Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [87]
“Igraine too is priestess-born. She will abide her destiny as you, Uther, abide yours. And if you fear the anger of your house priest,” she added, striking shrewdly at a guess and saw, in his eyes, that she had hit home, “then tell no one where you have sent her. Put it about, if you wish, that you have sent her for schooling in a nunnery. She is too wise and sober for the ways of the court, small flirtations and womanish gossip. And Igraine, if she knows her children are safe and happy, growing toward their own fates, will be content while she has you.”
Uther bowed his head. “So be it,” he said. “The boy to be fostered with my trustiest and most obscure vassal—but how can I send him there unknown? Will the danger not follow him?”
“He can be sent by hidden ways, and under a glamour, as you yourself came to Tintagel,” Viviane said. “You trust me not, but will you trust the Merlin?”
“With my very life,” Uther said. “Let the Merlin take him. And Morgaine, then, to Avalon.” He leaned his head in his hands, as if the burden he bore were too great for endurance. “You are wise,” he said, then raised his head and stared at her with unflinching hatred. “I wish you were a foolish woman I could despise, damn you!”
“If your priests are right,” said Viviane calmly, “I am already thoroughly damned and you may save your breath.”
11
The sun was setting as they came to the Lake. Viviane twisted on her pony to look at Morgaine, who rode a little behind her. The girl’s face was drawn with weariness and hunger, but she had not complained, and Viviane, who had deliberately set a hard pace to try her stamina, was satisfied. The life of a priestess of Avalon was not an easy one, and she needed to know that Morgaine could endure fatigue and hardship. She slowed her pony now, and let Morgaine draw abreast of her.
“There lies the Lake,” she said. “In a little while we will be within walls, and there will be fire, and food and drink.”
“I shall be glad of all three,” Morgaine said.
“Are you tired, Morgaine?”
“A little,” the girl said diffidently, “but I am sorry to see this journey end. I like seeing new things, and I have never gone anywhere before.”
They halted their horses at the water’s edge, and Viviane tried to see the familiar shore as it would appear to a stranger—the dull greyed waters of the Lake, the tall reeds edging the shore, silent, low-hanging clouds, and tufts of weed in the water. It was a silent scene, and Viviane could hear the girl’s thoughts: It is lonely here, and dark, and dismal.
“How do we get to Avalon? There is no bridge—surely we do not have to swim the horses?” Morgaine asked her, and Viviane, remembering how they had had to do just that at a ford swollen by spring rains, reassured her quickly.
“No; I will call the boat.”
She raised her two hands to cover her face, shut out unwanted sight and sound, and sent out the silent call. Within moments, over the greying surface of the Lake, a low barge appeared. Draped at one end in black and silver, it glided so silently that it seemed to skim over the water like some waterfowl—there was no sound of oars, but as it came nearer they could see the silent oarsmen, wielding their paddles without the slightest splash or sound. They were dark little men, half naked, their skins tattooed with blue woad in magical patterns, and Viviane saw Morgaine’s eyes widen at the sight; but she said nothing.
She accepts all this too calmly, Viviane thought. She is young enough that she does not see the mystery of what we do; somehow I must make her aware of it.
The silent little men moored the boat, securing it with a curiously woven rope of plaited reed. Viviane signalled to the girl to dismount, and the horses were led on board. One of the tattooed men held out his hand to Morgaine to help her step on board, she half expected it to be insubstantial, a vision like the boat, but instead his hand felt callused, hard as horn. Last, Viviane took her place at