The Obsidian Quest [Search for Earthlight Trilogy Book 1] Read online

  By now they were leading the horses out into the sunshine. Bart surveyed his property with pride, contentment written all over his broad, amiable face. “It's a good life, though we have to work hard. Susan and I are very happy here. The place has a curiously magic air."

  Bart returned to work and Uncle Paul led the horses under a canopy of trees at the edge of the small forest and tethered them to low-growing branches. He then went to the boot of the car. “There are some things you're going to need in here.” He hauled a large plastic rubbish bag from the boot and began rummaging inside. “Since you've no winter clothing with you, I've brought you these.” He thrust into Peter's hands a thick hand-knitted woolen jersey, smelling faintly of sea-water and fish, a pair of woolen trousers, too big for Peter, and an odd-looking pair of lambskin-lined boots. “You'll also need this."

  This last item was a strange-looking cloak, hooded and lined with fur. Peter had never seen the likes of it before. He stood fingering it and stroking the fur. It looked very expensive.

  "Well, don't stand there like a ninny. You haven't time to admire it. Put it on."

  Obediently, Peter pulled on the trousers. Apart from too-long legs they weren't inconveniently big for him. He rolled up the bottoms. The jersey was much too big, requiring the cuffs to be turned up several times.

  As he looked down at himself sweltering under the early summer sun, Uncle Paul surveyed him critically. “I didn't have time to get the proper togs for you, so I had to borrow those. A fisherman friend has a young son, but he's somewhat older than you. Anyway, the cloak should hide everything—and it's genuine enough."

  As he spoke, Uncle Paul dressed himself (like Peter, over his shorts and tee-shirt) in the most unusual outfit. Over his head he pulled a scarlet tunic of beautiful, thick, soft wool with a band of gold around the hemline. The fabric was embroidered in gold thread with stars, crescent moons, a dragon and symbols that Peter thought he recognized as the signs of the zodiac. Around his waist Uncle Paul clasped a leather belt fastened with a gold buckle and tooled all over with scarlet dragons. He encased his feet in handmade boots of soft leather, lined like Peter's with short-clipped lambskin. Then he went to the boot of the car again and took out a black case. He opened it but briefly so Peter was able to see only that it seemed to contain some kind of make-up kit. From the case Uncle Paul brought out a short dark beard. Gazing into the exterior mirror on the car, he applied some glue to his face, deftly positioned the beard and smoothed it into place.

  "No time to grow the real thing,” he said enigmatically.

  With a peculiarly dramatic gesture, he threw his cloak around his shoulders and pulled up the hood. The whole transformation took a matter of minutes. Peter stood gaping. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was no longer his uncle who stood there but some strange man from the distant past: a man with great power; a personality both forceful and gentle; a man to be feared and admired, perhaps, rather than loved.

  When this stranger spoke it was with Uncle Paul's voice, but there was a subtle difference. “Well, lad, hurry up. We've no time to waste. Put them on. It'll be cold."

  Numbly, Peter obeyed. He swung the cloak around his shoulders and fastened it, kicked off his sandals—which his uncle promptly placed in the car's boot—and pushed his hot, reluctant feet into the woolly-lined boots. When he rose from his haunches, fully dressed, he gasped. For standing in front of him stood another man, dressed much the same as his uncle, but whose clothes were not of such kingly quality. Only then did he notice that both men carried swords at their sides.

  Silently, Uncle Paul led the way to the horses.

  "Take the bridle,” he told Peter. The other man (Peter now recognized Tom Masterton, Uncle Paul's next-door neighbor) took the bridle of one horse and Uncle Paul took the other. Peter obediently took the pony's bridle. For the next half-hour or so he practiced mounting and dismounting and sitting correctly in the saddle. Then he was shown how to guide the horse and he trotted round in circles for a while. Strangely enough, he no longer felt hot and stifled despite his unseasonable clothing.

  "OK, that's fine,” his uncle decided some time later and, as Peter slid from the pony's back, he added, “Well done, Peter! You learn quickly. It's a skill that'll stand you in good stead."

  Uncle Paul lifted his face to the sky, looking and listening intently for something. He gave a deep, satisfied sigh and returned his gaze to his companions. “Stand by your horse and be quiet."

  From under his cloak he took a colored painting or drawing of what looked like a strange, circular stone building. He stared at it long and hard. Within moments a peculiar silence fell, as though all life around them froze. The breeze no longer stirred the leaves of the trees; the birds stopped whistling; the sheep in the nearby meadow paused in their grazing; even the horses appeared to suspend their breathing. The world became more stifling.

  Then just as suddenly sound came back with a strange whistling noise. Peter experienced a feeling like being on a small merry-go-round. Then the whirling and whistling ended. But it was no great relief—for the next sensation was one of intense cold. Peter drew the fur-lined cloak closer around him. He instinctively stamped his feet, and something crunched under his boots with a sound he had never heard before. He discovered that for some reason he had his eyes closed. But when he opened them he could see very little: it was as dark as midnight. A faint glimmer of moonlight was of no help. All it did was light up great drifts of fog.

  "Where are we?” he whispered.

  The fog obligingly shifted at that moment. The full moon, riding high, shone briefly, lighting the scene with surprising power. Something loomed large and menacing beside Peter. He gasped and drew away. Then he saw that the thing that had seemed to bear down on him was only some type of huge stone structure.

  "Sshh!” Uncle Paul hissed. “Someone's coming!"

  The thud of a horse's hooves on the turf sounded very loud in the still night air. One of their horses whinnied. The galloping horse was brought to an abrupt halt. They heard what sounded like a sword being drawn. The rider called out, “Who's there?” in a voice that tried to ring with authority but had a distinct note of fear in it. Uncle Paul stepped into the open. As he did so, he threw the folds of his cloak over his shoulder. The rich fur lining and the glittering garment beneath caught the moonlight.

  "It is only I,” he said with formal, but simple dignity.

  The horseman sheathed his sword and dismounted, looping the reins of his horse carelessly over the saddle. The animal flicked its ears and sniffed in the direction of the other horses with their strange smell. Then, breathing heavy clouds of steam into the cold moonlight, it drooped its head wearily. The man advanced toward the figure by the stone structure where the mist, illuminated by the moon, put a halo of ghostly light over the whole scene. His spurs jingled, sounding very loud in the eerily quiet countryside.

  "My Lord Merlin! Of course! Who else would be in such a place on such a night?” The voice was faintly insolent. “You arrived with amazing speed, I must say. When I left the King you were both still dining.” He looked curiously at the horse, whose head he could see behind Merlin's shoulder. “Suddenly I've more respect for that gelding you choose to ride. It isn't even in the lather my stallion is enduring."

  "He's had time to rest.” Uncle Paul smiled wickedly, his eyes glittering with enjoyment. “There is undoubtedly more to him than meets the eye. He and I can ride like the wind when the occasion warrants."

  The man looked suspiciously at the horse, which moved its head so that a white patch on its forehead showed up in the moonlight. At sight of this, the man looked uncomfortable. Then he seemed to realize that Merlin was not alone as the movement from the horse exposed Peter and Bart to his view.

  "Oh! I see my lord is not alone.” The man licked his lips nervously. Curiosity joined fear in his eyes.

  Merlin moved to bring the bewildered Peter within the circle of his arm, holding him so that his face was obscured. “My servant
and I are required to present my young relative to the King. And you know what Uther is like. He bade me leave before I'd finished my meal. We are therefore in great haste to return to the King's side, but have stopped to rest and to seek guidance from whatever gods rule in this holy place."

  "So, my lord, what they say is true. This is Ygraine's son whom you spirited away. And you're going to present him to the people as Uther's heir.” His eyes swept Peter from head to foot. Peter bent his head to shadow his face. “You'll have to do more than cloak him like a prince to convince either the King or the people. And why do you ride with a King's ransom on your own back, my lord?” His voice turned to a sneer. “I thought you might have learnt that even a sorcerer isn't proof against a gang of footpads."

  Merlin's dignity didn't waver. “The robes presented to me by the King for his coronation are the only ones suitable for the task at hand.” To Peter, the Merlin who was Uncle Paul grew in stature and the light of the moon seemed to come from his figure. Where the lining of his cloak showed, the white fur shone, and the garment disclosed beneath glowed eerily red, with the gold thread glittering like sparks of fire. “The king who is to come shall be so great and powerful that such garments will be insignificant beside his glory."

  The voice rang out like an incantation. It was no longer Uncle Paul's voice.

  Fear showed stronger in the other's eyes, but he quickly hid it beneath the cloak of insolence. “Indeed, my lord. And will Uther allow himself to be ousted?"

  "King Uther will know what is right for him to do,” was the evasive-sounding answer.

  "Ah, but will he do it, my lord?"

  "The King will do what he has to do."

  "Are you threatening the King's life, my lord?” The man's hand went to his sword.

  "I serve the King and will protect his life with my own as I have sworn.” Merlin's voice rang out scornfully. Peter realized he had noted the movement of the man's hand but disdained to draw his own sword.

  The man was not to know the King referred to was not Uther Pendragon. Nevertheless, when he answered his tone was still insolent. “Indeed, my lord. Of course. I thought perhaps you were having one of your visions and prophesying the downfall or death of the King."

  "Uther will live a long enough life and have a great and glorious reign.” Merlin added dryly: “He will certainly live to father many children."

  "A man may do that without living a long life."

  Merlin ignored this. “Where do you go in such haste and with such little concern for your horse that you let him stand in the cold after getting up a heavy sweat?"

  The man's head swung toward his horse. His expression of surprise and annoyance suggested he had not once considered the state of the animal.

  "Damnation! I'd better get to the nearest inn and procure another one.” He ran his hands over the damp hide of the trembling animal. “I think he'll be all right. He's pretty tough.” With a jangle of spurs he mounted.

  As the man gathered up the reins, Merlin called after him: “You would be wise, my good fellow, not to desecrate this holy place. Remember, the Giants’ Dance belongs to Merlin and his god. My god is a very jealous god."

  "Good night, my lord Merlin,” the other said with cold dignity and, turning his horse's head, he dug in his spurs with a force that made Merlin wince, and headed off into the night.

  "Insolent jackanapes!” Uncle Paul muttered with great feeling. “Well, whatever he was about to do we've successfully scotched his fiendish plans—at least for the time being. Whether or not he comes back depends on how afraid he is of Merlin."

  "Who is he, Uncle Paul?"

  Uncle Paul glanced down at Peter before turning his face back in the direction of the departing horseman. “Whoever he is, he's an enemy of Merlin—and therefore of the unacknowledged heir to the throne, Arthur. Also,” he added, “he's now our enemy. We've no time to wait until the dawning of the winter solstice—unfortunately. Our lives are at risk. We'll have to seek refuge somewhere.” Despite the apparent need for haste, he stood for a minute, as though in a trance. Peter heard him whisper: “Mater Maria, where are you? We need your help desperately.” Then he opened his eyes. “While you're here, take a quick look round. It might be the only time you see Stonehenge in the glory restored to it by Merlin the Enchanter."

  Peter gasped.

  "Stonehenge? In England?"

  Uncle Paul chuckled. “Where else?"

  "How did we get here? We've traveled more than eighteen thousand kilometers in a few seconds!"

  "Not to mention fourteen hundred years backward.” Uncle Paul mounted his horse. “You'll have to get up behind me, Peter. We need to ride faster than I'd bargained for.” While Tom mounted his own horse, Uncle Paul bent down and pulled Peter up to sit on the saddle behind him. “Cling onto me and you'll be all right. Tom, do you think you can lead Peter's pony? We must ride as fast as we can."

  Before leaving, however, Uncle Paul took them for a short ride around the restored monument. The most impressive part consisted of a horseshoe of five pairs of massive stones crowned in pairs. Inside this was another horseshoe of smaller stones. In the middle of the monument a huge stone lay flat. Outside the two horseshoes was a circle of small upright stones, and outside these was another circle of larger stones, crowned with a continuous lintel of stones as huge as themselves.

  As he clung to his uncle, with the wind of their going whistling in his face and making it sting with cold, Peter turned his eyes in the direction of the Giants’ Dance. The standing stones whirled past him like something from a dream, one looming up out of the darkness and swirling mist as another retreated. Then they moved away from the monument, passing across the trench that surrounded it by way of a gap obviously left for that purpose.

  They galloped along another trench where a single stone, standing like a sentinel, loomed up and was gone. Uncle Paul dodged the larger drifts of snow wherever he could until they reached a road.

  "I'm trying to keep away from roads as much as possible,” he said as he reined in his horse, looking to the left and right and listening intently. “Unfortunately, we have to use this stretch. It leads to where we want to go."

  Without more ado, he turned his horse's head to the left and the three animals took off at a slow canter, which seemed their maximum speed. It wasn't long, however, before they left the road, taking what amounted to little more than a muddy track through a stand of elms, all bare under the winter moonlight and spreading over their heads black skeletal limbs decorated with drifts of snow. At the end of the track they came to a high brick wall with a heavy wooden door set in it.

  Uncle Paul dismounted and pulled the rope dangling by the door. The loud ringing of a bell somewhere on the other side made them all jump. They waited anxiously, hearts beating hard, breath mingling with that of their horses to create clouds of vapor in the still, icy air. They waited and waited....

  Impatiently Uncle Paul pulled the bell again. Only then did they hear a door opening beyond the high wall.

  A female voice called irritably, “All right, all right! I's comin'! There be no need to waken the dead!"

  They heard scurrying footsteps and then saw above the door the light of a lamp. Moments later, a small door covering a hole at roughly head height was jerked aside. A scrawny face—older-looking than it was, Peter guessed—peered suspiciously at them by the light of the lamp that she held. “Who is it? What do ‘ee want a’ this time o’ night?"

  Uncle Paul stepped forward so that she could see him more clearly.

  The woman's beady eyes rounded in astonishment—and something akin to fear. “My lord Merlin! One moment, my lord."

  The face disappeared and there was the sound of bolts being drawn and a large key turning in a lock. The door creaked open reluctantly. The portress pulled it sufficiently wide for the horses to be led inside in single file. As soon as they were all in the courtyard, she closed the door and proceeded to rebolt and relock it.

  Uncle Paul barely wai
ted until she had finished before speaking. “Mother Maria—I must see her at once."

  The beady dark eyes looked baffled. The slack mouth hung open stupidly.

  "The Lady Abbess,” Uncle Paul corrected himself.

  Light dawned in the vacuous eyes, but the woman looked undecided. She wrung her hands. “The Lady Mary be asleep, my lord—'tis past midnight."

  "Then please wake her,” Uncle Paul replied shortly. “And as soon as you've done that see to our horses,” he added as the woman turned away, pulling her shabby cloak tightly around her. “They need rubbing down and feeding."

  At his words the woman turned back to him. “Yes, my lord. At once, my lord.” She dropped an awkward curtsy before turning away again and scuttling inside as fast as her poorly shod feet would allow.

  The three riders and their horses were again left in darkness. It was only a few minutes, however, before the portress came back, breathing heavily. “Lady Mary says you'm to come this way. She not be long.” She held the lamp up to show them the way across the courtyard.

  Without a word the three travelers followed the young woman, now full of her own importance, inside the low building, two of the walls of which formed part of the enclosure to the courtyard. They walked through a long, cloistered corridor and into a large hall through a pair of heavy doors. There were benches in the hall, apparently for visitors to sit on while waiting. But the portress didn't spare a glance for these. The trio were instead hustled into a room with slightly more comfortable seating and a huge fireplace in which, however, the fire was many hours dead.

  With a deftness born of much practice rather than natural skill, the woman made up a new fire, using a torch lit from her lantern. She then took another lantern, lit it and disappeared to the pleasant task of waking the stable boy. She had barely disappeared before the door opened again. Uncle Paul, Peter and Tom all rose to their feet as a slight, tall figure advanced noiselessly across the stone floor.