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As Tom drifted into consciousness he became aware of a pale light flickering beyond his closed eyes, and a splitting headache. The weight of blankets pressed against his stiff limbs. He opened his eyes and squinted against the light, edging himself to a sitting position. That was a mistake. His headache got worse and he was violently sick on the floor next to his bed. He collapsed back onto the bed and passed out.
Several hours later he woke up again. His headache had now subsided to a dull thump, his stomach felt horribly empty, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. He cautiously looked round the room, careful not to move too much. It was dim; a candle burned on the table next to him, beside a jug of water and a glass. Overhead he could make out the wooden beams of the low ceiling.
He really needed some water. Slowly he sat up and leaned back against plump pillows, taking a few steadying breaths. Where the hell was he? He remembered sitting next to a fire in a grove of trees and seeing a tall powerful man with huge antlers striding across the clearing towards him, and then nothing. Blackness.
He poured himself a glass of water and sipped slowly, his throat painfully dry. A fire burned in a stone fireplace, the only source of light other than the flickering candle. It showed a small room with half a dozen wooden-framed beds in it, and one long narrow window high in the wall opposite him. It was dark outside. Arthur lay in the bed next to him, still sleeping.
None of this explained where he was or how he had got here. But as he was wondering what to do, the door opened and a young male Cervini appeared. He smiled when he saw Tom sitting.
“You’re awake. Good. I’ll fetch Nerian. Do you need anything before I go?”
Tom shook his head, bewildered, and croaked, “No.”
A few minutes later the dreadlocked shaman appeared.
“You survived then,” Nerian said as he walked over to Tom. “Remember me?”
Tom nodded. “Vaguely.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Terrible. My head aches and my throat hurts. Where am I?”
Nerian sat on a chair next to the bed. “In the Great Hall of the Cervini. Your friends are here too. You’re lucky you only have a bad head. Do you remember what happened?”
“I remember sitting by a fire in a grove of trees, but I don’t know why I was there.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Tom realised he couldn’t remember much of anything. “I remember the cave, and Nimue started the spell, and then nothing. Nothing at all until the antlered man.”
“You remember Herne?” Nerian looked surprised. “Don’t worry, hopefully your memories will return in time. The spell Nimue cast was powerful, and when it broke it nearly killed you all. It did kill Merlin.”
“Oh, Merlin. I’d forgotten about him.” Tom clutched his head again as the headache started to return.
“That’s OK Tom, enough now. I’ll bring you a drink that will help, and then I want to you to rest again.”
––––––––
When Tom next woke it was morning, and Arthur was awake in the bed next to him.
“About time! Get up lazy bones!”
Tom groaned as he sat up. “Funny aren’t you, Arthur?”
Arthur’s face was ashen, and his long dark hair looked wild and unkempt. He leaned back on a mound of pillows and gazed wearily at Tom. “I’m trying to find humour in our situation.”
“Mmm. Keep trying. I feel half dead.”
“I know that feeling. This is better than that. But from what Nerian said, we almost died. Merlin did, you know.” Arthur gazed into space, his mind clearly elsewhere.
“I know. I’m sorry.” Tom plumped up his pillows and leaned back. “Can you remember anything? I can remember flashes of things. Nimue, a silver tower, lots of trees.”
“More than me. It seems like a dream. All I can see is trees, trees and more trees. I feel like I’m drunk just thinking about it. I didn’t even see Merlin. To be so close ...” His voice was full of an aching regret.
“There was nothing you could have done, Arthur,” Tom said, trying to console his friend. To distract him, he asked, “How long were we unconscious?” And then another thought struck him and he sat up straighter. “How long were we in the spell?”
“Not long, fortunately. These Cervini work quickly. About a day in the spell, and three days unconscious.”
“Wow. Four days lost. Better than four years, I suppose. Or more.” He paused, contemplating their possible fate and lucky escape. Memories now started to trickle back, of their time in the spell and their deliberate abandonment by Nimue. He looked at Arthur, horror spreading across his face. “What were we thinking, Arthur? We should have known better.” He felt sick at the thought of how long they could have been trapped.
Arthur looked at him sharply and if anything, turned paler. “Tom, I should–”
The door opened, interrupting their conversation, and Beansprout entered. She smiled, relief evident on her face. “You’re both awake! Nerian said you were OK.”
“Just about,” Arthur grumbled.
She plonked herself on the end of Tom’s bed. “Tell me everything!”
“Only if you tell us what we’re doing here,” Tom said.
“You’re recovering! We’re preparing to go to Ceridwen’s Cauldron to resurrect Merlin.”
Arthur sat bolt upright. “Where? To that old hag? To do what?”
“Steady on, Arthur,” Beansprout joked. “What old hag?”
“Ceridwen. How can she even still be alive?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Beansprout said, looking at Arthur curiously. “I think you’re still delirious. Ceridwen’s Cauldron is a place, not a person. It’s a hidden and forbidden place where someone can be resurrected from the dead.”
“Well she was a hag when I was alive!” Arthur railed. “But – you said we’re resurrecting Merlin?”
Tom, also confused, stared at Beansprout.
Beansprout looked surprised. “You didn’t know? Nerian didn’t tell you?”
“I can’t believe it!” Arthur looked awestruck. “I’ll see Merlin again, and you’ll get to meet him.” His excitement quickly vanished, and he gazed into space. “I can’t believe that Nimue trapped him for all those years ...”
Arthur fell into a brooding silence, and Beansprout looked worriedly at him before turning to Tom. She curled up at the end of the bed, making herself comfortable. “Spill then, Tom. What happened to you?”
Later that day, when Nerian was satisfied that Tom and Arthur were recovered, Beansprout showed them to their rooms.
Tom still felt tired and his limbs were weak, but after a long talk with everyone he was finally able to piece together the events of the past few days. His memories of their time inside the spell had now returned, but he found it difficult to believe how real it had all felt.
The one memory he couldn’t shake was that of Nimue’s green eyes. No matter how hard he tried to banish them from his mind, they kept returning, taunting him.
“You all right, Tom?” Woodsmoke asked. “You look miles away.”
With a jerk Tom turned. “Yes, fine.”
They were seated on thick cushions around a small low table, while Brenna updated them on the latest plans.
“Ceridwen’s Cauldron is higher on the moors than Scar Face Fell. It’s a lonely place, apparently, deserted now, and a few days’ travel from here in a place called Enisled. Ceridwen was a real person, and her cauldron had the power of rebirth, inspiration and knowledge. When she died, the place was sealed. Access to the cauldron has been blocked for centuries.”
Arthur interrupted. “There you go. I knew I recognised the name!”
“Why was it sealed?” Beansprout asked.
Woodsmoke answered. “It wouldn’t do, would it, to keep resurrecting anyone who died?”
“No, I suppose not,” she said. “It sort of makes a mockery of death.”
Arthur squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Like me you mean?”
“No, of course not!” Beansprout said aghast. “Your rebirth was a deal, arranged by Merlin for Vivian. Neither he nor you had any choice.”
“And yet you seem to treat it so lightly, Arthur,” Woodsmoke said with a grim look, “and the lives of those around you.”
A silence fell around the table as Arthur looked stonily back at him. “I do not treat it lightly. Or the lives of others. But I am sorry about what happened at the Fell. I said I’d wait and I didn’t. I got carried away.”
Woodsmoke glared at him. “Yes you did. You nearly killed both of you.”
“Sometimes decisions have to be made in very little time,” Arthur spat. “I was worried that if we didn’t act quickly, we’d never know what had happened to Merlin. However, the consequences were greater than I thought.” He turned to Tom. “I’m sorry, Tom. I put you in a difficult position.”
Tom looked uncomfortable and stuttered, “It’s OK Arthur.”
Woodsmoke persisted. “No, it’s not OK. Does Vivian know about any of this? She said she’d be in touch after the Meet.”
“No, I haven’t heard from her since before then.”
“So Vivian doesn’t know about Merlin and the spell, or Nimue’s part in it?”
“Not from me.” Arthur looked thoughtfully at Woodsmoke. “Unless she saw it all by scrying?”
“It seems strange she hasn’t been in touch when she was so anxious to keep track of our progress.”
They fell into an uneasy silence as they realised Woodsmoke was right. They had been so caught up in the chase they had almost forgotten about Vivian.
“Have we heard how Orlas is?” Woodsmoke asked Brenna.
“He’s fine. He woke at the same time as Arthur and Tom. He’ll be travelling with us. We’re going to wait another day or two for him to fully recover, and then we leave.”
“So we’re all going?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Herne’s instructions. It’s thanks to our involvement – particularly your efforts, Tom – that the spell was broken, so we are to join the resurrection.”
“It was mainly self-preservation. I didn’t want to be stuck in that spell forever. And frankly, Arthur,” Tom joked, trying to lighten the atmosphere, “you weren’t much help. You were a bear.”
“A bear? And you’ve only just thought to tell me? No wonder all I can remember is trees!” he exclaimed.
“Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind. Nimue said it was your animal spirit.”
Brenna laughed, “You’ll be shapeshifting with me soon.”
“You still have the silver branch, Tom?” Beansprout asked.
He patted his pocket. “It never leaves me.”
“And what are we doing about Nimue?” Arthur asked.
“I don’t give a damn about Nimue,” Woodsmoke said. “We should leave her be.”
Brenna and Beansprout agreed, Brenna adding, “She’s dangerous, and the spell’s broken. What’s the point? She’s lived quietly since she first put Merlin in the spell, and she’s probably returned to Vivian, or carried on to Raghnall. Perhaps that’s why Vivian hasn’t been in touch.”
Arthur didn’t answer, nodding slowly and staring at the table again.
Brenna exchanged a glance with Woodsmoke and then added gently, almost persuasively, “We have Merlin. There is nothing else to gain, Arthur. And Vivian was worried about Nimue’s welfare. Now that we know she was, and is, deliberately hiding, your obligation is over.”
He gave a brief nod. “Well, I need to stretch my legs.” And without further comment he left the room, leaving the others looking worriedly at each other.
“I don’t think Arthur can leave this,” Tom said. “He might feel guilty about almost getting us killed, but I think his need to find Nimue is greater.”
Woodsmoke looked grim. “Revenge is not our problem, Tom. And it is most definitely not your problem.”
And while Tom knew this, he also knew that it wasn’t that simple.
