The Druid swung halfway around, his staff moving up. But at that moment Myrddin’s deep-planted memory came fully awake. His eyes caught those of the furious priest and held them for a long moment. The flush faded from the man’s countenance, his features slackened oddly. He looked dull, drained.
Vortigen watched that transformation with something approaching awe.
“What have you done, demon-born?” He raised his fingers in the sign to ward off bad fortune.
“Nothing, Lord King, except gain for myself a space in which to tell you how ill-served you are.”
The King licked his lips. His fingers tightened on the sword hilt, half drawing the blade from its sheath.
“In what manner am I ill-served?”
“In the manner of this tower you would build.” Myrddin pointed with his chin toward the piled stones. “Dig beneath and you shall see. For below lies a spring of water which flows to soften the earth, so it cannot hold the weight of the stones you would set on the surface. And within that water you shall find the fate of this land. For there crouches the white dragon from overseas.” He glanced beyond the King’s shoulder to that upstart Queen, whose gaze was as intent on him now as if she, toe, would use her will. as a weapon. Faintly he could feel the push of that will. But the force was feeble against what the mirror had built within him.
“Beyond the other edge of the pool is the red dragon of the Old Ones. And these strive ever to win an endless battle. Now the white dragon waxes in strength, and he shall nigh overcome his enemy. But the day lies close, closer than you know. Lord King, when the Red shall prevail. Set your men to spades and let them seek. You shall find it as I have said.”
The hand of the golden Queen reached forward as if to touch Vortigen’s shoulder. And in that moment Myrddin, carried out of himself, filled with understanding from the mirror, knew her for the enemy. She was more than just the Saxon wench who had seduced the High King, she was—
He frowned, sensing a new menace he did not understand and the nature of which he had not fronted before. Alarmed, he centered his concentration on the High King, instinctively knowing that this was the moment in which his own trained will was at its height
“Let them dig. Lord King!”
Vortigen, leaning forward on the stone slab so that his shoulder was now well beyond the Queen’s reach, nodded heavily and echoed:
“Let them dig.”
So they brought spades and cut into the earth, laboring hard and as fast as they might under the King’s eyes until there was a swift gush of water from the side of the hill. Then they hurried to lay bare a small cave in which there was a pool.
Myrddin drew on his powers. This was no small clouding of memory so that he would not be seen by his peers, their young minds lying well open to such bewilderments. No, he must create an illusion those here would not forget.
There was a flash of red on one side of the water, a spear of white flame on the other. The tips of those fires inclined toward each other, inclined and wavered. For as long as he might, Myrddin held the illusion and then, drained of energy, allowed the flames to sniff into nothingness. But there was awe on the faces of those about him. Someone hastily cut through his bonds.
The High King turned a blanched, strained face in his direction.
“It is the truth—the truth,” he repeated, his voice loud in the silence that had fallen on the hilltop.
“And I will give you another truth.” Out of nowhere Myrddin found the words which he knew he must say. “Your day comes to sunset, High King. Know that Ambrosius advances with the evening starl”
4.
“They speak of you as a prophet, boy.”
The commander wore his red cloak flung back to display a breastplate of the old Roman style, one bearing the design of a laurel wreath encircling a god clutching thunderbolts in either hand. He was stocky, with a closed face, as if he never allowed emotion to uncover what he might consider a weakness. He was of the Roman pattern in more than his dress: his weathered, swarthy skin, his hair clipped close to his skull, his jaw shaved clean, though his beard was so heavy that it seemed only momentarily restrained by such measures.
Myrddin sensed this man’s strength of purpose like another kind of armor or weapon. This was truly a leader of men. All they had said of Ambrosius Aurelianus was the truth: he was the last of the Romans, with all their virtues and firmness of purpose—and perhaps their faults as well. This was a captain one could follow, but he was not the man Myrddin sought, not one to weld the broken factions of Britain into one nation again. He was too much of a Roman to be anything to the tribesmen but a worthy war chief, looking toward the past and a life which the years of disunion had wiped forever away.
“Lord.” The boy chose his words carefully. This was one to whom he could not tell the entire truth, for Ambrosius would not believe it. “Lord, I am of the mountains and I knew this land. I only said what the High King’s men should have known, that there can be no firm foundation where a spring eats under the crown of a hill.”
“And these dragons—white and red—which our prisoners swear they saw at war?” countered Ambrosius swiftly. “Where did they come from, also out of your spring?”
“Lord, men see what they expect. The water lay as I said, therefore they were prepared to see what else I had pictured for them. The dragons were in their minds, for that much was the truth as they knew it. The white dragon of the Saxons sat in honor in Vortigen’s hold and and the red which is of our land was in defeat.”
He met the other’s piercing gaze squarely.
“I will not,” Ambrosius said with an emphasis which no one could mistake, “have any practice of sorcery. Such is both an abornination before the gods and a beguiling of fools. Remember that, my young prophet! Though a man may seize any weapon to save his life, he would do well (hereafter not to try it again. I and my men fight openly, with these.” He touched the sword which lay on the table in front of him. “That magic of the night, the evil of witchery, is not ours. Let that thrice-damned Saxon witch, who has so beguiled Vortigen to his undoing, try such methods.”
Myrddin had heard the tale, that it was the Queen who had produced the poison used in the murder of Vortigen’s eldest son, starting the revolt of the King’s own followers against him.
“Lord,” he answered, “I am no sorcerer. And I ask no more of you than to be allowed to depart to my own place.”
He thought he detected a trace of curiosity in the other’s glance.
“You are of the blood of Nyren, a worthy fighter and a loyal man. And you are of an age for the taking of arms. If you wish, I can place you among my troops. Only no more prophecies or the addling of men by words.”
“Lord, you offer me a great honor.” Myrddin bowed his head for a moment to acknowledge the courtesy the other had extended. “But I am not a man of the sword. My service to you will lie in other ways.”
“What other ways? Do you claim to be a bard with the power of words? Boy, you lack the long years for the learning a bard must have. And I am no king to send a talker rather than a troop against my enemies. I will not name you coward, for it seems by all accounts that you stood in mortal danger and came forth unharmed, by the use of your wits alone. But in this hour it is weapon against weapon, and the Saxons do not understand the power of words such as some of our people will listen to.”
“Lord, you say sorcery, but there is in me sometimes the gift of foretelling. Do you also claim that to be wholly evil?”
Ambrosius was quiet for a long moment, then he replied in a lower, more meditative tone.
“No, I do not deny the truth which lies in foretelling. But it is an evil in this manner: should a man know that victory lies before him, then he shall be less desperate in battle; if he knows defeat faces him, then already his heart is that much gone out of him and he will be the quicker to cry off from attack. Therefore I do not wish to know what lies beyond this moment, nor do I wish to consult any augury, even those the Legions did in their day. So I think you are right, Myrddin of the House of Nyren. If that is the service you would offer me, I must refuse it, and it would be better that you do go to your own place.