I tell you, this sort of stupidity will increase, the longer we sit upon these wind-blasted plains,” Uther said, his tone one of warning. He strode beside Arawn and Gorlois as the three headed for the edge of the war camp, threading through the tents and shelters.
Ilsa could only keep up with them by skipping along and breaking into a jog every few paces. All three of them failed to notice she was trailing them. Their expressions were tight with concern.
Soldiers stepped out of the way, snapping off salutes as they passed by.
“There is always stupidity when soldiers grow idle,” Gorlois said in his gravelly voice. His hair, which was a lighter red than Uther’s thick dark russet and even Ilsa’s own auburn, lifted in the wind made by his passage.
“Let us learn the facts, before we condemn the conditions,” Arawn added.
Uther scowled. “Good luck with that,” he murmured.
Ilsa suspected Uther would be right once more. The report of a brawl ending in murder, which had them sprinting for the edge of the camp to investigate, would end with the same puzzling lack of explanations as so many minor infractions had, lately.
The location of the brawl was easy to find. A large circle of men gathered around the body. Uther pushed through the men, then shoved enough of them aside so Ilsa, Gorlois and Arawn could step into the space in the middle. A man laid on the damp ground, face down. It was not clear what had killed him, although he rested in a pool of blood which was sinking into the weed-tufted mud.
Another soldier stood on the far side of the circle, his head down and his breath billowing in steamy clouds, for the morning was chilly. He had the powerful arms of a sword-fighter, with bronze arm guards and a good cloak over his shoulders. His nose was crooked from being badly set.
This was no simple, untrained recruit. He was a disciplined soldier. Yet a bloody knife laid at his feet and two men held his arms. An officer wearing Cornwall’s white cloak, which was a dirty gray and tattered at the hem, whirled to face them as Uther and the others pushed into the circle. The officer had close-set eyes and a crease over the bridge of his nose, which gave him a mean, squinty expression. His jaw flexed when he saw them.
“My lords, there’s no need to concern yourselves with this matter. I have it in hand.”
“It’s a matter of murder, isn’t it, Madog?” Gorlois said.
Madog rubbed his jaw. “It depends on how you look at it, my lord.”
“A man lies dead,” Arawn pointed out, his tone mild.
Madog shook his head. “It isn’t that simple—”
A whisper and a shuffling of the surrounding men alerted everyone. The edge of the circle separated, as Ambrosius and Merlin walked into the center. Merlin glanced around the circle, his gaze missing nothing. Men cowered when his gaze touched them.
Ambrosius moved up to where Uther confronted Madog and the captive soldier. “What happened here?” he demanded.
Merlin didn’t join the tight knot of men standing by the body. Instead, he prowled the circle. Ilsa, who was not included in the center, either, monitored the tall man’s restless steps.
Merlin’s gaze fell upon Ilsa’s face and she shivered, for his deep black eyes seemed both lifeless and depthless. It was like looking into a night sky bereft of stars. Merlin was strange at the best of times, yet he was friendly when he spoke to Ilsa and warmth of a sort showed in his eyes. Now, he was a stranger.
No wonder the men flinched from his gaze.
Ilsa’s heart pattered uneasily.
She pulled her gaze from Merlin for the officer, Madog, was speaking nervously.
“It’s nothing, my lord,” Madog assured Ambrosius. “A thing which happens when an army is camped for too long.”
“Murder is nothing?’ Ambrosius asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“‘twasn’t murder,” Madog replied. He pointed at the dead man. “He took a camp girl away from another.”
“By the gods, man, I don’t condone the killing of any man over a woman!” Gorlois burst out. “Especially not an officer of mine!” He turned to Ambrosius. “My lord, I apologize. This is not a behavior I tolerate—”
Ambrosius held up his hand. “I want to hear this,” he said softly. “The officer who slew the man…what does he have to say about this?”
The man being held lifted his head. He was also wearing one of the white cloaks of Cornwall. “Braises was beating the girl because she wouldn’t cooperate.”
Gorlois’ face turned as red as his hair. “So you killed him?”
The man shrugged, an abbreviated movement because his arms were held. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”
“Where is the girl?” Ilsa asked.
The one called Madog glanced at her. His eyes rolled. “Who gives a damn? Gone for the surgeon, I suppose. He split her eye open.”
“Speak civilly, man,” Gorlois growled. “You’re addressing a queen.”
Madog glanced at Ilsa again, startled.
Ambrosius waved everything aside, his gaze still on the captive officer. “What do you mean, it just happened?”
“I don’t know,” the man said heavily. “I wanted to stop him beating the woman. Then…it was like a cloud came over my thoughts. Then he was lying there, where he is now.” He seemed stoical, even indifferent about-facing execution, which was the sentence for cold-blooded murder.
“For the sake of Mithras, Merlin, will you stop that incessant pacing?” Uther bellowed.
Everyone looked at Uther, startled.
Uther threw out his hand. “He’s a wolf among sheep. Stirring up the men with that blank gaze of his.”
Ambrosius jerked his head at Merlin, who crossed the space in the middle of the circle, heading for them. He stepped over the dead man’s legs with his own long ones, then whirled to look down at the body.
Ilsa’s heart lurched once more. No one but she could see Merlin’s face, for she was far from Ambrosius’ group.
Merlin’s gaze ran over the body, as if he was seeing it for the first time. Then his eyes widened and grew blank and still. He straightened with a snap, as if someone had pulled him up by his hair.
“For the king shall fall and rise again!” he cried, in a voice which was deep and booming and not his own.
Ilsa drew in a shaky breath.
Everyone spun on their heels to look at the tall figure in the center of the ring.
“What did he say?” someone muttered.
Merlin threw out his arms, in a gesture which encompassed the entire camp. “The white dragon has fallen! The red dragon has risen! And so it will again! The path of the once and future king lays before all of you, for his time has come. The winter shall witness his fall and his most glorious rise, for he comes! He comes!”
The muttering of the men grew louder. They drew away, the tight circle fragmenting.
Merlin gave a groan which sounded as though he was in mortal pain and fell to his knees. He thrust out a hand, propping himself upright and spoke. He used no language Ilsa knew or recognized. She clenched her hand against her chest, which ached with tension, her breath held.
No one around Ambrosius moved, either.
Merlin’s guttural voice ground on, rising and falling, making the hair on the back of Ilsa’s neck prickle hard and send shivers down her spine. She did not understand what he was saying, yet the tone implied dark deeds and misery.
She edged around the circle toward Arawn and the men and saw Merlin’s face. Her fear fled.
Agony contorted his features. The strange eyes were not his. Did something or someone speak through him the way they spoke through the Lady of the Lake, as Merlin had once explained to her, many years ago?
He fell silent, his chest heaving. His eyes rolled up and his arm bent.
Ilsa threw herself forward, with barely a thought except that Merlin was not himself and in pain. She caught his shoulders as they sagged toward the mud. He was shuddering, his eyes closed.
Ilsa rested his head on her knees. This, she remembered, too. All one can do is ensure they do not come to harm while they writhe so, he had said, while protecting Nimue’s head.
“Everyone, return to your billets!” Gorlois bellowed. “Break it up! There’s nothing to see here. Go on. Go!”
“You heard your sire!” Madog shouted. “Get out of here, you mangy curs!”
“Madog, take Garnet to my tent. I’ll deal with him there,” Gorlois said.
Merlin shifted and twitched, his eyes closed. It was as if someone moved his limbs about for amusement. Ilsa pressed her lips together and held onto his shoulders, so he would not roll fully into the mud, as the sound of men muttering and squelching across the mud faded.
“Here,” came a gruff voice.
Ambrosius’ thick red cloak settled over Merlin, the edges trailing in the dirt.
Ilsa looked up. Ambrosius stood over them, his gaze dark as he studied his son.
“Once he is himself again, I can arrange for him to be taken back to his tent,” Ilsa said.
“You have practice dealing with what ails him?” Ambrosius asked, surprised.
“I have a little experience,” she admitted. “He is not ill, my lord. He would tell you he is suffering from the raw power of having gods speak through him.”
Ambrosius grunted. “I’ve heard him say such things before, yes. He’s stopped moving now.”
Ilsa looked down. Merlin’s eyes were tight slits, as if the low dawn light was too bright for him. Awareness gleamed in them.
“Here. I will help him back to his tent,” Ambrosius said. He bent and slid his arm under Merlin’s back and hoisted him to his feet. “Can you walk?” he asked him.
“A little,” Merlin croaked.
Ilsa caught Ambrosius’ cloak as it fluttered toward the ground and bundled it up in her arms. She followed the pair as Ambrosius walked his son through the maze of campfires and billets. Everyone who saw them turned their gazes away, as if they were giving them privacy which was rare here.
The interior of Merlin’s small tent was spartan spare, with only a single mat to protect feet, a small chest and a pallet in one corner. The pallet had thick furs upon it.
Ambrosius grunted with effort as he laid Merlin upon the furs, then crouched beside him and studied him. His brows were tightly furrowed.
“This will not harm him,” Ilsa assured him. “Merlin will sleep and when he wakes, he will be as normal.”
For a long moment, Ambrosius did not move. His gaze shifted to her as she settled on her knees on the ground beside him and pulled a fur up over Merlin. “Your sons must be near grown now, yes?”
Ilsa gave a soft laugh. “Not quite, my lord. Alun is seven. Elen is five. Arawn Uther has just turned two.”
“You have watched over them while they are sick, yes?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then you know a little of what I feel right now.”
Ilsa glanced at Ambrosius, startled, for deep feeling shaded his voice. “He is your son,” she murmured. “Of course you feel helpless. It is quite natural.”
“Is it? This power he wields…it frightens normal men. It makes me afraid for Merlin. What price will he pay for the use of it?”
“I think you are looking at a part of that price right now.”
Ambrosius settled on the ground, one knee bent in front of him, his gaze on Merlin’s peaceful face. “Merlin found me when he was nearly a man. For all the years before that meeting I thought myself childless. I assumed Uther would take my place, when the time came.”
“Merlin has assumed that, too. He has no interest in ruling,” Ilsa assured him.
“I know.” Ambrosius’ jaw worked, as if he struggled with a thought. “Merlin told me that between him and Uther, they would make another king. The greatest king of my line.”
“My lord?” Ilsa asked, puzzled.
“The once and future king,” Ambrosius said softly. “I suppose I am the ‘once’ part of it.” He glanced at Ilsa and grimaced. “In all these years, Merlin has never prophesied my personal future, until today.” He got to his feet. “I’ll have food sent for you to break your fast and for Merlin, when he wakes.”
Ilsa watched the High King leave, his shoulders square, as the meaning of what he had said coupled up with Merlin’s shouted prophesy. She shuddered as she put it together.
Merlin had seen Ambrosius’ death, which would happen before mid-winter.