will show their fealty to the Druid Stone and the safety, happiness, and treasure it offers?”
Merlin heard an excited buzz as many of the villagers went forward and, following Mórganthu’s instructions, bowed before the Stone.
“Who went?” Merlin asked as he discovered a bleeding scrape on his left forearm.
“I can hardly tell in the dark, but among the thirty or so who went forward, I saw … wait … it’s Tregeagle. Mórganthu’s welcoming him and Erbin, and they’re bowing down.”
Merlin’s thoughts went out to Natalenya. “What will Uther do tomorrow when he finds the magister has given his allegiance to the Stone?”
But before his father could answer, a man rushed onto the green from the road, yelling, “The abbey’s on fire!”
Merlin turned, and there beyond the dark eastern arm of the Meneth Gellik, he saw smears of an orange glow billowing out into the night.
PART THREE
BLADE’S EDGE
HAMMERED WITH MUSCLE AND BONE SOON BREAKING,
SWATHED IN HELLFIRE THE BLACK VOID QUAKING,
PIERCED BY HARD LIGHT THE DEMONS SHAKING,
QUENCHED IN BLOOD THE TEMPTER AWAKING,
SMOKE AND DEATH, THERE THE BRIGHT SWORD VIES.
CHAPTER 21
THE HIGH KING
Dybris moaned as someone pressed a cold rag to his forehead.
“Finally awake, eh?”
It was Brother Neot, whispering.
Dybris sat up but regretted it as his head throbbed and his stomach soured. “Where’s Merlin?” His voice rasped.
“Wherever … and better off than you. He protected his head, but you couldn’t, you fool.”
Dybris stretched his neck and regretted that as well. “Go away.”
“Crogen has forbidden me.” Neot wrung his rag into a wooden bowl.
Touching his face carefully, Dybris determined that the left side of his head was swollen, and his eyebrow had a scabby mass. “Where is he?”
“Outside. Weeping.”
Dybris’s tongue felt thick as he sipped water from a bowl. “Tell him I’ve woken.”
“Dreamer! He doesn’t weep for you. The druidow burned our abbey last night.”
Dybris looked around the room. He’d thought this was an abbey building, but a glance confirmed that above him hung the ragged thatch around the hole in the roof. Faint light from the morning sun seeped through, revealing the stone walls of the village chapel and his brother monks sleeping in soot-stained garments on the dirt floor and on wooden benches.
“Ah, now you see, don’t you, the results of your fine work. Herrik ran to us for help, but it was too late. We and a few villagers brought water from our spring, but the fire wouldn’t be slaked.” His voice turned bitter. “All our years copying the Scriptures are nothing but ashes.”
Dybris covered his face. “Nothing saved?”
“Just the scrapings of food stored in the cave. But that means nothing since neither parchment nor quill survived.” Neot’s voice broke. “And it’s your fault!”
“Oh, God!” Dybris cried out in prayer.
A quiet knock sounded on the chapel door.
Neot rose, answered, and stepped outside.
In the dim light, Dybris hadn’t seen who had come. He was about to rise and investigate when Neot opened the door and entered with squinting, smoldering eyes.
“Now it’s worse. Troslam, the good weaver of our village, tells me there was thievery and death last night.”
“You can’t blame me for —”
One of the monks turned over in his sleep, and Dybris hushed his voice.
“For stirring up these troubles?” Neot whispered. “Yes, I can. All restraint has been thrown off, and only God knows the depth of last night’s transgressions. Never in all my years in Bosventor has there been a murder, and now three men lie slain. Priwith the potter was stabbed in his own bed, his house ransacked and his valuables stolen …”
Dybris stood, and his bruised limbs protested the act. He had to get away from Neot and speak with Crogen.
“Then Troslam caught Stenno sneaking in through a window. In the struggle, the weaver slew him while defending his family. And don’t you dare leave.” Neot pulled Dybris’s hood and forced him to sit down. “Drink the cup you’ve filled. Last of all was poor Brunyek, our simple oat farmer, whom Troslam found while on his way here. Thrown into a ditch along the road, his back stabbed and his bag of coins missing.”
Pushing Neot’s hands away, Dybris limped to the door. “Stop blaming me for the sins of the Stone! This I tried to stop, while you did nothing.”
“You don’t deserve to be in our order,” Neot yelled as the other monks awoke.
“That is for Crogen to decide.” Dybris slammed the door behind him as he hobbled out into the sunrise.
Downhill he found Crogen sitting on a rock that jutted out from the hillside like an old tooth.