Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [327]
She did not quite dare to answer the King, but she scowled at Gareth fiercely. He said formally, “Thank you, my lord Arthur. I will put the fear of God into these rascals who are troubling the countryside there.” He bowed to Arthur and turned to the lady, but she had turned her back and stormed out of the hall.
Lancelet said in a low voice, “He is young for all that, sir. Shouldn’t you send Balan, or Balin, or someone more experienced?”
Arthur shook his head. “I truly think Gareth can do it, and I prefer that no one of my Companions is favored over another—it should be enough for the lady to know that one of them is coming to help her people.”
Arthur leaned back and signalled to Cai to serve his plate. “Giving justice is hungry work. Are there no more petitioners?”
“There is one, my lord Arthur,” said Viviane quietly, and rose from her place among the Queen’s ladies. Morgaine began to rise and attend her, but Viviane gestured her back. She looked taller than she was, because she held herself so straight. And part of it was glamour, the glamour of Avalon . . . her hair, all white, was braided high on her head; at her side hung the little sickle-shaped knife, the knife of a priestess, and on her brow blazed the mark of the Goddess, the shining crescent moon.
Arthur looked at her for a moment, in surprise, then recognized her and gestured her to come forward.
“Lady of Avalon, it is long since you honored this court with your presence. Come sit beside me, kinswoman, and tell me how I may best serve you.”
“By showing honor to Avalon, as you are sworn to do,” said Viviane. Her voice was very clear and low, but, the trained voice of a priestess, it could be heard to the farthest corners of the hall. “My king, I bid you look now on that sword you bear, and think on those who laid it in your hand, and what you swore—”
In later years when all that had befallen that day was talked of far and wide, no two of the hundreds in that hall could agree on what had happened first. Morgaine saw Balin rise in his place and rush forward, she saw a hand snatch up the great axe Meleagrant had left leaning against the throne, then there was a scuffle and a cry, and she heard her own scream as the great axe came whirling down. But she did not see the blow, only Viviane’s white hair suddenly red with blood as she crumpled and fell without even a cry.
Then the hall was full of shouts and screams; Lancelet and Gawaine had Balin, struggling in their grasp; Morgaine had her own dagger in her hand and rushed forward, but Kevin gripped at her hard, his twisted fingers clutching at her wrist.
“Morgaine. Morgaine, no, it is too late—” he said, and his voice was roughened with sobs. “Ceridwen! Mother Goddess—! No, no, look not on her now, Morgaine—”
He tried to turn her away, but Morgaine stood frozen, as if turned to stone, listening to Balin howling obscenities at the top of his voice.
Cai said abruptly, “Look to the lord Taliesin!” The old man had slithered down fainting in his seat. Cai bent and steadied him, then, murmuring a word of apology to Arthur, seized the King’s own cup and poured the wine down the old man’s throat. Kevin let Morgaine go and stumbled awkwardly to the side of the ancient Druid, bending over him. Morgaine thought, I should go to him, but it was as if her feet were frozen to the floor, she could not take a single step. She stared at the fainting old man so that she need not look back at that horrible red-stained pool on the floor, soaking through robes and hair and long cloak. In that last instant Viviane had seized her own small sickle