The End of Magic (14 page)

He glanced back at the ice. Caliban was thrusting up out of the melting stump. Mordred reached out and drew it free.

In every way Caliban was Excalibur’s opposite. Its blade was dull and pitted, and the quillons and pommel were shabby and
unadorned. The only decoration anywhere upon it was the image of a comet cut crudely into the haft itself.

Mordred frowned, gazing at it. A black sword for an ill-made knight, but Mordred was no knight, and didn’t want to be one.
He rejected all of that chivalric futility. If he carried a weapon onto a battlefield, it would be something more efficient
and less romantic than a sword.

As if it knew and could understand his thoughts, Caliban rippled in his grasp. Surprised, Mordred nearly dropped it as the
shape of the metal flowed and changed, but he held fast, and when it had stilled again, he found himself holding an ax.

Like the sword it had been, the ax was dull black from its narrow curved blade to its long utilitarian haft. Except for the
image of the comet cut into the shaft of the ax just below the head, the new weapon had nothing in common with the sword it
had been a moment before—nothing except for the force of magic and the aura of deadly purpose that infused it.

Mordred tossed the ax up into the air and caught it again, laughing. Now he was ready to go… home.

Wouldn’t his father and his dear stepmama be surprised to see him?

The heliograph had sent word that Arthur and his knights were in Calais. It was a matter of a few days—perhaps less—before
the King returned to Camelot after a seven-year absence.

And what would greet him there? A Queen who did not love him—whose behavior was a scandal in open court—the threat of a son
begotten in sorcery.

And worse to come.

Merlin watched the stars, as his first teacher Blaise had taught him, searching for messages in the endless dance of stars
and planets. But lately there had been a new wonder in the sky: a celestial wanderer like none he had ever seen before, moving
swiftly through the houses of the Zodiac, trailing glory behind it.

The ancient Greeks had written of these “hairy stars,” or
comets,
and Merlin knew there was nothing of sorcery about its appearance. But the manifestations of the natural world often served
as warnings, and Merlin wondered if this comet might be one such. Even if it was not, it would soon be visible to even a casual
observer, and the superstitious might read all manner of dire portents into it, to the returning king’s misfortune.

Merlin knew he must do all that he could to protect Arthur. He had considered what he should do ever since word had come that
the King was returning, and now there was no more time to ponder. Reluctantly, Merlin had reached a conclusion. For the safety
of Camelot, he knew what he must do.

Telling no one where he was going—or even that he was leaving—Merlin summoned Sir Rupert and rode toward Sarum.

Am I so unwilling to give up my hatred?
Merlin wondered as he rode toward the ring of stones. They were visible in the distance, silhouetted against the white sky
of a spring evening: great stark menhirs that had once marked a temple of the Old Ways.

He pondered the question carefully. Since his sixteenth year he had hated Queen Mab. She had killed his birth-mother Elissa
and his foster-mother Ambrosia. She had maimed Nimue. But time could soften the edge of both love and hate. Merlin was willing
to set aside his anger in the name of a greater good. Let Arthur return home to a kingdom that was as much at peace as Merlin
could make it.

*Are you sure this is a good idea, Merlin?*
Sir Rupert asked as he walked up the hill toward the stones.

“At my age, I’m sure of nothing, old friend,” Merlin told the enchanted steed, “but I do know there’s no harm in trying.”

*
If you say so,
* Sir Rupert answered dubiously. He shook his head vehemently, so that the buckles on his harness jingled. He stopped, switching
his tail back and forth. *
I have my doubts.
*

Merlin laughed at the animal’s skeptical tone as he dismounted. Slapping Sir Rupert companionably upon the shoulder, he walked
the last of the way to the stones. A twitch of his fingers summoned his wizard’s staff, and he was glad of its support as
he walked into the fairy ring. He had no guarantee that this would work.

He stopped in the center of the stones. It was evening, and the mist was rising on the Downs, giving his purely mundane surroundings
a magical insubstantiality.

“Mab!” Merlin shouted. “Queen Mab!”

“I am here, Merlin.”

The Queen of the Old Ways walked out of the nearest slab of stone as if it had been an open doorway.

Merlin had not seen her since the night Arthur drew Excalibur from the stone, but she had not changed. She was still the exquisite
creature who had dazzled his boyhood dreams and captivated kings.

“It has been a long time since you called upon me, Merlin.”

Her dark-rimmed pale eyes watched him expressionlessly as she waited, and suddenly Merlin found it hard to begin.

“I’ve come to make peace,” Merlin finally blurted.

Mab watched him, and Merlin had the feeling that if there were still any honest laughter in her soul, Mab would have laughed
at him then.

“You vowed to destroy me,” she pointed out.

“Things change,” Merlin said. “They’ve changed for you. Can’t you see it? All my life you have fought to destroy the New Religion
and return Britain to the worship of the Old Ways. But don’t you see? The time of the Old Ways is past. All things change.
Let them change, Mab.”

“And be forgotten!” Mab hissed. “I won’t surrender! I’m too close to winning!”

“If Mordred kills Arthur, nothing will change, Mab. The people will fight, but none of them will fight for the Old Ways. It
is too late for that.”

He took a step toward her, studying her face. Queen Mab had given him life. Her blood ran in his veins. Her actions had shaped
his life.

“Please, Mab.” He stretched out a hand to her. “These were once your people. Don’t hurt them now. Let Mordred come to Camelot
as a friend, not an enemy—”

With a gesture almost too quick to see, Mab struck out at Merlin and sent him sprawling.

“Never!” she cried. “Mordred will not betray me! He is loyal! He will destroy Arthur and Camelot, and the people will return
to me!”

“Never!” Merlin shouted from the ground. “Mab—think!” he pleaded, struggling upright. “They are human beings, with human hearts.
They must be ruled through love, not fear. Those who fear you will leave you—as I did.”

Mab had raised her hand to lash out at him once more. She stopped, and Merlin saw her struggle to understand what he had said
… and fail. She was what she was: the Queen of the Old Ways, of Air and Darkness, as unchanging as the seas and the stars.

“You were right to fear me,” Mab hissed at last. “I could destroy you here, dear Merlin—but I won’t. I have other plans for
you and for your precious Arthur. You left me—but Mordred did not. Soon he will reach Camelot. And when the people see his
power, they will return to me. I will not be forgotten!”

“No, Mab!”

He had not tested his powers against her for years, but Merlin knew that his only hope of keeping Mordred from Camelot lay
in stopping her now. He flung out his hands, drawing magic out of the living earth.

The winds began to rise, and the sky took on a glowing greenish hue. An oak tree sprouted beneath Mab’s feet, growing with
supernatural speed, surrounding her and trapping her within its heart. It continued to grow, putting out branches and leaves,
towering toward heaven as the storm whipped around it.

There was a flare of light and the sun and moon wheeled through the sky, rising and setting with unnatural speed. Mab burst
out of the trunk in a lethal shower of splinters. The great tree split in half and fell away. In moments it had withered and
decayed away to nothing.

“You cannot defeat me!” Mab hissed. “Magic cannot destroy me—
it just makes me stronger!
”

She gestured, and Merlin flew backward. He struck one of the standing stones with a cry of pain, and slumped to the ground.

“Poor Merlin!” Mab said with false sweetness. The winds that whipped her robes and her hair into a Medusa-like tangle died
down. “Always too little and too late!”

She vanished, but her words echoed through the air around him:
too late—too late—too late…

But too late for what?

At last there was stillness. Merlin groaned, painfully pulling himself to his feet. He could see a thin line of pink along
the eastern hills: sunrise, not sunset. Though it had seemed that only minutes had passed, his confrontation with Queen Mab
had taken the entire night.

He’d tried. But Mab had not listened—
could
not listen. All her dreams were of the past, projected into a future that could never be. Though she drowned Britain in blood
and fire once more, she could never regain the love she had once received from her followers. She had forfeited it through
fear and anger, and anger and fear were all she had left.

No, Merlin thought, he no longer hated Queen Mab. But he pitied her.

And he feared for Britain.

On a horse the color of cinders, Prince Mordred rode toward Camelot to claim his birthright. He was conceived in treachery
and nurtured in ambition, and his only skills were cruelty and destruction.

Arthur was not yet here, but Arthur’s Queen was. Between them, they could arrange a splendid homecoming for his dear father.
…

G
uinevere was on her knees before the Virgin, clutching a pearl rosary in her hands as she told her beads. She seemed to spend
more and more time these days storming Heaven on her knees, as if the sheer number of her petitions could compel Heaven to
answer.

But God and His Holy Mother remained silent upon the subject of what Guinevere was to say to Arthur. Her husband would be
here tomorrow, and she did not know what she would say to him when he arrived.

She did not love him. She knew now that she never had. She had wanted to please—please her older brother Gawain, please their
father, please the glamorous boy-king who had been so dazzled by the very sight of her. It was all very flattering, but Guinevere
realized now that in all of that consideration she had given no thought to what she herself wanted—if she had even known.

But years passed and times changed. She knew now. She wanted Lancelot, and she did not care what she had to do to get him.
Overthrow Camelot—always Arthur’s dream, never hers—renounce the New Religion and return to the Old Ways; it didn’t matter.
She had always wanted to be loved and needed, to know there was a place where she belonged, and she had found that place in
Lancelot’s arms. And now that she had found her happiness, she would not give it up without a fight. She would do whatever
it took to get Lancelot back.

A thousand times since Lancelot had left Camelot she had thought of swallowing her pride and going to Merlin to beg the wizard
to help her find where her lover had gone. But Guinevere had been born a princess of the Iceni, of blood as royal as Arthur’s,
and she knew that she had a duty to keep Britain safe until Arthur returned.

But when he did, her duty would be over.

Despite her resolve, she dreaded telling him—about Lancelot, about her feelings—though that would not stop her from doing
it. She knew that what she had done was a sin in the eyes of the New Religion.

But Arthur gave me no choice! From the beginning he shut me out—how could I have done other than what I did? Oh, Holy Virgin,
you who know the griefs of women, open Arthur’s heart and make him understand that I—

There was a sound from behind her.

Still on her knees, Guinevere turned, the rosary swinging from her fingers. There was a man standing in the doorway of the
chapel, watching her at her prayers.

“Hello, Mother,” he said.

He was tall and slender, and his skin was as pale as lilies. His cherry-black hair hung loose about his shoulders, and he
was dressed all in severe and funereal black, from his silver-buttoned tunic to the plaid that was draped across his body
and brooched at his left shoulder with an ornate clasp.

“Who are you?” Guinevere asked warily, getting to her feet and looping the rosary through her belt. “I gave orders I was not
to be disturbed.”

“Oh, forgive me,” the young man said, sweeping her a low mocking bow. “We haven’t been properly introduced, I know. My name
is Mordred. And you’re the Queen. But you know that already.”

“I don’t know you,” Guinevere said. “And why do you call me Mother?”

Mordred feigned a stricken expression—badly, as if he wanted his audience to know he was only pretending. “Oh, well, you’ll
have to admit it’s a natural slip of the tongue. My father’s wife, my stepmama… you don’t mind if I call you Mother, do you?
I think family ties are
so
important in these uncertain times.”

“You’re Arthur’s son?” Guinevere asked numbly. How could he be? He looked nearly as old as Arthur.

And where were her guards? If this intruder was mad—or worse, somehow telling the truth—she wanted aid to be within easy reach.

“He hasn’t told you?” Mordred asked with false concern, walking into the room.

He moved with catlike elegance, the picture of knightly grace, save for the fact that he wore upon his belt not a sword but
a war-ax. No true knight would carry such a weapon.

“Well, I’m not really surprised, I suppose. My mother, his sister—”

Mordred broke off again in theatrical surprise, gazing at Guinevere from wide grey eyes.

“Oh, I suppose he didn’t tell you
that,
either. No, Arthur isn’t quite the plaster saint he’s made himself out to be. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“What do you want?” Guinevere demanded in a low voice. Mordred stopped directly in front of her, smiling a guileless smile
that Guinevere found unaccountably chilling.