MERLIN tried to open his eyes. White fire lanced across his vision and into his head. Perhaps he screamed. His head buzzed with so much sound he couldn’t tell what he heard. He pressed his hands against his eyes. The pressure shifted the core of the pain to his temples and along his jaw.
Gradually he became accustomed to the constant presence of the pain and could think beyond surviving from moment to moment. His back ached, his knees twisted oddly, and he couldn’t find his feet.
No light penetrated to his vision.
“Am I blind?” The sound of his voice echoed and brought new pain to his head.
“You might as well be, Myrddin Emrys,” a harsh voice filled his being.
“Who?” He wished he hadn’t spoken. The movement and the noise made him hurt more.
His empty stomach roiled, adding new distress to the ever present, all pervasive pain.
“Don’t you know the voice of your doom?” The voice laughed again, wild cackles like ravens gone wild.
Ravens. Three ravens. Cair Tair Cigfran. Was he in the tunnel beneath Wren’s home? If he could only find the crystal cave, the Lady might help him, might ease his pain.
“You don’t reply, Myrddin. Surely you know who claims your life?”
“Only Dana claims my life and my soul. I have not violated the geas she laid upon me.” He whispered this time and his head didn’t hurt quite so badly. But his heart ached worse. Oh, Wren, I would have liked to hold you close to my heart one more time. I would look on my grandchildren and wish them farewell.
“Your mewling goddess no longer has the strength or will to protect you, Myrddin. I rule here. You will be a long time dying, as I have been a long time seeking you, the source of my pain.”
Feminine undertones to the raspiness. Who?
Morgaine! He could think of no other who hated with as much intensity as she. He called up the vision of her as he had seen her last; flowing black-and-silver draperies echoing her black hair with the broad silver streak, an extension of the lightning-streaked black sky above her. She raised her staff and called down all four elements to wreak havoc on both armies. She cared nothing for the lives of her own soldiers, only for the death of the two men she saw as the cause of everything that had gone wrong in her life: Arthur Pendragon and The Merlin of Britain.
“You are the source of your own pain,” he whispered. “You must heal yourself. My death will only add to your guilt.”
“Guilt is for weaklings. Think about that while my demons feast on your flesh in this stinking, forgotten hole.”
“You can never control demons. They feed on your soul more painfully than anything they can do to my flesh.” New pain ripped across his gut. He doubled over clutching his middle. A scream escaped his raw lips.
“Tell me that again in a few hours,” Morgaine replied with another cackling laugh.
The pain eased a trifle. Merlin tried straightening his legs to lessen their stiffness. His cold feet encountered a wall. His legs stretched little more than halfway. He pushed, bracing his feet against the rough surface. His back rammed against the opposite wall. Rough rock poked his spine. Dampness soaked his shirt.
She’d stripped him of his robes as well as his freedom.
Chills coursed up and down his spine. This far North, even in spring, the nights could bring heavy frost. He’d not sleep comfortably even if he could stretch beyond this cramped crouch.
He reached out with both his hands. More rock scraped his knuckles. But he couldn’t feel a ceiling above him. Shifting carefully to avoid causing any new pain, he brought his knees under him and shifted his buttocks. Cautiously he eased himself upward. Sitting upon his heels, back straight, his hair brushed a metal grate. Fresh night air caressed his face. He breathed deeply, then pushed at the grate with both hands. It did not budge. He heard the rattle of a lock. He braced his knees and levered himself upward again, testing for weakness.
He sent his mind into the lock, willing the tiny inner pieces to shift into an open pattern.
His talent remained locked firmly within his head.
The grate turned to fire, burning his hands to his elbows. He screamed again as he dropped back to the stone floor of his prison.
“My demons control the pit, Myrddin. Escape is impossible,” Morgaine said.
Merlin tried turning the fire back on the sender. The pain in his hands stopped any power that might have lingered within him. His magic had withered and diminished of late. Now it seemed totally dead.
“Don’t even bother trying magic on me. My demon allies have stripped you of the last vestige of power. They are very thorough.”
He huddled into himself, trying to control his whimpers.
“This cannot be the end. I have foreseen a different death! But Andraste help me, I do not see a way out of this.”
He closed his eyes, trying to think.
“Nimuë,” he whispered. “If you care for me at all, you will devise an escape from this madwoman’s clutches.” He held her image close, imagining the way she would feel in his arms, the taste of her sweet mouth. “Beloved. Please know that I love you even though we never honored the Goddess together. My only regret is that you never knew how much I adore you.”
o0o
I didn’t have an invisibility spell at my command. After my astral journey and the long ride to Dun Edin, I didn’t have much magic left.
Dun Edin commands an open view of approach from all directions. No one could enter the heavily fortified gates unauthorized without magic.
“I wonder if there are hidden postern gates?” I asked Nimuë as we surveyed the crag from its base. I had to keep her close enough to watch her. The dog sniffed at the trail of moisture and refuse where the latrine pit hung over the edge of the cliff. I hauled the dog away from her investigation and kept her close at my side.
“Would you allow a crack in the defenses like a postern?” Nimuë replied.
“No. But I might want a secret escape route if the place was hopelessly besieged.” Like my tunnel into the crystal cave and access to the faery pool.
“Tunnels?” Nimuë asked.
“Solid rock.” I shook my head doubtfully. No cliff face is perfectly smooth. I espied potential handholds and footholds, all within full view of the guards on the palisades. If I climbed that crag, I would have to do it under cover of darkness when I couldn’t see the next safe place to rest a finger or a toe.
“Maybe Arthur knows of a way. He has spent weeks viewing the place from up there.” I pointed to the array of colorful tents on the slopes of the tor. Arthur was there now. I could see him on a chair outside the largest pavilion. He should be asleep.
I turned and retreated toward the army camp, letting defeat drag my shoulders down and curve my spine. At least that was the posture I hoped the guards would view. I dug my hands into the dog’s neck fur to keep myself from climbing the cliff there and then.
Like the labyrinth on Avalon’s tor, I had seen a hidden pathway up. The finger and toeholds would be tricky. Mundane eyes wouldn’t be able to find it. Only my recent experience with a labyrinth showed me how and where to look.
“We need help,” I said, more to myself than to Nimuë.
“Carradoc?” she asked almost brightly.
“No. He’s a strong warrior, but he’s blunt and forthright. This calls for cunning and a young, limber body.” Like mine. But I needed darkness and privacy. Between now and then I needed rest to replenish my body and my mind for the ordeal to come. Before I rested, I needed information that only High King Arthur Pendragon could give me.
“You found a way to climb the crag!” Nimuë announced much too loudly. “I will climb with you.”
I looked hastily up to the palisades. The guards conferred with wild gestures and heads nodding toward us.
“You just told the entire world of our plans. Morgaine will be ready and waiting.” I marched ahead of her, too angry to say another word.
“She might kill your father rather than let you rescue him, Lady Wren,” Nimuë said. “Then I won’t have to. You deprived me of my father, now I take your father from you.”
“You conspired with Morgaine to do this!” My entire being, body and soul shook with outrage.
“What if I did? Will you go running to your lover, Arthur, for him to make all things better for you?” Nimuë stood tall and proud. A laughing sneer marred the beauty of her near perfect features and clear, milky skin. Her flame-colored hair glowed in the afternoon light.
The only flaw in her was the tilted posture, one shoulder lower and thrust forward. Her soul was as warped as her spine.
And I hated her with all of the passion I had kept carefully hidden while I maintained a balance of emotions and magical power. I wanted to fly at her with fingernails and teeth, to scar that beautiful face as her spirit was scarred.
“What are you talking about?” I had to force puzzlement on my face rather than the anger that seethed deep within me. I had to pretend that Arthur and I had never loved and conceived a child that Beltane day beside the faery pool.
“You know very well of what I speak.” Nimuë remained calm. Her eyes clouded slightly, showing only a little concern that she might be wrong. “I’m certain Carradoc would dearly love to know that he did not sire your second child, your beloved daughter Deirdre. Neither of you will live out the day once he knows.”
“I have never given Carradoc reason to believe he isn’t the father of both my children. Unlike my husband, I honor my marriage vows.” A broken promise upsets the balance of life as much as does a lie. I’d broken the promise of fidelity and must continue to lie to protect myself and my daughter. I’d done enough lying to last a lifetime.
“You never honored anything but your own self-importance!” Nimuë continued to rant. “You robbed me of my father’s love when you forced him into this marriage. But you never loved him. You deprived me of his love just because you could. Well, now I turn the tables on you, Wren. You’ll never get your father out of Morgaine’s hands, and you can’t go to Arthur for help because I will tell the world of your affair with him. My father will kill you for it, and be justified. A woman’s adultery is punishable by death.” She trounced off, head high, triumph tingeing her aura yellow.
“No one will believe you, Nimuë,” I returned. But she was right. I couldn’t go to Arthur, and I had no new plans that would save my father.
Except... Every man and fortress has a vulnerability. Morgaine had found one in my caer. Now I must find one in hers.
o0o
Darkness fell slowly over Dun Edin. Twilight lingered seemingly forever. I rested alone in Carradoc’s tent for as long as I could. Then I crept away before my husband returned for the night. I doubted he’d sleep there alone. If Nimuë didn’t accompany him, then one of the camp followers would. The few words I exchanged with him were cordial but terse. He was preoccupied with keeping his warband in order. I was preoccupied with my plans and the need to rest.
When the shadows lengthened to three times my height, I slid over to the kitchen tent and stole bread, cheese, and dried meat. No one saw me. No one would know I took journey provisions. I had picketed my horse with the other high-strung war stallions. A homely but docile pack pony awaited me well away from camp. I’d left the wolfhound pup tied up outside Carradoc’s tent. As long as she remained there, no one would look for me elsewhere.
I’d miss her company on the long trek home. But I needed privacy for this adventure. The presence of a wolfhound, even a half-grown one, is difficult to disguise.
Drifting from shadow to shadow, clad in a boy’s leggings and shirt I had stolen, I made my way across the flat plain toward the crag of Dun Edin. To the east of the fortress lay the tor, Arthur’s Seat. From the heights of the tor Curyll had looked down on every activity within the fortress. From those heights, I had seen another entrance into Morgaine’s stronghold. The dog had showed it to me, too. An entrance I didn’t think even Morgaine knew about.
Well, she knew about it. But fastidious Morgaine who couldn’t stand ordinary dirt on her person, who bathed twice a day, and washed her hands frequently, would never suspect the latrine chute as being an entryway to her fortress. I didn’t like the idea of climbing up through the foul and slick matter that clung to the cliff face. Better the honest body soil of humans than the evil visited upon humans by Morgaine’s demons.
If the caer of Dun Edin had been atop the tor where a fire glittered outside of Arthur’s pavilion, the builders could have dug normal pits in the dirt to contain their waste. The crag was solid rock. No pits. So the latrines were built into the wooden palisade hanging over the open space above the cliff.
“What do you think you are doing, Wren?” Curyll hissed in my ear as I reached for the first handhold on the crag. He didn’t stutter or hesitate.
The dog pranced at his heels and jumped at me, eager to participate in any adventure.
“I am doing what you should have done three days ago,” I replied.
“You cannot get your father out of there. I sent Stinger and Ceffyl on this same errand two nights ago. They failed. They couldn’t get through the opening and had to retreat. They still stink. And curse me for a fool.”
“I hope they came back down before Morgaine discovered them.”
“I believe so. You still can’t go. I can’t risk you.”
“The opening may have been too small for hardened warriors with overdeveloped shoulders from flinging swords and axes and such around all their lives. But I am Wren, the small songbird who creeps into tiny nest holes — not a large hawk, or a nearsighted boar, or a stinger bee. Even Ceffyl is too large for this. But I’ll get through. And get my father out.”
“I forbid it, Wren. You are too valuable. You will become The Merlin when your father dies. I can’t risk losing you.”
“I’ll never be The Merlin. Those days are gone. Da is the last. Avalon is deserted except for one old Christian hermit.” I couldn’t help the sadness that crept through me and into my voice. The old ways were fading but not dead. I would find a way to compromise and keep them alive in more subtle ways, but only after I rescued my father. The last of his kind.
“Give me a boost, Curyll. I can’t quite reach the first handhold.”
“Didn’t you hear me, Wren? I forbid this.”
“Then why are you here, if not to give me an assist?” I held up my left foot for him to shove me farther up the cliff than I could reach on my own. I pointedly ignored the first small ledge level with my knee where I had planned to put my foot. The traitorous dog placed her forepaws there and licked my hands.
“You never listen to anyone. I’d hoped you’d listen to me, your oldest friend, your comrade in childhood mischief, your...” He cupped his hands about level with my knee.
I placed my foot there and welcomed the boost to a strong handhold. The dog tried to follow, but Curyll pushed her away.
“I’ll wait here for you, Wren.”
“This may take awhile. Take a nap. You need the sleep. And take the dog with you. I can’t have her whining and howling to follow me.” I had no intention of coming back this way. If Da were ill enough to remain confined by Morgaine, he’d need more help than the mundane medics of the army could give him. Help that Arthur and his Christian priests wouldn’t know how to give.
Back home I had a maiden from the village who showed signs of a magic talent, and Hannah, a crone who worked magic with her weaving, and myself a full matron. I’d work the great healing magic on my Da no matter the cost to my strength. I’d restore him. We’d be a family again.
I held those thoughts in my heart as I clambered upward, using starlight and my instincts to find the way.
I have smelled better places upon this Earth. Many times during the noisome assent, I had to blank my mind to the gooey matter beneath my fingers. In the interests of sanitation, someone had flushed the mess recently with a bucket of cold water. It dissipated the odor, a little, but chilled the rocks I clung to. My fingers felt like ice. My bare toes, not much warmer.
I’d never be able to wear these clothes again. Thank Dana, I’d put my good woolen gown along with boots and stockings in the saddlebags on the pack pony.
When I reached the top of the chute, a wooden seat with a hinged lid covered the slimy narrow hole. After I banged my head on the contraption, it opened with a gentle push. The fortress would have been safer if they had padlocked the lid and only given the key to loyal soldiers. Impractical at best.
Curyll had been right. The hole was narrow. Barely large enough to serve its purpose. A full-grown man couldn’t ease his way through it. I barely fit my head and shoulders above the rim. Then I had to rock and inch my hips through. Childbearing had broadened them more than I liked to admit.
I grimaced as the privacy door squeaked when I opened it. No one came to investigate, so I crept out, keeping to the shadows at the base of the palisade. Torches atop the spiked, wooden wall cast fitful light toward the center of the fortress and down the outside. I avoided the pools of light that could betray me. Even so I reeked of the latrine and could alert any guard who didn’t have a head cold.
Drunken snores wafted out of the adjacent barracks on fumes thick with sour ale and unwashed bodies. They smelled almost as badly as I did. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice my presence from smell alone. Fortunately for me, all the men seemed too deeply asleep to require the use of the latrine.
I walked the entire circumference of the fortress, cataloging the position of each building in my mind. Kitchen, pantry, storehouse, more privies, Long Hall, guest quarters, the well next to the kitchen. No stable. Horses required room to move and lots of fodder to eat. They were secured outside the main gate, somewhere along the sloping processional way that led down the crag in a gentle incline.
Where had Morgaine put her prisoner? Guards walked the ledge near the top of the palisade and stood quietly by the main gate, but none of the interior doors were guarded or held a heavy lock.
I circled the fortress again, lingering and listening frequently. The usual night sounds of a fortress met my ears at every turn. I couldn’t smell anything but myself. Without all of my senses, I became nervous, eager to finish my chore and be gone.
Then I heard in the soft moan of a man in severe distress. A fever dream. I followed the rising tide of screams from a man fighting off nightmare demons. In Morgaine’s domain, they could be real demons. The guards didn’t rush to assist or wake the dreamer. If anything, the men atop the walls seemed to turn their backs on the noise and drift as far away from it, and me, as they could.
The sounds led me to an irregular outcropping of rock, sticking up into the northern perimeter wall. I felt along every inch of the sharp stone for an entry. No door.
The moans faded, drifted off into lighter snores.
Where are you! I screamed in my mind before he quieted and I lost my only clue.
Quiet reigned once more. I wanted to beat the rocks with my fists. Useless. Carefully I made my way around the rock pile again. This time I stumbled upon a grate set into the stony ground of the fortress. The faint light from torches and stars showed me a deep, dark hole dug out of solid rock. The grate was the only entrance or exit. A complex lock and rusty hinges held it in place.
Simple latches I could lift with my hand to unbolt a door. Locks defied my magic at every turn.
I’d never get him out without help and without alerting the entire compound.