The Old Magic Page 3

  Vortigern.

  She had thought it would be so simple, that once the Christian king was gone the people would return to the Old Ways. She had used Vortigern as a sword to cut off Constant’s head, but her weapon had turned in her hand, and the new king slaughtered her people just as the old king had—and worse. Now more and more of Vortigern’s subjects were abandoning the Old Ways in fear and despair, hoping that the new god could defend them against the White Dragon as Mab could not.

  I have tried! she wailed silently. It was only that she had made the wrong choice. She had chosen a warlord, but her people needed a leader.

  And that was what she would give them—a leader. She had learned her lesson well. She had made a bad choice in Vortigern—very well, she would not look for Britain’s savior among the people of the mortal world this time. She would create him. A prophet and wizard who could see what must be done to return Britain to the Old Ways, and who would do those things through the power of the magic that was his birthright.

  Mab smiled, feeling the promise of victory beat through her veins like hot wine. It would take all the power she possessed, but she would weave the greatest spell of her existence. Through her magic she would create a warrior to humble Vortigern, a leader to lead her people back to the Old Ways. He would be no simple soldier, but a wizard, a true heir to the Old Ways, born of her magic. One who would be loyal to the land and to her, who would fight for not only the body but the soul of Britain.

  She could do it. It would be hard, but she knew this plan would work. No foreign kings or alien usurpers—this would be a leader formed in the heart of Britain, made to rule and to serve the Old Ways.

  The lake’s surface was a flawless mirror in the morning sun, and the land around it was beautiful and wild. Mab stood upon the shore and called soundlessly to the Power that dwelled here, summoning it forth.

  Suddenly the surface of the still clear water began to churn and waves appeared as if the surface of the water was lashed by a ferocious storm. A brightness flashed beneath the surface of the water, and then broke into the air. All at once the surface of the lake was placid once more, as the shining figure swam through the air toward Mab.

  She shone like the sunlight on the wave, and moved languidly through the air as if it were her own watery kingdom. Her gown seemed made of bright water, and as a necklace she wore a circlet of shimmering fish that swam back and forth around her throat. Her silvery hair floated on the air, moving slowly after her like a mermaid’s tail. Where Mab was dark, she was bright. Where Mab was hard, she was supple. Where Mab was stone, she was water.

  She was the Lady of the Lake, and she had ruled here since the first raindrops had gathered to form a pool in a hollow on the cooling earth.

  “… Sister …” she said, and her soft voice was the sound of water rushing over stones. “I got your message.”

  “I have come to a great decision,” Mab said. The fairy queen seemed out of place here in the Lady of the Lake’s domain. Mab was a creature of night and shadow. Here in this shining green and silver land, she seemed like a scrap of glittering darkness dropped from some other world.

  “I don’t like the sound of your voice when you say that,” the Lady of the Lake said mournfully. Small circling motions of her hands allowed her to hold her place in the air before Mab. The bright silver fish flitted back and forth about her throat, and she gazed sadly at her sister.

  “I’m going to create a leader for the people,” Mab answered. “A powerful wizard who’ll save Britain and bring the people back to us and to the Old Ways.”

  But the approval—the interest—she had hoped to see on her sister’s face did not appear. The Lady of the Lake was one of the strongest Powers still left in the world, but she had not suffered as Mab had. She did not hate as Mab did.

  The Lady of the Lake sighed, shaking her head slowly. Her pale hair swirled around her face. “It will be too much for you, Mab. It will drain you of what power you still have.”

  Don’t you think I know that? Mab wanted to shout. But she held her tongue. What did the Lady of the Lake care for the fear that haunted Mab? “If I don’t do it, we’ll die,” she said desperately. “If people forget us, we won’t exist any longer. The new religion has already pushed us to the margin. Soon we’ll be forgotten.” I need your help, she thought, but could not bring herself to say the words.

  “All things change, sister,” the Lady of the Lake sighed. “It’s sad, but Heaven, Hell, and the world move on. It’s our Fate. Accept it.”.

  “I won’t accept it!” Mab hissed in her snake’s voice. “I’ll fight! Will you help me?”

  Her sister shook her head slowly, gazing at Mab pityingly. “You forget that I am the Lady of the Lake. I’m made of water, and now that the tide has turned away from us I accept it. I’m sorry, my dear.” With a last backward glance, the Lady of the Lake swam away, sinking again below the surface of the water.

  Mab stared without seeing at the silvery surface of the lake. All along she had been fighting for survival, to reclaim what was hers. Now she realized that she was willing to die for it as well. Her sister had been right: To create and shape the leader who would save Britain would take every ounce of power that she possessed. In making him she might unmake herself, vanishing from the pleasant world of Men forever. But at last, Mab realized that it didn’t matter. Her death didn’t matter. No one’s death mattered.

  Winning was what mattered.

  “Then I will do it myself.” The darkness swirled around her, and she was gone.

  Rather to her own surprise, Ambrosia was accepted easily into the community of lay brethren who lived side-by-side with the religious at Avalon at a tiny village called Glastonbury. She found that Elissa’s views were far more widely represented than Brother Giraldus’s, and she was valued here for what she could teach of herb-craft and herb-lore and the healing arts that were unaligned with Pagan magic. Slowly her spirit began to heal as her body had been healed, and as summer died into autumn and the Wheel of the Year turned, Ambrosia began to wonder what the future held. She had renounced her allegiance to Mab and the Old Ways, but she could not find it within her heart to follow Elissa into the new faith.

  Trouble isn’t in the gods, it’s in ourselves. We make the gods over in our own image, and then wonder why they’re always quarreling and scrapping. And their followers are worse—look at young Giraldus, all puffed up with pride just because he’s spent some hours kneeling on a cold stone floor. No, I’m through with gods of any stripe, Pagan or Christian. King Vortigern, Queen Mab … it’s all one in the end.

  But in the end, it did not matter whether Ambrosia had renounced the Old Ways, for the Old Ways were magic, and magic would find her in the end.

  “Frik? Frik, where are you?” Mab shouted as she swirled into the enchanted sanctuary at the heart of her power. This was where she crafted her strongest magics, and being here was like being in the heart of a jewelled rainbow. In the center of the spherical chamber was a great crystal altar that seemed to have risen up out of the living rock. The floor surrounding it was as smooth and polished as a mirror, and around the edge of the circle, row after row of concentric rings of crystals stretched as far as the eye could see, crystals that glittered with magical fire in every color the eye could see. The whole sanctuary glowed with a complex shimmering fire, and though it was deep in the heart of the earth, the chamber was awash in a dark unearthly radiance, a light never meant for mortal eyes to see.

  “Frik!” Mab shouted again, and her servant came running.

  He was dark and misshapen, as grotesque as Mab was beautiful. His long pointed ears and goggling eyes made him look as if someone had tried to create a parody of a human being and hadn’t gotten it quite right. He had been her servant and companion for so long that Mab herself could not remember when the relationship had begun. Had she captured him? Had she created him? Neither of them remembered, but while Mab preferred always to remain herself, Frik was in love with the powers of il
lusion, taking a thousand different guises purely for his own amusement and rarely appearing before Mab in the same form twice.

  Today the gnome bowed low before her, dressed in some bizarre costume that he’d plucked from some past or future era. Frik, like Mab, existed outside of Time, and could see into the future as easily as into the past, and he was dressed now in a pair of grey-striped trousers and a black coat that hung down in two tails behind. The costume seemed to amuse him greatly.

  It did not amuse Mab.

  “You saw it all. You were eavesdropping again, weren’t you?” Mab demanded.

  “Ma’am?” Frik said, trying to look innocent.

  “She denied me!” She closed her eyes in fury, clenching her fists. “The Lady of the Lake denied me!”

  “I’m afraid your sister is rather indecisive when it comes to making decisions, Madame,” Frik said obsequiously. “She never gives you the support you deserve.”

  “She deserves to be forgotten—but I don’t! We’re on our own, Frik. You know what I mean to do, and now I must do it alone. I’d better get started.”

  At this her gnomish servant actually looked alarmed. “Don’t you think you should at least wait a few days?” he asked, trying to be assertive and servile all at once. “To build up your strength?”

  “There’s no time,” Mab snapped. “Our world is dying.” She knew in her bones that Frik was mistaken. To rest would not restore her strength. Only the destruction of the new religion could do that. Every moment she delayed was another moment in which it grew stronger.

  She sensed Frik backing away as she closed her eyes, drawing upon all of her power. A wizard, a leader, a savior for Britain. She concentrated upon that image, shaping it with her will, as all about her the crystals of her sanctuary glowed with enchantment, pulsing with color and light.

  A figure began to form, reflected a thousand times in the hearts of the glowing crystals. Mab opened her eyes, unable not to look. She saw the image of a beautiful young man with light brown hair and piercing dark eyes.

  He was perfect.

  Merlin … Almost reverently Mab breathed his name. She would name him for the merlin-falcon, the swift and nimble bird that soared through Britain’s skies. Merlin. A great weight of frustration and sorrow—even guilt—seemed to lift from her shoulders. She had been wrong in choosing Vortigern. One who could not wield the magic would never be the savior the Old Ways needed. But her Merlin, her wizard-prince, would be a creature of the magic itself. He could never betray the magic, any more than he could betray himself. He was not yet born, but already Mab tasted the hot joy of victory.

  But thus far all she had cast was illusion, enchantment. Now she must give him life.

  To create true things was the hardest thing there was for any of her kind to do. Her power and that of her kindred lay in the realm of illusion and dreams, not the material world. It was said that the most ancient of her kind had sung that whole world into existence where before there had been nothing but the Void, but if that were true it had been long ago, in the morning of the world when the powers of the fairyfolk were at their height. Now, weakened by centuries of battles and losses, Mab struggled to reach beyond herself, to draw upon the very power that kept her alive in order to give life to her illusion, to make her Merlin real.

  My champion—child of magic—protector of the Old Ways— The thoughts in her mind scattered like a shower of sparks from the Beltane fires that marked the turning of the year, but the image of Merlin stayed bright and true within her. Only she could give him life. Only she could save them all.

  I cannot do this alone!

  She could not do what she had first intended, and instantly create the grown man of her vision. She was too weak for that, and so Merlin must begin as a spark in a mortal woman’s belly, and grow to manhood the way the mortal kind did. Frantically, the power growing in her moment by moment, she cast about for a suitable vessel.

  He must be born a prince and the son of princes— An image of her Merlin raised within the walls of a noble house, wearing the golden coronet of rank upon his head, and dressed in furs and velvets filled her mind for an instant. Yes. That was as it should be. Let the mortal kind bow down to him from the first instant of his life.

  Suddenly her whole being was jarred by the clangorous sound of iron bells—Christian bells, ringing out their holy music over the land that Mab was fighting to reclaim for her own. Avalon. Her search had brought her to Avalon.

  Mab knew that the nobility often sent its soft pretty daughters there to be schooled in safety. So be it. She would find the vessel for her Merlin here and at the same time strike a blow against the powers she so hated. With a sigh almost of relief, Mab freed the burgeoning power she had summoned. It welled up and through her, power drawn from the very fabric of the Earth itself. She held nothing back—if it cost her everything she was, still she would do this thing. Her very bones tingled as she summoned all her arts, drew power from every source, and shaped it to her will. For Merlin—for Britain—for the Old Magic—

  At last it rushed from her grasp, taking everything that she was—her fire, her heart, all the best of her—with it. Somewhere out there in the world, her Merlin took form, took life, took wing like the owl upon the wind.

  And only Darkness remained in the cavern beneath the Hollow Hills.

  Elissa heard the church bells chiming on the wintry air, ringing out the glory of the blessed Nativity. When midnight came, the doors of the Grail Chapel would open, and all who could manage to fit inside would crowd in to hear Mass in the presence of the blessed Cup. But until that time, Elissa watched before the altar in the Grail Chapel alone.

  She had become a novice only last month, but the Father Abbot said that if she studied and prayed hard she might become a professed nun as early as the spring. The thought made her wriggle with excitement, though she tried hard not to succumb to the distraction of idle thoughts. It was a great honor to be chosen to watch over the Grail, especially on this holiest of nights.

  Though preparations for a great Christmas feast were going on everywhere throughout the Abbey, Elissa did not feel left out. It was wonderful beyond imagining to be able to spend this time alone in the presence of the Grail, its soft radiance shining down upon her alone and mingling with the light of the dozens of candles lit in the Sanctuary. If Giraldus got his way, these wonderful hours would end.

  Since the summer the Grail had healed Ambrosia, there had been dissension here in Avalon. Brother Giraldus, and others who sided with him, thought that the Grail should be kept locked safely away like the great treasure it was, so that no Pagan could profane it by their touch or presence. This was the faction that thought as the old king had, that their mission must be to convert the heathen to the new religion by any means—or failing that, execute them so that they could work no more wickedness. Fortunately the Father Abbot who ruled over their small community believed as their founder Saint Joseph of Arimathea had: that the Grail’s magic should be free to all who sought it, and that Love must be their ultimate law.

  Elissa sighed faintly, keeping her eyes fixed upon the shining Cup. People made everything so complicated, when surely there was one simple truth that bound them all together, Pagan and Christian. Perhaps when she became one of the healing sisters she would be able to work toward its discovery, so that they could all live together in peace. It must be possible, for Elissa knew that Ambrosia was a good woman, nothing like the Pagans Giraldus preached of when he’d had a little too much wine. She wondered how many Pagans Giraldus had actually seen, for he had come to Avalon as a small child, just as she had.

  Suddenly, as if it were a divine punishment for her irreverent, uncharitable thoughts, the doors to the chapel burst inward with a sound like the rushing of great wings, and a black wind blew out all the candles.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice was cracked and high with fear.

  The darkness seemed to pluck at her with a thousand tiny hands. She shrank away from the touch, wh
impering with terror. The chapel, so welcoming and friendly moments before, was now as cold as the wind blowing in from over the sea, filled with a presence whose rage and triumph filled Elissa with agonized despair. She wanted to scream for help, but the presence of the malign spirit that had somehow entered this holy place seemed to stifle her cry stillborn. There was no light anywhere—she could not see the Grail—and as she sprang to her feet and tried to run, the long full skirts of her novice’s habit tripped her and sent her sprawling across the cold stone.

  This is my fault! It’s because I made fun of Giraldus. …

  But she could not complete that thought, for suddenly her whole body was pierced with a spear of pure liquid agony. It was as if she had been struck by a bolt of black lightning that meant to burn her to ash and remake her as some creature of the darkness. She drummed her fists against the cold stone of the chapel floor and could not feel the blows. Every nerve in her body sang with the vengeful Power that had come upon her in the holiest place in all Christendom.

  Because of her. It must be because of her. Hers the guilt, and hers the blame.

  At last the agony passed, and her body was her own again. She screamed as loud as she could, a keening wail of pain and loss and guilt that took the last of her strength with it.

  The next thing she knew she was being shaken roughly. Elissa opened her eyes, for a moment not knowing where she was or how she’d come here, and gazed up into the angry face of Brother Giraldus.

  “Where …” she began, but he did not give her a chance to ask the question.

  “Fool! Strumpet! What have you done?” Giraldus shouted at her, dragging her to her feet.

  Her head ached and the chapel seemed to spin about her. With dazed miserable eyes Elissa looked around herself. The only light came from half a dozen torches carried by the crowd that filled the chapel. The candles were all quenched, and the High Altar was empty.

  “I— I— I—” Elissa stammered, but she knew there were no words that could do any good in the face of this disaster. No comforting presence glowed there to heal and encourage. The Grail was gone.