The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Morgaine came and took her hands, and Niniane was surprised at her gentle voice.

  “I am sorry, my poor girl, I would give my very life to return here and take the burden from you. But I cannot, I dare not. I cannot hide here and shirk my given task because I long for my home.” It was no longer arrogance, nor contempt for the girl who had been thrust, unwilling, into the place which should have been hers, but simple pity for her. “I have begun a task in the West country which must be completed—if I leave it half done, it were better it had never been begun. You cannot take my place there, and so, may the Goddess help us both, you must keep my place here.” She bent and embraced the girl, holding her tight. “My poor little cousin, there is a fate on us both, and we cannot escape it . . . if I had stayed here, the Goddess would have worked with me one way, but even when I tried to flee my sworn duty, she brought it upon me elsewhere . . . none of us can escape. We are both in her hands, and it is too late to say it would have been better the other way . . . she will do with us as she will.”

  Niniane held rigidly aloof for a moment, then her resentment melted and she clung to Morgaine, almost as Nimue had done. Blinking back tears, she said, “I wanted to hate you—”

  “And I, you, perhaps . . .” Morgaine said. “But she has willed otherwise, and before her we are sisters. . . .” Hesitantly, her lips reluctant to speak the words which had been withheld for so long, she added something else, and Niniane bent her head and murmured the proper response. Then she said, “Tell me of your work in the West, Morgaine. No, sit here beside me, there is no rank between us, you know that. . . .”

  When Morgaine had told her what she could, Niniane nodded. “Something of this I heard from the Merlin,” she said. “In that country, then, men turn again to the old worship . . . but Uriens has two sons, and the elder is his father’s heir. Your task then is to make certain that Wales has a king from Avalon—which means that Accolon must succeed his father, Morgaine.”

  Morgaine closed her eyes and sat with bent head. At last she said, “I will not kill, Niniane. I have seen too much of war and bloodshed. Avalloch’s death would solve nothing—they follow Roman ways there now, since the priests have come, and Avalloch has a son.”

  Niniane dismissed that. “A son who could be reared to the old worship—how old is he, four years old?”

  “He was so when I came to Wales,” said Morgaine, thinking of the child who had sat in her lap and clung to her with his sticky fingers and called her Granny. “Enough, Niniane. I have done all else, but even for Avalon, I will not kill.”

  Niniane’s eyes flamed blue sparks at her. She raised her head and said, warning, “Never name that well from which you will not drink!”

  And suddenly Morgaine realized that the woman before her was priestess, too, not merely the pliant child she had seemed; she could not be where she was, she could never have passed the tests and ordeals which went into the making of a Lady of Avalon, if she had not been acceptable to the Goddess. With unexpected humility, she realized why she had been sent here. Niniane said, almost in warning, “You will do what the Goddess wills when her hand is laid upon you, and that I know by the token you bear . . .” and her eyes rested upon Morgaine’s bosom as if she could see through the folds of the gown to the seed which lay there, or to the silver crescent on its leather thong. Morgaine bent her head and whispered, “We are all in her hands.”

  “Be it so,” said Niniane, and for a moment it was so silent in the room that Morgaine could hear the splash of a fish in the Lake beyond the borders of the little house. Then she said, “What of Arthur, Morgaine? He bears still the sword of the Druid Regalia. Will he honor his oath at last? Can you make him honor it?”

  “I do not know Arthur’s heart,” Morgaine said, and it was a bitter confession. I had power over him, and I was too squeamish to use it. I flung it away.

  “He must swear again to honor his oath to Avalon, or you must get the sword from him again,” said Niniane, “and you are the only person living to whom this task might be entrusted. Excalibur, the sword of the Holy Regalia, must not remain in the hands of one who follows Christ. You know Arthur has no son by his queen, and he has named the son of Lancelet, Galahad by name, to be his heir, since now the Queen grows old.”

  Morgaine thought, Gwenhwyfar is younger than I, and I might still bear a child if I had not been so damaged in Gwydion’s birth. Why are they so certain she will never bear? But before Niniane’s certainty she asked no questions. There was magic enough in Avalon, and no doubt they had hands and eyes at Arthur’s court; and indeed the last thing they would wish would be that the Christian Gwenhwyfar should bear Arthur a son . . . not now.

  “Arthur has a son,” said Niniane, “and while his day is not yet, there is a kingdom he can take—a place to begin the recapture of this land for Avalon. In the ancient ways, the king’s son meant little, the son of the Lady was all, and the king’s sister’s son was his heir . . . know you what I mean, Morgaine?”

  Accolon must succeed to the throne of Wales. Morgaine heard it again, and then what Niniane did not say: And my son . . . is the son of King Arthur. Now it all made sense. Even her own barrenness after Gwydion’s birth. But she asked, “What of Arthur’s heir—Lancelet’s son?”

  Niniane shrugged and for a moment Morgaine wondered, horrified, whether it was intended to give Nimue the same hold on Galahad’s conscience that she had been given on Arthur’s.

  “I cannot see all things,” said Niniane. “Had you been Lady here—but time has moved on and other plans must be made. Arthur may yet honor his oath to Avalon and keep the sword Excalibur, and then there will be one way to proceed. And he may not, and there will be another way which she will prepare, to which end we each have our tasks. But whether or no, Accolon must come to rule in the West country, and that is your task. And the next king will rule from Avalon. When Arthur falls—though his stars say he will live to be old—then the king of Avalon will rise. Or else, the stars say, such darkness will fall over this land that it will be as if he had never been. And when the next king takes power, then will Avalon return into the mainstream of time and history . . . and then there will be a subject king over the western lands, ruling his Tribespeople. Accolon shall rise high as your consort—and it is for you to prepare the land for the great king from Avalon.”

  Again Morgaine bowed her head and said, “I am in your hands.”

  “You must return now,” said Niniane, “but first there is one you must know. His time is not yet . . . but there will be one more task for you.” She raised her hand, and as if he had been waiting in an anteroom, a door opened and a tall young man came into the room.

  And at the sight Morgaine caught her breath, with a pain so great that it seemed for a moment that she could not breathe. Here was Lancelet reborn—young and slender as a dark flame, his hair curling about his cheeks, his narrow dark face smiling . . . Lancelet as he had been on that day when they lay together in the shadow of the ring stones, as if time had slipped and circled back as in the fairy country. . . .

  And then she knew who it must be. He came forward and bent to kiss her hand. His walk was Lancelet’s too, the flowing movements that seemed almost a dance. But he wore the robes of a bard, and on his forehead was the small tattoo of an acorn crest, and about his wrists the serpents of Avalon writhed. Time reeled in her mind.

  If Galahad is to be king in the land, is my son then the Merlin, tanist and dark twin and sacrifice? For a moment it seemed she moved among shadows, king and Druid, the bright shadow who sat beside Arthur’s throne as queen, and herself who had borne Arthur’s shadow son . . . Dark Lady of power.

  She knew anything she said would be foolish. “Gwydion. You are not like your father.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I bear the blood of Avalon. I looked once on Arthur, when he made a pilgrimage to Glastonbury of the priests—I went there unseen in a priest’s robe. He bows overmuch to the priests, this Arthur our king.” His smile was fleetin
g, feral.

  “You have no reason to love either of your parents, Gwydion,” said Morgaine, and her hand tightened on his, but she surprised a fleeting look in his eyes, icy hatred . . . then it was gone and he was the smiling young Druid again.

  “My parents gave me their best gift,” Gwydion said, “the royal blood of Avalon. And one more thing I ask of you, lady Morgaine.” Irrationally she wished he had called her, just once, by the name of Mother.

  “Ask, and if I can give, it is yours.”

  Gwydion said, “It is not a great gift. Surely not more than five years hence, Queen Morgaine, you will lead me to look on Arthur and let him know that I am his son. I am aware"—a quick, disturbing smile—"that he cannot acknowledge me as his heir. But I wish him to look on the face of his son. I ask no more than that.”

  She bent her head. “Surely I owe you that much, Gwydion.”

  Gwenhwyfar might think what she liked—Arthur had already done penance for this. No man could be other than proud of this grave and priestly young Druid. Nor should she . . . after all these years, she knew it . . . feel shame for what had been, as now she knew she had felt it all these years since she fled from Avalon. Now that she saw her son grown, she bowed before the inevitability of Viviane’s Sight.

  She said, “I vow to you that day will come, I swear it by the Sacred Well.” Her eyes blurred, and angrily she blinked back the rebellious tears. This was not her son; Uwaine, perhaps, was her son, but not Gwydion. This dark, handsome young man so like the Lancelet she had loved as a girl, he was not her son looking for the first time on the mother who had abandoned him before he was weaned; he was priest and she priestess of the Great Goddess, and if they were no more to each other than that, at least they were no less.

  She put her hands to his bent head and said, “Be thou blessed.”

  13

  Queen Morgause had long ceased to repine that she had not the Sight. Yet twice, in the last days of falling leaves, when the red larch trees stood bare in the icy wind that blew over Lothian, she dreamed of her foster-son Gwydion; and she was not at all surprised when one of her servant folk told her that a rider was on the road.

  Gwydion wore a strangely colored cloak, coarse and with a clasp of bone such as she had never seen, and when she would have wrapped him in her arms, he shrank away, wincing.

  “No, Mother—” He put his free arm around her and explained, “I caught a sword cut there in Brittany—no, it is not serious,” he reassured her. “It did not fester and perhaps I shall not even have a scar, but when it is touched it cries out to me!”

  “You have been fighting in Brittany, then? I thought you safe in Avalon,” she remonstrated, as she led him within and set him by the fire. “I have no southern wine for you—”

  He laughed. “I am weary of it—barley beer is enough for me, or some of the firewater if you have it . . . with hot water and honey if there is any. I am stiff with riding.” He let one of the women draw off his boots and hang his cloak to dry, leaning back at ease.

  “So good it is to be here, Mother—” He set the steaming cup to his lips and drank with pleasure.

  “And you came so far, riding in the cold with a wound? Was there some great tidings that needed to tell?”

  He shook his head. “None—I was homesick, no more,” he said. “It’s all so green and lush and damp there, with fog and church bells . . . I longed for the clean air of the fells, and the gulls’ cry, and your face, Mother . . .” He reached out for the cup he had set down, and she saw the serpents about his wrists. She was not greatly versed in the lore of Avalon, but she knew they were the sign of the highest rank of the priesthood. He saw her glance and nodded, but said nothing.

  “Was it in Brittany you got that ugly cloak, so coarse-woven and low, fit only for a serving-man?”

  He chuckled. “It kept the rain from me. I took it from a great chief of the foreign lands, who fought under the legions of that man who called himself Emperor Lucius. Arthur’s men made short work of that one, believe me, and there was plunder for all—I have a silver cup and a golden ring in my packs for you, Mother.”

  “You fought in the armies of Arthur?” Morgause asked. She had never thought he would do this; he saw the surprise in her face and laughed again.

  “Yes, I fought under that great King who fathered me,” he said, with a grin of contempt. “Oh, fear not, I had my orders from Avalon. I took care to fight among the warriors of Ceardig, the Saxon chief of the treaty men who loves me well, and to come not under Arthur’s eyes. Gawaine knew me not, and I was careful not to let Gareth see me except when I was shrouded in a cloak like that—I lost my own cloak in battle, and feared if I was wearing a cloak of Lothian, Gareth would come to look on a wounded countryman, so I got this one. . . .”

  “Gareth would have known you anywhere,” said Morgause, “and I hope you do not think your foster-brother would ever betray you.”

  Gwydion smiled, and Morgause thought that he looked very like the little boy who had once sat in her lap. He said, “I longed to make myself known to Gareth, and when I lay wounded and weak, I came near to doing so. But Gareth is Arthur’s man, and he loves his king, I could see that, and I would not put that burden on my best of brothers,” he said. “Gareth—Gareth is the only one—”

  He did not finish the sentence, but Morgause knew what he would have said; stranger as he was everywhere, Gareth was his brother and his beloved friend. Abruptly he grinned, chasing away the remote smile that made him look so young. “All through the Saxon armies, Mother, I was asked again and again if I was Lancelet’s son! I cannot see the resemblance so much myself, but then I am not really familiar with my own face . . . I look into a mirror only when I shave myself!”

  “Still,” said Morgause, “anyone who had seen Lancelet, especially anyone who knew him in youth, could not look on you without knowing you his kinsman.”

  “Some such thing as that I said—I put on a Breton accent, sometimes, and said I too was kinsman to old King Ban,” Gwydion said. “Yet I would think our Lancelet, with the face which makes him a magnet to all maids, would have fathered enough bastards that it would not be such a marvel to all men that one should go about wearing his face! Not so? I wondered,” he said, “but all I heard of Lancelet was that it might be that he had fathered a son on the Queen and the child was spirited away somewhere to be fostered by that kinswoman of hers whom they married off to Lancelet. . . . Tales of Lancelet and the Queen are many, each wilder than the next, but all agree that for every other woman the Gods made, he has nothing but courtesy and fair words. There were even women who flung themselves at me, saying that if they could not have Lancelet, they would have his son. . . .” He grinned again. “It must have been hard for the gallant Lancelet. I have eye enough for a fair woman, but when they push themselves on me so, well . . .” He shrugged, comically. Morgause laughed.

  “Then the Druids have not robbed you of that, my son?”

  “By no means,” he said. “But most women are fools, so that I prefer not to trouble myself making play with those who expect me to treat them as something very special, or to pay heed to what they say. You have spoilt me for foolish women, Mother.”

  “Pity the same could not have been said of Lancelet,” said Morgause, “for never did anyone think Gwenhwyfar had more wits than she needed to keep her girdle tied, and where Lancelet was concerned, I doubt she had that much,” and she thought, You have Lancelet’s face, my boy, but you have your mother’s wit!

  As if he had heard her thoughts, he set down the empty cup, and waved away a serving-girl who would have scurried to refill it. “No more, I am so weary that I will be drunk at another taste! Supper I would have. I have had enough of hunter’s fortune, I am sick of meat, and long for home food—porridge and bannock. . . . Mother, I looked on the lady Morgaine at Avalon before I left for Brittany.”

  Now why, Morgause wondered, does he say this to me? It could not be looked for that he should have much love for his mother, and
then she felt sudden guilt. I made sure he should not love any but me. Well, she had done what she must, and she did not regret it.

  “How looks my kinswoman?”

  “She looks not young,” said Gwydion, “it seemed to me that she was older than you, Mother.”

  “No,” Morgause said, “Morgaine is younger than I by ten years.”

  “Still, she looks worn and old, and you . . .” He smiled at her, and Morgause felt the flood of sudden happiness. She thought, None of my own sons have I loved as this one. Morgaine did well to leave him to my care.

  “Oh,” she said, “I grow old too, my lad . . . I had a grown son when you were born!”

  “Then you are twice the sorceress she is,” said Gwydion, “for one could swear you had dwelt long in the fairy country with time never touching you . . . you look to me as you did the day I rode away for Avalon, Mother mine.” He reached out his hand to hers and brought it to his lips and kissed it, and she came and put her arm round him, careful to avoid his wound. She stroked the dark hair. “So Morgaine is queen now in Wales.”