The High Priestess was exactly where Mordred knew she would be. She had been drawn deep into the forest, towards one of the oldest stands of oaks she could find. Even here, the Nazarins had not managed to uproot every grove sacred to the Goddess, for they only recognised the outward signs of the Druid religion. The more subtle shrines and sacred places eluded them. The New Religion taught that Paradise was located in the Heavens, and so its followers had forgotten to read the marks of power in the Earth.
The Lady Morgana knelt at the base of an oak, her pale face turned upward as if imploring a vision from her Mistress. There was no peace on that lifted countenance.
Mordred had heard whispers from the followers of the Old Religion. They said that Morgana had changed during her two years in captivity, that Sarrum had taken more from her than her freedom. They said she no longer heard the voice of the Goddess, and that the severing of her connection to the Old Religion had left a void in her heart, which was now filled with hatred and despair.
Mordred did not doubt it. He knew little of the Mysteries of the Blessed Isle, for such knowledge was jealously guarded. There were childhood tales he had heard among the Druids, however. Girls destined to be made priestesses were chosen very young, for the witches of Avalon had the Sight, and could prophesy which infants would carry the Gift at birth. In girlhood, the mind was still flexible, so that if a novice was made a vessel, her spirit could expand to hold the sacred mysteries, knowledge no mortal was meant to bear. Beyond a certain age, however, the mind and personality became too fixed and rigid. Pouring the living essence of a Goddess into an already formed woman was likely to cause the mind to crack at the seams, or shatter outright.
The results of such a reckless initiation were right before him.
He did not know why Morgana had been made a High Priestess. Perhaps Morgause had been stung into action by the death of Nimueh, and her own mortal injuries at the hands of Emrys. Perhaps she was eager to have a sorceress with Pendragon blood bound to the service of the Blessed Isle. She must have known that it was risky to complete Morgana's training in a mere couple of years, when it should have lasted for her entire girlhood.
She must have known that Morgana had been trained to be a Sister of the Nazarin faith, and schooled as a lady at a court where magic was forbidden. She must have known that Morgana's mind was filled with competing faiths and conflicted loyalties, and bursting with the turmoil and frenzied power of adolescence. And yet, into that volatile mix, Morgause had poured the most ancient and powerful magics known to the Old Religion, and then died, leaving her sister with no practitioner of the Old Mysteries to counsel and stabilise her.
Perhaps this, too, was the will of the Goddess, for She seemed to have a sense of humour as black as the Nazarin God's, and to care as little for the suffering of Her followers.
Morgana spoke without opening her eyes. "You dare intrude on the prayers of a High Priestess?"
Mordred bowed his head. "Lady, worship among our people should be communal. No tree stands alone in the forest. We should approach our Mother as one family, brothers and sisters united in praise, welcoming her even as we recognise her forms in each other. It must be the echoes of the training of the spinster-nuns that bids you hide yourself in solitude, cutting yourself off from others."
"And now you presume to teach me the forms of prayer? I, who am the last daughter of the Blessed Isle? Restrain your tongue, or I shall do it for you. I worship alone out of necessity, for I am the last of my kind."
"Morgana, you are not alone. I am still here."
"You are nothing. A Druid whelp. What do you know of the True Mysteries? Your people taught you the arts of herbcraft, healing and forestry. You play nursemaid to injured deer, make leaves into salves, speak to starlings, and put yourself in my company? Insolent."
At last Morgana rose, and turned to face Mordred.
"I see you have been busy."
"As have you, Morgana. I hear you reduced an entire fleet of Vyking ships to driftwood. Word is that King Urien of Gore has signed his entire domain away to you. Was this wise? What do you think the kings of Brython will do when they learn a sorceress of such power has arisen? Will they not conspire to control, or destroy, a woman with the might of a dozen armies in her little finger?"
"I fear no king. No mortal man can seize or have power over me."
"Sarrum was a mortal man."
Morgana's face became, if possible, even paler. "You dare speak of this?"
"I must, Morgana! I am pledged to your service and I will follow you, but I need to know you cannot be brought low again. The stakes you are gambling with now are far greater than before, and I need to know you act from wisdom, not recklessness. Tell me how you were imprisoned."
Morgana's lip twitched. "I owe you nothing. But graciousness is a sign of favour from the Goddess. So know this. I was captured as a punishment from the Lady. I lost sight of Her goal: to restore sorcery to the heart of Camelot, and Her worship to this island. I failed Her, and so She condemned me to be robbed of my power, and consigned to suffer indignities. A reminder of all that sorcerers have endured at the hands of men like Uther.
"She sent me the white dragon, a mark of my Pendragon lineage, and caused it to be tortured and malformed. It is a sign of how the Pendragon line has perverted the throne, and caused the Lady's people to suffer. Aithusa shall not be whole and healed again - and nor shall I - until the crown of Camelot is placed upon its rightful heir. The Goddess demands that a Pendragon of the old blood, loyal to the Old Ways and the Lady Herself, sits the throne. To which purpose I have demonstrated the Lady's power before the kings of the north.
"Now do you see there was wisdom in my actions? I have emptied myself of pride, affection, restraint, and any other impediment to Her will. Nothing I do may fail now."
"I pray you are correct," said Mordred. "For you now have the attention of kings who make Sarrum look like a country squire-"
"Say that name again," Morgana said. "Speak it a third time, if you dare. See what happens."
Mordred fell silent.
"So there is wisdom in you, too," said Morgana. "But too little, too late. I warned you not to go after Arthur."
"There was war," said Mordred. "Fighting between the Druids and his knights. I already watched him slaughter the Druid clan that raised me. Would you have me sit back and do nothing?"
"Yes!" said Morgana. "Do you think you alone have sacrificed family, home, comfort? I warned you that you are too precious a weapon to be unsheathed at random! I warned you that Arthur is invincible until Emrys is contained. Only you may slay Arthur, but even then, only at precisely the correct time! If you ever dare to ignore my instructions - if you jeopardise our mission again-"
She stopped, her brow furrowed, her piercing blue eyes searching Mordred's face in the gloom, as if seeing him for the first time. When she next spoke, her words were quieter and far more frightening.
"You spoke to him. You let him speak to you."
"I-"
"Goddess help us!" She spun, paced almost to the edge of the grove. "How many times did I warn you? There is a glamour that clings to Arthur. He is no ordinary king. He was born of magic, yet he is no sorcerer, for his gift is far more subtle and perilous than that. How do you think he bound a creature as powerful as Emrys to his will? If you let him corrupt you-"
She turned again, looking at Mordred intently. Mordred dropped his eyes, but as always, he felt stripped naked in front of Morgana, as if she could spy his very thoughts.
"Your heart is already softening towards him," she said, as if reading from an open scroll. "He touched you somehow, in a way you comprehend not. You think him gallant, gentle. You think it a shame so noble a soul should be opposed to the Goddess."
"So what if I do?" said Mordred defiantly.
"He cannot live," Morgana breathed. "A soul loyal to the Goddess must sit on the throne of Camelot."
"I know," said Mordred. And inside, against his will, a voice said, I am such a soul. Arthur is the perfect knight. Morgana is the greatest enchantress. I alone possess both their gifts: chivalry and sorcery. I have studied magic at Morgana's feet, so why should I not learn knighthood from Arthur? Was this not the ancient way? Would this not be a perfect marriage: the Goddess' sacred magics, and the gallantry of her warriors, combined in one person?
Yet Morgana will not teach me all the arts of the High Priestess. She fears that a man should learn her deepest secrets, for then he should have both man's strength of arms and the priestess' gifts. She fears that once I know her darkest charms, she will no longer be of use to me. She fears that I may do what she cannot, and become a knight at her brother's court, and then I should wield the powers of both sword and wand, and be greater than brother and sister combined.
But she will yield her arts to me. I am the only kin she has left, and her only hope of the Old Ways' survival, though she will not admit it, perhaps not even to herself.
"I see everything," said Morgana. "I see what you are becoming, Mordred. Wilful, disobedient. At times, you even nurse treachery against me in your heart."
"What you see, Morgana," said Mordred, "is enemies where there are friends. A trait you inherited from your father."
"There can be no friends to those chosen by Fate!" said Morgana. "I see your guilt writhing in you, like worms feasting on a still-breathing corpse. You think me a useful tool. You think to learn my deepest arts from me, and then discard me."
"I cannot account for your delusions," said Mordred. "As for who is using whom, your entire purpose in recruiting me was to turn me into a weapon against Arthur."
"That is not true, Mordred," said Morgana, her whole voice changing, becoming almost soft with tenderness. "I bear you love. Did I not save your life when you were a boy? Was there not a bond between us? You… despite what I said, you are the closest thing to a friend I have. The only one. You are like a son to me."
Arthur saved my life, too, thought Mordred. If I owe you a debt, do I not owe him one too? But aloud, he said, "I am glad, Morgana. You may think yourself alone, but as I said, we are more alike than you realise, you and I."
"Yes," she said.
"And we may be more alike to Arthur-"
"No. That can never be. Put all kindly thoughts of him out of your head."
Morgana's slow pacing came to a halt, leaving her before the oak tree at which she had prayed. Now she sank slowly to the leaf-carpeted ground and leaned back against the trunk, her black robes fanning about her, forming a pool of darkness.
"So he didn't corrupt you, then," she said quietly, almost to herself. "That's good. You, at least, are still faithful. I couldn't bear to lose you, Mordred." She stretched out her hands to Mordred imploringly, looking almost like a little girl. She was so small when she sat, so unlike the tall, forbidding figure of the High Priestess. "Come to me."
Mordred did not move. "It grows late, my lady. I should leave you to your meditations."
"Come to me," she repeated. "Or was I mistaken? Has Arthur turned you against me after all? Perhaps some time in the Dark Tower-"
At the mention of that place, Mordred began moving involuntarily, fighting to keep the fear out of his face. He went to Morgana's side and knelt, and she pulled him down so that his head was cradled in her lap.
"It is just as Mother Priscilla said," Morgana sighed. "I would not be defiled by the touch of any man, and yet I would know a mother's love for her son. A son I would leave my kingdom and people behind for, one I would suffer everything for. But unlike the Blessed Virgin, I will not bury my son. Oh no, you shall live, and be my disciple, my glory, my Mordred..."
She ran her fingers through Mordred's hair, caressing him like a small child, and he closed his eyes, fighting the urge to shudder at her touch.
Soft candlelight filled the pavilion of Arthur Pendragon, and glinted off the holy icons mounted in one corner. He had shown his face at every one of Archbishop De Croismere's masses in the past few days, so that he felt he had earned a reprieve for this evening. Even so, as he heard the final hymns sound, he had been drawn by a sudden sense of duty to leave his desk and get down on his knees.
As he dutifully worked his way through the formulae he had been taught, he wondered if others were more affected by prayer than he. It was true that in the grand cathedral, surrounded by all the sights and sounds of the church, he often felt a sense of peace. On the field, however, facing a blank wall of fabric, he found he could not conjure much spiritual fervour with only himself to rely on. Especially not these days, when his mind was always occupied by other thoughts.
What was occupying him now was the question of Merlin.
He had seen the manservant - no, the Royal Herald - skulking around as they had ridden north, staying out of the king's way. Merlin was hurt, Arthur knew, by being given the cold shoulder. And so he should be. Arthur knew he was being unjust, yet part of him wanted Merlin to feel some measure of the hurt Arthur himself felt.
It had taken him days for everything he had learnt to settle in his mind. The truth was, he had Merlin's secret to thank for preserving his life and his kingdom many times over. If anything, Merlin was the injured party, for hadn't he sacrificed much to keep his secret safe and remain by Arthur's side?
And yet, Arthur could not help feeling betrayed.
He had not seen Morgana's magic either. How quickly it had corrupted her, festered within her, turned her into a completely different person under his very eye. Nor had he seen Agravaine's true nature.
Was this his Fate, to be surrounded by people he trusted implicitly, yet knew not at all? Was he an imbecile? Had God made him blind, an idiot king, to be misled by everyone from his royal kin to his most humble servants?
There were times in the past few days when Arthur had stared wild-eyed at the people around him, wondering if the serving-maid who fetched his linens or the page that brought him supper were sorcerers. He would not be surprised, at this point, if someone told him that Gaius was a Sidhe and his late father had been a troll under a glamour. The world no longer made sense.
I know no one, thought Arthur. The one person I thought I knew and trusted best in the world had kept his entire life secret from me, even though he had no life outside being my own servant. Surrounded by people, and yet I know no one. How utterly alone I am. If Socrates was correct, and knowing nothing is the beginning of wisdom, then perhaps Merlin was right, and I am on the way to becoming Brython's wisest king.
He got up at last, having finished his prayers - there was no answer, as usual - and returned to his seat at his writing desk.
And then, it occurred to him, there was the question of his pride. What were all his victories, all the dangers he had faced, all the obstacles he had overcome in becoming a worthy successor to his father? During all that time his bumbling manservant had been by his side, magically protecting him, striking at his enemies, manipulating events to alter the destiny of the entire kingdom.
What was the point of having a king? Hadn't Merlin been the true protector of Camelot, more than all its knights? Hadn't Merlin put Arthur on the throne, hadn't he almost made Arthur marry Guinevere, choosing Camelot's queen, even at the cost of upending the kingdom's entire social order?
What if Archbishop De Croismere - fanatic though he might be - were correct? What if some sorcerers had the power to influence the will of others merely by entering their presence? Would Arthur know if Merlin was using his crafts to dominate him? Could anyone - king, archbishop, peasant - truly know their mind and body were their own around a person whose will altered the destinies of nations?
I trusted Merlin before I knew what he was, thought Arthur. I must trust him now. I have no choice.
No choice. Power such as Merlin had hinted at possessing gave those around him no choice, but to co-exist with it and pray it was benevolent. The only alternative was to do as Uther had done, to try and purge such power from the world completely.
I cannot become my father. I cannot sacrifice my friend to my own fear and insecurity. But perhaps there are certain powers in the world, certain tyrannies, more complete and irresistible than a king's. Perhaps my father truly believed his way was the lesser of two evils. God help me, I must continue to believe he was wrong.
And then there was the question of justice.
There was a stirring and muffled voices from without. One of Arthur's guards called, "His Excellency Bishop Rhodri craves an audience with you, sire."
"He may enter."
A few moments later, the fabric guarding the entrance parted, and the bishop came in.
"Good evening, sire. I pray I did not disturb you. I did not see you at Mass."
"There are times when I think God hears me more clearly when I am alone. I can certainly hear my own thoughts better. Meaning no disrespect."
"Not at all," said Bishop Rhodri. "There is much to be said for prayer done sincerely in private. Some are very eager to be seen praying on street corners, as if keen for their piety to be recognised in public. Forgive my intrusion, but you seem troubled. Is it this talk of the dragon?"
"Perhaps," said Arthur. "Is this a sign that my father was right to slaughter the dragons? Are they a menace to be eradicated from the land, like the other creatures of the Old Religion? I see his hand stretching from beyond the grave, mocking me for doing things differently to him."
"Not all misfortunes are evil in themselves," replied the bishop. "Remember, even Lucifer was created by God for a purpose. If this dragon has wrought destruction in the north, who is to say that makes its race unworthy of life? Lord knows Men have caused enough destruction in this world, more than a thousand dragons."
"Rightly spoken," said the king. "You always find the balance between wisdom and compassion. Sadly I find my own judgement lacking these days."
"You must not doubt yourself so, sire," said Rhodri. "If you'll forgive me, your father was at times over-certain of his own wisdom. It is well not to repeat his mistakes, but straying in the opposite direction and denying your own conscience would also be an error."
"And there's truth in that, too," said the king. "Your Excellency, I have a doubt about justice."
"Then speak your mind, freely and certain of absolute confidence."
"I am the king. I wrote but a tiny fraction of the laws of my kingdom, yet nevertheless the Law I inherited is the Law. I am to enforce it, and I cannot do so with partiality, even when I consider the law unjust.
"Now suppose I had a friend who had knowingly broken a grave law, almost every day of his life. His intentions were good - indeed, in doing so, he saved my own life, and that of many others. But he lied to me, and hid his mortal guilt every day of his life. What… what would you do with such a friend?"
Rhodri took a deep breath, and exhaled very slowly. He went over to a rack and began looking over the king's weapons with great interest.
"This is a difficult problem, my lord," he said eventually. "You may speak plainly. I perceive that you speak of the law prohibiting magic. You fear you have already broken this law, when you allowed the Druidess to tend Merlin. He was, after all, struck by a poison arrow, beyond the power of ordinary mediciners to heal.
"We have both come to believe that the ban on sorcery was unjust. Indeed, that is why you employed me in your project to undo those laws. Do we not agree that magic can be used for good purposes as well as evil?"
"Indeed we do," said Arthur. "But the law has not been repealed yet. Intentions are not sufficient. We are talking of uses of magic that began many years ago, when my father was still king. Can the law be retroactively applied?"
"When your father was king, he used many magics, even the kind employed to conceive you. I am informed that after the Purge, he turned to magic to heal Morgana of a mortal injury."
"I am trying to avoid repeating my father's hypocrisies. Would you have me happily murder sorcerers who are strangers, but renege when they are my friends, or useful to me?"
"Certainly not, sire. I thought your courts were now dropping those cases."
"Yes, but the process is not complete, and these offences began years ago. Do you know how many men my father and I burned, how many people we slaughtered?"
Rhodri turned and looked at Arthur. "Sire, will executing your friend bring back all the innocent who burned?"
Arthur hung his head. "No."
"And now I ask not about the law, but about your own conscience. Would punishing this friend seem right to you? Would it seem fair and just?"
"No. It would not. But what would my people think of a king who makes exceptions to the law to save his own friends?"
"If that clemency was justified, they would think such a king a wise and compassionate sovereign, who would rather spare a good man than condemn him for the sake of his own image. For God's sake, follow your heart, and show mercy. For by the letter of the law, we are all condemned to die. It is only by the mercy of a judge even greater than yourself that we are all spared that eternal punishment."
Arthur stared at the parchments on his desk for a long time. Eventually, he said, "Thank you, Your Excellency. I have been a fool. I doubt myself at my wisest, and trust myself at my most capricious. You have given me good counsel."
Bishop Rhodri bowed his head. "It is an honour to be of service to such a sovereign, sire," he said. "But I have troubled you enough for one evening. I shall take my leave."
After the bishop left, Arthur found his gaze wandering to the golden crucifix suspended from the wall, and wondered if someone had been listening to him after all.