“Yours, or the soldiers accompanying us?”

“Be quiet.”

Their party moved through the moors, not far from the hamlet where Anna had lived. The sky turned dark, and streamers of mist snaked through the air. Trees were stunted and twisted. One of the soldiers in their escort produced a flute and began playing mournful melodies. For a time, the soldiers talked among themselves; then they grew more subdued. At one point an enormous owl swooped down at the carriage as if it might be prey for the bird. One of the soldiers swiped at it with his sword, but it was too quick and too agile.

“I don’t like this,” Brit complained. “This is like a landscape out of a nightmare.”

“Yet you’re certain your sword will be effective here.”

“Stop bickering, Merlin. I’m serious.”

“Have you never traveled through this part of England before?”

“No, of course not. I’m a military commander, and Morgan doesn’t have much of an army.”

“What kind of landscape did you expect?” he asked in a mock-serious tone. “We are visiting the realm of the witches.”

The flutist’s music echoed eerily through the fog. When the party stopped to rest Brit asked him about his instrument. “It has the strangest sound, like nothing I’ve ever heard.”

The man held his flute out to her. “Here you are, my lady. There aren’t many like it left.”

She took it. It was the color of faded ivory, and it had unusual heft. “What is this made of?”

“Bone, my lady. This was carved from the thighbone of some ancient enemy defeated in battle. My father willed it to me.”

“Human bone?”

He nodded. “That is why it sounds so mournful. It has felt everything human.”

Gingerly, she gave it back to him. “Try and play something livelier, will you?”

“The instrument dictates the music, not the musician.”

“Nevertheless, try and play something that might lift our spirits out of this terrible place.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The party traveled on. In time the swamps gave way to little lakes, then to larger ones. But the sky remained dark and the fog never lifted, not even momentarily. They came to a small village that actually had an inn, and Merlin decided they would spend the night there.

Accolon disagreed with this. “I think we should try and make it to Morgan’s castle tonight. We’re being followed.”

Merlin looked down the road behind them. There was no one in sight. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. They’ve been there since just after we left Camelot.”

Merlin let out a long, deep sigh. “I’m so weary of this. But we need rest, Accolon. We’ll stop here tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

The innkeeper, happy to have nine paying guests, went out of his way to make them feel comfortable. Supper was surprisingly large; wine flowed freely; beds were ample and soft and warm, and there were cheerful fires in each room.

Brit was not happy as she ate her meal. “This tastes like fog.”

Merlin was amused by her discomfort. “You have eaten fog, then?”

“We’ve been eating it all day. This meat has the same foul taste as the air we’ve been breathing. It has polluted everything.”

“And Morgan has breathed it all her life. Perhaps that accounts for her personality and behavior.”

“Do you really think there’s a chance she’s behind the murders? I thought you had decided someone else was the culprit.”

“Don’t underestimate Morgan, Brit. She has a notorious chest of poisons, and she uses them as instruments of policy in her little queendom. She sits in that hideous castle of hers and casts her spells and charms, and chants her invocations to all her imaginary gods. Then when they fail she resorts to poison or a knife in the dark. And people wonder why I prefer reason and logic to superstition and belief.”

“You’re no one to talk, Merlin. Everyone knows you rigged some kind of trick with that sword of Arthur’s-”

“Excalibur.”

“Yes. Everyone knows you set up some sort of ruse with it to convince people he was destined to be king. So much for logic and reason.”

“What could be more reasonable than using people’s gullibility to one’s own advantage? Or to the advantage of one’s king?”

“Then why convict Morgan of these crimes? Political murder is one thing. Rulers have been doing that since the first people crawled out of caves. But viciously hacking two boys to death-that’s another thing entirely. From what you say, it doesn’t sound like her style at all.”

“Morgan is as murderous as any queen in history. She takes handsome young men as lovers, and-”

“A queen’s right.”

“And she keeps dogs. Large, evil things, white with red ears. When she is finished with her lovers, she kills them and feeds them to the dogs.”

“That’s horrible.” Brit’s eyes widened. “And Arthur wanted to bring civilization to England. He hasn’t been able to civilize his own sister. But…”

“Yes?”

“If she wanted to murder at Camelot, wouldn’t she have used poison, then? That seems more in character, from what you’ve said. A broadsword is not subtle enough.”

“That is what I keep thinking. And hoping.”

“You want Mark to be guilty, then?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be glib. If I’ve ever been wrong about anything, I wish it were this. But I’m afraid I’m not.”

They slept and had a good, hearty breakfast the next morning. Then they set off through the dark, fog-shrouded world as they had the previous day. The mist was even thicker; at times it was difficult to see the road. Accolon and most of his men had drunk too much the night before; they were plainly hungover.

Then at length Morgan’s castle reared up ahead of them through the fog. A massive, black, rambling place, even darker and more ominous than Guenevere’s castle at Corfe. Lights flickered faintly in the windows.

“How can anyone live in a place like this?”

“Perhaps she chose it because it suited her, Brit.”

“Did she choose it? Or did she inherit it?”

“Point taken. This has been the home of the witch queens for centuries. It is not what you would expect the seat of women’s government to be like, is it?”

“Be quiet, Merlin.”

“In Rome you may see the ruins of the house where the college of Vestal Virgins resided. It is the foulest, ugliest building in the city. There is something about women living together, monastically…”

“Shut up.”

“The Vestals were infamous for using poison to further their interests, too.”

“Please, Merlin, this is not something I want to discuss.”

They came to a place where sentries had been posted. The captain of the escort explained that Merlin was here on the king’s business, and after a thorough search, they were permitted to move on. As the castle drew near, it looked more and more ominous, more and more a place of death.

Petronus was feeling restless. And he was bristling at having to obey Colin.

“I’m fine, Colin. Let me get up, and show me the castle.”

“Merlin’s orders were for you to remain in bed till you’re completely healed.”

“I am. I feel fine.”

“Let me see your wounds.”

Reluctantly, he submitted to an examination. And his wounds had in fact healed, for the most part. But Nimue expressed doubt about whether it would be wise for him to leave his bed. “Merlin knows more about healing and medicine than any man in England. You should do as he instructed.”

“Please, Colin. We can have some fun together.”

A moment later Greffys knocked and came in. “Colin, I’ve been looking for you.”

Nimue introduced the two squires. They seemed to bond almost at once. But Greffys had business on his mind. “I’ve been getting to know the servants. Some boys say they remember Lancelot in the scullery that night. Arthur said I should tell either Merlin or Britomart.”

“You can tell me. You know I’m Merlin’s apprentice.”

“That’s what Arthur told me to do.”

Petronus listened to their exchange, puzzled. He asked what was going on, and Nimue finally gave him a brief account of the murders and the theft of the Stone of Bran and Excalibur. “That’s why we were at Corfe-investigating whether Guenevere might be behind it all.”