Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

Bushes rustled. King Arthur rose to his feet, Excalibur at the ready. A man emerged from the darkness with his hands raised. “I am Valcor, unarmed and at His Majesty’s service.” He bowed low.

The king returned the sword to its sheath and touched the man’s head. “Arise, Valcor. I have not forgotten you so soon. You seem more fit than ever.”

“Enabling me to serve you with more vigor, my king.”

Merlin laid his hand on Valcor’s shoulder. “You have learned diplomacy well, my friend.”

“Not recently, good prophet. Makaidos instructed his offspring in the protocol of human royalty long ago.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.” Merlin waved his hand across the depressed clearing. “I have chosen this place because the dividing wall between this world and the world to come is as thin as papyrus. Here, creating a portal to that world requires only the paltriest skill.”

Merlin knelt and placed a gem at the lowest point of the depression. Its crimson glow pulsed, like a dragon opening and closing its eye. “This rubellite belonged to Makaidos. As you know, the gem itself represents the essence of a dragon’s soul, beautiful in form, as is the dragon, yet scarlet, the color of the unredeemed. What you may not know is that when a dragon takes the stone as his own, his soul becomes tied to it, and it transforms into his gateway to the dragon afterlife, a place where humans are not meant to go.

“If a dragon has one, as long as there is the slightest glimmer of a dragon’s soul remaining, his chosen rubellite will be red, and when he passes through the gateway into Dragons’ Rest, the gem becomes a pulsing beacon, indicating his presence there.”

Merlin laid his hand on the rubellite, capping its glow for a moment. Then, as he raised his hand, the glow seemed to follow underneath, growing into a vertical column, a rising scarlet pedestal that finally stopped when it reached the prophet’s height. Merlin drew an oval around the pedestal with his finger, and the glow seemed to bleed in all directions, filling up the frame he had drawn until it formed a scarlet ellipse.

He backed away and joined the king and Valcor as they gaped in silence. He waved his hand at the flaming halo and spoke in a resonant tone.

O make the passage clear to men

Who wish to see the gate,

The path no dragon deigns to cross,

For death is not their fate.

From top to bottom, the halo’s red hue faded to pink, then to white. A straw-laden path took shape, and as people crossed from one side of the road to the other, they trampled the straw into a maze of muddy footprints. The scene appeared to be a marketplace. Two young women stood in front of a hut, displaying their handmade wares on the tops of wooden tables; a burly man carried a pole with a deer carcass hanging by its hooves; and a matronly woman bore a fruit basket in each of her meaty arms.

Merlin took two quick steps forward. “There!” He pointed near the top of the ellipse. “See the woman standing next to the nobleman? The one carrying the scrolls?”

The king leaned closer. “The gray-haired lady handing him a scroll right now?”

“Yes! Yes! She’s the one!”

The king stroked his chin. “She is familiar to me, Merlin. Very familiar.”

“She should be. She’s my wife.”

“Your wife? So are we looking upon Dragons’ Rest?”

Merlin’s fingers hovered over the image of his wife, caressing her face from afar.

“Merlin?” The king shook the prophet’s arm. “Is that Dragons’ Rest?”

Merlin tore himself out of his trance and stepped back from the oval. “Yes.” He took a deep breath, now keeping his gaze on the king. “As I told you, Morgan’s food not only kills the body, it drains vitality from the human soul, and this dungeon is reserved for the dead who enter into eternity without a vibrant, human soul. Now my wife languishes in that hopeless village, not knowing who she really is or why she is there.”

The ellipse suddenly shifted to gray, then black. Darkness seeped out of the oval like a night fog. Billowing smoke crawled along the ground and rose into a column, slowly solidifying into a human form, slender and feminine the shape of Morgan Le Faye.

King Arthur drew his sword, but Merlin raised his hand. “Not here,” Merlin said. “Not now. She has yet to fulfill her purpose.”

Morgan, dressed in her usual silky black gown, waltzed up to Merlin, laughing. “I saw you mooning over the gateway. Do you miss your sweet wife, my old friend?”

Merlin clenched his fists. Serrated words slipped through his grinding teeth. “Leave it to you to attack a man by killing his defenseless wife.”

“Oh, but Merlin,” she crooned, “there is no more effective tool. Taking a man’s woman is the same as ripping out his heart and pouring his life’s blood on the ground.” She patted his cheek, pursing her lips as though speaking to a child. “And watching you wither over the past three years has been such a joy. It seems that checkmate is at hand.” She turned and gave the king a mock curtsy. “Your Majesty. It is an honor to see my brother again.”

King Arthur drew back his sword. A brilliant ray erupted from its tip and shot into the sky. “Merlin, step aside, and I will slay this foul witch where she stands.”

Merlin stayed put. “She is a wraith, more dead than alive. In your hands, the sword would do nothing more than reveal her nature. Killing her requires much more.”

The king shoved Merlin aside. With a wild swipe, he sliced through Morgan’s waist. Her body absorbed the sword’s light, and her face transformed. A sultry, painted mask melted, replaced by a bloody raven’s head, its red eyes aflame and its mouth locked open in a raging scream.

Arthur fell to his seat, and the sword’s light died away. Valcor rushed to his side and slid his hand behind the king’s shoulder. Morgan returned to her female form and glowered at the king. “You are all such fools. Knowing about my strategy will not protect your wives now or in the future. All who oppose me will feel my wrath, and no loved one is safe man, woman, or child.”

Morgan sublimated to black fog and disappeared into the ellipse. Seconds later, the portal cleared to a pulsing red glow.

King Arthur jumped to his feet. “That sorceress from hell will not kill my queen.” With the sword lighting the way, he sprinted down the narrow path.

“Your Majesty!” Merlin called. “What of my plan?”

Arthur halted and spun around. “You have proven your words once again. Bring Clefspeare and Hartanna to me. I will adopt them, as you requested.”

Timothy brushed on a final stroke of paint and read the sign out loud. “Brogan’s Flowers,” he said proudly. He turned and addressed the young man standing next to him. “What do you think?”

“I think my mother will run the shop,” Brogan said, his Celtic accent breezing through his words, “but it will do. Still, I am not accustomed to my new name. After being Hilidan for so long, Brogan seems foreign to me.”

Timothy laughed and set the sign on a wagon. “I understand. We had our dragon names even before the great flood.” As he wiped his hands on a paint cloth, he gazed at the new huts that lined the straw-laden path. Two young women bustled around their pottery table, setting out their wares for trading. A matronly woman carrying a fruit basket ambled across a walkway that passed through a garden in the middle of the village square. She smiled and tossed a yellow apple toward the two men.

Catching the apple with one hand, Timothy returned her smile. “I think the marketplace is complete. With all the new arrivals, we will have a thriving community in no time.”

“Jasmine is coming,” Brogan said, nodding at the path. “Does your daughter ever smile about anything?”