"Andre Norton - Merlin's Mirror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

The lights spun in broken patterns, the things about him never ceased their humming. But no voice replied to his demand.

Now he saw that facing him, near the far end of the aisle formed by the ranks of the blocks and cylinders, there was a kind of shimmer uniting two of the blocks and forming a glistening wall. As his eyes centered on that, the shimmer died away and he could see some sort of form, one no bigger than himself, in it.

Determined to meet the stranger, Myrddin moved forward quickly, paying no heed now to the blocks flanking his way, intent only on what grew ever stronger in the mirror-like surface. He had never seen his own reflection so bright and sharply clear, for the mirrors of the clan house were either of polished bronze in a size so small one held them in the hand, reflecting perhaps only one's face, or the distorting surface of a well polished shield. But this was entirely different and he had to stretch forth his hand, see the reflected boy do likewise, before he was convinced that it was only a mirror. The novelty of seeing the whole of himself interested him at first.

His dark hair, so neatly parted and combed by Julia that morning, was now in a tangled dark mass about his shoulders, with bits of stick and leaf caught in it, left when he had battered his way through the bushes. His small face was very brown and he had dark brows which met in a bar across his nose. Beneath them his eyes were startling green.

The tunic which Julia had enlivened with a chaining of red thread about neck and cuffs was torn and mud-bespattered, and his long breeches of green and white checked woolen stuff were tucked into ankle-high laced boots. Down the breast of his tunic dangled his one ornament, the claw of an eagle fastened to a red cord, and there was a streak of dried mud on his chin, a briar scratch on his cheek. Though his clothing was warm and of good quality of cloth, Julia's own weaving, he did not go as splendid as a chief's grandson might. In fact only the good knife sheathed at his leather thong of a belt suggested that he was more than huntsman or spearman's son.

Myrddin raised his hands now, brushing back his tumble of hair. This, he decided, was a place where one should come with some pride. Perhaps whoever had spoken thought him, at second glance, to be a person of such little account that there was no need to answer Ч

"You are" Ч startling him once more, that voice rang out without warning Ч "awaited. Merlin."

Merlin? They Ч he Ч it who stayed here wanted someone called Merlin. Myrddin's fear woke up again. What would happen when they Ч he Ч it found there was a mistake? Again he drew a deep breath and faced the mirror stoutly, mainly because somehow seeing himself on its surface gave him a small measure of confidence.

"You, you are wrong," he forced his voice out loudly. "I am Myrddin of the House of Nyren."

Stiffly he awaited some reprisal. He fully expected to be hurled out on the mountainside again, at the least. And somehow he longed deeply to remain where he was, to learn what this place might be and most of all who spoke to him, calling him by that strange name.

"You are Merlin," the voice replied firmly. "You are he for whom all has been prepared. Rest your body, son, and see what you are and learn."

From one of the squares Ч that to his right Ч there swung out a solid bar. Myrddin felt it gingerly. It was wide enough to accommodate his small bottom and seemed solid enough to support his weight. Also, he thought there was no use arguing with the voice. It was far too authoritative in its statement

Warily he seated himself on the bar facing the mirror. Oddly enough, though its surface appeared so solid, it seemed to yield a little under his slight weight, accommodating itself to form the most comfortable seat he had ever known. The reflection of Myrddin in the mirror flashed into nothingness. Before he had time to feel any alarm at this seeming erasure of himself there was another image there. And Myrddin's education began.

At first there was an odd inhibition placed on Myrddin so that he could not share his very strange adventure with anyone, even Lugaid, whom of all the clan he thought might understand. But there was no barrier on his thoughts or memories. And sometimes he was so excited by what he had learned from the mirror that back at the clan house he went about in a kind of daze.

Lugaid, who might have suspected a little, was at that time absent, acting as messenger between Nyren and certain other chiefs and petty kings, trying to hammer into being an alliance which would hold, even among hereditary enemies, until after this season's raids on the Saxon encroachers. For Ambrosius did not often have the forces to take the field boldly against the Winged Hats and Vortigen's traitorous followers; he had, rather, to employ other means of whittling down their strength, mainly swift punitive raids across the unrecognized border lands.

Thus Myrddin was enabled, during the years which followed, to slip away to the cave often and there lose himself for long hours with the mirror. He did not at first grasp much of what he was shown. He was too young, too limited in experience. But the mirror's succession of scenes, while not repetitious in detail, did repeat over and over certain facts until they became as much a part of the boy's memory as incidents of his daily life had always been.

Myrddin tentatively began to put into practice what he learned. He discovered that the information imparted through and by the mirror had practical use. And young as he was, for short times he was able to influence the boys nearly old enough to take weapons in the war bands. He learned early that apparently no one else could see the crevice in the mountainside through which he was able to enter the place of the mirror, though he had no knowledge of distorters in action.

In addition to the fact that he could thus vanish without a trace, he could also implant in the minds of any companions he might have on the hillside during hunts, or herding, the idea that he had been with them throughout the day, even though he had been spending those same hours in the chamber of the mirror.

As eager as he might have been to use this talent for his own end, however, there had been planted with the knowledge of how to use it a kind of safeguard blockage which, when he tried twice to make Julia see what was not there, prevented him from achieving his goal. Thus he learned that his new weapon-tool was not to be used for any light purpose, but mainly to cover his time of schooling.

News trickled in very slowly to the mountain fastness. Lugaid did not return. They learned instead that he had gone on a journey of even greater length to some mysterious Place of Power, inspired by some desire of his own. And Myrddin took this ill, for he had hoped to share with the Druid some of the wonder of his own discoveries, feeling that he could only communicate them to the one man of Nyren's people who already held some bits and pieces of the ancient knowledge.

Shortly after the message concerning Lugaid, a deeper and more tragic word came with a handful of broken and beaten men, some only keeping in the saddles of their wiry mountain-bred ponies by strong will or their comrades' ropes. For Nyren's force had met with betrayal during a foray and their chieftain and more than half of their people were cut down. The harried survivors made their way home through the heavy mists and torrential rains of late autumn, and they brought such ill tidings with them that all in the clan house cowered, waiting for the blow to strike them down.

When there was no swift pursuit they brightened a little, but the house was a place of mourning and dread. Gwyn the One-Handed, younger brother of Nyren, took command of the house, since Nyren had left no son. Gwyn could not truly be named chief because of his maiming, though he had a clever arrangement of bronze which he could strap to his left wrist to serve him as a mighty war club.

Had Myrddin been older he might have claimed kin right, but this was no time for a child lord, and the men accepted Gwyn by acclamation. This was a season when men garnered in the harvest Ч what remained in their small fields Ч looking over their shoulders constantly, spear or sword to hand. And the watchmen in the heights kept vigil near beacons piled ready for the torch.

Myrddin found little chance now to slip away to the mirror cave and sometimes he chafed with impatience, but he did not realize how much of the teaching he had absorbed. One afternoon he was finally able to edge through the slit to face once more that magic mirror. Perhaps it was chance alone, perhaps it was something more, which kept him overlong at his lesson that day. But when he edged out through the slit he found that twilight was already gathering.

Afraid that the outer gate would already be barred, he scrambled down the slopes, dodging in and out among the stone spurs of the mountain's ribs, intent only on reaching the clan house as soon as possible. Thus he went unheeding of certain shadows which slipped from place to place, unheeding until a hand shot out and closed about his ankle. He took a hard fall, which nearly jarred all the breath from his body.