But we Fey do not weep for the dead. We live in this moment, we sing this note of the Goddess's eternal song.
Mellias stirred and opened his eyes. "Niviene, we did all that he said."
"Yes, we did."
"Now we are free." Mellias's voice lilted. I turned to look at him.
For a long time now, Mellias had lived an almost Human life, among Humans. Now at last he owed nothing to Lugh, who had abandoned us; nothing to Merlin, who was dead; now he could stay forever in the forest and return to his true, Fey self.
I shook my head. "One more thing, Mellias. We must go to Arthur's battle."
"Not I."
That startled me. "You will not come?" Somehow I had assumed that Mellias would go where I went, like a hound.
"Not I," he repeated. "When Merlin ordered that, he was fevered. It makes no sense, Niv. What would you do in battle? Have you ever seen battle? By the Gods, I have! I will not go."
"There is something I must do there…I must forgive. That is what he said. Forgive."
Mellias made a gesture as of brushing debris off his tunic.
I thought that when he was a little rested he would change his mind. He would not let me go alone to this awful thing called Battle.
Counsel Oak rustled his leaves.
I looked up then into Counsel's bare branches, and I saw them crowded with ghosts. Like pale birds they perched on the branches, or swung from them, or hovered among them. Fey and Human, male and female, some naked, some trailing rich robes, they twittered softly, like birds heard afar.
And now I saw that some were Godly, towering so huge among the others and intertwined with them, that at first I had not seen them as separate beings at all. And some, small as bees, hovered on shimmering wings. And all of their misty eyes were bent, unwavering, on the mud-sealed cavern below.
At my shoulder, Mellias whispered, "What is it?"
I wet my lips to answer. "They are here. Merlin's friends."
Mellias moved closer to me. I felt him tremble.
Trembling myself, I searched the cloud of forms for one familiar face. If these great spirits came to greet Merlin, ancient and newdead, would not the Lady be found among them?
I glimpsed what might be her old crone-face, peering under the wing of a giant form. A maiden that might be she—younger than I ever saw her—perched on a high limb—maybe the limb from which I had first spied Gwen, so long ago.
But I could not be sure of either phantom, and soon I gave up the search. This vision spread far beyond my private concerns, which lost themselves in it, like water dropped in the lake.
Now from the sealed cavern wisped a cloud. At first a thin trail of mist like breath on a frosty morning, it gathered strength and form till I thought even Mellias must see it. It drifted and bobbed and staggered, like a man stretching awake. Coldly it reeled through Mellias and me and brightened, turning a faint sunrise orange. It kicked free of earth and drifted slowly upward, curling like smoke among the ghosts and Gods gathered in Counsel's branches; and, as it reached them, they dissolved to mist themselves. And the cloud covered the old tree and hid it entirely; and the cloud rose and rose away, and Counsel Oak came slowly back into sight, trunk and covered cavern and bare, stretched branches; the sun looked down through the cloud, and it was gone.
I sighed. "They are gone." I told Mellias.
But we did not move.
Later we took off our clothes and waded into the lake. Suffering and death are contagious. Like sickness, they leap from one body to another. We had lived with Merlin's suffering for days, and now his death had touched us. We looked to the freezing water to cleanse us of contagion.
I swam far out and floated, looking back at Avalon Island. From the water I saw the trees bare or golden, and a pale smudge that was my mother's villa, now my den, and ancient Counsel Oak, that easily overtopped all the apple trees of Avalon.
A Merlin Song
And small Merlin said, …"Under the fort two dragons lie.
Like Angle and Saxon they skirmish and vie,
As Saxon and Angle lie each beside
Waiting to learn what may betide,
What the Gods for this country may decide.
And while they wait they twist and fight
Like these your dragons, one red, one white."
So the child speaks, then looks around
As for the first time. The drum's heart-sound
For the first time he seems to hear.
He sees the knife poised; the Saxon Queen Kneels at his side and lets him lean
On her, while torches sputter and flare And King and Druid argue there.
The Druid commands, "You shall slay this child,
Mix with your mortar the blood of this child,
Whose father's unknown, of Hell or the wild!"
But Vortigern murmurs, "I'll have him taught
Druid and Christian way and thought,
Magic and medicine, seeing afar.
He'll be my kingdom's guiding star !"
So Vortigern murmured, as our bards sing… But that star would shine for another king.
13
Three Queens
Under the boughs of Counsel Oak, Mellias had said, "When Merlin ordered you to go to Arthur, he was sick. Fevered. What can you do there?"
Later, by my courtyard fire, he said, "Go, if you insist." And shrugged. Busily bent over, he cleaned the reed of his pipe.
My own cold desolation surprised me. Had I become—Gods forbid!—dependent on my Otter?
I said, "You know I am going into danger."
"I know that better than you do!"
"But you will not come." I was truly puzzled. All these years Mellias had been a shield at my back.
He straightened, laid the pipe aside, and faced me across the small fire. "Niviene," he said gravely, "know this. When first I came to live on Apple Island, and you came back here from the Children's Guard, I desired you. You knew it."
I nodded. Dread prickled my stomach. Never had I heard Mellias's voice so heavy.
"One Flowering Moon after another, I waited for you. At first you danced with others. Then you did not even dance. So I found other partners."
"Aefa."
"True, I found Aefa. But it has never been as it would be with you. For you, Niviene, I traveled out into that terrifying kingdom."
"Not so! You went for the adventure!"
"Yes, when I was young. Niviene, we are no longer young. Have you noticed?"
I studied Mellias by gentle firelight. "You have not a gray hair on your head!" But wrinkles of anxiety had creased his face.
He continued. "I went for adventure, and for Lugh. Lugh was to me what a brother should be to a Human. Later, I went for you. To look after you. To be your…shield."
I broke gaze with him and looked down into the fire. I think what I felt was what Humans called shame.
"Niviene, I lived a long time among Humans. Longer than you, for I went out there earlier. You know, when you live among strangers you learn their language. You learn their thought too.
"I never despised the Humans as you did, so I learned from them. I learned…love from them. I came to love Merlin, and Aefa, and you most of all."
(I remembered Merlin's words, painfully gasped by the stone table. "The holy power instructs our Mellias. He stole a spark of it from the Humans.")
I looked up to Mellias. "And yet…now I go into danger, you will not come."
"Listen, Niviene. In two days the moon will flower. I had hoped that this time you would be there, but if you are gone to Arthur's battle, never fear for me; I will find myself a merry companion, as I have done before.
"For years I have followed you like a hound and covered you like a shield. Now that is finished. We are home. Merlin is dead. Lugh has left us. Now let this Human folly die out of me! If you choose now to jump into a coracle and float back out there to a kingdom battle, that is your choice, for you. You shall not choose for me any longer. I, Mellias, choose t
o roll up in my otter skin robe and sleep for two days. Then I will dance, with you if you are there. Or with another. Then I will mend my nets and pick a few apples. I may dry them for winter, Human-style. I choose to return now to my true self and my true life, and forget all that has been, and all that fantastic, grim world out there. It can go about its business, and I will go about mine."
Never had Mellias spoken at such length before, or with such emphasis. Never had I seen him utterly humorless till now.
Faintly I murmured, "Merlin's last words. I must go."
"Then that is your choice. I do not fear for you. You do not know what you are going into, but you will survive it. True Fey are survivors." And Otter Mellias picked up his pipe, thrust it into his belt, and rose up away from my fire like silent gray smoke. I did not watch him go. Shivering with a strange chill, I fastened my gaze on the fire and willed to see Arthur. But the fire told me nothing.
Had the fire shown me a moment of what Merlin had called the Battle of Camlann, I might have rolled up and slept for two days like Mellias. Shivering beside the fire, I might have reconsidered his earlier words. "Have you ever seen battle? By the Gods, I have."
Mellias had seen battle, and he was not going. A prudent Fey would have considered this, and her tiredness; she would have asked herself what claim a dead man could have on her, that she should do his will.
But that night, and the next morning, I was not true Fey. I was not a heartless mage. I was…By the Gods, I acted like a bewitched Human woman!
Single-minded, I obeyed Merlin. Never before had I ventured into the kingdom alone. Alone now, I put on the warm woolen shirt and trousers my mother had left for me, and my Child Guard invisible cloak. (Mellias's crystal hid, as always, under my shirt.) Alone, I packed a pouch of nuts, climbed into a coracle, and poled downstream, following Merlin's directions.
So it was that I came to crouch in the coracle in a forest of reeds, while the Battle of Camlann raged on the bank.
The sun looked calmly down on this amazing horror and passed on his way. Buzzards circled slowly, patiently waiting. Sun and buzzards had seen Human battle before. They did not have to smell it, or hear it close to, as I did.
The screams of men and horses rent the air, to a constant accompaniment of groans, grunts, and the clash of steel. Fecal matter and blood stank together. My head throbbed and I retched, though my stomach had long since emptied itself. Most of the fighting took place out of my sight, over the bank; but now and then a desperate pair of antagonists, mounted or on foot, came rolling or sliding down the bank and fought in the water, which now burbled pink through the reeds. Three human corpses and a dead horse clogged the reeds near me. Looking up I saw the battle-aura dark as a storm cloud in the sky, and the Morrigan Crow circling among the patient scavengers. That huge black bird screaming bloodlust and delight could only have been She.
Why these men sacrificed their healthy bodies I could not imagine. Most of them would live no differently under King Mordred than under King Arthur. They fought no Saxons here, but their own Angle brothers, with whom they were drinking ale a moon ago. It was as incomprehensible to me as the game of Tournament Lugh used to play with the village boys. Now and then a boy would fall and break a leg, or narrowly escape blinding, and Elana and I would marvel at their folly. So now I marveled at the folly of battle, where a healthy man was killed every moment for no clear reason.
I crouched hidden in the coracle, safe except from a direct hit by a combatant rolling down the bank, and listened, smelled, retched and ached. Rightly had Mellias asked, What will you do there?
But wait. The roar of battle was less. The shouts, groans, and clashes sounded farther away. As when a thunderstorm draws away, and thunder growls and mutters and sinks into silence while lightning still flashes, so the battle seemed to ebb from the bank.
The hopeful buzzards circled lower.
Just as I began to think of climbing the bank and peering over, a knight came reeling along, pursued by two others; and I crouched low and pulled reeds close before me.
The fugitive was small, slight, armed in black. A black plume dangled askew from his helmet; blood drenched his left side. A giant followed him closely, swinging a sword that shone through all the blood that slimed it. This man hardly bled, though armor and tunic were shredded. He must have been wounded, yet the sheath that slapped against his thigh was free of blood, and so were the remnants of his cuirass and tunic.
(And Merlin said, "This is the magic sword, Caliburn, who always draws blood. And this is his sheath, even more precious, for he who wears this enchanted sheath, however wounded, will never bleed.")
I blinked, remembering the song in the tavern, the listening giants and the spell that Merlin laid on them, so that they forgot their grievances and rallied again in their hearts to Arthur and his Peace.
That part of the song about the sheath was here proven. Here came Arthur, whom I had twice loved, who had cost me my power and my brother, who had given me a son he never knew; here came this proud giant, staggering under wounds that should have stretched him dead by now, but shedding no blood, swinging magic Caliburn at his enemy nephew.
And behind him, some way behind, blundered a blood-blinded giant, also swinging his sword. I could not decide which man he meant to fight, but it did not matter. He reeled and stumbled and fell over corpses, so it seemed the first two would finish their business before he caught them up.
On the bank just above me Mordred paused, wheeled slowly around and faced Arthur. Neither man carried a shield. Each raised sword high above head with both hands and rushed upon the other.
Had I been a bard hiding in the rushes, I could have sung this duel at feasts and fairs for the rest of my life. I could have lived on this duel. I knew exactly how it should sound, where the harp should thrum, how to sing the tremendous clash of swords; how the heroes swayed, struck and fell and rose again; how they drove one another back and forth along the bank; how nothing ever grew again where their bloody feet pressed; how forever after this stretch of bank would be barren and lifeless. One struck the other to his knees and the other pulled the one's feet from under him. They rolled in bloody mud, dropping swords, groping for knives. A fine song this would be, with a chorus about the river running red.
Together as one they found their knives, drew their knives, drove their knives each through riven cuirass and chest.
Together as one they rolled apart, writhed, lay still.
The giant follower ran up and bent over Arthur. He crashed to his knees and cradled Arthur in his arms. He was Bedevere.
I found myself climbing the bank and stood between Arthur and Mordred, and looked from Arthur to Mordred.
Both still breathed. As I turned his way, Mordred opened a narrow red eye and croaked. I leaned down to listen, and heard, "M-Ma, M-Ma," like the bleat of a separated lamb.
I knelt down and took Mordred's even-fingered, gloved hand. Low I bent to hear his bleats, and I felt power rise tingling up my spine as though it had never slept; I sank down through Mordred's tight, white face and through his skull and into his mind.
The iron door that had been locked in his mind stood open. Through the door I saw apple trees, summer sun, sparkling water. Avalon Island. But I was seeing it from low to the ground. Ferns brushed my face.
I, tiny Bran, stumbled over roots and rocks, calling to my Ma. She strode ahead, not looking back. Her long black braid swung down her back. A reed basket bounced against her shoulder. Her stride rustled no undergrowth, snapped no twig. Silent, she disappeared behind a giant apple tree.
Huge gray trees bent down to stare at me. Something stepped in a thicket. I cried, "M-Ma!" fell over a rock and landed in a bawling heap.
Ma appeared again. Like a doe, she seemed to grow from the apple tree, peering around it.
I was not really crying, just bawling, so I saw her clearly. I saw her wry, disapproving face, the thin lips twisted. I knew she did not like noise. I knew if I bawled again she would disappe
ar, and leave me alone with the staring trees and the thing that stepped in the thicket.
I tempered my bawl to a whimper. "M-Ma!"
She shrugged. Swift and silent, making not a whisper of sound, she came back and stood over me. I saw her like a tree, looking down her deerskin tunic at me.
I snuffled. I hurt very badly, much worse than from a fall over a rock.
My mother knelt down before me. Her warm brown arms came around me. I buried my face in her breasts that smelled of sweet milk.
Sun shone, cuckoo called. I lay content in M'ma's arms, and she stroked my hair. And now I did not hurt any more.
I, Niviene, drew back out of Mordred, to myself. I was Niviene, Lady of the Lake. I held my son Bran in my arms; his blood drenched my breasts and belly; I felt his heartbeat, erratic and feeble, against my own. I had pushed off his helmet and was stroking his black, soaked curls, and murmuring to him.
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