Sybil let go of Grundo. She seemed to be entirely under the false Merlin’s influence. She beckoned to Nick. At once a skein of transparent folks swooped from the vortex, surrounded Nick, and pulled him into the open space. I tried to stop them. I am entirely in a muddle as to whether this was what I would have done for anyone or whether it was because it was Nick. I do know my heart hammered in my throat and I put out my hands and tried to make the transparent folk stop. But your hands go through, or past, or slide off these people, and they were far too sunk in the storm of magic to heed me. I suppose to most of the onlookers it must have seemed as if Nick stumbled out into the open all by himself and then fell down on the grass.
“The sacrifice has presented himself!” Sybil proclaimed.
The false Merlin grinned. “So he has,” he said. His long, skinny arm reached out to the box beside his chair, where he flipped up a small flap in the top, groped a bit, and came up clutching a writhing bundle of salamanders. As the flap snapped down again, he reached forward and dipped the salamanders into the smoking silver bucket, quite slowly.
It was colder than the coldest ice in there. The soundless scream from those poor salamanders as they met that cold went through us all like an electric shock. But it went through Nick in a much worse way. His body became covered at once in hurrying silver ripples. The ripples chased and overlapped one another and formed silver leaf shapes, as if he were under the shallow sea with the sun on the waves. He was in obvious agony from it. He rolled about, trying to scream—or not being able to scream—and every time the ripples formed into a leaf shape this seemed to hurt him even more. He curled up, he uncurled, he flung his legs and arms about, much as the salamanders were doing in the false Merlin’s fist.
“There is really nothing like a willing sacrifice,” the false Merlin said. He looked to see if the salamanders were recovering a little and calmly dipped them in the smoking bucket again. Sir James—disgusting man!—leaned eagerly over to watch.
“Oh, he mustn’t!” Toby said despairingly. Possibly he was sorry for Nick, but being Toby, I suspect he was mostly feeling for those salamanders.
“No, he mustn’t, must he?” Grundo agreed.
Here the King seemed to notice what was going on, or some of it. He looked from Nick to the false Merlin and said, “What’s this? Eh?”
Toby was jigging about in his distress. Alicia jabbed him with her elbow and said, “Quiet. Don’t interrupt.”
“Your Majesty.” The false Merlin smiled and stood up, flourishing his handful of agonized, dying salamanders. “We are gathered here today to reinstate the old, true form of kingship. As has been explained to Your Majesty, yours are not the old, true forms. You make use of technology, and you have little or no dealings with the magic of Blest, and this has caused the old, true forms to warp and degenerate. You therefore intend to abdicate.” He looked sternly at the King. “Don’t you, Your Majesty?”
The King rubbed his hands across his face in a bewildered way. “Abdicate? Yes, I suppose we came here for something like that,” he agreed, but not as if he was at all sure. “What happens then?”
“Why, then we install a true King!” the false Merlin announced, as ringingly as such a reedy voice as his was able. “We ratify the Prince Edmund in your place, in the presence of both Archbishops and the priests of all other religions, and we seal it in proper form with the blood of a sacrifice.”
“Oh,” said the King. For a moment he looked startled and a little disgusted. Then he said placidly, “Very well, then. If Edmund …”
He stopped, distracted, because the false Merlin stooped and once more plunged the wretched salamanders into the white smokes of the bucket. This time they died. The shock was like the crack of a whip. The ripples were so thick over Nick that you could hardly see him, just a rolling, thrashing something under a moving silver web.
“Look here,” said Prince Edmund. He came out from behind the King to stand and stare at what could be seen of Nick. “I don’t think this is— I mean, is this a human sacrifice you’re talking about? I’m not sure— What happens then?”
Well, fancy this! I thought. Prince Edmund is a decent human being after all! But that was before Sybil came tramping up to him and laid her fat hand against his arm. “Your Highness,” she said, in the kind of low, tactful voice that everyone can hear, “if you are unwilling, please say so at once. Your Highness has four younger brothers, any of whom might wish to guide these islands along the one true way in your place.”
You could see this not appealing to the Prince at all. He never did like his brothers. He said, “Oh, in that case …”
“Then hearken to the Merlin as he prophesies,” Sybil suggested, and stood back.
The Prince and the King both looked inquiringly at the false Merlin, who gave them a merry smile, tossed the dead salamanders on the grass, and put his hands in the rope-pulling position, by which we were supposed to understand that he was making a prophecy. But I could see he was just pretending. He said, “This sacrifice both anoints our new King and brings the power of all Blest to the crown. By this sacrifice, we shall raise the land and bring peace and prosperity …”
I think he went on for some time, but I stopped listening. As soon as he said “raise the land,” I realized that this was exactly what he was doing. And he couldn’t be allowed to, not like this! Doing it by a blood sacrifice would bring Blest and all the worlds surrounding it into the realm of purest black magic. The balance would be tipped entirely the wrong way.
I fought my way out from the hurricane of magic and horror and tried to think through the hurt woman’s files again. They rushed into my head, file after file—Purple Vetch, Goose Grass, Foxglove, Teasel, Gorse, Mullein, Dog Rose, Thistle, Nightshade, poison, invisible peoples, sex magics, journeys, the dead, bird magic, shape shifting, summoning, unbinding—on and on, in a wild waterfall of spells. At first they seemed to be no use at all. But that phrase raise the land had given me such a jolt that before long it seemed to steady the rush down. I saw that they did not come into my head in any old order: they started with Purple Vetch for vortex and followed that with spells of binding and unbinding. Seeing that stopped the rush of files almost entirely. And I knew that I had known how to raise the land long before Romanov tried to explain it to me.
Each file, down at the very end, had what the hurt woman called its Great Spell, one that encompassed all the others. What Romanov had told me amounted simply to unbinding these. You started with vortex. Then you went on to unbinding in its Great form, and as you unbound the vortex, you fed into it each of the other Great Spells, good and bad alike, and you made them all unravel. The gods alone knew what would happen then! I almost turned to Grundo then. I wanted to ask him if he thought we would all be entirely without magic ever after.
Grundo’s face had gone white and secretive, and he wouldn’t look at me. All my earlier hurt came back. Grundo never needed me, he just used me, he never cared— Then I realized that Grundo was trying to work magic, too. It was something directional, by his look, which was always difficult for him, because he had to turn everything round the other way, against the grain of his mind. He was scowling, pouting the skin above his long nose as he concentrated.
By this time, as the false Merlin blathered on, the ripples were dying away from Nick. He was lying with his face in his arms, exhausted by the convulsions they had put him through. The false Merlin noticed. A mean look came over his face, and, still prophesying, he went over to the box and reached for another handful of salama
nders.
Grundo burst the box open as he did so.
Toby cheered. It was wonderful for a moment. The sides fell out, and the lid flew up and hit the false Merlin in the face. The salamanders inside, hundreds and hundreds of them, had been packed and crammed in there, thoroughly miserable, anyway, and then panic-stricken when the first handful died. They came out like a small volcano. They showered into the air and then ran everywhere, incandescent with fear, setting the grass alight, raising smoke and flames and howls from the people in the ring of spectators. The false Merlin howled as loud as anyone. Sir James got a salamander on his smart hat and tried to beat the fire out on the chair, while Sybil ran and pranced and jumped to avoid red-hot salamanders running across her bare feet.
But it only lasted a minute or so. Those salamanders were so truly terrified that they all ran away as fast as they could, flashing among the feet of the crowd and diving under cars and buses, cooling off as they ran. By far the most of them seemed to race uphill, in among the great trilithons of Stonehenge. I think they were safe there. They seemed to be able to go away into the same distant layer of reality as Stonehenge itself and stay there.
Alicia had realized that it was Grundo who let them out. Well, she would. She took him by one ear and shook him, silently and fiercely, with her nails digging in. “Little beast!” she whispered. “Little pig!”
Two days ago that would have got all my attention at once. Now I realized that Grundo was distracting Alicia from me just when I needed it. It was quite hard, but I’m afraid I let Grundo suffer. I began trying to raise the land.