The Wyld: Part IX

Summer was over and the long warm days gave way to the cool of Autumn. Even so, the weather remained pleasant and the harvest was a good one, a mercy considering all the strange happenings of the past year or so in and around Camelot. It would be a good Winter this year with enough food for all. The crops were stored, the fields plowed under and winter wheat sown. The country folk settled into their fall routines.

As the days shortened and night came earlier, families would gather around their hearths as the adults worked on repairing clothes or tack and told each other stories and as Samhain approached the conversations naturally turned to tales of horror and heroes facing dire peril. Sometimes there would be a sound from outside: a tree limb creaking in the wind, a dog howling somewhere off in the distance, or leaves scratching at the door. All the storytelling would stop and parents comforted children before sending them off to bed. If there was perhaps an anxious glance or two exchanged or a prayer to the heavens muttered it was only natural.

Samhain was coming after all, and everyone knew that strange things, dark things, came out of The Wyld to walk the world of mortal folk.

But if mortal folk feared The Wyld what might the beings of The Wyld fear in turn themselves?

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"Someone sits in Merlin's Seat."

Beron gave a snort of disbelief and stared at Jack. The tiny dragonfly rider had brought his mount to hover close to the fae lord's ear so that only he could hear the warning. "A mistake. None but Merlin can sit in that place, not even the Guardian of the Wyld when he is among us. It's some trick of Ahlbel or that witch Ahmi."

Jack shook his head in agitation. "No, milord, I swear it. I saw it with my own two eyes. Someone is there. Someone is sitting and playing a harp."

Beron frowned. Of all his agents in The Wyld Jack was the most dependable and more importantly the most loyal. If the sprite swore it than it must be so. The fae lord stirred from his own chair and scowled. "Then I best go see for myself who this harper is then, eh? Thank you, Jack."

The rider bowed as best he could astride the dragonfly's back and then flew off.

Beron could not blame the sprite for making a hasty departure. There was only one being that had ever survived sitting in Merlin's Seat and that was the wizard himself. Until now Beron had dared to hope that this night would end as improbably peaceful as it had passed so far; there'd been no sign of any move from Ahmi and the House of Dreams nor of whatever event they had been planning for on Samhain. Now it seemed that hope would be dashed.

Had Merlin returned to The Wyld on Samhain Eve?

This could not bode well.

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In the deepest darkest heart of The Wyld was a small clearing within which was a formation of rocks that resembled a large chair. In ancient times the rulers of the Isle of the Mighty were said to be giants and legend among the fae claimed that one had used these stones as his throne. None dared to sit there after that unknown king was long dead and buried. Then one day Merlin, driven half-mad by the song of Rhiannon's birds, burst out of the forest and collapsed into the chair. For two days and nights the wizard had sat and in his madness prophesized as the inhabitant's of The Wyld watched and listened fearfully.

At the dawn of the third day Merlin suddenly stopped talking, then stood up and wandered aimlessly off once more in pursuit of the birds only he could hear.

A fae lord who thought to gain power sat where Merlin had and immediately turned into naught but dust and fine white bones. None had dared make the attempt since.

Beron had been young then, still a child by fae standards when his father died on Merlin's Seat. He hadn't returned to the clearing since but he had no difficulty in remembering the way. As he moved to The Wyld he once again wondered why the House of Dreams had not launched its attack on this night when the walls between the living and the dead were open. Beron had been sure Ahmi would somehow capture her kinsman Palmer when he'd returned to Camelot since the healer had seemed so vital to her plans. He had armed his folk and prepared his defenses as best he could in anticipation of an all out war that hadn't materialized. And now that Samhain Eve was nearly over he asked himself if all this was some sort of elaborate jest from Ahlbel. Or had Ahmi been unable to harness the power of Bran's Cauldron to her will?

Beron was so preoccupied by this train of thought that he failed to notice the music filling the night air until it was so loud it was impossible to miss. This harpist was a master whoever he was. The fae lord stopped for a moment and listened to the music before bracing himself for whatever lay ahead, then pushed through the line of bushes that shielded Merlin's Seat.

Someone was indeed sitting in Merlin's Seat but that person was most definitely not Merlin or at least not Merlin as Beron had last seen the mage here. The figure on the stone throne was tall with fair hair and his clothes were a style centuries old. Looking up as Beron stepped out into the moonlight he nodded a greeting. The music stopped as he spoke. "Greetings, Beron of The Wyld. We have matters to discuss, you and I." It was then that Beron noticed how the moonlight shone right through the seated stranger. It was not Merlin who'd come to claim his seat on this Samhain Eve.

It was a ghost.