Free The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex by Robert Holdstock

taught to do it. We were made to do it. Don’t you remember? It was a long time ago, Merlin. We were taught to do some harsh things. We were told that our very bones were scarred with the codes and secrets that could make us stronger than rock. We were told we would never rest, that we should conserve the gifts that had been given to us, this charm, this magic. We were told to ‘walk a Path.’ But one by one—do you remember the others? There were others—one by one we fell to the wayside. Fell to the flesh. Fell into love. One by one. All except you. Toys? We are all toys. You have done far worse than me, when it comes to malice. I had two sons by Jason. I saved two sons from that monster, your friend, that same Jason. I gave each son a ‘toy’ … the ghost of his brother. The toys were my sign of love for my sons. I had to hide my sons from that monster. Your friend. Jason! I had to separate them. But they could not bear to be apart, so I made a toy for each of them: a brother-from-the-shade, a shadow-boy, the image of their needs. The comfort of familiar company. The toys don’t matter, as well you know. Only the sons matter. And one of them is already dead. The other … alive. And that is why I wanted you here. We must talk about Thesokorus. I need your help. And we must discuss that other man. Your friend. Jason.”
    There was such a mix of intensity, uncertainty, anger, and regret in Medea’s voice and manner that for a while I couldn’t respond. We sat in silence. She gazed at first into the distance, then more fondly at me.
    The ram’s fleece had loosened, and I suspected she was deliberately letting me see the body within.
    I found my voice again. “Why are you doing this?”
    “Doing what?” she asked with a frown.
    “Why are you sitting here, taunting me? Dressed in a ram’s hide?”
    “Ah. Perhaps I want to show you my scars.”
    She shifted and came towards me, holding the fleece more carefully about her naked body. She leaned towards me, watching me with amusement. “My scars, Merlin. The scars of a hard, long, desperate life. Would you like to see them?”
    “Why would you want me to see them?”
    She settled back, crossing her legs, adjusting the ram’s skin to cover her. “You’ve lived long, but you’ve not lived enough. Do you know why I say that? Because you forget the damage you’ve done. I have never ever forgotten the damage that I’ve done. And my body has the scars to show it. There are men here,” she taunted, stabbing a finger against her chest and belly. “Many men. Many Jasons, though he was the one that left the deepest scar. Your own scratch?” She gave a little laugh. “It’s somewhere here, below the fleece, if you want to be reminded. You were the first, Merlin. The little boy grown big, who still couldn’t tie the thongs that held his shoes in place. Isn’t that what ‘merlin’ means? ‘Can’t tie his laces.’ But your mark is on me. How many marks on you?”
    “My marks are deeper. I hide them.”
    “Of course you do,” she sneered. Then she seemed to soften. “Or perhaps they fade, like nettle rash and briar-scratch. Like that little northern snow-rose you fuck for your pleasure. How many snow-roses, Merlin? How many roses, bloom-lost because they met a man who couldn’t fall to the wayside; couldn’t fall in love; kept walking, shaking off the touch of life as a dog shakes off the touch of rain? I pity you.”
    “And I pity you. Your great love, your sons, the remnants of your children, all of that so-precious touch of life has come to this.”
    “Come to what?”
    “Lost, alone, abandoned, all forsaken. Miserable in your melancholy, hopeless in your harrowing, dreadful in your dance with dying. You are dying, Medea. You’ve used your strength too much. It costs little to paint a fresh face. You cannot bring back a fresh heart.”
    “My, my,” she murmured slowly, shaking her head. “What failed poet has been whispering to you, I