The Mirror of Fate (20 page)

“You will fail,” intoned my father.

“He will not,” countered Cairpré. “He is, above all . . .”

“Young hawk!” interrupted a new voice, one that lifted my spirits more than any other.

“Hallia,” I whispered, turning to her warm brown eyes. “Help me know . . . what to do.”

“Come to me, young hawk,” she implored, reaching out to me. “You don’t need to be a wizard for me, nor a healer, nor anything else. Just my companion. Now come back to me, and all will be well.”

“But. . . no,” I said hoarsely. “You saw for yourself . . . the bloodnoose.”

“Come to me,” she urged. “Stand by my side. Soon we will be kicking our hooves, running together again.”

My head spun, as the mist crept higher on my body. It pulled on me, weighing me down. Dimly, I heard another voice calling through the thickening fog. Distant though it sounded, this voice struck as fresh as a woodland breeze. I knew it well. Rhia!

“You have great magic, Merlin,” she warned, “but you’re in danger of losing it.” Her hand, wearing a bracelet of woven vines, waved vigorously at me. “Your magic—your power—has always sprung from the meadows, the trees, the singing streams. Come back to the land, Merlin, before it’s too late. Leave this mist behind. Come away with me now!”

She was right—yes, I could feel it. I started to follow her, when a deep voice, bellowing sternly, arrested me.

“No, no, a wizard does not run.”

It was the voice of my grandfather, Tuatha. Even if I had possessed enough strength to turn toward him, I did not need to see his face to feel the power of his presence.

“I am your future,” he proclaimed. “Your destiny lies here, with me.”

“He will fail,” grumbled my father. “Just as I did.”

“No,” objected Rhia, “but his power springs from the land.”

“To me!” cried Cairpré. “You already have the power of a wizard in your veins—all the power of Tuatha, and more. Come, my boy, and I will help you follow the ways of wizardry.”

Confused, I didn’t know which way to turn, which voice to believe. Shadows began to gather in the mist, pressing closer, obscuring the faces around me. Tendrils, heavier by the second, wrapped themselves around my chest. My knees felt ready to buckle; my chest ready to collapse. I couldn’t move now even if I had tried.

The voices kept calling to me, vying for my attention. Yet with each labored breath I took, the voices grew dimmer, as did the light that had once scattered through the mist. I could hardly hear all the pleas and commands anymore. Swiftly they faded, like my strength, my will to live.

At that instant, another voice, no louder than the rest but more grating, spoke very near to me—almost in my ear. “Just as I predicted, you infantile wizard, you have doomed yourself.”

I went rigid, as Nimue’s voice clucked softly. “Now I shall be rid of you and your meddling ways forever. And since I am growing bored with waiting, I shall end your meager little life myself.” Suddenly I felt cold fingers of mist curling around my neck. “Right here,” she said smugly. “Right now.”

At the chill of her touch, whatever strength remained in me erupted all at once. I reeled backward, my arms pummeling the encroaching clouds, my legs straining to burst free of their bonds. I could barely see in the blur of clouds—but felt myself falling, tumbling helplessly downward.

Even as I fell, a great weariness flooded over me. I may have evaded Nimue’s grasp, but now, surely, I would die anyway. My strangled heart pulsed with regret: I had so much left to do, so much left to learn. And so many faces that I would never see again.

Faintly, I noticed that the mist itself was changing. Was I merely imagining? No, no, it was true. The mist was not merely shifting, forming shapes within shapes as it had so many times before, but. . . dissolving. Yes, that was it. Vanishing from every side.

Could that be light? It might be, though it seemed dim and wavering, coming from somewhere above. Although I couldn’t move, I felt something hard forming beneath me—more like stone than mist. Even so, it didn’t matter. Wherever I was now, I felt closer to death than ever before. Helpless, I drew a last, ragged breath.

22:
N
AMES

When I awoke, two large eyes, darker than night, peered down at me. I tensed, my body as rigid as the stones beneath my back. Did those eyes belong to Nimue?

No, no, they were not hers—that much I could tell now, even in the dim light of this chamber where I lay on the floor. Set beneath white brows as thick as brambles, the eyes blinked once, very slowly. When they reopened, they seemed deeper than the deepest chasm: mysterious, frightening, and yet strangely familiar somehow. Suddenly they narrowed, squinting at me.

With a start, I rolled away—and bumped right into someone else. This time, slate blue eyes gazed down at me. At once, I recognized them. Ector!

“It’s you,” I murmured. Though I still felt too weak to sit up, a new strength was slowly seeping into me, filling me as falling rain fills the hollows of upturned leaves. All at once, I remembered the many faces that had confronted me in the mist. I cringed, and asked, “Are you . . . real?”

The boy, a thin shaft of light glinting on his curls, smiled. “I’m real, yes. And so was that bloodnoose.”

“Extracted just in time, young lad. Just barely in time.”

Feebly, I turned to the voice—and those unfathomably deep eyes. They belonged to an old man, extremely old by the looks of him, who sat cross-legged on the stones. Even in the dim light of the chamber, his flowing hair and beard seemed whiter than white. Almost . . . aflame. His beard, knotted and unruly, fell over his thighs and onto the floor like a luminous cloak.

“Aye, my lad,” he continued, his words crackling like snapping branches. “When those inexplicable mists spat you out—” He caught himself mid-sentence, looking suddenly bewildered. “More truly, the mists are indescribable, wouldn’t you agree? As well as indefatigable—if, for consistency’s sake, we keep with terms using the Latin prefix
in,
one of Ceasar’s more lasting contributions. Or I suppose you
could
say the indeterminate mists spat you out, or rather, was it you who spat out the mists? The indigestible mists? No, no, that’s folly. How does one spit mist, anyway? Although a fountain does, I suppose, what what?”

Ector started to speak, but the old man shook his head, setting loose a small yellow butterfly that had perched above his ear. “An English phrase, that that—I mean, what what. Not Celtic in the least, you understand. With no linguistic logic behind it whatsoever! Like so much else about the English: strictly incomprehensible, and at times, incoherent. I picked it up, you see, in my days in the royal courts of Gramarye, what what.”

He drew his prominent brows together. “Now then, what was I saying? And . . . was I saying it now? Or then?” His bewildered look deepened. He grasped a fistful of beard hairs, thrust them into his mouth, chewed for a moment, then spat them out. “So tell me now, where were we?”

I cocked my head, wondering more and more about this old babbler.

“We were saying,” answered Ector, “that my friend here almost died.” Grimly, he observed me. “You were drawing your last breath, young hawk. I’m sure of it. I don’t know how he did it, but my master pulled that bloodnoose clean out of you.” His eyes glowed with compassion, then narrowed. “It was thicker than a rope, soaked through with blood.”

With a shudder, I placed my hand upon my chest. The skin felt tender, as if my rib cage had been roughly chafed. Everything beneath my bones felt tender, as well—though my chest seemed whole again, more whole than it had for a long time.

Ector glanced proudly at the elder fellow, who was busy pulling some beard hairs out of his mouth. “I told you he was a healer.”

“You mean,” I asked in disbelief, “that
he
is the one who did it?”

The boy nodded.

“This fellow is your master?”

He watched me with a wry grin. “The same fellow you said had the courage of a newborn hare and the wisdom of a jackass.”

I cringed. To my relief, the old man, still occupied with his beard, seemed not to have heard Ector’s comment. With effort, I propped myself up on my elbows. I could feel my heart beating strongly beneath my ribs. Then, doing my best to look more thankful than surprised, I faced the elder squarely. “You saved my life, and I am grateful.”

Casually, he scratched his nose. “Think nothing of it, my lad. I’ve always had some difficulty with people who try to die on my floor. Positively indecorous, you know—even indecent. Nothing personal, mind you . . . but I’m certain you can understand. Such a beastly mess, what what.”

Still unsure about him, I gave a respectful nod. “I, ah, understand.”

“Good,” he declared, scratching the tip of his long nose. “That is a good deal more than I can say for myself most of the time.” He clasped his weathered hands together and looked expectantly at Ector. “Now then.” Briefly, another wave of confusion crossed his face. “No, no. Let’s just say now. Less disorienting. So then, now. Maggots and mushrooms! Dear me. Just tell me, please, one thing—one very important thing.” The bewildered look vanished, replaced by one of great anticipation. “Where, lad, is the key?”

Ector’s shoulders drooped. Clearly, if he could have slinked away between the cracks in the stones, he would have done so. His words, though merely a whisper, seemed to shout out loud: “I have failed you, Master.”

For a long interlude, the old man didn’t move. I thought, at first, that he had not understood. At last I noticed a slight mistiness in his eyes. “You mean. . .”

“I don’t have it.”

My stomach clenched. I managed to sit all the way up, placing myself between the two of them. “It wasn’t his fault,” I explained. “If anyone failed you, it wasn’t him. It was me.”

The elder studied me. He did not stir except to lift, very slowly, one of his tangled brows.

Feeling the weight of his gaze, I turned away. “He . . . he tried to tell me. And I should have listened better.”

With his wrinkled hand, he tapped the floor. The sound reverberated in the shadowy chamber, finally dying away. “I see,” he said at last. “Don’t fret too much, lad. There have been too many times in my life when I should have listened better, for me to blame you now.” He heaved a sigh. “Far too many.”

His noble words lifted my spirits a notch. Yet, at the same time, the genuine anguish written upon his face made my throat swell.

With one hand, he tugged on the collar of his tunic—deep blue, it seemed, though I couldn’t be certain. “Ah, listening. Most difficult of all the arts.” He forced a half grin. “The only thing harder, I suppose, is trying to tame one’s own shadow.”

Sadly, I nodded. “Believe me, I know what you mean.”

He straightened himself, making the joints in his back pop. “Well then. Or now. Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves?”

He shot a quizzical glance at Ector. “We haven’t yet, have we?”

“No, Master.” He waved at me. “This is young hawk.”

From somewhere in the room, there came a small screech and a flutter. The old man didn’t seem to notice, and went back to watching me. The spare light rippled across his features and the stray hairs of his beard. “An odd name, that. What other names are you called?”

I peered at the dark eyes. “Most people just say Merlin.”

Again, a screech echoed—much louder this time. The old man grew agitated. “No, my lad. I wanted your name, not mine!”

I stiffened. “It
is
my name.”

“Merlin?” He leaned closer, drumming his bony fingers on the floor. “That’s impossible. No, inconceivable.”

Ector, reaching a hand from under his tattered robes, touched my knee. “Are you . . . really Merlin?”

Taken aback, I declared, “Of course! Why shouldn’t I be? And why did he say
his
name was Merlin?”

“Because it is.” Suddenly the boy’s face lit up like a torch. “Why, of course. That must be it! He shares your name because he—my own good master—is really
you
.”

“Me?” I asked, dumfounded.

“Your older self.”

My jaw dropped.

The old fellow stared at me, aghast.

The boy, meanwhile, eyed us both with wonder. “Don’t you see? You’re both Merlin, but from different times.” He laughed. “I knew there was something strange about you, young hawk. Strangely like my master! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything, not even my real name. He—I mean you, the older you—told me not to trust anyone I met in the marsh.”

My head whirled. “You mean to say your name isn’t Ector?”

He ran a hand through his curls. “No. It’s my father, you see, whose name is Ector—Sir Ector, of the Forest Sauvage. My real name . . . is Arthur.”

Though I had not heard the name before, I felt an unaccountable stirring down inside myself. “And why do you call him—er, me—your master?”

“Because it sounds better than tutor, or teacher. But teach me he does—all sorts of things, some of them rather, well, unusual. Even bizarre.” He gave an embarrassed grin. “Why, he’s even told me that one day he’ll show me how to pull a sword out of a . . . well, you’d never believe it.”

I gasped, as an ancient hand clutched my thigh. “Don’t say any more,” came the elder’s stern command. “The lad doesn’t know a particle about his future, all that lies ahead.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “In that regard, I suppose, he’s rather like you.”

23:
D
ANCE OF
L
IGHT

With surprising agility, the old man rose to his feet. At the same time, he swept his arm through the air, fingers splayed wide. His tunic’s sleeve slapped the air; the sound reverberated in the darkened chamber like a clap of thunder. Could that really be myself, I wondered, however many years in the future?

The grand sweep of his arm, however, stopped short: He had caught several fingers in the knots of his beard. Still, that fact—and the fact that he created several more knots while trying to extract his hand—did not seem to bother him. Nor did it do anything to diminish the new illumination in his face.