Morgain's Revenge - Laura Anne Gilman [31]
Newt stifled a groan and followed Gerard into the underbrush.
TEN
“Blast it, Merlin! I need more information! How can I rule this island, filled with madmen and magic, without knowing who is doing what, planning what, when, and to whom?”
“You would have a dozen such as myself, could I arrange it, but there is only one Merlin to fly to your lure, my king,” Merlin said, settling himself in a chair and sighing like the tired ancient he was.
Arthur looked up at his enchanter. “I need only one. But he needs to stop griping and do what he does best: reassure his liege that the battles are indeed engaged.” Arthur was seated on a bench in Merlin’s workroom, the same seat Newt had taken not a handful of days before, tapping his fingers on his knee impatiently.
“Gripe, gripe, gripe. I am not the one intruding on another’s space and making impossible demands, Arthur the King.” But his mockery was equally affectionate, and the enchanter obligingly closed his eyes and spiraled down into his sense of Morgain, the familiar sharp tingle of her personality, the salty flavor of her magic.
Like the bird he was named for, wings spread and dipping into the wind, following the familiar sense. Eyes were blind, but the sense was true, leading him to the source, the enticing magical aroma that was the sorceress.
And there his wings slammed up against a black wall, invisible until you made contact, and then felt in every point of his non-existent body.
Ow!
She was good. He would admit that freely. She was very very good. He changed form, feathered wings becoming leathery, talons turning into claws that could cling to the walls. He swung upside down and cocked his head—the better not to listen, but to sense.
Morgain, yes. And fainter, far fainter, a tinge of something carrying Merlin’s own mark, intentionally placed there for just such a need. Ailis. Alive.
He was about to launch himself off the wall and return to the safety of his own quarters when something else moved. Faintly, faintly, barely sounding behind Morgain’s protections, but…there. Something new. Something unsettling. Something foreign.
A whiplash of unknown power slapped the bat off the wall and sent it tumbling back into the ether, tumbling claws over head, even as Merlin struggled to regain control.
He thought, as he changed form back to the more familiar bird of prey; something did not want him there, not anywhere near Morgain or her distant tower, or whatever she might be plotting there….
“Are you all right, my Merlin?” Arthur asked.
The enchanter coughed, his chest painful inside and out, as though he had been kicked by an irate plow-horse, and he waved his king away. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, his eyes turned inward. “I’m fine.”
Forgive me, children, Merlin thought. Forgive me for sending you into danger I had not foreseen. Forgive me for waking something that should have remained unaware.
Forgive me for not being able to help you, now.
“And there I was, standing tall despite my horse having been taken down moments before. Arthur fought on beside me, magnificent as ever, but it was my responsibility to defend his left flank, and not allow any barbarian to reach him with sword or spear….”
Newt had fallen asleep some time earlier, but he was propped up against an old log so it looked as though he were still listening intently. Gerard actually was listening, although exhaustion was starting to overtake him as well.
The story was interesting, especially considering that his own master, Sir Rheynold, had never been all that fond of “danger and adventure at all costs,” despite riding willingly into battle at Arthur’s command. But after living with and around knights and more ordinary fighters for almost half his life, Gerard knew how battlefield exploits could and would become exaggerated. And the more time that passed between battle and retelling, the more exaggerated