Then he used Vran, who fluttered back to him as the spring advanced. He pictured a sheep butchered and skinned on the ground and the raven, with an ear-splitting shriek, settled on it, strove to tear the flesh. Then, giving a honk of surprise, the raven wheeled upward again when the sheep faded into a bush.
Daily Myrddin tested and wrought his illusions until the morning when, climbing to his point of vision, he at last saw smoke rising from the destroyed clan house. Waiting only to take up the bark-wrapped sword, he strode quickly down the faint path he had never wanted to travel again, to see through the gap of the smashed outer gate the men who stood by the signal fire. One of them he knew—Credoc, Uther’s own shield man. That he should be sent on such an errand made Uther’s great desire obvious. And Myrddin realized that the time had come of which the voice had warned him.
He knew that to these men in their rich cloaks, their fine linen tunics, their wealth and ornaments, he must look like a beggar of the wilds, a woodwose or some strange thing out of the hill legends. But he came proudly, knowing that only he could foster the King’s desire, even though he would do it by trickery.
“You are Myrddin?” Credoc’s disdain was plain to read. “I am. And the High King wishes my services,” Myrddin answered composedly. “The life in the hills, my lord, is not a soft one.”
“So it would seem!” Credoc did not quite sneer openly, but his eyes and tone condemned what he saw, though Myrddin cared nothing for that.
But he was more suitably clad, in fresh tunic, cloak and trousers of clan check when he rode into the King’s city. Years of neglect, other years of Saxon raiding, had done much to reduce to ruin what had once been a goodly port. But certain buildings had been repaired and the largest of these was snug-walled. It even had a look of splendor on the inside, where hangings of needlework covered most of the deficiencies.
Myrddin was taken to an inner chamber. Uther sat on the end of a bed whose tumbled coverings had not yet been straightened, as if the ruler had just risen from sleep, though the morning was well advanced.
“Ho, prophet” Uther drank from a silver-mounted horn cup and then passed that to a waiting boy, signaling him to refill it from a jar of foreign wine. “You spoke the truth on the day of our last meeting. I have indeed found a use for you. And if you serve me well in this, you may name your own reward. You,” he said, turning on the others in the chamber, “get you hence, all of you. I would speak in private to this prophet.”
“Lord King, he is a self-confessed dealer in magic,” Credoc protested.
“I care not! Such magic as he has wrought to my knowing has been for the good of this land. Not notably so, of course, but at least to no one’s hurt. Now leave me.”
They obeyed, with visible reluctance. But the High King waited until they had gone before he spoke, and then only in a low voice which would not carry to the walls of the chamber.
“Myrddin, you dealt once in illusion, as you told my brother. Saying that men see what they want to see. Have women also this failing?”
“It is my belief that they do. Lord King.”
Uther nodded vigorously. He was smiling, taking small sips from the refilled horn. “Then I wish you to create an illusion for me, prophet. Lately was I crowned here before the host of those who have long followed me. And not the least of those lords is Goloris out of Cornwall. But he is a man of age, still sturdy enough to answer the war horn most likely, but yet not one to satisfy a young wife as he should. And he has such a wife, the Lady Igrene, near a daughter to him by years. This lady—she is the fairest I have ever seen. Though I have bedded many women—and -all of them came to me willingly enough—yet never have I seen her like! When I tried to speak her fair she would have none of me, but rather tattled to her lord so that he most rudely withdrew from my court, saying no farewells, in such a manner as to put shame on me!” Now Uther’s face flushed and he spoke with his lips tight against his teeth in anger.
“No man or woman shall so shame the High King, that others may titter behind their hands! I have already sent my guard into Cornwall to make that plain to Duke Goloris. But his lady—aye, that is another matter. I would hold her within my arms so that she may know how a king can love. The Duke has been enticed from his stronghold but the lady is safe, he deems, within. Now tell me, prophet, how can I come to her bower or she to my chamber?”
“You spoke of illusions. Lord King. There could perhaps be woven an illusion so secure—for perhaps the space of a night—that the lady would think her lord had returned to comfort her. Yet it would only be the outer semblance of the Duke…”
Uther threw back his head to utter a roar of laughter. He was, Myrddin saw, well heated with the wine. “A famous jest, prophet! And one which pleases me. You swear this can be done?”
“For a short time, Lord King. And we would have to be close to the Duke’s hold…”
“No matter!” Uther waved his hand. “In my stable are the fleetest horses in this land. If need be we can. run the hearts out of them.”
As the High King commanded, so might it be done. Myrddin found himself clinging to the back of a larger steed than he had ever known, riding at a reckless pace through the twilight; they passed on even through the night, for the moon swung high enough to give them wan light. He did not consider the good or ill of what he would do, but rather what could come of this if he was successful. Another Sky Son would be born, one like himself, always in half exile in this land. And at that he knew joy, for he had learned the bitterness of loneliness throughout his years.
Let the child be born and taken to Ector—then perhaps he himself would be free. He longed as fiercely for that freedom as any slave wished his chains to be loosed.
Thus in three days they came to a fortress by the sea and found hiding places in a copse. Myrddin pushed forward alone to look down on the keep Uther wished to invade and, in the silence of the spot on which he sheltered, he began to ready his powers for the greatest feat of illusion he had ever tried.
8.
The night was cold, unusually chill for Beltane Eve. There was a crisp wind off the sea, whose thunder-break of waves Myrddin could hear even through the thick walls of the fortress. He himself was feverish as if some rheum of winter troubled him as he crept along the passage, unsure of his powers even yet.
Uther and his men slept back in that hidden camp. It had been easy enough to introduce the herb powder into their single bottle of heather mead, for the strong flavor of the drink covered the lighter taste of the sleep herb. And he had implanted the illusion dream in Uther’s mind with all the skill the mirror had taught him.
But now he traversed passages where twice he had to raise screens of illusion to distort sight and leave him free. The strain was telling on him. In the chamber ahead … He paused within hand-touching distance of the curtain that cloaked its entrance, began once more to create his dream weaving.
When it was as strong as he could summon, he drew a deep breath and walked forward, lifting the right edge of the curtain and stepping boldly through. If he worked his magic correctly, the woman within would see only what she looked to see, the unexpected return of her lord.
In his hand was the tiny packet holding the rest of the sleep draft. Get her to swallow that on some pretext and his task was done.
A lamp of the old Roman design flickered beside a bed fashioned like a richly carved wooden box with its lid removed. However it held no occupant. Instead the woman stood looking out of the window at the storm-roiled sea, a cloak about her slim shoulders covering only part of her nudity. She turned swiftly as Myrddin’s boot rasped on the stone.
Her startled look was gone in an instant. She smiled hesitantly, as if not sure in what mood the intruder came.