Chapter Eight

Sleet stung my skin as I approached the convent grounds, a small tract of land on the banks of the river Ouse. From behind a wooden fence, a small chapel rose with a forlorn frozen garden on one side, its long-dormant plants unresponsive to the gray light of dawn. Opposite, a long building attached itself to the church like a barnacle. Some distance behind, smoke rose from the open chimney of a kitchen.

The haunting melody of chanted prayer greeted me as the porter opened the gate in response to my ringing the guest bell. Without a word, the bent old woman motioned me inside and I followed her to the church door, the nuns’ song growing louder with each step. Shielding my face from the biting wind, I gratefully stepped inside the nave.

Where I had expected darkness to rival the dreary day outside, I was greeted by light. Though the church wasn’t large—five pairs of small pews each held three gray-clad sisters—and had only two small windows, one set high in each long wall, iron pillars filled with slender beeswax candles illumined each corner, filling the room with the subtle, sweet scent of honey. All attention was focused on the altar, which held a length of switch, its ruby thorns glowing bloody in the soft light, and a small equal-armed stone cross. Two fat candles held vigil on either side.

It was Lent, the Christian season for repentance. This austerity likely was symbolic of the shriving of sins and the penance each sister undertook this time of year. I had seen Arthur undertake the privations of Lent many times.

Though I did not share their faith, the beauty of their ritual stirred my heart. It had been a long time since my prayers were made out of anything other than desperation and fear. But here, with my body safe and warm, my spirit cried out for nourishment. As the sisters sang, I sank to my knees on the cold, hard floor, adopting the posture of submissive prayer used on Avalon, arms crossed over my heart, head bowed to the ground. Abandoning my bag of provisions at my side, I touched my right thumb to my forehead, lips, and heart, and prayed.

My thoughts were no better than a jumble of yarn, tying itself ever tighter with each passing thought. I had to start over several times before my mind produced anything intelligible. But I was able to offer a quick word of thanks to the goddess Ellen for a safe journey and a supplication that Morrigan would keep Arthur and Lancelot safe before my mind went galloping off again.

Nevertheless, the Goddess seemed to understand my heart, and as if in response to my prayers, a vision flashed before my eyes. Arthur and Lancelot were safely back in Britain. But Arthur was not in Lothian, nor was he heading for Camelot. He stood in the courtyard of Cadbury, watching Lancelot train a group of men on how to use the saddle with the stirrup in the nearby stables. That could only mean Arthur intended to mass his supporters at Cadbury and lead a march on Mordred.

Gods, preserve us from an attack on Camelot. Do not allow this foolish quarrel over power to further destroy what we worked so hard to build.

I raised my head only when the chanting came to an end. The sisters, their faces obscured by heavy black veils, filed solemnly out a side door and soon, only one woman remained. Even before she turned, her plump shape and the strands of curly blond hair peeking out from the bottom of her veil gave away her identity.

The years had been kind to Mayda, revealing her to be a beautiful woman who would always retain a hint of her childhood innocence. Her face, covered in Lenten ashes, was still round, but it had gained sleek angles from simple living, along with the ghost of lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Away from the cares of her tribe and dedicated to God in a place of safety, she now appeared far younger and healthier than her battle-worn sister. Clad in the black robes of the abbess, she radiated gentle power and confidence, much like the Lady of the Lake.

I rushed to embrace her. “Mayda! The gods be praised you are well.”

Forewarned I would be arriving, she was not surprised but radiated joy at our reunion. She clasped me with great affection. “Thanks to you and your husband. You gave me a great gift the day you assigned me here. I only wish I could have seen it at the time.”

I pulled back, regarding her from head to toe but not letting go of her shoulders. “How are you? I see you have done much with your time here.” I gestured to her robes.

Her smile was as radiant as I remembered. “I took your advice to heart. When I was young, my family tirelessly reminded Elga and me that we were meant to lead. They thought we would oversee our husbands’ tribes, but here I have found a different kind of family to lead. It can be difficult, but it is all worth it when done in His service.” She flicked her gaze meaningfully to the cross on the altar. “Truly, you and Arthur gave me the most loving, loyal spouse I could ever ask for. He may be invisible, but He treats me much better than any earthly man ever would.”

Having seen the brutality of the Saxons, especially those who clawed their way into power, it wasn’t difficult to believe she was right.

Mayda put an arm around my shoulders, directing me toward the altar. “Come, let me show you our dearest treasure.” When we stood directly in front of the altar, she lifted the stone cross off its base. Only then did I see the center was adorned with a shield of glass. Behind it, small yellowed bits of what appeared to be bone and hair rattled with her movements. “These are the bones of the blessed St. Peter and the hair of the missionaries who died protecting them. We hold them in our prayers every day, asking that their blood make us stronger in our faith.” Her eyes gleamed with pride.

Bishop Marius had told us of the veneration which Christians paid to the bodily remains and sometimes possessions of their saints, especially those who’d given their lives for their faith. It was a popular practice on the Continent, but I had no idea it had spread here.

“How did you come upon these? Did not your St. Peter die in Rome? If so, they are far from their home.”

Mayda’s cheeks colored under the soot. “You are correct. They were a gift.” She studied the rushes at her feet. “From my sister.” Then looking at me, she continued. “The missionaries who brought these here from Rome had the misfortune of setting foot in our kingdom. This was only a short time after Badon. Our people were hungry to exact revenge, so they took it out on those who sought to change their ways. Relics such as these mean nothing to my people. But Elga was well aware of why the Christians so vigorously defended them. She saw an opportunity to gain sway over the convent and took it. After stripping the relics from their gold container, Elga sent these to us as a sign so I would know she was aware of my fate. She is now considered a great patroness, a protector, because they are a source of income from pilgrims, in addition to providing spiritual grace.”

I wrinkled my brow, trying to piece together her story. “How did Elga know you were here? We were so very careful.” Apology lay heavy in my voice, making it unsteady.

Mayda shook her head. “It was nothing you did. Elga is far more intelligent than anyone would think. A convent known to take in Saxon women was certainly not the first place she looked for me, but it was not low on her list either. How she figured it out matters little. When I was elected abbess, I think she believed she could control the convent, and with us, the whole of York. I told her I would rather meet the same fate as the martyrs she’d created than help her gain control of the country, even just this small part. We pose no threat to her, so for now, she does nothing, lest she appear as a tyrant.” Mayda took a deep breath. “I have no doubt the day will come when she is queen and I will fall to her blade, just as she always intended, but at least now it will be for a greater cause. I will be defending my faith and my home and I will be certain the others are safe. I have made my peace with my fate.”

I swallowed hard, my throat constricting with guilt. All Arthur and I had wanted to do was keep her safe, yet it looked as though we’d inadvertently condemned her to a martyr’s death. “I pray it does not come to that.”

She smiled. “So do I. But until that day, it is my duty to keep my sisters safe and help them grow in faith.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the side door. “Speaking of which, we should probably join them in the refectory. No one may begin eating until the abbess is present.”

I followed her into the gloom, already missing the brightness of the church. A handful of sisters were standing around the frozen well, chipping at the surface with a rock. When Mayda approached, they backed away respectfully to allow her access. She dipped her hands into the cold water and splashed it on her face, washing away the ashes, before drying her face with the hem of her gown. I did the same, starting at the shock of cold but relieved to remove some of the grime of the road, even if it meant my cheeks went numb in the process.

Inside the refectory, the sisters had removed their veils. The ashes were gone too, having served their ritual purpose. Mayda led me to the head of a long table, where she sat with great ceremony. She whispered to one of the sisters at her side, who promptly offered me her seat. There were no others open, so she sat on the floor.

“Please,” I said to the sister, “that is not necessary—”

Mayda silenced me with a look. “They know who you are and welcome the humility of giving up what they can to the queen.”

The sisters spoke little during the simple meal of bread, cheese, and thin broth, and when they did, it was in their native language. The mulled wine served to me by Mayda and the elder sisters warmed my heart and spread through my veins, leaving me feeling fuzzy and more loved than I had in months. The younger ones, who I guessed from the color of their habits were still in training, much as we had been in Avalon, had to make do with watered ale. Many of the sisters glanced at me curiously, and I smiled in response. To a one, they dropped their eyes to their plates.

Mayda noticed and whispered to me, “They will protect you in any way needed. Have no fear.”

After the meal finished and they recited a Latin prayer, a small bell chimed. Chairs scraped noisily as the sisters hurried to their various duties.

Mayda took my hand. “Come, I will show you to your room.” She gestured to the sister who had given up her seat. “Sister Magdalena will serve you. Do not hesitate to tell her of anything you may need.”

I glanced from sister to abbess. “That is not necessary. I can fend for myself.”

“Nonsense,” Mayda replied, her tone indicating the subject was closed.

Sister Magdalena bowed. “It is my great honor, my queen, Mother Abbess.”

I leaned in close to Mayda. “Am I to address you as such? I wish to pay you due respect.”

“No, you may call me Mother Mayda. You are under no vows and need not make obeisance to me.”

From the refectory, which was attached to the kitchen, we trudged through the increasing sleet, careful not to slip on the ice forming underfoot. Once inside the long building attached to the chapel, Mayda led us down a long main hallway to a room near the main church.

“These are our guest rooms,” she said. “They are far enough away we should not disturb you with our routine, but close enough should you wish to join us.”

When we entered the room to which I was assigned, Sister Magdalena watched me expectantly, eyeing the small pack of belongings I set on the bed.

I smiled softly at her. “I can see to my own things. I wish to rest a while, so you may go about your normal duties.”

Mayda nodded. “Sister Magdalena will fetch you when it is time for our late meal, if that is agreeable.”

With my assent, both women turned to leave.

“Mother Mayda?” I called. “Is it safe to correspond from here? I would like to be in touch with those who might give me a better idea of what is taking place in the rest of the kingdom.”

Her smile was benevolent. “Of course. I will have my messengers on standby should you need to send communication urgently. Though I would advise not to use your true name. Is there another by which those whom you address would know you?” Before I could answer, she laughed. “Oh, I remember now. Corinna. Is that right?”

I squeezed her hands. “It is. It appears the situation is reversed. I am now in your care.”

She returned the gesture. “As it should be. God always gives us the opportunity to repay a kindness. May He, by whatever name you call Him, bless you. Rest now.”

Mayda’s way of life was not very different from the one I’d lived for four years in Avalon, which surprised me greatly. It had its own rhythm and rituals but provided the same comfort and stability I’d found so soothing during my formative years.

While exploring my room that first afternoon, I’d come across a tiny door in one wall, no bigger than my hands held side-by-side. When I pulled cautiously on its curled handle, it revealed itself to be the shutter to a small barred window overlooking the church. If I knelt, it was even with my head, affording me a bird’s-eye view of all that took place below.

When I asked Mayda about it that evening, she told me it had been installed before she arrived for a holy woman who was often ill but still wished to attend Mass. The height was measured so that she could only view the service if she was in the proper posture for prayer. Mayda said although I could not attend their rituals, I was more than welcome to observe from there. After the saintly sister died, when Mayda was still new to the convent, she spent much time in that room, and it was those hours of quiet contemplation that led her to embrace the Christian faith.

Through that same window, I was able to observe the rites of Lent during the fortnight of Passiontide, a solemn time leading up to Easter, the holiest of days for Christians. All of the sisters arose at dawn and dressed in simple white robes. Even though the air was cold and the ground covered in heavy frost, they processed around the church barefoot, each holding a single yew branch, singing Hosanna, before entering and taking their places around the perimeter of the room.

In many ways, they resembled our Candlemas procession so many years before. Grief tugged at my heart as I recalled that day—Isolde’s joyous smile on her favorite feast day and Elaine’s humble expression as she took up the role of the bride. They were both gone now, victims of fates too cruel for their few years, too awful for hearts so in need of love.

My eyes stung with tears, but soon it was not the ritual nor the faces of my remembered friends that passed through my mind. Instead, I felt the dizzying sensation that meant the sight was upon me. I tried to fight it, but it would not relent. Long ago, the Lady of the Lake had warned me the sight would be out of my control when one whom I loved was in danger. It was a cruel trick of the Goddess, to show me that which I was powerless to control, but I had long ago made my peace with it.

Arthur was alone on the ramparts of Cadbury, his expression set in grim lines as he watched a shadow wash over the horizon, heading straight for the castle. The wave of soldiers did not slow or part, showing determination to engage their king, and leading the way was Mordred.

“All the while I loved you, I also feared you, cursed as you are with your mother’s lust for power,” Arthur said to his son, who was barely distinguishable from the nearing horde. “I prayed this day would never come, but God did not heed me. My only prayer now is we can turn you away while your heart still beats.” His eyes welled, but he did not allow the tears to fall.

Lancelot approached Arthur from behind, and I gasped, unaware he had returned to Britain.

Arthur must have sensed his approach, for he cleared his throat and turned before Lancelot could speak a word of greeting. “You have no business in this battle. Go to Camelot. Find Guinevere and show her I am a man who keeps his word, no matter what she may believe. I will deal with my traitorous son.”

They bickered for some time, Lancelot insisting on offering his sword in repayment for the offences he’d committed against Arthur, but Arthur’s insistence prevailed.

“You have more than repaid your debt by your valor on the fields of Brittany. I promised Guinevere a new life with you and that I shall deliver, even if it is my final gift to her. Go now. Send Kay to me.”

Reluctantly, Lancelot departed. Kay appeared soon after.

This time, Arthur did not turn. “I have no desire to mar this fort by placing it at the center of a war. We will meet them on the banks of the river, press in before they expect us to engage. In that way, we can hope to throw them off.”

“Our troops can be ready within a few hours. Mordred will not have gained the river by then.”

“Good. I wish them to know their rightful king was expecting them.”

With those words, my eyes grew dim and the sight left me.

At dawn, I helped the lower-ranking sisters scrub the floors of the church after morning prayer, our bare feet freezing on the cold, wet stones. While we did this, Mayda and the sisters of higher rank stripped the altar of its beautiful cloths and lovingly washed it, preparing it for the rituals to come.

Later, they gathered in the church for Mass and I watched from my room above. Their priest blessed a vial of healing oil then invited the poor of the area to come forth. The sisters humbly washed their feet in imitation of a gesture performed by their Christ before his death. Mayda followed on her knees, kissing the feet of each man and woman before giving them a loaf of bread, flagon of wine, and bag of coins.

Years earlier, when I was a ward in the house of Corbenic, its lord, Pellinor, had performed similar service to the poor of his lands on Candlemas. Looking back, I missed that time and those people. Though often infuriating and perplexing, in retrospect, my years with him, Lyonesse, Isolde, and Elaine were a blessing, shielding me from the struggles of the outside world. Yes, Lyonesse could be cruel, but that was little enough sacrifice in the face of what we would experience in the years to come.

Bowing my head, I prayed. Thank you, God and Goddess for everything that family taught me. Please bless those of their line who still live and may those who have died be at peace.

Eyes closed, the sight came upon me again.

True to his word, Arthur’s army stood in wait as Mordred’s troops poured out from wooded tracts into the open fields sloping down toward the River Cam. The unexpected sight of the opposing wall of warriors slowed their progress, eventually forcing them to halt.

The curving river, with its steep banks, was the only thing separating father and son. Slowly, as if each trying to each decide their own strategy, Arthur and Mordred picked their way through their men until they were facing one another across the narrow waterway.

Arthur made the first move. “I have offered you my hand in peace time and again since returning from Brittany, only to find you with an army raised against me. One final time, I do so again. I do not wish to move against you, son, but make no mistake, I will if you press on. Greater men than you have resisted my requests for peace and lost their lives for their folly. I would hate to see the same happen to you.”

A puff of warm, disbelieving breath in the frigid air was Mordred’s first response, followed by a haughty, “It will not, for I have in my employ forces stronger than you have ever faced, men who believe you have wronged this land, abandoned it in the wake of your own selfish missteps. We will not bow to you when a new king is needed, one who will rule this land for all its inhabitants, not just those of native blood.”

Behind him, the Saxons and Picts cheered, taking up a steady tattoo with their cudgels and shields.

Arthur ignored them, unfazed by their attempts at intimidation after so many battles. He walked down river to a place where the water narrowed, banks nearly hugging one another, and Mordred followed like a mirror image. “You may believe you fight for something bigger, but this battle is between you and me. As you will not back down, I will offer you one more opportunity to spare the lives of your men and mine. We fight now in single combat, King Stag and rutting buck. Let the gods and our skills determine the outcome.”

Mordred studied his father with cold blue eyes, appearing to turn the option over in his mind. Then he laughed. “Do you truly believe that would solve anything? My death would only mean further incitement of my army, whereas yours would mean the crumbling of a nation, and for what? You cannot stop this, Arthur Pendragon. A new era has begun.”

For a moment, Arthur’s face betrayed his disappointment, but then he bowed his head, muttering a prayer too quiet for anyone else to hear. When he raised his face again, it bore the hard lines of a seasoned warrior. “May the gods have mercy on us all.”

The armies slammed into one another with a series of deafening cracks as shields split and spears found their targets, breaking through bone to lodge in the soft tissue beneath. The carrion birds alighted in treetops and amid the trampled grass as bodies fell, turning the river into a mass grave. Soon, soldiers used the bodies of their fallen comrades to cross the breech and face their attackers in units, rather than one by one.

But when the fighting was at its thickest, Mordred did something unexpected. He turned and ran, leading his troops north toward the Midlands. Arthur was not long in catching on, pulling the greater part of his troops from the fray to give chase.

Suddenly, I was back to myself again, lying on the floor of my small room in the convent, panting and covered in sweat from the exertion of my visions. I lay on my back, staring at the wood support beams overhead, trying to understand what I had seen. The rebellion had begun. But why did Mordred not finish it there? Why run? He was obviously not retreating. His movements were too orderly, too planned. It seemed there had been a prearranged signal, some sign that told certain contingents when it was time to follow him away from the battle. But why?

I sat up, fighting a wave of dizziness. I pulled myself to the ewer of wash water and poured some into the basin, willing it to cleanse me of my fear and anxiety as I removed the layer of sweat from my skin and struggled to regain my senses.

For a while, I watched the convent’s ritual, thankful for the distraction from my visions. The sisters’ voices floated up as they celebrated the Mass, their songs joyful in the triumph of their Savior, yet tinged with sadness, for the worst was yet to come—for their God and for Arthur.

When Mass ended, all the candles in the church were extinguished, save one many-armed candelabra, plunging the congregation into near total darkness. I pinched out the wick of my candle as well, wishing to experience the ritual as they did. The sisters’ songs turned to mournful dirges as the priest recited a story about their Lord being betrayed by his closest friend and handed over to the authorities to be tortured and condemned. One by one, the remaining candles were extinguished, until only a lone flame remained.

The church was silent, the crowd seemingly holding its breath in expectation. I scooted closer to my small window, trying to take in everything with heightened senses.

The clear voice of a young boy rang out from the north, intoning “Kyrie Eleison,” a plea to their God for mercy. Then the bell-like voice of a sister responded from the south, “Christe Eleison,” which meant much the same. The blending of their voices into a mournful chant raised goose pimples on my arms as they repeated the invocation.

Swept up in the chant, my prayers turned to pleas of mercy. May the gods of war grant us mercy. Protect our king and his heir from all harm and help them see the senselessness of their battle. May they find a path to peace and spare our people the pain and privations of war.

With two kings pitting the armies of three nations against each other, we needed any help the heavens were willing to provide. Were I there with Arthur, following Mordred’s army north, perhaps I could advise him, but here in this convent, so many miles north and east of them, I could do nothing. Well, not nothing. I could pray, just as I was doing. But it felt like so little. I could not defend Arthur with my sword, or try to make them both see sense. I was powerless, for even my magic could not help them. I could not help Arthur strategize or even read the stones for him. He and Mordred were beyond my reach. All I could do was watch through eyes cursed with the sight as it all played out.

Below, in the chapel, the single flame was extinguished. From the west, the deep rich bass of a man’s voice sang, “Christ is dead,” three times. I shivered, certain to my core that soon a similar elegy would be sung for either the High King or his son.

The rituals did not end each night, but rather they faded into silence before picking up again at the prescribed time, as they would each day until Easter. In the time between, the sisters communicated only as necessary through a series of hand signals similar to those we used during our period of silence just before being consecrated as priestesses in Avalon.

The familiarity made me long for my days on that blessed isle, for the kinship and sisterhood these nuns clearly felt and that I had once known. Though I was surrounded by women, my heart ached with the hollow void of loneliness. I wished I had someone here in whom I could confide about my visions, who would understand the frustration, the utter helplessness of watching something tragic and pointless you could not change. But if I told them, the sisters would surely think me as demonic as that damn bishop Marius had.

The snow and ice prevented me from worshiping outdoors and I could not face being alone in my tiny cell, so on the night of the new moon, I slipped into the back of the chapel, intent on performing my own rituals while the sisters sang and adored the bare cross placed before their altar. I searched the shadows for a place I would go unnoticed. To my right was a small alcove with a statue of the Lady Mary. Normally serene and welcoming, tonight she was an ominous specter with her black shroud.

I could not believe I was even considering confiding in her, the mother of a god in whom I had no faith. But yet, how different was she from the myriad of goddesses to whom I had prayed before? Wasn’t she the same woman, called by a different name? Was she a being like Deichtine, Cú Chulainn’s mother, who, while incarnate on this earth, was singled out by her god for a special purpose?

It was not as if goddesses giving birth to heroes was a new idea, or even one confined to the Christians. Taliau was the mother of Lugh; Dôn had given birth to Arianrhod and Gwydion, all of whom I worshiped, so why could I not pray to Mary? I had no interest in the redemption offered by her son, so I was in no danger of abandoning my faith. I was simply adding another goddess to my pantheon, something my forebears had been doing for hundreds of years.

The previous night at dinner, after the sisters had covered the statues with a thick black cloth—a tradition of their faith I found rather odd—I had asked Mayda about the statue and the woman it represented. “How does she relate to your people’s faith? Did you have trouble accepting her when you were new here?”

Mayda had answered through a mouthful of hard bread, the only daily sustenance until Easter. “No, not really. She is much like our goddess Ostara, who gives fertility to the land and its people. Her feast day is usually close to Easter.” She scooted a little closer to me in her seat. “We would never tell the bishop, but the flowers we lay at her feet on Easter are less to gladden her heart at the resurrection of her son than they are to honor her. We still hold our families’ traditions in our own ways.”

Mayda’s honesty warmed my heart, a comfort I carried with me now as I contemplated Arthur’s conversion to Christianity, and then Morgan’s. Had she found this goddess and accepted her as one and the same as those we’d worshiped as part of the rites of Avalon? Early during my time in Pellinor’s house, I had noted the similarities between his faith—with its Host that so resembled the full moon and its rituals that invoked the elements in incense, water, candles, and bread and wine—and my own. Even some of this Christ’s teachings were like those of the Druids. And now there was this Mother goddess. Had Morgan been able to look beyond the names and see enough of Avalon in this new faith?

If so, she was indeed a wiser woman than I, for there were aspects of this Christian world I could not accept. No matter what Mayda and her sisters may believe in secret, their faith still forbade the ancient gods, who were in so many ways our tie to the land and to our ancestors. Pious bastards like Marius made certain women had little place in or influence on the faith—and that they would never be worshiped in any proper way. Plus, I would never be able to believe we needed to be saved, much less that the death of one man could achieve such a monumental task. I believed in right and wrong and had seen both tremendous good and horrific evil, but the idea that one man’s sin, brought about by a woman—of course—so long ago could be the reason why we did wrong today was hard enough to believe and then to tell me that the torture of one man, god or not, undid all of that and made it tolerable for me to do wrong, so long as I asked forgiveness for it, was simply too much. Father Dyfadd and I had had many rounds of debate on these points when I sought to understand Arthur’s faith, but to no avail.

I gently removed the material that covered the statue, setting it aside so I could recover it before any of the sisters knew of my transgression. There she stood in blue robes so much like my own as a priestess, beckoning me to know her as another Lady of Avalon. I lit a candle with the flint and fire steel I’d brought from my room. Setting the candle before the statue, I gave the sign of Avalon and looked into the Lady’s hollow stone eyes.

“Great Mother, called by many names, hear this priestess who requests your aid. Safeguard our king, he whom my heart holds so dear—” My words stopped as the sight took over.

I was riding with Arthur, Kay, and the Combrogi at a hard pace, still giving chase to Mordred. The land there was flat, grazing pastures and farmland as far as the eye could see. We were about a day or two’s ride from Cadbury, in the heart of Salisbury. We rode for what felt like hours and the land subtly changed, sprouting trees at intervals, until we were once again in forested land. Somewhere nearby, a river or brook trickled.

“We need to rest the mounts soon, or they will falter,” Kay advised.

“Agreed. I wish I’d known that little cur was going to lead us on a hunting expedition. I could have sent word to Powys to prepare new mounts, extra soldiers, anything.” Frustration colored Arthur’s voice over the pounding of the hooves.

Where was Mordred leading them and why?

“We’ll find him, Arthur, and when we do—” Bedivere never got to finish his thought, because he was slammed sideways off his horse.

“Ambush!”

The cry went up from the head of the line and was quickly echoed to those at the rear, but not before Mordred’s army descended, larger and more heavily Saxon this time, if the weaponry was any indication.

Arthur hacked a line through the onslaught, laying low man and woman alike. I didn’t need the sight to know he was on a mission to get to his son and end the violence once and for all. But if Mordred was in the fray, he was well hidden. No doubt this attack had been orchestrated to inflict maximum damage on Arthur’s army while keeping Mordred at a safe distance. For all anyone on the battlefield knew, Mordred had already retreated to some hideaway and was watching the battle unfold through his mother’s second sight, just as I was doing now.

One member of the Combrogi fell, then another. Owain was badly wounded, but fighting on. Gareth and Garheis were not so fortunate, brothers to the bitter end. Gareth perished defending his younger sibling, their limbs tangled in death, eyes glassy and staring, their souls fleeing to the safety of the Otherworld.

As blood spurted from hacked away limbs and the agony of death throes filled the air, I had a moment of lucidity where I was grateful to be only witnessing this horror. Yet my hand involuntarily reached for the sword that slept on the cold floor beneath my pallet in my room above, my warrior’s instinct aiming to protect those I held dear.

For several moments, the chanting sisters filled my ears with the lamentations of their God. “I led you out of Egypt, from slavery to freedom, but you led your Savior to the cross.”

And then the visions and sorrowful voices mixed.

My attention was drawn not to Arthur but to Aggrivane, who was battling a large Saxon wielding a spear and a sword simultaneously. Aggrivane was on the defensive, backing away as the Saxon poked his spear at Aggrivane’s guard, then sought an opening with his sword. Even without a shield, the Saxon evaded all of Aggrivane’s attempts to wound him, only snarling in pain when a Combrogi saw the situation and stabbed the Saxon’s sword arm from behind, severing the main muscle in his shoulder.

“For forty years, I led you safely through the desert. I fed you with manna from heaven, and brought you to a land of plenty; but you led your Savior to the cross.”

Aggrivane took advantage of the Saxon’s pain to slash out, tearing the Saxon’s leather chest plate, but otherwise inflicting no damage. If he could repeat the move, the Saxon would be dead. Aggrivane circled around, seeking another moment of inattention as he and his ally took on the ox of a man now snorting like a raging bull. Aggrivane lunged, burying his sword in the soft part of the Saxon’s side, just above his hip bone.

But he was too late. The Saxon had seen an opening too.

“What more could I have done for you? I planted you as my fairest vine, but you yielded only bitterness: when I was thirsty you gave me vinegar to drink, and you pierced your Savior with a lance.”

Aggrivane’s eyes went wide and his mouth twisted into a wicked grimace. The Saxon’s spear had caught him low, probably in the belly, and the wound forced him to the muddy ground. Men blocked my view, so I only saw flashes of his face as he grimaced and twitched in pain, hands wrapped around the shaft of the spear as his lifeblood poured onto the unforgiving ground. The next time I caught sight of him, his head had lolled to the side and his hands were slack, chest no longer heaving.

“I raised you to the height of majesty, but you have raised me high on a cross. My people, what have I done to you? How have I offended you? Answer me!”

My scream ripped through the worlds, and for a moment, the battle ceased. Each soldier stood frozen, heads and eyes turning to locate the source of the unearthly sound. Some crossed themselves, while others made the sign of Avalon, and a few ran away in terror. For three breaths, everyone was silent and motionless, paying respect to a pain that rattled through the core of each man. Then the battle began again as though nothing untoward had taken place.

Back in the chapel, my body crumpled, reacting to the trauma of what I had seen before my fragile mind caught up. I clawed at the statue’s feet as though she could save him, as though by hanging on to her, I could will Aggrivane back to life.

Her serene face was the last thing I saw before my sight shattered into a blinding field of stars, their white heat painful to behold in the blackness that sought to consume me. I grasped my head, unable to see, crippled by the pain turning my blood to ice. I was crying, I had to be, for the neck of my sleeping gown was wet and my chest muscles were spasming in time with my heart. How it still beat, I did not know. I could barely draw breath.

Mayda’s strong arms gripped me beneath the shoulders as she and Sister Magdalena lifted me from the floor and carried me past the faces of startled sisters. I gave into the pain, senseless.

I woke in my cell, retching before I was even fully conscious, but Mayda was there, holding a bowl beneath my mouth, supporting my shoulders and holding back my hair. When I was finished, stomach muscles cramping, too weak even to lift my head, she placed a cool cloth on my forehead and squeezed my hand. That small gesture was all that kept me from giving up completely. I wanted to sleep and never wake, to join Aggrivane in the Otherworld. I had been there once; the transition was easy. All I had to do was will it. But the warm reassurance of her hand was like a cord tying me to this world.

Weary, I looked at her. Mayda’s lips moved in whispered prayer.

When she noticed I was awake, she smiled. “I will be with you as long as you need me. No matter how long it takes for the pain to stop.” She wrapped me in her arms, holding me like a child.

“How did you know I would need you?” I asked weakly.

“Do you think the Britons are the only ones gifted with the sight?”

I had never considered the possibility of Saxon women having it too.

“I do not have the gift, but I have seen it many times, so I knew what to expect. I know you are tired, so I will not trouble you with questions, save one. The rest you can tell me when you are ready.” Her gaze met my eyes, which hadn’t stopped pouring since the visions ended, making certain I understood her. “Does our king live?”

I nodded weakly.

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Then we will redouble our prayers. Our good Lord cannot fail to hear us in this holy season.”

I envied her confidence, her faith. My Goddess had abandoned me, never to return, or so said the impenetrable cloud in my heart. I knew little of Mayda’s god, but if he made Arthur’s victory possible, I would seriously consider following him.

Two days later, thanks to Mayda’s expert ministrations, I was strong enough to be on my feet, though I did not leave my cell. Mayda had been called away to the visitor’s parlor for a meeting with King Cuncar, ruler over York since its capture by the Saxons decades before, and his archbishop. Why were they here? Could they possibly know Elga had sent me here? When I’d voiced my concerns to Mayda, she assured me they simply wished to make certain everything was in place for the town’s celebration of the Holy Week, in which the convent played a large role.

With Mayda occupied and the other sisters wrapped up in preparations for the upcoming solemnity, I had a stretch of much-needed time to myself to think through all that had happened. I sat on the small bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. What had happened to Arthur after my visions ended? Surely he could not be dead. If the Goddess had chosen to show me Aggrivane’s last moments, she likely would have done the same for Arthur, so he had to be alive. If he had been defeated, Mayda would know by now. Surely word would have come and the Saxons would be rejoicing.

I sighed, flopping back on the bed, eyes on the sloping timber ceiling, willing myself to think through the situation as I had been trained. There had been heavy losses on Arthur’s side. That much was certain. Many of his best men had died. I forced the image of Aggrivane lying still amid the carnage out of my mind. Those who had survived would have taken shelter somewhere nearby—wherever that was.

Would Morgan have chosen Arthur or backed her son? How does one make such a choice? I shook my head. I’d been down that line of thought before, and it had no clear answer. Only she could say where her loyalties truly lay. Even without her, chances were good the army had picked up some camp women. Hopefully some of them were priestesses and could help aid the wounded.

And what of Mordred? Surely his army had suffered losses as well. But then how had they gained in number since their attack near Cadbury? Mordred had to have back-up units supplying fresh men and horses. That meant he wasn’t fleeing from Arthur; he was leading him on a predefined course, one he knew he could reach before his father and set the next phase of his plan in motion.

Damn Morgan and her influence on her son. She was never one for battle strategy, but that wouldn’t have stopped her from teaching Mordred to think through every possibility, to turn every situation to his greatest advantage, just as she had been doing her whole life. Damn Lot for teaching his fosterling battle strategy. He’d thought he was preparing the heir to the kingdom. Little did he know he was arming a tyrant.

My blood went cold. Damn me too. I had taught him to read the Holy Stones, the one weapon of war neither Lot nor Morgan could or would pass on. I had armed him with a conduit to the gods. Damn my ignorance.

I tapped my thumb against my leg, turning a thought over in my mind. Two could play at that game, and I had more experience. No one was likely to have a set of stones in a house of the Christian god, but that never stopped the poor children on the streets who thought it only a game to be played with whatever pebbles littered the ground.

Standing, I touched the wall, fighting a wave of dizziness as my mind leapt ahead of my body. Most of the things I needed would be easy enough to procure. I still had the platter from my dinner; it would do as a board. While the sisters were attending to their prayers tonight, I could read the stones. But where would I get the stones themselves? Several feet of snow on the ground outside made it unlikely I could simply pluck them from the garden. Plus, I needed stones of pure quality to ensure the accuracy of my visions. Thanks to my hasty departure from Camelot, the only stones of any value I had with me were set in the ring Arthur had given me. I was not about to take it apart, but it gave me an idea.

Quietly opening my door, I peered down the hall, finding it deserted. I made my way toward the sisters’ work area. They embroidered and affixed jewels to robes for the bishop in one of these rooms, or so Mayda had told me when she gave me a tour. I didn’t expect them to leave such valuables out in the open, but I was willing to bet they’d be easy enough to find.

As I neared the end of the hall, a small, clear bell tolled twice, calling the sisters to prayer. I stopped, flattening myself against the wall as they passed. Some of them smiled in greeting, while others ignored me. A few looked at me askance, no doubt wondering why I was in their hallway when no one had seen me since I fainted in the chapel, but no one could question me as they were currently under the commandment of silence.

Once they had all passed out of sight and the soft murmur of their prayers filled the air, I slipped in and out of small workrooms until I found the one I was seeking. Light filtered in from a bank of windows on the west wall, illuminating two spinning wheels, three looms, and a few benches laden with silks and delicate thread in a rainbow of colors. I approached the latter, hoping to find a stole or other garment I could take and rip out the jewels—I could always sew them back in later. But after rummaging through all of them, I found Fortuna was not with me.

Mayda must have kept the jewels in her office. My skin prickled at the thought of invading her private space. That would be wrong. I did not want to betray her trust, but this was something I needed to do. Surely she would understand, and she needn’t know if I returned them quickly.

I skittered down the long hall lined with rows of cells until I came to the largest. I tried the handle, but the door was locked. No matter. I had borrowed a long needle and thin metal implement used in affixing jewels to fabric from the workroom. They would work to spring this lock, as well as any that secured the stones. With a snick, I was inside.

Mayda’s room was comprised of an outer office and what I guessed was her bedroom beyond a closed door. The office was only slightly bigger than my cell, so it didn’t take long to locate a small wooden box with a heavy iron lock inside one of the chests behind her desk. This had to be it.

I carried the box over to the light. Pausing for a heartbeat, I closed my eyes and said a prayer of thanks to Isolde for teaching me this forbidden skill. When the lock popped open, I turned over the box, letting its contents fall into my palm like raindrops. I counted the glittering jewels. Exactly forty waited at my command, enough to represent both armies. But I was still missing the queens.

After running back to my room, box ill-concealed beneath the folds of my robe, I dove under the bed and withdrew my pack. Rummaging through its contents, my fingertips touched brooches, parchment, a bone comb, and an old wooden dog figurine I carried for protection. The stones were not there. Running my hands over the gowns hanging on pegs on the wall, tears pricked at my eyes as I traced one empty skirt after another. Just when I was about to give up, my fingertips met a reassuring lump in the seam of one hem. Reaching in, I retrieved the two red stones Isolde and I had won, lost, and won back again so many times over the years.

After kissing the queens, I arranged the stones in their proper formations, snuffed out all the candles save one, and took up my place before the board. Closing my eyes, I chased away all thoughts and concentrated on my breathing. With the first dizzying tingle of weightlessness, I opened my eyes.

This time was different than those that had come before. It was not a battle the gods were communicating, but something else. I stared past the stones I had so precariously procured until the knots and grain of the wood platter formed pictures, just as the clouds had when I would watch them as a child from the hillsides around Northgallis.

I saw Mordred pacing the halls of Camelot like a caged wolf waiting to be let out. Then I saw him barring the gate and filling the walls to the brim with archers. A rain of arrows fell on Arthur’s army, forcing them to choose retreat or die trying to scale the impregnable walls of Camelot.

The visions ended, leaving me with a chilling certainty. Mordred was leading them into a trap they could not possibly escape. He knew it and Arthur soon would too. I had no way of getting word to him, but I could warn those who would help him, and perhaps provide him with some fresh reinforcements too.

Slowly, my hands moved the stones until I had twice played out the likely outcome, once with Arthur’s current army, and again if I was able to help him. Both situations were dire, and oddly, each ended in a stalemate where the two queens and their kings remained, but there was no way for either side to claim victory.

The outcome vexed me so much my bowels rumbled, but there was nothing more I could do, at least not with the divination tool before me. I used the glowing taper to relight the others with shaking hands and hid the plate and stones so Mayda would not find anything amiss upon her return and suspect my very unchristian activity. With trembling fingers, I took up the stylus and composed a letter to Owain’s wife, who was loyal to Arthur and the only one within range to augment Arthur’s army while her husband fought at his side.

Not long after I sealed the letter, a knock broke my concentration and Mayda appeared in my doorway. I looked up, trying to appear as though nothing had changed from when she left me.

“How was your visit?” I asked brightly.

“It went well, thank you.” Mayda’s face grew solemn. “They brought news of Arthur.”

I bit my lip and smoothed my skirt, trying to delay the inevitable news in case what I had seen was wrong, a product of wishful thinking. When I looked at her, my face was passive, though it took all my might to school it so. “And?”

“He lives. What is left of his army continues north, but to where we do not know.”

“I may.” I glanced at the letter on the desk. “How quickly can your messengers deliver this?”

Mayda picked it up. “Two days, four at most.” Her expression betrayed concern and not a little apprehension, but she asked no questions.

“That will have to be fast enough. Please see that it is on its way as soon as possible.”

I may not have been able to fight next to Arthur in the clash that was to come, but I could do everything in my power to assure he was as prepared as possible.

A week later, the church was dark and silent, black-veiled sisters watching in vigil like wraiths at a tomb. In many ways, the day’s rituals were more arcane than our native rites of Samhain. Both feasts mourned the death of a god who would come again, but this Christian tradition focused on the brutality of his death. Long Friday, as they called it, was the most solemn day of the year, with rites beginning in the middle of the night and lasting half the day.

Mayda came forward, crowned in thorns in imitation of her Savior. She and Sister Magdalena, her attendant, veiled the empty altar in black cloth. Mayda then held up a skull, to which all present genuflected. The archbishop said a brief prayer in Latin, and the sisters chanted as Mayda gently placed the skull on the altar. Two sisters set heavy wooden chests on either side of the altar. Mayda had explained earlier that they contained bones of the sisters who had passed away since the convent was founded so that all might be present at this most solemn vigil.

The Latin chant was intoned so low that I could not make out the words, but the haunting melody seemed to transcend time and space, opening the veil between worlds so that the souls of those who witnessed this man-god’s crucifixion could rise from their graves to recount the deeds of that terrible day, lest it ever be forgotten.

The sisters swayed as the chant lulled them into a trance, and I found myself slipping into the Otherworld with them. Mayda and the bishop prostrated themselves before the altar, and my vision blurred. For a few frightening moments, blackness engulfed me. Then the clang of metal and grunts of exertion and pain reached my ears.

My sight cleared and I found myself in a mist-filled valley near one of the forts on Emperor Hadrian’s wall, a place called Camlann I had been many times with Arthur, looking for any signs that the lowland tribes were stirring. Now the fort was crumbling, a shell of its former greatness.

Around me, battle raged, Briton against Briton, Saxon and Pict allied against them all. Owain’s men were among the warriors, so my letter had made it to its destination in time to help Arthur. Thanks to the extra troops, this battle was less of a slaughter than the previous two had been, both sides holding their own in a tiring stalemate.

Mordred stood well back from the main engagement, watching and issuing commands from atop the wall. He didn’t seem to notice as Arthur approached him from behind, flanked by Kay and Bedivere.

But before Arthur could attack, Mordred whirled, blade drawn, ready to strike. “I took you for many things, Father, but a coward is not among them. Would you really stab your own son in the back?”

Accolon and Bors stepped out of the mist, holding Arthur’s companions at bay several steps behind.

“It is only what you deserve after setting upon me and my army unawares.” Arthur raised his own blade. “But this does not concern them. It has always been our fight. Our time has come.”

Mordred smiled darkly. “Indeed it has. If you are of the mind to die, lay on.”

Arthur struck out, and their blades met with a deafening clash.

The force of the strike vibrated through me as though my own weapon had been hit. Dizzy, my sight faltered, pulling me into an in-between world where the keening of the sisters’ chant made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but I was not fully in my body either. Vaguely, I heard the priest intone the words of Jesus, who had descended into hell to condemn the devil and liberate the souls therein, including the first man and woman. To Adam, he commanded, “Repent of your sin and be freed by my blood.”

Instead of an answer, Arthur’s grunt of pain reached me as Mordred swung his shield, connecting squarely with Arthur’s left cheek. Arthur stumbled back on the rocky, wet ground, doubled over, but he managed to block Mordred’s stab, swatting away Mordred’s sword before spitting a mouthful of blood onto the stones.

When Arthur stood upright again, he was less steady, turning his whole head to locate his opponent, which made me think he’d lost the sight in his left eye. He recovered quickly and lunged at Mordred. Despite the sucking mire underfoot, they parried and thrust with exhausting speed, as though they were in a hurry to kill one another.

Mordred lost his weapon first. He took one of Arthur’s blows on the edge rather than the flat of the blade, and it broke, making Mordred lose his grip. The remnants of his sword sank in the mud. Momentarily stunned, Mordred left himself open to Arthur’s fury but managed to avoid injury. He grabbed a low-hanging branch from a silver birch, partially broken in a storm, and wrenched it free, wielding it alternately like a club and a staff. Arthur advanced with confidence but never took the killing blow. I suspected he was trying to tire Mordred, to force him to yield the fight, and hence, the kingship.

But his son was too persistent and too clever for that. Fighting with the tough branch, he resembled the Oak King seeking to overthrow the Holly King. Mordred held his own, eventually disarming Arthur with a crack to the wrist of his sword arm that made my teeth twinge, even in the spirit world.

Soon the two were locked in a skirmish that more resembled the brute force contention of horned goats than the engagement of two highly trained warriors. They wrestled one another to the sodden ground, Arthur’s bulk easily overpowering his lithe son.

“Call a halt,” Arthur demanded as battle raged all around them.

“Never,” Mordred declared.

Arthur fumbled at his belt. “I will give you one more chance,” he said, holding a dagger to his son’s stomach. “If you yield to me, you will live.”

Arthur was so busy watching his son’s reaction, he couldn’t see Mordred’s right hand creeping along the ground toward his broken sword.

“And if not?” Mordred’s hand closed around the jagged blade, freeing it from the mud.

“Then I am afraid I will have to kill you.”

“Please, Father. Don’t.”

His pleading gave Arthur pause, just long enough for Mordred to raise the sword and smash the hilt into Arthur’s head. The force of his blow hammered Arthur’s body downward. Mordred yelled, his eyes going wide. He scrabbled backward like a crab. As Arthur’s unconscious body fell away from Mordred, it revealed Arthur’s dagger protruding from Mordred’s stomach.

Time stood still.

Or at least that was how it felt. Realization hit me with the force of a gale sweeping down a canyon face, pulling me inexorably to my own death.

A bloodcurdling scream fell from my lips, echoed by another that held even more pain.

Morgan.

As my spirit body pushed through the thick of battle toward my husband, she dashed to her son’s side, flying across the field like a banshee. Of course. She would have been having visions of her own while nearby with the other camp women.

“Get them out of here! Get them to safety,” Kay yelled as he, Bedivere, and some of the others fought through the crushing mass of bodies to shelter their king and his heir from further harm.

They took them into the remains of the fort, its skeletal walls casting odd shadows in the half light and affording us some measure of dryness and privacy.

In this odd place between worlds, I could touch them. I sank to the floor at Arthur’s side and cradled his head in my lap, begging him to open his eyes. His pulse was faint and fluttering under my fingertips, so he lived—for now.

I inspected his wound even as Kay tried to bind it to stop the copious bleeding. Mordred’s blow had been powerful, smashing Arthur’s helmet and rending the side of his head with a deep, angry gash. At the rate his blood coated my hands, I feared a small artery had ruptured on impact. Even if that were not the case, the blow would cause severe swelling that could lead to host of problems, should he survive long enough to experience them. He needed help beyond what battlefield medics could provide.

Morgan gathered her son’s body onto her lap, weeping so hard she could find no voice. He stroked her cheek. “Mother.”

“Stay strong, my son,” she answered as though hope still remained.

But the only outcome for him was death. No other ending could be read in the pool of blood gathering black around him.

His gaze flicked to me. “Guinevere.” He smiled. “I am so sorry.”

I swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the tears streaming down my face. That he could see my spirit-self meant he was close to passing through the veil. “All is forgiven, Mordred. The Goddess knows. She will have mercy.”

His features smoothed as his breathing slowed, the lines of hatred and anger that had marred them over the last year disappearing until he resembled the boy who had welcomed me upon my return to Camelot from captivity, rather than the bitter monster he had recently become.

In my lap, Arthur groaned. His eyelashes fluttered and he opened his good eye, squinting at me. “I knew you’d come.”

“I would be nowhere else.” I squeezed his hand, ignoring the twinge in my gut that told me his seeing me meant he was near death as well. “Arthur, I love you. If you remember nothing else, let it be those words.”

He shifted, turning his head to have a better view of me. “And I you.” He caught sight of his son, slumped in Morgan’s arms. “Son?” His voice was thick with confusion.

He did not know what he had done. Mordred’s blow must have rendered him unconscious before his blade pierced his son’s flesh. Now was not the time to tell him.

At least Morgan seemed to feel the same. Still crying, she grasped Arthur’s other hand. “He died in battle. Is that not what you have always wished for him?”

Arthur gave a small bark of a laugh. “A hero? Yes. Death? No.” He drawled the last word like a drunkard. The darkness was about to claim him.

I patted his cheeks, gently at first then harder when he did not respond. “Arthur, do you not wish to say farewell to your son?”

“My boy,” was all Arthur managed before he fell into unconsciousness again.

I shook his shoulders. “Arthur! Arthur, no!”

As his breathing slowed, I sobbed harder, glancing over his shoulder at Morgan. She was weeping so hard her whole body shook as she clasped her son to her breast, his hands flapping limply at his side, the bloody dagger at her feet. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, her red lips twisted into a silent scream of anguish.

Kay stood, shaking his head while tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

Mordred was dead. For all intents and purposes, so was Arthur. That was the news Kay emerged from the fort to tell their men. I lay Arthur gently on the floor and went to the window to watch the armies react. As word spread, men ceased fighting and turned to face the fort. To a one, every Briton fell to one knee in honor of their fallen leaders.

Only the gods knew how things would have been different if everyone on the battlefield had shared their allegiance. While most saw the ceasing of hostility as a sign of respect, others used it to their advantage. The rumbling of horse’s hooves shattered the silence as a Pict on horseback raced through the crowd. Swinging his axe like a scythe, he removed the heads of eight kneeling Britons before anyone could react. The Saxons followed suit, stabbing another dozen with their javelins as they mourned their kings.

“Raise your arms, men. Defend your fallen kings with your life. This is your final tribute to them,” Kay yelled before disappearing into the fray with Bedivere.

Morgan and I were alone with the bodies of our beloved men. She reluctantly laid Mordred on the floor, passing her hand over his eyes. She crossed his arms over his breast, hands forever laced with the pommel of his damaged sword, before she bent over him.

“Goodbye, my son,” she whispered and kissed his forehead.

Arthur’s heart beat lightly beneath my hand, the sensation carrying with it a thousand memories—the first time his gaze met mine at the tournament, his expression of adoration when I told him I was pregnant, even his grief when he thought me dead, his joy at my return after my exile with Malegant, the wonder and regret in his eyes as he traced my scarred face when we met again after the fire. All those things and more tumbled over one another in my mind as I contemplated what must come next.

I knelt, pressing his hand to my lips, grateful for this last moment with him, for I knew it for what it was. “For all that we were, all that we dared to dream, I love you. In this life and the next.” I turned to Morgan. “He’s yours.”

She was still staring at the lifeless body of her son. She’d barely heard me. “What?”

I walked over to her and took her shoulders, forcing her unfocused eyes to me. With exaggerated volume, I repeated myself. “I said, ‘He’s yours.’”

She blinked at me as though I spoke a foreign language.

“Arthur is not dead, not yet, and I know the only place that can heal him.” I shook her lightly to get her attention. “Morgan, listen to me. You are the only one who can help Arthur now. I concede the last of his life to you. Get him to Avalon and summon Helene in case she needs to say goodbye to her father. She will be safer there than with Owain and Accolon in the days to come.”

The mention of her daughter’s name brought Morgan out of her grief-stricken trance. She blinked at me again, shook her head, then came to life. “You are not really here. But I am. I can save him.” A wicked grin spread across her face. She stuck her head out of the back of the fort. “You!” she called to a woman standing nearby. “Find Grainne and Mona and tell them to bring the Grail.” She turned to the man guarding Arthur. “Get him to a horse. We must away to Avalon.”

“Not a horse, lady. It will be faster to take him by water,” one of the women said. “I will take you.” She was one of Sobian’s girls, one of a handful who’d stayed to fight with Arthur even when their leader refused. She would do everything she could to ensure he made it in time to be healed.

They took him from my arms, and all of my strength bled out as though I were the one with a mortal wound. Arthur was in the hands of the Goddess now, and those of Morgan as her representative and his wife. My vision blurred. Gray tendrils of smoke rolled in from its edges until I could see nothing more. I was vaguely aware of rejoining my body in my cold, small cell. But I did not care. I embraced the darkness with all the passion of a lover.

After twenty-four years, it was over. Camelot was no more.

I woke to the bright light of Easter morning and the joyful song of “Alleluia” wafting in from the open window overlooking the chapel. For a few moments, I floated on this optimism, my spirit buoyant and free, my mind clear of all but the light and song.

But when I sat up, my head throbbed and memories returned in flashes—Aggrivane fallen among his brethren; then Arthur senseless on the ground, a bloody gash to his head; Mordred clutching his abdomen; the grief-stricken face of Morgan. Her voice rang in my head, “We must away to Avalon.”

Was I meant to follow her? For the third time in less than two years, I had nowhere to go. Avalon was a logical choice. I would be safe and welcome there. But yet, as comforting as that idea was, it didn’t feel quite right. There was something else I was yet meant to do, and Avalon wasn’t where it would happen.

I shuffled mindlessly as I gathered my few belongings, rolling robes and cloaks into a pack for my departure. I may not have a destination, but I could not stay here. I had troubled the poor sisters enough. They had shown me more kindness than I could ever ask. I could not turn around and ask them to harbor me in what would likely be dark days ahead.

Now that Arthur was at the very least severely incapacitated and his heir dead, there would be a fight for the throne of High King. Just as in the days following Uther’s death, men with any claim and none at all would turn against one another in the quest for power. If my whereabouts were known, I would be a target for everything from assassination attempts—lest I make my own bid for the throne, which I had no intention of doing—to insurrections in my name, or even yet another abduction by one who sought to use my sovereignty to bolster his claim. I would be a danger to everyone I came in contact with.

That didn’t even factor in the Saxons and the Picts, who, even if the last of the Combrogi managed to contain them, would likely be making their own bids for expanded land. I had a feeling Elga still lived, and if I was correct, she would come here to seek my blood. I would not let Mayda pay for her sister’s twisted sense of vengeance. Plus, even if the Picts chose to turn tail and return to their homelands, they would no doubt wreak havoc on their way, and sooner or later, they would resume their centuries-old war with the tribes of the north. With no strong Briton leadership to stop them, they would press as far south as they could.

No, this was not the time for me to retreat into the mists. Let those who will believe I died in a convent, but I would complete my life as I had started it—as a warrior’s daughter. There was only one place for that—my mother’s homeland and its capital of Din Eidyn.

I knelt one last time, squinting through the small window to ensure the sisters would be at Mass a while longer. My gaze traveled over the white-robed women, hair covered in light lace veils and crowns of lilies, and alighted on Mayda. She was at the head of the group of older sisters, nearest to the priest, her face suffused with joy at the resurrection of her god. I would miss her terribly. I couldn’t predict what her sister would do when she showed up here and found me missing, but at least Elga would have no reason to harm her. That was the best repayment I could give—for now.

I smoothed out the bedspread and turned in a circle one last time, making sure I hadn’t left anything. On impulse, I swept a hand under the bed, and it brushed against something hard. I withdrew the box of jewels. I opened it, tempted to take one to safeguard my passage north. But I could not. It would be wrong to use my hosts that way.

I closed the box and set off to return it to Mayda’s office. On the way, I passed the kitchens, silent save two young maids, one turning the spit and the other minding a bubbling cauldron, both of which would be served at the feast after Mass. They were so intent on their duties, it was not hard to slip past them and into the small larder. As I would not be around for the morning meal, I did not feel guilty about taking some bread, cheese, a bit of smoked fish, and a skin of wine for my journey.

Provisions packed, I unlocked Mayda’s door and placed the box back where I had found it. The light caught on Arthur’s ring in its customary place on my right hand, and I realized I had the means to fund my journey after all. I could easily pawn it in town. No one would recognize me, and it was doubtful any enterprising man would turn down a rare piece of gold and jewels. It was also fitting, I supposed, that I leave my last vestige of Arthur behind, as I was leaving behind my life as queen.

I stepped out into the bright light of the courtyard with a heart weighed down by sorrow. No one was around to witness my leaving, not even the porter. She too was attending Mass. But that also meant there was no one to witness my grief. As I closed the latch of the convent gate, I didn’t even bother wiping the tears away or trying to stave off the throbbing of my thrice-broken heart. Facing the open road and an uncertain future, I gave in to my loneliness and misery, praying that at my journey’s end, I might find some measure of peace.