Free Merlin's Mirror by Andre Norton Page B

have been laid on me, I do not know. I did not ask to be born of a Sky Lord.” He sat back on his heels, staring moodily into the fire. “Little have I had of my heritage except trouble upon trouble.”
    “No heritage is free from that,” observed Lugaid. “If you were to lay aside your life’s labor, then what would you choose? The sword of a warrior with perhaps a quick death, achieving nothing by your dying but the cutting down of the life of another?”
    Myrddin thought of the clan house as he had seen it last. That was the fruit of war. That was the way of brute man, the way to which his people were condemned unless there was the promised change. He had no choice, being who and what he was, except to carry the orders and the burden laid on him by the voice of the mirror.
    “I must do what I must do,” he said heavily. “And if this waiting is a part of it, then I must endure it. But I have also been warned.” He wondered if he could find his tongue free to mention that other to Lugaid, since so much of the mirror’s knowledge was locked within his silence. “There is”—he discovered that he could continue—“another abroad whose mission is to defeat what I would do.”
    “One of the Dark Ones,” Lugaid agreed.
    Myrddin was surprised. How much did the Druid know of that?
    He saw Lugaid smile. “Ah, it is true that here”—he tapped his forehead with one finger—“I have the lore of old. Those who would be of our number must study the lore for twenty years. Never can it be put in writing after the manner of the Romans, but rather kept from one generation to the next by memory alone. Aye, there are the Dark Ones who in the Sky times brought full measure of trouble upon our world. That they, too, have their servants—what could be more believable? So there is a Dark One sent to defeat you. Do you know the manner of the enemy so you can be warned?”

    “She is a girl.” Without closing his eyes Myrddin had a sudden vision of Nimue standing on the mountainside, her fine hair lifted playfully by the wind, her gaze as intent as when the mirror had first shown her to him. “I know only that her name is Nimue, though of what clan or tribe or where she may be . . .” He shook his head.
    “Nimue—a name of Power, for it was one given in the old days to a water goddess. I shall remember.”
    They ate in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, and just as silently they lay down to sleep. Yet Myrddin felt a companionship which he had lacked before and a sense of well-being he had seldom known, except perhaps in the cave of the mirror. Nor did he dream.
    As the sun broke on the next day they were back at their search. This time Myrddin went with more eagerness. Lugaid’s belief in what he was doing seemed to be catching. And if patience was what he himself must cultivate, then the sooner he was about that, the better.
    The sun was hot overhead as they climbed a ring-mound slightly larger than its neighbors. And that sun was reflected in small glitters, for the metal bit had begun to swing, moving ever faster. Lugaid laughed.
    “Did I not promise that like would greet like? Here is given proof, boy!” He stamped the heel of his sandal on the turf which roofed the mound. “Beneath this lies what we seek.”
    He tucked the fragment into its hidden pocket and hurried back to the hut, returning with a bronze ax. “Since we lack a proper spade,” he said, “this must serve, this and that knife of yours.”
    With a strength which belied his appearance of age, Lugaid straightaway cut into the root-bound turf. It was hard work, and they took turns at using the ax and scraping away the loosened soil with knife and large bowl. By sundown they had reached a length of massive stone which must roof in the grave space. Lugaid was clearing along that, seeking the end where they might find an opening.
    The sun had gone; twilight was creeping in. Lugaid stood within the trench they had cut.
    “Light! A torch!