“No,” Nimue said. “She bade me bring it to someone named Merlin. I know it sounds mad, but I think she meant Merlin the Magician.”
“Not mad at all,” Morgan said, staring at the blade. “Something like this, it makes a great deal of sense.”
“Wait, are you suggesting Merlin is real? And alive somehow?”
Arthur nodded. “The Arab traders know him. Know of him, at least. They say he spends his days as a black dog and steals away children to some kind of castle underground.”
“That’s idiotic.” Morgan rolled her eyes.
“And you’re the big expert on Merlin, are you? Broken Spear regular, is he?” Arthur asked.
“Kiss my ass, Arthur.”
Arthur turned to Nimue. “You’ll learn quickly that Morgan knows everything and we’re all fools.”
“Not all, just you,” she corrected.
Definitely brother and sister, Nimue thought.
“I hope by now you’ve learned to ignore him,” Morgan said to Nimue. “Pretty to look at but not much going on upstairs.”
Arthur took an angry gulp of wine.
Morgan looked back and forth between Nimue and Arthur in disbelief. “Aren’t you a pair? Merlin is only the most feared sorcerer of this age. Of any age, for that matter. He’s mentioned in historical records dating back to the fall of Rome. He’s hundreds of years old.”
“Fey Kind?” Nimue asked.
“Druid,” Morgan answered. “A priest of the Old Gods. I mean, who knows really? Perhaps he has ancient Fey blood or giant’s blood or is half god. But he knows Fey magic, of course. And sorcery. And necromancy. And conjuration. He knows all of it. He’s the very history of magic in one man. They say he commands the oceans and the skies.”
“Now who sounds idiotic?” Arthur chimed back in.
“Well, he’s rumored to be a counselor to King Uther Pendragon, for one. So he must think Merlin has something to offer. And he’s supposedly, perhaps even more important, master of the Shadow Lords.”
“What are they? What are the Shadow Lords?” Nimue asked, feeling more and more ignorant by the minute.
“The great ring of magical spies who secretly control us all,” Arthur mocked.
“Uch, just get drunk and fall asleep already,” Morgan spat. “Arthur fears what he doesn’t understand. I believe in them. Since the rise of the Church, the real wizards and witches have all gone into hiding. It is a society of magic hidden within ordinary society. Each Shadow Lord holds a dominion: the beggars or the forgers or the bankers, even.”
Morgan’s smile faded and she looked upon Nimue’s wide eyes with rising sympathy. “Oh, Nimue, you haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’ve set into motion, have you?”
“How do we reach Merlin?” Nimue pressed.
“Wherever he is, I assure you he’s far from this forgettable outpost.” Arthur smiled at Morgan, then emptied his wine cup.
Morgan thought for a moment, then poured herself another cup of wine. “Perhaps there is a way to make Merlin come to us.”
“Come to us?”
Morgan nodded. “If your conditions are met.”
Nimue squinted with confusion. “I have conditions?”
“Of course you do. You are the Wolf-Blood Witch and you wield the Devil’s Tooth. That makes you powerful. And power is the only thing men crave.” Arthur started to interrupt, but Morgan continued, “You are in a position to bargain, Nimue, for your survival, for your people’s survival.”
Nimue had not thought of any of this. Being branded the Wolf-Blood Witch felt like a death sentence, and until now she hadn’t imagined another side to it. For the first time in days she felt the stirrings of hope. This Morgan was not to be underestimated. “If Merlin is as great as you claim, won’t he see through these lies?”
Morgan sat up and studied the sword again. She rubbed her hand down the neck of the blade and then showed Nimue the blood stained on her hand. “Is this paladin blood?” she asked.
Nimue nodded.
“What lies? You are the Wolf-Blood Witch and you have brought fear to those red devils. You wield the Sword of Power and you will not part with it unless Merlin meets your demands.”
Nimue looked around the simple tavern. “You seem very confident.”
“Oh”—Morgan sipped her wine—“you’ll find I’m full of surprises, Nimue. But if I help you, I’ll expect you to offer something to me in return.”
“What is that something?”
“You’ll see.” Morgan smiled.
SIXTEEN
MAKING SURE THE ROAD IN cinder’s Gate was clear of any late-night travelers, Morgan led Arthur and Nimue south into the forested hills. “No torches and no talking,” she ordered, then walked ahead of them on sure feet, her brown hood making her difficult to see in between the shafts of moonlight that illuminated the ground like stepping-stones. The only sounds were the soft crunches of their boots over the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor. Nimue had trouble finding any path at all and lost Morgan several times as the barmaid ducked under fallen trees and crossed trickling streams without breaking stride. They hiked like this for close to an hour, at a steady incline, until Nimue’s cheeks stung from scratches, her lungs burned, and her feet ached.
Then suddenly Morgan stopped and held up a hand. Arthur and Nimue waited. The forest was very dark. There were no visible structures apart from the towering pines and unusual rock formations, suggesting they had climbed onto one of the vast horns of the Minotaur Mountains. It was cold, and Nimue pulled her peasant’s cloak tightly around her shoulders as something rustled in the branches above their heads. Arthur’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, but Morgan shook her head. The “something” leaped with great agility from branch to branch, a dozen feet above their heads, before vanishing into the dark. Too fast for a bear, too large for a bird or a cat.
“What was that?” Nimue whispered.
A distant croak was her answer. It sounded like the frogs in the glade near her home on the barrow. After another set of croaks, Morgan waved them on. As they walked, Nimue sensed dozens of eyes upon them. She wasn’t sure if Arthur could sense it too. Shadows rippled near a downed pine. Morgan paid these strange observers no mind as she led Arthur and Nimue to a wall of rock draped in a veil of leafy vines. The floor of pine needles rose up and to the west.
Nimue was prepared for another climb, but the veil of vines abruptly parted, revealing two girls, blanketed in capes of leaves, nearly invisible to the naked eye. Behind the veil was a small cave mouth. Without explanation, Morgan ducked and entered. Nimue followed but kept her eyes on the girls, who looked tired and frightened.
A few steps into the cave it became impossible to see, and Nimue struck her head on a low-hanging rock. On instinct, she reached back for Arthur and found his hand. His fingers clasped hers for a moment before she pulled away.
Nimue followed the sound of Morgan’s skirts rustling between narrow walls. Whispers and murmurs echoed off the walls, old voices and young, and as the cave breathed, it sent a gust of smells for Nimue to decipher: pig manure and urine, a variety of highland grasses, goatskins, pepper and cloves, yew and alder, damp leaves, dried lilies and irises, sour ale, tallow, mildew, salted beef, bay leaf, sage and thyme and sweat ripe with fear.