“Do you really think us that unkind or uncaring? After so many years with us, do you really believe us capable of turning her out on her own? We contacted several houses—prominent families, mind you—who were willing to take her in. They expected her, but she never inquired at a single one. We sent her with a guard intended to see her safely from house to house until she found employment, but she dismissed them—or rather, escaped them.”
“So where is she then?”
Merlin hung his head, an uncharacteristically humble gesture. “We do not know. We have searched everywhere we are welcome, and she is not to be found. She has simply vanished.”
“Much like the fey they say she came from,” I whispered to myself.
“Viviane was just trying to teach her a lesson—instill some humility.” Merlin continued as if he did not hear. He was thinking aloud. “No one expected her to react so rashly.”
Had they not been paying attention her whole life? Morgan had always been unpredictable. What did they expect?
Merlin righted his bench and sat back down. “Guinevere, I want to share something with you, a theory I have told no one except for Viviane. Do you swear you will not repeat it?”
My breath caught. “Of course.” I willed myself to be calm. I was suddenly very hot, though whether with the intimacy of Merlin’s request or my nagging need for sleep, I could not tell.
“Do you remember the strange prophecy Viviane spoke during your last full moon in Avalon?”
My brow furrowed as I tried to recall the words, but all that rose to my muddled mind was something about animals and flowers.
Seeing my difficulty, Merlin recited the three verses from memory.
“‘The red dragon is poised to return to the realm of spirit, but another shall succeed him. The hallowed one has received the blessing of the land, and so shall it prosper under his guidance. Although malevolent forces threaten from without, the bear shall be victorious and all shall bow at the sound of his name.
“Soon the final passage shall be crossed by one of great power, allowing the lily to emerge from shadow and bloom in the light. An unlikely rose is transplanted to this isle and blossoms in its rich soil. But beware the rose and handle her carefully, for her thorns threaten to pierce the bud of the lily, thus causing the whole garden to die.
“These here gathered serve me well, and I am pleased. But the day will come when sister shall oppose sister, both in this sacred place and without. Loyalties will be tested and betrayed, so heed my warning. That which is birthed in jealousy shall not give life but infect all who draw near. Therefore, act with love and not out of spite. Only then shall you escape the fate the stars foretell.’”
He continued breathlessly. “I believe I know to whom it was referring. We now know the red dragon was Uther and the Goddess foretold his passing and the rise of Arthur as king. I told you many people call him ‘the bear’ because of his size, and that is how he is identified in the prophecy. We also know that the final passage was Argante’s death. That leads me to believe that Viviane is the lily, who has how taken her place of power as Lady of the Lake.”
I nodded, amazed at how much sense that made, like pieces of a child’s puzzle fitting into place. “But who is the rose? The terrible threat to Viviane?”
“We don’t yet know. Only time will reveal her. But one thing we do know is the Goddess warned of enmity between priestesses. That is why I’m sharing this with you. I want you to be on your guard with Morgan. I believe you will see her again, and you should be prepared for when you do. By knowing what has happened to her, I hope you will feel a little more compassion toward her. I would hate for your jealousy to bring the prophecy to pass.”
Looking into his eyes, which were now to me a scrying pool, I saw the future he feared. Morgan was standing with her arm draped protectively around a young boy, about ten years old. She sneered as though she could see me, and then the scene changed. A hooded woman delicately unlaced the praying fingers of a priest and placed a vial in his palm. He held it up to the light, and its contents glinted with malevolence. He nodded, and she turned to leave, a single stand of fiery hair betraying her identity. Morgan again. Then there was nothing but thick, choking smoke.
Merlin was still talking when I came back to myself, but I could not hear him over the shrill ringing in my ears. I grabbed the bench to steady myself as a wave of dizziness overcame me. The room swayed, and darkness beckoned. The last thing I heard was Merlin’s startled cry as I collapsed at his feet.
Chapter Fourteen
The images floated in and out of my view, sharper than dreams, but they were no longer of Morgan. They were of war. Men on horseback, hundreds of them, swords glittering in the fading evening light, horses braying and whinnying as the men chased something—or someone—I could not see. Before I could blink, the whole scene melted as my vision blurred.
Shapes and colors were all I could make out now. It was as if someone had draped a gauzy veil in front of my eyes. Light and darkness alternated as I struggled to get my bearings.
“She is beginning to awaken.” An echoing voice spoke from somewhere across a great void.
I tried to tell the voice to leave me alone, but my mouth wouldn’t work. This was all so strange. Why wouldn’t my lips move? Where was the rest of my body? All I could feel was an odd tingling engulfing my other senses and the sensation that my head was on fire.
“Guinevere, love, I’m here.” The voice spoke again, washing over me in waves. “You are ill, but I will take care of you, I promise.”
My eyes slowly began to focus. I could now make out the form of a girl about my own age sitting next to me. Her hair looked like my head felt. I knew this girl. Who was she? I searched around in my addled mind, sifting through names that refused to attach themselves to the faces that stared back at me.
Isolde? Was that it? I must have said it out loud.
“Yes, and Elaine and Merlin are here as well. We were very worried about you.”
Her smile was warm, concerned. As she spoke, something cold and comforting skimmed over the fire in my head, momentarily causing it to sputter. In that moment of relief, my mind was clear. I remembered my conversation with Merlin about Morgan and my disconcerting visions.
I looked around, seeking Merlin. He was at the foot of the bed, watching me closely.
“Guinevere,” he said softly, “you fainted. I brought you to your room. It appears you are quite ill. Your illness has weakened your resistance to the sight. You’ve been mumbling about your visions for some time now.” He rounded the bed so he stood over me and bent down close. “It is best not to fight it. Your body needs rest, and if you resist, all you will do is weaken yourself more. Just give in and let the Goddess show you what she wills.”
His last words echoed in my head, pounding to the same rhythm as the pulse of my blood as I struggled to remain conscious. I was losing, and I knew it. I was being sucked into an eddy, helpless to fight the swirling disorientation that had captured my senses.
From somewhere in the back of my mind, a loose strand of memory floated free, Argante’s ominous warning from the day I was called before her to demonstrate mastery of the sight.
“For the remainder of your life, the sight will come to you of its own bidding when one to whom your soul is bonded is in peril.”
I fought my leaden eyelids, wanting to ask Merlin if Argante was right. I was beginning to think so. First, the vision of my mother’s death. Now the nonsense about Morgan. But was the sisterhood bond enough to count? I shivered despite, or perhaps because of, my fever. The sight beckoned. What was to come?
As if she could hear my thoughts, Isolde squeezed my hand. “I will not leave you,” she pledged.
It was last thing I heard before darkness dragged its cape over my eyes and the visions began again.
I could hear his thoughts, this man whose dark complexion
marked him as a descendant of Britain’s ancient tribes. I knew him at once. The resemblance was too certain for him to be other than Lot, King of Lothian, father of my estranged lover. And he was plotting rebellion—treason.
It had been far too easy to get to this point, simpler than anyone could have ever imagined. Clandestine meetings with others of like mind, whispered words of treachery concealed in darkness; alliances formed as gold flowed from one hand to another.
His claim to the throne was legitimate, if one followed the ancient laws of the land, which passed title and power through the matriarchal line. Because Uther had no living sisters, his wife’s daughter, Ana—Lot’s wife—was next in line, even though she wasn’t related to the high king by blood. Through her, Lot and his sons had as much claim to the throne as Arthur, perhaps more. This, coupled with the widely known understanding between Uther and Lot that upon Uther’s death, Lot would assume the throne until his eldest son came of age, was why Lot refused to swear loyalty to Arthur.
The problem was that everyone believed Merlin’s account of Uther’s deathbed scruples—which Lot doubted ever took place, though no one could deny Arthur’s skill in guiding the bereft army to victory. On top of that, no one knew what rule Arthur followed. Being half Roman and half Belgae, he seemed to follow whatever tradition suited him best at the moment.
These young upstarts have no sense of loyalty. Lot glowered.
Lot’s supporters were smart enough to stay silent, at least in public. Some had even taken oaths of loyalty to Arthur. But those taciturn allies were growing in number daily, thanks to the network of spies and mercenaries Lot had employed to sow the seed of doubt in the minds of the most powerful men from one end of the island to the other.
Those who did not join his cause willingly were subjected to harsher measures. When loyalty couldn’t be bought, it was coerced. Many of the tribes’ most powerful men and women had been lax in obeying their own laws. Lot smiled as he thought of the power contained in the slightest bit of shameful information. A few illegitimate children, a throng of indiscreet lovers, a couple of misplaced alliances, and a handful of murders had given him support from within almost all of the key kingdoms.
However, the most drastic measures had been reserved for Arthur’s staunchest supporters. They began disappearing three days ago, taken from their own homes by brute force. The price of ransom spread across the land like wildfire: the lords would only be returned upon Lot’s coronation, after they had publically declared an oath of allegiance to him.
I could see them now—Lot’s soldiers. Banging on doors in the middle of the night or disrupting households at the break of dawn, dragging out by force the lords and clan chiefs who resisted Lot’s cause. The soldiers were under strict orders to harm no one during their raids. Lot insisted this be a bloodless revolution. He couldn’t risk the people regarding him as a tyrant. No, he would not be branded another Vortigern; he would be their savior.
The element of surprise gave Lot’s men leverage, but every so often, someone would resist, and one key player had escaped. That was why they were here, hidden amidst the foliage of the forest southwest of Lothian, lying in wait for the king.
A young boy approached them from behind. Without turning to look at him, Lot grabbed the boy by the throat of his tunic, his eyes trained steadily on the road.
“What news?” he rumbled.
The boy was taken off guard by Lot’s swift action and the tightness of his grip. “The king. . .”—he struggled to breathe—“approaches from the south. He—”
Lot relaxed his knuckles.
The boy sucked in air. “He will cross us as his party emerges from Eildon Pass.”
Lot nodded, still fixated on the narrow path that wound its way out from between mountains. “Does he suspect?”
The boy shook his head, although he knew Lot was not watching. “No, my lord.”
“And the second unit?”
“In place, sire. As soon as the king’s party halts, they will surround them, cutting off any chance of escape.”
“Good.” Lot released his hold.
The boy quickly scampered away, deep into the trees.
A few moments later, the steady clomp of hooves and the clattering of disturbed stones broke the silence of the forest. A small posse of men had made it through the pass and spilled out into the clearing. Before I could even search their faces, Lot’s men sprang out, weapons drawn like a band of robbers.
Curses and oaths filled the air as the men reeled from the surprise and took a defensive stance, their own weapons at the ready.
Fearless, Lot approached the group, his black eyes singling out the largest warrior. Thanks to Lot’s ruminations, I knew without looking who this man was, but I still gasped in disbelief at the sight of him.
King Arthur looked just as Merlin had described him, but his armor and traveling cloak made him look even more imposing. His tanned face and clothes were stained with grit from the road, and the aggravated expression on his face made me fear for Lot; Arthur was not a man I would want to cross.
“Arthur, so good of you to join us,” Lot purred, as if he were greeting guests at a feast.
Arthur raised a hand, and his guards relaxed their stance but left their weapons trained on the opposing party. “I remind you, Lord of Lothian, I am your king, and you would be wise to address me as such.” His voice was surprisingly deep and gravelly through his tightly clenched jaw.
Lot made a show of looking around. “King, you say? I see no king here but myself.”
“Then your eyes deceive you,” Arthur rebutted, “for I stand right in front of you.”
Lot pretended to refocus his eyes. “No. All I see is a man who stole the mantle of power from his own kin by contrived tales and trickery. This man is no king. I am the true heir to the crown of this country, and I am here to claim what is mine.” Lot drew his sword and pointed it straight at Arthur.
At the same instant, Arthur mirrored the motion.
Lot’s men edged in closer, itching for the battle to begin.
Arthur again signaled his men to stand down, many of whom were shuffling their feet and trembling with the effort to keep from rushing their king’s aggressor.
“Lot, I do not wish to kill your men. Shedding their blood would only needlessly create widows and orphans.” His rich indigo eyes scanned the opposing force, halting abruptly. “Uriens, will you too betray me?” he asked a gray-haired combatant with the intensity of a far younger man. “My brother-in-law has always opposed me, but you swore an oath to me.”
“I am supporting the true claimant to the throne,” Uriens stated confidently.
“Then I regret I must oppose you as well, friend.” Arthur sounded truly pained. He turned his attention back to Lot. “I have heard of your plans—and of your claims. If it is a war you want, you have picked the perfect way to start one, but I doubt that is your intent.” He studied Lot, appraising his opponent’s every reaction. “No, you are a man of peace; despite your recent actions, you will not be satisfied if this road runs red today. It is I you desire, and so you shall have your chance. I accept your challenge of combat.”
Lot snarled. This was not a turn he had been expecting. He was an excellent fighter, but to cross swords with Arthur was a dangerous proposition. He had been counting on someone else to do that part of the work. Now Arthur gave him no choice. It was either fight or lose face in front of his troops.
“Move away, men,” he ordered.
Both sides fell back to give the combatants room. Arthur waited patiently, reflecting Lot’s every move to give him little advantage. Lot swung first, his sword easily glancing off Arthur’s shield. Arthur responded, and the dance went on. Finally, Arthur landed a blow to Lot’s shielding arm, causing him to drop his defense.
The tide was turning rapidly against Lot, and he knew it. He made a pretense at following stra
tegy, but soon struck out in desperation, slashing at any area of Arthur’s exposed skin. It was the wrong move; Arthur nimbly avoided him and quickly had Lot on the ground, sword to his throat.
Lot’s men shifted their weight nervously, unsure if they should rescue their fallen leader.
Arthur’s back was toward them, but he understood their quandary. “If none of you make an aggressive move, you will be allowed to return to your homes in peace and without charge. Any other action will be considered treason.”
Lot’s men sheathed their weapons.
Arthur heaved Lot upright so that he was kneeling, facing Arthur’s men. “The law states that I should take your life,” he said plainly. “But I am hesitant to rush to judgment.”
Lot’s eyes bulged; he was incredulous that he had not already been slain.
Arthur began to pace in a circle around Lot, the point of his sword never losing contact with Lot’s flesh. “You see, I am intrigued by your mind. It took an astonishing grasp of strategy to plan and execute so brilliant a coup. It seems such a waste to kill you.”
Silence reigned for a long moment.
“But then again, I would be a fool to let you go outright, so I am asking myself, what is of the most value to you?” He mused aloud as he paced, clearly enjoying the tension his delay in action created. “You no longer have any money or power—I have seen to that.”
“What?” Lot choked, unable to keep the requisite silence. He immediately shrank back, anticipating Arthur’s violent rebuke.
But Arthur merely stopped and looked Lot square in the eye. “You did not know?” A wide grin spread across his face. “You mean to tell me that with your contingent of spies and informants, no one told you my reason for traveling north?” He gave a dubious laugh and then his face turned to granite. “I was coming to your kingdom to personally deliver your formal censure. Your treasury has been turned over to the crown for proper dispensation in light of your own misuse.”
Lot’s face was ashen, his mouth open wide like a drawbridge.
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