of his feet and the forever dazzling-blue flames of the Stone. After hours of this, it seemed to him, the ground was littered with huffing and retching villagers. The Stone dimmed, the throoming ceased, and Connek’s legs collapsed beneath him.
Someone shrieked.
Mônda ran from the center looking everywhere among the people. “Owain!” she cried in vain.
If the blacksmith was gone, then where was his son with the pluckable torc?
The gate. They’d been over by the pasture gate! Alarmed, Connek tried to sit up but almost vomited. He lay down until the queasiness passed, then clawed to his knees and spied past the warriors to the gate.
Owain, the monk, and that wretched Merlin had disappeared.
Merlin feared for his father. He, Dybris, and Prontwon had all been talking with Owain in the chapel for half an hour, and his father still hadn’t made full sense of the situation.
At first Merlin thought it was hunger, so Dybris brought fresh bread from the table, and they’d all eaten. But Merlin could detect no improvement in his father’s condition. Even taking a cold, wet rag to his father’s face had not removed the stupor.
“Owain,” Prontwon rasped from where he lay, “when you were young, you claimed Christus … as your own. Tell us about that.”
“Told you before … Can’t you remember?”
Dybris paced back and forth. “We remember, but you —” He threw up his arms.
Owain stiffened under Merlin’s hand. “Want to see it again. The Stone is calling …”
“Tas,” Merlin said, “remember Kifferow. Don’t go back!”
Merlin’s father shook his head. “Kiff … That was a long time ago. Better now. Saw him just yesterday.”
Dybris stopped pacing and whispered in Prontwon’s ear, “Why are we wasting our —”
Prontwon shushed him. “Dybris, if we cannot defeat the power … this Druid Stone has over Owain, how can we have … hope for anyone else?”
“Why can’t we Christianize it?” Dybris asked. “Like the standing stone by the abbey spring?”
“A pagan stone … that the people formerly worshiped … yes, and we carved upon it a cross to point them to Christ. But how do you … propose to do that to this Druid Stone?”
“I’ve been thinking about it —”
“Some things cannot be changed,” Prontwon said, his voice weakening. “Owain, you’re a … respected elder in the village.”
“Respected?” Owain slurred. “Not the way my tas was. He saved the whole fortress once … Snuck up on those filthy Prithager.”
“Who is your enemy, father?” Merlin asked.
“Meddling monks. Mônda’s telling me … telling me to leave here! Where is she?”
Prontwon shook his head. “We need … to pray. Let us anoint Owain with oil and lay our … hands on him.” He fumbled through a bag and handed his oil flask to Dybris.
Dybris held the tube upside down, and not even a drop was inside.
“It must have leaked … Well, we can never run out of prayer, thank God.”
They bowed their heads and laid hands on Merlin’s father and prayed. After some time, Merlin thought he heard a noise beyond the closed chapel door. He turned his head to listen over the earnest words of the abbot but heard nothing more.
A moment later the chapel door creaked open a little.
Merlin concentrated on the sound. Something scraped.
“Come in,” he called, interrupting Dybris.
Outside he heard the fading sound of footsteps running away.
CHAPTER 15
THE GALOW GOLM
For his evening meal, Garth sat with the druidow near the Stone and ate roasted grouse with a chunk of tangy goat cheese. The fili named Caygek sat next to him, but Mórganthu had cuffed and threatened this man once, so Garth tried his best to keep their interactions short.
“You’re from the northern coast?” Caygek asked while he braided his long, curly blond beard.
Garth thought it’d be fun to grow a beard like that one day, only his would be red. He stuffed his mouth full of cheese and nodded.
Caygek pointed to Vortigern’s camp near the village meeting house. “Seen warriors like those before?”
Garth went on admiring the horses, which grazed near the warriors. Fine, strong horses, those. He wished he could ride one.
“I live far from a village,” Caygek said, “so I haven’t seen fighting men in a few years. My father was a warrior, and I learned from him but haven’t had much chance to use my skills. See my sword?”
The blade reflected the man’s blue tunic. It was of fine workmanship, long and sharp. Much better than the other druidows’ weapons but not as fine as Merlin’s dirk, which Garth had held a few times. Now that