Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [134]
Arthur. But of course she had known the sword was for him. What was more natural than that he should come here to receive it?
He is a warrior, a king. The little brother I held upon my lap. It seemed unreal to her. But through that Arthur, and the solemn-faced boy who walked now between the two Druids, she saw some trace of the youth who had taken upon himself the antlers of the Horned God; quiet and grave as he was, she saw the swing of the antlers, the deadly desperate fight, and how he had come to her bloodied with the stag’s blood—no child but a man, a warrior, a king.
At a whisper from the Merlin he bent the knee before the Lady of the Lake. His face was reverential. No, of course, she thought, he has not seen Viviane before, only me, and I was in darkness.
But he saw Morgaine next; she saw recognition move across his mobile features. He bowed to her too—at least, she thought irrelevantly, where he was fostered they taught him manners befitting a king’s son—and murmured, “Morgaine.”
She bowed her head to him. He had known her even through the veil. Perhaps she should kneel to the King. But a Lady of Avalon bends the knee to no human power. The Merlin would kneel, and so would Kevin if he were asked; Viviane, never, for she was not only the priestess of the Goddess, but incorporated the Goddess within herself in a way the man-priests of male Gods could never know or understand. And so Morgaine also would never kneel again.
The Lady of the Lake held out her hand to him, bidding him rise. “You have had a long journey,” she said, “and you are wearied. Morgaine, take him to my house and give him something to eat before we do this.”
He smiled then, not a king in the making, nor a Chosen One, but just a hungry boy. “I thank you, Lady.”
Inside Viviane’s house he thanked the priestesses who brought him food, and fell to hungrily. When he had satisfied his first hunger, he asked Morgaine, “Do you live here too?”
“The Lady dwells alone, but she is attended by the priestesses who serve her in turns. I have dwelt here with her when it was my turn to serve.”
“You, a queen’s daughter! You serve?”
She said austerely, “We must serve before we command. She herself served in her youth, and in her I serve the Goddess.”
He considered that. “I do not know this Great Goddess,” he said at last. “The Merlin told me that the Lady was your . . . our . . . kinswoman.”
“She is sister to Igraine, our mother.”
“Why then, she is my aunt,” Arthur said, trying the words out on his tongue as if they didn’t quite fit. “All of this is so strange to me. Somehow I always tried to think of Ectorius as my father and Flavilla my mother. Of course I knew there was some secret; and because Ectorius wouldn’t talk to me about it, I thought it must be something shameful, that I was a bastard or worse. I don’t remember Uther—my father; not at all. Nor my mother, not really, though sometimes, when Flavilla punished me, I used to dream I lived somewhere else, with a woman who petted me, then pushed me away—is Igraine our mother much like you?”
“No, she is tall, red-haired,” Morgaine said.
Arthur sighed. “Then I suppose I do not remember her at all. For in my dreams it was someone like you—it was you—”
He broke off, his voice had been trembling. Dangerous ground, Morgaine thought, we dare not talk about that. She said calmly, “Have another apple; they are grown on the island.”
“Thank you.” He took one and bit into it. “It’s all so new and strange. So many things have happened to me since—since—” His voice faltered. “I think of you all the time. I cannot help myself. It was true what I said, Morgaine—that all my life I shall remember you