Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [309]
Viviane said, “Would you have it that I should sit by and see Avalon go further into the mists, even as the fairy country?”
“I am saying, Lady,” said Kevin, deferentially, but firmly, “that it may even now be too late to prevent it—Avalon will always be there for all men to find if they can seek the way thither, throughout all the ages past the ages. If they cannot find the way to Avalon, it is a sign, perhaps, that they are not ready.”
“Still,” said Viviane, in that hard voice, “I shall keep Avalon within the world, or die in attempting it!”
There was a silence in the hall, and Morgause realized that she was icy cold. She said, “Build up the fire, Gwydion—” and passed the wine. “Drink, will you not, sister? And you, Master Harper?”
Niniane poured the wine, but Gwydion sat still, as if dreaming or entranced. Morgause said, “Gwydion, do as I bade you—” but Kevin put out a hand and bade her be still. He said, in a whisper, “The boy’s in trance. Gwydion, speak—”
“It is all blood—” he whispered, “blood, poured out like the blood of sacrifice on the ancient altars, blood spilt on the throne—”
Niniane stumbled and tripped, and the rest of the wine, blood red, went cascading over Gwydion where he sat, and across Viviane’s lap. She rose, startled, and Gwydion blinked and shook himself like a puppy. He said, confused, “What—I am sorry—let me help you,” and took the wineskin from Niniane’s hand. “Ugh, it looks like spilt blood, let me fetch a cloth from the kitchens,” and streaked away like any active lad.
“Well, there’s your blood,” said Morgause with disgust. “Is my Gwydion, too, to be lost in dreams and sickly visions?”
Mopping the sticky wine from her gown, Viviane said, “Disparage not another’s gift because you have not the Sight, Morgause!”
Gwydion came back with the cloth, but as he bent to mop it away, he faltered, and Morgause took the cloth from his hand and beckoned one of the serving-women to come and dry the table and the hearth. He looked ill, but where normally he would have tried to make more of it for her attention, she saw that he turned quickly away as if ashamed. She ached to take him in her arms and rock him, this child who had been her last baby when the others were grown and gone, but she knew he would not thank her for it and held her peace, staring down at her linked hands. Niniane put out a hand to him, too, but it was Viviane who beckoned him, her eyes stern and unflinching.
“Speak the truth to me: how long have you had the Sight?”
He lowered his eyes and said, “I know not—I did not know what to call it.” He fidgeted, refusing to look at her.
She said quietly, “And you concealed it for pride and love of power, did you not? Now it has mastered you, and you must master it in turn. We came none too soon here—I hope we have not come too late. Are you unsteady on your feet? Sit here, then, and be still.”
To Morgause’s astonishment, Gwydion sank down quietly at the feet of the two priestesses. After a moment Niniane put her hand on his head and he leaned against her.
Viviane turned again to Morgause and said, “As I told you before, Gwenhwyfar will bear Arthur no son, but he will not put her aside. All the more because she is a Christian, and their religion forbids a man to put his wife away—”
Morgause shrugged and said, “What of that? She has miscarried once, or it may be, more than once. And she is not so young a woman, not now. Life is uncertain for women.”
“Aye, Morgause,” said Viviane, “once before you sought to trade on that uncertainty of life, so that your son might stand near to the throne—did you not? I warn you, my sister—meddle not in what the Gods have decreed!”
Morgause smiled. “I thought, Viviane, that you lectured me long—or was it Taliesin?—that nothing comes about save by the will of the Gods. If Arthur had died ere he came to Uther’s throne, why then, I doubt not the Gods would have found another to serve their turn.”
“I came not here to argue theology, you miserable girl,” said