were days whe
n he had not the strength to ride, but proposed, if need be, to take the fi
eld in a litter. "And this is the message I was charged to give you, my lor
d. The High King, remembering the strength and help you gave to the army of
 his brother Aurelius Ambrosius, asks that you will come now out of your fa
stness, and go to him where he waits to meet his enemies." The message came
, obviously, by rote. He finished: "My lord, I am to tell you that this is
the summons you have been waiting for."

   I bent my head. "I was expecting it. I had already sent to tell the Kin
g I was coming, and Emrys of Galava with me. You are to escort us? Then no
doubt you will have the goodness to wait a while until we are ready. Emrys"
-I turned to Arthur, standing in a white trance of excitement at my side-"c
ome with me."

   He followed me back into the chapel. As soon as we were out of sight of
the troop he caught at my arm. "You're taking me? You're really talking me?
And if it comes to a battle-"
  "Then you shall fight in it."

  "But my father, Count Ector . . . He may forbid it."
  "You will not fight beside Count Ector. These are King's troops and you
go with me. You will fight with the King."

  He said joyously: "I knew this was a day of marvels! I thought at first t
hat the white stag had led me to the sword, that it was for me. But now I see t
hat it was just a sign that today I should ride to my first battle . . . What a
re you doing?"
  "Watch now," I said. "I told you I would leave the sword in the god's prot
ection. It has lain long enough in the darkness. Let us leave it now in the li
ght."

   I stretched out my hands. From the air the pale fire came, running down th
e blade, so that runes-quivering and illegible-shimmered there. Then the fire
spread, engulfing it, till, like a brand too brightly flaring, the flames died
, and when they had gone, there stood the altar, pale stone, with nothing agai
nst it but the stone sword.

  Arthur had not seen me use this kind of power before, and he watched ope
n-mouthed as the flames broke out of the air and caught at the stone. He dre
w back, awed and a little frightened, and the only colour in his face was th
e wanlight cast by the flames.

  When it was done he stood very still, licking dry lips. I smiled at him.

  "Come, be comfortable. You have seen me use magic before."

   "Yes. But seeing this-this kind of thing . . . All this time, when Bedwyr
 and I were with you, you never let us know what sort of man you were . . . T
his power; I had no idea. You told us nothing of it."

   "There was nothing to tell. There was no need for me to use it, and it wa
sn't something you could learn from me. You will have different skills, you a
nd Bedwyr. You won't need this one. Besides, if you do, I shall be there to g
ive it to you."

  "Will you? Always? I wish I could believe that."
  "It is true."

  "How can you know?"
  "I know," I said.

   He stared at me for a moment longer, and in his face I could see a who
le world of uncertainty and bewilderment and desire. It was a boy's look,
immature and lost, and it was gone in a moment, replaced by his normal arm
our of bright courage. He smiled then, and the sparkle was back. "You may
regret that, you know! Bedwyr's the only person who can stand me for long."
  I laughed. "I'll do my best. Now, if you will, tell them to bring our horses
out."

   When I was ready I went out to join the waiting men. Arthur was not mou
nted and fretting to be off, as I had expected; he was holding my horse for
 me, like a groom. I saw his eyes widen a little when he saw me; I had put
on my best clothes, and my black mantle was lined with scarlet and pinned o
n the shoulder by the Dragon brooch of the royal house. He saw that I was a
mused and had guessed his thought, and smiled a little in return as he swun
g himself up on his white stallion. I took care that he should not see what
 I was thinking then; that the youth with the plain mantle and the bright,
proud look did not need a brooch to declare himself Pendragon, and royal. B
ut he drew the stallion soberly in behind my mild roan mare, and the men we
re watching me.

  So we left the chapel of the Wild Forest in the care of whichever god o
wned it, and rode down towards Galava.



BOOK IV

THE KING



1

The danger from the Saxons had been more immediate even than Cador had su
pposed. Colgrim had moved fast. By the time Arthur and I with our escort
approached Luguvallium we found, just south-east of the town, the King's
forces and Cador's moving into position with the men of Rheged, to face a
n enemy already massing in great numbers for the attack.

   The British leaders were closeted with the King in his tent. This had be
en pitched on the summit of a small hill which lay behind the field of battl
e. There had in times past been some kind of a fortress there, and a few rui
ned walls still stood, with the remains of a tower, and lower down on the sl
opes were the tumbled stones and weedy garths of an abandoned village. The p
lace was a riot of blackberry and nettle, with huge old apple trees still st
anding among the fallen stones, golden with ripening fruit. Here, below the
hill, the baggage trains were rumbling into place; the trees and the half-ru
ined walls would provide shelter for the emergency dressing station. Soon th
e apparent chaos would resolve itself; the King's armies still fought with a
 pattern of the Roman discipline enforced by Ambrosius. Looking at the huge
spreading host of the enemy, the field of spears and axes and the horse-hair
 tossing in the breeze like the foam of an advancing sea, I thought that we
would need every last scruple of strength and courage that we could muster.
And I wondered about the King.

   Uther's tent had been pitched on a little level lawn, before the ruined
tower. As our troop rode towards it through the noise and bustle of the batt
alions assembling into fighting order, I saw men turn to stare, and even abo
ve the shouts of command and the clash of arms could hear the word go round.
 "It's Merlin. Merlin. Merlin the prophet is here. Merlin is with us." Men t
urned, stared, shouted, and elation seemed to spread like a buzz through the
 field. A fellow with the device of Dyfed shouted as I passed, in my own ton
gue: "Are you with us then, Myrddin Emrys, brand, and have you seen the shoo
ting star for us today?"

 I called back, clearly, so that it could be heard: "Today it is a rising star.
Watch for it, and the victory."

   As I dismounted with Arthur and Ralf at the foot of the hill, and walked u
p to Uther's tent, I heard the word spread through the field with a rush like
the wind racing over ripe corn.

   It was a bright September day, full of sunlight. Outside the King's tent
 the Dragon blew, scarlet on yellow. I went straight in, with Arthur on my h
eels. The boy had armed himself at Galava, and looked at every point a young
 warrior. I had expected him to appear with Ector's blazon, but he carried n
o device, and his cloak and tunic were of plain white wool. "It's my colour,
" he had said, when he saw me looking. "The white horse, the white hound, an
d I shall carry a white shield. Since I have no name, I shall write on it my
self. My device will be my own, when I get it." I had said nothing, but I th
ought now, as the boy trod forward beside me across the King's tent, that if
 he had deliberately courted all men's eyes on the field of battle, he could
 not have done better. The unmarked white, and his air of eager and shining
youth, stood out among the tossing brilliance of colour on that bright morni
ng, as surely as if the trumpets had already proclaimed him prince. And as U
ther greeted us, I could see the same thought in the eager and hungry gaze h
e fixed on the boy's face.
    Myself, I was shocked at Uther's appearance. It bore out the reports I h
ad had of him, of a man visibly failing, "as if a canker gnawed at his guts,
 not with pain but with daily wasting." He was thin and his colour was bad,
and I noticed that from time to time his hand went to his chest, as if he fo
und it hard to draw breath. He was splendidly dressed, with gold and jewels
glinting on his armour; the stuff of his great cloak was gold, too, with sca
rlet dragons entwined. He held himself upright, kingly in the great chair. T
here was grey now in the reddish hair and beard, but his eyes were vivid and
 alive as ever, burning in their deep sockets. The thinness of his face made
 it look more hawk-like, and if possible more kingly than before. The flashi
ng gold and jewels and the great cloak hid the thinness of his body. Only th
e wrists and bony hands showed where the long wasting sickness had gnawed th
e flesh away.

   Arthur waited behind me with Ralf as I went forward. Count Ector was t
here, near the King, along with Coel of Rheged, and Cador, and a dozen oth
er of Uther's leaders whom I knew. I saw Ector eyeing Arthur with a kind o
f wonder. I did not see Lot anywhere.

   Uther greeted me with a courtesy only thinly overlaying the eagerness be
low. It is possible that he had intended there and then to present his son t
o the commanders, but there was no time. Trumpets were sounding outside. Uth
er hesitated, looking indecisive, then he made a sign to Ector who stepped f
orward and formally presented Arthur to the King as his foster-son Emrys of
Galava. Arthur, with this new quiet and self-contained maturity, knelt to ki
ss the King's hand. I saw Uther's hand close on his, and I thought he would
speak then, but at that moment the trumpets shrilled again, nearer, and the
door of the tent was pulled open. Arthur stood back. Uther-the effort was ap
parent-tore his eyes from the boy's face and gave the word. The commanders s
aluted hurriedly and dispersed to mount and gallop away to their stations. T
he ground shook to the trampling of horses, and the air to the shouting and
the clash of metal. Four men ran in with poles, and I saw then that Uther's
chair was a kind of litter, a big carrying-chair, in which he could be borne
 onto the battlefield. Someone ran to him with his sword and put it into his
 hand, whispering as he did so, and the four fellows bent to the poles, wait
ing for the King's word.

   I stood back. If any memory came to me of the young, tough commander wh
o had fought so ably at his brother's side through all the early years of w
ar, it touched me now with no feeling of pity or regret, as the King turned
 his head and smiled, the same fierce, eager smile that I knew. The years h
ad dropped away from him. If it had not been for the litter, I could have s
worn that he was a whole man. There was even colour in his cheeks, and his
whole person glittered.

  "My servant here tells me you have foretold us victory already?" He lau
ghed, a young man's laugh, full and ringing. "Then you have indeed brought
us today all that we could desire. Boy!"
  Arthur, at the tent door speaking to Ector, stopped and looked back. Th
e King beckoned. "Here. Stay by me."

   Arthur flashed an enquiring look at his foster-father, then at me. I nod
ded. As the boy moved to obey the King I saw Ector make a sign to Ralf, and
the latter moved quietly with Arthur to the left of the King's litter. Ector
 hung on his heel a moment in the tent doorway, but Uther was saying somethi
ng to his son, and Arthur was bent to listen. The Count hitched his cloak ov
er his shoulder, nodded abruptly to me, and went out. The trumpets sounded a
gain, and then the sunshine and the shouting were all about us as the King's
 chair was carried out towards the waiting troops.

   I did not follow it down the hillside, but stayed where I was, on the h
igh ground beside the tent, while below me on the wide field the armies for
med. I saw the King's chair set down, and the King himself stand to speak t
o the men. From this distance I could hear nothing of what was said, but wh
en he turned and pointed to where I stood high in the sight of the whole ar
my, I heard the shout of "Merlin!" again, and the cheers. There was an answ
ering shout from the enemy, a yell of derision and defiance, and then the c
lamour of trumpets and the thunder of the horses drowned everything, and sh
ook the day.

   Beside the tower wall stood an ancient apple tree, its bark-now gnarled a
nd thick with lichen like verdigris, but its boughs heavy with yellow fruit.
In front of it was a tumble of stone with a plinth where perhaps there had on
ce been an altar or a statue. I stepped up onto this, with my hack to the lad
en apple tree, and watched the course of the fighting.

   There was still no sign of Lot's banner. I beckoned a fellow running pas
t-he was a medical orderly on his way to the dressing station lower down the
 hill-and asked him: "Lot of Lothian? Are his troops not come?"
  "There's no sign of them yet, sir. I don't know why. Maybe they're to be
held back as reserves on the right?"
   I glanced where he was pointing. To the right of the field was the wind
ing glimmer of a stream, flanked for some fifty paces to either hand by bro
ken and sedgy ground. Beyond this the field rose through alder and willow a
nd scrubby oak to thicker woodland. Between the trees the slope was rough a
nd broken, but not too steep for horses, and the woods could well hide half
 an army. I thought I could see the glint of spear-heads through the thick
of the trees. Lot, coming from the north-east, would have had early news of
 the Saxon advance, and would hardly have come late for the battle. He must
 be there, waiting and watching. But not, I was sure, by order as a reserve
 placed there by the King. The dilemma that Cador and I had spoken of might
 well be resolved today for Lot: if Uther looked like winning the victory,
then Lot could throw his army in and share the time of triumph and its afte
rmath of reward and power; but if Colgrim should bear away the day, then Lo
t would have the chance of fixing his interest with the Saxon conquerors-in
 time, moreover, to deny his marriage with Morgian and take whatever power
the new Saxon rule would offer him. I might well, I thought sourly, be doin
g the man an injustice, but my bones told me I was not. I wished there had
been time to learn before the battle what Uther's dispositions had been. If
 Lot was anywhere at hand he would not miss this battle, of all battles, wi
th the chances it held for him. I wondered how soon he would see me, or hea
r that I had come. And once he knew, he would have no doubt at all of the i
dentity of the white-cloaked youth on the white horse, who fought so close
on the King's left hand.

   It was evident that the High King's presence, even in a litter, had chee
red and fortified the British. Though, borne as he was in his chair, he coul
d not lead the charge, he was there with the Dragon above him, right in the
center of the field, and, though the press of his followers round him would
hardly let an enemy get within striking distance, the fighting was fiercest
round the Dragon, and from time to time I saw the flutter of the golden cloa
k and the flash of the King's own sword. Out on the right rode the King of R
heged, flanked by Caw and at least three of his sons. Ector too was on the r
ight, fighting with dogged ferocity, while Cador on the left showed all the
dash and dazzle of the Celt on his day of luck. Arthur I knew to be endowed
by nature with the qualities of both, but today he would doubtless be more t
han content with his position guarding the King's left side. Ralf, in his tu
rn, held himself back to guard Arthur's. I watched the chestnut horse swerve
 and turn and rear, never more than a pace away from the white stallion's flank.
  This way and that the battle went Here a banner would go down, swamped
apparently under the savage tide of attack, then somehow there would be a r
ecovery, and the British would press forward under the swinging axes, and p
ush back the yelling waves of Saxons. From time to time a solitary horseman
-a messenger, it could be assumed- spurred off eastwards across the boggy l
and by the stream, and up into the trees. And now it was certain that Lot's
 force was there, hidden and waiting in the wood. And, as surely as if I ha
d read his mind, I knew that he was waiting there by no orders from the Kin
g. Whatever calls for help those messengers brought to him, he would delay
his coming until he saw how the day went. So, for two fierce hours, lengthe
ning through midday to three, the British forces fought, deprived of what s
hould have been their fresh fighting right. The King of Rheged fell wounded
, and was carried back: his forces held their position, but it could be see
n that they were wavering. And still the men of Lothian held back. Soon, if
 they did not come in, it might be too late.

   All at once, it seemed that it was. There was a shout from the center, a
 shout of anger and despair. There, in the thick of the press round the King
's chair, I saw the Dragon standard waver, rock violently, then slope to its
 fall. Suddenly, for all the distance, it was as if I was there, close by th
e King's chair, seeing it all clearly. A body of Saxons, huge fair giants, s
ome of them red with unfelt wounds, had rushed the group that surrounded the
 King, breaking it, it seemed, with sheer weight and ferocity. Some were cut
 down, some ' were forced back by desperate fighting, but two got through. T
hey smashed their way forward, axes whirling, on the King's left. One axe st
ruck the shaft of the standard, which splintered, rocked, and began to fall.
 The man who had carried it went down with the blood spouting from his sever
ed wrist, and disappeared under the mashing hoofs. With scarcely a pause the
 axe wheeled through its bright arc towards the King. Uther was on his feet,
 his sword up to meet the axeman, but Ralf's sword whirled and bit, and the
Saxon fell clear across the King's chair, his blood gushing out over the gol
den cloak. The King was pinned back under the fallen man's weight. The other
 Saxon rushed forward yelling. Ralf, cursing, fought to thrust his horse bet
ween the helpless King and the new attacker, but the Saxon, towering above t
he British, brushed their weapons aside as a mad bull brushes the long grass
, and charged forward. It seemed nothing could stop him reaching the King. I
 saw Arthur drive his horse forward, just as the rocking standard fell, stri
king the white stallion across the chest. The stallion reared, screaming. Ar
thur, holding the horse with his knees, seized the falling standard, and sho
uting flung it clear across the King's chair into a soldier's ready grip, th
en swung the screaming, striking horse right into the path of the giant Saxo
n. The great axe whirled into its flashing circle, and came down. The stalli
on swerved and leaped, and the blow missed, but glancing spent from the bo
y's sword, knocked it spinning from his hand. The stallion climbed high agai
n, striking out with those killing forefeet, and the axeman's face vanished
in a pash of bright blood. The white horse plunged back to the side of the K
ing's chair and Arthur's hand went down to his dagger. Then quiet, but clear
 as a shout, the King called, "Here!" and flung his own sword, hilt first, i
nto the air. Arthur's hand shot out and caught it by the hilt. I saw it catc
h the light. The white horse reared again. The standard was up, and streamin
g in the wind, scarlet on gold. There was a great shout, spreading out from
the center of the field where the white stallion, treading blood, leaped for
ward under the Dragon banner. Shouting, the men surged with him. I saw the s
tandard-bearer hesitate fractionally, looking back at the King, but the King
 waved him forward, then lay back, smiling, in his chair.

   And now, too late for whatever spectacular intervention Lot had intended
, the Lothian troops swept down out of the woodland and swelled the ranks of
 the attacking British. But the day was already won. There was no man there
on the field who had not seen what happened. There, white on a white horse,
the King's fighting spirit had leaped, it seemed, out of his failing body, a
nd run ahead, like the spark on the tip of a fighting spear, straight to the
 heart of the Saxon forces.

   Soon, as the Saxons, breaking from stand to fighting stand, were pressed
 gradually backwards towards the marshes that fringed the field, and the Bri
tish followed them with steadily growing ferocity and triumph, men started t
o run in behind the fighting troops to bring out the hurt and the dying. Uth
er's chair, which should have been borne back at the same time, was forging
forward steadily in Arthur's wake. But the main press of the fighting was no
 longer round it; that was well forward of the field where, under the Dragon
, everyone could see the white stallion and the white cloak and the flashing
 blade of the King's sword.

   My post as a visible presence on the hill was no longer either heeded or
 necessary. I went down to where the emergency dressing station had been set
 up below the fallen tangles of the apple orchard. Already the tents were fi
lling, and the orderlies were hard at work. I sent a boy running for my box
of instruments and, taking off my cloak, slung it over the low boughs of an
apple tree to make a shelter from the sun's rays; and as the next stretcher
went by me I called to the bearers to set the wounded man down in the improv
ised shade.

   One of the bearers was a lean and greying veteran whom I recognized. H
e had worked as orderly for me at Kaerconan.
   I said: "A moment, Paulus, don't hurry away. There are plenty to do the ca
rrying; I'd rather have your help here."

   He looked pleased that I had recognized him. "I thought you might need m
e, sir. I've got my kit with me." He knelt on the other side of the unconsci
ous man, and together we began to slit the leather tunic away where it was t
orn open by a bloody gash.
  "How is it with the King?" I asked him.

  "Hard to say, sir. I thought he'd gone, and a lot else gone with him, but
he's there now with Gandar, and sitting peaceful as a babe, and smiling. As
well he might."

   "Indeed . . . That's far enough, I think. Let me look . . ." It was an ax
e wound, and the leather and metal of the man's tunic had been driven deep in
to the hacked flesh and splintered bone. I said: "I doubt if there's much we
can do here, but we'll try. God's on our side today, and he may well be on th
is poor fellow's, too. Hold this, will your ... As you were saying, well he m
ight. The luck won't change now."

   "Luck, is it? Luck on a white horse, you might say. A fair treat it was
to see that youngster, the way he pushed through just at the right moment. I
t needed something like that, with the King falling back as if he was dead,
and the Dragon going down. We were looking for King Lot then, but no sign of
 him. Believe me, sir, another half-minute and we'd have been going the othe
r way. Battle's like that; it makes you wonder sometimes, to think what hang
s on a few seconds and a bit of luck. A piece of nice timing like that, and
the right person to do it-that's all it takes, and you've won or lost a king
dom."
   We worked for a while in silence then, quickly, because the man was beg
inning to stir under my hands, and I had to finish before he woke to cruel
life. When I had done all I could, and we were bandaging, Paulus said, rumi
natively: "Funny thing."

  "What?"

  "Remember Kaerconan, sir?"
  "Will I ever forget it?"
   "Well, that youngster had a look of him-Ambrosius, I mean, that was Coun
t of Britain then. White horse and all, and the Dragon flying over it. Men w
ere saying so ... And the name's the same, sir, isn't it? Emrys? Connection
of yours, perhaps?"

    "Perhaps."

   "Ah, well," said Paulus, and asked no more questions. He did not need t
o say more; I knew already that rumours must have been flying round the cam
p from the moment that Arthur and I had ridden in with the escort. Let them
 run. Uther had shown his hand. And between the boy's bravery, and the luck
 of the battle and his own misjudgment, Lot would have a hard struggle of i
t now to change the King's mind, or to persuade the other nobles that Uther
's son was no fit leader.

   The man between us woke then and began to scream, and there was no mor
e time for talking.



2

By nightfall the field was cleared of the fallen. The King had withdrawn wh
en it was seen that the tide of victory was sure, and not to be stemmed by
any late action of the Saxons. The battle over, the main forces of the Brit
ish fell back on the township two miles to the north-west, leaving Cador, w
ith Caw of Strathclyde, to hold the field. Lot had not stayed to test his p
osition with the other leaders, but had withdrawn into the town as soon as
the fighting was done, and had gone like Ajax to his quarters, since when n
o man had seen him. Already stories were going round about his fury at the
King's action in favouring the strange youth on the battlefield, and his bl
ack silence when he heard that Emrys was bidden with me to the victory feas
t, where no doubt he would be further honoured. There were rumours, too, ab
out the reason for the belated entrance into battle of Lot's troops. No one
 went so far as to speak of treachery, but it was said openly that, had he
delayed much longer, and had not Arthur performed his small miracle, Lothia
n's inaction might have cost Uther the victory. Men wondered too, aloud, wh
ether Lot would emerge from his sullen silence to share in the feast which
was decreed for the following night. But I knew that he could not keep away
. He dared not. Though he had said nothing, he must certainly know who "Ern
rys" was, and if he was ever to discredit him and seize the power he had sc
hemed for, he would have to do it now.

   After the emergency cases had been dealt with at the orchard dressi
ng station, the medical units had also moved back to the town, where a hosp
ital had been set up, I went with them, and dealt with a steady stream of c
ases all afternoon and evening. Our Josses had not been heavy as such thing
s commonly go, but still the burial parties would be hard at work all night
, watched by the wolves and the gathering ravens. From the marshes came the
 distant flicker of flames, where the Saxon dead were burning.

   I finished work in the hospital at about midnight, and was in an outer
 room, watching while Paulus packed my instruments away, when I heard some
one coming quickly across the court outside, and was aware of a stir near
the door behind me.

  Call me an old fool if you like, remembering back through the years to
 what never happened, and you may be more than half right; but it was not
only love which made me recognize his coming before I even turned my head.
 A current of fresh sweet air blew with him, cutting through the fumes of
drugs and the stench of sickness and fear. The very lamps burned brighter.

   "Merlin?" He spoke softly, as one does in a sickroom, but the excitement
of the day was still in his voice. I looked at him smiling, then more sharply
.

   "Are you hurt? You young fool, why didn't you come to me sooner? Let m
e see."

    He drew back the arm in its stiffened sleeve. "Can't you tell black Saxo
n blood when you see it? I never had a scratch. Oh, Merlin, what a day! And
what a King! To go out in the field crippled and in a chair-that's real cour
age, far more than it takes to ride into a fight with a good horse and a goo
d sword. I'll swear I never even had to think ... it was so easy . . . Merli
n, it was splendid! It's what I was born for-I know it now! And did you see
what happened? What the King did? His sword? I'll swear it pulled me forward
 of its own will, not mine . . . And then the shouting and the way the soldi
ers moved forward, like the sea. I never even had to use a spur on Canrith .
 . . Everything moved so fast, and yet so slowly and clearly, every moment s
eemed to last for ever. I never knew one could be blazing hot and ice-cold a
ll at the same moment, did you?"
   He did not wait for answers, but talked on, fast and sparkling, his eyes
 alight still with the thrill of battle and the overwhelming experience of t
he day. I hardly listened, but I watched him, and watched the faces of the o
rderlies and servants, and of those men who were still awake and near enough
 to hear us. I saw it begin: even so, after battle, Ambrosius' very presence
 had given the wounded strength, and the dying comfort. Whatever it was he h
ad had about him, Arthur had the same; I was to see it often in the future;
it seemed that he shed brightness and strength round him where he went, and
still had it ever renewed in himself. As he grew older, I knew it would be r
enewed more hardly and at a cost, but now he was very young, with the flower
 of manhood still to come. After this, I thought, who could maintain that yo
uth itself made him unfit for kingship? Not Lot, stiffened in his ambition,
grimly scheming for a dead king's throne. It was Arthur's very youth which h
ad whistled up today the best that men had in them, as a huntsman calls up t
he following pack, or an enchanter whistles up the wind.

   He recognized, in one of the beds, a man who had fought near him, and w
ent softly down the hospital room to speak to him, and then to others. Two
of them, at least, I heard him call by name.

   Give him the sword, my dream had said, and his own nature will do the
rest. Kings are not created out of dreams and prophecies: before ever you
began to work for him, he was what you see now. All you have done is to gu
ard him while he grew. You, Merlin, are a smith like Weland of the Mack fo
rge; you made the sword and gave it a cutting edge, but it carves its own
way.
   "I saw you up there beside the apple tree," said Arthur gaily. He had fo
llowed me out of the hospital room, and I had stopped in the anteroom to giv
e instructions to a night orderly. "The men were saying it was an omen. That
 when you were there, above us on the hill, the fight was as good as won. An
d it's true, because through it all, even when I wasn't thinking, I could fe
el you watching me. Quite close beside me, too. It was like a shield at one'
s back. I even thought I heard-"

  He stopped in mid-sentence. I saw his eyes widen and fix on something
beyond me. I looked to see what had gagged him.

   Morgause would be two and twenty now, and she was even lovelier than
when I had last seen her. She wore grey, a long plain gown of dove-colour
 which should have made her look like a nun, but somehow did not. She wor
e no jewels, and needed none. Her skin was pale as marble, and the long e
yes that I remembered were gold-green under the tawny lashes. Her hair, a
s befitted a woman still unwed, fell loose and shining over her shoulders
, and was bound back from her brow with a broad band of white.

   "Morgause!" I said, startled. "You should not be here!" Then I remembe
red her skills, and saw behind her two women and a page carrying boxes and
 linen cloths. She must have been working, as I had, among the wounded; or
 possibly she still attended the King, and had been with him. I added, qui
ckly: "No, I see; forgive me, and forgive my lack of greeting. Your skill
is welcome here. Tell me, how is the King?"

   "He has recovered, my lord, and is resting. He seems well enough, and hi
s spirits are good. It seems it was a notable fight. I wish I might have see
n it." She glanced past me then at Arthur, an interested, summing look. It w
as obvious that she recognized him as the youth who had won everyone's prais
e that day, but it seemed that the King had not yet told her who he was. The
re was no hint of such a knowledge in her face or voice as she made him a re
verence. "Sir."

   The colour was up in Arthur's face, bright as a banner. He stammered
 some kind of greeting, suddenly sounding no more than an awkward boy; h
e whose boyhood had never been awkward.
 She took it coolly, then turned her eyes back to me, dismissing him as a
woman of twenty dismisses a child. I thought: No, she does not know yet.

  She said, in that light, sweet voice: "My lord Merlin, I came with a mes
sage to you from the King. Later, when you have rested, he would like to spe
ak with you."

     I said doubtfully: "It's very late. Would he not be better to sleep?"
   "I think he would sleep better if he spoke with you first. He was impati
ent to see you as soon as he came back from the field, but he needed to rest
, so I gave him a draught, and he slept then. He's awake now. Can you come w
ithin the hour?"

     "Very well."

     She curtsied again with lowered eyes, and went, as quietly as she had com
e.
3


I supped alone with Arthur. I had been allotted a room whose window overl
ooked a strip of garden on the river bank; the garden was a terrace enclo
sed by gates and high walls. Arthur's room adjoined mine, and both were a
pproached through an anteroom where guards stood armed. Uther was taking
no chances.

   My room was large and well appointed, and a servant waited there with fo
od and wine. We spoke little while we ate. I was tired and hungry, and Arthu
r showed his usual appetite, but after his flow of exalted spirits he had fa
llen strangely quiet, probably, I thought, out of deference to me. For my pa
rt I could think of little else but the coming inter-'view with Uther, and o
f what the morrow might bring; at that moment I could bring nothing to them
myself but a sort of weariness of the spirit, which I told myself was no mor
e than reaction from a long journey and a hard day. But I thought it was mor
e than that, and felt like a man who comes out of a sunlit plain into boggy
ground, where mist hangs heavy.

    Ulfin, Uther's body-servant, came to take me to the King. From the way
his look lingered on Arthur I could see he knew the truth, but he said noth
ing of it as he led me through the corridors to the King's chamber. Indeed
he seemed to have little room in his mind for anything but anxiety about th
e King's health. When I was ushered into Uther's presence, I could see why.
 Even since the morning, the change was startling. He was in bed, propped i
n a furred bedgown against pillows, and, shorn of the kingly trappings of a
rmour and scarlet and gold tissue, anyone could see how mortally wasted his
 body was. Now I could see his death clearly in his face. It would not be t
onight, nor should it be tomorrow, but it must come soon; and this, I told
myself, must be the cause of the formless dread that was weighing on me. Bu
t, though weak and weary, the King seemed pleased to see me, and eager to t
alk, so I pushed my foreboding aside. Even with tonight and tomorrow, Uther
 and I and whatever was working for us should have time to see our soaring
star riding high and safe to his bright zenith.

  He talked first of the battle, and of the day's events. It was evident t
hat all his doubts were set aside, and that (though he would not admit it) h
e was regretting the lost years since Arthur had come near manhood. He plied
 me with questions, and, though afraid of taxing him too much, I could see t
hat he would rest better when he knew all I had to tell him. So, as clearly
and quickly as I could, I told him the story of the past years, all the deta
ils of the boy's life in the Wild Forest that could not be put into the repo
rts I had sent him. I told him, too, what suspicions and certainties I had h
ad about Arthur's enemies; when I spoke about Lot he made no sign, but he he
ard me out without interruption. Of the sword of Maximus I said nothing. The
 King had himself today publicly put his own sword into his son's hand; he c
ould not have declared more openly that the boy was his favoured heir. Macse
n's sword, when there was need for it, would be given by the god. Between th
e two gifts was still a dark gap of fate through which I could not see; ther
e was no need to trouble the King with it.

  When I had done he lay back on his -pillows a while in silence, his eyes
on a far corner of the room, deep in thought. Then he spoke.

    "You were right, Merlin. Even where it was hard to understand, and wher
e not understanding I condemned you, you were right. The god had us all in
his hand. And doubtless it was the god himself who put it in my mind to den
y my son and leave him in your care, to be brought in safety and secrecy to
 such manhood as this. At least it has been granted me to see what manner o
f man I begot on that wild night at Tintagel, and what kind of a king will
come after me. I should have trusted you better, bastard, as my brother did
. I don't need to tell you that I am dying, do I? Gandar hums and haws and
begs the question, but you'll admit the truth, King's prophet?"

   The question was peremptory, requiring an answer. When I said, "Yes," he
 smiled briefly, with a look almost of satisfaction. I found myself liking U
ther better now than I ever had before, seeing him bring this kind of bleak
courage to his coming death. This was what Arthur had recognized in him toda
y, the kingly quality to which he had come late, but not too late. It could
be that now, almost in the moment of fulfillment of the past years, he and I
 found ourselves united in the person of the boy.

   He nodded. The strain of the day and night was beginning to show, but hi
s look was friendly and his manner still crisp. "Well, we've cleared the pas
t. The future is with him, and with you. But I'm not dead yet, and I'm still
 High King. The present is with me. I sent for you to tell you that I shall
proclaim Arthur my heir tomorrow at the victory feast. There'll never be a b
etter moment. After what happened today no one can argue his fitness; he has
 already proved himself in public, more, in the sight of the army. Even if I
 wished to, I doubt if I could keep his secret any longer; rumour has run th
rough the camp like a fire through straw. He knows nothing yet?"
   "It seems not. I would have thought he would begin to guess, but it seem
s not. You'll tell him yourself tomorrow?"

   "Yes. I'll send for him in the morning. For the rest of the time, Merlin,
stay by him and keep him close."

   He spoke then about his plans for the morrow. He would talk with Arthur,
 and then in the evening, when everyone had recovered from the fighting, and
 erased the scars of battle, Arthur would be brought with glory and acclaim
in front of the nobles at the victory feast. As for Lot-he came to it flatly
 and without excuse-there was doubt as to what Lot would do, but he had lost
 too much public credit over his delay in the battle, and even as the betrot
hed of the King's daughter he would hardly dare (Uther insisted) stand up in
 public against the High King's own choice. He said nothing about the darker
 possibility, that Lot might even have thrown his weight onto the Saxons' si
de of the balance; he saw the delay only as a bid for credit-that Lot's inte
rvention should seem to carry the British to victory! I listened, and said n
othing. Whatever the truth of that, the trouble would soon be other men's, a
nd not the King's.

   He spoke then of Morgian, his daughter. The marriage, firmly contracted
 as it was, must go through; it. could hardly be broken now without offerin
g a mortal and dangerous insult to Lot and the northern kings who hunted wi
th him. And as things had fallen out, it would be safer so; Lot would by th
e same token not dare to refuse the marriage, and by accepting it would bin
d himself publicly to Arthur; an Arthur already (months before the marriage
) proclaimed, accepted, and established. Uther had almost said "and crowned
," but let the sentence drift. He was looking tired now, and I made a move
to leave him, but one of the thin hands lifted, and I waited. He did not sp
eak for a few moments, but lay back with closed eyes. Somewhere a draught c
rept through the room, and the candles guttered. The shadows wavered, throw
ing dark across his face. Then the light steadied, and I could see his eyes
, still bright in their deep sockets, watching me.

   I heard his voice, thin with effort now, asking me something. Not asking
, no. Uther the High King was begging me to stay beside Arthur, to finish th
e work I had begun, to watch him, advise him, guard him . . .

   His voice faded, but the eyes watched me, intent, and I knew what they w
ere saying. "Tell me the future, Merlin, prophet of kings. Prophesy for me"
   "I shall be with him," I said, "and the rest of it I have said before. He
 will bear a king's sword, and with that sword he will do all and more than m
en hope for. Under him the countries will be one, and there shall be peace, a
nd light before darkness. And when there is peace I myself will go back into
my solitude, but I will be there, waiting, always, to be called up as quickly
 as a man might whistle for the wind."

   I was not speaking with vision: this was something which has never com
e to me when asked for, and besides, visions did not live easily in the sa
me room as Uther. But to comfort him I spoke from remembered prophecies, a
nd from a knowledge of men and times, which sometimes comes to the same th
ing. It satisfied him, which was all that was needed.

   "That is all I wanted to know," he said. "That you will stay near him, a
nd serve him at all times . . . Perhaps, if I had listened to my brother, an
d kept you near me ... You have promised, Merlin. There is no man who has mo
re power, not even the High King."
  He said it without rancour, in the tone of one making a plain statement.
His voice was tired suddenly, the voice of a sick man.

   I got to my feet. "I'll leave you now, Uther. You had better sleep. What
is the draught Morgause gives you?"

  "I don't know. Some poppy-smelling thing; she puts it in warm wine."

  "Does she sleep here, near you?"

  "No. Along the corridor, in the first of the women's rooms. But don't dist
urb her now. There's some of the drug still in that jar yonder."

   I crossed the room, picked up the jar, and sniffed it. The potion, whatev
er it was, was already mixed in wine; the smell was.sweet and heavy; poppy th
ere was and other things I recognized, but it was not quite familiar. I dippe
d a finger in and put it to my lips. "Has anyone touched it since she mixed i
t?"

   "Eh?" He had been drifting away, not in sleep, but as sick men do. "Touche
d it? No one that I have seen, but there's no one will try to poison me. It's
well known that all my food is tasted. Call the boy in, if you wish."
  "No need," I said. "Let him sleep." I poured some into a cup, but when I
lifted it to my mouth he said with sudden vigour: "Don't be a fool! Let be!"
    "I thought you said it would not be poisoned."

    "No matter of that, we'll not take the chance."

    "Do you not trust Morgause?"

   "Morgause?" He knitted his brows, as if at an irrelevancy. "Of course, w
hy not? When she has cared for me all these years, refusing to wed, even whe
n . . . But no matter of that. Her fate is 'in the smoke,' she says, and she
 is content to wait for it. She riddles like you, sometimes, and I've scant
patience with riddles, as you may remember. No, how could I doubt my daughte
r? But tonight of all nights we must be wary, and of all men, except my son,
 I can least spare you." He smiled then, momentarily the Uther that I rememb
ered, hard and gay, and slightly malicious. "At least, not until he is procl
aimed, and then no doubt you and I will well spare one another."
  I smiled. "Meantime I'll taste your wine. Calm yourself, I can smell nothi
ng hurtful, and I assure you that my death is not yet."

   I did not add, "So let me make sure that you live to pro-claim your son
tomorrow." This strange shadow that brooded still behind my shoulder, it cou
ld not be my own death, nor (I knew) was it Arthur's, but it might, against
all probability, be the King's. I took a sip, letting the wine rest for a mo
ment on my tongue, then swallowed. The King lay back on his pillows and watc
hed me, tranquil once more. I sipped again, then crossed the room to sit dow
n by the great bed, and, more idly now, we talked: of the past seamed with m
emories; of the future, shadows still across glory. We understood one anothe
r tolerably well at the last, Uther and I. When it was patent that the wine
was harmless I poured a draught for him, watched him drink it, then called h
is servant Ulfin, and left him to sleep.



4

All was so far well. Even if Uther died tonight-and nothing in his look or i
n my bones told me that he would-all was surely still set fair. I, with Cado
r's backing and Ector's support, could proclaim Arthur to the nobles as well
 as the King could, and prestige with power behind it had every chance of fo
rcing the thing through. The King's gesture in flinging his sword to the boy
 in battle would be, to many of the soldiers, proof enough of Arthur's right
 to succeed him, and the warriors who had followed him so gladly today would
 follow him still. It was surely only the dissidents of the north-east who w
ould not rejoice to see the days of uncertainty finished, and the succession
 pass clear and undoubted into Arthur's hands.

   Then why, I thought, as I trod quietly along the corridors towards my
own chamber, was my heart so heavy in me; what was this foreboding black e
nough for a death? Why, if this was a heavy matter that my blood prophesie
d, could I not see it? What shadow hung, clawed and waiting, over the day'
s bright success?

   A moment later, as I nodded to the guard outside my antechamber, and we
nt quietly through into the room itself, I saw the edge of the shadow. Beyo
nd the doorway connecting Arthur's room to my own I could see his bed. It w
as empty. I went quickly back to the antechamber, and had stooped to shake
the sleeping servant awake, when my nostrils caught a familiar smell, the d
rug that had been in the King's wine. I dropped the man's shoulder and left
 him snoring, and in three swift strides was back in the corridor. Before I
 had said a word, the guard flattened himself back against the wall, as if
afraid of what he saw in my face.
  But I spoke softly: "Where is he?"

   "My lord, he's safe. There's no reason for alarm . . . We had our orders
, there was no harm could come to him. The other guard saw him right to the
door, and stayed there-"

  "Where is he?"

  "In the women's rooms, my lord. When the girl came to him-"

  "Girl?" I asked sharply.

   "Indeed, my lord. She came here. We stopped her, of course, wouldn't let
 her in, but then he came out to the door himself. . . ." Reassured now by m
y silence, the man was relaxing. "Indeed, my lord, all's well. It was one of
 the Lady Morgause's women, the black-haired one, you may have noticed her,
plump as a robin, and the prettiest, as was proper for my young lord this ni
ght-"
   I had noticed her; small and rounded, with a high colour and black eyes
bright as a bird's. A pretty creature, very young, and healthy as a summer's
 day. But I bit my lip. "How long ago?"

   "Two hours, as near as might be." A grin touched his mouth. "Time enough
. My lord, where's the harm? Even if we'd tried, how could we have stopped h
im? We didn't let her in; we'd had our orders, and he knew it; but when he s
aid he'd go with her, what could we do? After all, it's a fair end to a man'
s first battle day."

   I said something to him, and went back into my room. The fellow was rig
ht enough, the guards had done their duty as they saw it, and this was one
situation in which no guard would have interfered. And where indeed was the
 harm? The boy had seized one half of his manhood today out under the sun;
it was inevitable that the rest should come to him tonight.

   As his sword had quenched its lust for blood, so the boy would burn ali
ve till he quenched his own excitement in a girl's body. Anybody, I thought
 bitterly, but a god-bound prophet would have foreseen this. Any normal gua
rdian would let this night take its normal course. But I was Merlin, and th
e room was full of shadows, and I was afraid.

   I stood there alone, with the shadows pressing round me, controlling mys
elf to coldness, facing the fear. The blackness came from my mind; very well
, was it human merely, was it black jealousy, that Arthur at fourteen should
 take so easily a pleasure that at twenty I had burned for even as he, and h
ad fumbled, failing? Or was it a fear worse than jealousy, the fear of losin
g or even sharing a love so dear and lately found; or was I fearful only for
 him, knowing what a girl could do to rob a man of power? And as this though
t struck me I knew I was acquitted; the shadows were not from this. I had kn
own, that day at twenty, when I fled from the girl's angry and derisive laug
hter, that for me there had been a cold choice between manhood and power, an
d I had chosen power. But Arthur's power would be different, that of full an
d fierce manhood, that of a king. He had shown me often enough that however
much he might love and learn from me, he was Uther's son in the flesh; he wa
nted all that manhood could give. It was right that he should lie with his f
irst girl tonight. I ought to smile, like the sentry, and go to bed myself a
nd sleep, leaving him to his pleasure.

   But the cold in my entrails and the sweat on my face were not there for n
othing. I stood still, while the lamp flared and dimmed and flared again, and
 thought.
   Morgause, I thought, one of Morgause's girls. And she'd drugged my ser
vant, who might have come to tell me that Arthur had gone two hours since
to her chamber. . . . And Morgause is Morgian's half-sister, and might be
in Lot's pay, with the promise of some rich future should Lot become King.
 True, she had made no attempt on the King, but she knew he always used a
taster, and it would have served no purpose to be rid of him until Lot was
 married to Morgian and able to declare himself legitimately heir to the H
igh Kingdom. But now Uther was dying, and Arthur had appeared, with a clai
m which would eclipse Lot's. If Morgause was indeed an enemy, and wanted A
rthur put out of the way before tomorrow's feast, then the boy might even
now be drugged, captive in Lot's hands, or dying . . .

   This was folly. It was not for death that the god had given him the swo
rd and shown him to me as High King. There was no reason for Morgause to wi
sh him ill. As his half-sister she might expect more from Arthur as King th
an from Lot, her sister's husband. Arthur's death, I thought coldly, would
not profit her. But death was here, in a form and with a smell I did not kn
ow. A smell like treachery, something remembered dimly from my childhood, w
hen my uncle planned to betray his father's kingdom, and to murder me. It w
as not a matter of reason, but of knowing. Danger was here, and I had to fi
nd it.
   I could not walk through the house, asking where Arthur was. If he was h
appily bedded with a girl, this was something he would never forgive me. I w
ould have to find him by other means, and since I was Merlin, the means were
 here. Standing rigid there in the dim chamber, with my hands held stiff-fis
ted at my sides, I stared at the lamp. . . .

   I know that I never moved from the place or left my chamber, but in my
memory now it seems as if I went out, silent and invisible as a ghost, acro
ss the antechamber, past the guard, and along the dim corridor towards Morg
ause's door. The other sentry was there; he was full awake, and watching, b
ut he never saw me.

  There was no sound from within. I went in.

   In the outer room the air was heavy and warm, and smelled of sce
nts and lotions such as women use. There were two beds there, and sleepers
in them. On the threshold of the inner chamber Morgause's page was curled o
n the floor, sleeping.
   Two beds, each with its sleeper. One was an old woman, grey-haired, mouth
 open, snoring slightly. The other slept silently, and over her pillow the lo
ng black hair lay heavy, braided for the night. The little dark girl slept al
one.

    I knew it now, the horror that oppressed me; the one thing that, lookin
g for larger issues of death and treachery and loss, I had never thought of
. I have said men with god's sight are often human-blind: when I exchanged
my manhood for power it seemed I had made myself blind to the ways of women
. If I had been simple man instead of wizard I would have seen the way eye
answered eye back there at the hospital, have recognized Arthur's silence l
ater, and known the woman's long assessing look for what it was.

   Some magic she must have had, to blind me so. It may be that now, know
ing I could do nothing, she let the magic lapse and thin; or let it waver
as she sank towards sleep. Or it may be only that my power outstripped her
s, and she had no shield against me. God knows I did not want to look, but
 I was nailed there by my own power, and because there is no power without
 knowledge, and no knowledge without suffering, the walls and door of Mor
gause's sleeping chamber dissolved in front of me, and I could see.

   Time enough, the guard had said. They had indeed had time enough. The w
oman lay, naked and wide-legged, across the covers of the bed. The boy, bro
wn against her whiteness, lay sprawled over her in the heavy abandonment of
 pleasure. His head was between her breasts, half turned from me; he was no
t asleep, but the next thing to it, his face close and quiet, his blind mou
th searching her flesh as a puppy nuzzles for its mother's nipple. Her face
 I saw clearly. She held his head cradled, and about her body was the same
heavy languor, but her face showed none of the tenderness that the gesture
seemed to express. And none of the pleasure. It held a secret exultation as
 fierce as I have ever seen on a warrior's face in battle; the gilt-green e
yes were wide and fixed on something invisible beyond the dark; and the sma
ll mouth smiled, a smile somewhere between triumph and contempt.



5


He came back to his room just before daylight. The first bird had whistled,
and a few moments later the sudden jar-goning of the early chorus almost dro
wned the clink of arms at the outer door, and his soft word to the guard. He
 came in, his eyes full of sleep, and stopped short just inside the door whe
n he saw me sitting in the high-backed chair beside the window.

  "Merlin! Up at this hour? Couldn't you sleep?"

  "I haven't yet been to bed."

  He came suddenly wide awake, sharpened and alert. "What is it? What's w
rong? Is it the King?"

   At least, I thought, he doesn't jump to the conclusion that I stayed awak
e to question his night's doings. And one thing. he must never know; that I f
ollowed him through that door.

  I said: "No, not the King. But you and I must talk before the day comes."

   "Oh, the gods, not now, if you love me," he said, half laughing, and yawn
ed. "Merlin, I've got to sleep. Did you guess where I'd gone, or did the guar
d tell you?"

   As he came forward into the room I could smell her scent on him. I felt
sickened, and I suppose I was shaken. I said curtly: "Yes, now. Wash yoursel
f, and wake up. I have to talk to you."

  I had put out all the lamps but one, and this was burning low, only half
competing with the leaden light of dawn.
   I saw his face go rigid. "By what right-?" He checked himself, and I saw
 the quick control come down over his anger. "Very well I suppose you do hav
e the right to question me, but I don't like the time you choose."

   It was something altogether different from the injured boyish anger he
had shown before, how short a time ago, beside the lake. So far they had al
ready taken him between them, the sword and the woman. I said: "I have no r
ight to question you, and I've no intention of doing so. Calm yourself, and
 listen. It's true I want to talk to you-among other things-about what happ
ened tonight, but not for the reasons you seem to impute to me. Who do you
think I am, Abbot Martin? I don't dispute your right to take your pleasure
as and where you wish." He was still hostile, between anger and pride. To r
elax him and pass the moment over, I added mildly: "Perhaps it wasn't wise
to venture through this house at night where there are men who hate you for
 what you did yesterday. But how can I blame you for going? You showed your
self a man in battle, why not then in your bed?" I smiled. "Though I've nev
er lain with a woman myself, I've known what it is to want one. For the ple
asure you had, I'm glad."

    I stopped. His face had been pale with anger; now even in that lack of li
ght I could see the anger drain away, and with it the last vestiges of colour
. It was as if blood and breath had stopped together. His eyes looked black.
He narrowed them at me as if he could not see me properly, or as if he were s
eeing me for the first time, and could not get me in focus. It was a discomfo
rting look, and I am not easily discomforted.

  "You have never lain with a woman?"

   Somehow, to the matters boiling in my mind, the question came as sheer ir
relevancy. I said, surprised: "I said so. I believe it's a matter of common k
nowledge. I also believe it's a fact that some men hold in contempt. But thos
e-"
  "Are you a eunuch, then?"

   The question was cruel; his manner, harsh and abrupt, made it seem mean
t so. I had to wait a moment before I answered.
  "No. I was going to add, that those who hold chastity in contempt are
not men whose contempt would disturb me. Have I yours, then?"

   "What?" He had obviously not heard a word of what I had been saying. H
e jerked himself free of whatever strong emotion was riding him, and made
for his room like a man who is choking, and in need of air. As he went he
said, muffled: "I'll go and wash."

   The door shut behind him. I stood up quickly and set my hands on the wi
ndow sill, leaning out into the chill September dawn. A cock was crowing; f
rom farther off others answered it. I found that I was shaking; I, Merlin,
who had watched while kings and priests and princes plotted my death openly
 in front of my eyes; who had talked with the dead; who could make storm an
d fire and call the wind. Well, I had called this wind; I must face it. But
 I had counted on his love for me to get us both through what I had to tell
 him. I had not reckoned on losing his respect-and for such a reason-at thi
s moment.
  I told myself that he was young; that he was Uther's son, fresh from hi
s first woman, and in the flush of his new sexual pride. I told myself that
 I had been a fool to see love given back where I gave it, when what the bo
y was rendering to me was no more than I had given my own tutor Galapas, af
fection tinged with awe. I told myself these and other things, and by the t
ime he came back I was seated again, calm and waiting, with two goblets of
wine poured ready on a table at my hand. He took one without a word, then s
at across the room from me, on the edge of my bed. He had washed even his h
air; it was still damp, and clung to his brow. He had changed his bedgown f
or day dress, and in the short tunic, without mantle or weapon, looked like
 a boy again, the Arthur of the summer and the Wild Forest.

   I had been casting round carefully for what to say, but now could find no
thing. It was Arthur who broke the silence, not looking at me, turning the go
blet round and round in his hands, watching the swirl of wine as if his life
depended on it.

  He said, flatly, and as if it explained everything, as I suppose it did:
  "I thought you were my father."

   It was like facing an opponent's sword, only to find that the sword and
the enemy are in fact illusions, but in the same moment to feel that the ver
y ground on which one has made one's stand is a shaking bog. I fought to rea
rrange my thoughts.

    Respect and love, yes, I had had these from him, but they could have b
een given to me for the man I was; in fact, only in such a way does a boy
give them to his father. But other things became suddenly plain; above all
 the deference which he would have given to no other man but Ector, his ob
edience, his assumption of my ready welcome, and more than all-I saw it li
ke the sudden rift of daffodil sky which opened in the grey beyond the win
dow-the shining anticipation with which he had come with me to Luguvallium
. I remembered my own ceaseless childhood search for my father, and how I
had looked for and seen him everywhere, in every man who looked my mother'
s way. Arthur had had only his foster-parents' story of noble bastardy, an
d a vague promise of recognition "when you are grown enough to bear arms."

   As children do-as I had done-he had said little, but waited and wondere
d, ceaselessly. Then into this perpetual search and expectation I had come,
 with some mystery about me, and I suppose the air that Ralf had spoken of,
 of a man used to deference and moved by some strong purpose. The boy may h
ave seen his own likeness to me; more likely others, Bedwyr even, had comme
nted on it. So he had waked, reaching his own conclusions, prepared to give
 love, accept authority and trust me. for the future. Then came the sword,
a gift, it seemed, from me; father to son. And the discovery that had follo
wed hard on it, that I was Ambrosius' son, and the Merlin of the thousand l
egends told at every fireside. Bastard or no, suddenly he had found himself
, and he was royal.

   So he had followed me to the King at Luguvallium, seeing himself as Am
brosius' grandson and great-nephew to Uther Pendragon. From this knowledge
 had come that flashing confidence in battle. He must have thought this wa
s why Uther had flung him the sword, because in default of the absent prin
ce, he, bastard or not, was the next in blood. So he had led the charge, a
nd afterwards accepted the duties and the favours due to a prince.

   It also explained why he had never seemed to suspect that he might be
the "lost" prince. The stares and whispers and the deference he received h
e had put down to recognition as my son. He accepted, as most men did, the
 fact that the High King's heir was abroad at a foreign court, and thought
 nothing more about it. And once he imagined he had found his place, why s
hould he think again? He was mine, and he was royal, and through me he had
 a place at the center of the kingdom. Now all at once, cruelly enough, as
 he must see it, he found himself not only deprived of ambition and the pl
ace he had dreamed of, but even of a place as a man's acknowledged son. I,
 who had lived my youth as a bastard and a no-man's-child, knew how that c
anker can eat: Ector had tried to spare Arthur this by telling him that he
 would one day be acknowledged nobly; it had never struck me that he would
 count in love and confidence on the acknowledgment coming from me.

  "Even my name, you see." The dull apology of his tone was worse than t
he cruelty that shock had brought from him before.

   At least, if I could heal nothing else, I could heal his pride. The cos
t would be counted presently, but he had to know now. I had many times thou
ght how, if it were left to me, I would tell him. Now I spoke straight, the
 simple truth. "We bear the same name because we are in fact kin to one ano
ther. You are not my son, but we are cousins. You, like me, are a grandson
of Constantius and a descendant of Maxi-mus the Emperor. Your true name is
Arthur, and you are the legitimate son of the High King and Ygraine his Que
en."

  I thought the silence this time would never break. At my first word his
eyes had come up from watching the swirling wine, and fastened on me. His br
ows were knitted like those of a deaf man straining to hear. The red washed
through his face like blood staining a white cloth, and his lips parted. The
n he set the goblet down very carefully, and standing up, came to the window
 near me, and, just as I had done earlier, set his hands on the sill and lea
ned out into the air.

   A bird flew into the bough beside him and began to sing. The sky faded t
o heron's-egg green, then slowly cooled to hyacinth where thin flakes of clo
ud floated. Still he stood there, and I waited, without movement or speech.

   At length, without turning, he spoke to the bough with its singing bird
. "Why this way? Fourteen years. Why not where I belonged?"

   So at last I told him the whole story. I began with the vision Ambrosi
us had shared with me, of the kingdoms united under one king, Dumnonia to
Lothian, Dyfed to Rutupiae; Romano-Briton and Celt and loyal foederatus fi
ghting as one to keep Britain clear of the black flood that was drowning t
he rest of the Empire; a version, humbler and more workable, of Maximus' i
mperial dream, adapted and handed down by my grandfather to my father, and
 lodged in me by my master's teaching and by the god who had marked me for
 his service. I told him about Ambrosius' death without other issue, and t
he ravelled clue the god had thrust into my hand, bidding me follow it. Ab
out the sudden passion of the new King Uther for Ygraine, wife of Cornwall
's Duke, and about my own connivance at their union, shown by the god that
 this was the union which would bring its next king to Britain. About Gorl
ois' death and Uther's remorse, mingled as it was with relief at a death h
e had more than half wished, but wanted publicly to disclaim and disown; t
hen the consequent banishment of myself and Ralf, and Uther's own threats
to disown the child so begotten. Then finally, how pride and common sense
between them prevailed, and the child had been handed to me to look after
through the dangerous first years of Uther's reign; and how since then the
 King's illness and the growing power of his enemies had forced him to lea
ve his son in hiding. About some things I said nothing: I did not tell Art
hur what I had seen waiting for him, of greatness or pain or glory; and I
said no word about Uther's impotence. Nor did I speak of the King's desper
ate wish for another son to supplant the "bastard" of Tintagel; these were
 Uther's secrets, and he would not have long now to keep them.

   Arthur listened in silence, without interruption. Indeed, at first witho
ut movement, so that one might have thought his whole attention was on the s
lowly brightening sky outside the window, and the song of the blackbird on t
he bough. But after a while he turned and-though I was not looking at him-I
felt his eyes on me at last. When I came to the Coronation feast, and the Ki
ng's demand for me to bring him to Ygraine's bed, he moved again, going soft
ly across to his former place on the bed. My tale of that wild night when he
 was begotten was told plainly, exactly as it had happened. But he listened
as if it had been the same half-enchanted tale I had told him in the Wild Fo
rest with Bedwyr beside him, himself curled half-sitting, half-lying on my b
ed, chin on fist, his dark eyes, calm now and shining, on my face.

   As I came towards an end it was to be seen that the tale fitted in with al
l that I had taught him in the past, so that now I was just handing him the la
st links in the golden lineage and saying, in effect: "All that I have ever ta
ught or told you is summed up in you, yourself."

   I stopped at length, and took a draught of wine. He uncurled swiftly fr
om the bed and, bringing the jug, poured more into my goblet. When I thanke
d him, he stooped and kissed me.

   "You," he said quietly, "you, from the very beginning. I wasn't so far wro
ng after all, was I? I'm as much yours as the King's-more; and Ector's too . .
 . Then Ralf, I'm glad to know about Ralf. I see ... Oh, yes, now I begin to s
ee a lot of things." He paced about the room, talking in snatches, half to him
self, as restless as Uther. "So much-it's too much to take in, I'll have to ha
ve time . . . I'm glad it was you who told me. Did the King mean to tell me hi
mself?"

   "Yes. He would have talked to you earlier, if there had been time. I hope th
ere will still be time."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's dying, Arthur. Are you ready to be King?"
   He stood there, the wine-jug still in his hand, hollow-eyed with lack of
sleep, thoughts crowding in on him too fast for expression. "Today?"

  "I think so. I don't know. Soon."

  "Will you be with me?"

  "Of course. I told you so."
  It was only then, as he set down the jug, smiling, and turned to put out
the lamp, that the other thing struck him. I saw the moment when his breath s
topped, then was let out again cautiously, the way a man tries his breathing
after a mortal stroke.

  He had his back to me, reaching up to quench the lamp. I saw that his ha
nd was quite steady. But the other hand, which he tried to hide from me, was
 making the sign against evil. Then, being Arthur, he did not stay turned aw
ay, but faced me.
  "I have something to tell you now."

  "Yes?"

  The words came like something being dragged up from a depth. "The wo
man I was with tonight was Morgause." Then, as I did not speak, sharply:
"You knew?"

   "Only when it was too late to stop you. But I should have known. Before
 I ever went to see the King, I knew that something was wrong. Oh, no, noth
ing of what it was, only that the shadows pressed on me."

  "If I had stayed in my room, as you told me . . ."
    "Arthur. The thing has happened. It's no use saying 'if this' and 'if tha
t'; can't you see that you're innocent? You obeyed your nature, it's somethin
g young men will do. But I, I am to blame. You could curse me, if you wished,
 for my promise to the King, and for all this secrecy. If I had told you soon
er about your birth-"

   "You told me to stay here. Even if you didn't know what ill was in the w
ind, you knew that if I obeyed you I would be safe. If I had obeyed you, I'd
 be more than safe, I would still be-" He bit off some word I did not quite
hear, then finished, "-clean of this thing. Blame you? The blame is mine, an
d God knows it and will judge between us."

  "God will judge us all."

   He took three restless strides across the room and back again. "Of all w
omen, my sister, my father's daughter . . ." The words came hard, like a mor
sel one gags on. I could see the horror clinging to him, like a slug to a gr
een plant. His left hand still made the sign against evil: it is a pagan sig
n; the sin has been a heavy one before the gods since time began. He halted
suddenly, squarely in front of me, even at this moment able to think beyond
himself. "And Morgause herself? When she knows what you have just told me, w
hat will she think, knowing the sin we've committed between us? What will sh
e do? If she falls into despair-"

  "She will not fall into despair."

  "How can you know? You said you didn't know women. I believe that for
women these matters are heavier." Horror struck at him again as he thought
why. "Merlin, if there should be a child?"

   I think there has been no moment in my life when I have had to exert m
ore self-command. He was staring wildly at me; if I had let my thoughts sh
ow in my face, God only knows what he might have done. As he spoke the las
t sentence it was as if the formless shadows which had clawed and brooded
over me all night suddenly took form and weight. They were there, clinging
 round my shoulders, vultures, heavy-feathered and stinking of carrion. I,
 who had schemed for Arthur's conception, had waited blind and idle while
his death also was conceived. "I shall have to tell her." His voice was e
dged, desperate.

   "Straight away. Even before the High King declares me. There may be tho
se who guess, and she may hear . . ."

   He talked on, a little wildly, but I was too busy with my own thoughts to
listen. I thought: if I tell him that she knew already, that she is corrupt an
d that her power, such as it is, is corrupt; if I tell him that she used him d
eliberately to gather more power to herself; if I tell him these things now, w
hile he is shaken out of his wits by all that has happened in this last day an
d night, he will take his sword and kill her. And when she dies the seed will
die that is to grow corrupt as she is, and eat at his glory as this slug of ho
rror eats at his youth. But if he kills them now he will never use a sword aga
in in God's service, and their corruption will have claimed him before his wor
k is even begun.

   I said calmly: "Arthur. Be still now, and listen. I told you, what is d
one is done, and men must learn to stand by their deeds. Now hear me. One d
ay soon you will be High King, and as you know, I am the King's Prophet. So
 listen to the first prophecy I shall make for you. What you did, you did i
n innocence. You alone of Uther's seed are clean. Has no one ever told you
the gods are jealous? They insure against too much glory. Every man carries
 the seed of his own death, and you will not be more than a man. You will h
ave everything; you cannot have more; and there must come a term to every l
ife. All that has happened tonight is that you yourself have set that term.
 What more could a man want, that he determines his own death? Every life h
as a death, and every light a shadow. Be content to stand in the light, and
 let the shadow fall where it will."

 He grew quieter as he listened, and at length asked me, calmly enough: "
Merlin, what must I do?"
    "Leave this to me. For yourself, put it behind you, forget about the nigh
t, and think of the morning. Listen, there are the trumpets. Go now, and get
some sleep before the day begins."

   So, imperceptibly, was the first link forged in the new chain that bound
us. He slept, to be ready for the great doings of the morrow, and I sat watch
ful, thinking, while the light grew and the day came.



6

Ulfin, the King's chamberer, came at length to bid Arthur to the King's pre
sence. I woke the boy, and later saw him go, silent and self-contained, sho
wing a sort of impossible calm like smooth ice over a whirlpool. I think th
at, being young, he had already begun to put behind him the shadow of the n
ight; the burden was mine now. This was a pattern which was common in the y
ears to come.

  As soon as he was gone, ushered out with a ceremony wherein I could see
 Ulfin remembering that night so long ago, of the boy's conception, and whi
ch Arthur himself accepted as if he had known it all his life, I called a s
ervant and bade him bring the Lady Morgause to me.

   The man looked surprised, then doubtful; it was to be surmised that the
lady was used to do her own summoning. I had neither time nor patience this
morning for such things. I said briefly: "Do as I say," and the fellow went,
 scuttling.

   She kept me waiting, of course, but she came. This morning she wore red,
 the colour of cherries, and over the shoulders of the gown her hair looked
rosy fair, larch buds in spring, the colour of apricots. Her scent was heavy
 and sweet, apricots and honeysuckle mixed, and I felt my stomach twist at t
he memory. But there was no other resemblance to the girl I had loved-had tr
ied to love-so long ago: in Morgause's long-lidded green eyes there was not
even the pretense of innocence. She came in smiling that close-lipped smile,
 with the prick of a charming dimple at the corner of her mouth, and, making
 me a reverence, crossed the room gracefully to seat herself in the high-bac
ked chair. She disposed her robe prettily about her, dismissed her women wit
h a nod, then lifted her chin and looked at me enquiringly. Her hands lay st
ill and folded against the soft swell of her belly, and in her the gesture w
as not demure, but possessive.

    Somewhere, coldly, a memory stirred. My mother, standing with her hand
s held so, facing a man who would have murdered me. "I have a bastard to p
rotect." I believe that Morgause read my thoughts. The dimple deepened pre
ttily, and the gold-fringed lids drooped.

 I did not sit, but remained standing across the window from her. I said,
more harshly than I had intended: "You must know why I sent for you."

  "And you must know, Prince Merlin, that I am not used to being sent for."

   "Let us not waste time. You came, and it's just as well. I wish to speak
with you while Arthur is still with the King." She opened her eyes wide at me
. "Arthur?"

  "Don't make those innocent eyes at me, girl. You knew his name when you
took him to your bed last night."

   "Can the poor boy not even keep his bed secrets from you?" The light pre
tty voice was contemptuous, meant to sting. "Did he come running to your whi
stle to tell you about it, along with everything else? I'm surprised you let
 him off the chain long enough to take his pleasure last night. I wish you j
oy of him, Merlin the kingmaker. What sort of king is a half-trained puppy g
oing to make?"
  "The sort who is not ruled from his bed," I said. "You have had your ni
ght, and that was too much. The reckoning comes now."

  Her hands moved slightly in her lap. "You can do me no harm."
  "No, I shall do you no harm." The flicker in her eyes showed that she ha
d noticed the change of phrase. "But I am also here," I said, "to see that y
ou do Arthur no harm. You will leave Luguvallium today, and you will not com
e back to the court."

  "I leave court? What nonsense is this? You know that I look after the Ki
ng; he depends on me for his medicines, I am his nurse. I and his chamberer
look after him in all things. You cannot imagine that the King will ever agr
ee to let me go."
  "After today," I said, "the King will never want to see you again."

   She stared. Her colour was high. This, I could see, mattered to her. "H
ow can you say that? Even you, Merlin, cannot stop me from seeing my father
, and I assure you he will not want to let me go. You surely don't mean to
tell him what has happened? He's a sick man, a shock might kill him."

  "I shall not tell him."
 "Then what will you say to him? Why should he agree to having me sent
away?"

  "That is not what I said, Morgause."
  "You said that after today the King would never want to see me again."

  "I was not speaking of your father."
   "I don't see-" She took a sharp breath, and the green-gilt eyes widened.
"But you said . . . the King?" Her breath shortened. "You were speaking of th
at boy?"

  "Of your brother, yes. Where is your skill? Uther is marked for death."

  Her hands were working together in her lap. "I know. But . . . you say it
comes today?"
   I echoed my own question. "Where is your magic? It comes today. So y
ou had better leave, had you not? Once Uther is gone, who will protect you
 here?"

   She thought for a moment. The lovely green-gilt eyes were narrow and sl
y, not lovely at all. "Against what? Against Arthur? You're so sure you can
 make them accept him as King? Even if you do, are you trying to tell me th
at I will need protection against him?"

   "You know as well as I do that he will be King. You have skill enough f
or that, and-in spite of what you said to anger me-skill enough to know wha
t kind of a king. You may not need protection against him, Morgause, but it
 is certain that you will need it against me." Our eyes locked. I nodded. "
Yes. Where he is, I am. Be warned, and go while you can. I can protect him
from the kind of magic you wove last night,"

   She was calm again, seeming to draw into herself. The small mouth tighte
ned in its secret smile. Yes, she had power of a kind. "Are you so sure you
are proof against women's magic? It will snare you in the end, Prince Merlin
."

   "I know it," I said calmly. "Do not think I have not seen my end. And al
l our ends, Morgause. I have seen power for you, and for the thing you carry
, but no joy. No joy, now or ever."

   Outside the window, against the wall, was an apricot tree. The sun war
med the fruit, globe on golden globe, scented and heavy. Warmth reflected
from the stone wall, and wasps hummed among the glossy leaves, sleepy with
 scent. So, once before, in a sweet-smelling orchard, I had met hatred and
 murder, eye to eye.

   She sat very still, her hands locked against her belly. Her eyes held min
e, seeming to drink at them. The scent of honeysuckle thickened, visibly, dri
fting in green-gold haze across the lighted window, mingling with the sunshin
e and the smell of apricots. . . .

   "Stop it!" I said contemptuously. "Do you really think that your girl'
s magic can touch me? No more now than it could before. And what are you tr
ying to do? This is hardly a matter of magic. Arthur knows now who he is, a
nd he knows what he did last night with you. Do you think he will bear you
near him? Do you think that he will watch daily, monthly, while a child gro
ws in your belly? He is not a cold or a patient man. And he has a conscienc
e. He believes that you sinned in innocence, as he did. If he thought other
wise, he might act."

  "Kill me, you mean?"
  "Do you not deserve killing?"
  "He sinned, if you call it sin, as much as I."

   "He did not know he was sinning, and you did. No, don't waste your bre
ath on me. Why pretend? Even without your magic, you must know that half t
he court has whispered it since he and I rode in together yesterday. Yon k
new he was Uther's son."

   For the first time there was a shade of fear in her face. She said obstin
ately: "I did not know. You cannot prove I knew. Why should I do such a thing
?"

    I folded my arms and leaned a shoulder back against the wall. "I will
tell you why. First, because you are Uther's daughter, and like him a seek
er after casual lusts. Because you have the Pendragon blood in you that ma
kes you desire power, so you take it as it mostly offers itself to women,
in a man's bed. You knew your father the King was dying, and feared that t
here would be no place of power for you as half-sister of the young King w
hose Queen would later dispossess you. I think you would not have hesitate
d to kill Arthur, but that you would have less standing, even, at Lot's co
urt, with your own sister as Queen. Whoever became High King would have no
 need of you, as Uther has. You would be married to some small king and ta
ken to some corner of the land where you would pass your time bearing his
children and weaving his war cloaks, with nothing in your hands but the pe
tty power of a family, and what women's magic you have learned and can pra
ctise in your little kingdom. That is why you did what you did, Morgause.
Because, no matter what it was, you wanted a claim on the young King, even
 if it was to be a claim of horror and of hatred. What you did last night
you did coldly, in a bid for power."

  "Who are you to talk to me so? You took power where you could find it."

   "Not where I could find it; where it was given. What you have got you to
ok, against all laws of God and men. If you had acted unknowingly, in simple
 lust, there would be no more to say. I told you, so far he thinks you have
no blame. This morning, when he knew what he had done, his first thought was
 for your distress." I saw the flash of triumph in her eyes, and finished, g
ently: "But you are not dealing with him, you are dealing with me. And I say
 that you shall go."
  She got swiftly to her feet. "Why did you not tell him then, and let him
kill me? Would you not have wanted that?"
     "To add another and worse sin? You talk like a fool."

     "I shall go to the King!"

     "To what purpose? He will spare no thought for you today."

     "I am always by him. He will need his drugs."

     "I am here now, and Gandar. He will not need you."

     "He'll see me if I say I've come to say farewell! I tell you, I will go to him
!"

  "Then go," I said. "I'll not stop you. If you were thinking of telling him t
he truth, think again. If the shock kills him, Arthur will be High King all the
sooner."

   "He would not be accepted! They wouldn't accept him! Do you think Lot wi
ll stand by and listen to you? What if I tell them what Arthur did last nigh
t?"
   "Then Lot would become High King," I said equably. "And how long would
he let you live, bearing Arthur's child? Yes, you'd better think about it,
hadn't you? Either way, there is nothing you can do, except go while you ca
n. Once your sister is married at Christmas, get Lot to find you a husband.
 That way, you may be safe."

    Suddenly, at this, she was angry, the anger of a spitting cat in a corn
er. "You condemn me, you! You were a bastard, too ... All my life I have wa
tched Morgian get everything. Morgian! That child to be a Queen, while I ..
. Why, she even learns magic, but she has no more idea how to use it for he
r own ends than a kitten has! She'd do better in a nunnery than on a Queen'
s throne, and I-I. . ." She stopped on a little gasp, and caught her underl
ip in her teeth. I thought she changed what she had been about to say. ". .
 . I, who have something of the power which has made you great, Merlin my c
ousin, do you think I will be content to be nothing?" Her voice went flat,
the voice of a wise-woman speaking a curse which will stick. "And that is w
hat you will be, who are no man's friend, and no woman's lover. You are not
hing, Merlin, you are nothing, and in the end you will only be a shadow and a name."
    I smiled at her. "Do you think you can frighten me? I see further than
you, I believe. I am nothing, yes; I am air and darkness, a word, a promise
. I watch in the crystal and I wait in the hollow hills. But out there in t
he light I have a young king and a bright sword to do my work for me, and b
uild what will stand when my name is only a word for forgotten songs and ou
tworn wisdom, and when your name, Morgause, is only a hissing in the dark."
 I turned my head then, and called the servant. "Now enough of this, there
is no more to say between us. Go and make yourself ready, and get you from
court."

    The man had come in, and was waiting inside the door glancing, I thought
apprehensively, from one to the other of us. From his look, he was a black Ce
lt from the mountains of the west; it is a race that still worships the old g
ods, so it is possible he could feel, if only partly, some of the stinging pr
esences still haunting the room.

   But for me, now, the girl was only a girl, tilting a pretty, troubled fa
ce to mine, so that the rose-gold hair streamed from her pale forehead down
the cherry gown. To the servant waiting beside the door, it should have seem
ed an ordinary leave-taking, but for those stinging shadows. She never glanc
ed his way, or guessed what he might see.

   When she spoke her voice was composed, calm and low. "I shall go to my s
ister. She lies at York till the wedding."

   "I shall see to it that an escort is ready. No doubt the wedding will still
 be at Christmas, according to plan. King Lot should join you soon, and give yo
u a place at your sister's court."

   There was a brief flash at that, discreetly veiled. I might have tried a gue
ss at what she planned there-that she hoped, even at this late date, to take her
 sister's place at Lot's side- but I was weary of her. I said: "I'll bid you far
ewell, then, and a safe journey."

  She made a reverence, saying, very low: "We shall meet again, cousin."
   I said formally, "I shall look forward to it." She went then, slight, erect
, hands folded close again, and the servant shut the door behind her.

  I stood by the window, collecting my thoughts. I felt weary, and my eyes
 were gritty from lack of sleep, but my mind was clear and light, already fr
ee of the girl's presence. The fresh air of morning blew in to disperse the
evil lingering in the room, till, with the last fading scent of honeysuckle,
 it was gone. When the servant came back I rinsed face and hands in cold wat
er, then, bidding him follow me, went back to the hospital dormitory. The ai
r was cleaner there, and the eyes of dying men easier to bear than the prese
nce of the woman who was with child of Mordred, Arthur's nephew and bastard
son.


7


King Lot, brooding on the edge of affairs, had not been idle. Certain busy
gentlemen, friends of his, were seen to be hurrying here and there, protest
ing to anyone who would listen that it would be more appropriate for Uther
to declare his heir from one of his great palaces in London or Winchester.
This haste, they said, was unseemly: the thing should be done by custom, wi
th due notice and ceremony, and backed by the blessing of the Church. But t
hey whispered in vain. The ordinary people of Luguvallium, and the soldiers
 who at present outnumbered them, thought otherwise. It was obvious now tha
t Uther was near his end, and it seemed not only necessary, but right, that
 he should declare his successor straight away, near the field where Arthur
 had in a fashion declared himself. And if there was no bishop present, wha
t of it? This was a victory feast and was held, so to speak, still in the field.

   The house where the King held court in Luguvallium was packed to the do
ors, and well beyond them. Outside, in the town and around it, where the tr
oops held their own celebration, the air was blue with the smoke of fires,
and thick with the smell of roasting meat. Officers on their way to the Kin
g's feast had to work quite hard to turn a blind eye to the drunkenness in
camp and street, and a deaf ear to the squeals and giggles coming from quar
ters where women were not commonly allowed to be.

   I "hardly saw Arthur all day. He was closeted with the King until aftern
oon, and in the end only left to allow his father to rest before the feast.
I spent most of the day in the hospital. It was peaceful there, compared wit
h the crush near the royal apartments. All day, it seemed, the corridors out
side my rooms and Arthur's were besieged; by men who wanted favours from the
 new prince, or just his notice; by men who wanted to talk with me, or to co
urt my favour by gifts; or simply by the curious. I let it be known that Art
hur was with the King, and would speak with no one before the time of the fe
ast. To the guards I gave private orders that if Lot should seek me out, I w
as to be called. But he made no approach. Nor, according to the servants I q
uestioned, was he to be seen in the town.

   But I took no chances, and early that morning sent to Caius Valerius, a
 King's officer and an old acquaintance of mine, for extra guards for my ro
oms and Arthur's, to reinforce the duty sentries outside the main door, in
the antechamber, and even at the windows. And before I went to the hospital
 I made my way to the King's rooms, to have a word with Ulfin.
   It may perhaps seem strange that a prophet who had seen Arthur's crowni
ng so plain and clear and ringed with light should take such pains to guard
 him from his enemies. But those who have had to do with the gods know that
 when those gods make promises they hide them in light, and a smile on a go
d's lips is not always a sign that you may take his favour for granted. Men
 have a duty to make sure. The gods like the taste of salt; the sweat of hu
man effort is the savour of their sacrifices.

   The guards on duty at the King's door lifted their spears without a chal
lenge and let me straight through into the outer chamber. Here pages and ser
vants waited, while in the second chamber sat the women who helped to nurse
the King. Ulfin was, as ever, beside the door of the King's room. He rose wh
en he saw me, and we talked for a little while, of the King's health, of Art
hur, of the events of yesterday and the prospects for tonight; then-we were
talking softly, apart from the women-I asked him:

  "You knew Morgause had left the court?"
  "I heard so, yes. Nobody knows why."

  "Her sister Morgian is waiting in York for the wedding," I said, "and an
xious for her company."
   "Oh, yes, we heard that." It was to be inferred from the woodenness of hi
s expression that nobody had believed it.

  "Did she come to see the King?" I asked.

   "Three times." Ulfin smiled. It was apparent that Morgause was no favou
rite of his. "And each time she was turned away because the prince was stil
l with him."
  A favoured daughter for twenty years, and forgotten in as many hours f
or a true-born son. "You were a bastard, too" she had reminded me. Years a
go, I remembered, I had wondered what would become of her. She had had pos
ition and authority of a sort here with Uther, and might well have been fo
nd of him. She had (the King had hinted yesterday) refused marriage to sta
y near him. Perhaps I had been too harsh with her, driven by the horror of
 foreknowledge and my own single-minded love for the boy. I hesitated, the
n asked him: "Did she seem much distressed?"

   "Distressed?" said Ulfin crisply. "No, she looked angry. She's bad to cr
oss, is that lady. Always been so, from a child. One of her maids was crying
, too; I think she'd been whipped." He nodded towards one of the pages, a fa
ir boy, very young, kicking his heels at a window. "He was the one sent to t
urn her away the last time, and she laid his cheek open with her nails."

   "Then tell him to take care it does not fester," I said, and such was my
 tone that Ulfin looked sharply at me, cocking a brow. I nodded. "Yes, it wa
s I who sent her away. Nor did she go willingly. You'll know why, one day. M
eanwhile,

   I take it that you look in now and again upon the King? The interview is
n't tiring him overmuch?"

   "On the contrary, he's better than I've seen him for some time. You'd thi
nk the boy was a well to drink at; the King never takes his eyes from him, an
d gains strength by the hour. They'll take their midday meal together."

    "Ah. Then it will be tasted? That's what I came to ask."

    "Of course. You can be easy, my lord. The prince will be safe."

    "The King must take some rest before the feast."
    He nodded. "I've persuaded him to sleep this afternoon after he has eaten.
"

   "Then will you also-which will be more difficult-persuade the prince that
he should do the same? Or, if not rest, then at least go straight to his rooms
, and stay in them till the hour of feasting?"

    Ulfin looked dubious. "Will he consent to that?"
    "If you tell him that the order-but you'd better call it a request-came from
me."
  "I'll do that, my lord."

   "I shall be in the hospital. You'll send for me, of course, if the King n
eeds me. But in any case you must send to tell me the moment the prince leave
s him."

   It was about the middle of the afternoon when the fair-haired page bro
ught the message. The King was resting, he told me, and the prince had gon
e to his rooms. When Ulfin had given the prince my message the latter had
scowled, impatient, and had said sharply (this part of the message came de
murely, verbatim) that he was damned if he'd skulk indoors for the rest of
 the day. But when Ulfin had said the message came from Prince Merlin the
prince had stopped short, shrugged, and then gone to his rooms without fur
ther word.

   "Then I shall go, too," I said. "But first, child, let me see that scrat
ched cheek." When I had put salve on it, and sent him scampering back to Ulf
in, I made my way through corridors more thronged than ever to my rooms.

  Arthur was by the window. He turned when he heard me.
  "Bedwyr is here, did you know? I saw him, but could not get near. I sent
a message that we'd ride out this afternoon. Now you say I may not."

  "I'm sorry. There will be other times to talk to Bedwyr, better than this."

   "Heaven and earth, they couldn't be worse! This place stifles me. What d
o they want with me, that pack in the corridors outside?"

  "What most men want of their prince and future King. You will have to get
used to it."

  "So it seems. There's even a guard here, outside the window."
  "I know. I put him there." Then, answering his look: "You have enemies,
Arthur. Have I not made it clear?"

 "Shall I always have to be hemmed in like this, surrounded? One might as
well be a prisoner."
   "Once you are undoubted King you can make your own dispositions. But u
ntil then, you must be guarded. Remember that here we are only in an emerg
ency camp: once in the King's capital, or in one of his strong castles, yo
u'll have your own household, chosen by yourself. You'll be able to see al
l you want of Bedwyr, or Cei, or anyone else you may appoint. It will be f
reedom of a sort, as much as you can ever have now. Neither you nor I can
go back to the Wild Forest again, Emrys. That's over."

   "It was better there," he said, then gave me a gentle look, and smiled. "Me
rlin."

  "What is it?"

  He started to say something, changed his mind, shook his head instead and
said abruptly: "At this feast tonight. You'll be near me?"

  "Be sure of it."
  "The King has told me how he will present me to the nobles. Do you kn
ow what will happen then? These enemies you speak of-"

  "Will try to prevent the assembly from accepting you as Uther's heir."
  He considered for a moment, briefly. "May they carry arms in the hall?"

  "No. They'll try some other way."
  "Do you know how?"

   I said: "They can hardly deny your birth to the King's face, and with me
there and Count Ector they can't quarrel with your identity. They can only tr
y to discredit, you; shake the faith of the waverers, and try to swing the ar
my's vote. It's your enemies' misfortune that this has come on a battlefield
where the army outnumbers the council of nobles three to one-and after yester
day the army will take some convincing that you are not fit to lead them. It'
s my guess that there will be something staged, something that will take men
by surprise and shake their belief in you, even in Uther."

  "And in you, Merlin?"

  I smiled. "It's the same thing. I'm sorry, I can't see further yet than that.
I can see death and darkness, but not for you."
  "For the King?" he asked sharply.

  I did not answer. He was silent for a moment, watching me, then, as if I
had answered, he nodded, and asked:

  "Who are these enemies?"

  "They are led by the King of Lothian."

   "Ah," he said, and I could see he had not let his senses be stifled thr
ough the brief hours of that crowded day. He had seen and heard, watched an
d listened. "And Urien who runs with him, and Tudwal of Dinpelydr, and-whos
e is the green badge with the wolverine?"

  "Aguisel's. Did the King say anything to you about these men?"

    He shook his head. "We talked mostly of the past. Of course he has heard
 all about me from you and Ector over these past years, and"-he laughed-"I d
oubt if any son ever knew more about his father and his father's father than
 I, with all you have told me; but telling is not the same. There was a lot
of knowing to make up."
   He talked on for a little about the interview with the King, speaking of
 the missed years without regret, and with the cool common sense that I had
come to see was part of his character. That much, I thought, was not from Ut
her; I had seen it in Ambrosius, and in myself, in what men called coldness.
 Arthur had been able to stand back from the events of his youth; he had tho
ught the thing through, and with the clear sight that would make him a king
he had set feeling aside and come to the truth. Even when he went on to spea
k of his mother it was evident that he saw the matter much as Ygraine had do
ne, and with the same hard expediency of outlook. "If I had known that my mo
ther was still alive, and had been so willingly parted from me, it might hav
e come hard to me, as a child. But you and Ector spared me that by telling m
e she was dead, and now I see it as you say she saw it; that to be a prince
one must be ruled always by necessity. She did not give me up for nothing."
He smiled, but his voice was still serious. "It was true as I told you. I wa
s better in the Wild Forest thinking myself motherless, and your bastard, th
an waiting yearly in my father's castle for the Queen to bear another child
to supplant me."
  In all those years I had never seen it so. I had been blinded by my large
r purposes, thinking all the time of his safety, of the kingdom's future, of
the gods' will. Until the boy Emrys had burst into my life that morning in th
e Wild Forest, he had hardly been a person to me, only a symbol, another life
 (as it were) for my father, a tool for me. After I came to know and love him
 I had seen only the deprivations we had subjected him to, with his high temp
er and leaping ambition to be first and best, and his quick generosity and af
fection. It was no use telling myself that without me he might never have com
e near his heritage at all; I had lived with guilt for all that he had been r
obbed of.

   No question but that he had felt the deprivation, the bite of disposses
sion. But even here, even now in the moment of finding himself, he could se
e clearly what that princely childhood would have meant. I knew he was righ
t. Even apart from the daily dangers, he would have had a hard time of it b
eside Uther, and the high qualities, wasting with time and hope deferred, m
ight have turned sour. But the admission, to absolve me, had to come from h
im. Now it lifted my guilt from me as cool air lifts a marsh mist.
   He was still speaking of his father. "I like him," he said. "He has been
a good king as far as it was in him. Standing apart from him as I have done,
I have been able to listen to men talking, and to judge. But as a father-as t
o how we would have dealt together, that's another matter. There is time stil
l to know my mother. She will need comfort soon, I think."

  He referred only once, briefly, to Morgause.

  "They say she has left the town?"

  "She went this morning while you were with the King."

  "You spoke with her? How did she take it?"
  "Without distress," I said, with perfect truth. "You needn't fear for her."

  "Did you send her away?"
   "I advised her to go. As I advise you to put it out of your mind. For the
 moment, at any rate, there is nothing to be done. Except-I suggest-sleep . .
 . Today has been hard, and will be harder for both of us before it's done. S
o if you can forget the crowds outside and the guard beyond the window, I sug
gest we both sleep till sundown."
    He yawned suddenly, widely, like a young cat, then laughed. "Have you put
 a spell on me to make sure of it? Suddenly I feel I could sleep for a week.
. . . All right, I'll do as you say, but may I send a message to Bedwyr?"

   He did not speak of Morgause again, and I think that soon, in the final
preparations for the evening's feast, he forgot her. Certainly the haunted l
ook of the morning had left him, and it seemed to me that no shadow touched
him now; doubt and apprehension would have wisped off his charged and shinin
g youth like water-drops from white-hot metal. Even if he had guessed, as I
did, what the future held -that it was greater than he could have imagined,
and in the end more terrible-I doubt if it would have dimmed his brightness.
 When one is fourteen, death at forty seems still to be several lifetimes aw
ay.

    An hour after sundown, they came for us to lead us to the hall of feasting.



8

The hall was packed to the doors. If the place had seemed crowded before, b
y the time the trumpets sounded for the feast there was barely breathing-ro
om in the corridors; it seemed as if even those sturdy Roman-built walls mu
st bulge and crumble under the press of excited humanity. For rumour had ru
n like a forest fire through the countryside that this was no ordinary vict
ory feast, and even from parts of the province twenty or thirty miles off p
eople were pouring into Luguvallium to be there for the great occasion.

    It would have been impossible to sift and select the followers of those
privileged nobles who were allowed into the main hall where the King would s
it. At a feast of this kind men expected to leave their weapons outside, and
 this was enforced, till the antechamber, stacked as it was with thickets of
 spears and swords, looked like a grove of the Wild Forest. More than this t
he guards could not do, save run an eye over each man's person as he entered
 the hall, to see that he carried only the knife or dagger he needed for his
 food.

   By the time the company was assembled the sky outside was paling to dus
k, and torches were lit. Soon, with the smoky torchlight and the mild eveni
ng, the food and wine and talk and laughter, the place was uncomfortably wa
rm, and I watched the King anxiously. He seemed in good enough spirits, but
 his colour was too high and his skin had a glazed, transparent look that I
 have seen before in men who are pushed to the limits of their strength. Bu
t he was perfectly in command of himself, talking cheerfully and courteousl
y to Arthur on his right, and to the others about him, though at times he w
ould fall into silence and seem to be drifting, forgetfully, into some plac
e far away from which he would recall himself with a jerk. At one point he
asked me-I was seated on his left-if I knew why Morgause had not come to se
e him that day. He asked without concern, without even much interest; it wa
s obvious that he had not taken in the fact that she had left the court. I
told him that she had wanted to go to her sister at York, and that since th
e King had been unable to see her I myself had given her permission, and se
nt her with an escort. I added quickly that the King need have no fears for
 his health, since I was here and would attend him personally. He nodded an
d thanked me, but as if my offer of help was something no longer needed: "I
 have had the best doctors I could have had this day; victory, and this boy
 beside me." He laid a hand on Arthur's arm, and laughed. "You heard what t
he Saxon dogs were calling me? The half-dead King. I heard them shouting it
 when I was carried forward in my chair . . . And so in truth I think I was
, but now I have both victory and life." He had spoken clearly, and men lea
ned forward to listen, and afterwards murmured approval, while the King wen
t back to picking at his food. Ulfin and I had both warned him that he must
 eat and drink sparingly, but there had been no need for such advice; he ha
d little appetite, and Ulfin saw to it that his wine was well watered. And
Arthur's, too. He sat beside his father, his back straight as a spear, and the tension and
 of the occasion had taken some of the colour from his cheeks. For once he h
ardly seemed to notice what he was eating. He spoke little, and then only wh
en he was addressed, answering briefly and obviously only for courtesy. Most
 of the time he sat silent, his eyes on the throng in the hall below the roy
al dais. I, who knew him, could see what he was doing; he was telling over f
ace by face, blazon by blazon, the toll of the men who were there, and notin
g where they sat. Noting also how they looked. This face was hostile, that f
riendly, this undecided and ready to be swayed by promises of power or gain,
 that foolish or merely curious. I could read them myself, as clearly as if
they were red and white pieces ready on the board to play, but for a youth n
ot yet turned fifteen, and on such a highly charged occasion, it was a marve
l that he could collect himself to watch them so. Years afterwards he was st
ill able to tally exactly the forces which assembled for and against him tha
t first night of his power. Only twice did that cool look linger and soften;
 on Ector, not far from where we sat, solid, dependable Ector, beaming a lit
tle moist-eyed across his wine as he watched his foster-son jewelled and res
plendent in white and silver at the High King's side. (I thought that Cei's
glance beside him was less than enthusiastic, but Cei had, at best, low brow
s and a narrow face that gave even his enthusiasms a grudging look.) Down th
e hall, beside his father the King of Benoic, was Bedwyr, his plain face flu
shed and his soul, as they say, in his eyes. The two boys' eyes met and met
again during the feasting. Here, already, the next strong thread was being w
oven of the new kingdom's pattern.

   The feast wore on. I watched Uther carefully, wondering if he could last
 until the proclamation was made and the thing done, or if he would lack the
 strength to see it through. In which case I would have to choose the moment
 to intervene, or the work would have to be done with fighting. But his stre
ngth held. At last he looked round and raised a hand, and the trumpets rang
out for silence. The clamour hushed, and all eyes turned to the high table.
This had been deliberately raised, for it was beyond the King's strength to
stand. Even so, upright in his great chair, with the blaze of lights and ban
ners behind him, he looked alert and splendid, commanding silence.
 He laid his hands along the carved arms of his chair, and began to speak.
He was smiling.

   "My lords, you all know why we are met here tonight. Colgrim has been p
ut to flight, and his brother Badulf, and already reports have been coming
back that the enemy is fled in disorder back towards the coast, beyond the
wild lands to the north." He went on to speak of the previous day's victory
, as decisive, he said, as his brother's victory at Kaerconan had been, and
 as potent an augury for the future. "The power of our enemies, which has b
een massing and threatening for so many years, is broken and driven back fo
r a time. We have a breathing space. But more important than this, my lords
, we have seen how this breathing space was won; we have seen what unity ca
n do, and what we might suffer from the lack of it. Singly, what could we d
o, the kings of the north, the kings of the south and west? But together, h
eld and fighting together, with one leader and one plan, we can thrust the
sword of Macsen again into the heart of the enemy."

   He had spoken, of course, figuratively, but I caught Arthur's half-start of
 recollection, and the flash of a glance across at me, before he went back to h
is steady scrutiny of the hall.

 The King had paused. Ulfin, behind him, moved forward with a goblet of
wine, but the King motioned it aside, and began to speak again. His voice
was stronger, with the ring almost of his old vigour. "For this is a less
on which the last years have taught us. There must be one leader, one stro
ng High King to whom all the kingdoms pay undoubted homage. Without this,
we are back where we were before the Romans came. We are divided and lost
as Gaul and Germany have been divided and lost; we splinter into small peo
ples, fighting each other as wolves do for food and space, and never turni
ng against the common enemy; we become a submerged province of Rome, slidi
ng with her to her downfall, instead of a new kingdom emerging as a unit w
ith its own laws, its own people, its own gods. With the right king, faith
fully followed, I believe that this will come. Who knows, the Dragon of Br
itain may be lifted, if not as high as the Eagles of Rome, then with a pri
de and a vision that will be even farther seen."

  The silence was absolute. It could have been Ambrosius speaking. Or Ma
ximus himself, I thought. So do the gods speak when they are waited for.

    This time the pause was longer. The King had contrived that it should se
em like an orator's, a pause to gather eyes, but I saw how his hands whitene
d on the chair-arms, how carefully he used the pause to gather strength. I t
hought I was the only one who noticed; hardly an eye was on Uther, they all
watched the boy at his right. All, that is, except the King of Lothian; he w
as watching the High King, with a kind of eagerness in his face. Ulfin, as t
he King paused, was beside him again with the goblet; catching my eye, he to
uched it to his own lips, tasted, then gave it to the King, who drank. There
  was no way of disguising the tremor in the hand which raised the goblet to
his mouth, but before he could betray his weakness further, Ulfin had gently
  taken the thing from his hand, and set it down. All this, I saw, Lot had fo
llowed, still with that same concentrated eagerness. He must recognize how s
ick Uther was, and minute by minute he must be hoping for the High King's st
rength to fail him. Either Morgause had told him, or he had guessed what I k
new for certain, that Uther would not live long enough physically to establi
sh Arthur on the throne, and that in the free-for-all which might develop ro
und the person of so young a ruler, Arthur's enemies would find their chance
.

   When Uther began to speak again his voice had lost much of its vigour,
but the silence was so complete that he hardly needed to raise it. Even tho
se men who had drunk too much were solemnly intent as the King began to spe
ak again about the battle, about those who had distinguished themselves, an
d the men who had fallen; finally, about the part Arthur had played in savi
ng the day, and then about Arthur himself.
  "You have all known, for these many years, that my son by Ygraine my Q
ueen was being nurtured and trained for the kingship in lands away from th
ese, and in hands stronger than, alas, my own have been since my malady ov
ertook me. You have known that when the time came, and he was grown, he wo
uld be declared by name, Arthur, as my heir, and your new King. Now be it
known to all men where their lawful prince has spent the years of his yout
h; first under the protection of my cousin Hoel of Brittany, then in the h
ouse of my faithful servant and fellow-soldier, Count Ector of Galava. And
 all the time he has been guarded and taught by my kinsman Merlin called A
mbrosius, to whose hands he was committed at his birth, and whose fitness
for the guardianship no man can question. Nor will you question the reason
s which prompted me to send the prince away until such time as he might pu
blicly be shown to you. It is a practice common enough among the great, to
 rear their children in other courts, where they may stay unspoiled by arr
ogance, uncorrupted by flattery, and safe from the contriving of treachery
 and ambition." He waited for a moment to regain his breath. He was lookin
g down at the table as he spoke, and met no one's eyes, but here and there
 a man shifted in his seat or glanced at another; and Arthur's cool gaze t
ook note of it.

   The King went on: "And those of you who had wondered what sort of shift
s might be used to train a prince, other than sending him as a boy into bat
tle, and into council alongside his father, have seen yesterday how he rece
ived the King's sword easily from the King's hand, and led the troops to vi
ctory as surely as if he had been High King himself and a seasoned warrior."

   Uther's breath was short now, and his colour bad. I saw Lot's eyes intent
, and Ulfin's worried look. Cador was frowning. I thought briefly back, with
thankfulness, to the talk I had had with him beside the lake. Cador and Lot:
had Cador been less his father's son, how easy it would have been for the two
 of them to tear the land north arid south, parcel it out between them like a
 pair of fighting dogs, while the landless pup whined starving.
  "And so," said the High King, and in the silence his gasping breath was
horribly apparent, "I present to you all my true born and only son, Arthur
called Pendragon, who will be High King after my death, and who will carry
my sword in battle from this time on."

   He reached his hand to Arthur, and the boy stood up, straight and unsmil
ing, while the shouting and the cheering went roaring up into the smoky roof
. The noise must have been heard clear thro.ugh the town. When men paused to
 draw breath the echoes of the acclamation could be heard running out throug
h the streets as a fire runs through stubble on a dry day. There was approva
l in the shouting, there was obvious relief that at last the issue was clear
, and there was joy. I saw Arthur, cool as a cloud, assessing which lay wher
e. But from where I sat I could also see the pulse leaping below the rigid j
awline. He stood as a swordsman stands, at rest after one victory, but alert
 for the next challenge.

   It came. Clear above the shouting and the thumping of drinking-vessels o
n the boards came Lot's voice, harsh and carrying.
  "I challenge the choice, King Uther!"

    It was like throwing a boulder down into the path of a fast-flowing str
eam. The noise checked; men stared, muttered, shifted and looked about them
. Then all at once it could be seen that the stream divided. There was chee
ring still for Arthur and the King's choice, but here and there were shout
s ' of "Lothian! Lothian!" and through it all Lot said strongly: "An untrie
d boy? A boy who has seen one battle? I tell you, Colgrim will be back all
too soon, and are we to have a boy to lead us? If you must hand on your swo
rd, King Uther, hand it to a tried and seasoned leader, to be held in trust
 for this young boy when he is grown!" He finished the challenge with a cra
sh of his fist on the table, and round him the clamour broke out again: "Lo
thian! Lothian!" and then farther off down the hall, confusedly, other chal
lenges being shouted down by "Pendragon!" and "Cornwall!" and even "Arthur!
" It was to be seen then, as the clamour mounted, that only the fact that m
en were unarmed prevented worse things than insults being hurled from side
to side of the hall. The servants had backed to the walls, and chamberlains
 bustled here and there, white-faced and placatory. The King, ashen, threw
up a hand, but the gesture went almost unnoticed. Arthur neither moved nor
spoke, but he had gone rather pale.

   "My lords! My lords!" Uther was shaking, but with rage; and rage, as I kn
ew, was as dangerous to him as a spear thrust. I saw that Lot knew it, too. I
 laid a hand on Uther's arm. "All will be well," I told him softly. "Sit back
 now and let them shout it out. Look, Ector is speaking."

    "My lord King!" Ector's voice was brisk, friendly, matter-of-fact, coolin
g the atmosphere in the hall. He spoke as if addressing the King alone. The e
ffect was noticeable; the hall grew quiet as men strained to hear him. "My lo
rd King, the King of Lothian has challenged your choice. He has a right to sp
eak, as all your subjects have a right to speak before you, but not to challe
nge, not even to question, what you have said tonight." Raising his voice a l
ittle he turned to the listening hall. "My lords, this is not a matter of cho
ice or election; a king's heir is begotten, not chosen by him, and where chan
ce has provided such a begetting as this, what question is there? Look at him
 now, this prince who has been presented to you. He has been in my household
for ten years, and I, my lords, knowing him as I do, tell you that here is a
prince to be followed-not later, not 'when he is further grown,' but now. Eve
n if I could not stand before you here to attest his birth, you have only to
look at him and to think back to yesterday's field, to know that here, with a
ll fortune and God's blessing, we have our true and rightful King. This is no
t open to challenge, even to question. Look at him, my lords, and remember ye
sterday! Who more fit to unite the kings from all the corners of Britain? Who
 more fit to wield his father's sword?"

   There were shouts of "True! True!" and "What doubt can there be? He is
Pendragon, and therefore our King!" and a hubbub of voices that was louder
and more- confused even than before. Briefly, I remembered my father's coun
cils, their power and order; then I saw again how Uther shook, ashen in his
 great chair. The times were different; this was the way he had had to do i
t; he could not enforce it other than by public acclaim.

    Before he could speak, Lot was smoothly on his feet again. He was no lon
ger shouting; he spoke weightily, with an air of reason, and a courteous inc
lination towards Ector. "It was not the prince's begetting that I challenged
, it was the fitness of a young and untried youth to lead us. We know that t
he battle yesterday was only the preliminary, the first move in a longer and
 more deadly fight even than Ambrosius faced a struggle such as we have not
seen since the days of Maximus We need better leadership than is shown by a
day's luck it a skirmish. We need, not a sick king's deputy, but a man veste
d with all the authority and God-given blessing of an anointed ruler. If thi
s young prince is indeed fit to carry his father's sword, would his father b
e content to yield it to him now, before us all?"

   Silence again, for three heart-beats. Every man there knew what it mean
t for the King formally to hand over the royal sword; it was abdication. On
ly I, of all the men in the hall except perhaps Ulfin, knew that it mattere
d nothing whether or not Uther abdicated now; Arthur would be King before n
ight. But Uther did not know, and whether, even knowing his weakness, Uther
 was great enough to renounce publicly the power which had been the breath
of life to him was not known even to me. He was sitting quite straight, app
arently impassive, and only one as near to him as I could see how the palsy
 from time to time shook his body, so that light shivered in the circlet of
 red gold that bound his brow, and shook in the jewels on his fingers. I ro
se quietly from my chair and went to stand close beside him, at his left ha
nd. Arthur, frowning, glanced questioningly at me. I shook my head at him.
    The King licked his lips, hesitating. Lot's change of tone had puzzled h
im, as, it could be seen, it had puzzled others in the hall. But it had also
 relieved the waverers, those who were scared by the idea of rebellion, but
found relief from their fear of the future in his air of reason and his defe
rence to the High King. There were murmurs of approval and agreement. Lot sp
read his hands wide, as if including with him everyone in the body of the ha
ll, and said, with that air of speaking reasonably for all of them: "My lord
s, if we could but see the King give his chosen heir the royal sword with hi
s own hands, what could we do but acknowledge him? Afterwards, it will be ti
me enough to discuss how best to face the coming wars."

   Arthur's head turned slightly, like a hound's that catches an unfamiliar
scent. Ector too looked round at the other men, surprised perhaps and distrus
tful of the apparent capitulation. Cador, silent at the other side of the roo
m, stared at Lot as though he would drag his soul out from his eyes. Uther be
nt his head slightly, a gesture of abnegation which became him like nothing I
 had seen in him before.

  "I am willing."

   A chamberlain went running. Uther, leaned back in the great chair, shaki
ng his head as Ulfin proffered wine again, I dropped a hand unobtrusively to
 the wrist beside me; his pulse was all anyhow, a grasshopper pulse in a wri
st gone suddenly frail and stringy, which before had been narrow with nerve
and sinew. His lips were dry, and his tongue came out to moisten them. He sa
id softly: "There's some trick here, but I can't see it. Can you?"

  "Not yet."

   "He has no real following. Not even among the army, after yesterday. Bu
t now . . . you may have to deal with it. They don't want facts, or even pr
omises. You know them, what they want is a sign. Can you not give them one?
"
  "I don't know. Not yet. The gods come when they come."

   Arthur had caught the whisper. He was as tight as a strung bow. Then he l
ooked across the hall, and I saw his mouth relax slightly. I followed his loo
k. It was Bedwyr, scarlet with fury, held down forcibly in his seat by his fa
ther's heavy hand. Otherwise I think that he would have been at Lot's throat
with his bare hands.
   The chamberlain came running, with Uther's battle sword laid, scabbarded
, across his palms. The rubies in the hilt glinted balefully. The scabbard w
as of silver gilded, crusted with fine gold-work and gems. There was no man
there but had seen the sword a hundred times at Uther's side. The man laid i
t flat on the table in front of the King. Uther's thin hand went out to the
hilt, the fingers curving round it with-out thinking, fitting to the guard,
a caress rather than a grip, the hold of the good fighting man. Arthur watch
ed him, and I could see the flicker of puzzlement between his brows. He was
thinking of the sword in the stone up there in the Wild Forest, wondering no
 doubt where that came into this formal scene of abdication.

   But I, as the fire from the great rubies burned against my eyes, knew at
 last what the gods were doing. It was clear from the beginning, fire and dr
agon-star and the sword in the stone. And the message did not come through t
he smoke from the doubly-smiling god, it was clear as the flame in the ruby.
 Uther's sword would fail, as Uther himself had failed. But the other would
not. It had come by water and by land and lay waiting now for this, to brin
g Arthur his kingdom, and keep and hold it, and afterwards go from men's sig
ht for ever. . . .

  The King laid firm hold of the hilt, and drew his sword. "I, Uther Pendra
gon, do by this token give to Arthur my son-"

   There was a great gasp, then a hubbub of noise. Men cried out fearfully
, "A sign! A sign!" and someone shouted, "Death! It means death!" and the w
hispers that had been stilled by victory, waking again: "What hope for us,
a wasted land, and a maimed king, and a boy without a sword?"

   As the sword came clear of the scabbard Uther lurched to his feet. He he
ld it crookedly, half-lifted, staring down at it with ashen face and his mou
th half open, struck still like a man out of his wits. The sword was broken.
 A handspan from the point the metal had snapped jaggedly, and the break sho
ne raw and bright in the torchlight.
   The King made some sound; it was as if he tried to speak, but the words
choked in his throat. The sword sank with a clatter to the board. As his leg
s failed under him, Ulfin and I took him gently by the arms and eased him ba
ck into his chair. Arthur moved, fast as a mountain cat, to bend over him. "
Sir? Sir?"
   Then he straightened slowly, his eyes on me. There was no need for me t
o tell him what every man in the hall could see. Uther was dead.



9

Uther dead did more than Uther dying could have done to control the panic tha
t had swept the hall. Every man there was held, silent and still, on his feet
, watching the High King as we lowered him gently against the back of the cha
ir. In the stillness the flames in the torches rustled like silk, and the gob
let Ulfin had dropped rolled ringing in a half circle and back again. I leane
d forward over the dead King and closed his eyes.

   Then Lot's voice, collected and forceful: "A sign indeed! A dead king a
nd a broken sword! Do you still say, Ector, that God has appointed this boy
 to lead us against the Saxon invader? A maimed land indeed, with nothing b
etween us and the Terror but a boy with a broken sword!"

    Confusion again. Men shouting, turning to one another, staring about th
em in fear and amazement. Part of my mind noted, coldly, that Lot had not b
een surprised. Arthur, eyes blazing in a face paler than ever with shock, s
traightened from his father's body and whipped round to face the shouting i
n the hall, but I said swiftly, "No. Wait," and he obeyed me. But his hand
had dropped to his dagger and gripped there, whitening. I doubt if he knew
it, or, knowing, could have stopped himself. The turmoil of astonishment an
d fear jarred from wall to wall like waves in the wind.

   Through the commotion came Ector's voice again, harsh and shaken, but st
urdily matter-of-fact as before, brushing aside the strands of superstitious
 fear like a broom clearing cobwebs. "My lords! Is this seemly? Our High Kin
g is dead, here before our eyes. Dare we oppose his plain will when his eyes
 are hardly closed? We all saw what caused his death, the sight of the royal
 sword, which yesterday was whole, broken in its sheath. Are we to let this-
accident"-he dropped, the word heavily into the hush-"frighten us like child
ren from doing what it is plain that we should do? If you look for a sign, t
here it is." He pointed at Arthur, standing straight as a pine beside the de
ad King's chair. "As one king falls, another is ready in his place. God sent
 him today for this. We must acknowledge him."
    A pause, full of murmuring, while men looked at one another. There were
 nods, and shouts of agreement, but here and there still looks of doubt, an
d voices calling out, "But the sword? The broken sword?"

  Ector said sturdily: "King Lot here called it a sign, this broken sword. A
sign of what? I say, my lords, of treachery! This sword did not break in the
High King's hand, nor in his son's."

  "That's true," said another voice forcibly. Bedwyr's father, the King of
Benoic, was on his feet. "We all saw it, whole in the battle. And by God, we
saw it used!"

   "But since then?" The questions came from every quarter of the hall. "A
fterwards? Would the King have sent for it had he known it to be broken?" T
hen from some speaker at the end of the hall, invisible in the press: "But
would the High King have consented to hand it to the boy, if it had still b
een whole?" And another voice, which I thought was Urien's: "He knew he was
 dying. He gave up the maimed land with the broken sword. It is for the str
ongest now to take up the kingship."

   Ector, darkly flushed, broke in again: "I spoke the truth when I talked
of treachery! In good time did the High King present his heir to us, or Brit
ain would indeed be maimed, torn apart by disloyal dogs such as you, Urien o
f Gore!"

  Urien shouted with anger, and his hand went to his dagger.

   Lot spoke to him, sharply, under cover of the tumult, and he subsided.
 Lot was smiling, his eyes narrow and watchful. His voice came smoothly: "
We all know what interest Count Ector has in proclaiming his ward High Kin
g."

   There was a sudden, still pause. I saw Ector glance round him, as if he
 would have conjured a weapon out of the air. Arthur's hand clenched tighte
r on his dagger's hilt. Then suddenly there was a stir from the right of th
e hall, where Cador stood forward among his men. The white Boar of Cornwall
 stretched and hunched itself on his sleeve as he moved. He looked round fo
r quiet, and got it. Lot turned his head quickly; it was evident that he di
d not know what to expect. Ector controlled himself and subsided, rumbling.
 All around I saw the frightened men, the waverers, the time-servers, looki
ng to Cador as men look for a lead in danger.
  Cador's voice was clear and totally lacking in emotion. "What Ector says
 is true. I myself saw the High King's sword after the battle, when his son
handed it back to him. It was whole and unmarked, save with the blood of the
 enemy."

  "Then how is it broken? Is it treachery? Who broke it?"

   "Who indeed?" said Cador. "Not the gods, for sure, whatever King Lot m
ay think. The gods do not break the swords of the kings they favour with v
ictory. They give them, and give them whole."

   "Then if Arthur is our king," cried someone, "what sword have they give
n him?"

   Cador looked up the hall: it was to be seen that he was expecting me to
 speak. But I said nothing. I had drawn back to stand behind Arthur in the
shadow of the King's great chair. It was my place, and it was time they saw
 me take it. There was a kind of waiting pause, as heads turned to where I
stood, a black shadow behind the boy's white and silver. Men shuffled and m
urmured. There were those here who had known my power, and there was no man
 present who doubted it. Not even Lot; the whites of his eyes showed as he
looked askance. But when I still did not speak, there were smiles. I could
see the tension in Arthur's shoulders, and I spoke to him in silence with m
y will. "Not yet, Arthur, not yet. Wait."

    He was silent. He had picked up the broken sword, and was gently fitting
 it back into its scabbard As it went, it gave one sharp flash and then was
quenched.

   "You see?" said Cador to the hall. "Uther's sword is gone, and so is he.
But Arthur has a sword, his own, and greater than this royal one that men hav
e broken. The gods gave it to him. I saw it in his hand myself."
  "When?" they asked. "Where? What gods? What sword was this?"

   Cador waited, smiling, for the buzz of questions to die. He stood easily,
 a big man with that air of his of relaxed but ready power. Lot was biting hi
s lip, and frowning. There was sweat thick on his forehead, and his eyes shif
ted round the hall, reckoning the tally of those who still supported him. Fro
m his look, he had still hoped that Cador might range himself against Arthur.

  Cador had not looked at him. "I saw him once with Merlin," he told the c
ompany, "up in the Wild Forest, and he carried a sword more splendid than an
y I have seen before, jewelled like an Emperor's, and with a blade of light
so bright that it burned the eyes."

   Lot cleared his throat. "An illusion. It was done by magic. You said Mer
lin was there. We all know what that means. If Merlin is Arthur's master-"

    A man interrupted, smallish, with black hair and a high colour. I recogn
ized Gwyl from the western coast, on whose hills the druids meet still. "And
 if it was magic, what then?

  Look you, a king who has magic in his hand is a king to follow."

   This brought a yell of approval. Fists hammered on the tables. Many of t
he men in the hall were mountain Celts, and this was talk they understood.
"That is true, that is true! Strength is good, but of what use is it without
 luck? And our new King, though he is young, has both. It was true what Uthe
r said, good training and good counsel. What better counsel could he have, t
han Merlin to stand beside him?"

    "Good training indeed," shouted a boy's voice, "that doesn't hang back
in battle till it's almost too late!" It was Bedwyr, forgetting himself. Hi
s father quenched him with a cuff to the side of the head, but the blow fel
l lightly, and the admonitory hand slid over to ruffle the boy's hair. Ther
e were smiles. The heat was cooling. The ferment brought about by the strok
e of superstitious fear had passed, and men were calming, ready now to list
en and to think. One or two who had seemed to favour Lot and his faction we
re seen to withdraw a little from him. Then someone called out: "Why doesn'
t Merlin speak? Merlin knows what we should do. Let him tell us!" Then the
shouting began: "Merlin! Merlin! Let Merlin speak!"

   I let them shout for a few minutes. Then when they were ready to tear th
e hall stone from stone to hear me, I spoke. I neither moved nor raised my v
oice, standing there between the dead King and the living one, but they hush
ed, listening.

   "I have two things to tell you," I said. "First, that the King of Lothia
n was wrong. I am not Arthur's master. I am his servant. And the second is w
hat the Duke of Cornwall has already told you; that between us and the Saxon
 Terror is a King, young and whole, with a sword given straight into his han
d by God."
  Lot could see the moment slipping from him. He looked around him, shouti
ng: "A fine sword indeed, that appears in his hand as an illusion, and vanis
hes from it in battle!"

   "Don't be a fool," said Ector gruffly. "That was one I lent him that was c
ut from him in the fight. My second best, too, so I'm not repining."

   Someone laughed. There were smiles, and when Lot spoke again there was
 defeat under the sick rage in his voice. "Then where did he get this swor
d of marvels, and where is it now?"

  I said: "He went alone to Caer Bannog and lifted it from its place below t
he lake."

  Silence. There was no one here who did not know what that meant. I sa
w hands moving to make the sign against enchantment.

   Cador stirred. "It is true. I myself saw Arthur come back from Caer Banno
g with the thing in his hand, wrapped in an old scabbard as if it had lain in
 hiding for a hundred years."

   "Which it had," I said into the silence. "Listen, my lords, and I will te
ll you what sword this is. It is the sword which Macsen Wledig took to Rome,
and which was brought back to Britain by his people and hidden until it shoul
d please the gods to lead a King's son to find it. Must I remind you of the p
rophecy? It was not my prophecy, it was made before I was born; that the swor
d should come by water and by land, treasured in darkness and locked in stone
, until he should come who is rightwise king born of all Britain, and lift it
 from its hiding-place. And there it has Iain, my lords, safe in Caer Bannog,
 in Bilis' castle, until by magic signs sent from the gods did Arthur find it
, and lifted it easily into his hand."

  "Show us!" they cried. "Show us!"

   "I shall show you. The sword lies now on the altar in the chapel of the Wild F
orest where I laid it. It shall lie there till Arthur lifts it in the sight of you
 all."

   Lot was beginning to be afraid; they were against him now, and by his a
ctions he had confirmed himself as Arthur's enemy. But so far I had spoken
quietly, without power, and he still saw a chance. The obstinacy which had
driven him, and the stupidity of his own hope of power, sustained him now.
"I have seen that sword, the sword in the altar of the Green Chapel. Many o
f you have seen it! It is Macsen's sword, yes, but it is made of stone!"
   I moved then. I lifted my arms high. From somewhere, a breeze ran in t
hrough the open windows and stirred the coloured hangings so that behind A
rthur the scarlet Dragon clawed up the golden banner, and sent my shadow t
owering like the Dragon's shadow, with arms raised like wings. The power w
as here. I heard it in my voice.

    "And from the stone has he lifted it, and will lift it again, in the sight
of you all. And from this day on, the chapel shall be called the Chapel Perilou
s, for if any man who is not the rightful King shall so much as touch the sword
, it shall burn like levin in his hand."

   Someone in the crowd said strongly: "If he has indeed got the sword of M
acsen, he got it by God's gift, and if he has Merlin beside him, then by any
 god he follows, I follow him!"

  "And I," said Cador.

  "And I! And I!" came the shouts from the hall. "Let us all see this magic
sword and this perilous altar!"

   Every man was on his feet. The shouting rose and echoed in the roof. "Ar
thur! Arthur!" I dropped my arms. "Now, Arthur, it is now," He had not once
 looked at me, but he heard my thought, and I felt the power going out of me
 towards him. I could see it growing round him as he stood there, and every
man in the hall could see it too. He raised a hand, and they waited for hi
m. His voice came clear and firm: no boy's voice, but that of a man who has
fought his first decisive battles, there in the field, and here in the hall.

   "My lords. You saw how fate sent me to my father with-out a sword, as wa
s fitting. Now treachery has broken the weapon he would have given me, and t
reachery has tried to take with it my birthright that is proven in front of
you all, and was attested by my father the High King in open hall. But as Me
rlin has told you, God had already put another, greater weapon into my hand,
 and I shall indeed take it up in front of you all, as soon as I may come wi
th all this company, to the Perilous Chapel."

   He paused. It is not easy to speak after the gods have spoken. He finis
hed simply, cool water after the flames. The torches had died to red and my
 shadow had dwindled from the wall. The Dragon banner hung still.
  "My lords, we shall ride there in the morning. But now it is seemly that
we should attend the High King, and see his body laid in kingly fashion, and
guards set, before it can be taken to its resting-place. Then those who will
may take up their swords and spears, and ride with me."

    He finished. Cador came striding up the hall and with him Ector, and Gwy
l, and Bedwyr's father King Ban, and a score of others. I stepped quietly ba
ck, leaving Arthur standing there alone, with the King's guard behind him. I
 made a sign, and servants stooped to lift and carry out the chair where, al
l this time, the dead King had sat stiffening, with no man looking his way s
ave only Ulfin, who was weeping.



10

As soon as I left the hall I sent a servant running with a message that a sw
ift horse was to be made ready for me. Another fetched my sword and cloak, a
nd very soon, without attracting much notice, I was able to slip quietly thr
ough the thronged corridors and out to the courtyard.

   The horse was there, ready. I thought I recognized it, then saw from its
 housings that it was Ralf's big chestnut. Ralf himself waited at its head,
his face strained and anxious. Beyond the high walls of the courtyard the to
wn hummed like a tumbled skep of bees, and lights were everywhere. "What's t
his?" I asked him. "Didn't they get my message right? I go alone."

   "So they said. The horse is for you. He's faster than your own, and sure
on his feet, and he knows the forest tracks. And if you do meet trouble-" He
left the sentence unfinished, but I understood him. The horse was trained to
battle, and would fight for me like an extra arm.

 "Thank you," I took the reins from him, and mounted. "They're expecting
me at the gate?"
  "Yes. Merlin"-he still kept a hand on the reins-"let me come with you. Y
ou shouldn't ride alone. You've a bad enemy there who'll stop at nothing."

   "I know that. You'll serve me better by staying here and seeing that no on
e rides after me- Are the gates shut?"
   "Yes, I saw to it. No rider but you leaves this place now until Arthur and
 the others ride out. But they tell me that there were two men slipped out bef
ore the company left the hall."

  I frowned. "Lot's?"

  "No one seems clear on that. They said they were messengers taking the
news of the King's death south."
   "No messenger was sent," I said curtly. I had ordered this myself. The
news of the High King's death, with the fear and uncertainty it would engen
der, must not be carried beyond the walls until there could go with it news
 of a new King and a new crowning.

    Ralf nodded. "I know. These two got through just before the order came.
 It could just be someone hoping for a purse -one of the chamberlains, perh
aps, sending word south as soon as it happened. But it could just as soon b
e Lot's men, you know it could. What could he be planning? To break Macsen'
s sword, as he broke Uther's?"

  "You think he could?"

 "N-no. But if he can do nothing, then why are you riding up there now?
Why not wait and ride up with the prince?"

   "Because it's true that Lot will stop at nothing now to destroy Arthur's
claim. He's worse than ambitious now, he's frightened. He'll do anything to d
iscredit me, and shake men's faith in the sword as God's gift. So I must go.
God does not defend himself. Why are we here, if not to fight for him?"

    "You mean-? I see. They could desecrate the shrine, or destroy the altar ..
. If they could even prevent your being there to receive the King . . . And the
y may kill the servant you left to tend the shrine. Is that it?"

  "Yes."
   He took the chestnut by the bit, so roughly that it jibbed, snorting. "The
n do you think that Lot would hesitate to murder you?"

  "No. But I don't think he'll succeed. Now let me go, Ralf. I shall be safe
enough."
   "Ah." There was relief in his voice. "You mean there are no more deaths i
n the stars tonight?"

   "There is death for someone. It's not for me, but I'll take no one with me
, to put more at risk. Which is why you are not coming, Ralf."

  "Oh, God, if that's all-"

   I laid the reins on the chestnut's neck and it gathered itself, sidling.
"We had this fight once before, Ralf, and I gave way. But not tonight. I can'
t force you to obey me; you are not mine now. But you are Arthur's, and your
duty is to stay with him and bring him safely to the chapel. Now let me go. W
hich gate?"

   There was a stretched pause, then he stepped back. "The south. God go w
ith you, my dear lord."

  He turned his head and called an order to the guard. The courtyard gate
swung open, and crashed shut again behind my galloping horse.

   There was half a moon, shadow-edged, thin silver. It lit the familiar tra
ck along the valley. The willows along the river's edge stood humped above bl
ue shadows. The river ran fast, full with rain. The sky sparkled with stars,
and brighter than any of them burned the Bear. Then moon, stars and river wer
e blotted from sight as the chestnut, feeling my heels, stretched his great s
tride and carried me at his sure gallop into the blackness of the Wild Forest
.

   For the first part of the way the track went straight and smooth, and her
e and there through breaks in the leafage the pale moon sifted down, throwing
 a faint grey light to the forest floor. Roots, ribbing the pathway, rapped u
nder the horse's hoofs. I lay low on his neck to avoid the sweeping branches.
 Presently the track began to climb, gently at first, then steep and twisting
 as the forest ran up into the foothills. Here and there the way bent sharply
 to avoid crags which thrust up among the crowded trees. Somewhere deep down
on the left was the noise of a mountain stream, fed like the river with the a
utumn rains. Save for the horse's thudding gallop there was no sound. The tre
es hung still. No breeze could penetrate so far into the thick darkness. Noth
ing else stirred. If deer, or wolf, or fox were abroad that night, I never sa
w them.
  The way grew steeper. The chestnut, sure-footed, breasted the rough trac
k with heaving ribs and stride at last slackening to a heavy canter. Not far
 now. A gap in the boughs above let starlight through, and I could see ahead
 where a twist of the path took it round like a tunnel into yet thicker blac
kness. An owl cried, away to the left. From the right, another answered. The
 sounds burst in my brain like a war cry as the chestnut took the bend, and
I hauled at his mouth, throwing my whole weight back on the rein. A better h
orseman could have stopped him in time. But not I, and I had left it just to
o late.
   He pulled to a plunging, trampling stop, but travelling as he was his ho
ofs ploughed up the muddy track, and he hurtled half-sideways towards the tr
ee which lay fallen full across the way. A pine, dry and long-dead, with its
 branches thrusting out pointed and rigid as the spikes of a cavalry trap. T
oo high and too dense to jump, even had it lain in the open moonlight and no
t just at the darkest bend in the track. The place was well chosen. To one s
ide of the track there was a steep and rocky drop forty feet to the rush of
the stream; to the other a thicket of thorn and holly, too dense for a horse
man to thrust through. There was no space even to swerve. Had we gone round
the corner at a gallop, the horse would have been speared on the boughs, and
 I myself flung headlong against their crippling spikes.

   If the enemy lay hidden, expecting me to gallop hard onto the spikes, t
here might be a few seconds in which we could get back from the ambush and
off the track into deep forest. I turned the chestnut sharply and lashed th
e reins down. He came round fast, rearing, scoring his side along the wall
of thorns and driving the sharp end of some branch deep into my thigh. Then
 suddenly, as if spurred, he snorted and hurled himself forward. Under us t
he path broke open with a crashing of boughs. A black pit gaped. The horse
lurched, pitched half down, then went over in a thrashing of hoofs. I was f
lung clear over his shoulder into the space between the pit and the fallen
tree. I lay for a moment half-stunned, while the horse, with a heave and a
scramble, floundered out of the shallow pit and stood trembling, while two
men, daggers in hand, broke out of the forest and came running.

   I had been flung into the deepest of the dark shadow, and I suppose I w
as lying so still that for the moment I was invisible. The noise the stream
 made drowned most other sounds, and they may have thought I had been flung
 straight down into the gully. One of them ran to the edge, peering downwar
ds, while the other pushed past the horse and came warily forward to the ed
ge of the pit.
  They had not had time to dig this deep enough, only deep enough to lame
 the horse and to throw me. Now in the black darkness it acted as a kind of
 protection, preventing them both from jumping me at once. The one near me
called out to his fellow, but the rush of water below us drowned the words.
 Then he took a cautious step forward past the pit towards me. I saw the fa
int glimmer of the weapon in his hand.

   I rolled, got him by the ankle, and heaved. He yelled, pitching forward
half into the hole, then twisted free, slashed sideways with his dagger, and
 rolled away quickly to his feet. The other threw a knife. It struck the tre
e behind me and fell somewhere. One weapon the less. But now they knew where
 I was. They drew back beyond the pit, one to each side of the track. In the
 hand of one man I saw the glint of a sword, but could see nothing of the ot
her. There was no sound but the rush of water.

   At least the narrowness of the path, while it made for a good ambush, h
ad effectively stopped them bringing up their own horses. Mine was dead lam
e. Their beasts must be tethered somewhere behind them in the trees. It was
 impossible to scramble through the fallen pine behind me; they would have
caught and speared me there in seconds. Nor could I get through the wall of
 thorn. All that was left was the gully; if I could get down there unseen,
somehow get past them and back into the open forest, perhaps even find thei
r horses ...
   I moved cautiously sideways, towards the rim of the gully. I had my fre
e hand out, feeling my way. There were bushes, and here and there saplings
or young trees, rooted in the rocks. My hand met smooth bark, gripped it, t
ested it. I moved warily crabwise, over the edge. My eyes were still on tha
t glimmer of metal, the sword beyond the pit. The man was still there. My g
roping foot slid down a sharp and muddy step, the rim of the gully. A bramb
le snatched at it.

   So did a man's hand. He had used my own trick. He had slid quietly down
 the bank, flattened himself there, and waited. Now he flung his whole weig
ht, sharply, on my foot and, caught off balance, I fell. His knife just mis
sed me, biting deep into the bank bare inches from my face as I pitched dow
n past him.

    He had meant to send me crashing down the rocky bank, to be broken and
 stunned on the rocks below, where they could follow and finish me togethe
r. If he had been content with this, he might have succeeded. But his lung
e with the knife shook his own balance, and besides, as he grabbed at me,
instead of resisting I went with him, stamping hard downwards at the grabb
ing hand. My boot went into some-thing soft; he grunted with pain, then ye
lled something as my weight broke his grip, and, loosing whatever hold he
had, he went hurtling with me down the steep side of the gully.

    I had been falling the faster of the two, and I landed first, halfway d
own, hard up against the stem of a young pine. My attacker rolled after me
in a crash of broken bushes and a shower of stones. As he hurtled against m
e in a flying tangle of limbs I braced myself to meet him. I flung myself o
ver him, clamping my body hard over his, clasping his arms with both of min
e and pinning him with my weight. I heard him cry out with pain. One leg wa
s doubled under him. He lashed out with the other, and I felt a spur rake m
y leg through the soft leather of my boot. He fought furiously, thrashing a
nd twisting under me like a landed fish. At any moment he would dislodge me
 from my purchase against the pine, and we would fall together to the gully
. I struggled to hold him, and to get my dagger hand free.

   The other murderer had heard us fall. He shouted something from the bri
nk above, then I could hear him letting himself down the slope towards us.
He came cautiously, but fast. Too fast. I shifted my grip on the man beneat
h me, forcing my full weight down to hold his arms pinned. I heard somethin
g crack; it sounded like a dead twig, but the fellow screamed. I managed to
 drag my right hand from under him. My fist was clamped round the dagger an
d the hilt had bitten into the flesh. I lifted it. Some stray glimmer of mo
onlight touched his eyes, a foot from mine; I could smell the fear and pain
 and hatred. He gave a wild heave that nearly unseated me, wrenching his he
ad sideways from the coming blow. I reversed the dagger and struck with all
 the strength of the shortened blow at the exposed neck, just behind the ear.

   The blow did not reach him. Something-a rock, a heavy billet of wood,
hurled down from above-struck me hard on the point of the shoulder. My arm
 jerked out, useless, paralyzed. The dagger spun away into the blackness.
The other murderer crashed down the last few feet through the bushes and r
ocks above me. I heard his drawn sword scrape on stone. The moon marked it
 as it whipped upwards to strike. I tried to wrench myself clear of my opp
onent, but he clung close, teeth and all, grappling like a hound, holding
me there for that hacking sword to finish me.

    It finished him. His companion jumped, and slashed downwards at the plac
e where, a second before, my exposed back had been, plain in the moonlight.
But I was already half free, and falling, my clothes tearing from my opponen
t's grasp, and my fist bloody from his teeth. It was his back that met the s
word. It drove in. I heard the metal grate on bone, then the screams covered
 the sound, and I was free of him and half-sliding, half-falling, towards th
e noise of the water.

   A bush checked me, tore at me, let me through. A bough whipped me acros
s the throat. A net of brambles ripped what was left of my clothing to ribb
ons. Then my hurtling body hit a boulder, checked, lay breathless and half-
stunned against it for the two long moments it took to let me hear the seco
nd murderer coming after me. Then with no warning but a sudden gentle shift
 of earth the boulder went from under me and I fell down the last sheer dro
p straight to the slab of rock over which the icy water slid, racing, towar
ds the edge of a deep pool.

   If I had fallen into the pool itself I might not have been hurt. If I ha
d struck one of the great boulders where the water dashed and wrangled, I wo
uld probably have been killed. But I fell into a shallow, a long flat stretc
h of rock across which the water slid no more than a span deep, before plung
ing on and down into the next of the forest pools. I landed on my side, half
-stunned and winded. The icy rush filled my mouth, nose, eyes, weighing down
 my heavy clothes, dragging at my bruised limbs. I was sliding with it along
 the greasy rock. My hands clawed for a hold, slipped, missed, scraped with
bending nails.

   Beside me with a thud and splash that shook the very rock, the second m
urderer landed, slipped, regained his foothold in the rushing water, and fo
r the second time swung the sword high. It caught the moonlight. There were
 stars behind it. A sword lying clear across the night sky, in a blaze of s
tars. I took my hands from the rock, and the stream rolled me over to face
the sword. The water blinded me. The noise of the cascade shook my bones ap
art. There was a flash like a shooting star, and the sword came down.

   It was like a dream that repeated itself. Once before I had sat near a fire
in the forest, with the small dark hill men waiting round me in a half circle, t
heir eyes gleaming at the edge of the firelight like the eyes of forest creature
s.

   But this fire they had lit themselves. In front of it my torn clothes s
teamed, drying. Myself they had wrapped in their own cloaks; sheepskins, sm
elling too reminiscently of their first owners, but warm and dry. My bruise
s ached, and here and there a sharper pain told me where some stroke, unfel
t in the scrimmage, had gone home. But my bones were whole.
  I had not been unconscious long. Beyond the circle of firelight lay the
 two dead men, and near them a sharpened stake and a heavy club from which
the blood had not yet been wiped. One of the men was still cleaning his lon
g knife in the ground.

  Mab brought me a bowl of hot wine, with something pungent overlying the
taste of the grapes. I drank, sneezed, and pushed myself up straight.

    "Did you find their horses?"
    He nodded. "Over yonder. Your own is lame."

   "Yes. Tend him for me, will you? When I get up to the shrine I'll send
the servant down this way. He can lead the lame one home. Bring me one of t
he others now, and get me my clothes."

    "They're still wet. It's barely ten minutes since we got you out of the pool.
"
   "No matter," I said, "I must go. Mab, above here on the track there's a fa
llen tree, and a pit beside it. Will you ask your people to clear the path bef
ore morning?"

    "They are there already. Listen."

    I heard it then, beyond the rush of the stream and the crackling of the
fire. Axe and mattock thudding, above us in the forest. Mab met my eyes. "Wi
ll the new King ride this way, then?"

    "He may." I smiled. "How soon did you hear?"

   "One of our people came from the town to tell us." He showed a gap of b
roken teeth. "Not by the gates you locked, master . . . But we knew before
that. Did you not see the shooting star? It went across the heavens from en
d to end, crested like a dragon and riding a trail of smoke. So we knew you
 would come. But we were up beyond the Wolves' Road when the firedrake ran,
 and we were almost too late. I am sorry."

    "You came in time," I said. "I'm in your debt for my life. I shan't forget it.
"

  "I was in yours," he said. "Why did you ride alone? You should have kn
own there was danger."
   "I knew there was death, but I wanted no more deaths on my hands. Pain i
s another thing, and is soon over." I got to my feet, stiffly. "If I'm ever
to move again, Mab, I must move now. My clothes?"

   The clothes were wet still, a mass of mud and rents. But apart from the
sheepskins there was nothing else; the hill people are small, and nothing of
 theirs would have fitted me. I shrugged myself into what was left of my cou
rt clothing, and took the bridle of a stolid brown horse from one of the men
. The wound in my thigh was bleeding again, and from the feel of it there we
re splinters there. I got them to sling one of the sheepskins over the saddl
e, and climbed gingerly on.

  "Shall we come with you?" they asked me.

  I shook my head. "No. Stay and see the road cleared. In the morning, if yo
u wish, come to the shrine. There will be a place there for you all."
   The moonlit space at the forest's center was as still as a painted pictu
re, and as unreal as a midnight dream. Moonlight edged the chapel roof and s
ilvered the furred tops of the surrounding pines. The doorway showed an oblo
ng of gold, where the nine lamps shone steadily round the altar.
   As I rode softly round to the back the door opened there, and the servan
t peered fearfully out. All was well, he told me; no one had been by. But hi
s eyes stretched wide when he saw the state I was in, and he was obviously g
lad when I handed the bridle to him and told him to leave me. Then I went in
 thankfully to the firelight to tend my hurts and change my clothing.

    Slowly the silence seeped back. A brush of soft wind over the tree-tops
swept the last sound of retreating hoofs away; it crept in through the chape
l, thinning the lamp flames and drawing thin lines of smoke which smelled li
ke sweet gums burning. Outside in the clearing the moon and stars poured the
ir rare light down. The god was here. I knelt before the altar, emptying mys
elf of mind and will, till through me I felt the full tide of God's will flo
wing, and bearing me with it.

  The night lay silver and quiet, waiting for the torches and the trumpets.


11
They came at last. Lights and clamour and the trampling of horses flowed near
er through the forest, till the clearing was filled with flaring torchlight a
nd excited voices. I heard them through the waking sleep of vision, dim, echo
ing, remote, like bells heard from the bottom of the sea.

   The leaders had come forward. They paused in the doorway. Voices hushe
d, feet shuffled. All they would see was the swept and empty chapel, deser
ted but for one man standing facing them across the stone altar. Round the
 altar the nine lamps still dealt their steady glow, showing the carved st
one sword and the legend MITHRAE INVICTO, and lying across the top of the
altar the sword itself, unsheathed, bare on the bare stone.

  "Put out the torches," I told them. "There will be no need of them."

  They obeyed me, then at my signal pressed forward into the chapel.
   The place was small, the throng of men great. But the awe of the occasio
n prevailed; orders were given, but subdued; soft commands which might have
come from priests in ritual rather than warriors recently in battle. There w
ere no rites to follow, but somehow men kept their places; kings and nobles
and kings' guards within the chapel, the press of lesser men outside in the
silent clearing and overflowing into the gloom of the forest itself. There,
they still had lights; the clearing was ringed with light and sound where th
e horses waited and men stood with torches ready; but forward under the open
 sky men came lightless and weaponless, as beseemed them in the presence of
God and their King. And still, this one night of all the great nights, there
 was no priest present; the only intermediary was myself, who had been used
by the driving god for thirty years, and brought at last to this place.

   At length all were assembled, according to order and precedence. It was
as if they had divided by arrangement, or more likely by instinct. Outside,
crowding the steps, waited the little men from the hills; they do not willin
gly come under a roof. Inside the chapel, to my right, stood Lot, King of Lo
thian, with his group of friends and followers; to the left Cador, and those
 who went with him. There were a hundred others, perhaps more, crowded into
that small and echoing space, but these two, the white Boar of Cornwall, and
 the red Leopard of Lothian, seemed to face one another bale-fully from eith
er side of the altar, with Ector four-square and watchful at the door betwee
n them. Then Ector, with Cei behind him, brought Arthur forward, and after t
hat I saw no one but the boy.
   The chapel swam with colour and the glint of jewels and gold. The air sme
lled cold and fragrant, of pines and water and scented smoke. The rustle and
murmuring of the throng rilled the air and sounded like the rustle of flames
licking through a pile of fuel, taking hold. . . .

   Flames from the nine lamps, flaring and then dying; flames licking up th
e stone of the altar; flames running along the blade of the sword until it g
lowed white hot. I stretched my hands out over it, palms flat. The fire lick
ed my robe, blazing white from sleeve and finger, but where it touched, it d
id not even singe. It was the ice-cold fire, the fire called by a word out o
f the dark, with the searing heat at its heart, where the sword lay. The swo
rd lay in its flames as a jewel lies embedded in white wool. Whoso taketh th
is sword . . . The runes danced along the metal: the emeralds burned. The ch
apel was a dark globe with a center of fire. The blaze from the altar threw
my shadow upwards, gigantic, into the vaulted roof. I heard my own voice, ri
nging hollow from the vault like a voice in a dream,
  "Take up the sword, he who dares."

    Movement, and men's voices, full of dread. Then Cador: "That is the sword
. I would know it anywhere. I saw it in his hand, full of light. It is his, G
od witness it. I would not touch it if Merlin himself bade me."

   There were cries of, "Nor I, nor I," and then, "Let the King take it up,
let the High King show us Macsen's sword."
   Then finally, alone, Lot's voice, gruffly: "Yes. Let him take it. I have see
n, by God's death, I have seen. If it is his indeed, then God is with him, and i
t is not for me."

   Arthur came slowly forward. Behind him the place was dim, the crowd shru
nk back into darkness, the shuffle and murmur of their presence no more than
 the breeze in the forest trees outside. Here between us, the white light bl
azed and the blade shivered. The darkness flashed and sparkled, a crystal ca
ve of vision, crowded and whirling with bright images. A white stag, colla
red with gold. A shooting star, dragon-shaped, and trailing fire. A king
, restless and desirous, with a dragon of red gold shimmering on the wall
 behind him. A woman, white-robed and queenly, and behind her in the shadows
 a sword standing in an altar like a cross. A circle of vast linked stones s
tanding on a windy plain with a king's grave at its center. A child, handed
into my arms on a winter night. A grail, shrouded in mouldering cloth, hidde
n in a dark vault. A young king, crowned. ' He looked at me through the pul
se and flash of vision. For him, they were flames only, flames which might b
urn, or not; that was for me. He waited, not doubtful, nor blindly tr
usting; waiting only.

  "Come," I said gently. "It is yours."

   He put his hand through the white blaze of fire and the hilt slid cool int
o the grip for which, a hundred and a hundred years before, it had been made.

   Lot was the first to kneel. I suppose he had most need. Arthur raised him
, speaking without either rancour or cordiality; the words of a sovereign lor
d who is able to see past a present wrong to a coming good.

   "I could not find it in me, Lot of Lothian, to quarrel with any man this
day, least of all my sister's lord. You shall see that your doubts of me were
 groundless, and you and your sons after you will help me guard and hold Brit
ain as she should be held."

   To Cador he said simply: "Until I get myself another heir, Cador of Cornw
all, you are he."

  To Ector he spoke long and quietly, so that no man could hear save they
two, and when he raised him, kissed him.

   Thereafter for a long span of time he stood by the altar, as men knelt be
fore him and swore loyalty on the hilt of the sword. To each one he spoke, di
rectly as a boy, and grandly as a king. Between his hands, held like a cross,
 Caliburn shone with his own light only, but the altar with its nine dead lam
ps was dark.

   As each man took his oath and pledged himself, he withdrew, and the cha
pel slowly emptied. As it grew quieter, the encircling forest filled with l
ife and expectation and noise, where they crowded, clamorously excited now,
 waiting for their sworn King. They were bringing up the horses out of the
wood, and the clearing filled with torchlight and trampling and the jinglin
g of accoutrements.

  Last of all Mab and the men of the hills withdrew, and save for the bod
yguard ranged back against the shadowed wall, the King and I were alone.
  Stiffly, for pain still locked my bones, I came round the altar till I st
ood before him. He was almost as tall as I. The eyes that looked back at me m
ight have been my own.

   I knelt in front of him and put out my hands for his. But he cried out at
that, and pulled me to my feet, and kissed me.

  "You do not kneel to me. Not you."

  "You are High King, and I am your servant."

   "What of it? The sword was yours, and we two know it. It doesn't matter
what you call yourself, my servant, cousin, father, what you will-you are Me
rlin, and I'm nothing without you beside me." He laughed then, naturally, th
e grandeur of the occasion fitting him as easily as the hilt had fitted his
hand. "What became of your state robe? Only you could have worn that dreadfu
l old thing on such an occasion. I shall give you a robe of gold tissue, emb
roidered with stars, as befits your position. Will you wear it for me?"
  "Not even for you."

  He smiled. "Then come as you are. You'll ride down with me now, won't
you?"
   "Later. When you have time to look round for me, you will find that I am b
eside you. Listen, they are ready to take you to your place. It's time to go."

 I went with him to the door. The torches still tossed flaring, though the
moon had set long since and the last of the stars had died into a morning sky.
Golden and tranquil, the light grew.

   They had brought the white stallion up to the steps. When Arthur made to
 mount they would not let him, but Cador and Lot and half a dozen petty king
s lifted him between them to the saddle, and at last men's hopes and joy ran
g up into the pines in a great shout. So they raised to be king Arthur the y
oung.

   I carried the nine lamps out of the chapel. Come daylight, I would take t
hem where they now belonged, up to the caves of the hollow hills, where their
 gods had gone. Of the nine, all had been overturned, the oil spilled unburne
d along the floor. With them lay the stone bowl, shattered, and a pile of dus
t and crumbled fragments where the cold fire had struck. When I swept these a
way, with the oil that had soaked into them, it could be seen that the carvin
g had gone from the front of the altar. These were the fragments that I held,
 caked with oil. All that was left of the carving on the altar's face was the
 hilt of the sword, and a word.

   I swept and cleaned the place and made it fair again. I moved slowly, lik
e an old man. I still remember how my body ached, and how at length, when I k
nelt again, my sight blurred and darkened as if still blind with vision, or w
ith tears.

   The tears showed me the altar now, bare of the nine-fold light that had
pleasured the old, small gods; bare of the soldier's sword and the name of t
he soldiers' god. All it held now was the hilt of the carved sword standing
in the stone like a cross, and the letters still deep and distinct above it:
 TO HIM UNCONQUERED.


THE LEGEND


When Aurelius Ambrosius was High King of Britain, Merlin, also called Ambro
sius, brought the Giants' Dance out of Ireland and set it up near Amesbury,
 at Stonehenge. Shortly after this a great star appeared in the likeness of
 a dragon, and Merlin, knowing that it betokened Ambrosius' death, wept bit
terly, and prophesied that Uther would be King under the sign of the Dragon
, and that a son would be born to him "of surpassing mighty dominion, whose
 power shall extend over all the realms that lie beneath the ray (of the st
ar)."

   The following Easter, at the Coronation feast, King Uther fell in love
with Ygraine, wife of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. He lavished attention on h
er, to the scandal of the court; she made no response, but her husband, in
fury, retired from the court without leave, taking his wife and men-at-arms
 back to Cornwall. Uther, in anger, commanded him to return, but Gorlois re
fused to obey. Then the King, enraged beyond measure, gathered an army and
marched into Cornwall, burning the cities and castles. Gorlois had not enou
gh troops to withstand him, so he placed his wife in the castle of Tintagel
, the safest refuge, and himself prepared to defend the castle of Dimilioc.
 Uther immediately laid siege to Dimilioc, holding Gorlois and his troops t
rapped there, while he cast about for some way of breaking into the castle
of Tintagel to ravish Ygraine. After some days he asked advice from one of
his familiars called Ulfin, who suggested that he send for Merlin. Merlin,
moved by the King's apparent suffering, promised to help. By his magic arts
 he changed Uther into the likeness of Gorlois, Ulfin into Jordan, Gorlois'
 friend, and himself into Brithael, one of Gorlois' captains. The three of
them rode to Tintagel, and were admitted by the porter. Ygraine, taking Uth
er to be her husband the Duke, welcomed him, and took him to her bed. So Ut
her lay with Ygraine that night, "and she had no thought to deny him in aug
ht he might desire."
   But in the meantime fighting had broken out at Dimilioc, and in the bat
tle Ygraine's husband, the Duke, was killed. Messengers came to Tintagel to
 tell Ygraine of her husband's death. When they found "Gorlois," apparently
 still alive, closeted with Ygraine, they were speechless, but the King th
en confessed the deception, and a few days later married Ygraine. Some say
that Ygraine's sister Morgause was married on the same day to Lot of Lothia
n, and the other sister Morgan le Fay was put to school in a nunnery, where
 she learned necromancy, and thereafter was wedded to King Urien of Gore. B
ut others aver that Morgan was Arthur's own sister, born after him of the m
arriage of King Uther and Ygraine his Queen, and that Morgause was also his
 sister, but not by the same mother.

  Uther Pendragon was to reign for fifteen more years, and during those y
ears he saw nothing of his son Arthur. Before the child was born Merlin sou
ght out the King and spoke with him. "Sir, ye must purvey you for the nouri
shing of your child."

  "As thou wilt," said the King, "be it." So on the night of his birth the
child Arthur was carried down to the postern gate of Tintagel and delivered i
nto the hands of Merlin, who took him to the castle of Sir Ector, a faithful
knight. There Merlin had the child christened, and named him Arthur, and Sir
Ector's wife took him as her foster son.
   All through Uther's reign the country was sorely troubled by the Saxons
 and the Scots from Ireland. The two Saxon leaders whom the King had impris
oned managed to escape from London and fled thence to Germany, where t
hey gathered a great army which struck terror throughout the kingdom. Uther
 himself was stricken with a grievous malady, and appointed Lot of Lothian,
 who was betrothed to his daughter Morgause, as his chief captain. But as o
ften as Lot put the enemy to flight, they came back in even greater streng
th, and the country was laid waste. Finally Uther, though sorely ill,
 gathered his barons together and told them that he himself must lead the a
rmies, so a litter was made for him, and he was carried in it at the head o
f his army against the enemy. When the Saxon leaders learned that the Briti
sh King had taken the field against them in a litter, they disdained him,
saying that he was half-dead already, and it would not become them to figh
t him. But Uther, with a return of his old strength, laughed and called out
: "They call me the half-dead king, and so indeed I was. But I would rather
 conquer them in this wise, than be conquered by them and live in shame." S
o the army of the Britons defeated the Saxons. But the King's malady increa
sed, and the woes of the kingdom. Finally, when the King lay close to death
, Merlin appeared and approached him in the sight of all the lords and bade
 him acknowledge his son Arthur as the new King. Which he did, and afterwar
ds died, and was buried by the side of his brother Aurelius Ambrosius withi
n the Giants' Dance.

    After his death the lords of Britain came together to find their new Ki
ng. No one knew where Arthur was kept, or where Merlin was to be found, but
 they thought the King would be recognized by a sign. So Merlin had a great
 sword fashioned, and fixed it by his magic art into a great stone shaped l
ike an altar, with an anvil of steel in it, and floated the stone on water
to a great church in London, and set it up there in the churchyard. There w
ere gold letters on the sword which said: "Whoso pulleth out this sword of
this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all England." So a great fe
ast was made, and at the feast all the lords came to try who could pull the
 sword from the stone. Among them came Sir Ector, and Kay his son, with Art
hur, who had neither sword nor blazon, following as a squire. When they cam
e to the jousting Sir Kay, who had forgotten his sword, sent Arthur back to
 look for it. But when Arthur returned to the house where they were lodging
, everyone was gone and the doors were locked, so in impatience he rode to
the churchyard, and drew the sword from the stone, and took it to Sir Kay.
Then of course the sword was recognized, but even when Arthur showed that h
e alone of all men could pull it from the stone, there were those who cried
 out against him, saying it was great shame to them and to the realm to acc
ept as king a boy of no high blood born, and that fresh trial must be made
at Candlemas. So at Candlemas all the greatest in the land came together, a
nd then again at Pentecost, but none of them could pull the sword from the
stone, save only Arthur. But still some of the lords were angry and would n
ot accept him, until in the end the common people cried out: "We will have
Arthur unto our king, we will put him no more in delay, for we all see that
 it is God's will that he shall be our king, and who that holdeth against i
t, we will slay him." So Arthur was accepted by the people, high and low, a
nd all men rich and poor kneeled to him and begged his mercy because they h
ad delayed him so long, and he forgave them. Then Merlin told them all who Arthur w
was no bastard, but begotten truly by King Uther upon Ygraine, three hours
after the death of her husband the Duke. So they raised to be king Arthur
the young.



AUTHOR'S NOTE

Like its predecessor, The Crystal Cave, this novel is a work of the imaginat
ion, though firmly based in both history and legend. Not perhaps equally in
both: so little is known about Britain in the fifth century A.D. (the beginn
ing of the "Dark Ages") that one is almost as dependent on tradition and con
jecture as on fact. I for one like to think that where tradition is so persi
stent-and as immortal and self-perpetuating as the stories of the Arthurian
Legend-there must be a grain of fact behind even the strangest of the tales
which have gathered round the meager central facts of Arthur's existence. It
 is exciting to interpret these sometimes weird and often nonsensical legend
s into a story which has some sort of coherence as human experience and imag
inative truth. I have tried with The Hollow Hills to write a story which sta
nds on its own, without reference to its forerunner, The Crystal Cave, or ev
en to whatever explanatory notes follow here. Indeed, I only add these notes
 for the benefit of those readers whose interest may go beyond the novel its
elf, but who are not familiar enough with the ramifications of the Arthurian
 Legend to follow the thinking behind some parts of my story. It may give th
em pleasure to trace for themselves the seeds of certain ideas and the origi
ns of certain references.

   In The Crystal Cave I based my story mainly on the "history" related by
Geoffrey of Monmouth,* which is the basis of the later and mainly mediaeval
tales of "Arthur and his Court," but I set the action against the fifth-cent
ury Romano-British background, which is the real setting for all that we kno
w of the Arthurian Fact.* We have no fixed dates, but I have followed some a
uthorities who postulate 470 A.D. or thereabouts as the date of Arthur's bir
th. The story of The Hollow Hills covers the hidden years between that date
and the raising of the young Arthur to be war-leader (dux bellorum) or, as l
egend has had it for more than a thousand years, King of Britain. What I wou
ld like to trace here are the threads I have woven to make this story of a p
eriod of Arthur's life which tradition barely touches, and history touches n
ot at all.
  * History of the Kings of Britain, translated by Sebastian Evans and re
vised by Charles W. Dunn (Everyman's Library, 1912).
   That Arthur existed seems certain. We cannot say even that much for cer
tain about Merlin. "Merlin the magician," as we know him, is a composite fi
gure built almost entirely out of song and legend; but here again one feels
 that for such a legend to persist through the centuries, some man of power
 must have existed, with gifts that seemed miraculous to his own times. He
first appears in legend as a youth, even then possessed of strange powers.
On this story as related by Geoffrey of Monmouth I have built an imaginary
character who seemed to me to grow out of and epitomize the time of confusi
on and seeking that we call the Dark Ages. Geoffrey Ashe, in his brilliant
book From Caesar to Arthur, describes this "multiplicity of vision":

  •   When Christianity prevailed and Celtic paganism

  crumbled into mythology, a great deal of this sort of

   * See Roman Britain and the English Settlements, R. G. Collingwood an
d J. N. L. Myres (Oxford, 1937); Celtic Britain, Nora K. Chadwick Vol. 34
 in the series Ancient Peoples and Places, ed. Glyn Daniel (Thames and Hu
dson, 1963).

  Published by Collins, 1960. Sec also The Quest for Arthur's Britain, ed.
Geoffrey Ashe (Pall Mall Press, 1968).

   thing was carried over. Water and islands retained their magic. Lake-sp
rites flitted to and fro, heroes travelled in strange boats. The haunt
ed hills became fairy-hills, belonging to vivid fairy folk hardly to be
  paralleled among other nations. Where barrows existed they often fitted th
is role. Unseen realms intersected the visible, and there were secret means
of communication and access. The fairies and the heroes, the ex-gods and the
 demigods, jostled the spirits of the dead in kaleidoscopic confusion . . .
Everything grew ambiguous. Thus, long after the triumph of Christianity, the
re continued to be fairy-hills; but even those which were not barrows might
be regarded as havens for disembodied souls . . . There were saints of whom
miracles were reported; but similar miracles, not long since, might have be
en the business of fully identifiable gods. There were glass castles where a
 hero might lie an age entranced; there were blissful fairylands to be
reached by water or by cave-passageways . . . Journeys and enchantments, com
bats and imprisonments-theme by theme-the Celtic imagination articulated its
elf in story. Yet any given episode might be taken as fact or imagination or
 religious allegory or all three at once.
    Merlin, the narrator of The Hollow Hills, the "enchanter" and healer gif
ted with the Sight, is able to move in and out of the different worlds at wi
ll. And as Merlin's legend is linked with the caves of glass, the invisible
towers, the hollow hills where he now sleeps for all time, so I have seen hi
m as the link between the worlds; the instrument by which, as he says, "all
the kings become one King, and all the gods one God." For this he abnegates
his own will and his desire for normal manhood. The hollow hills are the phy
sical point of entry between this world and the Otherworld, and Merlin is th
eir human counterpart, the meeting point for the interlocking worlds of men,
 gods, beasts and twilight spirits.

   One meeting of the real and the fantasy worlds can be seen in the figur
e of Maximus. Magnus Maximus, the soldier with the dream of empire, was a f
act; he commanded at Segontium until the time when he crossed to Gaul in hi
s vain bid for power. "Macsen Wledig" is a legend, one of the Celtic "seeki
ng" stories later to flower into the Quest of the Holy Grail. In this novel
 I have linked the facts of Arthur's great precursor and his imperial dream
 to the sword episodes of the Arthurian Legend, and lent them the shape of
a Quest story.

   The tale of the "Sword of Maximus" is my invention. It follows the arche
typal "seeking and finding" pattern of which the Quest of the Grail, which l
ater attached itself to the Arthurian Legend, is only one example. The stori
es of the Holy Grail, identifying it with the Cup from the Last Supper, are
twelfth-century tales modelled in their main elements on some early Celtic "
quest" stories; in fact they have elements. even older. These Grail stories
show certain points in common, changing in detail, but fairly constant in fo
rm and idea. There is usually an -unknown youth, the bel inconnu, who is bro
ught up in the wilds, ignorant of his name or parentage. He leaves his home
and rides out in search of his identity. He comes across a Waste Land, ruled
 by a maimed (impotent) king; there is a castle, usually on an island, on wh
ich the youth comes by chance. He reaches it in a boat belonging to a royal
fisherman, the Fisher King of the Grail Legends. The Fisher King is sometime
s identified with the impotent king of the Waste Land. The castle on the isl
and is owned by a king of the Otherworld, and there the youth finds the obje
ct of his quest, sometimes a cup or a lance, sometimes a sword, broken or wh
ole. At the quest's end he wakes by the side of the water with his horse tet
hered near him, and the island once again invisible. On his return from the
Other-world, fertility and peace are restored to the Waste Land.
  Some tales figure a white stag collared with gold, who leads the youth to h
is destination.
   For further reference see Arthurian Literature in the Middle Ages; A C
ollaborative History edited by R. S. Loomis (Oxford University Press, 1959
); and The Evolution of the Grail Legend by D. D. R. Owen (University of S
t. Andrews Publications, 1968).


SOME OTHER BRIEF NOTES


Segontium, Geoffrey of Monmouth in the Vita Merlini tells us of cups made
by Weland the Smith in Caer Seint (Segontium), which were given to Merlin.
 There is also another story of a sword made by Weland which was given to
Merlin by a Welsh king. There is a brief reference in The Anglo-Saxon Chro
nicle for the year 418 A.D. "In this year the Romans collected all the tre
asures which were in Britain and hid some in the earth so that no one afte
rwards could find them, and some they took with them into Gaul."

   Galava. The main body of legend places King Arthur in the Celtic countr
ies of the west, Cornwall, Wales, Brittany. In this I have followed the leg
ends. Bur there is evidence which supports another strong tradition of Arth
ur in the north of England and in Scotland. So this story moves north. I ha
ve placed the traditional "Sir Ector of the Forest Sauvage" (who reared the
 young Arthur) at Galava, the modern Ambleside . in the Lake District. I ha
ve often wondered if "the fountain of Galabes * where he (Merlin) wont to h
aunt" could be identified with the Roman Galava or Galaba. (In The Crystal
Cave I gave it a different interpretation. The mediaeval romancers make "Ga
lapas" a gaint-a version of the old

  * Fontes galabes.

   guardian of the spring or waterway.) The fostering of Arthur on Ector, a
nd the lodging at Galava of Bedwyr, are feasible; we find in Procopius that,
 as in later times, boys of good family were sent away to be educated. As fo
r the "chapel in the green," once I had invented a shrine in the Wild Forest
 I could not resist calling it the Green Chapel, after the mediaeval Arthuri
an poem of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, which has its setting somewhere
 in the Lake District.
  Ambrosius' Wall. This is the Wansdyke, or Woden's Dyke, so called by th
e Saxons, who saw it as the work of the gods. It ran from Newbury to the Se
vern, and parts of it are still traceable. It was probably built some time
between 450 and 475 A.D., so I have ascribed it to Ambrosius.

   Caer Bannog. This name, old Celtic for "the castle of the peaks," is my
own interpretation of the various names- Carbonek, Corbenic, Caer Benoic, et
c.-given to the castle where the youth finds the Grail.

  There is a Celtic legend in which Arthur carries off a cauldron (magic
vessel or grail) and a wonderful sword from Nuadda or Llyd, King of the Oth
erworld.

   Cei and Bedwyr. They are Arthur's companions in legend. Cei was Ector'
s son and became Arthur's seneschal. Bedwyr's name was later mediaevalized
 to Bedivere, but in his relationship with Arthur he seems to be the origi
nal of Lancelot. Hence the reference to the guenfawyvar (white shadow: Gui
nevere) which falls between the boys on page 342.
   Cador of Cornwall. When Arthur died without issue, we are told that he l
eft his kingdom to Cador's son.

   Morgause. On the subject of Arthur's unwitting incest with his sister,
there is a rich confusion of legend. The most usual story is that he lay wi
th his half-sister Morgause, wife (or mistress) of Lot, and begot Mordred
, who was eventually his downfall. His own sister Morgan, or Morgian, becam
e "Morgan le Fay," the enchantress. Morgause is said to have borne four son
s to Lot, who later were to become Arthur's devoted followers. This seemed
unlikely if Arthur had lain with her when she was Lot's wife, so I have tak
en my own way through the confusion of the stories, with the suggestion tha
t after leaving the court Morgause will lose no time in taking her sister's
 place as Lot's queen. I believe there was in the fifth century a nunnery n
ear Caer Eidyn (Edinburgh) in Lothian to which Morgian could have retired.
This could be the "house of witches" or "wise women" of legend, and it is t
empting to suppose that Morgian and her nuns came from there to take Arthur
 away and nurse him after his last battle against Mordred at Camlann.
   Coel, King of Rheged, is the original of the Old King Cole of the nurser
y rhymes. We are told that Hueil, one of the nineteen sons of Caw of Strathc
lyde, was much disliked by Arthur. Another of the sons, Gildas the monk, see
ms to have returned this dislike. It is he who, in 540 A.D., wrote The Loss
and Conquest of Britain, without once mentioning Arthur by name, though
he refers to the Battle of Badon Hill, the last of Arthur's twelve great bat
tles, in which he broke the Saxon power. From the tone of Gildas' book it is
 to be inferred that, if Arthur was a Christian at all, his Christianity we
nt no further than lip-service. At any rate he was no friend to the monks.

   Caliburn is the most pronounceable of the names for Arthur's sword, wh
ich was later romanticized as Excalibur. White was Arthur's colour; his wh
ite hound, Cabal, has a place in legend. Canrith means "white phantom."

   It will be seen from these necessarily sketchy notes that any given episod
e of my story may-to quote Geoffrey Ashe again-"be taken as fact or imaginatio
n or religious allegory or all three at once." In this, if in nothing else, it
 is wholly true to its time.

  M.S. November 1970-November 1972



A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mary Stewart, one of the most popular novelists writing today, was born i
n Sunderland, County Durham, England, Her father was a clergyman of the C
hurch of England, her mother a descendant of the first New Zealand pionee
rs.

   After boarding-school, she received a B.A. with first class honours i
n English Language and Literature from Durham University and went on for
her M.A. Later she returned to her own University as a Lecturer in Englis
h. She married a geologist, F. H. Stewart, who is now Regius Professor of
 Geology at Edinburgh University and a Fellow of the Royal Society. He is
 Chairman of the Natural Environment Research Council and a member of the
 Advisory Board of the Research Councils.

   Mrs. Stewart's career as a novelist began in 1954 with the publication
 of Madam, Will You Talk? Since then she has published thirteen successful
 novels, including The Crystal Cave and The Hollow Hills, her two magical
books about the legendary enchanter Merlin and the young Arthur. Her first
 book for young readers, The Little Broomstick, was published in 1971 and
quickly met with the same success as her other novels. In 1968, she was el
ected Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts. In 1971, the Scottish Chapter o
f the International PEN Association awarded her the Frederick Niven prize
for The Crystal Cave.