The Grey King by Susan Cooper Page B

lord. He looked thoughtfully at Will and seemed about to say more, but instead he only nodded slowly. Then sweeping his robe about him in a sea-blue wave, he stepped back to his throne.
    The hall seemed darker, filled with dancing shadows from the flickering light of the fire. A sudden flash and crackle came from behind the boys, as a log fell and the flames leapt up; instinctively Will glanced back. When he turned forward again, the third figure, who had not spoken or moved until now, was standing tall and silent before his throne. His robe was a deep, deepblue, darkest of the three, and his hood was pulled so far forward that there was no hint of his face visible, but only shadow.
    His voice was deep and resonant, like the voice of a cello, and it brought music into the hall.
    â€œWill Stanton,” it said, “what is the shore that fears the sea?”
    Will started impulsively forward, his hands clenching into fists, for his voice caught into the deepest part of him. Surely, surely . . . but the face in the hood was hidden, and he was denied all ways of recognition. Any part of his senses that tried to reach out to the great thrones met a blank wall of refusal from the High Magic. Once more Will gave up, and put his mind to the last riddle.
    He said slowly, “The shore that fears the sea . . .”
    Images wavered in and out of his mind: great crashing waves against a rocky coast . . . the green light in the ocean, the realm of Tethys, where strange creatures may live . . . a gentler sea then, washing in long slow waves an endless golden beach. The shore . . . the beach . . . the beach . . .
    The image wavered and changed. It dissolved into a green dappled forest of gnarled ancient trees, their broad trunks smooth with a curious light grey bark. Their leaves danced above, new, soft, bright with a delicate green that had in it all of springtime. The beginnings of triumph whispered in Will’s mind.
    â€œThe shore,” he said. “The beach where the sea washes. But also it is a wood, of lovely fine grain, that is in the handle of a chisel and the legs of a chair, the head of a broom and the pad of a workhorse saddle. And I dare swear too that those two chests between your thrones are carved of it. The only places where it may not be used are beneath the open sky and upon the open sea, for this wood loses its virtue if soaked by water. The answer to your riddle, my lord, is the wood of the beech tree.”
    The flames leaped up in the fire behind them, and suddenly the hall was brilliant. Joy and relief seemed to surge through the air. The first two blue-robed lords rose from their thrones to stand beside the third; like three towers they loomed hooded over the boys. Then the third lord flung back the hood ofhis deep blue robe, to reveal a fierce hawk-nosed head with deep-set eyes and a shock of wild white hair. And the High Magic’s barrier against recognition fell away.
    Will cried joyously, “Merriman!”
    He leapt forward to the tall figure as a small child leaps to its father, and clasped his outstretched hands. Merriman smiled down at him.
    Will laughed aloud in delight. “I knew,” he said, “I knew. And yet—”
    â€œGreetings, Old One.” Merriman said. “Now you are grown fully into the Circle, by this. Had you failed in this part of the quest, all else would have been lost.” The bleak, hard lines of his face were softened by affection; his dark eyes blazed like black torches. Then he turned to Bran, taking him by the shoulders. Bran looked up at him, pale and expressionless.
    â€œAnd the raven boy,” the deep voice said gently. “We meet again. You have played your part well, as it was known you would. Hold your head in pride, Bran Davies. You carry a great heritage within you. Much has been asked of you, and more will be asked yet. Much more.”
    Bran looked at Merriman