Arthur’s nephew? Nay, Arthur’s son by that slut whom Nimue had taken into hiding. And by that single glance at him, Merlin was also sure the boy knew the truth—or the part of it which could cause the most harm for Arthur— that he was indeed the King’s son, and by a lady who was reputed the King’s half-sister.
Merlin drank, knowing that his long training in hiding his feelings must now serve him better than ever before. “Lord Modred.” He nodded to the boy. “The Pendragon blood is in honor.”
“Aye.” Arthur smiled. “He is in good time to blood his sword and show what mettle he has in him. For we have had the coast lights up along the Saxon shore. These war dogs yet sniff around for some mouthful of prey to snatch. We ride hunting again—“
The King’s face was a little flushed, his eyes alight Merlin, looking at him, knew that no argument he might use now would stop Arthur. He must set aside his own plan of confronting the King with the mirror, so letting Arthur learn his heritage and true purpose. And Modred … Modred who was the King’s son was fostered by Nimue. That Merlin also instinctively knew. She had had a long time, as earth men measured time, to prepare the shaft. Now she had launched it. To the malice of one who sees himself bereft of a rightful place, add the iron will of Nimue. She had a formidable weapon in this youth.
Though caution moved in Merlin, so did anger begin to rise. It was always Nimue and from the first he had been far too influenced by her good fortune. Now he would seek her out. And how better find a road to her than through this Modred who was her creature?
Merlin listened to the excited talk of a new expedition against the Saxons. But as he sat in his place at that round board he raised his eyes to the gallery of the great hall, there looking from one fair face to another. It was the boast of the Queen that she had in her train the most beautiful women of Britain, having no jealousy in any threat of comparison.
There sat Guenevere. Her richly embroidered robe was a clear yellow, like ripening grain. There was a thin crown of red gold on her hair, which was so near the color of her robe that hair melted into cloth and cloth seemed a part of hair. A heavy necklace of amber was around her throat, and earrings of that same mystic gem dangled against each cheek as she leaned forward, her eyes narrowly intent on—whom?
Merlin traced her gaze. She was looking at Modred and about her lips there lay a faint shadow of a lazy smile.
For a long moment Merlin studied her intently, for he knew that something lay in that look which he could not read. And his inability to do so was disturbing. That the women of the tribes were puzzles for him was perhaps a kind of maiming, though that thought was startling in itself and he did not have time to consider it now. He had believed Guenevere a doll, a plaything, without any thoughts which might be of service to his own goal. Was she more?
He was searching now for another face, however. So he turned from the bright sunlight of the Queen to the more subdued rainbow of her ladies. Some he knew by name, others were but flower faces which he had never chosen to study with as much interest as he now gave them. Nowhere was the one he sought. There was no dark lady as vivid, or perhaps more vivid, than the Queen. If Nimue had introduced Modred to the court, she had not come here herself, or else she chose not to attend this feast.
Slowly Merlin sought for her with that other sense which he rarely used in such a large company, mainly because it could be overwhelmed and lost when there were so many minds and personalities all emitting energies of their own. No, he would take blood oath his enemy was not present.
But her will was here, in the person of the King’s “nephew.” Merlin began to plan anew. He could not believe that this sudden news of Saxons at the coast signified any great difficulty. It would seem that Arthur himself looked on this ride as a diversion, a chance to show his new-found nephew the dexterity and invincible force of the Black Horse troops.
Now—Merlin knew it inside himself, swelling, pushing aside, erasing all the doubts of his half-human heritage— now was the time for him to do what should be done in this hour. Summon the Sky ships at long last—with or without Arthur’s concordance!
He had withdrawn, even in the midst of the feasters, into his own thoughts. Now he was suddenly aware that the men about him were rising, calling on their armor bearers, making ready to ride. There was excitement in them, that fiery thirst for battle that always marked the tribesmen. He could feel the force of their emotions kindling an answer in himself. And he was quick to control it with that other part of him which was not of this world, but of the Star Lords; that part of him thought, planned and used invisible forces to accomplish its ends, not the sharp-edged primitive weapons about him.
There was one standing before him, looking into his eyes. Merlin, now alert, stared back at Modred.
“They call you bard.” Modred’s voice was low-pitched, to pass unheard in the clamor about them now. “They also name you sorcerer, son of no man.” There was an insolence in his tone which would have brought any of the tribesmen to his feet, sword half out, ready to offer an open challenge in return.
“All that is the truth.” Merlin was a little mystified by this open approach, though he had felt from the first that Nimue’s man would in some way make plain his feeling.
“And how much of it is true?” The challenge in the youth’s voice was even more marked.
Merlin smiled. “How much truth do any of us know concerning ourselves? Or are able to convey that truth even a little to others? We all have our own powers and forces, much or little. What matters is how we use the gifts and learning given us.”
“There is learning from the dark as well as from the light,” the other answered him flatly. “The High King listens to the priests of light, bard. The old days are done—“
Now Merlin laughed. The same battle fever which gripped those around him at the message that there were Saxons to be met arose in him, but for another reason. Nimue, through this youth, was delivering her challenge. And when it came to war, then his doubts vanished. He could draw on the forces he had used that day when the stone rose to his signal and moved. What had eaten him lately in this court? He was no useless tool; he was a commander of such powers as none in (his hall had ever seen. Now his mind moved rapidly as he enumerated those powers in part, even as his surface thoughts probed at Modred.
“Have you never heard this. Lord Modred,” he asked, making a mockery of that name, light mockery which the boy caught, for there was a dark flush rising under his skin, “that there is that which was, is and will be? I think she who taught you knew that promise well.”
He had half turned away when Modred caught at the sleeve of his robe.
“You are insolent, bard! And what mean you by ‘she’?”
Merlin laughed again. So Nimue had not been able to establish full control of this nursling of hers. He might look like one of the Old Blood but he had the ways of the tribes, with that spark of angry fire rising at the first crossing of mental swords.
“Boy”—he gave him no “lord” this time—“you have not learned manners, whatever else you have been taught.” Merlin twitched the sleeve of his robe from between the other’s fingers. “Most of all, you should learn the nature of your man before you speak.”
Perhaps he had given the boy a hint too much with those words. But he was also of tribe blood and royal as Modred. He also thought that Nimue must not have done too well in choosing this tool for her meddling. He was not another Ector, nor even a Cei—he was partly a fool.
Merlin made his way through the throng of excited men. He had his own mission, now that he had at last made up his mind. However, at the door he paused to look back. Modred was still staring after him, and now the boy’s hand lay on another arm, that of one of the priests from overseas. The priest’s shaved face was alive with emotion and Merlin saw that Modred’s lips were moving. That he stirred some pot of trouble, Merlin had no doubt. But what kind of trouble … He shrugged.