Merlin's Booke by Jane Yolen Page A

whispered.
    â€œOf course it was the window,” said the mage. “And if you wish to talk to yourself, make it sotto voce, under the breath. A whisper is no guarantee of secrets.”
    â€œSotto voce,” Merrillin said.
    â€œThe soldiers brought the phrase, but it rides the market roads now,” said the mage.
    â€œSotto voce,” Merrillin said again, punctuating his memory.
    â€œI like you, boy,” said the mage. “I collect oddities.”
    â€œDid you collect the bard, sir?”
    Looking quickly over his shoulder, the mage said, “Her?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œHow is she an oddity?” asked Merrillin. “I think she is—” he took a gulp, “—wonderful.”
    â€œThat she is; quite, quite wonderful, my Viviane, and she well knows it,” the mage replied. “She has a range of four octaves and can mimic any bird or beast I name.” He paused. “And a few I cannot.”
    â€œViviane,” whispered Merrillin. Then he said the name without making a sound.
    The mage laughed heartily. “You are an oddity, too, boy. I thought so at the first when you walked into the market fair with nothing to sell and no purse with which to buy. I asked, and no one knew you. Yet you stood in front of the barrow as if you owned the apples. When the stick fell, you did not protest; when the coin dropped from your lips, you said not a word. But I could feel your anger and surprise and—something more. You are an oddity. I sniffed it out with my nose from the first and my nose—” he tapped it with his forefinger, managing to look both wise and ominous at once “—my nose, like you, never lies. Do you think yourself odd?”
    Merrillin closed his eyes for a moment, a gesture the mage would come to know well. When he opened them again, his eyes were no longer the somber blue that Viviane had sung about but were the blue of a bleached out winter sky. “I have dreams,” he said.
    The mage held his breath, his wisdom being as often in silence as in words.
    â€œI dreamed of a wizard and a woman who lived in a castle green as early spring grass. Hawks flew about the turrets and a bear squatted on the throne. I do not know what it all means, but now that I have seen the green wagon, I am sure you are the wizard and the woman, Viviane.”
    â€œDo you dream often?” asked the mage, slowly coming down the steps of the wagon and sitting on the lowest stair.
    Merrillin nodded.
    â€œAnd do your dreams often come true?” he asked. Then he added, quickly, “No, you do not have to answer that.”
    Merrillin nodded again.
    â€œAlways?”
    Merrillin closed his eyes, then opened them.
    â€œTell me,” said the mage.
    â€œI dare not. When I tell, I am called a liar or hit. Or both. I do not think I want to be hit anymore.”
    The mage laughed again, this time with his head back. When he finished, he narrowed his eyes and looked at the boy. “I have never hit anyone in my life. And telling lies is an essential part of magic. You lie with your hands like this.” And so saying, he reached behind Merrillin’s ear and pulled out a bouquet of meadowsweet, wintergreen, and a single blue aster. “You see, my hands told the lie that flowers grow in the dirt behind your ear. And your eyes took it in.”
    Merrillin laughed, a funny crackling sound, as if he were not much used to laughter.
    â€œBut do not let Viviane know you tell lies,” said the mage, leaning forward and whispering. “She is as practiced in her anger as she is on the harp. I may never swot a liar, but she is the very devil when her temper’s aroused.”
    â€œI will not,” said Merrillin solemnly. They shook hands on it, only when Merrillin drew away his grasp, he had a small copper coin in his palm.
    â€œBuy yourself a meat pie, boy,” said the mage. “And then come along with