“You’re near me now,” she answered.
She moved closer, as if she would embrace him there, in front of everyone.
“It’s dangerous,” he whispered, warning her with the last of his strength. Her fingers sought his, and clung.
“Yes,” Guinevere whispered.
Her face was turned toward him like a flower to the sun, and in that moment nothing mattered as much to Sir Lancelot as answering that unspoken longing. Her fingers trembled in his clasp and he could smell the faint soft scent of roses from her hair.
“My lady? My lady?” Merlin’s voice, calling from the other chamber, cut between them like Excalibur’s unyielding blade.
“Perhaps we should be grateful for my shadow,” Guinevere said sadly. She stepped reluctantly away from Lancelot.
He watched her go, knowing that he loved her as he had loved no other woman in all his life, even his wife. Knowing that there was nothing he could do about his love except pray for the strength not to fall further, not to succumb to the appeal that shone from Guinevere’s beautiful eyes.
And this battle, too, Lancelot was destined to lose.
Merlin watched Guinevere walk toward him. He knew it was useless to try, but he felt he had to save Lancelot and Guinevere from themselves—and the horror they could bring down on the kingdom.
They were truly in love. That was the saddest part of all. Lancelot loved his wife and son, but they were far away. And more than he loved either of them, Merlin knew, Lancelot loved being needed.
And Guinevere… she had married Arthur for honor, and duty, but he had left before she could grow to love him. In the years Arthur had been gone, Guinevere had grown from a gawky child into a loving woman, and her love sought an outlet just as spring flowers sought the sun. Lancelot was worthy of her love, and loved her in return. If only each of them were not married to someone else!
Merlin must find some way to warn Guinevere that others saw what he did, that she favored Lancelot too much. But she was the queen—Merlin could not call her to account as though she were an errant waiting-maid. The Queen would resent that, and rightly so. He must be subtle, and amuse Guinevere as well as making her think.
He was a wizard, after all.
When Guinevere reached him, Merlin was leaning against the wall, his ear pressed to its painted surface and an intent expression upon his face. She regarded him with curiosity mixed with a hint of her usual wariness.
“What’s wrong, Merlin?” she asked.
Merlin regarded her mysteriously. “The walls are whispering, Guinevere. Can’t you hear them?”
A proper daughter of the New Religion would have shied away from the mere suggestion of such animistic practices, but the Queen had only converted when her father and brothers had, after the Battle of Badon Hill. She was intrigued rather than scandalized, and pressed her ear against the painted plaster, curiosity overcoming her distrust of Merlin. But she heard nothing.
“No,” she answered. She straightened and looked at him expectantly. “What do they say?” she asked, smiling.
“That you’re too friendly with Sir Lancelot.”
Guinevere’s smile turned hard. “Do you believe such whispers, Merlin?”
She knew as well as he did that there were those who were jealous of her place as Queen. There had been gossip since before she’d married Arthur, all of it unfounded.
Until now?
“No,” Merlin said placatingly. “But I’ve seen you two look at each other.” And what I have seen, others can see also. Beware, my lady!
She took a deep breath and fixed Merlin with a challenging stare. “I don’t care what others think. I’m the Queen.” She nodded to herself, as if to indicate that the matter was settled and no more could be said.
She was so young, so painfully conscious of her Queenly dignity!
“That is why you must take special care,” Merlin said imploringly. He closed the distance between them. “I can’t protect you in this matter.” He stood over her, staring down into her eyes, willing her to heed his warning. I will not lie for you, or connive with you to hide your crimes. I did that for Uther and caused the death of many good men. Never again!
Guinevere looked away, her jaw set into a stubborn and inflexible line. Merlin walked on, leaving her standing there. There was nothing else he could do. He could not order her to listen to him. She was the Queen. She was ruled by her pride.
Pride, always pride. Arthur’s, in thinking he must be the one to achieve the Grail; Guinevere’s, in thinking that no matter what her actions are, they cannot be condemned; mine, in thinking there is anything I can do to save those I love. What will be, is. It is written in the Book of Fate, and no mortal hand may change what is written there.…
Guinevere watched Merlin go, her eyes angry and troubled. Part of her was filled with fury at the way Merlin dared to upbraid her as though he were the King, and she but a lowly subject.
Another part of her was angry because she knew he was right. She was the Queen. She did not rule in her own right, but as Arthur’s consort. Her actions must always be above reproach. To take the Royal Champion as her lover would be to betray her husband, and to lower herself in the esteem of all their people.
But she loved Lanchelot. He made her feel strong and self-assured for the first time in her entire life. Without him she was not whole. To reject her feelings for him was to betray herself. How could that be better than betraying Arthur? The King was far away and might never return. How could what she did matter to him when he was so far away?
There was no simple answer.
All Merlin does is tell me to “beware”—he does not tell me what I should do, or how I should find the strength to do it. How can he know what it is to burn with love? He is a wizard; he has never loved!
Behind her, Guinevere heard Lancelot lecturing Master Wancallant. She turned and walked toward the sound of his voice.
If I sin, let it be in doing, rather than in doing nothing. I was not born to be a nun, and wall myself up within a holy place, raising my voice in prayer.
Anoeth was a land of grey mist and the blackened stumps of stark, twisted trees that reached out of the mist like hands from the grave. This was the land of Death and Winter, ruled over by its own grim and terrifying king, Idath.
Once, long ago, Idath had been the darkness to balance Mab’s light. When the Wheel of the Year turned, spinning the seasons from summer to winter, Idath was there to take up the weak who fell to winter’s cruel sharpness, and convey them to his own realm to await rebirth into the world once more.
But as the years had passed, bringing the New Religion to Britain to erode the power of the Old Ways, Mab’s own nature had darkened, until Lord Idath seemed less to be her dark counterpart than a faint reflection of her own desolation. Once this grey wasteland had seemed alien to her. Now it only seemed to be a fitting backdrop to her battle.
We have all changed, and been changed. How can we fight to regain what is rightfully ours when even the true memory of it has passed away? she wondered bleakly.
Far ahead she could see Idath’s ring-shaped castle, its eight tall towers surrounding the octagonal center courtyard. Within its walls was that which she sought. Mist coiled about her, rising up from the edges of the path. Mab quickened her pace as she walked the ghost road that led to Idath’s stronghold. Soon she stood before the high walls of the eight-sided castle nestled among the Mountains of the Moon. Two gates pierced its walls. They were carved in elaborate knots and spirals and whorls, until even Mab grew dizzy following all the convolutions of the tangle. One set was the translucent golden color of horn, the other the glistening cream of ivory. Mab chose the ivory gate and hammered on it with her small fists.
“Let me in!” Mab shouted.
“Who summons me?” Lord Idath demanded, as the gate swung wide. He was tall and gaunt, dressed all in grey and wearing a heavy bronze helmet crowned with branching antlers. His eyes glowed a feral red. He was the Lord of the Wild H
unt, and even though the people turned to the New Religion, Idath would not be forgotten so long as Mankind feared the shadow at midnight.
“I summon you, Lord of Winter,” Mab answered boldly.
“It has been many years since you sought me out,” Idath said in his slow deep voice. “Vortigern… Merlin… your champions have failed you, one by one.”
“I have a new champion who will not fail,” Mab said proudly. “I will ensure it. I will give him Caliban. Now let me pass.”
“You dare much, Madame,” Idath said, stepping back to allow her to pass into his domain. “Caliban was forged at the beginning of time to be a match for Excalibur. Each warrior who has wielded it has brought an end to an age in blood and fire. Is that what you want? This is the last boon you may ever ask of me, Queen of the Old Ways. Choose well.”
“I want victory!” Mab hissed. “And I will pay any price to get it. Show me the sword!”
Idath regarded her for a long moment, then turned away, his dark cloak swirling around him like shadows. Mab followed him as he walked across the courtyard and into the eight-sided castle. The labyrinthine corridors were dim and twisted, but Idath navigated them without difficulty, and Mab hurried to keep up with him.
At last he stopped before a door made of black iron, inlaid with a design of untarnishing silver.
“Behind this door lies what you seek, Queen Mab,” Idath said.
She put her hand on the door. “It’s locked,” Mab said accusingly.
Idath held out his hand. On his gloved palm lay a key, its metal green with age and neglect. “Take this, and do what you will, Mab. It will link my domain and yours, so that you may come and go here as you will.”
“And Caliban is here?” Mab demanded.
“In its fashion,” Idath answered, and then before her eyes he slowly faded away, until he was one with the shadows of his stronghold. “Have a care what you do, Queen of the Old Ways.…” His voice echoed through the corridor like the howling of the winter wind.
Mab turned away with a hiss of impatience. Let others pretend that the Old Laws must still be observed! She knew better. All that mattered was victory. And armed with Caliban, Mordred would be invincible.
She touched the key to the door, and it swung open.
A lake of fire filled all the space beyond the doorway. Bright and ever-burning, it rippled and surged, its soft hissing making a dull cushion of sound. The brightness of it hurt even Mab’s eyes. The smoke of its burning cast a dark pall over the sky above, the flames reflected from the smoke turning the whole world red.
Mab peered into the brightness. Somewhere out there in the distance was a glimmer that was not fire.
Caliban.
Mab stepped out into the flames. The uprush of heated air blew her gossamer draperies back from her body, giving them the appearance of great filmy wings. But no matter how insubstantial her robes or her frail body, Mab did not burn. She was an elemental force, as unchanging as the stones and the stars. Only the thoughts of Men could affect her.
As she passed through the veils of flame, she at last saw what she sought. In the center of the lake of fire at the heart of Idath’s domain, there was a pillar of ice. It jutted up out of the lake, unmelting. Cold radiated from the ice as heat did from the fire, and the pillar was surrounded by mist where the two elements met. Moisture beaded on the surface of the ice for a few moments before becoming steam, but though the ice was surrounded by a turbulent fog, it was not consumed.
When Mab reached the ice-pillar she placed a hand on its frosty surface. The film of water on the surface of the ice made it slicker than glass, but Mab held her hand steadily against the pillar. Deep inside, she could see Caliban.
Where Excalibur was bright and shining, the surface of Caliban’s blade was pitted and dull, the ugly grey of ash. Its black hilt was starkly plain, its only adornment a depiction of a comet cut crudely into the hilt. Beyond that, it bore nothing that might hint where its allegiance lay, for Caliban had only one purpose. It was the destroyer of ages, and when it was carried into battle, an epoch would pass away.
Soon you will be free, my pretty. What a toy you will make for my Mordred. He so enjoys it when I bring him toys.…
Mab gazed upon the black sword for a moment longer before turning away and crossing the lake of fire once more. She reached the corridor and carefully locked the door behind her. When she turned, she was in her own palace in the Land of Magic. Just as Idath had promised her, the key gave her the ability to come and go as she wished in that part of Idath’s domain.
Soon the time would come when Mordred would be ready to receive this gift.
Then Camelot would fall.
In fact, Camelot was falling now.
Merlin lay in his narrow bed in his cottage at the edge of the village and writhed in uneasy sleep. He dreamed of dragons. Not the symbolic dragons, red and white, that had once held Britain’s future between them, nor the fearsome beast of flesh and magic that had nearly ended Nimue’s life before he had slain it so many years ago.
No, the dragon that he dreamed of now was a creature of shadows, a dragon born out of the darkness of the eclipse. Its eyes were the color of mirrors, and where it breathed its deadly exhalations, the grass crumbled to dust and the trees to ash, leaving nothing behind but a wasteland.
Beware, Merlin of Britain! Beware… beware…
He heard a boy’s mocking laughter, and saw again the figure he had glimpsed in previous visions: a bat-winged knight who bore upon his chest the sign of the eclipse.
I’m coming for you, Merlin, it seemed to say. I will destroy all that you have given your life to create. Tonight is your last chance to stop me—if you only knew what to do. But you don’t. Once again you have failed your trust. It’s happening right now. Here. In Camelot. And you don’t know what to do.…
The Knight of the Eclipse raised his sword in salute. It was black and pitted, as if with centuries of corrosion, and as he lifted it the blade began to shimmer, to flow and to change, and the bat-winged knight’s form flowed and changed as well, becoming a dragon of shadows in a lake of fire.
Merlin sat up with a gasp, looking wildly into the darkness. His heart beat wildly, and it seemed almost as if he could taste the evil of the figure in his vision. Never had one of his visions carried with it such a weight of fear.
Merlin ran his hands through his hair. He reached for his staff and got stiffly to his feet, gazing out his window in the direction of Camelot. All was hushed, silent, and dark, yet Merlin still feared. He was wizard and prophet, and his dreams never lied. There was danger abroad in the peaceful night, danger to Arthur and to Britain both.
Merlin peered into the darkness until his eyes ached, yet he saw nothing. He did not need more proof that sometimes a wizard was as powerless as an ordinary mortal.
Merlin rubbed his eyes tiredly. Whatever danger Britain faced tonight, Merlin was powerless to avert it. He could only hope to recognize its aftermath, and do what he could to set things right.
But sometimes it seemed that he could do so very little.
It was late on a warm spring night, and the castle and town of Camelot were silent. The Queen lay abed but not asleep.
Guinevere was waiting, just as she had waited all the days of her life, for the moment that would transform her, give her a purpose and a place in the world, make her real. Once she had looked to her marriage to provide that, but she knew now that this had been a foolish hope. Arthur did not care for her. All he cared about was the Grail. He had forsaken her.
Restless, she threw back the covers and got to her feet. A small vigil light burned before a statue of the Blessed Virgin in the corner of her bedchamber. Guinevere turned toward the icon and tried to pray, but in her thoughts the words of the Litany were brushed aside by older, darker prayers.
To Epona, mother of mares, guardian of the Iceni. To Melusine All-Mother, who watched over the women of Britain. Goddesses of fruitfulness, of love, of children.
H
elp me…
Since the first day she had seen him at the tourney, Lancelot’s presence had brought Guinevere a peace and joy she had never believed could exist. How could it be right for them to be forced apart when she longed for him as much as he desired her? Arthur’s love was a pale and distant thing in comparison. Arthur was the perfect golden savior of Britain. What need could such a man have for a wife?
But Lancelot was human, and flawed, and because of that, she loved him. Guinevere cherished each of his faults—his impatience, his pride—for they made him all the more human, and dearer to her for his simple humanity.
But she could not have him. She was the King’s wife, her chastity an offering to the New Religion. To love outside her marriage bonds was a great sin, an offense against God.
I do not care! Where was God when I was betrothed to Arthur, when Arthur left me for the Grail? If Arthur prefers God to me, then he has broken his oaths first, and I am free.…
There was a sound behind her, from the doorway. Guinevere turned, and saw what she had somehow expected to see. Lancelot was standing there in the doorway.
He wore a white linen tunic embroidered in dark blue and the plain leather belt of his knighthood.
“You look… beautiful,” he said.
Guinevere turned away. No one had ever loved her as Lancelot did, she knew that in her soul. She knew what would happen if she did not send him away at once. She longed for it to happen, even as she knew it was wrong, that it would cause nothing but suffering and disaster. She was the Queen. She was held to a higher standard than ordinary mortals. What could be excused in them could not be excused in her.
“I should jump,” she said in a trembling voice. “Throw myself from the battlements.”
“Then I’ll jump, too,” Lancelot said, close behind her. He put his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. She could feel the tremors in his body as they passed from his flesh to hers. “I can’t live without you,” he whispered.
The End of Magic Page 4
