Reliques

Compendium

To Blaise, Most honoured master: 

Derwydd writes this from the fireside in the observatory on Bardsey. My master is now sleeping soundly and I can snatch a few moments to keep you informed of his progress. These days he sleeps mostly, drowsing in his favourite carven armchair, then wakes, grumpy and demanding, only to fall asleep again before the herb tea is steeped.

How the Mighty are Fallen! Once he bestrode this land like a colossus. He held the Lake like a jewel in his palm and saw himself reflected therein. Once he was Merlyn the Mighty, the greatest of the Old Ones. Now his soul is sleeping and dreaming.

The Throne is still here, though the King is not. The Thirteen Treasures also remain, each in its own splendid chamber. Merlyn himself still has moments of great lucidity, but even he cannot remember with any certitude exactly how old he is.

I, myself am three hundred years old and have known the master all that time, and he was old when I met him,  though even to this day, he sometimes appears as a young boy, the carving on his chair seeming to writhe and dance around his frail head with its floating halo of hair. His eyes flash and see into your very soul. Then he sleeps again and you know his dreaming is your world.

I believe the observatory here is not visible to others. Indeed to me it seems to flicker between many worlds, many times. And still Arthur's Chariot leads the host in their spiral dance, Arcturus shines down upon us and Merlyn sleeps, and dreams he sleeps and dreams.

I hereby return your pigeon, Trueflight, and pray she reaches safety through storm and hazard. Your devoted servant, Derwydd the Scribe.