The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex Read Online Free PDF

carefully—the use of enchantment, of what he called the ten charms, is the only way that I seem to age—and I rationed my talents very carefully indeed. But I was disturbed that “older men were speaking of me.” It suggested a growing resentment. Even that was curious, however, since for a very long time now there had been nothing but contentment in the fortress, nothing but the normal round of trophy-raiding, cattle-raiding, horse-rearing, competition, hunting, and the Three Delights of the Feast: the making of “laughter, love, and the young.” Also known as the Three Exhausting Desires.
    I would ask Urtha about this, but the question would be raised in due course, not at once.
    I was intrigued by this sudden rising of the hostels. I had questions to ask. And the druid Cathabach, Urtha’s close friend and Speaker for Kings, would be certain to have an understanding of what was happening. He would have answers.
    Cathabach had been born to the priesthood, but had renounced his courses of learning and training after an incident in his youth—he never spoke about it—and become a member of Urtha’s elite warrior entourage, the uthiin. As a champion, he was among the best. But after nineteen years he had cut through the marks on his body that showed his champion’s status. He had taken up the hazel staff and the cloak-of-dreams. He had become an oak man, not so much a priest as a visionary and a rememberer. He was now in an intimate, moon-driven relationship with the High Woman Rianata, though they were forbidden from allowing their offspring to survive at birth, should a birth occur.
    Cathabach guarded the orchard that lay at the heart of Taurovinda. Protected by a high fence of thorn and clay, it contained the burial shafts of kings and queens, the relics of the first builders of Taurovinda, as well as a multitude of sour-apple trees, hawthorn and hazel scrub and thickets of tiny oaks, their trunks and branches laden with bright green moss. Two men were appointed gardeners of this area, both mute. Cathabach lived just inside the enclosure, in a small shelter, but was frequently to be found standing, staring at the sky, just outside the gate.
    He carried a short, highly polished, well-honed sword, the instrument of sacrifice and vengeance, and he was strong and determined enough to use it. Even if Urtha himself tried to enter the orchard, he would use it. Cathabach was entitled to kill even a king, should he attempt to enter the sanctuary grove outside of the allowed days or nights.
    And he would kill me, too. (He would fail, of course.) But he and I had a certain understanding; nothing more than sharing the experience of being reckless in our younger days (though my own younger days had lasted several millennia), and the simple pleasure of being able to talk about a greater, wider world of nature and secret than our noble compatriots who inhabited the hill fort so briefly, causing havoc and hilarity with their mayfly spirits.
    Cathabach was a friend of the mind as well as of the heart.
    I found him, surly as ever, leaning on his staff. He was waiting for me, watching me without expression. As I entered the outer enclosure, he stepped back into the orchard, inviting me to follow him. As soon as I was inside the grove, he closed the heavy gate. The apples were in blossom; the ground was a carpet of flowers. The long briars of the berry bushes were all tied into shapes, waiting for the fruit to form. The gnarly oaks spread wide canopies, making shade and shelter in the thickets. It was a wood for crouching, but we descended into a dell, away from the sun, and in doing so came to the small hut that was Cathabach’s resting place. No wider than a tall man, no higher than the same, it contained a circular wooden bench, was hung with wolf-skins and the desiccated remains of crows. It had no hearth, no fire. It was empty of convenience. It was the sitting place of a man who came here for no other purpose than to rest