Blue Moon (16 page)

Dashiel followed his movements like a hand on a compass, growling softly. She reached over and petted him, trying to make him quiet.

"Elizabeth."

The world went silent as death, and she turned her head to his voice. Something rubbed against the wood. She could hear it, and she wondered if he had somehow found the place where the window was boarded up.

"Come to me, Elizabeth. I will make you my queen."

If she wasn't so determined not to admit she was there, she would have told him he was taking the dark prince thing too far.

"You can't hide forever."

Nothing happened for a long time, and gradually, Dashiel relaxed, so she knew Sabin was gone.

You can't hide forever.

Well, as her grandmother used to say, this girl had a hell of a lot of try.

Frightening Libby was not Sabin's only chore for the night, but by far his favorite. He got back into the car and drove away, looking at Rita from the corner of his eye. The numbing spell was doing its job, keeping the soul disconnected from the body just enough to give the form life without all the inconveniences that went with it. If Rita were allowed to taste and smell and see and think with clarity she might start remembering the truth of things, and that would not be helpful to the project. Also, it made her much easier to bespell. The calling of the sorceress to lead them to the Shadow King had been so easy without her will resisting the directions.

It would also make tonight's work easier, he thought, pulling into a parking space next to a bar. It was noisy, filled with college students. He squinted, reading the meter to see if he needed to put in some change. There was no sense having a record of his visit lying around anywhere, even something as bland as a traffic ticket.

He twitched his finger at Rita, who slid out of the car with feline grace and straightened the too-short skirt. She earned howls and catcalls from the guys standing at the door. The smile she threw them was feral, hard-edged enough that they lost interest. Sabin grinned. Pity he couldn't let her loose to eat them alive. It would be amusing.

He shook his head as the glow of her eyes illuminated the meter. Sabin was denying himself the pleasures of her body for a reason. She was more useful to him as a magic wand than as a whore.

He copped a feel, casually, as they turned to go up the street. She was cold as ice, but it didn't bother him. He opened the door of the tattoo parlor. The owner, a wiry man with hair the texture of long steel wool and a goatee, hit the switch on the neon sign, and the sidewalk was plunged into darkness.

He smiled at them. “Sorry, man,” he said, “I was just closing up.” He pointed to the sign on his door.

"This won't take long,” Sabin said. “I'll pay you five hundred dollars."

"Well, okay,” the guy said.

"I've even brought my own ink,” Sabin said. He looked over at Rita. “Take off your shirt and lie facedown on the table."

The woman did as she was bid, sliding past and into the small room behind him. She dropped her shirt into the chair that sat in the poster-and-tattoo-sample-covered waiting room and straddled the cracked leather of the dentist chair the tattoo artist, known to his friends as Marv, used for his “patients.” She waited, her back arched, her skirt hiked up, daring him to touch her.

Despite the sexuality of the pose—and Marv thought she was about the sexist thing he'd ever seen—he didn't want to touch her.

The blond guy boffed her lightly on the back of her head. “Lie down."

Marv ran around to the back of the chair and pulled it down so she could lie flat. There were no arms on it, and she stretched out without moving her legs. He gulped.

The blond guy pulled a dingy scroll out of his pocket, and a jar of black ink. He unrolled the scroll carefully, and Marv weighted it down on the table with some stones he kept on the windowsill. The guy traced the pattern.

"I hear you are the best around."

"Not really,” Marv said. He placed his hand on her back, as if smoothing the skin. He ripped his hand away as if in pain. “Are you cold, sweetheart? I have an afghan in the other room. It's clean."

"She's fine. I hear your specialty is freehand knotwork."

"Yep. But this isn't quite like knotwork, is it? None I've ever seen."

"Just do it,” the blond guy said.

So, he did. He managed to get the main things on—the circle, the triangle inside it, a lot of the swirls and knots that bound it—before he got up to give his hand a break. He put on some coffee and tried to give the girl some, but she refused with one shake of her head.

"She stoned?"

"Nope.” The guy picked up the bottle and shook it. There was still plenty of ink.

Marv sat down again and began putting in the small symbols—runes and things he'd last seen in chemistry class. The blond guy watched him with cold golden eyes, counting each symbol as it appeared on the woman's blueish flesh. Marv's hand was absolutely steady, his eye for imitation perfection. He made one last dot inside the small, planet-like shape in the very center of the triangle and sighed.

"Okay,” he said. “S'cool."

He straightened on the stool, massaging his hand, admiring the work. The woman stared at him with blank, glowing eyes.

Sabin stood behind the tattoo artist, reached into his pocket. An envelope bulging with money and a knife shared the space. He pulled one out, pressing the edge against Marv's neck. The man stilled, seemed to straighten a little more.

"Remember that I could have killed you,” Sabin said. “Do not imitate what you've done tonight on another unless I say so."

"Sure, man,” he said. “I couldn't do anything even close without the picture. It's all good."

"Take it."

The man took the envelope gingerly between his fingers.

"Is she dry?” Sabin asked.

Marv leaned close to the ink, blew on it. “Yeah, she sure is."

Rita sort of rolled and stood up, then crossed to where her shirt lay in a little ball. She put it on quickly.

"Have you counted the money?” Sabin asked.

"No, I trust you."

"Not wise. Count it."

Marv counted it slowly, looking tired and a bit frightened. Sabin enjoyed the fear.

"Yeah. All here."

"Remember that, if anyone asks you about me. Remember that, if anyone wants a tattoo close to what you just did. Remember that, if I ever come again."

"Sure will. You've been real cool."

Rita jerked the door open. Sabin walked out in front of her.

"Hey, girl."

She looked over her shoulder at Marv.

"You watch yourself, now."

She gave him a half-smile and winked.

Sierra lay by the fireplace, looking comfy and happy. Zorovin had offered her the couch, but she pulled some pillows out and insisted her favorite spot was as close to the fire as possible. She stretched like a cat, and he smiled at her, feeling equal contentment settle in his bones.

He was on the couch, dozing. The spell had drained them both but had felt good. It also felt undeniably pleasant to be with her, to listen to her snore softly, to be fed and warm. He shifted and stretched a little himself then closed his eyes, fully intending to doze off again.

"Zorovin?” she whispered.

"Yes, wizard woman?"

"Tell me another story?"

He thought about it. Telling her stories appealed to him because she always listened with such care and delight.

"Alright,” he said.

There is more to this story than you think, more than anyone can ever know. Centuries have passed since the death of Arthur, King of Bretons, and we no longer hear of the wars that went on between tribes of the Elven people and humans, nor of the underground rebellion where the gnomes overthrew the Dwarven kings. We do not hear of the people of the sea, who resented the intrusion of man enough to wage war against villages near the shore.

And if we do hear, or read bits of these things, we see them as shadows of the truth, as folktales and myths, as stories written to entertain. There's no crime in that, but there is a crime in accusing pragmatic sailors of confusing the bulbous, seal-like mass of manatees for the curves and scales of a merwoman.

But it is a small matter.

You might ask yourself, if elves and dwarves and dragons really exist, where are they now? Where are their bones, their dwellings, their artifacts?

Merlin could tell you.

Once upon a time—is that the phrase?—there was only magic in the world. But time passed, and manmade technology could not co-exist with earthbound magic.

To retell you the story of Arthur, to show you how he was meant to be an example of how magic and science, elves and humans could live together, and of how Morgan Le Fay tried to prove that science was a destructive force that would ruin the world ... it would take more days than we have, wizard woman.

So, instead, I will speak of the last days of Merlin, and of the Lady of the Lake.

Vivienne of the Lake had many names, many titles. Names like Nimue and Ninian that scholars would argue over later. We will name her as tradition dictates—Nimue.

Merlin, wandering by himself, first caught site of Nimue playing, as a young woman, by the river. Over the years, he taught her many things. Some say he loved her. She certainly loved him.

"This thing,” Merlin said to her once, near the end of his days, “with Lancelot and Guenevere has gone too far. And the timing could not be worse."

Nimue smoothed her skirt across the boulder. She had hair as white as snow and clear, bright-green eyes. Her coloring, pale skin and slightly upswept brows marked her as part elven.

"I have spoken to the Elven kings. If Arthur insists on waging war with Lancelot instead of dealing with the problems across the border, they will act themselves.” She chewed her lip. A foot in both camps because of her heritage, Nimue felt she had a great deal at stake.

The border problem she referred to was the fading of the Twilight Lands—a ribbon of eternal dusk that separated science-obsessed humans from magic-dependent Fae. For some reason the Twilight was fading, the lands along the border rupturing and cracking. Many lives had already been lost.

"It is time, then,” Merlin said. “We can wait no longer.” From his robes, he pulled out a granite box. “This is the spell that I cast when I left you as a young man to come back a moon's cycle later as an ancient one. I put all the power I will ever have in this stone."

He opened the box. Upon black velvet rested a large stone globe. It was dark blue, marbled with gray and white.

"Did you learn the song I left for you?” he asked.

She nodded reluctantly, and he closed the box with a snap. He touched her face, and she looked into his tired, watery eyes. She had always loved him, and to see such sorrow and weariness in him broke her heart.

"The world is dying, Nimue. But we can stop it ... or at least slow it down for a few centuries."

She smiled wryly as she tried to force herself to follow his example. She needn't have bothered, for his smile didn't last long.

"I will stay here,” he said, “with my human kind. I will sing the song and, with luck, key the spells in the stone. The world will be ripped into two parts, one for humans and science and another for the Fae and their magic. Then I'll find a safe place to hide the stone, because if anyone ever finds it, and the song, they'll be able to reunite the world."

"What can I do?"

"If anything happens to me, you know the song. Hopefully, Morgan is so engaged in the war with Arthur and Lancelot she'll not notice our goings-on. Other than dealing with her, or taking my place, you're free to go with your people."

They stood there for a long time, silent. Below them lay Camelot, glittering in the late sun.

He put his thumbs gently over her eyes so she could not see him and kissed her.

"I promised you much, Nimue,” he said in a younger, more powerful voice. “Would that we had known at the time, when promises came so easy, that a wife and children were not for me.” He laughed softly. “And it is said that I am wise."

His touch went away, and her eyes opened, but he had already disappeared.

She sat down heavily, contemplating his apology. She felt empty, lost, and she knew as she knew night was about to fall that Merlin would not survive the spell. Even if he did, he would not have the magic to call on to heal his wounds. It was suicide.

She stood, dried her eyes. There was one thing she could do, but was not all that sure she had the right to do it.

They gathered two days later to witness the spell—the High Kings of the nations, the newly freed gnomes, the unicorns, dragons, elves, dwarves and all manner of fantastic beasts. They gathered on Salisbury Plain, within the standing stones. Nimue stood in the very center of Stonehenge with the box.

Merlin appeared suddenly from the air, as was his wont. “Is all ready?"

She smiled and touched him gently beneath the cuff of his robe.

"Yes, my love.” She caressed his thin wrist. “You look tired."

He nodded, and took up the harp.

"Wait,” she said. “Drink this first.” She handed him a carved wooden cup. “It will ease your vocal cords and help you sing."

"So helpful,” he said, and he took a small lock of her hair and tugged it affectionately. “I will miss you when you are gone."

She handed him the flask. “And I will miss you.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “More than anything in the world."

He drank deeply, and in the very end he must have tasted what the spices masked, for he looked at her accusingly. It was too late. He slumped into the arms of one of the Elven warriors, who had taken his place behind Merlin for just that reason.

A dragon, black and silver, tilted his head and spoke to her.

"He will not thank you for this, Elven mage."

"Someday, if you are wise, Zorvanis, you will be king. You, and your son after you.” she said, pointing to the little one who clung to his father's tail. “Remember what you see today, for dragons are far longer-lived than any of us. Remember this box, and know your responsibility to it, and to the scroll I've given you."