the golden horn before him. A bubbling, creamy brown liquid filled it, and he listened to its frothy sound. As each bubble burst, he heard soothing words issue forth. He strained his ears to hear, and every utterance called him to lie and deceive. Drums began to beat in his ears until the horn shook and he felt his head would burst with the vibration.
Stopping up his ears did nothing; the calling would not cease. The temptation grew to embrace the horn, let the deceits fill his soul, and make the raging words go away. He reached out his hands, hoping for relief.
Then a memory arose of his father. With downcast face, he spoke to Merlin, saddened because of a childhood lie Merlin had told. His father implored him to choose the right and turn from falsehoods. At first Merlin wanted his father to go away, and he swept his hands to dispel the image, but his father’s face remained. Slowly, Merlin’s heart broke. The desire to take up the drinking horn faded, and Merlin was free again.
The third, a whitish horn, now stood before him, but he distrusted it. This time he wouldn’t look inside. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward to determine if he could smell it, and a sweet aroma drifted deep into his lungs.
He felt stronger, taller, and wiser, filled with his own greatness and ability to lead. Visions appeared of men bowing as his kingly torc was placed around his neck. It smelled so wonderful that he found himself staring at the liquid in the horn. It flowed green as the nectar of garden flowers, and with just a taste he could do any task, no matter how difficult. One sip from the horn, and he could have anything he wanted. He would be the supreme authority once this sweet liquid coursed down his throat.
In joy he grasped his own smiling face, and there he felt the scars. Deep and thickened. And he knew that few could love the gross disfigurement he’d been cursed to carry. His pride drained away, and he was once again the normal, scarred Merlin.
He approached the final corner of the stone pillar and the last drinking horn, which stood so tall he couldn’t glance inside. Its silver glimmered in the light of the blue torches, and it was magnificent. Even a great king would be proud to drink of the heady ale lurking there. A longing to see what was inside overcame him.
He hefted himself up onto the pillar, now strangely widened into a table, and knelt in the middle. There he peered over the silver horn’s filigreed edge. Inside lay a black liquid, thick and rich. His hands reached to the horn and stuck to its sides.
Small bolts of lightning shot through his arms and across his chest. There, in his pain, a terrible vision engulfed him.
He was the adviser to a king and led warriors beyond count across Britain. Each battle brought death. His warriors’ limbs lay hacked at his feet. His enemies’ heads lay piled as a mountain. No matter where he wandered, all had been slain. Death and ruin abounded. Merlin stood alone, a curse on mankind. His hands lifted the terrible horn with the slop of dark liquid toward his lips.
Closer it drew until Merlin cried out, “God, save me from this curse!”
His hands dropped the horn with a crash upon the table. Before the liquid slimed across the surface and touched him, he leaped to the ground.
And there, amid the hiss of the torches, the Voice himself rose from the ground. His robe enshrouded him in darkness, and his flaking claw held a sword as pale as dead flesh. He lifted it to strike the head from Merlin’s body.
“Bow and worship!”
Defenseless and with nowhere to run, Merlin yet found strength welling up inside. He shouted, “I’ll never worship you. Though you slay me, I will hold fast to Jesu!”
Malicious laughter echoed through the room.
“You shall worship me! This village shall worship me! This island shall worship me! All shall worship me!”
Merlin backed up against the wall. “Never!”
In a rage, the Voice sliced his sword at Merlin’s neck, and all went black.
With Offyd tending the sleeping Prontwon, Dybris closed the chapel door and walked down the path to the village pasture and the gathering of the druidow. As he passed the houses and gardens of the villagers, he wondered if Offyd was right. Had any of the brothers besides Herrik fallen victim to its temptation?