triggered when he’d journeyed to the subterranean Land of Magic as a
boy, then intensified by his near-fatal captivity in Vortigern’s dungeons, that turned his thoughts and mood so dark. It was
not too late to change the events he dreaded. The matter of the Queen’s lover could still be mended. He would send Lancelot
home to Joyous Gard—to his wife—and in his absence the people would forgive their Queen. And once matters had been so settled
and Camelot was at peace again, he would go in search of Arthur and bring him home. Let others search for the Grail. A king’s
place was with his people, no matter what his heart told him. And with Arthur and Excalibur at Camelot, what real harm could
Mordred do?
Then Merlin could return to his beloved forest, away from the stone walls and roofs that so oppressed his spirit. Perhaps
his aversion was linked in some way to his magic, but though Merlin would gladly cast off his magic, he would never be willing
to give up his beloved wild places.
They were still there, he told himself. He drew a deep breath, trying to draw strength from that knowledge. The great trees
of Britain, the magnificent forests, could not be harmed by the petty intrigues of the Queen and court. They awaited him still.
And he would rejoin them soon.
Merlin felt the aura of gloom that had possessed him ever since the spring begin to lift, and as it did, far out across the
water, Merlin saw a spark of light.
It was dim at first. He was not sure what he saw. But as the sun set and the blue shadows lengthened across the water, the
small sparks in the distance became more distinct. A boat.
It was a barge, really, carved of a dark silvery wood like none found anywhere in Britain. Torches burned within it, and Merlin
could see the bulky shape of its cargo, but no human figure sitting or standing within it. The craft was redolent of magic,
and without wanting to, Merlin suddenly knew where it had come from and what cargo it bore.
And a moment ago, he had thought things would turn out all right.
Merlin turned and ran toward the castle, toward the Queen’s chambers, as if in his flight he could outpace this new knowledge,
could outrun both it and its dire tragic consequences. Breathless, he reached the doors of Guinevere’s rooms and flung them
open.
As he had known would be the case, there was no one in the room but the Queen and her Champion. The two of them stood close
together, their heads bowed over their clasped hands, oblivious to anything outside themselves.
“I warned you—but you wouldn’t listen!” Merlin cried in frustration and anger.
The lovers looked up in surprise at his unruly entrance, but even now they did not move away from one another. It was as if
it did not matter to them who saw them together.
“What’s happened?” Lancelot said finally.
“Did you think your reckless folly harmed no one?” Merlin said furiously. “Come and see the price another has paid for your
actions, Sir Lancelot!”
The Queen followed Lancelot and Merlin down to the shore of the twilit lake. The funeral barge had drifted closer to the shore.
Its curled prow was painted gold, and the hull had been filled with flowers. In their midst, on a raised dais draped with
rich fabrics, a woman lay as if asleep. She wore a golden tiara and was dressed in queenly robes. Lighted candles flickered
at each side of her head, to light her way into the land of Death.
“Elaine,” Lancelot whispered, as if he had only just remembered his wife’s existence.
Merlin waded out into the shallows to intercept the ship, and Lancelot followed him. Between them they pulled it toward the
shore, where it rested quietly in the reeds.
“How did she die?” Lancelot asked, standing in the water looking down at the still face of his wife.
There was a golden plaque inset into the surface of the bier at Elaine’s head:
“Here lies the Lady Elaine of Astolat, whose kind and generous
boy, then intensified by his near-fatal captivity in Vortigern’s dungeons, that turned his thoughts and mood so dark. It was
not too late to change the events he dreaded. The matter of the Queen’s lover could still be mended. He would send Lancelot
home to Joyous Gard—to his wife—and in his absence the people would forgive their Queen. And once matters had been so settled
and Camelot was at peace again, he would go in search of Arthur and bring him home. Let others search for the Grail. A king’s
place was with his people, no matter what his heart told him. And with Arthur and Excalibur at Camelot, what real harm could
Mordred do?
Then Merlin could return to his beloved forest, away from the stone walls and roofs that so oppressed his spirit. Perhaps
his aversion was linked in some way to his magic, but though Merlin would gladly cast off his magic, he would never be willing
to give up his beloved wild places.
They were still there, he told himself. He drew a deep breath, trying to draw strength from that knowledge. The great trees
of Britain, the magnificent forests, could not be harmed by the petty intrigues of the Queen and court. They awaited him still.
And he would rejoin them soon.
Merlin felt the aura of gloom that had possessed him ever since the spring begin to lift, and as it did, far out across the
water, Merlin saw a spark of light.
It was dim at first. He was not sure what he saw. But as the sun set and the blue shadows lengthened across the water, the
small sparks in the distance became more distinct. A boat.
It was a barge, really, carved of a dark silvery wood like none found anywhere in Britain. Torches burned within it, and Merlin
could see the bulky shape of its cargo, but no human figure sitting or standing within it. The craft was redolent of magic,
and without wanting to, Merlin suddenly knew where it had come from and what cargo it bore.
And a moment ago, he had thought things would turn out all right.
Merlin turned and ran toward the castle, toward the Queen’s chambers, as if in his flight he could outpace this new knowledge,
could outrun both it and its dire tragic consequences. Breathless, he reached the doors of Guinevere’s rooms and flung them
open.
As he had known would be the case, there was no one in the room but the Queen and her Champion. The two of them stood close
together, their heads bowed over their clasped hands, oblivious to anything outside themselves.
“I warned you—but you wouldn’t listen!” Merlin cried in frustration and anger.
The lovers looked up in surprise at his unruly entrance, but even now they did not move away from one another. It was as if
it did not matter to them who saw them together.
“What’s happened?” Lancelot said finally.
“Did you think your reckless folly harmed no one?” Merlin said furiously. “Come and see the price another has paid for your
actions, Sir Lancelot!”
The Queen followed Lancelot and Merlin down to the shore of the twilit lake. The funeral barge had drifted closer to the shore.
Its curled prow was painted gold, and the hull had been filled with flowers. In their midst, on a raised dais draped with
rich fabrics, a woman lay as if asleep. She wore a golden tiara and was dressed in queenly robes. Lighted candles flickered
at each side of her head, to light her way into the land of Death.
“Elaine,” Lancelot whispered, as if he had only just remembered his wife’s existence.
Merlin waded out into the shallows to intercept the ship, and Lancelot followed him. Between them they pulled it toward the
shore, where it rested quietly in the reeds.
“How did she die?” Lancelot asked, standing in the water looking down at the still face of his wife.
There was a golden plaque inset into the surface of the bier at Elaine’s head:
“Here lies the Lady Elaine of Astolat, whose kind and generous
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