But she will bring you pain, King, before ever she brings you joy. Beloved of kings, she shall betray her king and be herself betrayed. Hers will be a fate no one will envy. She will be the white shadow over the brightest glory of Britain.
Silence fell in the tent, but the words rang loud in Guinevere’s head. White shadow. Gwenhwyfar. A dark spot on a bright glory. “Oh no,” she breathed, helpless against tears. “O dear God in heaven, help me!”
“For shame!” Ailsa cried, rising from her pallet. “Whatever possessed you, Lady Elaine?”
Elaine sobbed. “I had to tell her. Morgan said it was a fate she could avoid if she learned it in time.”
“Princess Morgan!” Ailsa crossed herself. “What do you want to be listening to her for? Hasn’t she caused enough trouble?” Ailsa took Guinevere in her arms and rocked with her, back and forth. “There, there,” she crooned. “There, there.”
Guinevere barely heard her. The whole world had withdrawn from her, leaving her in solitude. As her tutor, Iakos, had once said, whenever the gods granted a human being a great gift—such as power, fame, wisdom, or beauty—they also implanted in that person a great flaw, to ensure against hubris. All these years, the people who loved her had protected her from knowledge of her own flaw.
That it was the worst flaw she could imagine only made it more likely to be true. It made her words in Llyr’s defense—her appeal to reason, her provoking other people’s consciences to action—seem like the ultimate in hypocrisy. Who was she to admonish them, she who would one day betray her king? Who was she to rescue the Old Ones from annihilation, she who must one day be a traitor to their cause? She shut her eyes tight against the horror of it.
She told herself that Morgan had invented the tale to hurt her and that Morgan was nothing if not false. Yet all her life, Guinevere had known that there were others who knew the full extent of the prophecy. She had felt the weight of their pity like a cloak of shame.
Last spring, in the presence of the One Who Hears, she had accepted the first part of the prophecy. To deny it meant denying all the efforts of the Old Ones to protect her. But how was it possible to accept the second part? To accept that she would grow up to be false, like Morgan? Could a person really change so much? Could she grow up to be the kind of woman she now despised? It was a terrifying thought. If her name was to be remembered, would it be as a betrayer? Was her path through the coming years to be a lonely one, without friends or trusted companions? Her head ached, her mind spun, and she clung to Ailsa for strength.
Time passed. Grannic came in and made tea that no one drank. Elaine went to bed and cried herself quietly to sleep. Gradually, the camp fell silent. The bonfire died to embers. The moon sank out of sight. The stars dimmed. And still Guinevere huddled in Ailsa’s arms, her knees tucked against her chest, her head bent, staring open-eyed at a future she abhorred.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Partings
Before dawn, Guinevere finally arose, dressed in her riding clothes, and went to the horse lines. Zephyr was already tense and excited. Although it was early, camp was bustling. Servants stoked breakfast fires to life from last night’s embers, and Sir Bedwyr’s men worked to dismantle the High King’s tent. Guinevere approached the filly with a handful of grain swiped from the grooms’ stores and stroked Zephyr’s neck while the horse lipped the offering from her palm.
“Good morning, my sweet girl,” she crooned, scratching the filly’s ears. “It’s damp and misty now, but I’m sure it will clear. We’re heading home today, Zephyr. Back to your stable, back to Stannic, back to the hills we love. Perhaps forever.”
The filly nickered. Dawn broke lavender-pink across the misty meadow, and birdsong filled the air. Nearby, a voice said softly, “Blessed be the dawning, Gwenhwyfar.”
She whipped around to see Llyr standing with Thatch’s reins in his hand. He looked different to her now: older, thinner, and without the eagerness in his eyes she was used to seeing.
“Blessed be the dawning, Llyr. I’m glad to see you. Have you broken your fast?”
He smiled, and at once looked more like himself. “I will break my fast with the Strong Hearts. They camped yonder in the woods.” He paused. “Something is the matter, Gwenhwyfar? You are not the same today as yesterday.”
“No,” she said roughly. “I am not the same.”
He waited, patient and silent, for the confidence he expected from her. She must have changed, she thought, for she did not want to tell him. But his worried eyes persuaded her to answer.
“Last night, I learned the second part of the prophecy.”
His gaze sharpened, and she saw that he understood. He, too, had protected her. “How?”
“Princess Morgan told Elaine, and Elaine told me.”
“Morgan le Fey,” he muttered, and made the sign against evil. “A wicked woman.”
“Probably,” she said wearily.
Llyr walked up to her and placed his hand over hers on the filly’s neck. “Gwenhwyfar, prophecies are made by gods, but they are given to men to put into words. They are not always the right words. They do not always mean what you think they mean.”
“What else can betrayal mean but going back on one’s promise?”
He had no answer, and she continued bitterly, “The One Who Hears showed me that I must accept the prophecy for good or ill. If I have accepted the first part, I must accept the last part, also. Someday … I will betray my king.” She choked on the words.
Llyr’s soft brown eyes, as large and beautiful as a deer’s, were full of compassion. “A prophecy is like a coin. It has two sides. Up and down. Yes and no. The god smiles while he strikes. The goddess cries while she gives birth. The One Who Hears asked you to accept your destiny, whatever it is. But because you have heard the prophecy from a person’s mouth does not mean that you understand it. Only the gods know what is to come.”
Guinevere tried for a smile and failed. “Then I’m still in the dark? Is that meant as comfort?”
“You cannot stop being yourself because you fear the future. If you do, you are vanquished already.”
“What should I do, then? Ignore it? That’s impossible.”
“Put it in its place. It has no power over you but what you give it.”
She looked at him curiously. The One Who Hears had given her the same advice.
“Be who you are,” said Llyr. “Not who you think you must be. If you do that, no prophecy can force you to do what it is not in you to do.”
Her heart lightened. “Do you mean I can make the prophecy false?”
He shook his head. “Prophecies are not false, but the way a person interprets them may be. If you continue to be who you are, you will not betray. At least not in the way which frightens you so.”
“In—in some other way, then?”
He shrugged. “In some way, perhaps, that you and the ones you love do not see as betrayal, but that others do. There is always another way of looking at a prophecy.”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Llyr. I hadn’t thought of that.”
He winked at her. “There is still a use for your guardian, yes?”
“Yes. Definitely yes.”
He gazed at her with a host of emotions in his eyes. “Gwenhwyfar, I must speak from my heart. I was—I have made many mistakes. About you. About me.”
“Llyr, please—”
“I dreamed I could … I am one of Earth’s Beloved, and you are Other. I forgot that. I must ask your pardon.”
Guinevere lowered her eyes. “Of course you have my pardon. If I have yours for speaking out at your hearing without your permission?”
He smiled. “I am glad you did. The Master was pleased, but not as pleased as I was.”
As he started to turn away, she said quickly, “Don’t leave yet. Aren’t you coming home with us?”
“Of course I am,” he said gently.
“Then where are you going now?”
“To win a wager,”
he said with a sly grin. “The Strong Hearts do not believe that one of Earth’s Beloved can ride a pony.”
Guinevere laughed. It seemed like the first time in years. “Showing off, are you? Just remember that if the Strong Hearts haven’t broken their fast yet, they’ll be hungry. Don’t let them eat him.”
Llyr pretended to scowl. “Primitive savages! I will show them a better use for ponies.” He raised a hand in parting. “Light with thee walk, Gwenhwyfar.”
She returned his salute. “Dark from thee flee, Llyr, son of Bran.”
She watched him disappear into the woods, then slid her arms around her filly’s neck and rested her cheek against the warm, smooth coat. Llyr was back—all the way back—and their friendship had somehow miraculously returned to what it had been all summer. It was amazing what comfort that brought her. She could even begin to regard the wretched prophecy with a sense of balance. The future would unfold as it would. That was beyond her control. But she could control her actions in the meantime. She could be who she was and let the future take care of itself. It did not seem quite so dreadful when put like that.
She gave Zephyr a last pat and was turning to leave when someone called her name.
“Lady Guinevere.”
Merlin the Enchanter stood at the edge of the wood, watching.
Her arm slipped back around the filly’s neck. She wondered how long he had been standing there.
“Prince Merlin. Good morning.” She dipped him a curtsy.
He bowed and came toward her. As he neared, the noises of the morning faded into silence. When he halted an arm’s length away, all she could hear was the fearful thudding of her heart.
“Lady Guinevere, I have come to beg your pardon.”
His eyes were so dark they were almost black, and she had heard it said that no man could read them.
“F-for what, my lord?”
“For my presumption. After our first meeting, which I am ashamed to recall, I have avoided your company. I apologize for this.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” she said swiftly. “I didn’t seek you out, either.”
Amusement warmed his features, taking years off his age. For an instant she saw in his face the comely youth he might once have been.
“That’s not quite what I meant,” he said, “but it’s close enough. I avoided you because there was something I needed to know that only you could tell me, and I realized, after that first mistake, that I would need your permission to seek it. That is the second thing I have come for. I ask it now.”
She stared at him, unbelieving. He could not possibly mean what she thought he meant. “My permission? To do what, my lord?”
“To find out what I failed to discover at the presentation.”
She swallowed. “And by the same means?”
“With your permission.”
His request was brutally forthright. The filly tensed, flicking back an ear.
“Why did you persuade Llyr to keep silent at his own hearing?”
“Ah.” He seemed pleased by the question. “That’s perceptive of you. Because I wanted to see if you would defend him, and what the others would do if you did.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“I am the High King’s counselor. What happens in his domain is my concern. Not only the outcome of council meetings, but the small doings of every day. It is my task to know what his people think; what they do; what they want, expect, and fear. The King can’t be everywhere at once. I am his eyes and ears away from court.”
It was too long an answer. Instinctively, Guinevere knew he was hiding something.
“I know nothing about those things. What can I tell you that others can’t?”
Merlin paused. “You can tell me something about yourself.”
“Why not just ask me?”
Something flickered behind the black eyes, something sharp and dangerous. “Because, princess, it is something that you do not yet know.”
She sank back against the filly’s side, trembling. Zephyr rolled an eye, but stood still.
“Is it necessary?” She was thinking of Sir Bedwyr’s dream, the warrior’s dream, and of Stannic’s silver coin. “For the Kingdom?”
Merlin spoke gently. “I regret the necessity, princess.”
She drew one deep breath and then another. Be yourself. She put prophecies and kingdoms and wizards out of her mind and concentrated merely on the present. The filly shifted, forcing her upright.
“Very well. What must I do?”
The enchanter’s relief was visible. “Look at me,” he said.
This time, it was easy. There was no demand, no arrogance, and no fear, only warmth, care, and a cat’s-paw touch of tenderness.
“Thank you,” he murmured at length, and made her a little bow.
She shook herself awake to find that she had learned something about him. “Prince Merlin, you are disappointed.”
He smiled faintly. “It is not your doing. You cannot change your fate, my dear, and neither can I. Go on your way in peace.”
But that was not enough. She could not let him leave with the burning question still unanswered.
“My lord Merlin!”
He turned back. “Yes?”
“Is it true I will betray? Will it … matter very much?”
“To some it will; to others not.” He smiled sadly. “Betrayal is perhaps too harsh a word. Glory is less bright when shared among a crowd.”
She did not understand him, but she saw all too well his eagerness to be gone. He was already turning away for the second time.
“You—you do not hate me for it?”
He paused and shook his head. “Glory and greatness are built on love. I would not avert what is coming, even if I could. What will be, will be. Let it be so.”
He turned and vanished into the forest.
She pressed her face into the filly’s mane. She could not begin to guess what he meant. Betrayal is too harsh a word. What other word could there be? If she was always going to be faithful, why hadn’t he said so?
“Lady Guinevere!”
She whirled, startling Zephyr. But it was only Sir Bedwyr, come to say good-bye. “Good morning, Sir Bedwyr.”
“Good morning, Guinevere. They told me I’d find you in the horse lines. You’d best hurry if you want anything to eat. They’ve almost finished breakfast.”
She realized with a start that the sun was up and shining, the grass was nearly dry, and the wagons were all but loaded. Where had the morning gone? A few moments ago, it was not yet dawn.
“I—I didn’t know it was so late.”
“I came to thank you for your help, your inestimable and valuable help, in defending Llyr. And in keeping Morgan’s name out of it. I won’t forget it. If your aunt ever brings you and your cousin to court, you’ll have a friend in me, I promise you.”
She flushed. After her conversations with Llyr and Merlin, talking to Sir Bedwyr was a breath of spring air. “Thank you, Sir Bedwyr.”
“The marriage to Urien is going forward as planned, I’m pleased to say.”
“Did Morgan threaten to call it off?” The question was out of her mouth before she had time to stop it. It was sheer effrontery to ask, but Sir Bedwyr laughed.
“Of course. How else does a woman wield power but through the men who need her? She’ll find her match in Urien, I expect. He’s not likely to put up with handling such as that.” He grinned. “He won’t have to.”
Guinevere smiled. “I begin to feel sorry for her.”
“Don’t. She’ll lie in the bed she makes, as we all do. Speaking of marriage, I hear that your cousin is betrothed to Trevor of Powys.”
“Yes.”
“The news surprised me. You were the one who was always with him. No hard feelings?”
“None at all.”
Sir Bedwyr smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. He’s a bright lad. He spent half the night talking to Bran around the bonfire. Apparently, he’s organizing a network of communi
cation with the Old Ones. No one knows how the clans get and distribute news so fast, but they always seem to know what’s going on. Trevor plans to put Powys in the middle of all that.” He glanced at her quickly. “He befriended the Old Ones in Powys as a boy. That’s why I thought … Well, he’s a clever lad. I told him to come see Arthur as soon as he can ride. Kings live on information. There’s a place for him at court.”
“That must have pleased him very much.”
Sir Bedwyr frowned as he gave the filly a farewell pat. “You’ve a good horse here. It’s odd, but she looks like one of Arthur’s. I didn’t know King Pellinore bred such stock in Gwynedd.”
Guinevere explained that Zephyr had been bred in the High King’s stables, but that King Arthur had given her to King Pellinore last spring. King Pellinore, in turn, had given the filly to her.
Sir Bedwyr looked amazed. “That’s quite a gift. As a rule, Lancelot doesn’t allow the mares to go. I’d have loved to see his face when he learned Arthur gave this one away!”
“Who?” Guinevere asked. “Is that the knight who trained her? What did you say his name was?”
“Sir Lancelot of Lanascol. It’s a kingdom in Less Britain. He’s the heir.”
“And King Arthur’s master of horse?”
“Aye, and such a one with horseflesh you never saw.”
“Oh, Sir Bedwyr, would you do me a kindness?”
“Anything within my power, lady, after all you’ve done for me.”
“Would you thank Sir Lancelot for me? For the filly? I have wanted so long to know who taught her such beautiful manners. She’s so quick and easy to sit, I knew she’d been handled by a master. Will you thank him for me?”
“With pleasure,” said Sir Bedwyr with a smile. “Perhaps one day you can ride her to court yourself and show her to him.”
She took his arm as they started back to camp.
“Sir Lancelot of Lanascol,” she repeated. “Why, it sounds like singing.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Snowfall
On a snowy evening a week after Christmas, Guinevere stood alone by the western parapet of King Pellinore’s castle, gazing out toward the black, invisible sea. It was a still night, still enough to hear the soft hiss of falling snowflakes, still enough to slow the swift beating of her heart.
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