Orion and King Arthur

CHAPTER TWELVE Guinevere and Lancelot

1

With enormous reluctance, King Mark agreed to join Arthur’s forces heading north to deal with Modred.

Arthur was pleased with my victory and its results, but he was already looking ahead to the coming struggle.

“If we can get to the northlands soon enough,” he told me as we rode together, “we can scatter Modred’s forces before they are strong enough to offer us battle.”

That was Arthur’s hope.

Summer was waning. As we headed north, a miles-long column of knights and squires, churls and workmen, serving women and camp followers, I saw colors of autumn beginning to tinge the trees. The weather was warm and bright by day, but at night it grew chilly.

The land we rode through was peaceful and prosperous, it seemed to me. Neat little villages were dotted among the ripening fields of crops. People gathered at the roadsides as we passed, dropping to their knees as Arthur rode by, preceded by his red dragon banners, calling out blessings upon him. How different this land was from the years when I had first encountered Arthur, when invading barbarians had created a wasteland of death and fear.

“The people love you, sire,” I said to Arthur as I rode beside him.

He gave me a wry smile. “They love peace, friend Orion. They love not being attacked, not having their throats cut and their farmsteads burned out. They would praise Satan himself if the Fiend would protect them and let them live in peace.”

A strange bitterness, I thought. The years had hardened Arthur. The bright-eyed idealist I had known earlier in his life has turned into a graying cynic. I felt saddened.

We had been on the road for several weeks, buying provisions for men and horses from the local farmers as we progressed northward. We slept in tents most nights, although now and then a local nobleman hosted Arthur at his castle. Most of our army slept outside the castle walls, of course; there were simply too many of us to be housed indoors. Usually, though, Arthur brought me with him as he allowed the local lord to treat us to a feast and a roof over our heads.

Knights and eager, unfledged youths joined our army at each such stop. Arthur accepted them graciously enough, and put experienced knights to training them when we camped each night.

He steered our growing army well clear of Cameliard, I realized, and smiling, cunning Leodegrance, father of Guinevere. The weather turned sharper as we proceeded north; the trees were in high color, already dropping their leaves, which swirled about us on a cutting chill wind. I half expected snow sometime soon.

One night, as the men made camp, Arthur asked me to ride with him through the dark, sinister forest, well away from any listening ears. Once we were well into the trees, we dismounted and led our horses on foot.

“I’m leaving the army for a few days, Orion,” he told me. In the shadowy woods, it was difficult to make out the expression on his face, but the tone of his voice was grave, almost dismal.

“Leaving, sire?”

He let out a breath that might have been a sigh. “Call it a pilgrimage. I’ll only be away for a few days.”

“You’re going alone?” Suddenly I was alert to possible treachery. I hadn’t forgotten Aten’s goal of assassinating Arthur. Even though more than twenty years had passed, the Golden One still held to his objective, I was certain.

“Alone, yes. I’ll be back in a few days.”

“My lord, let me go with you.”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “Faithful friend Orion, still trying to protect me.”

“That’s what a friend is for, sire.”

He shook his head. “No, Orion. There’s no need. No one would dare to confront me.” He tapped the sword at his hip. “Not with Excalibur in my hand.”

“But where are you going, sire? And why?”

“There’s no need for you to know,” he said, his tone stiffening. “Sir Percival has been taking care of logistics for the army; he’ll handle matters until I return.”

My brows rose. “You expect Sir Percival to handle King Mark?”

For a moment Arthur did not reply. At last he said, “Mark is busy with his own men. If all goes well, he won’t even know I’ve gone.”

I thought that if Mark found out that Arthur had left the army, either he would try to take command of the entire force or he would gather up his own men and head back to Cornwall.

“It will be all right, Orion,” Arthur assured me, sensing my doubts.

I was not assured.

Arthur climbed back into his saddle and trotted off, leaving me standing in the moonless forest, my horse tugging at the rein in my hand as he nibbled at the shrubbery at the base of the trees.

I waited until I thought Arthur was far enough away, then swung up onto my mount and began to follow him.

Westward he rode through the entire night, out of the dark forest and into hills that climbed steadily. The moon came out from behind silvered clouds, and I had to hang far back, lest Arthur see me following him. The night grew chill, but he kept heading west, higher up into the hills. I could see him silhouetted against the starry sky, a lone figure doggedly heading toward … what?

2

Once the sun came up I had to hang even farther back from Arthur. I lost sight of him entirely, but in the daylight it was easy enough to follow his trail. He never stopped moving west. Now and again he dismounted and let his horse walk unburdened, but he kept moving, like a man on a quest, like a chip of iron being drawn by a magnet.

Is this part of Aten’s plan? I wondered. To draw Arthur out into the wilderness and then kill him? A gang of robbers, a marauding band of Saxons, an invading army of Picts or Scots?

“How melodramatic you are, Orion.”

I jerked around in my saddle to see the Creator who styled himself Hades riding alongside me. He who had earlier disguised himself as Merlin now was clad in a magnificent cloak of midnight black, etched with fine blood-red traceries. His mount was shiny black, as well, as powerful a steed as I had ever seen.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded of him.

He cocked a brow at me. “You grow insolent, creature.”

“What are you doing here?” I repeated.

With a sardonic smile, he said, “Actually, I’m here to give you a message.”

“From the Golden One?”

“No. From Anya.”

My heart leaped. “From Anya!”

With a slight shake of his head, Hades told me, “She really cares for you, Orion. Even though she is engaged in difficulties that you could never even imagine, she wants you to know that she will do whatever she can to help you.”

I felt a flood of overpowering joy rush through me. Anya cares about me! She’ll try to help me!

“But I can also tell you this, creature,” Hades went on. “You have no need to worry about Arthur at this point in spacetime. He is perfectly safe—for now.”

“Meaning that he won’t be perfectly safe for long,” I growled.

“Until Camlann,” said Hades lightly. “That’s when Arthur will be killed.”

“Not if I can help it,” I said.

Hades laughed in my face. And then disappeared as abruptly as a candle flame snuffed out by a gust of wind.

3

Late that afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the jagged horizon of a rugged ridgeline of tumbled bare rocks, I saw where Arthur was heading. Up atop the steepest of the harsh, unforgiving crags stood a stone building. It looked too small to be a castle, and although it was surrounded by a high protective wall, I saw no watchtowers. A monastery, perhaps, I thought.

I pushed my tired horse as hard as I could and just before sunset, as the sky flamed red and a cold wind began to bluster across the bare landscape, I came close enough for him to spot me. Arthur stopped his horse and dismounted, waiting for me. I slid out of my saddle and walked my mount the rest of the way to him.

“Orion,” Arthur said as I approached. “I might have known.”

I made a little bow to him and explained, “I couldn’t let you go alone, sire. My duty is to protect you.”

“Your duty is to obey my orders,” he said sternly. But then his face softened and he added, “Yet I’m glad to see you, old friend.”

He clasped my shoulder and together, side by side, we walked our mounts the rest of the way to the building’s main gate. It was a convent, Arthur told me, a place of healing both body and soul, famed throughout the land.

“Gawain lies here,” said Arthur, “near death from the wounds he suffered at Lancelot’s hand.”

“I was told that Lancelot killed Gawain’s brother,” I said, still finding it hard to believe.

“It’s all Modred’s doing,” Arthur muttered. “He’s broken the fellowship of the Round Table, unraveled everything I’ve worked for twenty years and more to achieve.”

As we approached the stout wooden gate, Arthur explained that Modred spread the rumor that Guinevere and Lancelot were lovers. Sir Gareth, Gawain’s younger brother, discovered Lancelot in Guinevere’s chamber at Cadbury castle. Foolishly, he attacked Lancelot and was killed in the fight. Lancelot escaped and Modred demanded that Guinevere face trial for adultery. Instead, Arthur banished Guinevere to this remote nunnery.

The white-clothed novice who slid back the peep hole in the convent’s main gate went wide-eyed at the sight of the red dragon emblazoned on Arthur’s tunic.

“You … you come from the High King?” she asked, in a trembling voice.

“Child, I am the High King: I am Arthur, King of the Britons.”

Fumbling in her hurry, the lass unbolted the gate and led us directly through empty, silent stone corridors to the abbess, a flinty-looking, rake-thin woman, her face as bleak and unforgiving as the stones on which the convent stood. She wore a tattered gray robe that hung on her bony shoulders like an old sheet thrown over a piece of broken furniture. Her office was as spare and undecorated as she was: cold stone walls, bare except for a crude crucifix over her worn-looking oaken desk, no chairs except her own.

She stood behind her desk as we were ushered into her office, leaning on the chair’s back, but it was clear that she was less than awed at the sight of the two of us.

“Your majesty,” she said flatly. “I presume you have come to see your wife.”

“And Sir Gawain,” said Arthur. “I was told he is near death.”

“We have sent for a priest to give Sir Gawain the sacrament of extreme unction.”

“Then he truly is dying.”

“The sacrament sometimes has healing power,” said the abbess.

“Kindly take me to him.”

“Not your wife?”

“I’ll see her later,” said Arthur, clear distaste in his tone. “She still has much of life in her.”

“Indeed,” said the abbess dryly.

In obvious pain, she moved laboriously around her desk and with a whispered, “Follow me,” led us, limping, down a dimly lit corridor.

“Sir Gawain has another visitor,” she said as we walked along the stone floor. “In fact, he is the man who brought the dying knight here. He hasn’t left Sir Gawain’s side, night or day.”

With that, she opened the creaking door to a cramped bare cell. Gawain lay on a narrow bed, his face as pale as death, his forehead swathed in bloody bandages. The man who had been sitting beside the bed shot to his feet as we stepped into the chamber.

Lancelot.

“You!” Arthur blurted.

“Sire!” said Lancelot, and he dropped to one knee.

“You’re the one who brought Gawain here?”

“Yes, sire,” said Lancelot, his head bowed.

Arthur’s tone hardened. “You came to see Guinevere.”

“I didn’t know she was here,” Lancelot replied. “This convent is known far and wide for its healing powers. I thought … perhaps the sisters could work their magic on Gawain.”

“First you nearly kill him,” Arthur growled, “then you want to heal him.”

Climbing to his feet, Lancelot exclaimed, “I didn’t want to fight him! I didn’t want to fight his brother; Gareth gave me no choice.”

“Sir Gareth was defending my honor.” Arthur’s hand moved to grip Excalibur’s jeweled hilt.

Lancelot shook his head sadly. I realized all over again how small he really was, barely as tall as Arthur’s shoulder. Yet he was a demon in battle.

“My lord, your honor was never tarnished by me,” he said earnestly. “I had come to Guinevere that evening to tell her that I had taken a wife, back in Brittany, to stop the stories that Modred was spreading. And…” Lancelot’s voice softened, “… and to help me forget her.”

“Then you truly did love her.”

“Yes,” Lancelot answered, in misery. “I do still. But I never touched her. I swear it, sire. We never even held hands.”

Arthur’s shoulders slumped. He had known Lancelot since he’d been a reckless youth, keen to win glory and honor for his lord.

From his bed, Gawain said weakly, “I forgive you, Lancelot. I forgive you my brother’s death. And my own.”

Lancelot bent over the bed and clutched Gawain’s hand in both of his own, his eyes brimming. “Gawain,” he whispered. “Gawain…”

But Gawain heard nothing. Those dark eyes that had danced with laughter so often now stared sightlessly into Lancelot’s tear-streaked face.

4

Arthur was grim faced as the abbess led us slowly up a flight of steep stone stairs to the chamber where Guinevere was housed. I could almost feel her pain as she toiled arthritically up the stairway.

“Has the queen been made comfortable?” he asked as we climbed.

“As comfortable as we can manage,” said the abbess. “She is in the chamber that we keep for visitors. She is more comfortable than any of the sisters, I assure you.”

Arthur fell silent as he, Lancelot, and I followed the bone-thin abbess upward. The stone walls seemed to breathe coldly upon us. Through a narrow slit of a window I saw that it was fully night outside, with a crescent moon riding low over the hills. A wolf bayed in the distance, a chilling mournful sound.

A middle-aged nun in gray habit was seated before Guinevere’s door, bent over a palm-size breviary, squinting painfully in the dim light of the sputtering candle in the wall sconce above her. She sprang to her feet at the sight of the abbess.

“Open,” said the old woman, and the nun fairly leaped to comply.

Turning to the three of us, the abbess commanded, “Wait here.” Then she entered Guinevere’s chamber. I heard her voice, too low to make out the words, and then a younger, clearer voice replied, “Show them in, by all means.”

I had to duck slightly to get through the low stone doorway. There stood Guinevere, looking rather out of place in a richly wrought gown of golden cloth trimmed with dark fur about the neckline and cuffs. She had gained some weight over the years; where before she had looked elf slim, now she was chunkier, fuller. Her face was still quite lovely, even though somewhat rounder.

“My lord and master,” she said to Arthur, sarcasm dripping from her words.

“My queen,” said Arthur, tightly.

We stood in the middle of the somewhat spacious room, in awkward silence. The chamber looked comfortable enough, with a big canopied bed in one corner and a shuttered window on the other side. A broad table with four cushioned chairs, a chest of drawers, and a commode with a wash basin atop it. The abbess sank stiffly into the straight-backed chair by the open door.

“And Lancelot, how nice,” Guinevere went on. “Have you come to comfort me in my solitude?”

Lancelot stood tongue-tied before her.

Arthur did not bother to introduce me, nor did Guinevere ask who I was. To her I was merely one of her husband’s men, a nonentity. Yet I realized that she eyed me carefully, with a hint of a smile curving the corners of her mouth.

“Gawain is dead,” Arthur said, without preamble.

“So now you must kill Lancelot, here,” she replied, her smile growing.

“No,” Arthur said wearily. “There’s been enough killing.”

“How Christian of you, my husband, forgiving your enemy.”

Lancelot finally found his voice. “I’m not an enemy, my lady.”

Guinevere turned away from him and faced Arthur. “Why have you come here, Arthur? To see Sir Gawain or to see me?”

“Both,” he said.

Looking toward me, she asked, “And who is this handsome lout, standing there in silence?”

“This is Sir Orion, newly elevated to knighthood.”

She looked me over again, quite boldly, from head to toe. “Have you brought him here to comfort me?”

Arthur’s face flamed. “Guinevere!”

“What do you expect of me?” she snapped. “You bundle me away in this … this … prison full of holy women who speak in whispers and tell me to spend my days in prayer and meditation. Do you expect me to thank you for this?”

Arthur took a deep breath before replying, “If I had kept you at Cadbury you would have been brought to trial for adultery—”

“Sire, it’s not true!” Lancelot burst.

Arthur shook his head. “Not with you, lad. But there were others.”

“What of it?” Guinevere challenged. “You never loved me.”

“I am your husband!” Arthur thundered. “And the High King! You were making a mockery of me and everything I stand for!”

Guinevere scoffed, “And I am the queen, am I not? Why must I obey the same laws that the commoners follow?”

“Because in my domain everyone obeys the law,” Arthur said, straining to keep his voice civil. “My kingdom is a kingdom of laws. How do you think we’ve kept the peace all these years?”

Guinevere turned away and started across the room.

“Don’t you understand?” Arthur called after her. “If I hadn’t spirited you away to this convent you would have been brought to trial for adultery. You’d have been condemned to the stake!”

“Who would dare to testify against the queen?” she shot back.

“Modred would get a dozen witnesses to testify.”

“Your loving son.”

“I’m trying to save your life, Guinevere!”

“Why? Because you love me?” Before Arthur could reply she answered her own question. “No. It’s to save your throne, isn’t it? To save your precious kingdom. To save yourself from looking like a cuckolded fool! That’s why I’m locked away in this barren confinement.”

For long moments Arthur did not reply. Lancelot stood mute also. Guinevere glared at them both, a mere woman standing before the High King and his bravest warrior, contempt etching hard lines on her face.

At last Arthur said, “I’m taking my host north, to find Modred and do battle against him before he can organize a real army.”

Guinevere’s lips curled into a sneer. “He’s already organized an army. He’s waiting for you, up by the Wall, near his mother’s domain.”

“How do you know this?” Arthur demanded.

“Because Modred has been here to see me,” she said, with triumph in her voice. “Because he has told me that once you are dead, he will marry the Queen of the Britons and rule this land.”

Arthur looked stunned. Lancelot shook his head and I could fairly hear what he was telling himself: To think that I loved this woman, that I thought she was the most desirable woman in the realm. What a romantic young fool I was!

And then, as if from a vast distance, in my mind I heard the scornful laughter of Aten, the Golden One. “What do you think of your Arthur now, creature?” he jeered at me. “He is already destroyed. Everything he tried to achieve has been turned to dust and ashes. He will die an ignominious death, and soon, Orion, very soon. Nothing remains but to dispose of his body.”

5

We were three silent, saddened men as we left the convent. For hours neither Arthur nor Lancelot said a word. At last we descended from the jagged rocks and our horses trotted onto a broad, grassy meadow. A stream gurgled nearby, clear and inviting.

“Deer will come for their evening watering,” I said, trying to sound hopeful, hearty. “We can eat venison this night.”

Arthur said, “The deer will stay in the forest, Orion. You know that.”

“Rabbits, then,” I said.

“Squirrels, more likely,” said Lancelot.

We made camp within sight of the stream, and as the sun went down I bagged a brace of plump rabbits, hitting them with stones when they approached the water. If either Arthur or Lancelot noticed my prowess as a hunter, neither of them mentioned it as we gnawed at the half-raw meat by our meager campfire.

“Tomorrow we’ll rejoin my forces on their way north,” Arthur muttered, more as if he were talking to himself than us.

“I must return to Brittany, sire,” said Lancelot.

Even in the flickering shadows of evening I could see the disappointment on Arthur’s face. “You won’t come with me to face Modred?”

Lancelot shook his head sadly. In a tortured voice he replied, “I’ve had enough of killing, sire. Gawain … he was my friend! I never want to fight again.”

I knew how he felt. Even though my Creator had built me to be a warrior, a killer, the terrified look on the face of that young Saxon lad at Tintagel had sapped the bloodlust out of me.

“If what Guinevere told us is true,” Arthur said slowly, “then Modred already has an army waiting for us. He can choose the place of battle to suit himself.”

“I suppose so,” Lancelot agreed, in a voice so low I could barely hear him.

Arthur said, “I could use you, sir knight. Your presence at my side would be worth a hundred valiant warriors.”

Lancelot shook his head once again. “It cannot be, sire. I just don’t have it in me. All I want is to return to my castle in Brittany and try to build a new life with my bride.”

Arthur sighed, but said nothing.

The next morning I followed Arthur as he made his way back to his army. Lancelot said a brief farewell and turned his horse eastward, toward the sea.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Lady of the Lake

1

The days grew shorter, the nights colder, as we made our way northward. To the untrained eye we made a considerable sight, an army of knights and squires mounted on fine steeds, followed by wagon after wagon of provisions and arms, with workmen and camp followers trudging along after us. Our host stretched along the roads for miles, so huge that Arthur split us into three separate columns so that the horses and mules could find enough fodder to munch on.

But to me, our host looked like an army trudging unwillingly toward defeat. From Arthur, riding beneath his red dragon pennants, on down to the lowliest churl, the morale of the army was dwindling. Men disappeared every night, deserters slinking away from the coming battle. Reports came from the north that Modred’s host was huge, and growing stronger every day. Arthur’s army was melting away. Youngsters no longer sought to join us. Instead, the army was shrinking: slowly at first, but each morning there were fewer of us.

It was as if the entire army was gripped with despair, and already knew that fighting against Modred and his forces would be futile—and fatal.

One night, as we huddled by our campfires, I heard a couple of knights whispering, “If Sir Lancelot has abandoned the High King, why should we stay with him? Better to go back home while we still have our whole skins.”

Gawain’s death and Lancelot’s departure had been bitter blows to Arthur, who now seemed to be going through the motions of preparing for combat without hope of victory. It was as if his will to win—his will to live—had been sapped out of his soul.

I stayed at Arthur’s side as we traveled along the straight old Roman road heading north, toward Hadrian’s Wall. Guinevere had said that Modred was waiting for Arthur there, close by the land of Bernicia, which his mother, Morganna, still ruled. Morganna, who I knew was the Creator who styled herself Aphrodite. How many of the Creators would engage in the coming battle? I wondered.

I decided to try to find out.

That night, as a cold rain turned our camp into a miserable muddy swamp, I left my sleeping blankets on a stretch of slimy wet rocks and walked off beyond the edges of our picket fires, into the dark and rain-soaked forest.

Anya, I called mentally with all the strength in me, Anya, help me. Show me what Arthur is facing. Let me see the reality of the coming battle.

For long hours I tried to make contact with the goddess who I loved. The pelting rain slackened and finally stopped. The clouds broke apart, and through the black limbs of the trees I could see a crescent moon gazing lopsidedly down on the soaked forest. Humans would walk on that dusty, barren world, I knew. They would build cities beneath its battered surface and go outward, across the solar system and to the stars.

But would that timeline actually come to pass? Or was it foredoomed by my failure to save Arthur?

Of all the Creators, only Anya would deem to help me, I knew. The others played their mad power games, driving the human race to blood and war to satisfy their own overweening egos.

“How little you understand, creature.”

I whirled and beheld Aten, the Golden One, standing before me, resplendent in a skintight uniform of glittering metallic fabric, glowing like the sun in the darkness of the dripping, chill forest.

He was smirking at me. “My mad power game, as you put it, will determine the fate of the human race. I am working to save them, pitiful half apes though they are.”

“They are your ancestors,” I countered. “If they die off, you will be snuffed out of existence.”

His sneer diminished, replaced by a more sober expression. “Which is why I won’t allow them to be driven into extinction, Orion.”

“And Arthur’s coming battle? That is part of your plan?”

Now his face became stern, severe. “Arthur would have died long ago if it hadn’t been for you and your silly notion of defying me. As it is, all you’ve done is made his death more bitter. His own son will slay him, at Camlann.”

“Not while I live,” I said.

“You’re a fool, Orion. The next time I make a creature to serve me, I’ll have to build more intelligence into his feeble brain.”

And with that, Aten disappeared, like a light winking out. I was alone once more in the dank, dark, cold forest.

But not entirely alone. I felt a presence, a pale tendril of another person, glinting weakly, just on the edge of my perception.

“Anya!” I called.

A pale silvery glow appeared before me, like a patch of moonlight in the darkness. It shimmered and took on a faint, flickering shape.

Anya.

She was as insubstantial as a phantom, as fragile as a snowflake, but it was her. My love. She wore a graceful robe of pure white with a garland of flowers crowning her flowing, onyx-black hair. The Lady of the Lake.

“Orion,” she whispered, in a voice so weak I could barely hear her. “Orion, I thought I would never see you again. Aten has decided—”

“I know what Aten wants,” I said. “Where are you? I can barely see you, hardly hear your voice.”

Her fathomless eyes were wide with wonder. “You’ve broken through the stasis that Aten has placed around your locus! You’ve reached across millions of light-years to contact me.”

“With your help, goddess.”

“No, Orion! I did nothing! You summoned me to you. By yourself, without help from me or any of the Creators. Despite Aten’s barrier, you broke through.”

“But only just barely. You seem as insubstantial as a specter.”

“So do you, my darling. But we’re in contact, in spite of Aten. And you did it by yourself. Your powers are growing!”

With all my soul I wanted to take her and myself away, back to the Paradise we had known long ages ago, when the paltry few humans on Earth lived in tribal hunting bands and the world was open and free of villages and farms and wars.

But that could not be, I knew. Not yet.

To Anya, I said, “Aten has schemed to destroy Arthur and all he stands for. Even now, Arthur is heading toward a battle against his own son, a battle he fears he cannot win.”

She nodded faintly. “Aphrodite has insinuated her poisonous thoughts into Arthur’s mind. Aten is using her powers to drain Arthur of his vigor, to bring him to defeat even before the battle begins.”

“How can I stop her?”

Anya’s image began to waver even more. Her voice became fainter still. “Aten has discovered your link with me!” she said, in a weak, fading sigh.

With all my strength I tried to hold on to Anya’s presence, but I could feel her slipping away.

“How can I stop Aphrodite?” I demanded.

“Accept what cannot be changed, Orion. Accept the inevitable.” She was fading away, dissolving before my despairing eyes.

“Anya, don’t leave me,” I pleaded.

“I will return to you, my love,” she called, her voice as faint as the distant whisper of a hunting owl’s wing.

And I was alone again in the night, surrounded by the dark boles of the trees, glistening wetly in the fading moonlight.

2

Aphrodite was helping Aten, sucking the fighting spirit out of Arthur’s mind like some psychic vampire. What could I do about it? How could I free Arthur of her mental thrall? Anya told me I must accept Arthur’s fate, but how could I? How could I allow Aten to snuff out this flickering candle of civilization and allow barbarian darkness to engulf Britain—and the whole world?

The morning rose bright and clear, but so cold that the grass was stiff with frost. The men creaked and groaned as they awoke and went through their morning pissing and complaining.

Once we were mounted and clopping along the paving stones of the old Roman road once again, I rode alongside Arthur.

Trying to sound cheerful, I asked him, “How do you feel this bright morning, sire?”

“Old, Orion,” he replied, downcast. “I feel old and weary.”

I forced a smile. “Let the sun soak into you. That will warm your bones.”

But Arthur shook his head. “Gawain, Bors, my foster father Ector, his son Kay … all gone. Dead. That’s what makes calamity of long life, Orion: all those you hold dear depart from you.”

“There are new friends,” I rejoined. “Young knights like Sir Percival, Lamorak—”

“Even Lancelot has left me,” Arthur muttered.

He was not going to allow himself to be consoled. Morganna/Aphrodite had somehow taken all the fighting spirit from his soul.

“I have dreams,” Arthur said, in a low, troubled voice. “Every night I dream of Morganna and the wicked lovemaking we indulged in. The sins of our youth, Orion. The sins of our youth.”

So that was how Aphrodite was destroying his courage. Using his feelings of guilt, amplifying his remorse about the past.

“She is truly a witch, sire. You were young and she took advantage of you, tempted you.”

“Aye, that she did. And I gave in willingly enough. If it hadn’t been for the Lady of the Lake I’d have been killed all those years ago.” He sighed heavily. “Maybe it would have been better that way.”

“No,” I snapped. “You’ve given Britain more than twenty years of peace.” Sweeping the colorful autumnal landscape with my extended arm, I urged him, “Look at the land around you, sire! The farmsteads are safe from barbarian raiders. The harvest has been rich and full. The people are happy, prosperous—”

“And we march to face my son in battle,” Arthur countered. “One of us will die on the day we meet.”

He seemed inconsolable, staring at a past he regretted, looking forward to a future he dreaded.

All that long, golden autumn day I pondered over how I might break Morganna/Aphrodite’s spell over Arthur. By the time we stopped for the night and made camp, I had decided what I must do. The question was, could I do it?

3

That evening, as we made camp at the side of the Roman road, I walked off and left the men unfurling their sleeping rolls on the cold grass. Churls and esnes were putting up the tents for the knights. Arthur’s was flanked by his red dragon pennants, but in the deathly calm night they hung limp and spiritless.

A noisy brawl suddenly erupted among the tents. I saw two of the squires tussling with each other in the flickering light of the campfires. Over a woman, I supposed. A trio of knights, swords drawn, quieted them down. I shook my head; discipline was falling apart, and Arthur was doing nothing to reinforce it.

More men would sneak off this night, I knew, deserting Arthur and the coming battle. I was leaving, too, but I intended to return.

Once far enough from the camp I looked up at the harvest moon, grinning lopsidedly at me as it rose full and bright above the wooded hills. I saw my namesake constellation of Orion climbing sideways over the horizon and thought of Anya, somewhere out there among the stars, kept from me by Aten’s barrier.

Very well, I thought. If she can’t come to me, I will go to her.

I willed myself to the timeless city of the Creators. The moon-bright night of Britain vanished and for a moment I was in total darkness and cryogenic cold. I could sense the geodesics of spacetime shifting, bending. To my will.

Abruptly, I was in the city of the Creators. Not on the flower-dotted hillside above the city, but inside the city itself, standing in its central square, surrounded by the immense monuments the Creators had built for themselves over the ages: the Parthenon stood before me, a giant golden recumbent Buddha smiled beneficently at me on my right, a steep Aztec pyramid rose on my left. Turning, I saw a massive granite sphinx staring sightlessly at me, with columns and temples stretching into the distance behind it.

I turned back to the Parthenon, and its matchless statue of Athena, armed with shield and spear.

“Anya,” I breathed. “Please come to me.”

“I am here, my love.” She appeared before me, again wearing the robe and flower garland of the Lady of the Lake. Her fathomless gray eyes were solemn, her matchlessly beautiful face grave.

“We are all here, Orion,” came the haughty voice of the Golden One.

And indeed they were. All the Creators: cruelly beautiful Aphrodite, dark-bearded Zeus, Hades, looking almost amused, Ares with his shock of rust-red hair, his beefy arms folded belligerently across his chest, Hermes, Hera, all of them in flowing robes or skintight uniforms or even sculpted armor.

In his usual sneering manner, Aten said to me, “You grow tiresome, Orion, summoning us here. We do not cross the light-years of spacetime to please your whims, creature.”

“Yet you are here,” I said.

“For this one time,” said Aten. “For this one final time.”

Anya stepped to his side. “You mustn’t destroy him! After all the services he’s done for you—”

“He’s always been a nuisance. Now he’s becoming—”

“A threat?” I interrupted.

Aten glowered at me. “You’re going to die, Orion. And this time there will be no revival.”

“You’ve never revived me after death,” I said. “You build clone copies of me, fill their brains with the knowledge you want me to have, and send me out to die for you again.”

Zeus smiled tightly. “He’s learned quite a bit, Aten.”

“This time you die for good,” Aten said. Then, his voice rising to an enraged howl, “And I’ll destroy the clones, I’ll destroy all the cloning equipment, I’ll destroy the entire cloning facility!”

I made myself smile at him. “You can’t destroy me.” Hoping it was true, I added, “You can’t control me anymore, my Creator. I’ve grown too powerful for that.”

Aten’s face went white. I saw his eyes flick from me to Anya’s face, then back again.

But before he could say anything, Zeus asked me coldly, “What is it that you want, creature? Why have you summoned us away from our tasks across the multiverse?”

Sharp-eyed Hermes spoke up. “Every time you bend the spacetime geodesics you make the cosmos unravel more and we have to toil to repair the damage you’ve caused.”

Pointing to Aten, I replied, “He’s the one who began sending me across the timelines. He started the unraveling that you’re trying to repair.”

“Enough bickering,” Zeus snapped. “Orion, you have summoned us. Very well, we are here. What do you want?”

I looked into Anya’s infinite eyes. What I wanted was to be with her, always and forever, in the sunny glades of Paradise, where we’d been happy for so brief a time. But before that could be, I knew, I had to protect Arthur.

Looking squarely into Aten’s angry eyes, I said, “I want to save Arthur from the death you’ve planned for him.”

“He’s a mortal,” Zeus said to me, not unreasonably. “Mortals die, Orion. You know that.”

“I want him to live long enough to protect Britain against the barbarians.”

Sullenly, Aten told me, “He’s already done that. He’s accomplished his goal. The barbarian invaders have turned to peaceful ways; they’ve learned to live with the Britons. The British Isles will never become subservient to the European mainland.”

I stared at him. Had the Golden One given up on his dream of creating a unified empire that stretched from Ireland to Japan’s inland sea? A unified empire that worshipped him?

“You’ve won, Orion,” said Anya. “Arthur has brought peace and safety to the Britons.”

“But now he must die,” Hades added. “He’s outlived his usefulness.”

“So he’s to be thrown away like a tool you no longer need,” I said.

“If he lives longer,” Aphrodite said, “he will become a stiff, unbending tyrant. The British people will suffer under him. He must die.”

I turned to Anya. With sadness etching her lovely face, she agreed. “It’s time, Orion. Let Arthur die. Let him be remembered as a hero among his people.”

I nodded dumbly. They were all agreed. Even Anya. Arthur’s fate was sealed.

But not before he stops Modred, I told myself.

4

It was difficult for me to look Arthur in the face the next morning. The sun rose, pale and lacking warmth, against a pewter-gray sky. The men were breaking camp, loading the carts and pack mules, saddling their horses.

Arthur stood in the midst of the morning bustle, watching his tent being taken down, his pennants furled.

As I came up beside him, he said, “We’ll be at the Wall in another two days.”

I nodded, unable to bring myself to say anything.

Striding toward his mount, Arthur said, “Remember all those years ago, Orion, when we chased the Picts and crossed Hadrian’s Wall. How happy Bors was to be north of the Wall?”

I made a smile for him. “That’s when we encountered King Ogier in Bernicia.”

“And Morganna,” he said, his voice dropping a notch.

“You saved Britain from an invasion by Ogier’s Danes,” I said, trying to brighten our mood.

Arthur grinned at me, remembering. “As I recall, Orion, it was you who bested Ogier.”

“I serve Arthur, High King of the Britons,” I said.

“Indeed.” He slid his foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. “And you serve him well, Orion.”

Not well enough to save your life, I replied silently.

Arthur turned in his saddle and shouted to his mounted knights. “Northward! We go forward to face the enemy!”

They followed him. Reluctantly, I thought. And noticeably fewer than there had been the night before.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Morganna and Modred

1

“There they are,” said Arthur.

The morning was dank and chill, with a ghostly fog rising from the frosted ground. The sky was gray, low clouds hiding the sun. Across the mist-shrouded ground, at the crest of the ridgeline rising before us, stood the mounted host of Modred’s army, waiting for us. Modred had chosen this place for his battle, still a half-day’s march from Hadrian’s Wall. I wondered how much Aten or one of the other Creators had helped him to make the decision.

Arthur turned slightly in his saddle, surveying the ground and the enemy forces.

“They hold the high ground,” he muttered.

Mounted beside him, I nodded agreement. “They’ve been resting while we’ve been marching north to meet them.”

“Modred’s no fool,” said Arthur.

He was wearing an old Roman cuirass over his chain mail. It was gilded, but in the dull morning light it gave no glint of splendor. A pair of squires stood at either of his stirrups, one bearing his shield and helmet, the other clutching a double armful of lances and spears.

The air felt chill. Not a breath of breeze blowing. The fog rose from the frozen ground like spirits of the dead, slowly writhing.

Sir Percival rode up and nosed his steed between Arthur and me. He looked almost boyish, with golden hair so light that his beard seemed almost invisible. A stylized lion, in bright red, was emblazoned on his tunic.

“Sire, which one is Modred?” he asked.

Arthur pointed. “He in the black tunic, with the boar’s head pennant.”

Percival licked his lips nervously. He was young, just as young as Lancelot had been all those years ago at Amesbury. But where Lancelot had been eager to fight, afire with enthusiasm, Percival seemed much more circumspect.

“He’s assembled a mighty host, sire. They outnumber us by far.”

“So they do,” said Arthur, almost wistfully. “So they do.”

I said nothing. Arthur seemed downcast, almost defeated even before the battle had begun.

Looking past Sir Percival to me, Arthur said, “Modred expects us to charge uphill toward him.”

That would not be wise, I knew. In the years since I’d first met Arthur, all the knights in Britain had learned to use stirrups. If Arthur’s men charged uphill, Modred would wait until they were halfway up the rise or more, then have his host charge at us downhill. They would have more than merely the advantage of numbers; they would have momentum, and steeds that were fresh and rested.

“Should we wait him out?” I asked. It was a suggestion, really, but I wanted Arthur to make the decision on his own.

He cocked an eye at me. “You think he would be impatient enough to charge at us?”

“He might,” I said, with a shrug. “He’s young. Perhaps he’s also foolish.”

Arthur thought about it for several heartbeats. At last he said, “Let’s see.”

So we spent the morning sitting in battle array, neither side budging except for the occasional nervous shuffling of the horses. The morning fog slowly dissipated, revealing hillocks and shallow dips in the land, which was covered with dead brown grasses and shrubs wilted by frost.

The sun, pale though it was, climbed higher. By midday Arthur allowed his knights to dismount, a few at a time, so that the churls could bring them food and wine. I could see that Modred did the same.

We were playing a waiting game. Arthur would not be induced into charging uphill against superior numbers; Modred would not take the temptation of charging downhill against us. I wondered how confident Modred was of his men. Arthur had the cream of the Round Table’s knights with him, what was left of them. Modred’s forces must be composed of lesser men, I thought.

At any rate, Arthur was content to be patient, while Modred was unwilling to attack. The sun sank low in the west, twilight shadows began to creep across the uneven brown land. I could hear the knights behind me muttering. Some sounded impatient, others relieved that there would be no fighting this day.

At last Arthur told his bugler to sound retire. As the first notes rent the air, I heard the same call from Modred’s host. There would be no battle until the morrow.

2

It was careless of me to discount the possibility that the Golden One would not wait for the battle, but try to kill Arthur that very night.

The churls pitched tents for the knights, squires took the horses to the roped-off makeshift corral and saw to their feeding. Camp women started cook fires and the men ate boiled meat and cabbages. Arthur gave strict orders about wine: two goblets for each man, no more.

Pickets were placed at the edge of our camp, guarding us against a surprise attack, and more stood at our rear, to prevent deserters from skulking off into the night. It grew pitch dark, with neither moon nor stars showing through the gloomy low clouds. The camp quieted as the men slept on the cold ground, some of them with the grimy women who had accompanied us.

Wondering how many men would try to sneak away in the night, I unrolled my sleeping blanket next to Arthur’s tent and sat with my back against a rounded boulder. I willed my body to relax; sleep would be good in preparation for tomorrow’s exertions.

As I began to doze, though, I sensed a furtive movement behind me. Worming myself down onto the blanket, I stretched out and pretended to sleep, while straining every nerve to detect what was going on.

There were three of them, quietly slicing at the rear of Arthur’s tent, daggers in their hands, swords at the hips. I turned slowly onto my side and reached for my own sword. The three of them cut at the tent’s fabric. But they were not infiltrators from Modred’s camp; I recognized the three of them. They were knights that Arthur had recruited during the long march north.

Bloody anger filled me. Assassins. Traitors. Men who had sworn fealty to Arthur and now were going to murder him. If I allowed them to.

Leaping to my feet, I roared, “Assassins!” loudly enough to wake the whole camp. The three of them froze for an instant, then reached for their swords as I rushed at them.

The first one had barely pulled his sword halfway from its scabbard when I hacked his arm off. He screamed as blood spurted and the other two backed away from me, wide-eyed with sudden terror. With my senses heightened I easily knocked the sword out of the hand of the killer on my left, then clouted the other one on the head with the pommel of my sword. He went down like a felled oak.

The one I had disarmed was crouching to reach for his sword, on the ground.

“Don’t make me kill you,” I said.

He froze where he stood, stooped over, his hand stretching toward the sword.

A dozen other knights were rushing toward us in their sleeping shifts, each of them brandishing a sword that glittered in the firelight.

The would-be assassin dropped to his knees and began to sob. “Spare me! Please spare me!”

Arthur came up beside me, Excalibur in his right hand. “What’s this?”

I pointed to the kneeling one, then to the one I had knocked unconscious, who was now groaning and writhing on the ground.

“Assassins, my lord. Traitors who had sworn fealty to you but this night intended to slay you.”

With a glance at the third one, lying dead next to his severed arm, Arthur said, “You’ve saved my life, Orion.”

I nodded grimly, then returned my attention to the one on his knees. “Who sent you? Why have you tried to murder the High King?”

Visibly trembling, he babbled, “A sorceress, my lord. A powerful sorceress. She appeared to us in the night. She took us to Lord Modred’s castle by magic!”

Arthur muttered, “Morganna.”

“What did Modred say to you?” I demanded.

The man swallowed, then confessed, “He said that Arthur was prophesied to die and if we fulfilled the prophecy he would reward us with rich lands and castles of our own. He would make us nobles at his court!”

“He would slit your throats,” Arthur said.

Throwing himself facedown on the ground, the knight begged, “Have mercy on me, sire. Have mercy!”

“Hang them both,” said Arthur. And he turned away.

The other knights grabbed the two of them, the one still pleading for mercy, the other too stunned from my blow to know what was happening to him.

I followed Arthur to the front of his tent.

“Modred is not so certain of victory,” I said. “He wanted to make certain that you were dead and unable to lead your army.”

Arthur nodded bleakly. “And his mother, the witch Morganna, is using her powers to help him.”

I took the opening. “My lord, I think she had been using her powers to undermine your strength, invading your dreams to weaken you.”

He looked at me for a long moment, and I saw understanding dawn in his gold-flecked eyes. “Perhaps so, Orion. Perhaps so.”

“I am certain of it, sire.”

His old grin lit his face. “So what should I do about it, sir knight? Refrain from sleeping?”

“No, my lord. Sleep well and deep,” I told him.

I had decided to deal with Morganna/Aphrodite myself.

But how?

3

The night turned cold, but the men built a sizable bonfire to illuminate the hanging of the two would-be assassins. Arthur came out of his mutilated tent, wearing a fresh tunic, to preside over the executions personally.

Knights, squires, even the lowest of the workmen and serving women crowded around, lurid firelight painting their eager faces, while a squad of knights dragged the two bound men to the sturdy oak that had been selected for use as a gallows. They both looked sullen, resigned to the fate they knew they could not escape.

A knight shoved one of the prisoners so hard that he stumbled and fell. The knight aimed a hearty kick at his ribs.

“None of that!” Arthur bellowed, and the knight checked his blow. “This is Britain and we are servants of God,” Arthur proclaimed loudly to the throng. “We are not barbarians who torture prisoners for the sinful joy of it.”

The crowd murmured unhappily. They were not above watching a pair of helpless prisoners get a beating.

A brown-robed friar stepped up and muttered some words in Latin, then made the sign of the cross in the air. He stepped back, bowed to Arthur, and let the executions proceed.

The knights put rope nooses around the prisoners’ necks, pulled them snug, then tossed the lengths of the ropes over the lowest branch of the tree. Two knights on each rope hauled them off their feet. The crowd roared with delight. The men kicked and thrashed about for a few moments, their faces bloating, flushing, and then going blue. They emptied their bladders and their bowels in their struggle and the onlookers laughed. Finally they both gave a final jerk and went still, swinging in the cold night wind. The crowd fell silent.

“May God have mercy on their souls,” Arthur said, mechanically.

“Not bloody likely!” came a voice from the throng.

The onlookers dispersed, some laughing. I saw two men exchange a few coins; they had apparently bet on which of the hanged men would die first.

Arthur trudged back to his tent, looking totally untroubled. A pair of miscreants had gotten what they deserved.

And I still faced the problem of how to deal with Morganna.

I went back to my blankets and sat once again against the same rock. The bonfire collapsed with a crackling hiss, spitting embers, but at this distance it gave more light than heat.

I recalled that when I had returned to the Creators’ city they had all gathered to face me. If I translated myself there again, probably the same thing will happen. I couldn’t fight them all; I needed to get Aphrodite by herself.

I thought of calling on Anya to help me, but she had her own tasks to perform, her own problems to deal with, far away in space and time. No, I told myself, dealing with Morganna is something I must do myself. Without help. Myself against the self-styled witch.

I had to face her here, in this placetime, in her guise as Morganna, at her castle in Bernicia on the other side of Hadrian’s Wall.

So there is where I went.

To my surprise, it wasn’t that difficult. I pictured the dark and gloomy castle, remembering it from when Arthur and his knights had gone there years earlier. I closed my eyes and felt an instant of bitter cold and sudden weightlessness, as if I were falling from an enormous height.

When I opened my eyes I was standing atop the highest battlement in Morganna’s castle, with a cold wet wind from the nearby sea whistling through my thin tunic.

“How dare you?”

Turning, I saw Morganna standing before me. Aphrodite, really, more alluring than any woman has a right to be. Temptress. Goddess of love and beauty. In this time and place she posed as Morganna, the witch, dressed in a stygian black gown that clung to her figure like a second skin.

“Good evening,” I said.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her dark eyes blazing. “Who sent you?”

I took a step toward her. Even furious as she obviously was, she was temptation personified.

“No one sent me. I came on my own volition.”

“Impossible! A creature? Aten didn’t give you such capabilities.”

I smiled at her. “I’ve learned a lot. My powers are growing.”

For all her haughty anger, Aphrodite backed away from me. “This is Anya’s doing,” she spat. “She’s working against Aten.”

“And you’re working for him.”

“We all are.” Then she amended, “Most of us.”

“To kill Arthur.”

“He must die. It’s inevitable. All mortals die.”

“But you Creators are immortal.”

“Yes.” But there was a quaver of uncertainty in her voice, a hint of doubt.

I chuckled. “Of course. How can you know you’re immortal? You’d have to be able to see all of eternity to be certain.”

More firmly, she demanded once again, “Why are you here, Orion?”

“To get you out of Arthur’s dreams.”

“Ha! And how do you propose to accomplish that?”

“It’s very simple,” I said, stepping so close we were almost touching. “You’ve assumed human form. All mortals die.” And I circled her smooth alabaster throat with my right hand.

Strangely, she smiled. “Mortals enjoy pleasures that not even the Creators may taste, Orion.” She melted into my arms. My right hand slid down her back, to her waist.

“Forget your precious Anya for a while, Orion,” she whispered into my ear. “I’ll leave Arthur alone if it pleases you.”

Resisting her was harder than facing the cave bear that had crushed the life out of me in an earlier existence, harder than allowing Philip of Macedon’s guards to kill me after he’d been assassinated. My body wanted her and my mind was spinning, falling.

She laughed softly. “It’s time for pleasure, Orion. You’ve toiled so hard; now it’s time for your reward.”

It was her pleased amusement that broke the spell. She was so sure of herself, so certain that she could control me, any man, with her sexual allure.

I grasped her throat with both hands. “All mortals die, Aphrodite. Once you assume mortal form you take on the risks of mortal life.”

Her eyes flashed wide. “You can’t! You mustn’t!”

“The witch Morganna is going to die,” I told her. “Or disappear from this time and place forever.”

And that’s just what she did: disappeared. One instant her body was pressed against mine and my hands were around her throat. The next I was alone on the windswept battlement of the castle.

Not entirely alone. I sensed a blazing anger, a raging hatred burning across the eons and parsecs of spacetime. Aphrodite was furious that I could resist her, enraged that I could reject her enticements. In her eyes I had been merely a creature that she could toy with; now she was my implacable enemy.

So be it, I thought. She’s gone from this placetime. Perhaps she’ll return, but this night Arthur will be able to sleep without being troubled by her dreams of guilt and shame.

4

Instead of returning to Arthur’s camp, I willed myself to the camp of Modred’s army, up at the top of the ridgeline facing Arthur’s forces. Modred himself was sleeping in a fine tent, guarded by four men-at-arms, with dogs chained to posts pounded into the ground. The instant I appeared there the hounds snapped out of their slumber, ears perked, growling and alert.

In the light of the guttering campfire in front of the tent’s entrance, the guards stiffened with surprise. As they leveled their spears at my belly, the tallest of them demanded, “Who are you?”

“I am Orion, a messenger from the High King.”

They glanced uneasily at one another.

“Messenger,” snapped one of them. “More likely a spy from the High King.”

“The High King?” asked their tall leader. “You mean Arthur?”

“Yes. I wish to speak to your commander, Sir Modred.”

They dithered, apparently fearful of waking Modred in the middle of the night. I stretched my senses, searching the camp for some sign of the Creators. Nothing. They were not intervening in the coming battle, I thought. They were content to allow these mortals to slaughter each other without their aid or direction—except for Morganna’s insidious undermining of Arthur’s spirit.

But now that I’d chased Aphrodite away, I wondered if the Creators would return here to exert their will.

One of the guards eyed me suspiciously and asked, “How did you get this far, into the middle of our camp? Didn’t the pickets stop you?”

“They didn’t see me,” I answered truthfully.

“You made yourself invisible?” gasped the smallest of the quartet, his hand going to an amulet he wore around his neck.

“Not really,” I told him.

Their leader, the tall one, said curtly, “Sir Modred is sleeping. We dare not awaken him.”

Then I will, I decided. Recalling how the Neandertals could communicate with animals and control them, I reached with my mind into the four shaggy hounds chained at the feet of the guards. Within moments all four of them were howling, baying at the moon, even though it was nothing more than a faint glimmer behind the low, threatening clouds.

The two younger guards tried to hush the dogs, to no avail. Their yowls got stronger, louder. One of the youths started to kick the nearest hound, but I jabbed his shoulder hard enough to push him off balance.

He wheeled at me, pulling his sword. The other three leveled their spears at me once more.

“Stop that infernal noise!” came an angry voice from inside the tent.

Modred stepped out, one hand rubbing at his eyes. “I can’t sleep with that damnable racket in my ears!”

I let the dogs stop. In the sudden silence, Modred saw me—a stranger—and the guards confronting me with drawn weapons.

He was a handsome young man, almost beautiful. A slim, nearly ascetic face that showed his lineage from Aphrodite quite clearly, with nothing of Arthur’s hearty, more boyish good looks. Ebon dark hair falling to his shoulders and a trim dark beard outlining his jaw. He was shorter than Arthur and far more slender, almost delicate.

“Who’s this?” Modred demanded, eying me warily.

“My lord, he says he’s a messenger from the High King.”

“Take his sword, you idiots.”

They unclipped my sword from the belt around my waist. I held my arms outstretched and made no move to stop them. Odysseos’ dagger remained hidden beneath my tunic, strapped to my thigh.

Modred stepped up to me, eyes narrowed. He was several finger widths shorter than I.

“Messenger, eh?” he said, in a derisive tone. “You look more like a fighting man to me.”

“I am Sir Orion,” I replied, “and I serve the High King.”

“My loving father,” said Modred, dripping acid. Turning to the guards, he said, “Stand alert here. I’ll listen to what this … messenger has to say.” With that, he beckoned me to follow him inside his tent.

The tent’s interior was handsomely furnished, with carpets on the ground and a fine table surrounded by four sturdy chairs. A full bed stood in one corner, plush pillows piled high atop it, rich blankets roiled and hanging halfway to the carpeting. Modred liked his luxuries, I realized.

He lit the oil lamp on the table, then turned back to me.

“So what says my loving father? Is he prepared to die?” Before I could reply Modred went on, “Is he enough of a Christian to realize that he’ll roast in hell for all eternity?”

I smiled tightly at him. “I expect that Arthur believes he will see heaven.”

“With the stain of fornication on his soul? And incest? He raped my mother! His own sister!”

My jaw dropped open. His sister?

“You didn’t know that, did you, sir knight? He didn’t tell you that one little point, did he?”

“My lord, I was his squire when he first met Morganna,” I said. “She bewitched him, enticed him beyond any man’s power to resist. And he certainly did not know that she was his sister.”

“So he tells you,” Modred grumbled.

“Be that as it may,” I said, “there is no reason for you to fight the High King. You can settle whatever the differences may be between you—”

“Only death can settle our differences!”

“My lord, surely—”

“He ignored me! He pretended that I didn’t exist! Even when I went to his fine castle at Cadbury and asked him—begged him!—to be invested among his knights of the Round Table, he acted as if he wished I’d disappear, as if he wished that I’d never been born!”

Modred’s anger was like a physical force. All the years of his life Morganna had filled his ears with this hatred, and now it was implacable.

Suddenly he laughed: a harsh, bitter laugh. “You think we can settle the differences between us, messenger? There’s only one point of difference. I want his throne. It’s rightfully mine, after he dies, and I’m going to see to it that he dies! He’ll never give it to me willingly, even though it’s my right by birth. So I’ll take it from him. With these two hands.”

I could see something close to madness in Modred’s blazing dark eyes. An obsession that had been planted in his mind from birth. I had banished Morganna/Aphrodite too late, far too late. Her poison filled Modred. Only death could extinguish it.

“Now go back to your High King and tell him that his son will slay him on the morrow and take his crown for my own. And his wife, in the bargain! Tell him that!”

For an instant I thought that I could kill him with my bare hands. Snap his neck before he knew what was happening. But something stopped me. Perhaps it was Aten’s will overpowering me, perhaps it was my own disgust at the thought of committing still another murder.

Whatever, I slowly turned and left Modred’s tent, to make my way back to Arthur’s camp and the coming battle.