Kai kept them in order. Cal rarely saw him practicing any of the arts of the Company, not jousting out in the field with Hawk, or swordplay, or archery; but his sharp sarcasms could be heard as he watched the others.
“Keep your guard up,” he said to Cal, after an exhausting lesson. “Otherwise you’ll get hurt. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” He was drinking what looked like wine from a glass cup, and as he turned he stepped sideways and the cup tilted. Some of the wine splashed onto Cal’s white T-shirt.
“Hey!” Furious, Cal leaped back. “Be careful!”
Kai raised an eyebrow. He took out a clean silk handkerchief and tossed it over. “I’m so sorry.”
Sipping, he watched Cal scrub viciously at the red stain. “It’s hardly worth bothering,” he said at last. “You’re only making it worse.”
Cal flung the handkerchief back at him. “Thanks for nothing.”
As the tall man laughed and turned away, Cal sat down on the grass and dumped his sword. He was sweating and sore and angry. “Who the hell does he think he is? He did that deliberately.”
“Arthur’s brother.” His sparring partner, a dark man called Tathal, came over, scratching his chin.
“Really?”
“Well, foster brother.”
“He was in care?”
The man smiled. “Arthur was. You know, the old story.”
Cal nodded wearily. “Oh, right. Sword in the stone, all that stuff. How could I forget? Don’t you people ever talk about who you really are?”
Tathal ignored him. “Don’t cross Kai,” he said seriously. “He’s our best.”
“He doesn’t look it. Hawk’s bigger, most of the others must be stronger.”
“It’s not just in the body, friend. His heart is cold, and his hands. He has peculiar abilities. I mean it, Cal. He can be scary sometimes.”
So can I, Cal thought wryly, watching Shadow laughing with Kai across the field, hating how tall he was, how fair, how expensive his clothes were.
He rarely saw Arthur. Later, going into the farmhouse to find something to drink, he bumped into him and Gwen coming out. He felt awkward. “Sorry. They said it would be all right . . .”
“Go anywhere you like. The house is open to everyone.” Arthur’s coat was worn; leather patches had been carelessly sewn over the elbows. He glanced at Cal’s stained shirt; Cal went hot, but Arthur only said, “Where is that strange sword of yours, Cal?”
“Being sharpened.”
“Hawk told us about the way you came by it.” It was the woman, Gwen. Her hair shone in the light. “We’d like to hear you tell that story. Have you tried to go back there, Cal?” She was being kind, but it annoyed him. He wasn’t sure they believed any of it.
“No.”
Arthur nodded, thoughtful. “It would be a good thing for the Company to find that place. This man Bron needs help, I think.”
Cal edged past them. “Maybe . . .”
In the kitchen he drank glass after glass of water down thirstily, while around him three men chopped and cooked and stirred the great steamy spicy-smelling pots that held the Company’s meals. Squeezing out, he wandered into a dim, dark-paneled room lined with books, and sank gratefully into a chair. His legs ached and his shoulder felt as if someone had tried to twist it off, but he felt good. For a moment he even ignored his spoiled clothes. The Hawk had said if he worked hard enough he might be able to fight in the Christmas event at Caerleon, a big thing, with great crowds and a fair and a mock medieval feast afterward for all the Company.
He was happy for at least two seconds. Then the thought hit him hard. Christmas. He’d have to go home for Christmas. For a moment he sat there; then he got up quickly and crossed to the bookshelf, looking for anything that would take his mind off her, her voice on the phone, her new hair color. It looks so good, Cal, I can’t wait for you to see it. I’ve cleaned the house, Cal, just like you like it. I can’t wait to see you, Cal.
There was a road atlas. He pulled it out and flicked the pages rapidly; then, more steadily, turned them over until he found the page with Ludlow on it. With his finger he traced the line of the railway, sitting on the arm of the chair, knees up, the book carefully balanced.
Leominster. Ludlow. Craven Arms. There was no station in between. No Corbenic. Not only that, but there was nowhere of that name all along the line, no village, no church, no hotel. He dumped the book and thought for a few seconds, then picked up the phone and dialed.
“You are through to National Rail Enquiries,” a voice said brightly. “This is Alison speaking. How may I help you?”
“I want to know about trains to Corbenic.”
“From?”
“Chepstow,” he said at random.
There was a moment’s silence, a few clicks of the keyboard. Then, “Could you spell that, please?”
He thought back to the dripping sign on the dark, lamplit platform, and said, “C-O-R-B-E-N-I-C.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound it. “There’s no station of that name listed.”
“It’s near Ludlow.”
“I’m sorry, sir, no. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake?”
He nodded, then said, “okay. Thanks.”
Putting the phone down he brooded silently. Until a voice said, “That castle is not to be found in this world.”
Cal jumped. Sitting in the chair opposite, his eyes bright and crazy in the sunlight, was the ragged tangle-haired man they called the Hermit.
Merlin.
Chapter Twelve
The sword requires a magic spell, yet I fear you have left it behind.
Parzival
He was eating what looked like half a cooked chicken, cracking the bones open in his hands, tearing off scraps for the dog. Cal couldn’t work out why he hadn’t seen him there before.
“What do you mean?” he asked after a while.
“The Grail Castle is not a place. It is a state of mind.” Merlin smiled his wolfish smile. “Little apple tree.”
“Have you been there?”
“I have been there.”
Cal leaned forward, intent. “When?”
But a sudden distant light was in the man’s eyes. “A sweet apple tree,” he whispered, “growing by the river. Who eats its magical fruit now? When my reason was whole I lay at its foot. . . . I have wandered fifty years among lawless men. After wealth, after the songs of bards I have been so long in the Waste Land not even the devils can lead me astray . . .”
Cal waited. But that seemed to be all. After a few moments Merlin pulled off more of the chicken meat and chewed it calmly.
Cal tried again. “Do you know how I might find that place again?”
The Hermit looked up sharply. “Do you want to?”
Startled, Cal said, “Well . . .”
“You must wish to. With all your heart. More than life, you must wish it.” Suddenly Merlin tossed the carcass to the dog and came out of the chair with a terrifying speed; he grabbed both Cal’s wrists and held them tight, staring into his eyes. “And you must stop lying.”
Cal tried to pull away, but the grip of the greasy hands was like iron. “I don’t know . . .”
“. . . what I mean? I see into you, wise fool. I see you have been hurt. All your life you have been wounded; you bleed, and you resent her for it. You will punish her for it.”
“No . . .”
“You lie to them. To yourself. I know. I too have slept alone in the woods of Celyddon, and I know.”
The broken nails were cutting Cal’s wrists. Rigid, he said, “Let me go.”
Merlin opened his hands with a strange smile. His hair was a tangle over his eyes; the smell of him filled the room. “I see you,” he whispered. “You are in a small dark cupboard, filled with rubbish. You have locked the door and you are sitting against it, all crouched up. You are not crying, but rocking back and forth. You are ten. You have a slap mark on your face. You have terrible thoughts in your heart. . . .”