THE guards’ faces told me nothing. The tension in their shoulders and legs revealed determination and pride in their ability to carry out their responsibilities. I believed they would kill or be killed defending the Ardh Rhi.
“Another sleep spell, Da?” I whispered.
“Not yet, Wren. Seek the truth first. Spells are a last resort.”
True enough. Magic didn’t come easily and always cost us in fatigue, hunger, and sometimes depleted health.
“Halt. No one passes through these doors without leave from the Ardh Rhi,” the left-hand guard said in even tones. The two men with swords were so alike in height, coloring, and leather armor studded with bronze, either could have spoken.
“I, The Merlin, Bard of Ardh Rhi Uther, seek audience with my King. You have no right to detain me.”
The guards didn’t lower their weapons.
“No one may pass,” the guard repeated, determination written in every muscle.
“My business with the Ardh Rhi is urgent.” Da pressed forward one step.
Neither guard retreated. They both raised theirs swords a fraction.
A fifth man stepped from the shadows of a cross-corridor behind us. “Your business with Uther Pendragon is only urgent if you brought a healer with you,” he said, gesturing the guards to surround us.
I wheeled to face the voice. Instantly I assumed a stance of readiness. I knew how to defend myself with knife and feet, teeth and nails.
Da turned halfway around, keeping the guards and the new man within view.
I’d made a tactical mistake not to do the same. Next time I’d know better.
The two guards with spears continued blocking the door. The two with swords obeyed the newcomer, one in front of Da, and the other in front of me. Both held sword points within a hair’s breadth of striking.
“King Leodegran of Carmelide.” Da nodded to the newcomer. He didn’t bow before the newcomer. A bard was equal in rank to any of the client kings of Uther, the Ardh Rhi. “My daughter Wren learned healing arts from The Morrigan. I have brought her to Uther.”
Healing herbs and balances within the body I knew about. The great healing magic was beyond me. Had Da lied to gain access to Uther? Lying was the only crime he’d punished me for as a child.
I looked at my father in a new light. He played with words and tricked people’s minds, never lying outright but twisting the truth. No one, not even I, knew for certain his motives, plans, or the extent of his powers. Confusion prevented me from hearing the rest of the words bandied about.
Next thing I knew, King Leodegran took hold of my arm and escorted me past the now respectful guards. His short, wiry stature belied his firm, almost painful grip. Torchlight reflected off his bald head as brightly as the jewels that adorned his fingers. One of them ground into the soft flesh of my upper arm.
Side by side, we entered a large square chamber, dominated by a wide bed in the center. I blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the dim light cast by a single candle in the far left corner. I dared not step deeper into the room until I knew what, and who, awaited me.
“I don’t care if the old fart lives or dies,” King Leodegran whispered into my ear. “But I do care who rules as Ardh Rhi. Make certain Uther lives long enough to name me his successor!”
I looked at Da to see if he had heard Leodegran and understood the menace underlying his words. Da seemingly paid no attention to anything but the feeble creature propped up on a bolster in the huge bed. A few limp hairs draped across his skull. His eyes were deep cavities burning with fever. A skeletally thin hand rested atop the embroidered coverlet.
The odor of death assailed my nose as heavy incense burned my eyes. A brazier to the right of the bed added little light but too much smoke.
Objects began to take form as I adjusted to the meager light. A faint line of sunshine crept under the tightly shuttered window near the candle. Beside the waxy flame sat a thin, young man in the dark brown robes of a brotherhood of the White Christ. He read aloud from a precious scroll, twisting the faint writing to catch the light.
At sight of us, the priest snapped his scroll closed. He pressed his back and his chair up against the wall, as if recoiling from evil.
The priest and I stared at each other in silence for a long moment, judging each other.
Da remained behind me. I couldn’t see his expression to guess his next move or his wishes for mine.
“The child can be of no use here.” The priest sniffed and clutched the cross that hung from a thong around his neck.
I’d seen such talismans before. The wearers held them, prayed to them, depended upon them for protection and guidance. A sprig from a rowan tree served me better.
“You’ve accomplished little with your prayers, Father John.” Leodegran approached the bed where Uther lay, unmoving.
“I do not need a cure for Uther’s mortal remains. I seek a cure for his soul. His body cannot enjoy health until his soul is pure,” Father John argued. His voice raised and spread from deep inside his chest as if he preached to the entire city.
Leodegran ignored him. “Highness,” he whispered. “Highness, I have brought the bard and his daughter.”
The limp hand stirred in response. Ardh Rhi Uther turned his head stiffly toward us, as if control of his pain depended upon moving as little as possible.
Beneath the incense and herbs, I smelled death. A demon had found life within Uther and would eat away at his vitals until there was nothing left.
Uther had no son to take up the reins of leadership. The husband of his daughter Blasine or his stepdaughter Morgaine might gain enough prestige from a marriage alliance with the Ardh Rhi to insure election to the position. Could any of the lesser kings hold together the volatile warbands who owed allegiance to one of many client kings rather than to Britain as a whole?
Now I knew why the army hadn’t left their camp. The kings kept them close, waiting for Uther to die. Each king knew he’d have to fight all of the other contenders in pitched battle to win the election. The ensuing wars between kings would leave Britain open and vulnerable to invasion.
From the grim frown on Da’s face, I knew he had reached the same conclusion.
Suddenly, my father’s purpose in roaming the land from one end to the other, year after year, became clear. He sought the next Ardh Rhi. Was Leodegran the right successor, or did I need to stall while Da sought another?
o0o
Nimuë grabbed an alder sapling close to the base and braced her feet. With all of the strength in her sore shoulders she pulled, long and steady as her mentor had told her to. The roots gripped the Pridd tenaciously.
“Shit!” she shouted as her grip broke and she landed on her butt in the soft dirt beside the hidden spring. “If I’d wanted hard work, I’d have stayed in Avalon.” Even the knowledge of poisons and listening to people’s thoughts didn’t make up for the sheer hard work of preparing for true magic.
Her mentor had been as close-lipped about those things as the Ladies of Avalon. All they truly wanted of her was a slave to do the dirty work for them.
Wanting to cry, she sucked on the raw skin of her palms. How would she explain this small injury to Carradoc. Or worse, to Brenhines Ygraina?
Ardh Rhi Uther’s wife kept close supervision of the ladies entrusted to her.
“All I wanted was a little power to break free of Carradoc.” She stuck out her lower lip in a pout that had won the hearts of several suitors — but never Carradoc’s permission to marry one of them.
She glared at the double spiral on the single standing stone beside the spring, wondering if the ancient gods could give her the power she needed. The twin motifs seemed to swirl inward, becoming eyes. Accusing eyes.
“Enough!” She broke the spell cast by the carved symbols. “I’ll dig out the blasted tree. But that is all. She can take care of replanting it in your honor.” Nimuë dusted the dirt off the back of her gown. The saffron yellow skirt was ruined. She knew she should have worn an old dark garment for clearing the area around the standing stone and sacred spring. But a somber costume would have provoked questions and watchfulness. She’d never have slipped out of the palace and the city walls dressed as a plain peasant. But everyone expected the flamboyant daughter of Carradoc of Caer Tair Cigfran to prance out to the main army camp in search of her father or other companionship.
She reached for a digging stick and crawled back to the stubborn sapling. She scratched at the dirt listlessly. The tree roots seemed to have crept under and around the standing stone. She tugged again at the trunk, about half the size of her wrist.
Her eyes crossed with the effort. The double spiral seemed to waver and shift, swirling inward again. Nimuë yanked her gaze back to the ground. She watched the cool dark waters of the spring. A reflection of the double spiral rose up from the depths of the little pool. The surface water stilled. The image of twin circles sharpened.
Her vision narrowed, concentrated on the spinning lines of the ancient symbols. They spread, shifted, resolved into a demon face. Square, black, indistinct around the edges, defined by the spinning red eyes.
She continued to stare, fascinated by the reflection.
“Did I raise you from the Netherworld?” she whispered.
You called me to serve you. I cannot obey until I have been fed. I need blood, a harsh voice rasped into the back of her mind.
“Blood,” she repeated. “I gave you blood when first I approached here.”
Blood to rouse me from my long sleep. I need more blood to live — to do your bidding. I need the blood of the one who will disrupt your plans.
A new image appeared on top of the demon face. A young woman riding a sluggish mare. A mass of unruly dark hair obscured her thin face. Grass and twigs stained the hem of her gown. She sat the horse awkwardly and kept her eyes on the ground.
“Do I know her?” Nimuë searched her memories for a clue to the woman’s identity. Where had she seen that hair before?
You will know her. You will deliver her to me and my disciples on Samhain. Once fed with her blood, I will serve you faithfully in your quest for control. We will control.
“Good.” Nimuë renewed her efforts to clear the area around the spring. “Only a few days to Samhain. Then I will be free of Carradoc’s smothering restrictions. I will have a demon to do my bidding. My mentor will have to do her own dirty work from now on.”
Even she will not stand against us.
Nimuë dismissed the ugly laughter in the back of her mind as her own.
I flung open the shutters beside the young priest.
“You will kill the king with your pagan demons and heretical methods.” Father John stared at me with all the venom of a true fanatic. “I cannot allow you to destroy the Ardh Rhi’s soul.”
For a moment I was reminded of Father Thomas. But that gentle priest had burned with love and faith in his god, not with hatred. Both priests would command followers. Father John was the more dangerous of the two. Much more dangerous.
A moment of dizziness blurred my vision. Then my eyes and my head cleared. I stood with a firmer balance and clearer mind. My perception of the patterns of life tilted and realigned a little. I knew a fanatic among the Ladies of Avalon. I didn’t know the cause of her extreme prejudice, only that she would neither hear nor speak anything good about the Christians and went to great lengths to antagonize the hermit who resided nearby. I wondered briefly if she had caused the old man’s hands to slip on the ax handle so that he cut himself so badly. She matched Father John in fervor. Could any of them truly hold a god in their hearts when they excluded others for believing differently?
Fanaticism was about control, not faith. I think I may have been a little guilty myself. In that moment of self-truth, I vowed to mend my ways and look toward tolerance rather than automatic condemnation. The patterns of life seemed brighter and more cohesive with that thought.
Trying and doing aren’t always the same thing.
“King Uther needs fresh air and a bath,” I replied to the priest. “Only then will my knowledge of healing work. Douse the fire, Da. I will burn my own herbs at the proper time.” I glared at the priest as if I had matured far beyond my thirteen summers.
I needed to act with the authority and self-confidence of The Morrigan. My instincts pushed me to come back in the dead of night and work my few spells and mix my medicines in private.
Imagining myself as tall and elegant as The Morrigan, filled with authority and self-confidence, I began planning a ritual for King Uther’s cure. Not the great healing magic, but something. I wished my unruly hair hadn’t escaped its braids into a messy frizz. My hair would always prevent me from appearing mature and elegant. People don’t take unkempt children seriously.
“Close out the noxious humors!” Father John clutched his cross tighter and leaned over the ailing Ardh Rhi as if to shield him from a physical enemy. He stared at me, eyes burning with hate.
“Britain needs Uther alive and well, Father John. You can tend to his soul later. Get on with it, girl,” Leodegran ordered.
“I — I will need warm water to bathe him, fresh linens, and the brazier cleaned of the incense.”
“Uther will die when God ordains and not before!” Father John divided his glare between the smoking brazier and me. “You will rot in hell before I allow you to murder an innocent victim with your vile sacrifices.”
“Druids sought to appease the gods with human sacrifice long ago, sir. We have not participated in that ritual for several centuries,” Da said quietly. Behind his words I heard intense anger. I busied myself with opening more shutters rather than face Myrddin Emrys in a rage.
“When my people chose to sacrifice to the gods at Beltane, ’twas with the firm conviction that we would live again,” Da continued. “We are so certain of our resurrection we accept debts payable into the next life. Is your faith so true, young man?”
“Blasphemy! Only God may choose the time and place of our death. His Son’s crucifixion and resurrection ended the need for sacrifice for all time. In Him I believe. I cannot allow you to corrupt my convert, Uther, Ardh Rhi of Britain.” Father John backed away from my father, keeping his body between the Ardh Rhi and us.
“You can do nothing to stop The Merlin and his daughter.” Leodegran stood beside Father John, waving a long knife beneath the priest’s chin. “I am in charge here, and I say the girl will heal him. Britain is safer in the hands of The Merlin than in the feeble prayers of the Christians. We need action — not faith.” With each word he drove the priest closer to the door.
“I will be back, with Archbishop Dyfrig and Brenhines Ygraina. And others who believe. We will protect King Uther’s soul from pagan atrocities.” Father John ducked out the door, slamming the wooden panels in his wake.
Da’s hands shook. His face looked unnaturally pale. “Not Dyfrig,” he whispered. “Anyone but Dyfrig.”
I prayed the portal to Annwn, the Otherworld of the Faery would never close as completely or be as heavily guarded as the door to Uther’s private chamber.
Right then, Leodegran and my father seemed as dangerous as the priest. I wanted to run from them. Run from responsibility.
I wanted to run to Curyll but didn’t know where to find him.