Children of the May (Children of the May Book 1)

Chapter Six: A Vision (part two)

I am in the throne room within the twisted tower. This castle of Caerleon is smaller than my father’s mountain hall, made of dull grey stones. The lights that burn atop the wooden torches are weak images of the true fires of home, barely worth the name of flame. I am fascinated by how few clothes the ordinary people here wear. Although it is cold and wet they dress no more warmly than the working folk of my father’s lands. They are a dirty, hairy people, and so very pale. But then as the sailors said: the sun is always very far away from them. I feel the grit beneath the magical skein more fully here; it is almost painful, threatening to rip the flesh of reality.

The heralds blow harsh notes through strange metal instruments. I find the primitive music almost painful to hear, but I do not let that show on my face. I will not insult their king.

Though as he enters I struggle to hide my surprise: this is not a king as I understand a king to be.

He is young and pale. His gold crown barely hides his thinning hair. His eyes are dark, he looks tired, but tired through debauchery rather than hard work. I do not enjoy the way he looks at me. I can sense that there is no power within him, as there is in my father; what power this man has resides in the strange sword he wears.

It is on his hip. I can feel its power. It contains two magics of which I have read but never experienced first hand. The most powerful of the magics does not rise to the sky like the magic of fire, rather it trickles and slicks and flows like the tide. It is horizontal, not vertical. This is a pure, smooth magic, not the jagged thing I can sense in the land. The other, lesser, magic is more familiar: the invisible, untouchable barrier that sometimes forms naturally in iron, the force that can repel or attract. The mixture of these magics in the sword give it a green aura, and they are beautiful in a way this king is not. With such a magic as this at his disposal he should be confident, but I can sense in him an underlying fear that all his riches will be lost.

I bow. A bearded man announces me in their British language: ‘The emissary of King Hermaunce of the Fiery Mountain, your most gracious majesty: Princess Epicene of the East.’

‘Come forward, Princess Epicene,’ says the king.

I step forward. I open the box I carry. I reveal the ruby and I see the king’s eyes gleam.

‘King Arthur,’ I say, ‘I bring a gift of greeting from my father.’

 

* * *

 

I am in my chamber later that night, near the top of the twisted tower. King Arthur is with me. He sits by my side. He is drunk.

‘Much as I appreciate the ruby,’ he says, childishly walking his fingers up my arm, ‘I am interested in another of your father’s jewels.’

He makes my skin crawl. I could not love this man.

‘I would keep you for myself, and send your father my sword Excalibur in payment,’ he says.

‘I am flattered, gracious king. But I have made an oath to my gods that I will love neither man nor woman.’ This is a lie, but what does this king know of our gods?

‘What if a king were to command you?’ says Arthur.

I try to smile. ‘She is foolish who fears men more than gods, gracious king.’ I have to repeat my words to him several times before he allows himself to comprehend their meaning.

I sense the jagged man watching me. He is preparing to show himself.

Here he is. He appears in the chamber. Unnatural Merlin. Merlin the wizard-slayer.