by Judith Tarr
Turpin had told the truth. He was home, as Roland was. This was his earth, this sky his sky; and the Grail was singing in his bones.
Sarissa opened her arms. Roland went to them as ship to haven; as lord to his own land. The stars bloomed overhead. The lights of the castle glimmered above them. Down in the camp, a lone clear voice was singing. It was nigh as pure and nigh as sweet as the Grail itself.
Hand in hand as they had ridden out to the crowning, they walked across the bridge. The castle was empty, all its people gone to the feasting. The courts were dim, the passages silent.
Roland slid a glance sidewise. Sarissa’s glance met it. Hers was as wicked as his.
All alone, but for the Grail. Solitude—pure and wonderful. A flick of power shut the gate. A second raised wards that would stand till dawn.
Morning would wake them to rank and dignity and duty, king and queen in the kingdom of the Grail. Tonight was their own. Still hand in hand, laughing like wild children, they danced through the halls of Carbonek.
ENVOI
CARBONEK
On a bright morning of summer in the kingdom of Montsalvat, a stranger came to the castle of the Grail.
Not many passed by that road. The mortal world had withdrawn since the old enemy was destroyed. Once the Franks had been sent back with their prince, the way had grown more difficult, the lands between more remote and forbidding. There was irony in it, but safety, too. The Grail would not again suffer such an enemy.
And yet here was a stranger, alive and well and apparently untroubled by the difficulties of the journey. He traveled alone, like a pilgrim or a vagrant, but his clothes were of fine quality, his horse well bred and well kept, and there was a sword at his side, worn with the ease of a man who had long ridden armed.
Sarissa happened to be passing by the gate when he asked for admittance. She sensed no danger in him. Curiosity brought her down from the tower to welcome him herself, in the place of the gate-warden. He seemed ordinary enough as he rode under the arch of the gate, a well-made lordly man on a strong black gelding, leading a sumpter mule. His face was too sharp for beauty, his nose a fierce curve. His hair was black and thick, lightly shot with grey. His face was clean-shaven, a rarity in these days, but it suited him.
He could have been kin to the knights of Caer Sidi, with that face and that hair and that pale skin. Or for that matter he could have been—
He lifted his eyes to meet hers. She stood rooted.
He could have been Roland’s close kin. His father—forefather.
“Merlin Ambrosius,” she said. Even for love of Roland, even knowing the tales that Roland had told, she could not say that name with warmth. She had hated him too long and too well.
Merlin bowed low. Was there mockery in it? She did not presume to judge. “Lady Sarissa,” he said. “Well met at last.”
She bit her tongue on the first words that came to it. They were not at all courteous.
He smiled—damnably like Roland—and sprang lightly from the saddle. Servants ran to take his horse and mule. He thanked them graciously, as if to rebuke Sarissa for her own lack of manners.
“You are welcome in Carbonek,” she said at last, though the words caught in her throat.
“And glad I am to have come here,” he said.
It was a dance, she thought. She could tread the steps, speak the words. Was she not both enchantress and queen?
She called the servants to see to the guest, to bathe him, feed him, house him in a manner appropriate for a lord of rank. It was cowardly not to attend him in her own person, but after all she was the queen. She had duties, which she would see to. Then, if she was fortunate, she could avoid the inevitable for a goodly while. Longer, if Roland stayed away, riding the kingdom between Lyonesse and Poictesme.
That was less than proper, and she paid as she deserved. Toward midafternoon, a tumult at the gate greeted Roland’s return with the crowd of his escort. Dignity be damned, and cowardice, too—Sarissa ran back down to the gate, and caught him just as he dismounted, leaping into his arms, whirling about.
People grinned as they had a habit of doing in these days. It had been too long since Montsalvat had a young king. He gladdened them all, and taught even the most somber to laugh again.
When they had swum up from a long kiss to a blessed draught of air, Roland stood with his arms about her waist, searching her face with eager golden eyes. “Is it true, what the messenger said? Is Merlin here?”
Messenger?
She caught the eye of the cat that rode on Roland’s shoulder. Tarik licked his paw in elaborate nonchalance.
She seared him with a glare. He ignored it as he well could, who had Roland for ally and defender.
“Merlin is here,” said a voice behind her, as like Roland’s as any could be.
Roland forgot her existence. She had seen such white, wild joy in him before, but never so strong. It made the stones ring underfoot.
They were like man and mirror, like father and son. Were those tears on the elder enchanter’s cheeks? Certainly Roland’s eyes were brimming, though he was laughing.
Arm in arm, side by side, they left the outer court. Sarissa followed. Her mood was strange. Goddess—was she jealous?
How could she be? This was as close to a father as Roland had known, preceptor and teacher and beloved kin. But for him, Roland would not have been. The Grail might have been taken and the kingdom destroyed. He had raised Roland to be the enemy’s enemy, the champion of the Grail.
They took their ease on the terrace of the garden. It was so set that from it one could look over the outer wall to the wilderness of peaks, striking above the garden’s green serenity.
Merlin breathed deep of that scented air. “Freedom,” he said, “is sweeter than wine.”
“Tell me,” said Roland.
Merlin sat back in his chair, cradling a silver cup. “After you left,” he said, “I had ceased to count the days again. I knew when the war began—I felt it in my bones. But I never dared hope. One long night I fell into a sleep as deep but never as blessed as death. And when I woke, the walls of air were gone. I was free.”
“I didn’t dare hope,” Roland said. “I sent my spirit searching for you after the war. I found nothing. I thought—I feared that I’d failed.”
“I was sleeping,” Merlin said. “I felt you when I woke, but you were gone. I followed the track of the sending. It led me here.”
“You knew where I’d be,” Roland said.
“This way was closed to me,” said Merlin, “and to my blood, before you came to it.”
He did not glance at Sarissa, but she felt the brush of his awareness.
She would not apologize to him or to any son of demon or old god, for protecting her own.
He smiled, nodded: absolution of sorts, if she could possibly have wanted it.
“They know you now,” Roland said. “They know the truth. You’ll never be barred again, going or coming.”
“So one would hope,” Merlin said.
Roland leaned toward him, drinking him in. “You’re different. You’re young. I never knew—”
“Moss and old leaves,” Merlin said, “and years beyond count. I terrified the children when I came out of the wood. They tell tales now of a beast who roared like a man.”
“Then how—”
“I remembered,” said Merlin, “little by little, what the world was; how men were. It had been longer than I cared to know.”
“The world was a dark place after Arthur went away,” Sarissa said, surprising herself. “Now, slowly, the light begins to come back.”
“And, it’s said, there a new Arthur in the world,” said Merlin, “a new king who may succeed where Arthur failed.”
“Charles of the Franks,” Roland said. She could not hear regret in his voice, but he was faintly wistful. “We were going to conquer Rome for him, and crown him emperor.”
“That may still come to pass,” said Merlin. “I saw it written in the wind,
flying like a banner over Francia.”
“You want to go there,” Roland said.
“In a little while,” said Merlin. “But first I should like to stay here a while—if you can bear my presence.”
He was not looking at Roland then. His eyes were on Sarissa.
So, too, were Roland’s. She had been reckoning him oblivious, but the gaze that rested on her now, saw to the heart of her.
She had learned to endure and then to love those yellow eyes. To see them in another face, a face she had loathed for so long, made her oddly dizzy.
“I . . . can suffer you,” she said. “I will learn to do better than that. Though I can’t ever promise to love you.”
“Tolerance will suffice,” Merlin said. “It’s been a long while, and a bitter war.”
“But for you, we would never have won it.” That was far from easy to say, but she had to say it. “He created you to destroy us. Instead you destroyed him.”
“The ways of the light are incalculable,” Merlin said. He smiled at her. She caught herself smiling back.
“You may stay,” she said, “as long as it pleases you. I make you free of castle and kingdom. I name you friend and royal kin, and ancient ally of the Grail.”
Merlin rose and bowed low before her. “Lady and queen,” he said, “you walk in grace.”
“No,” she said wryly. “I scramble to make amends. I was a fool once, and nearly lost us all. I’ll not make that mistake again.”
Roland took her hand and kissed it. She wove her fingers with his.
Merlin’s smile grew almost gentle. “I’ve done much ill in my many years, but this I’ll never regret: that my blood bred this child.”
“Your blood bred victory,” Sarissa said, “and love and laughter, and a fine bright king for this kingdom.”
“There is one thing,” said Roland to the air, “that I do truly hate about being king. I hate flattery.”
“Who flatters you?” Merlin asked. “We’re telling the truth.”
Roland hissed. Merlin laughed at him. Sarissa found herself laughing, too; yet again, in common cause with that of all men.
And that was well, she decided, after all. That Merlin was free; that Roland had kept his great oath. And that she was here with both of them, sitting in the garden of the Grail, with the sun overhead and the wind blowing soft and clean in her face.
“I think,” Merlin said, “when you’ve tired of me, I’ll go out in the world again, and see this king of kings for myself. Maybe I’ll teach him as I taught Arthur. And maybe this one will live to get some good of it.”
“This one will live long and die in his bed,” Roland said, as serene in prophecy as Merlin had ever been.
“Then I have time,” said Merlin, “to make a nuisance of myself here. Tell me, is it true—there are dragons in the hills? And old powers in wood and water?”
“We’ll explore the realm together,” Roland said. “There’s so much—so many wonders, so many splendors. And magic . . . master, I never saw the like.”
Sarissa listened to them in growing contentment. Roland was whole at last, and truly happy, with the burden of the great oath lifted from his spirit. He was free now, as free as Merlin. And therefore so was she; for all that bound Roland bound her as well, even to the world’s end.
That was a joyous captivity. She smiled, half-dreaming in the sun, while their two voices, each so like the other, wove a net of words about her. The Grail always sang beneath Roland’s, subtle but distinct. She realized without surprise that that same song was in Merlin’s. Merlin too had been chosen, though she had never known it. She had been too stubborn to see.
Ah well, she thought. She had learned to trust Roland. She was learning to forgive Merlin. She might make a passable Christian yet, though the Goddess would have something to say of that.
It was all one. It was all in the light, all in the Grail. And who could know better than she? She was the first of its guardians, its servant and its queen.
“Amen,” said Merlin in reply to something that Roland had said. “So may it be.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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