Free Merlin's Mirror by Andre Norton

Ambrosius to win a notable victory, then, in the flush of rejoicing, he might be approached on this matter.”
    “That will need time. Fortune. Chance . . .” protested the boy.
    “Youth is ever impatient. I have lived long with time. Enough to know that you must make it your servant, not let it be master. There is no way you can do this thing otherwise. For you cannot move a stone such as these”—the Druid waved his hand to the rings behind him—“except with men, a ship and warriors to clear a path for you. Do you believe those of the Western Isle will easily give up what they believe to be a powerful trophy?”
    Myrddin strode back and forth, impatience eating at him. He had little faith in the Druid’s suggestion. It rested on too many strokes of fortune which might go eitherway. Yet for all his tutoring by the mirror, at this moment he could see no other choice if Lugaid would not help him. Going again himself to Ambrosius after the firm dismissal he had received would gain him nothing.
    He came to a stop and placed his hand on a tall blue stone set in the outer ring. Somehow through that touch there flooded into him a sense of age so great that it awed his spirit. Small crystals, pea-sized and cream in color, were sprinkled over the bluish surface. And it towered so that in the shadow of its bulk he felt dismay. He did not know the size of the stone he must seek, but if it were like this one, then half a hundred men, a hundred even, might not stir it.
    No, Myrddin took hold on his confidence. Men with all their strength might not stir these from their beds. But the beings who had built this place had their own secrets and the mirror had given him some of them. Doubt now made him wish to try that power.
    He looked beyond the stone he touched. The next in line had fallen and lay with tough, withered grass rising about it. He reached for his belt knife. No staff could serve him, not even one such as Lugaid carried cut from wood, even though that wood might be the sacred oak. His tool must be metal, and one which would give forth the right ringing tone.
    Unsheathing the knife, Myrddin stooped to set its tip against the fallen stone. He began to tap, slowly, with a certain rhythm. And, as he tapped, he voiced the guttural sounds which the mirror’s voice had made him repeat over and over again until he could give them the right inflection.
    Faster and louder grew the tapping. His throat ached a little as he strove to utter sounds almost beyond the range of his own vocal chords. Suddenly he was aware that another chanting had joined his, that Lugaid was facing him across the bulk of the stone.
    Tap—tap—his hand moved so fast, building up the sound’s measures—thus and thus and thus—Myrddin’s face grew shiny with sweat, his arm was weary, yet he would not surrender to the weaknesses of his body. Tap—chant—tap—
    He was so intent on what he did that the first movement of the stone caught him nearly unaware. It was stirring in the furrow which its weight had caused when ittoppled generations ago, stirring as some animal aroused from a long sleep.
    Tap—chant—
    The rock was rising, he had not been deceived! Yet he could not hold it so and, as his hand dropped, his wrist weak with the effort, the megalith settled back into its groove. Myrddin sank to his knees beside it, drawing his breath in long gasps, the strength gone out of him. If he had tried to move at that moment he would have measured his length beside that of the stone.
    “Well done, Sky Son!”
    His ears rang but not enough to deafen them to Lugaid’s words. The Druid also leaned against the stone on the other side, gazing at Myrddin in astonishment.
    “But,” he continued, “you must have a better tool than a knife for this work.” He swung around, still resting one hand to steady himself against the stone. “And you may gain it, if you are strong enough in spirit.”
    “Where?”
    “From the grasp of those gone before.” The