Reunion (4 page)

Maybe you should pick a new architect and head mason
, Corwin thought.

“And before you tell me I should choose a new architect,” King Vortigern went on, “let me say that I have done this already, with the same result. Now. My advisers tell me there is a supernatural basis for the collapse, but it is beyond their skill to see the cause.”

“These are the same advisers,” Prince Vortimer interrupted, “who instructed him to hold a peace conference with the Saxons and Norsemen in the middle of Stonehenge, and you know how well
that
turned out.”

Corwin had, in fact, heard the bards sing of how King Vortigern had been driven from the standing stones by barbarians wielding axes, but he thought it would be better not to say anything.

“Vortimer, I repeat, if you aren't going to be useful . . . ”

“I apologize, Father. I shall hold my peace. For now.”

What a strange royal family
, Corwin thought,
where the son is rude to his father and the father doesn't even act like a king
. Corwin had heard some bards, speaking in whispers lest they be heard, who said that King Vortigern had not come by his crown honestly. Vortigern was to have been merely a guardian for King Constans, who, strangely but conveniently, had fallen ill and died at a young age. Vortigern had declared himself the only reasonable person to take the crown, as Constans's brothers, Uther Pendragon and Ambrosius Aurielanus, were away in France.

Neither Corwin nor Fenwyck had paid much attention to politics. “One king is much like another,” Fenwyck had often said. But that day, facing the king, Corwin suddenly wished he knew more.

“My advisers,” King Vortigern went on, “say that only a boy who has no father will have the Sight to know why my tower keeps collapsing. Do you fit that description, Master Corwin?”

“I have known no father, Majesty,” Corwin replied honestly. “Only my guardian, Fenwyck, has raised me.”

“And when he was given to me,” Fenwyck added, “his mother didn't say anything about a father.”

“Hmmm. Sounds like mincing words to me,” King Vortigern said. “Nonetheless—”

But he was drowned out by loud shouting. Anguis was arguing with two other long-beards, one in a deep red robe with a matching floppy hat, and the other in forest green with a leather skullcap. “You should have informed us at once!” Red Floppy Hat was saying.

“But I tell you, they're mere thieves and cheats!” Anguis said. “I can't believe you take this at all seriously!”

“Shut up, all of you!” King Vortigern roared, and the three advisers all turned and bowed to him sheepishly. He motioned for them to come over, and all three sorcerers shuffled up to his chair. “What's the matter here?”

“Majesty,” said Leather Skullcap, “we cast the bones at dawn and the auguries have indicated that this one may be more than he appears.”

Corwin liked the way these men looked at him least of all. They seemed to regard him with a mixture of hope, awe, and fear that made Corwin want to flee the room.

“Well, that's what I'm trying to find out, isn't it?” Vortigern snapped. “Now,” he turned back to face Fenwyck and Corwin, “I'm running out of patience. Can you tell me what's knocking down my tower?”

Corwin swallowed hard and dearly wished to be elsewhere. He tried to think of some impressive mumbo jumbo that the king would want to hear, maybe something about using the stones of Stonehenge itself to build the tower, or—

A blinding headache struck him between the eyes and Corwin fell to his knees.
Oh no, not a real one!
But the vision came upon him and he couldn't stop it. Corwin grabbed the hair on either side of his head and groaned.

And now, lying beneath the holly bushes and the oak tree, Corwin groaned aloud as well.
Why am I seeing this? Why do I have to relive it? Is this my punishment for being a coward? Why won't it stop?

But the memory continued on without mercy, and with total clarity.

“What is it?” Vortigern demanded. “What are you seeing?”

In the throes of his vision, Corwin couldn't lie. “Two . . . two dragons. One is white and one is red. Their great wings are furled; they look like . . . like roses or cabbages. The dragons are fighting . . . a great battle. Their roars shake the ground. The lashing of their tails makes the earth tremble! No tower can withstand it. There is . . . there is a bear, running toward us, across the ocean. The sun rides on his shoulder but he brings the storm! A crown falls. . . . The bear cub will bring peace, but it must be brought through treachery and deceit. . . .”

“Enough!” King Vortigern bellowed, rising to stand over Corwin. “A crown falls. . . . Know you that it is treason to speak of the death of the king? And how
dare
you speak of peace brought through treachery and deceit!”

“No,” Corwin protested, still curled up on the floor. “It may not mean you, Your Majesty! My visions are often of lands far away, or times far off in the future. You can't assume that—”

“How
dare
you tell me what to assume!”

“Well, well, look what
I've
found,” Prince Vortimer said, holding tightly onto Fenwyck's wrist. They were both standing by a stack of opened crates. “While all of you were watching the whelp, I found his guardian filching the silverware.” Clutched in Fenwyck's fist was a small silver chalice.

“I was merely admiring it!” Fenwyck protested.

Oh no, Fenwyck, no. Not now
, Corwin had thought with a sinking heart.

“Aye, and you so flattered it with your favor,” said the prince, “that the cup slipped into your sleeve to go home with you.”

“It slipped from my fingers—” Fenwyck began.

“Enough!” roared Vortigern again. “You have dishonored my court. You have spoken treason. You shall both be put to death for your insolence. Guards!”

To Corwin's astonishment, Fenwyck did the long-practiced twist-pulling of his arm to release himself from the prince's grasp. Then, just as though it were another county fair and he'd been caught pinching pennies, Fenwyck threw down the stack of crates to trip the prince and dashed past Corwin yelling, “Run, lad!”

Then Corwin was on his feet and running for the door. But the throne room was huge and there was much ground to cover, and he was still weak and dizzy from his vision. Swords sprouted from the hands of every nobleman present, and armed men came in through every side door. Corwin slid on a carpet that had just been placed down, sliding under blades aimed at his middle. He leaped onto a table that was dropped by its carriers and kicked it over into the path of his pursuers. Grabbing a rope that dangled from a banner hanging in the middle of the hall, he swung over the heads of three men trying to capture him. Corwin dropped beside the carved door just ahead of Fenwyck. The latch stuck for one second—one second too long. Corwin opened the door just as two guardsmen reached Fenwyck.

Fenwyck grabbed the door frame and hung on as if he were Samson, standing between the guards and Corwin. “Run, boy! Run! Ahhhgh!”

Corwin tore through the antechamber, past the wide-eyed boys and their mothers, out into the courtyard and through the castle gate itself. He had run into the forest as fast as he could go and hid there, sick with shame and fear. It had been two days before Corwin had ventured close enough to Carmarthen to hear and see what had happened to Fenwyck. The old conniver had been put in an iron cage and exposed on the castle walls for all to see, after being flogged and stabbed with swords. Even so, it had taken Fenwyck five days to die. At his death, Nag had returned to find Corwin in the woods and shadowed him thereafter, like his conscience.

 

Tears flowed down Corwin's cheeks as he lay on the bed of leaves beneath the oak tree. “Why are you making me see all these things?” Corwin asked whatever deity or devil was forcing the memories to run through his mind. “What was I supposed to do? Fight off a whole castle? Die alongside him?” Corwin rubbed his nose on his sleeve and sat up.

The illness had subsided and the strange peace again returned. The sun was now low in the sky. It was late afternoon.

His stomach rumbled and Corwin realized that he hadn't eaten anything yet that day. Sensations pressed upon his mind once more, but these weren't like his memories. He felt—sand. He heard the sea. He saw the beach where the tentacled leviathan lay . . . only he wasn't seeing these things through his memories of the morning, but as they might look now, in late afternoon. He saw hands that weren't his own—they were slim and tapered feminine hands. He saw an old man with a fishtail instead of legs and felt deep sorrow.

Corwin shook his head violently to clear these strange new visions. It worked, but some of his nausea returned.
Enough! I'm losing my mind. But I will definitely go crazy with hunger if I don't get something to eat.
Corwin pulled himself up and found he could stand.

Henwyneb has skills with herbal tinctures
, Corwin thought.
Maybe he has a cure for this strange ailment. Or at least this pretty shell could buy me some soup from his kettle
. The thought of food spurring him on, Corwin staggered out of the forest and headed for the old blind button-maker's cottage as fast as he could go.

Chapter Three

It seemed to take forever to walk down the rutted, muddy road to Henwyneb's hovel. It wasn't that the road was unknown to him—Corwin had walked down it many times in the past month, usually carrying heavy bags of shells for Henwyneb to buy. Now he carried only one shell, yet his pace was slow, so slow. His strange ailment had subsided, but it had left him weak and weary.

But there was another cause as well—his thoughts were now constantly distracted. He was regarding the most ordinary things, such as an oak tree, a flower, a butterfly, or a colorful rock, as if he were a newborn baby seeing these things for the first time. He would see a bluebird fluttering in the treetops, or hear the song of a meadowlark, or the humming of a bumblebee and part of his mind would ask, “What is that? What is that?” as a child who has newly learned speech will pester its mother.

It wasn't that he couldn't remember anything. He could answer himself easily, and he knew as much as he ever did of the names of trees and flowers and birds. In a way, it was a gift to see all these things anew and wonder at them. But it was frightening as well.

Am I so changed by this illness that I will never see the world the same way again
? Corwin wondered.
Is this another sign of madness?
Worse yet, he worried that he would be so distracted that danger could overtake him. A contingent of royal guards might easily capture him while he was busy admiring the patterns on a pretty stone.

At last Corwin came to a familiar bend in the road and a short path that led to a small, thatched hovel in a clearing. To one side of the path was an herb garden, which was lush with aromatic plants. Once Corwin had asked old Henwyneb how he could garden when blind. The button-maker had described in loving detail the feel of the earth, the different patterns of each herb's leaves, and their scent when a stem or leaf is crushed. Corwin had thought such sensations the fancies of an old man, but now he could
see
each subtle difference in the patterns of the leaves, and the rich complexity of the aroma of the garden made him want to fall to his knees in awe.

Before he could be caught in thrall with the wonders of the herb garden, Corwin hastened to the cottage door and knocked.

“Enter,” Henwyneb called from inside.

Corwin pushed the door open and went in. The dark interior was lit only by a tiny window covered with oiled paper and the fire in the hearth. The aroma of stew from the kettle on the grate was enticing enough to make Corwin's mouth water and his stomach rumble.

“Ah,” Henwyneb went on, “I smell the sea upon you. Either you are Stephen the fisherman or you are my mysterious young shell-gatherer come to sell me your latest treasures from the shore.”

As the old man came shuffling out of the shadows, Corwin was again entranced, now by the pattern of lines and wrinkles around Henwyneb's pale, milky eyes and nearly toothless mouth.
What is that, what is that
? the insistent questioner in his mind asked, and Corwin had to answer,
It is the face of a man who has lived many years, laughed much laughter, and smiled many smiles, though his eyes are no longer of use.

“Why don't you speak, visitor? Is . . . something the matter?” Henwyneb asked.

“No, Henwyneb,” Corwin answered. “Your second guess was right. But I only have one treasure to offer, and I'll give it freely in exchange for some of your stew and a little medicine.”

“Ah. Been a while since your last meal, has it? Well, a meal I will gladly give you. As for the medicine, it will depend upon what you need. Let me see this treasure you have and I will consider the matter.”

Corwin no longer even thought it was strange that the blind man spoke of “seeing.” He had watched Henwyneb discern more with the touch of his hands than most men could do with their sight. “Here it is.” Corwin handed the opalescent shell to Henwyneb, feeling a strange reluctance to let go of it.

“Hmmm.” Henwyneb's hands caressed the shell as if it were a precious object. “Unusual, indeed. Most rare. Are you certain you wish to part with it?”

“Um, well . . . ”

“As I thought. We will discuss any such trades later. First, let's get some dinner into you. Your belly's complaints are deafening me.” Henwyneb put the shell up on an already cluttered shelf and went to the hearth. With hands long accustomed to where everything was placed, Henwyneb took a ladle from a rack beside the hearth and a wooden bowl from the shelf above it. As he ladled the stew from the kettle into the bowl, Corwin sat down on one of the two stools in the room, nearly drooling with his desire to taste the stew. His mind was torn between the part asking, “What is that, what is that?” and his stomach saying, “Whatever it is, give it to me! Now!”