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by A. A. Attanasio

  "King Someone Knows the Truth will keep his

  promise?" Merlinus asks anxiously. "He will send his greatest warrior soul to Ygrane's child?"

  The elf prince tilts back on his heels with an

  unhappy expression. "I will favor you, Lailoken, by not telling him you asked."

  The wizard frets with his beard. "It will take a great soul indeed to match the sacrifice my king offers to the Raven Spring."

  "Cuchulain," the prince says, and charmed

  reverence fills the air between them like a field of force.

  "Our very greatest warrior has come forward of his own will to protect his people. Already he swims the sea of

  forgetfulness in Ygrane's womb."

  Merlinus nods with weary satisfaction and mounts

  his horse. "I will come to the Otherworld and see that Uther Pendragon is satisfied with his lot."

  "Come if you wish," Bright Night says, handing him the staff. "You will find his soul blissful as all who dance in the eternal woods."

  With that, the elf backs away and vanishes. Merlinus

  reaches over for the reins of the king's horse and leads it, with Uther's body trailing after, back to the battlefield outside Londinium.

  They arrive out of the red haze of the setting sun.

  Ygrane awaits them, summoned by the cries of the

  sentinels. Her vibrancy, with young life somersaulting in her, persists. She waves aside her concerned handmaids and approaches flanked by her fiana through a press of the king's men.

  Before she can see for herself, Merlinus falls

  abjectly to the ground and announces to the flame-glossed faces of the camp, "Uther Pendragon, high king of the Britons, is dead."

  Ygrane does not flinch, though tears start in her

  eyes. The archers have laid their king atop the dragon standard. She kneels quietly over his body, mindful of the life that thrives in her—his life welded to hers. Tenderly, she brushes the long locks of raven hair from his blue face and regards him only briefly. This grief is no surprise to her. She is a warrior's wife. What surprises her is the absence of his voice and his gentle stare, gone now into emptiness, leaving behind this effigy.

  How vast seems the void into which the life of her

  lover has so swiftly disappeared. The whole of the past has gone ahead of him, and that vacuum remains as empty as before. For an instant, anger flares, and she wishes darkly all of the future to cease. In the next instant, she feels the baby thrash in her, and ire flees.

  Handmaids help her rise, and she faces Merlinus

  with shining eyes. "You will see that he is well received in the Happy Woods," she says, and presses her buckling face into his chest. "Do that for me, Myrddin."

  "You know how he died?" Merlinus asks.

  "My magic has passed from me," she says, stepping back, composed. "Even so, I knew when he died. My weariness emptied from me, and I became well. I know

  how he died." She holds herself closer and says sadly to the human dark in his demonic eyes. "The Raven Spring."

  "His last word was your name," Merlinus tells her truthfully. "He thought of you—and the difficulties ahead."

  She pulls away from him with frowning, drunken

  dismay. "What will happen to the child?"

  Merlinus has not yet thought that through, and his

  blank look frightens the queen.

  "The demons will try to kill him," she says.

  Trepidation tinges her voice. "The demons that made the Y

  Mamau. Myrddin, that possessed Morgeu—we must be

  more careful than ever. Theo cannot have died this day in vain."

  "I will protect the child with my very life," the wizard swears.

  Ygrane closes her eyes, gathering her wits. They

  open clear and level. "Go into Londinium, and find the city's bishop," she orders. "Tell him to come to my tent."

  Merlinus obeys and finds the bishop not in the city

  but in the dusky field blessing departing souls by torchlight.

  Only the red manelletta on his large frame and the skullcap on his shaved head declare his station, for he has the muscular breadth and leathery mien of a hardened soldier.

  Merlinus tells him of the king's death, and he seizes a torch from one of the priests and trails the wizard through the watery glow of last light.

  Outside the queen's tent, they remove their muddy

  boots and enter the orange, lamplit interior. Before a low table strewn with pussy willow and sugary blossoms of chestnut, the queen sits, unmoving. She pays her visitors no notice. Her eyes are red, though she is not crying now.

  Her servants bring cushions and offer a tray of

  honey cakes and goblets of cider. The bishop and the

  wizard are hungry and eat while Ygrane sits on her

  faldstool, staring deeply at the flowers. "This is an altar to the Annwn" she tells them in a distracted voice. "I have been praying here for salvation from the invaders—and for the health of the child in me." She smiles tenderly at them.

  "Both my prayers have been answered."

  The bishop expresses his condolences for the king's

  riding accident and begins to sketch out funeral plans, suggesting a grand procession across the very plains

  Uther has seized from the enemy.

  "Such matters I leave to you," the queen interrupts him. "I summoned you here not for my husband's soul—for that is already in God's hands." She bows her head. "I summoned you, Holy Father, for your blessing. I have

  decided to live out my life as a Christian."

  The bishop blusters with surprise. "The Druids—"

  She cuts him off with a firm look. "Till this day, the Druids have had all of me. No more. The child I carry will be high king of all Britain, of the Celts as well. Uther and I have already agreed. Our son will be Christian."

  "Whether son or daughter," the bishop's thick voice fills the tent, "Jesus welcomes your souls."

  Ygrane kneels and receives the churchman's

  benediction. After a cursory catechism, he departs, leaving his crucifix among the floral offerings on the altar of the Annwn.

  Merlinus shakes his head knowingly. "You are no

  more Christian than your husband was Celt—yet he died in the old way, at the Raven Spring, sacrificing himself for your child, our future."

  Her face brightens. "Theo is ... my true love. And is not love the soul itself? Then, my soul is already in the Greater World, dancing, singing praises to the Annwn."

  She puts a hand over her swollen breasts. "And I am all that is left of Theo's soul in the Lesser World. I will honor his Celtic death by my Christian life."

  *

  Secluded by alder thickets, Falon and Ygrane face

  each other on a mossy embankment of the Tamesis.

  Cumulus clouds rise above the river, pink and orange with dawn, trawling fiery shadows in the placid water.

  "A Christian?" Wearing traditional buckskin trousers and boots, sword strapped to his naked back, Falon stands stunned before Ygrane. His head feels as though it carries a load of hay. In a moment, someone will set fire to it, he is sure, because he feels a flush of heat rise up in him. Is it anger or ardor? He cannot tell, because his body is a haze of aches.

  He most sorely misses the queen's magical

  medicines and her glamour. Most of all, he misses her.

  She seems—absent. On reflection, the fiana realizes that the queen's absence is inevitable, for she has lost

  everything—her king, her magic, the unicorn—and now this difficult revelation, this loss of her faith in her own gods!

  He rocks back on his heels and gazes at the swell of

  clouds. Sometimes he wonders if he is still in the

  Otherworld, eternally wandering, and all this sorrow since the wedding is a long ghost-walk.

  Ygrane tells him of her conversion, of Uther's

  sacrifice for her dream-filled womb, of her vis
ion of Miriam, of the living past shared by ancient Hebrews and Celts.

  Falon listens remotely. The unicorn's shadow still stains his soul with its otherworldly silence. What speaks to him more loudly are the daisied banks and violets that he espies over her shoulder, where a heron stands on its reflection.

  Ygrane pauses. Without her magic, she cannot

  reach into him and make him understand. The light breeze that stirs the slender grasses has more to say to him than she does.

  Carefully, she studies him in the morning light,

  looking for damage. The vampyre has left her scar—a

  beet-dark vein at the side of his throat where she affixed herself each night. That will heal.

  He looks harrowed by his wanderings, yet still

  strong. The unicorn's shadow will pass, too; she can tell from the way Falon takes in the world. He will live whole again.

  Relieved, the queen steps closer and places her

  right hand against her warrior's cheek. "You are a brave man—and the best of my fiana." Then, she removes the gold torque from around his neck.

  Falon's hand moves to intercede and stops when he

  meets the steadiness of her green gaze. "Older sister—

  what are you doing?"

  Ygrane smiles softly. "You are free, Falon. Your service to the queen is accomplished."

  Elbows up, hands at his throat, Falon stares with

  astonishment at the queen. "I don't want to leave you," he reveals. "Everything desirable is here with you."

  She holds his ardent stare serenely, then tosses the

  torque far over the river, into the vermilion water. "The queen is gone, Falon." She addresses his startled, unreachable center as though she still possesses the

  power of her glamour. "The queen is gone."

  "Who will rule the kingdom?"

  The queen crosses her arms protectively over her

  unborn. "Not I. The chiefs will decide that among themselves. I am returning to Tintagel to birth the king's son." She offers him a fragile, hopeful look. "In a few years, he will need a war master. Will you come to him then?"

  "Let me come with you now."

  She laughs grittily. "You followed me into the Tree of Heaven, and you've wandered the underworld for me,

  Falon. Even so, I do not believe you want to go where I must go now." She gently takes his hand. "I tell you, the

  queen is gone, and she has left me a woman of peace. I return to Tintagel to found an order of worship. You are welcome."

  "To worship the nailed god?" Her hand feels small and feminine, lacking entirely its vivid, silvery charge. All she has said is true—the queen is gone—and that leaves his soul feeling like a pail of water. It will be hard to carry and easy to spill. Emotions slosh in him—anger,

  disappointment, melancholy. He squeezes her dull, human hand until these feelings slow down enough for him to see his face reflected in the water of himself.

  "He is Yesu," Ygrane tells him. "He has come to heal each of us. Will you let him heal you?"

  Falon releases her hand and steps back. "No. My

  older sister has already healed me. She is queen of the Celts, witch-queen of the Daoine Sid. Her magic has

  healed me from the first to the last."

  Ygrane nods, glad for his faith, and steps a pace

  back from him. The way he looks at her makes her feel beloved, and that stirs her uneasily. These thwarted

  feelings set her child wrestling in the womb with its own unsuspected destiny, and she speaks abruptly, to cancel the mood: "You have served me well, younger brother.

  You've faced gods and were-beasts and never flinched

  from your devotion. I have a reward for you. The chiefs have agreed to set aside land for you in each of their provinces, so you will have homes in every corner of

  Cymru."

  Falon starts walking backward. "No, older sister. I am fiana—a wandering warrior. I hold no property and am held by no one but the queen. Where she has gone, I must go."

  He turns away from her decisively, and the air

  stirred by his passing coolly touches his neck. Where he used to wear his torque, he feels a new leash—freedom.

  *

  Ygrane lives her word. After Uther Pendragon's

  funeral in Londinium, she returns to Tintagel, taking her vows to become a nun. Eventually, she founds the Order of the Graal. Many of her fiana convert as well. Others find sanctuary with the pagan chiefs, and a few drift west with Falon and the last of the Druids.

  The elk-king lives his word, as well. He directs life energies to Ygrane from the roots of the World Tree, and her pregnancy flourishes. Late in the summer, under the white star of Venus falling and the legends of blood rising with Mars, she gathers her handmaids into a circle of

  power and squats among them.

  The magic is gone. The next contraction is coming.

  That is all she knows now of memory and prophecy, all that remains of her fabled sight. She floats on her pain as on a pale, glacial lake. Clouds shimmer in the lake. They are souls. Some have died and are drifting away. Others arrive to be born. One of them is her child. He is coming. She has called him to her as she called to herself the baby's father, Uther Pendragon, and before him the demon-wizard

  Myrddin, and before him the unicorn, the Furor's gift ... and before that the pale people ... the faerie. All a dream now.

  All illusory before the searing, exhausting pain.

  Ygrane delivers a robust, fair-haired boy, with the

  yellow eyes of his father. When she wakes from a sleep opulent with dreams of her husband, Merlinus has to

  dissuade her from naming the child after Uther.

  "My lady, that name is a death sentence for this infant."

  She receives him on the western terrace of the

  citadel above the cliffs and steaming breakers of the muttersome sea. The round table has been set up and the Graal placed at its center to honor the birth of the future king. Ygrane lies on a couch draped in floral silks, the baby at her breast. Merlinus crouches on a stool beside her, having just examined the newborn's body for the dragon's mark—and found none.

  "I sore miss my magic, Myrddin," she confides.

  "Without it—without the trances, I cannot sense if demons are near or far. It frightens me, for I know their hate and purpose endure."

  "Stronger now that you are of Uther's faith," the wizard agrees. "They and the Furor will do all in their power to slay the boy before he grows to manhood."

  Ygrane gazes out at the shining sea with a smile of

  happy defiance and speaks in a voice low, pure, and clear:

  "Morgeu is my failure of love, Myrddin. My failure. This child must redeem that. Not just for me—or for Theo. This child must live for the sake of love itself." She strokes the pale babe in her arms. "Are you absolutely certain that the home you have chosen for him is safe?"

  "If you would let me tell you, your heart would be glad for the home I've found for him."

  "No. I dare not know. I fear the Furor's magic. I must not know anything about the child's whereabouts."

  "Then know the name at least," Merlinus offers, wanting to give her something, for the difficult moment is upon them when she must release the child to him. "You must have that for your own."

  She stares silently at her baby, at the life that has

  grown out of the inner place, the sacred place where her magic has dwelled, where once she saw the unicorn and the face of the man she would love. "There is a name," she says at last, looking at Merlinus with surprising serenity, given the consequence of the moment. "It came to me at prayer, when I was chanting the Holy Book. The passage in Matthew about loving your enemies. It was clear to me then that this child's name should be neither Celtic nor Roman, but a name that the enemy will never suspect. It must be one of their names." She speaks to the child, "You will be called Eagle of Thunder—no." She fetches for a title. "Royal Eagle of Thunder�
�Aquila Regalis Thor."

  The calm center of the sorcerer receives this name

  with kindness. The Roman eagle fused with the Celtic

  thunder symbol of the dragon both bespeak Uther. "Lord Thunder Eagle."

  "Yes," she says with a mischievous gleam in her green eyes. "But we will call thunder by the name of its barbarian god—Thor. And that shall be the name of this king of Britain, the Royal Eagle of Thor—an enemy's

  name—spoken in their tongue and ours, so they will

  understand that his greatness encompasses them as well as his own people. Aquila Regalis Thor." She lifts the baby from her breast and holds him out for Merlinus to take. Her blond face smiles so openly and with such goodness—not a shadow of doubt or withholding—that the wizard accepts the silken bundle as if gifted a robe, or a pair of shoes, and not the future king of the land.

  Merlinus fumbles for something appropriate to say,

  and she stays him with a shake of her head that tosses hair over her face and veils the bruised sorrow beginning to surface. "Take him to his place of safety, Myrddin. Watch over him. And when he has grown strong and able, when he is worthy of his father's memory, send him back to me. I want to see him as a man—as king. I want to give him the Graal with my own hands and tell him in my own words the story of Uther and Ygrane."

  The wizard backs away, precious bundle held to his

  banging heart. "He will return one day," he promises.

  "Strong and able."

  "I know." Her empty arms close around herself, and she sinks back on her couch, face shrouded by her hair, all she has left of her Theo gone from her now. "He will return.

  He has already begun his return. And when he comes to me, he will know me, and I will know him and call him by his name—Aquila Regalis Thor—Arthor."

  Epilog: Merlin— a Memory of the Future

  He that made him can make his sword to approach

  unto him.

  -Job 40:19

  Woman. Everything I am I owe to Her. All the good and the bad in my life. All the sorcery and mystery. All the wisdom and madness. And here, in my hands is the future given from Her. From Ygrane comes a small, fragile being entrusted to my care. And from Morrigan, the shadow of his death. Between the two, I must make a difference.

  Merlinus silences his inner voice. The words come