Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [423]
“Arthur has a son,” said Niniane, “and while his day is not yet, there is a kingdom he can take—a place to begin the recapture of this land for Avalon. In the ancient ways, the king’s son meant little, the son of the Lady was all, and the king’s sister’s son was his heir . . . know you what I mean, Morgaine?”
Accolon must succeed to the throne of Wales. Morgaine heard it again, and then what Niniane did not say: And my son . . . is the son of King Arthur. Now it all made sense. Even her own barrenness after Gwydion’s birth. But she asked, “What of Arthur’s heir—Lancelet’s son?”
Niniane shrugged and for a moment Morgaine wondered, horrified, whether it was intended to give Nimue the same hold on Galahad’s conscience that she had been given on Arthur’s.
“I cannot see all things,” said Niniane. “Had you been Lady here—but time has moved on and other plans must be made. Arthur may yet honor his oath to Avalon and keep the sword Excalibur, and then there will be one way to proceed. And he may not, and there will be another way which she will prepare, to which end we each have our tasks. But whether or no, Accolon must come to rule in the West country, and that is your task. And the next king will rule from Avalon. When Arthur falls—though his stars say he will live to be old—then the king of Avalon will rise. Or else, the stars say, such darkness will fall over this land that it will be as if he had never been. And when the next king takes power, then will Avalon return into the mainstream of time and history . . . and then there will be a subject king over the western lands, ruling his Tribespeople. Accolon shall rise high as your consort—and it is for you to prepare the land for the great king from Avalon.”
Again Morgaine bowed her head and said, “I am in your hands.”
“You must return now,” said Niniane, “but first there is one you must know. His time is not yet . . . but there will be one more task for you.” She raised her hand, and as if he had been waiting in an anteroom, a door opened and a tall young man came into the room.
And at the sight Morgaine caught her breath, with a pain so great that it seemed for a moment that she could not breathe. Here was Lancelet reborn—young and slender as a dark flame, his hair curling about his cheeks, his narrow dark face smiling . . . Lancelet as he had been on that day when they lay together in the shadow of the ring stones, as if time had slipped and circled back as in the fairy country. . . .
And then she knew who it must be. He came forward and bent to kiss her hand. His walk was Lancelet’s too, the flowing movements that seemed almost a dance. But he wore the robes of a bard, and on his forehead was the small tattoo of an acorn crest, and about his wrists the serpents of Avalon writhed. Time reeled in her mind.
If Galahad is to be king in the land, is my son then the Merlin, tanist and dark twin and sacrifice? For a moment it seemed she moved among shadows, king and Druid, the bright shadow who sat beside Arthur’s throne as queen, and herself who had borne Arthur’s shadow son . . . Dark Lady of power.
She knew anything she said would be foolish. “Gwydion. You are not like your father.”
He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I bear the blood of Avalon. I looked once on Arthur, when he made a pilgrimage to Glastonbury of the priests—I went there unseen in a priest’s robe. He bows overmuch to the priests, this Arthur our king.” His smile was fleeting, feral.
“You have no reason to love either of your parents, Gwydion,” said Morgaine, and her hand tightened on his, but she surprised a fleeting look in his eyes, icy hatred . . . then it was gone and he