Free Merlin's Mirror by Andre Norton Page A

Druid pointed to the low ring-mounds beyond the circle of stones. “For such did they work with in their own time. And when they died their tools were buried with them, for they were not to be fitted to the hands of lesser men.”
    “To take from the dead!” That part of Myrddin which was of his own world revolted from the suggestion. The dead were jealous of their treasures. Men must be very reckless, and without normal clan feeling, to break the rest of those gone before.
    “You only take what they would give you if they were alive to put such a tool into your hand,” Lugaid replied. “There are those resting here who are of Sky Blood also. And when a man dies, he lays aside one body for another, as worn-out clothing is dropped and forgotten. There are no guardians here, only methods to prevent such tools from coming into the wrong possession.”
    “But—” Myrddin struggled up, wavering, needing to cling to the stone to keep his feet. “A man could search a lifetime among all these graves and not find the right one.”
    “Like calls to like,” Lugaid replied calmly. “Look.” He touched the neck of his robe and, from beneath that covering, drew out a tiny bag of linen stained with sweat as if he had worn it a long time. He loosed the drawstring,which was also the thong to hold it suspended, and into the palm of one hand he shook a scrap of metal which gleamed almost with a jewel’s fire. “Take it, feel it,” he ordered. Reluctantly Myrddin held out his own hand, felt the Druid drop that scrap into it.
    Then he brought it closer to his eyes, rolled the fragment across his palm with a fingertip. The thing was not bronze, he was sure, nor had it the softness of pure gold. With that coloring it could be neither tin nor iron nor silver . . . perhaps like bronze it was a mixture of more than one metal, but if so he could not guess which. In color the scrap was a very light silver, yet across it, small as the piece was, there played a rainbow of colors, changing with the movement of the bit.
    “That is of the Sky People,” Lugaid told him. “We have not handled such material since the age before the world turned over. But if those who wrought this Place of the Sun lie here, then this shall let us know where any of its matter lies hidden. As those who have the gift seek for water with a rod and their own senses, so can this be used.” He pulled up the hem of his robe and carefully unraveled a thread from its frayed edge. He tested the thread’s strength by jerking it between his fingers.
    Next he carefully tied it to the small fragment of metal and wound the other end of the string between two fingers, then held out his hand so the metal swung freely below. “Thus do we seek,” he said.
    Together they prospected the ring-mounds. Some were shaped like disks and some were circles, broken at one side or the other. They climbed each one, Lugaid’s hands outstretched, the fragment dangling from the thread.
    By nightfall Myrddin’s confidence was broken. He was near to denying that there was any hope of Lugaid’s device showing them some strange other-world tool. Yet the Druid seemed quietly content with their labors and his spirits, when they returned to the hut, were unshaken.
    “If not today,” he said as he fed bits of leaves into a pot he hung to boil, “then tomorrow.”
    “And tomorrow and tomorrow . . .” the boy commented sourly.
    “If necessary.” Lugaid nodded. “Myrddin-Merlin, above all else you must learn patience, for you seem lacking in that. But so is ever the fault of youth.”
    “As you said before,” Myrddin commented as he fedtheir small fire with another stick, “I must wait for Ambrosius’ possible favor, I must wait for searching by metal, I must wait—perhaps too long!”
    “I do not ask for the reason for your need.” Lugaid stirred the pot with vigor. “But now I do ask the need for haste.”
    “There are two things I must do,” the boy said, “though why these