“My mind is made up, Merlin. The Grail is basic to Britain’s spiritual well-being. Until it is found, nothing else matters. And only when it has been found will I be worthy of my queen,” Arthur told him firmly.
Merlin had heard rumors that Arthur and his new Queen slept apart, but he had not had the heart to seek confirmation of them. He had feared the worst, and it seemed to be true: betrayed by Morgan le Fay, Arthur did not believe in his own worthiness to rule.
As the days passed, Merlin realized that nothing he could do would change Arthur’s mind. He could only trust that Arthur’s instincts were sound, and do what he could to support Arthur’s wishes. And so, Merlin’s next course of action was clear: he must go to see Morgan le Fay, and learn what he could of her plans for the future.
As he rode up to the gates of Tintagel Keep on that late October day, Merlin saw that the castle’s towers were enshrouded in an enchanted mist that shielded Tintagel from the world. If Arthur had ever searched for his half-sister, he would have searched in vain. Only someone versed in the Old Ways could penetrate this wall of witchery and gain the keep.
As he guided Sir Rupert through the gates, Merlin discerned something he had not sensed for many years. The very air was filled with magic, just as that of Mab’s domain had been.
He dismounted in the courtyard, and stablehands came to take Sir Rupert. With his otherworld Sight, Merlin could see what they really were—not human men, but mice transformed by magic into servants. They did not wear, as one might expect Morgan’s servants to, the silver and green livery of the Duchy of Cornwall. Instead, their tabards were black, with a silver eclipse upon the breast.
The sign he had seen in his vision.
With a sinking heart, Merlin went to call upon the mistress of Tintagel Keep.
Morgan le Fay was happier than she had ever been in her life. She had everything she could ever have wanted—a dashing cavalier to keep her company, clothes and jewels and wealth beyond price, and a beautiful, perfect, child.
“Mordred,” she cooed to the redheaded toddler seated with her on the bearskin rug before the fire. “My little Mordred.”
The child crowed and clapped his hands. Though he had been born only a few months ago, Mordred was already a well-grown toddler. Magic had seen to that, the same magic that had brought Morgan so many good things.
At that moment a lady’s maid—she had previously been, if Morgan recalled correctly, a chicken—opened the door to the Great Hall. “Merlin is here to see you, my lady.”
Merlin! Queen Mab had promised Morgan that she would be able to humble the wizard who had destroyed her family. Let him see that he had failed to destroy her.
“Send him in,” Morgan said disdainfully. “You hear that, Mordred?” Morgan said to her child. “There’s a wizard come to see us. Won’t that be fun?”
As soon as Merlin entered the Great Hall he received another unpleasant shock. It had only been a year and some months since the aftermath of Badon Hill. The child Arthur had begotten should still be in swaddling clothes. Instead, he was the size of a child nearly two. Oh, Mab had meddled most terribly in Morgan’s life!
“My lady Morgan,” Merlin said with grave courtesy. “Do you know why I’m here?”
“Say hello to my son, Mordred,” Morgan interrupted haughtily. The light from the windows fell full upon her face where she knelt on the fur beside her son, and Merlin saw Morgan’s compensation for her aid in Mab’s wickedness. When he’d last seen her, she’d been an ugly child. Now she was beautiful as only those granted fairy gifts could be.
The unease he had felt riding up to Tintagel’s walls ripened into horror. Mab did not bestow her gifts lightly, but she had lavished magic upon Morgan and Tintagel. What measureless repayment of her favors did she anticipate—and what did Morgan have?
“Master Mordred,” Merlin said with a tiny bow. The auburn-haired child was dressed in a tunic the color of dried blood. Silvery symbols of the Old Ways gleamed through the fabric, and the scent of magic was strong in the air.
Mordred made a face at Merlin and stuck out his tongue, jeering impudently.
“That was rude, Mordred,” his mother admonished him dotingly. “You can do anything you like, but you must never be rude! ‘Rude’ is being weak.” She got to her feet and came toward her guest. “You were saying, Merlin?” Morgan said insolently.
“Do you know why I’m here?” Merlin repeated patiently.
“H’m.” Morgan pretended to think deeply. “It has to do with my son. Hasn’t he grown?” She smiled sweetly.
“Yes he has—and more than is natural, I’m sorry to say.”
“Yes of course: it’s magic,” Morgan said happily. No regret was visible in her beautiful eyes.
Was this how his own life would have gone if Merlin had not had Ambrosia to care for him, teach him, love him? If Blaise and Herne—and Bran and all the other animals of the forest—had not been there to guide his first stirrings toward a code of ethics and morality? What would he have become without them, once Mab had begun to guide him in the ways of magic?
What would little Mordred become now? Genuine concern for the boy filled Merlin’s next words.
“Morgan, I beg you. For the sake of the country, you must not teach him the Old Ways.”
Now Morgan’s facade of superior politeness shattered. Her face was contorted with fury. “This country means nothing to me!” she raged. “A bastard sits on the throne that should be mine—a bastard begotten in blood when his father, Uther, seduced my mother and killed my father!”
“It’s the future that I’m thinking of,” Merlin said.
“You would think of the future, Merlin,” Morgan mocked, “because the past is too painful. You chose Uther to be king; you helped him seduce my mother and destroy me. In the end, you begot Mordred just as surely as Queen Mab and Arthur!”
How Morgan’s words hurt—it was as if she could see into his secret soul and touch on all the most painful memories.
“I know that, but I can live with it,” Merlin said quietly. If he had not given in to Uther and done what he wished, the whole country would have been drowned in blood, and Arthur would never have been born. Arthur’s victory paid for all the transgressions of Merlin’s life.
“Just as you’ll have to live with the fact that Mordred will be king,” Morgan cooed poisonously.
A child raised and molded by Mab, created out of the Old Ways to be its tool and hers? “No,” Merlin said soberly, “that can never be.”
Mordred, growing tired of listening to the adults talk, wandered over to the long table that stood in the center of the Great Hall. There was a knife upon the table, its bronze blade shining brightly in the sun. With an intent look upon his face, Mordred grasped the knife in his chubby hands, and then flung it with preternatural strength toward his mother’s visitor.
Merlin caught it bare inches from his heart, but if Morgan was alarmed at Mordred’s behavior, she showed no sign of it. She knelt beside Mordred and kissed him upon the cheek.
“Mordred, Merlin is a guest,” she said with arch reproof. “Don’t be naughty. He just wants attention,” she said in an aside to Merlin. “You’ll get all the attention you want when you’re king, dear. And he will be, Merlin,” Morgan added. “He’s Arthur’s son.”
But not the son of Arthur’s wife, and Britain is now a Christian realm; such matters as legitimacy will mean more to the people with each passing year As they did to your father, Morgan—Gorlois was a staunch defender of the new faith. How he hated it that Uther accepted my help; I think it was that, more than Uther’s lust for Igraine, that drove him into open rebellion. …
“What about the Old Ways?” Merlin asked Morgan. You are Gorlois’s daughter, and he lived every day of his life in concern for his immortal soul. Surely what you have done to get Mordred weighs heavily on your soul as well?
“You’re in no position to lecture me on what I can or cannot do,” Morgan said haughtily, rising to her feet. “The
Old Ways have been good to me. They’ve given me a son and made me beautiful.”
“Oh, Morgan.” Merlin crossed to where she stood and cupped her face in his hands. “It’s only an illusion.”
She stared up at him, her eyes mocking and bitter. “Beauty is always an illusion, Merlin. Didn’t you know that?”
Suddenly there was a grinding shattering sound. Merlin whirled in the direction it came from, and as he watched, Mab and Frik pushed through the door in a shower of splinters.
“We thought we’d come in the traditional way, through the door,” Frik said.
“It’s traditional to open it first,” Merlin said dryly.
“Mordred, look who’s here! Your Auntie Mab and Uncle Frik,” Morgan cried delightedly.
It was obviously not the first time Mab and Frik had visited Tintagel Keep. With a cry of delight, Mordred flung himself upon Mab, who swung him around and around, cackling with delight. Inside himself, Merlin shuddered. It was like watching a baby play with a cobra—only it was Mordred’s soul that was in danger, not his life. All the aversion he felt for Mab and the Old Ways was reborn anew as he watched her with Mordred. The Queen of the Old Ways was a poisonous flower—nothing wholesome could flourish in her shadow.
And to see her here, flaunting her welcome at Tintagel, so openly a presence in Morgan’s life, and the child’s. …
“It’s been ages, Merlin,” Frik said. He’d changed his gnomish form from that of the pedantic scholar Merlin remembered. Now Frik was tall and handsome, with flowing blond hair and a sword upon his hip. “Do you ever think of your old school where I tried to teach you the fundamentals of magic?” Frik crossed to Morgan and kissed her hand. She hung on his arm, staring triumphantly at Merlin.
“He could have been my star pupil,” Frik confided to Morgan, “but he proved …”
“Disappointing,” Mab hissed. “But you won’t, will you, Mordred?” The baby giggled in delight.
“Isn’t he handsome?” Morgan gloated.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Frik said, with a little of his old schoolroom pendantry showing through the swaggering gallant. “What does that mean? I’ve never really understood the phrase.”
Morgan laughed and kissed him.
Mab had brought little Mordred a golden crown and scepter, and a brown-and-white pony just his size. “Toys, Mordred,” she said, placing the crown upon his head and lifting him onto the pony. “Auntie always brings you lots of lovely toys. …”
“You see, Merlin?” Morgan said. “You took my family away from me, and now I have a new one.” Frik kissed her hand, and then her wrist, playing the courtly lover.
“It won’t last, Morgan,” Merlin warned desperately. He knew Mab’s tricks—she and Frik could be charming when they chose, but it was all an act, a show put on until the need for it was past.
“Nothing does,” Morgan said simply.
Merlin took one last look around the room—the amorous lovers, Mab doting on her hellborn babe—and turned to go. There was nothing he could do here. It was too late. Mab had made herself too completely at home. Morgan was selfishly blind to the consequences of her liaison.
“Don’t you see it—feel it?” Mab said. “I’m winning, Merlin! I have the precious gift of patience; it will be years before Mordred can claim the throne but I can wait. Time means nothing to me!”
If that were really true, then Mab would not plot so desperately to retain her power. But just as time was running out for Mab, it was also running out for Arthur’s golden city. While Arthur quested for the Grail, Morgan and her son would be free to work their mischief freely in Britain. If Arthur could not be persuaded to forsake his quest—if he were gone when Mordred reached out for the throne—then there was nothing Merlin could do to save Camelot.
Nothing.
“You’ll be the death of Arthur and the end of all poor Merlin’s dreams, won’t you, my sweetie?” Mab cooed to the baby.
Merlin turned and stalked from the room.
“Oh, look!” Morgan cried. “The big bad wizard can’t do a thing! Run, Wizard!” she cried, and the others took up the chant: “Run, run, run—”
Merlin slammed the door behind him, cutting off their mocking laughter.
Just as it had been the last time Morgan was involved, Merlin’s business with the king was urgent, but this time he made sure not to burst into an important council. If Mordred’s existence were to become public knowledge, it would undo all of Arthur’s good works before they even began.
Merlin found Arthur in the royal mews, among his birds of prey. The Master of Hawks was on an errand elsewhere, and Arthur was alone. All around him, hawks and falcons huddled on their perches, the bright leather of their hoods like jewels in the musty dimness.
“Your Majesty?” Merlin said.
“Merlin!” Arthur turned around, his smile welcoming. It faded as he studied Merlin’s face. “You look tired.”
“I have had some … difficult news.” Merlin hesitated. Should he tell Arthur what he had learned? He must. It was secrecy that had doomed them all in the first place. Arthur, of all men, deserved to know the whole truth. “I have seen your son. His name is Mordred.”
Arthur flinched at the words. Merlin could see the hopeful need in his eyes, the desire to ask about Mordred. Arthur was by nature a loving man, and if only things had been different, he could have welcomed Mordred into his life eagerly.
“I … see,” Arthur said at last. “Merlin, what have you come to say to me?”
“I have come to ask you—no, to beg you—put off this quest until matters here in Britain are more settled; until you have an heir—”
“I have an heir,” Arthur said bitterly. “Mordred, begotten in sin and treachery, out of the Old Ways. There can be no other heir to my crown until the Grail is found. When I have achieved it, the Grail will wash me clean of all sin and restore the land.”
Arthur’s grey eyes stared levelly into Merlin’s, as if to try to convince him by that alone of how certain Arthur was of the truth of his words. But it was not necessary. If this was what Arthur believed, then it was true. If he would not consummate his marriage to the queen while the weight of his sin lay so heavily upon him, he would beget no other child than Mordred.
“You told me once,” Merlin said, “that you did not believe you could be condemned for all eternity for one mistake.”
“God will not condemn me,” Arthur said, “but I am not alone in this sin. There is Morgan, and now Mordred. I seek the Grail for them as well as for Britain, so that we can all escape the failures of the past into a joyous future of hope. Only when the Grail is returned to Britain will I know that God has truly cleansed us all.”
Merlin’s shoulders slumped. Arthur was as fixed in his course as Morgan was in hers. There was no hope of turning Arthur from his quest—and the worst of it was, this journey was inspired by the best of reasons, the purest idealism. How could Merlin argue against it, when to do so would be to argue against every lesson he had ever taught to Arthur?
“I suppose you are right, Sire. And I suppose I had better go and seek you a perfect champion, someone who will guard the kingdom while you are far away.”
Once again Merlin stood upon the shore of the Enchanted Lake. He had come here in many seasons, but never before in autumn. The birches on the shores of the lake were crowned with gold, and the very blueness of the sky seemed to speak of the impermanence of all things. Autumn was the dying time, when the land prepared itself for the long sleep that was both a death and a rebirth.
Out on the lake some ducks, about to embark upon their migration southward, bobbed upon the surface. A gentle touch of Merlin’s magic set them diving beneath the chop. A moment later, the Lady of the Lake appeared from beneath the surface of the water.
It was the first time Merlin had seen her since he had come to beg Excalibur from her many years ago, and it seemed to him that her beauty was more ethereal, less of this world, than it had ever seemed before.
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br /> “Merlin?” she whispered, and her silvery voice echoed back from the wind and the water. “You’re troubled again?”
Merlin smiled ruefully. “It’s still the same cry for help, Lady. Your sister, Mab, grows more powerful.”
“And I grow weaker,” the Lady of the Lake sighed. Her hands moved gently at her sides, holding her position in the lake of air. Her collar of shining fish flitted about her throat like tiny spots of light.
“What can I do?” Merlin asked urgently. “I have to find a man to guard the throne while Arthur goes questing for the Holy Grail. The temptation will be to seize the crown while he’s gone.”
“You need a man pure in heart,” the Lady of the Lake told him gently.
“I’ve tried to find him before,” Merlin said. “He doesn’t exist.”
The Lady of the Lake blinked slowly as she regarded him from glowing blue eyes. In a voice even fainter than before she told him, “The answer is at Joyous Gard. My ship will take you. …”
As Merlin watched, the silvery figure shimmered out of sight. And in the distance, Merlin saw a ship sailing toward him across the lake.
It was like and yet unlike the ship that had carried the young Merlin to the Land of Magic so many years ago. This slender craft had a hull the same pale blue as the Lake, and a tall mast with a painted sail. From these hints, Merlin knew that Joyous Gard was far away. But the Lady of the Lake had always stood his friend. Without hesitation, Merlin climbed into the boat and set sail.
* * *
The ship sailed into the bank of mist that was a gateway between worlds, and when it came out again, there was no land to be seen in any direction and the air smelled of the open sea. The bright sun of summer, and not the cool light of autumn, beat down upon Merlin, warming his bones, and Merlin realized that the boat sailed not only through space but through time, to that enchanted land, the future. It was as if he voyaged through a dream and more than a dream—a dream of a dream. One day they’ll describe me, Arthur, Guinevere, and Camelot as a dream, he thought to himself. A shimmering vision danced before his eyes, of Joyous Gard with its golden towers, and Merlin knew that this dream was alive, as all good dreams are. That no matter what the future held, Arthur’s dream would live as well.
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