I Am Morgan le Fay (26 page)

“Thank you,” I whispered to him.

He nodded.

I found my voice. “From my heart I thank you,” I said humbly, speaking loud enough for the others to hear as well.

“The day may come when you will not thank me, Morgan,” said Merlin in that sere voice of his—it seemed to come out of the wind, from a distance, even though he stood right there. “But yes, we do indeed choose our fates. What will you do with that?” He inclined his head toward the stone lying on the grassy ground.

The milpreve. Already my gaze had gone back to it.

The choice.

“Morgan,” came Cernunnos's low voice from my side, “you are far from whole, and peace is a stranger to you. You are further than ever from being ready.”

“I will never be ready,” I murmured.

“Listen to your heart,” he said, and something in his voice made me think with hazy surprise,
He loves me. He knows me truly, the dragon in me, yet loves me.

But love only hurt me.

Gazing at the blue stone, trying not to think, only to know myself, I heard my mother say plaintively, “Good sorcerer, I want to go to Arthur now, please. I want to go to my son.”

I knew.

In that moment I knew who I was.

I was the one who would bring down King Arthur.

And if that meant being a smirking sorceress—no, worse, a vulture swooping over the battlefields—then so be it. Damn my fate and damn my future, but only turmoil and black wings and the cackle of a hag made sense to me anymore.

As if my father's spirit whispered in my ear I heard his golden-honey voice: “...
daredevil ... firebrand ... you are born for trouble, Morgan.”

I smiled as I bent and picked up the milpreve. It nestled warm between my fingers, bright blue and happy, naked and free. But not for long. From my long loose hair I pulled three strands—I still held the third strand of fate in my never-ready hands, and I meant to keep it. I twisted the strands together into a long fine thread, kissed my milpreve and wished. Yes. I still had powers. I held a strong silk cord now, bright red.

I slipped it through the hole in the stone, then looked around. Rhiannon gazed back at me. Epona. Menwy. Cernunnos.

“I will see you again, I am sure of it,” I said, my voice wavering a little, “but I want to tell you now that I thank you and I love you.”

I would see them again, but I would no longer be able to speak of love. Fate willing, I would no longer feel love either.

They said nothing. They knew my choice by my need to say those words. Cernunnos stood with his lips pressed tight together, his face pale despite his tawny skin.

I did not look at Merlin, but at somber Cernunnos and sweet Rhiannon, as I reached up and bound the milpreve to my forehead.

Then I looked at Merlin, and he bowed. “I will be honored to escort you to Camelot, Morgan le Fay.”

He carried me away on a steed of air, and I did not think to look back.

ONCE AGAIN MISTRESS OF TINTAGEL, IGRAINE STOOD atop the tallest tower, leaning on her cane, her pure white hair piled atop her head and bound with strings of pearls on golden thread. King Arthur had sent a messenger to give her his greeting and tell her he would ride that way, perhaps today. Therefore she stood watching for a first sight of him.

Years ago, Igraine remembered, that messenger might have been Morgan in bird form, a swallow, a swift falcon, or even a golden eagle with a blue jewel shining in the middle of its regal forehead. Igraine shook her ancient head to shake away thoughts of Morgan. Although she had no proof, nothing but a mother's hunch to go on, it still seemed to her that her daughter the sorceress had somehow caused that terrible situation with Arthur and Morgause, the illegitimate child born of incest, Morgause a ruined woman and Arthur—

No. She would not think it. The fate that Merlin had prophesied might not happen for a long time. Might never happen, now that Merlin was gone.

Was that dust she saw rising in the distance, or just her bleary old eyes fooling her? She straightened and peered, but could not be sure. To rest her eyes she scanned her homeland. Rocks against which the sea ever broke and broke its white waves. The fields, the grazing land, the moor, standing stones and quoit stones and furze and—and great antlers, like those of a stag? But no, it was a man, a stranger, riding a white horse—Igraine blinked, and all she saw now were the bare branches of a dead tree. Stupid old eyes. Being a woman was a curse, but growing old was worse. Igraine turned back to watching for Arthur.

Her son, Arthur, High King, blessed ruler, protector of peace—and oh, the fighting it had taken to make him so. And even more lives might have been lost had it not been for Merlin and, yes, Morgan, she and Arthur seemingly friends at first, Morgan wreaking warfare at Arthur's side in the shape of a lion, a dragon, a giant serpent with a blue stone blazing between its mismatched eyes—uncanny. Igraine shook her head again. Utterly uncanny, that girl, and always had been, Igraine had known it from her first look into the midnight of Morgan's baby eyes, one darkest green, one darkest violet. As a young woman, young and foolish and wanting only to be happy, she had looked away from the child and tried to deny it, tried to wish it away. But old now and wiser, she knew better: No amount of wishing would make Morgan go away.

If Arthur had listened to his mother, he would have kept Morgan as a friend, gifting her as he did his other allies with a castle and domain, even though she was a woman.

It was a hard thing to be a woman, and unfair. Even for a queen, it had been—

Igraine forsook all thoughts of the past, leaning heavily on her cane to crane her head forward and look, as if a few inches gained could help her—but yes, surely that was a cloud of dust approaching, and in it the dim forms of horsemen, and a flame-shaped scarlet flag in the fore, and the glint of a golden crown.

Igraine turned and shuffled toward the stairs, hurrying her old feet as much as she could, hunched over her cane. She did not notice the shadow, or the great soot gray bird swooping overhead, the stone glimmering like a blue tear between its uncanny eyes. She did not feel a thing when the dark feather floated down to touch her gently, oh so gently, on the shoulder.