Morgaine that he let it go reluctantly. The girl said, "Thank you, oh, thank you!"

"It is Morgaine you should thank," Lancelet reminded her. "It is she who knows the paths in and out of Avalon." The girl gave her a shy sidelong look. She dropped a little polite curtsey. "I thank you, mistress Morgaine."

Morgaine drew a deep breath, drawing the mantle of a priestess around her again, the glamour she could summon when she would; despite her filthy and torn clothing, her bare feet, the hair that straggled in wet locks around her shoulders, she knew that suddenly she looked tall and imposing. She made a remote gesture of blessing and turned, silent, summoning Lancelet with another gesture. She knew, even though she did not see, that the awe and fright had returned to the girl's eyes, but she moved silently away, with the noiseless gliding of a priestess of Avalon, Lancelet's steps, reluctant, following her own silent ones.

After a moment she looked back, but the mists had closed and the girl had vanished within them. Lancelet said, shaken, "How did you do that, Morgaine?"

"How did I do what?" she asked.

"Suddenly look so-so-like my mother. All tall and distant and remote and-and not quite real. Like a female demon. You frightened the poor girl, you shouldn't have done it!"

Morgaine bit her tongue with her sudden wrath. She said in a remote and enigmatic voice, "Cousin, I am what I am," and turned, hurrying up the path ahead of him. She was cold and weary and sick with an inner sickness; she longed for the solitude of the House of Maidens. Lancelet seemed a long way behind her, but she no longer cared. He could find his own way from here.

13

In the spring of the year after this, through a drenching late-winter storm, the Merlin came late one night to Avalon. When word was brought to the Lady, she stared in astonishment.

"A night such as this would drown the very frogs," she said. "What brings him out in such weather?"

"I do not know, Lady," said the young apprentice Druid who had brought the word. "He did not even send for the barge, but made his own way by the hidden paths, and said that he must see you this night before you slept. I sent him for dry clothing-his own was in such a state as you can imagine. I would have brought him food and wine as well, but he asked if he might sup with you."

"Tell him he is welcome," Viviane said, keeping her face carefully neutral-she had learned very well the art of concealing her thoughts-but when the young man had gone, she allowed herself to stare in amazement, and to frown.

She sent for her attendant women, and bade them bring not her usual spare supper, but food and wine for the Merlin, and to build up the fire anew.

After a time she heard his step outside, and when he came in, he went directly to the fire. Taliesin was stooped now, his hair and beard all white, and he looked somewhat incongruous in the green robe of a novice bard, far too short for him, so that his scrawny ankles protruded from the lower edge of the garment. She seated him near the fire-he was still, she noticed, shivering-and set a plate of food and a cup of wine, good apple wine from Avalon itself, in a chased silver cup, at his side.

Then she seated herself on a small stool nearby and tasted her bread and dried fruit as she watched him eat. When he had pushed the plate aside and sat sipping at the wine, she said, "Now tell me everything, Father."

The old man smiled at her. "I never thought to hear you call me so, Viviane. Or do you think I have taken the holy orders of the church in my dotage?"

She shook her head. "No," she said, "but you were the lover of my mother who was Lady here before me, and you fathered two of my sisters. Together we have served the Goddess and Avalon for more years than I can number, and perhaps I long for the comfort of a father's voice this night ... I do not know. I feel very old this night, Fa-Taliesin. Is it that you think me too old to be your daughter?"

The old Druid smiled. "Never that, Viviane. You are ageless. I know how old you are-or I could reckon up your age if I chose-but still you seem a girl to me. You might even now have as many lovers as you chose, if you willed it."

She dismissed that with a gesture. "Be sure I have never found any man who meant more to me than necessity, or duty, or a night's pleasure," she said. "And only once, I think, any man save yourself who came near to matching me in strength-" She laughed. "Though, had I been ten years younger-how, think you, would I have befitted the throne as the High King's queen, and my son the throne?"

"I do not think Galahad-what is it he would have you call him now? Lancelet?-I do not think he is the stuff of which kings are made. He is a visionary, a reed shaken by the wind."

"But if he had been fathered by Uther Pendragon-" Taliesin shook his head. "He is a follower, Viviane, not a leader."

"Even so. That comes from being reared at Ban's court, as a bastard. Had he been reared as a king's son ... "

"And who would have ruled Avalon in those years, had you chosen a crown in the Christian lands outside?"

"If I had ruled them at Uther's side," she said, "they would not have been Christian lands. I thought Igraine would have power over him, and use it for Avalon ... ."

He shook his head. "There is no use in fretting after last winter's snow, Viviane. It is of Uther I came to speak. He is dying."

She raised her head and stared at him. "So it has come already." She felt her heart racing. "He is too young to die ... ."

"He leads his men into battle, where a wiser man of his years might leave it to his generals; he took a wound, and fever set in. I offered my services as healer, but Igraine forbade it, as did the priests. I could have done nothing anyway; his time has come. I saw it in his eyes."

"How does Igraine as queen?"

"Very much as you would have foreseen," said the old Druid. "She is beautiful, and dignified, and pious, and goes always in mourning for the children she has lost. She bore another son at All Hallows; he lived four days, no more. And her house priest has convinced her it is the punishment for her sins. No breath of scandal has ever touched her since she married Uther-save for the birth of that first child, so soon. But that was enough. I asked her what would become of her after Uther's death, and when she had done weeping for that, she said she would retire into a convent. I offered her the shelter of Avalon, where she could be near to her daughter, but she said it would not be seemly for a Christian queen."

Viviane's smile hardened a little. "I never thought to hear that of Igraine."

"Viviane, you must not blame her, even in thought, for what you yourself have wrought. Avalon cast her out when most she needed it; would you chide the girl because she has found comfort in a simpler faith than ours?"

"I doubt it not-you are the only man in all of Britain who could speak of the High Queen as a girl!"

"To me, Viviane, even you are a little girl at times-that same little girl who used to climb on my knee and touch the strings of my harp."

"And now I can hardly play. My fingers lose their suppleness with the years," Viviane said.

He shook his head. "Ah, no, my dear," he said, holding out his own thin, gnarled old fingers. "Next to this, your hands are young, yet daily I speak to my harp with them, and you could have done so as well. Your hands chose to wield power, not song."

"And what would have become of Britain if I had not?" she flared at him.

"Viviane," he said, with a touch of sternness, "I did not censure you. I merely spoke the thing which is."

She sighed and leaned her chin in her hands. "I spoke well when I said that this night I was in need of a father. So it has come upon us already, the thing we feared and have wrought for all these years. What of Uther's son, my father? Is he ready?"