The Third Magic (16 page)

At that moment, the dagger snapped in two, the tip flying up to cut a deep gash in Lot's hand. With a curse, he stepped back.

"Father, look," Guenevere said, kneeling as she brushed lichen from the base of the rock.

Near the ground, where the stone had been broken, was a faint etching, nearly worn away by time, of a circle surrounded by radiant lines.

"A sun," old Cheneus said quietly. "Ancient symbol of the great King Macsen."

There was a stunned silence for some time, in which the chieftains barely breathed as each took in the meaning of the old chief's words.

Macsen was a legendary hero, a great warrior who had, it was said, once united all of England under his mighty sword. So great were his fighting skills that stone fortresses trembled at the very sound of his name, and the inhabitants of villages took to the hills at his approach.

In fact, such a leader had not existed; England had never been united under a single ruler, though many had tried. Even the most superstitious of men knew in his heart that the story was not possible, because he himself, his family, and his tribe, would never submit to a High King who ruled over the ten chieftains, no matter how powerful he was.

It was the nature of the independent Celts to rebel against all authority. That was why Britain had never submitted to Roman rule, despite centuries of domination. The English had accepted their lot, perhaps, but they had never, ever considered themselves to be Roman; and the instant that the Romans left, the Britons reverted to their old ways, even though many of those ways were patently inferior to the Romans'.

Nevertheless, in the weird circumstance in which the petty Kings now found themselves, gathered around a mysterious stone on which was engraved a very old likeness of a sun, and from which, inexplicably, grew a magnificent sword, it did not take much for them to reconsider the merits of the Macsen story.

"No one knows what happened to his sword," someone volunteered into the silence.

"The gods kept it," someone else answered.

"And hid it until they were ready to choose a new High King."

"Aye," Cheneus said. "And they're ready now."

There was a massed, audible intake of breath. Yes, they all knew it. The gods were ready, and so were the kings. In the wake of the Roman occupation, England had become too difficult to rule in the old ways. The island was no longer simply a collection of farms and tribal strongholds. Great cities had come and gone, leaving in their wake a plethora of blessings and curses: Roads, bridges, new entertainments; and also disease, crime, decay, pollution, mass poverty, slavery, and war with invaders from lands outside of England as well as the ongoing battles among the tribes themselves.

The leaders of these tribes called themselves kings, but each of them knew what they really were: relics from a distant time who were unable to cope with the problems of an entirely new society. What was needed was ...

Well, a miracle.

A miracle in the form of leader who could somehow make the whole country work together to keep the Saxons from conquering and obliterating England.

But who would consent to such a man? Which of the petty chiefdoms would give way and pay homage to another? And how long before the winning chief, the one to be deemed the High King, turned on the others, seizing their land and waging war for his own personal gain?

Only a leader appointed by the gods themselves would do.

And the gods were speaking now.

One among them, only one, would rise to save the ancient land of the Celts.

Leodegranz cleared his throat. "Well, it is my land," he said gruffly. "I imagine that makes the sword mine."

Cheneus shook his head. "Not unless you take it from the stone."

One of the young chieftains from the east pushed his way through the small crowd. "Or I do," he said, gripping the jeweled hilt. Then, shouting, "Christ be with me!" he held his breath and pulled so hard that one could see, even beneath his tunic, the bands of his muscles cording.

But he too failed.

"If you don't mind," Leodegranz said with great dignity, waving the young man aside. With a sniff of disdain, he placed his stubby-fingered, rather soft hands around the hilt. Secretly he thought two things: One was that, since he was clearly the one chosen by the gods to rule over the other kings, the sword would come out easily for him. The second was that the intricate metalwork of the hilt was damned uncomfortable.

After he withdrew, perspiring and embarrassed, and the others took their turns, old Cheneus gave him a wink. "There's no shame in not being able to take that sword, Leo," he said kindly. "As long as you remember to serve the one who does."

There were disgruntled noises all around. Even now, though they all believed they were in the midst of a miracle, the petty kings did not like the idea of giving over their power to anyone else. But the wiser among them knew that the only hope for them all lay in unity.

"We'll let the others try when they arrive," Leodegranz said, squinting up at the sun. "They'll be coming shortly."

The younger nobles squirmed and murmured. Each of them wanted a second chance at removing the sword. Lot actually did grasp it again, only to let it go with a series of muffled curses.

"What if the one who pulls it out is someone like Melwas?" the young king of Northumberland asked. "Must we then serve a fool?"

Leodegranz bristled. "Melwas is to marry my daughter!" he blustered.

"Unfortunately," Cheneus said, "that won't make him less of a fool."

Guenevere, long silent, could not quite suppress a rather unladylike laugh.

"But if he pulls the sword from the stone, I'll serve him nonetheless," Leodegranz said stolidly.

"Well, I won't. Unless I approve of this person who is to be our King, I'll challenge him with the full force of my army." This from Northumberland.

Lot struck a haughty pose. "That's true for me as well."

"It'd be true for you if the man were Macsen himself," Cheneus said dryly.

EXCALIBUR'S SONG

N
ot far away from
the ancient graveyard where Guenevere had discovered the great sword, the household of another noble was making ready for the short journey to the lands of King Leodegranz to celebrate the festival of Brigid.

"Damn this thing!" Ector shouted, throwing his crossbow across the hall, where it hit the stone wall and splintered.

He winced. The bow was a copy of an old Roman weapon, and had never balanced well, but now it was beyond repair.

"Use mine, Father," his strapping son Kay offered.

They were both big men, of the type of Celtic stock that visitors often described as gigantic. Fair, ruddy-skinned, and prone to fits of temper, Ector and his son cut a swath wherever they went, although both were known for their good-heartedness and loyalty.

Even now, with Uther Pendragon dead without an heir, Ector, who served as head of Uther's army, had made no attempt to take over his throne. He maintained iron discipline over his troops, whose loyalty had always been more to Ector rather than Uther, but used them only to keep away would-be usurpers.

He took Kay's bow with a grunt. "Don't know why we have to go to this blasted festival in the first place," he muttered. "The troops need drilling on holidays, too."

"We'll have a good time, father," Kay said good-naturedly, pulling on his jerkin. Though it was so cold in the moldy old stone house where they lived that the two were surrounded by a cloud of their own breath, neither of them noticed.

"Where's the damned food?" Ector boomed.

"I've got it, sir," his foster son called from the doorway.

"Well, don't be all day. Arthur. Get my sword."

"And mine," Kay added. "Since that's what I'll be using to hunt the boar."

Ector chuckled. "That I want to see," he said. When Arthur brought his sword to him, Ector ruffled his hair the way he always did, as if he were patting a good dog. "By the gods," he said, his gaze following his own arm to the top of the boy's head. "Look how you've grown."

"Aye," Kay said with a wink. "Arthur's only a baby from the neck up now."

The boy blushed. He took Kay's remark as a compliment. Arthur had always admired Kay, whom he thought of as an older brother, since he had no recollection of ever living anywhere else. Ector made sure that the boy knew that he was only fostering with them, which meant that he had another family elsewhere, and that it was a noble one, since no one but nobles followed the practice. Unfortunately, he could not tell Arthur who his family—or even his father—was, since he did not know.

It was an exceedingly odd arrangement, and more than once Ector had cursed the druid who had brought the baby to his keeping. To add to the knight's burdens, Ector's wife had died two years after Arthur's arrival, leaving only himself and the twelve-year-old Kay to look after the child.

Ector was a soldier, accustomed to living roughly, and did not relish the idea of playing nursemaid to some druid foundling. That had become clear to Ector fairly early. If the boy were really the son of a noble, or even a petty king, as the holy man who brought him had indicated, then surely Ector would have heard from the family within two years. But there had been no word, either from the tribal chiefs or the druids at Mona.

A little sorcerer, no doubt. Ector had thought bitterly as the infant had toddled about the stone hall. The boy was probably some druid bastard conceived during one of their weird doings at the full moon. Ector pictured himself feeding and clothing the boy for twenty years, only to be rewarded by being turned into a frog. And there was nothing to be done about it, for to cross a druid was the most dangerous thing one could do. A man—any man, even a king—could do no more than kill you. But everyone knew that the druids of Mona, the great Merlins as they were called, the magical ones taught by a witch with no eyes, could pluck the very stars from the sky if they wanted to.

No, he would do exactly as the druid had instructed.

And so Ector raised the boy like his own—which was to say, in the manner of a soldier with no taste for luxury and little thought of homely comforts. If the child was as sickly as the druid had said he was. Ector thought, he'll die anyway. Even the druids could not fault a man if his child succumbed to the myriad deaths that lay in wait for tiny souls.

But the boy thrived in the austere atmosphere of Ector's world, and soon both he and his son found themselves completely taken by the little boy who had come into their lives. Arthur was bright, hardworking, and always cheerful. When Kay, because of his size and strength, had begun to practice with the army—a privilege that was afforded to no other boys his age, and therefore a source of great pride—he had brought the four-year-old Arthur with him to watch. And afterward, while he was practicing, Arthur served as a wildly appreciative audience, cheering his brother as Kay went through his paces with his wooden sword. There was no jealously between them, and indeed, for all their lives, the two men would remain fast friends. As for Ector, very early on he ceased to wonder or even care who Arthur's real father was. The boy was welcome in his home and his life.

A
nd so it was
that on this day, on the morning of the festival of Brigid in the year 506, that the three of them set out to hunt wild boar on King Leodegranz's lands. They had deliberately missed the ceremony of Imbolc, which Ector considered to be one of the sillier traditions of the aristocracy, of which he was not a member.

"Damn fools," he muttered as they approached the site of the ancient graveyard of Camlod. "The bones of great warriors are in this ground, and these fat kings are standing on them so they can watch a garter snake." He spat in disgust.

"Look on the bright side, father," Kay said pleasantly. "We're lucky to be invited. We never were before."

"Well, somebody's got to represent Uther, I suppose," Ector said. Both Kay and Arthur could detect the smallest hint of pride in his voice. They looked at one another and smiled.

"And don't forget, Arthur, you're to be squire to both of us."

Arthur beamed. It was a great honor, but typical of Ector, to bring along his foster child to such an occasion.

"Damn and blast, they're all standing about," Ector said, picking up the pace. "I hope they're not waiting for us." Sweat popped on his brow as the stocky man marched up the hill in military double-time.

At the crest of the hill, however, he found not a gaggle of rich men wasting time before a hunt, but a hushed and reverent assembly gathered around a sword which apparently grew out of a piece of solid rock.

"By Mithras," he said under his breath.

One of the princes—young Melwas, he thought it was, the pup with the soft face and vicious eyes—was kneeling before the sword, while King Cheneus of Dumnonia stood over him, incanting like a druid.

"Whoso pulleth this sword from this stone shall be rightwise named King of all England," he said.

Ector stopped short. "What?" he said aloud, his hands on his hips.

Several of the kings gave him a hard stare. Melwas ignored the interruption, rising serenely to grasp the sword's jeweled hilt. He gave a mighty pull. Spittle flew from his rubbery lips. His fair face grew instantly red and shiny.

"Damn it!" he shouted finally, releasing the thing with disdain. "No one can get that out of there! It's some kind of joke."

Old Cheneus gave the young man little more than a pitying glance. "Whoso—" he began.

"Oh, shut up!" Melwas snapped.

"Can anyone try?" Ector said suddenly.

A number of heads swiveled toward him. "Not you, if that's what you mean," Melwas said, still red-faced and irritable.

"And why not?" Cheneus asked, his chin jutting out.

"Ector?" Lot of Rheged said. "He's not a king."

"But he's got Uther Pendragon's army under his thumb, by the gods," King Leodegranz whispered to Dorcas of Northumberland, who stood beside him.

Dorcas nodded in agreement. "King or no, that one could wage war on us all if he gets a mind to, make no mistake."

"I'll not be led by a commoner!" Melwas shouted.

"We agreed that the gods would decide the matter," Cheneus said.

"Aye." Leodegranz waved the prince down. "It was agreed by all, including you. This is in the hands of the gods."

By this time Ector was quite embarrassed, having spoken before he'd had time to think. He hadn't meant to presume to be the equal of the Kings; he'd simply wanted to try his hand at taking the sword from the stone.

"Go on, Father," Kay said, grinning. "You can do it." He bent toward Arthur and added, "He's surely the strongest of this lot, I'd say,"

"And the smartest," Arthur whispered, and they both laughed.

"Oh, well, no," Ector waffled good-naturedly.

"Please, sir," Leodegranz offered graciously, extending his hand.

Cheneus gathered himself into his new wise elder persona. "Whoso pulleth this sword—"

"Very well, very well," Ector said with relish, rubbing his hands together as he approached the sword.

"Do you suppose this is real?" Kay asked.

Arthur shrugged. "Perhaps it's part of the festival of Brigid."

Kay reddened. "If they've done this to mock my father, I'll..." His jaw clenched as Ector pulled and tugged, his barrel-like arms bulging with effort.

"I cannot," Ector said at last, with the dignity of a soldier who had done his best.

Kay's body tensed, waiting for laughter, but there was none. "I suppose it was all right, then," he said.

"I'd like my boy to try," Ector announced from the rock.

Cheneus raised his eyebrows. Melwas and Lot scowled, but no one voiced an objection.

"Me?" Kay was stunned.

"Go ahead," Arthur prompted.

Kay stumbled toward the sword. With Ector beaming behind him, he tried to pull it from the rock.

And failed.

Afterward, he rubbed his sore palms. "Father," he said quietly, "do you suppose Arthur—"

Ector shook his head. He had ruffled enough feathers already. He wasn't about to rub the kings' noses in muck by proposing a teenage druid foundling of unknown parentage as their leader. "Come on down, Kay," he said. "We'll leave this matter to the nobles."

But below, something had happened. As Arthur watched Kay mount the hill, the sword embedded in the rock began to sing. It was an eerie, otherworldly sound, a song of distant stars, keening, mournful, surpassingly beautiful.

And then the sword spoke its name to him. One perfect word:

Excalibur.

Arthur gasped. He looked around, certain that everyone had heard it, but not one face showed any response.

No, there was one face. Only one.

It-was the girl's, Leodegranz's daughter, Guenevere, who had been standing silently near her father. At the moment when the sword spoke its name, she had lifted her head and her eyes had locked into Arthur's with a recognition both of them felt in the deepest part of their souls.

"Excalibur," he whispered; and as he did, Guenevere's lips formed the name along with him.

They are mine,
Arthur thought. He blushed. He had no right to think any such thing. And yet he knew it to be true: Both the sword and the woman were meant to be his.

They belonged to him as much as the blood in his veins and, even then, he loved them both as much.