But Merlin, having watched the sealing of that coffin, went for the last time to the mirror. In his hands he held the sword which Bleheris had passed to him before he ordered the Pict to reclose the entrance.
Now he stood facing the polished surface of the mirror seeing a gaunt, dark-faced man, his clothing stained with dried blood, his hands enfolded on the hilt of a tall sword. Around him the installations hummed.
He had done all this by instinct alone. What would follow now?
It was the mirror that answered him:
“Go to the box at your right. Merlin, and press there the four small buttons. These shall master time for you. When you awake, you will find that men are again looking to the stars. Then your hour will strike. This time was flawed—we must wait for a better day.”
“Arthur?” he asked.
“He was, is, will be… You will find another such resting place prepared for you. Enter therein and sleep.”
For a moment Merlin hesitated, and then he asked a last question:
“And Nimue?”
“Her fate is not within our knowledge. Merlin.”
He laid the sword on that bench before the mirror where he had sat so often. The blade still shone with all its glory undimmed. Only men’s hopes had failed. Merlin sighed.
Slowly he turned and found the buttons. He pressed as he had been ordered. Lights flashed back and forth. He stood dully watching them until once more they were still. Then he went to the box. Taking off his clothing, he settled within, felt the liquid rise about his body. Time— time—how long would be the time?
A white body beneath the moon, laughter bidding him come, bare feet running fleet as any deer could go across shadow-dappled ground… Merlin began to dream.