Merlin's Harp (12 page)

  I heard soft drums. A nightingale sang. Something long forgotten stirred in my body, delicious, tingling warmth. I thought, Holy Gods! A good thing it is in truth I did not poison you when I should have!

  Slowly I paced forward and mounted the steps beside Merlin.

  "This is my assistant," Merlin declared in elegant Latin, "Mage Niviene, come here with me to serve your Peace." So calmly did Merlin say this, and with no sidelong looks or nuances, that I knew he did not know Arthur and I had ever met before. Things did happen in the world, in the forest, that Merlin did not know. This was the first time I was sure of it.

  A smile creased Arthur's eyes. He said, "You are welcome, Mage Niviene. Merlin has praised you to me before now. I think you are truly a great mage." Well did he know that! Had he not seen me as white doe and as maiden in the same night, with those same smiling eyes? He added, "I look forward to frequent…and enjoyable…consultations with you."

  I tipped my head back and gave him a clear, level glance with a clear, definite message.

  There I stood before his throne, surrounded by his giants and hounds, and I dared send him that look! He blinked. And power rose up in me, the power which I bought every day with my life, and I shone forth, and watched Arthur's triple aura tremble and draw back before mine.

  (Merlin told me once, "If you wish to be a mage's mage, lie always alone." Merlin himself lay always alone. The Lady had taught him that, when she was ready. She herself did not make that sacrifice, and that was why Merlin, her student, eventually out-magicked her.

  She did not teach me. Maybe she was waiting for me to bear a second child. But this I would never do. Never again would I sacrifice to the Goddess. She given, She had taken. Let Her give and take no more.

  I sacrificed now to my own power; Her power for mine. All the Goddess's energy that wanted to flow into the enjoyment and creation of life now flowed into power. I could sing the wild forest creatures to my hand. At my blessing an apple tree bore double fruit. I could look now into Arthur's eyes and read his thoughts.)

  Arthur was thinking,
The white doe flies from me again.

  I looked farther, into his heart.

  At first I saw there a great and marvelous virtue, of which we Fey are incapable. Arthur truly loved his people, all his people, his Gods and his land. Gladly would he give his life for them.

  Next, I saw that Arthur's soul was like the world, or the forest, where life flourishes in the debris of death. He was entirely conscious of his exalted place in the Human world. His enormous third aura expressed self-adoration, as well as virtue. Watching it burn now against my own defending, expanding aura, I vowed to myself that I would never challenge his self-adoration. I might not survive such a challenge. Our positions were definitely reversed. Whereas before we had met on my ground, where I held power, now the power lay in Arthur's hands.

  Meekly I said, "Lord, the magic we will perform for you must take all our energy. For the sake of this magic we must renounce all dalliance and…pleasure."

  Arthur relaxed, leaned back and smiled. "I shall remember that," he assured me. But he thought, When she is ready, the whit
e
doe will turn again.

  He raised a finger and a page-boy skipped to his side. "Lead Mage Niviene to Queen's Hall," Arthur murmured. The page darted a look at me and paled. I smiled to him, close-mouthed. I did not want him frightened of me. A little fear can be useful; too much can block one's path. I wanted the Humans I met to respect me, but not to the point of silence.

  "Merlin," Arthur said, "remain here. We have news of the Holy Grail." He nodded a courteous dismissal to me, gray eyes smiling; and the awestruck child led me away.

  Out in the sun we chatted together as he guided me through winding streets to Queen's Hall; by the time we arrived there the skip was back in his step, and the ruddy color in his face.

* * *

King Mark, of whom Merlin sang, drew his sword.

  Stitched in bright, soft threads on a huge dark canvas, Mark bent over Tristam and Yseult, asleep on the ground. A shaft of goldthreaded light picked out the King and the guilty pair, while all around them curled a cavern of dark threads, framed in golden light and blue-threaded vines.

  Mark bent low, studying the sleeping faces. He saw Tristam's unsheathed sword asleep between the lovers, guarding them from each other. Silver threads defined the sword, and a silver aura around it.

  His own sword in hand, Mark paused. You could see his dark eyes brood, wondering. A moment more, and he would back away, sheath his sword, and leave the lovers in peace, for now.

  I had wondered before now about this scene. Did the lovers truly keep the sword between them? Were they trying to conquer the powerful love-spell that doomed them? Or had they heard the hoofbeats of Mark's charger in the wood? Had they cast the sword between them and feigned sleep, rather than fight Tristam's Lord, whom he should have loved more than life?

  I tore my fascinated gaze from the tapestry. I had seen pictures in Lady Villa. I was no longer amazed by Human art; though I had never seen any on this scale before, yet I was able to look away and examine Queen's Hall, open before me.

  Several large tables and looms stood about, and baskets of wools and flax; and a crowd of richly dressed women, who gossiped across flashing distaffs. They silenced as we entered and looked at me eagerly. Their auras, discernible in the soft, indoor light, quivered like leashed hounds shown a scent. They thought I might be about to join them, to spin or card and tell them news of the larger world.

  I glided past them on the young page's heels.

  My pouch dragged heavily again. Another keepsake had stirred to life. The page led me to the far window where a woman sat spinning alone in a shaft of sunlight.

  The Queen looked at me. The distaff stilled in her hand and dropped into her embroidered lap. I stood before her, smiling closed-mouthed; she stared at me, sensuous lips fallen a little apart.

  Her body had firmed. Her long plait, draped over one sloping shoulder, still gleamed bronze. Green and orange, faint in the sunlight, her narrow aura clung to her form and nestled in the folds of her white tunic and embroidered overgown. Looking straight at me, she thought,
This small person. I have seen her before, maybe in
a dream? This little dark one is dangerous.

  Spread-kneed she sat in the sun staring at me, her lap a flowered meadow between mountains, her distaff forgotten. The braided strands of her hair I yet carried in my pouch weighed me down so that standing straight was becoming difficult.

  I said, "My Lady. I am Niviene of the Lake, Merlin's assistant. You know my brother, Sir Lugh—Lancelot."

  Lugh's background was mysterious. No one here questioned him about it, and I hoped no one would question his sister. But at the name Lancelot, Gwenevere started. A red splotch glowed in her gold-freckled face. From her body arose a great cloud of scent, as though one had stepped into a garden of rose and honeysuckle. The women behind me gasped as one, then quickly fell to chattering like sparrows. Gwenevere raised a hand to her throat. Huskily she said, "You are welcome…Viviene… of the Lake."

  "Niviene, my Lady."

  "Are you staying with us long?"

  "As long as I am needed."

  I suspected I would not see much more of Gwenevere during my stay, and in that I was right. She feared and avoided me, though she could never remember where we had met before. But I learned what I needed to know from her there and then, in that brief meeting. I read every flicker of her pale lashes, every quick breath; I read her mind.

  In her mind lived one entity, one concern: Lancelot. Not Lancelot/Lugh in himself, a being apart from her, but Lancelot/ Gwenevere, a relationship. As for Arthur and his Peace, they meant no more to her than a fine sunny day, a pleasant background for more important matters.

  I could not reach out to her in words. Her narrow, focused mind was impervious to words. I could not plant thoughts directly into her mind; they bounced off the surface of her constant concern with Lancelot/Gwenevere. She had something like an energyshield around her mind. The energy trapped within could have made her powerful. But Gwenevere did not guess that. More than my childhood friend Elana, Gwenevere was blind and deaf to the spirit.

  I watched her, listened to her brief, meaningless talk, and thought,
A pity she has no child. Sterility has twisted her heart thin, like her
braid in my pouch. A pity she has no care for Arthur, or his people, but
lives totally in her lovely body. A pitiful truth.

  Later I returned to our hut under the great round earthen rampart that guarded Arthur's dun. The rampart had one obvious gated, guarded entrance-tunnel. There were also several hidden, unguarded tunnels, some incomplete. An hour's work with ax and pick could open one of these to the outer world. The hut assigned to us mages was built across such an incomplete tunnel. Its door faced the street and the dun; a back door opened into the tunnel. I swept in by the front door, gestured to Merlin and Aefa, and marched on out the back door, into the dark tunnel. Any word said in the hut could be heard in the street but no sound escaped from back here under the rampart. Here, we thought, was the place for magic, spells and sorcery.

  Cunning Aefa brought a taper out with her, so I saw their eyes question me as we stood close together.

  I said to Merlin, "It is as you say. The woman is mad."

  Merlin nodded. He drew his knife and sketched a magic circle in the dirt floor around us. "Come, friends," he said. "Invoke the Goddess with me. Either this Lancelot/Gwenevere madness will end or Arthur's Peace will end. It is only a matter of time."

  We three worked hard. We did our best. But when we returned to the forest six moons later, the Lancelot/Gwenevere madness still flowed in full flood.

For years Merlin, Aefa, and I traveled to the kingdom when needed. Sometimes we spent moons there, sometimes days. Mellias, Lugh's groom, sometimes returned with us to the forest. Lugh—Lancelot—never did. Whenever I came home to the villa the Lady would look past me, wanting to see Lugh. But this was a want, not a hope. She knew he would never come back.

  Slowly, I began to enjoy the kingdom. As experience softened the sharp edge of fear, I almost enjoyed the adventure of travel. Riding in open country I always dressed as a boy. Once in a while a canny Human would look down at me from his charger, or up at me as I sat my pony, and cross his fingers between us. Then I would laugh inside myself for sheer, delicious glee. The Humans' evil God Satan worked as my ally, though we never met.

  Within Arthur's dun, I basked in the deep respect his jostling Human herd accorded me. Giants stood aside to let me pass; brightgowned ladies hushed their chatter at my approach—this although I lived in Merlin's wicker hut under the rampart on bread, ale, and wild greens. These folk who worshipped material things, whose true God was greed, yet feared my power.

  Arthur deferred to me, though I lived under his hand, surrounded by knights who would lop off my head at his nod. Arthur treated me as courteously as he had in my forest, years ago. Naturally I had no care for Arthur. But I had not drowned my body with my heart in the Fey lake. Whenever I passed near Arthur, I remembered the white doe and the nightingale, and was conscious of my body's response.

  Early in our travels, Merlin took me to Arimathea Monastery. That spring morning I felt a peace and serenity that reminded me almost of home. I relaxed slightly, noticing birds nesting on low branches and hares quiet in their forms. We rode toward the monastery, a circle of thatched huts, through blooming apple trees, fat, tended trees such as I had never seen. Clear notes of music dropped on us like rain as chapel bells warned the monks of our approach.

  By Human standards, monks are not fearsome folk. Why should they be? They walk unarmed, threatening none. They keep few treasures in their huts that other Humans might covet. (And greed is usually the ground of Human violence.) Most Humans respect their spiritual power. (At least, the Angles I have known respect it. They say the Saxons are different.)

  So no tense, armed men rushed from barns, huts or fields to confront us. Quiet men stepped through doors, downed tools, shaded their eyes, and smiled at us (though I noticed a few sketched the sign in the air that my Human lover had sketched between us, five long years before).

  These men walked gently and spoke softly, almost like Fey. When they moved into shadow I saw their auras, mild, peaceable colors, rippling like summer brooks. One or two had large white auras like Merlin's, or like the Lady's. Most of their auras told me that these men were celibate. Some of them were virgins. I thought they must learn great magic here—a monastery must be a school of magic, as the Children's Guard was a school of forest lore—for why would anyone remain celibate, if not to practice magic?

  I dismounted slowly, glancing about uneasily—not apprehensive of the monks themselves, but of the aura of their powerful magic; and soon I felt it brush against us, a perceptible spiritual wind. Merlin saw me glance over my shoulder. He finger-signed,
It comes
from the central hut.

  The chapel. I turned my mind there, and sure enough, that was the source of the wind. Steadily it blew from there, from the thatched roof, from the strange wooden figure that rose over the smoke hole: two…poles…crossed, one over the other. It reminded me of the Lady conversing with spirits, standing erect, arms and legs extended, inviting east and west to meet in her body.