Sword of the Rightful King by Jane Yolen Page B

leaves answered him, as a tiny wind puzzled through the grove.
    â€œHere is the problem. The northern tribes in the Orkneys are fussing again, demanding one of Morgause’s sons be named king in Arthur’s stead. And the westerners, around Cornwall—curse them!—simply egg the northerners on. Those westerners are hoping for a standoff so that they might put up a king of their own. Though they would not be unsatisfied if Morgause’s line ruled. After all, she’s a daughter of theirs, sired by the late duke who died defending their Castle Tin-tagel against Uther Pendragon.” He sighed. “So many claimants to the throne. So many angry people.”
    Another small wind ran around the tops of the trees, but only the oak seemed agitated.
    Merlinnus shook his head. “What am I to do? I must make them all follow the boy, make them eager to do his bidding. History demands it. History past and history future. Royal blood runs in his veins. No one else knows, of course, but I do. He shows his lineage in his very looks, though only I seem to note it. And I do not mention it because it puts his fathers reputation in disrepute.” He smiled sourly. “Not that his father’s reputation needs much help in that direction.”
    He waited for some answer from the tree and, getting none, spoke on. “Should I have expected gratitude for setting Arthur on the throne? Should I have expected imagination to accompany his heritage? And how can I dare hope he will fight to retain a crown he finds so heavy?” He drew in a deep breath. “And have I mentioned that he thinks himself unworthy?”
    The oak leaves fluttered as if laughing, and around the grove, larch and beech seemed to join in.
    â€œWell, bless me, I
did
expect it. I
did
hope for it. My brain must be rotting with age.”
    Again many leaves rustled in the grove.
    â€œYou ask what is good about him? Oh,
amice frondifer
, he works hard. He loves the people. He weeps for the impoverished. Cares for the needy. He longs to right wrongs. Already he is a good king. He could make a great one in time. But tell me,
e glande nate
, sprout of an acorn, do I ask too much when I hope for vision as well?
Vision
! That’s what is missing in the boy. If he shows an ounce of it, they will all follow him to the ends of Britain, no matter his parentage.”
    This time the leaves in the grove were still. The wind had died down.
    â€œWell, maybe you are right to be silent, tree. Blood is blood, but history has no veins. I’ve no other witness to his heritage, and what nobles will believe it, anyway? They will say he was gotten badly by a trick of my conniving. They will say I am both the problem and the solution. Oh, magic! That it proves to be such a hard master.” Merlinnus sighed again, this time sounding much like the wind in the trees.
    He looked up to the crown of the oak. “Arthur must prove his worth—to himself, to all the tribes—in some other way. Sword and stone. It will work. I am convinced of it. But how to convince the king?”
    The tree, the grove, the wind, all remained still.
    Merlinnus sat down at the foot of the oak and rubbed his back against its bark, easing an itch that had been there for days. “Winter itch,” he called it, though he actually itched summer and winter alike. “Comes from wearing wool,” he said companionably to the tree.
    Tucking the skirt of his robe between his legs, he stared at his feet. He still favored the Roman summer sandals, even through the dark days of winter, because closed boots tended to make the skin crackle between his toes like old parchment. Besides, in heavy boots his feet sweated and stank, which no amount of herbal infusions seemed to sweeten. Since he felt cold now winter and summer, what did it matter that he exposed his old toes to the chill?
    â€œDid I tickle his interest at all, do you think?” he murmured to the oak. “Or