Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [351]
Arthur’s kingdom is slipping from the Lady’s grasp, and you are letting it go. Already he turns for all things to the priests, while you, who should stand in the place of the Goddess to him, will not move. He holds the sword of the Holy Regalia; is it you who will force him to live by it, or you who will take it from his hand and bring him down? Remember, Arthur has a son, and his son must grow to maturity in Avalon, that he may hand the kingdom of the Goddess down to his son. . . .
And then it seemed that Avalon faded away and she saw Arthur in desperate battle, Excalibur in his hand, and he fell, run through by another sword, and he flung Excalibur into the Lake that it might not fall into the hands of his son. . . .
Where is Morgaine, whom the Lady prepared for this day? Where is she who should stand in the place of the Goddess for this hour?
Where is the Great Raven? And suddenly it seemed to me that a flight of ravens wheeled overhead, diving and pecking at my eyes, circling down at me, crying aloud in Raven’s own voice, “Morgaine! Morgaine, why have you deserted us, why did you betray me?”
“I cannot,” I cried, “I do not know the way . . .” but Raven’s face melted into the accusing face of Viviane, and then into the shadow of the Old Deathcrone. . . .
And Morgaine woke, knowing she lay in a sunlit room in Pellinore’s house; the walls were white with plaster, painted in the old Roman fashion. Only outside the windows, far off and distant, she could hear the cry of a raven somewhere, and shivered.
Viviane had never scrupled to meddle with the lives of others, when it meant the good of Avalon or of the kingdom. Nor should she. Yet she herself had delayed as the sunny days sped by. Lancelet spent the days on the hills by the Lake, searching for the dragon—as if there actually were a dragon, Morgaine thought scornfully—and the evenings by the fire, exchanging songs and tales with Pellinore, singing to Elaine while sitting at her feet. Elaine was beautiful and innocent, and not unlike her cousin Gwenhwyfar, though five years younger. Morgaine let day after sunny day slide by, sure that they all must see the logic of it, that Lancelet and Elaine should marry.
No, she told herself bitterly, if any of them had had any wit to see logic or reason, then should Lancelet have married me years ago. Now it was time to act.
Elaine turned over in the bed they shared and opened her eyes; she smiled and curled up next to Morgaine. She trusts me, thought Morgaine painfully; she thinks I am helping her to win Lancelet out of friendship. If I hated her I could do her no worse harm. But she said quietly, “Now Lancelet has had enough time to feel the loss of Gwenhwyfar. Your time has come, Elaine.”
“Will you give Lancelet a charm or a love potion . . . ?”
Morgaine laughed. “I put small trust in love charms, though tonight he shall have something in his wine which will make him ready for any woman. Tonight you shall not sleep here, but in a pavilion near the woods, and Lancelet shall have a message that Gwenhwyfar has come and has sent for him. And so he will come to you, in the darkness. I can do no more than that—you must be ready for him—”
“And he will think I am Gwenhwyfar—” She blinked, swallowing hard. “Well, then—”
“He may think you are Gwenhwyfar for a short while,” Morgaine said, steadily, “but he will know soon enough. You are a virgin, are you not, Elaine?”
The girl’s face was crimson, but she nodded.
“Well, after the potion I have given him, he will not be able to stop himself,” said Morgaine, “unless you should panic and try to fight him away from you—I warn you, it will not be all that much pleasure, since you are a virgin. Once I begin I cannot turn back, so say now whether you wish me to begin.”
“I will have Lancelet for