The Dracove (The Prophecy series) by N.L. Gervasio Page B

She turned and walked away from him.
    At first, he stood there, not sure if he should follow. She turned around to look at him, and he forced his feet to move. He had to find out who she was and what she wanted with him. When he caught up to her, she walked again, leading him over the grassy knoll to a large spread of food and drink.
    “Is this to your likin’?” She lightly touched his chin and closed his mouth.
    “There’s so much,” he said.
    “I wasn’t sure what ye favored.”
    He turned to her, looking into those mesmerizing eyes. They were as blue as the sea and he swam in them. “I thought ye could read my mind.”
    “I can, Cianán, but to see every detail of your life could take many lifetimes, an’ though that does not vex me, you shall not live that long . . . unless of course, ye chose to.”
    “What do ye mean?”
    “Come, sit.”
    She walked over and knelt down, extending her hand out in an invitation for him to join her. The candles surrounding the spread flickered to life. He stepped forward and took her hand, looked around, studying his surroundings. She poured a goblet of wine and handed it to him. He nodded and thanked her in the Druid dialect. She set the wine down and reached for another goblet. Before she could reach for the wine again, he picked it up, lifted it to her goblet and poured.
    “What’s your name?” He set the wine down before sitting back, staring into her eyes, and raising his goblet to his lips.
    “I’m known by many, but ye may call me Trystan.”
    “What names are ye known by?”
    “One ye might know would be the Merlin.”
    “I thought Merlin was a man,” he said.
    She laughed. “Of course, most men would think it so. Not that I’ve not taken a male form, mind ye. Sometimes it’s much simpler to deal with men as a man. But Merlin is not a name. ‘Tis more of a status given to me— The Merlin—by the Dasulmavre. Men confuse that sometimes. You, however, are different, Cianán. I knew ye’d like my true form, so here I am.”
    He smiled; she was correct. “Why were ye searching for me? An’ what did ye mean ‘bout living many lifetimes? An’ who are the Dasulmavre—”
    “Patience, Cianán. All o’ your questions shall be answered in time, an’ ye shall have more, but I’ve something to show ye first.”
    He felt her searching his soul when she stared into his eyes.
    “How long have ye been with the priests?”
    “Since I was a boy. There are twenty years o’ training, an’ there are many things to learn. Ye didn’t know that?”
    She grinned. “Mayhap I did.”
    He frowned, not understanding why she’d ask him such things if she already knew the answers. Perhaps she didn’t know the answers or toyed with him. He’d heard stories of how Merlin enjoyed playing games—
    “This is not a game.” Her voice boomed loud enough to frighten the faeries from their trees. “I ask ye to see if your words bear truth. That is all. I do not care for deceit or for those who chose to deceive me. Men may twist words, but those words mean nothing when compared to their souls. I merely had hopes you’d like to join me in my journey through many lifetimes. If you like, I shall tell ye things about yourself, even in the darkest part of your soul, you do not know. I could bring up the fact that you were born to—”
    “I know who my parents were.”
    “Perhaps, but do ye know how your mother died an’ what became of your father?”
    He shook his head, wide-eyed. “Do ye know these things?”
    She nodded once.
    “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you . . . .”
    “All is well.” She touched his hand. “Now then, should ye care to see somethin’ that by chance ye could do someday?”
    “Please.”
    “Very well.” She moved closer to him. They faced the brook. “Close your eyes a moment, like when you’re meditating.”
    He did so.
    “Breathe deeply . . . one . . . two . . . three. Now open your eyes an’ see a new world.”
    He didn’t