Am I so unwilling to give up my hatred? Merlin wondered as he rode toward the ring of stones. They were visible in the distance, silhouetted against the white sky of a spring evening: great stark menhirs that had once marked a temple of the Old Ways.
He pondered the question carefully. Since his sixteenth year he had hated Queen Mab. She had killed his birth-mother Elissa and his foster-mother Ambrosia. She had maimed Nimue. But time could soften the edge of both love and hate. Merlin was willing to set aside his anger in the name of a greater good. Let Arthur return home to a kingdom that was as much at peace as Merlin could make it.
*Are you sure this is a good idea, Merlin?* Sir Rupert asked as he walked up the hill toward the stones.
“At my age, I’m sure of nothing, old friend,” Merlin told the enchanted steed, “but I do know there’s no harm in trying.”
*If you say so,* Sir Rupert answered dubiously. He shook his head vehemently, so that the buckles on his harness jingled. He stopped, switching his tail back and forth. *I have my doubts.*
Merlin laughed at the animal’s skeptical tone as he dismounted. Slapping Sir Rupert companionably upon the shoulder, he walked the last of the way to the stones. A twitch of his fingers summoned his wizard’s staff, and he was glad of its support as he walked into the fairy ring. He had no guarantee that this would work.
He stopped in the center of the stones. It was evening, and the mist was rising on the Downs, giving his purely mundane surroundings a magical insubstantiality.
“Mab!” Merlin shouted. “Queen Mab!”
“I am here, Merlin.”
The Queen of the Old Ways walked out of the nearest slab of stone as if it had been an open doorway.
Merlin had not seen her since the night Arthur drew Excalibur from the stone, but she had not changed. She was still the exquisite creature who had dazzled his boyhood dreams and captivated kings.
“It has been a long time since you called upon me, Merlin.”
Her dark-rimmed pale eyes watched him expressionlessly as she waited, and suddenly Merlin found it hard to begin.
“I’ve come to make peace,” Merlin finally blurted.
Mab watched him, and Merlin had the feeling that if there were still any honest laughter in her soul, Mab would have laughed at him then.
“You vowed to destroy me,” she pointed out.
“Things change,” Merlin said. “They’ve changed for you. Can’t you see it? All my life you have fought to destroy the New Religion and return Britain to the worship of the Old Ways. But don’t you see? The time of the Old Ways is past. All things change. Let them change, Mab.”
“And be forgotten!” Mab hissed. “I won’t surrender! I’m too close to winning!”
“If Mordred kills Arthur, nothing will change, Mab. The people will fight, but none of them will fight for the Old Ways. It is too late for that.”
He took a step toward her, studying her face. Queen Mab had given him life. Her blood ran in his veins. Her actions had shaped his life.
“Please, Mab.” He stretched out a hand to her. “These were once your people. Don’t hurt them now. Let Mordred come to Camelot as a friend, not an enemy—”
With a gesture almost too quick to see, Mab struck out at Merlin and sent him sprawling.
“Never!” she cried. “Mordred will not betray me! He is loyal! He will destroy Arthur and Camelot, and the people will return to me!”
“Never!” Merlin shouted from the ground. “Mab—think!” he pleaded, struggling upright. “They are human beings, with human hearts. They must be ruled through love, not fear. Those who fear you will leave you—as I did.”
Mab had raised her hand to lash out at him once more. She stopped, and Merlin saw her struggle to understand what he had said … and fail. She was what she was: the Queen of the Old Ways, of Air and Darkness, as unchanging as the seas and the stars.
“You were right to fear me,” Mab hissed at last. “I could destroy you here, dear Merlin—but I won’t. I have other plans for you and for your precious Arthur. You left me—but Mordred did not. Soon he will reach Camelot. And when the people see his power, they will return to me. I will not be forgotten!”
“No, Mab!”
He had not tested his powers against her for years, but Merlin knew that his only hope of keeping Mordred from Camelot lay in stopping her now. He flung out his hands, drawing magic out of the living earth.
The winds began to rise, and the sky took on a glowing greenish hue. An oak tree sprouted beneath Mab’s feet, growing with supernatural speed, surrounding her and trapping her within its heart. It continued to grow, putting out branches and leaves, towering toward heaven as the storm whipped around it.
There was a flare of light and the sun and moon wheeled through the sky, rising and setting with unnatural speed. Mab burst out of the trunk in a lethal shower of splinters. The great tree split in half and fell away. In moments it had withered and decayed away to nothing.
“You cannot defeat me!” Mab hissed. “Magic cannot destroy me—it just makes me stronger!”
She gestured, and Merlin flew backward. He struck one of the standing stones with a cry of pain, and slumped to the ground.
“Poor Merlin!” Mab said with false sweetness. The winds that whipped her robes and her hair into a Medusa-like tangle died down. “Always too little and too late!”
She vanished, but her words echoed through the air around him: too late—too late—too late…
But too late for what?
At last there was stillness. Merlin groaned, painfully pulling himself to his feet. He could see a thin line of pink along the eastern hills: sunrise, not sunset. Though it had seemed that only minutes had passed, his confrontation with Queen Mab had taken the entire night.
He’d tried. But Mab had not listened—could not listen. All her dreams were of the past, projected into a future that could never be. Though she drowned Britain in blood and fire once more, she could never regain the love she had once received from her followers. She had forfeited it through fear and anger, and anger and fear were all she had left.
No, Merlin thought, he no longer hated Queen Mab. But he pitied her.
And he feared for Britain.
On a horse the color of cinders, Prince Mordred rode toward Camelot to claim his birthright. He was conceived in treachery and nurtured in ambition, and his only skills were cruelty and destruction.
Arthur was not yet here, but Arthur’s Queen was. Between them, they could arrange a splendid homecoming for his dear father. …
CHAPTER FIVE
THE BATTLE OF MIRRORS
Guinevere was on her knees before the Virgin, clutching a pearl rosary in her hands as she told her beads. She seemed to spend more and more time these days storming Heaven on her knees, as if the sheer number of her petitions could compel Heaven to answer.
But God and His Holy Mother remained silent upon the subject of what Guinevere was to say to Arthur. Her husband would be here tomorrow, and she did not know what she would say to him when he arrived.
She did not love him. She knew now that she never had. She had wanted to please—please her older brother Gawain, please their father, please the glamorous boy-king who had been so dazzled by the very sight of her. It was all very flattering, but Guinevere realized now that in all of that consideration she had given no thought to what she herself wanted—if she had even known.
But years passed and times changed. She knew now. She wanted Lancelot, and she did not care what she had to do to get him. Overthrow Camelot—always Arthur’s dream, never hers—renounce the New Religion and return to the Old Ways; it didn’t matter. She had always wanted to be loved and needed, to know there was a place where she belonged, and she had found that place in Lancelot’s arms. And now that she had found her happiness, she would not give it up without a fight. She would do whatever it took to get Lancelot back.
A thousand times since Lancelot had left Camelot she had thought of swallowing her pride and
going to Merlin to beg the wizard to help her find where her lover had gone. But Guinevere had been born a princess of the Iceni, of blood as royal as Arthur’s, and she knew that she had a duty to keep Britain safe until Arthur returned.
But when he did, her duty would be over.
Despite her resolve, she dreaded telling him—about Lancelot, about her feelings—though that would not stop her from doing it. She knew that what she had done was a sin in the eyes of the New Religion.
But Arthur gave me no choice! From the beginning he shut me out—how could I have done other than what I did? Oh, Holy Virgin, you who know the griefs of women, open Arthur’s heart and make him understand that I—
There was a sound from behind her.
Still on her knees, Guinevere turned, the rosary swinging from her fingers. There was a man standing in the doorway of the chapel, watching her at her prayers.
“Hello, Mother,” he said.
He was tall and slender, and his skin was as pale as lilies. His cherry-black hair hung loose about his shoulders, and he was dressed all in severe and funereal black, from his silver-buttoned tunic to the plaid that was draped across his body and brooched at his left shoulder with an ornate clasp.
“Who are you?” Guinevere asked warily, getting to her feet and looping the rosary through her belt. “I gave orders I was not to be disturbed.”
“Oh, forgive me,” the young man said, sweeping her a low mocking bow. “We haven’t been properly introduced, I know. My name is Mordred. And you’re the Queen. But you know that already.”
“I don’t know you,” Guinevere said. “And why do you call me Mother?”
Mordred feigned a stricken expression—badly, as if he wanted his audience to know he was only pretending. “Oh, well, you’ll have to admit it’s a natural slip of the tongue. My father’s wife, my stepmama… you don’t mind if I call you Mother, do you? I think family ties are so important in these uncertain times.”
“You’re Arthur’s son?” Guinevere asked numbly. How could he be? He looked nearly as old as Arthur.
And where were her guards? If this intruder was mad—or worse, somehow telling the truth—she wanted aid to be within easy reach.
“He hasn’t told you?” Mordred asked with false concern, walking into the room.
He moved with catlike elegance, the picture of knightly grace, save for the fact that he wore upon his belt not a sword but a war-ax. No true knight would carry such a weapon.
“Well, I’m not really surprised, I suppose. My mother, his sister—”
Mordred broke off again in theatrical surprise, gazing at Guinevere from wide grey eyes.
“Oh, I suppose he didn’t tell you that, either. No, Arthur isn’t quite the plaster saint he’s made himself out to be. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What do you want?” Guinevere demanded in a low voice. Mordred stopped directly in front of her, smiling a guileless smile that Guinevere found unaccountably chilling.
“I want what everyone wants. My rights. I’m Arthur’s heir—and at the rate he’s going, I’ll have precious little competition in that line. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I’m your only hope for a Crown Prince for this dreary little backwater. So why don’t we just…”
He put a conspiratorial hand on her arm. Furious, Guinevere shook him off and stepped back.
“Monster! I’ll see you burn first,” Guinevere flared. “Guards!” she shouted.
“I wouldn’t say that if I were you,” Mordred said. “These things have a terrible way of recoiling against the speaker, Your Highness.”
The guards finally appeared, four men wearing the white-and-gold livery of Camelot. They stared from the Queen to the well-dressed young man in bafflement, unable to understand why they had been called.
“Put him in the dungeon,” Guinevere said, pointing at Mordred.
“Oh, I don’t think they’ll do anything like that,” Mordred said lightly. “After all, I’m an honored guest here at Camelot. Prince Mordred, son of Marie of the Border Celts and Good King Arthur. And you were about to tell them to escort me to your finest accommodation and treat me with all honor. Weren’t you, Your Highness?”
He smiled at her with heartless brilliance. The Old Magic vibrated on the air. All at once Guinevere felt confused, feverish. She looked at Mordred, then at the guards, and smiled uncertainly. Was that what she’d been about to say? She couldn’t remember. She looked back at Mordred, who smiled encouragingly at her.
“Yes, that’s right,” Guinevere said slowly. “Escort him to our finest accommodations. Treat him with all honor.”
She watched, numbly, as the guards led Prince Mordred from the chapel, feeling so ill and dizzy that she knelt on the cold stone floor again, leaning forward to press her face against the cold slate flags.
After several minutes, her thoughts cleared, and she remembered the truth. Mordred had bewitched her!
She got to her feet, her heart hammering with alarm. Where had he gone, and what was he doing?
And why had he come? Guinevere ran from the chapel, fearful of what she might find, but everything seemed normal at first. The castle’s inhabitants were going about their daily business, the servants and the young pages walking briskly toward their destinations in a purposeful fashion. Her guards were back at their posts, just as they ought to be.
There was no sign of Mordred.
Perhaps it is I who have gone mad. Perhaps there was no Mordred. Perhaps he was only a fantasy her mind had produced, a sin of Arthur’s to equal and even surpass her own. Incest was a far darker sin than adultery, and if there had truly been a child…
But if Mordred is real, why is he sneaking around Camelot like this? And where is he?
Then she heard a burst of laughter from the door to the chamber that held the Round Table. No one had been in there except to clean it since Arthur had taken most of the Knights of the Round Table away with him on his quest.
She peered through the half-open doors. Though it had been deserted the past several years, the room was full now. Torches lined the walls, and servants moved to and fro with tankards of ale. Though the table had no head or foot, each knight’s name marked his place, and Mordred sat now in Arthur’s seat, the Siege Perilous, surrounded by a group of the younger knights.
He was speaking earnestly to them, too low for Guinevere to hear him, using the same hellish power of suggestion that had beguiled her in the chapel. When Mordred spoke, Guinevere knew, his hearers would believe anything he told them, no matter how outlandish… including that a man only a few years younger than the King himself could be Arthur’s trueborn son.
Madness that it was, Guinevere no longer doubted that it was the truth. All she knew of Morgan le Fay was that she was the daughter of the Duke of Cornwall and the Duchess who had been Arthur’s ill-starred mother, but her name suggested that she was in league with dark forces. Morgan’s son was undoubtedly the product of the same Pagan magic Morgan worshiped, here to destroy the peace and prosperity Britain had found under Arthur’s reign.
Suddenly Mordred broke off what he was saying and got to his feet.
“Is someone there?” he called, staring toward the doorway.
Guinevere shuddered at the sound of his voice, and shrank back. When he resumed speaking, she hurried away before he caught her there listening to him. She did not know what it was that he meant to do here in Camelot, but she knew he must be stopped. Somehow.
Merlin had gone off on one of his mysterious errands, so even if she could bring herself to call upon him, he was not here. But Sir Hector and the rest of the royal council were. She must summon them at once and tell them all that she knew and suspected about Mordred. Perhaps they could think of some way to imprison him until Arthur returned, though how one could imprison a man who could convince anyone of anything Guinevere did not know. There must be some way to stop him.
Frightened and confused, Guinevere prayed for a miracle.
They had landed at Dover the day before
, but Arthur had not sent word ahead to Camelot of his arrival. If the people knew they were coming, there would be holidays and celebrations, and in his heart, Arthur did not feel he deserved them. He had failed on his quest, after all. The Grail was still lost.
But Britain was just as he had remembered it, lush and verdant, heartbreakingly lovely, and he knew, seeing it, that he had made the right choice in coming home. He could not understand, seeing it with the fresh eyes of long exile, how he had ever been able to bring himself to leave it, and vowed he would never leave it again.
Only now that they were home could he bring himself to admit how battered and weary his surviving companions were. Seven long years of adventures had taken their toll. Even the horses they rode were thin and jaded, their coats dull and their gaits shambling. The once-bright banners that they had carried through the gates of Camelot with such high hopes were faded and tattered, as were the ideals of the men who bore them. The bright dreams Arthur had cherished as a young man were gone, lost somewhere in all the long years of wandering.
But now, at last, he was home.
“Camelot…” he whispered, gazing down at the city on the shore of the lake. It was evening, and the setting sun touched the walls and the rooftops with gold. “It’s built. Lancelot kept his word.”
A stubborn spark of pride swelled within his heart. No matter what else he had failed at, Camelot was real. His golden city of peace and charity had been built. Tears of thanksgiving rose in Arthur’s eyes.
“We have to ride in with banners held high, Sire,” Gawain said, beside him. Loyal Gawain! The first to follow him, always there, faithful and uncomplaining.
“You’re right, Gawain,” Arthur said. “Lift up your banners and your hearts, men!” he shouted. “We’re home!”
Joy and thanksgiving kindled a last spark of energy among the weary company, and the knights rallied, sitting straighter in their saddles and raising their pennons to jaunty angles. Even the horses caught some of their masters’ eagerness, and pranced like young colts as the small band rode forward, down through the gates of Camelot.
The End of Magic Page 11