Chapter Eight

The ride back to Merlin's castle was a somber affair. With the onset of night and the wounded Morganian to tend, there had been little time for niceties. Cloth from the wagon served as a shroud for Alvar's remains. He was laid to rest under a hastily-created cairn made with stone from the outcropping.

Meanwhile, the peasants had recovered the cart horse, still dragging its load. Horvath levitated the back end of the wagon so that Veronica could reattach the wheels. When it was mended, they set about collecting the scattered goods on the road. The chariot horse had become a mere statue again when its driver disembarked.

The humans converged on the fallen warrior while the apprentices gathered their belongings. A quick examination confirmed what they had already suspected: the boy would die without prompt treatment, and there was no guarantee that even this would be enough. They wrapped a length of canvas around his middle, winding it tightly in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. The woman looked up then at the two gatherers. "Make sure there's enough space in the wagon for us. I'll stay in the back with him. You can load some of the supplies in Merlin's chariot."

The four of them lifted their unconscious burden into the bed of the wagon, where the woman covered him with all the material they had. His skin was cold and clammy-he needed as much warmth as he could get. The man climbed onto the seat in front. He flicked the reins, and the vehicle continued the journey it had started that afternoon.

Horvath and Veronica stayed behind, waiting for Merlin to rejoin them. They found their horses not too far away, though the Morganian animals were long gone, probably well on their way back to their home stable. When Merlin came back from his grim burial duty, he touched the marble statue without a word. It regained a semblance of life. The riders sped down the road until they caught up with the others, then continued alongside them as escort.

Horvath, riding beside his master, had a question. "Merlin, why are you trying to help a Morganian? You know he'd kill us if he could."

"No, Horvath, I don't know that. Veronica told me he could have killed her, but he didn't."

"Well, he certainly didn't seem to be having any second thoughts about attacking me."

"He was trying to defend his master." At his apprentice's skeptical expression, Merlin conceded, "All right. Perhaps that wasn't the only reason. There is hope for him, though. We just need to talk some sense into him, that's all."

"If he lives, you mean."

"Indeed. If he lives."


"How is he doing, Agatha?"

The peasant woman shook her head. "Not well. I'm afraid the wound is infected. I won't know for sure until we get him inside and take the bandage off, but it would explain the fever. It's getting worse."

Merlin summoned a woven mat from inside the castle. Together, sorcerers and humans shifted their patient onto the hovering cushion. More servants arrived in the courtyard to unload the supplies and take the horses to their stalls, while soldiers in their armor kept watch. The marble beast stayed with its chariot.

Agatha led her fellow travelers to a room on the first floor of the castle, guiding the mat with one hand. The room had four empty beds set in a row along the right-hand wall. Each was equipped with a high iron frame from which draperies hung to ensure privacy when needed. Beyond the beds were a table and stool, lit by the gentle glow of a single lantern with plenty of clear space around it. Another lantern hung from a hook by the door. Various potions and vessels lined the shelves against the back wall. Two large trunks sat on the floor underneath them. This was the infirmary.

The mat came to rest atop the last bed. Agatha checked on its occupant again, who by this time was stirring as if trying to wake from a nightmare. His hair was damp with the sweat of his brow, and he moaned softly now and again. Agatha looked back toward the three sorcerers. "Please leave us now," she requested. "John and I will do what we can for him."

Merlin nodded. "Will you need anything?" he asked.

"Ice would be helpful, if you could see that we have a steady supply."

"I will. Let me know if there are any changes."


"Merlin! Merlin, come quick!"

John's urgent summons woke the master sorcerer from the light trance which was his equivalent of sleep. "What is it?" he asked, even as he climbed to his feet and followed his servant to the infirmary.

"It's the Morganian. He's gone mad! He's out of his mind. I tried to get Agatha to leave, but she refused. I hope he doesn't hurt her. Please, hurry!"

They opened the door to a scene of pandemonium. The back shelves had been emptied, and the objects sailed around the room as if caught in a hurricane. Similarly, the two trunks were open, their linens and blankets swirling on the floor and catching on the legs of the beds. The table was overturned against one wall, the stool tossed onto one of the beds, behind which Agatha huddled for protection. The table lantern was among the flying objects, while the one by the door swung wildly on its hook.

In the middle of the hurricane stood its cause. Balthazar was in combat stance, his feet apart and his arms held out at shoulder level. His body shook, and his eyes were bright with fever, reflecting the green glow of his ring. He wore nothing else save the bandage around his waist.

Merlin raised his hands. With a powerful downward thrust, he sent the objects to the floor, where they lay still among the blankets. Balthazar sent a stream of fire at him, but he caught it before it could reach him. The fire died. Before the Morganian had time to strike again, he dashed forward, the servant John at his side, and grabbed the younger man's ring hand. John caught hold of the other. Together, they forced their captive backward onto the bed from which he'd arisen. He was strong as only desperation, or madness, could make him, but he was also desperately ill. His strength soon failed, and he struggled ineffectually against the men who held him down.

Merlin lifted one hand. When he lowered it again, he held two pairs of handcuffs. He and John chained their prisoner to the bed's iron frame, ignoring the pathetic pleas with which he begged for freedom. After a moment's thought, Merlin pulled the diamond ring from their patient's hand. "I'd better hold on to this until it's safe for you to get it back," he told him, though he knew not if the boy heard or understood.

He rose and looked across the room to Agatha. "You'll need more ice, I see."


Darkness there was still, but no longer silence. A roaring as of an ocean swell made itself heard, almost imperceptibly at first, but growing in pulses like an incoming tide. The wandering spirit felt himself pulled down, down into the unseen ocean. It was an ocean of fire. He screamed his pain, but only the spirit world heard, for he had no lungs or air to fill them. Flailing, he sought relief.

A presence on his left, and a cool touch there, showed him the way out. The ocean collapsed in on itself, the tormented spirit at its center, and forced itself inside him until he resumed the form of the young man he'd seen in the forest. He moved the body toward the guiding presence. It pushed him back, and he felt tongues of fire surround him again. Panicked, he tore free of them, and found himself standing in a strange place of glimmering shapes and shadows. He recognized nothing.

Before him rose a great black shape that reached out to catch him. He threw up his hands instinctively in defense. The shape kept coming, and he called to his aid anything that would come between them. The air filled with objects, circling in a dome formation to keep him safely isolated from attack. The black shape lurked, waiting for him to tire. His body trembled with his effort.

Then a new, greater power arrived. It stripped his protective dome away, leaving him utterly vulnerable. He channeled a stream of fire at this new threat, but it was a futile effort. There were two enemies now, besides the first one still lurking out of sight. The two were upon him in an instant. They bore him back, down where the burning tongues lapped at him in hungry anticipation. All his struggles were in vain. He felt shackles clamp around his wrists, and an icy dread blossomed in his mind.

He was being punished again. He had failed in his mission, and now Morgana was making him pay. He begged for mercy, knowing he would receive none. There was to be no healing for one who failed. Instead, she would let the punishment continue until his death ended it. He prayed that death would find him soon, as it had found his master.

The thought of Alvar sent a fresh wave of pain through him, as strong as the burning he already felt. Where are you, Master? he called to the realm beyond the world. Are you waiting for me, as you asked me to do for you? Would that I were there with you now, and this torture was over.

The powerful enemy had gone. The two who were left were continuing the task that Morgana had approved. They removed his bandage, and the lurker pressed a hand against his side. He gasped in agony, and would have jerked away but for the manacles that held him. They spoke to each other-he knew by observation only, since the roaring ocean inside him drowned out all other sound. The larger one went away, but returned with two objects in hand: a bowl and a small white triangle. They knelt together at his bedside. He couldn't see what they did then, but the fire flared anew close by the uncovered wound. The ocean rose, expanding and drowning him in its flame. It subsided then, slowly, flowing out through the newly created channel in his flesh. When it was gone, he was left cold and empty in a dark place far away. A higher realm beckoned. Willingly, he drifted toward its calling.


Morning came, and Merlin and his two apprentices paid a visit to the infirmary. The servants had cleaned it up after the night's disturbance, so that all was peaceful and orderly once more. Agatha was there, hunched over on the stool with her elbow leaning on the table. Exhaustion showed plainly in her face, but also a stubborn determination to stay with her patient.

Balthazar lay quiet on his bed. A sheet and blanket covered him to just below his shoulders. The draperies on the bed frame had been pulled closed on the right side and the foot, leaving only the left side open. His face was tinged with gray-the pallor of death which lay upon him like a shroud.

Veronica was the first to approach. She reached for the nearer hand, still in its shackle, and clasped it between both of her own. "He's so cold," she noted sadly. She laid a palm against his cheek, and bowed her head in despair.

Merlin looked to Agatha for confirmation or denial of the prognosis. The peasant woman agreed with Veronica. "I think she's right," she said. After you left last night, we checked his injury again. It was badly inflamed. We had to bleed him, even though he was already weak. The good news is, the fever broke." She didn't have to finish the thought.

"How long does he have?"

"I don't know. Maybe an hour, maybe a day, a week at the most. If he doesn't wake up soon, he won't wake up at all. He needs food and water to restore the blood he lost. He's not going to get them like this."

"I see." He sighed. "You need to rest, too, Agatha. Send someone else in to keep an eye on him, your daughter maybe. You can come back later."

"But sir...!"

"Don't argue with me."

She still looked rebellious, until Veronica broke in. "I'll stay."

They all stared at her. She continued, "...if that's all right. Merlin?"

Slowly, he considered her request, then responded. "Well, you should be studying, but I suppose you can do that here as well as anyplace else. Very well, then." He turned to his other apprentice. "Horvath, would you mind bringing Veronica's Encantus? Then we have our own work to do upstairs." They started for the door.

"Merlin?"

He glanced back. "Yes, Veronica?"

She took hold of the Morganian's captive wrist. "May we take these cuffs off now? I don't think we'll need them anymore."

"All right." They expanded, and the cold hands slipped out to lie unmoving at the end of outstretched arms. Veronica brought his hands together, one over the other atop his naked chest. The two chains hung empty from the iron bed frame.

The others left. Veronica sat on the edge of the bed and started to rub the icy fingers in an attempt to warm them. This was the tableau that greeted Horvath when he brought his peer's Encantus. He took note of it and, though he tried to dismiss it as meaningless, he remembered.


John took over for Veronica shortly after noon. When she came back that evening, she found Agatha wrapping a new length of cloth around their patient's waist, over a fresh dressing that smelled faintly of lemon, while John had both arms slipped under the still body to hold it just above the bed's surface. He glanced up at the new arrival. "Welcome back," he told her. "We're just finishing up. Your boy's all fresh and clean for you now." His tone was deliberately light, but she heard underneath it a grim finality. She waited until the servants laid their charge back down and pulled the blanket up to his neck. They left to dispose of the used bandages and bathwater.

Agatha came back alone. She joined the younger woman, and together they watched the captured warrior as he slept.

"He's barely breathing," Veronica observed.

"I know. I think tonight will be it, one way or the other."

"Is there nothing more we can do?"

A moment's silence, then: "We can pray."

Veronica nodded slowly. "Yes, we can pray."


He floated in an endless void. There was no sight or sound here, no longer any sensation of hot or cold or even the weight of his own body. He knew only the anticipation of freedom, when all would be made right and he would find again those he had loved and lost. It was their voices, mere whispers in his mind, which beckoned him onward.

He was running now along a rocky beach, laughing in the afternoon sun. Pain came, and cold, and then the comfort of his mother's arms and a warm bed. She prayed with him, and all was right again.

He waited for her to come home after work. He would tell her of the treasures he'd found, or how his little oystercatcher family was doing, or show her what he'd hunted that day.

He stood on the dock while his mother said good-bye. "Don't forget to say your prayers," she'd instructed. "God's protection be upon you, and me, until we meet again."

He'd tried to obey. After his classmates ridiculed him for this practice, though, he started to pray silently. Sometimes, he was too tired to do even that. In time, he stopped altogether. Now he was reminded of his lapse. Was he cast out because of it? Would he be allowed to reunite with those who meant the most to him? He reached out in the void that surrounded him again, seeking guidance.

The whispers in his mind grew louder. They weren't the voices of his loved ones, though. He thought he recognized them, but only vaguely. They were female.

Angels, perhaps? They spoke the words of prayer. Yes, that had to be it. They were the guides he sought. He concentrated on the voices, striving with all his being to reach them before they went away.


"Amen," the ladies intoned as one. They were kneeling on the floor, facing each other with heads bowed and their hands clasped together. Veronica looked up hopefully at the young man for whom they'd pleaded. There appeared to be no change.

"It's not a magic formula," Agatha reminded her. "We can only ask."

They climbed to their feet. The servant woman put her arm around the girl's shoulders, drawing her away to the door. "Go to bed, child," she suggested. "We've done all we can. Whatever happens, know that you've more than fulfilled your charitable duty. God knows it, too. Rest easy now. I'll stay here and keep watch."

Veronica was loath to depart, but she knew that Agatha was right. Neither of them could do any more. She gazed for a long moment at their patient, knowing that this was, in all likelihood, the last time she'd see him alive. "Good-bye, Balthazar," she told him quietly, and turned to go.

A groan behind her froze her in her tracks. The sound had been nearly imperceptible, and she thought she must have imagined it, until she noticed her companion's wide-eyed stare. Together, they raced back to the one occupied bed in the room. The gray-tinged face before them showed signs of an inner struggle, of consciousness deep within but fighting hard to surface. Veronica took his nearer hand in hers and held it tightly. "Balthazar," she called. "We're here. Come to us."

Agatha did her part to help. She fetched a bowl of clean water from the table and brought it to the sorceress. "Ice, please," she requested. Veronica complied using nothing more than a look. The surface of the water froze, but not so hard that it was unbreakable. Agatha crushed the newly-formed ice in the bowl. Then, scooping out a little, she held it against the Morganian's parched lips. They parted as if by instinct, just enough to let the moisture flow inside. His nurse favored him with a huge smile and gave him a little more ice. The rest would have to wait until he could swallow. She returned the bowl to the table, and carried the stool back to sit beside the bed.

Veronica sat, too, on the bed by its occupant's hip. She still held his hand in both of hers, and still she called to him.

How long they waited, neither of them knew. The ice was melted, and the girl's voice had become almost a chant, by the time they detected a change. It was subtle, merely a lessening of the tension evident in the warrior's face. He seemed more relaxed somehow, his breathing a little deeper. Veronica fell silent, anxious to discover what this change might mean. She squeezed the hand in her grip.

His blue eyes opened at last. It wasn't for long, or without effort, but the women rejoiced when they saw it. He slept peacefully now, a hint of a smile on his face. The gray tinge was gone. Their patient would survive after all.