For the first time in many years, Nimue was unsure of her course. In her heart she had always known the truth of the Father Abbot’s words—that her true vocation was Merlin. But she had never wanted to stand in the way of Merlin’s fight against Queen Mab, for Nimue believed as ardently as Merlin did that the violence and cruelty of the Old Ways no longer had any place in Britain. But now Arthur was coming home to reign over the land that Merlin had protected for so long.…
“Sister Nimue.”
“Father Giraldus,” Nimue said in surprise, dropping a deep curtsy as she turned.
Age had not been kind to the scholarly monk. His hair had thinned until it was only a scant half-circle around the back of his tonsure, and deep lines of dissatisfaction bracketed his mouth. Giraldus was one of those Christians who saw harm in everything outside his own narrow interpretation of the creed, and he had always condemned Nimue’s friendship with Merlin.
“I did not see you at prayers,” Giraldus went on, studying her closely.
The way he looks at me, you would think I’d been dancing naked in the meadow! Nimue thought rebelliously. But as always, she presented Giraldus with a serene, unruffled face.
“I was praying privately in my cell,” she said demurely, keeping her eyes cast down.
The other thing Father Giraldus disapproved of was immodesty in women—by which he meant any degree of self-respect. His sermons were always on the subject of the innate sinfulness of women, of how by Eve’s betrayal of Adam, Original Sin had come into the world. He was always trying to get the Healing Sisters disbanded, saying that it was dangerous to make so much use of the old healing knowledge of the Pagans, and that people should look to glory in their next life and not comfort in this one. Sometimes Nimue thought that Giraldus would be happiest in a world that had no women in it at all, if only he could figure out how to manage it.
She would have walked on, but he put out a hand to stop her.
“Then you have not heard the news,” he said. “The King is returning home.”
Nimue said nothing, but it was hardly necessary to encourage Giraldus.
“He has not found the Grail, but that is hardly surprising. The Grail will only reveal itself to the humble, the chaste, the pure of heart—and the King is a great sinner.”
“Arthur?” Nimue asked, startled out of her self-imposed silence. She had only seen the King once, but she’d had many letters about him from Merlin during Arthur’s boyhood.
“But he’s… that is, I have heard that he is very devout,” Nimue said piously.
“Hah!” Giraldus barked. “If he were truly devout, he would have found the Grail! No, he’s returning empty-handed, which is clear proof of God’s displeasure at his liberal ways. Perhaps we can hope that this rebuke will make him properly humble, so that he will take up the true task of the Crown, to purge the land of sinners and heretics.”
Nimue flashed him a startled glance. Giraldus made it sound as if he hoped that Arthur would take up the purges and crusades that had marked Vortigern’s terrible and bloody reign. “But surely—” she began.
“He has been soft for too long. It is the rot at the root—how can he call himself a good Christian when he has nurtured a Pagan wizard in his bosom since his tenderest years? No, he will see now that it is strength, not mercy, that is needed to sweep away the last of the Old Ways and make the land safe for good Christians once more.” He regarded her with a beady gaze that missed nothing. “And you should look to the state of your own soul as well, Nimue. Toleration is very well in its place, but carried to extremes it is nothing but a breeding ground for sin.”
That will never be your problem, Giraldus! Nimue thought irreverently. But years spent in Avalon had taught her humility, so she curtsied again, murmuring vague words of agreement.
Satisfied, Giraldus swept on. Nimue looked after him with troubled eyes. Giraldus traveled far and wide across Britain to preach the New Religion. If he also preached the things he had been saying to her just now, his words of hate and exclusionism would find ready hearers. There would no longer be a peaceful coexistence between the remnants of the Old Ways and the New Religion.
Merlin would no longer be safe. Though the King himself followed the New Religion, he had never persecuted those who followed the Old Ways. But with Giraldus and others like him seeing Arthur’s failure to return the Grail to Britain as a sign of Divine displeasure, public opinion would be against the King for the first time in his reign. Arthur was no Vortigern, to rule by terror and force a land and a people who hated and feared him. If he believed it was the true will of his people, Arthur would outlaw the Old Ways.
What would happen to Merlin then? He’d made many enemies through the years among those who were jealous of his influence over the King. They would be happy to take the opportunity to settle old scores with him… and Queen Mab, too, would take the opportunity to remove Merlin as an obstacle to her plans.
Merlin would not be safe.
Suddenly the bargain Mab had once offered her became terribly tempting.
“I’ll restore your beauty if you take Merlin away to a place I’ve created for you. You can live with him there to the end of your days.”
If Nimue took Merlin away to a place Mab had created, Mab would have no more reason to harm him. And those who followed Giraldus’s preachings would have no chance to hurt him, if Merlin were safely hidden away from the world.
She could save Merlin.
But at what cost?
Standing alone in the Abbey garden, Nimue felt her heart beat fast with fear.
Her Nibs was in much too good a mood to bode well for anyone. For as long as Frik could remember, the Queen of the Old Ways had only really been happy when she was hurting somebody, and entré nous, Frik just couldn’t seem to work up any interest in petty cruelty these days. He couldn’t remember when things like that had started to bore him—perhaps it was when Merlin had first become his student—but these days he found Her Majesty very tedious. He’d learned that the mortalfolk feared and loved, hurt and ached just as the Fair Folk did, and Frik had come to share their joys and pain. They had no magic. It wasn’t fair to torment them when there was no way for them to defend themselves. It wasn’t chivalrous, and Frik had developed an appreciation for chivalry over the years.
Not that it was going to do him any good. Frik stared broodingly out the window in the Great Hall of Tintagel at the waves pounding upon the rocks far below. Though he was here alone—Morgan was in her bower trying on all her dresses, a favorite pastime—he still wore the form of the dashing blond swashbuckler that had so captivated his lady fair. There were times now when Frik forgot it was not his true self—it was true for Morgan, and that was all that mattered.
“Frik!” Mab’s harsh voice rang out, and he jumped guiltily.
She’d appeared out of nowhere just the way she always had. She was dressed all in violet and rosy grey—bright colors, for Mab, and another indication of her exalted mood.
“Prepare the horses,” Mab said peremptorily. “We’re leaving. It is time for me to finish Mordred’s training.”
“And Morgan?” Frik asked cautiously. The fact that a boy needed his mother had always been Morgan’s only protection from Mab’s captiousness.
“Forget her!” Mab said contemptuously. “We don’t need her anymore.”
“Yes, of course,” Frik said.
He’d said the same words to Mab a thousand, a million times down through the years of their long association, but this time they meant something different than they had all the other times. This time they meant rebellion.
He would do it. He would break with Mab and stay with Morgan. The two of them could be happy together here. Mab wouldn’t care about Morgan anymore now that she had served Mab’s purpose, and she hadn’t cared about Frik for years. If he were lucky, she’d just go away and leave them alone together at Tintagel. These last few years with Morgan had been a time of true happiness for Frik, and he did not want to go back
to bowing and scraping to Mab and her mad plans. Let Mab do as she liked with the rest of Britain so long as she left the two of them to their happiness. Morgan would miss the chance to swagger about as the Queen Mother, but Frik could make that up to her. He knew it.
All he had to do was get Mab out of Tintagel with Mordred before Morgan noticed he was gone. Frik disappeared quickly before Mab could say anything further. What did he care about the rest of the world so long as he was able to stay with the woman he loved?
The woman he loved. Odd words from a gnome, and ones he’d never expected to say or even think, but true. And the most important thing just now was to protect Morgan. All Frik had to do was get Mab and Mordred away from the castle without Morgan noticing.
Quickly he saddled Mab’s white palfrey and Mordred’s bay gelding, all the while hoping desperately that Morgan would remain distracted by the contents of her closets a while longer. He led the two horses out to the foot of the steps and waited impatiently. How long could it take Mab to tell Mordred the day he’d always dreamed of was here? The boy was quick enough to do things Frik didn’t like.…
If Mab asked why Frik wasn’t coming with them, he’d think of something to tell her—that he had to clean up here, perhaps. But Frik didn’t really think she’d notice. She hadn’t noticed what he did for years—and they’d been good years, too. Frik wanted more of them.
As he fretted, Mab finally appeared, leading Mordred by the hand.
“Careful, my dear. The steps are very slippery.” The Queen of the Old Ways looked almost radiant in steel-grey and violet. A dark bride for a black honeymoon, and woe to Britain when it was over!
“Where are we going?” Mordred asked eagerly. In the dim afternoon light there was a gloating sensuality about his sullen beautiful features that made Frik shudder inwardly. Was it possible that he had once been as Mordred was now—heartless, sadistic? He pushed the thought away. It was not wise to be distracted around Mab.
“To my land, the Land of Magic,” Mab answered happily.
“Can I create monsters?” Mordred instantly demanded.
“Oh… if you wish,” Mab said.
“You’re so good to me, Auntie.”
Come on, come on! Frik thought. Why were they wasting time chattering when he needed them to mount up and ride off before Morgan noticed they were leaving and made one of her scenes?
But Mab could never bear to waste an opportunity to educate her protégé. Even now, she paused on the landing to explain herself to Mordred as she never had to Frik.
“It won’t be all fun and games. Arthur’s coming back—”
“Ah,” Mordred interrupted.
“—and there are things I have to teach you,” Mab said proudly.
“Is Mother coming?” Mordred asked.
“No,” Mab said. “We don’t need her anymore.”
They were almost at the horses. Frik trembled inwardly with apprehension, lest Mab should suspect his inner thoughts and punish him for them. And in that moment, his luck ran out.
“Mab!”
Morgan appeared in the doorway at the top of the steps just as Mab and Mordred reached the bottom. She was wearing her green gown with the crushed velvet over-robe—the one Frik liked best—and her beautiful features were contorted with innocent annoyance.
“Where are you taking my son?” she demanded obliviously.
“It’s time,” Mab said simply.
“Without a word? Without a by-your-leave?” Morgan was very conscious of the royal blood that flowed in her veins—her late father Gorlois, like Lord Lot and his son Gawain, stood almost as near to the throne as the King himself—and liked to receive the deference due to the mother of the future King. Mab was not handling her at all well.
But then, Mab didn’t care about handling people.
“I have to make him ready,” Mab said, with what passed in her for patience.
“You’re not taking him. He’s my son!” Morgan snapped.
Blissfully self-obsessed, Morgan had never understood Mab’s true nature. If she had—if she had been less self-centered—she would have retreated now. But Morgan was who she was, and it simply did not occur to her after all these years that anyone would treat her with less than the deference to which she had become accustomed.
Frik watched it all, frozen in horror, not knowing what to do. Interfering would only make matters worse.
“He’s mine!” Mab flared, turning on Morgan.
“I gave him love! You gave him toys!” Mordred’s mother shot back.
From the expression on her face, Morgan was belatedly coming to realize that having Mab for a fairy godmother might have been a bad idea; that perhaps Mordred’s childhood should have been arranged differently. But Morgan herself had been little more than a neglected child when Frik came into her life. She had never had the chance to develop the wisdom and maturity that could have saved her and her son.
“I gave him life!” Mab raged, and Frik hesitated, desperately torn between wanting somehow to save Morgan—and to save himself from Mab’s wrath. Then Morgan took the decision out of his hands.
“I’m never letting him go!” she said furiously, and took a step forward.
There was a tiny swirl of magic. And Morgan slipped, fell, rolled down the stairs and over the edge of the landing, to drop with crushing force to the flagstones of the courtyard.
“No!” Frik cried in horror.
“That was very clever, Auntie.”
Mordred’s voice came distantly to Frik’s ears as he ran to Morgan and knelt beside her, gazing into her face. Unconcerned, Mordred led Mab past Frik and the dying Morgan, heading toward the horses.
“My love, my love,” Frik said helplessly, cradling Morgan in his arms. She was dying, and as life left her battered body, the fairy glamour he had cast over her years before left her as well, leaving her plain and ugly and dressed in rags.
“Frik, my love, am I still beautiful?” Morgan asked painfully.
“Oh yes,” Frik said honestly. He did not care what Morgan looked like. He loved her with all his heart. “Beyond words, my love.”
He felt a tingle as Mab wrenched away the dashing illusion of handsomeness he had worn for so long, and though he tried, he could not keep himself from asking: “Am I?”
“Oh, yes,” Morgan assured him, gazing clear-eyed into her lover’s face. “Beyond words.…”
Gently Frik bent to kiss her one last time, and as he did, he felt the spirit leave her body, carrying Morgan le Fay where he could never go, to a land where she would always be young and beautiful and loved.
She was dead.
Fury filled him, blotting out fear and self-preservation for the first time in the uncounted centuries of his existence. He got to his feet and turned toward Mab, shaking with rage and grief.
“You killed her!” he shouted.
“Perhaps she just slipped,” Mab said archly. Mordred had just assisted her into the saddle and now turned away to mount his own steed. She could not conceal her pleasure that the day she had waited so long for had come, and Morgan’s death did nothing to diminish her happiness.
“In any case, what does it matter, Frik? You’re holding us up. We have a lot to do,” she said impatiently. No vestige of human emotion was present on Mab’s porcelain countenance.
“Mab, you evil old crone! May God have mercy on your soul! He obviously didn’t have any on the rest of you!” Frik raged.
“Why is everyone suddenly against me?” she said plaintively, and shrugged, coming to a quick decision. “Frik, I’m leaving you with your misery and pain—but with no more magic powers! Now you’ll wander through the world ugly and alone, just as if you were human.”
She turned her horse toward the gate.
“Good-bye, Frik, I’ll miss you,” Mordred said good-naturedly. “No I won’t,” he added with a mocking grin, and urged his horse after Mab’s. “Why didn’t you kill him, Auntie Mab?” Mordred asked. Frik could hear his voice quite plainly.
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“Because that’s what he wanted me to do,” Mab answered.
Frik stood in the courtyard beside Morgan’s body, watching them go. The two riders vanished into the mist, still talking. And then even their voices were gone, and he was alone.
For centuries he had followed Mab’s orders and played his own cruel games without thinking—without caring—about the pain they had caused. He had felt a little sorry for Merlin when the boy had been his pupil, it was true, but he had done nothing to help him when he should have. And so, in the end, Frik had been unable to protect Morgan, the woman he loved.
Frik sank down beside her body and wailed his grief.
Enchantment had been all that held Tintagel together for years, and now that the magic was gone it took everything with it. The servants reverted to mice and rabbits and gulls, the fine furniture to driftwood and sea-wrack, and all of Morgan’s toys and jewels to bits of colored glass and silver paper. Her fine gowns vanished as though they’d never been, and when everything else had vanished, even the walls and roof began to crumble, rotting away with the neglect that magic had concealed.
And as the castle crumbled away, the sea-mist thickened, and for the first time in many long years, it began to rain.
The rain soaked Frik to the bone, chilling him and making him aware of just how helpless and ridiculous a figure he presented. Even his grief and anger could not distract him from his own discomfort, and at last he got stiffly to his feet, gathered up Morgan’s chill body, and made his way slowly up the stairs once more.
At the top he looked down, longingly, at the stones of the courtyard. He was mortal now. How sweet it would be to fling himself down from here and gain sweet and eternal peace.
But no.
There was something he must do first. He did not know how he would manage, when those more powerful and more clever had failed, but Frik vowed that before he died he would see Mab utterly defeated.
He carried Morgan inside, and spent the rest of the day collecting enough wood from the wrecked remains of the furniture to build her a funeral pyre in the center of the Great Hall. There were still scraps of bread and cheese about—for no matter what else had been illusion, the food had been real—and Frik made a meager meal before settling in to keep vigil beside Morgan’s body. Most of the roof of the Great Hall had crumbled away, but there was enough left to shelter him.
The End of Magic Page 8
