By the time Nimue and Merlin returned to the exercise yard, the flare of energy which Merlin’s wine had imparted had left her. Her limbs were weak. Contrariwise, her determination to continue strengthened.
Merlin stood in the yard, waiting for her to indicate where they should search next. His expression was patient, one of waiting. This was Nimue’s quest.
She cast about with her mind and every sense.
While they had searched inside the echoing stone rooms, the sun had climbed higher. It was nearing its zenith.
Through a gap in the ravaged perimeter wall, Nimue saw tall, pale green spring grasses, carpeting the summit of the hill. Knee deep in those grasses was a bull, peering through the gap at Nimue and Merlin with incurious placidity.
The bull was pure white.
Nimue touched Merlin’s wrist and lifted her chin, pointing silently toward the gap.
“Mithras…” Merlin breathed, for the bull was Mithras’ symbol. “Mithras was a popular god among the Legions. If they followed usual customs, there will be a cellar or a cave close by. The entrance will be outside the fort.”
“Out where the bull stands,” Nimue murmured. She did not ask how Merlin knew of the ancient practices. It was likely he was an initiate of Mithras, for those with the Sight often sought any god who would speak to them, to further their understanding. Was it for Merlin’s knowledge that the gods had sent him here today?
They moved toward the wall and the gap in it. The crumbling stone was barely to the knees, here. As they approached, the bull turned with heavy steps and moved away.
Nimue stepped over the remains of the wall. She didn’t look to place her feet around the fallen stones and mortar. She kept her gaze upon the bull. It seemed to be a perfectly ordinary beast, except for the pure white of its hide. It tugged on the sweet new grass and moved erratically in search of the next morsel. Despite the great creature’s wandering steps, it headed steadily along the crest toward a great yew tree which spread its branches out over the land.
“The tree is old. Very old,” Merlin murmured beside her.
Nimue nodded. She could feel its ancient roots running into the earth beneath her feet.
As the bull they followed drew near the tree, flapping wings snapped loudly, telling Nimue how quiet the land had become around them. The bird in the tree gave a raw cry and launched itself into the air with huge wings.
“Falcon,” she breathed.
“A merlin,” Merlin corrected her.
Nimue’s heart ran high and hard, singing in her mind. This was the way. She peered at the massive lower branches of the yew, looking for the owl.
There it was. It sat close to the trunk, blinking in the dim light beneath the canopy, watching them draw closer. It was as white as the bull.
“The entrance will be well hidden,” Nimue said, for the followers of Mithras had been outlawed even before the Romans left Britain.
“I will know where to find it,” Merlin said. “There will be signs.”
His words confirmed that Merlin had been brought here to open the way for her.
The bull stopped before the owl. It turned its great head, the thick, heavy neck pendulous with rolls of flesh. The owl monitored the bull with an unblinking gaze.
Calmly, the bull raised its snout and caught the leaves of a low-hanging branch in its teeth and tore at it.
Nimue wanted to cry out a warning, for the leaves and fruit of yew trees were deadly to most animals.
Merlin caught her wrist. “No, do not speak,” he said softly. “The gods demand their price. This is the payment you offer to be allowed entry.”
Nimue swallowed, as the bull chewed the dark green foliage. It was only part of the price, she now realized. The other cost of entry grew inside her.
“North, where the earth meets the air,” Merlin said.
They moved around the perimeter of the great tree. It grew at the crest of the hill, and on all sides, the land sloped away. On the north, the slope was less, the land running to the edge of the cliffs overlooking the straits. From here, the sea appeared as still and unmoving as the rest of the day. Across the narrow straits laid the most holy of isles, Ynys Môn, which the Romans had renamed Mona. No birds hovered over the sea, in search of fish. Even the chimney holes of the monastery at the far end of the island were without smoke.
Nothing moved. It was as if time itself had stopped.
“Do you feel it?” Nimue breathed.
“The very ground beneath my feet strums,” Merlin replied. His voice was strained. He examined the yew tree, his eyes narrowed, as if his head ached.
On the north side, the roots of the yew broke the ground, lifting in great waves across the earth. The soil between was bare of weeds and grasses, for the yew cast too much shade to allow anything to flourish beneath its branches.
A trace of a path remained in the grasses beyond the tree, once made by many feet, long ago. Now, the land was taking the smooth path back, reclaiming it. The direction, though, was unmistakable.
Nimue turned to study the tree. If there were signs, then they were indeed invisible. She waited, content to let Merlin find the way forward, for that was his role.
Merlin raised his chin, the hood casting his eyes in shadow. He held them nearly closed, as he hunted with senses other than sight.
From the direction where they came, the bull gave a snort, then a soft, rumbling bellow. It staggered, thrusting out its short front foot. The hoof struck the ground, which vibrated.
The bull raised its great head, the horns rearing back. Its eyes rolled.
Pity stirred in Nimue’s heart. Regret enveloped her.
The bull didn’t drop to its knees then roll over, as a cow normally did when it was sick. Instead, it stood for a moment, every limb strained, its head back in protest. Then it toppled, as if knocked over by a giant, invisible hand.
The ground shuddered at the impact. The tremors continued, increasing.
Nimue threw out her hands for balance as the land flexed and rolled beneath her. She and Merlin gripped each other, fighting to stay on their feet. Shifting earth cracked and rumbled, like a late summer storm beneath them, instead of overhead.
The owl took flight with a lazy flap of its wings, the white body almost invisible against the pale blue sky.
After such a profound silence, the grinding thunder deafened them. Nimue clapped her hands to her ears, her heart strumming too hard.
At last the earth grew still. Dust rose from the base of the yew tree in a dense cloud, mingling with the branches above, for there was no wind to drive it away. Where the earth had laid packed between the gnarled roots, was now a deep, black opening. Stones which had been buried in earth, now appeared dark and moist, around the edges of the opening. They were made by man and carved with ancient symbols. The hole was regular. Man-shaped.
Nimue moved toward it.
“No. A moment,” Merlin breathed, grabbing her elbow.
She waited.
Merlin closed his eyes and held his hand out toward the opening. His fingers crooked, then twisted.
From within the dark opening came a deep sound of something heavy shifting and resettling.
Merlin opened his eyes. “If you had entered before, you would have died two paces beyond the lintel. Now, you can enter safely.”
She nodded. “You are to come with me, I think.”
Merlin stood aside. “After you.”
Nimue moved toward the tree. Among the broken earth, she saw regular shapes. Steps, leading down. This time, she picked out her footing with care. This was the domain of a demanding god—and not the one who had brought her here. This petulant god was merely the guardian, used to protect an older and deeper secret than that of his followers.
As she stepped through the old, carved doorway, she felt the unnatural chill of malevolence biding its time.
Cautiously, she reached out for the torch she knew would be just inside the door. Cold, rough wood was beneath her fingers. She plucked the torch from the iron stand on the wall. She focused on the tip of it and made fire. The power tore through her, bringing deep pleasure and pain, too. Light leapt from the torch, as flames licked and danced.
Nimue lifted the torch.
Mithras was a god of men. She had never before entered one of his domains. Yet this place was as she suspected it would be. The chamber was empty of all the accoutrements which would once have been used to worship, taken away by those who had also buried the entrance against future use. All that remained in the cold square chamber was the stone altar—carved out of the rock which made this hill.
Nimue looked at Merlin. “Beneath the god’s watchfulness there is another sensation…can you feel it?”
Merlin shook his head. “It is not for me to feel or see. Where?”
She turned on her heels, looking for a direction, until she was once more standing and facing the altar.
“It is a part of the hill,” Nimue murmured, studying it. “Here before he came, here before his worshippers arrived. Here long ago…”
Merlin moved closer to the altar and bent to study the carvings. They were sacred to the bull worshippers, but of no surprise to Nimue. She had seen them in her dream.
“Here. Look at this,” Merlin said. “This is not of his design.” He pointed to the long side of the altar.
Nimue brought the torch over and bent to peer at the carvings with her aged eyes.
“It is the Christian symbol,” Merlin said. “Perhaps those who cast down this place put it there in warning. Their god is a jealous one.”
Hilt, cross-guard and blade. Nimue shook her head. “No, it is a sword.” She reached for the shape hewed from the ancient stone and pressed it.
The rumbling was just as loud this time, yet the ground did not shift as it had before. Instead, the altar slid to one side with a grinding of stone upon stone. Sparks leapt.
Beneath the altar was another set of steps, leading into blackness. Thick air wafted, making Nimue wheeze and stagger backward.
The grinding stopped. Instead, came the soft, rhythmic plink of water upon water.
Merlin caught her arm once more. “If you enter that place, you will die. I can feel it.”
“I am already dead,” Nimue said gently. She pointed to an unlit torch sitting against the wall behind the alter. “Wait for me here.”
Merlin reached for the torch as she lit it for him.
Then Nimue stepped into the dark beneath the altar.
THE PRESENCE WHICH GUARDED THE tomb was no paltry god. It was an immortal power, part of the earth, nature and all living things. It held no emotions and was not swayed by petty offerings and sacrifices. It had no pride to be mollified with prayers. It simply was.
It had been set to guard against all comers except he who owned this place. As Nimue stepped through the shield it had raised, the implacable will tore through her, searching for the signs which would mark her as the one for whom it had been waiting. She was not the one, of course, and it left its indelible mark on her soul.
Nimue made herself step to the bottom of the last broad step, into the calf-deep, ice water which had accumulated there. When this tomb was first made, it would have been dry and clean and well lit, while the mourners laid the grave goods carefully. The stone casket faced west, the direction of the Otherworld.
There was nothing Roman here. This was a place which followed the ancient ways and called upon one of the oldest powers to guard it.
The torch flared and jumped, making the black surface of the water gleam and shift. The water had destroyed nearly everything left for the great man. Only a massive shield remained on the eastern wall…and the casket itself.
It sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by water, a small island of stone, for no simple wood and iron resting place would do for one of Britain’s greatest leaders.
Her heart leaping and hurting in her chest, sickness rushing through her with cold, silvered fingers, Nimue moved through the water toward the sarcophagus.
There were no remains in it. Macsen Wleddig had died in Aquileia, near Rome. They had executed him like a common criminal, dragged his body through the streets and left it for dogs to feast upon. Those who mourned him had built this place for his spirit to find its way back and rest in peace when it did. They had laid his possessions around him, in the old way.
The old ways dictated that his personal weapons would be laid by the eastern wall. If they were there, they were beneath the water. Nimue rested her hand on the casket, to catch her breath, as she tried to see through the black liquid.
The burning heat by her knuckles made her snatch her hand away. Nimue raised the torch to study the casket itself.
The sword had been laid on top of the plain stone lid, perhaps years after this room was built, and after a long, slow and perilous journey from Rome. It would have been stolen from Macsen Wleddig’s conquerors, then smuggled in carts, hidden in packs and stowed beneath sacks of grain as it made its way from Rome, across Gaul, to Britain. If the Romans had discovered it on its journey here, they would have taken it back, determined to prevent one of Britain’s greatest symbols of defiance and independence from returning to its people. Perhaps Helen herself had laid the blade upon the empty casket. Nimue suspected it was so.
Over the generations the sword had remained hidden here the water had seeped through the rocks. In that time, sedimentation from the weeping water built over the sword, clinging to the damp scabbard, until it built up in solid layers of calcified, gray rock over the top of the blade.
The jeweled hilt and golden pommel were untouched metal, glinting in the light of Nimue’s dying torch.
She did not reach out to touch the great sword. Her knuckles burned still from resting close to it. It was not her role to take the sword. The hand which could safely lay itself upon the hilt belonged to the true heir.
She had found the sign Britain yearned for.
Nimue closed her eyes and gave silent thanks.