NINE. ILLUSIONS

It snowed for three days. The world was soft, white and frigid. On the second morning Merlin was in his tower reading, with Roc on his shoulder, when he heard a scratching at the window. The other two ravens, the ones that had been missing, were there, trying desperately to get inside.

He opened the shutter and let them in. They flew directly to the hearth, not too close, and warmed themselves. Then a moment later they flapped their wings and went to his shoulders and nuzzled him.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered. “But you’ve come back. Is that a sign?”

Roc, standing at the edge of the table, squawked shrilly as if to say, “The world does not send us signs.”

Merlin named the other two birds Phoenix and Osiris, after two mythological figures who had conquered death. They began responding to their names almost at once.

By the third morning, Merlin was feeling restless. He headed to the stables and asked one of the grooms to prepare a horse cart for him.

Camelot was full of activity as the household staff decorated for Midwinter Court. Every available space was hung with holly and evergreen branches, to signify the triumph of life over death on this feast when the sun reached its lowest point and began to climb in the sky again. Hundreds- thousands-of candles were set about; the castle would be ablaze with light as, at least in theory, the heavens were. Singers and musicians and handbell ringers rehearsed, loudly, songs celebrating the season. And great stores of provisions were being brought in from surrounding farms and villages so that Arthur’s guests would want for nothing.

Arthur circulated through the castle, overseeing it all and beaming at the work, and even helping to arrange the holly now and then. When he encountered Merlin he greeted him heartily. “They’re doing a wonderful job, aren’t they? I love holidays. The lights, the colors… and we’re having plays. One of the heralds found your friend Samuel Gall.”

"Fine, Arthur.” He adopted his patient teacher manner.

Arthur blinked and gaped at him. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t like the Midwinter feasting?”

“I do not mean to tell you anything at all about it. But since you ask…”

“Merlin, how on earth can you not enjoy this? The lights, the colors, the music… I’ve loved Midwinter since I was a boy.”

“You are still a boy, Arthur, in more ways than you realize. ”

The king looked at him suspiciously. “Explain yourself, killjoy.”

“I have never understood the concept of happiness by the calendar. ‘Oh, goodness, it is such and such a date. That means I’m going to feel good and find life wonderful. Never mind that there are assassins on the loose.’ ”

“Go and have a drink, Merlin. You need it.”

“As it happens, I’m heading to the kitchen, for some breakfast.”

“Even that will help.”

So Merlin left Arthur happily hanging holly and humming hymns to the newborn sun. In the refectory he encountered Petronus who, always anxious to make himself useful, offered to be his driver.

They finished eating and walked to the stable together. “But, sir, where are we going?”

“A great deal is going to happen here in the coming days, Petronus. I need to be alone, to think and to meditate, at least for a few hours. There is one place in the world where I have always been able to do that.”

“And where is that, sir?”

“Stonehenge.”

“But… but that is in Salisbury, sir.”

“I know it. If the roads are passable we can get there in two hours or so. Let us hope. You may go to the local inn to keep warm while I spend contemplative time at the monument. ”

“But won’t you be cold?”

“At my age cold is a constant. I need this time alone.”

Petronus fell silent for a few moments. Then as they walked to the stable he said, “It sounds as if you are going there to pray, sir.”

“Don’t be preposterous. Stonehenge is a gift of the ancients, who could not possibly have envisioned the circumstances that take me there. It is a place of harmony and proportion, of intellectual peace. In a snowfall it is even more so. I need to experience that just now, before the guests arrive for court. There may be danger here; I need to think and prepare myself mentally for what I have to do.”

“And what is that?”

“You will see soon enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

Just as they reached the stable, the doors flew wide open and two small donkey carts and a large horse-drawn carriage drove in. Merlin glared at them; people were arriving early, and he might not be able to get away after all.

Then he stopped to wonder who the conveyances belonged to. “Hold off for a moment, Pete.”

He watched as the passengers began to alight. Recognizing the leader, he crossed the stable to him and threw his arms around him. “Samuel! I had no idea you would arrive early. I knew Arthur had invited you, but…”

Samuel was a man of Merlin’s age, clean-shaven, fit. “The king summoned us. And performing at these courts is always a good source of income for us. If nothing else, other nobles will see us and want us to appear at their own courts. You know the artist’s life.”

More men descended from the carriage. Most of them were young; among them there was one boy, younger than Petronus, with bright red hair. They set about taking trunks and boxes off the carriage’s roof. Samuel pointed to one after another and told Merlin their names. “Robert, Pierre, Wolf, Francis. And this boy with the flame-red hair is Watson, our leading lady. He plays tragic heroines so convincingly audiences are moved to tears. He will break hearts.”

Petronus had been listening without saying anything. Finally, it made sense to him. “What play are you acting out?”

“Bringing to life.” Samuel was emphatic. “We are the best in England. Artists, not common play-actors.”

“I love plays.”

“When we perform, young man, everyone loves plays.” He turned back to Merlin. “The king has requested our Fall of Troy. Just wait till you see Watson, here, play Hecuba. You’re in for a real treat, Merlin.”

“I’m sure of it. But-”

“We’ve been making a hit in the provinces with the Assassination of Julius Caesar, but Arthur has forbidden us to play it here.”

“Wise man.”

“Is he nervous, then?”

“You haven’t heard?” Merlin explained about the killing of the squires, the escape of Pellenore and the rest of it. “So you haven’t come to a happy court. And a play about assassinating Caesar would hardly be the thing. But listen, I’m glad you’re here. I’m going to be staging some theatrics of my own. Perhaps you can give me some instruction in stagecraft.” He lowered his voice and looked around to make certain no one was eavesdropping. “To be specific, in conjuring. This has to be terribly effective. A great deal depends on it.”

Mildly puzzled, Samuel told him, “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can. But what on earth-?”

“I’ll explain later, when we’re alone. You remember where my rooms are?”

“Are you still living in that drafty tower?”

“Yes. Come in an hour or so.” He looked at Petronus. “We won’t be making our outing after all, I’m afraid. But thank you for offering to drive me.”

Puzzled and disappointed, Petronus left. A moment later Merlin followed, leaving the actors to deal with their props and costumes.

Like almost everyone else, Nimue was getting into a holiday mood. She found Merlin in his study, preoccupied, sulking, stroking the head of one of his ravens and studying Ganelin’s chart still another time. His fingertip traced the paths of symbols, and he seemed quite lost in thought. At the bottom of his breath he was muttering, “It must be. It must be.”

“You work too hard, Merlin.” She decided to try and cheer him up. “The snow won’t stop falling. If I were still a kid I’d be riding my sled. Kids must be doing that all over the country.”