“THOSE are very serious accusations,” Father Thomas said, looking carefully at Berminia and then back to me.
Berminia smiled brightly in triumph. Marnia continued to cower. I guessed the younger sister was not in full agreement, but didn’t dare defy her sister. They had worked in opposition to Nimuë once, and Peter had died as a result. The ravens had taken over the entire region with Nimuë’s domination. If I didn’t know the forces at work here, I’d be frightened, too.
Nimuë had quoted Morgaine frequently over the past few months. Had she learned something of demon magic from the princess? I suddenly worried that perhaps I hadn’t finished my cleansing spell. I began searching Berminia for traces of lingering demonic influence or some kind of mind control from Nimuë.
Had I reveled in the scents of freshly turned Pridd and newly sprouting trees so much that I missed the smell of sulfur and rot?
I saw nothing on the surface and smelled none of the telltale odors of dark magic. I’d have to go deeper with my magic and intrude on the young woman’s most private thoughts to discover more. That kind of violation bothered me as much as my father’s manipulations had.
“Your logic is faulty, Berminia,” I reminded her. Until I had time to sort this out, I had to counter her with mundane means. “You and your younger sister were with me when Peter died.”
“But you were working magic that day. You said so. You showed us the magic in the herbs you picked.”
“Herbs of cleansing and healing. Peter died of a broken neck.”
“That cannot be right, Mistress,” Hannah protested. “He spoke after he fell. He did not die until... no, I refuse to believe that my Nimuë had anything to do with the death. She sought to soothe and comfort his pain.”
I bit my tongue and let the woman work through the sequence of events. She wrung her hands and cried. Most of the villagers crossed themselves repeatedly, mumbling prayers.
If Carradoc did not tolerate Christians, why had so many of his villagers adopted the faith?
Berminia began backing away in confusion. Her face drained of color. The blemishes on her skin stood out redder and angrier than usual.
“We may never know why Peter died,” I said. “But by your own testimony, we know that no one here caused his death. The ravens and their ill omens are gone. We have work to do, fields to finish planting, and preparations to make before more people come here for refuge.”
“So be it,” Father Thomas prayed. Then he leaned closer and whispered, “Arylwren, you must be careful. There are many here who do not like or trust you and your faith.”
“There are as many who do not trust you either, Father Thomas.”
“But you do, daughter. There is an instinctive good about you. I sensed the same in your father. I regret you do not share my faith, but I will look for God’s light wherever I can find it.”
“Light. Yes, we both work for the Light.”
Morgaine had accused me of cowardice for seeking a balance and adhering to limitations within magic and power. She obviously didn’t know what courage I had to summon to say the right words rather than take the easy path.
“Father Thomas, our stores are limited and our harvest will be late and small. Many people will go hungry this winter. But what I have I will share with people in need. Bring your refugees that they may find a physical and spiritual sanctuary here.”
“Your charity will not go unrewarded, Wren.” He bowed his head in prayer.
I raised my voice for all to hear. “And since I have banished the plague of ravens, this fortress is no longer Caer Tair Cigfran.”
A loud murmur broke out among my people. Some in happy speculation. Some in fright.
“Henceforth this place shall be Caer Noddfa, the Fortress of Sanctuary.”
“There is still one raven,” Berminia argued. “The old one that perches on the well, as if guarding it.”
“One raven, not three. Not a multitude to plague us. At sunset we will feast with what we can find and honor a new beginning. Caer Noddfa.”
Most of the villagers cheered me. Diones and Hannah huddled with Berminia and Marnia. Uncertainty furrowed their brows and stooped their shoulders.
“Your father would approve, Wren.” Father Thomas chuckled. He gestured for his flock to seek resting places. I gestured for Hannah to see to their needs. The men drifted back to the fields to finish planting. A few made plans to hunt for tonight’s feast.
“Have you seen my father of late?” I asked Father Thomas when the crowd had dissipated enough to give us the illusion of privacy. My anger toward Da still simmered in the back of my mind. My heart needed to hear that my only parent thrived.
“No, I have not seen The Merlin, child. He moves from place to place too rapidly. Sometimes I think he flies faster than rumors. One of the rumors placed him in the far north making a deal with devils. Another rumor declares him the wild man haunting the forests of the South, yet another puts him at Uther’s side, never leaving him, even to tend the battle wounded.”
“And what of Archbishop Dyfrig?” I asked. I felt that if anyone had noticed Dyfrig’s resemblance to The Merlin, Father Thomas would.
“A saintly man, my archbishop. He remains close by King Uther’s side when he can, as does your father. The business of keeping Britain safe draws them both away often. I fear the Ardh Rhi ails again.” Father Thomas shook his head in regret.
I grieved for Ygraina who would surely lose her beloved husband soon. Would she lose her missing son to the war as well, before she had a chance to get to know him? “Has Uther named an heir?”
Father Thomas shook his head sadly. “The archbishop counsels patience until the right heir is found.”
That sounded more like my father, waiting for the precise moment he could stage the most dramatic effect.
“I have heard rumors of this candidate and that warrior, but nothing certain. Until Uther dies and the kings must name a new Ardh Rhi, the matter remains confused. I fear Britain will split rather than name a new leader.”
o0o
Nimuë traced the straight streets of the army camp with care. She wore her dark cloak pulled tight around her demure gown of reddish brown and the hood pulled low around her face. With each step, she willed the hundreds of men marching purposefully from place to place to look in every direction but at her.
Not that she wouldn’t love the attention of some of these incredibly strong and handsome young men. She had a different mission today. A much more important mission.
Rather than ask questions and betray her presence, she opened her senses and let the demon on her shoulder guide her steps. Whenever it directed her to turn, right or left, she looked carefully for a telltale. By the time she had penetrated the camp to the first tents of officers and minor lords, she saw the faint trace of blue energy lingering on the muddy street. The eldritch glows almost formed the shape of footprints. She smiled to herself. Now that she knew how and where to look, The Merlin would never again escape her.
When she had time, she’d seek the telltales for her father so that she could avoid him. She’d never let him control her again now that she’d lost Caer Tair Cigfran to Wren. Carradoc had lost his usefulness.
Deep into the ranks of pavilions occupied by major warlords and kings, the blue footprints disappeared into a rude circular structure made of twigs. The roof reached no higher than her shoulder. She recognized it immediately as a smaller and more temporary hut favored by shepherds. Half sunk into the ground, it would keep the occupant snug, and if it had to be transported, the wall of sticks rolled into a convenient bundle. The Merlin could construct a new one in a very short time, wherever his travels took him.
She shuddered at having to step into the primitive dwelling. She thought she had forsaken this crudeness once and for all when she left Avalon.
“This is the only way to achieve our goal,” the demon reminded her. Its voice became clearer and louder with every spell she wove successfully.
She thought she had lost the creature when battling Wren for possession of the caer. But as she used tricks and disguises, compulsions, and illusions to ride through the storm to Dun Edin, the demon had reasserted itself until it was an almost visible, nearly audible presence on her shoulder.
“Will he detect you?” she asked the demon.
“Not unless we want him to.”
She rapped her knuckles on the door. It creaked open. Chinks of light filtered through the stick construction revealing a cot, several small traveling chests, a twig table and stool, and piles of scrolls, pots of herbs, surgical tools, unfinished meals, dirty shirts. The place smelled of an oddly pleasing combination of male sweat, astringent herbs, and wine.
“He’s not here,” she whispered to the demon.
“He will be soon. Step in now. Quickly. Someone comes!” The demon urged her. Its voice sounded close to panic.
“Who?” Nimuë cast out her senses as the demon had taught her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up in awareness of the presence of magic.
“That is not The Merlin,” she told the demon as she ducked into the rough shelter. She peered through a small opening between two not-quite-straight sticks. Another figure drifted past, hooded and cloaked as she had been.
“Morgaine!” she and the demon said together.
“She must not know you are here. She covets a demon of her own. She has smelled me and seeks us,” the demon almost gibbered in panic.
“She will not give up her search,” Nimuë mused.
“Once The Merlin comes, his magic will mask our scent,” the demon said.
“And here he comes,” Nimuë felt a little thrill at sight of her quarry.
True to the demon’s prediction, Morgaine seemed to fade into the shadows. Nimuë knew she was there because she watched with her magic.
“She’s pregnant!” Nimuë gasped. “Lot didn’t waste any time.” She remembered how Morgaine had been bustled out of the women’s bower in Venta Belgarum mere hours before the dawn of Carradoc’s marriage to Wren. Nimuë had listened to the heated exchange between Ygraina and her daughter. Lot’s name had figured prominently in the argument. Morgaine did not want to marry him. She had designs on another. Ygraina — with the backing of several burly soldiers — persuaded her daughter she had no choice.
“I do not think the war leaders know she is here. See how she hides,” the demon whispered. It sounded relieved. “Quickly, prepare for The Merlin.”
Nimuë dropped her cloak and arranged herself on the bed. She loosened the neck ties of her shift and opened the bodice of her gown a little. Wriggling her shoulders pushed a fair amount of her shoulders and bosom free of clothing. Then she draped her auburn hair in a wide fan against the rough blankets.
The door creaked open. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep.
Remember, appear innocent, lost, helpless. He loves helpless, the demon chuckled in her ear. As soon as he lays with you, the gods will claim him. We will have our revenge.