SOMETHING had gone terribly wrong. What? Where?
Anxiety tied my neck into knots. I walked warily for days. The tension grew in me, like a thunderstorm waiting for the first strike of lightning to release the rain. Newynog slunk beside me, neck fur on end, as wary of me as she was of whatever plagued me. I was impatient with the children, angry with the villagers, and driven to a massive cleaning fit. No one wanted to work in the hot humid air but me. I couldn’t tolerate people bustling around me. So I swept the Hall free of old rushes and replaced them without assistance. I climbed a ladder and repaired the thatch myself.
I worked until I could no longer remain upright and awake. The tension within me grew until I thought the weight of it would crush the breath from my chest.
And still I found chores to keep me busy, keep me from thinking. Maybe I didn’t want to know what drove me.
I had just woven the last stook of dried grass into the roof, wondering what I would do next, when a royal messenger pelted up the processional way into the caer. His horse’s sides heaved and glistened with sweat. It stood, all four legs splayed out, head pulled down by exhaustion.
The bands of tension tightened still more on my chest. I held out my hand for the written missive.
COME. NOW.
Below the two words Arthur’s signature sprawled across the parchment, larger, bolder and more commanding than the message. The Pendragon seal seemed almost insignificant beside the signature.
This time I knew the parchment had come from Arthur himself and not his wife or archbishop usurping regent powers.
“What has transpired?” I asked the courier even as I filled my head with travel plans.
“I don’t know, Lady, only that His Highness has withdrawn to his chambers and speaks only to Brenhines Guinevere and Lancelot,” he replied, breathing almost as heavily as his beleaguered horse.
“Lancelot is at court?” Of course. He and Arthur were inseparable. I prayed that Stinger and Guinevere had buried their passion or kept it discreet.
“Only recently, Lady. He arrived from Dun Edin only hours before I left. He said he’d been summoned by The Merlin in a dream.”
“Then I must leave within the hour. You may stay and rest as long as you need to.” I dashed to my chamber flinging orders right and left as fast as I could think of them.
Kalahart had Gwynt — the high-strung stallion that had served me well on my last mad dash cross-country two years ago — saddled and an escort ready by the time I emerged with two packs of clothes and journey food. Each of the warriors carried similar provisions. We rode fast, stopping only when the horses were exhausted. Most of the six nights on the road we spent at farmhouses or caers along the way. Twice we slept rough beneath the trees.
At last we rode into Camlann, exhausted, filthy, and hungry. Guinevere and Bedewyr rushed down the steps of the great hall of Camlann to greet me. Grooms came forward to tend my horse before I could dismount.
“What is it, Ceffyl?” I asked of Bedewyr the moment my feet touched ground. I wouldn’t address the Ardh Brenhines after she had tried to wrest control of the children from me.
“Your father...” His eyes carried the news I’d been dreading for weeks.
My knees wanted to buckle as hot tears stung the back of my eyes.
“Please, you must help my husband. He refuses to speak. He has closed himself in his chamber. Your father was the only one who could help Arthur when... when...” Guinevere drifted off, looking anxiously from Bedewyr to me. I sensed that she choked off a nervous giggle. The years had cured her of some of her flighty ways, but she’d never lose all of them.
Behind the brenhines, within the shadows of the doorway, Nimuë stood wringing her hands, shoulders slumped. Her left shoulder drooped lower than ever. Her neck was thrust forward to compensate for the unaligned shoulder. A crone’s hump had begun to form. But I saw the smile of satisfaction that spread across her face and lighted her eyes.
The bands of tension that constricted my breathing and pained my heart burst open and I knew the truth.
“What have you done to my father, Nimuë? Have you found a way to murder him at last?”
o0o
“You cannot accuse this good lady of foul play!” Bedewyr called after me.
“Nimuë grieves for The Merlin as much as my husband does, Lady Wren,” Guinevere said. She swallowed deeply, as if she put aside the resentment and jealousy that dominated her aura. “Nimuë has been The Merlin’s constant companion these two years and more. They were very much in love.” Her eyes went soft and dreamy as her mind wandered to more pleasant topics.
Nimuë buried her smile of triumph in her hands. She appeared to be silently weeping. Her shoulders did not tremble as they should if she truly grieved. The colored energy of her aura darted upward in sun-yellow spikes, betraying her. But the others could not see her as I did. They did not know her as I did.
“Please, Lady Wren, do something. Arthur...” Guinevere pleaded. Her attention had drifted in and out of the conversation.
“Perhaps you can make sense of the High King’s ailment.” Bedewyr led me toward the royal quarters at the back of the Great Hall. He jostled Guinevere’s shoulder to draw her attention back to the present. Obviously he knew the Ardh Brenhines’ shortcomings even if he didn’t understand them.
I followed them, keeping a wary eye on Nimuë. Deep cold enveloped my emotions and my throat. I knew I’d not cry until I had confronted Nimuë and heard the truth from her.
Carradoc’s daughter ran lightly — despite her twisted back — toward the circular chamber that Da had used the last time I was here. As her hands dropped from her face, no tears marred her beautifully clear skin and eyes.
Arthur barely looked up from his writing desk at my entrance. Lancelot stood by the Roman-style window that had been built into the old timber hall. Cai polished his sword in a corner. Both of the Companions looked grim, almost defeated. Arthur assumed an air of preoccupation with the daily business of governing Britain through fractious and all-too-independent client kings.
“Arthur, beloved,” Guinevere whispered. Her gaze did not stray to Lancelot at all.
I hoped they had put aside the flash of passion they had shared three years ago. Guinevere’s half-faery heritage kept her attention span short. Perhaps she had found a new object of her affection. Faeries rarely took anything seriously in this world.
Arthur lifted his head. He looked first at his wife, love and devotion filling his gaze as well as his aura. Yet there was also a hint of an old hurt. Then he caught sight of me. He smiled his welcome as he stood and opened his arms to me in greeting.
“I have come, Curyll. As you asked. What has happened?”
“W-Wren.”
The others gasped in unison. Was this the first word he had spoken in some time? I concentrated on my oldest and dearest friend. “Speak slowly, Curyll. Think about your words, then speak them one at a time, just like the...” I couldn’t mention the faeries. The Christian cross hanging around his neck matched the one Guinevere wore. They’d likely discount the value of my friends from the Otherworld, They might dismiss their existence altogether.
“Y-your Da is dead, Wren,” he said with less hesitation. “All of B-Britain grieves with you. The d-death of The M-erlin is a gr-great loss to us all.” He held me close against his chest. The fierceness of his grip said more than his words.
“How? Why?” I knew when. Confirming it only deepened the icy chill behind my heart.
“A few hours before my husband sent for you. He needed to tell you himself, rather than write such terrible news,” Guinevere said. Her expression soured as Arthur continued to hold me close. She had managed to learn to concentrate on one issue at least — her own jealousy.
Lancelot rested a comforting hand on my shoulder. Cai kissed my hand. I sensed their grief for the loss of their tutor and mentor. They expected me to break into tears and uncontrollable grief. I couldn’t. Not yet.
I needed answers to many questions. Like why Da had summoned Stinger to court when we agreed he must be kept away from Guinevere. Nimuë had those answers and no one else.
“How? Who?” I repeated.
“Nimuë brought us the news,” Lancelot said stiffly. He turned back to the window, watching the conical hut where my father had lived with Nimuë. He didn’t trust my stepdaughter any more than I did.
“How did he die?”
“H-his heart,” Arthur stammered.
“He hadn’t been well since Morgaine’s demons used him as a plaything back at Dun Edin,” Cai finished for his king and foster brother.
“Show me his pyre.”
“We buried him within the roots of an ancient oak in the copse at the top of the hill. Very near where he died.” Guinevere pursed her lips. “He refused baptism time and again. The only way his soul can be redeemed is for him to face Our Lord Jesus whole. We dared not burn him in a pagan ceremony.” She almost spat the end of her proclamation.
I doubted she thought up that long statement by herself. Dyfrig had coached her undoubtedly.
“Da would want the honor of a funeral pyre. We believe that the spirit must be liberated from the body so that it can be reincarnated. If you will not give him the honor due him, then I must. Show me his grave.”
“Yes.” Arthur tightened his hug briefly, then released me. “I-in the m-orning.”
“Now! Before Belenos sets on his trapped spirit one more time.”
“The copse is a good distance from Camlann, uphill, surrounded by deep forest,” Cai said. “We’d best wait for morning. You can sing your greeting to Belenos at the same time.”
“I cannot sing until my father’s spirit is liberated.” I hadn’t sung anything in two years. Not since I said farewell to him the last time. Not even a lullaby to my children. “I will go now. I will find the place on my own if I have to. An ancient oak with a new grave beside it at the top of the hill. I will find it.” I thought I knew the tree. It had been a favorite of Da’s.
“Surely you need to bathe and rest, at least eat something before you go,” Guinevere urged. She would think of comfort first.
“I will go now. But a bite to eat on the way would be welcome.”
“F-fresh horses, Boar,” Arthur cut through their arguments. “W-we ride now.”
I didn’t really want to mount a horse ever again. The week on the road had taken its toll on my back and thighs. But my restlessness pulled me toward that ancient oak in the center of the forest. Da’s spirit was not easy. I could not rest until I had set him free.
o0o
Almost, we have almost reached the point of my emergence, the demon chuckled into Nimuë’s ear.
“Yes! At last you will come into the daylight and work beside me as art equal partner.” Nimuë nearly shouted with glee. She danced around Myrddin’s chamber, flinging his clothing into a pile in the center of the room. She’d burn it later. Perhaps she should haul it out to the ancient oak and set fire to the clothing. A further taunt to The Merlin’s memory, giving his clothing the funeral pyre he was denied.
Whatever. The demon bounced upon her shoulder.
She winced. His weight twisted her neck and spine painfully. She’d be glad to get him off her back.
No man controlled her now. She wouldn’t let the demon move into the position of power vacated by Carradoc and The Merlin.
With a swipe of her arm she cleared the cot of paraphernalia and lay back against the small pillow. Her position forced the demon to shift to her breasts. She could almost imagine him fondling and suckling her like a lover. Now that his body was almost visible, she detected grossly exaggerated male genitalia beneath his pot belly.
“You became quite substantial when we killed The Merlin.” She petted the translucent shadow form, pressing it closer to her breasts.
Yes. The Merlin was forbidden to join with a woman. Performing forbidden acts gives me power and substance. His pincer hands nipped her nipples obediently.
A thrill of pain/pleasure leaped through her blood.
“Like the last time I lay with Carradoc. You gained as much weight that night as you did with the death of The Merlin. Perhaps I should seek out my father again.” Hot moisture between her thighs reminded her of that night.
She did enjoy sex now that she controlled her partners.
Don’t bother. You conceived a forbidden child with that little act of incest. That is what gave me strength. A repeat performance — though pleasurable when you scream with pain — would add nothing to my form.
“Then what must we do? We have waited a long time for this.” She sat up, pouting. She needed a diversion. “Wren is here now. I’ve wanted to watch her wallow in grief for a long, long time.”
And you shall. She will go to his grave. She will weep and tear her hair. She is vulnerable. Kill her with the poison plant we discovered.
“You learned its secrets?” Nimuë bounced upright in excitement. She knew quite a bit about poisons, but using one so potent The Merlin was forbidden to speak of it would give the demon its last bit of strength to come forth into the world completely. It could become her most forbidden lover of all!