“You must be Merlin,” Nimue said, hoping he could not detect the wobble in her voice.
“And you are the Wolf-Blood Witch, dreaded wielder of the Devil’s Tooth,” Merlin said.
Merlin’s tone stiffened her spine. “You mock me.”
“No,” he said, softening, “but you are playing a dangerous game.”
A thin, silvery thread crept up her neck and thunder rumbled in the distance. Merlin noted this.
“You think this is a game?” Nimue asked.
Keeping the green Fey Fire between them, Merlin circled the brazier. “How did you come upon the sword?”
“My mother gave it to me.” Nimue’s lip trembled. “And with her dying breath, she bade me give it to you.”
Nimue saw Merlin’s face change. He suddenly seemed more present. In a whisper he asked, “You are the daughter of Lenore?”
Nimue’s heart beat fiercely in her chest, a revelation dawning. “I am.”
Merlin’s expression was inscrutable.
Nimue pressed, “You knew her?”
“I did,” he answered softly. Then, almost shaking off a reverie, he returned to the sword. “Her instructions to you were very wise. We can—”
“Look at me,” Nimue interrupted. She took a step toward him.
“I’m sorry?”
“Look at me.”
The ancient Druid’s tired eyes looked into hers. It seemed to take an effort to stay locked in her gaze.
“What do you see?” she asked gently.
“You have her eyes,” Merlin said through emotion.
“Anything else?” she asked him.
“What name were you given?”
She smiled. “Nimue.”
Merlin nodded. “Nimue. That is indeed a beautiful name.”
“I have been asking myself, ‘Why you?’ Why did she ask me to bring the sword to you?”
“And what is your answer?”
Nimue took a shuddering breath.
“She did not wish for me to bring you the sword. She wanted the sword to bring me to you.” Nimue smiled. “Because you are my father.”
THIRTY-FOUR
YES,” MERLIN WHISPERED, “YES, THAT—that would . . .” He trailed off and turned away, overwhelmed. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t know,” Nimue finished for him.
Merlin shook his head, marveling at her, a wry grin cracking his cheek. “You are Lenore made flesh again.”
Nimue wiped her wet eyes, her heart warming.
Merlin walked toward her and softly took her hand. He looked at it in his own. They stood there awkwardly.
“Did you love her?”
Merlin nodded. “Very much.”
“And did she love you?” Nimue pressed, her questions returning in a flood.
“I like to flatter myself that she did,” Merlin answered, a touch of sadness in his voice. He released Nimue’s hand and crossed back to the window.
“When did you meet her? Why did you part?”
“I’ve never spoken of this.”
“But I need you to now,” she insisted.
“In time, Nimue. What is imperative is that you comprehend the powerful forces gathering to acquire that sword. Right now you stand in opposition to the crown, to the Church, and to northern invaders. Every moment you possess that sword magnifies the danger.”
“And yet I have survived.”
Merlin turned on her, fierce. “Yes, I see, sustained by a certain boldness that cannot last, which will be snuffed out like a candle flame in the wake of the armies of Uther Pendragon!”
But Nimue was defiant. “You will not frighten me into giving you the sword. For I am no child, I assure you. I’ve lived lifetimes in these past days.” She did nothing to squelch the anger rising in her throat. “You are not trusted by my kind, sir. They tell me you are a traitor and a drunkard and a fraud. If you seek to earn my trust, you will tell me the truth about my past and your history with my mother.”
The hall was quiet but for the flickering of the Fey Fire. Merlin weighed Nimue’s words. Then a furtive whispering from the stairwell swung her head around. For a moment she thought she saw shapes, figures, slip behind the wall.
“Who is there?” Nimue called out, fearing an ambush. On instinct she ripped the Sword of Power from its sheath and pointed it at Merlin. His eyes shone at the sight of the blade in a way that Nimue could not discern. Was it fear she saw? Or desire? “Who else is with us?” she demanded to know.
The whispers, two young voices, a boy and a girl, seemed to flutter across the ceiling and into the distant canyons of the castle.
“They are the young lovers Festa and Moreii, born of rival clans, who barricaded themselves in this castle more than a thousand years ago and drank hemlock so they would never be separated. It is their voices you hear,” Merlin confided. “They are drawn to you for what I sense is a strong connection to the Hidden.”
Disturbed by the spirits’ presence but no longer fearing attack, Nimue sheathed her sword but remained alert.
Merlin shifted his approach. “Your companions have judged and found me wanting. And it is true I am guilty of many crimes. For this you can neither trust me with the sword nor as a potential father, I understand. But the truth can be painful, Nimue. Are you sure you wish to know it?”
“I do.”
“Then perhaps these young lovers will help guide us into memory, so that you may know my story. The story of Merlin.”
By Fey Fire torchlight, Merlin led Nimue through the groaning and gusty tunnels of Graymalkin to a narrow gallery above the Great Hall. In the distance, broken shutters banged against the sea winds.
“This is where they died,” Merlin whispered, gesturing to a stone corner. “Wrapped in each other’s arms.”
Nimue felt the familiar hum in her stomach and the presence of others in the room. She froze as a shadow lengthened across the wall.
“Where are you?” a girl’s voice spoke, from very far away.
The hair rose on Nimue’s arms.
Merlin put a comforting hand on her shoulder. They sat on the stones. “Any visions that may come, do not fight them,” he advised.
The Fey torch flared and danced as shadows pressed in around them. Nimue fought the urge to panic and, instead, tried to open her mind to the visitors. She saw a young face in her mind, a girl her age with pale skin and freckles on her cheeks, a silver tiara and a long braid.
Then Nimue was in the Iron Wood. She was home. But something was different. The light was hazy. She looked at her hands and saw through them, as though they were made of mist. She turned at footsteps and saw Merlin stagger between the trees, collapse briefly, then drag himself up. His eyes were dark pins, he wore rags and animal furs and looked half man, half beast. A foul purplish wound colored his chest and neck and his breathing was thick and wet. To ease his path, Merlin waved his hand and with a thunderclap buckled two oak trees like kindling. Nimue recoiled, stunned. Clutching his side, Merlin came within a foot of Nimue but paid no mind to her, as though she were invisible to him, and stumbled along.
Nimue followed him to the Sunken Temple.