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And Mark met her eyes as if there was no darkness between them. Slowly, he stood. Slowly, for he was an old man and he had been sitting still for too long, he came forward, shuffling and stumbling, but still he came. He stood before her, and she could feel his breath, feel his heartbeat. Life moved in him still, and that life was stronger than the shadows.

“I forgave you, you know,” he murmured. “Long ago. I think even while I … while I threw you back to your father I forgave you. I was not your fault what happened. You loved them both. I pray … I pray you will find a way to forgive me.”

He took her hands then. She felt that his flesh was calloused and cold, and it made her think of Bishop Austell, how he had held her hands like this, telling her to be strong. And with the stately pace he had used to carry the host to the communion rail, Austell came to her from the ranks of the dead. He made the sign of the cross over her, and gathered Tristan and Iseult to him gently, and lifted them both away.

Lynet watched them fly, and the current of them caught her own shape that was only loosely anchored by her clay flesh, and she too flew away.

Colan Carnbrea slipped into the high house of Tintagel with the men from Camelot. These men were tired, and the ladies petulant with their worry for their foolish queen away on the fortress island trying to coax out a madman. No one questioned an unfamiliar man who spoke their own language, as long as he came with a strong back and willing hands to shift the loads from the carts to the hall and the outbuildings. Even had he worn his own face, none of these would have known him. He lent hand and shoulder to every task; securing and grooming the horses, pitching the tents for those who could not be fit in the hall for the night, finding a place to store yet one more basket or bale. “You There” was his name today, and he answered to it with a will.

He was crossing the yard with yet another bucket of water from the well when the shout went up, and the whole company ran to point and stare.

Out on the headland, there was now a splash of blue and white against the wall of the square, grey fortress. The banner of Queen Guinevere hung out beneath the clouded sky for all to see.

“God bless Queen Guinevere!” The cry rang out from some anonymous throat. “Hurrah for Queen Guinevere!”

Soon they all took up the cheers. Many embraced, or gripped arms and slapped shoulders, with all the cheer of those who found the war they had come to fight was diverted. A plump maid with roses in her cheeks grabbed Colan's hands and swung him around in a merry dance. For this, he rewarded her with a clear, smacking kiss on her pink mouth. She grinned at him and whisked away, but not without a glance over her shoulder saying she'd be glad to see him again.

After that, the work picked up speed. Now everyone was readying the place for the queen's triumphal return. The golden, Gaulish knight, Lancelot, rode out with the thinnest of his squires, a handful of men-at-arms, and spare horses, presumably to meet the queen and learn her pleasure. Colan helped with preparations for the hasty feast, finding the boards and trestles for tables, lighting fires, and wrestling iron tripods and iron kettles into place.

When the fresh cheering began, he ran out of doors with everyone else to see Queen Guinevere ride into Tintagel. Beside her rode King Mark, looking dazed and a thousand years older than when Colan had seen him.

I will give the queen her due. She has managed what all the noblemen of the Dumonii could not.

But the cheering around him fell quickly to a hush, and as the little procession rounded the final turn of the earthworks, Colan saw why.

Behind the queen came the men at arms, bearing on their shoulders a litter laid with sheep's skins. On it, her eyes closed and her hands neatly folded, lay his youngest sister.

Colan went down on his knee with all the others around him.
What's this, sister? Have you escaped me?

An anguished cry rang out and a black-haired man plunged forward from the crowd running up to the litter.

“No!” he cried. “No!”

“Gareth,” growled Sir Lancelot.

But Gareth did not seem to hear. The litter bearers set her down, and Gareth gripped Lynet's hand hard for a moment, a kind of blind panic filling his face. He swung round on his knees to face the queen on her grey mare.

“Her mirror!” Gareth cried. “For the love of God, Majesty! Give me her mirror!”

The queen looked blankly down at the panicked man. Then, as if reaching some difficult decision within her own heart, she put her hand into her silken girdle and drew forth a shining silver circle. Gareth snatched it from her and dropped once more onto his knees at Lynet's side. He folded her unmoving hands around the pretty thing.

“Ryol!” Gareth cried. “Ryol!”

All around him, people stirred and murmured. He heard Gareth's name and Lynet, and the word “lovers,” repeated over and over. His brows rose as he looked at the young man clutching Lynet's still, white hands and bending his brow down to touch them.

Is it true, Sister? Should I be seeking my revenge from this one for dishonoring you?

Then, ever so slowly, Lynet's chest began to move. Breath heaved in her and her eyes fluttered open. The people cried and some cringed back. Everywhere, hands flew making the sign of the cross. Colan could not remember to move this time. He just stared as Lynet raised her head and lifted her free hand to Gareth, touching his cheek briefly before she fell back, and her eyes closed once more.

A woman darted forward — a maid of some sort by the look of her dress — to grip the edge of the litter. The queen nodded to the bearers, saying something Colan could not hear. They lifted Lynet gingerly, all wearing expressions of amazement and no little fear. The man, Gareth, made to follow, but Sir Lancelot moved his horse into the younger man's path. Whatever the knight said, the man's face creased in a struggle that seemed to Colan to be similar to the one the queen had undergone in handing over the mirror.

Then, Gareth bowed, and walked past the knight, following the litter, and leaving Sir Lancelot to stare at his back.

Well, my sister, you certainly have inspired
something!

While the rest of the crowd pointed, stared, and whispered their rumors, Colan sauntered over to the paddock where the horses had been penned. The black mare trotted up to the wicker fence and ducked its head. He laid his hand on her neck.

So, now do you see?
murmured Morgaine in his mind.

That I do, my lady,
he answered in silence as she had taught him on their ride together.

It is for you to remove her, and put her to a good use. I will take care of all the rest.

It shall be done.

Guinevere thinks that because I have yet failed to take her home, she will have mine. She will pay for that arrogance
. The horse tossed its head again and whisked around, rejoining the loose herd. Colan bowed his head once and strolled back into the hall. Amid a wealth of torches and rushlights, Queen Guinevere and King Mark sat on carved chairs while the folk of the hall moved hurriedly about them, except for the three knights, who had come to stand before the royals and hear their orders.

There, surrounded by those who would have been his enemies had they but known him, Colan squatted beside the fresh fire of the hearth and got ready to wait.

Lynet spun in the darkness like a willow leaf in a gale. In the giddy, directionless motion of her soul, random flashes of sight overcame her — a battle, a love, a birth, a street in a sun drenched city somewhere. They meant nothing to her. Guilt was gone, and fear with it, but so too was warmth and touch and self, and she knew that if she flew in this way too much longer she would have no self. There would be nothing left but the darkness and the shadows of time, and she had left something undone. Something important lay waiting back in the clay.

If only she could remember what it was. She should ask someone; the farmer, milking maid, the knight, the mother, the squire, the serving man in the stone hall …

The serving man. A dark-haired man in an ochre tunic who walked in a garden of summer and on a hill of sorrows.

Ryol?

I am here.
She could not see him. She saw a woman cradling a babe in a cottage. She saw a man crouching in the bracken, his hand on a snare's thong, waiting for the partridge. She could not see Ryol.

Where am I?

You are in the high house of Tintagel. You fell. Your maid sleeps beside the fire.

I cannot find myself.

I know,
he answered gently.

She had once known where she was. It seemed a long time ago. The memory was already fading, along with all other things that came before this turbulent darkness. There had been another darkness there, but it had moved differently, she thought, and she had moved differently within it.
What happened?

You saw too much. Mortal flesh cannot see all there is to be seen and keep its sanity.
Then Ryol went silent, and she found she remembered this straining silence of his from before.

What is it?

Someone is coming,
he said slowly.

Curiosity brushed weakly against her spinning self. She saw a circle of standing stones and a woman raising a knife to the moon. She saw a man holding a white staff peering from the mouth of a cave. But these were not right, not of the place or time where she had left herself.
Who is it?

Gareth,
Ryol answered.

The name froze her for the barest instant. She saw him, boy and man, she saw him, all of him all at once, and most especially she saw his smile, and his summer brown eyes full of the wonder of love. She remembered what it was to stand beside him and know the warmth that could not reach her here.
Take me to him.

I cannot,
Ryol told her.
There is not enough of me left. You must bring yourself.

Back to the cold. Back to the clay to be plucked at by the shadows of the dead that surrounded Tintagel.
I don't want to.

You must, Lynet. You must return fully to yourself, or you will not be able to anymore. I will help as I can, but you must try.

Pain, weariness, the unbearable heaviness of her own body folding around her, dragging her down into clay. The cold, dull isolation of her own senses blocking and blinding, tying her to themselves and the heavy, sluggish beating of her heart. She did not want this. She did not. She did not want to open her eyes to the ghosts and her ears to the voices that hurt so badly.

Then, something reached her more gently than either of these. A sense of motion, a familiar scent, a presence moving softly in the darkness. Understanding. A name. The name Ryol had given her just a moment ago.

“Gareth?”

“I am here, Lynet.”

Here, once again in the darkness, the stillness, beside the bed she lay upon. Daere — she remembered Daere now — would be livid that he was here. “You should not be.”

“So I have been told.” There was a smile in his voice, but something had happened. She could feel it, and she could reach for it, find the shadow of it, or the shadow of it might find her. A shudder ran through her.

“The queen has sent for your sister,” he told her quickly.

Laurel. Laurel would understand. Laurel would know what to do. “Thank God.”

His voice came closer. Did he kneel? She felt his breath on her cheek. He picked up her hand. “What is happening, Lynet?”

She swallowed. Heart and throat constricted together as the memory of Tintagel poured forth into her thoughts. “It is the shadows, Gareth, my shadows. They do not remain in the mirror anymore. I've brought them out with me, and now I see them everywhere.”

“Do not see them, Lynet. See me.”

“I cannot see you.”

He laid his hand, warm, rough and strong against her cheek. He bent close, and she felt the warmth of his breath and his body before he kissed her, a long, slow, lingering kiss, gathering her close to him, wrapping his arm around her. She gave herself over to that kiss. Nothing mattered, nothing was, except the touch of his lips against hers, the strength of his arm supporting her. He laid his hand against her throat and she felt her pulse beating fast against his palm. He drew that hand down, between her breasts, across her belly.

“Do you see me now, Lynet?” he whispered.

And she opened her eyes, and she saw the faint light of the moon and the faded fire, and she saw Gareth, and nothing more.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I see you now.”

He kissed her again, his caresses growing stronger more urgent, more achingly, unbearably sweet. She found her arms again and wrapped them around him, answering his caresses with her own, her hands marvelling at the shape of his shoulders, his chest and back, his arms and thighs. There was no pain, no binding, no fear. There was only Gareth and the yearning, blissful need to bring him close, and closer still.

But it was Gareth who pulled away. “Lynet,” he breathed her name, his lips brushing her cheek as he spoke. “No more, Lynet. I will not be able to leave you.”

“I want you, Gareth.” There were no other words in her, no other thought.

“I want you, but it cannot be like this, not in the dark and in shame, while you are so weak.” He spoke slowly, hesitantly, as if these were new thoughts for him. “Not here, not while so many believe you're fallen in sickness. I will not do that to your name.”

She did not want him to be right, but she knew that he was. More than that, she understood how much it meant that he spoke such words to her. “Go then,” she whispered. But as she spoke a wave of fear overtook her. The shadows would come again. They were here now, waiting for her. Her weakened hand clutched the coverings convulsively, and found the mirror. As she gripped it she felt something else. Ryol. Ryol, back again to stand between her and the shadows. Gareth had done this. She was certain of it. He was her anchor and her shelter, as he had sworn.