Even through the rain he rode forward, welcoming the wash of the storm against his body, because this was a thing of nature and not some ugliness of man’s actions. And he wondered about the story the mirror had told. Had it really been true that man had known peace and such knowledge to maintain it with his fellows? If that was true, and he had no reason to doubt what he had been told, then if he could do anything to help return to that golden age, he would do it gladly.
Within him grew a deep hatred, not of those who had wrought the destruction at the clan house, for that was the nature of raiders. But rather his mind raged against those others who ranged the stars and had such powers as he could not even imagine, and yet who would withhold from man the wisdom to make him more than brute beast
Were the Dark Ones jealous of the others, those who had chosen the way of earth? Or was it fear that moved them? Did they foresee that mankind was their enemy in some manner even as the wildcat and the hound were enemies from their births? If that was so, what quality could possibly lay within man to awaken a fear so deep among those who were his great superiors? Myrddin longed to be able to ask all this of the mirror. He would when he returned.
When he returned… ?
He must twist his thoughts away from all such speculations, concentrate instead on weaving such a course toward his goal as would throw off any hunters. Because he was not trained in such evasions, he must make doubly sure that he did all he could.
So he kept apart from any dwelling, unless it was one of those ruins that men had abandoned long ago. Twice he spent a night in one, tireless and lightless, yet marveling at the building which still had signs of refinements of living that had never been known in the clan house. The boy stretched the food he had brought as far as he could and then snared a rabbit. At least he was woodsrover enough to do that, and bring down a duck with a slinger’s good aim.
The meat he ate raw, forcing himself to such grisly meals because he dared light no fire. And never was he entirely free from the fear that he might indeed be followed. Twice he hid deep in bushes, his cloak tightly wrapped around his mount’s head to stifle any whinny, while parties of horsemen trotted by. He thought they were levies who followed Ambrosius, but he could never be sure and wisdom told him to avoid any possible discovery.
Then, with the ache of hunger acute in him, and the drive of his own uncertainty heavy on him, Myrddin came at last to the plain and saw before him, as if wrought by some giant, the great standing stones. He had reached the Place of the Sun.
5.
Myrddin huddled in his cloak. Outside rain dripped from the roof of the rough hut, but within was a fire and between his hands a wooden bowl of steaming rabbit soup thickened with herbs. The door of the hut was only a curtain of hide at which the wind twitched now and again. He squatted in a daze of fatigue, still too tired to try to eat, though the smell of the food brought saliva flooding into his mouth.
Lugaid did not break the silence but sat cross-legged, fingering a fold of a robe now gray instead of white, one which was clumsily patched and much frayed. He who had once been given the seat of honor in the clan house was now like any beggar haunting the roads where men passed. But there was no beggar’s whine in his voice, and the eyes which watched Myrddin were both serene and shrewd.
“Eat and sleep,” the Druid said. “There is nothing here to threaten a man.”
“How do you know that I am threatened?” Myrddin swallowed the soup he had scooped up in a wooden spoon.
“How did I know that you would come?” countered Lugaid. “The gods give men ways if they have the wit to use them. Did you yourself not forecast our meeting?”
Myrddin, remembering his dream, nodded. “I dreamed
Lugaid shrugged. “Who can say what is a dream? For it may well be a message sent or received. I think,” he added slowly, “that you have learned very much. Son of a Stranger.”
“I have learned …” Myrddin sipped again at the soup. He wanted to pour out all that had happened to him in that hidden cave, yet there was still a bridle set upon his tongue. Perhaps he would never be able to share what he had discovered with anyone on this earth. “I have learned what has brought me to this place, for there is a task to be done here.” At least he encountered no hindrance in saying that much.
“That I also knew. But not within this hour must you begin it. Sleep when you have eaten, for rest is also something which must be given any man.”
And the sleep Myrddin had on the pile of leaves and hides within Lugaid’s hut was dreamless, bringing no threat to make him restless. He woke to find the rain vanished, the sun full on his face. The hide of the doorway had been looped back to let in the day.
Through that door he could also see some of the standing stones of the Sky People, ring upon ring. And they were more strange than any ancient building of man, even those deserted ones in which he had taken shelter during his journey here. Between two of them now moved a figure robed in white. As it came closer he saw it was Lugaid, his beard, now whiter than his robe, untrimmed and growing down to his waist cord, while his mane of hair touched his shoulders.
Yet the Druid did not move like an old man, but rather with the firm step of one still in middle years. In his hands he carried a bag from which protruded leafed stems of plants. Myrddin guessed that he had been harvesting wild herbs and growing things, as he had often done when he had lived at the clan house.
The boy shook off the cloak which had been his covering. In place of the chill which yesterday’s rain had brought, the sun now gave a gentle warmth. He was grateful as he stretched his cramped arms and got to his feet, ducking as he went out of the doorway of the hut. The passage was a low one, even for his slight height.
“Master,” he greeted the Druid.
Lugaid shifted his bag. “You call me master, yet you are no follower of mine. There is something you want.” The old man smiled. “Aye, you would ask something of me, and yet you know not just how to frame the words. But seek not for the pretty phrases. There need be no ceremony between us. I gave you your name on your birthnight.”
“Aye,” the boy repeated. “The name you gave me, Myrddin, I have heard it was once granted to a god of hills. There is another name which has also been set upon me, that being Merlin.”
“Merlin.” Lugaid said it slowly, as if he was trying the sound of it “It is no name of the clan. Yet if it was granted to you, then it was done for a reason. So, MerlinMyrddin, what is it you ask of me?”
“To gain me the ear of Ambrosius the Roman.” There was no astonishment to be read on the face of the Druid. He asked quietly: “For what reason do you seek the favor of Ambrosius? And why not speak for yourself?”
Myrddin answered the second question first, swiftly baring his story of Vortigen, the prophecy and his interview with Ambrosius thereafter.
“And you believe that he will not listen, thinking your wish smacks of sorcery? Does it?”
“If the old knowledge is sorcery, yes. But for this must I have his favor: a stone must be returned to this Place of the Sun, a stone which raiders carried to the Western Isle. It must be reset in its proper place.”
Lugaid was nodding slowly before he had finished. “That tale I have also heard. But Ambrosius is one who deals with the things of this world, what can be seen, held, heard, tasted. Legends will not move him. However …”
“You know a way to reach his favor in this matter?” Myrddin’s voice rose a little as the Druid paused.
“Perhaps. Even the Roman emperors of old had monuments raised to the triumphs of their arms in wars. And truly this stone is rightly of Britain, stolen from us. Were Ambrosius to win a notable victory, then, in the flush of rejoicing, he might be approached on this matter.”