shoulder so they could keep a better pace, but Owain grumbled at him. “Tell me again — why are we going to the Stone?”
“Because we need to destroy it.”
“This is madness,” his father said, and Merlin could imagine his scowl.
“You agreed to the plan.”
“But I don’t have to like it.”
Was his father afraid of the Stone? Deep down, Merlin certainly was. Were they all fools?
Dybris, who always seemed hopeful, joined in the conversation. “Come now, the plan is simple. Have faith, my friend.”
Owain pushed Dybris away and walked faster. “I do this only for my wife and daughter.”
“I know what we wish to do is not without great risk, but we do it for the villagers as well. For Prontwon’s memory, and for Garth. I didn’t mean to anger you.”
“I’m not angry. I just don’t have much hope.”
Is there hope? Merlin wondered.
Dybris stopped talking, and since Owain tended to like silence, Merlin said nothing either. Soon they dropped in at the miller’s shop. Allun barely looked up when they made their request for Natalenya to borrow his mule. A large grindstone lay across two wobbling benches, and the miller was studiously dressing the stone using a long metal file.
“We’re going to disguise ourselves as druidow,” Dybris explained. “Natalenya will visit in a bit to hitch the mule to Owain’s wagon and hide in the woods. Merlin, Owain, and I will sneak into the druid camp and steal the Stone. Then we’ll destroy it, and its enchantments will be gone forever.”
Allun swung aside the thick timber boom so he could see them better. “Surely you jest,” he said, filing away and making the benches wobble. “You’re not going to meddle with that pagan Stone, are you?”
Merlin hoped the miller wouldn’t now recant his permission to use the mule.
“I agree,” Owain said, “it’s a foolhardy —”
But Dybris cut him off. “We have to free the people.”
“Well, that’d be a good deed,” Allun said. “Hardly a soul’s been by to grind since that Mórganthu showed up. Thought I’d take the posey time and get the grinders workin’ better.”
Merlin’s father bent down and looked under the benches. “Hey,” he said, “the nails in your benches have worked themselves almost completely out. I wouldn’t do much more without hammering ‘em back in.”
“Ah, they do that every time. I’ll hammer ‘em back in after I’m done tonight.” He stood and banged his head on the boom. “Ow! Drat that timber. I keep pushin’ it away, and it keeps swinging back.”
“So … may Natalenya borrow your mule?” Merlin asked.
“Sure, nothin’ to grind anyway. Plewin’s in the back field eatin’ her favorite spring blossoms. Get her anytime. Jus’ bring her back when you’re done.”
Thanking the miller, the three left and walked uphill toward Troslam and Safrowana’s house. Merlin felt increasingly uneasy and wondered if they were being followed. Perhaps the man who had spied on them earlier at the house was still on their trail. He asked his father and Dybris to keep a lookout for anyone suspicious, but they saw no one. Then Merlin realized why he felt so uneasy, and he motioned for them to stop.
“What?” Dybris asked.
“All the villagers are gone. Listen. It’s too quiet. Do you see any smoke?”
“Except for Troslam’s house up the hill and the mill, no. And none of the crennigs have a fire lit.”
They hastened up the hill, and Owain banged on the weaver’s door. “Troslam!”
Merlin heard the sliding of wood before the door jerked open.
“Shah, Owain! You needn’t scare us.” The weaver’s voice held an anxious tone.
When Merlin shook the man’s hands an old memory flashed before Merlin — the weaver was tall with a golden beard.
Troslam turned to Dybris and with an exclaimation, fell to his knees. “Brother Dybris! I didn’t recognize you without your robe and with your face bruised. I thought —”
“What?”
“I thought you’d been taken away!”
“Taken?”
Troslam practically sputtered. “The druidow came, not more than half an hour ago, with knives and spears, and took the brothers away.”
Dybris sucked in a breath.
“They surrounded the chapel and broke the door in. Led them away, with the villagers following. Taken to that awful Stone, I’d guess.”
Merlin closed his eyes in disbelief, and Dybris grabbed onto his shoulder for support.
“Inis Avallow?” Garth asked. Mórganthu’s question seemed odd. “Yes, Ard Dre. Even I know where that is.”
“Well, my warriors do not, and I want you to lead them through the marsh. We have procured two boats from fishermen who ply their trade on its northern waters, and this works well,