The Perilous Order of Camelot

Volume Two:

The Eagle and the Sword

A. A. Attanasio

The Eagle and the Sword

published by Firelords Press

Ignite your imagination!

http://aaattanasio.com/

Second Edition

Copyright © 2013 A. A. Attanasio

ISBN: 9780983608424

First edition published by HarperCollins, New York: 1997

The Perilous Order of Camelot; bk. 2.

Library of Congress classification: PS3551.T74 Z24 1997

Cover Art:

Jaime Oria

i.boskone@gmail.com

http://xenophone.tumblr.com/

Arthur was cruel from boyhood, a horrible son,

a horrible bear, an iron hammer.

— Nennius

Contents

Preface

Prologue

Book One: Eagle of Thor

Chapter 1: Storm-Raiders

Chapter 2: Aquila Regalis Thor

Chapter 3: Melania of Aquitania

Chapter 4: Aelle, Chieftain of the Thunderers

Chapter 5: Merlin

Chapter 6: Ygrane

Chapter 7: Excalibur

Chapter 8: Kyner's Battle-Soul

Chapter 9: The Viper-Priest

Chapter 10: Morgeu the Fey

Chapter 11: The Gleeman

Chapter 12: Severus Syrax

Chapter 13: Wise Dog

Chapter 14: The Weapons Master of the Gods

Chapter 15: Keeper of the Dusk Apples

Book Two: Keeping the White Bird

Chapter 16: The Evil

Chapter 17: Magic against Evil

Chapter 18: Procession of Clouds

Chapter 19: Crowland

Chapter 20: Prince Bright Night

Chapter 21: The Hollow Hills

Chapter 22: The White Bird

Chapter 23: Child of the Sphinx

Chapter 24: Warrior’s Vow

Chapter 25: Play of Shadows

Chapter 26: Escape from the Hollow Hills

Chapter 27: In the Realm of Desire

Chapter 28: A Dream Has Wings

Chapter 29: Love Is First

Chapter 30: The Star Stone

Chapter 31: Along the Spirit Trail

Chapter 32: World of Light

Preface

Born of Uther Pendragon, king of the Britons, and Ygrane of Tintagel, queen of the Celts, Aquila Regalis Thor—Arthor—has grown to young adulthood unaware of his royal destiny. This is the first book in his story, in which the orphaned youth discovers himself, physically and emotionally, on his journey to Camelot.

The Dragon and the Unicorn, the volume that precedes this, recounts the magical events that culminated in Arthor's birth, and the following Prologue touches on the consequences of that story and the coming of Merlin.

Arthor, of course, is the eagle of this book's title: an apt symbol, this solitary lord of raptors, for the most solitary king of legend.

And the sword is the most famous sword of all—the blade that held darkness at bay for a generation of magic, chivalry, and peerless love.

Prologue

An angel stands atop a rocky summit in western Britain at noon on a summer day in this year of the Lord 490. To mortal eyes, he is invisible, his face a shaft of sunlight, robes bundles of wind stirring gorse on the higher slopes of the mountain. Yet in his eyes, nothing is hidden. He sees the stuttering flames of all living things. The dead and the unborn draw near his fire in a frail mist. The hosts of the forests flicker like stars before him, and under his gaze every sparrow strung on its thread of song is stitched brightly against the blue curve of heaven.

Patiently, the angel stares south over the rumpled land and watches the sea turning its pages on the Saxon Coast. He reads there the coming Dark Ages. Flat-bottomed boats slide off the sea and hiss onto sand, disembarking furious warriors in wolf pelts and cloaks woven from human scalps. The drums they beat have been stretched from the flesh of those they conquered, and their music is low and weighted as fog.

Directly in front of him, Roman ruins dot the landscape like crazed pieces of a shattered puzzle. Huddled within those skewed stone walls, thatch-roofed hamlets await unawares the torch of the coming invaders. Oblivious clerics cower in mud huts, miscopying Plotinus and Lucretius again and again. Only the blind eyes of broken statuary watch as grunting farmers drag crude plows across gravelly fields.

An ancient notch-stone stands among bluebells on a slope of the angel's mountain, a monument erected by a nameless Neolithic people who lived here before the Celts. It catches the light of summer noon and casts along its length crooked shadows that briefly spell words in a language none among the living remembers.

The angel remembers:

The truth of this dreaming world is the turning of the stars, and as the seasons return after long rest, this marks the land where dream returns to its native ground, truth. Here reigns the true ruler of these islands in memory and in promise. Great is the burden of this care.

The planet turns, shadows lengthen, and the ephemeral words smear away, not to return for another solar season.

The significance of what they say remains, and the angel directs his attention toward where the notch-stone points. Below, on a broad tableland backed by forested mountains and facing a deep river gorge, a fortress looms under construction.

This shall be the citadel belonging to "the true ruler of these islands"—if the promise of the angels comes to pass in this world. Much has yet to be accomplished for this dream to arrive at its native ground, and the angel stands atop this peak as mute witness to all that remains undone.

The river below and the sea beyond lift under the hooks of the moon and carry the long ships of Saxon raiders forward. These are warriors of the north tribes, who worship spirit powers other than the faith of angels. The Furor, their ardent war god, so passionately covets these islands that he has inspired his followers with murderous frenzy that the angels alone cannot hope to counter.

For the angels, there is no choice: To help stave the tide of the Dark Ages, they must fight. They fight to preserve their dream of truths yet to come, for their lofty cathedrals and city-states and glass towers of the future, for their nations of prosperity destined someday to defeat poverty and sickness and eventually even death.

This desire to exalt humanity to the stars drives them to keep on fighting. And to aid them in their struggle, they have found one ally alone, in the last place any would think to look: among the demons.

The demons call him Lailoken. Once an incubus fierce with hatred for all life, he now lives in human guise as the wizard Merlin. Empowered still with a demon's strength and cunning, he has learned love from the woman he once tried to rape: Optima, a saint whose womb received his demon energy and who, with the help of the angels, wove him his mortal body of uncertain age.

At this moment, as the angel gazes down from his peak, Merlin labors below with caliper and rod, serving as chief architect and builder in the construction of this modern stronghold.

Fifteen years have passed since the birth of the destined king and the construction of his castle begun. The demon-wizard has reached that dangerous time when, according to prophecy, he must deliver to the throne "the true ruler of these islands."

Fifteen years rhythm into dreaming. Merlin and his builders dream an age of peace and amber fields – while the Furor and all who defy the angels dream an aberrant beauty.

Those who hate cities and farms know as well as angels that nothing is definite, no prophecy certain. Will Merlin remember this?

The angel sees the approach of Merlin's enemy, Morgeu the Fey, the sorceress who has sworn her life to destroying whatever the wizard builds. Under the angel's gaze, she appears as a smear of moonlight in the forest darkness.

Her physical body lies entranced far to the north in a cirque of magical stones veined with roots of tropical trees, dwarf shrubs of lime and orange that unfold their blossoms in the sun for the plunder of bees.

Glistening among the sweet flowers, bees fill the air with their mumbled joy. They lull the sorceress into a trance deep enough to unstring her wraith from flesh.

Distance is nothing to her now, and she drifts free as a thread of mist. She needles through pine beds and mighty coves of oak that remain dark even at noon, dark as the hidden places of thunder.

The angel sees that Merlin, absorbed in building the castle of his king, seems unaware of the approaching wraith. To all the world, and even to the angel himself, the wizard appears no more than a lanky old man with a forked white beard. A hawk's scowl imprints his haggard face, and his shoulders bow heavy with weariness.

Only Merlin's bent conical hat with its floppy brim and his dark cowl embroidered in crimson filaments stitched with alchemic signatures indicate his hermetic status.

How constraining and frail are mortal limits, the angel thinks, observing Merlin leaning heavily upon his gnarled staff as he moves among colossal stone walls. The angel knows well the dangers of these physical restrictions, for he, too, remains bound by the limits of his energy.

Having given everything to install Lailoken in a human body and transform him into Merlin, the angel does not retain enough energy to aid him further. Merlin must rely on his own resources now to establish his young king and hold back the minions of chaos.

Rising, the angel disappears in the wind. His shadow, cast across the hot day, unfurls rain in the clear sky and falls in widening veils.

Merlin wanders the construction site of Camelot in a mist of sunlight and soft showers and does not sense the angel that accompanies him.

This is the fifteenth summer that he has overseen the craftsmen and laborers toiling on the high plateaus and slopes above the verdant gorge of the River Amnis. He glows inwardly, well pleased with the curtain walls, ramparts, and towers that stand upon the emerald downs.

The city-fortress of his vision is nearly complete. It sprawls within a mountain cleft overhanging the river plain, protected by lordly crags to the west and north and open to a commanding view of the forests and alluvial fields in the southeastern lowlands. Red pantile roofs from the river hamlet of Cold Kitchen gleam like pieces of coral far below, where the old Roman highway meets the Amnis, but otherwise, the modern citadel hovers alone among the green and rocky tumult of creation.

Workers sitting on benches and stools under awnings and thatched canopies eating their midday meal of black bread, cheese, and leeks do not notice the shadowy blur in the sunny drizzle as Merlin strolls past. The wizard has made himself invisible to their eyes for this tour, the better to scrutinize their handiwork and oversee the intimate details of construction.

Ranks of Irish yews stand dwarfed before the imposing palisade wall. Atop the wall, archery platforms with lateral windows for enfilading fire assure that these defenses will forever remain unbreachable.

At the masons' work sheds, the wizard lingers, admiring the precision of the stonecutters' work: Most of the funds that Merlin has collected for building Camelot have gone to hiring the finest sculptors from Ravenna, the last practitioners of a dying art. They alone possess the arcane knowledge to construct Roman archways, domes, and vaults. Even the seemingly simple production of cement and squared stones has been forgotten in Europe by all save these few artisans. Under their expert direction, elegant spires arise from a clutter of wood scaffolds and hempen cables.

Merlin blinks up through the sun-shower at truncated towers. Soon enough, in a few more summers, balconies, bartizans, and belvederes shall appear atop this mighty edifice, and pennants and banderoles will fly regnant in the wind, displaying the royal colors of this land's true king.

That hope, which has consumed Merlin his whole life, spurs him to continue his supervisory tour. He boldly paces the flagstones of the spacious courtyard that someday will ring with the hooves of the king's cavalry. For the countless time, he surveys the surrounding bulwarks, their thick bases tapering to elegant parapets, and he envisions stables, barracks, and shops that will occupy the perimeter of this outer ward.

Already, carpenters have sunk the foundation posts for most of these structures. And there, discreetly recessed in the vallation, is the water main of tile pipes that feeds a sewer system of manholes and conduits. Merlin is proudest of this arrangement of pipes that he himself designed, which funnels water from the mountains to the living quarters with enough of an overflow for flushing latrines. Even the barracks and stables will have running water and self-cleaning commodes.

Satisfied with his architectural plans, the wizard directs himself toward the great hall, where the king will reside and conduct his court. For now, it is merely a wide circular wall of massive stones, roofless and empty within but for the workers' platforms and sheds. By summer's end, huge cedar timbers imported from Lebanon will cover the hall and large elliptical windows illuminate the enormous chamber with radiant slants of sun.

Merlin stands at the spot chosen for the dais, admiring the luminous and secure space he has designed for his king. As he reviews the numerous alcoves and arched niches designated for counsel-studios and scribes' nooks along the hall's circumference, a ghostly twist of light appears. It flits among the shadows of the masons' scaffolds.

At once, he senses the identity of this specter. Morgeu! He has not seen this witch in many years, yet he remembers with a groan her vehement magic.

He intones a spell that brightens the singsong of vendors hawking baked goods and fruit outside the great hall. And in moments, the construction site empties.

Merlin strikes his staff against a stone flag and makes himself visible. "I see you, Morgeu. Come forward! Come into the light and declare to my face why you disturb my work."

The vaporous figure edges closer and, when it touches sunlight, begins to shrink to firepoints clear as dewdrops. These sparks tighten and gather into the apparition of a tall, broad-shouldered woman in scarlet raiment. A halo of crinkled red hair flares about a lunar-pale face, whose small, dark eyes gaze with vibrant malevolence at the narrow wizard.

"I am come to tell you this, proud Merlin: what you build you build for me and the honor of my womb alone. No stooge of your choosing will occupy this great hall, for I shall assure that crows eat your eyes and dogs gnaw your bones before any king but my own sons Gawain and Gareth rule from this palace."

Merlin pretends to stifle a yawn and turns away, determined to hide his fright. Nothing he can say will ever dissuade Morgeu from believing that he was responsible for the death of her father, Gorlois, duke of the Saxon Coast. Since the duke's violent death, she has passionately devoted her life to mastering sorcery, to avenge herself against the wizard. So resolute is her wrath, she has even given herself bodily to the demons, risking both sanity and her very life to acquire supernatural powers equal to Merlin's magic.

"You needn't have troubled yourself to come all this way after fifteen years to tell me that, Morgeu." Merlin feigns disinterest by fully turning his back on her and pretending to study the master builder's plans on the easel where someday the king's throne will sit. Surreptitiously, he watches the reflection of her apparition in the shiny surface of the builder's bronze ruler. "I have not forgotten the great love you cherish for my demise. I thought perhaps you carried some news worthy of distracting me from my work. Now begone and trouble me no more with your wearisome ire."

Creeping closer, the enchantress intones hatefully, "When next we meet in flesh, Merlin, I will make you despair you ever dared assume human guise."

Merlin turns about slowly to face the wraith, and the timbre of his voice reaches out compassionately. "You are wrong to fight me, Morgeu. Our king needs you and your sons at his side. Can't you see? This is the time of legend. Our lives and deeds will shape myth itself and survive the dark age to come. Be with us. And dare to touch the future."

Morgeu waves her hands before her face to break the wizard's spell. "Enough! You think I am yet a child, enraptured by clever words?" She pulls her scarlet robes tighter, and her image shivers like flame. "I have not come here to partake of your madness, demon. I come to astonish you with my hatred and to taunt you with this promise: the son of Uther Pendragon will suffer before I kill him."

"No!" Provoked by this threat to his ward, Merlin lunges toward the apparition, his staff swinging in a wide arc.

Insubstantial as a mirage, the sorceress retreats before him, becoming again lunar mist, an ectoplasmic wisp, and then nothing.

The wizard's staff slices empty air and leaves him gasping as much with fright as exertion. His mesmeric spells had no effect on her.

No effect at all! he mulls and experiences distress so sharp and strange it seems to be happening outside of himself, as though his fear were a thing apart.

Merlin sags, lowering himself onto a worker's bench when the fright in him does not relent. The knuckles of his hand gripping the staff whiten. Morgeu has acquired the magical skills to fulfill her threat. She shares with the king their mother Ygrane's blood, and sooner or later that blood will draw her to her unsuspecting brother, no matter the wizard's obscuring spells.

He looks about at the enormous, round hall with its incomplete walls and empty windows, and wonders if the fifteen years of continuous planning and building have vainly raised a monument to his bitter strength alone.

Am I arrogant to believe that justice can reign in a world of fury? Am I mad?

Pressing his brow against the upright staff, Merlin remembers his mother, the good saint Optima, in whose womb this grand vision began. The love he knew then persists as an ember of hope far back in his soul, the memory of his mother's love.

I cannot be wrong about that, he thinks, recalling how Optima's pure and abiding faith in the goodness of God had countered aeons of torment that he had lived as a demon.

The sun-shower pelts harder through the unfinished roof, golden drops drumming against scaffolds, worktables, and the brim of Merlin's hat. For an instant, the angel draws closer to the wizard and stands in the place beside him that no one sees. And for that one fleeting moment, the hinge of Merlin's heart swivels the door of his mind open on the invisible world.

Merlin sees far off his mother in red raiment rising among columnar sunlight toward the blazing throne of heaven. He blinks, and what he thought was Optima flying in scarlet robes is merely a bloody scrap of vermin hoisted among rays of sun in the beak of a voracious raven.

"Bah!" He dismisses the illusion with a scowl and pulls himself upright by his staff. The glimpse of his mother in a scrap of offal is enough to remind him of his destinal work. He turns his thoughts away from the fearful questions of purpose that Morgeu's wraith had inspired and returns with renewed determination to the chores at hand.

Satisfied that Merlin's grace has been restored, the angel drifts away on nectar breezes and becomes again summer rain that falls over Camelot like cool news from heaven.

BOOK ONE

Eagle of Thor

Chapter 1: Storm Raiders

Dune grass flattens under the wind, and fishermen of the cove village of Mousehole turn over their boats on the curving strand. Purple fists of storm clouds rise in the south above a choppy sea, and lightning casts its nets across the flat horizon. The fishermen hurry to secure their seines under their boats. The day's catch writhes in wooden tubs, a silver mass of cod, sea bass, and eels tangled in amber kelp and broken rainbows.

In pairs, the men slowly haul the tubs up the beach, their wood-soled shoes crunching periwinkles, black mussels, and starfish. The sandy path through the salt grass climbs toward a shale ledge, where a priest waits to bless their day's catch. His brown cassock pulls tight against his scrawny body in the press of the wind, and the wide sleeves of his outstretched arms flutter like wings.

Beyond the priest, the tidal plain rises gradually toward a sandstone bluff cluttered with thatch-roofed cottages. For three centuries, this seacoast town served a Roman villa situated on the headlands among wind-thrown oaks and elder woods.

The vine-tangled walls of the villa still offer shelter on the terraced bluffs above the cove, though the Romans abandoned it a hundred years before. Over time, its fine water gardens of reflecting pools and fountains have grown clogged with silt, and the oil presses, bakery, and stables long since burned by looters.

A humble monastery established twenty years ago by Saint Piran now occupies the villa's roofless colonnade. Improvised walls of wattle and daub presently house a collapsed millstone that serves as a crude Christian altar. The priest has come down from there to preside before a stone Celtic cross erected on the shale ledge above the strand.

The fishermen stop and place their half-filled tubs of fish on the ground. They kneel perfunctorily, eager for their blessing so they can hurry back to their families before the storm strikes. Impatiently, they gaze up at the priest, but he does not move. His gaze has locked on the horizon of bruised clouds, and a tremor of fear twitches his beardless face.

"Raiders!" the priest cries out, and crosses himself hastily. "Storm raiders!"

Low as driftwood in the high seas, a score of shallow boats emerge from spindrift and windy spume. The fishermen and the priest can just make out the bristly shape of lances as the boats dip and rise on the turbulent sea. Human bodies take shape riding the thunder swells, scrawls of lightning in the air above them like fiery signatures of an enraged celestial authority.

Panic-stricken, the men abandon their fish tubs. Storm raiders have recently sacked other hamlets along the coast, reducing Neptune's Sandal, Landsfall, and Bluerock to charred scars on the beach. The denizens of those fishing towns had all been murdered, women and children alike, their scalps woven into cloaks, their very flesh flayed to fashion drum-skins.

The throb of those horrid drums looms closer on the thunder itself. The fishermen bolt toward their homes. By the time they reach their cottages and alert their families, the first curtains of rain drape the beach, and the raiders, propelled by the incoming tide and the squall, sail atop the breakers.

Flight is impossible. The cove holds the village as if in a giant's hand. Villagers scramble up footpaths toward the elder woods. From prayer huts around the villa, monks gather to bear up a massive wooden cross, relying on their faith to drive off the barbarian warriors or lead them to proud martyrdom.

The scows of the storm raiders shoot out of the combers. The shallow-draft boats slide onto the beach, sizzling across the sand like lightning. War cries flap in the blustery wind, and raiders, brandishing long swords and spears, jump to shore.

Desperate to buy time for their families, many of the fishermen halt in their flight. They wield staves and flensing knives and stand fast on the steep paths, at least long enough for the women and children to reach the monastery and the open fields beyond. But when they see the frenzied raiders charging up the beach, the village men realize their resistance is as grass to the scythe.

Through the driving rain, the terrible visages of the storm raiders come into view. Most of the bearded, screaming men attack naked. All display garish tattoos on their burly bodies—dragon-eyes and fang-faces. Some wear helmets of human skulls and jawbones lashed together with scalp hair. Others brandish femur clubs and beat drums that dangle shriveled faces of human leather.

The savage storm raiders fly up the beach clothed in rainsmoke. They shriek and howl with maniacal enthusiasm, well aware that their victims reckon them a company of devils loosed from the Christian hell.

Before this gruesome horde, the priest and monks plant their great cross and fall to their knees in fervid supplication of the Almighty. Horrified, the fishermen dart gibbering up the footpaths, not far behind their fleeing women and children.

A clarion peal sounds thinly above the din of pernicious drums, above the thunder and the screaming. The monks do not waver in their fervid prayers, but the fishermen hesitate, gripped by desolate hope. They gawk into the slashing rain to seek the source of the silver tantara that sounds again, louder, closer.

Terror, once boiling to sobs inside them, explodes to astonished cries at the sight of misty shadows looming through the elder woods above.

"Salvation!" one keen-eyed fisherman bawls. "Christ's soldiers! We are saved!"

From out the misty woods, a small troop of mounted warriors take form under a white pennant emblazoned with a scarlet cross. They gather atop the bluff-—a steady line of lancers and archers bedecked in bronze face masks and plumed rawhide helmets. Christian emblems of the fish, the lamb, the chi-rho emboss their Roman breastplates.

The sight of the troop's chain-mail armor and powerful warhorses causes first disbelief, then screams of frightened joy among the villagers, who fall to their knees in amazement.

A clattering drove of arrows flies over the heads of the surprised villagers and totters the furious assault of the storm raiders. The horn blasts again, an aggressive blare that lifts a mighty cry from the gathered cavalry and sends horsemen plunging downslope at full gallop.

As the warriors fly past, astonished villagers gape and throw their hands up in praise.

"Lord Kyner!" one of the monks cries out, recognizing the curved Bulgar saber of the warband's leader. Swiftly, word spreads among the huddled folk that ferocious Kyner, a famed Christian chief among the Celts, has come to their rescue.

The storm raiders do not flinch. Mad with blood rage, they charge over the bodies of their fallen comrades toward the stone cross, emblem of all they hate. The Christian horsemen ride hard upon them with axes and swords flailing.

Through veils of rain smoking across the strand, more barbarian scows slide out of the storm-driven swells, and soon the beach is crowded with war-fevered men clashing against headlong steeds.

Jubilant hurrahs from the village folk choke in their throats at the terrible sight of horses collapsing and nightmarish Saxons spearing and clubbing unhorsed soldiers. Whirlwinds of rain seem to carry the barbarians slathered in gore among the mounts, and the pounding attack falters and staggers to a halt.

Milling in brutal confusion, the war parties hack at each other, and screaming horses shrill under booming thunder and drums and the incessant cries of human battle fury.

The monks stand, uplifted by their fervent prayers. Chanting in unison, they watch horrified as Kyner's horsemen whirl and lunge, encircled by seething pagans. Kyner and his huge son, Cei, fight back to back. Even in the driving rain, their red-plumed helmets stand out and draw upon themselves the hottest fury of the battle.

The clashing enemies lurch higher up the beach, and stunned villagers begin to back away, once again moaning with despair. Too many of the horsemen have fallen. The ferocity of the storm raiders draws strength from out of the black air, and they fight more fiercely standing atop corpses and felled beasts.

None among the fisherfolk can bear to witness the glory deaths of renowned Kyner and his proud son—and many turn away. Aghast, the monks drop again to their knees.

As if in answer, an apparition appears down the beach, emerging through smoking sheets of torrential rainfall. A lone cavalryman on a gray and blood-slaked palfrey bounds among frantic pagans, his sword a blur of blood-arcs and strewn flesh. Peering through torrent and battle frenzy, the monks discern on his shield an improbable likeness in blue robes, golden halo, and the serene features of the Virgin Mother.

Mary's unknown champion rides like a winged warrior. His steed dances across the shale with an eerie, fluid grace, lunging then rearing and prancing backward on hind legs while its rider chops and stabs. Among the monks are men who have seen battles before and some who themselves have fought and found their faith on the killing plains, clashing with Picts and Jutes. But none has ever seen such a display of lethal horsemanship.

Again, the monks are on their feet, the better to behold Blessed Mary's warrior cutting a swath through the barbarians. Nimble as a ferret among snakes, the bronze-masked rider drives his mount as though the beast were a weapon itself. It curvets directly into the thickest knot of the melee, striking with both front and rear hooves even as the relentless blade cleaves bone and flesh. Abruptly, the horse volts around the fallen raiders and pierces deeper into the fray.

The holy shield twists to deflect a spear, and the palfrey tramples the lancer and hurtles among the crowd that is eager to kill Kyner and his son. Drawing the battle to himself, Mary's champion spins a deadly circle, exposing himself on every side to the enemy's blows yet deftly parrying spear thrusts and spinning axes with his battered shield. Leaning down with his masked face against the horse's shoulder, he barges toward his chief and opens a path for Kyner and Cei to escape the slaughterous throng.

Together, the three horsemen drive the barbarians back from the Celtic cross and down onto the flat strand. The monks follow, and the villagers behind them, emboldened by the abrupt turn in the battle. Rain sweeps over the beach of sprawled dead like folds of drapery, and onlookers stare in amazement as the raiders hurry toward the sea like play-actors retreating behind drawn curtains.

Kyner and Cei withdraw, and the surviving cavalrymen run down the isolated clusters of barbarians, who still stand defiant among maimed and slain comrades. The Blessed Virgin's champion flies remorselessly among the enemy, throwing himself into the struggle as if eager to cast his own life away. Time and again, his sacred shield protects him and his palfrey from ax blows and sword thrusts, and his blade unerringly pierces the naked warriors with rapid, expert violence, leaving a wake of carcasses on the misty beach.

"Who is that warrior?" the amazed and incredulous priest asks as Kyner and Cei wearily dismount among the monks.

The two men remove their helmets and shake loose long hair lanky with sweat. Kyner's timberwolf eyes regard the holy men with the indifference of a powerful beast. Ice-blue in torchlight, they gaze out from an inflamed mass of jutting bones—brow, cheek, and jaw—flushed with battle rage.

The younger man glows ghostly pale from their frightful entrapment in the homicidal crowd. His thick and beardless face gasps for air more out of contained fear than exhaustion. The younger version of his father, he lacks the elder's heavy, drooping mustache.

"Who is Mary's warrior?" the priest must know.

"He is my father's ward," Cei manages with a hint of disdain, and accepts a flagon from a grateful villager. "Aquila Regalis Thor."

"The Royal Eagle of Thor," the priest translates. "A Roman Saxon?" He stares even more intently at the brutish warrior in the distance, still charging hellishly up and down the beach, slaying the last desperate storm raiders.

"Saxon blood sanctified by the Holy Spirit," Kyner huffs, and lifts his leathery face to the cool rain, grateful to be alive. "A rape-child redeemed by Christ. We call him Arthor."

Cei blinks into the downpour, and says grouchily, "We've wounded men on the beach. Get your monks down there, priest."

The dazed monks hurry to comply, and the priest looks to the old chieftain. "Lord Kyner, Mousehole is remote from any of your strongholds. How did you know of our plight?"

"My son spoke clearly, Father. There are good Christian souls down there desperate for their last rites and others to be saved by timely care. Make haste and prove yourself worthy of their great sacrifice."

When the priest has departed, Kyner fixes a tight stare on his son, and speaks slowly to contain his anger, "You should have held the left flank." And, silently, to himself he says, Seventeen years old and the man is yet a boy! How have I been remiss with him?

Cei squints with incredulity. "You were in danger. I broke flank to save you."

"And nearly killed us both! Good men died this night, because you cared more for me than our company. This is not how I trained you." He meshes his teeth and directs his anger through his jaws into one hurtfully cramped thought in his brain, When will he learn? There is no compassion before the sword! "You should have held the flank."

"And have you overrun?" Cei swipes rain from his eyes and stares with shrill anguish. "You are my father—and our chief."

Kyner puffs out his hollow cheeks with a heavy sigh. "I am an old man, Cei. I shouldn't be here at all. Arthor is right. I belong in White Thorn with the women."

Cei’s face tightens like a fist. "Arthor is an arrogant bastard."

"Who saved our lives yet again this night." Kyner nods to his son. "Show him more love, Cei."

"Is that an order, Father?"

"Must I so order?" Kyner sadly shakes his drenched head. "Respect your brother."

"That foulmouthed ingrate?" Cei shakes the rain from his face with an irate jerk. "I don't understand. Why do you hold him to your heart and call him my brother? He scorns you as much as me. He is bad blood."

"Yet look at him, Cei." Kyner gazes with blatant admiration at the strand where Arthor has backed the last of the raiders into the waves. In the violet, falling light, he and his horse move like elusive shadows before the glowing breakers, charging at the howling barbarians and leaving their corpses adrift in the foaming water. "While we stand here in the rain amazed to be alive, when by all rights the blood of our lives should be running in the sand with the others who fell this gruesome night, still he fights. Look at him! By God, look at him. Our own avenging angel."

Cei gnaws his lower lip. "Is that why you love him more than your son?"

"Not that foolishness again!" Kyner replies with swift rebuke. "Love. You speak of it as if love were some kind of currency to be doled out at whim. You are my son. I care for you beyond love. And though he is a great warrior, you will be chief, not him. You would be chief this very night had you not broken flank."

"I don't want to be chief, Father."

"Not chief?" Kyner casts a dire look at his son. "Then why are you here on this malignant beach? In the name of God, son, what do you want?"

"I want you to look at me the way you look at him."

"Fah!" Kyner turns away in disgust. "I look at him with the admiration I would have for a marvelous hunting dog. Is that what you want, Cei? Then get down there and fight with all his brutal cunning."

Cei remains silent, struggling with himself. I am a good warrior. I know it. I have been tried in battle and not found wanting. Yet beside that blood-crazed Arthor, I seem a blundering fool. He loves killing. He is the very devil himself when it comes to killing. How can I compare?

"Get out of the rain, Father," Cei says, mounting his horse. "It's bad for your bones."

"Where are you going?"

"I'll see to our men. Take shelter. Arthor did not save us from the Saxon to lose you to the ague." He pulls his steed abruptly away and trots toward the beach, where night smothers the dead, and the living stir like detached pieces of darkness.

Kyner watches after him briefly, then turns about and trudges up the path toward the winking hearth-fires of the hamlet. Old age has set its claws in him years ago, and now they flex, as they always do lately after any strenuous effort. He should have died this night, he knows. He should be among the corpses on the beach, his soul flown from this sour flesh and gone to its place in Purgatory to await Judgment. Instead, Arthor has preserved him—and Cei.

The chieftain bows his head humbly under the pelting rain. Cei is a good warrior but not bold. And that is as it should be, for though he is strong, he is not clever. Yet, he is my son—he is my only son.

Chapter 2: Aquila Regalis Thor

The best fish of that day's catch arrive on pewter and wood plates. The monks place them atop their broken millstone altar, before an oaken crucifix carved by Saint Piran himself. The church, a squat structure with walls of woven sticks and packed dung, is the only structure in Mousehole large enough to host Kyner and his men.

Most of the villagers can find no place to sit inside. They stand in the torrential night, squeezed together under makeshift canopies of hawthorn branches whose waxy leaves shed rain.

Happily, they tend the fires in the monastery's stone ovens and pass plates of steaming fish into the church through empty windows: smoking eels aswirl in butter and cod and bass glazed with berry sauce and roasted hazels.

From the hearths of the hamlet come baskets of honey dumplings and barley loaves, bowls of dandelion soup sprinkled with hard-boiled yolks, blue cheese, mugs of blackberry pudding, and flagons of raspberry cider and whortleberry wine. The villagers spare nothing of their summer bounty.

Behind the altar, the priest and the monks bless the food and serve the warriors. Kyner presides at the altar in the hamlet's one chair, the ecclesiastic seat the priest occupies during daily celebration of the Eucharist. At his side, perched on a settle behind the altar, Cei, the cavalry's officers, and the hamlet's elder, a local clan leader with a full mustache, oversee the gathering.

The other cavalrymen sit on rushes covering the stamped-earth floor and use benches as tables. Seven of their number died in the fighting on the beach, and their helmets lie at the foot of the crucifix.

The three most severely wounded have propped their helmets in the candlelit niche behind the altar so that they may receive the monks' healing prayers. Kyner's surgeon and Mousehole's leech tend those men in the sacristy.

No sooner has the food been served when a monk, soaked and trembling, bursts into the jammed assembly and shoulders through the village elders to the altar. "Father, he's killing them!" he blurts, seizing the hem of the priest's cassock.

"Be calm, brother."

"The Eagle of Thor—killing the wounded Saxons! Even the ones who wish to convert! He's killing them all!"

"Hah!" Kyner laughs coldly. "He won't stop until he's killed every one."

"Father!" the monk protests. "He damns their souls."

The priest turns a supplicating look to the chieftain. "Our brother is right, my lord. The Savior insists we show mercy."

Kyner reaches for a honey dumpling and shakes his large, brutish head. "Arthor knows nothing of mercy."

"Yet," the priest persists, "he carries the image of the Blessed Virgin. Our mother of mercy."

"Arthor leaves mercy to her alone." Kyner speaks around a mouthful of food. "For him, there is only the sword. And tell your brothers to stay clear of him. He'll send them to heaven if they try to protect the pagans."

"No!" The priest cannot accept this. "You would let him murder holy men?"

"Let him?" Kyner chokes on his food and flushes scarlet.

Cei pounds his father's back and frowns at the priest. "Arthor once beheaded a priest in Trier for trying to protect an old Saxon grandmother clutching the Bible! I tell you, he is the devil's own spawn."

"Aye—" Kyner coughs, freeing his throat and reaching for a goblet. "He's my iron hammer. Tell the whole story, Cei. That hag's Bible hid a treacherous blade meant for my heart."

"But—a priest!" the holy man says, appalled.

The chieftain quaffs cider and dismisses the murder with a wave. "An Arian priest—a Christian polytheist. And empty-headed, to boot! Bringing such a viper into my presence. If not for Arthor, I'd have been slain in Trier, and at this moment flames would be eating Mousehole - and crabs and seabirds eating you."

The priest ponders this and thinks to ask again, "My lord, how did you know the Saxons would raid us this night?"

Kyner wipes crumbs from his stupendous mustache. "Never mind that now—the killing has already been accomplished." He points to the open portal.

Arthor, tall and fearsome, stands in the church doorway in full chain armor. Slick sword and shield in hand, his head covered in a rawhide helmet crested by scarlet boar bristles, he fills the portal, a silent effigy of death. He offers grim countenance, his face hidden behind a bronze vizard impressed with a Gorgon's viperous grimace.

The festive animation of the room falls at once to silence. The rescuers pass sullen, apprehensive looks among themselves. All but Kyner seem anxious. Indeed, a flush of admiration brightens the chieftain's heavy features at the sight of the stark warrior.

Neither Cei nor any of the other officers seem to share the old warrior's affection, and this further arouses the priest's curiosity. Stepping past a monk who has budged aside to let Arthor in, he moves hurriedly to the door to greet the champion.

"Come into the house of the Lord of Peace and be refreshed, soldier of Christ. You fought zealously for your Lord. Perhaps too zealously, my son. There was no need to kill the wounded. We would have tended them."

"The Lord has said that those who live by the sword shall die by the sword," a dark voice replies, muffled by the vizard. "I have fulfilled the law."

Gently, the priest lays a hand on the leather fist gripping the bloody sword. "Yes, my son. You and your comrades have saved us from the sword of our enemies. Now the killing is done. Come into the house of your Lord with your hands empty, a worthy Christian."

Arthor's hand opens, and the priest takes the sword and passes it to the monk behind him. "Cleanse and sanctify this blade, brother, for this night it has served our Savior. The shield as well."

"No." Arthor lifts the blood-streaked shield with its image of Jesus' mother, her hands clasped in prayer, her lovely, radiant head bowed. "The Virgin stands by her son."

The priest nods and smiles proudly. He reverently takes the shield in both hands. "I will place her there myself. Come. Share our joy at our salvation. Join us in this feast of our happy gratitude. Honor us with your presence."

"Bare your head, Arthor!" Cei shouts from across the crowded room. "The fighting's over. Show some civility. This is a house of God!"

Kyner stands, goblet of raspberry cider in hand. "I drink to Arthor before our Lord and Savior. And before this company." The chieftain casts a pointed look at Cei, who grudgingly nods and lifts his goblet in the air. "Arthor!"

A respectful chorus of voices echo. Unmoved, Arthor unstraps his helmet. Short, sweat-spiked hackles of badger hair stick out around a blond face too young for whiskers.

A murmur of astonishment seeps from the monks, who had not expected a boy to fill so large a frame or execute the killing ardor and lethal horsemanship they had witnessed on the stormy beach. Jaws loosen at the sight of his rose-tinged cheeks, his milk-pale countenance downed with adolescence.

The priest steps back a pace and his hands tighten on the shield in momentary disbelief. A child! Yet indeed, something wicked about the lad's cold eyes, aslant and acid yellow, and his taut, angry mouth, clamped as if perpetually ready to take or give a blow. A cruel child, he thinks to himself.

"Come, young warrior," the priest gathers his wits to say. "Come and sit at the table with your kin."

"Fah!" Cei shouts in cold mockery. "Arthor is no kin. Nor is he even a Celt. He'll sit at the back with the new men, as always."

"Now, Cei," Kyner admonishes brashly, "show some charity. The boy has saved our lives. Tonight he'll sit at table with us. Come, Arthor! Place yourself beside me."

Arthor ignores him and goes directly to the crucifix, not even glancing at the altar-table laden with sumptuous piles of food. He kneels before the helmets of those seven fallen in battle and closes his eyes.

The priest follows and stands the shield before the base of the crucifix so that its top rests against the solitary nail that pierces Christ's feet.

He barely hears the boy's whisper: "Mother Mary blesses you courageous men, who have paid with the sanctity of blood for her Son's glory."

The resuming festivities mute the rest of his prayer. Even so, the priest, bending closer as if to steady the shield, detects sincerity in the flutter of the boy's closed lids. For a moment, the young face loses its complex gloom and seems fixed by no more than a child's prayerful inwardness.

And then, Arthor rises. His face sets angrily, eyes amber wasps. He ignores the entreaty of Kyner, "Arthor—stay! Feast with us. Ignore proud Cei, who wears humility poorly. Come, lad! Eat and drink at my side."

Through the length of the packed church Arthor stalks, meeting no man's gaze, his bristly brown hair brushed back as if by the wind of his passing as he returns to the storm-wrung night.

Rain slashes against him, and he bends into it and hurries past the smoking ovens and the gawking villagers. Quickly, he leaves the hamlet and descends dark paths toward the pounding sea.

At his command, fishermen have stacked the Saxon's war-boats, set them ablaze, and heaved the heathen corpses atop the pyre. Arthor walks away from those shadowy fires and their wet reflections in the black sea and follows the long, pale combers to the far end of the cove. There, slurs of fire from the burning ships and torchlight from the hamlet cast meaty streaks of light in the downpour.

Climbing a dune of witchgrass, he finds shelter in a shallow cave above the booming surf. He sits hunched, hugging his knees. Raindrops stand like tears on his cheeks. He does not cry, though his breath stirs hugely in his chest. His heart kneads an old rage. He will not sit at Kyner's side like a faithful dog.

Smoldering for what he might be if he had been born to the chieftain rather than cast fatherless into the world, he plays for himself tedious fictions of greatness. His muscles ache with the killing frenzy that possessed him in battle, and he imagines that this strength is the might of a warlord, a king's valor spent building an empire. The hammering voices of the enemy clang in his skull, forging the victories of his kingdom.

But these are fictions. They fall quickly away, no longer able to sustain him as they did when he was a child, before he learned his talent for killing. The bare truth remains: he is a foundling and nothing more, useful only for his murderous cunning.

He wishes he had never been found in the bramble woods where his shamed mother had left him to die. Better to be dead, he thinks, hating himself for thinking this yet unable to thwart his despair. Better to be dead than nameless and with no destiny.

All night, he stays in the cave. Eventually, the song of the rain sifts through his tightly woven anger and soothes him to sleep. When he startles awake from a battle-dream, clutching for the sword he does not have, the storm has moved on. Clustered stars blaze over the black face of the sea.

By their trifling light, he watches breakers rise and fall and phosphorescent crabs scuttling before them along the littered tide line.

Loneliness pervades him, and he prays again to Mary, the same prayer he has offered all his young life to the only mother he has ever known, "Mother Mary, give me strength to defend your Son now that He has left us alone in the devil's world. Give me strength to fight for Him until He returns."

And as always before, the same sweet voice opens from far inside, so faint and still he must hold his breath to hear her say what she says each time he calls her: Love is first, Arthor. Never abandon. Never abandon.

At dawn, he bathes in the sea, then climbs a path among black rocks and returns to Mousehole. The company, glassy-eyed from a night of drinking, sit heavily in their saddles. Kyner ignores him, angry at the boy for shaming him in front of the company and spurning him at the feast. Punishment must follow. Cei orders him to saddle his horse, knowing Arthor cannot refuse, hoping he will, so that Kyner's hand will be forced.

Arthor complies silently, and when he is done, Kyner leads the company into the mist-strewn woods, not waiting for the disrespectful youth. The monks, stung with pity, help him prepare his palfrey. After he mounts, a monk returns his helmet, and the priest comes forward with sword and shield. They have been meticulously cleaned.

"Remember," the priest counsels, "our Savior served. The Prince of Heaven served humbly."

Arthor's hard mouth flinches with disdain, and the cold in his stare freezes the priest's heart. "Jesus knew he was a prince of heaven. Born of God's love. I am born of lust and violence. I serve the humility of the blade."

The priest shakes his head sadly. "Then, my son, I ask you to contemplate what you told me last night. He who lives by the sword -"

"Of course. My fate certifies the sword." The youth smiles grimly. "Am I not God's warrior?"

Chapter 3: Melania of Aquitania

Melania of Aquitania, renowned in her province for her classical beauty and erudition, remained hidden in a tower for a year while warbands of Salian Franks raged through the countryside stealing crops, murdering Roman landowners, and enslaving women and children.

Melania's father and brothers died defending the extensive Gallic estate that had been in their family for over five hundred years, and her mother shriveled away soon after. Once the most noble and proud of Aquitania, her family teetered on extinction, surviving only in herself and her father's grandmother, a one-eyed crone who knew all the secrets of the ancient estate.

Great-grandmother connived with Melania as intimately and cunningly as a sister. Even before the mourning for their dead ended, they scrutinized options: The Salian Franks, who had suffered under the iron fist of the last Roman general in northern Gaul, loathed everything Roman; so, there was no hope of marrying Melania to a Frankish chieftain to preserve the estate. Flight, too, was impossible. In Italy, the Ostrogoths and the kingdom of Odovacar were at war, while in the Eastern Empire, the most that a beautiful young woman of learning such as Melania could hope for—even with her extensive estate in faraway Gaul—was the life of a high-class prostitute. Saint Helena, the mother of Constantine, the first Christian emperor, had begun her illustrious life as such a prostitute, and Great-grandmother offered her as an example.

But Melania would not have it. Selling her favors to wealthy noblemen did not disturb her half as much as the misery of losing her family's ancient lands, which she would have to forsake to travel East. She would do anything to preserve her ancestral estate.

"Anything?" the crone asked when she heard this. She stared intently at her great-granddaughter with her one good eye.

"We have already pondered a life of prostitution," Melania replied. "What could be worse?"

The crisscross of wrinkles in the old face netted darkness from within, a shadow that seemed to leak from inside the old woman. "There is an unchristian way to save us. Would you have it, then?"

Melania arched her dark and delicate eyebrows. "What are you keeping from me, old mother?"

The crone cackled mirthfully and led Melania to the tower. The oldest edifice in the province, the spire of black granite served as a watchtower, which the estate's Roman founders had erected in the century before Christ. During the 180 years since the empire had become Christian, the tower had been used by the family as the bell turret of their church.

Great-grandmother knew the hidden passageways that led into labyrinthine cellars, then farther down into extensive catacombs that connected the grottoes and caverns of a subterranean stream.

Accompanied by wavery shadows of an oil lamp and the sibilant echoes of the blind current, the crone led stately Melania through dank stone corridors. The lamp revealed rock-hewn chambers crowded with lichenous kegs and cobwebbed amphorae. Farther along, they passed stacks of clay tablets and bins of moldering scrolls.

At last, the stone pathway meandering among innumerable stalagmites delivered them to a crypt etched with inscriptions from the reign of Emperor Augustus. Into the anonymous dark of that recess, Great-grandmother thrust her oil lamp and exposed a profusion of long, thin-necked pots depicting animal-headed gods—beakers and primitive retorts of desert alchemists—and a clutter of magical instruments: calipers with cuneiform markings, jackal-headed wands, a necklace of ivory leviathan teeth, crystal spheres with bloodlike webworks at their cores, and mirror-glass discs that broke the lamplight into a delirium of rainbows.

In her gnarled hand, the old woman retrieved a small, intricately embossed urn of black silver. Wings of bearded sphinxes served as handles, and the urn itself embodied an orphic egg entwined by twin vipers whose gnashed fangs interlocked to clasp the hermetic lid.

"Do not open this!" Great-grandmother warned sharply before handing the urn to Melania. The old woman reached again into the crypt and removed a silver throat band tooled with reptile motif to look like a snake with a serpent-head at each end, exposed fangs gaping at one other.

She fitted the band about Melania's pale throat, and a magnetic chill sparked through the girl. "This will protect you from them."

"From whom, old mother?"

The crone did not answer but reached a third time into the crypt. She came out with a blade of speckled lodestone, its haft of quartz bound with bands of blackened silver. "And this, if needs be, will kill them."

"Who?"

"The lamia."

Fright reached deep into Melania, and she nearly dropped the urn. Lamia—a lovely Greek word—meaning "devouring monsters." Since her earliest childhood, she had heard frightful tales of the lamia, shapeshifting wraiths that could thread keyholes in their most tenuous form and then solidify to taloned beasts muscular enough to rip free a man's lungs and squeeze his throbbing heart before his startled face.

"I thought those were stories for scaring naughty children." Melania gazed fitfully at the exquisite urn in her hands.

"Oh dear, no—those stories of the old Romans who founded this estate are all true, child," the crone says through a toothless smile. "Our forefathers did bargain with Phoenician traders for all these pagan objects, just as we heard in the stories when we were children. They had aspirations of sorcery, those first settlers who came here when this land was wilderness. They purchased magical amulets, necromantic potions, effigies of power whose use we've long forgotten. Most, truth be told, lost their efficacy centuries ago. But the urn you hold in your hands, the band about your throat, and this lode-knife—oh, they are yet potent, child, they are yet potent—as you shall see."

By daylight in the courtyard before the tower, the urn looked far less awe-inspiring than it had in the cryptic underground. It seemed no more than an antique and outlandishly ornate jewel box, not large enough to contain anything of threat. But when the crone opened it, spiritous fumes hissed outward so violently the air quaked with heat.

Two fiery figures untangled and slithered translucently against the sky—bright muscles of flame in sinuous viper-shapes, with outspreading hair like dust of sundown and features like firelight on faces of bone.

Great-grandmother danced around them, laughing, jabbing at them with the lode-knife, making their giant shapes skitter and twitch before her, making them slide away like haze in shimmering layers of sunbeams, then withdrawing the blade and pulling their radiant and vibrant plumes closer to her. "They fear the knife!" she shouted. "One stab of it, and they die!"

Melania backed away from their rasping, loud as the drone of mad hornets—and their sticky reek of dead things—and their cold aura, thick and weighty as the ocean's winter breath.

"Be not afraid, child," the crone assured her. "You wear the guardian band about your throat. They cannot harm you so long as you wear it. Come! Dance with us!"

Melania did not dance with them. She watched outraged as these fireshapes with skull faces swirled around her great-grandmother. Phantom snakes, they coiled about her, and she spun with the lode-knife grasped in both hands until they retreated. Then, they condensed in the brash sunlight to a pool of green fog, an eerie phosphor that gathered upright, and hardened to a figure of a sable-haired man in a blue tunic—and beside him, another figure in a white gown, a lean woman with masses of chestnut hair and a lusty mole on her upper lip.

Melania recognized her grandparents even as the crone eked a hurt cry to see again her lost son and his dead wife.

The chimerical figures blurred and transformed themselves once more, assuming the angular posture of Melania's father and the slender, hollow-cheeked mirage of her fragile mother.

"Make them stop, Great-grandmother!" Melania shouted.

The old woman jabbed at them, and the lamia hazed into the raw boy of the grown man who had been her grandson and Melania's father. The other curled into the cherished infant of the crone's firstborn, birth chrism glistening, eyes not yet unstuck, arms clenching at emptiness, naked and crying.

Weary of these apparitions, the old woman danced the lamia back into their urn and snapped shut the fang-meshed lid. Melania dropped to her knees and crossed herself. "It is as you say, old mother—an unchristian thing."

The crone sucked air, winded by her perfidious dance, and smiled knowingly. "Unchristian they may be, but they are ours to use as we will—if we are cautious."

"How will we hold them?" Melania asked. "Will they not escape us and haunt the countryside?"

"Don't you remember the stories?" the old woman snickered. "They are bound to the urn. They cannot escape so long as the urn remains intact. And they will destroy any who enter their presence unprotected. Be aware of these simple truths, and they can do you no harm. Even I, a withered woman, can make them dance. Think how easy it will be for a spry young woman."

Yet weeks would pass before Melania mustered the courage to open the urn herself and more weeks again before her legs found the strength to dance with the lamia and control them with the lode-knife. By then, Great-grandmother had identified the underground passageway that led to the archaic map vaults.

Somewhere in that extensive catacomb, an ancestor from the reign of Emperor Nerva had stored a chart identifying the location of a rich trove of gold coins. They had been buried somewhere in the hinterlands of Britannia against such a dire time as this, when only gold could buy salvation. With that huge treasure in hand, Melania might purchase a treaty with the Salian Franks or, if necessary, hire mercenaries from rival tribes to drive them out of Aquitania and assure the restoration of her ancestral estate.

For a year, the two women searched the map vaults under the tower before they found what they sought. During that time, they lived off stores of grain, cheese, olives, and wine and kept a small garden and a few animals. When marauders encroached, they secured the barn, released the lamia, and hid in the tower, where the old woman giggled and the young woman shuddered to hear the terrible cries that followed.

Packs of wild dogs and crows came regularly to feast on the torn bodies of the slaughtered. On the spring day when, with map in hand, Melania bid tearful adieu to her great-grandmother, the estate gleamed with the scattered bones of the lamia's victims.

Melania rode north. The urn secured tightly before her on the saddle of her draft horse, she kept to forest trails and avoided Roman roads. At night, she slept with the guardian band about her throat. Sometimes in the morning when she woke, she found her great-grandmother squatting beside her or her parents. A few times, her eyes opened on a mirror copy of herself.

The lamia could do nothing more than startle her. They never spoke. They never touched her. She had become adept at using the lode-knife to return them to the urn, and before long she worried less about controlling them and more about how she would use her treasure to redeem her ancestral home.

She imagined the noble men from Arles and Toulouse that she would consider for marriage, and in the mornings she began to wake to apparitions of handsome, virile swains.

The first few times that brigands accosted her in the forests, she never even bothered to dismount, simply tilted the urn away and opened it. While the lamia completed their gruesome work, she rode on a short way and awaited their return.

That tactic worked less well after the landscape began to change. Oak forests, olive groves and the draperies of vine on Aquitania's plains thinned out and gave way to birch, pine, and dwarf cedar as the land rose and folded into rugged terrain. Now she walks ahead of her horse, leading it by the reins along narrow trails above rock slides. Mists swirl and the whistle of a falcon startles green finches among shining pines.

From an overhanging ledge, a net falls without warning. Its rock-weighted hem knocks her off her feet and nearly topples her over the ledge onto the treacherous gray scree. Her horse whinnies with fright. Above her loom several brutish men with crow black hair. From behind a boulder splashed with golden moss, several more emerge. They crouch over her, laughing, bearded men in red-and-green rags—brigands—and she sees beyond them to where the trail rises toward heather fields, blue peaks and clouds.

They remove the net, and she tries to rise but is shoved back by a gruff hand that rips the guardian band from her throat. "No!" is all she can shout after the men seize her horse and find the urn. They snap open the fang-meshed lid.

A tempest roar reverberates across the rocky slopes, and the brigands gawk about, startled. Melania lunges to her feet and grasps for the guardian band—but too late. The face of the haughty man holding the band shrivels to a scream. Silver flames engulf him, and he collapses, flesh boiling off his skeleton.

Melania's hand clasps the throat band in the same instant that the spectral bone face of a lamia veers toward her, its spidery fingers already finding agonizing entrances into the smallest parts of her life.

Chapter 4: Aelle, Chieftain of the Thunderers

Aelle, chieftain in the Saxon clan of Thunderers, in his youth won fabled renown as a destroyer of cities. A true Northman, he lives as a son of the eternal green-mountain forests, his eyes cut from blue lamps of glacial ice and his soul shaped out of winter's polar lights. Fervently, he condemns cities for an abomination. They trap the human spirit.

In nature, there are no walls. There are heights and depths, yet always with crevices and pathways of rivers and streams, always offering options. Not so in cities, where walls meet each other at tyrannical right angles, offering no choice, only submission.

Streets, too, are walls, except laid flat, denying freedom, enslaving the very direction people may walk. And the houses that the Christian city-dwellers occupy are not collapsible and transportable like the tents of the nomadic Saxons but permanent abodes made of walls trapping the very land under them and the people inside them—traps, truly, with right-angle walls built atop right-angle streets inside right-angle ramparts, everything in a grid, snared in the Christian net, like their god, who is caught, trapped, nailed to his right-angle cross.

No wonder they call him the Man of Sorrows. Who but the mad could worship such a one? Even the Christian dead are trapped: Instead of offering their dead the freedom of the pyre, Christians bury them in boxes. From birth through death, the evil ones live in cages.

Dedicated to the destruction of such evil, Aelle burns cities and frees the land under them. He slaughters Christians and spares the tribes the contagion of their sick religion, a truly mad religion that fanatically seeks to convert all others to the insane faith that people are born evil! All are marked by the divine for eternal damnation unless they embrace the Man of Sorrows and share his terrible grief.

No joy in this life, they claim, only suffering.

Yet, what of the joy of the wild hunt that even the gods revere? And what of the splendor of spring after the fiery dark of winter? And what of woman, the joy of man? And the sun, so noble even crossing the immense snow plains? And the moon and the stars, the jewelry of night? And the privilege of silence when walking through snowy woods after the wind dies among slender trees with small animals asleep in their homes?

Is not life itself joy? When one hears the laughter of children, is not the woman glad for childbirth? And is not the warrior happy for his wounds no matter their nagging aches?

Aelle is a proud destroyer of cities. Unlike other clans—Death's Angels, Ravagers, the Sons of Freeze—Thunderers do not sneak upon their enemies under the cowl of night and storm. They attack with the rising sun at their backs, and the thunder of their war drums shakes the blue sky.

The clan of Aelle is dedicated to the north god Thunder Red Hair and attacks as he would, boldly. When the fortress town of Regnum fell to such an assault, the Thunderers came away with over three hundred scalps and enough flayed flesh to make a hundred thunder drums.

Aelle himself shucked the scalps of the priests while the holy men yet lived, honoring those worshipers of suffering by not sparing them the pain their god so adores. Later, when his men pulled down the city walls, he stood on the backs of the dying priests, their peeled skulls pink as melons at his feet.

Other Saxon clans fear the Thunderers, for they know that Aelle is faithful only to Thunder Red Hair. He despises Death's Angels and the Sons of Freeze for joining the Foederatus, the alliance of north tribes, because they must obey foreign commanders such as Cruithni, the Pictish king, and the Jutish king, Wesc.

Aelle will obey no king but himself, and his clan goes their own way. He fears no one and is bound by no obligations to any of the other Saxon clans.

Such independence he attributes to the special favor of his god Thunder Red Hair. The thunder god took him for his own thirty-five summers ago during the battle at Aegelsthrep, when a British arrow pierced Aelle between the eyes.

The blow, with all its possible grief, opened the eye of infinity in him. And he saw the gods themselves in the blue zenith—the great warrior Bright Shining Blood with arms massive as the turned wood of ships' masts, and beautiful Lady Unique in a sleek gown dazzling as the coins on a carp's back, and the one-eyed chieftain of the gods, the Furor, with his storm-beard and flowing mane of summer clouds standing beside his beloved son Thunder Red Hair.

Thunder Red Hair's face, clear-cut as a garnet, smiled down at Aelle. That smile suffused the young warrior with such strength that pain fell from him like petals from a flower. He rose with the arrow still fixed in his brow and surged back into battle. That glorious day, his sword Skidblade sent many Britons into the earth to await mournful judgment by their Man of Sorrows.

A year later, this time as chief of the Thunderers, he fought alongside the Destroyers and the Green Blades, slaughtering many Britons at Crecganford and dancing in a bishop's robes like a red-winged bird. Each summer after that, he has led his clan through the season's towering rains, calling on Thunder Red Hair to help him purge the land of the cities—the Roman vici— that would smother the earth under them and poison the rivers beside them.

And though he has never again seen through the infinite sunlight to the very forms of the gods, he feels them always near him when steel strikes steel, and he hears their satisfied sighs when he squats on his fallen foes and lifts their heads by hanks of their hair for the ritual cut above the eyes and feels the night weight of death in them.

Aelle does not see the gods anymore, though occasionally the scar between his eyes where the arrow pierced will throb with cold hurt. And by that he knows that one of the Great Ones of the Wild Hunt approaches—Thunder Red Hair or that god's father, the Furor.

Usually they come at propitious times, to lead him into an important battle or away from a place where his enemies lurk, or they come to make him aware of the greatness of an event, as when his son Cissa entered this world.

Aelle has had many children without the gods in attendance. When Cissa was born, twenty-six winters ago, the arrow scar throbbed with ruby-cut pain. That night, polar lights flowed free as living water. A white elk appeared from out of the forest's ice caverns, his great horns sparkling with bits of broken fire.

A sweetly exotic perfume of summer settled over the frozen camp that night, full of the promise of legend. And the clan's Lawspeaker announced that Keeper of the Golden Apples, the Furor's mistress, had arrived to bless the birth of a seer.

The Lawspeaker had declared the truth, for Cissa grew to manhood full of trance strength and prophecy. Lithe and muscular as his father, he excelled in the hunt and in the arts of war. But, unlike Aelle, Cissa's eyes of glacial ice see the invisibles.

From early adolescence, he has shaved his body and worn only tattoo runes, snakeskin thongs, and leggings sewn from the hide and hair of the clan's enemies, because this pleases the Furor, his spirit father.

With Cissa at his side, Aelle has led his war band deep into the British countryside, where even Foederatus armies have dreaded to venture, and he has burned numerous vici—Banavem, Venta, and Anderida—slaughtering all the inhabitants, compounding his respect among the north tribes and winning an audience with the chieftain of the gods, the Furor himself.

"Leave me behind," Aelle demurs when his son announces the heavenly summons. They stand together in a field not far from Anderida. A farmer's barley had grown here the previous summer and now pale lavender asters glow in the wild grass. "Who am I to stand before a god? I do not have your deep sight."

"You will not need deep sight, brave Aelle—not when you are in the god's presence." Cissa gestures to the green-and-purple sky lowering over the ragged tops of the forest. "You have been invited into the Storm Tree, and we will ascend as spirits and see with spirit eyes. To refuse to go would be an unhappiness for all who love your courage."

"Have I refused?" Aelle glares at his son. "I question my worthiness. I am a warrior chief, not a seer."

"Mighty yet humble Aelle, we are each of us no more than a drop of the ocean that made us—yet in each drop turn vast oceans. Question your worthiness no more." Cissa points across the field to where thunder moves like a ghost through the big woods and the clan sits hunched under barberry canopies waiting for the rain. "The Thunderers do not know why I asked to walk with you through this field. Let us return among them and say we came to taste the lightning and found it good."

Aelle gently shakes his head. "No. The strength in your words has already opened the way for me. We have walked the paths of Middle Earth fearlessly though many have set their swords against us. Always, we prevailed. So, if the gods summon, why should we not walk the paths of the Storm Tree as well?"

Cissa smiles proudly and places his large, tattooed hands on his father's scarred shoulders. "Sit, strong Aelle, and we will rise together into the World Tree. The gods await us."

Their knees bend, the tall grass rises above their heads, and a bolt of lightning explodes atop them in a glare of white fire. The blast shivers the marrows in their bones and blinds them.

When they can see again, they blink at a rainbow land of which the summer of their earthly memory is but a dim echo. Zany green meadows tilt in all directions, crested with prismatic groves of immense trees above onyx boulders that spill tassels of waterfalls into iridescent pools. Breezes full of ripe apricot waft dragonflies and emerald birds through a sky-ocean of indolent clouds.

Startled, breaths quickening, they stand, the light between them velvet with soft energies. Before they can speak, they see him striding toward them across the fiery green meadow. An opalescent wind in his stormy beard, his one eye fierce as a diamond, he stares at them from under a falcon's hat cocked over his empty socket.

"All-Father!" Aelle cries, and he and his son throw themselves to the ground.

"Stand, children." His vibrant voice shivers the small bones in their ears. "I have called you to me to give you honor. And there is no honor with your faces in the dirt."

Yet, what dirt! The land of the Storm Tree smells like the bosom of a young woman. Lifted by the good-hearted laughter of the All-Father, they rise. He stands before them, no larger than a very large man but with unknowable wisdom pleating the air around him.

"Come, walk with me, my children." He embraces them in his cavernous voice. "Let me show you this lovely branch of the World Tree." He motions toward a horizon slippery as gold, and they are pacing with the towering god above the sunset curtains of the earth.

Below, among oceans like fish pools, the continents' brown faces gaze serenely. The Furor points to where the night winds blow back in auroral veils from the solar tide of dawn. He sweeps his thick arm upward, exposing celestial darkness strewn with clouds of stars and pinwheel fires.

He motions back toward the Storm Tree, and they are once more among trees like fountains of colors and water birds trailing thin lines of music through an immense azure sky.

The Furor sits on a cinnamon boulder and signs for his guests to take comfort on the verdant sward before him. At his back, the full moon bulges hugely, a plate of cracked ice in the tropical atmosphere.

"Aelle, you are the greatest living warrior among my children of Middle Earth," the Furor declares. "You are strong and wily enough to stand on your own. You owe allegiance to no man, and you serve me well in your conquests—for I have sworn before all the gods that I would have the West Isles for my own. And you—you are the living truth of my oath."

Aelle timidly lowers his head, and inquires, "All-Father—dare I speak before you?"

"Speak—yes! You are my favored child. I will listen to you with my heart."

"All-Father, I am exalted here among these wonders, here in the land of the gods, in the fabled Storm Tree that holds up the worlds. You have shown us many glories. My heart is full. Yet, I am chief from the clan of the Thunderers. When I return to my people, they will ask if I have seen your beloved son, our champion among the gods—Thunder Red Hair."

The Furor bows his head. "You would see my son? Then give me your hands."

Aelle and Cissa exchange astonished looks as the Furor extends his powerful, square hands toward them. Dare they touch a god?

Cissa nods in awe, and they reach out. Instantly, the beauty around them shrivels away, and they veer across a wasteland of sulfur sands and shattered rocks. Beneath a gigantic night of evil stars that flare like cactus flowers, they stop.

"What is this frightful place?" Aelle whispers to his son.

"The Raven's Branch, noble Aelle," Cissa answers. "The topmost bough of the Storm Tree. Above us, behold the Gulf of eternal night. Upon this abyss all creation floats as a bubble in froth."

"Cissa knows." The Furor releases their hands. They stand in red dust among cracked tusks of stone. "And now I will show you a truth that even your clear-eyed seer knows not. These are the gods who cherish me, who love me more than all other gods."

A dune of ash fans away in a polar gust exposing a cobra-hooded cavern. Inside, lanterns dull red as hung hearts shed a mute glow on eight prone bodies whose marmoreal shapes display the colorless, slippery look of statues.

Cissa advances eagerly, recognizing these gods revered in tribal lore. Aelle follows more apprehensively, unhappy that he has been carried so far from the earthly senses he has trusted all his life.

"Sister Mint," Cissa breathes above the husk of a large woman in floral cape and tunic of stitched leaves. "The wife of the Brewer, mother of healing! And here is Blue, the sea god—" His eyes widen to take in the god's proud features and nakedness sleek as a dolphin's.

"And this," Aelle speaks standing before a figure wrapped in a tight cocoon of robes that reveal only a portion of her hawkish face. "This must be the Ravager, the storm-rider, sorceress of the gods."

"Yes." The Furor's volcanic voice grows softer. "Beside her lies my heart's weakness." He nods to a young woman so lovely that staring at her stops their breathing and hurts their chests. "My daughter, Beauty. And alongside, her dear friend, Silver Heart."

Beholding the phantasmal loveliness of Beauty, they stagger backward like men whose heartbeats have forgotten to go. They can look closely no more, and their eyes skim over lordly shapes blue-gray as dawn while the Furor recites their names, "The Dragon Witch, Wonder Smith, and my son, Thunder Red Hair—"

Neither Aelle nor visionary Cissa has any strength left to see the god of their clan in this morbid state, and they avert their eyes. "All-Father! Are they dead?" Cissa asks.

"Not dead, child—asleep." The Furor's one eye swirls with moon-pale watercolors of withheld tears. "They have given me their life strength that I might work magic to fight for the West Isles and all the north lands."

"Fight?" Aelle asks, stunned free of the loveliness that numbed him. "Who would dare fight against you?"

The Furor laughs, bursting with affection for these devoted ones. "Tell him, seer. Tell him of our enemies."

"You know them, fierce Aelle. The rabid souls that must infest others with their worship of death."

"The Christians?" Aelle gasps, not comprehending how those demented souls could challenge so noble a being. "The Man of Sorrows fights you?"

"Not the Man of Sorrows, child. He is merely the latest apparition of my true enemies—the Fire Lords." The one eye squints, sending radial creases upward to his furrowed brow. "Do you know of them?"

"No, All-Father," Aelle says. "Are they the gods of the Christians?"

"They do not call themselves gods," the Furor states, his voice a rumble of disdain. "They say there is one God. Each of the Fire Lords believes he is a messenger of this God, an angelos in the language of the Greeks. But these messengers are older than the Greeks. They came from the Gulf several thousand years ago, long before the Greeks built their temples. They are the radiant ones worshiped in the ancient river kingdoms of Persia and Egypt. They brought the sorcery of numbers and letters to the desert tribes. They caught eternity in a circle, chopped it into sixty parts, and called it time. They worship the Word and enslave people with spells, with written magic that lives beyond individuals and binds whole nations to their insanity. The Fire Lords are the ones who taught people how to build the first cities and how to tame animals and cut the land into the straight lines and boundaries of fields. They erected the first fences, and they are the ones who want to build walls across all of Middle Earth. The Fire Lords are my enemy. The Man of Sorrows is just their latest ploy to enslave the lives of the people with words written in his name."

Aelle raises both fists in pledge. "Then the Fire Lords are my enemies, All-Father."

The Furor nods with satisfaction. "You are as strong an ally to me as these sleeping gods who gave me their strength to fight the Fire Lords, to keep these evil beings out of the north lands."

"When will these sleepers awake?" Cissa asks.

"Soon in the time of the gods—though centuries will pass on Middle Earth before Thunder Red Hair descends again to lead his raiders—his vikingr—against the minions of the Fire Lords." The Furor bends closer, and with him comes the smell of lightning. "For now, I need your help."

"Anything, All-Father," Aelle swears fervently. "How may we serve you?"

"The Fire Lords stole my sword Lightning."

Aelle looks to his son for understanding, and the seer answers his father by saying to the Furor, "The legendary blade fashioned for you by the dwarfs. It is famous in the Lawspeaker's tales of origin. The dwarfs gave it to you when you were forced to disguise yourself as a man and hide in Middle Earth from the wrath of the Old Ones."

"Yes, dear Cissa, that very blade that once protected me now is turned against me." The god's beard tucks in at his mouth as if tasting something bitter. "The Fire Lords stole it from my arsenal, from Brokk, my weapons master and the very dwarf who crafted the blade for me. They have given it to the Christian wizard Merlin. Do you know of him?"

Aelle's eyes widen. "Who on Middle Earth does not, All-Father? He is the wizard who plied his sorcery against the great chieftains Hengist and Horsa. He destroyed them for the Dragon Lord of the Christians. He is an evil creature."

"He is not even a creature," Cissa adds, angrily. "The Lawspeaker says that Merlin is a Dark Dweller from the House of Fog—what the Christians call a demon. They claim that one of their saints tamed him to human form, and he serves now the Man of Sorrows."

"In truth, he is a Dark Dweller named Lailoken," the Furor confirms. "He has all the powers of a Dark Dweller but in human guise, and so he is very dangerous to us. All the more so now that he possesses my sword Lightning."

"Tell us where it is, All-Father," Aelle states boldly, "and we will retrieve it for you."

"If any of my children had such power," the chief of the gods says with a pleased glint in his eye, "it would be you. But the sword Lightning is guarded by the Dragon."

Aelle feels his heart shrivel at the mention of the Dragon, the gargantuan planetary beast that dwells underground and devours the lives of men and gods alike.

"But the Dragon is asleep, All-Father," Cissa says. "No seer has seen it in fifteen years, and it is not expected to awaken again for a thousand years or more."

"Perhaps—" the Furor says, frowning contemplatively, "or perhaps this is merely a deception of the Dark Dweller Lailoken, who wants to lure me within striking distance of the Dragon's claws. I must be wary, for the Fire Lords are intent on destroying me—and then what will become of my children?"

"If we cannot retrieve the sword Lightning," Aelle asks, puzzled, "then how may we serve you?"

"Brokk lost my sword, and he will recover it," the Furor pronounces. "What I ask of you is to distract the assembly of Celts and Britons who guard the sword. Merlin has installed the weapon on a knoll called Mons Caliburnus. It lies near a fortress-city that he is constructing and has named Camelot. Every fifth summer, the Celtic chieftains and British warlords gather at Camelot to feast and plan their war strategies. This summer is the third such gathering of our enemies in this hateful place. You are to attack them. While they contend with you, Brokk will take back my sword."

Aelle and Cissa stand stunned. The Furor's request is nothing less than a command to forfeit their earthly lives. Though both warriors cherish the glory of battle death, neither finds valor in futile sacrifice for any thing - a piece of land, treasure or a sword, even the Furor's sword. Death is hazard for victory, for domination in combat. To die as a mere distraction, so that a dwarf may steal a sword...

Barely a heartbeat of shocked silence lapses before Aelle, mind racing, swears, "What you ask is already accomplished in my heart, All-Father," and then humbly bows his head, "but the Thunderers and myself, we are only men. How can we fight a Dark Dweller from the House of Fog?"

"I will be with you," the Furor promises. "I will deal directly with Lailoken myself."

"Then happily do we sacrifice our lives against the assembled forces of Celt and Briton," Aelle speaks earnestly, mentally shaping a new stratagem to save himself and his son even as he speaks. "Yet, is this not a task better suited to your berserkers, who yearn to die in battle—for surely none may go against such a formidable host of our enemies and expect to survive? Do the Thunderers not serve you better as destroyers of the cities that blight the West Isles?"

A benign smile nests in the Furor's grandiose beard. "I ask much of you, I know this, my children. Berserkers would serve me better, for they are faithless to Middle Earth and love not terrestrial life with your passion. There are no berserkers in the region where I need them, where you are. They rove to the east, while you are my might in Cymru, the kingdom of the Celts."

"Yes, All-Father," Aelle admits, allowing a tone of contrition to soften his voice, already seeking a new rationale for his survival. "So now I must tell you the shameful reason why we find ourselves in Cymru."

"I already know, my child. My one eye sees much." That fearsome eye screws tighter in his craggy face. "Do not lower your head like sheep. Your youngest son, Fen, is a captive of a Celtic chieftain—Kyner the Christian. To assure Fen's return to the Thunderers, you have been informing Kyner of the raiding plans of Death's Angels and the Sons of Freeze."

Aelle looks up at the god, eyes pleading. "All-Father, forgive me! The Sons of Freeze and Death's Angels squander their Saxon freedom by serving the kings of Picts and Jutes—!"

"Silence, child," he admonishes with profound gentleness. "You have no love of the Foederatus. I know this. Yet, they are my children, too. I hold no ire against you, and I assure you that when you die in battle for me, you and your Thunderers will feast in the Hall of Light among all the heroes of legend from times past and to come."

Aelle bows contritely. All appeals are spent, and he accepts this with the same bravery that first led him into battle. "All-Father, the Thunderers will attack Camelot, as you say."

"As you say," Cissa echoes, staring at his god unbowed and radiant with devotion.

The Furor smiles, and the air goes bright as lightning. The warriors wince and cover their faces, and when they look again, once more they sit in their mortal bodies upon a field of wild grass and pale lavender asters.

Thunder shakes the air, and rain sweeps over the forest in sheets and crosses the field toward them like fragrant, translucent beings swimming down from the sky.

Aelle and Cissa look at each other and laugh and cry at once as the gray veils of rain wrap around them—for they are dead men now, dead men who must yet bear the burden of their lives.

Chapter 5: Merlin

Merlin casts a lingering look over his shoulder at Camelot. Its skeletal derrick towers and scaffolds hold the empty iris blue of the sky where someday soon, he prays, there will be spires and parapets. He dislikes having to leave the construction of the citadel unattended, especially now that workers are dressing the stones that will secure the secret passageways. A forgetting spell will easily wipe memory from the minds of the builders, he decides. But before that, he must make certain the portal stones will fit with the necessary precision. And then, there is the matter of the roof beams, whose raising he must supervise to assure that they are properly anchored to the foundation posts.

He pinches the bridge of his nose to relieve the tension between his eyes and turns to the sun among the western mountains. If he is to make the journey into the hollow hills, he must abandon all these problems and depart at once.

He sighs, puts his weight on his tall staff, and steps off the gravel path into the sedge that climbs sloping terrain toward sunset. He munches a wizened apple as he walks, lulled by river sounds from the gorge below. Briefly, he glimpses at the far end of the valley the hamlet of Cold Kitchen, with its narrow lanes and red tile rooftops. Then, the tree-crowned hills close around him, and only the weak colors of twilight distinguish the pathways of the forest.

By that dusty light, the wizard advances slowly toward creaturely shapes among the shadows, which he is able to discern only with his strong eye. The faerie live among shadows, and once his eyes adjust to the dim shine of the night forest, he sees them.

They are pieces of moonlight, though no moon shines. Quietly, they guide Merlin through the nocturnal distances, sometimes flitting so close that he can see their nightgowns of fog, glowworm bodies and sticky halos. The wizard knows they have no faces, no bodies either; they exist purely as designs of energy, tiny sentient waveforms that sometimes migrate into animal bodies. As a demon, he used to smash them like flies because of their mindless joy. Now he is grateful for their help finding his way into the underworld.

Merlin seeks the roots of the World Tree, the Storm Tree, the Cosmic Tree that the north tribes call Yggdrasil. It is actually the sprawling magnetic field of the planet. Its lines of force arc like immense boughs high over the earth, and there, gigantic electrical beings exist—the gods of human lore.

The Celtic gods, known as the Daoine Sid, once dwelt there, too, in ages past when they and the Celts dominated Europe. A millennium ago, the Fauni, the Greek and Roman gods, drove them out of the Tree and into the subterranean regions where the planet's magnetic field coils like mighty roots. Down there in the netherworld, in the presence of the terrifying electrical Dragon that dwells at the core of the earth, the Sid struggle to survive.

What is worse, to keep the Dragon from devouring them during its restless wakeful spells, the Daoine Sid must on occasion feed it the radiant bodies of other gods, giants, trolls, dwarfs, and even humans. Thus, to be lured into the hollow hills by the pale people is a doomful fate.

Merlin is not concerned. He knows that the Dragon has recently succumbed to a long slumber from which it will not rouse for another thousand years. The wizard's only anxiety is finding his way among the intricate and immense rootcoils of the World Tree, and he is grateful that the Sid have sent the faerie to direct him.

Like jittery fireflies, they lead Merlin onward through grainy darkness, toward a streak of sunset that eventually expands to a flame-woven horizon. An incandescent palace of slender butyl blue columns and fireball domes rises from its midst.

This is the court of the Daoine Sid's king, Someone Knows the Truth. Merlin has been here before, and he walks without hesitation into the blazing hall and toward the flaring throne, upon which sits a massive monarch with the head of an elk.

The wizard approaches boldly, unfazed by the splendor of the palace and the bestial appearance of its lord. Everything in the branches and roots of the Great Tree is illusory—electrical weavings in the brain of the perceiver. However, the power expressed here is entirely real, and before it Merlin sinks to one knee and, with sincere reverence, removes his conical hat.

"Majesty," he begins, "I have come before you with an urgent plea ..."

"Don't blow empty words in my face, Lailoken," the elk king responds gruffly, his voice rumbling like surf. "Uther Pendragon belongs to me yet. Even as we speak, he prances blithely in the Happy Woods, not a Christian thought in his soul, I assure you. The Piper's music has purged him of all dread of sin and damnation, and he is as giddy now as any Celtic sprite that ever drank starlight and danced on moonbeams."

"My lord, I have not come before you to plead for Uther Pendragon but for his son, Arthor."

"Arthor? The youth has the soul of Cuchulain," the elk god reminds him with annoyance. "What greater gift could I have given him? What more dare you ask of me?"

"Protection for him," the wizard speaks, eyes downcast. "His half sister Morgeu covets for her children Arthor's high status and intends to murder him. My woe is this—Morgeu's sorcery is capable of what she threatens."

King Someone Knows the Truth waves him away. "You are a wizard, Lailoken. Surely, you have the power to guard him."

"My power is less than I would like, majesty. I have invested all that I can command into building Camelot, into creating a kingdom that will endure."

The elk face mutates with anger to a predatory snarl. "A Christian kingdom, Lailoken, which brands me a devil and keeps the Daoine Sid underground."

"This is true, my lord." The wizard lowers his face and stares up from under his hoary brow. "History defeats you. This has been so for centuries now. The Christians are not your enemies."

The king of the Celtic gods stands, and the seams of his buckskin vest and leggings burst with swollen rage. "They say I am a devil!" Fury distorts his deer visage to a wolf's snarl. "Look at me! Once I was supreme god of all the tribes. My image adorned cavern walls in the sacred places. Now I am a devil. And you want my help with your Christian kingdom?" His voice sneers: "What is the curse the Christians use? 'Go to hell!'"

Merlin rises and leans on his staff, hat in hand. "It was the Fauni drove you underground, my lord, not the Christians. The Furor has destroyed the Fauni. Now he will destroy the Christians—both Britons and Celts. And he won't stop there. You know, he will slay you if he can. Once he fully realizes that the Dragon is asleep, what will keep him and his Rovers of the Wild Hunt from swarming underground and slaughtering all the Daoine Sid? The Christians alone can protect you. They will drive the Furor from these islands. But you must help them. You must help Arthor."

The king's features recompose themselves as he contemplates what the demon-wizard has said. "Arthor bears the soul of the Celts' most fierce warrior," he says. "I will not have him squandered to some jealous sorceress. By my word, he will live to fight the Furor. Return to the dayheld world, Lailoken. I will send the elf-prince Bright Night to meet you. With him to watch over Arthor, you may work unhindered on your city-fortress for the future king."

Merlin bows gratefully and backs away, eager to remove his fragile mortal form from this illusory domain of shifting energies.

"Mind you, Lailoken," the god calls after him, his orotund voice echoing from all sides, "I want respect for the Daoine Sid in Camelot. Among your Christian icons, be certain that there are included Celtic emblems that honor us who have enabled you."

"You have my word—" Merlin begins to promise. Before the wizard can finish, he finds himself flying backward among windblown soot. The palace shaped like fire diminishes to a gaseous, swirly glare and then to a mere splinter of twilight before darkness swarms in.

Quickly, the wizard chants a vigorous spell to liberate himself from the subterranean god's grasp, and he sprawls downhill, robes flapping, through a tumult of leaves to the floor of the forest.

Sunset colors—scarlets, maroons, luminescent greens—fill the atmosphere between the dense trunks and boughs, while overhead, the first throw of stars glints in the purple zenith. Animal sounds sift back after the crash of Merlin's expulsion from the hollow hills fades. He rubs a knot on the back of his head where a rock has kissed his skull, and he staggers upright.

"You're a bold one, Lailoken," a gleaming voice speaks from the smoke of twilight.

"Bright Night?" the wizard recognizes. "Show yourself."

"I am right before you, man." A laugh glitters nearby.

Merlin retrieves his staff and waves it around. Its revealing power discloses directly in front of him a bareheaded figure with long hair so red it glows. Flamboyant green eyes aslant as a donkey's peer merrily at the wizard's confusion.

The prince of the Daoine Sid wears a suede vest, blue tunic, fawnskin trousers, and yellow boots, and his beardless face grins cockily. "Well, I must say, I feel as happy as a dog's tail to see you again, Lailoken."

"My name is Merlin now, Bright Night." The wizard casts about for his hat.

Bright Night offers the wide-brimmed hat with the conical, bent peak. "A fancy piece of work, this—and your robe as well. From the looks of you, I'd say the business of wizardry agrees with you—Merlin."

Ignoring the remark, the wizard brushes back his disheveled hair and fits the hat to his head. "I need your help, Bright Night. Arthor is in trouble."

"It's been fifteen busy years," the prince complains, transparent among the dark trees and luminous sky. "Fifteen years, and you've not come to the hollow hills once or even sent a raven with news of your grand project. Tsk. I cherished the faith that we were friends."

Merlin huffs with surprise. "Enemies stay close, Bright Night. Only true friends can keep their distance."

"I thought perhaps you were unhappy with me," the elf says, "because it was I who came to take Uther Pendragon to the Happy Woods."

Merlin scowls. "No, no—not at all. I haven't held that against you for a moment. Uther made that pact with your king: his soul for the warrior Cuchulain's. Now the Celtic warrior is reborn as Arthor, and Uther dances to the Piper in the Happy Woods. That was Uther's intent, and it is fulfilled. How could I spite you for that?"

"Good. Silence is a text easy to misread."

"I've been hard at work these many years, Bright Night. With Uther dead, the British warlords have been squabbling among themselves for the title of high king. You don't know—it has taken all my powers to prevent chaos, total war. I admit, I wanted to summon you earlier, to serve my cause. But in truth, I did not think that an elf-prince should be pressed into the service of my hopes."

"And now?" Bright Night's eyes betray a look of resentment. "Why have you gone to my king to command my service?

"Because Arthor is in danger. Quite simply, I cannot help him without abandoning Camelot—and if I do, there will be hell itself to pay without me there to mediate between the Celts and Britons." Merlin intently fixes his frost eyes on Bright Night, wanting to bring to bear all the magical charm he can muster. But darkness leans through the elf, blurring his image. "Anyway, I thought you were happy as a dog's tail to see me."

"Oh I am," Bright Night agrees, his voice softening. "It's just the lowliness of the task that irks me. I'd rather fight the Furor and his storm raiders than stand guard, which is menial work that can be done just as well by faeries."

"Aye, but you will be guarding Cuchulain's soul," Merlin reminds him. "The future king of Britain."

Bright Night nods reluctantly.

"Then you will help me?" Merlin presses.

"No," the elf says, then breaks into a playful grin. "But if you let me wear your hat, I'll consider it more closely."

"My hat? Whatever for?"

"I want to feel what you've been thinking all these years."

Merlin shrugs, removes his hat, and affixes it atop the elf-prince's head. "Now take me to Arthor."

Bright Night sweeps his arm through the hyacinth-colored air, and a flurry of faerie lights swarms against the grain of the wind.

As Merlin and the elf hurry after the gust of sparks, the prince chuckles, tickled by all he feels within the demon-man's cap: a full heart's frenzy, dazzling with ambitious expectations and tremors of anxiety.

"You dream big dreams, wizard," he says hurrying among the trees. "When your mother birthed you, do you think she ever had anything as grandiose as Camelot in mind?"

"Fragile hopes require strong vessels," Merlin says, breathing hard to keep up with the cold motes of light spinning through the gathering darkness.

"You must admit," the elf-prince challenges, "if you fail, Camelot will persist only as a monument to our stillborn dreams and our broken lives."

"Then," Merlin gasps, "we must—not fail."

Through the arched boughs of dark trees, the faerie lead the wizard and the elf-prince past peaty ponds, where herons stand like phantoms in the frail light. Wild ducks burst loudly into the gloaming, and a crow flies on furtive wings toward night.

Sedges fall away into the rank grass of a lush pasture where a bridleway climbs toward a Roman road. Before them, a company of riders stands silhouetted among rambling sycamores, erecting tents for a camp.

Merlin stops, and says in a hush, "That is Kyner's company. Arthor will be among them. I dare not show myself. I have already drawn too close."

"My king tells me you fear Ygrane's daughter, Morgeu," the elf-prince says, returning the wizard's hat. "I have not seen her these past fifteen years. At that time, she had no fearsome powers of her own. The demons were her strength."

"She has since found her own wicked powers, good prince. Beware of her. If she approaches Arthor, you must summon me at once. Do not reveal yourself. I believe she has the magic to destroy even radiant beings such as yourself."

"I need no warning of Morgeu the Fey," the prince states, "for I shall not be staying here—or anywhere near your beloved Arthor."

"But you told me—"

"That I would consider your request more closely," the elf reminds him. "And I have. Though my king, Someone Knows the Truth, is old and oft makes weak decisions these days, he is yet my king and I dare not wholly disobey him. So—" From a small pocket in his suede vest, he produces a mirror tiny as a thumbnail, with a miniature blue rose pressed between its clear and silvered lenses. "I shall give you this summoning glass. When you burst it and the blue rose that comes from the Happy Woods is touched by the harsh light of this world it shrivels with a shriek I could hear in Cathay. I shall come to that call and exert my powers to help you—or any of your minions—to accomplish one worthy task." He grins close-lipped and merry-eyed, like a gypsy "Does that satisfy you, Merlin?"

"No," the wizard answers flatly. "What of Morgeu's threat? Who shall watch over Arthor?"

"Leave that to the faeries," the elf suggests. "They'll fly to you swifter than wind if he is in jeopardy. Trust them."

Bright Night hands him the summoning glass, and Merlin accepts with an unhappy frown. "I am disappointed in you, prince."

"And I in you, wizard. I had fostered such lofty hopes of your devotion to the Daoine Sid. After all, you are a demon in human flesh. I thought you would fight more strongly against the Furor."

"The Furor has come to fulfill the old prophecies," Merlin says grimly. "Not even the Fire Lords—the Celts' famed Annwn— can stop him. Do not cherish false hopes, bold friend."

The prince receives this warning with a dour jut of his lower lip. "So then, you are back to Camelot?"

"Yes. The roof of the great hall is to be raised, and it is a task that may require my magic." Merlin claps a gnarly hand on the elf's shoulder and feels his chill heat vibrant and insubstantial as a prayer. "Thank you for the summoning glass. I shall not burst it until dire need is upon me."

"Go, then," the prince says in the dark with a star-glint of smile. "Our friendship will hold the distance."

Merlin slips into the night, his beard and long hair glowing briefly as wisps of fog before he vanishes entirely. Prince Bright Night stares morosely into the dark after he has gone and bemoans his fate, reciting the same internal incantation of his past that he has been repeating to himself for the thousand years of Sid exile:

He alone of the Daoine Sid nourishes the rageful hope of storming heaven and reclaiming a place in the upper world. The others—Old Elk-Head, the faerie, and the other elves—have succumbed to their earthly fates inside the hollow hills.

Before the Dragon began its most recent slumber, Bright Night earned his fame among the Sid by his skill at bringing oblations to the cosmic beast. Reckless of his own life, he faced down trolls, shapeshifters, giants, even gods, tricking each of these electrical beings into the Dragon's snares. The gods Tonans, Pluvius, Orcus, Ull, and Vali all have surged from the Great Tree, provoked by his taunts, and plunged howling into the subterranean maw of the Dragon. Brutal satyrs and gnomes, too, have dared stalk him, barbed by his insults, and come within inches of breaking his life before the claws of the Dragon broke theirs.

Death holds no terror for Bright Night. Life is his suffering, for he too well remembers the glories of the Sid's lost home atop the Sky Tree. In the night pastures of the Tree, with the stars big as snowdrops, he sat enraptured, blank with bliss, shining inside the aura of the earth. By day, the sun's wind, full of horizons, polished his soul so shiny he seemed to reflect all the world in himself. He lived happy as grass. Love and destiny for him in those days were the same word.

Now, and for the last thousand years since heaven was lost, Bright Night and the other Sid live in the long sunset, in cavernous burrows and immense subterranes of stalactite dells lit by the moody hues of fulgurant lava. He hates it. The confinement, the grinding noises and drippings, the hot stinks—all this offends him. He would rather die in an ogre's slobbering jaws, wounds open to the sun, than dwell safely another day among the red shadows in the hollow hills.

Yet, much as it pleases him to strive for freedom in the day-held world, he does not want to watch over young Arthor. He has seen the coming darkness, and he knows that Arthor, for all the strength of Cuchulain and all the love of the angels, cannot hold back such a dark tide.

For the sake of Someone Knows the Truth, Old Elk-Head, who has ruled these lands since even before the ice mountains came and went, he approaches Kyner's camp. Woven into the night, he is invisible. Through the golden haze of firelight, he strolls, looking for Arthor among the low-lying field tents.

"He should have been back with the victuals by now," Kyner grouses, returning from the vesper prayers he has conducted under the sycamores with most of the company. "Stirpot flummery is well enough for us, but the wounded deserve eggs and fresh milk. Go on, Cei, and find what's keeping him."

"Why me, Father?" Cei grumbles from where he sits roasting an apple in the campfire. "Arthor hates me. Send one of the men."

"He is your foster brother, Cei. Now go."

Kyner's stern look sends Cei lumbering into the dark. He follows a footpath through the tasseled pasture grass toward the yellow lights spilling from farm huts on a nearby knoll.

Bright Night hurries ahead of Cei and finds Arthor at the curve of the hill entangled with a young peasant woman. Her giggling reaches Cei, who comes running, shouting, "Arthor! You pizzle-brain! Father will flay your hide!"

The maiden shoves Arthor away, tweaks his nose, and rushes off laughing, her yellow dog bounding behind her like a bright smudge in the night field.

Cei rushes up and cuffs his younger brother behind the head. "You're disgusting, boy! You behave like an animal!"

Arthor whirls about, eyes flashing in the dark.

"Go ahead, cur, hit me," Cei challenges. "Show me again I'm right. You're just an animal—a Saxon animal pretending to be a Celt."

Arthor shoves him away. "At least I like women," he mutters, and swoops up the basket of foods he has just purchased from the farmers.

"All right, insult me, then," Cei calls angrily, following Arthor's big strides back toward the camp. "Mock my faith and my abstinence. But my faith will not have me ravish any woman in the night."

"I did not ravish her," Arthor protests. "She was ravishing me!”

"Hah! Tell that to Father!"

Kyner already stands at the field's edge, glowering at the two young men as they march into camp shouting at each other. Prince Bright Night lingers in the moonless pasture, wanting no part of the endless bickering of men.

The elf prince watches the white fires in the sky until the campfire is dampened and the Celts sleep. Then he slips out of the night and hovers over Arthor's slumbering form. Faeries prance upon his bristly hair, sit on his nose, and crawl over his inert face.

The elf prince lies down beside Arthor, so that their heads touch, and he feels into the young man's memories, feels everything that he has experienced in his fifteen angry years.

Despite Kyner's heartfelt love, the boy has grown up a thrall, ever aware he did not belong. Indeed, though he traveled with the chieftain on his diplomatic tours among all the Christian strongholds in Britain and Gaul, he journeyed as his stepbrother Cei's lackey, a humbly dressed servant for the chieftain's brightly garbed son. By token of Kyner's Christian charity, the boys shared the same tutors in Latin, history, and mathematics and learned at Kyner's knee the books of the Bible, though none pressed Arthor for his understanding.

Arthor resented his role as servant, and his bitterness curdled early in life to aggression. He scuffed with everyone, from the chieftain to the stable hands. And though he adored horses and handled his steeds with clairvoyant understanding, he met other animals with cruelty. He kicked dogs out of his way. On the hunt, he purposefully wounded stately elk to track their blood spoor through the forest. The big bruins he netted, he baited with Kyner's dogs for the amusement of villagers.

The servants, appalled, reported him regularly to Kyner, who eventually put him to work with the butchers. There, he perfected his killing skills with knives and hammers, slaughtering beasts with a fervor that frightened the meatmen.

Wherever they traveled, Kyner obliged the boy they called the Royal Eagle of Thor to entertain their hosts with acrobatic skills and pony tricks. Juggling on horseback, leaping between saddles, winning every obstacle horse race he entered no matter the steed, Arthor garnered accolades from kings and dignitaries in every land they visited. And thus he earned the respect of the warlord who had reared him.

That respect expanded to Kyner's outright admiration when Arthor's entertaining abilities proved useful on the battlefield. As a twelve-year-old, he rode and fought in his first military campaign, accompanying Kyner on a policing tour of the chieftain's domain. Expected to tend and groom the horses and to make the arduous journey more comfortable for Cei, who came along to observe and learn, Arthor rushed into the fray on foot during the first engagement against a band of maniacal Pictish raiders. Swinging a fallen battle-ax and wearing no armor, he slew four tattooed warriors before Kyner could pull him out of the battle.

After that, Arthor asked for and received permission to wear chain mail and ride on horseback at Kyner's side. To save face, Cei forced himself to join them, overriding his fears and unreadiness. For the last three years, Arthor has continued to amaze Kyner—and not just as a warrior. From the first, the boy requested that his shield bear the likeness of the Savior's mother.

"Why?" Kyner demanded, astonished at this request from a cold-hearted killer of animals and men.

"I have the blood-thirst of my Saxon forebears," he answered in his surly way, "I shall need her at my side to remind me of mercy."

The reply pleased Kyner, and he inquired no further. The elf-prince lying beside Arthor in the night field senses the young man's soul and knows the true reason for his devotion. The cruel boy has turned his rage outward to slay beasts and warriors, because otherwise that fury would kill him.

Arthor hates himself. He is not like others—not a Celt, not a mother and father's son, no, nor even a soul with a Christian birthright. He loathes what he is—a creature born from a carnal spasm of violence and abandoned for what he is, horrid and unlovable even to his own mother. And so he has turned to the one mother who can love him, the mother of pity who understands all sorrows, even his: mater dolorosa, the Mother of God.

Prince Bright Night sits up with this revelation. Merlin has served you poorly, the elf thinks, gazing with desperate concern at the blond young man and the mighty soul within him trapped in ignorance. You have been poorly served in this bid for glory, young king. Then, the elf rises, faeries swirling around him in cold sparks, and strides angrily into the night, wondering what destiny could be worthy of this mortal misery.

Chapter 6: Ygrane

The sea rocks in its cage, its white fingers grasping the black boulders of the jagged cliffs, sliding away and then grasping again as if mounting the strength to climb out of this pit. Above the sea loom the majestic white stone towers and tiered turrets of castle Tintagel, stronghold of the Celtic queen, Ygrane. Once, this citadel served the queen's first husband, Gorlois, duke of the Saxon Coast, and housed his soldiers. Now it acts as cloister for the Christian queen and white-robed nuns who minister to the surrounding countryside as Holy Sisters of the Graal.

Each day Ygrane, as abbess, conducts the synagogal service of scripture reading, psalm singing, and homiletic sermonizing that comprises the Mass. She shares with the other nuns the opportunity to serve as Christ's surrogate, so that eventually all may have the chance to administer the Eucharist.

Afterward, she leads the Holy Sisters into the outlying communities to do the work Jesus himself would have done if he were in their place. By late afternoon, concluding a long day tending the sick and indigent of the outlying hamlets, they return to Tintagel, eat a humble meal prepared by the castle's acolytes, and retire to their individual chambers for solitary prayer and meditation.

From a parapet balcony on the western face of Tintagel, Ygrane leans upon a marble balustrade of coiled serpents and watches the colors of the sea change. With the ocean as her altar, she prays to Stella Maris, Star of the Sea, the Mother of God. As she does every evening, she prays for the salvation of her people and the preservation of her child, Arthor, whom she has not seen since the wizard Merlin took him from her breast.

Behind her a spacious portico holds blue seashine, salt breezes, and the round table. She and Uther Pendragon rolled the large wheel of Merlin's creation among the cities of Britain when they toured their kingdom soon after they married. At each city, they lay the wheel down as a table, a gathering place of political equity for chieftains and warlords. Even now, in disuse, the nuns each day polish its gray laminar surface to a mirror clarity that reflects the world in dusky inversion.

At its center, the abbey has placed the Graal, a slender goblet of gold-laced chrome.

This chalice is Ygrane's most prized treasure. No ordinary goblet, the shape serves as an antenna, a receiver that redirects the energies of the Fire Lords, radiant beings the Celts call Annwn, the Otherworldly, and Christians revere as angels.

On occasion, these supernal beings visit the Graal. In the years since the Good Sisters of Arimathea delivered the holy vessel to her castle on the snowbound Christmas morning of 474 A.D., whenever the Annwn come, they appear in sacred vestments of iridescent gold—beardless men with tresses of silver sunlight. They speak soundlessly to her, lustrous eyes reading her words before she voices them.

Once, she thought to ask about the Good Sisters, the nine mysterious women who had brought the Graal to her all those years ago.

They are the Nine Queens of times past, the Annwn answered, one selected from each span of ten thousand years that the human race has dwelled on earth. Nine women for the ninety thousand years that humanity followed queens. They dwell as spirit beings now—on Avalon.

The Annwn anticipated the queen's next thought and replied, Know this, Ygrane—your son Arthor shall take his place among the Nine when the eldest of the Queens is released, her spirit returned to the rhythmic duration of death and rebirth. Arthor will take her place, the lone man among the Nine, emblem for ten thousand years of rule by kings.

"My son—" Ygrane's hands groped forward, to touch the vaporous angels, and felt the benediction of their lustrous, ungraspable energy. "My son will serve angels," she said aloud, her joy a fence from despair and bitter fear.

Now, once again, Ygrane prays for her son. She has asked no further questions of the Annwn. She does not want to know what will happen on Avalon over the aeon that her son must serve the radiant beings. She is afraid for him.

The angels, during their visits, stand before the Graal, their bodies fiery blue, cyanic and hugely empty as pieces of the sky. In their presence, she prays for a world without war and is glad when the luminous beings, with their wings of muscular lightning, do not speak.

Most days, Ygrane keeps her solitude after long hours of mission work. When she can pray no more at the altar of the sea, she turns and sits at the round table in one of the high-backed ebony chairs delicately carved with dragons and unicorns.

Resting her arms on the table, she extends her hands toward the Graal. She does not need to touch the holy vessel to feel its power. Invisible energies spill out their color and fragrance in her mind—a blue dazzle of amaryllis scent that fills her with longing for times past.

She thinks of her second husband, the only man she truly loved, Uther Pendragon, and she wishes she had the magic she once possessed so that she could see him now in the joyful netherworld, to see if he is happy dancing to the Piper's passionate music.

"I assure you, my lady, he is happy as any soul could be."

Startled, Ygrane sits up taller and sees no one in the chamber or on the balcony behind her. "Bright Night?"

Leaning forward to reach the bright goblet, she notices in the table's gray mirror the reflection of a lynx-eyed man grinning mischievously. When she looks up, she cannot see him, and when she peers again into the tabletop he is gone.

Only after she stands and takes the Graal in her hands does his apparition waver into view, a svelte figure of pollen dust.

"Once you could see me clearly by daylight." The elf prince shakes his head sadly. "You spent all your magic taming a unicorn—and where is that beast now? Flown to heaven. Don't you feel the fool?"

"God's fool, perhaps." Ygrane, her complexion ruddied by years of devotional service in the countryside, gazes levelly into the elf's transparent face. "You have not come here after so many years to taunt me, have you, good prince? You cannot impede my Christian conviction."

"I am not here to taunt but to warn." The prince sits casually on the edge of the table. "You must know how much the elves and the faeries still trust you. Once you were their queen. You abuse their devotion when you convert them to your faith. Do not deny it."

Ygrane smiles, a slim, knowing smile. She sits and places the Graal on the table between them. "So, the old elk-king has sent you to warn me to stop my holy work with the elves—or else?"

Bright Night thumbs his chin reflectively. "Do you know what happens to an elf or a faerie who is converted?"

Ygrane nods. She knows very well that when such beings relent their alliance to the netherworld among the intricate coils of the World Tree that sustain them, they lose their form and resonance with the Daoine Sid and flow into the wider cascade of energy that pours into all organic life-forms—human, animal, and vegetative alike. "Their souls become living things."

"They lose immortality," Bright Night says sternly. "They are reborn as physical creatures that must endure all the limitations and indignities of life in the dayheld world—including disease and death. Why do you inflict this on us?"

"I inflict nothing," the queen asserts calmly. "I trust in the teachings of my Savior. The kingdom of heaven is spread all around us, for those with eyes to see. Why not offer faeries and elves alike the chance to partake of God's creation?"

"Our lives in the hollow hills are part of creation already," Bright Night insists with a brittle edge to his voice.

"No, Bright Night," Ygrane responds softly. "I myself thought so, too, once. Not anymore. Look how you live, underground, where time has stopped. You have lost touch with your own faith. The ancient Celts speak of the two worlds: the Godhead of the Annwn in the life of the sun—and Cythrawl, destruction and blackness. I offer you the chance to return to the life of the sun through the Son."

"You're a true Celt in your love of riddles, Ygrane." Bright Night proffers a sly smile. "Will you be converting me with your devious words?"

"In fact, shrewd prince, I do not convert anyone." Ygrane speaks earnestly. "The faith of the Celts and the Christians are the same. Jesus is the Celtic Yesu of the mistletoe, the All-Heal our prophets have long predicted. He and they agree that the soul, being immortal, does not die, but travels through the kingdom of heaven, through the Godhead of the Annwn, which is spread all around us, as Jesus himself teaches. I simply call the faerie and the elves out of the darkness of the underworld to live their lives in the radiant world of the sun."

"Call it what you will, Ygrane, but King Someone Knows the Truth is unhappy that you have taken from him many of his followers. He has sent me to warn you to stop."

Ygrane lowers her gaze, glimpsing her worried scowl in the tabletop. "Or else—"

"King Someone Knows the Truth has ordered me to watch over Arthor," the elf says. "I will say no more."

Ygrane looks up with a flash of ire. "You would not harm him!"

"Of course not, my lady." Bright Night pushes to his feet and begins to move away, fading to points of light, like snow crystals melting. "Yet if my king so commands, I must withdraw. And, Merlin assures me, your daughter intends to murder her half brother..."

"Bright Night!" the queen calls after him. She seizes the Graal and stands, searching for the elf-prince. He is gone. Looking behind, she sees only the ocean reflecting orange-and-red coins of water and the green air above, empty of elves and faeries.

In the following days, when the pale people do show themselves, she ignores them. Her ambition is not to convert the dwellers in the hollow hills, like some saint sent to redeem the Celtic underworld. Instead, she wants to live as Jesus himself would have lived here on the Saxon Coast, attentive to the suffering of the poorest people, mindful to the needs of the neediest.

One drizzly day, with fog running along the shore and the sky a gray audacious velvet, the faerie rise up in alarming numbers and flurry like sparks in the rain. Even some of the Holy Sisters notice them sparkling in the ditchwater and think them perhaps the hem of some wandering angel's garment.

Ygrane knows better. They have come to warn her that King Lot of the North Isles and his small entourage have arrived at the great hall. With him are his thirteen- and twelve-year-old sons, Gawain and Gareth—and his wife, Morgeu, Ygrane's daughter.

At the sight of them, Ygrane stalls in the doorway, wordless. She has not seen Morgeu since her daughter wed Lot. Though he had been the staunchest of allies during her reign as queen, little affection remains. He is an old-fashioned Celt and passionately antagonistic to Christians.

Morgeu looks so much harder and stronger than Ygrane remembers. Still, she wears the traditional tribal gwn, a green garment that falls to her ankles from a high-waisted brocade of gold beneath breasts covered by plaited tresses of her crinkly red hair.

Morgeu's round, pale face stares out impassively at her mother, and her small, dark eyes shine with haunted darkness.

King Lot comes forward, gray-haired yet unstooped by age. He wears Celtic battle attire, buckskin leggings and boots, his chest bare but for the sword strap that secures his weapon to his muscular back. His pale eyes watch coldly from their dark caves.

The fair, long-haired boys wear warrior's attire as well: soft leather trousers and cross-laced suede boots with daggers in the cuffs, their lithe bodies naked from the waist up.

"Lot—Morgeu—" Ygrane falters and opens her arms to them. "You sent no word, or I would have prepared a formal reception."

"Tintagel stands now as a Christian hostel, I am told," King Lot says in his gruff voice. "What point for us to announce our coming when all are welcome here?"

"Yes, of course," Ygrane agrees, and when she sees that neither Lot nor Morgeu will accept her embrace, she lowers her arms. Even her grandchildren, whom she has never seen before, gawk at her, appalled to meet a relative of theirs—a grandmother, no less—with cropped hair and heavy ecclesiastic robes, her white bodice stitched with the scarlet cross of the Christian cult. "You are welcome to Tintagel as are all travelers on the path of righteousness."

"We have come to show our sons where their mother was born and reared," Morgeu says, looking around at the high colonnades and vaulted ceiling of the main hall. "We shall not stay long. Tomorrow we continue on our way to Camelot for the fifth-year festival."

"Is that this summer?" Ygrane asks, approaching her grandsons. "I've lost track of time. But I should know from looking at the two of you—young men already. Will you be entering the contests, then?"

They look to their father, who gives a barely perceptible nod before the eldest answers brightly, "Yes, Grandmother. Gareth will ride in the races, and I'm to enter both lance run and ax throw."

Ygrane smiles proudly at her strong grandsons. "Before you leave tomorrow I'll see if we can find some of your grandfather's armor. Would you like that? A Roman shield, or perhaps a spear?"

"Very much, Grandmother!" the youngest blurts before his brother nudges him to silence.

"My sons will not have Roman gear," King Lot interrupts brusquely. "Celtic weapons serve them well enough."

"Of course." She smiles at them. "You are young Celts and should know well the weapons of the clan. If there is time, I will tell you war tales of my travels with the fiana, the roving warriors who served me when I was queen—before I came to serve Yesu, the All-Heal of our salvation."

"Boys," Morgeu summons. "Go with your father. He will show you the castle. I would like a word with your grandmother, alone."

The boys bow courteously to their grandmother, less disturbed by her strange appearance now that she has referred, even in passing, to her royal Celtic past.

As they follow King Lot and his entourage through the main hall toward the eastern portico, where the acolytes busily prepare a long table set with a summer's feast, Ygrane takes Morgeu up a winding staircase to her chambers in the western tower. They sit together at the round table, in the presence of the Graal, while the gray sky darkens and the sound of rain brightens.

"We have been apart as many years as we were together," Ygrane observes. Her green eyes brighten with curiosity as they play over the familiar yet new features of her daughter.

"The North Isles are far, Mother," Morgeu answers, running her fingers over the lustrous rim of the table—this emblem made by Merlin. She removes her hand and folds it with the other in her lap.

"But distance is not why you have stayed away," Ygrane states sadly.

"My husband keeps the old ways for his family and his clan." Morgeu shrugs. "Your Christian faith threatens him."

"You were Christian in your time here in Tintagel," the queen remembers, an impish glint to her searching stare. "Your father insisted on it."

"And when I visited with you in Cymru, you insisted I learn the ancient Celtic faith," Morgeu counters. "How ironic that having tasted both I chose your religion even as you abandoned it."

"Had your father Gorlois loved Jesus as much as Uther did, perhaps I would have become Christian sooner."

Morgeu curls her lip with disgust. "My father was a good Christian soldier."

"More soldier than Christian, you must admit, Morgeu. That was his demise."

Morgeu's small, dark eyes spark with rage. "The demon Lailoken killed my father. I was there. I saw him."

"Might you not have misread what you saw?"

"No," she answers with sharp certainty.

Ygrane shakes her head. In the dim rain-light, her features appear as serene as an icon. "Child, you cannot bear this terrible hatred your whole life long."

"I shall bear it until Duke Gorlois is avenged."

"And how will you avenge your father's death? With more death? Evil cannot make merit of evil. You know that, Morgeu."

Morgeu's voice tightens with threat: "What I know is that Merlin intends to make your son by Uther the high king of Britain. I cannot allow that."

"You hate me that much, Morgeu?"

The crinkled red tresses tremble as she shakes her head. "Not you, mother—Merlin."

"Don't lie to me, Morgeu." Ygrane bends forward, her calm face emerging from the dimness concrete and still. "I am the one you hate." She speaks with quiet clarity. "I am the one who took Lailoken into my service all those years ago. I am the very one who gave him his name. Myrddin, Merlinus, Merlin—the man from Maridunum. In service to me, he used his magic to transform Theodosius Aurelianus into Uther Pendragon. And in doing my work with Uther to ally Celts and Romans against the invaders, your father was killed. Accidentally." Her green eyes look down. "Dead, nonetheless. I am the one you hate, Morgeu."

Morgeu draws away as from a dizzying precipice. "You are a witch."

"I was such a one," Ygrane admits, and sits back in her chair. "We spoke with the pale people, you and I together. And we rode the unicorn."

"You are yet a witch," Morgeu says in a small voice. "You fill me with such hate."

Ygrane lifts her long-fingered hands. "I do not give you this hate, Morgeu. That comes from your own stubborn heart, which has much to learn of mercy and love. If you must hate, direct your hatred at its true target, which is myself—not Merlin. And not your brother." She places her hands on her breasts. "Hate me if you must. I could have been a better mother."

Morgeu's pale face seems to float in the dark. "What is his name, this son of yours?"

Ygrane looks away, at the night standing in the window, afraid to betray what she loves by a stray word or loud thought. "I will tell you nothing of him, Morgeu. He is in Merlin's care, and when the time is right, he will come forth and rule this land righteously—as a Christian king."

"Merlin tells the Celts that the future king bears the soul of Cuchulain." A mocking smile lights up in the gloaming. "How Christian can he be?"

"That will be his choice," Ygrane replies, and meets her daughter's taunting stare. "Like you, he will know a Christian upbringing. What he does with his experience is between him and God."

Morgeu sighs angrily. "You are no less stubborn than I, Mother."

"There is a great difference in our stubbornness, daughter—for what I want, I leave to love and God, while you strive for your desires with hatred and your own implacable will."

"Ah, Ygrane—Ygrane—" Morgeu struggles to keep from shrieking her rage. "You are so full of your own goodness there is no room in you anymore for others. No one can get close to you except strangers—the sick and the poor—and then only for a little while. That is why you have no man, no family. Your goodness leaves no room even for your own son. Others must rear him for you. I pity you, Ygrane."

Ygrane stiffens, stung by this truth. Under her breath, she works a little prayer to Jesus through her heart, and when gentleness returns, she says, "Let us not talk of me. Tell me about my grandsons."

Morgeu exhales hotly. "What do you care of your grandsons?"

"Morgeu—you will not come to me again. This we both know. Tell me about my grandsons before you go. Tell what it was like to give birth to them, to suckle them, and to watch them grow. Tell me their stories. I ask nothing more of you."

Reluctantly at first, Morgeu talks of her children. And an opportunity comes clear to her. She realizes as they speak in the offhanded manner of mother and daughter that this request to review her past is a chance to seize her future. Here in the silken dark, with the terrific sound of the ocean thrashing on the rocks, and the rain whispering, filling the air with drowsiness akin to pleasure, she decides to use her magic on her mother.

While they talk about Morgeu's pregnancies and the self-forgetful first days with her babies, the enchantress laces her accounts with secret magical spells. Her intent is to work her sorcery on her mother and draw from her the name and hiding place of Ygrane's son, so that she may find—and kill him.

The younger woman's magic is strong, and Ygrane has no defense against it—indeed does not even realize that magic plies its corrupting strength against her. Yet, in the silvered darkness of dusk, the Graal shines with a bruised blue light, and its power dissolves all of Morgeu's attempts to trance her mother. And more than that, the noctilucent aura of the Annwn's vessel reflects the sorceress's magic back on herself and mesmerizes her instead.

Morgeu straightens in her seat, suddenly wordless, and remains unmoving and unblinking.

Ygrane sits with her silent, staring daughter and prays for her, believing the spell is some self-induced trance, a curious occurrence but hardly uncommon for Morgeu the Fey.

An angel sweeps through the room, smoky as an underwater flame, filling the chamber with sun-baked fragrances of desert juniper and thistledown before disappearing in a shimmer of aqueous shadows.

And within her trance, Morgeu dreams that she is cuddling her half brother, and he is suckling her teat like a teenage son shocked back to wanton infancy by battle madness. She cossets his curly hair and strokes the worry from his clenched brow—and all the hate nesting in her heart hatches an unassuaged and newly fledged love.

This is the influence of the angel and the magic that Ygrane wields unawares. Blood magic this is. Morgeu's shared blood with Arthor sings with his adolescent yearnings and stirs in her the same desire that haunts him—the tragic beauty of love hunger.

The old voice of the sea calls from the sea cliffs, and Morgeu hears it from far back in her mind. Gulls wheel over the skerries, cormorants roost upon the salt grass of the headlands, and pelicans wade in tide pools where her wraith flits like a girl dancing on the seashore, dreaming of lovers. Not a married woman, not a mother, but a maiden again, with fancies of love, she drifts among the beach wildflowers and the strewn litter of the sea.

Slowly, as she fades back into her tranced body, Morgeu carries the love she has found under the influence of the Graal's magic and the angel's dream—and this passion warms the coldness of life. Murder is impossible now. Though she retains the need for vengeance, which has shaped her soul and with it her life, she cannot slay her brother. Anguish and tenderness have fused. Magic has made them one.

At midnight, King Lot enters Ygrane's tower chamber and finds Morgeu asleep, the queen praying in the dark beside her. He carries his wife to their room, and she slumbers remorselessly until a wing of sunlight pushes through the curtains.

When they depart Tintagel for Camelot, blue sky deep as a jewel covers the Celts, and Morgeu embraces her mother with heartfelt longing. Mother and daughter kiss, and then Morgeu rides off with her husband and sons serene as a swan.

She will not murder her half brother, she consciously decides. Rather, she will love him—and she will use love as a weapon. With tantric magic of carnal love, she will exact her vengeance by employing sorcery ancient as Egypt, where royal brother and sister coupled to birth the land's true ruler. And in this way, her father Gorlois will reach past death through her body to seize Uther's son and squeeze from him poetic justice beyond the grave.

Chapter 7: Excalibur

Merlin sits on the sun-washed turf of Mons Caliburnus, his long blue robes puddled darkly around him, hat in his lap, and the summer wind careless in his silver locks. Below a precipice of ivy and bosky willows, the River Amnis, mottled with cloud-light and beech-wood reflections, ripples like a snake in its new skin. It winds among water meadows and disappears into dense groves of evergreen magnolias, walnut trees, and oaks.

On the backbone of the hill, just above the wizard, the star stone squats: a flat-topped boulder, not unlike in appearance to a giant anvil, cleaved down its middle by a blade of blue-white steel wedged between its black lobes. Closer, the aerolite displays orange freckles of rust. From where Merlin sits, the ferric slag appears silver-black, a chunk ripped from the night sky.

His attention is on the sword, the emblem of power that will be drawn from the stone this summer to initiate a kingdom. He admires its gold haft roweled with elfishly intricate circlets, its long, slender handguard simple as a Hebrew yod. He runs his finger along its beveled blade, the steel polished so clear it mirrors the bright day's towering clouds.

This sword holds all history in its elegant form. Shaped for the Furor by his clever dwarfs long before those whose days built Rome, the sword Lightning has fought elder gods, giants, trolls, battle-lords, and their minions—and Merlin ponders how well it will serve its new master.

The irony of stealing this sword for the king of the Britons from the hand of his enemy sharpens the understanding of all that the wizard expects of it. Not only must it defend against its former possessor, the Furor and his frenzied tribes, whose only rule of law is might, it must conquer the civil strife between Briton and Celt and defeat the iniquity of the people who have adopted it.

Uniting the kingdom against its internal turmoil of despair and corruption, it will serve the virtues of Christendom—protection of the weak, defense of family and society—and become a symbol of righteousness, father of the courage the king requires not to fail.

Already the sword Lightning's reputation resounds through the islands, and bards and court musicians sing of it, declaring Merlin's promise that the next hand to hold this sword shall be the king's. Its former name is almost forgotten, supplanted by the name of the Roman place that holds it—-from Caliburnus: Excalibur.

But before the sword Lightning can strike out from Caliburnus against wickedness and injustice, young Arthor must survive to become king. A sobering thought, Merlin realizes.

In the wizard's lap, under his hat, he holds a letter from Ygrane arrived by carrier pigeon just this morning. The letter, warning of Prince Bright Night's threat to abandon Arthor, troubles him profoundly, for he can well imagine betrayal by the elves. Their monarch, Someone Knows the Truth, is—as his name implies—a god for whom truth is uncertain: he has endured since before the ages of ice by using whatever truth enables him to survive. And by living for longevity, his word has become only as good as he needs for it to be.

Merlin nods his head resignedly. As reluctant as he is to acknowledge it, he knows what he must do: at this critical time, he must be with Arthor. Ygrane's letter assures him that the wizard cannot trust half-seen and unseen beings to accomplish what he must do for himself and for all people. Yes, he must be with Arthor.

All the arrangements at Camelot are in readiness for the coming festival: the tournament grounds have been prepared for the contestants, and the people of Cold Kitchen have the provisions well in hand for the gala fete. But who will manage the arrival of the dignitaries and keep the antagonistic warlords and chieftains from attacking one another? Only by using his magic has Merlin managed to avert outright warfare during the two previous gatherings.

A rustle in the bee-haunted lime shrubs at the spur of the knoll pulls Merlin from his contemplation. The brails of his heart—the cords of energy that reach out from his center to touch the world—feel that this is not an animal, not some stag or bear, but a human. Someone approaches, and the wizard quickly fits his hat upon his head and rises. He crumples Ygrane's letter in his fist and, with a muttered fire-spell, ignites it and tosses its flaring ashes into the air.

"Wizard!" a man's voice calls from below, and an old fellow spindly as a scarecrow slips through the lime shrubs and hobbles up the knoll, his hatless head bald and splotched with sun blisters. "Wizard! Do you remember me? Hannes—master builder—from Hartland."

"Hannes?" Merlin does not recall the name, though he does vaguely recognize the carpenter, older now than the lanky monkey of a man who constructed the round table for the wizard sixteen summers ago. His ginger-whiskers have turned gray, yet the blue opals of his eyes glitter as brightly as the day he proudly unveiled to Merlin his finished masterpiece and then refused money for it.

Merlin's palms go damp at the recollection. Now it all comes back: in lieu of payment, this man with his comically large ears and apish features, had insisted on another form of remuneration for his labor: he wanted one wish, to be collected at some future date. And Merlin, eager to return to his king and queen, had agreed.

"You've come for your wish then, master builder?" Merlin asks apprehensively as the aged man limps closer, his tired bones clearly struggling with the climb. He wears a threadbare dun jerkin, green trousers stained gray with dust, and frayed sandals knotted with bine.

"Please—Hannes, call me Hannes, wizard," the man huffs and stops several paces away, clutching the ache in his sides. "I'm not a builder anymore, master or otherwise." He holds up his hands and shows his twisted fingers and knobby knuckles. "I can no longer hold the tools."

"Ah, well, I can help you with that." Merlin sighs with relief, reaching for the carpenter's warped hands. But the spindly man tucks them away against his gaunt chest.

"Oh, no, wizard. 'Tis not for them I've come." His round face wrinkles to a broad smile. "I've another wish entire in mind. Another wish entire. But first, let me ask after my handiwork: are you pleased with the table I made for you?"

"Of course, very pleased," Merlin avows. "What you built proved most useful and will again someday. It has the stature of legend, that the king should have a headless table that rolls with him wherever he travels."

"Aye—but it could not roll to heaven, could it?" Hannes notes lugubriously. "I was saddened to hear of good King Uther's demise."

"Quite so. The round table stays intact at Tintagel," Merlin replies, "and will serve our next king."

"The noble hand that draws this sword from the stone, eh?" Hannes squints at Excalibur and pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he assesses the weapon. "A supernatural blade it is, for sure, just as the bards say. On my word, I've never seen the likes of it. Look at it all agleam, so stubborn with light. May I touch it?"

Merlin stands aside, and the carpenter clambers to the star stone and puts gnarled hands on the gold helve.

"It has magic within it, all right," Hannes murmurs, whistling through his crooked orange teeth. "Why, it makes the salt sing in my blood!" He presses his brow to the flat of the blade and slowly sinks to his knees. After a moment, he turns about and sits in the grass with his back against the stone, an almost conspiratorial smile on his wizened face. "Might I ask for the strength to draw this sword by my own hand?" His smile broadens at the obvious dismay in Merlin's face, and he shakes his blistered head. "Fret not, wizard. I am not enough of a fool to be king."

Merlin approaches impatiently, wondering, What does this tired old goat want if not his health or power?

"You know, wizard, when you came to Hartland all those years ago and rolled away your wheel table, I'd never seen the likes of such magic before. Nor have I since—though I've heard the bards singing of you, Merlin. I've heard them sing of how you rode the unicorn to Avalon to bring back this sword, Excalibur, and how you set it in stone for the coming king. I heard them sing how you tamed the Dragon for Uther, and how you journeyed into the hollow hills with him to meet the lord of the elves. And I knew it was all true. I knew, because they also sang of the round table that I helped you fashion, and I'd seen that with my own eyes, how you rolled it out of the forest with your chants. I knew they sang the truth of you."

No shortage of breath in those old bellows, the wizard thinks, and nods testily.

"I'd have come sooner to you for my wish," Hannes admits, "but holding the wish felt so much more powerful than using it. I thought I'd need it one day when my wife or children fell ill or the sea wolves swarmed down upon us. But the Saxons never came. My children, bless them, have suffered no hardships and live this day with children and grandchildren of their own, expanding the shipbuilding yards I founded in my youth. And my wife—" He shrugs haplessly. "She got old like me and wanted to find her way to heaven not back to earth. So the years have sped away, and now I arrive at the end of my life. At the end of my life—but with one wish on my hands."

"Surely you have decided what you want for your wish," Merlin states, "or you would not be sitting here before me now. What is it, then, Hannes? If not health or regal authority, then is it wealth?"

"No." He brushes the air with a noncommittal gesture. "I want what cannot be taken away from me. I want knowledge."

"Knowledge, is it?" Merlin chuckles and nods approvingly. "And what knowledge would that be, Hannes?"

The carpenter answers proudly, "The knowledge you have, Merlin. I want to be a wizard—-just as you are."

A surprised hole opens in Merlin's beard. "Surely you're joking!"

Hannes juts his whiskered jaw adamantly. "I want magic, Merlin. I want the magic you have."

Merlin thrusts to his feet and waves the request aside. "That cannot be, Hannes. I am not wholly a man. I am a demon."

"Yes, so I have heard the bards sing." He gazes up at the wizard with an expression of impish solicitude. "Lailoken, they say, is your demon name. You fathered yourself on your own mother when you were an incubus. But you have redeemed that abomination by serving the good. And by that I know you will keep your word and fulfill my wish."

"You are mistaken, poor fellow. I cannot make you a demon."

"But you can make me a wizard—can you not?"

Merlin studies the carpenter, noting the man's childlike sincerity, an enthusiasm that defies the weariness of his own flesh. Is it possible he is a gift? the wizard asks himself, a gift of chance—of God? He scratches his chin whiskers ruminatively. "All right," he says at last. "I can make you a wizard, Hannes, but only to the full extent of your own endowment."

"What does that mean?" Hannes's face shines with hopeful expectation.

"That means, you shall not have my powers but your own. Each of us lives out our fate, after all—separately, individually."

"But I will have magic?"

"Oh, yes," Merlin answers, with a skeptical, sidelong glance, "though that is not in itself a happiness, you should know. To be a wizard, you must give me a part of your life you do not have."

"You speak in riddles, Merlin."

"Aha. That is the nature of magic, Hannes. Do you not see? To be a wizard, you must give me the secret part of yourself, your destiny. You have lived a good life—till now. Do not seek magic. Trust me. It is an unending mystery, a longing that goes on even after the heart gives out. Wish for anything else."

"No, Merlin. I stand by my one wish. I wish to be a wizard like you. You must fulfill that wish for me."

"Do you know what you are asking?"

"I want to be like you."

This is your chance, Lailoken. Merlin spurs himself to a decision. Seize it for the sake of your king. Seize it!

He forces himself to frown doubtfully and pluck at his chin hairs as if struggling toward a decision. At last, he accedes with a heavy sigh. "Then, I welcome your wish, Hannes, and I will fulfill it to the best of my ability."

Hannes struggles to his feet, wrinkled features bright as a child's. "Wonders! I knew you to be a generous man. So! How do we begin?"

"First, you must understand that magic carries profound responsibility." Merlin stares him squarely in the eyes, glad for his own ulterior designs that they share almost the same height. "I cannot simply empower you and send you off into the world, you know. You must prove your worthiness, Hannes. Are you prepared to do that?"

"Yes, of course." The carpenter forces himself against the creak of his brittle bones to stand taller. "What must I do, Merlin?"

"I want you to walk in my shoes for a while—literally." He takes off his hat and puts it on Hannes's head, where it instantly sinks to the level of his curly eyebrows and rests on his ears. The wizard tightens the headband so that it sits more authoritatively. "I want you to wear my clothes, to carry my staff, and to bear my very name."

Hannes blinks with puzzlement. "You would have me pretend ... to be you?"

"Not pretend, Hannes." Merlin wags his finger. "You are to be me, in word and deed. You will have magic, but you must use it in the manner that I would—with primary concern for the well-being of others. If you succeed, you may keep the magic and depart from here as yourself, Hannes the wizard."

"Otherwise—" Hannes's round eyes narrow apprehensively.

"There is no otherwise," Merlin answers gruffly. "If you fail, you will lose everything—your sanity, your life, and probably the sanctity of your soul."

Hannes staggers back a pace. "But surely you will guard over me?"

"Not at all. I will not even be here. I must depart this very day on a mission of the highest importance. You will remain here at Camelot as me, Merlin—wizard of Britain."

"But ... but with your powers?"

"Yes."

"By God's whiskers! How long will you be away?"

"Days only. I go to escort the future king here to Camelot. If I am successful, I shall return with him by the start of the five-year festival."

Hannes looks relieved. "Oh, thank goodness. That is only days away."

"But dangerous days for you, Hannes. The British warlords and Celtic chieftains will soon arrive, and you must keep the peace. They will murder each other given half the chance."

"I must keep the peace?" Hannes clutches at his chest. "They will spot the ruse at once!"

"Not if you are cunning—as a wizard must be. Few of them actually know me well enough to see that you are not me. My robes, my hat, and my staff will prove sufficient evidence of my identity." The wizard scrutinizes the carpenter head to toe. "Hmm. We will definitely have to do something about your beard, however. It's not nearly long enough. And your hands. You'll have to be far more limber to do what must be done. Hold still."

Leaning his staff against the star stone, Merlin splays his large hands over Hannes's face. He presses close and expels a massive shout into the carpenter's face. The poor man startles but cannot move. Paralyzed, unable to fly outward, his fright implodes instead, cracking the rust in his joints and then hurrying swiftly through his whiskers, lengthening the silver filaments of his beard down to his waist before the wizard releases him and drops him to his knees.

Hannes huffs the shock from his lungs! He flexes his limber hands and shrugs his newly liberated shoulders. Filled with lightness and awe, he rises, and laughter feathers from him. "I am changed, Merlin!"

"Not yet. Not really. The magic is yet to come." Merlin peers at him closely. "But you must consent to what I ask of you."

The carpenter hesitates. He moves each finger independently, letting his amazement seep into the smallest crevices of his bones; then, he speaks as if to his hands, "How can I consent? I do not honestly know what you are asking of me." He lifts his tear-bright eyes to the wizard. "I don't know the first thing about your—my responsibilities at Camelot."

Merlin straightens the hat on Hannes's head again and regards him sternly. "Just this: you must keep the warlords and chieftains from each other's throats."

"But how?"

The wizard's eyes widen. "You are Merlin now. Merlin himself! Show your presence, man. Act with authority. Remind one and all that they serve a higher good than avarice. Tell them, again and again if you must, that they are subjects of the true king, who shall soon draw the sword from the stone by his own hand. That always works. Excalibur is an emblem of God's authority. You felt the power in the sword yourself. It is real. Trust in it."

"I will try," the carpenter promises weakly.

"You will do more than try, Hannes, or we shall not even begin." He seizes the man's shoulders. "You must succeed! You must be me—just as you have wished. You can do it. The future king of Britain depends on you."

"You ask a great deal, wizard," the carpenter mutters, "even though 'twas I who desired it."

"Indeed I do, master builder—only for a few days."

"And afterward, the magic is mine forever, to do with as I please?"

"It is the magic that will do with you as it pleases," Merlin corrects. "It is always thus."

"I will be Hannes the wizard?"

"If you stand in my stead until I return—then, yes, you may leave from here as Hannes the wizard." Merlin cocks a hopeful eyebrow. "Are we agreed?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then put your left hand on the sword and take my stave in your right hand."

Hannes complies, and Merlin clasps both of his hands on the Stave of the Storm Tree and directs his heart's brails into the carpenter. Carefully but decisively, the wizard begins to open the gates of power in the man's body.

When the first gate swings wide, summer enters Hannes—the enormous company of the sky's cloud giants, the horizon's rising birds, the shadows' painted spiders, and the dreamclothes of all the trees!

Hannes reels as if punched. The forests billow like sheets in the wind, and the very stones seem to breathe.

"Hold tight to the stave and the sword!" Merlin commands, unlocking the second gate.

The auras Hannes sees around things do not waver like hallucinations anymore. They steady to something similar to sunset's glow, infusing all he looks at. And he realizes that he can see the truth of all that is before him. He can see in the blades of grass all their soft powers, weaving sunbeams, air, and water into their green fabric. When his gaze shifts to a stone, he detects its icy truth, sees the cold core from where, in winter, frost aims its rays.

And, staring straight at Merlin, he watches the demon's night-deep eyes stare back, baleful and sleepless yet warm, comforting, and full of undying love.

The wizard unlocks the third gate inside Hannes's body, and the master builder swells with power. The ends of the world connect inside him. With a willful tug, he discovers he can budge clouds. With a cry, he knows that leaves will fly off trees. He feels this with a certainty, and he looks to Merlin for permission.

Merlin smiles and decides that Hannes now possesses enough magic to satisfy himself that he is in some sense a wizard.

Let him be spared the fourth gate, the heart's brails that can become knotted with expectations—and let him be spared the long sight into time that can blind him with memories of what is yet to be.

Hannes releases the stave and the sword and reaches into the earth with his will. "I am changed!" he cries, twitching with laughter. "Behold!" He feels underground a stubborn bulk and pulls strongly at it until the loamy flesh of the sward peels back before a glacial boulder.

Stunned at his newfound strength, Hannes releases his magical grip, and the giant rock tumbles down the knoll and crashes into the lime shrubs.

"Yes, you are changed, Hannes," the wizard agrees somberly. "Blessedly, no one stood in the path of that running boulder. This power has become yours—for good or ill."

Fingers aquiver with amazement, Hannes strips and accepts the wizard's robes. They slip on cool and silken as ice fog and fragrant as citrus.

"Now I am the wizard!" Hannes declares, and spins about, dark robes aswirl. His stomach tightens, and his magical will snatches his fallen hat and flips it back onto his head. "I am Merlin!" He gawks at the skinny, rib-slatted wizard donning those worn, dusty clothes Hannes has shed, and a troubling thought arises. "What if something goes wrong?"

Merlin tightens the hempen cord of his trousers. "You must make it right."

"And if I fail—if the storm-warriors come with their one-eyed god—"

"Take this." Merlin presses into Hannes's palm the thumbnail-sized mirror that holds the blue rose of the Happy Woods. "It is a summoning glass given to me by the prince of the elves. If you are desperate, break it, and the elf-prince will come to aid you."

Hannes turns the dainty mirror between his fingers and squints at solar reflections twisting inside it. "But, Merlin, what if this elf comes and cannot help? What if I am overwhelmed with unforeseen difficulties? How will I call for you?"

"Do not call for me!" Merlin scowls sternly. "That would put our king in jeopardy. You must not call for me. You must find all the solutions to your problems for yourself. Do you understand?" The wizard peers closely at Hannes, and speaks sharply and with finality, "You are a wizard now. The power—all the power—is in your hands. Do not look anywhere else. There is nowhere else to look."

Chapter 8: Kyner's Battle-Soul

Arthor stands in White Thorn, the hill fortress of the Christian Celts, where he grew up. All around him—stacked in corners and strewn across the polished maple-wood floor of the great hall—the traveling satchels of the chieftain's household lie waiting to be gathered by servants and secured to the pack animals for the long trek to Camelot.

Everyone in the clan is to go, and the stronghold will remain occupied by only a skeleton force of novice warriors left behind to prove their worthiness. Excited voices echo from the corridors that lead to the living quarters of the noble families—the chieftain's kin and their thralls, who are gathering garments and bedding for the month-long holiday.

As the chieftain's ward, Arthor, who resides in the thralls' barracks, may enter the great hall whenever he pleases, though he has never come unless invited.

Moving in a slow turn, the young man looks up at the arched ceiling looming two stories above, its great crossbeams bearing the clan's trophies: stag antlers, Roman shields, lances, and battle-axes. Once, in the pre-Christian time, human skulls adorned these timbers. From those pegs now dangle animal pelts.

The gray hide of the dire wolf is Arthor's trophy, and it pains him yet to see it displayed in Kyner's hall. He killed the animal with a spear when he was twelve. He had been hunting deer with Cei when the beast emerged from the underbrush. At its charge, Cei had yelped and fled, while Arthor had instantly seen the futility of flight. He stood his ground and did not throw until sure of his target. Later, he claimed that Cei had slain the wolf-—not out of regard for Cei but because, if he had told the truth, the magnificent skin would have decorated a lowly wall in the servants' barracks.

Now the wolf's pelage, empty of eyes and gullet, only inspires shame in him, for Cei admitted the truth that first Sunday after, at the sight of Jesus nailed to His boards. Soundly thrashed by Kyner, Cei resented Arthor's lie, and nothing has gone right between them since.

"What are you here for?" the familiar gruff voice of his stepbrother asks. Large as his father and even more muscular, he walks down the corridor from his chambers with the gait of a giant; the servant behind him hurries after, almost entirely hidden by the mounds of garment satchels he carries. Cei motions brusquely for the servant to go on, and the thrall staggers across the great hall and into the blue light of early morning.

"I was sent for." Arthor meets Cei's hard stare. "Is he here?"

The chief's son regards Arthor from head to toe, noting the younger boy's best clothes—cowled green tunic, tawed leather vest, cordovan trousers, and cuffed riding boots—and he smiles with a hint of malice. "Looking forward to Camelot, are you? A chance to show off your pony tricks to the young ladies. Rutting and killing—it's in your blood, isn't it?"

"Is he here?" Arthor repeats levelly, refusing to be baited.

"He's in church with the elders. He left me to supervise the lading, and look at me, I'm not even dressed yet." He plucks at his baize nightshirt, then points to the satchels mounded on the floor. "See that those are properly packed, Arthor. I'm going to ready myself for the journey."

"Pack your own satchels, Cei," Arthor replies, and turns to go.

"You forget your place," Cei calls after him.

Arthor stops and turns. "I'm not your servant."

"Did I call you a servant?" He shakes his burly head with mock pity. "You are my younger brother. Remember? Your place is to serve."

"I'm not either your brother."

Cei curls his lip in disgust and waves him away. "Get out of here, Arthor. You are hopelessly arrogant. Well, Father has a proper punishment for you, Royal Eagle of Thor."

"Has he?"

Cei fills his large face with disdainful surprise at his stepbrother for forgetting his offense. "You shamed Father at Mousehole. You forget, but he hasn't. Now you're not going to Camelot."

"So you say." Arthor turns away sharply.

"And I would know, wouldn't I?" Cei calls to his back. "I live here—not in the servants' barracks."

Without another word, Arthor stalks out of the great hall, shoves aside the thrall returning for the other satchels, and stomps across the packed-dirt range of the fortress. Horses milling in the ward awaiting their riders shy from him, and he punches the haunch of a sumpter mule in his way and sends it scampering with a hurt bray. Servants preparing the baggage train move aside and look nervously away from him. Even the guards on the timber pilings that enclose the settlement notice the commotion but divert their attention as soon as they recognize Arthor.

Emerging from a stockade of raw lumber, several bare-chested soldiers pause as they escort a prisoner—the Saxon hostage Fen—toward the great hall. Arthor is too angry to wonder why. Distractedly, he watches from across the range as the Saxon brusquely shoulders past his guards into the light.

Draped in a monk's brown cassock, arms fettered, the warrior shakes ash-blond hair from his eyes and fixes his stare on Arthor. This slender Saxon with a solitary face of broad cheekbones and muscled jaw gazes at him as if expecting a sign of recognition, but the boy pays him no heed.

The first time Arthor set eyes on him was winter. Captured during a Saxon assault on the farmers of a narrow valley when a sudden squall blew over them and trapped the raiding party in the dell, Fen arrived sullen. Kyner had denied him the battle death all storm-warriors crave, because the youth bore a thunderbolt scar across his chest, a royal emblem among the Saxons.

Since then, Fen has sat mute in the stockade, eating whatever his captors put before him, staring sleepy-eyed at the priests who alone have permission to talk with him. Now and then, Kyner has paraded him naked in the great hall and the barracks, simply to amuse the women and to show the men that the dreaded Saxon storm raiders are men like any others. On each of those few occasions, Fen has looked to Arthor as intently as he stares now, as if some unspoken secret shares itself between them.

Arthor ignores the prisoner. Fists swinging at his side, he steers himself directly toward the wooden church, White Thorn's most ornately carved building, determined to burst into the gloomy interior and confront Kyner in front of the elders. As he nears the arch-roofed building, he hears music and the elders and clan warriors singing jubilation to the Savior in voices like an effulgence from thunderheads.

He stops. The music holds him. Summer air thickens in his lungs, and his furious breathing slows. The singing enters him with a thrill and an ache, momentary as smoke, filling him with sorrowful glory—and his anger shrivels. For as long as the congregation sings, he stands outside the oaken doors, staring at the engraved cross in its Celtic circle, his body wavering gently as a flame's interior.

The beauty and mystery of the music lift him toward a clarity he has not felt in many months, and when the decision settles upon him, he feels light as a blossom: He will not stay with the clan any longer. He will go his own way, and in doing so will take what risks befall him, a true orphan, carried only by the horizon.

When the music stops and the doors open, he stands aside and waits as the priest, monks, and holy sisters exit first. Kyner follows, commander's thong about his brow, white tunic emblazoned with a scarlet cross, accompanied by his warriors and the clan's elders.

At the sight of Arthor, he nods, then turns and speaks reverently to the elders, the old men and women in their traditional hempen robes with bines of summer flowers in their gray hair, and sends them off to the wagons that will carry them to Camelot. With a curt hand signal, he dispatches the mustached warriors in their riding leathers to escort them.

"I trust you have been shriven by the barracks priest this morning?" Kyner asks, stepping closer.

When Arthor affirms by lowering his chin, the grizzled chieftain slaps a thick hand on the young man's shoulder. "Good. You'll need God's protection for what must be done."

A heartstring twangs apprehensively in Arthor. Is Cei right? he wonders. Am I to be punished? "Lord?"

Kyner sighs softly, disappointed that Arthor won't call him father, hasn't called him father since he began wearing armor. "Arthor, I want you to return the Saxon hostage to his tribe. They are—"

"Me?" Arthor's heartstring snaps painfully in his chest. "Why do you send me?"

Kyner's weathered brow flexes with anger at the youth's insolence. He takes the boy's arm in a firm grip and sternly leads him into the church, out of hearing and sight of the community. Only the carved figurine of Christ in his agony witnesses their confrontation among the incense-smoldering shadows. The chieftain begins in his gravelly voice, "I am sending you, Arthor."

"Why?" Arthor's slant yellow eyes tighten. "Because I am expendable?"

Kyner's whole body flinches to hear Arthor speak so harshly. Rageful looks and defiant smirks have been the extent of the boy's contemptuous conduct until now, and each of those has been answered with a sound thwacking. But the chieftain restrains the impulse to lash out at the youth. I need for him to do this willingly, he tells himself to quell his ire; then says simply, "I want you to go. I ask you to go."

"Why did you not tell me sooner?" Arthor cocks his head suspiciously. "I thought I was to go with you to Camelot for the festival."

Kyner blinks with perplexity at Arthor's wrathful tone. "You will meet us there after returning the hostage."

"You mean if the Saxons do not kill me."

"I mean what I tell you," Kyner replies, losing patience. "I am entrusting you—"

"Entrusting or punishing?" Arthor thrusts his face closer, challenging the older man. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Punishing?" Kyner clasps his hands on his hips to keep from shaking sense into the youth. "You think I am punishing you? For what? For what happened at Mousehole? I have forgiven you for behaving so shamefully. You fought bravely and well that night. No, I am not punishing you. I am entrusting you with a dangerous and important mission."

"If this is so important, then why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"The word came at dawn by herald," the chieftain answers, edging his voice angrily. "The acknowledgment was sent before you came from the barracks."

"You could have sent for me."

"I am the chieftain, Arthor, and I am telling you now, you will return the Saxon to his tribe."

"Why did you have to send for me?" Arthor asks, veins ticking at the sides of his neck. "Why couldn't I have been with you, like Cei, like the others? Why must I live in the barracks?"

"You know why."

"Because I am a son of war, a mongrel and bastard half-breed."

Kyner's heavy mustache blows outward with a ponderous sigh. "Arthor, you shame me with your anger, your bitterness. Be who God made you."

Arthor's face mottles with the heat of his emotion. "God made me a mongrel. Why should I not behave like one? The war of Saxons and Celts goes on inside my own body. I cannot be one or the other. What am I then?"

Kyner answers flatly, "You are a soul—a Christian soul, Arthor. Your anger disgraces God."

"Why has God done this to me?" He opens his arms to the crucifix. "Why?"

"You ask why of God—you ask why of me." Kyner jabs a blunt finger at the infuriated adolescent. "You are insolent, Arthor. Accept your place in the world, where God has put you. Stop this foolish rebellion against yourself."

"How am I to accept my place when you have taken that from me?"

"I?" Kyner's pale eyes widen with surprise. "Your anger puts nonsense in your mouth, boy."

"You found me in the forest. You took me from where my mother left me to die."

"So?" A frown clenches the chieftain's brows. "Was I supposed to have left you there?"

"Yes! My mother intended for me to die. Why did you deny me that?"

Kyner shakes his head, stunned. "I—I am a Christian. Each soul is precious to me. I saved you for Jesus."

"Jesus!" Arthor spins away and comes back, nostrils flaring. "Then you should have given me to one of your Christian thralls to rear. I'd have known no better. Why did you keep me for yourself?"

Kyner stares mutely, confused. "I found you. God placed you in my care."

"Then why don't you care for me?"

Softly he answers, "I do."

"By having me eat and sleep in the servants' barracks? By making me serve Cei?"

Kyner shakes off his bewilderment and declares, "You lack all humility. That is your sin, Arthor."

"Humility? I should be grateful to fight for you in battle and serve you and your household at home?"

"Yes!"

"But you reared me as a chieftain's son," he rejoins with an almost pleadful whine. "The same tutors who taught Cei taught me. The same priests who led Cei to Our Savior, led me. We visited the same courts with you. We prayed at the same shrines, conversed with the same philosophers. I am as well learned as any chieftain's son. Yet you and the others treat me as a vassal."

"Enough!" The chieftain slashes his hands between them and speaks in a loud voice: "Cei is my born son and a Celt. You are my found son and lucky to be alive at all. You should be grateful for the life you have instead of whining because you are unhappy with your station in life. I won't have it, do you hear me?"

Arthor steps back a pace, and his shoulders slump. "I have kept my silence in the past."

Kyner nods. "You have. I am disappointed now to learn that these are the thoughts you brood upon. You are an arrogant ingrate, Arthor. I am ashamed of you. Yet I am a Christian, and I believe in forgiveness."

Arthor hangs his head and glowers. "I do not ask your forgiveness."

"You do not need to," Kyner says in a strict voice. "I forgive you anyway. You are my found son. Nothing can change that. God has bound us, and your bitterness cannot separate us."

Arthor peers up at the latticed shadows among the rafters. When he lowers his gaze, his broad face stares quietly, almost drowsily, at his stepfather. "You have treated me well, Kyner, for what I am. I will do as you say and return the hostage to his tribe."

"Good." The chieftain huffs with relief. "This is important to me, to the whole clan. You know who that hostage is. He has served us well by forcing his deadly father to inform on other Saxon tribes. Many of our people's lives have been spared, because we used this murderer wisely. Now, it is midsummer, and we must return him as we agreed. He must be returned—whole—before Aelle leaves our kingdom. That is why I need you to do this. I know you will get him to Aelle safely. I cannot say the same for Cei. Much as I love him, he is not half the warrior you are. And if we fail to return Aelle’s son—if he is hurt or killed—Aelle's fury will be unappeasable. Do you understand? This mission is vital to the well-being of our people. Many lives are at risk. You must not fail."

The outpouring of a lifetime of rage has left Arthor feeling as soaked in solitude as a stone, and he speaks numbly, "Perhaps, then, you should return him yourself."

Kyner's deeply seamed face darkens. "If I did not have the entire clan in my care on the journey ahead, I would. Aelle is not to be misjudged, and I am wary about sending even you. But you are my iron hammer, Arthor. For all your wrath and cruelty, I have learned to rely on you in the fury of battle when a man's mettle most clearly defines him. You can be trusted."

"I will do as you say, lord." Arthor speaks woodenly. "I will return the hostage to his tribe. But I will not meet you at Camelot. And I will not return to White Thorn—or ever again to the clan."

Kyner shakes his head with such adamancy it barely moves. "You will return."

"No. I will make my own way in the world. I will be my own master."

"You speak from impudence, Arthor."

"I speak from what I am."

Kyner practically snarls. "You are insolent. I say you will return. And you will."

Arthor's eyes harden. "I will not."

Kyner puts his big hands on Arthor's shoulders and, unable to restrain himself anymore, shakes Arthor so hard that the boy's jaws clack.

Arthor's arms shoot up between them, knocking Kyner's wrathful hands away, and he shouts, "Go ahead then, strike me!" He pushes at Kyner's bulky mass but doesn't budge him. "Come on, old man!" He shoves harder at the immense, squat, and deadly warrior.

Ringing a silver note from the scabbard, Kyner's sword emerges. "I will not strike you," he whispers, and turns the broad blade of the Bulgar saber between them.

Arthor's stare winces at the sight of Short-Life unsheathed before him, rays of reflected light like quartz vertices in the air. His jaw sags, and his legs feel like smoke. His sudden fear makes his anger flare even hotter, and he says in words that rise from far inside his burning chest, "Then kill me."

"I am not going to kill you," Kyner speaks gently. "Take this."

A rival heartbeat knocks from somewhere behind Arthor's eyes, so loud he is not sure he has heard the old man. "What?"

"Take it." Kyner grabs Arthor's limp hand and forcibly places Short-Life in his grip, squeezing his fist until the boy's grasp takes hold.

"What are you doing?" Confusion drains all anger into sudden cold.

"I am giving you Short-Life," Kyner answers, "to protect you on your journey—and to assure that you return."

Arthor gives his stepfather a smoldering look. "I don't want your sword. I don't want anything more of yours."

"You are worthy of this blade," Kyner says, removing his sword strap and scabbard and bending to secure them around Arthor's waist.

The young man swipes the chieftain's hands away. "Keep your sword, Kyner. I have my own."

"Not like this one," Kyner says, grabbing the boy's arm and holding it up so that the broad blade is close to their faces. "Look at it, boy. It has the heft to cut through bone. You'll be alone out there in the wild woods. Alone with wolves and roving gangs. You'll want a strong sword, one that won't break against any shield. Take it!"

Arthor stands still, numb with rage, as Kyner secures the scabbard strap about his waist. "You'll never see this sword again, old man."

Kyner snaps the clasp into place and straightens. "I've had this sword since I was your age. I won it in battle on the Catalaunian Plains in Gaul when the Christian Celts fought with the Visigoths and the Roman troops of Flavius Aetius against Attila and his Huns. It is my battle-soul. It will protect you."

"I will protect myself." Arthor extends the sword haft toward his stepfather. "Keep your battle-soul."

"I will keep it," Kyner says, "in your hands. Return it to me at Camelot when your mission is done."

Arthor grits his teeth so tightly his jaws pulse. "So be it then." He glares at the sword in his hand, the fire of opal in its steel shining hard in his eyes, and he slams the blade into its scabbard. "Short-Life goes with me—and you'll not see this saber again."

"I will see it again," Kyner replies with certainty, saying directly into the boy's golden eyes, slowly and forcefully, "I will see it again, because you will return it to me at Camelot. You will obey me—because you are my son."

"I—I—" Arthor stammers, flaring with anger. "I am not your son, Kyner. Have you heard nothing I've said?"

"You rage against life." Kyner, veteran of fifty years of murderous battles, shrugs the pain away. "How can I blame you? You are right to want better for yourself. I want to give that to you. I want to give you peace. But this battle-sword is all I have for you."

Arthor feels all the angry words that he could say burgeoning inside him with a dull roar. He clamps his jaw tightly, determined to say no more. He will simply go—and not come back. That determination calms him, and he turns and stalks out of the church into the summer morning.

"Aelle awaits you in the oak forest north of Hammer's Throw," the chieftain instructs as easily as though no fury had passed between them. He describes the best routes across the countryside as they traverse the range toward the waiting caravan.

Cei has already mounted and waits at the head of the cortege, staring in smug satisfaction at Arthor's grim face—till he notices Short-Life at the foundling's side, and his features pale in surprise.

Fen also sits mounted, hands bound, staring up into the alders. The dark diamonds of his eyes watch bees swagger on the breeze and clouds traveling in silence on the paths of dream. Then he spies Arthor. Raptly, he observes the tall youth with the broad shoulders and lion's breadth of bone between his long, amber eyes. When their gazes meet under the trees, shadows pause.

"Return his son to Aelle, and our agreement with the Thunderers is complete," Kyner tells Arthor. "The Saxon warlord has sworn a blood oath that you will be respected and left unharmed. Be wary, Arthor. I do not need to tell you of the treacheries of our enemies."

Arthor looks away from the Saxon's blue stare, and the breeze stirs again, glimmering through the branches with emeralds and topazes.

Thralls bring the horses of the chieftain and his son. Hung from the saddle of Arthor's palfrey is his helmet, his shield with the Virgin's image, and his sword. He removes the sheathed weapon and passes it to Kyner. "Here. By this, remember I was once your ward." When Kyner takes the weapon, Arthor turns away quickly, mounts, and stares down coldly at the old warrior. "The hostage will be returned. I swear that before the Blessed Mother. I swear that—and nothing more."

Kyner steps back. "Go with God, Arthor. We will meet again in Camelot."

Arthor shakes his head ruefully and rides off, turning slightly only to be sure that Fen follows.

Kyner holds up Arthor's sword in its scabbard and watches sadly as the young man and his hostage ride out of White Thorn. "Go with God, Arthor," he says again, soft as a prayer.

Chapter 9: The Viper-Priest

Melania feels as fluid as poured water. The lamia possess her—and she possesses them. Released from their black silver urn by the wildwood gang who have ambushed her, the lamia would have ripped her flesh from her skeleton had she not grasped the guardian band in the same instant that they seized her. A moment sooner and she could have driven them back into the urn.

Now, they circle her like particles of fire. They chew on her but they cannot eat her because of the guardian band. But those mortals who get close enough, they shred, rip, tear into carrion.

She travels through the wild places, far from people. The lamia do not touch the animals. They prefer human flesh.

Even plagued by her demons, her brow wears a stamp of determination. She will find her ancestral treasure buried on the island of Britannia four centuries ago. And the gold will go back to Aquitania with her and buy the mercenaries she needs to save her estate. She will do this, no matter the lamia, no matter the pain.

The skin of her face shines with the gift of blood that the lamia cannot touch. They circle her angrily, arms folded around and through each other. The purple velour of their manes, the wet leather of their snouts smears in the air with their mad circling. Firepoints glint where they are and stiffen to shadows where they are not.

How long can they live without eating?

She wonders this but never finds out, for no matter how careful she is to stay in the forests and on the high trails, people find her. Sometimes they are drovers searching for their cattle. She gallops from them, bends low over her horse's withers, and covers her ears—and still she hears their screams. Sometimes they are brigands stalking her. Then she stops her horse and simply watches as the lamia yank the leering faces from their skulls.

Many times she has tried to drive the lamia back into the urn. She has held the container by its sphinx handles and scooped the air where they glitter, but they swirl away. When she brandishes the lodestone knife that can kill them, they hide in her hair and lick the salt from her neck.

This hurts her, because it draws the salt from her blood. It makes her head pound and her flesh slick and feverish. To stop them, she bangs the knife against the silver serpents of the urn. Disturbed, they fly off a short way and glower at her. One sits in a tree branch, wings folded, furious-looking as an eagle or the bronze eidolon on a Roman consul's staff. The other writhes in the dirt, flat as a shadow but dazzling with hues—vermilion, gold, green, striped like a zebra, freckled like a leopard.

Melania lives off summer—eating berries and nuts, drinking stream water. With the ease of smoke, she moves from day to day, always northward, seeking her treasure.

To cross the channel to Britannia, Melania rides along the bluffs above the rocky coast until she locates a fishing village. And she waits. She will not endanger the people. At night, she leaves her horse in exchange for a small boat and rows out under the star-wrinkled night before hoisting the craft's single sail.

Melania abandons the boat in Britain on a cliffside beach under dragon's-tail clouds and a fiery dawn. All she takes with her are her shabby clothes and the weapons she needs to control the lamia— the empty urn, the magnetic dagger, and the silver throat band that keeps the lamia, who have already penetrated her aura, from possessing her flesh.

The lamia beat at her eggskull. They want to kill her. Only the guardian band dims their strength. All they can do is hurt her. To mute the pain, she chews willow bark and poplar roots as her great-grandmother taught her, and doggedly walks north and west toward the inter-fingering hills that hide her treasure.

Lithe as a flame, Melania scampers through primordial forests. The lamia, for all their hurting, charge her with a peculiar lightness. She partakes of their energy. When they kill, she is stronger. Yet, she despises this strength. She wants no innocent blood on her hands, and she ignores the sulfurous headaches and stays away from the hamlets and the wet, mulchy smell of turned earth.

When she reaches the place of hidden treasure in an oak grove outside the black stone walls that enclose the City of the Legions, she is exhausted. The lamia have not eaten since she arrived on the island. Someone must die for her to carry the strength that will easily budge the stones and the black earth hiding her gold.

But she will not visit the City of the Legions. She will not walk the rutted dirt roads. Bewitched by the painful hungers of the lamia, she digs slowly with her bare hands. When sheep bells tinkle, she flees into the forest and waits for the shepherd to pass. The lamia seethe, too weak to hurt her more than she can bear.

Five days later, Melania completes her digging and finds the treasure cache—empty. Her heart's small immensity nearly explodes with grief.

She stares at the empty socket under the lisping oaks and stares and stares until the details take on magical intensity: the tree roots flare like wicks. The stones are not dead.

The wizard Merlin took the gold coins from our grasp seventeen summers ago. The lamia make the stones speak in a voice like bending iron. The gold bought greatness for the Aurelianus brothers. And with greatness came death. There is no more.

The voice of the unsayable passes. Melania's hands clutch at the gold pieces of sunlight let down by the leafy canopy. The lamia laugh, hungry and sick.

Melania pulls the lode-knife from her belt, and the lamia press close to her skin, hot and prickly, and they beg her to stab at them. Her hand wavers. If she slays herself, the lamia will spurt free of the guardian band's hold. They will range across the countryside, ripping the hearts from young children, their favorite delicacy.

She puts the knife away and staggers into the forest, bound for nowhere. Sluggish as freezing water, her movements catch on everything around her—her hair and clothes snaggle among brambles, and her mind glares blank as snow. In the night, she hunkers over the urn and watches it glow green. The braided snakes on the orphic egg slither.

Then, one morning, the green doorways of the forest open upon a Saxon camp—Aelle and Cissa and their naked warriors dressed in scars and blue paint. Even clumsy as icy water, because the lamia have not eaten in weeks, Melania is still more swift and silent than any mortal, and she surprises the warband.

The nearest Thunderer leaps up, a knife in each hand, and the voracious lamia seize him. In an instant, he is a ripped carcass hanging from a tree by his feet, his shocked face staring at itself in a mirror of puddling blood.

The Thunderers shriek with fright. Their souls of blue lightning dim with fear.

Except for Cissa. He shoves his startled father behind him and beats his naked chest with his fists, sounding the drum of his body to summon the Furor.

The lamia swoop toward him and are pulled away with high tearing screams. Melania falls to her knees under the impact of their loud cries that seep like hot tar into her inner brightness, hardening to darkness within the light of her life.

She swoons. Fading, she beholds the Furor. Colossal as a tree, his beard and mane tangled in the clouds and his vacant socket empty as the black behind the sky, he holds the lamia in one hand like squirming eels. His single eye shadows forth such azure arctic loneliness, such impossible loss and grief, her breastbone groans, unable to lift a cry, unable to carry the burden of such sorrow.

Cissa crouches over her. He has dealt with witches before. He has wrestled werebeasts, impaled vampyres, and bound lamia in the aboriginal forests of the Thunderers' wanderings. The Furor has trained him well. He snaps open the orphic urn, and the lamia are shoved yowling into the confining darkness. Then he takes the witch's smudged face in his tattooed hands and studies her southern features—Greek nose, full lips, large dark eyes—and he nods.

"This one lives," he announces.

"She has killed our clansman," Aelle protests, and the other Thunderers murmur agreement. "Her blood must wash his."

Cissa holds the basket of her ribs and feels her fear scrabbling and knocking within. "You are not a witch," he says in the Latin tongue of his enemies. "You are a frightened woman."

Melania shakes the bleariness from her head. She looks about for the Furor and sees only treecrowns screening the far furnace of the sun. The lamia's power has vanished, and she feels exhausted, hollowed.

The man holding her conveys the frightful aspect of a serpent, for he is totally hairless, his flesh stenciled with scaly coils.

"This one lives," Cissa repeats. He plucks at her tangled, dark hair matted with burrs and twigs. "When she is cleaned up, she will be beautiful in the Roman way. Some use will come of her."

The Thunderers gather around their slain comrade and lower him from the tree. "And what of his blood?" Aelle inquires of his shaman son.

"His blood has paid for ours," Cissa answers, and releases Melania, done with her. He picks up the urn and turns it wisely in his stained hands. "Behold, noble Aelle, the shape of our salvation."

Aelle huffs impatiently. The scar between his eyes throbs from the strong presence of the Furor, who still stalks through these woods, somewhere nearby. "Tell me plainly, son, what you see."

Cissa's reptilian face cracks a smile. "I see that the Thunderers need not attack Camelot. I see that we need not die to distract our enemies while the Furor's dwarf retrieves the sword Lightning."

Aelle tugs at his hay-nest beard, not comprehending. "The Furor has ordered us—"

A rustling in the underbrush puts swords again in the hands of the Thunderers.

From among pale poplars, a startling figure emerges—squat, immense, and fierce. A dwarf dressed in studded leather straps that crisscross an iridescent tunic of fire-snake skin.

"Put your swords away!" the creature orders. He is half as high as a man and twice as wide, with huge, muscular limbs, and a cubed head of tufty gold hair and red whiskers that swirl over pugnacious jowls. "I am the Furor's dwarf-—Brokk."

Aelle goes to one knee before the agent of their god. The other Thunderers follow—except for Cissa. "Get up," the shaman calls. "He is but a minion of our Lord. And one who has lost the sword Lightning to our foes and put all our lives in jeopardy. He is no longer worthy of our respect. Not until he has recovered the Furor's sword."

Brokk scowls at him and strides menacingly closer, but Cissa does not flinch.

The man's eyes stare cold as the icy heart of winter. "I am the viper-priest of the Furor. I am the one you have been sent to obey."

"I obey none but the Furor himself." Brokk snarls, and shows huge square teeth. "I am older than the children of Woman."

Cissa beats the drum of his body, and though the morning is cloudless, the sky darkens. Summer scatters itself before a boreal wind that burns with cold.

Brokk's brutish face bends woefully, and he admits, "The Furor has sent me to work with you, to recover the sword Lightning."

In the background, Melania curls more tightly against the wall of a mammoth oak. She does not understand what the snakeman or the dwarf are saying, but they hold the urn between them. In the sudden dimness, they unclasp the snake-fang lid, and the lamia, still weak from their long fast, seep out like cool mist in moonlight.

The dwarf's leather-bound hand with its metal knuckles shoves one of the ghostly creatures back into the urn. The other, the dwarf wraps about himself like a windy shawl. Instantly, he grows in stature and stands facing the viper-priest, precise as a mirror image.

Terrified at what she sees, Melania tries to scuttle away. Immediately, she is snatched and dragged back before the hairless tattooed warrior and the dwarf, who now holds the lamia in one hand like a limp pelt of silver fur.

Seizing a hank of her hair, the dwarf runs blunt fingers over her quivering face. She jolts as his electricity tickles the frosty outlines of her organs. His small eyes thread a burning light.

"I will take this one for my pleasure," Brokk announces, and folds back his tunic to reveal a red pizzle the size of a man's forearm.

Melania scrambles backward crabwise, face wrenched with horror, and Cissa steps astride her.

"No, Brokk. You will not have this mortal woman. She is mine. The Furor has given her to me."

Brokk's grinding teeth brattle with a sound like falling rocks, and he steps back.

"Now, you shall go," Cissa orders, and points into the forest. "Camelot lies in that direction. With the shapeshifter to wear, you will enter among our enemies and take back the sword Lightning. Then you will have won again our respect. Now, go."

With an embittered scowl, Brokk wraps the lamia about himself and shimmers into the shape of Melania. He walks off in that guise and does not look back. As soon as he departs, the siege of darkness lifts from the summer day.

Aelle bows his head in gratitude to the Furor for his able son. Then he signs for the others to prepare a pyre for their fallen comrade, and he regards the bedraggled Roman woman in her rags. "You should have given her to Brokk," he tells Cissa.

The Furor's priest shakes his head and lifts Melania to her feet. "No, worthy Aelle. This one has another destiny."

"You will take her for yourself?"

Cissa passes a disappointed look at his father. "You know me better. I take nothing for my own."

"Then, why?"

"Why is a word. What I want from her is beyond words."

"I do not understand you, my son. She is a Roman woman." He motions in disgust at where she stands bent and slovenly, peering at them through the twisted shag of her hair. "Look at her. She is weak, filthy, and she brought death into our camp. Look at her."

"One must not look through the eyes expecting to see."

Aelle shrugs and announces loudly for all the others to hear, "You are as much the Furor's son as mine, Cissa, so I cannot expect always to understand you. You may keep the Roman woman. She has killed one of ours but has liberated the rest of us from the Furor's command to attack Camelot. Let us go now to the oak grove outside Hammer's Throw, where the Celt Kyner shall free my son Fen. Then we will depart this island that is haunted by the ghosts of our enemies, and we shall winter in the reindeer forests beyond the rivers of the morning sun."

Melania understands nothing of what the heathens say until the viper-priest turns to her and speaks in her language. "We are the Thunderers," he begins. "We have burned your villages and the people in them. We have taken your magic for our own. Now your lamia serve us. Know this: I have saved you from the dwarf not for myself but for our god, the Furor. If you try to flee again, I will kill you slowly in his honor."

"Why must I stay?" Melania asks in a sodden voice. "What are you going to do to me?"

"How can I say?" He takes her chin in his hand and lifts her sooty face to his hungry gaze. "The gods alone know how lovely the unspeakable must be."

Chapter 10: Morgeu the Fey

Sunset darkens in red strokes over Camelot. King Lot and his entourage set up camp on the high western meadows, where the Celtic chieftains situated themselves in the two prior festivals. The British warlords erect their tents on the eastern fields at the far side of the champaign, so that the construction site of the fortress-city lies between them and the Celts.

Lot is the first of the chiefs to arrive, and he raises his pavilions close to the tree line so that there will be ample room in the meadows for the large companies of his Celtic peers, Lord Urien and Chief Kyner. The sun sinks while the tents go up, and when the work is done a line of green is all that remains of day in the cloud-streaked skies the night inherits.

Lot insists that he and his sons seek out Merlin to pay their respects and formally announce their arrival, but Morgeu will not face her nemesis in person. As in years past, she goes into the wild woods to worship arboreal gods and work sorcery for her people.

This does not trouble King Lot. He is old and well pleased with Morgeu. Her amorous spells and uxorious ministrations satisfy his manly desires, while her passionate devotion to the Celtic gods exalts his spiritual status among his clan. In their fourteen years together, she has not only awarded him with two able sons, she has expertly advised him in battle strategies against the Gaels, worked magic to dispel the mighty storms that usually thrash his kingdom of the North Isles, and, by eliciting the faeries' help, delivered spectacular harvests for the domain's farmers and fisherfolk. Life has never been more rewarding for King Lot.

Torches held in the grip of the king's guard light the night to liquid bronze, and Lot, Gareth, and Gawain march eagerly down the meadow lanes leading a long line of clansfolk. Ahead, the construction site towers in skeletal scaffolds against scattered stars, and friendly denizens of Cold Kitchen wait behind long tables laded with Celtic foods—braised salmon, quail stew, beef skewers, eel soup, hazelnut cakes, honey dumplings, black-currant pies, wheels of blue cheese, and raspberry puddings. Jugglers spinning firebrands, harpists, pipers, fiddlers, even ale-minstrels singing stories and bearing numerous horns of liquor greet the Celts.

Inquiring after Merlin, Lot and his sons pass through the gargantuan gates of Camelot. In the central hall, among building platforms and workbenches illuminated by fiery braziers, the figure of Hannes masquerading as Merlin paces the dancing shadows, chuckling to himself.

Since Merlin endowed him with magical powers three days earlier, he has hardly slept at all, so enamored is he of his astonishing new strengths. Hour by hour, he learns more about the skills that can yank boulders from the earth and numb water to ice, and he delights in his experiments.

"Merlin!" King Lot calls from the arched portal to the circular chamber.

Hannes whirls about, startled, and gawks at the tall, bare-chested warrior with drooping mustache and keen, eagle-browed stare. His half-naked boys, one to either side, radiate the feral air of young brutes, pugnacious jaws set defiantly, small eyes dark and threatening.

"What do you want?" Hannes asks apprehensively, waving his magical stave before him, ascertaining that no host of pale people accompanies this dangerous trio. "Who are you?"

"Who am I?" King Lot squints menacingly.

Hannes leans on his stave, edging back into the shadows, and delivers the pronouncement he has carefully prepared, "Oh, this addled mind! Fie on these mortal brains! Only recently have I come from a magical journey into the hollow hills, and I would not recognize my own mother, blessed Saint Optima herself. Do forgive me, my lord. But—you are ... who?"

"I am Lot!" the king announces, loud with impatience and incredulity. "And what has become of the dark thunder of your voice? You sound squeaky as a mouse!"

"The spirits—'twas the spirits in the hollow hills! They seized my throat pipes and bent them so they squeak so."

"Step into the light, wizard," the king commands. "I would show you my worthy sons, Gawain and Gareth."

Hannes inches forward, head bowed, reminding himself, I must not call him lord. I am Merlin. He is Lot. "Strapping youths, hale and strong-boned to my eye. They will make fine men, stout warriors, and worthy sons of King Lot."

Hands on his hips, the king bends forward suspiciously. "It has been full five years since we walked together among these stones, and you seem much changed by these years. Is this truly you, Merlin?"

"Truly me?" Hannes strives to load his piping voice with umbrage. "Truly?" He waves his stave at the braziers, and the flames blaze green. With a hysterical laugh, he whacks a carpenter's stool, and it dances, sidling and whirling among support tresses and dangling pulley cables. "Behold the wizardry of Merlin!"

Even as his words echo in the large and hollow chamber, the stool collides with a brazier, spilling sickly green flames atop the wizard. Hannes yelps with fright and pain as the green fire bites his face and hands and ignites his beard in a gust of spinning sparks.

With terrified shouts, Gawain and Gareth leap out of the chamber, leaving their father standing alone and astonished before the burning wizard.

"Enough, Merlin!" Lot kicks the animated stool into the air as it prances by, and it collapses to the floor inert.

Hannes drops his stave and beats at the snapping flames in his beard with his hat, striking puffs of blue smoke from his body. Frantically, he lifts his robe over his face and hands and smothers the frenzied conflagration. The flesh of his scrawny torso looks white as flour milled twenty times, yet when he lowers his robes, his singed and fuming features show white only in his startled eyeballs.

"You play the fool and fool my sons, demon—but you cannot deceive King Lot. I know you mock me. You mock all true Celts, for you serve the Christian god with your demon powers." Lot held himself to stillness lest he strike the giddy apparition scorning him. "You appear as a laughable man. I am not gulled. You are the very devil my wife Morgeu despises."

Hannes stops swatting at the last sparkling embers crawling in his shriveled beard and asks tremulously, "Morgeu—the sorceress? Morgeu the Fey? She is here?"

"Aye. Put aside your fear, wizard. I have come to introduce you to my sons and to inform you of this for certain: the years have not diminished my wife's loathing of you, nor will beholding you in this ridiculous state soften her heart. Know that she has come not to see you or even Camelot. She is here stravaging the countryside for crystal and herbal medicaments. None of us will see much of her these days. Woe for me, who loves her dearly—yet a certain joy for you, eh, Lailoken?"

"Yes—yes—a certain joy for me." Hannes wipes his scorched brow, picks up his stave, and, bent over his pain, retreats into the shadows. He escapes Lot with the glad news of Morgeu's absence and hurries deeper into the dark corridors of the incomplete building.

As he goes, he rubs his stave along the walls, making the stones shine with dull light that enbrowns the air. By that vague illumination, he inspects his burned hands and moans to see them laced with blisters. After a few cooling chants, the pain of his seared body dims.

He must be far more careful with his magical displays, he realizes. In the coming days, the British warlords will arrive: Marcus Domnoni, who knew Merlin at Tintagel when Hannes built the round table, Severus Syrax, the oriental magister militum of Londinium, who hosted the wizard in the governor's palace, and the dread Bors Bona, who fought remorselessly for him on battlefields across Britain. How will he deceive those wily Romans who survive by expecting treachery in every shadow? He must behave in a more subdued and dignified manner. If Morgeu the Fey had witnessed his blundering antics this night, he would be dead now.

Fear booms so loudly in Hannes's chest he worries that the sorceress will hear it. But perhaps Morgeu is not as powerful an entity as the carpenter dreads, he reasons to steady himself. Merely a mortal, she must learn and relearn her magic—unlike her arch-foe, that demon-wizard Merlin, whose powers are not human at all.

The sorceress Morgeu the Fey does possess powerful magic—such as the ability to walk out of her body—but only after much arduous preparation. Her spells to bewitch and ensorcell depend on internal disciplines that require constant maintenance and attentiveness. The effort is exhausting, and Hannes's secret is in no immediate danger of exposure.

Squatting in the dark woods, Morgeu stares angrily through the trees at the phlegm of stars spewed across the sky. She wants to fly as her enemy Merlin flies. Then she could swoop through the night like an owl with the soul of a dead Celt caught in her throat. She would follow her inner sense, the inner calling of her half brother's blood. It calls to her as nimbly as her own passion. In trance, she hears that lust most clearly—the adolescent urgings that thicken in his body.

The worm of blood that crawls in his veins has the same mother as her blood, and, by that common link, she can feel him with her magic. Desire in him seeks a naked joy, and in trance she feels his longing echo in the most glorious parts of her. By that resonance, she could easily find him—if she could fly. But she cannot. And on her journeys out of her body, she loses her way, because Merlin employs his demon powers to confuse her. He has cast a spell that scatters the echoes from her half brother's yearnings, scatters them across the horizon so they seem to come from every direction. If only she could fly, she could lift herself above this scattering and see their source.

Instead, she must sit in the dark and work hard on her trances. Like the good and bad powers of fire, trance helps and yet hurts. It helps her contain her rage—and it hurts when she is alone like this in the melancholy night and cannot reach with her anger beyond herself, cannot strike her enemies—the demon Merlin and the half brother seeded by murder in their mother's womb.

Spiders crawl through her heart whenever she thinks of her father's death, which had made way for Pendragon to wed her mother.

Father, I will avenge you, she swears to the ghost of Gorlois. I will avenge you—not with murder, but with love.

The light of her words brightens in her mind, serene and pitiless, and mingles with the carnal echoes of her half brother's life. From everywhere and so from nowhere, those ardent echoes circle around her, passing through the spaces and silences of her trance to feed her heart with bitterness.

Chapter 11: The Gleeman

With a summery breeze at his back and morning sunlight running brightly across a landscape quilted with hedgerows and pastures, Merlin walks briskly. He feels odd without staff, hat, and robes, and he leaves behind the wooded mountains around Camelot not willingly, yet without pointless resistance.

He must go to Arthor. Disguised, of course. The lad is not to know that the wizard Merlin seeks him out. He is not to suspect his regal identity, not until the clans and the families have gathered at Camelot and Merlin has delivered the unsuspecting lad into their presence. Only then, with the sword Excalibur drawn from the stone before all eyes, including the boy's own incredulous gaze, will Arthor be ready, not only to trust his fate but to reveal it to all Britain. The revelation, Merlin knows, will go a long way to enabling the youth to accept his new station and the awful responsibilities that attend it.

With that resolve, Merlin determines to call himself by his alternate's name—Hannes. Disguising himself as a carpenter, however, leaves him uneasy. Jesus was a carpenter, and the wizard, out of respect for his deceased mother's reverence for the Savior, wants to avoid any association with that holiest of men. Then why not be His opposite, of sorts, Merlin asks himself. He ponders a minute, before his beard opens to a wide grin. He will disguise himself as a gleeman—a vagabond joker!

"As the Lord raised the dead from the spirits of the grave, I will raise the spirits of the living by my humor," Merlin declares, well pleased. He stops and faces banked conifers that rise like dark, steep flames at the roadside. "You shall be my first audience—you, the living board! And I promise, when I make you laugh, I shall not take a bough. Nor do I take offense that everyone here leaves."

The wizard slaps his thigh. "You're not laughing," he notes, suddenly somber. "In truth, I get more zest from a ghost. At least a ghost thinks it's alive—but that's its grave mistake!"

Merlin grins broadly at the conifers before his foolishness congeals to disappointment. Ach, I'm a poor gleeman, he thinks sadly, because I'm not wholly a man. That must be it. I'm a demon merely pretending to manhood. And so I have no humor.

The wizard continues glumly on his way. The sun scalds his bare pate, and as he walks, he absentmindedly fashions a hat from plaited grass and polished leaves of ivy. Gradually, the paved Roman road breaks into cobbles and tufty grass golden with bees' desire.

In the middle of the road awaits a small dog the color of cast iron scorched in a kiln, ashen black tinged with rust, a splash of white over one eye as if hit in the face with a snowball. Its tough, tightly compact body shows slats of ribs, and its bowed, ready legs wear badges of dried scabs and bristles of burrs and nettles.

When Merlin approaches, the large and humorous eyes turn wickedly long and devilish, and the animal's tiny, comical ears lie back, drawing the loose folds of its snout to a fanged snarl. The wizard whispers a happy spell, and instantly the cur's face relaxes and its long tail shoots up and whips the air.

"Ha!" Merlin shouts with delight, and affectionately rubs the dog's hackles. "You're no wolfhound from the depths, are you? Just as much a mongrel as I, and off on your own, too! Come along then, little one. Let's clean and feed you and hear your opinions of this world."

At a pond overgrown with duckweed and creeping mints, Merlin sits on a rock shelf and gently washes the filthy animal. The wizard whispers soothing magic while removing bramble thistles and salving open wounds with mallow and willow sap.

"You shall come with me," Merlin announces, and playfully wraps the dog's head in green ruches of duckweed so the mutt seems to sport a pharaoh's turban. "You shall be my wise dog. And you will entertain the people in ways that I have not the wit to do. And because, with my magic, you shall seem wise enough to be your own master, wise as any animal divinity of ancient Egypt, you shall be known as ... Master Sphenks!"

The dog shakes off the shirring of pondgrass and yaps merrily. Then, Merlin leads Master Sphenks through a woodsy field blue with flaring harebells to a glassy stream, and there calls up several trout. While the animal gnaws at its raw fish and the wizard braises his in a small fire, they talk about the dog's life.

There is not much to tell, as the dog has been wild since birth; only that the world is much improved now that the wizard has used his magic to drive off ticks and lice and to provide food the likes of which Master Sphenks has never tasted.

How eerie and beautiful to be here with this two-leg, whose kind have always before thrown rocks, the little dog says with its flurrying tail. It grins up at its new friend, who smiles down at it from inside his flustery, white beard. Overhead, opulent clouds stream past, and Master Sphenks grins sweetly into life's everlasting flow.

Farther upstream, a league away, Arthor and Fen ride into a sapling forest that spins sunlight to threads like hot glass. In the sugared heat rising from carpets of daisies and violets, they ride bare-chested and hatless. Arthor has untied the hostage's hands, and they travel together, seemingly easy as comrades. Fen has spoken not a word, nor Arthor, since leaving White Thorn, yet the two understand each other. Fen is going back to his people, and soon Arthor will be at his mercy.

Along a stream hung with trees, the Saxon draws alongside Arthor, and says in guttural Latin, "You are of my people."

Arthor skims a thin smile. "You talk your enemy's tongue."

"Aelle made all his children learn." Fen watches the lion-browed warrior with great intensity. "You speak the enemy's tongue—but do you speak your father's?"

"I don't have a father."

"Everyone has a father."

"I like it better when you don't talk." He kicks his palfrey to a faster trot and pulls ahead through proliferous rivergrass and a mass of yellow butterflies.

They ride in silence. In the hamlet of Telltale, they eat a noon meal of black bread, cheese, and dandelion greens, and Fen remains mute. All that afternoon, as they journey among tilled fields under bosomy hills dark with forests, they say nothing.

Coming to a wild orchard of ambering fruit, they pause beside an ancient sundial that served a villa now sunken in blowing grass. There, they sit munching apples with their backs to the sundial's stone post, its engraved satyrs worn to shadows by centuries of northern rain.

Then they ride again, past shepherds and farmers on their tilted pastures, past more remnants of Rome—a shattered row of columns that vines twirl upon and shards of mosaics with images exhausted by lichen.

In the ephemeral dusk, they graze their horses in the blue shadowland of a hillside while they sup on muffins and salt meat from Telltale. Afterward, they tie the steeds to evergreen ash atop the hill and lie down to sleep in a nearby stand of birch under a hectic moon.

Moonlight searches the higher branches, and Fen's voice, disembodied in the dark, seems to climb down from there, "You are a great warrior, yet the Celts make you eat and sleep with their servants. That is why they are weak. They do not reward greatness. To be chief, you must be the son of a chief. But among my people, who your father is makes no difference. Each man creates his own destiny. You would be a chief among my people—among your father's people."

"I don't have a father," Arthor grumbles. "Go to sleep."

"Your father is a Saxon. Your blood is Saxon."

"Shut up."

"I have seen the way the Celts treat you. You are little more than a dangerous dog to them. They let you loose to kill their enemies. Otherwise, they keep you in a kennel. Leave them. Join with a Saxon clan who will accept you proudly for your bravery. Or take your own freedom and hire your sword to chiefs who will pay you well."

Arthor knows Fen is right, and that is why he is determined to go his own way. As he glides toward sleep, he holds Short-Life close. With this saber, he will cut a path for himself through the world.

Mother Mary, on the shield propped alongside, smiles softly in moonlight, the phosphor of her image continuing behind his closed lids. She will stand beside him. She is all I need, he thinks, and falls asleep.

Morning comes with the color of pearls and acres of rain that run over the hilly land to the north. The two travelers rise and ride to meet the rain through narrow trails among hedges of black hollyhock and into fields of blue larkspur. Hunched over in the wet wind, they peer ahead to where the sun slumps golden among shelving clouds above an ancient forest.

A thorp of sod-roofed cottages occupies the elbow of a stream. One cottage grazes a red kine atop its turf roof, and two others plait threads of cooking fires into the east wind. On the cow path that leads down to the thorp, the rain stops, and directly ahead of them a tall, angular old man and his small dog step from the hedges.

The aged wanderer wears a tediously long white beard and a ridiculous hat of plaited grass and ivy that makes him appear very like a Roman god in disguise. "Hail, travelers," he calls in a gravelly voice far bigger than his narrow body should hold. "I am Hannes the gleeman—and this be my wise dog, Master Sphenks."

The rusty black dog with the white-patched eye leaps in the air and twirls about with a happy yelp.

"We are bound for Hammer's Throw," the old fool continues, "and we seek the protection of Christian soldiers to guard our way."

"We are not Christian soldiers," Arthor replies. "God help you with your travels, old man."

"Lad, I see you bear the image of Our Savior's mother," the gleeman presses, and the dog at his side sits up, paws pressed together as if praying. "For the sake of she who knew love's labor best of all women, I ask your protection."

"I am a Christian," Arthor admits, "but this man beside me is the warrior son of the pagan chieftain Aelle. Best you find other companions for this journey, old fool."

Master Sphenks lays its face to the ground and covers its eyes in mock fear. "Aelle of the Thunderers—the destroyer of cities?" the gleeman asks, then scowls darkly and points an accusing finger at the Saxon. "Many thousands of Christians have died horrid deaths at Banavem, Venta, Anderida, Regnum—cities where every man, woman, and child were slain by Aelle and every house burned to ash. Why is this murderer alive at your side, boy, and you a Christian soldier?"

"Be on your way, fool," Arthor says, trying to ride past him, but the gleeman will not budge from the narrow cow track.

"Avenge those Aelle has killed and slay this heathen murderer," the old man insists. "Give me your sword, and I will do the deed, boy."

When the gleeman steps closer to grab for the sword, Arthor puts his foot against the fool's chest and kicks him into the rocky bramble. Master Sphenks yaps angrily, stands on its hind legs, and punches the air like a pugilist.

Arthor ignores the queer creature and rides past, but Fen looks back, astonished by the wise dog and the angry gleeman. If he had a sword, he would gut the fool just to see the little dog dance with grief.

The riders stop in the thorp and eat a puree of pulse thickened with barley flour. Arthor purchases hard-boiled eggs, several loaves of oat bread, a large wedge of green cheese, and a bag of chestnuts, and they ride out, into the immense forest.

The trees move apart, and the gleeman and his wise dog are waiting for them yet again on the forest track. "This is Crowland you are entering, Christian soldier," the old fool warns sternly. "There are brigands about—wildwood gangs. You'll do well to take me and Master Sphenks with you. I do not need to remind you that you will get little help against your foes from the likes of that Saxon marauder at your side. And even a fool such as I can see you're but a boy. You'll need the wisdom of my dog to correct your lack of years."

Arthor rides on as if he does not see the old man, his horse bumping into him and shoving him aside.

"Where is your Christian charity, lad?" the gleeman calls, and Master Sphenks shakes its head ruefully. "You shame the Lady of Grace whose image you bear."

Arthor does not listen. Mother Mary wants him to travel alone, to fulfill his last promise to Kyner. After that, he will be free to tend all the fools and their wise dogs she sends his way. He and Fen ride steadily into the forest, startling doves that flutter like ghosts into the vaulted darkness.

Chapter 12: Severus Syrax

Accompanied by three hundred infantry, eighty archers, and thirty lancers, Severus Syrax arrives at Camelot intending to crown himself high king of Britain. A gaunt, swart man with forked beard, aquiline nose, and proud mouth, he affects the oriental manner of his Syrian ancestry with a turbaned pith helmet and Persian-style silks beneath a Roman cuirass bossed in gold.

His mount, a long-necked black stallion, prances on slender legs lively as flames. The elegant steed carries him haughtily on parade with his troops, along the handsome paved boulevard that departs the Roman road through the red-roofed village of Cold Kitchen and ascends yew-cloistered slopes to Camelot.

For fifteen years, Severus has prepared himself for this regal event. While other warlords feuded among themselves and skirmished with the Celtic clans, he managed to avoid all conflicts and meticulously build alliances with the small mercantile families of Britain's coloniae.

He extended credit from the rich coffers of the Syrax family to those potential allies who required capital, and he installed spies and agents in the powerful and independent households that did not need him. Over time, through a patient progression of selective poisonings, orchestrated marriages, and blatant coercion, he won influence with a majority of the island's great families.

Severus, bolstered by the support of Britain's commercial leaders, bid for the allegiance of Bors Bona, the fierce British battle lord from the north possessed of a formidable army. He won Bors by promising him taxation rights on all overland trade routes among the coloniae. Such rights guaranteed a fabulous fortune. But to collect, Bors would have to tame brigands and storm raiders and control the overland routes, thus securing trade interests for all, including the Syrax family.

As he rides into Camelot, Severus Syrax is thinking very intently about the Celts. His wealth means nothing to them, they who worship freedom above possession; and his army, even with Bors Bona to back him, can only make them fear him, not acknowledge his suzerainty over all Britain. To win alliance with these superstitious pagan souls, he calculates he must compel the cooperation of the one Briton they truly respect—the wizard Merlin.

Commandeering the palace grounds for his camp, Severus orders pavilion tents erected for his officers in the courtyard within the rampart walls of the fortress. He directs that his quarters shall occupy the great hall itself. Only days earlier, workers raised its enormous cedar roof. He orders the workers' scaffolds and benches removed to make room for his furnishings, which include a canopy bed, elaborate mahogany wardrobes, even an ebony throne inlaid with mother-of-pearl and amethysts big as walnuts.

"Merlin will not stand for this," the foreman warns, when he sees the display. A stout, red-faced man, he speaks with a loud voice used to giving orders. "We've all heard him say it, time and again: all participants in the festival are to camp upon the meadows. No one is to occupy the fortress but the high king himself."

Severus stares down his beaky nose with dark, unblinking eyes, a piercing stare that openly challenges the foreman's outrage. "Send Merlin to me."

Two leagues away, in Cold Kitchen, Hannes has kept himself busy inspecting bake shops, butchers, fishmongers, and grocers, doing little more than driving mice out of larders, settling petty disputes, and helping repair leaky roofs and warped wagon axles—anything to keep away from Camelot.

The stout foreman and his gaffers find him hunched over in an outlying meadow, under a pelting hail of raspberries harvested by magic. Informed that Severus has entered Camelot and appropriated the great hall for himself, Hannes brushes smashed fruit from his singed beard and offers in a high, hopeful voice, "Perhaps Lord Severus inspects the construction?"

"My lord, he's set up a throne!" The foreman glares. "When the Celts get wind of that, blood will spill in Camelot!"

With ponderous reluctance, which the foreman and his men interpret as weighty rage, Hannes stalks across the field, staff in hand. He refuses to ride, wanting as much time as possible to prepare for the frightful showdown. All he can think to do is summon courage with a magical chant.

By the time he reaches Camelot, he has sung the valorous incantation so many times that he swaggers, virtually drunk with bravery. I will make Syrax's throne dance out of Camelot! And if this grandee so much as looks cross-eyed at me, I will shout spells that will tie his tongue to his toes!

The magister militum sits in the circular hall, pert upon his ebony chair, beringed hand contemplatively twirling a curl of black hair at his temple. At the sight of this ominous man so imperious and foreign in his shiny ringlets and kohl-rimmed eyes, with his silk robes like vaporous layers of ether floating on his narrow body, Hannes quails. All valor wisps away from the carpenter and leaves him cold with fright.

"At last—the celebrated wizard." The governor of Londinium scowls. "Why have you kept us waiting, Merlin?"

Relief floods Hannes at the warlord's acceptance of him as Merlin, and his mind goes airy and loses all chance of reclaiming its angry edge. Meekly, he replies, "Chores. I had chores. In Cold Kitchen."

"We marched through that miserable town," Severus says with a pained and irate expression. "You saw us. Everyone saw us. Why did you not greet us?"

Hannes leans heavily on his staff to stay upright. "Chores." Not knowing what else to say, he finally blurts, "Only the high king may reside here. In Camelot." Hannes shrugs weakly as if he cannot help this immutable fact. "Everyone knows that."

"Yet, here I am." The warlord opens his bloused arms in a graceful gesture. "Does it follow, Merlin—I must be the high king?"

Hannes swallows hard and says aloud what Merlin has obliged him to say: "You will have to draw the sword then. From the stone."

"Bah!" Syrax's dark, Persian face sharpens spitefully. "We'll have none of that nonsense, Merlin. I have forged a coalition with most of the families. Only Marcus Domnoni has refused my entreaties. At your command, he will fall into line."

"At my command?" Hannes speaks with genuine surprise, the warlord's anger making him forget for the moment who he is supposed to be.

"Don't play the fool with me, wizard. You've jerked the strings of these marionettes for fifteen years now, denying Britain a leader while you play your puppet games with warlords and chieftains alike. That is finished." He leans far forward, eyes black flames. "I tell you, I have the allegiance of the families. And Bors Bona has thrown in with us. You will command Marcus Domnoni to obey—and you will do the same for the Celtic chieftains."

Flustered, Hannes shakes his head with dismay, dumbfounded.

"If you refuse, Merlin, there will be war."

"No—no war." His voice sounds dwarfed by the thunder of his heart. Again, he states Merlin's command, "Draw the sword from the stone. That is the challenge."

"That is your magic, sorcerer. You decide who pulls Excalibur. You are the maker of kings. You made Pendragon. You can make me." He sits back slowly, anthracitic eyes lazy. "If not—war."

Hannes feels that frightful word go through his robes into his bones. His shudder stiffens to anger at Merlin for putting him in this dangerous position where the lives of so many innocents hang in the balance. Emboldened by that anger, he begins again, "I can make you into a rat, too. I might prefer that, Syrax."

"Oh?" Severus's thin eyebrows hover. "You do realize, should anything unfortunate happens to me, Bors Bona will sweep over this land like a storm of fire, and your precious Camelot will be ruins before it is built."

Shivery fear drains Hannes's strength, and he sways with the weakness of his knees. What magic would Merlin work? He considers for a split second putting the warlord to sleep, and his guards as well, and having them all hauled out to wake up in the fields where they belong.

But then, what of Bors Bona? If there is war, it will be on Hannes's head. The very thought leaves his bones feeling like rotten wood.

In his fright, he is somehow reminded of his long years as a master builder and how he used to tame warlords who came to him with their brutal demands. And a broad smile slowly pleats his whiskered face. Of course! There is a special magic he learned on his own, long ago, a magic that could move the heaviest heart in moments: flattery.

"I admire your courage, Syrax," Hannes declares. "And your cunning. I daresay, your actions today have convinced me of your destiny. If now you can behave with the forethought and dignity of a monarch, you shall soon have your prize."

Severus Syrax tilts his head suspiciously. "What are you saying, Merlin?"

"The legend, Syrax." His voice swells with newfound confidence. "You must fulfill the legend. You realize, of course, that you cannot win the Celts and Duke Marcus by force. They are people with largeness of heart. Why do you think I set the sword in the stone as a challenge? To capture men's hearts. Seize that, mighty lord, and you will not need force."

The warlord's dark eyes narrow. "You will arrange for me to draw Excalibur from the stone?"

"That is the only way to assert authority without resort to arms. You must fulfill the legend. And I will help you. But it must be done properly. Most properly."

"What do you mean?"

"Marcus, Bors, Kyner, and Urien have yet to arrive." Hannes steps closer, his certainty brightening something deep inside his stare. "When they do, and the festivities have been enacted, then you shall have your chance to draw Excalibur—and I will see that the legend is fulfilled."

"Good." Severus Syrax lifts his forked beard in approval. "You are a reasonable old wizard after all, Merlin."

"Britain needs a king." Hannes nods with complicity. The hook baited and set; now, to pull him to where he belongs. "Of course, for now you cannot possibly stay here. Only after the sword is drawn may the high king enter this place."

"Naturally," the warlord readily agrees, nodding his coiffed head. "We don't want to inspire suspicions of collusion, do we?"

Hannes smiles, sealing their shared understanding. "We shall tell everyone that you have entered to inspect the construction. I shall extend that right to the other lords, so there is no jealousy."

Syrax rises and steps toward Hannes. "Fine, Merlin, fine." He squints his hooded eyes. "You look less frightful than last we met. They say you are a shapeshifter. I only pray that your word does not shift—for then, many will suffer."

Hannes's wide smile does not flicker. "I assure you, Severus Syrax—Merlin will keep his word."

Chapter 13: Wise Dog

In the dark forest of Crowland, Merlin and Master Sphenks follow Arthor and Fen from a distance. The sun hangs its prisms in the wet canopy so that the high branches glitter like a pelt of stars. On the forest floor, a dense labyrinth of root-buttresses and honeysuckle shrubs crowd the lanes among the trees, slowing the travelers. Jackdaws holler from boughs above deepening drifts of slant light. A scent of violets shoots past on a curl of wind, and milkweed tufts flow in cloudy streams through the leafshadows.

Ahead, an oak has collapsed, and the riders dismount to walk their steeds over it. At the moment Arthor and Fen begin clambering over the obstacle, frenzied screams explode from all sides, startling the horses. A half dozen maniacs—roving plunderers who ambush travelers for their coin and the thrill of killing—drop from the trees and fly out of the underbrush, rat-hair braids lashing, axes and daggers hacking.

Instantly, Fen leaps atop the log, hoping to mount his horse from there and fly from the killers. But his steed has jumped the fallen oak and clops away in a panic. Arthor's mount, too, has broken away, disappearing among the shrubs. The youth has no shield or helmet as Short-Life sings from its scabbard.

"A knife!" Fen calls, signaling Arthor to throw him the dagger sheathed in his boot cuff. Arthor pays him no heed, and the Saxon fetches about for a tree limb or a rock to defend himself.

There is nothing, and he jumps down from the log and crouches, prepared to grapple bare-handed with the attackers.

Arthor whirls the Bulgar saber from hand to hand, cutting the shadows with a sound like the north wind. His boyish face has set to a somber vigilance that hides the fury rising in him. He wants this. To drink blood with Kyner's saber flushes him with crazed desire, and he answers the shrieks of the brigands by releasing a wild war whoop that sets his bare-shouldered body dancing with the naked blade.

Blood flies like sparks, and the two nearest bandits collapse in a flurry of limbs and arterial spray. Arthor prances over them, ducks, leaps, skips, and—gyrating like a man gone mad—screeches a weird, killing laugh as he exposes himself to the enemy's steel, luring them into the blunt range of his blurred weapon. With the hollow thump of meat, another plunderer strikes the earth, hands tangled in his bowels.

Fen has never seen such beautiful frenzy, such controlled annihilation, not even among the berserkers. This boy kills with hideous ecstasy. The Saxon kneels in awe, breath stalled.

Three ax-men, wild at the deaths of their comrades, converge on Arthor. The death-dancer spins, driving them back, then stops cold, the short blade limp in his slick hand, and waits. Chin tucked, he grins mirthlessly, a boy amused at their fear. His amusement infuriates them, and they lunge.

Arthor slashes. One bandit staggers back, vomiting blood, a second holds up wrist stumps and sags under the twin geysers of his spilled life. The third and last of the killers flees. He leaps over a flat rock and dwindles into a cypress alley.

With a defiant cry, Arthor hurls Short-Life so that it hits the flat rock whirling, caroms, and wings after the fleeing man. It strikes him between the shoulder blades and severs his spine.

The Saxon can only blow out his astonishment, empting his lungs in awe. How the boy's killing genius inspires him! He scrambles forward and, almost without thinking, seizes an ax from the spasmed hand of a dead brigand.

"Arthor," he calls out, wanting this remarkable youth to see his death, to know it and to know, too, that it is Fen of the Thunderers who slays him.

Arthor turns slowly, and his amber eyes lid heavily, recognizing his blunder.

"You are a great slayer of men," Fen tells him consolingly. "I will wear your hair on my sword belt with pride."

Expertly, Fen flings the ax at his foe with mortal force, so accurately that Arthor instantly sees there is no merciful inch of escape or even hope of a glancing wound, that there is no alternative at all but to meet ravaging death with a raw grimace.

Master Sphenks spurts through the trees. The small animal leaps, cleverly catches the hurtling ax helve in its jaws, and rolls to a tumbling mass at Arthor's feet. Without blinking, the young warrior snatches the ax from the ground and rushes forward.

Furiously, Fen reels around in a desperate attempt to flee but collides with the old gleeman, who has come huffing behind his dog up the trail. Before Fen can struggle free of the man's bony grasp, Arthor seizes him by his hair and yanks him upright.

The Saxon thrashes about briefly, intent on savaging the youth, and instead takes a blow between the eyes from the blunt end of the ax. The impact sits him down in a spray of hot stars.

"Kill him!" the gleeman cries. "Kill the heathen murderer!"

"No!" Arthor commands. "Get the horses."

"The horses?" The old man slaps the side of the Saxon's head. "Did you not see? This snake tried to kill you! If not for the magic of Master Sphenks..."

"If not for a carnival dog trick, I would be worm meat now." Arthor levels a cold look at the stranger. "Get the horses."

The gleeman blinks with disbelief. "And that's all the gratitude you have for the ones who saved your life? Just, get the horses?"

The young man does not answer. His pale flesh shines with the gloss of his exertion, and his roseate cheeks glow, flushed. Yet the soft contours of his fifteen-year-old face belie the hard stare in his grim eyes. "I have no gratitude for this life."

The gleeman steps back, astonished to realize that the boy is serious. As the wizard Merlin, he had assiduously avoided the child, blocking him even from his thoughts, fearing that enemies—Morgeu the Fey, demons, the Furor—would find Arthor and kill him. Now he wonders with cold despair if his neglect has killed the boy's spirit.

The old man shakes his head sadly as he wades through gilly grass with Master Sphenks. He avoids using magic to call the horses. Even at the crucial moment when Fen's flung ax threatened the future king, the wizard restricted his power to the wise dog. The radiance of magic throws long shadows that the dark entities will recognize. Until he reaches Camelot, the boy's best protection from the malefic forces dedicated to his destruction is his anonymity.

Merlin returns with the horses, with Master Sphenks standing atop one of the saddles, and they find Arthor laboriously breaking the axes and daggers of the dead brigands. Fen sits against the fallen oak, glowering morosely, his hands tied together by his boot cords.

When Arthor is done and stands sparkling with wrathful exhaustion, Merlin comes up beside him. "What is the name of the soul my impetuous wise dog has detained so unhappily in this world?"

Arthor pauses to retrieve his saber before answering. "What does my name name?" he asks wearily, then shrugs. "I am Aquila Regalis Thor—Arthor—ward of Chief Kyner." He hefts the Bulgar blade. "This is Kyner's sword, Short-Life, by which I am charged to return his hostage—this Saxon, named Fen—to Aelle, chief of the Thunderers."

"You are so young," the wizard says, and Master Sphenks leaps from the saddle with the strap of a water flagon in its jaws. "You can't have seen more than fifteen summers."

Arthor accepts the flagon from the wise dog with a tight smile and drinks. He stares closely at the old man, scrutinizing the long, sallow skull and huge sockets, like the ossature of a great ape, holding mineral eyes cloudy as quartz. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and replies, "I am old enough for Kyner to send away into the world—and young enough to have blundered and grown no older if your little acrobat had not interfered." He passes the flagon to the gleeman. "I am certain that Kyner, who set me this mission to preserve the peace of his people, thanks you."

Merlin demurs with a mischievous slant to his eyes. "It is not I your chief must thank, young Arthor, but Master Sphenks."

Arthor bends down. "Then my master thanks you, wise dog, for saving the life of his dog."

Master Sphenks sits back and extends one leg straight out in salute.

"One dog to another." Arthor laughs and returns the salute. "You are welcome to journey with me to Hammer's Throw, old man—and your dog, too—though what lies ahead is dangerous."

"What lies here is no less dangerous." Merlin glances at the dead brigands hazed in flies. "We will travel in your protection."

With Fen and Master Sphenks on one horse, Merlin rides behind Arthor on the palfrey and listens deeper into the youth, hearing all the sorrows that have shaped him. They are the oldest illusions among men—pride, shame, vanity, and anger: the pride of blood denied by the shame of lowly birth, the vanity of nobility, and the angry bitterness of its lack.

If this furious soul were not himself Celtic elite, a proud warrior's soul, perhaps the boy could have seized satisfaction as the chief's beloved ward, his most-favored servant. Instead, he rankles at the commands of others, knowing in his pith a wider design to his destiny.

This reluctance to serve disturbs the wizard. He wants to warn the boy: Self-importance is a dangerous dream. When the delusion of conceit breaks, one feels that the weight of the past smothers the future, when in truth the world lies waiting for anyone humble enough to separate wish from reality and serve what is. But this truth cannot be spoken and be understood.

"There is a trail in that direction." Merlin points through the congested trees. "A bypath that leads to the glades and beyond to the hamlet of Apple Garth. We can rest the horses and take supper there."

"You do not speak as gruffly as the common gleemen I've heard at the bean feasts," Arthor observes, guiding his horse onto the bypath. "You speak fair Latin."

"Oh, I have served kings," Merlin admits, telling Arthor of the king of Cos without mentioning that the man was, in fact, the boy's grandfather. He relates a few of the adventurous tales of life in that perilous court before the Picts destroyed Cos and his castle.

In a merrier tone and caught up in a loquacious mood, Merlin then discourses on King Cole, the current monarch of the east coast at Camulodunum, who has held on to his throne not by fighting his enemies, the Angles, but by taming them with hemp pipes and bowls of mead, and organizing them into drunken orgies of fiddling and dancing.

"You served as jester for King Cole?" Arthor asks idly.

"Indeed. Would not that life appall this Saxon?" The gleeman sneers at their glowering prisoner. "I judge from his harsh silence that his people consider hemp, mead, and fiddle music no substitute for spilled blood and stolen land."

Later, as the riders enter the glades, the land itself answers for Fen, for Apple Garth lies in ruins. Scaly black posts alone remain standing above weeds that flourish from the ashes of the burned village. Scattered bones and skulls of the unburied dead bloom here and there with wildflowers.

Arthor unties Fen's wrists and pushes him off the horse. "Bury them," he orders.

Fen stares up dazed from where he has fallen.

"Use your hands," Arthor tells him, "and cover all these bones with dirt. Do it, or I will cut out your bowels."

Master Sphenks carries a bone to the Saxon and sits waiting for him to cover it.

"Go ahead, cut out my bowels," Fen challenges. "Kill me! I'll not honor these dead things."

Arthor shrugs. Bare-chested and sandy-haired, he looks like Fen's clansman as he stands over him and ties the Saxon's wrists together again. He helps Fen mount, and Master Sphenks hops onto the withers. They ride on, leaving the bones behind. The glade returns to the dark green corridors of the forest.

Presently, Merlin speaks from where he rides behind him: "You knew he would choose death. Why did you taunt him?"

"I wanted him to sit beside himself for a moment."

The gleeman barks a laugh. "Chief Kyner will be proud of you."

"I will not see Kyner again," Arthor answers coolly. "After Fen is returned to his people, I owe nothing more to the Celts. I will go my own way."

"Your own way?" Merlin speaks with thick incredulity. "What hope for one so young in this ruthless world?"

"They have hope who have nothing else."

"You quote Thales. Surely, Chief Kyner educated you well. Why are you leaving him, then? What better lord could you find?"

"No lord at all, gleeman," Arthor answers flatly "All lords ape greatness. The history scrolls teach us to admire them—Alexander first of all and then the Roman conquerors. But are they great? I say their greatness is vulgar."

"You do?" Merlin chuckles dryly. "What then, young Arthor, do you conceive as greatness?"

"For me, greatness is nature, God's creation. Balance that against history, I say. Beauty and goodness belong to God and His creation. The Greeks knew that. They built the city, the polis, in nature, each city responsible for its own place—until Alexander, who conquered it all, imposed one law, his law, and made it an empire."

"Why is that wrong?" Merlin tests. "He united all the city-states to serve one another."

Arthor answers with disdain, "He built the State—the rule of men not in nature but over nature."

"He did not ignore the Greeks," Merlin presses. "He was Aristotle's pupil."

"Who taught him reason—but he ignored the earlier Greeks, the beauty Socrates worshiped, the goodness Plato tried to define. In our quest for empire, we have forgotten that there is far more to life than reason, old man. We turn our back on nature. As Pythagoras warns, 'We have forgotten that there is a beauty to nature that balances the music of numbers even with the tragedy of blood.'"

Merlin nods and smiles to himself, satisfied that this angry youth has framed his vexed soul in noble ideals. "Yes, Arthor. What you say is true. We love power, and we are ashamed of beauty."

"And so our lives become miserable tragedies," Arthor continues, hot with emotion, "vulgar efforts to pass greatness from father to son when greatness cannot be passed on at all. Each individual, each society, must make its own greatness."

"You speak like a Saxon," Fen mutters. "You despise the tradition of monarchs, even as you love the freedom of the strong man."

Arthor glares at him, and the Saxon nods knowingly.

Sunbursts of late afternoon flare in the tunnels of the forest, and the riders continue in silence toward the burning end of the day.

Chapter 14: The Weapons Master of the Gods

Brokk is the cleverest of the Furor's dwarfs. The gods created him to know and to make. He knows how the world fits together in tiny pieces called atoms and how atoms are joined together with tinier pieces yet, with little bits of lightning that the atoms share. He knows that things are solid, liquid or gaseous because of how the atoms fit together, how they share their portions of lightning. He knows the atomic secrets behind the appearance of things. Reflectance, ductility, compression, color, and density have everything to do with how atoms fit together, and in his workshop in the arctic north he and his dwarfs have tools that rearrange atoms with heat, pressure, and lightning, in both subtle though hair-raising static charges and stupendous thunderbolts. But out here in the summer woods, all that the dwarf has is his mind, and he is baffled by how the lamia, given him by the Furor, shapeshifts.

The creature obviously is composed of a viscous kind of lightning, plasma, as are the gods themselves. Wandering through the forest's green shadows, Brokk wraps the lamia around him in one shape after another, each time feeling like a coal breaking into flames.

The heat of the lamia rends through Brokk and feeds off the image of the thing the dwarf stares at. The heat burns him into that shape. He flares to a crow, flaps up into the forest canopy, and perches above the rumpled green world blinking at the sun and wondering how this can be, this total realignment of his atoms.

He unravels the lamia to the shape of mist and settles through leafy branches to the forest floor drifting on the summer breeze. He rolls himself into a mossy boulder, stretches into a svelte rowan hung with red pomes, collapses to a brown puddle reflecting the shattered sunlight of the forest ceiling.

A deer peers down at him, and he struggles to rise into its nimble form—but he lacks the strength. Hard as he tries, fatigue defeats him. Then he rips himself free of the lamia, snaps it loose, and hangs it on a sun shaft.

It looks grotesque. Withered gray as steam with a face streaked like soot outlining blistered eyes and a smeared mouth. It gazes mournfully at him.

Brokk cannot understand how such a vague entity can exist let alone mutate into any form he commands. Its taloned hands swipe at him and pull across his stout body like clotted rags. It wants to eat. But the dwarf is made of god-stuff by the gods themselves, and the lamia cannot draw sustenance from him.

The dwarf drags the limp thing after him through the forest following the dim melody of a goat bell. At a stand of pine and barberry, he stops when he sees a salt peddler walking a forest path with his goat. The animal carries sacks of Droitwich salt and dried seaweed from Rameslie.

Brokk throws the lamia at the salt peddler, and it attacks with a hot scream. The traveler jerks about, and for an instant his eyes pop open wider than seem possible. His floppy cap and jerkin shred away, flying off in rags like gusty leaves, and his rib cage flays open, spilling glistening viscera and the life-heat the shapeshifter hungers for. The dwarf crosses his arms and watches it feed, watches it ripping flesh, bursting joints, cracking bones to release the effluvial heat, the lifesmoke that it absorbs.

When it is done, the dwarf hangs it again from a sunbeam and admires the sleek, silken contours of its body. Its hair streams like twilight's lavender powder, and its skull-face scissors fangs. It wants more.

"Later," Brokk promises, and removes his grinning dagger to butcher the goat. Watching the lamia feed has whetted his desire for blood-sticky meat, and though he does not have to eat and usually thrives off the electrical sap of the Storm Tree, he guts the bleating goat and gnaws its living heart.

As a raven, Brokk circles above the forest until he spies Chief Kyner's caravan on the Roman highway that leads toward Camelot. Lord Kyner rides a roan steed at the head of the company.

The disguised dwarf spools downward and lights on a dray cart in sight of the chieftain. And there, he commits to memory every detail of the large man's physique—the ropelike braid of graying hair, small brow blunt as masonry shadowing hard eyes with a calmness and shade of blue stolen from the sky. His dense mustache hides his mouth, yet it must be severe, for the jaw thrusts forward belligerent as a pike's. He wears Roman armor even in this summer heat—a red leather cuirass embossed with the Christian chi-rho, wrist straps on forearms swollen with muscle, hair glinting like coarse copper shavings.

His famous sword, the Bulgar saber Short-Life, is missing. Instead, he carries a plaited belt, ivory-trimmed scabbard, and a gladius, the short Roman sword. Beneath the scarlet fretted hem of his blue tunic, his knees grimace like twin faces knotted with muscle. The crisscross straps of his sandals attach to soles studded with hobnails. To the last inch, Kyner is a fighting man.

His son Cei rides alongside on a gray charger. The youth is a dimmer version of the chieftain but without the mustache, revealing a severe mouth. "The fork at the old willow approaches, Father. Let me take the lead. You've been riding point all day. Go back to the wagons. Lie down with a wet towel and read the clouds for a while."

"At the willow perhaps," Kyner says. "The road enters the forest then. It will be cooler."

"You might have a good word for the women when you go back," Cei enjoins. "You've not shown them a joke or even a smile since we left White Thorn. That troubles them, and then the children worry and little goes right with the clan."

"I'll find my wit again when we get to Camelot," he answers sullenly.

"It's Arthor, isn't it?" Cei probes testily. "You worry he won't meet us there."

"He's able. No grief will come to him from the brigands, and Aelle has promised him safe passage. I worry only that a feisty milkmaid might waylay him. He has a pagan's lust about him."

Cei shakes his head with regret for the chief's blindness. "It won't be a milkmaid that keeps that scoundrel away. He's done with us. Done with the Celts. His wild Saxon blood has spirited him away. You were purblind to give him Short-Life, Father. You'll never see that blade again."

Kyner reins himself away to keep from cuffing his son. "I'm going back to the wagons," he says, turning to ride along the line of drays and ox-drawn covered vans. "Watch for the willow's fork."

Brokk flies ahead of the trundling caravan and, around the shank of a hill, finds the fork in the highway. The landmark willow lies several lengths down the south curve of the road, partly obscured by a stand of shimmering alders. The dwarf places himself close to the fork's northern swerve, which dips into a long, forested valley, and he unfurls the lamia.

Growing a thousand slumped shoulders, he sways to the likeness of the willow and waits, weaving sunlight through his listless branches. The caravan rumbles by. He glimpses Kyner asleep on his back in one of the rocking carts, a flaxen daughter brushing flies from his brutal face.

Brokk waits until the caravan wholly disappears into the dark tunnels of the forest along the northern fork that will take Kyner into a rambling valley far from Camelot; then, he yanks the lamia away from himself and stuffs it into his hip pouch. Briskly, he climbs the shank of the hill, and with the strength of two men dislodges several boulders. They crash through the bramble, digging up a torrent of smaller rocks in a fuming earthslide that smothers the fork of the highway. Finally, he mutters a dwarfish curse that will obscure all exits from the valley.

With that obstacle firmly in place, the dwarf pulls out the lamia, wraps it tightly around himself, lathing his body to a spear of sunlight, and hurls himself into the sky toward Camelot. He flies among cloud trails, and the sky turns white. When he explodes out the far side of the clouds into blue space, the construction site of Camelot wheels below, a scattered nest of rocks and girders cradled among pine mountains.

The River Amnis descends from these green earth summits in shiny loops. Then the forest soars closer, and the dwarf zips through a maze of boughs. Ahead appears a river gorge of birch islands and erratic boulders dissolving in mist and haze.

Brokk lands among lime shrubs at the base of a knoll. He unwraps the lamia and shakes it out like a sheet, fitting it over himself to fit his memory of Chief Kyner. Parting the shrubbery, he sends several wrens hurtling toward the calm clouds. Above him, atop the grassy mount, the sword Lightning stands in a black stone wedge-shaped as an anvil.

No one else appears to be on the knoll, and the dwarf strides uphill as Kyner. At the stone, he stands gawking like an astonished lover, arms outstretched, sidling back and forth, regarding the sword from differing angles. He does not touch it at once, fearing the magic that has placed it point down so firmly in the stone.

Bending closer, he examines the rock with its freckles of orange rust. Is this a Dragon's nerve? he wonders, feeling the magnetic abundance of the boulder and fearing that to touch it would alert the planetary beast and draw it upward from its chthonic trance. With the lamia, Brokk suspects that he could loft swiftly into the sky and avoid the Dragon—but then, maybe not.

"'Tis a beautiful blade," a gruff voice speaks in Brythonic from behind the dwarf.

Brokk leaps about, startled to confront a Celtic warrior with braided, brindled hair, heavy mustache, and an eagle's stare pressed into his elderly face. He is taller than Kyner and wears old-style garb—a chieftain's browband of reeved leather, sword strap across his naked chest, fawnskin leggings, and soft boots.

The aged chieftain laughs mightily. "You're getting old, Kyner, when a tired elk like myself can sneak up on you." He slaps Kyner's shoulder, and his yellow eyebrows lift. "But you are solid, old friend! You feel steady as an oak."

Brokk gropes to determine who this Celtic chieftain is—Urien or Lot? "Greetings, friend."

"Friend now, is it?" King Lot smirks behind his immense mustache. "What of my soul burning in eternal damnation, then? Last we spoke, I thought you loathed me for spurning your Hebrew messiah."

Brokk shrugs. "Turn the other cheek, love your enemies, that's the Christian's way, is it not?"

"Is it?" Lot juts his jaw skeptically. "You seem not at all the stern messenger of your desert prophet that I remember."

"It's the sword," Brokk declares, turning to face the shining blade—as much to hide his bewilderment as to admire his own craftsmanship. "In truth, it has bewitched me. Behold. Is it not the most lithe weapon you have ever seen?"

Lot puts his hand to the helve of gold and faces the wonder in his warped reflection within the mirror-polished serif of the handguard. The sleek haft feels chilled even though the summer sun touches it. "Will you try your hand at it then, Kyner?"

"Nah," Brokk immediately dismisses the idea. "The magnetic flux density in this stone would defeat an elephant."

Lot's thick brows knit with incomprehension. "Magnus ... what? Don't soil my ears with Latin, man. What are you talking about?"

Brokk scolds him without taking his eyes from the luminous sword and the star stone that holds it, "It's not Latin, fool. Magnet. It's Greek. We call it lodestone."

"The anvil is a lodestone?" Lot runs his fingers over the unreckonable slag with its great lobes and pollen-fine flecks.

"A lodestone the likes of which I've never seen," Brokk says, almost undervoiced, to himself. "Its flux density is incredible. Must be the work of the Fire Lords—the Annwn."

"Aye, the Annwn, no doubt." Lot regards his old comrade in arms with a puzzled look. "I find it strange to hear you talking of Fire Lords, Kyner, and—what more was that you spoke of? Flux lines? Is that something in your Bible?"

"Never mind." The dwarf dismisses that with an impatient look and turns away from the stuck sword. "Merlin would know. Perhaps you could find out for me. Ask him how he switches the lodestone's polarity."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lot gripes. "Ask him yourself. Am I your courier now?"

Brokk wrings his hands contritely, and, taking Lot by the elbow and leading him away from the star stone, speaks the truth. "I would ask him, but I tell you, I dread him. He claims to be a Christian, yet he frightens me."

"I know what you mean," Lot agrees, and lets himself be guided downhill, nodding. "I have always been uneasy with his Christianity. He stole our queen to the faith you share with him. Not even Morgeu can win her back to the old ways now. And when I brought my sons to meet him upon our arrival here, he seemed—odd. More so than usual."

At last determining who this chieftain must be, Brokk replies, "Ah, brother Lot, Merlin is a demon, after all."

"Always before he seemed so," Lot concurs. "This time he appeared more of a bumbling fool."

"Merlin—a fool? Surely, a pose. He means to deceive his enemies." Brokk releases Lot and backs away through the abundant grass, lifting his tunic as if preparing to urinate, and stepping out of sight behind a chokeberry bush.

"The wizard certainly has enough enemies," Lot continues. "Even his fellow Christians mean him harm. My spies in the Roman camp tell me that Severus Syrax plots to take the title of high king with or without the sword—with or without Merlin. What do you think of your fellow Christians now?"

No sound comes from the chokeberry.

"Eh, Kyner?" Lot steps behind the bush. "Kyner?" No one is in sight on the entire slope, only a brown rabbit flitting under giant clouds swept along by azure time.

Brokk hurries to find Merlin, hoping to spy on the wizard and learn what he can about the magnetic stone of the Fire Lords. Approaching Camelot, he slows down and sits for a long time as a rabbit listening to the pine breeze. He is afraid of the demon. Surely, Merlin will see through his disguise and feed him to the Dragon.

The dwarf reminds himself that the Furor sent him to this place not to confront Lailoken, a Dark Dweller from the House of Fog, but to retrieve the sword Lightning.

At the sight of Merlin, in his wizard's robes and tall conical hat of power, standing before the gargantuan ramparts of Camelot, the dwarf retreats. The demon mingles among revelers accompanying Severus Syrax and his retinue as they march under summer's ragged clouds toward their campsite on the pasture.

Brokk breaks away before he is spotted. He runs toward the low mountains, skittering through tall grass and red wildflowers, seeking sanctuary in the sunny woods, where he can think.

He stops on a needle-strewn slope among warm fragrances of resin and amber sap. A tall, broad-shouldered woman in a green gown descends among the scaly-barked trees, her masses of frazzled red hair glinting with silica-sparks of magic. He recognizes her pale, lunar face with its tiny eyes black as puncture wounds, small nose like a bat's upturned snub, and a hard, defiant chin. He recognizes her as the sorceress Morgeu, called by the tattooed Picts the Fey, the Doomed.

"I see you there," she calls out, pointing a long-nailed hand at Brokk. "Hidden as a smutchy hare. Come out, whatever you be."

The dwarf unravels the lamia and stands up.

Morgeu's tiny eyes widen in dark dismay, and a silver knife streaked black with tarnish and poison appears from out a sheath hidden in her billowy sleeve. "Keep away! I offer you pain and slow death, dwarf!"

"Do not fear me, Morgeu the Fey." Brokk laughs thickly. "You know me not by sight but by name, whereas I know you by both, for you once sought to work magic with my master and creator, the Furor, the All-Seeing Father of the north gods."

Morgeu waves her poisoned knife before her, aghast at the squat troglodyte and his shadow—the cawing specter with its bone face of fatal contagion. "Years ago I offered myself to the Furor as a bride—as my mother had before me..."

"But the Furor would not taint himself with you," the dwarf completes for her. "I know. You sought my master's power to help with your famous hatred of the demon-wizard Lailoken."

"Who are you?"

With a smile of thick, square teeth, he announces, "I am Brokk—"

"Weapons master of the north gods," Morgeu speaks in an awe-drenched whisper, and lowers her knife arm. "Why do you seek me out? And what is that hideous thing you hold?"

Brokk has not sought her out, but now that he has fortuitously stumbled upon her, he states with bold command, "I need your help to retrieve the sword Lightning for my master."

Morgeu humbly lowers her cold face. "My magic cannot undo the power that holds the sword to the stone. That is the work of the Fire Lords. I am but an enchantress who works magic by trance."

"You are too modest, Morgeu." Brokk can see the amethyst carats glinting in her aura, showing the interior music of her tranceful magic. "Among the dwarfs, you are renowned as a sorceress."

Morgeu watches through the jagged red veil of her hair the thing in the dwarf's hand writhe. Its eyes of powdered glass glint hungrily in their sockets, and she replies, "My sorcery ended years ago, when the demons who empowered me fled from their brother Lailoken. I am but an enchantress now—and I do not like the look of that thing you hold. Tell me, Brokk, what is it?"

"A shapeshifter," he answers, shaking it so that its mildewed features smear to a silent howl that shows a mesh of fangs. "Sometimes called a lamia."

"Lamia eat the cryptarch in human blood," Morgeu says with a shimmer of fear, the stained dagger rising. "Keep it away from me. Or are you here to set it upon me?"

"Set it upon you?" Brokk had not thought of that, though it seems now a useful idea. "Not if you do as I ask."

"What do you ask of me?"

"Go to Merlin," he answers at once. "Use your skills as an enchantress and learn for me how to reverse the polarity of the magnetic stone that holds the sword Lightning."

Morgeu backs a pace, baffled. "I do not know what you mean. Reverse the poles of the stone? Is this alchemy?"

"Merlin will know."

Morgeu waves her knife nervously before her. "If I go to him, he will use his magic on me. He could well kill me. And I cannot have that. I have great work to do."

"Oh?" Brokk works the lamia's molten form between his massive hands and packs it into the steel-stitched hide pouch at his hip. "What work is that?"

Morgeu sheathes her dagger. If the dwarf had come to slay her, there would be now no conversation. She brushes back her startled-looking hair, and answers proudly, "I will find the son of Uther Pendragon and my mother and enchant him with lust. I will make a child on him—a son."

The dwarf rubs his weighty chin. "You would—and can—do that?"

She nods, her slight mouth bent to a tight, certain smile. "It is the magic of the Old Ones, Brokk—Mother magic, Shakti-Kali-Durga, whom we Celts call Morrigan: female orgiastic magic, which ruled the world in the ages before chiefs and warlords—the tantra that warps, stretches, weaves the womb's life-force into magic. That is the power I have. Fifteen years of trance work has won me that enchantment, and I will use it on my half brother to weave a true ruler with his seed in my womb, a son of Morrigan, to be named Mordred, who will drive out the Christians and do honor to the Furor and his brethren, the Celtic gods of the Daoine Sid."

"That is a great work, enchantress," Brokk agrees, impressed, eyes aglint like mussel blue shells. "My master would be pleased with that. And I will further this great work—if you will help me retrieve the sword Lightning."

"Lailoken is a powerful wizard, Brokk—" She opens her arms to reveal her strong-shouldered yet lavish female form. "And I am but an enchantress."

A cunning smile bends the dwarf's hard features. "Lailoken is a demon—but Merlin is a man. And men can be enchanted."

Morgeu sucks breath through her teeth. "It will be dangerous. Very dangerous, Brokk."

"Without doubt," he admits, stepping closer, attracted to the violence embedded in her eyes. "Yet, that is why you are called the Doomed, the Fey."

"It is not a name I wish to fulfill." She does not retreat when he steps close to her, and the air wrenches with a brash smell of cave tar and rock fire.

"And yet, that is why you have danced with demons, stared into my master's wroth eye, and survived," the dwarf says, and takes her hand. A relentless charge of horrified excitement passes between them—he feels it for a beauty that is foully organic, and she thrills to it for touching a grotesque creature exaltedly divine. Together, she realizes, they will lift the hem of the vastness.

Chapter 15: Keeper of the Dusk Apples

A starved moon peers into the glade where Melania sits among the Thunderers. Aelle and his men lie in the grass picking their teeth, sharing flagons of fruit wine. The wine, the braised pig—now just a heap of bones—and the baskets of bread and vegetables are tribute from Hammer's Throw, the village beyond the forest. Melania has eaten none of the food, hoping to weaken and die.

Cissa squats before her, his hairless, reptile-stenciled body looking bruised in the moonlight. His eyes, rolled up into his skull, gleam like two soap bubbles aswirl with rainbows. He calls upon the Furor. The emerald dark of the night sky wavers as if with boreal lights, and the furious god is among them.

Aelle and the others cannot see him, though they sense him and rise from their pillowstones to dance in his presence. Melania raises her weary face to watch the god standing on the moon's white road, taller than the trees, his falcon's hat blotting the stars, his wild beard a moonstruck cumulus, and his one eye a prism full of nebular colors. She wants him to kill her, but he only smiles down at her, grim and tense as any lunatic.

Since her capture by the Thunderers, the warrior-priest Cissa has used her to work his magic. Usually, captured women are slain unless they grovel subserviently enough to offer promise as slaves, and then the tribe's women must decide. There are no women in this war party trespassing the Celtic forests. These warriors have come to retrieve one of Aelle's sons, Fen, or, failing that, to raze in vengeance as many towns and farmsteads as they can before winter drives them back to their nomad settlements in the east.

The Thunderers believe Melania is a witch. She brought them the lamia, which killed one of their own. The sphinx-handled urn that held the monsters hangs from Cissa's loin-wrap. Around his throat, he wears the viper-patterned guardian band, and at his hip is the lode-knife that can kill the razorous specters. She is for him yet another of these magical possessions, a thing to be used for the worship of his gods.

Moving like quick shadows through the glade, the Thunderers dance past her, their greasy bearded faces glaring hatred. They want to kill her slowly, cutting off pieces of her as they sing the praises of their dead comrade slain by the lamia. But Cissa squats close to her, keeping her for himself and his magic.

She is the shell, the husk, the hull of his power. Poltergeist strength plucks at her secret parts until they shine with painful pleasure that burns coldly through her like abhorrent intercourse, like a devil's sexual intrusion. She is damned, and she screams. Her cries crawl out of her, heavy and cold as ether. When she is emptied of everything but an ovarian glow, the goddess comes down from the Night Tree and fills her body.

Then Melania floats to her feet, filled with otherness. Soulful beauty saturates her. She feels beautiful despair as she becomes other than herself. It is the glorious grief of the Furor's mistress occupying the lighted shaft of her body. As inflamed with loveliness as Lucifer, she dazzles. She is Keeper of the Dusk Apples. She is the Furor's lover. She inhabits the created world under the totem moon with a supernal grace wholly indifferent to the animal that carries her.

Melania gazes out from herself as if from another life. She is the unhappy reality far back in the mind of the goddess who uses her body. Keeper of the Dusk Apples has come to earth to stand with her lord in the dangerous rootlands of the Storm Tree. Here in the muck of the world, in the magnetic rubble of the Dragon's hide, they can touch each other in new ways, so wholly different from their luminous lives above.

The Furor pours himself into his priest and stands in the garment of Cissa's body, bright eyes brimming with the rain of joy and wonder to meet her here like this.

"Where the forests fail, the fields begin," the Furor speaks, and Cissa's body is not big enough for his voice, and he quakes in all his physical joints so that his form appears about to burst apart from some enormous internal pressure.

This terrifies Melania in the stunned distance of her alertness. When Keeper of the Dusk Apples answers her lover, the horrified woman feels her skeleton twist with a pain wilder than fire. "All this will be yours in time, One-Eye," the goddess says. "And the fields will again grow trees. And the trees will gather to forests."

What else they say, she does not know, for she swoons from the pain. When she wakes, everyone is asleep in the pearly darkness except for Cissa, who watches her with desolate clarity.

Too confused to cry, she anguishes to remember who she is and why this tattooed pagan regards her with such exquisite sadness. When she does lift memory out of its stupor, the blue-white knuckles of her hand fly to her mouth, and she prays again to die.

"When I was an eagle," Cissa tells her, "you were the salmon I plucked from the river."

Melania lies back in the dew-shining grass and closes her eyes. She smells the morning. Across the channel, in the valley of the Loire, Great-grandmother lives in her stone tower, waiting for her to return, and the same morning light touches the old woman as well. Silent grief rises, and she curls into herself.

Night seeps down into the forest among trees full of summer and birds singing colors back into the world. Not far into the woods, Arthor and Fen arise from their leaf beds. The gleeman is gone. During the night, he and Master Sphenks slipped away, to stroll off to Hammer's Throw. The wizard dares not enter the camp of the Thunderers. Cissa would see through his disguise instantly and call down upon him the wrath of the one-eyed god.

"We are close to my people," Fen announces, after relieving himself in the bushes. "You heard them in the night."

Arthor has unbound his hostage's wrists after visiting the bushes himself. "I heard thunder under the moon," he says, saddling his horse. He wears a white tunic emblazoned with a Celtic cross in scarlet. His shield, cuirass, helmet, and sword lean against the tree under which he slept.

"That was the Furor's voice, hiding the singing and laughter of his warriors," Fen tells him, stepping close. "But I heard their jubilation, because I am of them."

"Then we won't have far to ride, will we?" Arthor firmly pushes the Saxon away so that he can bend to tighten the cinch strap without fear of taking a blow.

"Do not fear me, Royal Eagle of Thor. I will not try to kill you now." Fen's white hair glows, and his pale face looks blue in the dawn haze.

Arthor casts him a cold look. "You will not have a second chance."

"You were stupid to throw your sword away and leave a weapon within my grasp. You should be dead now. The gods spared you my death blow. Such is battle luck. At your age, my father took an arrow between his eyes and was not felled. Perhaps the Norns spared you so you could meet him."

"Saddle your horse."

They ride through forest tunnels hung with dawn-smoke. The lonesome cries of night birds tarry in the cavernous dark, and from dense boughs mist and dew drip like spider's milk.

"Leave me here, Royal Eagle of Thor," Fen says, drawing up beside him. "Go your own way now."

Arthor says nothing and rides on.

"The Thunderers are not far from here," Fen adds. "The gleeman and his wise dog knew well enough when to depart. They saved you once. Let them save you again."

"I am returning you to Aelle as Kyner commanded."

"Ever the obedient dog," Fen smirks, "even unto death."

Arthor glares at him. "If Aelle breaks his word, many will die—and you will be first."

"A grand boast, Royal Eagle of Thor. But these are not hungry, masterless brigands you face. These are hardened warriors handpicked by Aelle for this mission. They are men with their own battle luck, men who love death and so are loved by our fierce god. Do not go among them."

"Why do you care? Yesterday, you wanted me dead."

"Don't you know?" Fen gazes hotly at him until he sees that the boy does not know. In an exasperated voice, the Saxon answers, "I am a Thunderer. If I return with your scalp and weapons, I hold my place in the tribe. But if you return me like a battle-prize, like some warhorse exchanged between chiefs, I will have no place of honor among my people. They are not like the Celts. I do not have the rights of respect and authority that the oaf Cei possesses simply because he is Kyner's son. No. Each Saxon is judged by his deeds alone. It matters not that I am Aelle's son. He will scorn me."

"Why then did he risk all coming after you, here in the hill forests of Cymru? Why did he give Kyner information that doomed other Saxons?"

"You do not understand the Saxons. They are not a nation. They are many warbands that speak one tongue. Death's Angels and the Sons of Freeze angered my father when they joined the Foederatus, the union of Saxon, Pict, Jute, and Angle that holds the eastern lowlands of this island. You have heard of the Foederatus? Aelle goes his own way. Exposing Foederatus raiders to Kyner, even though they are Saxons, is no betrayal for him."

"I still do not understand how you can say Aelle scorns you." He peers into the sadness of the Saxon's face. "He and his handpicked lovers of death will die if they are found by the Celts."

"That is Aelle's bravery. It adds to his legend song. He has not come out of love for me—as Kyner would for you. He comes out of pride, as if I were a warhorse taken as coup." A hurt mix of anger and fear cuts a crease between his blue eyes. "Do you see now? If you take me back, I am shamed."

"Then you will be shamed." Arthor looks away. "That is no concern of mine."

"It is your concern," Fen pleads. "It must be. You have Saxon blood in your veins. We are brothers. I am in your power. What does it matter to you if I ride into my father's camp alone? You have fulfilled your task. I am returned."

"My task is to return you directly to Aelle."

"Why? You say that you will never see Kyner again. Why must you do as he says?"

"I must, because I will never see Kyner again." Arthor speaks without looking at his hostage. "This task frees me of him and all his commands. I will never serve him again. I will never serve anyone. Ever."

"Then stop serving now. Let me go on from here alone."

"No." Arthor looks at Fen, his yellow, slant eyes caged, offering no compassion.

"Why? Tell me why."

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"But you have a reason? You are not simply Kyner's dog?"

The sides of Arthor's face flex. "Kyner gave me his sword, and I gave my word. That is all I have now. If I betray that, I have nothing."

"If you ride into that camp, you will have nothing. The Thunderers will kill you."

"There is no shame to die in battle."

Fen sits taller, and the arched bones of his face seem to sharpen. "So you know of shame—and yet you will shame me to preserve your precious word—a word you gave a man who has treated you like his loyal dog since he found you as a puppy in the forest."

Arthor remains silent and looks ahead into the eddying fog.

"Eagle of Thor—" Fen speaks tightly. "You are not one who cares about the honor of your word. That is what you say. But the truth is in your blood—your Saxon blood that has no tribe to tame it. In truth, you are cruel."

No further words pass between them until after the portals of the forest open on a sunny clearing where the Thunderers wait. A dozen bare-shouldered men with salt blond hair and beards sit in the pigweed and saw grass sharpening their swords. Their legs are braced with thong sandals fitted with daggers, and they wear odd, frightful garments—dun loin-wraps belted with vertebrae, kilts sewn from scalps, short trousers with shriveled faces smeared by the tanning of human leather.

At the sight of the riders, the Thunderers stand and gather around the one tent that sits at the edge of the glade, narrow and green as a conifer. The flap opens, and Aelle emerges, big as a bear, ruddy mane, beard, and hairy shoulders glistening like fur. He carries a spear and, at his mail-wrapped hip, a Roman gladius taken in battle.

His wolf-pelt boots trample the grass in giant strides as he advances toward the riders, the Thunderers sweeping after. He stops in the middle of the clearing and waits for the riders to reach him. The flat look he gives his son has the heft and hardness of a boulder.

With a gruff shout, he calls Fen down from the horse, then seizes him by his white hair and twists his head as he looks him over. A hand sign brings two warriors forward, and they seize Fen and hurl him to the others, who rip off his cassock and drag him naked through the grass.

Arthor watches impassively, though his heart gallops.

"Where is the big chief?" Aelle asks in deep-throated Latin. "Does he lurk in the woods? Have him show himself."

"I come alone."

"Alone? A boy?" A grin of disbelief glints in his wide beard. "Who is this child that Kyner sends alone into the camp of the Thunderers?"

"I am Aquila Regalis Thor."

Aelle steps a pace closer, glacial eyes growing smaller. "You are Arthor. Kyner's son. I have heard of you. You have slain many Saxons."

Arthor shifts uneasily in his saddle. "Your son has been returned," he announces. "The agreement with Lord Kyner is now complete."

Aelle smiles easily. "Yes, the agreement is now complete, and we can kill each other again."

Arthor backs his horse away.

"Wait, Arthor." Aelle tilts his spear toward the camp. "Come with me. I have a token to give you, proof of bond for returning my sorry son to me."

Arthor surveys the line of lean, silent men dressed in the remnants of their victims. Some still have swords in their hands, and they watch him menacingly, with a vile candor, loathing him for his shield with its eerie image of a dolorous goddess and his blood-crossed tunic, the circle of the sun cut by the intersecting lines of Roman punishment—the god of crucifixion who invades their land.

"Do not be afraid, Arthor," Aelle speaks with authority. "I have sworn a blood oath. No harm will come to you in this camp. Come."

The war chief turns and strides back toward the narrow green tent, and his men follow. Arthor watches, unmoving. He wants no token, no proof. He wants only to be away. In particular, he does not want to see what will become of Fen. He has kept his word to Kyner. Now he is free to go. Still, he feels compelled to follow the Saxon chieftain. The transaction is not yet complete.

He nudges his horse forward and rides into the camp of his enemies. Aelle waits for him before his tent and gestures for him to dismount. Arthor complies and ties his horse to the nearest tree, where apples have dropped and melted in their skins, reeking their sour sweetness.

The chieftain disappears into his tent, and Arthor stands uneasily beside his horse, prickling from the heat of the staring warriors. When Aelle emerges, he holds a necklace of what looks to Arthor like dried figs.

"Bring these to Kyner," the Saxon chief rumbles with laughter. "Martyrs' relics—emblems taken from priests, monks, and nuns who have met our sword during our time in Cymru. You see, their nailed god is no match for the Furor."

With a stab of shock, Arthor recognizes the green-blackened fig shapes as dried ears and noses threaded upon a twine of scalp hair.

"Take them!" Aelle shouts with laughter, and the Thunderers echo his mirth and clack their swords together. "We will find plenty more."

Arthor backs away from the Saxon trophy. "You have your son. I need no proof."

Aelle gusts with laughter, shaking so hard tears spark from his shut eyes. Behind him, the flap opens, and a bald, sinuous tattooed man appears, green and black as a snakeskin. He hisses with outrage, and Aelle casts an angry stare over his shoulder at him. They exchange irate words in their own brute language, and then the mansnake snatches the necklace.

Inside the tent, Arthor glimpses a woman. She has dark hair massed in Mediterranean curls and a long-nosed, full-lipped face from a Roman statue. Her large, Byzantine eyes seize urgently on him. She makes the sign of the Cross, then lifts her arms, gesturing in dire supplication.

"Who is that woman?" Arthor asks.

Aelle shoves Cissa back into the tent and throws the flap into place. "She belongs to my son Cissa."

"She is a Christian woman," Arthor states.

"She is Cissa's woman." Aelle rests his spear against his thick shoulder and motions helplessly. "He does not want you to have the necklace of relics. I am sorry. Perhaps there is another emblem you will accept. My men can offer you a scalp shirt. It is not the hair of priests but good Christians, I am sure."

Arthor's mind races, and he looks about, purchasing time. "What has become of Fen?"

Aelle's humor withers. "He is there." He jerks his bearded face toward slender trees nearby, where several of the warriors are smearing Fen's nakedness with rotted apples. "He will be whipped for surviving when the other warriors with him died. If he lives through that, he will have other chances to prove himself worthy of the Thunderers."

Fen shouts something in his native tongue, which Arthor does not understand, a warning to his father: "Beware the boy! He is the wild flame that jumps from the fire!"

"Take your pain in silence!" Aelle yells back. "You are no judge of men, you who live on their leash like a dog!"

"The Christian woman in the tent," Arthor says. "What will become of her?"

"Put her out of your mind," Aelle warns sternly, turning to him with a harsh light in his cold eyes. "Take the scalps we offer and go. My blood oath will not protect you if you challenge me."

But Arthor finds he cannot go—not without her. He knows in that instant that if he leaves her behind, she will stay with him forever in a charred place of his soul. Her pathetic plea to him makes the air collapse in his lungs. He cannot simply walk away from her, even if to stay means death. Then, surely, she is the lovely face of his death.

"I want the woman," Arthor insists, heart pounding, mouth dry, words like ashes in his throat. "She is Christian."

"So?" Aelle gnashes his teeth with a sound like wood snapping in fire. "She is Cissa's. Go—now. When we meet next, I will kill you."

Arthor backs away, his eyes very thin. A luminous intensity shines from out of the depths of things. Softly, the wind stirs. His chest burns as if wounded by the impact of his wild heart, and a strict sanity puts everything precisely in its place.

He sees the stations of all the alert warriors arrayed around him, edging closer, eager to be the first to put their steel in him. Two indigo buntings flit out of the apple tree in a wide arc and come back. In the soaring summer clouds, rays of sunlight are wound infinite and tight.

Aelle peers into him. The chief knows Kyner's son will strike and waits with staunch patience for the tension coiling in the boy's muscles to release.

With a bold cry, Arthor draws Short-Life, feints toward Aelle to push him back one step, and spins off sideways toward the tent. A wide pendulum strike severs two of the tent's guy ropes. Another blow and two more taut ropes shrivel. Grabbing the loose canvas, Arthor runs toward the Saxons, sweeps it over their heads, and leaps into the exposed interior.

Melania squints into the gushing sunlight and tries to push to her feet at the sight of the Christian soldier but falls immediately to her knees in a swirl of dizzy fatigue. Cissa, who has been trying to coax her to end her fast and drink the broth he has prepared, drops the bowl and reaches for the lode-knife in his belt. Arthor swipes him across the jaw with the butt of his sword, and the snake-priest collapses.

Swiftly, Melania yanks the guardian band from his throat and grabs the lode-knife. Arthor takes her arm. "Come with me!" he cries, hoping to get her away from the tent before the others come at them. But she wrenches free, defying her weakness to scramble across the tent and reclaim the sphinx-handled urn.

Aelle and the Thunderers shred and trample the tent, and Arthor spins Short-Life from hand to hand, ready for mortal combat. He gazes into the pale eyes fixed on him, cold and fierce as the malign north that bred them, and he knows that he is going to die in this place.

Melania opens the urn.

The lamia sizzles into the air. The sun's milk goes sour. Aelle screams, shrill as a woman, and scurries away. Arthor has to squint in the morning glare to see what frightens him. Transparent fumes wrinkle the air to a hideously implausible shape, a taloned wraith with hooked arms and clustered ribs like a spider's husk, a disembodied skeletal shape drained of all its tissue reds, extending a bodiless bone face of fanged jaws ravening for blood.

"Stay close to me!" Melania yells and clutches at him.

He slides toward her, not taking his startled eyes off the monstrous apparition, and they bump violently. She drops the urn and the guardian band. Her shaking hand inadvertently shoves the throat band farther from her as she takes possession of the urn, waving the lode-knife with her other hand.

One of the Saxons dives for the band, and the shrieking lamia strikes him even as he clutches at it. The impact flings the metal band from his spasmed clutch, and his body rises feet-first into the air and splits like a cocoon divulging its startling red-ribbed interior.

Arthor pulls Melania after him, toward the palfrey that skitters and neighs nervously where it is tethered to the apple tree.

"The guardian band!" she cries. "We need the throat band!"

The lamia has finished with the Saxon who last touched the torque, and it swivels like a cobra, searching for the amulet. The band has spun to the verge of the slender trees, into the grass before naked Fen. He has seen the whole sequence, from Arthor's rending of the tent to the Thunderer's desperate lunge for this black metal crescent. The screaming woman and his instincts assure him the throat band offers survival before the glare of this ghostly monster that rears above him, filling out with shrill colors stolen from the man it has split open.

Fen throws himself at the guardian band, and the lamia plucks him upright. The metal band wobbles in his grip, but he does not let it go. The lamia's talons reach into him, ripping a choking howl from his lungs, yet he holds on to the talisman.

Arthor leaps upon his horse and pulls Melania after him. The Thunderers have fled across the clearing, and they offer no threat as he pulls his steed hard about and charges for the opposite tree line.

The hoarse roar of Fen paints the morning with agony.

Once, Arthor looks back. He sees the Saxon twisting in the air in the livid flames of the unearthly creature.

Melania, clasping him from behind with all her might, whispers with husky despair, "Don't look back!" And he turns away sharply and gallops toward the dark alleys of the forest.

BOOK TWO

Keeping the White Bird

Chapter 16: The Evil

The lamia squats inside Fen. It wants to burst him apart and swell stronger on his blood-heat. But...

The guardian band about Fen's throat thwarts the creature by drawing all the sky's vast strength into the woven cells of the Saxon's body.

The lamia, dressed now in arteries and bones, fills its host with unspeakable seductive power. Nimbly, he flows to the ground and spills naked across the clearing, bounding toward the terrified Thunderers.

Fen feels powerful as a frost giant, cold with might and hunger. Boldly, he charges at the men who stripped and kicked him, who pelted him with rotted apples, who would have whipped him to a shameful death.

They see him coming, furred in tiny lightnings, a man-beast of wolfish fire, muscles gorged with internal force swelling veins to blue snakes and twisting his face like a thundercloud. Fleeing, they fall over each other. The man-beast pounces upon the two that tormented him the most and smashes their heads together so forcefully their skulls explode like glass and splash brains in the grass.

Reluctantly, Aelle waves his spear at the fiery beast but cannot find the strength to throw it. His hulking son billows larger, inhaling the blood-smoke of the dead men. He turns an evil face toward his father, and Aelle's knees stutter.

"Fen!" a rageful voice booms from across the glade.

The blazing man-beast swirls about and confronts Cissa stalking across the clearing, beating his chest like a drum. Cloud shadows swarm rapidly over the grassy field, darkening around him. The lamia knows that the viper priest is summoning the furious god, the one-eyed giant powerful enough to strip it free of this human animal.

Fen feels the lamia's urgency to escape, and he flies so swiftly across the wild field that he leaves feathers of flame floating in the air behind him. He is confused, yet this much he knows: he does not want to lose this stupendous new power, nor does he want to stay with the Thunderers any longer. He knows that Aelle will surely kill him for spilling the lives of his men.

Smooth as liquid, he streams into the forest, ball lightning, bouncing through the dark cellars, fleeing the Furor and the Thunderers, stalking Arthor. For it was that Christian boy, with his arrogant pride, who orphaned Fen from his tribe. He refused to let Fen return to his people alone and without shame. Now Fen will find him, and the lamia will yank Arthor's cruel heart from his ribs.

Strong with the blood-heat of three men, the lamia thumps among the trees with anxious impatience. He will kill Arthor and that damnable woman that carried the living terror inside him to this island, that delivered it to the Furor and separated it from its twin. And after it kills them, it will wander the forests hunting for ways to spend its rage.

Agile as the wind, Fen runs—yet seems to go nowhere. Like Roman sundials, the trees throw shadows that swing weightlessly into the future. Clouds rush swift and blind through the treecrowns, sweeping the glitter of morning into golden midday sheens and then soft pastels of sunset. He takes three steps into darkness.

Magic! Fen wails, and the confused lamia does not recognize where it is in the dense forest under the fleece of stars. Expecting the Furor to loom out of the night, Fen crouches in the leaf mulch. Faeries swarm like hornets against the day's last streaks of cinnabar.

They blow closer on a fragrant, aimless sigh of the wind and carry the splendor of sleep. The last image Fen sees before succumbing to the fleeting waters of a dream is the bright commotion of the faeries spiraling upward through the trees toward the invisible pivot where the North Star kindles.

Only after Fen is sound asleep does Merlin emerge from among the cloistered trees. Master Sphenks sniffs at the naked Saxon and retreats, whimpering and tail-tucked. "You smell it, too," the wizard whispers to his cur. "The evil."

Master Sphenks snarls.

"No, we dare not kill it," Merlin answers and backs away into the darkness. "Already I have spent too much magic to stop it. The Furor will recognize me—and we dare not call him down upon us. We have done all we can to help Arthor this night."

The wizard and his dog hurry to where the moon stands among the trees. He knows that Morgeu the Fey will also have felt his magic, and once she perceives that he has left Camelot will certainly surmise that her half brother is in these woods. He must go to Arthor's side and protect him—but not immediately.

Anxiously, he peers over his shoulder for the Furor. Tripping the lamia-possessed Fen into a time-ditch a day deep may alert the god to Merlin's presence, though not necessarily to the significance of Arthor.

Hurriedly, the wizard travels away from where the young man and the Christian woman he rescued have fled. Who is she? he wonders. A sorceress?

Watching Arthor from afar, the wizard could sense the evil of the lamia but nothing about the woman. He will have to scrutinize her up close to know for sure. Perhaps at this moment, young Arthor is bewitched by a demon's minion.

No hope in worry, he reminds himself, scanning for the Furor as he and his wise dog slip through the narrow lanes where the forest drinks moonlight.

Earlier in the day, Arthor had ridden past these same gnarled trees with the strange, beautiful woman sitting behind him, her arms locked over his chest, her cheek pressed to his back. She was exhausted, and when Arthor felt that he had traveled deep enough into the woods to elude pursuit he stopped, and she slept.

He climbed to a high bough of a tree that summer had woven in ivy and searched for the Thunderers—and the terrible thing that had laid hold of Fen. Far off, where the forest goes white with dogwood, he spied the Saxons moving away. Only after he was convinced that they were not circling back his way and that Fen was nowhere in sight did he descend and sit beside the woman. He studied her smudged loveliness.

The sight of her only imprisoned him deeper in his loneliness. Unlike the milkmaids and farmers' daughters he had grown up knowing, this woman, even in her disarray and smirch, is different: she has an aristocratic presence, a lady forever inaccessible to a misbreed such as himself.

He may flee Kyner, he realized soberly, and escape Cei's scalding insults, and he may even extend the wings of his soul as far as his fingertips and travel to the limits of the Christian world, still he would never merit a consort as noble as she.

Pained, he averted his gaze and sought comfort from the image on his shield of Mother Mary. She alone soothed the venom of his self-loathing with the truth that he will someday outlive his life and change to spirit, a ray from the star of God's love, immutable and heedless of life's ludicrous inequities. Until then, he must endure. Even in this beautiful woman's presence, he must somehow endure.

He examined the empty urn, tracing his square fingertips over the twin-coiled vipers and the winged and bearded sphinxes. He held it to his nose and recoiled at its stink. The thought occurred to him that she is not what she seems, this beautiful lady.

Kyner used to tell him skin-rippling stories of vampyres and ravenous werebeasts that the Romans and Phoenicians brought to this island and that Kyner himself stalked in their dark dwellings among ruins and caverns.

How primitive and unlikely a weapon is this lodestone dagger, he observed with curiosity. He hefted it, ran its dull edge across the back of his arm, and returned it to the sleeping woman's waistband. The warm feel of her breathing body stirred him, and he quickly tried to return his attention to the Virgin.

Now, under clouds like haystacks and sunlight blinking through leaves, Arthor wanders about, gathering berries, setting snares, and talking to himself, hoping to defeat his hopeless attraction: "You're free now," he tells himself. "Free of the Celts, by God. Free of servitude. Don't let desire make an unholy slave of you. Deliver this lady to Hammer's Throw and be on your way."

A tattered shawl of butterflies covers a blackberry bush, like an old woman bent in the kitchen of a cypress grove. There, he collects mint, elecampane, ginger root, veneria tuber, and galingale. In two of his snares, rabbits wait with desultory timidity. He breaks their necks with deft twists, eviscerates and skins them, and braises them with the herbs.

When Melania wakes, she finds the sky truffled with sunset. The evening wind carries a spicy whisper of leaves and cooking aromas. Stepping through a curtain of ivy hung among sighing spruce, she finds the fair young man turning a spit of mint-glazed rabbit. He rises and, in curious lilting Latin, asks, "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, thank you." She joins him in the fire circle, where he uncovers birch-bark trenchers of root and berry salad. She barely finds the breath to say, "I am Melania—of Aquitania."

Arthor passes her a flagon of water and introduces himself. She listens, eating hungrily yet delicately of his food, and after he explains his presence in the camp of the Thunderers, she tells her story.

"There are two lamia?" Arthor finally asks, awed. "Yet, who was the dwarf that took the other away?"

"I don't know," she answers frankly. Facing this young Christian with his yellow eyes and sun-streaked hair sleek as a badger's in the firelight, she feels she can confide everything in him. "I must tell you, Arthor, when the lamia's strength was still within me—I saw the Furor, the chieftain of the north gods. He stood taller than a cedar, and his mantle billowed blue as the sky. I think the evil dwarf is his creature."

Arthor accepts this with a nervous glance into the darkness. "If, as you say, he uses the lamia to shapeshift, he can be anywhere around us."

"I think not," she says, pausing thoughtfully before helping herself to more berries. "I don't know what Cissa said to him, but he left with purpose in his stride. I do not believe he lingers in these woods."

"And Fen? What will become of him?"

"What became of me." She shakes her head grimly. "He will have supernatural strength—so long as he feeds the lamia."

"You say they eat only human lives."

"That is their craving."

"Then we are in danger," he says tersely. "He will surely come after me for returning him to Aelle."

Melania puts her hand to the weapon in her waistband. "I have the lodestone dagger. That may well keep him away, for it will kill the lamia. There is so much easier prey in the villages."

Arthor's youthful face closes around that thought. "If he attacks the villages, I will have to track him down. I cannot have the blood of innocents on my hands. Mother Mary would never permit that."

"No, she would not," Melania agrees, peering at him with a sweet expression. "I will come with you, Arthor. I have the urn. Perhaps we can recapture the lamia."

He blows his anxiety into the fire. "Far easier to kill it outright."

"Then how will we find the second monster?" An expression of soft alarm creeps into her large eyes. "I cannot live with myself knowing I have released these horrors into the world. If we capture one, it may lead us to the other."

Arthor tilts an appraising look at her. "You ask a great deal of yourself."

She reaches out and clasps his big-knuckled hand. "You could well have walked away from the Saxon camp and left me where you found me. It is you, Arthor, who ask much of yourself. Will you help me?"

He places his other hand atop hers, and assures her, "The Virgin Mother will help us."

Chapter 17: Magic against Evil

At dawn, Morgeu finds her husband outside their tent coming back from his ablutions in the woods, the sun like a spoonful of honey in the trees behind him. "I will go now and face Merlin," she tells him, and he waves away the young servants who approach to braid his wet hair.

"Why must you go?" he asks, peering sadly into her small black eyes, the eyes of crows. "Ignore him. Make yourself forget him."

An ugly moue twists her scarlet lips. "You know the terrors born out of the forgotten. I cannot ignore the murderer of my father." She places both hands on his broad, bare chest, and her sharp fingernails bite him gently. "You are a good husband, Lot. Only you, my soul, have given me peace in this life."

"Yet not enough to keep you with me." He moans, and puts his weathered hands over hers. "Stay with me, Morgeu. Prolong our happy season together."

Morgeu bites her upper lip to keep her tears from starting. She has not lied to him. This fierce man of regal countenance seamed with age has been the tender joy of her life and the fullness of all promise. Together, they have climbed pleasure's heights, plumbed each other's sorrows. In his arms, she has forgotten her pain and her vengeful mission and been surprised time and again when that devilish hurt remembered her. She puts her mouth on his mouth and feels the remaining warmth of the fire that has gone by. It warms the hope that she will return.

"I will kill him for you," Lot says, when she peels away. "I will bring you his head."

"No. That is not your way, my king." She smiles a tilted, ironic smile. "I am called to this by my fate. When it is done, if I live, I will return to you."

He bows his noble head, and his brindled hair shines like the current in a river. She cossets him, and when he looks up, his pale eyes shine with sorrow. "You must tell the boys. You must not go until you tell our boys."

Gawain and Gareth have already left camp and gone down to the river to spear fish. They stand on their reflections in the shallows among ghostly boughs, ragged curtains of moss, and luminous egrets. Fish light the black waters with glints and shimmers like stellar atmospheres, and at first the boys ignore their mother's call.

Morgeu wades toward them until the pulse of the river knocks at her knees and her voice easily penetrates the green gloom. "I am called away."

The youngest, Gareth, splashes closer and plunges his spear into the mud so that he can grasp for his mother. "Who calls you away, Mother?"

"A fateful call, child."

"Magic." Gawain knows. He pushes his spear into the mud and slogs to Morgeu's side. "You are called away to work magic. Isn't that so, Mother?"

She nods and puts her green-robed arms about her boys. "You know I work magic for our people."

"Like Grandmother," Gareth says, "before the priests of the nailed god took her magic away."

"Yes." She smiles at him and brushes the orange bangs from his eyes. "Like Grandmother, of whom the people still speak. She worked strong magic to aid the crops and baffle our enemies."

"Are you called to fight the storm raiders?" Gawain asks, confronting what seems the worst.

"No. But what I must do is just as dangerous. And I want you to know, because you are both old enough now to know, that the legend of our land is yet unfinished. We must all work for the salvation of Cymru and her people. We must give everything we have."

Gareth presses his face to Morgeu's shoulder. "Are you going to die, Mother?"

She kisses his brow, feeling as though her heart has been thrown into the depth of this pool, and the waves close around the dream that was her life. "We all die, Gareth. How we live is what matters. You know that."

"I believe he means to ask if you are coming back to us," Gawain says, and swallows.

She meets the dread in his eyes with steady calm. "I don't know," she answers, and keeps all her grief coiled tightly between her ribs. "That is why I have come to say good-bye."

"Mother, let us go with you," Gareth pleads. "We are old enough now for battle. We will protect you."

Morgeu takes his chin and speaks to the backs of his eyes. "This is my own battle, Gareth. Soon enough, you will have your battles to fight. And then, you must be as brave as I must be now. Help me to do what I must by promising that you will be brave and strong in your love of Cymru no matter what happens to me."

Then she looks to her eldest, and says, "Remember, Gawain, all I have taught you means nothing if you forget your limits. Freedom is devotion. Keep to your father and your brother. Keep to your people. Do not be swayed by the lore and promise of a foreign god. Love the land that made you and love its gods." She steps back from them, and her slender pale hands retreat from touching them to cover her breasts. "In my heart I carry the memory of you both. In your hearts, carry me. Look for me there."

In a steep meadow above the river, the dwarf Brokk waits for Morgeu. As he paces through the rye and bushes of purple mallow and orange daisies overflowing in late, rough-headed blooms, he drags the lamia after him. It will have to eat soon, but before he bothers with that he wants to be done with Merlin. He wants to learn how to free the sword Lightning from the magnetic aerolite; then, he will feed the lamia and use its heightened powers of disguise to flee with the sacred weapon.

"Why do you tarry?" he complains, as Morgeu ascends through marigolds and eyebright from the river gorge. "The morning is already old, and now the wizard will be among the people."

"Then we shall meet him among the people," Morgeu answers curtly, and strides past. More than the dwarf does, she wants to be done with this lethal confrontation. Magic turns like smoke in her, folding into itself and pushing out, growing stronger with her fear that she will never see her children again.

The empty hands of sunlight that the trees let down to touch the earth offer to lift her out of her body. That is her most powerful magic. She hoards that strength. She compacts her trance power so that she feels as though her body were a garment of bright particles ready to blow apart into radiant weightlessness.

In the secret sexual place of her core, she compacts her magic. It will not be enough to face down Merlin, but it is all she has of her vehemence with which to fight the demon—and for her children's sake alone, it will be enough.

Brokk pulls the lamia over him into the shape of Chief Kyner and follows Morgeu the Fey up the sun-stained slopes to the large fields around the nucleus of Camelot. A crowd has gathered, and Merlin is visible among them, working his magic.

To Morgeu, he does not appear as she remembers him. He seems smaller, more contained. What has become of his sinuous posture, his tiger's slouch, his disjointed gestures? He possesses a wholly human demeanor now, and this frightens her all the more.

Hannes does not see Morgeu or Brokk approaching. He exults among the people who have gathered to celebrate his position as wizard of Camelot. Successfully he has defended the citadel from the grasping ambition of Severus Syrax, and he has withstood the scrutiny of King Lot. Even Chief Kyner, who rumor asserts entered the vicinity the day before, has kept his distance. Hannes remains convinced that, as improbable a counterfeit as he is, he inspires awe.

When Lord Urien's party arrives, Hannes leads the jugglers and musicians across the pastures to greet him. In the dense summer sunlight, the carpenter summons starlings to spin circles in the air, creating a gentle breeze with their wheelings. Urien, his long white hair and silver mustache streaked back from his bony face in the bird-whirling dazzle of wind, laughs and shouts praises to Merlin.

"You tricky shapeshifter!" the Celtic lord calls from his cart filled with singing and laughing children. "I see you've learned to make yourself look more like a man. But your magic displays you for what you are, you old demon." He leaps down, and though he is aged and etched with the scars of many battles, he lands with lithe ease and takes Hannes in a mighty hug. "Show us a good time, wizard!"

Hannes does not disappoint. He brings on whirlwinds of butterflies and laces the air with floral perfumes. To the accompaniment of the musicians, squirrels perform acrobatics among the squealing children, and gusts of flower petals roll like clouds across the sky, to drizzle over the jubilant throngs.

In the midst of his proud display, Hannes notices a surly, ferocious dwarf in the crowd wearing a fiery blue-and-red tunic bound with heavy leather straps. He has a square head and devil-slit eyes that peer angrily at the carpenter.

A delighted scream from the audience turns Hannes's head in time to see birds tangling in people's hair and squirrels pouncing on the tables, scattering offerings of nuts, berries, and cheese. With a shout, he sets the animals performing again, and when he looks for the evil dwarf, he sees instead Chief Kyner—and beside him, the tall, big-shouldered figure of Morgeu the Fey.

Quickly, Hannes concludes his amusement and modestly waves away the applause and cheers of the multitude. He tries to lose himself in the crowd and avoid Merlin's fabled foe, yet it seems that whichever way he goes, the backslapping people turn him about so that he is led ever closer to the still and staring sorceress in her green robes and wild, scarlet tresses.

"Merlin," Morgeu says with soft happiness as he thrusts up close to her, and she observes that he lacks entirely the elongated eye sockets, those ghastly and atavistic bone-rims of reptile skull that terrify her, as much as the sinister silver eyes that peer from their pits. Instead, this Merlin has jug ears and startled blue eyes in a round face creased and ledged more like a monkey's than a demon-wizard's. "Merlin. Merlin. Merlin."

The enchantress's voice seems to sift down from the islands of cumulus, and Hannes finds himself floating somewhere like a froth of seeds on the silver wind, drifting very small away from the people, across fields of saffron and goldenrod, drifting uphill toward a slope of skinny trees and blue clouds.

A hard slap at the back of his head pitches him face forward to the ground and sends his hat toppling as if in a stiff wind. With a shrill cry, he rolls to his back, staff raised to block another blow.

"Who are you?" Morgeu demands, her moon-pale face severe with scorn. "Where is Merlin?"

"I—I am Merlin—" he stammers, looking about for the jubilant crowd and seeing that he is deep in the woods, far from everyone. He sits up with a jolt at the sight of the evil dwarf standing behind the sorceress, squat as a boulder with a jackal's muscular, scorched face. Then, realizing he cannot sustain the ruse, adds forlornly, "I mean to say, I am Merlin's apprentice."

"Where is the wizard?" Brokk grumbles.

"I don't know," the carpenter admits, and feels within the pocket of his robe for the summoning glass. Is this the moment to summon help from the elves? he asks himself fearfully. "I am Hannes, a master builder, whom Merlin has appointed to watch over Camelot in his absence. Truthfully, I know not where he went."

The anguish that has been building in Morgeu, all the dread in anticipation of confronting the demon-wizard, suddenly lashes from the enchantress with bitter fury. Invisible hands wrench the staff from Hannes's grip and send it spinning upward into the branches. His frightened face blears as a scream of ripping fabric tears the robe from his back and flops him naked on the forest floor.

"When did Merlin leave?" Morgeu wants to know.

"Days ago," Hannes answers swiftly. "Before you came."

Morgeu gazes with revulsion at his withered nakedness, her tar-drop eyes cold and past mockery "I want to know where Merlin has gone." She speaks in a deeper, slower voice that widens to include the sullen, buzzing morning, as if the bees on the gentians and the dew itself in the disheveled grass speak to him, pure as music.

Spellbound, if reluctantly, Hannes recites all that has transpired between himself and Merlin. When he is done, Morgeu stamps the ground angrily with her foot. "This one knows next to nothing," she says in disgust.

"Then let the lamia feast!" Brokk calls out, and snaps open his steel-rimmed hip pouch. A stink of soured flesh poisons the morning. Vapors spool in the grass serpentwise, coiling upward into brightness, and a deathly visage takes shape: its sooty eyes open, cobra jaws unhinge, and talons flex in great scorpion arcs.

Hannes's eyes bulge. He squirms against the speaking silence that the enchantress has placed upon him. "I know nothing—nothing—" he pleads, his voice sodden from where he floats in the underwaters of trance.

The lamia, weak with hunger, slinks closer to its prey and begins to glisten as it draws body heat to itself.

Paralyzed, Hannes watches as the lamia rises like lunar steam with the skull of the moon for a head, its cancerous face drawing closer. The carpenter screams soundlessly, all his bones ringing. In the spongy echoes, far, far back in his memory, Merlin speaks again, "You are a wizard now. The power—all the power—is in your hands. Do not look anywhere else. There is nowhere else to look."

Hannes whimpers and pulls from within himself all his magical strength and strikes outwardly with it so forcefully that his shoulders wrench from their sockets and pop back in again. The pain winces him blind. But when sight returns, the lamia is gone.

Morgeu steps back cautiously from the panting old man, whose white flesh has gone glossy violet as a liver.

Brokk, looking fatally stricken, falls to his knees and picks desperately among the leaves and flowers for the smashed lamia. He comes up with his fingers webbed in viscous ectoplasm.

"Look what he did!" the dwarf groans. He drips the wounded lamia into his hip pouch and jumps angrily to his feet. "You nearly killed it!"

Morgeu puts a cautionary hand on Brokk's thick shoulder. "Leave him be," she warns. "Merlin has opened in his body the gates of power. Leave him be."

"Keep your distance from us, Hannes," Brokk speaks in a dense voice of threat. "I like you not!"

Morgeu turns away and drifts downhill through the spindly trees, pondering what she has learned. The old carpenter has just informed her that Merlin will be returning with the king of Britain at his side. That tells her that the wizard has gone to escort her half brother to Camelot. She must find her way into trance. She must listen deeper for the chance to attack with tenderness all that she hates.

Brokk glares at Hannes and follows angrily behind the enchantress. He will have to unlock the sword by his own ingenuity. And that will take time. And time requires disguise. And disguise needs the lamia. And the lamia needs blood.

Hannes watches the wicked dwarf and Morgeu the Fey dwindle among the overlapping branches and sparkling sunlight, and he swerves to his feet and puts his quavering hands to his aching shoulders. "I did it," he mutters and hugs himself. "I drove them off! I used my magic against evil!"

He hops a small dance, until his thudding heart drives out the last of his chilled fear, then retrieves his robe. It has burst along the seam and will require very little trouble to repair. Nimbly, he climbs the tree to retrieve his staff, drops it to the ground near his hat, and swings down after it. Robe knotted into place, hat worn at a jaunty angle, and stave in hand, he strides proudly through the radiant declivities of sunlight among the trees.

Chapter 18: Procession of Clouds

Hay dust smokes with morning light as Brokk thrashes in the dry grass at the top of the valley above Cold Kitchen. He must feed the lamia. Beating a path through golden grass taller than himself, the dwarf ascends to a vantage from which to seek prey. Atop a humpbacked boulder, he watches a young girl bringing her three sheep and two lambs to the clover patches under some myrtle shrubs that the Roman legionnaires planted generations ago. He gnashes his teeth with disappointment, for her size will not provide as much strength as the weakened lamia needs. But then, she will be easier for the monster to subdue.

Brokk lopes along the ridge of the valley until he finds himself directly above the myrtle grove and the young woman in her hempen gown. She is not alone. Her sheep sense the intruder before she does—a burly, cleft-jawed man in a soldier's tunic with the black-and-crimson shoulder panels of Severus Syrax's infantry. He has come to take his pleasure and makes no effort at seduction. With one hand, he grabs her shepherd's crook and, with the other, rends her gown.

She stumbles backward and collapses, and the soldier leers over her at the exact moment that Brokk lurches from the brake of crackling myrtles. For a baffled interval, the infantryman stands back, gawking at the homuncular dwarf who holds a fistful of smoke toward him as if in blessing.

Irate at this ugly intrusion, the soldier draws his sword, yet even as the blade rings from its scabbard, Brokk is upon him. The dwarf's grip cracks the ulna and radius bones of the aggressive sword arm, and when the large man goes down on his knees, the dwarf smears the lamia's vaporous remnants onto his grimacing face.

A harrowing scream bounds across the valley, chasing the frantic shepherd girl and her sheep down the path to the hamlet. When the village men clamber into the myrtle grove alerted by her terrified report, they find the soldier's corpse hung head down, viscera dangling from him like obscene fruits.

By then, Brokk has returned to Mons Caliburnus in the shadowy gorge of the River Amnis. Disguised as Chief Kyner, he gruffly sends away the handful of curious soldiers and pilgrims who have gathered to view the legendary sword, and he paces around the stone, scowling attentively, seeing no clue to its structure, until in frustration he kicks it and sits down in pain. Crawling through the feathery weeds, he seeks a lever and finds none. With his dagger, he cuts away loaves of minty earth around the stone, seeking some buried apparatus.

Morgeu watches him for a while from where she sits, secluded among the incense shrubs of lime at the spur of the mount. Her back leans against a glacial boulder. Satisfied that Brokk will remain busy for the time being and that no one will disturb her, she closes her eyes to the grove's teal blue sky and green shadows and listens to the quiet thunder of her pulse in the rushing darkness. Trance fills her bones with fog. Narcotized by magic, she drifts all day within the empty kingdom of herself, listening, waiting.

Leagues away, Merlin digs a magical ditch hours deep and trips Fen into it. And as the lamia-possessed Saxon falls toward night, Morgeu finally feels the demon-wizard's magic bending the span of distance and time, feels it with an acute precision that snaps her alert.

Orange caravels of cloud sail toward an immense red sun. The river Amnis flows molten among fiery islands of willow and birch. And crystal lakes, arctic green and blue, hover in the sky between the layers of twilight.

Morgeu staggers giddily upright. I've found him! A circus of wrens chatters in the bushes and bursts into flight as she shoves her way through. At last! I've found him!

She locates Brokk on the sheer side of the mount, nimbly dangling from the draping ivy, feeling among the black lilacs and blue and white periwinkles for a lever to move the magnetic stone. He waves her away when she calls to him. "Away with you, woman. I must unlock the sword now. Kyner and his clan will be here soon enough. I've no time for your wrathful magic."

Unable now to rely on him to watch over her tranced body, Morgeu seeks other sanctuary. By amber light, she makes her way to the riverbank, where night gathers its mantles of mist. Dark spires of trees burn like tapers at their tips. She situates herself in a remote root-cove, and the ground under her wobbles with liquid rhythms, buoyed by the watery understory of tree roots afloat on the river.

The last glycerin streaks of day relent to night, and Morgeu gives herself to her trance. She has eaten nothing all day, and her body is transparent. Easily, she shines forth from herself and glides into the dark. The cold onyx light of the Amnis guides her downstream a long way before the forest canopy opens, and she flies higher under an uproar of stars.

Following the reverberations of Merlin's magic that she sensed earlier in trance, she journeys over the dark world. Faeries sparkle ahead. She follows their presence into the nightheld forest. For a long time, she swims among fluid moonlight and wooded hills that seem to have no beginning or end. The moon blazes, and hurrying clouds race with its brilliance through the forest.

She passes over Melania and does not even see her, for her magic has one ambition, to find her blood-kin. And then, as if rising from the well of a dream, he appears—a young man asleep beside a fire whose embers breathe purple. She recognizes him at once, even in the nebulous moonlight and nightshadows, for he has their mother's leonine brow and square jaw. And she knows that if he were to open his sleeping eyes, they would be yellow, the bestial color inherited from his Roman father, Uther Pendragon.

Watching him sleep, so young and yet with bold features already hardening toward manhood, she feels ruth as in a dismal rain. This youth knows war's sudden hot violence but not yet its lingering legacy of grief nor the original brutal necessity that suffered him into being and by which he must live and die. He sleeps quietly, his unmarred face soft, even gentle. She can see the child in him. Inspired by his beauty and their kinship, she wants to whisper to him all that she knows and fears to know about their destiny.

Then the hurt of what he is to her—child of her mother's faithlessness, born by her father's death—and the mad anger that grows from that hurt assert themselves and pull her away from the sleeper. Stunned that at last she has found him, Merlin's creature spawned on her mother by Merlin's proud Christian warrior, she glows with pain.

The sight of the boy's shield leaning on the tree alongside him inspires more anger. The icon of the virgin mother of Jesus watches over him with a kindly sorrow that seems reserved for him alone.

He is Christian, she realizes with a pang of anguish from her memories of this foreign religion. It had been the faith of her father, Duke Gorlois. That did not save him, and so she loathes it. Of course her brother worships the nailed god. He is Merlin's creature.

All the more determined to use Merlin's own creation to wreak vengeance on him, Morgeu soars into the night. She has seen him. She will come to him in her body and use her body as a weapon far more precise than steel.

The hurried return to her flesh startles her awake under the transparent night. Leaves rustle in the dark with the susurrations of the river wind, and the root mat upon which she floats bobbles as she rises.

"I have found him," she whispers to herself with icy glee. "Now, a horse. I must ride to him at once."

While she slowly wends her way back through the night forest beside the sultry river, Brokk mucks amidst the silt at the bottom of Mons Caliburnus. The water laps at him as he yanks at the ivy tendrils on the rock face. He touches the slick rocks and the pelts of moss with his wise fingers, feeling for magnetism.

His flesh, woven of god-stuff, prickles at the nearness of a powerful magnetic field. The flux lines are so strong he should have sensed them much earlier, except that he has been looking in the wrong place, atop the hill, near the star stone. The magnetic counterpole is here at the bottom of the mount, its presence hidden by the hill of earth above.

He gropes among rock lozenges that Merlin has jammed into the crevice to hide the lever that reverses the polarity of the magnetic star stone. Clever! he thinks, admiring the Fire Lords for the ingenuity with which they constructed the machine that holds the sword Lightning in place.

A thrashing commotion and a splash wrench Brokk full about, and a nervous cry creaks from his lungs. For one instant, his heart frosts with the fear that the Dragon rises to claim him.

He spies a gliding owl, its claws holding a lively rat snatched from the river, and he blows a relieved sigh. The Fire Lords placed the star stone in this gorge, because here the Dragon's claws can easily reach through the earth's crust and strike at any gods who dare trespass. Even dwarfs, small as they are, are not safe from the terrible beast. All entities made from the energy of the World Tree, the electromagnetic field of the planet, are suitable prey for the Dragon.

Inspired by dread, Brokk digs away the obstructing debris from the horizontal crevice and takes hold of the magnetic lever. It is a rough-hewn lobe of rock, the star stone's twin, and when the dwarf heaves it toward himself it grinds over ferric bearings and spits sparks.

In that infernal strobe fire, the chthonic man grins with impish delight, for he feels the magnetic polarity shift. From above, a silver peal rings among the stars like a cry broken from the moon.

Brokk clambers excitedly to the top of the mount and meets Morgeu there. She stands before the anvil rock, tall and pale as a candle, pointing to where the sword Lightning lies on its side.

"I heard it fall," she says in a breath of awe, and reaches for the weapon. "It cried like a bell."

"Don't you touch it!" Brokk adjures, scrambling to the star stone. "This is the Furor's blade. I alone am commanded to return it to him."

"Oh, let me not impede you, mighty Brokk," Morgeu speaks scornfully, and stands aside.

The dwarf seizes the sword Lightning and twirls it expertly. "It is yet whole! The Fire Lords have not damaged it." He clucks a satisfied laugh to see the silver blade skirl the sheen of stars and moon to liquid blurs in the air. "The Furor will be pleased. I am off to him!"

"Wait, dwarf!" Morgeu speaks sharply. "I helped you, and you have agreed to help me."

"Helped me?" Brokk's sour features contract. "You did not help me."

"We agreed that if I confronted Merlin with you, you would help me find the son of Uther Pendragon so that I may take his seed for my tantric magic." She boldly steps within range of the sword, her tar-drop eyes cold as boreholes of the night. "You promised me, Brokk."

"We did not confront Merlin." Brokk flaps his lips with a loud, mocking rasp. "You led me to an old carpenter who knew nothing about the magnetic structure of the star stone. I had to puzzle it out for myself."

Morgeu stiffens. "I went with you in good faith to meet Merlin. That it was not Merlin is more of Lailoken's devious ways, no fault of mine. I kept my word, though it might well have killed me had we indeed encountered the demon-wizard. I kept my word, Brokk."

The dwarf holds the hilt in his fist and the blade in his palm and pugnaciously thrusts forward his big face. "And now what do you want from me, sorceress?"

"What you promised. Come with me to the forest where I have located my half brother. Help me to work my tantric magic with him."

Brokk snorts and turns away, executing nimble sword swipes at the stars. "I cannot be bothered with such mortal folly. Seduce your brother on your own."

"You are reputed to be wise, Brokk. It is not wise to break your word to Morgeu the Fey."

"I am not afraid of your petty enchantments, witch."

"My enchantments may indeed seem petty to likes of you," Morgeu replies, her sinuous voice lowering to a tone of threat. "I am no stranger to the Furor or his followers. The Picts themselves named me the Fey, the Doomed. They respect me. And I will tell them—and make them believe with my petty enchantments—that Brokk is a liar. He does not live and work for the Furor as he proudly claims but for the Furor's wicked brother, the Liar—Loki."

Brokk swings about and waves the sword menacingly. "Watch your tongue! I could kill you in a blink."

Morgeu steps closer so that the sword tip touches her breastbone. "Then kill me now," she challenges, the black fire in her eyes flaring with indignation, though within she feels sick with fear of the dwarf and disgust that she should die like this, slain for her stubborn pride when fate calls her to so much more. "Kill me now, for if you let me live, I will sing to everyone of your perfidy."

"Be silent, woman," the dwarf grumbles angrily, and lowers the sword. "I am Brokk, the Furor's faithful retainer. My word is good. I merely question the validity of our agreement. The carpenter was not Merlin."

Morgeu's stomach unclenches, and she softens her tone, "You asked me to help you take the sword. You have the sword. Would you have been so bold in attacking the star stone with your agile mind had you not known Merlin is absent? My courage in facing him and uncovering the truth at least afforded you that assurance."

Brokk swings his slung head like an unhappy bull, unable to refute her claim. "Where is this brother of yours?"

"In Crowland, near Hammer's Throw."

The dwarf stalks off down the mount, muttering irately, "Use your enchantments, then, and get us some horses. Be quick about it now. I'm not walking to Crowland."

Morgeu lifts a silent shout of triumph to the moon and skips after him. The moment they fade into the night, the furtive shadow-figure of Hannes rises from his covert under the hackberry shrubs near the star stone. Chanting a spell of invisibility, he has lain for hours among the cedars and then here in these shrubs, watching, listening. He had hoped to stymie the dwarf with his magic, but the sight of Brokk shapeshifting to Chief Kyner terrified him. Then, when the sword fell, he thought to leap up and seize it—but the appearance at that moment of Morgeu the Fey stabbed him again with fear.

Now he dances around the empty star stone, waving his stave frantically, trying to grasp out of thin air what best to do. He throws a desperate look to the moon among her flocks of stars. How would Merlin face this? he asks, then immediately quails, But I am no Merlin! What can I do? What can this befuddled carpenter do?

A lugubrious necessity occurs to him: He must pursue the horrible dwarf and the sorceress. He must retrieve Excalibur, else he has failed Merlin, and the king to be, and all Britain as well.

He swipes his hat off and dashes it to the ground. "Why did I let Merlin talk me into this?" he moans aloud. "I can't leave the stone empty. By dawn the others will see it. Surely, there'll be hell to pay then!"

Magic! he thinks. I must work a magic greater than any I've accomplished so far.

He sits on the stone and holds his staff in both hands at arm's length. After wriggling himself into a comfortable position, he wills the stave to transform into the shape of Excalibur.

The pith of himself from where the life's potency that is magic originates tightens, quivers, and aches with what is asked of it. Figurations of mist seep from the gnarled stick and vaguely outline a sword shape. In a breeze, it drifts away.

"No!" he shouts his frustration; then conks himself on the head with the staff to punish himself for his outburst. "Patience, Hannes. Supreme patience, now. The night is yet with us. Take your time. Reach deeper."

Hannes closes his lids and opens his eyes inward. There he sees the spinneret of his soul, the magical organ within his marrows that spins the threads of his blood, that grows the filaments of his hair, that weaves the mosaics of his bones, and that knits the reality of his dreams. It is itself a white thread, a very fine needle of lightning, a single, tenuous ray of starlight that is his life.

He sets the spinneret of his soul turning, and fine, diaphanous silks of energy haze within the inward darkness of himself. Carefully, with the same tedious attentiveness he once applied to working fragile and rare woods, he shapes the magic.

From memory, he binds energy to the precise image of Excalibur. The effort is excruciating, especially the blade itself because of its utter simplicity, empty as a mirror. The detailed rowels and circlets upon the haft come more easily to the craftsman, and when they are in place he must return again to the silver reflectance of the blade.

When the image is replete and he opens his eyes, dawn lies like a fleece on the horizon. He stands and wedges the stave into the cleft of the anvil stone. Then he steps back and wills the stick to assume the shape of Excalibur.

This time, his viscera cramp so tightly, he feels the magic wrenching him inside out, and he crumples to his knees with a withering cry. Dizzied with pain, he kneels with his brow to the wet grass and gasps for relief. When the hurt subsides, he wearily unfolds.

Eyes half-lidded, he gazes at the glare of morning light shining from the boulder and winces, blinded. His hands shield his averted face until he can see again, and then, through the narrow slits between his fingers, he witnesses the triumph of his magic—golden rays of reflected sun piercing the misty morning from the naked blade of Excalibur.

Chapter 19: Crowland

Rain drizzled out of a blind sky as Arthor and Melania ride through the woods of Crowland toward Hammer's Throw. They seek Fen, hoping to tear the lamia from him and return it to the urn. Arthor has no idea how they will do that. He trusts the brown-eyed woman, with her classic face of a Roman Venus, who claims her stone dagger will prove sufficient.

In his mind, her beauty vouches for her wisdom. She appears even lovelier now that she has had the chance to bathe in a stream, rubbing away the grime of her captivity with wild rose petals and river kelp. With her sable hair coiled in rope braids and worn over her right shoulder, gathered with a twine of purple clematis, she looks disarmingly regal despite her tattered, faded, and drenched gown.

Angels of fog stand among the trees. Arthor proceeds warily, senses alert, gazing through billows of shadow and smoke for Fen's pale figure, listening past the dismal seepings of rain for footfalls. He interprets the silences as well. The punctuating calls of birds must come at hopeful intervals, or he stops and listens deeper, trying to smell danger beyond the lingering, mulchy scents of sodden loam.

Melania gladly clings to his back. His muscular solidity comforts her, soothing the anguish she experienced in the hollow trances that Cissa forced on her. With her arms around his torso, feeling the straps of strength in his chest and stomach tighten and relax as he surveys the way ahead, she is anchored in actuality, far away from her disembodied suffering.

He smells of horse and male musk. His bronze hair streaks across his pallid brow and white neck, shorn in the Roman style, in defiance of his Celtic foster family. Even this bitterness, which she saw harden his boyish face when he told his story yesterday, pleases her—for now she knows he will not abandon her. He has nowhere else to go.

She watches him smelling the wind to find direction, and she rests her cheek against his wet back, closes her eyes, and lets the rain trace its cool fingertips over her face.

"Who goes there?" Arthor calls out.

Melania straightens and peers over his shoulder. In the forest tunnel hung with the rain's soft incense, a tall, lanky old man approaches, leading a gray and a blond mare. A small black dog with a white splotch around one eye steps pertly at his side.

"Ho! Arthor!" the old fellow calls in a voice sonorous as a cavern's echo. '"Tis Master Sphenks still suffering the company of his gleeman, that being Hannes, myself."

Arthor feels Melania stiffen behind him, and he speaks to her, "Don't be afraid. I know this old man. His wise dog saved my life two days ago. He is a harmless old fool no matter his gruesome aspect."

"He is gruesome," Melania whispers. She sees the demon in Merlin, the preternaturally long skull, his rut-warped brow and eye-pits huge as adder's sockets, and his mummied flesh, sunken of cheek. "I don't like him, Arthor. Ride by."

"I see you survived your visit with the Saxons," Merlin says in his big, hollow voice, "and now look—you came away with a southern beauty. You fared well in that grim barter, son."

"This is Melania of Aquitania," Arthor says, and the woman thumps his back with her fist.

"Ride on, I say!" she whispers hotly. "The man is evil. Can't you see it?"

Arthor twists about and reprimands her with a frown. "Hannes is a Christian. And he saved my life, I tell you."

"But look at him, Arthor! He has the devil's eyes. And behind that beard, I will dare to say, there are predator's fangs."

"Hush. You are not an ignorant woman. A man is judged by deeds, not appearance."

"I bartered well myself, Arthor," Merlin goes on, pleased with himself for finding in a village of these remote woods strong horses for the future king—and without recourse to magic. "Behold the two fine mares I purchased at the grange town of Cherrywood for a pouch of drachmae. Silver has no legs, yet it runs swiftly. Not, however, as swift as gold, eh? And it's gold Master Sphenks will have for these magnificent horses in Camelot. And where are you bound, my boy?"

"Hammer's Throw," Arthor replies. "And you'd best come with us, old man. There's a monster about. A lamia."

"A lamia!" Merlin wears a frightened expression. "Master Sphenks and I have seen the likes of such horrors in our travels through Dalmatia. They are shapeshifters, young son, and with a mighty thirst for human blood."

"Will you ride with us, then?" Arthor asks, and hears Melania's groan.

"Not to Hammer's Throw," Merlin answers, wiping the dew-lapped rain from his haggard face. "There's no one in that thorp powerful enough to fend a lamia. We are off to Camelot to sell these steeds to the warriors gathering there. That's where you'll find the might and experience to track and kill lamia. Come with me. The lady may have her own horse for the journey. We'll make good speed and seek help from those that can give it."

Arthor shakes his head. "Not Camelot. My fate calls me elsewhere."

"Fate, is it?" The gleeman looks down at his wise dog, who looks up at the hermetic figure and sapiently shakes its head side to side. "What do you say to that, Master Sphenks?"

The dog leaps straight upward, spins about, and lands with a bark.

"Master Sphenks says we should talk about this thing you call fate," Merlin replies, and points to a grove of maple. "Let's shelter here briefly. I've victuals from the grange town. We shall eat and talk about fate, eh?"

"No." Arthor nudges his palfrey forward, and Melania hugs him more firmly. "There's a lamia about. We must keep moving."

As the couple step past, Merlin gestures to the bulging saddle pouches on his mares. "I've blue cheese, rye bread, and crisp apples," he says temptingly.

"Enjoy them, old man." Arthor nods to the gleeman and salutes his wise dog. "May you fare well on your journey to Camelot."

Merlin gnashes his teeth and throws his grass hat to the ground as Arthor disappears into the arched vaults of the forest. He dare not use magic again. The Furor is somewhere nearby. This gray weather is his aura. If the north god finds the wizard, death will come swiftly to Merlin in a bolt of lightning. The best he can hope to do now is what he has been doing all along—watching from afar and anticipating the young king's needs.

In the maple grove, he ties off the horses, drops a wad of dried meat for the dog, and crouches under the drizzling rain, listening for evil.

Melania can still feel his eerie presence as they ride among the rain-lit trees. The time she spent possessed, first by the lamia and then by the Saxon's gods, has heightened her psychic perceptions. "He is not a natural man," she warns Arthor. "We are well to be away from him."

"Yet I wish he had come with us," Arthor says. "I owe him a life debt and would be unhappy if the lamia kills him."

They ride on in silence through primeval woods that the rain, fine as powder, has drained of natural hues and stained in seven shades of lavender. Among a holt of willows that offer some seclusion, Melania asks to stop to relieve herself. Arthor complies and holds her hand as she dismounts. Her dark, curly tresses, glossy and heavy with rain, lend her the appearance of a Babylonian princess, and the longing that Arthor feels for her grips him like grieving.

She retreats behind willow curtains. Arthor ties his palfrey to a thin mulberry tree among tangled lupines and lilies glittering with pearls of rain and strides into the obscurity of the forest. He leans against a twisted larch, pulls aside the loin-wrap beneath his tunic, and listens abstractly to the stream of water sizzling across fallen cones and needles. He wonders if he can win Melania's love. Perhaps, he contemplates, I can win the fortune she needs to reclaim her estate. Yet he cannot imagine how he can earn that much gold with his sword.

Short-Life is my sword now, he reminds himself, adjusting his loin-wrap. I've earned it fairly by doing as Kyner commanded—and it led me to Melania. Now, if God wills, it will lead me to the fortune I need to make her my own.

He approaches a slantwise and wild chestnut, places both hands against it, and extends his right leg behind him, pressing the heel to the ground to stretch his taut hamstrings. Nearby, among breeks of kingscord and puffballs, blue chicory blooms. He considers harvesting several stems to chew as they ride—when the chestnut heaves forward!

Its branches sweep down and snaggle Arthor as he falls backward, and the scalloped fungus that ledges its trunk folds back around a leering face riven in the bark. Leaves snap like sparks. Branches squeak and cry. Mounded roots suck loudly, pulling free from the soaked earth. And Fen's countenance unwrinkles out of the brown moil of wood and knots.

In an eyeblink, the naked Saxon stands before him, the guardian band about his throat glittering like living snakeskin, and his clawed hands gripping Arthor's shoulders.

"You gave me to the Thunderers." His silver hair writhes like worms in an updraft of blue wind, and his body looks sinister, unnaturally swollen and chocked with electric veins. "Now I will give you to death."

Arthor draws Short-Life, swiping the blade through the Saxon's midriff. Ether fire sprays like green blood from the abrupt wound, and Arthor jolts with shock, the meat of his body jumping on his skeleton, twanging tendons, searing nerves. He howls as much with fright as pain to see Fen's cleaved belly heal itself like so much quicksilver bleeding together.

"You cannot kill me," Fen cries with a rabid laugh. "I have become more than man."

Arthor sags, and the taloned hands lift him off his feet. Panicky, he hacks at the thick arms upholding him, and they slice like water. The splash of energy lights the grove with spectral radiance and jars through his sword arm and into his chest where it strikes his beating heart. He hits the ground breathless, voltage like blue mold tufting from the tips of his cheeks, nose, and chin, and he thinks he sees his naked bones in his hands, dull shadows in his shining flesh.

With a sucked-in scream, he pulls breath back to his lungs, and his bruised heart thumps so hard against his ribs he nearly passes out. Fen's severed arms spin brilliant wires of blue light and reattach themselves to the cut elbows with a thump of thunder.

"I am made of wind and lightning now." The Saxon laughs at him, his skull glowing through his flesh and rubbing the air around him with a trembling halo. He towers above his fallen prey, his eyes like fierce stars, bright with maniacal silence, a god of dementia.

Arthor crawls backward, abandoning his sword. He does not have the strength to rise. And as he falls flat under the pressure of terror, Melania steps over him. Her lodestone dagger slashes once, and the grasping claws shrivel like torched grass.

Fen bawls, and the stars snuff in his eyes. Their smoke wreathes his once more human face, a face wrung with shock and pain. "You!" he gasps, clutching his cut hands to his mortal chest, looking thin, pallid, and frail. "Who are you?"

Melania replies with a thrusting jab; Fen hops back, falls over a root-ledge, and scrambles away tucked over his pain. Where once he stood, a burned smell slithers in the pattering rain.

Arthor sits up, heart banging at the door of his head. At first he can hear nothing else, and Melania's lips move soundlessly. Then she presses very close. "He is gone."

She slips the stone knife in her sash and rubs his shoulders. The white fabric there bears seared claw marks. "He taunted you," she says in a voice that reaches him, "or you'd be dead now. We must stay close. We have only this one weapon to protect us."

He stands and retrieves Short-Life. At the spot where the illusory chestnut had stood, miasmal haze rots the air with a feculent stink. The forest extends through rings of darkness in every direction, and he peers anxiously into those shadows for the vacant eyes and chewing jaws.

Melania takes his arm and guides him back to where the palfrey nibbles at the leaves of the mulberry tree. The gleeman and his wise dog are standing there with the two mares. "Master Sphenks smelled trouble," Merlin says, eyeing Arthor for damage, unhappy to see pallor in his cheeks and tremor in his eyes. "The lamia, yes?"

Master Sphenks bounds atop the palfrey's saddle so that it stares eye level into Arthor's fright. It takes the reins in its teeth and, standing, bobs as a rider would.

Melania, who edged away at the sight of Merlin, laughs outright, a short, helpless gust of mirth that penetrates Arthor's torpor. The shadow falls from the boy's numb face, and a vague smile appears.

"Master Sphenks wants you to ride with him to Camelot," Merlin interprets. "Surely, now you see there is no hope in going on to Hammer's Throw. Come with us to where the lady may find true sanctuary among the chieftains and warlords of Britain."

Arthor looks to Melania, who nods. If the lamia had slain Arthor, she would be alone again in these woods, prey once more to the viper-priest and his cruel tribesmen. Far better to seek safety among the Christian lords of this island, even if she must abide the presence of this haunted man with the bleached beard and cadaver's wax face. Perhaps, too, her tolerance shall be rewarded if she finds a British prince willing to return to Aquitania with her for adventure and profit—or marriage.

"Will you escort me to the gathering of lords in Camelot?" she asks Arthor. "I have the will but not the might to master the lamia I set loose on your island. Let me at least confess this trespass to those who have the means to right my wrong."

Arthor does not protest and looks into her as if reading a coded message. All hope of defending her from the monsters that assail her withered away when he hung in the predacious grip of the lamia. His heart still speeds like a runner leaving no tracks. He has lost his conviction he can protect the innocents of the land from Fen's bloodlust, and he even doubts that he can defend himself.

Shivering, he senses the cold designs that death has on him and in him. Now he simply looks to see in this beautiful woman what remains of his amorous ambition. He knew when he first saw her that she would never be his, though he had aspired to triumph somehow with valor. The lamia stripped him of that. If they part here, she will leave with his pride.

"I shall ride with you to Camelot," he agrees, "but I cannot escort you to the festival itself. I have sworn to go my own way in the world." Though I never thought it would lead to such abominations as this, he thinks to himself, knowing full well that Fen will come back for him, and he may never live to reach Camelot.

Master Sphenks barks approval, drops the reins, and licks Arthor's face. Arthor wipes the slobber from his cheek and pushes the mutt off the saddle.

Melania accepts the blond mare, and Merlin climbs onto the gray. They ride back the way they had come, Master Sphenks leading the way, and soon Arthor relaxes into this decision. The dog will not be fooled by the lamia, whatever shapes it may assume.

The lad puts a hand over his thudding heart and slowly convinces it to calm down. Never before has he been so frightened. Doom seems to surround him. Evil shadows loiter in the mist-brewing trees, and the rag ends of fog among the shrubs hide threats and violence.

With accuracy, Melania reads his sullen mood, and says to him quietly, "Arthor, do not fret. You are the bravest man I have ever known." Her large eyes brim with sincerity. "Fen hunts you, because you saved me from the barbarians. If you had been less courageous and had left me, you would have no troubles now. I owe you my life." She holds out the lodestone dagger, presenting him the silver-bound haft of quartz. "Take this. It will serve us best in your hand."

Merlin, riding ahead, pretends not to hear or to notice the glow of pride that brightens Arthor as he accepts the weapon. The wizard will have much to teach him about the lure and allure of desire that burns all the keener the closer it comes to the flame. But for now, it is enough that he has drawn him toward Camelot, and the dangers between here and there preclude all the elections of love.

The faithful enemy lurks somewhere in the cool rain. At nightfall, as the drizzle drums to a downpour, Merlin feels the Furor closing in. When he purchased the mares in Cherrywood, he smelled the weather and had the foresight to pack canvas waxed with cerate. The travelers cast it over a capacious hawthorn bush on a knoll and create for themselves a shelter against the torrent. The wizard leaves them there eating apples, cheese, and rye loaves and sets Master Sphenks as a guardian while he goes out into the stormy night to spy upon the one-eyed god.

The black-faced wind carries the Furor's scent, and Merlin follows it to a covert of interlocking elms on a higher hill. Rain oozes through in thin vines, and the wizard curls into a dry, hollowed bole and listens deeply to the heartbeat of the storm. He has no trouble locating the furious god of the barbarians, who presides with his slithers of lightning among the Thunderers at the far end of Crowland.

In trance, Merlin listens to their music, their femur-bone flutes, percussive skulls, and drums skinned with human hide. He feels the ritual power of their shaman, the viper-priest Cissa, as he sways to the dance that binds him with the frenzied bodies of his tribe. Cissa pitches forward into his own trance. He is not seeking Merlin, or Arthor, or the lamia-possessed Fen. The shaman writhes on the mossy earth to bring the Furor into flesh.

Merlin relaxes. For a while, he lingers in the tree hole on the hill's backbone, observing from afar the one-eyed god's indulgent desire to throw himself into a human body. It darkly amuses him to watch this electromagnetic majesty nosing the earth for the honey of a blood-and-guts existence.

His amusement shines darkly, because he knows that the Furor comes to flesh covetous not of human life, which seems contemptuously meager to him as to all gods. The Saxon god of war shrinks to the trembling moment of man to taste for himself the honey of his people's awe.

The old prophecies promise him these western islands. In time, they will be his. Neither Merlin nor all his magic can stop that. Soon enough, the Saxons, Angles, Jutes, Picts, and Gaels will rule these lands, erect their tombs and altars, and sing praises to their war god. The Furor stoops now to sip that rare, effluvial nectar of anticipation, condensed to the utmost sweetness of imminence in the fervid brains of his worshipers.

So absorbed is the wizard in his tranceful observations that he does not sense Fen's approach on the knoll below. Master Sphenks, lulled by the rain, has curled up and fallen asleep against Arthor, who dozes lightly, listening through the sinuous rain for rustlings in the underbrush. Melania shifts restlessly. Something large as the night summons her.

Fen squats nearby, bloody fingers hooked about the guardian band clasping his throat. He wants to yank it off, throw it into the night, and let the lamia devour him. When the monster glowed with strength after consuming his tormentors among the Thunderers, Fen exulted. But since Melania cut his hands with the lode-knife, the power has drained from him. Now the lamia wants to eat. It licks the salt in the blood of his wounded fingers and jangles the harp of the rain with its needy moans.

If Fen pulls the band from his throat, the lamia will kill him and the shame of his capture by Kyner, his humiliating return to the Thunderers as a boy's gift, the sickening hunger of his possession will end. But there may be a better way. The witch who wounded him perhaps can take this demon off of him.

The storm returns night to its original blackness, and Fen uses it to hold his beckoning. Like a prayer, he beseeches the night to bring her to him. If she is a witch, she will hear him, he reasons.

Instead, it is the lamia that hears him and calls to her through the urn and her blood, the two containers that once carried the predator. Her blood remembers the lamia's possession. The urn on the ground beside her amplifies the summons.

A feeling like something of loveliness, like something wild and her own, draws Melania out of the shelter and into the night. She thinks she swelters and needs the cool caress of rain to soothe her. Darkness among the trees glitters like ebony and opals, a bright darkness the envy of angels, and she goes to it.

Fen is there. Slender in his nakedness and shivering, he has no shade of threat about him, and his silver-whiskered face with its acute cheekbones looks anguished as Christ's. He kneels under a spruce, his hurt fingers grasping the guardian band. When he sees her, he lets go and sways to his feet.

"You came!" he sobs.

Melania shudders, alert and surprised to find herself here. She steps away, alarmed.

"No—don't go," Fen calls. "I will not harm you." The lamia lifts away from his slashed fingers and gleams like the merest thread of sunlight in the starless gloom, revealing Fen's long body shining with rain. "Stay, please. The monster that holds me—I will not let it harm you."

Melania glances about for others and sees only the impenitent darkness of the forest. She hugs herself against the rain. "You called me here."

"Yes. I prayed for you to come—to remove this thing from me. Will you help me?"

The lamia sweeps open, fangs gleaming in its skull-face, its shaggy mane a shroud of boreal lights.

"No!" Fen cries, and clasps his will to the monster. It buckles in the air, inches from Melania's startled body. Exerting every muscle of body and spirit, Fen drags the lamia away from its prey. "Run!" he shouts, and the thunderbolt scar upon his chest writhes with his strenuous effort. "I cannot hold it long! Run!"

He cries to the gods of darkness, and the black legends of pain open within him. He bears their telling, rending his body's muscles and the fibers of his soul, until the witch has fled. She is his only hope, and she must not die.

Once Melania has gone, the lamia turns on Fen. But its gnawing at his open wounds is the smallest cruelty after what he endured to hold it back. He knows he will never again have such strength, and he turns away and hobbles into the night.

From under the rain-singing flap of canvas with Master Sphenks at her side growling into the storm, Melania watches his distant white shadow disappear like a light without a body.

Arthor rises from out of the dark interior, lode-knife in hand. "Did you hear a cry?" he rasps.

"It's Fen," she answers, and tells him what has transpired.

"Where's the gleeman?" Arthor asks, gazing into the torrent. The horses stand under the trees where they are tied, heads bowed, rain sparking off their wet hides. "The lamia must have killed him—called him out the way it called you."

"I don't know," Melania mutters, teeth nattering from the chill. "But, I tell you, Fen stopped the lamia from attacking me. He wants help. He thinks I can help him."

Arthor doffs his tunic and hands it to her. "Take off your wet gown and wear this. Don't let the cold seep to your bones."

Melania accepts and thanks him. In the dark of the tent, she does not see his avid, crystalline look of ardor as she drops her gown and slides into his dry tunic, still warm with his body heat. Her mind is on Fen. The anguish she saw in his strong face brands her soul and fills her with boundless caring—for she knows painfully well the impossible effort he wielded to save her from the lamia.

That was a strength she never found in herself during her possession. Then, when the lamia fed on innocents, she ran away, stoppering her ears with her hands to blot out their screams. Fen did not run away—not until she was safe.

Sitting in the dark, staring into the relentless rain, she marvels that he called to her and she went to him. And she wonders where he is.

There is no imagining his despair as he staggers through the night forest with the lamia teetering after him like a black fume loosed from a nightmare. He climbs and descends root stairs, bruising his bones in the dark, scratching his eyes, and lashing his body. The rain's cold feathers clothe his nakedness.

Fen runs through the knives of hedges and crashes across streams with the night between his teeth. Time and again, he reaches for the guardian band at his throat, and each time screams his grip free. He wants to die as a warrior in battle, not like some cow split in half to cool in the rain. So he plows the night with his body, running through the forest of knives and arrows—until a hand big as the wind grabs him.

The rain stops. Clouds open and display the glassworks of constellations. His head swings wide with wonder to take it all in, and he faces the one-eyed god above him, darkness coming through his empty socket like a falcon.

"So, you have returned home to us, little brother," Cissa speaks, stepping out of the trunk of a sycamore tree. And around him, the Thunderers rise up from the earthsmoke like the dead.

Chapter 20: Prince Bright Night

Hannes the master builder departs Mons Caliburnus with the wizard's staff left standing in the star stone and looking like Excalibur in precise detail. The enchanted stick even blazes with the illusion of reflected sunlight.

He must catch up with Brokk and Morgeu the Fey and take back the sword they have stolen. But he is afraid. He has spent his magic disguising Merlin's stave as the sword, and even if he possessed all the power that the wizard has opened in him, he would be no match for the dwarf and the sorceress.

From the pocket of the robe, he takes out the small summoning glass that Merlin instructed him to burst if his troubles became dire. He looks at the tiny blue rose pressed flat inside the glass wafer, seeming to quiver like a blossom underwater.

He lifts his gaze to the wind blowing through the trees and knows that he will have to travel that fast to catch his foes, who are on horseback and more than an hour's ride ahead of him.

He drops the flake of glass onto a fist of rock and smashes it with his heel. When he lifts his foot, the starburst dust crawls away like smoke.

The surprising scent of snow blowing off firs announces a presence, and Hannes peers into the morning's slanting rays and meets an apparition forming among the clustered trees. The figure of a tall man emerges from the dusty light, and the switching grass does not bend beneath him.

He comes forward and stands before Hannes with red hair wild as the setting sun and long, green, Mongol eyes that light up his whole face. He wears no hat or sign of rank. By his cinched vest of animal velvet, royal blue tunic, leather leggings laced with scarlet braids, and yellow, tasseled boots, he looks noble.

"Why have you summoned me, man?" the elf asks darkly, the harsh angles of his milk blue face lowered in threat. "Speak up. The fumes of the blue rose cannot long hold my image in daylight."

Hannes grimaces as if gulping dark medicine. "I—I, uh—Merlin said that—"

The elf eyes the wizard's robe with a quizzical grin. "You are Merlin's man?"

"Yes—yes, I am. He told me—"

"Ah, so you've lost the sword," the elf notices, looking up Mons Caliburnus, to where the illusory weapon stands in the stone, the air around it polished like a soap bubble. "That fancy bauble won't last long. But longer than I can stand visible before you under the sun. Speak, man, and tell me what has become of the sword Lightning."

"The dwarf Brokk took it," Hannes blurts, "with Morgeu the Fey. They left on horseback before dawn—for Crowland—to work some dark magic on the king."

"The king?" The elf thumbs his beardless chin inquisitively. "Oh, you mean Merlin's hope for a king. That would be Ygrane's son, Arthor."

Hannes blinks with surprise. "Arthor—that is not a British name."

"You would prefer a king named Eril, perhaps, or Lanval, Fand, or Cador? A good British name, eh? Ha! A name is but a scabbard. In time, the sword wears it to its own shape. And your name, old fellow?"

"I? Oh, I am Hannes the master builder, apprentice to Merlin, wizard of Britain."

"And I am Bright Night, prince of the Daoine Sid." Sunlight swirls through him like spirits-smoke. "You have heard of me?"

"My lord prince, alas, no," Hannes answers in a nervous fluster. "I am a Christian man, of Christian parents, and their parents Christian before them. The priests discourage talk of elves."

"Then perhaps you should summon the priests to find your king's sword." He glowers, sullen as a smoking lamp. "Though I think they will have little pleasure finding you in Merlin's robes working magic."

"Please, Lord Bright Night, I cannot face my master with the sword gone. I beg of you—"

"Do not beg anything of me," the elf says, raising a hand to silence him. "I have already sworn to aid whosoever summons me by this blue rose. That is worthy enough work for me."

"Can you truly take Excalibur back from the hands of the wicked dwarf?" Hannes asks in awe. "He has the might of an ox in each of his two arms."

"I fear his strength less than his cunning," Bright Night admits. "Brokk is the Furor's weapons master. He crafted the sword Lightning, which you call Excalibur. The dwarf wields a blade as well as any swordsman under the Storm Tree. I dare not fight him. And any faeries sent against him would be dispatched to oblivion."

"Then what are we to do?" Hannes asks with chilly alarm. "Can't you shoot him with elf bolts? Kill him from afar?"

"A dwarf is not so easily slain. He is a creature of the Storm Tree. If the Dragon were not asleep, Brokk would make a toothsome morsel." Bright Night gazes into the narrow avenues of the forest, and his green eyes float like a dreamer's. A moment later, the ground moves under a tremendous thump, and the air flares with a hot, sweet, and frantic fragrance of horse. "My steed is here. Mount up behind me."

Hannes sees nothing yet feels steam rising from a huge beast and the earth juddering under its stamping and its great lungs huffing. Bright Night swings high onto a lithe, moving transparency that shimmers like shadows of smoke. He holds a hand out. Hannes takes it, and the steed rushes off, snapping him behind sharp as a flag!

The prince pulls Hannes out of the wind and into place on the muscular, churning back of the elf-horse. They ride like clouds going by. Trees drift in loose green threads of speed, and the rush of their passing moans like the misery of the wind in pines. Even the sun in the high, open heavens floats along the horizon, a stately, fiery barge.

The hills rolling under them slow, and the snorting horse prances to a stop on the crest of a hummock overlooking a lake leveled with mist. Along the shore, Brokk and Morgeu ride colts, moving with alacrity toward a curtain of shaggy trees.

Prince Bright Night laughs ominously. "They dare to run on the low path to Crowland! This is better than I had hoped."

"Why?" Hannes asks. He relaxes his grasp around the prince's waist and shivers to notice how the inner flesh of his forearms gleams like abalone. Suddenly, the spirit horse rushes forward, and he lurches to hold on.

"The ledge roads would have been slower for them," Bright Night shouts against the rushing air, "but on the high ledges there are no doors to the hollow hills!"

Hannes does not understand until they blur past Brokk and Morgeu, and the lake mist swirls after them. The hammer of the sun vanishes. Night swarms from over the horizon, and orbs of orange and blue stars crowd the sky.

"Where are we?" Hannes yelps.

"We are in the hollow hills," Bright Night answers through a laugh. "And look—we are not alone!"

Brokk and Morgeu struggle to control the wild fright of their sinewy colts. Mist blows around them like reckless wraiths, and their foul cries rush off in disarray under the preternatural night.

Chapter 21: The Hollow Hills

"I warned you to take the hill trails!" Morgeu cries above the screaming of the colts. The cindery sky glows with orange-and-blue spheres, the electromagnetic nodules of the Storm Tree's roots.

With brutal force, Brokk reins in his pony, and its head pulls to its shoulder, eyes flinty with pain. "Silence, woman! And silence your mount or be damned! I must take the measure of our situation."

"I'll measure it for you, dwarf," Morgeu cries angrily, chivvying side to side on her nervous mount. "We are an onionskin's thickness away from death. We are in the hollow hills!"

"I know that," the dwarf barks at her, his lumpy ugliness bunched into knots of rage. He holds the sword Lightning high, ready to lop off her head. "But how? You claim the Dragon is asleep. Yet here we are in his lair! You lied!"

Morgeu levels a mocking sneer at Brokk's accusatory scowl. "It's not the Dragon lured us here. Don't you see?" She points toward the wrought flames wavering on the jagged horizon. Against that seam of subterranean fire, she beholds Prince Bright Night and Hannes astride a magnificent tropical cloud, a cloud shaped like a steed with eyes of green African heat. "There, look! That is Prince Bright Night of the Sid."

"The Sid?" Brokk gawks about in alarm. He sees only sharp boulders of slag under a night of spectral globes. The air is hot and full of the acrid nuances of burned rock. "Where?" The tight boreholes of his eyes scan the terrain of shimmering flame-shadows, and he thinks he sees in the distance sparks, ember motes, fire spray. "Those fireflies?"

"Put the sword down, fool." Morgeu has steadied her colt and reins in closer. "He baffles you with a faerie spell. The sword is his target. Put it down, and the spell will fall with it. Then you'll see who led us here—to our doom!"

Brokk lowers the sword, and where he glimpsed tenuous glitters, he spies a stallion shimmering like dawn and carrying two figures: a grinning elf and a startled old man in a wizard's hat. "I see him! He laughs at us! And beside him—beside him is that fool carpenter in Merlin's robes! Damn his eyes!"

"They led us directly into the hollow hills, Brokk, and there is no escape." Morgeu watches in despair as the elf-prince and the carpenter vanish in a bounding streak of sunrise that lapses instantly again to the scorched night. She wipes a lather of sweat from her white brow. "We could wander these roots of the Storm Tree for ages and never find the way out."

"You have been here before, witch," Brokk speaks through a snarl. "You must know the way out."

"I have only been here with the demons who hunted Lailoken," she answers in a voice constricting with distress. "They had the might to come and go as they pleased. But they are gone from me many years now—and we are here alone. We are doomed!"

"Silence." Annoyed, Brokk turns his attention from her despair to the thermal dust in the burned black sky. "I must think."

"Think!" Morgeu screeches, near hysteria to find herself so easily duped by the Sid and led to death in the infernal depths. "Think on your foolishness in taking the low trails that led us here. If you had listened to me, if you had taken the hill paths as I told you, we would be on our way to Crowland. You were impatient to gloat about your success before your god. Now you will never see your god. Never. No one escapes the hollow hills."

"Silence, I say!" Brokk reaches into his hip pouch with his left hand and unrolls the lamia. In an instant, he has shaped it over himself in an image stolen from her past, taken by the lamia's psychic pincers from her memory: the image glares at her as her father, Duke Gorlois, his big jowls quivering ragefully, his small goat's eyes slanted with anger. "I am not the fool you think me," Brokk scolds.

"Pah!" she shouts at the scornful image in Roman leather and brass. "Take off that shape, dwarf. Do not torment me with my father's ghost."

Gorlois's hostile face pushes spitefully closer. "Will you shut your mouth, then? Will you not speak until spoken to?"

"Yes, yes." She averts her gaze, raising a tremulous hand to blot out the vision of her heartache. "It matters not. We are lost. The elf-prince has gone to gather the Sid. They will slay us."

"Be silent this moment," Gorlois commands. When she lowers her head and remains mute, Brokk speaks, "Good. Now I shall get us out of this hole."

"Out? We are in—"

Brokk glares and shakes the leathery shroud of the lamia with its woeful eyeholes and downturned mouth, and sparks fly like drops of sweat.

Morgeu's lips whiten, and she keeps her silence.

Satisfied, Brokk returns the lamia to his pouch, and says, "We are not here alone as you claim, witch. Behold the sword Lightning." He wields the sword against the blotches of fire in the lightless sky. "I shaped this for the Furor's hand, and it served him well. Even now, it remembers him. With it, I will summon him, and he will lead us out of here."

"He will not come." She says this quickly and shuts up.

Brokk lifts the thick boot of his chin defiantly. "He will come. Why should he not? What is there for our god to fear? The Dragon is asleep, as you say."

"He does not know that."

The dwarf brushes her objection aside with a silvery streak of the blade. "Then he will send others to get his sword. One way or another, we shall be free of this hideous place. Now keep your silence while I concentrate."

Brokk's hard features blur as he presses his ape-ledged brow to the mirroring blade and slides it back and forth, greased with perspiration. His prayer to the All-Seeing Father enters the weapon and goes deeper, beyond the crystalline matrix of atoms and molecular congruity, into the black that floats light, that creates space and time, that unifies all form and motion in the singularity whose depth is the universe itself—and instantly he is heard within the nuclear lattice of the Furor's being.

Sprawled under an ash tree spangled with sunlight, listening to the singsong of whetting stones, Cissa's eyes deepen like tiny glaciers, and Aelle knows. The Thunderers know and stop their sharpening, sit up in the rusty grass, and listen for the commandments of their god. Fen, hanging upside down from a high branch, his face purple as an eel's, hears the lamia inside him calling to its twin.

The cry goes down into the earth, full of need. And the cry comes back from underground, lorn and cold.

"I hear Brokk," Cissa announces, his words twisting from his throat like a musical ache. "He is calling to the Furor."

"Does he have the Furor's sword?" Aelle inquires, and leans forward on his sword, one thick-knuckled hand tugging at his hay-nest beard, anxious to please the one-eyed god and quit Cymru.

"Yes."

The word levitates the Thunderers. They stand around the viper-priest, loose in their joints, taut in their eyes. They, too, are eager to complete their mission here among the enemy's hills. They have retrieved their chieftain's unlucky son. Now only the war god's mission needs be satisfied.

"Brokk holds the sword Lightning," Cissa breathes. "He has taken it from Camelot."

"Where is he?" Aelle wants to know, pushing to his feet.

"In the hollow hills."

"No."

The Thunderers share small, dark looks.

"He summons us from the hollow hills."

"The Sid have him," Aelle concludes, and slams his blade into its scabbard. "Then he is lost. The sword is lost."

"The sword Lightning is in his grasp," Cissa informs them in a tone that smolders with distance. "The Sid have not yet taken him. He needs the Furor's help to get out."

"It is a deception." Aelle steps back to stand among his warriors, speaking for them. "If the Furor goes after him, the Dragon will devour them both."

"The Dragon sleeps."

"This I cannot believe," the chieftain says, and the Thunderers murmur agreement. "It is a trick, I say."

"Brokk calls. He needs help to bring the sword Lightning out of the hollow hills."

Aelle twists a braid of his faded beard. "What are we to do?"

"The Furor wants his sword."

Releasing the twist of beard, Aelle looks up into the ash at his hanging son. "We will send Fen," he decides. "If this is a Sid trick, we will know. If not, he will serve as our guide."

Two men climb into the tree and cut Fen down. They lower him, gaunt and discolored, and he lies in the grass, with the flies visiting him.

Hairless, viper-stained Cissa squats over him and adjusts the guardian band so that Fen can breathe easier.

The Thunderers slink away, find watching places in the splintery sunlight under the trees, and wait to see if the lamia will rise.

It does.

Mist pools in the hollows of Fen's prone body, gathers to a second skin, and luffs upward in the summer breeze. Its face of pain with its burning tendons, its body fluttering in waves of heat, glisten. If the wind shifts, it will fly to pieces.

Cissa claps his hands over its oily rainbow smoke, and it seeps back into Fen's inert body. The lamia is weak. The viper-priest nods to two of the Thunderers, and they run off into the woods.

The afternoon sun cuts low through the trees when they return with a British charcoal seller. His hands, black from his work, clasp in prayer even though he is grasped under both arms by his captors. The wild look in his smudged, whiskery face attests to the surprise ringing in his brain that he is yet alive.

Fen has recovered enough from his torment to sit against the ash and breathe strength from the pollen-rifted air. At the sight of the terrified Briton, he knows what will happen, and he bucks to his feet with a cry.

Cissa punches him between the eyes with the heel of his hand, and Fen sits down hard, eyes distracted like someone hearing his name arrive from far away.

The lamia unspools from his chest with a shriek, and the Thunderers release the charcoal peddler and flee.

He, too, turns to flee. Before he can move, flanged jaws pierce him behind the neck and talons crack his sternum and flay his rib cage. And then he is on the wing. He flies up into the ash, feet tumbling over his head, blood shaking through the leaves. He hangs upside down, the rictus of death on his horrified face inverted to a rigid leer.

While the lamia feeds, Cissa pounds his chest, drumming the Furor closer. Clouds clot the sun, and a rope of lightning dangles in the distance. When the thunder rumbles in, the Furor comes with it. He pitches through the blue-black sky in a thrash of hot rain that melts the sheet of blood on the corpse's clenched face.

"All-Seeing Father," Cissa intones, arms outstretched to the god in the divinity's dark mantle of storm, "open the way into the hollow hills. Send Fen down the stairs of night to your dwarf Brokk, who holds your sword Lightning. Send him into the depths of the sleeping Dragon."

A thundercloud blooms directly overhead purple as an orchid. Its stem of voltage cracks the air to fiery heat and a dizzy smell. At once, Fen lurches upright, compelled by a force wide as the sky, and bounds in giant steps past Cissa and the Thunderers crouching among the trees and Aelle with his heavy arms upraised in awe.

Fen hurtles through the forest, whirling, running backward, leaping sideways, dashing forward again, flying faster as if he is about to spin off the earth. The lamia shoots after him in a screaming vapor trail.

The green shadows of the forest explode to darkness, and Fen falls rolling, tumbling, skidding into an eternal night of flaming rock and slag smoke. He sits up dazed, dying as far as he can tell. Maybe dead already, he feels, and in the dark kingdom of the divine witch Hel.

The lamia unwinds. Strong from its feeding, it clothes his bruised nakedness in its colorful shadows so that he stands lithely in the hot stink of sulfur fumes and soft steel. Fen looks down and sees his loins trussed in cool silk, his feet shod in pythonskin sandals.

The stinking heat of the underworld sloughs away, and the lamia's chill presence soothes him. There is a place to go, a thing to find for its masters, a thing that must be found to earn for itself the next meal of spilled blood, and it rides Fen hard into the scalding dark.

Across the shuddering horizon, Hannes and Bright Night approach. The drastic heat and stink rip breathing to short gasps, and the master builder holds on to the prince with one arm and puts a shining hand over his nose and mouth. The frosty fragrance of conifers from the elf's sweat cuts the sick smoke and drags the whole heart of himself toward a dream.

He almost nods off and has to drop his perfumed hand and smell again the putrid gas.

The spirit horse charges toward Fen. But the riders do not see him, because the steed abruptly dips behind a smoking scarp and plummets into a sinkhole.

The torrid stench peels away before a fresh, floral wind, and darkness ruptures to a tumultuous green vista. Monkeys chitter a strange summer into place: cloud plateaus surge in green sky lakes above a triple-canopy jungle of silver-trunked trees scalloped with gold wedges of fungus. Rainbow-splashed birds click, fret, toll, and chime, and monkeys—troops of them in green, auburn, and black—screech and scatter through high galleries above ghostly tree boles.

"Where are we?" Hannes gasps in the dense, sweet air.

"Not very far from the Happy Woods," Bright Night replies. "This is the jungle of the monkey gods. It is very ancient, and we are not welcome here. We must move on."

"Where are we going?"

"We cannot face Brokk alone. Not with the sword Lightning in his hand. I must gather my troops. We will find them in the fields and groves near the Happy Woods, where the Piper plays and the Celtic dead dance into their next lives."

They stream through a welter of hanging air plants and across sepulchral chambers whose brown-green atmospheres dangle luminous root tendrils and parasitic loops. Among the ponderous leaves in the somber naves of the jungle, where the dazzling light from the sky lakes is muted by the weight of vegetation, giant apes watch sullenly.

"If we do not stop, we are safe," Bright Night explains, his voice muffled by the excited jabbering of the jungle. "The monkey gods are the oldest of our kind who sought refuge in the hollow hills. They have lived a long time here in the roots of the Storm Tree. When the Dragon is awake, they sacrifice their own to appease it. And they are not averse to seizing strangers for their blood rituals."

The green cataclysm of floppy leaves, tangled vines, and monkey screams dims away. The elf-horse bounds into a chaparral of dwarf willows and golden grass broomed by an alpine wind.

Hannes spots swarms of faeries—yellow darts of being, half-insect and half-human, like peelings from the sun. Above the broad horizon, a semblance of the moon floats in an ice green sky, a swollen moon of peach color, so large that pocks and rings of craters are visible.

"As above, so below," Bright Night intones. "The celestial energies captured by the branches of the Storm Tree reflect here in the roots. These energies are distorted in the underworld, yet still I think they are beautiful."

"Yes—" Hannes agrees, breathless. He grins, stupid with joy. He must ask himself if he dreams, and he pinches his fingers. And still it persists—the astonishing vista of the netherworld's day sky with its peach moon and clots of stars in stellar vapors twisting like chimneys of smoke.

"Down there are the sacred fields, where the holy souls of saints and righteous heroes contemplate God and decide whether to live again as people or to leave our world entirely."

Hannes looks below at an emerald expanse of savanna and far-off huts touched by silver sunlight. Then the galloping steed veers and bounds along the pink-sand beach of a glassy lake cluttered with rock spires and boulders. Mermaids sun on rock ledges above indigo shadows of deep water. Their iridescent tails and salt-sprinkled hair glitter hypnotically as jewels.

"To live here, they must feed the Dragon, too," Bright Night continues. "In these pools, many a sailor has been fed to the Drinker of Lives."

"Where is the Dragon?" Hannes asks, spellbound by the tiniest details of his trespass in the underworld: sun rays hanging in the long grass, a fog of mayflies near the lapping water, a quick blur of salamanders through the weed stalks, and the far-off music of the mermaids, whose soulful songs slash and glide with the algal breeze and the smack of small waves on the ruddy shore.

Bright Night feels Hannes's grip slackening and reaches back to shake him loose from the tranceful singing. "Fall off here, Hannes, and the mermaids of the sky lake will show you where the Dragon slumbers—but you'll not come back from there."

Quickly, Hannes jerks free of his song-induced lethargy and tightens his grasp about the elf's waist. He stares down and notices that they are ascending. The amethyst sky lake gleams on a level above the saints' savanna, which itself encloses the faeries' chaparral and, far below, the strangled greens of the monkey gods' jungle. Now they mount over crackling tundra toward purple peaks.

"Will we see the Dragon?" Hannes asks timorously.

"Not if our luck holds. The Dragon curls around its sleep deep within the fiery depths." Bright Night motions ahead toward a gateway of lavender snow peaks. On the far side, griffins swim in the dusk, tawny shadows with weighty cries that rend the air like bells.

"Over these peaks are the Happy Woods of the Daoine Sid. There we shall find allies willing to fight for the king's sword. But we must be swift. Already I sense the Furor's shadow among the roots of the Great Tree."

The shadow that the elf-prince detects is Fen, who flows with an inhuman grace through the black terrain of burning rocks. The lamia inside him ignores the caustic fumes and the lamps of pain glowing in his lungs.

And when Fen jumps with alarm at the strangled voices in the melting rocks, the lamia calms him. On a narrow, enamel ledge above a blind abyss, the lamia steadies him, and he hurries onward. He moves swiftly, because the lamia knows time hunts them.

Fen does not want to try to free himself from the monster: not in this dangerous place. He is glad for the alien thoughts that lead him safely on these obscure pathways where boulders unfurl to flames. He wants to accomplish whatever he has been sent to do and offers no resistance. Even when the scarlet shadows thrown by sudden fires lead him toward a dwarf with a brutal face waving a spectacular sword, he does not hesitate.

He strides into the weapon's range, and he cannot stop looking at the blade, even though the dwarf is speaking gruffly, demanding to know who he is.

The steel blue of the razor edge is quiet with dreams. He does not understand at first. The sword rises, threatening to strike him, yet he stands unmoving, caught by something he did not know he loved.

He realizes, then: this is what he came for.

The entombed voice of the lamia's twin ekes sadly from nearby, and the monster inside Fen startles alert.

"I say, who are you?" the dwarf demands irately. "Speak or die."

Fen cannot find his voice. The lamia churns within, luminous and angry.

"Is he the one you summoned?" A tall woman with small black eyes in a moonly white face emerges from the red shadows. The heat has wrung her crinkled hair to long, garish streaks, and diamond sparkles of sweat bead her face. Though she is thin as a cat, she has big shoulders. "Look at him, Brokk. He does not sweat. And his wrap and sandals have an odd shimmer, do they not? I think he is one of the Furor's own."

"No." Brokk glowers. Menace barbs his nasty eyes. He feels the lamia in his pouch squirming, and he peeks in just long enough to see its red grin. "Something is wrong. The lamia is excited. This is a Sid trick to get the sword."

"Are you of the Daoine Sid?" she asks, striding forward. "This heat—this stink—we've had enough of it. Summon your prince. We would talk with him."

"What are you saying, Morgeu?" Brokk interrupts, pushing her aside, and pointing the sword at the thunderbolt scar over Fen's heart. "No terms with the enemy."

"I am not your enemy," Fen's voice croaks from him, and the lamia rises high into his chest. "The Furor sent me to get his sword."

"You lie!" Brokk thrusts, and the lamia in Fen impels the Saxon backward, flashing an enraged fang-face through his ribs. "By the Norns! Another lamia!"

Fen gapes about, confused—then sees the pale green smoke leaking from the dwarf's pouch. "You have a monster, too?"

Morgeu stays Brokk's sword arm. "Who are you?" she asks suspiciously.

"I am Fen, son of Aelle chief of the Thunderers. This gruesome thing is upon me, because the Furor has used it to send me safely here to get his sword."

"I do not believe you," Brokk states coldly. He notices the lamia drooling from his hip pouch, snatches it in one wringing hand, and stuffs it back.

Morgeu smears the sweat from her face and, ignoring the dwarf, wearily expels the stink from her lungs. "Lead us out of here, Fen."

Fen gestures to the pouch, feeling the lamia's dark call touching the inside of his skin. "The lamia want to be together."

"Bring the Furor to me," Brokk says, "and I'll have no more need of this shapeshifter."

Morgeu pushes at Fen, not caring if he is Sid or Saxon, craving air. "Lead us out, Fen. If you are as you say, then the shadow I leave behind us as we go will be all that the Furor will need to find his way down here to his sword."

"And if he is a Sid illusion, Morgeu?" Brokk challenges.

"I care not at all," she confesses, and slouches toward the dark fathoms. "I am sick to death here. I cannot stay."

Fen turns grudgingly. The sword and the twin lamia are why he has come. But the dwarf stares at him with malefic certainty, the splendid sword unwavering in his grip.

Morgeu's slick hand takes Fen's arm and pulls as the lamia echo dark cries in his blood. Slowly, weighed down by longing, he turns to tread the chasms back to the sun.

Chapter 22: The White Bird

Arthor kneels in the dew before his shield, praying to Mother Mary. The sun has not yet risen, yet curlews cry in the gray light.

"Mother Mary, grant me the strength to defend Him now that He has left us alone in the devil's world. Grant me the strength to fight for Him until He returns."

Usually, the Virgin's routine reply comes from far across the field of patience. This time the words sound crisply above his bowed head: Love is first, Arthor. Never abandon. Never abandon.

He looks up sharply. No one stands in the grass flattened by last night's rain. Only torn mist moves among the big trees, light and angular as dancers.

"Mother?"

The forest canopy rustles, and this commotion pushes him to his feet as a shadow rushes out of the darkness.

A dove descends and alights upon the top edge of the shield. In the dim air, it glows.

Hands clasped, he falls to his knees again. Prayer stalls in him at the dark thought that this could be the shapeshifter. He reaches for the stone dagger tucked in his sword belt.

"It is just a white bird," Melania says, stepping through the beech trees behind him. She tosses a rusk of black bread onto the wet grass, and the dove hops toward it. In her other hand, she carries the serpent-egg urn and places that on the ground with another rind of bread atop it, then takes Arthor's elbow and leads him back into the beeches. "Fen has run off to protect us. He doesn't want to kill."

"He would have slain me last night," Arthor objects, and puts a hand over hers where she holds his arm. "Were it not for you, I'd be a corpse now."

"Look." She points with her chin to where the dove perches on the urn and plucks at the bread. "No lamia would stand there."

Arthor's young face brightens. "Then this is the Holy Spirit."

She looks at him chidingly. "It is a white bird, Arthor."

"No," he insists, earnestly. "The dove came to me while I prayed. This is the Holy Spirit."

"As you say.”

The disdain in her voice separates Arthor from her. "You are not a woman of faith?"

"Faith did not save my father or my brothers," she answers bitterly. "They died defending their land against pagans. Pagans! Is their god stronger than ours?"

In the winey light, her sculpted beauty seems inflamed, and she speaks with orphic intensity: "Or is there no god at all? No god—only the scattered rubbish of dead bodies and the blind armies that clash over them?"

Her dark, large eyes reach into him defiantly. "What is faith, Arthor, but fear and the bewilderment of pain?"

Arthor closes his mouth and manages to mutter, "Is that what you believe?"

"Why do you regard me so astonished?" An incredulous smile holds her scorn. "Young as you are, you have fought battles. You have slain men and seen your comrades slain. I am the one who is astonished. You yet cling to faith?"

"Jesus is Our Savior."

"What does that mean?" she challenges, her sable locks tossing forward as her head rears back. "He did not save my family."

"Then you do not understand what it is to be saved," Arthor reacts sharply. He tries to soften his tone when he sees an irate shadow flex sharply between her eyes: "Were there no priests to teach you? Did you not read the good news in the Bible?"

"As a girl, I read the good news, and I believed the priests," she answers, hands on her hips. "As a woman, I have seen the power of the sword. It cut away everything good in my life. Jesus could not stop the power of the sword in his life, and he cannot stop it now in his afterlife."

"Jesus is not a warrior. He offers us salvation beyond this life."

"Then why fight the pagans, Arthor?" she scolds. "Let them kill you. Your salvation awaits you."

"This world is a battlefield, Melania, where good and evil clash. We must choose for whom we fight. But we must fight."

"Jesus did not fight. The Romans beat him, scourged him, and nailed him to the cross—and he did not fight."

"He came to die," Arthor replies bluntly. "He was the sacrifice that annuls the past. All our pagan history is paid for in full by his blood. Now we are free to live for love. No longer are we bound to ancestral rites and pagan gods who demand murder, vengeance, and wealth, and who reward the strong and crush the meek. Jesus pardons that sinful past so that we may live a new way, not the old way of the pagans, who worship only might and its gains. We are commanded to build a world of love. And for that love, we must fight."

"Love?" She sneers at him. "What love is won by the sword? You speak nonsense, Arthor."

"No." He meets her scoffing glare with calm assurance. "I speak of the love of justice—a love that protects the weak, the sick, and the poor, that defends the good, and that destroys what is evil."

"You are a child."

He smiles gently at her anger. '"And a child shall lead them.'"

"As you say."

"Not as I say, Melania." He softly places a hand on her shoulder and points through the beeches to where the dove has returned to its perch atop his shield. "Look, the dove of the Holy Spirit has come to me."

She shakes her head and holds a chilled stare on him. "There are dark times ahead for us all, Arthor. We shall see how long you keep the white bird."

Hurt by how bluntly his childlike faith confounds her losses, as if God had ruined her family out of spite, she barges through the trees, startling the dove to flight, and retrieves the urn. Without looking at Arthor, she shoulders past him.

His heart sinks. Sad and long dreaming of love goes away with her, and he lets her go. That such a beautiful woman could have heard the good news and then deny Jesus troubles him.

Walking toward his shield, he plays upon the notion that she is right and he wrong: What if there is no God at all? No Jesus. No Mother Mary. All this no more real than Kyner's stories of faeries, elves, and monsters.

But he has seen a monster—and now he wonders about what he has not seen that could be lurking in these fog-tinged woods. He lifts his shield nervously and, after peeking into the jade distances of the forest and noticing nothing unusual, lowers a contemplative gaze on the sacred image of the Virgin.

It is inconceivable to him that Creation could exist without its Maker. Far back as he can remember, the Mother of God has given him comfort—and he has heard her voice, today more clearly than ever. "Love is first," he repeats, and looks up through the branches at the speeding turbid clouds.

"Love is first. So you have taught me, Mother. Yet what of Melania? What love for her has God given?"

A moment's thought reveals that, unlike himself, she once had her own family, had known their love, and at least tasted life as a noblewoman. She questions God for taking away what I never had. More pain in having and losing than never having at all. His hand settles on the hilt of Short-Life, and for the first time, his rage at the inequity he knew in Kyner's household dims.

Beyond Crowland, in the forested heights above the River Amnis, Kyner and the clan wait for him. They will accept him back, if he will take his proper place among them and serve. But Melania has no place—no family but an aged crone, her estate pillaged and occupied by pagans, even her faith despoiled.

He wants to save her. Earning the sword Short-Life has led him to her, and by that sword and by his faith, he will find a way to redeem all she has lost. And he will serve—but not as a lowly ward in Kyner's household.

He will serve love.

"Ar-thor!" Merlin's hoarse voice calls.

Bolstered by his determination to win Melania and uplifted by his vision of the Holy Spirit, Arthor carries his shield through the beeches back to camp. The gleeman and Melania have already packed the canvas and mounted their horses. Master Sphenks sits atop the saddle on the palfrey, wagging its sharp tail.

The old man explains that he stepped into the bushes last night and lost himself in the storm. Melania speculates that the lamia must have used sorcery to call him away, as it had with her.

Merlin does not dispute that. Secretly, he quivers with alarm that Fen could have approached so close while he sat entranced in the rain watching the Furor. He resolves to stay nearer to the young king until they reach Camelot.

Ingots of dawnlight shine in the forest of Crowland as they travel east on a trace hung with spiderwebs of fog. Melania rides close to the gleeman, as far from Arthor as she can get.

The young man lingers behind, watching the shifting shadows for clues of danger. Blue distilled from indigo rises toward the flyways of geese and herons, and his searching gaze lingers there until he notices a dove on an overarching branch. His heart leaps, and he cranes to see if Melania has spotted the bird.

She rides on oblivious to it and apparently to all else, for she stares rigidly straight ahead.

The gleeman, too, appears to be unaware of their surroundings, riding with his eyes half-closed. Arthor marvels that any man could have survived so long in this treacherous world with such indifference. He returns his attention to the dark woods and vaguely wonders why the Holy Spirit shows itself to him now. Love first, he remembers. Never abandon.

Up ahead, Merlin feels the approach of Morgeu and restrains himself from sitting up taller, not wanting to alarm the vigilant Arthor. The wizard has been chanting under his breath a spell of simple magic to drive off brigands.

The one small band of cutthroats in the area wake in their weed beds with slow, dim-witted dread. Not knowing why, they drift away from the trace they usually stalk and are far away on a hill of alder thickets when the riders pass through the early-morning mist.

The lamia guiding Fen, who leads Morgeu, is distracted by Merlin's simple magic. It mistakes Merlin's chanting for the ghost-scent of the Furor, and it directs Fen up out of the black grottoes of poisonous air toward the wizard's call. They emerge into an aromatic summer day through a sandy cleft of a salty, alkaline hillside overgrown with tamarisk and white velvet moonflowers.

The dank, genital odor of the wet forest nearly overcomes Morgeu with joy. She kneels in the sand, bends to embrace the nacre earth, and stops abruptly. Through the entwined, serpentine branches of the tamarisk, she sees Merlin dressed in ragged clothes and a hat woven of ivy leaves, beside him a young maiden of surly beauty—and behind them, riding bareheaded yet alert, bristle-cut hair shorn close as a Roman's, her half brother.

"Arthor," Merlin calls to him, sensing Morgeu and wanting the youth to ride closer. "Bring me Master Sphenks so I may consult with him where we shall stop for our rest."

Arthor! Morgeu thrills to discover his name. She rises too quickly, and dizziness swarms through her and plops her to her haunches. Hearing only her own ears drumming, she feels the physical strain of her circuit through the hollow hills. By the time she finds the strength to stand, the riders are gone.

So is Fen.

The lamia has carried him off through the woods in the opposite direction, toward the Thunderers. He will alert the Furor.

Morgeu sits back in the tussocky sand, her muscles languid, a thin fever running under her skin now that she is breathing pure air again. She has not the strength to confront Merlin just yet. She will find it, and soon. While the sun eats at the shadows, she lies back, and her eyes roll up as though she has been brained by the soft breeze and blue sky.

The sulfur reek of the underworld fades. Her fear that she was dead passes. And briefly the stinking dread of lost hope and the sweet possibilities of life intersect, and she lives in two worlds at once.

Merlin still senses her presence yet more distantly. Time touches his face like a breeze, and he smells her farther ahead—her usual musk scent choked with sulfur.

She has been in the hollow hills, he realizes, and ponders what this must mean.

He is still wondering hours later when the horses drink at a creek pebbly with toads. He sits under a willow and watches Arthor cross a gravel bar to harvest apples and chicory, Master Sphenks at his heels.

Upstream, Melania gathers creekwater in leather flagons. Pine martens slink stealthily through the blowing grass, stalking ptarmigans under the willows.

Down in his heart, he feels a giant love for this world, though the parts of the world do not love each other.

He recalls his former existence as a demon when he hated all life. Then he thought that living forms were treasonous to the void, a betrayal of the emptiness that holds all atoms and planets in its grasp of absolute cold. Life seemed a stupid turning away from the reality of the vacuum that stole light from heaven in the explosive origin of the cosmos.

Demons believe that there is no way back to heaven. Life denies that truth. It builds more and more complex forms within the formlessness of the void. It mocks the vacuum that holds it with the forms it creates.

The Fire Lords build life, thinking they are building their way back to heaven, and the demons tear it down, convinced there is no way back and accepting no substitutes for the cold and the dark and the emptiness.

Love changed his demonic cynicism. The love he learned from his mother Optima when he tried to possess her as an incubus altered him forever. Now he sees that though the void ripped the light out of heaven, and the absolute cold chilled that radiance to the darkness of matter, life is the memory of heaven as it writhes in the cold of space.

And because love is the force that holds life together, the Fire Lords are right to embrace it. He regrets the aeons he vehemently attacked life trying to break it back down to the void, to the emptiness he mistakenly believed was closer to heaven.

Unspeakable sadness swells in him at the remembrance of the violence that possessed him for so long. A dark string twangs in his heart. Like an empty house, his body echoes with the noise of his grief. He tries to rise, to walk off this sudden melancholy—but like a house he cannot budge.

From a helpless distance, he sees her approaching—Morgeu the Doomed, her hair like a rag of blood, her face a moon disc, her small, black, sharp eyes piercing him. She is an apparition stepping down the sky among the doughy clouds. Caught daydreaming, he did not sense her enchantment locking him down with his own ponderous sadness from a past he cannot disown.

She sits up in the tall grass beside him, not an apparition at all but muscularly and muskily real. If he had been in possession of his magical stave, which senses invisible presences, this would have been impossible. She exults with an opulent grin.

Tainted with sulfur, her green gown torn and streaked, bright hair twisted with sweat, Morgeu kneels over him, her ardent face farouche as an animal's. Of his greatness, she never doubted, and so she has succeeded by extreme caution and psychic discipline in drawing close enough to cast a paralyzing spell on him.

Tears well in the wizard's gray metallic eyes. Try as he might, he cannot uproot Morgeu's spell, because she has been cunning enough to plant it deep inside him, in his oldest self, his demon mind. It tangles him with memories of his life in the vacuum, of his immutable sorrow at losing heaven and gaining the cold, lightless void. That is a sorrow he cannot quickly budge.

Glancing over her shoulder to be certain that she has not been seen by Melania or Arthor, Morgeu grips Merlin's frayed collar and drags him backward through the curtain of willows. He is light as ash, which surprises her.

For an instant, she wonders if she herself has been duped and he is a simulacrum. But no: When she focuses softly, she can see his bodylight, blue as heaven, the color of a supernal being rather than the blood-glow of a human being.

She drags his inert body through a spite of thistles to a hillock dominated by a massive yew. The dense branches of the tree have grown down into the ground, creating a circular wall of stems, many thick as trunks. Within this enclosure, the spongy mass of the original trunk stands haggard and mucronate with fungus. There, she props the wizard and squats before him. What a simple matter now to take his frilled throat in her hands and crush the life in him.

But she knows better. A demon-wizard is not so easily killed. His death flash could well possess her, drive her mad. Just as dangerously, a dagger to the heart could release a noxious spirit that would rip her life from her flesh and whisk her beyond the sky into eternal night.

He is a truly dangerous entity and must be respected. Here he will stay, entranced in his lithic sorrow, while she works a far more poignant vengeance with her half brother. When the wizard finally struggles free, the destiny he has devoted his life to create will be gone—stolen from him and reshaped in her womb.

She peers into his prophetic eyes, with their muted anguish of tears. And though she wishes to speak, to taunt him, she says nothing, for even one word could weaken her spell. Instead, she waves a silky laugh over him and slips away through the tendrils of the yew.

Merlin watches her disappear in the cavalcade of sunlight on the thistle field, and he strains to move, expending himself to the point of blackout before he relents. She has caught him. Speaking to himself has become self-devouring. That is her spell. He must return to nascent silence and slowly, slowly expand back into himself before he can move again. She has caught him very well indeed.

To save Arthor, only one hope remains. The Sid. Yet, when he calls to them from within the locked vault of his skull, no one answers.

A firefly twinkles in the yew gloom. It jounces closer, and he sees that it is a faerie. Lead Arthor to the hollow hills! he shouts in his mind. Does the little thing hear? Tears stream down his harrowed face with the sincerity of his plea: To the hollow hills lead Arthor!

Drifting like milkweed on the summer air, the faerie exits the loamy enclosure and vanishes in the hot light.

"Hannes!" Arthor calls for the gleeman.

"He has run off again," Melania says. "He has a doddering soul. He could be anywhere."

Master Sphenks runs in circles on the banks of the shimmering creek. No longer a wise dog without the wizard, it weaves aimlessly among willow roots and withy reeds.

Morgeu's magic hides the giant yew from everyone's sight, expanding in their minds the clustered willows to cover that ground.

Melania secures the flagons of water to her saddle and mounts. "Let us be on our way."

"No," Arthor says firmly, returning through the creekside grass from his search upstream. "We must stay and look for him."

"Look where?" she asks with exasperation. "We have searched both sides of the creek and all the nearby willow coves. He has wandered off, I tell you."

"Then, we shall camp here till tomorrow." He gathers the reins of the horses. "He will show up again as he did this morning."

"Or Fen will come back," Melania warns. "And the barbarians. Arthor, come. Ride with me to Camelot."

"These are the gleeman's horses." He leads the gleeman's gray mare and his own palfrey along the gravel beach toward the willows where they had last seen the old man.

"He knows where we are going," Melania pleads, walking the blond mare after him. "He will find us in Camelot."

"No, Melania." He strolls the horses through the green tresses of the river trees, Master Sphenks appearing and disappearing in the feathery grass. "We cannot go without him."

"More of your Christian justice?" she asks, sitting rigid in the saddle. "Does justice require that we risk our lives to wait on a senile old man? Even his wise dog cannot find him."

"We have not looked in the willow coves at the creek bend," he answers, and pulls himself into the saddle of his horse. "That's in the direction we want to go. Let's search there next."

Morgeu watches from under an ivy-draped overhang of rock at the creek bend as the riders approach. She coils her magic, preparing to strike with a cobra's precision. The blow is designed to startle the blond mare and throw the woman to the ground. The shadow of her death has already been imprinted among the washed rocks of the stream. For Arthor, a Gorgon's stare will hold him while she weaves the intricate spells of her tantric stratagem.

The enchantress floats on a tide of voices: These are the pre-vocalized spells already in her soul that are ready to shape events. She leans eagerly forward and watches first Arthor leading the gray and then the woman on the blond mare pass through a willow's hanging branches. Waiting for them to exit, she watches the trees catch the wind.

But the riders do not exit.

The willow hangs from a spill of boulders on a hillside, and there is no back way out. What are they doing in there? she wonders at first, until the sliding sun finally outlasts her patience and budges her from her covert.

She stalks angrily over the cobbled creek bank and whips aside the willow branches. With an explosive flap of wings, a dove bursts from the green interior and soars away.

The tree stands alone. Among its thin wicker shadows, hoofprints in the sand walk serenely into the stone wall of the hill.

Chapter 23: Child of the Sphinx

Arthor and Melania ride through a night scrawled with pinwheel stars and spidery wisps of luminous green vapors. A pan of dried, cracked slurry and caked ash stretches away toward a horizon staggered with cinder-cones.

"Where are we?" she asks in a narrow voice. Beyond the black volcanic hills, scarlet flames rush from the earth's depths and shake the darkness. "Is this hell?"

Arthor casts an angry look. "I thought you had no faith in God?"

The wind blows a sulfurous stench from the craters, and the horses toss their heads nervously. Curled up on the saddle before Arthor, Master Sphenks whimpers. Melania looks back the way they have come. The willow they passed through is gone, replaced by jagged lava fields and crawling smoke. She moans, "Where are we?"

"I don't know," Arthor mumbles. Fear worms in his flesh, eating the strength in his muscles, riddling his spine so that he can barely sit up and face the stinking black heat of this night. Under his breath, he prays, "Mother Mary, save us."

From out of the star-whorled sky, sparks flurry and spin ahead. Several blow close enough to see that they are tiny almost-people with kelpy hair and large eyes darker than shadows. Cinnamon streaks of wings blur from their nakedness: bodies milk blue and without genitals.

Powdery light smudges the air around them and streaks the paths of their spiraling flights. Master Sphenks yelps at the glimmering shapes and will leap from the saddle to snap at them if Arthor does not hold him down.

"Be still, mutt," Arthor coaxes. Though he has never seen their likes before, he knows who they are from the fireside chatter of Kyner and the storytellers. "The faerie."

"Yes, they must be," Melania agrees, awestruck. "Look—they are flying into a cave. They are showing us the way out!"

The flock of faeries whirls into a lightless socket beneath a stark promontory of scorched rock, and Melania rides after them.

"Wait," Arthor calls. "The faerie lead people into the hollow hills, never to be seen again. The old people say a dragon eats them."

Melania pauses before the cave entrance. Cool, vegetal musk luffs from verdant distances within. "The air is fresh in there. If there is a dragon, it's out here. I'm going in."

Arthor follows, and as soon as he reaches the threshold of the cave, Master Sphenks leaps from the palfrey and runs ahead, fleeing the sweltering stink.

Inside, night relents. Rime-bearded cavern walls yaw wide to daylight. They clop to a ledge overlooking an emerald chaparral of stunted willows and gold grass. Across the distance, ice green sky lakes flash beneath a violet haze of mountains.

The wise dog has already run down the mossy slope to the foreland fields of grass swaying green after green under a sunny gauze of golden pollen.

The horses whinny with relief, and Arthor and Melania ride down into faerieland. Obeying the terrain's happy gravity, they bound into the grassland at a gallop.

"Thank you, Mother Mary," the young warrior prays aloud, surveying the wide terrain. "Thank you for sparing us the darkness and for watching over us in the light."

Melania laughs at him. "Mother Mary hasn't helped us, you simpleton. It's the faerie. Look at them!"

Like a single glittering soul, the cloud of faeries moves as one, sifting into the grass, vanishing from sight, then rising farther on in silvery particles, sparkling school fish, only to fall back and rise again until they ultimately disappear in the distant green depths.

"If we were in hell, Arthor, we've found our way to heaven."

The barking of Master Sphenks flags him in the tall grass as he runs toward a lone tree. A peach moon floats huge as a cloud in the netherworld's mauve sky, and star-smoke slants over the horizon. Arthor marvels that everything here seems to move in stillness. Is this a dream?

Huge, big as a cedar, with glossy ebony bark and no leaves but clusters of silver flowers that twinkle in the breeze, this tree looks as though it has been built in darkness by stars. They dismount in its velvet shade and sip creek-water from the flagons. Master Sphenks drinks from Arthor's hands, then stretches beside a root-ledge and naps.

"What has happened to us?" Melania asks, touching the tree and feeling its dry, glassy surface. Fear and wonder flicker in her. "Is this Cissa's magic?"

"The Thunderer's pagan priest?" Arthor wrinkles his nose and sits wearily in the cool grass. "The faerie of this island serve the Celts. We are inside the hollow hills. I'm sure of it."

"That is bad, isn't it?" she inquires, leaning against the tree, legs stretched out before her. "In Aquitania, the nature spirits are called Fauni, and the priests teach us that they are the Devil's minions."

"They may be," Arthor concurs, and shuts his eyes. His closed lids glow pink as petals, and in this bright darkness he again thanks his spiritual patron for saving them. "We rode the border of hell to get here. I don't know how we'll get out."

Melania rests a hand on his. "We'll stay together."

Arthor peeks through the slit of one eye. "I have not lost the white bird," he says softly. "Not even in this place."

"I know," she concedes with a contrite nod. "I heard you praying. I would pray, too, if I thought God would listen." A pallor taints her cumin complexion, and her large eyes gel coldly as her beauty converges with the world's pain. "I cannot pray. I am condemned, Arthor. God has cursed me and killed my whole family—everyone but the crone who sent me into the world—" A slack laugh leaves her. "Sent me out to find a treasure already looted."

"You condemn yourself." Arthor feels her hand tighten atop his, and he goes on, "God loves you. That is why he sent us Jesus."

She removes her hand. "Let's not talk about Jesus again."

"He died for you."

She offers another soulless laugh. "Then why are we are?"

"God will show us a way out," Arthor insists. He grips her hand and tries to take hold of her sadness, of which he knows nothing except the loneliness he has felt. And by that common deficit, by that mutual need, he promises, "We will find our way back to the world we know. Pray with me."

His childish awe before the divine annoyed her in the dayworld—but here in the netherworld anything seems possible. She nods, and they kneel together under the faerie tree. With quiet simplicity, they pray from the centers of their edgeless hearts.

Of all their desperate needs, for what they most cry is a return to the ordinary. Melania asks the divine to spare her hell for her mortal doubts. She wants to return to the familiar world to make her own way among the common people. That would be enough for Arthor as well. He wants to contend once more in the realm of men, not at the horizon of sanity, with reason itself a child of the sphinx.

Their prayerful energies, focused and outward-directed, stir the currents of the faeries' chaparral, so that the bright ones rise once more from the sleep of seeds and bloom into the shapes of the conscious-type that aroused them.

As tiny winged humanoids, they blur to the sere verges of the savanna, and there a fraction carries the heart-strong energy past the sky lakes and the dirgeful echoes of the mermaids' songs.

Hannes sees them streak like meteors through the purple sky. The elf-prince Bright Night ignores them. There is no time for faeries, with their endless prattle about the small doings of their world. He and the carpenter have vital work to do. They are in the Happy Woods, the domain of the Daoine Sid, and have come to recruit a warband to attack the Furor's weapons master.

Souls flute like birds in the tufted, vigorous pines, calling to others in distant groves. Religious chants sift from towering oaks and victory cries loft out of dense alders. Each type of tree has its own timbre of spirits swollen with particular longings. There are birch groves of kindness and sorrow, white poplar woodlets of laughter, willow bosks of desire, rowan holts of serenity, spindle thickets of prophecy, beech coppices of wisdom, apple orchards of magic, and reed brakes of solitude. In all of them, the Piper's music lilts a different tune. And in all, twilight leaves its golden dust on everything.

Hannes and the elf prince are in a conifer spinney of tantrum, where angry souls sing war songs and thrash battle dances. The shadowshapes of the dead thrive to the storm-moan and wind-whistle of the Piper and descend from the boughs, sensing the presence of visitors.

Hannes cringes at the eerie sight of their smoky, lunatic shapes. The vehemence of the stamping shadow-warriors with their blurred black wings and bituminous eyes stuns him, and all through his underbeing run warnings of instinctive alarm. He crouches and tries to hide beside the knees of a battered cypress, whose frantic, knobbed limbs clasp violet emptiness under the kiss of stars.

"Fear them not, Hannes," the elf comforts. "They are but shades. The ones we seek are elves, who visit here to celebrate their own rage with the dead."

Out of the dreamthreads of sunset, solid figures appear. Tall beings with long manes shining like blood, they slouch closer, strapped in swarthy leather and rawhide cords, sword belts and soft boots clasped with fangs. Thirty centuries of rage burn cold in their long green eyes, intent on outstaring fate.

The prince nods to them and, without a spoken word, turns and leads them unswerving through the stormsmoke of the dead.

Hannes leaps up and hurries to Bright Night's side. None of the elfen gang pays him any more heed than they do the convulsing shades. To walk among them—to stride, really—makes him feel as sleek and certain as pure silver.

They will take back Excalibur. No dwarf, no sorceress can stand against them.

Soon, they depart the spinney of gnarled conifers. The spirit stallions that will carry them into battle have already gathered in the fields of dusk. They are big animals nosing around in the high, sweet grass. Through the crepuscular light of the netherworld, they shamble like blue smoke, eyes bright as flames.

Above them, Cissa senses their gathering might. To him, they sound like the song of the hive, droning with endless, tranceful chant that turns the world to honey.

He knows that they will be harder to defeat the longer they wait, for they are collecting their powers. Quickly, he reaches into his heartbeat for news from the pit, and he touches Brokk's irascible cries.

Brokk calls furiously from the underworld. Too clever for his own good, he has declined to follow Fen and has sent back the lamia. He wants the Furor to come to him. The Dragon sleeps, Cissa hears in the flutter of his heart. The Dragon sleeps. Send my god to me, for I have his sword and cannot find my way out of darkness.

When Cissa explains this to Aelle, the chief swells with anger to cover his fear: "I am not going into the Dragon's lair. We sent Fen to get the sword. Has he failed us yet again?"

Cissa cants his bald, viper-stenciled head as if listening to the sky. "Brokk will hand the sword only to the Furor."

"I am a warrior." Aelle thumps the tree nearest him. "I fight my battles here in Middle Earth, not in Hel's underworld."

"Would you have preferred to attack Camelot and perish as a distraction for a thieving dwarf?" Cissa asks rhetorically. He hunkers in the spiky grass, lifting his face with its designs of pain, the better to feel the wind. He listens through an aureole of sounds—bird chatter and leaf rustle—for Fen and hears him nearby. "Brokk has sent Fen back to us, to lead us through Hel's realm to the sword."

The Thunderers, scattered among the trees, some in the branches, all posted to watch for prey and danger, give no sign of seeing anyone. "Fen is not here," Aelle gruffs. "He has fled."

"No, wise Aelle. Fen is nearby. He will not show himself. He fears we will take the lamia off him and kill him."

Aelle's wiry eyebrows bend angrily. "He should fear us. He set out to raid and allowed himself to be captured—taken by worshipers of a prince of peace! He gave up a glorious afterlife in the Hall of Light for slavery to weaklings who worship love and peace! When I find him, I tell you, he will hang from the branch of the bright wind until the ravens eat his sad stamina and carry his sickness away from our tribe."

"Well and good, righteous Aelle—but for now, he alone can lead us to the Furor's sword." Cissa probes through the palimpsestuous layers of forest noise and scent—chittering squirrels, jackdaw squawks, thrush warbles, rosin scents, and pollen flux—feeling for the blood-hum of his brother's presence. When he locates it, pulsing all the louder for the audacious passion of the lamia, he turns to where his father nervously thuds the edge of his sandal against a root. "Fen is ready to lead us."

Aelle signals his approval by waving for the Thunderers to gather. He smothers his anxiety in the rigors of command, arranging the men around him in a fighting wedge. "This day, for the glory of the Furor, we visit Hel's dark kingdom, where cowards and traitors are imprisoned. Be brave and obey our god, and you will only visit this terrible place—for you are Thunderers, destined for the corridors of light high in the World Tree.

Cissa thuds his chest, drumming the storm god closer. From the sky, a cloud lowers, sifting through forest branches and enclosing the war party in luminous fog. Silence swells. Bird noise and the wind's hymnal cease.

As shadow-figures, the warriors advance, following their snake-priest, who feels Fen among the witchgrass, backing away, retreating from this world.

Acid sunlight blisters and foams at the shadow limit of the hollow hills. Fen lingers there until he is sure the Thunderers follow him. He knows he is dead in their eyes already. Without the lamia, he would be a corpse. The lamia is his strength and his damnation. For now, he must endure it.

Its lunar fire lights the way for him over the black snaky surface of lava rock. Its death chill cools him in the volcanic swelter. Its strength keeps him running ahead of the war party, easy as a breeze.

Ahead, among heat-shattered boulders of amber glass, the dwarf's witch waits. "My brother has escaped me, Fen," she whines, and darkness stains her with the colors of silence. "I must go with you into the hollow hills to find him. Take me with you."

Fen does not even try to stop the lamia from leaping forth to devour this frightful woman. The monster's fanged thrust sweeps through Morgeu's phantom and crashes into the rocks. Shards fly like small birds.

Weaker for the effort, the lamia slinks back into Fen, who must keep moving. The Thunderers are coming. The ghost-lit darkness and the baked stink of the underworld do not deter them. They run with the Furor, and soon they will be upon him.

At his side, the witch's specter appears again—or is this Morgeu herself, night in her eyes, blood-shadows in her wild hair? "Do not try to devour me," she threatens, "or your lamia will grow too weak to protect you in this place."

"What do you want?" Fen gasps, dragging himself among waist-high mounds of ash.

"Only your guidance into the hollow hills, back toward Brokk." She keeps a respectful distance, this witch in torn green satin, with the bones of a man in her shoulders and jaw, and a woman's coy, helpless smile. "I cannot find my own way down here. I will follow you."

Fen ignores her. He wants only to complete his mission and slip away. If he can find again the dark-haired woman with the urn of sphinxes, perhaps he can free himself from the lamia and win a new life.

The lamia churns in him, indecisive about striking at Morgeu again. Wary about losing more power, it decides to put all its strength into crossing this balesome terrain. Flames run through the unreckonable darkness far ahead, bright as blood, and the lamia puts its focus there.

Then, at its back, a startling wind arrives. Morgeu knows at once what this is and falls to her knees in the scorched furrows of fused sand. The wavering heat blows away in an arctic mayhem of glacial thunder, blizzard-smoke, and frost rays.

"Morgeu the Doomed," a wide voice opens in her head, and the red life in her shivers blue. "Is it true the Dragon slumbers?"

"Yes, All-Seeing Father!" the enchantress cries. Without the protection of her old demon allies, she is but a fragile snowflake in the blustery presence of the Furor. "The Dragon sleeps deeply."

The Furor releases her, satisfied. Always before, he has entered these dark regions surreptitiously to avoid the ravenous attention of the Drinker of Lives. Now at last he can storm through these mephitic caverns without fear. Nothing here can challenge his power.

Shrouded in his blue mantle of boreal wind, he steps over the animal lives of Morgeu, Fen, and the Thunderers, and strides boldly into the hissing darkness of stinking fumes.

A tunnel of snow trails behind the god, and the Thunderers charge through it. Morgeu and Fen run ahead, afraid to fall back and be trampled or hacked by the rovers' naked swords. The lamia pours forth its liquid strength and sweeps them onward.

Fen does not object to the witch clamping onto him, using the lamia's power to fly with him through the fire-breathing shadows and bright vortices of snow sizzling to hot rain and steam. She is another shield against the Thunderers, who want to break his bones to retrieve their pride.

The Furor halts, and lightning staggers around him, shattering boulders and scattering ash in a hot scurf of sparks and spinning embers. Silver rivers of melted ice run away from him, sibilant as snakes among the hot rocks. He shrinks. All godliness seems to melt from him, and he stands among the rubble stone in darkness, a robust old man.

Reflections of fugitive flames from distant calderas flimmer in his one blue eye, and he seems to perceive as if for the first time the enormous depth of this somber, black waste.

Cissa is the first to realize that the Furor is not reduced. The god sees with an eye ignited by prophecy. He only appears to shrink as his vision goes ahead of him.

"He sees our enemy," Cissa whispers to the others.

The Thunderers stand gawking among melted shapes of smoldering scrog and fulgurite. They peer through shredded steam with raw amazement at their deity, standing ahead of them in the cratered terrain, leaning on his spear like one of their own.

Dark light, like steel dust, shines around him. Only that divine sign distinguishes him from a man—albeit a huge man with massive brow scored by age and dented with war scars. His riven cheeks rise in creases from an abundant gray beard toward an empty socket and one mad, staring eye blue as a sky a thousand years deep.

When they can muster enough heart to remove their adoring gazes from him, they see what he sees. Far ahead, through a black cleft in a lava lakebed, a war gang of Sid elves rides forth on spirit horses.

It is Prince Bright Night and Hannes, leading their warriors to attack Brokk. At the sight of the Furor standing in the underworld surrounded by starry energy, the horses balk and nearly throw their riders.

Bright Night signs for them to retreat, to fly back through the cleft to the emerald chaparral of faerieland and the mermaids' sky lakes. Too late.

An ominous chill runs through the hot chambers, and blue licks of electric fire trace the tormented outlines of magma channels, sockets of dried pools, and slag spires. Celestial brilliance casts grotesque shadows across the enormous grotto. The captured night of the underworld pulses, ever faster, until it strobes sharp, quick flashes of terror among the Sid.

Bright Night howls for his warriors to fall back. Hannes clings frantically to the prince's back as the wild horses collide and throw riders into the quick shadows. Then the nimble blue flames vanish, and the night ranges return to wrathful blackness. The screaming of the horses and the cries of the elves clash for a blind and terrible moment.

From across the dark, the Furor's spear reaches out. A lance of white sunlight. When it lands among the scrambling elves, several horses and their riders vaporize instantly in startling bursts of shadowshapes. Smeared by radiance, a whirlwind shock wave flings the others in every direction, so much world dust blowing into the void.

Chapter 24: Warrior's Vow

The faerieland's chaparral grass and dwarf willows sway in balmy wind. Arthor and Melania gaze up with naked awe at the stardust heavens of the underworld, wondering how the blotched moon and these misty star-wheels can be visible down here inside the hollow hills. They clamber through the boughs of the giant black tree and perch high among its silver, clustered blossoms, hoping to see the secrets of this inner sky.

Craters sleep in the ashes of the moon. Whirlpools of stars fling feathers through lavender void, and the amplified images of pure night open new mysteries.

Melania lifts the lovely shadow of her face toward the wind, inspiring desire in Arthor hard as cold. All at once, wonder drains from her placid features, and fear startles her. "Arthor, look!"

The dark arrow of her face points beyond this wide plain of grass ripples to a niter cliff not visible from below. It is the desolate ash-lands they rode down from. At this height, they can peer into the volcanic terrain of burned brimstone and melted rocks and see the Furor.

To them, he appears an enraged giant, his one mad eye bulging with pain and ire and the empty socket sunken to the skull-rim. Bone shines through his dented brow and twisted nose bridge, and his great beard and tangled mane haze into the darkness like battlesmoke.

His fabulous falcon hat and mantle blue as a lost piece of sky identify him as the barbarian's chief god. At his feet, they spot a swarming troop of blue horses mounted by frantic men with streaming red hair. The radiant impact of the god's spear twists away the faces of Melania and Arthor.

When they look again, the blue horses and their riders are erased in smoke. The Furor pulls his spear out of the steaming ground and stalks off through fiery vapors, a giant lumbering through the ruins of sunset.

Thunder widens across the fields, and Master Sphenks startles awake with a burst of barking.

"Prayer has not saved us!" Melania despairs, and skids along the glassy bough, eager to reach the ground, far out of sight of the murderous god.

Arthor follows. "If the barbarian god is on the black cliffs, perhaps that is where we will find the exit to the upper world."

Melania looks up at him with a horrified expression. "I'm not going back into that hell," she asserts, and slides to the groin of the tree, her gown blossoming with caught air. "If the north god is there, the Thunderers must be there as well—and Cissa. I think they are hunting us."

"Don't be silly." Arthor slips after her down a curved length of bough, swings from a lower branch, and drops to the ground. "We are nothing to them."

He offers his hand to help her down. She ignores him and plops into the grass, her impact blowing pollen into the wind. She rises and shakes her coiled hair from her eyes. "Cissa used me to anchor the Furor's lover in the tribe. I was important to them. They will come after me."

"Then we should move," he says, and walks toward where the horses graze.

"But where can we go?"

"I don't know." The shadow of the dog glides ahead through the field. "We will ride. We will search for a way out."

"You saw the north god, too," Melania says, running after him and catching him by the elbow. The sixth sense that Cissa opened in her with his snaky magic brims in her again. Did she alone see the mad god from the treetop? A depthful fear arrives inside her chest—a fear that threatens to return her to the mute trance of the viper-priest's nightmare. She squeezes Arthor's arm forcefully. "You saw him."

He steps back from the fixed and desperate wideness of her stare. He has never seen madness before. He thought he had seen it on the battlefield in the wild stares of men facing death, but he has not. "Yes."

"I am glad." Her frightened face looks relieved and dolorous in the tattoo light from the branches. "I feared that the magic Cissa worked on me had touched me, with the Furor's madness." Her eyes search his for understanding. "He told me that the gods alone know how lovely the unspeakable must be. And when the god's lover spoke in me, when the goddess spoke—the pain—" The peril of tears breaks her stare, and she looks away. "The pain was bigger than I could hold."

Arthor ventures to put a hand to her cheek. "You are free of that now, Melania. Look around you. The Furor has gone off. He is not looking for us."

She lifts a look of anguish. "Prayer did not work, Arthor. You said if we prayed, God would show us a way out."

"Give it time."

"Time?" She steps back a pace. "Why does the Christian God need time? You saw the Furor. He is here! He walks among us. I do not think that our prayers go to a god who hears or cares."

A prong of sadness lifts his eyebrows. "Have you no faith at all?"

"I have faith in what I see." She motions to the anthracitic cliffs. "Who were those people the Furor destroyed?"

"Faerie-folk, I think." Arthor rummages for fireside memories. "Maybe elves. Kyner spoke of elves."

"Their god did not hear their prayers, either," she says unhappily—and sadness heightens her beauty, as though all that is desirable about her hides a secret, a truth whose terrible cost denies all hope. "We are alone down here, Arthor—and there is no God to help us."

The thought that the heaven of mercy and love is tenantless, that a woman with an angel's loveliness could believe this, frightens him. "Stop this." Arthor waves her away in disgust and whistles for the dog. "You are a Christian woman. Jesus died for you. How can you abandon him?"

"He has abandoned us."

"I say no." He takes the reins of the palfrey and swings himself up into the saddle. "We are alive. You are free of Cissa and his evil gods." He leans down, and his golden eyes slim as if with threat. "The Thunderers are evil. And their gods are evil. They hurt you. We both saw the Furor kill the elves, the people of this secret land. That god is evil, and so he walks this world that God has given to the Devil. I tell you, woman, our prayers have been heard in heaven. And now we will find our way out of here."

Arthor's bold certainty comforts Melania, and she nods softly, like a child, and goes for her horse.

Arthor blows a silent sigh, not at all sure that prayer can pay the deficit that evicted them from the natural world. He has nothing else to offer her. So, he rides to the gray mare, takes its reins, and walks the horses slowly through the chaparral grass and shrubs, wondering where to go.

Far above him, in the yew tree's skeletal silence, Merlin cannot bear the paralysis that keeps them apart. He allows himself to dissolve toward sleep, and as his body slumbers, he glides with his dreambody into the hollow hills. Like a small flame, he shivers in the dark. Quickly, he finds his way over the cinder tracts, following the Furor's massive footprints in the ash.

He flutters above the impact site of the Furor's spear. The ruptured rocks reflect his spirit light in a crazy mosaic of charred glass. All that remains of the dead elves and their horses has pooled in the rubble to patches of shriveled sludge, a gummy tar in the seams of cracked rock plates.

Circling through the slaggy grotto, he finds several wounded elves cast off by the blast, bleeding to mist. He can do nothing for them. They are already merely waxen shapes, soft limbs and harrowed faces melted atop the rocks.

He flits over the crazed stone floor of broken cobbles and spoil-banks of ash, searching for survivors. He is only a spark, and the spurts of flame that leap from the grouts of broken pavement threaten him. He spirals back upward to his sleeping body, never noticing the limbs sticking out of a scoria dune, his own floppy-brimmed conical hat perched at its crest.

Hannes pushes free of the suffocating soot. His round face with its jug ears and pug nose smutted with carbon exhales a lungful of chalky smoke. Dust falls from his blinking eyes that wink wide and white as a statue's in his black face. Aching in every joint, he rises, streaming fumes of powdery dross. Magic alone spared his life, though now he wishes it had not.

Anger pulses in him. The elf-prince, Bright Night, is gone, fetched away in the searing blast that evaporated the others. Hannes coughs smoke and swats dusty clouds from his robes. A shuddering sickness competes with his rage at the senseless deaths of the others, and he must stand still and chant a calming spell to ease his stomach and tight diaphragm.

Calmed to a quiet fury, Hannes picks up his hat and staggers through the flame-flickering nightworld, a smoking mess. He gradually gathers the pieces of his strength out of the remote reaches of shock and fits them back into his stunned body.

All is lost, he moans to himself. The elves dead—Excalibur lost. Hannes, you fool. You murderous fool, with your pawky dreams of wizardry—look what you have done! Why are you yet alive?

Determined to correct that wrong, to pay for his terrible blunders with his worn and foolish life, he follows the red glim of the Furor's footfalls. Head slung forward like an ocelot, he hurries along, reading out of the darkness the fateful light of his own necessary doom.

If the Furor listened, the god would hear the small man's desperation. But the All-Seeing Father does not pay any heed to his back, which is protected by the Thunderers. Instead, he swings his attention ahead of him, searching out more elves, other war parties intent on thwarting him from reclaiming his sword.

Upon the jade chasm that leads down into faerieland, he spies Arthor and Melania riding among water meadows. He does not know who they are except that they are out of place, humans in the hollow hills where only elves and faeries belong. They must be destroyed yet are not worth the effort of a spear throw. He may need that strength for greater dangers ahead.

With a thought, he commands Fen to feed his lamia with their lives. Cissa has no desire to distract his god with the annoying detail that the woman below once helped the Furor to meet his lover in human form. He signs for Fen to go.

Morgeu the Fey watches helplessly from behind an obelisk of lava rock as Fen lopes down the shattered steps of the cliff trail to the chaparral. When the Furor threw his spear, she sidled deeper into darkness, hoping to be ignored. If she moves now, they will see her, and she dreads the attention of the furious god. She must let Fen go. He will slay her brother, and what tantric designs she has for taking revenge on Merlin will die with the youth. Still, she consoles herself, the demon Lailoken will suffer to lose the pawn he wanted for king—and there yet remains hope that her own son Gawain shall wear the crown.

The Furor moves on, and the Thunderers drift after him like figments. Morgeu tarries behind, daring to separate herself from the murderous pack, at risk of losing herself in the netherworld. She will have to trust in Fen to lead her out of the hollow hills, and she fades into the squalid fumes and edges toward the cleft that opens to the fragrant chaparral.

She fears that the Furor or Cissa will see her if she actually enters fairieland. On a barren weal of sulfur rock, she crouches just close enough to sip the cool air and wait. When Fen has killed the pretender, he will come back this way, and she will entice him to lead her out of this hell.

Fen sprints among grass canes, eager to be away from the Thunderers and their cruel god. The lamia spurs him on, its mind, white as fog, carries one thought—to eat. Shedding distance like a serpent's skin, Fen streams through the green reeds and bright haloes of water lilies. The riders have not yet seen him, and he sweeps toward them, low to the soft ground, ready to spring.

The starry skies above thread an eerie feeling through him that competes with the lamia's hunger. With his fist, he presses the thunderbolt scar on his chest, feeling his slamming heart. He is still a man. Yet the vapor-strewn heavens that glitter as if starred with ice make him feel as though he has found the afterlife. The lamia's turbulent strength in him is the power of a ghoul. The future falls away, as hopeless as though he were already dead.

These doubts weaken his glide through the balmy grass, and when he pounces, the small dog senses him and has time to bark frantically. The palfrey skitters, and Arthor throws himself flat against its neck. Melania's scream skins the still air a moment before the lamia strikes. Its claws scythe the saddle where the boy sat as he flops into the loam. He rolls to his back, and the lode-stone knife and the Bulgar saber cut the space above him.

The grin of skeletal jaws lifts away like smoke, and Fen hops back, amazed at the boy's agility.

Arthor bounces to his feet, saber twirling, lodestone knife steady. His movements are precise as he advances, offering no chink of vulnerability, no hesitation. And Fen finds himself wondering in astonishment at how one so young can display such deft killing instinct. The youth's amber gaze burns cold and pitiless, offering malign depths in which the Saxon recognizes that death alone holds promise.

Already, the lamia has shied away from the killer and flexes toward Melania. Fen jumps backward, pulling the lamia after him. He does not want her killed, for she is the witch who knows how to remove this monster from his flesh. He calls to her, "Woman, save me!"

Melania pulls her horse to the side, positioning herself behind Arthor so that the lodestone knife is between her and the lamia. "Remove the guardian band!" she cries out to the Saxon. "Then Arthor can use the knife to put the lamia in the urn." She holds up the ornate crock, and it hangs against the dizzy stars like a black heart.

Fen puts a hand to the band about his throat, retreating before Arthor's steady advance. "If I remove this," he says sharply, "the lamia will devour me."

"Arthor will save you with the knife," Melania promises.

Fen looks into those remote yellow eyes and shakes his head. "No. He will kill me."

"Arthor, tell him," Melania slides off the gray mare. "You can capture the lamia with the knife. I have the urn."

With her hand on his shoulder, he stops his lethal advance and straightens, sword and dagger poised.

"Put your sword away," Melania orders.

"He tried to kill me," Arthor says, and the yapping dog agrees, sliding back and forth through the grass, snarling at the evil presence.

"It's the lamia, Arthor." Melania presses close to him, wanting physically to impose her will. "When he takes off the guardian band, it cannot hide in his body anymore. We can catch it with the knife and the urn."

"Let me kill him and the lamia." Only Melania's firm grip on his shoulder dissuades him from this. He does not want to drive her further from him by disobeying her—yet Fen has twice tried to murder him.

"He will kill me," Fen says, and continues backing off. "Melania—take the magic knife from him. Come to me. Help me."

"Don't do it, Melania," Arthor warns. "He's a barbarian. He'll use the lamia on me, then take you to Cissa to earn his way back into his tribe."

"No." Fen stands with arms open at his side, exposing his bruised and cut nakedness clothed only in the shimmer of the lamia's spidery webs. "The Thunderers are ashamed of me. Without the lamia, they would sacrifice me to the Furor. If you help me, I will not betray your trust."

"If you want trust," Arthor quickly responds, "then trust us. Come closer. Take off the throat band. Let us free you from the lamia."

Fen's heart enlarges at the thought of freedom—but as his hands touch the guardian band, he sees again the remote steadiness of the young warrior's stare. Neither sword nor dagger is lowered, and by that the Saxon knows Arthor will attack. He will kill both the lamia and him.

The barking dog, who once saved Arthor from the thrown ax, urges him to save them from the monster. In an instant, Arthor will fly forward to accomplish his warrior's vow. And at that moment, there passes between them a fatal understanding.

Melania senses it and tries to hold Arthor back, but he is too strong. With a shout, he doffs her grasp, throwing her onto her back in the grass. He flies forward with incredible speed, saber weaving, dagger held low, cocked to rip upward. If Melania had not slowed his initial forward burst, not even the lamia could have saved Fen. As it is, the silver arc of the saber caresses the Saxon with its wind, and the lamia barely sweeps him away before the heavy blade spins around, light as a bird in the man-child's expert grasp, and slices through his shadow.

Fen floats off through the waving grass, amazed to have felt the cold aura of Short-Life and still find himself whole. The boy is a killer. The only help Fen can expect from him is the succor of death. And so he flies far across the chaparral, exiled from the Thunderers and their enraged god and driven from the witch who can save him.

At least now he knows her name. Melania. In the sound of it, the lamia's memories of her shapeshift, and he bounds through the field in her guise but naked, her lengthy curls brushing the voluptuous swerves of her body. As Melania's great-grandmother, a shriveled crone with one weak eye and one empty eye, he sits on the leopard-spotted mudbank of the lake listening to the mermaids singing their faultless songs to the moon.

Melania swims through the tall grass calling for him. Arthor sheathes Short-Life and the stone dagger and gathers the horses. Master Sphenks, sensing some animal, barks from out of sight, charging toward the black cliffs.

"He's gone," Arthor says, leading the horses to where Melania stands staring across tasseled fields and dusky swales toward the green sky lakes.

She turns on him angrily "Why did you try to kill him? He has no weapon."

"He has two. He carries the lamia. And he's a Saxon."

His callousness brings an irate flush to her frown. "We could have helped him."

Arthor restrains his own annoyance at her simpleminded trust of the enemy. "He would not have helped us."

She turns away with a vile expression that chills him. "You are no Christian."

"I am a living Christian," he replies hotly, angry at her for hating him. "I'm alive, because I do not trust barbarians. He attacked us. Three times he has tried to slay me. Why do you care if he lives or not?"

She does not look at him but keeps her attention fixed on the ethereal horizons under the fumes of stars.

"You like him." Arthor feels his insides cringe at the sound of his own voice. "Why? Is it his handsome face? It's a barbarian's face."

"Like yours?" she asks coolly and does not turn to see the sting of her words.

Arthor does not reply. His focus has shifted away from her to a tall, shadowy figure advancing through the dwarf shrubs of the chaparral. Master Sphenks comes running from there, tail tucked.

"He could have killed me, and he did not," Melania goes on, not noticing the stranger. "If I can help him, I will."

"Someone is coming," Arthor warns, hand resting on the hilt of his saber. "It looks like the gleeman."

The shadowy shape of Merlin approaches among the scrubby trees. He wears crisp robes, colorful as an angel's, and his beard and long hair float about him like visual music.

"That is not the gleeman," Melania observes.

"No," Arthor agrees. "Is it Fen shapeshifting?"

"I don't think so." A baleful pallor creeps over her as she watches the stranger looming closer, seeming to float across the cluttered terrain, a rainbow for his shadow. "Arthor, I'm afraid. Let us ride from him."

"Yes." He hands her the reins of the blond mare and climbs onto his palfrey. Master Sphenks has already rushed away and disappears in the bush. They gallop in pursuit of its fretful barking.

The weird figure draws closer under the wide moon. The horses spook and buck, and Arthor seizes the blond mare's reins so Melania can dismount. Then he jumps down himself and watches the horses charge off in fright through the shrubs and miniature trees.

Arthor pushes Melania behind him and draws the lodestone dagger. At the sight of it, the flying lamia snaps away in terror, and Brokk hurtles forward massive as a boulder. The sword Lightning flashes and stabs into the ground, jolting the dwarf to a full stop. The weapon master's large, gold-whiskered face grins upward with unconcealed delight.

The skinny lives before him are his reward for enduring the darkness and the stink long enough to be certain that the Dragon sleeps. Once convinced of that, the dwarf allowed himself to roam freely through the netherworld, swatting at faeries with the Furor's sword, venting his rage at the spool of days undone by Bright Night's trickery in leading him here. "And now look!" he speaks aloud with delight. "I have found again the Roman witch!" He leers at Melania, then lifts a menacing sneer toward Arthor. "And you, boy—who are you?"

"It's the Furor's dwarf!" Melania gasps from behind Arthor. "He has the twin lamia."

Arthor draws Short-Life, and Brokk laughs. With a slippery twist of his wrist, the sword Lightning sweeps the saber from Arthor's grasp and drops it into the heavy grass. The dwarf's sword tip cuts fanciful designs of light and bright air and comes to deadly stillness at the crook of Arthor's collarbones.

"Who are you, child?" the dwarf snarls.

"I am Arthor."

"Arthor?" The snarl deforms to a querying frown. "What kind of name is that?"

"My own name."

A flickering smile crosses the dwarf's bellicose face. "You are a brave young one. But this—" He slashes the Celtic cross of Arthor's tunic, the sword barely moving in his heavy hand. "This is an evil emblem." His hard eyes glitter. "Are you an evil one?"

Arthor cannot hear his own voice for the thunder of his heart. "I am a Christian man."

The dwarf's twisted eyebrows rise. "A Christian man in the hollow hills with the Roman witch! What a marvel, what a discovery of wonder this is for me. How came you here, Christian Arthor?"

"I don't know." Arthor does not budge his stare from the dwarf's eyes of cracked blue ice. The boy's eyebrows shrug, and he strives to speak calmly. "We rode here—looking for a gleeman."

Brokk's wide mouth turns downward with disbelief. "You rode here—on those slow, ponderous horses?" He flicks a motion to where the heavy-chested horses nervously wait in the field of stunted trees.

"Yes."

"Looking for a gleeman?"

"Yes."

"But you haven't found him." Brokk taps Arthor's shoulder with the sword and lowers the weapon. "That is why there are three horses and only two of you, eh? Well, call your horses, boy. We will ride together. If you can ride in, perhaps you can ride out."

The sword Lightning touches Arthor's left hand, which still holds the lodestone dagger. "And I will have this stone knife that the lamia fear." He takes the dagger and points it at Melania. "And you and I—" He shows large teeth at the alarm that quakes through her. "You and I will discover together why the Norns have given you to me."

Chapter 25: Play of Shadows

The play of shadows through the yew branches shows Merlin how the fugitive hours escape him while he strives in vain to break Morgeu's enchantment. His own inner monkeys yawp and grin. They are the animal powers of his body that have fled the cages of his muscles and will not go back in. They want to run free, the way his spirit ran free as a demon. Morgeu has used his memories of his former life to bewitch him.

Slowly, Merlin must unravel those memories. He must forget that he ever was a demon.

Memory is its own unbearable mirror.

For a long time, he lies in his stillness, immobilized by sad recollections of the wreckage he has made of numerous beings on many tiny hopeful worlds that he visited as a demon in his raging flights across the void.

The mind is bottomless. Below memory is darkness—the emptiness that interpenetrates and encloses the neural jungle of the brain—the void that yaws between atoms and galaxies. Without it, nothing could exist. Yet with it, heaven is forfeit.

And that is the source of his demonic sorrow.

Embittered memories of losing heaven swarm through Merlin's oldest and deepest memories. Yet, further back than that despair is his remembrance of heaven itself. And that is where he must go to break Morgeu's spell.

Far back into himself he journeys, past the old ghosts of his fury, past the initial shock of falling into the void, back to heaven remembered and his faithfulness to the light.

Merlin's memory of heaven welds him to timeless rapture. At first, he resists it, because he fears that he will sink deeper into coma and maybe not wake for days, years, maybe never. He rails all the more wildly at Morgeu for the evil cunning of her enchantment. And the inner monkeys grin and yawp louder.

Reluctantly, the wizard accepts his fate. He returns in memory to the time before time, before the long, long loneliness. He conjures again the light that casts death's shadow, the first light, pure energy of origin, the radiance of Creation.

The light absorbs him. In its radiant refuge, he forgets all shadows—distance, form, and memory—and he exists again without body or mind. He exists like a jewel, like minerals that have dwelt a long time in darkness and are astonished to find themselves suddenly clear and full of light.

This is only memory. The blood circling in his veins calls him back from his serene recall—and he finds that the inner monkeys are gone. He sits up. The shadows have carried only a few minutes away.

All the more limber from his deep rest, Merlin bounds out of the yew enclosure. Sunlight hurts his eyes, and he hurries blinking through the thistle field to the willow banks of the creek, searching for Arthor. Of course, he is gone. But where?

Faeries flutter in the willow shadows like moist starlight, and the wizard hurries there. Behind a green curtain of withes, the faeries glitter against the rock wall of a hillside. Underfoot, hoofprints walk into the boulders, and in the air, the wizard hears the creaking of saddles.

Morgeu's spell helps him now, because the deep trance that he had to enter to break her enchantment has suffused him with more power than usual. He chants for the faeries to guide him into the hollow hills.

Like bees, the golden bodies of the faeries tuck themselves behind the creepers dangling over the rock wall. Merlin parts the veil and finds a narrow crevice through which he must squeeze sideways.

Inside, black acres of cinders and ash crawl under poisonous air toward a serrated horizon of windy flames. Dead stars float in the arched darkness looking like the purple embers of a scattered fire. Their fumes wrinkle the lightless void with luminescent plasmas, and by their vague illumination, the wizard finds his way toward the precincts of flame.

As he advances inside the addling heat, discarding his hat of woven ivy and breathing the putrid air through his mouth, he seeks out the Furor's tracks that he saw earlier in his trance. They shine with astral light in the sullage of soot where the god has walked.

So intent is the wizard on finding his way to the Furor, hoping that Arthor has not encountered the war god, that he does not see Morgeu hiding under an outcropping of lava.

She watches him pass and keeps her mind clear so he will not hear her thoughts. With her attention focused beyond her sweltering niche, on the plangent breeze from faerieland lapping at the scalloped edges of the scorched lava cliffs, she eludes detection. The wizard passes, and she squirms out of her blistered crevice and climbs down the niter-crusted rocks to the mossy slopes and purling breezes.

No longer does she care if the Furor notices her. The acid stink of the burned ranges is unbearable. She staggers into the chaparral and falls to her knees before a rivulet of glacial water.

She will wait here for Fen to return from his homicidal mission. With her smutched face leaning into the icy water, she rolls up her small, weary eyes toward the bloated moon and the stars in their webs of time, and she prays it will not be long.

While she slakes her thirst, Arthor, Melania, and Brokk ride out of the fields of dwarf trees toward the softer grasslands. The dwarf wants to get close to the sky lakes that gleam like valuable stones in the distance. He wants to hear the mermaids singing while he takes his pleasure with the Roman witch.

Sexuality is not a hasty desire among dwarfs as it is with organic creatures. For Brokk, his whim to penetrate the witch is a mechanical delusion—an unrealistic ambition to imitate the gods and experience something beautiful and unexplained. After he experiments with her, he will ride into the ice mountains and seek there a way out.

The Christian boy will prove useful if any elves appear. They are always willing to trade information for humans, whom they must use for slaves now that the Dragon sleeps and no longer needs to be fed. For an able and young man like this Arthor, the elves will surely show the dwarf the path to the upper world. If not, there is always the sword.

The savor of the dwarf's well-thought-out plan vanishes, empty as a mirage, when he sees at the speckled lip of the lake the Furor, his beard and mane huge as fog. Around him stand the Thunderers, hairy and lean as wolves.

Brokk lifts the sword Lightning in salute and sends forward Melania and Arthor on their horses as tribute. "Hail, All-Seeing Fath—"

"Silence!" The Furor dares not shout, for fear of the Dragon; yet, his voice lashes, and the wild grasses jump, and the mermaids' indecipherable songs disappear. "Why have you made me come down here into the stinking roots of the Tree to get my sword?"

"My Lord—" Brokk falls from the gray mare and thuds to his knees. "I sent for you to be certain that the elves did not trick me. I did not want to lose the sword."

"When must a god come to a dwarf?" the Furor asks, veins thick at his temples. "My life is in jeopardy here."

"No, my lord," the dwarf blurts, holding the sword Lightning forward in both hands. "The Dragon sleeps."

"So you say." The god groans, and steps forward to receive his weapon. "The Sid are devious. It were better that you had risked losing this sword to them than bring me here, in the rootlands where the Dragon's claw easily reaches."

The Furor snatches the sword and whirls it over his head so swiftly it flashes like mirror dust. "And why are these two alive? I ordered them slain."

Melania whimpers and moves to pull her horse around and run, but Arthor seizes the reins and steadies her with a hard stare. Flight is certain death. That he knows, having seen the one-eyed god spin the sword like fire. Better to die facing death than fleeing, his steady gaze tells her, and she relents and sits in her saddle, lame as a skeleton.

Arthor feels like he is floating. There is no bottom to his fear. He stares into the god as into an abyss, and his heartbeat wavers in him like a dream.

Cissa comes forward, bald and leering. "I will do the ritual killing, here in the rootlands of our enemy, and we will leave this cursed place stained with Christian blood."

The Furor holds the hilt of the sword toward the viper-priest. "Do it."

Cissa takes the sword Lightning and feels the Furor's aura upon the weapon—a fragrance of far horizons that skirls up his arm like wind and makes him feel strong as a tree. A serpent grin widens along his tattooed jaw. He motions with the weapon for the riders to dismount.

Melania's legs cannot hold her, and she sinks to her knees, head bowed, hands fisted in the grass with terrified futility. Arthor slides off his palfrey and takes his shield in his hands. Courage failing, balance fading, he grips the buckler hard and stares intently at the serene and sorrowful face of the Virgin. What she has suffered eats a hole in his heart. Almost immediately, his fright diminishes enough for him to turn and face his killers.

The sight of the Furor, with his dark soul in the empty socket of a face like a cliff, penetrates him and bleaches his strength. Before this tremendous entity, he is no more than a dead white thing. All thoughts of appeal, all words of beggary and mercy turn colorless and silent in his mind. A hot flush runs down his leg from his frightened bladder, and he leans on the air and must grip the shield in numb hands with all his might to keep from falling.

"Mother Mary," he begins to pray aloud, his voice stony, oracular, "see your Son's enemies before me, heartless in their vanity. See them, Mother, and show me now, in this dire and fatal moment—oh, please! Show me now that your Son's love for us is not perished—even in this hateful place. For though God shall bring every work into judgment by the witness of your Son—yet all mercy shall come from you, Mother. Do not forsake us to evil, Mother! Show us your mercy—for the love of your Son!"

Cissa laughs like a cough of winter, and the sword Lightning keens softly as it spins over the viper-priest's head. He says something in his barbarian tongue that makes Brokk and the Thunderers laugh—"Let's see if he sings as pretty with a foretaste of oblivion!"—and he swings the sword tip with a razor's accuracy so that it slashes across Arthor's chest, fluttering the rags of his tunic and inflicting a burning flesh weal.

Arthor drops his shield and cries out but does not fall. A brush of silver air slices through the space where he would have fallen.

"Courage wins him another song," Cissa jeers, passing the turning sword from hand to hand, "before the wind sings in his bones."

But Arthor cannot find the prayer in him anymore. The searing pain across his chest and the deepening cold of certain death have taken its place. Sweat glitters its sequins on his young, shivering face.

"Kill him, Cissa," Brokk says, eager to be done with the boy and on to the woman.

"Where is Mother?" Cissa taunts, and the sword Lightning rises high for the blurred arc that will swipe the Christian's proud head from his sobbing shoulders.

"Stop!" A voice loud and dark as thunder rolls over the savanna.

Cissa's arm locks like iron, and he grimaces as if stabbed.

Arthor and Melania turn to look at where the Furor and the Thunderers are glaring. Out of the sere grass, a lanky man with a long, long beard rises.

"It's the gleeman!" Melania sings to Arthor.

The narrow old man throws both his hands up and shouts in his supernaturally big voice a barbarous cry. The sword in Cissa's hand wrenches free and flies on the loud wings of the cry directly at the Furor.

The scowling god blocks the thrown blade with his spear. Weirdly, it spins about the shaft of the spear and drives hard into the Furor's shoulder.

A monstrous cry flays hearing to deafness and throws everyone into the grass except the howling god and the skinny old man. From where the sword is ripped free, silky darkness spills upward like squid ink, blotting the onrush of stars.

Arthor clasps Melania's hands, and their shrill faces gawk at each other through the grass stems. "You were right all along," Arthor cries as their deafness subsides. "I don't think he is a gleeman."

"Lailoken!" the Furor shouts, and hurls the sword Lightning at him, which he instantly regrets.

The wizard diverts the flashing blade with another crazed cry that sends it toppling across the grassland. All his strength is nearly spent now, but he is satisfied. He has fulfilled the mission laid on him by the angels and given all he has to serve his king.

Master Sphenks, who cowers behind him, charges away across the savanna, released from the magic spell that Merlin used to summon it so that he could find Arthor. Had he the energy, the wizard, out of gratitude, would cast over it more of the invisibility that had hidden them as they approached this fateful encounter. But he barely has the strength left to remain standing before the Furor's wrathful immensity.

With the blue veins in his face darkening, the wounded god strides forward and jabs with his spear. Merlin catches the sharp tip under his arms and feels the icy metal against his chest as it cuts through his tunic. Hoisted off his feet, the wizard clings to the spear and hangs for a moment above Arthor and Melania. "Run!" he calls to them, his aged face a rage of fright. "Run!"

Arthor leaps as if spurred and pulls Melania after him. The Thunderers rise to stop them. And the wizard screams a shrill barbarous command with the last wisps of his strength: grass tangles the warriors' ankles and yanks them back to the ground.

Shaking with pain and anger, the Furor whips his spear, throwing Merlin free. The god shambles over him and places the spear tip at his heart. The earth's rotation and the moon's gravitational ambit pivot here in the demon's heart.

Rage wants the god to impale him instantly and explode him to chaos. Only wisdom won from pain insists he hold him fast under his spear and draw from the fulcrum of his cosmic being the very life-force that binds the atomic seams of his body.

Merlin writhes as the light in his bones bleeds out of him and his life blurs. Silences join out of the spaces between nerves, widening emptiness.

While the enraged god extracts the vitality from the demon that the Furor needs to heal his wounded shoulder, Morgeu the Fey watches, thrilled. She commands a clear view from her vantage on the agate slopes above the chaparral. And she witnesses the north god in his swarming mane and blustery beard shining like a glacier's icefalls and seracs. Below his bent, hulking form, the demon's plush heart pools in the field like frost mist.

Merlin dies! she exults and must restrain the urge to leap and dance.

Across the wide solitude of the savanna, Arthor and Melania charge. Morgeu spies them, and hope bounds joyfully in the enchantress. All the blight of the past and its shame and bitterness dim now before a glittering future that consorts with her proud ambitions.

With Merlin dead, Arthor is nothing. No need for tantric magic now. Vengeance is at last and wholly accomplished. Her half brother will fade into obscurity, while her sons Gawain and Gareth ascend the tiers of power to attain supremacy in Britain and even Europe.

Morgeu's serene euphoria cramps at the sight of the jug-eared carpenter who had stood in Merlin's place at Camelot.

The old fool crouches in the chaparral at the edge of the savanna. Morgeu can barely see him—but she sees clearly the clouds of faeries flocking about him. They are busy. Mist rises from their swirling frenzy.

How?

She is too distant to discern the tiny bodies gathering dew and swatting those clear baubles between their wings, scattering moisture to humid wisps that gather in their thousands and thousands of thousands to haze, then mist, then rolling depths of sluggish fog.

The smoky coils swirl onto the savanna, and Hannes reaches into himself for the magical might to grasp a spur of boulders. He shoves at the rocks gathered beneath the ridge where Morgeu crouches.

The earth slides, and Morgeu scrambles for higher ground. Thunder unrolls over the chaparral and bounds into the savanna. On its steeply pitched roar, faeries swirl upward, carrying their fog with them and artfully outlining the hulking mass of the Dragon.

The Furor straightens rigidly at the first glimpse of the threatening shadow. Not for an instant does he hesitate to challenge the apparition, knowing with horrible certitude the fate of gods seized by the Drinker of Lives.

He bounds away, convinced that the Sid have tricked him into the hollow hills for this gruesome sacrifice. As sop to the Dragon, he leaves the demon behind, too weak to escape, and masters the ache of his shoulder to climb hurriedly into the purple mountains.

Brokk rushes after him, neighing like a frightened horse. The lamia clings to him, startled to see the night above explode to sun-cut brightness. Radiant rays of daylight pierce the rootweave of the domed sky where the Furor gouges a way out of the hollow hills with his spear. Sunshine slants from the mountaintop and rides on the sky lakes like myriad lotus cups.

The lamia screams at the sight of the moon washed away and the stars dulled to quartz nodules in peaty banks of the earthy sky. Brokk stabs with the lodestone knife, and the clinging, panicky lamia flares up like ignited gas. The dwarf heaves away the knife and its sticky, blazing effluvium and hurriedly climbs the stairs of sunlight into the upper world.

The Thunderers, too, with Cissa and Aelle in the lead, rush after the fleeing dwarf and their god. Up from the depths they clamber, moving in huge flying leaps and enormous bounding steps in the gold sunshine, swept along by the Furor's updraft into the blue hole of day.

Morgeu screams after them, "It is a trick! A trick!" Her cries dim through the distances, and she plops down on the inter-fingerings of moss and gravel, and shrieks.

Only Master Sphenks hears her, and it stops its barking and mad circling and perks its ears. Then, it smells the day world, the familiar scents of sun-baked dirt, territories of trees, and the damp wind of clouds curling with rain. It bolts after those well-known aromas, running into the moted sunlight on the mountain's flank. Tongue streaming back with its effort, it is determined to return to the world of birds, mice, rabbits, and a dog's life.

Merlin sees it dash by and makes no effort to stop it. He pushes to his elbows and gawks about at the wingspread of sunlight shining across the underworld.

Hannes, in wizard's cap and robe, approaches, dragging Excalibur. Faeries swirl about him like bright dust.

"Master, are you sound?" the carpenter asks, kneeling beside Merlin.

"I don't know," the wizard answers candidly. The naked flesh of his chest, where the Furor's spear touched him, shines like a miracle, and his bones feel hollow. "The Dragon—"

"There is no Dragon," Hannes announces proudly. “Only me and the faeries making smoke and thunder. 'Twas their idea."

"Their idea?" Merlin asks groggily "You can hear them?"

"Oh, yes, Master. Listen."

The faeries swim around them, blearing in and out of human shape. In their nebulous forms, as indigos of brilliance, they chime faintly, and the wizard hears their happiness.

"Well-done, Hannes. Well-done, indeed." A weak smile graces his pallid face, and he lies back to listen more deeply to the murmuring faeries—and to dream himself awake.

Chapter 26: Escape from the Hollow Hills

Fen watches from the mountainside above the mermaids' lakes, where sunlight streaming through the Furor's exit shrivels the faerie grass to powdery gray mold. As the north god rushes toward him, he stands perfectly still at the edge of terror. The lamia squats over him in the gnarled shape of a fungus-ridden tree.

The massive god, with his broken face and winged falcon's cap, shambles past without noticing him.

Then the dwarf Brokk bounces by, and the feculent stink of the lamia he killed swirls after him. The despair of the shapeshifter for its dead twin nearly collapses its disguise. Fen must apply all the force of his dread to hold the grief-mad lamia in place. Even Cissa does not see him. The Thunderers dash past, mad to escape the Dragon.

Fen quakes seeing the Dragon's charred shadow in the roiling fog rising from below. He dares not move until he is certain that the Furor and the others have gone well away. Better to be devoured by the Drinker of Lives than fall again into the cruel hands of the Thunderers.

He watches searing daylight from the upper world bruise and sour the delicate flora of the Storm Tree's roots, reducing the shrubs around him to coral shapes of ash. Slowly but perceptibly, the exit hole clogs with soot and shrinks. He will have to move soon if he is to escape at all.

The Dragon has retreated. The fog thins, and light soaks through. Fen spots the gleeman's dog charging up the mountainside. It senses him and alters its course to climb a slope well out of his reach. The withered grass under it puffs to dust with its passing, and it disappears into the narrowing blue avenue of daylight.

Morgeu the Fey laboriously climbs toward him, emerging from a fuming sinkhole that vents the cinderlands. Her green gown hangs in filthy tatters from her large-boned frame, her pendulous breasts swinging heavily as she mounts the rocky shelves. If she knows he watches, she gives no indication but lumbers past, huffing for breath, her face hidden behind grimed veils of orange hair.

The lamia's hunger supplants its mourning for its twin, and it shivers to attack the enchantress yet does not strike. It fears this woman. She has been a shadow before, and the lamia is loath to waste its vitality attacking a shade. It lets her pass into the smoky daylight and scans for other prey.

Among the last coils of dragonfog that flow up the slopes, two horses gallop. Arthor and Melania ride hard to exit the hollow hills. Fen wraps the lamia about him in the form of Kyner and stands squarely on the path of their ascent.

Arthor reins hard at the sight of the old chieftain, and Melania flies past and must pull around to face him. She meets the startled hopefulness in Arthor's face, more boylike than she has ever seen him before.

Then she glances at the stranger on the ashen slope above, an old, hulking Celtic warrior in Roman cuirass and sandals, his long hair and thick mustache adorning a weathered and careworn face.

"He is my father," Arthor breathes, blinking with astonishment.

"You have no father," Melania reminds him, and reins in closer.

"My foster father—Kyner." Arthor walks his palfrey closer.

"Arthor, no." Melania pulls around to block him. "That cannot be him. Not here, not at this fateful moment. That must be an apparition. Fen! It is Fen and the lamia!"

Its ruse disclosed, the lamia surges forward, and Fen cannot stop it. The flanged jaws of a vaporous skull strike. Melania smacks the rump of Arthor's horse as it rears back in fright and sends it bolting forward under the slashing jaws. A storm wind of horror blows through her as the lamia's viperous face swings closer.

Fen will not let it have her. She is his only hope of salvation, and he tugs at the shrieking seraph. Its spider pincers writhe inches from her heaving chest, its jagged visage chittering with pain fills her vision.

She pulls hard away and drives her terrified steed up the slope after Arthor. Briefly, she glances behind, at Fen on his knees, the cords of his body pulled to their taut limit. His stretched muscles twang loose from their impossible effort, and he comes hurtling uphill inside the scorpion-cloud of the lamia, its wide, lurid mouth shining with razorous tusks.

The exit blazes above the riders, in the cornice ledge of the mountain—a root-hanging hole ripped into the very sky over the rock spire. Around its edges, sunfire illuminates broken sod fallen inward from above: black-eyed Susans and daylilies gleam in the root mats and clods of black earth.

A mauve glow of sidereal energies still shines on the dome of the nether sky in the distance, but near the hole, the heavens appear as a terrestrial fabric of loam and roots.

The ragged gap has narrowed to streaks of daylight barely wide enough for Arthor and Melania to jump through together. Their horses leap from the mountain ledge into the blue day with its green woods and ruffled clouds. And the howling lamia comes rushing after like a burst of fire.

They must charge through the woods at full gallop to keep away from its grasping talons. Trunks shuttle past, branches sing overhead, and the horses heave for breath, wild-beating hearts close to bursting.

They dwindle among the trees, their rapid hoof falls muffled in leaf mold, and Hannes the carpenter emerges from the sunken hole in the earth. He sniffs the air, smelling for thunder, feeling for the presence of the Furor. The surrounding woods glimmer benevolently with birdsong and green sunlight. He eyes the trampled grass and shrubs where the Thunderers crashed through the forest, hurrying for higher ground beyond the reach of the Dragon's claw.

After turning a slow circle and satisfying himself that the empty woods hold no hidden threats, he ducks back into the fuming chute. He returns carrying Merlin over his shoulders. He places the dazed wizard on a leafbed in a surge of shadows beneath wind-stirred beeches and goes back for Excalibur. When he returns with the sword, Merlin is sitting up.

"I must find the young king," the wizard says thinly.

Hannes shakes his head and lifts Excalibur. "No, Master. We must return the sword to the stone. If it is found missing, there will be war."

Merlin hangs his head in weary agreement. He does not have the strength to protect Arthor now. It will be enough if he can return to Camelot and keep that hope alive for him. "You are right, Hannes. Help me up. We must not tarry."

After hoisting the wizard to his feet, Hannes peers a last time into the hollow hills. Through the rent in the dark green earth, he surveys tottering distances of mountain slopes, shawls of mist, and sparkles of faerie in the margins of darkness, cringing from the sun rays.

He shouts a singsong of thanks, then props Excalibur on his shoulder and escorts Merlin through the broken lights of the forest.

The wizard does not have the strength to search ahead for danger. Darkness fits like muscles on his bones, and he barely holds onto consciousness. The Furor has drained him almost to absence, leaving him anonymous and separate from all his powers. He must rely on Hannes.

The carpenter, himself weary, hollowed out by fear and awe, extends his magical strength beyond himself to feel for dim movements of threat. Out of the wind comes the rancid odor of wild men—brigands, no doubt. He does not care to know who they are but uses his magic to project a sense of threat into the woods ahead. He imagines spitting serpents and rampant lions.

The Furor feels the threat even as he climbs the Storm Tree. The sun shakes like a fist in the infinite blue. His eyes have not yet adjusted to the light. His heart, too, still carries darkness from the underworld, and fright wedges itself in his chest.

Not out of fear for himself does he dread a mindless death under the talons of the Dragon. He is old. The coming collapse can only bring him release from his long life of wounds. But the others—the Rovers of the Wild Hunt, and even the dwellers of Middle Earth, the small people like Cissa and his heroic father—what will become of them without him?

From a low branch, he gazes back at earth—the dark rind of approaching night, pastel fumes of sunset and the honey plasma that is afternoon. This beauty maligns his fear, as if nothing evil or sorrowing could exist down there among such glorious brilliance.

And yet, unlike most other gods, he has walked the hide of the Dragon and seen the luckless strivings of the tribes for himself.

The mute moon's face knows. It sees into the darkness. Once the north people had only the night predators to fear and fire to stave them. Then the Romans came with machines of destruction and dreams of conquest instilled by the Fire Lords.

Now the night holds new terrors. The familiar earth has grown strange with the blight of cities, roads, fences. In the night, alien dreams swarm over the people, inspiring them with strange ambitions to tame the wilderness and cage the free and unreckonable spirits of the earth.

And by day, the forests topple, rivers clog with debris, the earth bears the burdens of the Fire Lords' victory.

What will the gods and the people do without him to defy the tamers of the wild? For the people, he must live, he must go on. And so, he turns away from the marbled clouds, the blue swervings of rivers, and forests wide as summer. He will climb to the Raven's Branch, to the crest of the World Tree, and there hang by his feet until wisdom pours into him.

He will hang until that wisdom shows him a future beyond his loss of the sword Lightning. Then he will know how to save the earth from his nightmare vision of dead forests and cities with their mills of smoke that poison the wind and the seas. Then he will at last understand how to stop the Fire Lords from their frantic haste to build the Apocalypse.

Far below the Furor, among the stammering shadows of a birch grove, the Thunderers feel his retreat and the menace of Hannes's magic as an eagerness to get away from Cymru. "We have done all that was asked of us," Aelle says, standing atop a boulder and addressing the blue rondure of the sky, thinking it the wide cape of the Furor.

"He has gone," Brokk gripes, kicking his boot against a tree trunk and shaking his large head. "And he is angry at me. He thinks I have failed him. But how could I have known the Dragon is not asleep? It has never lain so silent before."

"The beauty of denial," Cissa chides from where he sits at the base of the boulder, "is the sweetness of the wish."

Brokk turns on him with an expression furiously ugly as a bat's. "You are the Furor's priest. You should have seen the truth of the Dragon before you let our lord walk the roots of the Storm Tree."

Cissa ignores him and stands. "Noble Aelle, the All-Seeing Father has indeed departed. He walks now in the lofty boughs of the Great Ash, grateful yet to be alive. We linger not in his thoughts, which move on to other strategies. And so we are freed of all charge to remain in Cymru. As are you, loyal Brokk." The viper-priest casts him a sidelong glance. "The Furor cannot spare you to the Dragon. You are commanded to return to your workshop. The sword Lightning belongs now to the Daoine Sid."

With both hands, Brokk rubs his gold-tufted scalp, his frustration as irritating as lice. "I took the sword back from Lailoken—that thief! It was mine again! My own beautiful creation in my hands again."

"Take with you the satisfaction that the demon-wizard Lailoken paid for his thievery with his life," Aelle consoles, stepping down the creased side of the boulder. "The Dragon has devoured him along with the Roman witch, her champion the Eagle of Thor, and our craven Fen. All orts in the Dragon's maw now."

Brokk smiles, but darkly. "You do not truly believe you have seen the last of Lailoken? Simply because he calls himself Merlin, do not mistake him for a common and vulnerable man. He is a demon, older than the gods, and he knows all of wisdom and cunning that pain can teach. Mark what I say, Thunderers. Merlin will walk Middle Earth again."

The dwarf touches each of the Thunderers with an aspect of cold portent. Then, feeling uneasy himself from the near-lethal encounter with the Dragon, he barges into the underbrush and vanishes among trembling branches.

"Merlin may yet live," Aelle concedes, "yet the Thunderer we came here to take back from our enemy is gone to the Dragon—a just fate for one of our own who chose captivity over death in battle. Let us leave his unhappy memory here in these dismal hills and return now to our clan in the lowlands."

Their flesh still stinking with the fetid taint of the underworld and their souls darkened by the shadow of the Dragon, the Thunderers readily agree. Aelle leads them west into the high bush. Out of sight, they will slink like wolves through their enemy's woods to the headland where their boats lie hidden under dunes.

Fen does not see them depart. Wracked by the lamia's hunger, he lurches through briars, exploding thorns and branches with his monster's strength to leap ahead of the horses he pursues and to snatch Arthor.

The young rider handles his horse with prescient agility. He vaults a hollow log practically standing in the saddle, then at the jump's peak collapses on its withers and directs the palfrey to twist in midair and dash off askew so that the lamia pounces on empty humus.

The boy rides as though fused to the animal's heart, as though they share a soul. Melania cannot match him. Time and again, Fen finds himself close enough to strike her while Arthor vanishes through a sudden arch of boughs.

Each time that Fen holds back the lamia's claws, dire pain tears him. Then, when Arthor spins around to dash back for her, the palfrey leaps and squirms like a hare, and the lamia cannot fix on him long enough to strike.

Melania realizes that she only endangers Arthor by holding him back, and she peels away. Immediately, the lamia squats to a shagbark stump, hoping to trap Arthor when he turns back to follow her. Fen kneels within the illusion, panting for breath, glad for the respite, while Arthor reins his palfrey to a tight circle, looking for the lamia.

Bounding as fast as she can through the torn rickrack of briars where the lamia cut through, Melania returns to the narrowing hole that pierces the hollow hills. It has shrunk to a vaporous gap just large enough for her to leap through without dismounting.

Through rags of mist, she gallops down wide mountain slopes, intent on returning to the sky lakes where she stood before the Furor. She has come back to find the lodestone dagger.

The small hole broken in the sod of the nether sky burns red as a rose behind her, its petals tightening. Open space spreads wide before her, mossy slopes, grassy plains, and the green lakes of the mermaids. Their singing falters on the wind, full of sadness. The gleeman's gray mare that Brokk rode grazes in tall hay on the savanna.

"Faeries!" she calls out as she tramples ferns on the speckled shore of an ice green lake. "The stone dagger! Where is it?"

She cranes about and spots mica flashes higher up the slope, where she had run past. Rushing back there, she dismounts with her horse still moving and leaps three big steps before she stops. Faeries bob their luminous bodies in the strong green grass. When Melania kneels, she finds among the tall stalks the lode-stone knife, its quartz haft and speckled blade intact.

She croons thanks to the faeries, tucks the knife in her waistband, and clambers onto her mare. Riding hard uphill goes slower. She kicks and shouts for speed, watching the ruddy shaft of daylight dwindle. Fields of hay heads and feather grass brush past like racing clouds, and with a sweep of shade the hole dims like sunfall.

Melania stops atop the mountain summit, at the crest of the massive stalagmite that touches the turf sky of the hollow hills. Already, ethereal underlights among the rootweave breathe again, quickening to mistings of stars. Where the hole had been, a cool wind yet sweeps from above. She draws the lode-knife and strikes at the scuts of overlaid moss, opening a fissure in the tightening braids of roots.

Standing atop the saddle, she succeeds in cutting a seam wide enough to filter sunlight. Her hands reach up and grasp clumps of sunburned grass. Utilizing all her strength, she pulls herself into the bright cleft and feels the snaky squirmings of the earth.

The healing magic that seals the hollow hills penetrates her, cutting off her breathing. For a struggling moment, she gasps blue, then gains enough purchase with her elbows out of the hole to extrude the rest of herself. Her sandals slip through just as the ground stitches together beneath her—and from inside the earth, as if from far away, she hears the frightened cry of the gray mare.

Lodestone knife in her fist, she runs back through the ripped briars, calling for Arthor. He hears her from the distance where he has roamed, looking for her, hoping she has circled around but fearing she has gotten lost. He thinks her call is a cry hurled from within the lamia's grasp, and he rushes toward her.

At the shagbark stump where the lamia waits, the palfrey shies. Arthor sits up taller, looking for the monster.

Fen unfurls before him half-breathless with blood-need. The lamia strikes over the head of the palfrey.

Arthor slides from the horse's back and hangs from its side—and the lamia's clawed arm uncoils like a tentacle across the terrified animal's back and seizes his tunic. Screaming, the horse twists, bucks, and throws Arthor free before crashing through the shrubs.

Fen stands horribly transfigured before the fallen boy. Inhuman with the desperate need of the lamia, the Saxon's flesh looks burned with hunger, black as toadskin. Eyes of squid swivel in his torso, from a skullmask on his ribs, where the ravenous heart of the monster hangs like the dark, flickering lantern of a hellgate. A cage of fangs opens in its bone face.

Arthor unsheathes Short-Life in a blur that slashes through the abomination. Ichor flies—wobbles in the air in tremulous lobes, then spins back and sheets together like gobs of black mercury reassembling.

The lamia's claws slice at Arthor, and he chops again, splattering them to bursts of mucilage. They implode and reattach to the skeletal lamia. Deft as vipers, the talons strike, and Arthor whacks them again and does not stop hacking. He shatters the atrocity to a writhing mess of worms and newts.

Before the defilement can gather itself, Arthor flees. Even as he runs among crowded trees, he hears the wet, slitherous noises of the thing rebounding. Bulgar saber swinging, he spins about and cuts the lamia in two—and it falls together whole. He hews once more, driving downward, splitting the staring skull to the breastbone and twisting the saber to split it apart. And again it fuses whole with an acid sound.

Arthor backs off, waving Short-Life, his shoulders burning with exertion. The shape of fire passes over the horror, and it assumes the appearance of Melania, arms outstretched beseechingly. "Arthor, help me!"

He gashes her low, across the knees, and she tumbles forward and sprawls into a squamous writhing of tentacles that coil up his boots. Thwacking furiously, he bangs away the grasping tendrils and dances free.

"Arthor, I'm here!"

Heaving for breath and chattering with wild fear, Arthor jumps around and sees Melania rushing toward him. Short-Life sweeps upward, and she falls back with outraged fright.

"Arthor!" She holds up the lodestone dagger.

A glance over his shoulder reveals to him the true lamia, flailing toward him with hooked arms and a widening gullet of fangs, incisors, and razor teeth. He curls, reaching behind, and Melania presses the lodestone knife into his hand.

With the scream of a pierced hawk, the lamia falls back. Its shape wavers watery pale over the quaking filament of Fen's body.

"Take off the throat band," Arthor cries, lunging to his feet. "Take it off, Fen—or you will die with the lamia!"

Fen turns and runs.

"Take off the band!" Arthor calls again, and throws Short-Life.

The blade strikes the lamia behind the knees and topples it to the ground in a snaky thrash. Arthor closes in, lodestone knife poised.

Rolling to its back, the lamia lashes at Arthor with barbed arms. A gouge of the magnetic knife shrivels it to an aqueous sheen around Fen's naked and shivering body.

Arthor seizes the guardian band and yanks it free from Fen's throat. The lamia comes with it. Its harrowing face of boneplates and fiery sockets whirls about to attack Fen, and Arthor pierces its skull with the lodestone dagger.

A vibrant shriek and a blast of hot effluvium heave Arthor to his back. Above him, the lamia blazes invisibly, wrinkling to shadows of heat, its woeful, hideous face a black clot shriveling and then gone into nowhere.

All that remains is a sticky, smoldering gel that drools from the lodestone knife. Arthor throws it into the grass and sits up.

Fen stands over him, holding the Bulgar saber. Panting for breath, his meat shuddering on his bones, he looks crazed. He raises the sword, blue eyes wide, startled. "Now your life is in my hands, Royal Eagle of Thor."

"Fen!" Melania shouts. "He saved you."

The Saxon churns with rage, pride, exhaustion, and disgust. The lamia has violated him. And the Celts and this half-breed boy have violated him. His own clan has done the same and whipped and hanged him in shame. He has been reduced to a husk. And now he must strike before he loses all strength and honor.

This boy below him, with the remote eyes of a killer, understands. He is, after all, the seed of Saxons. There has been a lethal pact between them from the beginning. He knows there is no alternative to death.

Melania screams, and with a war whoop that empties his lungs, Fen swings Short-Life and impales it in Arthor's shadow.

The Saxon totters, drops to his knees, and shrinks over his bones. "Now you are dead," he gasps at the startled boy. "You are dead—and must learn to live all over again."

Chapter 27: In the Realm of Desire

Morgeu the Fey sits up from the bed of mushrooms where she lay down to rest. Her hip aches against the knob of a root, and her brain feels as fragile as the delicate heads of toadstools around her. The scent of the hollow hills lingers on her—a balsam of sunset and woodsmoke that muzzies her with sleepiness. She has to shake her head to stay awake.

In a creek running through deep rows of elm, she bathes, scrubbing herself with ground pine and mint. Working a magical spell that restores her clarity, dressing her chilled body in familiar chants and the scents and sounds of the ordinary woods, she grows stronger.

By her blood-bond, she feels Arthor. He has escaped the hollow hills and wanders this forest, and she senses his fright amidst wickedness. Somewhere nearby, he trembles.

Fen, she thinks. When she reaches out with the brails of her heart to touch the lamia, she cannot find it. Cold reaches back, and by that she knows that the monster is dead.

She looks up through treecrowns, at sunlight wavering in the branches like the shaky light of candles, and she uses that hypnotic radiance to deepen her trance. Soon, her eyes close.

She lies back, and a small sun rises in her brain. A body of light, she surfaces through the lake of her face and turns in midair to confront her nakedness floating below her, a pale wisp of fog hugging the hillside.

Sunlight burns in the numerous windows of the forest. Butterflies plummet through her as she skims over the dark grass, feeling her way toward Arthor by the hum of his blood. She finds him in awe, sitting naked with Melania and Fen in a rain pond. They bathe under a canopy of elders and climbing vines so thick sunlight drizzles into the clearing. They are laughing, the beautiful Roman woman, the thin Saxon, and Arthor.

"The Furor jumped out of the hollow hills faster than a rabbit." Melania smiles at the forest awning, lying back in the water, her sable tresses spreading like ink.

Arthor lofts a laugh, then adds, "If he hadn't, we'd all have been eaten by the Dragon."

"And Brokk!" Melania giggles. "He flew so fast even the lamia couldn't keep up with him."

"You are brave to have gone back into the hollow hills for the stone dagger," Fen speaks with the amber water lapping at his whiskered chin. "The Furor himself had not the courage to stay—yet you returned."

"How else to have saved us from the lamia?" Melania says with her eyes closed.

"You could have outrun me," Fen replies. "I couldn't keep up with your horses."

"Yet you did." She sits up, spilling water over her brow and cheeks. "More than once, you drew close enough to strike me—and you didn't. You held the lamia back."

"I knew only you could save me." Fen stares calmly at her with his tired eyes. The lamia's possession has shrunken him closer to his bones, to the white cords of his body. "I couldn't let it kill you."

"So I became your prey." Arthor groans.

"I am truly sorry for that, Eagle of Thor." The salt white of Fen's long hair floats weblike. "You are a warrior. You have made a death pact with your sword and have taken many lives. Of the two, I chose you for the lamia. You could have escaped me. Your horsemanship is uncanny."

Arthor accepts this praise with a barely perceptible nod. "I would not abandon Melania."

"We saved each other," Melania adds. "Fen spared me, I went back for the blade that saved Arthor, and Arthor risked himself to free Fen from the lamia."

"We are beholden to each other," Fen agrees, and props himself taller, feet gripped by fingers of sand. "We should go from here together."

"You will not return to your clan?" Melania asks, keen with interest.

"I cannot. And I would not." He regards them frankly and without self-pity. "I am not worthy of them. I did not die in battle with the others in my war party."

"Why did you let Kyner take you captive?" Arthor asks.

"I was not ready to die." Fen pauses, ashamed. Wasps prowl across the water with their bright colors and seem to hold his interest. At last, he admits, "I did not even want to lead that raid into Cymru. My father commanded me—to test my courage. I failed him."

"In failing him, you won yourself," Melania heartens him.

"For what that may be worth," the Saxon mutters.

"It is worth what you make it, isn't it?" Arthor says. "That is why you did not kill me when you had Short-Life in your hands. That is why you said I am dead and now must learn to live all over again. You were speaking of yourself as well, weren't you?"

"I suppose."

Melania drifts closer to where the two men lean against the mossy bank. "We have all died on this journey. When I saw that the treasure I had come to this island to claim was already gone, I died, too. All three of us must be born again."

"But to what?" Fen wonders.

"Come to Camelot with Arthor and me." She speaks excitedly. "I am going to recruit among the warlords and chiefs. I want their help in reclaiming my estate in Aquitania. Come with us."

"You are going to Camelot?" Fen asks Arthor. "I remember you saying that you would never go back to Kyner and his clan, that you were striking out on your own."

"So I thought," Arthor admits, contritely, "before I died. Now that I must learn to live all over again, I cannot do so alone. I need my family."

"Kyner will want subservience from you," Fen reminds him.

"I am ready now to serve."

"Ha!" The Saxon stands up, astonished, displaying a lean body mottled with lacerations and bruises. "The Royal Eagle of Thor serve? You are the best warrior and horseman in your clan—in any clan, I can truthfully say. How can you tell us that you will serve those less than you?"

Arthor glances silently at both of them and weighs his words before he says, "I have been in the hollow hills and seen the verges of hell. I have stood before the Furor and met his wrathful judgment. And I have been prey to a lamia—and been killed."

"And that has humbled you." Melania nods sympathetically.

"Yes—and more." Arthor, encouraged by the open faces of his listeners, dares speak earnestly, "Not only am I humbled to experience the smallness of my life—I have seen the greatness of God's will. When I prayed for mercy to the Holy Mother, she appealed to God for me, and I was saved—we were all saved. For what? That I should go into the world and find more trouble for myself? I am not so arrogant as to believe that God exists to serve me. I have been saved this one time that I should find myself."

Fen sits again in the pool and tilts his head curiously. "And what have you found, Royal Eagle of Thor?"

"I know now that I belong where God has placed me," Arthor answers, head bowed, addressing his reflection in the dark water. "God in His greatness has made me just what I am—a warrior in the household of Chief Kyner and his rightful son Cei. They are my clan's leaders. I am but a foundling. If I love God truly, if I am a true Christian, I will take my place, humbly and with wholehearted devotion."

Fen shakes his head. "Your god of love is a demanding one. What god would squander a man of your talents on servitude to an oaf like Cei?"

Arthor responds without hesitation: "A God of justice."

"Justice?" Fen turns a silent laugh to Melania, then back at Arthor. "Is it just, then, that Melania lose her estate to pagan warriors? That you, a man with Saxon blood, who has battle skills that would make you a chief in a Saxon clan, must serve Celts? What justice is this?"

"It is divine justice, Fen. It is God's will."

"I do not understand. Do you, Melania?"

"No." She shakes her head sadly. "I have no faith anymore—not since my Christian family was destroyed by the barbarian sword. Our tour of hell and our encounter with the Furor has convinced me that this world is ruled not by God or justice or love but by might alone. Arthor, the Furor fled not from your desperate prayer to the Virgin—but from the terrible might of the Dragon."

"No god cares about our small lives," Fen says. "We survive by our skills alone—or we do not survive at all."

Arthor faces them with adamant sincerity. "You are both wrong. The God I worship is not a created being like the Furor or the Dragon. Such beings are the powers of this world, yes. But there is a Creator—a God who lives in each part of Creation and yet stands apart, watching and guiding. 'Not one sparrow is forgotten in God's sight. Even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid, for you are of more value than many sparrows.'"

"Is that what your religion teaches?" Fen asks, incredulous.

"Those are the words of Jesus," Melania replies, looking at Arthor with an unhappy expression. "Then, was God watching when the pagans slew my brothers and my father?"

Arthor lifts helpless hands, water streaming through his fingers. "Are we to question God for those chosen to die? Each of us has our time."

"If you are so ready with the words of your Jesus," Fen speaks, "why did you not take succor with him in Kyner's clan? Why did you burn with the desire to flee? Where was Jesus for you then?"

"Not in my heart," Arthor answers sincerely. "I am ashamed to say, I loved His mother more than Himself."

"His mother?" Fen frowns, not comprehending.

"She is the Lady of Sorrows—she understands my suffering. She has always given me comfort, since I was a child. But I did not listen to her. I did not understand when she told me that love is first. Never abandon."

"And now you understand?" Fen asks, trying to grasp.

"I understand that I am, finally, glad to be but a foundling. I would not want to be Cei, to have to fill Kyner's shadow. I thought I wanted that. I used to pretend I was a king. It made me feel important. Now, I see the price of that importance. As a king in this land, one must stand against the likes of the Furor. I certainly do not want that. I never want to face that ferocious god again. I am happy to leave that to the true kings of this land. Let them carry such a frightful burden. I am glad that is not my fate. It will be easy now to serve those who must lead."

Fen smiles wryly. "So you have found your place as a little man."

"And happy for it, Fen," Arthor answers easily. "I am going back to Camelot to take my rightful place—as a little man. I will never complain again."

Melania brushes her fingers against Arthor's cheek. "How sad that you must return without your shield—without the image of the Virgin."

Arthor squeezes her hand affectionately. "It is only that, an image. She is with me, yet." He faces Fen with a bright countenance. "Will you come with us then—to Camelot?"

"To a gathering of Celt and Christian warlords?" Fen tucks his chin and shakes his head. "I think not."

Melania glimpses a pale motion blur in the canopy and glances up to see a dove perch on an overarching bough. "Arthor—look!"

Fen smiles at their childlike surprise. "It is a bird."

"Yes," Arthor agrees, and stands up in naked wonder. "A bird—small comfort for the peace I have made with myself."

Morgeu the Fey has seen enough, and she withdraws through the vaulted spaces of the forest. A fleshy moon hangs among the branches of the day sky, orienting her in the loamy stillness. She finds her way back to the damp sweetness of the creek under the hillside where her body lies naked in the sun.

She fits herself into her flesh, and her eyes open languidly. Wind through the trees chills her. The first taint of evening's camphor lifts from the creek where, later, fog will crawl. She rises and reclaims her gown from the branch upon which it has dried to a limp, satiny attenuation of her body.

There is magic in this cloth. That is why she wore it to go with the dwarf Brokk to confront Merlin. When the green fabric falls over her head and slinks down her figure, the ache in her hip vanishes along with the damp chill. A surfeit of power replaces the tenderness of her bones with incandescent ceremony: She stands at the creek's marly edge not as an earthly and prayerful woman but an enchantress.

The cloud-swift afternoon collapses slowly to the melancholy beauty of summer twilight, and she dances. Her bare feet stamp the earth in ritual rhythms far older than the island's pagan temples now in ruins, older even than the stone cirques on the plains or the highland cromlechs or even the chalk carvings of the coastal cliffs. She beats the prehistoric cadence of the aboriginal goddess, whose breasts are the sun and the moon, whose sex fills the voluptuous hills with her ache of living fire, green with the world's stubborn desire, spread wide under the semen of the stars.

Her own soft flesh fills with inconsolable yearning as she cants and veers through the tinctures of the setting sun. Goddess-force infuses her with longing and enticement. Pleasure shimmers in green, auric waves from her hips, breasts, and belly. The etheric glow of her body burns coolly in the dusk. With limber arms, she shapes the viscous light, spins, and weaves its supernatural shine about herself.

By the time the midsummer sun winkles away in the forest and darkness crowds the trees under the moon's rays, she blazes with green fire.

The night breathes fireflies. Attracted by Morgeu's spectral illumination, they glitter after her in a prismatic wake as she walks through the woods. By the time she reaches the masses of hawthorn hedges near the knoll where Arthor and his companions sleep, radiance whirls about her.

She sits. Slowly, with an effort that closes her face, that curls her body around her navel, she compresses the eerie brilliance. The green flames licking her body whorl tighter and gradually pull away from her scattered hair and her hunched shoulders and spool under her breasts into her palms turned upward in her lap.

The quarter moon falling away from midnight settles like a pale blue petal through the treetops. As it blushes toward the horizon, Morgeu completes the preparation for her tantric spell. The ghost fire has contracted to a pulsing emerald she holds in her right hand.

She covers the bright bauble and quietly, shrouded in moonless dark, sidles through the hedges and up the knoll. Fen, Melania, and Arthor sleep on three separate sides of the hill, the better to thwart attackers and warn the others.

Silent as mist, she floats among spindle trees to where her half brother lies on his back in the trampled grass. Crickets sing under the wind's heavy breath, and she calls his name several times before he sits up groggily.

"Arthor—I am here," she whispers from a dark dizzy with stars. "Come to me."

"Who's there?" he calls, hand on sword.

"Sh-h-h—come silently." She rises from the tall grass, a silhouette against the loud stars.

"Melania?"

When he stands, she crushes the gem of green light between her palms and grinds it to a ticklish powder. Then she takes three quick strides toward him, opens her palms to a flash of cold brightness, and blows the lustrous smoke in his astonished face.

"I am Melania," she instructs him. "I want you."

The dream dust glinting on his drowsy features dissolves to conifer coolness, and his eyes close. A moment later, he rouses himself and blinks as if just woken from sleep. At the touch of Morgeu's fingertip to his creased brow, a curtain of heat snaps open in Arthor's chest, and a mirage of breathless beauty unfurls before him.

He sees Melania sliding out of her gown, holding out her hand. When he takes it, a realmful of desire urges him forward. She leads him down the hill into deeper darkness.

"What you said while we bathed in the pond today moves me, Arthor." She speaks in a hush. "You are so brave to return to your humble place in Kyner's clan. You are so brave, I want to take my place with you."

"Melania—" He gropes for words. Her nakedness blurs with pastel softness under the constellations.

"Don't speak. Not now."

She settles to the ground and pulls him after her. By feel and scent, he senses mint, borage, buttercup, and columbine crush beneath them. His awareness widens to unnatural limits, and he observes the starlight weaving Melania's features with bright passion. Her nipples point at him like small, dark thumbs. When she tugs him free of his loin-wrap and takes the wick of his desire in her hand, his whole body ignites with dazzling pleasure.

Together, they rock in each other's embrace, brinking on wider dimensions. Time falls away. Their bodies slap sparks of sweat from each other that fill the night with stars. Melania's wild face drinks from his mouth. Her legs clasp him tighter to her, and the stars begin moving.

Turning over and over, they roll onto, into, and through each other. And each time that lust breaks inside him and into her and he collapses in ecstatic disaster, she clasps her mouth to his and breathes hard into his lungs—and his carnal fire flares again with inexorable force. He bucks against her, and they grapple in a whiplash of caresses, their joys stitched into each other, sewn tight and slow to explode.

The spires of the trees rise toward dawn's greasy light before Arthor finally reaches a deep, abiding truce with Melania. He lies limp in her arms, wrung of all heat. Until sunrise turns buttery, he does not move but hugs her against his lean shiver, glad for their love's leisure.

Then, languorously, he rolls over and opens his sleepy eyes. The soft length of her body is a bunched mat of weed-strands and crushed grass. He sits up, puzzled, and wipes tangled straw from his face. His shoulders bear the hot bruises of love bites or he might almost believe he has dreamed it all, as vividly unbelievable as this lewd memory is.

Rubbing the stupor from his brow, he gathers his loincloth, tunic, and sword and looks about for signs of her. She is gone. Among the narrow trees and the dark hedges, slants of morning mist totter drunkenly.

Chapter 28: A Dream Has Wings

Hannes and Merlin bathe in a black tarn where white herons glow like paper lanterns. Among blunt rocks, they wash their garments and exchange them, each glad to be restored to his proper garb. The wizard, spent by the Furor's attempt on his life, curls up in his robes, hides his face in his wide-brimmed hat, and sleeps.

Hannes watches over him in the cinnamon light of the forest mere. Plying his magical sight, he looks into the wizard and sees a darkness black as the uttermost reaches of the abyss. Quickly, he looks away—yet already, hours have fled.

The hollows of the night forest echo with lorn owl calls. Hugging Excalibur to himself with fright, the carpenter lies down at his master's feet and waits impatiently for sleep. Rest does not come. His desperate heart beats in the swamp grass with fearful vertigo for the namelessness of the depths he has glimpsed.

At the first touch of sun, he rouses the torpid wizard, and they slouch away among hanging vines and brown, dusty rays of sun. By noon, Hannes leads Merlin out of the dark and perilous woods of Crowland into the rolling pastures and cow-dotted meadows of the old Roman estates.

Among the lonely ruins of once splendid villas, thatch-roofed farmhouses and rude hamlets cluster. Gold coins lost in past centuries hide in the worm-fill of these regions, under lichenous blocks fallen from sunken temples. With the fine threads of his magic, Hannes feels them out and pulls a few glittering to the surface while his master dozes in the shade.

At a farm cottage, they buy hot, fortifying mugs of chicory brew and two horses from stables under a sour vineyard. When the vintner appraises with loud awe the remarkable sword that these two old men possess, Hannes speaks forgetfulness to him while Merlin wraps Excalibur in a horse blanket.

They ride along the ancient highway that leads to Cold Kitchen, passing drays mounded with that summer's bounty destined for the open markets of Uxacona and Viroconium. Hunger thrives in the travelers, and they stop at hilltop crofts for meals of salt fish boiled in milk and purees of beans with chestnut cakes—hearty food to restore their stamina.

Merlin eats with gusto but says nothing the entire journey, though Hannes burbles with questions. The carpenter wants to know more about elves, faeries, the hollow hills, the Dragon, the Furor and his dwarf. He asks, too, about magic and how it works.

Merlin says nothing. Hat pulled low over his brow, the aged wizard rides like a sleeper. He reaches with his heart's brails for the young king, wanting to know that he is safe—but his grasp wavers and shreds in the wind. The wizard's body feels like a nest of bones, his magic an egg not yet hatched.

Camelot rises to view in river mist and moonlight. Hannes leads the horses into a hazel grove, ties them off, and begins looking about for kindling, assuming they will ride the last steep miles into Cold Kitchen with the morning.

Merlin unwraps the sword Lightning. Reflections slip over its blade like light in a cat's eye. He points with the sword to the mountain shadows under the hard white stars. Hell-swirls of moonlit mist rise from the river ravines of those heights.

On foot, the wizard guides the carpenter upward through oak forest tunnels where lunar fumes congregate as in a hall of spirits. They walk past midnight before they look down through shagged walls of cedar into the gorge of the River Amnis.

Hannes gives thanks for his magic as they descend rocky spillways and ferny couloirs toward the loud current. Sometimes, by invisible hands alone, they grasp vertical slabs of jasper and walk straight down into the roaring darkness.

At bottom, they traverse a bankside path over slippery shale and through bracken selvage to where the river broadens. The indolent current slides quietly around birch islands and their ghostly reflections in the black water. Mons Caliburnus stands tall against the moon, and bats spin around it in silvery darkness.

Merlin shoves the magnetic counterstone into place at the base of the mount, then climbs to the top, and Hannes follows. They pause in the hackberry shrubs near the star stone. The illusory Excalibur still stands where Hannes set it. All the night's luminaries show themselves in its mirroring blade.

"A fine work of magic that is," Merlin praises his student and then peers downslope from their covert. "There are people on the hill."

Using his magical strong eye, Hannes discerns a half dozen people on the sward below. Most sleep, while a couple kneels in prayer.

A banshee's feverish wail ululates from Merlin, and the startled sleepers and worshipers leap up. Another ghostly cry from the wizard sends them dashing for the path away from the river.

Merlin emerges from the hackberry bush. At his touch, the illusion of Excalibur wafts away like heat, and he holds the gnarled stave in his hand. He removes it, and as he restores Excalibur to its place, the blade kisses stone with a clear chime.

Placing the stave across his lap, the wizard sits in the grass before the standing sword and gazes up at the lucid weapon. Instantly, he sinks into trance, allowing his energy and the sword's to merge within him. Inside the sword's shafts of diamond light, inside its destiny, he strives to find Arthor.

Time blurs. Out of its smoke emerges the sword, pointed upright, suspended in the air. Arthor appears in the time-mist, naked, dewed with sweat. Behind him is Morgeu, also naked, her thighs and the red tuft of her genitals slick with sexual chrism.

Merlin's heart bangs like a thunderclap, and he reels almost unconscious before the madness of this evidence and its ugly truth. No! It must not be!

Afflicted with the hope that what he witnesses has not yet transpired, he reaches out with all the magical power he can muster, and he tries to pull the mists of time over this horrid image.

The haze of minutes and hours slips away from him and leaves the naked couple standing in clear light, their pearly bodies reflected in the blade of the sword that floats behind them—and by this he knows that what he sees is actual.

Morgeu places her hands on her white belly, feeling inward to her womb and the baby of a future that Merlin has not anticipated. He groans—and time blurs.

At dawn, King Lot arrives on Mons Caliburnus with his sons Gawain and Gareth, because the boys want to try their hands at drawing the sword. They find Merlin sitting in the grass stone-still and Hannes with his back against the stone, asleep. The king nudges the carpenter awake with his boot-tip. "You—wake up!"

Hannes judders alert. When he sees the fierce warrior-king glowering at him, he throws a look at Merlin. The wizard sits entranced.

"Who are you?" the king asks, sternly.

"I—I am the master builder Hannes," he stammers, "apprentice to Merlin, wizard of Britain."

"You told me you were Merlin," Lot practically growls at Hannes, then drops a wrathful stare at the motionless wizard. After examining him, he announces, "This is Merlin. Yes, I recognize his bony face now. What has become of him? Why does he not move?"

"He wanders the spirit realm," Hannes assumes. "He must not be disturbed."

Gawain and Gareth crouch beside the still wizard and ogle his weird countenance and half-lidded mineral eyes.

"Leave him be, boys," Lot enjoins; then, turning to Hannes again, "Why did you lie to me?"

"At Merlin's command alone, my lord," Hannes answers abjectly. "He feared that if his absence were known, fighting would ensue."

Lot nods curtly. "His fear was sound. Now tell me, where did he go when he left you in his place?"

Hannes speaks to the warrior's boots. "That is for him to say, my lord."

"Mother!" Gareth cries out, and leaps off the stone, where he has been futilely tugging at the sword. "Mother has returned!"

Morgeu rides up the hill path on a white mule, accompanied by several of Lot's brawny guards. During the night, she left Arthor entranced and used the tantric power she had built with him to summon a spirit pony from the hollow hills. She had never ridden one before. The ancient magic emboldened her. Upon the rippling chine-bones of a violet creature with white-hot eyes, she rode to Camelot faster than the wind and dismounted in the pine hills above Lot's camp. Reefs of stars still shone in the heavens when she returned unannounced to her tent.

Refreshed, she now appears with white ribbons in her hair and wearing a gown of reds, purples, and blacks. Her maids worked hard, deftly applying cosmetics of powdered seashells and minium to obscure the bruises and abrasions from her rough adventure, and when she dismounts to embrace her sons, she looks fresh and pale as morning mist.

The boys do not ask where she has been. All their lives, she has come and gone, worshiping by moonlight in desolate places, assuring the well-being of their kingdom. When she returns, the magic in her hugs lifts them like song into the wind—and this time her touch is even brighter than usual, filling them with a superlative dazzle of well-being.

For Lot, there is a charmed word in the ear, and his hot blood feels strung like a harp, jangling with amorous music. He smothers his face in her fuzzy hair, and its meadow fragrance crowds his heart with love. "Come to my tent with me now," he whispers to her, and tries to guide her away from the wizard she hates.

But Morgeu has come to exult over Merlin. She gentles her husband with a soft kiss and pushes him airily aside. Then she approaches the wizard.

Hannes steps back from his master, feebly protesting, "He is entranced and should not be disturbed."

Morgeu laughs tautly and stands over the sitting wizard. She knocks off his hat, grasps his brow and pushes him backward.

The surge of power in her touch breaks his trance, and he sprawls awake on the grass and squints into the rising sun. Morgeu eclipses this radiance and bends close with a mocking leer. "I have taken my revenge," she proclaims in a voice pitched for his ears alone. "My father's blood has earned a way to the throne not through grief but love. Go ahead, Merlin, and create your high king of Britain. I will not thwart you—for I carry his successor!"

Morgeu steps away brusquely, and daylight bewilders Merlin. He shades his eyes with his hand and sees Excalibur stuck in the stone, a ring of refracted light surrounding it. The myth of the one true ruler of Britain that he strove so hard to create, he sees now, is a bubble. It is destined to float away on the wind and burst.

Yet, look how the clouds and trees shine! he tells himself, watching the morning wind preening the green branches. Here in the real world of weather and forests, the bubble remains intact. Arthor is alive. And I am alive! Merlin marvels, remembering with a giddy shiver the miracle Hannes worked to save him from the Furor's wrath.

He looks about and watches Morgeu retreating downhill with her family and their warriors. Gareth rides the slow white mule, one hand spinning overhead as if taming a wild stallion. Gawain has an arm about Morgeu's waist, and Lot holds her hand. They are the very image of a happy family, wholly unaware of the hurting dark she bears within her.

With weary effort, the wizard struggles to rise, and Hannes helps him to his feet. "Why are you smiling, Master?"

"Am I?" Merlin asks, groggily. He leans on his staff, puts quavery fingers to his beard, and feels the shine of joy within. "I suppose I am smiling. And why not, Hannes? Excalibur has been returned, none the worse and no one the wiser. Arthor lives. And so do we! Why not smile?"

"Morgeu the Fey broke your trance," Hannes says apprehensively, searching the old wizard for signs of dementia. "She seemed to whisper a terrible curse in your face."

"Yes—there is that." Merlin frowns, and Hannes hands him his hat. "But, as experience has taught me, where is there truth without falsehood? Where a mountain without a valley? Morgeu could have burst the bubble."

"I don't understand, Master."

"She could have killed Arthor, man!" he says sharply but not to Hannes, rather to himself, in reproach. "He was in her grasp and I too weak even to know it, let alone stop her." He puts on his hat, the shadow of its large brim covers his face, and from within its darkness he mutters aloud his thoughts, "But she didn't kill him, did she? And she won't. She won't use her magic against him. Not anymore. She wants him to live now. She will protect our bubble. Soon, she will guard it with her life—oh yes, with her very life. At least, for a while."

"Master, I still don't understand."

Merlin looks up abruptly and seems surprised to see Hannes before him. "Oh—Hannes—yes, of course. I'm mumbling, aren't I? Never mind. This does not concern you. You have done enough for me, good fellow." He takes the carpenter's shoulder in his grip and squeezes it affectionately. "I now release you from your charge. You are free to go."

"You don't seem sound, yet," Hannes observes with concern. "You are still weak. I will stay until you recover."

"I'm well enough. The Furor took the wind out of me, but I am whole. I shall be fine." He sits on the edge of the star stone and draws a deep breath to clear his head. The trees billow with the giant pulse of the wind, and he experiences again a rush of relief at surviving in the hollow hills under the Furor's spear. "I owe you my life, Hannes. I would like to reward you."

"That is not necessary, Master." Hannes shakes his head. His avid blue eyes do not budge from watching the wizard. "The wonders I have experienced these past days are reward enough for this old man."

"Even so—" Merlin gestures expansively. "The world of magic is wide. Horizons forever! I have opened the first four gates of power in your body. Now, let me open the fifth. That will empower you with the heart's brails for feeling deeper into the world."

"Master, please—" Hannes looks pleadful. "I don't want to feel any deeper. Actually, I have been thinking to ask you—when you are well enough, that is—to take away the magic you have given me."

Merlin leans back. "Take it away? But you've become so adept."

"You warned me that magic does with us as it pleases." Hannes sits down beside the wizard, leans his elbows on his knees, and shrugs his helpless hands. "I see now the truth of what you say. I had dreamed that magic would make of my old days a youthful adventure. And it surely did that. But I am not a youth. My heart is a horde of ghosts. They wonder why I am cavorting with elves and faeries when I've grandchildren who have yet to learn my trade." He flexes his hands and proudly holds them up. "These, I realize now, are all the magic I wanted. My own life back in my hands. I am a master builder, Merlin, not a wizard. When I lost my hands, I lost my work—and then I lost my mind and started dreaming of a new life. After all I've seen and done these past days, I would be glad indeed for my old life. Just leave me the use of my hands."

Merlin smiles, wisely. He recognizes here the human spirit that belongs to its work, that finds itself in what it creates, only thinking it wants more clarity, power, life, while knowing deeper it exists not to want or even to have but to be. "You don't want to be a wizard?"

"No, Merlin," Hannes admits and stands up. "I want to be what I am."

Merlin rises and looks the carpenter squarely in the eyes. "Well said, Hannes. Well said. You shall have your hands. You shall be again the master builder you always were." The wizard speaks forgetfulness to the man.

Hannes's eyes flutter, and Merlin steadies the carpenter until he snaps alert. "It is done," the wizard tells him. "I have fulfilled your wish."

Holding his strong, flexible hands before his face, Hannes grins. "My hands—you have restored my hands!"

"As you wished," Merlin says. "Now, I believe, our agreement is satisfied. You have built me the round table—and I have granted you one wish."

With tears in his eyes, the master builder hugs the wizard. He rants for a while about what joy this is for him, what creations wait to be released from his nimble fingers. Then he bids fond farewell and merrily strides away, eager to return to Hartland, where his family and his work await.

Merlin watches him amble off and finally disappear in the far warp of the land among cedar giants that the Romans planted centuries earlier.

He turns, walks to the sheer hem of rock atop the mount, and balances, gazing down at the snakewise river with its mottled skin of morning fire and forest shadows. And he waits patiently for the fragrant wind to send him messages of the young king and to stop whispering about the river's adventures in the lost valleys and its slow journey to the blue embrace of the sea.

Chapter 29: Love Is First

Clouds heave over the forest hills and budge against the dawn, promising rain. Fen and Melania sit upright, embraced, joined below the waist, legs about each other's hips, foreheads touching, in deepest communion. The fast beat of their hearts outpaces their rocking bodies. And when the mounting pleasure becomes unbearable for her, she lifts her face, shy and desirous, and her eyes open and see him watching her from far away, deep in the dream life of his animal ecstasy.

She puts a hand on the muscled pad above his nipple and covers the thunderbolt scar that marks him as a Saxon clansman and chieftain's son. Then his hands release her and brace the earth behind him as he levers his hips, reaching with his bright tine for the core of her. She's startled by the sound she makes, bites her lip, and lashes his corded neck and straining shoulders with her long hair.

They ride their shared climax equally amazed and collapse together into shapeless exhaustion. For a long time afterward, they lean into each other, not wanting to interrupt the union that has delivered them to the first true joy of their lives.

Neither of them can account for this passion that has fused not just their bodies but seemingly their fates. Beyond the sheer truth of desire, they find they both reach for something more, an initial hope that each echoes for the other. In Fen, Melania has found her champion, who can help her reclaim her estate. And for him, she is the home he can win for himself by displaying the best traits of his heritage—by daring, martial skill, and strong spirit.

Throughout the night, while Fen plaited for himself a grass kilt under a sky choking with stars, this is all they spoke of. Their faith in each other requires no god, no clan, no magic but their own sole desire to take back what the world has taken from them. They recognize themselves as counterparts of one destiny. And now that they have physically sealed that union and tethered themselves by bonds of love, they unclasp and face each other with equal measures of expectancy, dread, and amazement.

Relieved and released from passion, they look at each other for something more naked than their bodies. Fen speaks first. "I want to go with you, to Aquitania—just exactly as we discussed when we lay together in the dark, when we could not see each other, only our dreams."

"It is day now," Melania says, and glances at the blush of dawn. "Dreams must prove themselves in this clear light—or fade away."

Fen takes her hands in his. "I will not fade away."

"You are a very different treasure than what Great-grandmother sent me to find."

"I will prove as valuable," he promises, relaxing all force in his voice and lifting his silver-bearded face to reveal his sincerity.

"Oh, I think more so." She smiles and kisses him.

Arthor shoulders through the hedges, still straightening his tunic from his passionate encounter in the night, and he stops short. "Melania!"

Melania snatches her gown and covers her nakedness.

"Arthor—" Fen speaks with surprise, then shrugs with good humor, and entreats, "Please—we need to be alone."

"Alone?" Arthor shoots bewildered ire at the couple. "Melania—what of our passion?"

"Our passion?" Melania asks over her shoulder as she crawls into her gown. "What are you talking about?"

"Our passion together—last night."

She pulls the gown into place and turns a befuddled look upon him. "I was not with you last night."

"Of course you were," the flustered boy insists. "You came for me. We lay together in the field."

She passes her frown to Fen, then back to Arthor. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Melania and I have been with each other all night, Arthor," Fen says as he secures about his waist the hemp cord of his grass kilt.

Arthor locks his jaw, eyes narrowing, trying to see through to the motive of their lies. "I don't understand." He steps a pace closer to Melania, accusatory finger pointing. "I saw you—I touched you, held you. We were together until just now."

Melania shakes her head solemnly and stands up, dropping her gown fully into place. "That was not me."

Arthor, hands on his hips, turns his head and regards them out of the tail of his eye. "You are tricking me—the two of you."

"Arthor—look at me." Fen steps up to him, his face grave beyond all jest. "Melania and I are in love. We have given ourselves to each other."

"This is true," Melania eagerly confirms, standing behind Fen and taking his arm. "We have spent all night preparing for our lives together."

Arthor's arms drop limply to his side. "Then—who was I with?"

Melania lifts her eyebrows inquisitively. "An elf-woman from the hollow hills?"

"Or the witch," Fen murmurs darkly.

Arthor makes a face. "What witch?"

"The witch with the dwarf," the Saxon replies, nearly shivering to remember the lamia's possession, full of hunger and power. "She called herself Morgeu the Fey."

"I've heard of her," Arthor mumbles, recognizing the name from overheard conversations at hearthside in White Thorn. He knows she is King Lot's wife, a sorceress much loathed by Kyner and his Christian court. "But the woman I was with looked exactly like ... Melania."

"I was not with you, Arthor," Melania says sadly, pitying him for the strangeness that has found him in the night. "You were under the spell of an enchantress."

Arthor nods, stunned. He backs away, too numb for words, then turns and retreats into the hedges. A heavy rainlike mist settles through the trees. Morgeu the Fey? he says to himself. Why would she come to me?

He returns to the field where he lay with the enchantress. The rising sun smears through misty clouds—green, ocher, purple—hues runny as a disease. From the matted grass where he and his lover thrashed, he tries to spot her footprints. They are obvious in the wild grass, and he traces her steps among bent shafts of wild ginger, Solomon's seal, deer's-tongue, and trout lily. Soon he finds himself beneath husky spruce, where the trail of footprints ends.

What did she do—fly? he wonders, searching vainly for further signs of her.

Eventually, he relents and sits on a root-ledge, chin in his hands. Mist flares to a drizzle and soaks him in its chill aura. Hard as he ponders, he cannot think why a sorceress would seduce him. All he can surmise is that the strange gleeman who led them into the hollow hills and saved them from the Furor and his warriors is not yet done with them. They are all under a terrible spell. Why else would a Christian woman and a Saxon fall in love? he reasons. We are charmed by eldritch powers—elves and witches.

He berates himself for not having heeded Melania when she first warned him about the gleeman. Because the odd man had professed Christian faith, Arthor had ignored his grotesque appearance. But now, recalling those weird metallic eyes and long bones, he knows that this warlock cast his magic upon them.

But to what end? he asks himself, aware that twice the magician saved his life—first with his wise dog snatching Fen's thrown ax out of midair and then sparing them the viper-priest's deathblow. Did the warlock save me for the sorceress? Why?

"It will all come clear in time, lad." A dark, gleaming voice speaks from the leaning evergreens.

Short-Life flies to Arthor's hand. "Who speaks?"

"Over here, boy."

In the tenebrous rain shadows among crisscrossed spruce, a vague figure appears. Arthor wipes dripping rain from his brow and shifts sideways, raising his sword defensively when he sees that the tall man in blue tunic and yellow boots who steps from the forest alcove looks transparent as water.

The apparition shows the misty woods behind him. As he approaches, the wounded details of his battered body reveal themselves: His scalp gleams fire-bald on one side, hackled with singed red hair on the other, and his long, green eyes gaze out from a scalded face lacy with blisters and hot sores.

"Who are you?" Arthor asks in a fright.

"Bright Night," the ghost replies with a shining, shadowy voice. "A prince of the Daoine Sid."

Arthor steps back, waving his saber. "Stand away from me. I am a Christian man. My soul belongs with Jesus—not your Dragon."

A luminous smile winks from his burned lips. "I'm not here for your soul, lad."

"What do you want of me?"

"I've come to return something you left behind in my realm." Bright Night's image wavers in the trembling rain as he turns and gestures toward a bank of empurpled clover. "We don't want the likes of it in the hollow hills. It belongs to you. Take it."

Arthor's shield lies on the ground, beaded with raindrops, the doleful image of the Virgin full of beautiful silence.

"Mother Mary!" Arthor sheathes his sword, steps through the clover, and takes the shield in both hands to be sure it is not an illusion. The solidity of it floats a smile on his face. He marks all the familiar dents and scratches and touches his brow to the Virgin. "I did not think I'd see this again."

Even with his protective icon in his hands, he feels the edge of fear within him and knows its source. He stares across his shoulder at the wounded entity, notes the ester fumes seeping from his burned flesh, and the velvet stink of pond decay. "You look more a devil than an elf, Bright Night."

"Aye, that I do," the prince admits, eyeing his tattered hands. "I've been wounded—struck by the Furor's spear. I would be gone from this life now had not my warriors used their own brave bodies to shield me. That's my pity, for I'd as soon be dead."

Arthor hears depths of grief in the elf. "Why?"

"Need you, of all people, ask? You, a Christian?" Tensions of sorrow and anger draw tight lines across Bright Night's scalded forehead. "Your faith is what is killing the elves. The love your gentle Jesus preaches holds much appeal for the Sid—elves and faeries alike. But when we take on your faith, we leave the hollow hills, we leave the underground of the Storm Tree, where we have found refuge these many years, and we return to the great cycle of being—of birth and rebirth. Our numbers are growing less when we should be multiplying, increasing our multitudes, the better to fight our way back into the Great Tree. We will never walk in the upper boughs again now that we are losing ourselves to your god. We are doomed—and I'd rather be dead than see the Daoine Sid fade away."

"Jesus promises eternal salvation—"

A laugh harsh as a shout cuts through the elf. "The wish is a keyhole to the soul, lad. Don't we all wish to be eternally saved? But, I'll tell you a truth, unless you practice emptiness and disadherence and silence, you will not be saved. You will return, form after form, to experience life in all its flamboyant complexity, until you are whole enough to be one with our Creator. Ah, that wholeness is lifetimes away for the likes of us."

Arthor recoils from the elf's bitterness. "That is not what my faith tells me."

"Then listen to your faith, lad," Bright Night says, and steps back into the feathers of rain dropping through the branches. "Who am I to gainsay your Jesus? Perhaps love is enough. I am an elf, and for me love is a fiery call. I love the flame of life. I love the warmth of the sun. I love the brightness of the moon and stars. Until I win my way out of the hollow hills and back into the luminous boughs of the World Tree, I am not ready for the eternal salvation you preach." He fades into silica shadows of mist.

"Bright Night," Arthor calls after him, holding his shield high. "Thank you."

"May it help your sword teach the strong to tremble," the prince's dark voice shines out of nowhere. "Our faiths may differ, young warrior, but our enemies do not."

The last words wobble into echoes, as if falling down a well, and by that Arthor knows Bright Night is gone. Only then does it occur to him to ask what the elf meant when he said that the meaning of Arthor's encounters with the warlock and the sorceress would come clear in time.

"Arthor!" Melania's cry trips through the hollows of the forest. Fen's shout follows, "Arthor!"

The young warrior walks toward the sound of their voices. When he emerges from the woods into the field where he lay with Morgeu the Fey, Melania and Fen share a look of surprise to see him bearing his shield. He lifts it proudly, and relates his encounter with Bright Night.

Rainsmoke wanders off while he speaks, and the morning sun drops a hard-edged rainbow into the far fields.

"You are blessed by the faeries," Melania says. Even with her torn gown a soaked rag and her wet hair heavy as eels, her resolute beauty congests Arthor's chest with yearning. "Share your blessing with us. Come to Aquitania."

"Your sword will ensure that we win back Melania's estate," Fen says, then looks down at his grass skirt. "But first, we must get me some clothes."

"We all need new clothes," Arthor agrees, plucking at his shredded tunic. "The village of Telltale is not far from here, and I've enough coin in my saddle pouch to buy us fine garments and a good meal. Let's away."

"Then you will come with us?" Melania asks enthusiastically.

"As far as Telltale," he answers, and refrains from putting a hand to her cheek and touching its shades of spice. "I am destined to stay here on this island of my birth. I believe that's why the elves returned my shield. They want me to fight our enemies."

"There are enemies of Jesus enough in Aquitania," Fen asserts.

Arthor kicks at the grass. "It's not only Jesus I'm to defend. It's Britain."

"Britain?" Melania wears a mask of open disdain as she looks around at the ragged walls of aboriginal forest adrift in a slurry of fog. "Britain is a remote and desolate island, Arthor. The world is far grander than this primitive place. True civilization awaits you in the south. Rome, Ravenna, Byzantium all touch Aquitania with their trade ships and their missions for Jesus. There you will meet wise men of deep learning and beautiful women of true refinement. You are but a boy. Think of the wonders you will experience in the big cities—Arles, Toulouse, Bordeaux. Come away from this bleak and haunted island, Arthor. Come away from elves and faeries and seek your fortune with us, with people who are building the Christian kingdoms of Europe."

Arthor blows a hollow sigh and rubs his beardless cheeks. "I cannot, Melania. Perhaps someday. For now, I am done with adventuring. I have been to the hollow hills and stood in the Furor's shadow. Last night, a succubus ravaged me. In the face of these frights, my anger at life, at my father and my brother—at myself, really—it all seems so petty now." He shakes his head, amazed at the profound misunderstanding of his earlier life. "I just want to go back to where I belong. I want to serve my people—the ones who adopted me and made me their own. They loved me then despite my bitterness. And now that I'm purged of that rancor, I owe them my service—my love. I owe them at least that."

"That is right," Fen says, with a taunting grin. "You have found your place as a little man."

Only a flicker of eyelids betrays the sting Arthor feels at the Saxon's tone. "I am a little man, Fen. That is what God made me. And I am not ashamed of that as once I was. Now I just want to go home."

"At least you have a home," Melania complains. "The barbarians have seized mine."

"You have Fen," Arthor assures her, and this time does touch her cheek, enthralled by her loveliness. He steps back. "And he has you. Together you will make a home for yourselves." He faces Fen, and says stoutly, "You are always welcome to stay here—on this bleak and remote island. I will speak to Kyner on your behalf, Fen. He is a good Christian and will make a worthy place for you in our clan."

"I don't want a place in any clan," Fen grumbles. "I want my own place in the world. Melania and I discussed this. We are beholden to no clan, to no god, to no one but ourselves. When you are done serving those less than you, when you can truckle no more to the demands of inferior men, like that clod Cei, then you seek us out, and we will welcome you to our household in our own land." He thumps the thunderbolt cicatrix over his heart, and his stridency breaks off abruptly as he gazes down at his naked chest and grass-kirtled waist. "But for now, let's get those garments and some good food."

Melania laughs with Fen, and their mirth sparks shared joy in Arthor. He feels happy for them, glad that they have found themselves in each other, because this proves to him what, in his loneliness as an orphan and a mongrel, he has always needed to believe: that love is bigger than clans and transcends even the strict precincts of faith. He laughs with them, and together they stroll through wet grass and mobs of flowers to the hill where the palfrey waits patiently in soft sunlight, nibbling weeds.

The journey to Telltale is lighthearted, a morning walk with friends. They speculate about the eerie gleeman and decide he must have been the elf-king. How else could he have had the strength to wound the Furor? And they also wonder nervously if the dwarf and the Thunderers, driven from the hollow hills, still haunt these woods.

Both Fen and Arthor are good trackers and, seeing no signs of trespass through the wild broom and swaths of knotweed and wildflowers, proceed fearlessly. By noon, they arrive at Telltale. A small party of pilgrims bound ultimately for Galilee is departing as the wanderers enter the thorp, and the opportunity to join them seems too propitious to ignore.

Arthor gives the couple his coin pouch and receives a hasty kiss from Melania, a clap on the shoulder from Fen. And then, abrupt as a wafting cloud shadow, they depart. The last he sees of them is their laughter and jubilant waves from the back of a wagon rocking through a noonfield of citrine flowers. Melania tosses her head, her sable hair flowing over her shoulders, and she smiles at the man she loves.

The sudden absence of his companions leaves Arthor feeling lonely and eager to be on his way. After spending his last coin for bread and cheese and a hemp jerkin to replace his rent tunic, he rides off.

The memory of Melania's loveliness lingers, and several times he pauses to turn back, to join her on the quest to reclaim her ancestral estate. But the amorous mystery of last night's enchantment stops him each time. He feels uneasy with her now that he has made love to her wraith. Beautiful as she is, she belongs to Fen. Only her shadow has given itself to Arthor. If he pursues her, he will be chasing a phantom.

At last, when his heartache becomes unbearable, he stops in an alder grove dripping pollen, and among light-splinters and butterflies scribbling in the wind, he kneels before his shield and prays.

Mother Mary, my anger is exhausted. I learned in hell that power means being alone with a loneliness many times yourself. I want no part of it. Let Kyner and Cei have that. I will serve them gladly now. Only ease this burning desire for what I cannot have. Take Melania out of my heart.

He looks up to heaven, and wind turns the leaves in the branches and reveals a kingdom of clouds. They are his childhood dreams of a majestic domain all his own, which he is glad to see blowing away. The domes and streaming pennants of his puerile ambitions dissolve and take with them the responsibilities of power he is now relieved to let go. Whip strokes of lightning glint in the far distance, where the Furor patrols his own realm.

The clouds part, and the sun makes him lower his eyes. The Blessed Mother gazes gently and wistfully from his shield. Her answer to his plight remains the same, he is sure, and he speaks for her: "Love is first. Never abandon."

For a while, he sits in the hot light thinking about love. He suspects that love is only desire until it is returned. And that is why the succubus came to him last night, while Fen was welcomed by Melania herself.

That decided, he hangs the shield from the saddle peg and mounts. He rides decisively now, sure of his destination. Head high, he stares above the horizon into the blue that, like loneliness, goes out as far as he can see. And the wind travels with him.

Chapter 30: The Star Stone

Days have entangled themselves while Kyner leads his caravan along forest trails and hill traces. He and Cei vainly seek an exit from the valley where Brokk trapped them. Grapevines curtain whole walls of the forest, attesting to the lingering remnants of ancient Roman invaders. Now and then rubble from a lost mill or granary, some of it with Latin inscriptions, appears among the profuse dodder.

Kyner calls the lumbering caravan to a halt several times each day to pray. Everyone kneels in the drizzle of sunlight that falls through the dense canopy. Though the prayers are intoned by the elders and the chieftain with strenuous sincerity, no pathway appears out of the tall forest.

Cei wants to abandon the wagons and carts and walk the horses out of the valley. Kyner refuses to forsake their property. He remains convinced that earnest prayer will reveal a trail. "The Romans were no fools," he keeps saying. "They surveyed more than one way into a valley. If we look, we'll find a path that the avalanche has not blocked."

When it rains, the chambers of the forest glisten and drip as if inside a cave. Motes of pastel daylight glint in the air like minerals. Behind the overcast, time sits still, and the caravan trudges on morosely.

For a while, the youngsters taunted Kyner with mocking singsong rhymes, especially when the narrow hill paths he led them along thinned away or, as happened once, ended in a clutter of old stones and a graven satyr with a laughing face. The children had no fear of the chieftain, because he could never bring himself to punish them. When he got most furious, he would line them up against the wagons and beat their shadows.

After a while, even japing the chieftain lost its appeal. Now the children play in groups while marching alongside the caravan or join the women in the wagons and busy themselves helping with stitchwork.

Kyner's voice as he prays contains more frequent registers of frustration, anger, and aggrieved justice, and he turns a blind eye to the small offerings of honeycomb and herb sachets left behind on the trail for the faeries.

One evening, at the watery hour of twilight, will-o'-the-wisps appear. They run along banks of orange saprophytes sprouting in a rocky creek bed, and Kyner is so desperate he follows willingly. The caravan rattles and groans on the riprap, and the fleet, gaseous gusts of light disappear and circle back, clearly leading the slow line of wagons. At last, the fox fires bleed off the wind into an open sky jammed with stars, and the wanderers find themselves on a Roman highway at the throat of the valley.

Leagues away in Camelot, Merlin feels them emerge from obscurity. He has been searching in trance for Kyner, too weak to find him until now.

Vigor has been returning slowly to the wizard. Puffed and sleepy, he paces the great hall of the citadel, listening to but not hearing the distant music and cheers of bonfire festivities.

He wants to bring Kyner to Arthor, to protect the young king on the last leg of his journey to Camelot. Without the full verve of his magic, he must rely on the faeries.

Ghostly flits of radiance come and go through the tall, empty windows where night stands in its glittering black robes. The faeries bring news of Arthor asleep in a forest glade while the moon rummages through clouds. They urgently warn of a wildwood gang camping in the dense grasses nearby. Surely by daylight they will encounter each other.

"Guide Kyner to Arthor," Merlin instructs, swirling his staff through the air, whirlpooling the sparks closer so that his words touch each of the tiny visitors. "The chieftain won't obey you, so you must go directly to his horses. Talk to them. Get their help. Do you understand?"

The faeries flare up to the cedar rafters and splash among the timbers, signaling their assent. Then, they rush into the night, pulsing like fireflies, and are gone. With them goes a little more of his energy, and he slumps exhausted to a workbench and rests his head in his arms on a sawyer's table strewn with curly wood shavings and blond streaks of sawdust.

Morning light shines on the sills when the stout, red-faced foreman rouses Merlin with his loud voice: "Wizard, forgive me."

Merlin lifts a woozy face of matted beard and sleep scars. "Leave me rest. Work later."

"I'm not here to work," the foreman announces in his big voice, and marvels yet again at the strange way the wizard's face changes from day to day. "Lord Severus bids me announce his presence."

"Tell him to go away," Merlin mutters, and lowers his head toward the blackness of sleep.

"Wizard, he will not go away," the foreman says, and leans his thick arms on the table to confide, "He has gathered together all his Britons—Lord Marcus's camp and Bors Bona's army, too. The Celts—Lord Urien and King Lot—have arrayed their warriors in response."

"Oh, please!" Merlin groans, and pushes heavily to his feet like a swimmer climbing to land. "What is Syrax's game?"

Merlin takes his hat from the table and, not even bothering to brush off the sawdust, puts it on. He swipes a stool out of his way with his staff and marches under scaffolds and trestles, muttering grouchily to himself. Through the arched portal of the great hall, he exits into the inner ward and a flawless morning.

Severus Syrax, in shiny brass cuirass and turbaned pith helmet strolls, hands behind his back, examining the workmanship of the lathe-work on the main doorframes.

When he sees Merlin, the magister militum steps back. The wizard appears more formidable than when last they met—taller and more angular. One can see the skeleton in him. And as he draws closer, Severus is astonished by the skull-like vacuity of his face: the gnarled features above a beard of bleached sea kelp. Those weird devil's eyes staring so brightly from their dark pits make the warlord feel woken from the dead.

In a booming voice, Merlin asks, "Why are you here, Syrax?"

Severus bows curtly, his painted face composed but with a deep pallor that tells of his fear. "It is time, wizard."

"Time for what?" Merlin stands so close that the frightened man can smell the wizard's slow-burning blood, the cold azure resonance of a man not quite human.

To his credit, the magister militum holds his voice steady, though his rib cage itself trembles. "It is time for what we agreed."

"We have agreed to nothing."

Fear and its frantic isomers of dread and stress congeal to cold anger at this apparent betrayal. "Are you twitting me, Merlin? You agreed I am the man you seek for the throne. I have come to hold you to your word."

"Ah, I see." Merlin finally realizes that Syrax must have confronted Hannes. "My word."

The battle lord holds his voice flat, almost devoid of emphasis, as the initial shock of confronting the wizard eases to the icy comprehension that this devil has lied to him. "I have been warned that you are the spawn of an incubus, and that your word is as changeable as your face. I see now you wear a frightful face. When last we spoke, you preferred a more comic countenance. But I am prepared for your capriciousness."

Merlin lifts a tufted eyebrow. "How is that?"

"Do you not hear?" Severus lifts a hand in a confidently fey gesture toward the bulwark that partitions the outer ward. The coughs of horses and the shimmer of men's voices sound from the near distance. "Then, behold!" The magister militum claps, and the inner ward's temporary lumber doors swing wide to reveal scores of horsemen and foot soldiers in chain mail and bronze helmets.

Blond as a Saxon, Marcus Domnoni, holding the chi-rho banner of the Christian battle hordes, drifts through the martial throng on a white charger. Bors Bona, a small giant with a boar's visage and stubbly gray hair, sits at their head astride a huge warhorse. Medusa-masked helmet in hand, he grins without glee at the wizard.

Merlin sighs. "You cannot seize the throne, Syrax, not even with this host."

"That is not what we agreed, Merlin." Severus, all fear abated and flush with pride, twines a sharp prong of his black, precisely trimmed beard. "The sword. I have gathered my warriors and the armies of Bors Bona and Marcus Domnoni this morning to witness my drawing of the sword."

"Oh, is that it?" Merlin comprehends, lowering his head and stroking his beard.

Unfazed by the wizard's obvious reluctance, the warlord adds, "The Celts have rallied their numbers as well. Now all shall witness my ascendancy."

"Lord Kyner is yet to arrive," Merlin protests.

"I can wait on him no longer," Severus says in a bold voice, then turns and strides toward the large war party. "He is days late. Let him learn of today's important events in the bards' songs."

Merlin shakes his head wearily. "As you will."

A groom leads a black stallion forward for the magister militum and an ashen mule for the wizard. Under a boiling sunrise, they ride out of the citadel and across the grassy range, where crowds, who have gathered for the festivities, mill and cheer. The Celts wait on the hillside pastures. When they see the wizard escorting the British, they lower their weapons and join the procession.

Merlin leads the multitude down the long curving road to the vagrant river. They ride among trees squabbling with birds and shining with a meaning more than they are, as if something miraculous is about to happen.

Severus Syrax prances proudly through the complex veils of morning mist peeling off the river and takes the lead as the parade approaches Mons Caliburnus. He dismounts among dew-sequined lime shrubs and, followed by Merlin, Bors Bona, Marcus Domnoni, King Lot, and Chief Urien, marches to the summit.

Merlin thinks the magister militum plans to give a speech, because he pauses before the star stone and gazes out at the crowd on the hillside. But he only wants to be certain that all eyes are watching him. He looks to the wizard briefly, searching for a sign that does not come. Yet that does not dissuade the swarthy Briton. Confidently, he seizes the hilt of Excalibur and tugs.

The sword does not budge. He pulls again, one foot propped against the edge of the stone, body leaning back.

Excalibur remains fused to the rock.

The anguish in Severus's kohl-rimmed eyes tweaks pity from Merlin, though the warlord's humiliation is proper and inevitable. A thin wind picks up like laughter looking for a definite shape and finds it in the throng below, whose silence dissolves into frothy murmuring, then outright glee and mockery from the Celts.

Bors Bona puts a hand to his sword, and Merlin fixes him with his silver eyes and breathes one word, "Don't." There is no magic in his voice. He needs none, for his chill look of implacable authority is enough even for the bellicose Bors.

Merlin crawls onto the stone and stands, arms and staff raised. "Who laughs that has not tried his hand?" he shouts. "None are denied the chance to be proven high king of Britain. None. And those who laugh scorn all good men's hopes. Severus Syrax should be cheered. I say cheered, because he dares aspire to unite us one and all against our common enemies. That his noble aspiration has not been fulfilled now or in these past fifteen years does not diminish our dire need—nor weaken the dream that one day we will be united."

Merlin points his staff at the mob that has been creeping up the slope to hear him. "All you who have faith in a united kingdom—all you who are loyal to our king, whoever he may be, whenever he may come, cheer now this man, Severus Syrax, who has foisted pride for hope—the hope that must not die if we as a people are to live."

Bors Bona throws his fists into the air and cheers. First the Britons and then, gradually and in mounting force, the Celts join in the cheering. And soon the river gorge rings with jubilant cries, and Severus Syrax slowly raises his arms in the happy triumph of his defeat.

Merlin sits down and slides off the star stone. He walks into the crowd that streams forward to congratulate Syrax and to try their own hands at drawing the sword. Around him bodies jostle and fingers snatch at his robes, hoping to draw luck from contact with him.

His silence is so loud, his quartz eyes so luminous in their big bone-pits, that no one actually dares confront him, and, with his progress thus unimpeded, he gradually makes his way through the dense gathering to the mule that will return him to Camelot.

This immense summer morning of rushing birds, tumbling butterflies, and fat, ample clouds offers no consolation to the wizard for the diminishment of his powers. Time alone can restore him to the magical clarity and force he once knew, yet time stands against him and the fragile hope he has created for his people.

The longer Arthor is alone in the woods, the greater the opportunity for the forces of chaos to defeat him—and with him, Merlin's vision and purpose. Then Morgeu the Fey, with that abominable child in her womb, will be all that remains of Uther Pendragon's sacrifice, a mockery of the future.

Riding atop the mule, Merlin shivers. The sun's heat feels cool. Seed tufts drift onto the river, and the current pulls them away from land, into its own seeking. Somewhere Arthor travels like that, swept along by fate. What can I do?

Deprived of his magic, Merlin's helplessness feels like a cosmic climate. He is far better off not knowing that at this moment Arthor faces death.

A dozen rabid men in motley garb and crude animal hides surround him, charging out of the underbrush. They arrive from downwind while he refreshes himself at a brook. So abruptly and fiercely do they burst through the screen of hedges, there is no time to mount the palfrey. He seizes his shield and sends the horse splashing across the shallow water before whirling about, Short-Life in his hand.

The wildwood gang fans out, encircling their young prey, harrying him with shouts and thrown rocks that make him twist and crouch.

With animal grease glossed on their faces and limbs to fend biting insects, they shine in the strong sunlight as if lit with inner radiance. Their destructive knowing charges the air with their shrieks, their bestial stink, and the agile speed with which they deploy to enclose him, signaling each other with hoots and whistles.

And Arthor realizes that these men are adept at killing.

"I have nothing!" he shouts against their wild cries. "I am a Christian man! I have nothing but my horse!"

His horse they will track down later. Now they want his fine Bulgar saber, that quartz-hafted dagger in his sword belt, and the colorful shield he bears. All these will be theirs, and his sandals, as well.

Arthor realizes he must get to higher ground, away from the uneven footing of the brook. But whichever way he goes, his back will stand exposed for fatal moments. Driving off the palfrey was a mistake; he grasps that now, standing without cover, rocks banging off his shield and smiting the ground around him. Hard as he tries to gauge the array of men around him, the more they seem to shift, sliding past each other, ducking close to pelt him, then hopping backward and darting away. No targets present themselves.

A stone smacks Arthor's shin and drops him to one knee. Immediately, two brigands rush from atop the embankment, one with a knife, the other bearing a sword. Behind him, he hears others sloshing across the brook.

He decides that the water is where he will stand, and he whirls upright and lunges into the narrow stream. Three men meet him there, two with swords, one with an ax, all cold-eyed and wrath-faced, the ropes of their throats taut with screaming.

Arthor begins his death-dance.

Short-Life blurs once over his head in a feint that stymies the three in the water, then arcs backward, spinning him after it and catching the two behind off guard. The saber pierces the man with the knife in the groin and slashes slantwise across the forearm and chest of the swordsman, dropping them both to their backs, bawling with pain. Following the heavy blade's momentum, Arthor pirouettes to his original stance, Short-Life whirring overhead.

The men in the stream back hurriedly away, stunned by this lethal display. A rock punches Arthor between the shoulder blades and throws him to his knees in the water. With a yelp, the axman descends on him, and the shield covers him just in time to deflect a skull-splitting blow. Short-Life gouges upward, penetrates thigh muscle, and twists to separate it from bone.

His weapon caught briefly in his enemy's fleshy part, the others converge. Another rock bashes his shoulder, wrenching him forward. He cries out and shoves hard to get to his feet. The axman collapses before him, thrashing in agony, and Arthor shimmies backward downstream.

Rocks impact around him, and he ducks and holds his shield high to protect his head. Turning quickly, he keeps the brigands at bay. The three men he has cut lie screaming in their blood. Their comrades, infuriated by their unexpected losses at the sword of this beardless youth, attack with renewed frenzy, pelting him from all sides with rocks.

Arthor prepares to die. In the furious moment of this acceptance, he regrets only that he has not yet had his chance to serve the people who reared him and who received from him only scorn and the benefit of his battle rage.

Somehow now, with the war whoops of his killers closing in, that seems just. The unfortunate darkness in him merits this death. And what he has found of goodness does not deserve the love of those he abandoned. He trusts he will find favor in heaven, where Mother Mary will speak for him and where God already knows the depth and significance of his soul.

Like the soul that has already fled Arthor's body, the palfrey flies down the brook, out of the ditch, and into the wind-shaken trees. It runs from the sounds of shouting men, through the forest's glittery darkness, eyes wide-open to everything.

Not far away, on the Roman highway, a faerie flies into the ear of Cei's horse while the warrior squats in the bushes. "Stop!" Cei yells, after the steed pulls free of its tether and heaves through the underbrush. It runs, spirited by the faeries' command, touched by Merlin's wish. It crashes through bushes and bracken until it sees its bright double under the sewn stars of the forest canopy.

Moments later, Cei and a guardsman arrive on their horses and pull up short when they spot Cei's runaway nuzzling the palfrey. "Arthor's horse!"

"Listen—" The guardsman points into the air at the sounds of distant shouting.

"Get the others," Cei orders, and urges his mount forward. He rushes through the forest's tangled byways, following the palfrey's hoofprints in the duff and leaf litter. When he arrives at the brook, he spots Arthor upstream curled under his shield, turning slow helpless circles before an enclosing gang of rock-throwers and swordsmen. He draws his weapon and charges.

At the sight of the galloping horseman, the brigands fan out again. They scramble onto the embankments and stone the rider as he closes in on their prey.

Cei bounds up one side of the brook and bears down on the men gathered there, swatting them with his sword. They scatter, and he dashes across the stream and attacks the enemy there.

Arthor, with his bloodied knees on the brook cobbles, raises his face to heaven. Even as his prayer of salvation begins, he sees Kyner and his band swooping down from the forest, lances and swords glinting. And slowly, weighted with astonishment, he gets to his feet, all he could pray for already come to pass.

Chapter 31: Along the Spirit Trail

Arthor washes Short-Life in the brook, and when Kyner dismounts and sloshes toward him, the boy drops to one knee and presents the saber to him hilt first. "Your sword, Father."

Kyner stands motionless. The blue of his eyes tuck into the leathery seams of his face, peeking out as if unwilling or unable to trust what they see. He takes the sword and motions for Arthor to rise. "Get up, son."

Arthor stands beneath the clangor of steel and screams from the shorn lives of the brigands. Grateful for this battle-miracle, he embraces Kyner.

The old warrior returns the hug, strongly yet with a tentative heart, not yet sure of the character and significance of the change that he sees in his young ward. Not until later, after the brigands have been run down and slain and the warriors regathered, does he sense the profundity of Arthor's transformation.

Cei, with a gloating smirk, leads the palfrey to Arthor. "So this time we took your toasted biscuits out of the fire, eh, Arthor?"

"Thank you, Cei." He looks up at the horseman with a soft smile. His amber eyes glint with happy tears. "You might well have left me to die for all the heartache I've put upon you in the past."

Cei's vaunting sneer fades. "Aye—well—let this serve as a lesson in Christian fidelity. I take care of my own—no matter how untamed. Perhaps now you will show more respect for those better-born. You would be awaiting the Resurrection right this moment if not for me."

"I will never forget that, brother," Arthor readily admits. Without his sword and garbed in his hempen sack-shirt, he looks more like a boy than a warrior. "And you—and father—have my solemn word, I will keep to my place. And gladly."

Cei shares a surprised look with Kyner. "Clearly, Father, you were right to send him off with Fen. The trouble of it seems to have worked some good with him." He nods to Arthor. "Here's your horse. Let's get back to the cortege."

Kyner utters a silent prayer, thanking God for fulfilling the chieftain's petitions for Arthor's safe return. They ride to the caravan in happy silence, and Kyner asks nothing of Fen's fate or the disposition of Aelle and his Thunderers. The wind in the trees no longer carries the curling echoes of stabbed men. Kyner's warriors file through the stippled shadows, not one of them wounded.

After receiving the subdued greetings of the clan, who have few joyful memories of him, Arthor rides beside Kyner at the back of the procession while Cei takes the lead. How wide the sky looks now to the young man. The road opening into the future seems painted in new colors, and when he tells his adventure to the chief, it feels strange in Arthor's mouth, like a story that happened to someone else.

He holds nothing back. He reveals his heart's reasons for wanting to carry Short-Life into a world that does not know him. He speaks of the immediate passion that seized him when first he saw Melania in Cissa's tent and how he envisioned her as his death, lovely and beckoning, and went to her willingly and would have died then and there under the hacking blades of the Thunderers—but for the lamia. Shaking his head, he talks of the mysterious gleeman and his wise dog.

Kyner recognizes the description of the old, bearded man with deep sockets and eyes of moonstones. Merlin! But he keeps his silence, wanting the boy to tell all of what poisoned and killed his former self and be purged fully of it.

Arthor recounts his journey into the hollow hills. His voice grows soft as he describes the nether sky of sod with its mauve glow that shadowed forth misty swirls of stars and the peach-bright moon. Softer still, he narrates the terrifying confrontation with the Furor, before whose mutilation and ancient, haunted presence it was impossible for him to be brave.

He whispers of his escape from the mad god and the lamia. Finally, like a sleeper mumbling by heart what he carries out of a dream, he retells his seduction by the ghost-double of Melania. When he concludes with the bitter truth of Melania's love for Fen and their shared devotion to each other, his words are empty air.

By then Kyner does not need to hear any more, for that part of the story is so old it was already a song in the first generation of the first people.

"You did well to return, son," he tells the morose boy. "I'm happy to see you with us again—and not just because I have retrieved my sword and my best warrior—but because you've changed for the better. I will thank the Furor for that myself should I see him."

Arthor peers up sharply. "Don't even jest about that, Father."

Camelot appears above the highway with the afternoon's first gold. Noon sun brightens the top girders of the unfinished spires to golden crowns suggesting the work of radiant beings. Music floats in waves from the pastures where round dances and flower frolics engage the crowds between martial displays of archery, ax-throwing and horsemanship. At this distance, the people appear as dark and colorful grains on the tilted fields, brightening and fading under the sweep of cloud shadows.

Cold Kitchen bustles with busy merchants and farmers loading wagons with goods for the festival: amphorae of fruit wine, kegs of mead, baskets of bread, racks of butchered meat, and mounds of vegetables. The whole town is a market.

The sight of so many busy, laughing, shouting people delights Arthor. His sadness at the departure of Melania thins away before the joy of beholding so many happy, productive Britons and Celts striving shoulder to shoulder. And he grins to be among these people—to have a people to be among!

Crosswinds ripple meadow grass on the sheep trails below Camelot, and an ocean of sky expands beyond the construction site—all contributing to a reckoning of vastness.

Arthor remembers his last visit to this place five years earlier and how the huge vista had awed him then. He expected the site would appear smaller now that he was himself larger. Contrary to his expectations, the mountain shoulders heave taller, the summer pastures furl wider, and horizons plunge deeper into an immaculate clarity of river scrawl and forest.

What had been stubby foundation blocks have grown in five years to proud spires, tiers of parapets and tall vallations. The sight of ant-tiny workers moving atop the high battlements lends the prospect a colossal dimension.

Jugglers and musicians greet the caravan as it trundles onto the champaign before the bastion's outer wall. Soldiers, women, and children of Kyner's clan spill out of the wagons to follow pipers and fiddlers and acrobatic tumblers to the playing fields. There, feast tables and colorful gaming tents surround wide, grassy tournament grounds. Children compete in pig runs and tug-of-war, and adults gamble at wolf fights and bruin pits.

Kyner takes Cei and Arthor aside as the others rush toward the festivities. "You're both old enough on this tour of Camelot to come with me to meet and show our respects to the chieftains and warlords," he tells them.

"Father, we've arrived late," Cei complains. "The tournaments have already begun. Look, you can see the sword contests are under way in the upper field. That's my best event!"

"Don't whine, Cei," Kyner rebukes, pulling his son away from his horse and waving for the groom to lead the steed away. "You'll be chieftain yourself soon enough. You must know your peers."

"But my sword," Cei protests, unbuckling the scabbard and holding up the weapon. "The haft has jarred loose. I ruined it in the skirmish with the wildwood gang. I'll need time to find a weapon. And the contest has already started!"

"So it has," Kyner observes with a note of impatience. "But we have not come for the contests alone, Cei. There's the business of the kingdom to attend to."

Cei rolls his head backward in frustration. "But I'm not chieftain."

"You need to see how chieftains and warlords contend in conference," Kyner insists, and strides toward the grand pavilion of yellow canvas with purple pennants that occupies the range before the citadel's main gate. "Come along."

"Arthor does not need to attend," Cei points out, striding beside his father. "Let him go to find me a sword that will adequately replace the one I damaged saving his hide. At least then I will have a weapon ready when we're done palavering."

Kyner nods curtly. "Arthor may do so, if he will."

"I will, Cei," Arthor quickly agrees. "I'll find the best sword for your grip."

"Good." Cei claps the lad on the back and shoves him off. "Then, go. And be quick about it."

"Wait." Kyner stops the boy as he skips off. "Arthor shall go, as he has agreed. But first he, too, shall be presented to the nobles. Now, come along, the two of you."

The pavilion has tent walls decorated with both Christian symbols and curvilinear Celtic emblems, and within its airy, luminous interior a small, mock round table has been erected. Three chairs of Celtic design stand to one side, three of Roman fashion stand on the other. A seventh chair of plain, dark-stained wood is positioned at the table between the two groups, and behind it waits a tall man in midnight blue robes and wide-brimmed hat with bent conical top, both garments subtly stitched with crimson astrological sigils and alchemic devices.

As a ten-year-old, when Arthor attended the last festival, he saw this stark, shadowy figure often in the distance and knows he is the wizard Merlin. When the herald at the pavilion entry announces, "Chief Kyner, his son Cei, and ward Arthor—"and the wizard looks up, Arthor's breath twists in his lungs. Merlin is the very gleeman who led him and Melania into the hollow hills.

The wizard nods to Kyner and Cei and, with eyes like shattered glass, holds Arthor's wide stare, waiting for him to speak.

Arthor finds he cannot untwist his breath to speak. He is not constrained by magic but by the wide expansiveness of his own surprise, which swallows all his thoughts.

Kyner sees the dizzy look in Arthor's face before the wizard's sapient and silent patience and says nothing, for this is not the place to expect secret disclosures. The moment passes. The wizard gestures to the others, who stand around the table marveling at the work plans for the fortress-city.

Lord Urien, silver braid caught in a gold clasp at his naked shoulder, lowers his chin in spare deference to the Christian Celt. Severus Syrax, swarthy Persian features framed by coiffed black curls, comes forward to greet them with an obsequious grin. While he clasps their shoulders and leads them to the table, square-headed Bors Bona and blond Marcus Domnoni, both beardless and attired in Roman tunics and leather breastplates embossed with lamb and fish symbols, nod. King Lot's eagle-browed stare meet's Kyner's blunt gaze, but the monarch of the North Isles does not deign to offer any greeting to these Celts who have abandoned their heritage.

Arthor does not notice, for he stares at the scarlet-gowned woman beside Lot. Morgeu the Fey openly returns his gaze, and he feels his marrows congeal. This tall woman with her muscular shoulders, flame-wild hair, and small, tight, black eyes in a moony face bears no semblance to Melania. Arthor can hardly believe that Fen might be correct, that this big-boned woman is the enchantress with whom he knew such strenuous passion under the packed stars.

Yet the way she regards him with a defiant glint in the coal-bits of her stare and a small, tight smile hooked sharply at the corner of her mouth tells him this is so.

A flare of fear radiates through him, chilling him to the roots of his teeth.

"Arthor, you're done here," Cei reminds him in a hot whisper, nudging him strenuously with his elbow. "Get going now. Find me a sword. And make haste."

Arthor jolts free of his fright. He glances at Merlin, who has returned his attention to the scroll of work plans, then he looks to Kyner. The chief has been led to the table by Severus Syrax and leans stiff-armed over the designs, listening to the wizard.

"Go!" Cei mouths, and angrily motions for him to depart.

Arthor bolts from the pavilion. He would give Cei his own sword, but Kyner has not yet returned it to him. It will be returned in time, he knows—when next Kyner needs him in battle. For now, he must find another weapon.

But where? he asks himself, scanning the wide fields that slope and roll on all sides. Everywhere, the Celtic clans and British families mingle in summer activities: feasting, dancing, and competing. Who among them would have a sword for Cei?

He must go to Cold Kitchen and find the lane of armorers and weapon-makers. For payment, he will offer his word as Chief Kyner's ward, and if that is not sufficient, he will offer his palfrey.

That decided, he runs to the sprawling grove of elms at a rill under a mossy bluff, where the horses are stabled. The draft horses of the caravan wagons are still being unbridled and led to water. His palfrey stands at the rill with the other warriors' steeds, its saddle still on. Even his shield has not yet been removed from the saddle peg.

Out of a haze of horseflies, he rides from under the giant elms to the road that leads to Cold Kitchen. Dust from passing wagons glistens in the heat, and though he wants to gallop, he knows his horse is tired and does not hurry it. There is much to ponder. Merlin is the gleeman, and he stands this minute in the same tent with Morgeu the Fey, who ensorcelled Arthor with his love for Melania. Why?

He recalls the wounded elf-prince who returned the shield with the icon of the Virgin telling him that all would come clear in time. Portent rises with the dust. Thinking of the knowing way that the wizard and the sorceress looked at him, he feels pale and smoky, as if with a sudden turn of wind he might blow away.

At Cold Kitchen, he moves slowly among the merchants' stalls, where yet more goods are being packed and loaded for the climb to Camelot. The alley of armorers is empty. A portly woman in a flour-dusted apron steps from the adjacent lane of bakeries to inform him that the armorers and swordmakers have gone to Mons Caliburnus this afternoon to display their wares before the visitors who gather to gawk at Excalibur.

Arthor feels he must hurry now. Surely, the conference in the pavilion is concluded, and Cei waits impatiently for his sword. A smile flickers over his face as he rides fast out of the hamlet and descends past staunch maples into the cooler emerald light of the river gorge. In times past, he would have let Cei muddle about for his own sword. No warrior in his right mind would loan Cei theirs, knowing what a brutish swordsman he is. By the time he found one, the day's contests would be over, and he would spend the night lamenting about the victories deprived him. At least now, if Arthor hurries, Cei will win or lose by his own merit, and the evening feast will be more pleasant for all.

Invisible chains of birdsong link the branches of the overarching trees that flank the road to the river. At the approaching thunder of hooves, rabbits startle from bushes in the roadside ditch and jitter across his path. The algal scent of the river's dark measure sweeps over him with a deeper coolness, and the air hums with the current of water-rubbed rocks.

He slows to pass through a line of cross-bearing pilgrims in wet loincloths, straggly hair, and beards heavy and still dripping from their baptisms in the Amnis. With hands to their hearts, they salute him, fellow travelers along the spirit trail.

The river swings into view at a bend of mulberry trees and lime shrubs, presenting its murky burden of tree litter, shadows, and sliding light. Yarrow-wild banks line the road to the gravel fan, where a score of horses stand tethered to a broken-down sycamore or wander grazing through a field of ryegrass and cowslip.

He dismounts and ties the palfrey's reins to a lime shrub and runs uphill past more dense shrubs to where saffron banners wag in the river breeze. There, a small but eager crowd has gathered around a long table, upon which are displayed thirty or more swords.

Arthor shoulders among the men viewing the swords, selects a hefty weapon that has the sturdy aspect he knows Cei favors, and declares, "I will have this one."

"A mighty blade," the jowly swordmaker across the table concurs. "If you've enough gold coin, this Saxon-slayer can be yours."

"I've no coin at all," Arthor says. "But I can guarantee payment."

"Of course!" The swordmaker laughs skeptically. "And you'll swear on the Bible itself and every prophet in it, will you not?"

"I've no need to swear," Arthor answers irately, resenting the titters from the crowd. "I am Chief Kyner's ward. He will pay me.

"Fine, lad," the portly artisan agrees. "And when the good chieftain pays me, you may have this sword."

"I need it now," Arthor stresses. "It's for my brother, Cei."

The weaponsmith puts a gruff hand on Arthor's wrist and removes the sword from his grip. "Listen to me, lad. I worked many a day to craft this bone-breaker. You're not walking away with it unless I'm paid first."

"Is there anyone here who will sell me a sword upon the good word of Chief Kyner?" Arthor calls out.

Laughter runs the length of the table, and the swordmakers shake their heads and wave him away. A foot soldier in the black-and-green colors of Bors Bona's army slaps his back and guffaws, "If you want a sword without paying, lad, then try your hand up there." He points uphill to the sword in the stone. "That's the only sword that's here for anyone to take."

"I've a palfrey," Arthor offers. "You can have my horse for a sword. Any sword."

"We're not horse traders," the jowly swordsman gripes. "Be off with you, boy!"

Reluctantly, Arthor turns away. Head hung, kicking at weed tufts, he climbs the mount. He regrets disappointing Cei on his very first attempt to serve his elder brother, and he is not eager to return to Camelot.

He looks up wistfully at the star stone. It appears so black it seems to suck light into it. And there is much light at the summit to feed upon, for the sword the stone holds upright shines with an almost inexplicable brightness. Its beauty draws him closer.

Light pulses in the gold hilt, and the simple glyph of the hand-guard appears slick as a flame. He wants to touch the sword, even though that makes him feel silly, because he is not some simple-minded pilgrim happy to brag that he has been to Camelot and touched Excalibur. Yet, the blade is truly remarkable—clear and deep as a mirror, as if it has been cored out of the air itself.

He stands in silence before its beauty. A chill snakes through him with the abrupt realization that this sword looks very much like the terrible weapon the dwarf Brokk carried in the hollow hills, and that the viper-priest raised over him—the sword that the gleeman—Merlin himself—flung out of the mansnake's hand to wound the god of wrath.

Can it be one and the same? he asks, trembling as though the heart of the earth had throbbed beneath him.

He trudges forward as in a dream. Before him, Excalibur, wiped with radiance, shimmers like running starlight. It is the supernatural sword that nearly took his life in the hollow hills!

His whole body twitches to face this talismanic weapon here, at the crux of his convergence with the gleeman Merlin and the undisguised enchantress who mocked his hope of love with lust. Now he can no longer deny a fateful complicity between these magical personages and his own destiny—but to what intent he cannot guess.

He thinks for an instant of fleeing. Instead, he draws closer to the weapon, fascinated to see it held inert in the stone. Even still, motion glows from within. He stands transfixed by this thing that once almost killed him. It has the enormous presence of something other than a weapon and embodies lucidities that carry far more than the wounds of war promised by other swords.

It shines in his wide eyes full of marvel, full of fright, proffering truths as much of terror as of beauty. If he puts his hand out, if he takes it, he senses with prescient certitude that he will touch what cannot be touched, what already touches him at the heart of everything he believes to be beautiful and true. He does not understand this. Yet, he knows that in his inmost heart he already holds this sword—and that is why it did not kill him when he stood before the mad god of war. It did not kill him, because it belongs to him.

Filled with holy passion, Arthor reaches out and takes Excalibur in his hand.

Chapter 32: World of Light

Merlin stands on the riverbank under Mons Caliburnus. Having sloshed through floating green beds of milfoil and watercress, his feet and the hem of his robe are soaked, yet, he has succeeded in arriving unseen at this secluded scarp. His magic remains too weak to baffle people, and he feels proud that by cunning and physical effort alone he has positioned himself here, ready to manipulate the magnetic counterstone that will release Excalibur and make Arthor king.

Morgeu the Fey knew exactly where Merlin was headed when he left the pavilion claiming he needed rest. Of course, she made no move to hinder him. She wants Arthor as high king. She wants legitimacy for their incest child.

The wizard shakes his head. Every act has its consequences, he recites to himself this first tenet of wisdom. And consequences become themselves acts and ripple into further consequences. In this way, no prophecy is certain, for the future hides within itself.

Briefly, Merlin recalls his mortal mother, Optima, the saint who adopted his demon spirit out of the void and made a place for him in her womb and in her heart. The place of her womb became his body: an ugly, grotesque body born old and growing younger year by year. The place of her heart became his heart, a site of compassion and love for all of God's creation, so that now the gruesome memories of his long existence as a demon cause him profound remorse. He has not forgotten his cruel past. He has not forgotten evil.

The enormous amount of work that Merlin has accomplished to bring Arthor to this bodeful moment is only a beginning. The real struggle with evil lies ahead. The wizard will need all his magic for that. And the boy, surely the boy will have to be a man, and the man surely will have to be a king, a true king, to fulfill the great hope of this orphaned island.

With that thought, Merlin returns his attention to the immediate task. Timing now is crucial. If the wizard releases the magnetic hold of the star stone too soon, the sword will fall before the boy touches it. Too late, and Arthor will lose faith that he can budge it at all.

To assure success, Merlin intends to use what little magic he has left to reach upward with his heart's brails and touch the young man when he stands before Excalibur. But first, the wizard must find the magnetic counterstone.

Wading through spike rush and bur reeds, he gropes with his staff in the ivy tendrils, knocking against the rock wall until he locates the crevice where the sliding stone sits. His bare hand clears away clots of starwort before seizing the lozenge of meteoric rock. One tug and it will release the sword.

Eyes closed, the wizard tries to reach out from the feeling center of himself. Wrens chatter, frogs tock, dragonflies whir, yet he hears none of it. He remains attentive to the quiet within and to the greater silence inside that stillness.

Moments lapse to minutes before he manages to extend his awareness upward, out of his body, to where Arthor comes walking through yellow clover, kicking at hawkweed and dandelions. Merlin feels the youth's disappointment unravel to awe at the sight of Excalibur. Then comes the shocked awareness that this is the sword that threatened him in the hollow hills.

The wizard experiences the debates within Arthor as though they are Merlin's own: Should he flee? No. Inward mastery holds him in place, then draws him closer. He wants to face his destiny. He wants to understand the forces that have led him on his circular journey from anonymity in Kyner's clan to the mystery of this sword. His hand reaches out and grasps the hilt of Excalibur.

Merlin's eyes snap open. A dove perches on a jut of rock at eye level, white as winter. When the wizard heaves his whole body into moving the magnetic stone, the dove bursts away. Filled with the full frost of noise from the scraping stone, it soars.

As the white bird comes clear of the ivy wall at Mons Caliburnus, a flash of reflected sunlight from the summit startles it higher. The hot reflection dazzles several times more, casting from the hillcrest sharp rays of sunlight like beams of a beacon.

The dove climbs away from this startling light, rises far above the snake curves of the river, and glides upward with the wind, over tilled fields, toward umber mountains and absolute blue.

Atop a rocky pinnacle, the dove alights. It blazes luminously in a shaft of white sunlight let down from a zenith of towering cumulus. For a while, it becomes more than it obviously is.

To mortal eyes, the angel is invisible, his face this lambent sunbeam, robes bundles of wind stirring gorse on the higher slopes of the mountain. The angel steps down among bluebells, moving toward an ancient notch-stone erected by the nameless Neolithic people who lived here before the Celts.

For one day each solar season, the angle of the sun aligns properly with this primeval stone so that the notches cast shadow-patterns that briefly spell words none among the living know how to read. That day has come and gone and will come again.

The angel well remembers what the inscription of shadows says, and in honor of the star of reflected sunlight that shines from atop Mons Caliburnus, he speaks the secret words aloud:

"The truth of this dreaming world is the turning of the stars, and as the seasons return after long rest, this marks the land where dream returns to its native ground, truth. Here reigns the true ruler of these islands in memory and in promise. Great is the burden of this care."

The words of the angel shimmer to rain in the chill mountain air and ride the wind down the slopes of gorse and across the conifer highlands. The lustrous torrent finally blows over the broad tableland where Camelot rises in lordly stature above river forests. The sunny downpour sweeps into the round dances and the martial contests and turns up the amazed faces of the people to its fragrant coolness.

Standing inside the pavilion, warlords and chieftains watch sparkling veils of rain riffle in the wind and steam across the fields. A rainbow, bright and hard as candy, stands as a bower over the citadel.

Kyner recognizes at once that something wonderful has happened in heaven, and he rushes out to receive the good news, dragging Cei after him. The old war chief laughs uproariously and swings his grouchy son around him in a wide frolicking step.

Morgeu, too, feels the magic of the sun-shot rain, and she takes Lot by the arm and, with a charmed whisper in his ear, leads him smiling into the brilliant shower. Gawain and Gareth, who have been tossing horseshoes behind the pavilion, run laughing to their parents and hold hands in a gleeful dance.

Soon, Urien, Marcus, and Bors Bona join them, and they kick up their heels in the wet, radiant wind and link arms with Morgeu and her family. Elemental joy pulls Kyner and Cei into their jubilant circle, and Celt and Briton, Christian and pagan hold hands and merge in a dance of heaven's celebration.

Even Severus Syrax throws up his hands in dismay when he finds himself alone in the pavilion and prances into the glittering rainfall. His face paint blears away in greasy streaks, and he laughs giddily as he skips with the others, hooking elbows and spinning like a child.

All across the fields of Camelot, crowds rollick. The rain, brisk and cold, splashes off the people in a burnished glow. And the angel himself dances among them, visible to their eyes as sunshine, unfurling in each raindrop a world of radiance.

* * *

Author's Postscript

The legend of King Arthur is very much a living myth. A lot of the fairy tale and nursery rhyme imagery we grow up with—hamlets and hedgerows, meadows and dells—is a deep cultural memory of Roman Britain.

When Julius Caesar explored Britannia in 55 BCE, primeval forests covered the island. Four centuries later, at the time of King Arthur, Roman rule had established numerous thriving cities, including Londinium, and a prosperous agricultural society connected by paved highways.

Roman Britain offers many famous storybook images of Arthurian fantasy: castle towns, rolling pastureland and deep, dark forests. I think that this historical community appeals to us so strongly because this was our last glimpse of civilization before the Dark Ages descended. Soon after, the Roman Empire collapsed and Europeans forgot how to make cement.

Roman Britain is a vanished age; yet, we see it vividly in our collective imagination. It is a threshold world, between history and fantasy, a shared realm where the known and the unknown cross. The supernatural exists here.

King Arthur's story has endured for over a thousand years, because the way this myth relates to the supernatural fascinates us. Arthur and his knights smuggle dangerous, supernatural objects out of the dream world and into our waking lives: the sword in the stone as well as the magic sword from the Lady in the Lake, the round table, the siege perilous and, of course, the Grail.

Though I say 'smuggle,' these objects are not generally recognized as dangerous, only as imaginary. But they are dangerous. They defy the reality principle. The more time we spend with them, dwelling on their mysterious presence over the centuries and their enigmatic significance, the more they suggest a wider reality than the commonplace. They inform us with wonder and hermetic wisdom that reality is far more than meets the eye—far stranger than we know or can know.

In this sense of being unknowable, ultimately unpredictable, Nature is lawless. King Arthur and his knights show us, by the way that they relate to the supernatural, how to maintain our dignity outside the law.

"The law is a wall," says the Greek philosopher Heraclitus. And the legend of Arthur opens a doorway through that wall.

Civilization, which Rome imposed on the tribes of aboriginal Europe with the Pax Romana, erected a magical wall in the Western psyche. That magical wall is writing.

Behind that wall, animistic intimacy with nature disappeared, written over with edicts and deeds of property and architectural plans. The wall is the world that can be written (science) and the written world (history)—the coordinate axes of Cartesian thought, of the technological empowerment that has spread Western values globally even as it has obliterated nature.

The central theme of the Legend of Arthur is that the king and the land are one. He is the doorway through the wall that separates us from our holy source.

That source is not just physical nature but also psychic nature, the spontaneous power of fantasy. The wall of reason and reasonable words has shut us off from the nature of fantasy even as that wall established social order.

The law defines right from wrong, real from imaginary, and establishes boundaries. The Legend of Arthur is about violating all those boundaries, about breaking right through the wall. It is about sin and punishment.

The fact that this is the West’s central myth attracts me, because its transgressive power penetrates the reality-principle vigorously—so vigorously that everyone in the West knows what lies on the far side: the lost Grail, mad Merlin, the wounded Fisher King, Arthur’s sister pregnant with his son, Guinevere and Lancelot’s adultery, and the flawed knights of the Perilous Order.

The greatest violation of law in the 21st century—the most outrageous defiance of the reality-principle and common sense—is quantum mechanics. At high speeds, time slows down. At very small sizes, particles can be in two places at once. The Perilous Order of Camelot imagines the legends of northern Europe from the magical perspective of modern physics: Yggdrasil the Storm Tree fills the heavens as the magnetic field of the planet—the gods exist as electrostatic beings—and Merlin uses his humanity to disguise his true identity as a 'demon,' a hyperspatial mind created spontaneously out of chaos and known among thermodynamic theorists as a Boltzmann Brain.

The idea for this series began with one of quantum mechanics' most flamboyant ideas: the Many Worlds Interpretation. This postulates that there are parallel universes, among which anything that can happen does. There are many possible planet Earths, and The Perilous Order of Camelot imagines an Earth where the strange laws of quantum physics create a wizard named Merlin whose magic still shines as a light at the frontier of good and evil—and whose humanity illuminates many worlds.

http://www.aaattanasio.com

eBooks Available from A. A. Attanasio

(newly revised by the author)

The Radix Tetrad

The volumes of this series can each be read independently of the others. The feature that unifies them is their individual adaptation of science fiction’s sub-genre: “space opera,” which the editors David G. Hartwell and Kathryn Cramer define as "colorful, dramatic, large-scale science fiction adventure, competently and sometimes beautifully written, usually focused on a sympathetic, heroic central character and plot action, and usually set in the relatively distant future, and in space or on other worlds, characteristically optimistic in tone. It often deals with war, piracy, military virtues, and very large-scale action, large stakes."

Radix

A saga of a young man's odyssey of self-discovery on an eerily alien Earth thirteen centuries in the future.

Rich in detail and filled with beings brought to life with intense energy, this strange and beautiful world reveals its secrets as Sumner Kagan changes from an adolescent outcast to a warrior with god-like powers. In the process, we accompany Sumner on an epic and transcendent journey.

Nebula Award Nominee

https://goo.gl/61XHRu

The audiobook edition of Radix narrated by Sergei Burbank available at Audible.com

http://goo.gl/ojf3qX

In Other Worlds

One star-chained evening in a Manhattan bathroom, Carl Schirmer, a sweet, slightly defeated bar manager, spontaneously transforms into energy and finds himself transported to the farthest extreme of the universe, 130 billion years in the future. Turned loose in time's last world, the strangest of all – the Werld – Carl discovers a domain of indescribably beautiful islands floating in a sky contoured by gravity lanes. These skyles are inhabited by the Foke, nomadic humans, who struggle for survival against the zōtl, a spidery intelligence that eats the pain of sentient beings. Among the Foke, Carl meets and wins the lovely Evoë, and their life together offers a blissful future in this kingdom that knows no aging or disease – until Evoë is captured by the zōtl. In order to save her life, Carl must return to Earth – 130 billion years earlier – where he is shocked to discover that the world he has come back to is not the one he left...

http://goo.gl/FN37o9

The audiobook edition of In Other Worlds narrated by David Gilmore available at Audible.com

http://goo.gl/Ds6CPw

Arc of the Dream

An alien from a higher dimension has fallen to Earth, trapped within a continuum too small to contain it. In its quest for freedom, this hyperspatial being touches a handful of lives: Filling a frail Asian man with unimaginable energy. Freeing a middle-aged American from the chains of time. Wrenching a lonely French girl out of the depths of madness. Opening a bitter young Hawaiian punk to hope and love. Together, they join in a visionary quest to save the Earth from destruction.

"A kaleidoscopic adventure, a potent piece of storytelling pulsing with menace, yet thoughtfully and gracefully rendered." -- Roger Zelazny

"Arc of the Dream melds physics and metaphysics, adventure and speculation, intellectual entertainment and deeply felt emotion ... A step forward for a major writer." -- Norman Spinrad

"A lovely book, full of poetry and wonder." -- New York Daily News

https://goo.gl/BS7Soe

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The Last Legends of Earth

Seven billion years from now, long after the Sun has died and human life has become extinct, alien beings reconstruct homo sapiens from our fossilized DNA drifting as debris in deep space. We are reborn to serve as bait in a battle to the death between the Rimstalker, humankind's re-animator, and the zōtl, horrific creatures who feed vampire-like on the suffering of intelligent lifeforms.

The resurrected children of Earth are told: "You owe no debt to the being that roused you to this second life. Neither must you expect it to guide you or benefit you in any way." Yet, humans choose sides, as humans will, participating in the titanic struggle between Rimstalker and zōtl in ways strange and momentous.

Set in the artificial planetary system of Chalco-Doror, which is no more and no less than an enormous cosmic machine, The Last Legends of Earth is a love story, a gripping saga of struggle against alien control, and an examination of the machinery of creation and destruction.

Above all, it is world-building of the highest and grandest order, on a scale rarely seen in science fiction since the great works of Olaf Stapledon.

“A wondrously complex novel.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer

“Few novels have ever had a broader scope.”—The Denver Post

“A wonderfully realized, richly-detailed and cohesive novel.” —People

The Last Legends of Earth is a magnificent, visionary epic of the far future.

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The audiobook edition of The Last Legends of Earth narrated by David Gilmore available at Audible.com

http://goo.gl/akxddK

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The Perilous Order of Camelot

Across this four book series, young King Arthur grows up with the help of Merlin in a world of supernatural powers set against him.

The Dragon and the Unicorn

A dragon’s dreamsong, a hunt for the unicorn’s horn, and the ceaseless wars of angels and demons begin this bold retelling of the Arthurian cycle. Here is magic. And dark romance. Here is Merlin’s most dangerous sorcery: the supernatural love story of Uther Pendragon and Ygrane queen of the Celts.

Old as the Big Bang, the demon Lailoken assumes human form in Roman Britain as Celts battle Saxons for mastery. The druid-queen he serves calls him Myrddin and sends him to find her true love—to fulfill for her people an ancient prophecy at the frontier of life and death.

Led by a unicorn and hunted by a dragon huge as the planet, Myrddin becomes Merlinus on his quest for the queen’s mate among her remorseless enemies, the Romans.

And finally as Merlin, he matches wits with gods and elves to unite Celtic queen and Roman warlord and weave the destiny of the most famous king.

http://goo.gl/1aoqTq

The Eagle and the Sword

The story of young Arthor on his journey to Camelot. When Merlin discovers that Arthor's only joy is killing, he vows to turn the youth around with a magical sword.

Merlinus has fostered the future king of Britain with Kyner, a Celtic chieftain, protected by obscurity from the jealous hatred of the sorceress Morgeu. As Arthor grows to manhood, though, he becomes a twisted creature, loving violence and hating himself. What kind of king will he be? A chance journey leading to woodland encounters shapes his character and settles his destiny.

Arthor's story is a single thread in an immense, complex web of gods, demons, angels, a sorceress, a unicorn, a carpenter with a wish, a dragon, Saxons, an impoverished Aquitanian lady with a secret weapon, battle-hardened Celtic chieftains and treacherous Roman nobles, knights, warring religions—and fairies.

http://goo.gl/zMwP3t

The audiobook edition of The Eagle and the Sword narrated by Thomas B. Hackett available at Audible.com

http://goo.gl/q0mNjs

The Wolf and the Crown

Adolescent King Arthur's first year on the throne portrayed in chapters composed as 'flash fiction:' short, swift, emotionally percussive episodes, reflect the intensity of the boy king's struggle to consolidate power against brigands and invading pagan tribes.

Though he possesses the legendary sword Excalibur, the boy-king "Arthor" discovers that he must earn the respect of the warring lords of Britain before he can truly claim his place as their leader.

Gods old and new, ghosts, witches, demons, angels, vampires, dwarves, a monkey, elves, stolen and misplaced souls, the hell that is our present day, the fabulous world tree that is the magnetic field surrounding the Earth, the hollow hills above the dragon at the heart of the planet, heroic adventure, and selfless sacrifice, weave a tapestry of magic and enchanted historical realism.

http://goo.gl/m4ZtL2

The audiobook edition of The Wolf and the Crown narrated by Erin Jones available at Audible.com

http://goo.gl/AfO6gW

The Serpent and the Grail

The narrator is Rna, a clan woman 90,000-years-old. She is eldest of the Nine Queens of Avalon. The place is Roman Britain, A.D. 491 on an alternate Earth, where Camelot is a monumental quantum gate to other worlds—

The boy-king Arthor has beaten back the berserker wolf warriors of the Saxon god, uniting his island kingdom—but at a terrible cost. The Grail, the chalice of the Last Supper and the magical shield of Britain, has been stolen.

Without the Grail's protection, Britain lies parched and barren, a demon-haunted landscape. To find the Grail, Arthor's mother, Ygrane, must strike a dark bargain with Bright Night, elf-prince of the "pale people," in the hollow hills.

Merlin alone can show the way. But it is Arthor who must confront the Serpent, sword in hand, to fulfill the ancient blood rite of kings—and transform himself to King Arthur.

http://goo.gl/Yg1aPs

The audiobook edition of The Serpent and the Grail narrated by Bushra Laskar available at Audible.com

http://goo.gl/JRRXcz

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The Dominions of Irth

Three epic fantasy novels explore Irth, a realm of wizards, witch queens, and magical amulets threatened by black magic from a mysterious world—Earth.

The Dark Shore

Here is an epic fantasy from the dawn of Creation, from the first worlds, the Bright Worlds. Among them is Irth. And upon Irth, in a realm of wizards, witch queens, and magic, destiny casts shadows into the Gulf and onto the Dark Shore, a universe of blacker magic and deeper mysteries — the greatest of which is Earth.

Irth is a world where magic rules — magic that radiates from the Abiding Star. The nobility, possessors of most of this mystic energy, dwell in floating cities that drift above their realms, plotting against each other for domination.

The nobility cast off the Edge into the abyss beyond the reach of the Abiding Star those who fail in their attempts to hold or usurp power. There, the outcasts fall into the cold world of the Dark Shore — onto Earth — whence no one has ever returned. Until now.

Hu’dre Vra, formerly an abject scavenger who found a magical sword but failed to use it wisely, plummeted into the abyss, only to return from the Dark Shore with an awesome new power: black magic. At the head of an army of cacodemons impervious to Irth’s enchantments, Hu’dre Vra the Dark Lord wreaks a terrible vengeance upon the world that exiled him.

But there is resistance to the Dark Lord’s rule of terror. The mysterious, inventive thief Ripcat and his crafty partner Dogbrick form an uneasy and dangerous alliance with the brave young noblewoman Jyoti and her small band of comrades, among whom is her family’s ancient sorcerer, Caval. Together, they all must pit their courage, their wits and their lives against the brutal minions of the Dark Shore.

http://goo.gl/rQlCu7

The audiobook edition of The Dark Shore narrated by Wendy Anne Darling available at Audible.com

http://goo.gl/HmjpBl

The Shadow Eater

A gnome wanders among strange worlds of immeasurable beauty and terror on a quest for magic to restore the health of a goddess. If he fails, all creation will dissolve. And so he must dare anything to succeed, even trespass a realm of terrible darkness, pain and dread sorcery — Earth.

The Lady of the Garden, one of the godlike Nameless Ones, has used her magic to dream into existence the worlds of the Bright Shore. But now her unborn child lies motionless in her womb. An intruder from the Dark Shore, the malevolent shadow of her dream, threatens the life of her unborn. If she cannot locate and expel this shadow thing, she will waken the child's stern father, and he will dissolve the dream — and the Bright Shore will vanish.

In order to save the Lady of the Garden's baby, an old gnome travels through the many worlds in search of the creature of darkness whose presence threatens the dream of creation.

http://goo.gl/NONtHg

Octoberland

A Manhattan coven, Octoberland, weaves ancient black magic to preserve the life of its 7,000-year-old leader, Nox. The sorcerer staves off death by leaching years from his followers’ blood. But Nox’s reckless search for eternal youth has opened the gate to—Irth. From this alien world of wizards, witch queens, and blacker magic yet, goblins invade Earth!

Darkness lurks at the heart of a city rebuilt from ashes — as a weak-minded ruler and his renegade witch wife hoard technological trinkets from the Dark Shore … from Earth.

Automatic weapons challenge talismanic magic and the amulet power of Charm. Evil threatens two worlds — Irth and Earth — in the stunning climax of The Dominions of Irth.

“One of the most inventive imaginary world settings.” —Orlando Sentinel

http://goo.gl/zljoEr

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Wyvern

A bold escapade with a young soul-catcher from Borneo kidnapped by pirates in 1609.

Headhunters, sorcerers, pirates and Indian princes thrive in this adventurous, poetic tale of a young outcast in Borneo. Born in 1609, son of a native woman and a Dutch sea captain he never knew, Jaki Gefjon grows up in the jungle as a sorcerer's apprentice. Later kidnapped by pirates, he befriends his captor, Trevor Pym, notorious for his dreaded man-of-war, Wyvern. The scientific marvels on the European privateer become the young soul-catcher’s passion—until he falls for Lucinda, the headstrong daughter of Pym's sworn enemy. Propelled by intrigue, pirates' battles, curses and visions, this seafaring saga takes Lucinda and Jaki from the South Seas to India—and to a bold, unforeseen destiny in the New World.

http://goo.gl/QZBxHo

The audiobook edition of Wyvern narrated by D. W. Draffin is available at Audible.com.

http://goo.gl/DbBSND

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The Moon’s Wife: A Hystery

In one of the most memorable opening scenes in literature, twenty-three-year-old Siggy Lindo’s lonely, mundane life as a bookkeeper explodes into a weird and wondrous odyssey through modern-day witchcraft – when the Moon interrupts her grocery shopping to ask her to marry him. With each moonrise, her mystical awareness grows. But her mother, her best friend, and the world-at-large think she’s lost her mind. Two elderly witches – Glendil and Drusille – come to her aid and teach her the spellcraft she needs to stay out of the psychiatric ward. They introduce her to the charming, enigmatic, and vividly attractive Ethan, the “moon-in-the-man,” who grounds her erotic flights of lunar sorcery in a passionate and enchanting affair of the heart. Together, they embark on an exploratory journey of Wicca – and each other. Guided by Glendil and Drusille and their Coven of the Shining Face, Siggy learns the mysteries of moon magic. And in an emotionally soaring romance with Ethan, she opens herself to the secrets of love – and her supernatural responsibilities as the moon’s wife.

https://goo.gl/khSynk

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Hunting the Ghost Dancer

50,000 years ago, three young friends band together for a perilous journey to find a new home after plague devastates their coastal tribe. Accompanied by a blind horse and armed with meager weapons and their own elusive courage, Hamr, Timov and Duru defy savage odds to survive in the strange and brutal realm of Ice Age Europe. This incredible quest takes them through primeval forests stalked by cave lions and across vast glacial moraines of thundering woolly rhinoceros—to the Thundertree clan. These forest people accept Duru, the girl, for her magical powers. But the two young men must prove themselves worthy by hunting down a giant Neanderthal—the last of his line—who has been terrorizing the tribe.

World Fantasy nominee.

http://goo.gl/nNwOIy

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Servant of Birds

Set in the 1190s during the rule of England's Richard the Lion Heart, this historical romance explores the raw experience of love: romantic, sexual and spiritual. The dramatic action moves from Wales to a tumultuous Europe unsettled by the Crusades to intensely colorful Palestine and back. Arrogant Guy Lanfranc assumes control of the family castle by sending his hated mother, the old baroness Ailena Valaise, on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Wily Ailena vows revenge and finds the means in the person of Rachel Tibbon, a Jewish girl who survived the butchery of her family and other Jews after Crusader losses. Ailena's plot to regain the castle built by her father propels Rachel into a perilous adventure of vengeance, faith – and true love set against impossible odds.

http://goo.gl/6Wpr2h

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Killing with the Edge of the Moon

Mama’s boy Chester Hubert drums up the courage to ask a witch’s granddaughter to the school dance – and finds himself hurtling through a modern, demonic fairy tale.

Quiet, elfin Flannery is not like other kids. She has caught the attention of the faerie, beautiful evil creatures from a mysterious Otherworld. They seduce their victims at midnight raves, then feed them to a dragon. For sport, they hunt souls with a black dog of prodigious evil. And they have taken Flannery for one of their own.

Thrust together in the Otherworld’s dark enchantment, Flannery and Chester discover they know each other better than they know their own hearts ... but can they sort things out before the black dog finds them?

And what was that about a dragon?

http://goo.gl/p4mEzc

The audiobook edition of Killing with the Edge of the Moon narrated by Destiny Landon and Lee James available at Audible.com.

http://goo.gl/VWhHKz

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The Conjure Book

Life is lonely for 13-year-old Jane Riggs in the historical New England village that is her new home — until she discovers a four-hundred-year-old book of spells that really works. Guided by the ghost of the witch who wrote the conjure book, Jane embarks on a terrifying but glorious quest for magical power. Her ambition is to contact her mother, dead these ten years and remembered only in photographs. For such a great prize, Jane is willing to risk much among the weird creatures she conjures out of the spirit world. But she will need more than courage when her magic follows her to school. After an evil spirit-fox steals her classmate's soul, life suddenly gets very complicated. Coming of age among dark, elemental powers while not missing a day of seventh grade is not easy. And the answers Jane needs for growing up don't seem to be in the conjure book.

http://goo.gl/IDjQKW

The audiobook edition of The Conjure Book narrated by Laura Rubin available at Audible.com

http://goo.gl/P9kga1

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Brave Tails:

The Moon’s Prophecy

Summoned by a vengeful sorcerer snake, an army of malevolent boars has invaded the peaceful haven of Riversplash Mountain. Only a few humble friends from the swamp dare to believe they can prevent the invaders from ravaging their fertile mountain. Farmer mouse Thrym, wise hedgehog Muspul, a father-and-son team of shrews, and the beautiful mouse maiden Olweena dangerously assume the masked identities of the Brave Tails. Those legendary, sword-wielding heroes of yore originally rid their land of predators. But these small defenders will need more than masks and swords to stop this brutal onslaught – and the magic they seek is even more dangerous than the boars!

https://goo.gl/3hFE8c

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Demons Hide Their Faces

(Seven Seriously Strange Stories.)

Featuring seven captivating, terrifying, and poetic short stories giving form to a universe both wonderful and mysterious: Visit an alternate America discovered and settled by imperial Chinese — Sleuth with a hardboiled detective in ‘30s Honolulu — Tour hell with an accidental demon hunter — Meet the Designers of our universe — Investigate the inner life of a vampire yoga instructor — Discover branch universes of evil beauty — and watch an Artificial Intelligence confront the ghosts of our blood.

http://goo.gl/FWUxOp

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