“This is all that is left,” Myrddin said forlornly, scraping the bottom of his staff on the stone floor. “What took years to build and endured through centuries of upkeep is now crumbling to dust. Thus is the way of the world.” He spread his arms wide, encompassing the breadth of the ravaged space with his gesture. “This is the heart of the sanctuary. This is where men and women were taught and trained in the ways of the Fountain. They call the magic by a different name here, but it is one and the same.” Myrddin walked a short distance to a heap of rubble. “This is where the altar was,” he said, poking one of the crumbled stones with the staff. “But one of its secrets still lies buried here. This is where King Andrew was interred.”
Fallon shot him a quizzical look, his brow furrowing.
“Aye, pethet,” Myrddin said, his voice full of grief and longing.
“This is where they buried my friend. It was long ago. Very long ago.”
His staff drooped as he hung his head low in respect. “He was wounded in a great battle. Stabbed by his bastard son.” His voice was soft, but his eyes were stern, fierce. “He killed his son defending his throne. His sword, the blade Firebos, was lost to him by then.
Stolen by his blood-sister. Lost for centuries. Now the story happens again. Over and over it repeats, teaching the same lesson. But will we learn from it? Hmmm? Will we ever learn?”
Trynne felt an odd swelling feeling in her heart as she gazed at the ancient Wizr, a man who had lived through the ages, bearing witness to the patterns and repetitions of history. How had he become this way? What had imbued him with such an unnaturally long life? They were questions she knew he would never answer.
She felt humbled being in his presence and being on such hallowed ground, which had been so terribly desecrated.
Myrddin clenched his crooked staff with both hands, his knuckles turning white. “King Andrew was mortally wounded. His body was committed to the Fountain in a boat in an effort to find a way to heal him. He was taken to the island sanctuary of Toussan.
No medicine or spell in your world could restore him. But there was healing to be found here. King Andrew did not die, but spent the remainder of his days in this place, a fell swamp called the Bearden Muir. He tended the apple orchard over yonder,” he said, nodding with his brow. “He was not Fountain-blessed. He never had been, although he had always desired it. Taming the orchard was part of his training. Come, I will show you.”
The staff clacked against the stone as Myrddin led them to a small alcove with a broken stairwell leading up. When they emerged, they were up at the main level and could see the spoiled grounds of the sanctuary. The stone was blackened as if a great fire had laid waste to it. It filled Trynne with wrenching sadness, and tears stung her eyes and burned her cheeks as they fell. The rubble was overgrown with moss and lichen. Slowly, nature was reclaiming the debris with wildness. As she gazed around, she saw Fallon pointing to a structure that was unharmed. Just a short distance away, the stone hut was still standing, unbesmirched by the fire.
“What is that?” Fallon asked, walking toward it. Beyond, Trynne could see the apple orchard Myrddin had spoken of.
“It was the Aldermaston’s kitchen,” Myrddin said solemnly. “The walls surrounding the grounds have all fallen. The village was put to the torch. But the kitchen stands.” A small smile pursed his lips. He was lost in a tender memory.
“I wish I could have seen it as it used to be,” Trynne said, rubbing her hand along one of the remaining stone buttresses. “I can still feel something here. This place is ripe with memories.”
“Aye, little sister. It is.” He gently swung the butt of his staff through the long grass. “This way.”
As they crossed the grounds, Trynne gazed at the beautiful scene. A lopsided hill in the distance caught her eye. There was a haze in the lowlands, tendrils of fog that were quickly burning away with the sun’s warmth. Her boots whisked through the tall damp grass, and she let the feathered tips tickle her palms as she crossed.
The ruins were overgrown and unruly, but she could almost imagine seeing this place in its full glory.
They passed the kitchen and crossed into the derelict orchard.
Myrddin tapped one of the stubby trunks with his staff and looked up at the crowded limbs. Withered apples still clung to some of the stems that had gone yellow and parched. Spoiled fruit was everywhere, and a sickly-sweet smell hung in the air. Trynne wrinkled her nose.
“Andrew tamed this orchard,” Myrddin said, gazing tenderly at the limbs of grayish bark. “And it was here that he learned to hear the whispers of the Fountain. By taming these trees, he began to tame himself. All his life, he had been so busy. Going from one conquest to another. From one trouble to another. Bah! Most troubles we bring to roost ourselves. There are some words spoken too softly for ears. But they are spoken still. There are some truths we can experience with our eyes and still not see. Andrew learned the patterns of the seasons. He finally learned one of life’s great truths.”