Legacy: Arthurian Saga by Mary Stewart

pouring out of the low archway like a plume of
smoke.
    I stood quite still, wondering if it
was these that had made the curious musty smell. I thought I could
smell them as they passed, but it wasn't the same. I had no fear
that they would touch me; in darkness or light, whatever their
speed, bats will touch nothing. They are so much creatures of the
air, I believe, that as the air parts in front of an obstacle the
bat is swept aside with it, like a petal carried downstream. They
poured past, a shrill tide of them between me and the wall.
Childlike, to see what the stream would do -- how it would divert
itself -- I took a step nearer to the wall. Nothing touched me. The
stream divided and poured on, the shrill air brushing both my
cheeks. It was as if I did not exist. But at the same moment when I
moved, the creature that I had seen moved, too. Then my
outstretched hand met, not rock, but metal, and I knew what the
creature was. It was my own reflection.
    Hanging against the wall was a sheet
of metal, burnished to a dull sheen. This, then, was the source of
the diffused light within the cave; the mirror's silky surface
caught, obliquely, the light from the cave's mouth, and sent it on
into the darkness. I could see myself moving in it like a ghost, as
I recoiled and let fall the hand which had leapt to the knife at my
hip.
    Behind me the flow of bats had ceased,
and the cave was still. Reassured, I stayed where I was, studying
myself with interest in the mirror. My mother had had one once, an
antique from Egypt, but then, deeming such things to be vanity, she
had locked it away. Of course I had often seen my face reflected in
water, but never my body mirrored, till now. I saw a dark boy,
wary, all eyes with curiosity, nerves, and excitement. In that
light my eyes looked quite black; my hair was black, too, thick and
clean, but worse cut and groomed than my pony's; my tunic and
sandals were a disgrace. I grinned, and the mirror flashed a sudden
smile that changed the picture completely and at once, from a
sullen young animal poised to run or fight, to something quick and
gentle and approachable; something, I knew even then, that few
people had ever seen.
    Then it vanished, and the wary animal
was back, as I leaned forward to run a hand over the metal. It was
cold and smooth and freshly burnished. Whoever had hung it -- and
he must be the same person who used the cup of horn outside -- had
either been here very recently, or he still lived here, and might
come back at any moment to find me.
    I was not particularly frightened. I
had pricked to caution when I saw the cup, but one learns very
young to take care of oneself, and the times I had been brought up
in were peaceful enough, at any rate in our valley; but there are
always wild men and rough men and the lawless and vagabonds to be
reckoned with, and any boy who likes his own company, as I did,
must be prepared to defend his skin. I was wiry, and strong for my
age, and I had my dagger. That I was barely seven years old never
entered my head; I was Merlin, and, bastard or not, the King's
grandson. I went on exploring.
    The next thing I found, a pace along
the wall, was a box, and on top of it shapes which my hands
identified immediately as flint and iron and tinderbox, and a big,
roughly made candle of what smelled like sheep's tallow. Beside
these objects lay a shape which -- incredulously and inch by inch
-- I identified as the skull of a horned sheep. There were nails
driven into the top of the box here and there, apparently holding
down fragments of leather. But when I felt these, carefully, I
found in the withered leather frameworks of delicate bone; they
were dead bats, stretched and nailed on the wood.
    This was a treasure cave indeed. No
find of gold or weapons could have excited me more. Full of
curiosity, I reached for the tinderbox.
    Then I heard him coming
back.
    My first thought was that he must have
seen my pony, then I realized he was coming from further up