In Principio

by J A Cummings

  The druid sat down on the ground, crossing his legs. “And yet here you are, awash with sudden lust for a woman you’ve never met and have no business meeting, and all your grief and all your dedication to the boy you loved are swept away. I see how loyal you are now.”

  The words stung him to the quick, and he took a step back, his face creased in anguish. “You… I…” He swallowed hard. He had so many things he wanted to say that he was unable to say anything at all. His heart seemed to spasm in his chest, the pain radiating through his very soul. He shook his head. “You know nothing about me.”

  He stalked away, trying to hide the tears that welled in his eyes, and he heard Merlin say, “I know everything about you.”

  He wanted to find a rock and hurl it at the druid’s face, but instead he just kept walking.

  Aquae Sulis was busy with visitors to the pagan shrine, and the Reverend Mother Niobe was in a state. Igraine and Morgana kept clear of her, staying to their shared chamber in the convent during the day. Neither of them wore the nun’s clothes anymore unless they were going out where they might be seen by men. Within the convent, they dressed as they liked, and they did as they wished.

  Morgana was seated in the sunlight on a low couch, making a corn dolly for Mabon. Her quick and clever hands moved with practiced ease, twisting and bending the dried sheaves of grain until they were in the shape of the Goddess, the fuzzy heads fanning out to form her skirt, the bent middles clustered and tied with red string to make her head. Igraine watched fondly, putting her needlework into her lap.

  “It’s lovely, dear,” she said.

  Morgana beamed at her, and for a moment, she was a child again and not a seventeen-year-old fugitive queen. “Thank you, Mother,” she said. “Shall I make you one?”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Through the window, a roar of masculine laughter caught their attention, and Morgana went to look outside. She turned back to her mother. “The pagans are coming to the well. There will be a bonfire tonight. Can we go?”

  Igraine sighed. “I wish we could, but as long as we are here under the Reverend Mother’s protection, we must abide by at least some of her rules. There will be men there who might recognize us, so it is too dangerous to go without wearing the habits. If we go in our nun clothes, we will be unable to enjoy the celebration. There’s really no point.”

  Her daughter pouted briefly, then gathered up more grain and sat down again. “Maybe we can see the fire from the window.”

  “I believe we will.”

  They worked on their respective handicrafts in silence for a long while. When Morgana finished her second tiny figure, she turned to her mother. “Did you love my father?”

  Igraine smiled. “With all my heart. Gorlois was the love of my life.”

  “And Uther Pendragon? Did you love him?”

  Her mother’s face turned to stone and her eyes went cold. “I would have killed him if I thought I would have survived the repercussions.”

  Morgana gathered up the tiny fallen pieces of grain that littered her skirt and the floor around her. “Did my father ever hurt you?”

  “No. Not intentionally.”

  “What does that mean, ‘not intentionally’? He did, or he didn’t.”

  Igraine sighed. “There were times he was...vigorous. And times when he was insistent. But I loved him, and those times were few and far between.”

  “So, if you love someone, it’s all right if they hurt you?” The girl frowned and looked into the little pile of chaff. She took it to the window and dumped it outside.

  “Not exactly. If you love someone, you forgive them for their mistakes.”

  “Then, if you love someone, you can hurt them, and they’ll forgive you.”

  She didn’t know what her daughter was thinking. “If they love you, they will.”

  The girl nodded sagely. “I think I understand.” She picked up the dolls she had made. “I never loved Uriens. Not ever. I never forgave him for hurting me.”

  “Nor should you. The man is a beast.” Igraine stabbed her fabric with her needle, punctuating the point. The scarlet thread she was using pooled around the hole like blood. She took a deep breath and forced herself to be calm. In a measured tone, she asked, “Why all this talk of love and hurting, child?”

  “I want to understand.” She shrugged. “It’s been months since I’ve had to lie with my husband, and I don’t think I miss it, but maybe I do, but maybe it’s that I miss… I’m not certain.”

  “Do you miss Owain?”

  Morgana sneered. “He’s not my child.”

  Her mother chuckled. “I can assure you, my dear, he is. It’s easier to conceal a father than a mother.”

  “I meant that he’s too much like his father. There’s nothing of me in him. Why would I miss him? I barely know him. He was taken as soon as he was born and put to nurse with another woman because I couldn’t feed him. Since then, I’ve rarely spent time with the boy.”

  “How old is he, now? Eight?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Forgotten.”

  Igraine frowned. “But how can you just forget your own son?”

  “You know how, and why. When you hate his father, it’s easy. Haven’t you forgotten the boy you bore for Uther? It’s the exact same thing. You hate that boy like I hate Owain. I never asked to bear him. You never asked to bear yours.” She clenched her fists, her skirt gathered up in her hands in clumps. “Children are nothing but parasites.”

  She looked away from her daughter’s anger, disliking the frenetic air it lent to her face. Morgana’s beauty was marred by the sick shine in her eyes.

  “I do not hate the child I bore,” Igraine corrected. “I only hated his father.”

  “You may not hate him, but you don’t love him, either. You never spend a moment thinking about him, or wondering about where he is, or whether he’s happy or well. Do you?”

  The widowed High Queen looked away, guilty. “No.”

  “Just as I never spare such thoughts for Owain.” She studied her mother’s face. “No, you don’t hate your little spawn, but his absence is a relief to you. I hate his father, too, and if you can’t bring yourself to hate the son, well, I will hate him enough for the both of us.”

  Looking at Morgana’s face, Igraine did not doubt that to be true.

  Her daughter took the dolls she had made and put them on the chest of drawers they shared. She posed them so they stood on their own, facing one another, outstretched hands nearly touching. “Look, Mother,” she said. “It’s us.”

  Igraine smiled. “So it is.”

  Morgana came to her side and knelt on the floor, her delicate hands on her mother’s knee. “I met someone in the garden,” she said, whispering. “Someone wonderful.”

  She was shocked. What manner of man could possibly have turned her daughter’s head? She put down her stitching. “Who? What is his name?”

  “It’s not a he. It’s a she.” She leaned closer. “Her name is Ganile, and she’s very, very wise.”

  “Is she one of the religious sisters?”

  Morgana laughed. “Oh, no. She worships no god.”

  “She worships a goddess, then?”

  “No.” She shook her head, her face bright. “She worships power.”

  Igraine felt a shiver run down her back, and her voice quavered as she asked, “What kind of power? Temporal power?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Mother. You know what I mean. I mean magic. The only power that really and truly matters.” She gripped Igraine’s leg. “She said that she would teach me things, because she could see that I am intelligent and crafty. She will make me into a woman who can stand alone in the world of men.”

  That cold chill expanded. “What things will she teach you, child?”

  Morgana did not answer. Instead, she went to the dolls and leaned close to them, whispering, “Heóre rún.”

  At first nothing happened, but then the doll on the left began to shive
r. Igraine slowly rose to her feet, her mouth dropping open as she watched the doll bow its tiny head. Its arms bent, and in a spate of herky-jerky movements it began to dance. Morgana clapped her hands in delight. Igraine stared in shock as the second doll began to move, as well, and the two began to spin together, cavorting grotesquely to silent music.

  She dropped her sewing and ran to the dolls, seizing them in her hands, stilling their dance. Morgana frowned. “Why did you do that?”

  “Never,” she hissed. “Never let anyone see you do this again.”

  “Why not?”

  “They will take you as a witch, and you will burn for it.”

  Morgana tossed her head. “I dare them to try. I am not the mewling bitch that I used to be. I have power now, Mother, and I am not afraid to use it. I am learning more every day, and someday, this world will kneel to me.”

  The dolls vibrated in her hands, and Igraine dropped them in horror. When they hit the stone floor, they lay still, as inanimate as they should have been. Morgana picked them up and brushed them off lovingly.

  “You’ll see, Mother. Ganile will teach me everything I need to know, and then we will be queens with no need of a king. We will love who we hurt, and hurt who we love, and do whatever we want, and nobody will dare to say a word.” She put the dolls back on the dresser, then picked up her mother’s fallen fabric. “Your sewing, Mother. I would hate for it to get dirty after you’ve worked so hard on it.”

  Their eyes met, and Igraine saw something in Morgana that she did not recognize. She took the sewing from her slowly, feeling very afraid.

  When night fell, Merlin left the grove and went to Vivienne’s tower on the coast. The air was very still, as if the sea itself was holding its breath in anticipation of the events to come. He stepped into his mother’s room and waited for her to finish writing in her book. When she at last put down her quill, he stepped closer.

  “He saw her. Guinevere.”

  “And his reaction?”

  He pursed his lips in irritation. “Predictable.”

  She nodded. “It can’t be helped. Some things are meant to be...but keep them apart for as long as you can. Has the other appeared yet?”

  Merlin shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Vivienne was satisfied. “Good. Pray that we can intercept him before he does. If Arthur is to be what and where we need him to be, we must prevent those three from coming together before it is time. All things depend on this.”

  “Yes, Mother. I understand.” He hesitated. “Should the three not come together at all? Should I find him now and slay him outright?”

  The succubus hesitated and thought for a moment, her slender finger tapping the page she had been writing upon. “No. Let me consider this more carefully. He has a part to play, but it would be better if he played that part away from our future High King.” She looked up at her son, her green eyes flashing. Merlin had seen that look before, and it both chilled and exhilarated him. “Nothing must prevent Arthur from realizing his destiny.”

  “Of course. I will do anything I must.”

  “I know.” She went to him and embraced him, kissing his lips. “My darling boy. I am so very proud of you.”

  He puffed. Few things could motivate him the way her words of praise could do. “I will keep making you proud, I swear.”

  “I know you will.” She kissed him again, then stepped back. “Go back to him. Make sure he trusts you completely, without question. We need him to be obedient to our direction.”

  “Yes, mother. Just one more thing…”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “This grief for his lover continues to be a distraction. I was able to put him off Guinevere by invoking the boy’s name, but I am uncertain how to proceed. The guilt could continue to be a useful tool, but then again, we need him to be open to others in a short time. I could enchant him to remove his memory of the boy, but…”

  “But grief and guilt are powerful tools that can be very helpful in convincing him to do what we want him to do,” she finished for him.

  “Exactly.”

  Vivienne thought for a moment, then said, “Leave him as he is. Use the guilt, but sparingly, so he doesn’t suspect that he is being manipulated.”

  “Of course. I promise you, he will be what you need him to be.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I know.”

  The grove was bustling with the last preparations for the great Mabon feast. Arthur returned from the forest with his tunic full of acorns, which he delivered to Enfys, one of the druidesses. She kissed him on the cheek in thanks as she gathered them up.

  “What a nice crop you’ve found,” she congratulated. “And all freshly dropped with the caps still on. I’ll boil them and we’ll have them by the fire.”

  Merlin strolled closer, and Arthur turned his back on him and began to walk away. The druid chuckled. “Come back, Arthur. Listen to me.”

  He stopped but did not face him. “Yes? Something you wanted to say?”

  He put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

  The younger man turned and looked at him archly. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”

  Merlin shook his head. “You’re just as stiff-necked as you should be, aren’t you?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that stubbornness is a family trait.”

  Arthur had heard him talk about his family before, and he knew that Merlin knew the secret. He narrowed his eyes. “You hint all the time about my parentage. When are you going to tell me the truth?”

  “I will tell you when it’s time and not before.”

  “What if I say the time is now?”

  “Then I will say that you are wrong.” Merlin dropped his hand. “I truly don’t blame you for being angry with me, but try to let it go. It would be sad if you gained the reputation for ruining celebrations with your little fits of pique.”

  He felt anger rush through him again, and he turned away, stalking toward his hut. He didn’t know why Merlin was saying and doing these maddening things, but he knew the crafty druid well enough to think that none of it was accidental. He was too deliberate and too conniving to do such things by chance. Merlin was goading him for some purpose, and he supposed that he had been giving his tormentor exactly what he wanted. He thought this might in some way be tied to the lesson about kingship, but he could not say how.

  He stopped at the door to his hut and looked back at Merlin, who was still standing where Arthur had left him, watching him with a twinkle in his bright eyes. Merlin saw the young man looking at him, and he smiled broadly. In disgust, Arthur turned his back again.

  When he went inside his hut, he wished he had a door that he could close. Instead, he untied the laces and rolled down the leather curtain that served the same purpose, but in a much less sturdy fashion. The price of privacy was darkness, but enough light filtered in around the curtain that he could still see.

  Arthur sat on his bed and busied himself with caring for his armor and his weapon, oiling the metal and checking for any links that needed to be repaired. While his hands worked, his mind wandered, and he let it roam.

  He was embarrassed now about his reaction to the faery princess Guinevere. She was beautiful, yes, astonishingly so, but he had been gawping like a fish out of water. No doubt she had noticed him because he looked like the village idiot, mouth open and catching flies. He frowned in irritation. It was good that he would never see her again, because he’d probably still play the fool if he did.

  He wondered what Amren would say, and if he had betrayed him by feeling such a sudden and profound attraction to Guinevere. He reasoned that his response had been purely physical and therefore just an accident of anatomy. He would not betray Amren until someone else took up residence in his heart. He doubted that would ever be the case.

  Someone tapped against the outside of his hut, and he looked up. “Come in.”

&nb
sp; Merlin pushed the leather flap out of the way and peered inside. “May I enter?”

  Arthur nodded, “Yes. Come in. I said so already.”

  “I need to be specifically invited in,” the druid said with a shrug.

  “You’re invited,” Arthur said, his voice flat.

  “Thank you,” Merlin said, stepping into the hut and dropping the leather curtain closed behind him once again. “I wanted to be certain that you’re willing to talk to me.”

  He put his chain shirt aside and picked up his breastplate. “That depends. Are you going to insult me again?”

  “Probably not.” The druid smiled and sat on a low stool that Arthur had built. “Do you know why I’ve been insulting you?”

  “Because it amuses you?”

  “Well… that’s part of it, I will admit.” Arthur snorted, and Merlin continued. “But that’s not the only reason. Have you sussed it out?”

  “You’re teaching me a lesson,” he ventured.

  “About what?”

  “I’m still trying to decide.”

  Merlin nodded. “Men in positions of power will have all manner of unflattering things said about them, usually behind their backs but sometimes to their faces. If every verbal insult is taken as an invitation to fight, then there will be nothing but bloodshed from now until your very premature death. You must decide when anger is appropriate, and when it should be contained or cast aside.”

  Arthur looked at him, then back to his work. “It’s about self-control.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I had thought of that already, and I’ve tried it. I’m just not very good at it.”

  Merlin’s smile was kind for once instead of mocking, and he said, “You are very young, and you come from a fiery bloodline on both sides. If you didn’t have difficulty mastering your wrath, I would be surprised. There is a time for all things, though, and wrath and pride can cause the downfall of a good man before enemies or time.”

  He put the breastplate down and faced his teacher. “King Rions doesn’t control his greed. That was part of the lesson there. He lacks self-control in that respect.”