The door banged open, and the fire heightened from the draft. The guards swore at the prisoners, for whatever it was they'd done, and one of them shoved Nimue and Dolph out into the hallway to have enough room to start beating at the flames with the few old blankets in the cell.
Nimue caught the eye of one of the prisoners, the cooper's nephew, and inclined her head toward the stairs. The others caught on quickly. Only Dolph hesitated with his hand on the cell's door. But whichever guard had unlocked the door had brought the key into the cell with him. And there was no time to look for something with which to block the door, thereby trapping the guards. Any moment now one of them was sure to realize the prisoners were out. Nimue shook her head at Dolph.
We'll probably regret that decision, too, she warned herself as she and Dolph took off down the corridor at a run.
She wanted to call out, Stay together! But the others had too big a lead, and she couldn't shout for fear of alerting the guards. So she watched helplessly as the freed prisoners raced ahead.
With his longer legs, Dolph took the stairs two at a time. But then he turned and saw her lagging behind. He grabbed her arm and hustled her up to the outside door. From behind came the sounds of the dungeon guards, who'd finally seen what had happened. They were yelling and running up the stairs.
Outside, too, there was already a commotion. If all eight of them had stayed together and burst through the door en masse, there might have been a better chance for at least some to escape.
Dolph yanked her back inside. "They'll be searching the woods," he whispered, "figuring everybody made a run for it."
Of course they would figure that: It was the only sensible place to go.
Inside, Nimue and Dolph stood at the intersection of three doorways: the one to the outside, the one they had just come through from the dungeon stairs, and one opening on a long corridor that led to the castle proper. If going outside meant walking into the roused castle guards whom they could hear even now starting pursuit of the other prisoners, and downstairs would bring them back to the dungeon guards on their way up, that left only the corridor. But there was no way to make it down that corridor before the dungeon guards reached the head of the stairs, and the only spot that offered even a bit of cover was a small linen-draped table under which there would be room for only one, if that.
Nimue said, "One glance down that hall, and they'll have us. Better to take our chances outside."
Dolph suddenly grinned, though his face was still white with fear. "Nevil, Everard's assistant." He shook his head, put his hand squarely on her back and pushed. "Go!"
Nimue stumbled, knew she wouldn't make it to the table after all, and pressed herself against the wall.
Dolph stepped to the outside door, dropped to one knee, and rubbed the other leg, pretending pain. "Blasted knee," he said. "Hey, lads! Wait for me! Don't leave me!"
From behind, the three pursuing guards burst through the dungeon door and almost fell over him. One of them grabbed his arm, seemingly intent on twisting it out of its socket.
"Easy, easy," he told them. "I'm not going anywhere."
Stupid. Nimue took a shaky breath in through her teeth. I didn't need that, she thought. Why didn't you let me handle it my own way?
Though, fast on that, her mind asked her, And what way would that have heen?
They hadn't yet looked in her direction. The guards dragged Dolph to his feet, still with one arm pinned behind and now a sword ready at his back. "Don't try anything," one of them warned.
"I wasn't intending to," Dolph assured him.
Nimue released the glamour that she had cast to disguise her appearance, and instantly replaced it with another. She gave herself dark hair coming loose from under a kerchief, and an apron, damp and food-stained. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hands were red and chapped from work. The spell caused her to stagger dizzily against the wall.
The movement caught the attention of the dungeon commander, but all he saw was a scullery maid. "Hey, wench. You seen anyone?"
"What?" The confused tone came more from the change from one false shape to another than from a calculated intent to appear dim-witted.
"Any of Lord Halbert's boys go down that way?"
"Halbert?"
He looked at her blank face for only a moment, then pushed by her to check the hall himself. He stopped at the table, and jabbed under the hanging linen with his sword.
Dolph stared at her with enormous eyes.
The guard who held him twisted the arm a bit more. "Go on, then," he said. "Back down you go. And any more tricks, and you can roast yourselves." He shoved Dolph toward the stairs.
Behind her, the guard at the table hesitated as if debating whether it was worth his effort to walk all the way down the hall, seeing there was little chance that anyone could have made it that far.
The remaining guard stepped outside to join the search there, and Nimue followed him into the courtyard. Reynard's Boy, the wainwright, and Wystan were huddled into a group guarded by five knights. Griffith was lying face down in the dirt. One of the knights—m fact it was the one who had been in charge of the recent raid on St. George—used his foot to roll the youth over onto his back. He stooped for a closer look, then shook his head, looking annoyed and disgusted.
"Pardon," Nimue murmured, edging past them. The boy's slack mouth and wide-open eyes showed he was beyond magic as surely as he was beyond herbs and simples. Despite the lurch in her stomach, she tried not to seem unduly interested or concerned.
She made it around the corner, where she leaned her forehead against the wall. When she looked up, she saw the cobbler's apprentice being brought back in over the drawbridge. That left only the cooper's nephew unaccounted for. From the surrounding woods, she could hear calls and whistles and barking hounds.
Don't stop now. She knew that was good advice to herself, even if it entailed walking directly by the knights clustered about Griffith's body, arguing over whose responsibility he was.
She resumed walking, keeping her head bent down, which, in any case, was befitting a kitchen servant.
As they passed each other, the knight who had hold of the cobbler's apprentice gave her a pat on the bottom. "Later, girl," he called out, and gave her a wink. She could guess what he had in mind, but his words were disturbingly reminiscent of what the old wizard had said.
She kept walking and didn't look back.
CHAPTER 4
Nimue walked the rest of that afternoon and into the evening. If she had to walk all the way to Camelot, she would, for King Arthur had to be told what was going on at Ravens' Rock. St. George was closer, but what could they do beyond sending for help? And certainly, by now, they would have done that already. But if help came—from Camelot, by way of St. George since Arthur would not know about Ravens' Rock—that would cost an extra day, time that the young men being held prisoner could not easily afford.
On the other hand, north toward Camelot rather than east toward St. George, there were several towns and castles held by lords loyal to Arthur. She would have to decide, later, whether she would do better to stay on the direct road to Camelot, or to veer off in the direction of one of those other castles. A messenger sent by one of those lords could travel much faster than she on foot. But only if, by not going straight, she didn't miss the men Arthur would send in response to St. George's call for help.
She slept the darkest hours of the night, then started again, too tired to think properly, too tired to cry, too tired to avoid worrying that her frantic wishes for the well-being of those held captive would somehow work unsuspected harm—so that her wishes were tinged by self-doubt, which would, of course, diminish the possibility that they would work at all.
Now Merlin, she reflected, could have summoned a horse to carry him, or conjured up one of those infernal riding machines he complained that the people of the future were too fond of. But Nimue's inherent magical ability was slight. And most of it was already occupied, supporting t
he ongoing spell for Merlin. And most of what was left inclined itself primarily toward small healings.
So she put one foot before the other and tried not to think of where she was going or how long it would take to get there.
The third morning of walking, she heard horses.
They came from the north, the direction in which she was headed. Too early for any response from Camelot. The road was straight and wide at this point, and the riders had to have seen her, just as surely as she saw them. Two knights. Which was good. Unless, of course, they were from Ravens' Rock. But there were only the two, and they weren't dragging helpless village boys behind them. Though that certainly wasn't proof.
She considered whether she should leave the road and try to hide in the woods. If these knights were people who could help, hiding would be the wrong decision. On the other hand, they might be knights of the Red Phoenix, and if they were, they might or might not decide to pursue her. But—on the other hand—if they were Red Phoenix knights, their main interest was in gathering young men for their wizard, so maybe it would be best to stay on the road and not attract their interest by fleeing. On the other hand...
Nimue forced herself to stop. That was altogether too many hands. Stay on the road, she decided. She'd never be able to outrun pursuit if that was what these men intended, and—in fact—she probably couldn't walk much farther at all.
She sank to her knees on the road to await them. Although she had long past dropped her disguise as a scullery maid, she knew that—after three days on the road—her true appearance wasn't much better now. Was that good or bad? If these were renegade knights, she didn't want to entice them. On the other hand...
Stop with the hands! she ordered herself. Besides, if their sense of chivalry depended on her being attractive, she was lost, for she didn't have the energy to spare.
When she looked up again, the knights were much closer. Both were in black armor, no helmets. Frequently younger sons who had not yet made a name for themselves painted their armor black, being unable to afford a squire to accompany them and polish their armor. She saw that one carried the blank white shield used by novice knights. But, with an incredible sense of relief, she saw the second knight bore the dragon colors of the court of Camelot.
It was the knight with the white shield who dismounted. He knelt beside her, a clumsy maneuver in full armor. He was an older man after all, and already huffing from the exertion. Nimue had hoped it might be Sir Lancelot, who sometimes disguised his identity to raise the odds at a tournament. But this was someone she didn't know. He had a broad and open face—what Dolph's might look like in another twenty years, given the security of knowing from one day to the next where his supper was to come from.
"Lady, what misfortune has befallen thee?" he asked in the formal accents of chivalry.
Acknowledging her as a lady was chivalrous in itself. "Sir knight..."
"Sir Dunsten." He smoothed his graying mustache and gave an almost fatherly smile.
She glanced at the second, younger, knight, but he said nothing. "Sir knights," she said, to include him anyway, "there is a terrible thing happening ... I have been walking three days ... There is an evil wizard..." Traveling, she had tried to work out the best way to tell her story, but now several beginnings got so muddled she couldn't come out with any.
The knight still on horseback looked at her coolly. Impatient or annoyed—she couldn't tell.
The first knight, Sir Dunsten, patted her hand. "There, there," he said in much the same way a falconer might calm a too-spirited bird. "There, there." He eyed his companion. "Would you get down here and help?" he said between clenched teeth, as though that would keep Nimue from hearing or realizing that she was being talked about.
The young man remained motionless for a moment longer, but then slid off, and with surprising grace, stooped down, disarmingly close.
Sir Dunsten, smiled at her encouragingly. "Now. Someone is pursuing you?"
That made her jump, looking over her shoulder. "No," she said, realizing too late that he was just prompting her and that she came out looking a fool, "not anymore. But there were some knights—their symbol was a red phoenix?" Inarticulate and skittish, that was the impression she was giving. Or half-witted and given to spasms.
Dunsten glanced at the second knight, who shook his head. "We regret," Dunsten said, "the device is unfamiliar to us. Where..."
She pointed in the general direction. "A place called Ravens' Rock."
"Sir Bayard," the younger man said, finally deigning to speak. "Castle Ridgemont is on a hill called Ravens' Rock." He said the name "Bayard" too evenly, as though she should recognize it. She didn't, but apparently Dunsten did.
"Ah," he said. "That one. The phoenix is new, though. Previously it was a raven. What has he done?"
"He has a wizard with him," Nimue said, "Halbert, who is..."—she fought down a surge of nausea—"using people, young men, somehow taking their bodies to make himself young." The words sounded so incredible. How could she ever convince them? She should just have asked to be taken to Arthur. Arthur had known Merlin, and was used to the idea of magic, though certainly never in this form. She said, now that she had started, "Apparently he needs to do this every several days. Please help me, there is no time to spare."
"A wizard named Halbert," the younger knight said.
"Yes." She didn't know what to make of his hard, almost brittle tone. Of all the things he might have questioned, why that?
"What, exactly, is going on?"
Nimue shook her head. "I just told you..." But he had heard. Certainly he wasn't hard of hearing. He was looking at her as though he suspected—no, as though he were sure—she was a liar. "It's true," she insisted. "There is no time for me to go all the way to Camelot to get somebody else to help." He didn't believe her, she could tell. "Please."
Dunsten was looking from her to his companion. Finally he said, "Oh, really, Mordred."
Mordred.
Nimue knew she had forgotten much of what Merlin had taught her and mixed up a great deal of the rest, but his warnings about Mordred were something about which she had no doubts. This illegitimate son of King Arthur was destined to bring about the collapse of the Round Table, and possibly Britain itself. She had been caught off guard because he wasn't at all what she had pictured. Suddenly, and for the first time, she realized that Merlin had never actually shown her what he looked like.
Both knights were watching her and it was much too late to pretend she hadn't recognized the name.
Nimue bit her lip. Still, she couldn't believe it was somehow in the best interests of Britain to let all those people who lived around Castle Ridgemont get killed.
She knew she was not talented in lies and subterfuge. It was much easier to keep track of what you'd said if you told the truth. She took a deep breath. "My name is Nimue," she said, and she saw that Mordred looked as startled to hear that as she had been to learn his name. "I was passing through a small town southeast of here, called St. George of the Hills. Some knights came. They killed several of the townspeople, and carried off a half dozen young men. I ... went with them," Dunsten raised his eyebrows, but didn't interrupt. "And I saw this wizard, this Halbert, do what I have just described to you."
Mordred had gotten over being surprised, but he said nothing, just watched her.
"Perhaps she has the name wrong." Dunsten patted down his mustache again. "Nimue, child," he said in the same kind tone Arthur used, "are you sure it was Halbert?"
"I don't know. One of the knights called him that."
Dunsten smiled benignly. "Well, there you have it. And, Mordred, why do you think it cannot be Halbert?"
"Because he's dead," Mordred said. "Three, no, four years dead."
Nimue asked, "Are you sure?"
"Am I sure?" he repeated. He didn't like being questioned? Well, neither did she. "Yes. I was there."
Nimue took another deep breath. "Let me tell you something about magic. Magic is a sort of fo
rce field ... No, wait." She started again. "All around us..." That was no good. "If we could tap into..." Both faces looked at her in perplexity. It was so clear when Merlin explained it. "Anyway, I guess I don't need to confuse you by getting into it." That evasion sounded so much more rational and less blatantly evasive when Merlin used it. "What I want to say is that sometimes it is necessary for a wizard to ... focus his or her power. I'm sure you have seen this kind of thing." She widened her eyes and wiggled her fingers in front of her face, then, with a suddenness that jarred her elbow, whipped her arm out, one finger pointing forward.
Mordred and Dunsten both jumped and looked over their shoulders, as if expecting perhaps a burst of flame or at least a visitation by some long-dead saint—which showed that they had missed the point entirely.
"I was referring to the gesture," she said, sensing their disappointment, and held out her forefinger. "That's not dramatics. Well ... but not entirely. That's focusing. The more power that is involved, the more necessary it is to focus, and sometimes wizards have to depend on an outside object to help them, like a crystal ball, or some sort of staff, or..." She realized she might be putting ideas into their heads, and tucked her thumb into her palm to keep them from noticing her ring.
"Or like a ruby pendant," Mordred finished in a whisper.
That sent a chill up her back. He did know Halbert. "The trouble with a ... focusing instrument"—Merlin had had a special word for it which refused to come to mind—"is that it can be vulnerable. I take it that you did something to this ruby of Halbert's?"
"I saw it done," Mordred said. "It was broken, the pieces scattered all over the floor."
"Where you left them."
She hadn't meant it as an accusation.
"I..." For once, he looked momentarily flustered. "Yes."
"Someone, somehow, must have gathered the broken pieces—"