“He is under ensorceument,” Merlin answered the first question. “And he must be swiftly awakened thereit.”
“You can do that?”
“With certain remedies, aye. Let me go to my chamber, but you stay here. Allow no one but the two of you near him.” He nodded to the Pict now. “I shall be as quick as I can!”
Alive and well when Nimue departed, he thought as he strode along the hall. Then perhaps she had placed on the King one of those delayed mind-orders which would strike when she was gone. What else Cei had said did not hold Merlin’s attention now. He must save Arthur!
In his own chamber he chose hurriedly from his supplies, gathering small jars into a rush basket. And he also carried his wand with him as he returned to the King’s chamber. Once there he sent Bleheris for a pot of boiling water, then had the Pict set up a brazier into which, on a bed of live coals, Merlin tossed leaves of various sorts he hurriedly culled from his selections. An aromatic smoke arose while Merlin brewed a tankard of liquid with the water.
“His sword—“ He turned to Cei. “Where is his sword?” It was Bleheris who answered, not with words but by scuttling across the room to fetch the sheathed blade from behind a chest.
“That one came hunting,” he said as he put the sword into Merlin’s hands. “But he did not find it.”
As Merlin drew the sword and the firelight caught the blade, taming it into a shimmering bar of light, he asked of Cei: “Modred—is this nithling you speak of Modred?”
“Aye.” Cei’s voice was hot with fury. “He tried to put his will on the lords because the King ailed. They would not swear to him. Then—then he wooed the Queen. And she listened to him! In the night she rode off with Modred, and men who saw her go said she went willingly. Faugh! She is near twice his years and yet she colored like a maid when he looked at her. She deems Arthur as good as dead and she would still be Queen! What will you do now?”
“I summon our lord’s presence back. A part of him strays in a strange place and it is a place which is death to man. Now be silent!”
Merlin raised the sword until the point rested lightly, tip only, on Arthur’s forehead above and between his eyes. Though both Cei and Bleheris listened and this was not meant for the ears of common men, he began to chant. His eyes were closed as he tried not to believe that he stood in the familiar chamber of the King, but rather ranged in another place to which someone, doubtless Nimue, had banished Arthur.
There was a kind of nothingness, though odd crooked dazzles of light still ran through it. Each of those flashes was a personality which had either chosen to enter this limbo or had been banished here. Merlin’s chant rang, not as words, but rather as muted sounds. With that a path of light also spread out and out from Merlin’s own stand here. The sword was a pointer he could use in his search to locate Arthur.
Merlin began to move along that path of light while the dazzles drew back or fled away. But one red-gold flaihan was touched and held in spite of frenzied contortion. Seeing that. Merlin changed the flow of words. Earlier words had been of far-seeking, now they formed an imperative summons.
Down the path of sword light came that wriggling figure, fighting because the compulsion to remain here had been set upon it Merlin’s will must defeat that compulsion. He commanded, as one who had full right to do so. Into that command Merlin poured all his concern for Arthur, his belief in the other and the mission which they both shared.
Back drew that fighting fragment of twisted light. It was fairly caught and held by the power of the sword. Merlin released his own hold on that strange far country to open his eyes.
He was never sure if he actually saw that last flicker of light slide down the sword blade to the King’s head, but he heard Arthur’s groan and saw his head move a fraction on the pillow. He had won.
17.
The breeze at the top of the windswept wall did not carry away the words of the man who stood below. Arthur, his face drawn and set in lines of haggard strain, stood firm-footed gazing down at that bard. Behind him was ranged a ragged showing of his once-proud court. Cei’s voice was a thick growl, monotonously cursing the bard, who by the ancient custom of the tribes must be free from any retaliation in physical form.
Merlin studied the man. This was so ingenious a move that he did not believe the idea had been Modred’s at all. He could see Nimue in this—or was he too ready to see Nimue in all which moved against Arthur or him? The plan could even have been partly Guenevere’s, for the bard below was from her father’s court, well noted there for the sharpness of his tongue and the evil twists of his mind which profaned bardic uses to his own purposes.
This was a threat which had brought proud lords and kings to dire disaster in the past: for the bard was engaged in singing aloud the tale of Arthur who lay with his own sister to beget a son whom now he hunted from him, of Arthur who was demon-possessed and no true king at all.
Since his recovery the King had refused to listen to Cei and the others who had pressed him for the instant pursuit of Modred and Guenevere. He had patiently pointed out over and over again that to pursuer with a sword was to break apart the Fellowship of Britain. And that, if the Fellowship failed, Britain would also break asunder while the sea wolves would be quick to pick her bones.
Merlin had thought Modred more farseeing than to move thus openly with the old scandal. He could not expect the lords to rally to him after revealing his mother’s shame to pull Arthur down. Even though he was of the Pendragon blood, no lord hearing this would raise his voice for Modred to wear the crown. By tainting Arthur he tainted himself. So why?
Guenevere, too, had much to lose. If she had chosen Modred as the coming ruler, thinking Arthur on his death bed, then why would she wish to dash his chances? Too many questions and they all led, he was sure, to Nimue.
If she had discovered his attack on her stronghold then her fury might have erupted, pushing her to act without the careful intrigue he associated with her, to throw aside all cover and make such a deadly attack. Nimue—he was positive of that!
On and on rang that chant, derisive, penetrating, tearing at the innermost feelings of a man who had no way of taking counteraction. Maybe Arthur could not, but … Merlin moved. There was an answer, abrupt, perhaps dangerous in a way. Yet he could not allow this reviling to continue. In the past, mighty men of good life had been led to commit kin-murder by just such goading.
Merlin raised his wand, pointing it at the head of the bard. This was no real weapon; he was not putting an end to the law of bardic freedom of speech by physical means.
No, it was thought command which he hurled, knowing full well that the man below would never have ventured to the very walls of Camelot with his obscene attack were he not defended by shields no man could see. Merlin concentrated. The words sing-songed on.
Then suddenly the bard was silent. His head shook from side to side. He raised frenzied hands to claw at his own mouth.
Merlin’s own voice rang out: “The one who has spat forth poison now must chew on it! Speak, man of little power, speak now the truth!”
It took all the power of his will to hold the bard. He had been very right in his belief that the fellow had come well armed. He had strong defenses of the old lore to counteract, yet he did so.
The bard had fallen to his knees. He looked straight up at Merlin now, his face working hideously as if he indeed held some fell poison in his mouth and could not spew it forth, so that it ate into his tongue and jaws. Again Merlin pointed with the wand.
“Speak out, with the truth. Give us no more lies of your foul imagining. Who sent you to so bemire the High King?”
As if against his will the bard’s lips parted.
“She—“ he said. That single word might have been wrenched from him by a torturer’s instrument.