So Merlin’s love hated the very sight of herself, did she? That might prove useful, as time went on. Mab smiled as she waved her hand to clear the glass once more.
Now the scrying glass showed her the makeshift chapel at Pendragon Castle. Its stained-glass windows cast rainbows of light over the nobles standing to watch their new king being crowned. Mab’s gaze wandered over the crowd until it settled on the Duke of Cornwall. His lovely dark-haired wife Igraine stood beside him, holding the hand of their only child, a girl who’d had the misfortune to be born with a cast over her left eye. Her pious father naturally assumed that such misfortune was due to divine—or infernal—punishment, and reproached both his wife and his daughter frequently for their imagined sins.
Yes, here was something she could use to pull down Merlin’s puppet king and show him he must take the power for himself. Mab smiled as she raised her hands above her head.
Igraine would do what Vortigern had not. And Merlin would not suspect his doom until it was too late for the knowledge to matter. …
The coronation took place at Pendragon Castle on New Year’s Day.
Word of Uther’s victory had spread across the land with the speed of summer lightning, and the nobles of Britain hurried to do him honor—or to fortify their castles—according to their natures.
The Bishop of Winchester was to have his early loyalty rewarded by being the one to crown the new king in the name of Holy Mother Church. Old King Constant’s crown had been lost with Vortigern’s body beneath the winter’s ice, and so Uther had ordered a new one fashioned, its band carved with symbols drawn from the Christians’ Holy Book—loaves and fishes, stalks of wheat and spring lambs. Upon the brow was the image of a rising sun. A Christian crown for a Christian king, and Merlin thought that if Uther had the perspicacity to rule with a light hand, the people of Britain would do for love what they never would have done for fear, and Britain would become wholly a Christian land at last.
And that would be Mab’s destruction.
The Great Hall at Pendragon had been decked for feasting. It was filled with tables laden with delicacies to the point of collapse, and with nobles arrayed in their best clothes and largest jewels. They had been at the church earlier, with their wives and their brothers and their families, to see Uther crowned, and in every heart, Pagan and Christian, was the same prayer: Please let him be a better ruler than the old king.
At the top of the room, Uther seated himself upon his throne as his nobles cheered him. His rich vermilion robes gleamed, but not as brightly as the wide band of carved Welsh gold that sat upon his brow. Excalibur was by his side, and his hands lingered upon its golden hilt.
Merlin stood beside the throne, as Uther had asked him to. He had stayed for the coronation and the feast that was to follow, though he yearned to be with Nimue. But this was Uther’s moment, the day he had worked toward, and the king naturally wanted all the world to know that he had the aid of a powerful wizard.
Sir Boris glared distrustfully at Merlin as he pledged his fealty to the new king, but said nothing aloud, for Boris was an old campaigner and a practical man, despite his religion. Merlin stepped farther back into the shadows as Gorlois came toward the throne with his wife and daughter.
“Cornwall,” Uther greeted him affably. Gorlois’s presence at the feast was a welcome surprise, if it meant that the young Duke would support the new king and not demand sovereignty for his Cornish lands.
“Your Majesty,” Cornwall said, giving Uther his new title, “May I present the Lady Igraine … and my daughter?”
There was a long hesitation before that last phrase, as if Gorlois would rather have not mentioned his daughter at all. But Igraine was holding so tightly to her hand that there was no way of overlooking the girl.
Igraine and her daughter both made deep curtseys, and as they rose, Mab appeared behind them like a flicker of black flame.
No one in Uther’s Great Hall could see her—not even Merlin, for all his power. She took Igraine by the shoulders, and that touch was all that was needed to invest Cornwall’s wife with fairy glamour. Over Igraine’s shoulder Mab saw Uther’s expression soften and his eyes fill with a foolish, demanding lust as his eyes rested on the face of Cornwall’s wife. Mab stepped back as Uther spoke.
“You are welcome to Pendragon, my lady, and you, miss—”
“Morgan le Fay, Your Majesty,” the girl said promptly, curtseying again. She was quick and alert, and if not for her deformity, would have been a child to make any father proud.
“Cornwall, will you permit me to dance with your lady after the feast?” Uther asked. His eyes never left Igraine’s face.
Gorlois looked from his king to his wife, and his mouth set in a hard line. “If Your Majesty pleases,” he said reluctantly.
“Oh yes … yes,” Uther said, nearly gloating. “It will please My Majesty very much. Merlin?” he said as Gorlois shepherded his wife and daughter away.
“Uther?” Merlin answered. Something terribly important had just happened here, and he wasn’t quite sure of what it was.
“Igraine,” the new king said. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Please, let this be a joke! Merlin thought in sudden incredulous horror. For an instant he almost longed for Vortigern, alive and king, once more. Vortigern had been a paranoid tyrant, but he had never lusted after other men’s wives.
“Beautiful—and someone else’s wife,” he said lightly, trying to make a jest of the matter.
“But still beautiful,” Uther said. “What does the rest matter?” He stared after Igraine fixedly.
Merlin followed the direction of Uther’s gaze and his heart sank. He’d thought Uther could be a good king, but he was beginning to wonder whether he’d expected more of Uther than a young man raised as a pensioner at foreign courts could deliver. Now that Uther was king, he was also greedy for everything he had been denied in his previous life. Merlin sighed, seeing the future troubles of Uther’s reign clearly now. He’d been far too optimistic. It was his own fault for seeing the good in men instead of their weakness; it was the weakness that destroyed them in the end.
Another noble came forward and Gorlois and Igraine vanished into the crowd. Uther’s attention returned reluctantly to the business at hand. Merlin took the opportunity to make his escape and mingle with the crowd of revelers. If the king had another request to make of him, Merlin didn’t think he could bear to hear it just now.
He was standing in the doorway, watching Uther on his throne, when he felt a tug at his cloak. He turned to see Gorlois’s little daughter watching him. Merlin was no judge of children’s ages, but he thought she could be little more than eight. Morgan le Fay was her name—Morgan of the Fairies. An odd name for so devout a Christian as Gorlois to give his daughter. Merlin thought that Gorlois must be regretting the decision to court the new king’s favor just now. But who could have foreseen that Uther would be so willful—and so stupid?
“Are you weally a wizard?” the girl demanded seriously. In addition to her marred face, little Morgan had a pronounced lisp. But though she must be used to being badly teased for it, she spoke up boldly.
“So they say,” Merlin told her gravely, trying to hide a smile. He respected courage, whatever form it came in.
“Do some magic for me,” she ordered with all the imperiousness of a duke’s heiress.
“Do you wash behind your ears?” Merlin asked her. He reached down and plucked a gold coin from Morgan’s ear and showed it to her.
But she did not laugh, as he had when his old friend Herne had first demonstrated this bit of sleight-of-hand to him. Instead, Morgan regarded him as though he’d done something particularly pointless.
“That’s not weal magic,” Morgan said scornfully. “It’s a twick. Anyone can do it.”
“Anyone?” Merlin asked her, still smiling. “You do it, then.” He bent down so that she could reach his ear. As he did, he made a small gesture with his right hand.
Right ha
nd to summon, left hand to banish. I still remember your lessons, Master Frik, even after all these years. …
Unhesitatingly, Morgan reached out and plucked three gold coins from behind his ear.
“Theww, you see?” she said triumphantly. “I did it!”
“You’re right,” Merlin said, smiling. “Anyone can do it.”
“Morgan!” Gorlois called for her, and Morgan scurried away, still clutching the coins. She didn’t look back.
But Merlin watched as Igraine put her arm around her daughter and hurried her toward the door, Gorlois following closely behind them. Merlin watched them leave, certain he knew where the young duke was going. To the stables, and then home to Tintagel Castle as quickly as the horses could carry them. The meaning of the look Uther had given Igraine was unmistakable, and Gorlois was a proud and jealous man.
Well, at least that’s settled, Merlin thought. Igraine would be out of Uther’s reach by morning, and surely Uther would not be so rash as to pursue her, when the court was full of willing women without inconvenient husbands. But somehow Merlin doubted that Uther would learn the proper lesson from Igraine’s disappearance. Uther had gained his crown far too easily. Now he would reach for anything else he wanted, certain that somehow it would be given to him.
But not by me, Merlin vowed to himself. Tomorrow morning he would ride out of Pendragon and leave Good King Uther to stew in his own juices.
But when Merlin went to the stables to saddle Sir Rupert early the next morning he found the grooms already hustling about, saddling a horse for King Uther. He wondered if Uther knew that Gorlois and Igraine were gone yet. Merlin hurried back toward Sir Rupert’s stall, hoping to be away before the king arrived.
*So we’re leaving? It’s about time!* the horse said, shaking its head in relief.
“I know, old friend,” Merlin said, patting his shoulder. The odd looks he received from the grooms and stableboys didn’t bother him in the least. A wizard was supposed to be peculiar and mysterious, and for better or worse, Merlin was a wizard. With a flick of his fingers, Sir Rupert was saddled and bridled. The stableboys gaped in awe, and Merlin smiled quietly to himself. That would give them something to talk about for a while!
He rode out into the courtyard, and waited while Pendragon’s gates were opened for him. It was not so many months ago that he had been carried in through these same gates a helpless prisoner. Now the king who had imprisoned him was dead, and Merlin had become the reluctant confidante of a new king.
“Merlin!” Uther called, riding up on his own horse. Merlin sighed inwardly, defeated in his hopes to escape another meeting with his liege-lord.
The new king had settled very quickly into his royal entitlements and privileges. He no longer wore his battle armor, dressing instead in costly royal robes of maroon and gold. Large spiral-shaped gold brooches held his cloak to his tunic, and the new crown glittered upon his head. “May I ride with you?”
“Of course,” Merlin said, with as much graciousness as he could muster under the circumstances.
“Gorlois has left Pendragon,” Uther announced, as soon as the two of them had ridden clear of the castle grounds. “And oddly enough, no one seems to know where he’s gone.”
Uther seemed content to let Merlin choose their path, but Merlin was by now far too wary of Uther to take any trail that would lead the king toward Avalon and Nimue. Instead, he turned Sir Rupert toward the hills, away from all human habitation, toward a place of power he dimly remembered from his long-ago lessons with Frik.
“Very odd, Your Majesty,” Merlin agreed blandly. “But I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
There was silence for a few minutes as the two men crossed the River Astolat, which was barely a trickle this far north, and then Uther spoke again.
“I believe in you, Merlin,” Uther said fulsomely.
“And I in you, Uther,” Merlin replied. Though what it is that I believe shall remain my secret, as I have no intention of returning to Pendragon’s dungeons! It would be easy enough—with Sir Rupert’s help—to simply vanish before Uther’s eyes, but Merlin held back, hoping to hear something that would tell him he’d been wrong in his judgment of Uther’s character.
“How great is your power?” the king asked, keeping his mount close beside Merlin’s. “Can you make a woman love me?”
Perhaps he has found someone else and is unsure of himself. “No,” Merlin said, more gently. “Magic cannot create love.”
Uther leaned toward Merlin as their horses walked slowly, side by side. “Could you kill her husband?” he asked eagerly.
Merlin recoiled, unable to keep the look of disgust from his face. “Igraine.” So the king was still after Gorlois’s wife.
Uther leaned forward, speaking urgently.
“I want her, Merlin. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in the world.” His brown eyes gazed pleadingly at Merlin, much like a dog begging to be thrown a bone.
“You can’t have her,” Merlin said briefly.
The king sat back. “Do you know what love is, Merlin?”
Nimue. Our love destroyed her. If she had not risked her life for mine, if she had not been sacrificed to the Great Dragon, her father might be bargaining to marry her to Uther at this very moment. … “Yes, Uther. Sad to say, I know what love is,” Merlin said ruefully.
“Give me Igraine!” Uther demanded.
“She’s not mine to give,” Merlin answered evenly. This is becoming tedious, he thought impatiently.
“Then I’ll take her, even if it means war,” Uther answered. The vow had much the tone of a threat.
“It will,” Merlin said quietly. It did not take the gift of prophecy to see what would happen if Uther acted upon his own words. When their new king was revealed to be a greedy bully and an unscrupulous thief, the nobles who had flocked to his standard would quickly look to their own causes. The unity of Britain would shatter like a glass bowl dropped on a stone floor.
“So be it! I have Excalibur,” Uther said gloatingly.
In that moment Merlin knew what had kept him by Uther’s side. He had handed over The Lady of the Lake’s magic to the king far too rashly. Excalibur was not meant for the likes of Uther to wield. If left in his hands, the sword of the Ancient Kings would cause untold damage.
“Very well,” Merlin said quietly. He forced himself to smile as he reined Sir Rupert to a halt and dismounted. “Give me the sword and I’ll make a spell.”
Unconsciously, Merlin had led Uther to the site that would serve him best: the Hall of the Mountain King. He had led Uther here for a reason—this was a magic place, as magical as the Lake of Enchantment.
The Old Ways taught that the world was composed of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water, each of which had its ruler, a being who was both divinity and elemental, drawing their power from the essential nature of the element they ruled. Legend called them the Elemental Kings, though two of them were women: Mab, the Queen of Air and Darkness, ruled the forces of the Air and the powers of the mind; her sister, the Lady of the Lake, was the ruler of Water and the heart. Here was the resting place of the Mountain King, Lord of Earth and of the will. He had vanished from the world so long ago that even Frik had not remembered when he had ceased to walk among mortals. Here the ancient power of the living rock only slumbered, always on the verge of waking.
Of the Lord of Fire, lord of the emotions, nothing was known. Perhaps the Great Dragon had been his last earthly manifestation, perhaps not—Merlin knew little of that most tricky and mutable of elements, the one he hated and feared most.
The power rippled through the air. Merlin could see the spirit of the wind dancing over the surface of the grass, see the small bright sparks that were the lives of the corn-spirits who lived within the grain. Sprites flitted through the air like drifting blossoms.
He glanced back at Uther. How could he not feel the magic of this place? But the days when the king’s life had been bound up with that of the land were long past. To Uther, the land was only a
thing that he could do with as he chose, just as he could with the lives around him.
But that was wrong, and today Merlin would do what he could to stop it. He walked over to Uther and reached for Excalibur. Merlin had already given Uther victory and Excalibur; Uther still trusted him. He handed over the sword easily.
Merlin took Excalibur and walked over to the foot of a cliff. The magic all around him made the sword sing to him softly—a seductive song that made him long, momentarily, for what might have been. If only Mab had been a good queen who cared for her people, he would have ruled happily as her champion, guiding the people in the Old Ways in her Triple Name. But it was too late for that. That world had ended with the coming of the New Religion, and now it was too late for them all.
He hefted the sword in his hands. The outcropping he chose was much in the shape of a clenched fist, and for a moment Merlin could almost see the rocks around him transformed into the shape of a sleeping giant, his body sprawled at rest upon the earth. Merlin climbed to the top of the rock, carefully holding onto the sword.
He had not lied to Uther. He would make a spell, but it would not be a spell that Uther would like. Silently, Merlin summoned his power, and then raised Excalibur over his head. With one smooth powerful gesture, Merlin drove Excalibur down into the stone fist.
“No!” Uther cried, but he was too late to stop what had begun.
When its point touched the stone, the sword did not shatter or slide away, nor did the stone chip and crack. The blade sank slowly into the stone, its singing becoming a high wail. Sparks fountained from it and the blade glowed red, but it sank downward inch by inch, until only about a foot of the blade showed above the surface of the rock. Shaken by the power that had flowed through him, Merlin stepped back.
Suddenly the ground began to shake as though it were alive. Flakes of rock showered down from the top of the cliff as the stone woke into life. Now, though still obviously grey and weathered stone, it had become in truth what Merlin had only imagined before—the rough shape of a gargantuan man lying on his side against the earth, his face half buried in the green earth.
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