Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral) by Robert Treskillard

illuminated the entire ceiling.
    “Nothing,” he called down.
    She blinked.
    Outside, and from far away, a wolf howled.
    Natalenya looked at him then, and saw dread pass across his face, but then it was gone.
    “Maybe you just heard something outside,” he said.
    “No.”
    “Once the battle with the Picti is over, we’ll have to call for a wolf hunt. We can’t allow them to come unchallenged to the valley, or else we’ll end up with horses injured, maybe foals dead.”
    “The man was standing over Artorius’s bed — ”
    Merlin sighed. “Even if you didn’t dream it, Artorius is not in any danger. The main stables are better guarded than Ector’s hall.”
    Natalenya shook her head. The dreams, the wolves. It was no coincidence. Something was wrong.

    Merlin awoke to the luscious smell of steamed einkorn biscuits, fried cabbage and kale, along with the pop-plop sound of oatmeal boiling over the fire.
    He rolled to face the center of the bed and found Taliesin sleeping next to him in Natalenya’s place. His hair had been smashed against his sweaty head, and he was snoring lightly. Peeking over his son, he saw Tinga still curled up on her pallet, her wet thumb lying next to her half-open mouth. Merlin drank in the moment, a simple yet bounteous gift after many hard days on the trail to and from Urien’s hall. What were titles and kings compared to his family? Nothing, nothing at all, and he thanked God for the miracle of life.
    Rising from the straw mattress, he splashed water on his face from a basin, stretched, and pulled on his tunic. Walking into the living area, he found Natalenya stirring the oatmeal.
    “Morning,” he said, giving her a hug from behind and a tickle. This produced a giggle, a jab in the ribs, and a spoon-holding hug in return.
    Merlin held her chin gently and looked into her eyes. “How are you?”
    “Scared.”
    “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you last night.”
    “It’s not that. Not exactly.” She turned away from him to take the pot off the fire. “You’re leaving.”
    “You could stay with Aunt Eira.”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    Taliesin stepped out of the bedroom, looked around blankly until he saw Merlin, and then ran to him. After a brief hug, the boy picked up a steaming biscuit from the pan and shifted from foot to foot while he blew on it.
    “Go outside,” Natalenya said.
    “I don’t have to.”
    “Leave the biscuit here and go to the outhouse.”
    Taliesin popped it between his teeth and ran outside.
    Natalenya shook her head. “That boy.”
    “I think he’s taller.”
    “He eats enough to be twice his height.”
    While Natalenya finished frying the cabbage, Merlin opened the large secret compartment hidden in the back of their pantry shelf and brought out his harp. At least the children would have fun hiding in there while he was gone. One time they even got Natalenya to hide with them, and then they’d all banged the slim door open and jumped out to surprise him.
    He settled beside the hearth to tune the harp, and as he touched its aged wood — accented with painted knotwork, spirals, and ancient designs — he remembered Colvarth, the former chief bard of Britain. The man had given the harp to Merlin and had taught him everything he knew about being a bard. The instrument was, in fact, the Harp of Britain, a precious gift, and there was no other of its antiquity or beauty anywhere on the isle. One day, the Lord willing, when Arthur took his rightful place as High King — Merlin would stand by his side as the next chief bard.
    He needed to visit Colvarth’s grave again, soon. It was just that he rarely made it to the southern end of the valley and beyond to the mountain pass where the old bard was buried in a secret cave.
    Tinga, in a just-woken daze, wandered from the bedroom into Natalenya’s arms even as Taliesin came back in and sat next to Merlin.
    “Are you going to bring the harp to battle?”
    “Yes.”
    Tinga came and hugged Merlin,