across the stone floor sounding to Merlin like a drum announcing his doom.
“The master is ready to see you.”
Merlin tucked his hands under his legs and felt the hard edge of the seat. Never had he been interrogated like this. If only Tregeagle’s words were as pleasant as the smell of coriander and honey that filled the magister’s room.
“My sons tell a different tale. Why should I believe you?”
Merlin’s father — his tas, as all fathers were called in Kernow — coughed nearby, and his presence brought Merlin a small measure of comfort. He sat up a little straighter and placed his hands in his lap. “Because, sir —”
“Because you stole my property?” Tregeagle interrupted his pacing and rapped his knuckles on the wooden table between them. “Because you marred the fine coats of my horses?”
“Because sir, if —”
“Because you knocked my son down and kicked him?”
Actually, Rondroc had knocked Merlin down first, but Merlin had already established that Tregeagle didn’t want to hear anything of that sort. Maybe if he apologized for the wagon. “I’m sorry for —”
“So you admit it!” Tregeagle resumed his pacing, his tunic a white blur wrapped with a shining golden belt.
“Be fair, Tregeagle,” Merlin’s father said, his deep voice echoing in the room. “He said nothing of the kind.”
Tregeagle raised his hand. “If you insist on speaking, Owain, tell me why your filthy charcoal filled the leather seats of my painted coach? Was this your clever idea?”
Merlin’s father sighed. “You know it wasn’t, magister. Our horse is lame, and my char-pile got low at the smithy. So the abbey sent Garth to help guide Merlin to fetch charcoal with my wheelbarrow —”
“For the record, what is this new boy’s proper name?” Tregeagle sat down, slid a parchment onto the table, and scratched ink across the page with his quill.
Merlin spoke up. “His name is Garthwys, sir.”
“Which would that be in Latin, Garthius or Garthwysus?”
“Either, I guess. He got impatient and thought —”
Tregeagle coughed. “He thought? Obviously there has been precious little of that from either of you. Three wheels broken, the sides damaged, and one of the axles bent. Is this friend of yours incompetent?”
Far from it, Merlin thought. Garth was good at most things. He could play his bagpipe. He could fish, as that had been his father’s trade before Garth was orphaned. And Merlin knew he could drive horses well enough, at least when he wanted to.
Tregeagle stood again, shoving his chair into the wall with a bang, and leaned over the table. “Use your tongue, boy, or I shall call my lictor in to cut it from your mouth.”
“Garth knows how to drive a wagon, sir.”
“Then why did the fool crash it at the abbey?”
Merlin fidgeted in his seat. “Something scared us, sir. We were bringing the coal back when we smelled roasting meat. Garth was hungry—well, he’s always hungry — and he ran off into the woods and left me holding the reins.”
Tregeagle retrieved his chair and sat down again, the wood creaking loudly. “So who was roasting meat in the woods? Some vagrant?”
“I don’t know, sir. I followed Garth, and we must have been near the old stone circle —”
Tregeagle clicked his teeth together. “The stone circle? It’s been a long time since any of the druidow” — his voice betrayed a sneer — “dared show their faces around Kernow. So you held the reins. Did you try to drive the horses?”
Merlin clenched his fists under the table. “I’m half blind, but not half stupid. There were two men, and they had something strange with them, something heavy and dark. There were flames … blue flames. And the men drew blades on us. Garth and I ran back to the wagon all spooked. He drove the horses hard till we neared the abbey.”
What appeared to be a knife flashed before Merlin, and Tregeagle’s deft hands played with it. “Scared of a blade, you say? Tell me what happened at the abbey. Any monks involved? Did anyone damage the wagon on purpose?”
Merlin swallowed, for the blade gleamed in the evening light that slanted through the shutters. “Nothing of the kind, sir. I thought we would crash, so I tried to get Garth to stop the horses. Only we left the road and —”
“How did the dear abbot react?” Tregeagle sharpened the knife, sliding and scraping it against a rock.
“Prontwon was irate, but Dybris calmed him down —”
Tregeagle slammed the rock on the table. “And who is this Dybris who ignores