Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [500]
She, Morgaine, would deal with the Holy Regalia. They had been left in her care, and if only she had taken her proper place here instead of revelling in sorrow and considering her own comfort, this could never have come to pass. But Nimue should be the instrument of the traitor’s punishment.
Kevin had never seen Nimue. Of all those who dwelt on Avalon, the Merlin had never seen that one who dwelt in seclusion and silence. And as always transpires when the Goddess brings down punishment, it should be the Merlin’s own undefended fortresses which should bring him to ruin.
She said slowly, clenching her fists . . . how had she ever softened to that traitor? . . . “You shall go forth to Camelot, Nimue. You are Queen Gwenhwyfar’s cousin and the daughter of Lancelet. You will beg her that you may dwell among her ladies, and beg her to keep it secret, even from King Arthur, that you have ever dwelt in Avalon. Pretend even, if you must, that you have become a Christian. And there you will come to know the Merlin. He has a great weakness. He believes that women shun him because he is ugly and because he is lame. And for the woman who shows no fear or revulsion of him, for that woman who shows him again the manhood he craves and fears, he will do anything, he would give his very life. . . . Nimue,” she said, looking straight into the girl’s frightened eyes, “you will seduce him to your bed. You will bind him to you with such spells that he is your slave, body and soul.”
“And then—” said Nimue, trembling, “what then? Must I kill him?”
Morgaine would have spoken, but Niniane spoke first.
“Such death as you could give would be all too swift for such a traitor. You must bring him, enchanted, to Avalon, Nimue. And there he shall die a traitor’s cursed death within the oak grove.”
Trembling, Morgaine knew what fate awaited him—to be flayed alive, then thrust living within the cleft of the oak, and the opening stopped with wattle and daub, leaving only enough space so that his breath would not fail, lest he die too quickly. . . . She bowed her head, trying to conceal her shudder. The blinding sun was gone from the water; the sky dripped with pale dawn clouds. Niniane said, “Our work is done here. Come, Mother—” but Morgaine pulled herself free.
“Not done—I too must go forth for Camelot. I must know to what use the traitor has put the Holy Regalia.” She sighed; she had hoped never again to go forth from the shore of Avalon, but there was no other to do what must be done.
Raven put out her hand. She was shaking so terribly that Morgaine feared she would fall; and now she whispered, her ruined voice only a distant hiss and scratching like wind against dead branches, “I too must go . . . it is my fate, that I shall not lie where all those before me have lain in the enchanted country . . . I ride with you, Morgaine.”
“No, no, Raven,” Morgaine protested. “Not you!” Raven had never set foot off Avalon, not in fifty years . . . surely she could not survive the journey! But nothing she could say shook Raven’s determination; shivering with terror, she was adamant: she had seen her destiny and must go with Morgaine at any cost.
“But I am not going as Niniane would travel, in the pomp of priestess garb, in the litter of Avalon, riding in state to Camelot,” she argued. “I am going in disguise as an old peasant woman, as Viviane travelled so often in the old days.” But Raven shook her head and said, “Any road you can travel, Morgaine, I too can travel.”
Morgaine still felt a deadly fear—not for herself, but for Raven. But she said, “Be it so,” and they made ready to ride. And later that day they took their secret ways out of Avalon, Nimue travelling in state as the kinswoman of the Queen,