CHAPTER 5

Pendragon.

Arthur, then before him was Uther, then Gawther, then old Mauther, High King for a hundred years. Before him there had been Pendragons as far back as nyone could remember, and no one knew if they had been men or Gods.

Merlin sighed, and cracked his bony knuckles one by one. Men, or Gods, or both?

Not that it mattered to the eye of time. One blink, and they were gone. Merlin’s eyes grew dim. How many bold, laughing, red-gold men had he seen go down to the world between the worlds?

And only old Merlin left to maintain the line. Well, so be it. The enchanter settled his scrawny frame in the saddle, and drew a deep breath of the sweet summer air. Above his head the trees met in a perfect arch, casting a greenish light on the path below. The narrow bridle way ran deep between high banks, and all around him the world was fresh with the green shoots of June. His patient mule trod at an easy pace, its every step in tune with Merlin’s thoughts.

Pendragon.

The search was on for the next in the line.

The quest would be long, he knew. But to a Lord of Light as he was, time rolled in channels not known to other men.

Slowly he mused on.

Gore.

That was the place to start.

Merlin laughed. Strange to think how much had begun in Gore, the kingdom where he had himself hidden Arthur so long ago. The King of Gore had been a most faithful friend. No man had served Pendragon as Ursien did, and his knight Sir Ector loved Arthur as his own.

Yes, all that was well done. But now—?

Merlin bared his yellow teeth. When Arthur was born, he and these others had labored to save his life. But for Arthur’s issue in turn—Gods above, who had taken account of that? And what to do now, when the line seemed likely to fail? The familiar pain began gnawing again in his breast. The old man reached out and tore a handful of heart’s-ease from the steep wayside to chew as he passed, and lapsed into deep thought.

How to keep the line alive, when Arthur had no heir?

“Yet Arthur has had seed.”

Merlin raised his eyes. On the top of the bank, perched under a hawthorn tree, sat an aged woman, regarding him steadily with a kindly eye. Though she was clad from head to foot in black, her soft garments seemed to weave themselves into the shadows of the hillside, and he had not noticed her before. Her twinkling gaze was both merry and wise, and she waited with the composure of a woodland creature for him to speak.

Merlin smiled. He knew better than to say, “Greetings, old mother, where do you live?” for she would only reply, “Oh, here and everywhere, good son.” Yet the wrinkled face beneath the tall black hat was anything but vague, and her words were sharply echoing his own thoughts. He grinned at her. Truly the Great Ones sent their help at need.

“Arthur has had sons,” he agreed. His thin frame tensed as he prepared himself for his rage. “Two fine ones—and the great fool lost them both!”

The old woman tutted softly. “Any king would want to take his firstborn son to war. Arthur was not to know.”

“Amir was only a child. He was too young!”

“Yes, Guenevere was right, and Arthur was wrong. But neither of them could have known that their son would pay for the sin that had brought Arthur into the world.”

“Sin?” Merlin’s eyes flashed fire.

“Sin,” repeated the old woman equably. “When Uther took Igraine, he broke the Mother-right. And to dispose of her daughters in the way he did—” She sighed heavily, and shook her head. “That was a wickedness the Goddess could not forgive.”

Merlin ground his teeth. “We had to ensure that Arthur was Igraine’s only concern.”

“So her daughters had to lose their mother and father, their sister-bond, and the life they knew? Was that not an offense against them both? From her marriage, Morgause at least was granted four sons to love. But Morgan had to live in a convent, beaten and starved for the sins of Eve. No wonder that she learned how to hate. Arthur has paid dearly for his father’s deeds.”

Merlin could not deny it. He nodded helplessly and spread his hands. The old woman’s indictment rolled on with the force of an incoming tide. “All Morgan’s sufferings sprang from Uther’s desire for an heir. What better revenge than to rob Arthur of his son?”

“And to torture his wife,” Merlin said somberly. “Amir was Guenevere’s son too.”

“Morgan was too much for both of them. She told the Saxons where Amir lay concealed. Her malice guided the spear that pierced his heart.”

“Yet another boy could have taken Amir’s place!” Merlin cried. “Morgan destroyed Amir in order to give Arthur her own son instead. But then the great fool wanted all the newborn boys put down. He hated Morgan so much that he was ready to cast away his own flesh and blood!” He clutched at his head. “Lost one son, lost another, he’ll surely be the end of the Pendragon line!”

The old woman’s eyes raked him from head to foot. “But you don’t believe,” she said softly, “that Morgan’s son was lost.”

“No!” The old man’s face split with a sudden fierce joy. “He lives, I can feel it, I know the boy lives!” He cackled with glee, and rubbed his leathery hands. Every inch of his skin was crackling with delight. “Morgan would not let her son be killed.”

He cocked an eye wildly at the old dame. “She called him Mordred, did you know that? She named him for a purpose, and her purpose is revenge. She means her son to bring more dread to the House of Pendragon than we shall ever know.”

A prophetic shudder passed through his withered frame. “So I must find him, and bring him to Arthur again. That’s the only way to turn aside Morgan’s schemes. I know that she has saved the boy somehow. And now she has spirited him away, the Gods know where. But I will find him, if it takes ten years.”

“Where will you look?”

Merlin laughed harshly. “Everywhere. Morgan could hide her son under a leaf.”

There was a gentle laugh. “She may have hidden him under your very nose.”

The old man swayed in the saddle and passed a weary hand over his eyes. “She can do anything.” He groaned. “Anything!”

“The power of darkness is at her command,” the old woman agreed. Her ageless eyes rested on the old man. “As you well know.”

Merlin’s parchment skin took on a brownish hue. He clenched his teeth. “I remember.”

His flesh crawled. How could he forget that Morgan had played on him till she awoke his lust, had sucked the soul out of his body, sported with him, and driven him mad with shame? And then while he was slowly mending his wounded wits, confined to the calm of Avalon’s crystal cave, the black-eyed witch had had free rein with Arthur, and seduced him too. Yes, Morgan Le Fay was a thing of darkness indeed.

Merlin’s voice rose in a high, fractured wail. “I was not there when Arthur needed me!” He shook himself like a dog, in a vain attempt to cast Morgan out of his thoughts. “I opened the gate to let the evil in to him. But I shall make amends when I bring him his son.”

The old woman shook her head. “Think, Lord Merlin, think! If you do that, Mordred is Arthur’s heir. Do you want a child of incest to lead the House of Pendragon in times to come?”

“Arthur and Morgan were only connected on the mother’s side,” Merlin said stubbornly. “There’s no reason why he can’t be High King.”

The old woman’s voice took on a stronger note. “I beg you, think again. Remember, the blood of Queen Igraine flows in Morgan’s veins. Igraine hated Uther with all her heart. And all that hatred Morgan will pour into her son.”

Merlin nodded unhappily. Once again the old woman had sensed his deepest thoughts. “Yet he is still a Pendragon,” he insisted, “and the only one left to rule when Arthur dies.”

The old woman fixed her clear green eyes on him. “That is not written in the stars, Lord Merlin.”

Merlin sat up as if he had been stung. “Will Guenevere have a child?”

The old woman shook her head. “Grief has closed up her womb since Amir died.”

“How, then?”

She raised a wrinkled finger to her lips. “Do not ask.”

“I must!” Merlin cried. “Pendragon must rise in this land again! Or else—” He tossed his head in pain, and his long gray locks moved round his neck like snakes.

The sadness of the ages breathed in the old woman’s words. “Or else it is all for nothing?”

Merlin clutched at his head. “All my life—all my lives—I have worked for this end! To ensure that Pendragon will be High King by right, instead of having to make war in every reign. To restore our house—”

“Our house?”

The cool question stabbed Merlin like a knife. “Our house!” he shouted. “My mother was a princess of Pendragon, a virgin priestess, touched by a Holy One! I was the last of the line, until the time came when I could bring Arthur forward to claim his own.” His voice broke. “I must make sure that it continues now.”

“But not with Mordred, not through that line.” The old woman’s voice darkened and grew heavy as she spoke. She stood up, growing taller before Merlin’s gaze. The black spire of her headdress seemed to weave its way up through the branches of the tree until it touched the sky. “Hear me, Lord Merlin. Do not seek to find the boy.”

Merlin’s face was transformed. “So he is alive!” he hissed, clasping his wizened hands in ecstasy. “I have had glimpses, caught words flaming in the sky, but my sight failed me, I could not see so far.” He dropped his reins. A trickle of tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks. “Praised be the Great Ones,” he wept. “Thanks to the blessed Gods! He lives! Pendragon lives!”

The figure before him was still growing and fading away. But her words reached into the deep places of his mind, like the echoing voice of thunder on the hills. “Lord Merlin, it is not for you to know. Dead or alive, let the boy sleep in peace. Pendragon he is, but Morgan’s creature too. She gave him half her name, and more than half of her own dark nature, the evil that you know. Do you still think to track down this changeling child? Think, Merlin—think of Arthur! Think of Guenevere, even though you have no love for her!”

The wind sighed, and she was gone. Merlin sat gazing at the shimmering air, his mind, his whole being washed clean of conscious thought. Praise the Gods, throbbed numbly through his frame, the blessed, blessed Gods—

Slowly, slowly he came to himself again. High overhead a golden eagle wheeled and danced in the sky. Behind it, and tracking its every move, flew the dogged shadow of a lesser hawk. Merlin cackled. More than one word was coming to him today.

He breathed out heavily and took up the reins, urging the white mule on. His thoughts began again with its first steps. Pendragon must succeed. Arthur now, and after him—who?