Chapter One

Morgon was a healer.

He had been born with a gift in his fingers and magic in his eyes. His father was a wizard, which all could see, but no one knew who his father had been.

 

Sara Wrightly had gone off alone one day to market and not come back. Two weeks later she walked back home half naked and pregnant. She swore she had been taken against her will but she would never name her attacker.

After her child was born she grew strange. She had been pale and sickly all through her confinement and many feared she would not live to have the child. She did however, and though she grew thin as a reed she lived many years after the birth. She called her boy Morgon, but soon after that she turned queer in the head. She took to wandering off alone. Sometimes she would be gone for days and come back ill, with a strange haunted look in her eyes. Occasionally she would wake without waking and cry out in a strange harsh tongue. She wouldn’t eat and began to see things that didn’t exist. Her wildness grew with the child; rarely speaking, always raving, never eating, except for the roots and berries she found in the woods. She was accursed, she was bewitched and no one wished to have anything to do with her. Yet, if left alone, they knew she would die and the child with her.

It was once decided that Morgon should be given another home, but when they came to take him away Sara threw herself on him, weeping and screaming hysterically. She had somehow laid her hands on a knife and was wildly waving it about threatening to kill herself and Morgon. After that she was never left alone. Someone from the village was always in her cottage to watch over her and the child; no longer was she allowed her rambling. Meekly like a frightened animal she accepted the villagers and did not fight them. She poured all her attention into her little boy and permitted no one else to take care of him.

 

Morgon was five when his mother died.

Late one night the Matron who was watching over Sara was called away. She left her fifteen year old son in her place. When she came back the next morning a sight too horrible to speak of greeted her. She ran back to the village and sent men to the house unable herself to say what was wrong.

Sara lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling with no expression. Her clothes had been torn off of her body and she was covered with sword slashes, enough to would but not to kill. She had bled to death. Under her bed they found the matron’s son. He was alive and seemingly unharmed, but drenched in Sara’s blood. His eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead, in unseeing, uncomprehending horror. He died the next day.

In the corner of the one room cottage stood Morgon. He had both hands pressed over his mouth and he would not move them or speak for three days.

 

 

 

It was as Morgon grew up that his parentage was revealed. He spoke little but when he looked at you, you felt at once uneasy as thought he had the power to destroy you, sometimes as thought he simply saw through you. Then people notice that the colour of hi eyes would change. From red, to green, to blue, grey, yellow, and black, in a fast incomprehensible sequence. And the villagers said he was cursed. Many wanted him killed straight off.

It was the village priest who saved him. No, he said, he could not help his birth, no one could blame him for his eyes. For, he continued, his father was one of the race of wizards.

“What wizard?” the people asked,

 “Who knows?” he would answer in his gentle voice, “There are few enough of them left and it was not Morgon’s fault that one of them ravished his mother.”

None of the other children would play with him because of his eyes. They would fly away in fear and leave him alone, standing silently in the sun.

“Why?” he stopped the priest one day to ask and fixed his ever-changing eyes on Father Matthews kindly brown ones. “Why?”

He was then eight. The priest crouched down to be on the boy’s level and looked at him steadily; unlike most who simply turned away.

“Why what my lad?” he asked; Morgon brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently.

“Well, you see, you were created very special.”

“Why?”

“Only the one who made you knows the reason my son, but believe me when I say that there is a reason you were made this way.”

“I shouldn’t have been born.”

“If you were not meant to serve a special purpose you would not have been allowed to live.”

Morgon turned to hide his sorrow and walked slowly down the road out of the village. Father Matthew let him go.

Two days later the old matron, Mistress Dian, who had been the first to see Morgon’s mother dead, fell ill. She grew worse and worse and began to cry out incomprehensible things. Repeatedly she called for Morgon and finally they asked the boy if he would go. Slowly he nodded.

When he saw her he cried out in fear.

“No!” he cried, pressing his hands over his eyes, “Mother no! Not again.”

The old woman screamed as though burned by hot fire. Two strong men had to hold her down. Some one was sent running for the priest. Morgon took his hands from his eyes and walked towards her.

“Keep him back.” One of the men shouted, “Get him out of here. He makes her worse with his devil eyes.”

No one moved. Finally the man got up as though to take Morgon out himself. Morgon only glanced at him and he fell back stunned. Slowly Morgon took the matron’s hand, frightened, confused, a thousand thoughts and feelings in his mind. The man across from Morgon looked away, avoiding his eyes, but suddenly he looked up somehow drawn to them. They were blue, solid blue, like the night sky, steadily fixed on the old lady’s face. Slowly her eyes opened and fixed on Morgon’s. She settled down and lay quiet, calmly gazing up at him. All at once Morgon collapsed.

 

After the Matron’s miraculous recovery Morgon was revered as well as feared, but the Priest, Father Matthew, took him under his wing. He came to the Matron’s bedside just as Morgon collapsed. He took him back to his house and when the lad awoke he kept him there. Little by little he began to teach him. Herbs and medicine, religion and lore, history, geography, and anything else he knew. As Morgon learned he began to open up. As the years went by he became a quiet but confident young man, skilled and compassionate, but no learning could match the magic in his ever-changing eyes.

Much as they feared him the villagers were quick to recognize Morgon’s skill as a healer. By the time he was twelve he was the first person to be summoned if someone was hurt or sick. The priest would come with him and invariably who ever it was would recover. Morgon and Father Matthew grew very close in those years; rare it was that one was seen without the other.

There were a few that died, even after Morgon had done all he could. One was the father of a fourteen year old girl named Alicia. The man had been injured in a hunting accident but there was something queer about his illness. His daughter, his only child, sat beside him for twelve hours before Morgon came. During that time he didn’t speak to her, didn’t look at her, didn’t even know who she was or that she was there. He just stared straight ahead, occasionally rasping out some meaningless words.

“Morgul!” he said once, “Morgul Muon Souron.”

The girl herself said nothing. She sat still, waiting. He mother had died many years ago; she was alone. When the priest came he went straight to her. He sat at her side, put his arm around her, and pulled her face away from her father. Morgon gave a hasty glance at the man’s wound and instantly knew something else was wrong. He looked into his eyes and did not dare to touch him. As the man caught sight of Morgon’s face he gave a cry of pain and horror. Morgon fell back and covered his face with his hands, but not before Alicia saw that his eyes were red. He sat cowering in a corner, whimpering, unable or unwilling to speak. It was with difficulty that Father Matthew got him home. The man died that night

 

If Morgon had not been there it would have been said that the man was delirious from loss of blood and died from his wound, but Alicia told the whole village of Morgon and his red eyes and the rumour soon spread that the man had been bewitched, maybe that he had been killed by the wizard boy. They wanted to burn the man’s body outside the village and banish Morgon from their midst but once again father Matthew intervened. Gently but firmly he insisted that the boy stay and the man be given a decent burial. Under his kindly words the village relaxed and conceded to his requests. For a short time their fears were allayed.

Morgon was not to be so easily calmed. All day the priest sought to speak with him to find out what was troubling him. gone was the Morgon Father Matthew knew and in his place was the speechless, frightened, trembling boy who was found in the corner of a blood stained cottage seven years ago. When the day of the funereal came Father Matthew insisted Morgon come. As he spoke over the body Morgon sat behind him, staring at the black hole in the ground, terrified.

No one sent for Morgon for many weeks after that, and if they had he wouldn’t have gone. He began to help out around the parish at last, and to eat again, but he would not speak of what had happened. He would not talk at all if he could help it. Only once did he come close to telling his fears under father Matthew’s gentle promises but he suddenly drew back shaking his head.

“No, no.” he cried, “I cannot speak of it. It is too horrid to tell. If I said- ” he broke off and would say no more on the matter.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

Life went on and the matter was forgotten. When Morgon was fifteen Father Matthew took him to the great city of Brisgard. Never had Morgon seen so many people in one place before. Never had he seen such mingled wealth and poverty. He was amazed, but not overawed. Indeed, he spoke more on that trip then he ever had; of the things he felt and thought and of right and wrong.

Father Matthew took him to the College and introduced him to Father Stuart, the master of the school who in turn called for Father Browning, the head of the healers. Father Browning asked Morgon many questions and at last turned to the other priests.

“Amazing.” He said, “He has the marks of a healer about him, indeed, a great healer. But,” he glanced back uneasily, “What’s with his eyes?”

With a low moan Morgon turned and covered his eyes with one hand and his mouth with the other, fighting back a familiar, nameless fear. With a glance of reproach Father Matthew stepped past the astonished healer and putting a gentle hand on Morgon’s shoulder firmly turned him around and pulled his hands off his face.

“You don’t have to hide.” He said, “We’ve spoken of this.”

“My eyes can kill.” Morgon said angrily, “Have we spoken of that?”

Astonished, Father Matthew stepped back and let him go.

 

Father Matthew later found Morgon in the room he had rented for the duration of their stay in Brisgard. There it was that he disclosed his purpose for bringing him to the city.

“Morgon,” he said, “at the college here you can learn much that you wish to know. If you wish, when I return to Fairsey Village, you can stay in Brisgard and study to become a healer.”

Morgon looked up at him in open-eyed amazement.

“You’re offering to let me stay? I can study here? In Brisgard?”

“If you wish.”

“If I wish? Father, you have no idea!”

Father Matthew smiled at this unusual show of passion.

“I think I do.” He said, “That’s why I brought you here. Father Stuart is willing to accept you though Father Browning has his reservations.”

“Father Browning…” Morgon slowly shook his head. “Father Matthew, I-I can’t! It’s hard enough in my own village where everyone knows me, but here…”he looked up pleadingly form where he sat, tears glistening on his eyelashes; the first tears father Matthew had ever seen. He reached out his hand impulsively and then drew back stunned.

“Morgon…”

“What?”

“They’re grey.”

Morgon dropped his head into his hands. Father Matthew laid his hand on the boy’s curly hair.

“You can study in the College at Brisgard,” he said, softly but deliberately, “if you wish to.”

Morgon slowly lifted his head. “I do.” He whispered, “I wish to.”

 

The next day Father Matthew blessed him and left him in the care of Father Stuart.

Father Stuart was an old, stern man whose hair had turned white with over fifty winters. He was tall and broad shouldered and he ruled the college with a rod of iron and the hand of gentleness. The first day he was there father Stuart escorted Morgon all over the numerous buildings. The other students bowed and fell back as they passed and then stared after them and fell to hurried whispering.

When Morgon was first introduced to his fellow student Father Stuart asked him to wait while he spoke to Father Browning first. He strode into the room and faced the twenty other youths who were studying to become healers.

“I want no unnecessary questions or comments directed at Morgon of Fairsey village.” He said sternly, “Better yet, don’t speak to him at all. He may be strange but he has as much skill and promise as the rest of you. He’s alone in the city for the first time and without anyone he knows. If something happens I don’t know how to deal with it so I’m counting on you to make sure nothing does.”

Asking Father Browning to come with him he stepped out of the room which then broke into a hum of talking and bewildered questioning. Those who had not seen Morgon asked those who had and instantly anyone who had been in the halls when Morgon and Father Stuart had been there became very popular. Thus it was that when Father Browning returned and introduced him, Morgon was met with twenty pairs of curious eyes. He looked down embarrassed and the other students shifted uneasily. For at that distance Morgon looked no different than any other villager.

It wasn’t until the end of the day that boys started to cluster in corners, whispering, pointing, and staring. “What’s with his eyes?” was the repeated question. Some said he was bewitched, some said he was a witch. Some just thought he was weird. Through the whole day and those that followed Father Stuart seemed always to appear at Morgon’s side, casually, yet deliberately, so that while he knew that they were talking about him no one dared to say anything to him outside of casual conversation.

One day there was a new boy who came to study history. He was young and pure and didn’t listen to the gossip of the other boys around him. Morgon had become mostly a thing of the past and Father Stuart had relaxed his vigil. Seeing Morgon sitting by himself one day he introduced himself.

“I’m Tal.” He said, “Tal of Moryen. You must be Morgon.”

Morgon looked up in glad surprise. He had no friends.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” He said, holding out his hand.

He froze in mid-sentence, seeing Tal’s frightened gaze.

“Forget it.” he muttered, “My name is Dorath.”

He turned and walked off. Tal jerked back to reality.

“Morgon, Morgon wait! I didn’t mean to- ” but he was gone.

Troubled, Tal went to Father Stuart and told him the story.

“Why does he look like that?” he asked, “Is he ill? Why did he run away? Isn’t he used to startled glances? And why did he give me that name, Dorath? Who is Dorath?”

Father Stuart couldn’t help chuckling.

“You’re a history student and you don’t know who Dorath is?” he said smiling, growing suddenly serious he said, “no one knows why Morgon was born the way he is. Father Matthew says his father was a wizard and he knows such things. I’m glad you told me this. I’ll excuse Morgon from lessons tomorrow. I hope you didn’t frighten him.”

“I frighten him father?”

“He is a great healer Tal, but it is not just skill with herbs that makes him so. Some magic lurks behind his eyes and be it for good or evil he fears it and he fears all who remind him of it. Be a good lad now and take a message to him will you?”

Three hours later Tal finally found Morgon. After searching the entire college and half of Brisgard he discovered that he had gone to his room. Tentatively, Tal knocked. He knocked again. Still no answer. He opened the door and stepped in. at first it seemed no one was there. The small room was a mess of papers, various herbs, and concoctions of an unknown nature. In a far corner Morgon sat with his head on his knees. Tal called his name but he didn’t stir.

“Morgon? I’m sorry I frightened you. I’ve been trying to find you all afternoon. I’ve a message from Father Stuart. He said you can skip lessons tomorrow if you need to. I have a letter.”

He waited for an answer but received none. He cleared a spot on Morgon’s desk and laid Father Stuart’s letter where Morgon would be sure to see it.

“I’ll leave the letter. I’m sorry Morgon. Really I am.”

Slowly he left and walked away regretfully. A few minutes later he heard someone running behind him.

“Tal, wait!” Morgon caught up with him. “Thank you.” He said breathlessly, “I wanted to thank you. You’re the first one who cared enough to, I mean, besides Father Matthew who,” he gestured helplessly. A real smile spread across his face. “Thank you.” He said softly. Tal held out his hand.

“You’re welcome.” He said, and became Morgon’s first friend.