Excerpt

Chapter One: Morgen

The night Vyvian du Lac died, a late summer storm fell upon Carelon, hail rattling the windows like thieves clawing through an abandoned grave.

A bell tolled in the distance, Arthur's new Christian chapel clanging in the midnight hour, and my beloved aunt closed her fever-bright eyes, breathed out, and was no more.

For a woman possessed of such power and magic—and, some might say, legend—Vyvian du Lac departed the realm of the living with no celestial dazzling rising from her small, sturdy body. She did not even utter a prophecy or impart upon me words of wisdom. No, her spirit left without fanfare, as natural as the sun setting or a leaf falling. Inconsequential. Mundane, even. But that is so often the face of mortality, as I have learned many times over.

I do not think Vyvian du Lac was afraid of death, for it surrounded her for decades. Like so many of us, Vyvian lived a life forever adjusting to the whims of war, revenge, and power, most often wrought by men of power and consequence: Uther, Merlin, Arthur, Lanceloch… their names go on and on.

My grief was fueled by fear of losing her. She was the last, great woman of a generation now gone, her depth of knowledge beyond even my own. Vyvian, my mother's sister, keeper of our fragile, brutally powerful line, forever changed by the House of Pendragon. And I, remaining behind, the next matron of this power we had all built.

And I had not even been able to walk her through to death, as I had with so many others in my life. Somehow, she had gone alone across that threshold, leaving me with nothing but all the love and gratitude I could no longer express to her.

Once, perhaps, she would have been attended by a dozen priestesses of Avillion, singing her to her end with Iaia's lamentations and psalms. We would have burned incense and recounted Vyvian's great deeds and trysts, drunk sacred honey wine, and walked her through into the beyond.

Instead, she had only me. Morgen, called Le Fay, last pupil of Merlin and once priestess of Avillion, daughter of death who hadn't even known when her beloved aunt had actually perished, even after holding vigil for days. I felt both a poor reflection of my inheritance, and a meagre witness to her greatness.

Vyvian slipped away so swiftly I'd not had time to fetch anyone, not even my sister Anna, who had been sharing the vigil with me. Her son Galahad and my daughter Llachlyn were due soon at court, and I hoped Vyvian would hold on long enough to see them. Especially for Llachlyn, who had grown close to her through letters—closer than I was, I knew. So few of my family extended kindness to Llachlyn, and taking Vyvian from her would be a blow, indeed.

Standing over Vyvian's bed, I tried to utter Iaia's blessings, tried to remember the correct cadence and tune, but all I could manage were strangled whispers. I pressed a kiss to her already cooling forehead and arranged her hands. Then, I pulled the sheer silk veil of Vyvian's death shroud, woven from my sister Anna's own hands, from the chest at the foot of the bed, and covered her body, standing in silence as the storm went on.

"I'm sorry," I said to Vyvian as I took the ring from her thumb, the ruby signet emblazoned with two intertwined dragons, and prepared for my duty. "As ever, Carelon demands progress."

I knew I must speak with King Arthur and inform him.

I found my brother Arthur, High King of all Braetan, alone in his study. He was poring over a stack of ribbon-strewn correspondence, the light of a fragrant beeswax candle illuminating his face. He wore his simple robes and a heavy, fur cape, the gold clasp glinting as he turned to see me.

"Morgen," he said, making to rise. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Please, sit," I said, wanting to cause as little distress as possible. "The weather is bad enough on my bones, let alone yours."

Arthur was not well. Despite my medicinal regimen, his body was wracked with aching, swelling, hives, and persistent melancholy.

Arthur gave me a tiny nod, then gestured to the seat across from him.

But I did not sit. I advanced, my hem scratching across the thick carpets, and placed Vyvian's ring on the scribe's table before him. It wobbled a moment, then was still.

We did not need words to explain. The ring had once been Merlin's and was Vyvian's sometime after his death. I always found it curious how Arthur bequeathed the role of High Counselor to Vyvian without so much as an argument, given her long-standing feud with Merlin. Perhaps he saw Merlin's early death as a personal slight, and trusting Vyvian as an act of rebellion. I never asked.

Arthur reached out to touch the gold band, gently, almost reverent. "After Merlin left," he said. Merlin was dead, but Arthur never said the words if he could help it. "Mordred found this in the earth below the great oak tree just a few days later. Did I ever tell you that?"

"A few times," I replied.

"I thought it a miracle, a portent, an omen—this small boy had stumbled upon one of the greatest symbols of power, handing it to his nurse as if it were just another acorn in the ground. He could have eaten it, you know. He was such an impulsive child." He sighed, shaking his head at such notions. Mordred was no longer an impulsive child, but a reckless, impulsive adult. "Now, I do not think it a miracle. Just a coincidence."

Ever trying to be profound, Arthur left the ring where it was and glanced up at me with a sad, thoughtful look. With his beard grown long it was easy to see the resemblance to his father, Uther Pendragon, but thankfully tempered with our mother's softness and beauty. Age fell upon Arthur with a surprising delicateness, narrowing his features and sparing him the deep furrows of other men of his age.

"Perhaps," I said. "Vyvian would say it was the gods' way of telling us to move on after Merlin."

"She always knew the right thing to say. I appreciated her directness, where Merlin preferred riddles. I will miss her greatly. Did she go quietly?" Arthur turned back to his correspondence.

"She did. The sickness was brief, and I do not believe she suffered much. Death came swiftly, in the end. One day she was at her forge, a week later she was gone."

"I will send Gareth to see what can be salvaged from her workshop. I do not think our aunt would like to think of her masterworks left unattended," Arthur said.

Ah, Arthur. Ever with an eye toward swords. Vyvian had made him many in her time, but he always coveted another. Though Vyvian insisted her weapons were not magical in nature, I had my doubts. Even so, the value of those left after her death would be immeasurable. Llachlyn, who had apprenticed from a distance in small trinkets and jewelry, would want at least some of what remained.

The fire hissed across the room, flames guttering, and rather than call in a servant, I went to tend the hearth myself, adding another log to the embers.

I felt Arthur's eyes on me as I moved. After that single fateful night nearly twenty years before, we never felt the pull of desire, nor spoke candidly about its repercussions. But that union had brought about my daughter. It was not, as the stories say, a passionate affair; no, I am certain Merlin's magic moved our steps, as a punishment for refusing the conjuror himself.

Merlin said Arthur's firstborn child would shatter his rule. Perhaps even take his life. The prophecy spoke of doom, and Merlin insisted the words spoke of my child. Our child.

But prophecies are rarely so easy to interpret. Vyvian, one of the very few who knew Llachlyn's parentage, believed the prophecy a three-pronged echo of Fate, spinning outcomes for Mordred, the changeling boy and child of Arthur's heart; Loholt, his bastard; and Llachlyn, our daughter. Mordred was not his child by blood, but Arthur was unaware. He knew of Llachlyn and Loholt, and Loholt was the eldest—though Arthur did not recognize him as legitimate. He was still favored publicly at court, far more than Llachlyn would ever be.

Vyvian believed each of them were capable of breaking Arthur's reign, of throwing the Round Table, and all we had worked so long for, into chaos. Prophecies are as fickle as fish in the shadows of the lake, she told me once. One must not get lost in the pool's reflection, for the truth always lies deeper.

It is why I sent Llachlyn away to Elaine, why I removed myself from her upbringing as much as possible. I never taught her the old ways, never put a sword in her hand, simply gave her a peaceful, loving upbringing in the sweeping fields of Gaul alongside her cousin Galahad. I visited her often—both when she could see me and when she could not—and watched her grow from a precocious little sprout to a headstrong, wild young woman with a propensity for making all manner of jewelry in her little forge.

Arthur never asked after Llachlyn; I never mentioned her. But despite Queen Mawra continually pushing back against the influence of Avillion and the old ways, Arthur protected Vyvian, Avillion, and me—even though he had taken the vows of the Christ and pressured his knights into doing the same, especially the sons of Anna du Lac. It had worked with Galahad and Gaheris, at least. Gareth and Gawain, I suspect, would not be so easily moved.

My half-sister Anna remained unchristened, but she was no Avillion maiden, fathered instead by Uther Pendragon after he burned down half of Braetan to steal my mother from my father, Gorlois of Cornwall. My sister Elaine of Benwick had raised Llachlyn for me, and I would be forever grateful, even if she had turned her back on our faith and proclaimed herself a Christian.

Anna and I shared the old powers, secret powers, but we were part of an ever-dwindling number, and her skill far lesser than mine. There were others skilled in sorcery and divination scattered to the fringes, but most kept far from Carelon for their own safety. We had forged our own way to communicate, but I feared our days were numbered.

"I would like a small, private ceremony for the burial," I said to him, turning around. The warmth of the fire lingered only a moment, cold rushing as I walked from the flames.

Arthur, to his credit, did not hesitate. "That can be arranged easily."

"I will have her ashes brought to Avillion, afterward."

"Yes. Of course."

"And I suppose I shall be the one to perform the death rites."

"If you wish."

I rubbed at my forehead, an ache building between my brows. There were so many threads between us, lines of Fate pulled through Carelon and across the entire country, and I was weary from having to tend to them, to have to hold so much of the burden alone. To know so much and have to keep it inside. I could feel Vyvian's absence, now, the warp and weft of the Path straining to hold.

So many secrets, so many barefaced lies. For I had done much magic, and dark deeds, indeed, at the behest of Merlin and of my own free will. Perhaps this was my penance, watching Carelon crumble before my eyes. The whole kingdom was held together with spidersilk, and I could feel the winds blowing, sense the blades coming that would tear us all asunder.

"Someone ought to tell Lance," I said, half to myself. I did not like bringing up the man before Arthur, but Vyvian had raised him from a boy, and it would have been an unkindness to her memory had I not informed him. He had not tended her death bed, even when it looked dire, nor cared to speak with her when she was hale save for when duty and courtesy required. They had quarreled long ago on matters of faith and had never healed the rift.

"Perhaps his wife is best suited," Arthur said, his voice low. "Though I rarely see her haunting the corridors these days."

"Is there anything else, Your Majesty?" I asked, not wishing to enmesh myself further in my siblings' fraught relationship

He took a deep, steadying breath, as if steeling himself. Then he said: "Morgen, you should take the ring. By rights, it should be yours. I still need a High Counselor, and I can think of no one better."

By rights, Arthur would have declared me his High Priestess immediately, not a vague title like High Counselor. But our world was not what it once was, and I did not expect him to understand.

"I have no desire to wield such a symbol. But thank you, Your Majesty." I could not stomach wearing that vile ring, as I remembered it on Merlin's hands, and recalled where his hands roamed, and how I had been defenseless to stop him.

The King did not argue. "Very well. Please, get some rest, Morgen," he said. "Thank you for telling me about Vyvian. I will miss her. The whole family will miss her. She is the last of Mother's generation. 'Tis a stark reminder we are next."