God, we pray for our king, the king you have appointed to rule over us. Free him from this sorcery …”
Owain tried to agree in his mind with the prayer, yet the events before him fought for his attention.
Anviv waved his hand in front of Uther’s face. “Where is your strength, O forceful one? Where is your justice?”
Uther blinked.
Anviv almost danced around the High King. “His majesty … servant of the Stone!”
Uther’s lips twitched, and he shook his head.
Mórganthu tried to pull Anviv back, but he ignored his father.
“Fall prostrate, mighty king,” Anviv jeered up at Uther’s face. “Touch the Stone of Abundance, and then kiss the foot … kiss the foot of the arch druid!”
A rage crept onto Uther’s face, and he jerked backward from the Stone as if escaping the talons of an invisible beast. Lifting his new sword, he swung with astonishing speed, and in that deadly arc, he sliced through Anviv’s neck.
Owain gasped as the head and body fell to the ground at the same instant, the face of Anviv frozen in mockery, and his copper torc rolling away, bloody, on the grass.
“What is it, Tas? Has Uther —?”
“No … he didn’t … he didn’t touch the Stone.”
Owain fell to his knees, and his tongue caught in his throat. He’d seen much worse before, but it had been a long time.
“What? Tas!”
“Anviv is dead.”
Mórganthu fell stricken beside the body of his son, his beard trailing in the blood as he picked up the fallen head. All the druidow retreated from Uther, who still held his sword at the ready, his eyes aflame.
“Noooo!” Mórganthu cried, and tears rolled from his eyes.
Uther pointed to Anviv’s head with the sword. “What of this wolfish druid? Let the dead die!”
“He … was my son,” Mórganthu shrieked.
The High King stepped back, his mouth pressed in a firm line and his warriors gathered silently around him.
Mórganthu smoothed back Anviv’s hair, his hand leaving a slick of blood across the strands. “A curse … on you, Uther mab Aurelianus … a curse on your life! May Belornos drink deep of the blood of your house!”
Mórganthu stood and called the druidows to him. They picked up the body and torc of Anviv while others took up the leather tarp with the Stone suspended inside.
Mórganthu turned to the speechless villagers and said through his tears, “Come this night, O people! Bring your animals for purification to the Beltayne Feast and the Night of Fire. There, with smoke, we will cleanse ourselves from the rot of” — his voice broke — “this High King and his false god. We will have roasted meat, bread, and drink in abundance for all. And we will dance and dedicate ourselves to Belornos … and the Stone which he sent.”
All around, the people nodded, but the thought sickened Owain. How could they be so easily led astray?
With Mórganthu in the rear, the druidow departed the village green as quickly as they had come. Before passing through the gate, Mórganthu pointed at Uther and mouthed words that couldn’t be understood. Then cradling the head of his son, the arch druid departed with wailing and cursing.
And there, even as storm clouds blew in from the west, Owain saw Garth walking alongside Mórganthu and holding on to the old man’s belt.
Merlin’s frustration rose as the moments went by. What had just happened? Being nearly blind was tolerable during mundane activities, but it stretched his patience to breaking when important events rolled past all around him. And his father explained all too little.
Then someone called his name. “Merlinus! It is Uther speaking. As of this day, you are my servant. Take my sword and clean it.”
With a deep breath, Merlin let go of his father’s reassuring shoulder and walked toward the voice until he stood before Uther.
“This weapon has served me well. Clean it, and I will receive your fealty.”
Merlin reached out his hands, palms open, and Uther placed the heavy blade there.
As Anviv’s blood smeared from the sword onto Merlin’s left hand, he felt dizzy, and the ground fell away from his feet. Everything in his weak eyesight turned to a soft whiteness, and waves of mist beat upon his face.
Upward he felt himself fly, and Uther’s new sword became heavy. Merlin gripped its hilt with both hands but feared he’d lose his hold in the quickening rain.
Suddenly the rising motion ended, and he fell. With a great shock he crashed onto a hard surface. When Merlin opened his eyes, he found himself