Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [558]
Niniane’s back prickled as if with the Sight. “And what of you, King Stag of Avalon? What of the Mother who sent you forth in her name?”
“Do you think I mean to go into the mists with Avalon and Camelot? I mean to be High King after Arthur—and to do that, I must keep the glory of Arthur’s court at full height. So Lancelet must go, which means that Arthur must be forced to banish him, and probably Gwenhwyfar as well. Are you with me, Niniane, or not?”
Her face was deathly white. She clenched her fists at her side, wishing that she had the power of Morgaine, the power of the Goddess, to rise like a bridge from earth to sky and strike him down with the lightning force of the outraged Goddess. The crescent moon on her brow burned with rage.
“Am I to help you by betraying a woman who has taken the right the Goddess has given to all women, to choose what man she will?”
Gwydion laughed mockingly. “Gwenhwyfar gave up that right when first she knelt at the feet of the slave’s God.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll have nothing to do with betraying her.”
“Then you will not send me word when she sends her women away again for the night?”
“No,” said Niniane, “by the Goddess, I will not. And Arthur’s treachery to Avalon is nothing to yours!” She turned her back on him and would have moved away, but he caught and held her there.
“You’ll do what I command you!”
She struggled to free herself, at last wrenching her bruised wrists from him. “Command me? Not in a thousand years!” she said, breathless with fury. “Beware, you who have laid hands on the Lady of Avalon! Arthur shall know now what sort of viper he has taken to his breast!”
In a towering rage, Gwydion grabbed her other wrist and pulled her toward him, then struck her full force across the temple, and she fell to the ground without a cry. He was so full of wrath that he let her fall without a move to catch her.
“Well did the Saxons name you,” said a low, savage voice from the fog. “Evil counsel, Mordred—murderer!”
He turned with a convulsive moment of fear and looked at the crumpled body of Niniane at his feet. “Murderer? No! I was only angry with her—I would not hurt her—” He stared around him, unable to make out anything in the thickening mist, yet knowing the voice.
“Morgaine! Lady—my mother!”
He knelt, panic clutching at his throat, raising Niniane up, searching for a heartbeat, but she lay there without breath, without life.
“Morgaine! Where are you? Where are you? Damn you, show yourself!” But there was only Niniane, lifeless and unmoving at his feet. He clasped her to him, imploring. “Niniane! Niniane, my love—speak to me—”
“She will not speak again,” said the bodiless voice, but as Gwydion turned this way and that in the fog, a woman’s solid figure materialized out of it. “Oh, what have you done, my son?”
“Was it you? Was it you?” Gwydion demanded, his voice cracking in hysteria. “Was it you called me murderer?”
Morgause stepped back, half afraid. “No, no, I came but now—what have you done?”
Gwydion flung himself at her, and she held him, stroking him as she had done when he was twelve years old. “Niniane angered me—she threatened me—as the Gods witness it, Mother, I meant her no harm, but she threatened to go to Arthur and tell him I plotted against his precious Lancelet,” Gwydion said, almost babbling. “I struck her, I swear I meant only to frighten her, but she fell—”
Morgause let Gwydion go and knelt beside Niniane. “You struck an unlucky blow, my son—she is dead. There’s nothing you can do now. We must go and tell Arthur’s marshals and stewards.”
His face had gone livid. “Mother! The marshals—what will Arthur say?”
Morgause felt a great melting within her heart. He was in her hands, as when he had been a little helpless child whom Lot would have killed, his life was hers, and he knew it. She folded him to her breast.
“Never mind, my love, you mustn’t suffer for it, any more than for any other you killed in battle,