Jack Whyte: The Lance Thrower

“Not quite. I told you to dig a grave by the side of the lake, but I have a particular spot in mind, so listen carefully. As you walk out of here, look down and to your left, toward the water. You will see a small knoll there, about halfway toward the water’s edge and safely above the high-water mark. It’s not a large knoll and it has nothing to distinguish it, apart from its isolation, but it is already a grave, so be sure you keep your people’s minds on their task, lest they profane a sacred spot unknowingly.” My son was frowning now, not blackly but in curiosity.

“Who is buried there, Father? May I ask?”

“You may. The grave holds the remains of Merlyn’s wife and his unborn son, brutally and mysteriously killed here more than sixty years ago by unknown assailants. Merlyn never completely recovered from their loss, and after Arthur’s death he spent the remainder of his life here in this valley, close to their resting place. It is our task now to reunite him with them, finally. You need not dig the grave so deep as to disturb the bones already there. The small bulk of Merlyn’s bones will not require much burying, but the fact that they are there, in the same soil, may bring the old man pleasure where he is today. So at least we can hope.” Clovis nodded.

“I will see to it myself.”

“Good, so be it. But be sure to make no mention of whom we bury there.” I raised a pointing finger to him and lowered my voice. “I mean that, Clovis. I need you to be discreet in this. No mention of Merlyn’s name. Say only that we found a dead man here, long dead—no hint of who he is or might have been.” He nodded, and I inclined my head, accepting his agreement. “Good. We’ll lay him down above this little lake of his and pray for him, then let him rest in solitude and dignity. But if any one of our companions should even guess at who lies here, word will get out, inevitably, and my old friend’s rest might be disturbed at some future time by idle fortune seekers … although God knows there’s little in the way of fortune to be found in this place. Go now, and when you’ve found the best spot you can find, come back and tell me before you start them digging.”

He looked at me for a moment longer and then collected an old, rusted mattock and a spade from where they had sat unused for years, festooned with cobwebs.

When I was alone again I looked about me one more time, scanning the small room’s few contents and furnishings. Merlyn’s life here had been spartan. Two ancient cloaks hung from pegs behind the door, and the only other item in the place, apart from bed, table, and a single chair, was a battered wooden chest, a footlocker, at the end of the bed. I opened it and found it held nothing more than a few folded old garments. I lowered the lid gently and then sat on it while I slid my thumb along the flap that edged the letter that bore my name, hearing the dried wax of its seal crack and fall to the floor. There were five sheets inside, written in the wavering scrawl of an old man’s hand. I held them up to catch the light from the small window and I began to read.

Hasta:

Greetings, dear friend. I hope you will read these words someday and think on me with kindness.

I have lost track of time. Strange now, for me even to think of that after so many years. When I was young, time was the most important and demanding element in life. But then things changed when the world and all I knew in it fell into Chaos. Since then I have been alone, and time has no significance to one in perpetual solitude. The days pass unremarked and become months, then years, and one thinks more of seasons than of days. New snow, or green buds, mark the passage of the years, and one year is much like another. Only now, when the need to think of time has returned to me with thoughts of you, do I realize that I have no knowledge of where or when I am, or of how long I have been in this same, empty place. When last I thought of it, I had been here, pursuing my task, for a decade and a half. But I lost track of such things soon after that, when I fell ill of a fevered wound dealt me by a visiting bear. I spent I know not how long a time after that in some nether world, from which I returned eventually, alive but weak and confused. Since then, I have not bothered to attempt to mark the passage of time.

You may be dead by now, even as I write these words. Or perhaps you are grown too old to journey here to find the things I leave for you. I do not know, so I can only write and hope it is not so. I know that I am very old—older than I had ever thought to be. The sight of my hand, writing, shrunk to a claw and covered with thin, shiny blemished, sagging skin that shows the bones beneath, tells me that I am ancient. (My other hand is fingerless today but without pain. It serves to keep the parchment steady as l write.) Yet it surprises me to think that I know not how old you are today. Young enough to remain alive, and strong enough to come and find my bones and these my words? I know not.

No matter. I must place my trust in God and in His wish to have my tale made known. He has sustained me for long enough to finish my task, so I must believe that He has His reasons for keeping me alive to complete it. The fruits of that labor lie before you now, if you are reading this. Two of three bundles, as well protected against time and weather as my one-handed efforts can achieve.

The largest of these three contains the written words of Caius Britannicus and Publius Varrus, as well as my own tale of my young life. The smaller bundle holds my thoughts on what happened here in Arthur’s final days, and in the days before you and we met. I have not sought to write of the time when you were here with us, since you yourself can achieve that more fully than I.

The third, most precious bundle I have hidden where only you will know to seek it, in the spot you helped me to prepare on the summer afternoon when first you found my valley here among the hills. You will know what it contains as soon as you see the shape and feel the weight of it. Do what you will with it, for it now belongs to you. Its destiny achieved, it is become a mere tool, albeit the very finest of its kind that ever was. But with his death, whatever magic it contained was spent, vanished with his lustrous soul into another time and place.

And yet be wary. Call it not by name. It will attract attention of itself, even in Gaul. Name its name aloud, and you will be inviting grief and strife and misery from covetous creatures who would stop at nothing to possess the thing.

You will also find the two items that you helped me place in the spot of which I write. Destroy them for me now, if you will, for they are packed with evil tools—poisons and vehicles of death in many guises. I have used some of them myself, at times, and know their potency but I spent years in learning how to know and use them, and with my death they now pose lethal danger to any finding them, including you yourself. Be highly cautious. Handle none of them. I would burn them myself, but I have waited and deferred too long and now I have too little strength to deal with them. Should you not arrive, they will molder and rot, eventually, unfound. But if you come, burn them and complete the task for me.

My blessings upon you and on your sons, if a sorcerous old leper may bestow such gifts. I trust your wife is well, and that she is the wife whose husband fell to set you both at liberty

And now, at last, this is complete and I am free. I am so very tired. It is winter again, and a harsh one. The snow lies thick outside and my little lake is frozen hard, its backing wall thick with sheets and ropes of ice. It only remains for me now to bind this missive and lay it with the others. Should someone else than you find it, it may remain unread, since none here, save me, can read today But should they pull apart the other bundles, they will find more to read—far more—and they might well destroy what lies here, burning or scattering it all. So be it. They will not find the third gift I leave for you.