Pellinor stood, enraged by the accusation in her voice. He brought his palm flat down upon the table. The smack reverberated around the deserted hall. “How would it look for a Christian king to attend the coronation of a man who is at best unknown and at worst a heathen bastard?” His voice was somewhere between a growl and a roar.
Merlin regarded him calmly, untroubled by Pellinor’s outburst. “It would look like you were in unity with your high king, and that was all anyone was asking. Arthur does not demand that his subjects agree with all that he does or believes. He simply asks for your trust and your loyalty.”
As he realized Merlin was right, Pellinor sank back into his seat. The fire in him had gone out.
“So what happened? What did we miss?” Elaine asked eagerly as though the previous exchange had not taken place.
Merlin chuckled at her enthusiasm as he reached behind his back to remove his harp from beneath his cloak. “I will tell you everything that took place, down to the last detail, but it is better if I do so with this.” He ran his fingers lovingly along the bow in the wood. “The ancients say that one note of a song is twenty times more powerful than a single word, and that only in song can truth be clearly perceived, for though words can harbor lies, music cannot abide them.”
He strummed an opening note.
“Wait.” Elaine put out a delicate hand to stop him. “Please. Before you begin, will you kindly tell us of our high king’s appearance? No one here has ever seen him, and it would help us visualize your tale.” Elaine’s eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. She was sitting so far forward on the bench I feared she would fall off. She looked happier than I’d seen her during my whole visit.
Merlin grinned, obviously amused by Elaine’s interest in the subject. “Actually”—he turned to me—“Guinevere has seen him, though I doubt she remembers it.”
Elaine shot me a look of pure envy.
“When did I see him, my lord?” I regretted my regression to Avalonian formality as soon as the words escaped my lips. The others did not appear to notice. They were too eager to hear the answer to the question.
“He came to the Beltane fires. Think, Guinevere, and you will remember.” Merlin squinted at me as though willing my mind to give up the memory.
I slowly shook my head. When I thought of that night, all I could see were Aggrivane’s loving eyes.
“No matter, you will meet him soon enough.” He turned back to the others. “Your king is a man of great strength, large in build and tall. He stands a full head higher than I and is twice as strong. I have no doubt he could wrestle a pack of wolves to the ground if it came to that.”
Elaine gasped and Isolde giggled, grasping my wrists with clammy palms as she listened.
Merlin’s smile widened, and he held Elaine’s gaze, nearly hypnotizing her. “Indeed, lass, you do well to be awed. Your king’s nickname is ‘the bear,’ due to his great size and strength, but do not be fooled—he is not a brutish man. He is known for his grace and agility, and he is an accomplished swordsman.”
His gaze shifted respectfully over Lyonesse to Isolde. “But I doubt those are the details you are after.” His eyes lingered on her as he spoke.
Her cheeks flared in response.
“His features are fine-chiseled and strong, for he is Roman on his father’s side. His mother, Iggraine, can count the generations of her people in this land back to the Belgae, who called his land home for thousands of years. He received from her a kindness of heart not commonly encountered. He is not yet seventeen years old.” He’d lowered his voice just slightly and regarded the three of us. “Nearly the same age as all of you, and has yet to take a wife.” He looked at each of us meaningfully.
Elaine looked like she would faint.
“Enough. We have indulged your dramatics,” Pellinor groused. “Get on with your tale, for the hour grows late.” He faked a yawn. Elaine threw her father a nasty look. Had either he or Lyonesse seen it, she wouldn’t have been able to sit down for a week.
“Perhaps I have been a little too loquacious,” Merlin apologized. He picked at the strings of the harp again and a soft melody slowly took shape. “Lords from every kingdom descended upon Arthur’s ancestral home, the seat of his father, Uther Pendragon. Add to them villagers and country folk from three kingdoms in every direction, and you will begin to understand the size of the crowd. Shoulder into back, elbow to elbow, they stood crammed along passageways, craning their necks to see the king in the dim light of rows of torches as he approached the inauguration stone. The stone, larger than three men’s heads, even when weathered by the ages, stood atop the same hill on which it had been deposited by the gods before time began. Some say it has been in Arthur’s mother’s family since before the Romans came.”
His story now established, Merlin began to tap out an accompanying beat with his boot on the flagstones underfoot. “At exactly the stroke of midnight, they raised him up, the Lady of the Lake supporting one elbow, the bishop the other, and his mother behind him representing his ancestors.”
I imagined Viviane – who became Lady of the Lake after Argante’s passing not long after I left Avalon – in her formal robes of office, silver crown and milk-white moonstone glittering in the firelight. I knew not who the bishop was, but I surmised he was a better man than Father Marius if the king trusted him enough to request his assistance.
“The crowd went silent, eagerly anticipating the response of the gods. Some say the stone cried out, proclaiming him the true high king of Britain, while others say he glowed with the light of the gods. Some even say Uther himself appeared and gave his son his blessing.”
Across the table, Pellinor rolled his eyes.
“Whatever the truth, the moment had come. The contract between Arthur and the land had been established. I stood, and in a loud voice proclaimed his right to the throne. ‘Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, who was brother to Aurelius Ambrosuis, both of whom were sons of Imperator Constantine, you stand before us seeking to be wed to the land and henceforth hold it in your care. Is that so?’
“Arthur nodded solemnly.
“‘Then I ask the goddess of sovereignty if she accepts this man as her mate.’
“The Lady of the Lake approached the stone, her gait smooth and sure, her back straight, head held high. She had called upon the Goddess, and now her face was not her own. She was youthful and carefree, the light of the stars in her eyes. She stood before him, taking his hands like a lover.
“‘Man of clay and bone, you are but dust in my eyes. I am the spirit of the land you seek to rule. What is it that you offer me in exchange for my approval?’
“Arthur knelt before her, looking up into her infinite eyes, and proclaimed his vow to all. ‘I pledge to you and to all my people my undying loyalty, from this moment to my very last breath. I swear to uphold the laws of this country and protect its land and its people, even with my own life. I promise to reign with justice and mercy, treating all with equanimity, and to defend this land from all who would seek to do it harm.’
“The Lady faced the assembly, her eyes closed, perfectly still. The crowd held its breath in anticipation.”
I realized in that moment that I was doing the same.
“She opened her eyes and proclaimed her judgment for all to hear. ‘I accept your vows, Arthur, son of Uther. You have my blessing. In exchange for your loyalty, I place upon you one geis, on pain of honor, which you may never break. You must always uphold my ways while remaining respectful of other’s beliefs, for all are my children and though they may tread different paths, all return to me in the end.’
“‘This do I swear,’ Arthur replied.
“‘Arise then, High King of Britain, and be armed for battle, for as even the most placid sea is subject to storm, your reign will not be without struggle.’
“The Lady then gave him the royal regalia, a white wand made from a sac
red branch from Avalon and the sword of sovereignty—called Caliburn—its intertwined snakes a symbol of the light and dark aspects of power. From her hands he took the red cup of lordship and drank from it, his eyes watering and lips puckering, for its contents were both bitter and sweet, for so too is power. He returned to the stone, placing one foot upon it, the other firmly planted on the earth. The crown of Britain was taken up both by myself and the priest. Each whispering a blessing—his in Latin, mine in the tongue of our ancestors—we placed the diadem upon his brow.
“‘Dux Britanniarum!’ some in the crowd proclaimed, while others bestowed upon Arthur the ancient title of ‘Arddurex’ before we even had the chance to declare him high king.
“One by one, the kings in attendance came forth to pledge their service—Mark of Cornwall, Gerent of Dyfnaint, Malegant of the Summer Country, Cadwalla of the Midlands, Uriens of Rheged, Evrain of Powys, Cador of Bernicia, Guinevere’s father, and Pellinor’s representative. Even the lands of Gore, Dalriada, Brittany, the four northern tribes, and your mother”—he smiled at Isolde—“sent emissaries to bring the new High King greetings of peace.”
Merlin stopped strumming, and with the music went all of the life in the room. His face darkened. “Noticeably absent was Lot of Lothian, who believes, as husband to Arthur’s sister Ana, he is the true heir to the throne. I would advise you to have no dealings with him. He can be of a dark temper and no doubt will attempt rebellion.”
Pellinor yawned—genuinely this time. “Have no fear, brother. I have no esteem for that man or his progeny.”
I chose to ignore his barb against Aggrivane, still trying to pry the memory of having seen Arthur in Avalon from the recesses of my mind. Lyonesse was drowsing, chin resting on her chest. Elaine, lulled to sleep by Merlin’s song, sat with her head upon her mother’s shoulder, a slight smile upon her lips. I guessed she was dreaming of Arthur.
Pellinor, however, seemed in no mood to sleep. In truth, he looked like he was aching for an argument. I sat up in my chair and stretched, willing myself to stay awake despite the gnawing headache I longed to stifle with sleep.
“Merlin, you say our king was crowned by both you and a Christian priest. That is quite a break from tradition—and I must admit, more than a little confusing. To which faith is he sworn?”
Merlin regarded Pellinor carefully, fully aware the man was angling for something. “Our king,” he said with great emphasis, “is Druid-trained, taught by my own hand. His foster father, Lord Ector, sent him to study with us on the sacred isle a few years ago. He was never meant to take our vows, only to learn from our wisdom. Like his father, he serves the lord of light—the one whom some call Mithras, Apollo, or Lugh. However, he refuses to disparage the Christian religion because he can see in it the same marks of his own faith, but also because his mother took the habit of a Christian nun after Uther’s death. To insult Christianity would be to insult her. Therefore, he upholds both his native religion and that of his mother.” Merlin sat back in his chair, clearly satisfied with his answer.
Pellinor made a pensive grunting sound. “A very well-rehearsed account, but I have my doubts. The boy seems too good to be true.” He muttered his next statement, but it sounded like something about no man being able to serve two masters. “Honestly, brother,” Pellinor continued his complaints a little louder now, “if he lacks the sense to embrace the one true faith, how can we be sure he has sense enough to be our king?”
Merlin sighed, looking weary of this circuitous argument. “Pellinor, we all know your views, and it is obvious that nothing I can say will appease you.”
Pellinor looked hurt.
“All I can do is tell you the truth. I cannot force you to believe it. While Ector always maintained he had no knowledge of Arthur’s paternity, he made certain that Arthur received an education fit for an heir apparent. In addition to his Druidic training, Arthur learned the dialects of all the native tribes, is fluent in Latin and Greek, and has even taken it upon himself to learn the language of the Saxons. He is trained in arms and military strategy and can recite the names and titles of all the ranking men of the eleven tribes, should he one day need them as allies. Does that satisfy you?”
Pellinor frowned. He obviously was not expecting the king to be so well-qualified, or at least, Merlin to have such a thorough answer. “I suppose it will do.”
Elaine and Lyonesse had awoken.
“Father,” Elaine jumped in, seeing a lull in the conversation. “May we go to bed now?”
Her voice was so like a little child, I had to stifle a giggle.
Pellinor seemed only then to realize the rest of us were in the room. “Why yes, of course.”
As we all made our way to our chambers, Elaine’s preoccupation returned. I touched her shoulder and she stopped, turning to face me. Her forehead was wrinkled with worry and her eyes were heavy, morose.
“What is wrong, dear heart? Are you tired?” Truth be told, I was feeling a little unsteady myself.
She nodded. “Of course. Are you not?” She hesitated, unsure whether to elaborate. “It is only that all of this revelry and hearing about our new king has made me sad.”
“Sad?” I was shocked at her response; it was the opposite of what I expected. “Why is that?”
“It made me realize how lonely I am.”
With no more explanation, she turned away and ascended the stairs, leaving me gaping behind her.
As I continued toward my own room, Merlin stopped me.
“Is there somewhere we may speak in private?” he asked.
I led him back into the now-empty hall, which seemed abnormally large in the silence following the feast. I wearily sank onto an abandoned bench and motioned for him to do the same.
“Guinevere, there is something you need to know,” he began.
I probed his face, searching desperately for the meaning my heart sought. “Yes? Is it about Aggrivane?” The words tumbled out, buoyed by hope.
“No.” He seemed torn between regret and amusement at my optimism. “It is about Morgan.”
My heart sank into my feet. Why would he go through all of this to talk to me about the one person I never wanted to think about again?
“I know she is not your favorite person, but you need to know this. She has been banished from Avalon.”
“What?” I nearly fell off my seat. “Why? What happened?”
“It is complicated.” He took a deep breath and began to explain. “There was a competition among the priestesses to determine who would be Viviane’s second, now that she has assumed the office of Lady of the Lake. It is a long tradition in Avalon. I wish you could have taken part. You would have done well. During the three days of the full moon before the equinox, the priestesses displayed their skill at all of the ancient arts—divination, control of the elements, spell casting, mastery of the sight, and ritual. I served as judge, so Viviane could not be accused of partiality. The final test was healing. Morgan had done the best, and everyone expected her to easily win this event as well.”
I involuntarily flinched, recalling her skill in that area, and the old jealousy reasserted itself. My stomach roiled, and I tasted bile.
“But when it came time for the judging, something unexpected happened. As was custom, each priestess had to drink from the cup prepared by her partner as a sign of trust. When Rowena drank from Morgan’s cup, she immediately fell to the floor in a fit.”
I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand. “Is she. . . did she. . . is she well?” My eyes filled with tears at the thought of my dear friend meeting such a horrible end.
“Yes, she eventually recovered. Viviane was able to give her an antidote, but we don’t know what the effects will be. No one knows if it was an accident or if Morgan did it on purpose. She seemed as shocked as everyone else and has always maintained her innocence. But she was immediately suspected of poisoning Rowena
because she was the closest competition. You of all people should know how Morgan treats people whom she perceives as a threat.”
My mind drifted back to the day I rescued Ailis from the tree above the lake. I could still smell the burned tapestry thread and feel the puffy red blisters. Without realizing what I was doing, I scratched at the phantom sores on my arm that had long ago healed.
“But surely you do not believe she poisoned Rowena, do you? She lived with us in the House of Nine. She was our sister. Even Morgan would not—”
“When we analyzed the contents of Morgan’s brew, there was an obvious error in ingredients, two herbs that should never be mixed together. You know how talented she is. It was a mistake she would not have made.”
“But even she can err.” To my own amazement, I found myself defending my old rival. “Perhaps she was fatigued or distracted or maybe someone wanted it to look like—”
“What is done is done,” Merlin interrupted. “It was the judgment of the council—myself, Viviane, and the elder priestesses—that regardless of her intent, Morgan broke the vows she made at her consecration. By using the arts for harm, she failed to uphold the sisterhood and therefore had to pay the price. Viviane banished her from Avalon for a year and a day. After that time, she may return, if she wishes. But they had an intense row before she left, and with Morgan’s pride, I doubt she will acquiesce to return.”
I could scarcely believe my ears. Merlin was so calm, he could have been telling me about the weather. I could not comprehend his attitude. “So that is it then?” The frustration I was trying to suppress burst out in a fit of rage. “You sent her off the isle with nowhere to go? She has no family to return to, no friends. Avalon was her home!” I was shaking, a cold sweat blanketing the back of my neck and shoulders.
Merlin jumped to his feet, tipping his bench backward. He towered over me with such ferocity that I shrank back, heart pounding. For the first time since he arrived, I felt like I was in the presence of the Archdruid.
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