Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) by Robert Treskillard Page B

teaching you.” Artorius had laughed as Ector’s gaze fixed on him. “Do you hear me? You are destined for great things. Know it, and learn from my mistakes.”
    Now he could see what motivated his uncle. Ector had known, hadn’t he? And Colvarth, he had said some similar things many years ago. A memory came of the old man, sitting with the Harp of Britain on his lap and playing it softly as he spoke:
    “Oh, son of my liege, pay attention when I . . . speak to you. Theseare weighty . . . matters, matters that concern you and the very future of Britain. You must learn . . . great wisdom, for all men will look to you for understanding and judgment.”
    The bard had forever spoken that way, calling him “son of my liege.” Artorius had thought he was talking about Merlin, but reconsidering it now, Merlin was not Colvarth’s liege lord. He had meant Uther. That Artorius was the son of Uther.
    And it had always made him wonder how he and Merlin could look so different. As he had grown, he’d always tried to find the similarity, but it usually eluded him. He had wanted to look like Merlin. To be like his father. But if Merlin wasn’t his father, then —
    Could this be the source of his restlessness? Of the deadness he felt inside, like something was missing from his life? Of the strange dreams that often came to him in the night? That sometimes even interrupted his waking world? Flashbacks of a time, long, long ago when he had lived a different life? Had a different father? Mother?
    Arthur.
    The name sounded so strange to him. To grow up with one name and then to find out it was false. Chosen by his parents as a lie to hide who he truly was.
    Arthur.
    He sounded out the name slowly, letting his tongue form the syllables in their strange yet simple cadence. The name was British, not Roman like his false name. He knew from his studies it meant “wild bear” . . . one of the most dangerous animals on the island.
    And it wasn’t like there were hundreds others named Arthur out there — there just weren’t, at least not in Rheged. The name was rare, and had become even rarer after the child’s supposed death so as not to rankle Vortigern, the new High King. If Merlin and Natalenya had not changed his name, everyone would have suspected.
    Arthur.
    A name rich in recent history, a name that every Briton knew and lamented. Hah! He himself had shed young tears at the tales of the High King’s lost son. Some said the child had been killed with hisfamily. Others that he had drowned. But his parents always maintained a different story and told a tale of the child being taken as a slave into Pictish lands. The same land where Merlin and Natalenya had been taken as slaves with him.
    Another truth fell into place. They had always told him that they fought the slavery because the High King’s son had been taken there. But they had never finished the story. The boy had been taken out to freedom, hadn’t he? And they had known it all along.
    Artorius sat down on a tuft of moss and looked out at the moon, setting now behind the distant silhouette of hills. Like a door smeared with ashes, its mysterious white arc was pulling him, unwilling, into an uncertain future.
    But where? Into darkness? Could he go there? Face that future? Face the man who had slain — no, murdered — his father?

S unrise was just beginning to redden the sky over the eastern foothills by the time Artorius returned. Merlin was the only one awake, and he was adding wood to the fire in order to cook some oatcakes on a flat rock he had found. Without a word to his father, Artorius began to wake the others. Everyone must hear what he had to say.
    Once they were all up, including a yawning Dwin, Artorius sat down across from Merlin. Everyone looked at him expectantly without betraying their feelings.
    After a long time of silence, Merlin spoke. “So . . . what have you decided?”
    “That I believe you,” he said, holding back the bitterness that tried to