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Authors: James Mallory
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heart was wounded to breaking by the indifference of one she
loved.”
“She died of a broken heart,” Merlin said softly. He had met the Lady Elaine only once, but surely she deserved better of
knowing him than this? Was everything he did so doomed, that Elaine, like the Lady Igraine before her, should die just because
he had come into her life? The thought was terrifying. He was Mab’s creation—did that mean that everything he did was to be
tainted with her evil?
“It was because of you,” Merlin said, more harshly than he wished to.
It is your fault, Sir Lancelot, not mine. Yours the sin, and yours the blame. Not mine—not mine!
Lancelot groaned aloud, staggering away from the boat and the sight of his dead wife as though he’d been dealt a mortal wound.
He slogged toward the shore, only to stop short at the sight of Guinevere.
He raised a hand and let it fall again without touching her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then he lowered his head and strode
past her, shutting her out of his life.
Guinevere stared after him, only slowly realizing that Lancelot intended to leave her with no more word than that. She turned
back to Merlin, her eyes narrow with fury.
“Well, wizard?” she said angrily. “Happy now? You must despise love, if the sight of it causes you so much pain that you must
always destroy it!” She gathered up her skirts and followed after Lancelot.
Merlin stood in the water beside the boat, his sodden robes chilling him and weighing him down, though not as much as his
own thoughts. He gazed after the lovers.
I judged them too harshly,
he thought.
The guilt is mine as well—I picked Lancelot, after all. I wish I had told them that instead of shouting at them. It might
have made this easier.
The lake was cold, and the last rays of twilight were fading. Merlin shook his head sadly as he waded to shore. A flick of
his fingers sent magic to guide Elaine’s funeral barge on its interrupted journey again. He stood on the shore and watched
after it until it had disappeared into the evening mist, then began to walk slowly along the shore, toward his little hut
at the edge of the village. His wet robes flapped around his legs, but he hardly noticed.
Oh, Arthur! Come back to us, I beg you! Without you we are truly lost.
Standing unseen and invisible in a corner of the courtyard, her eldritch finery covered by a cloak woven of black cobwebs,
Queen Mab watched as ostlers saddled Black Bayard, Lancelot’s destrier. Lancelot was leaving Camelot, and the Queen.
Mab was pleased with the way matters had turned out. Elaine’s death was an unexpected stroke of good fortune—all Mab had dared
to hope for was a tearful letter, or perhaps an angry visit. But Elaine was dead, and now his guilt and complicity would drive
Lancelot mad. Certainly his guilty conscience would destroy any vestige of good sense he possessed.
Lancelot, fully dressed in his armor and sword, came across the stableyard toward his stallion. If she listened now, Mab could
hear his thoughts. They were all of Galahad, his son, deserted and orphaned by Lancelot’s actions. All he thought of now was
getting home to the boy.
Let him hope in vain.
Mab spread her hands and fingers, and for a moment a blue tangle of energy seemed to stream between them. With a quick gesture
she flung the intangible cat’s-cradle toward Lancelot. It settled over his head and shoulders as he mounted Black Bayard,
but he gave no sign of having noticed it.
Now, Lancelot, you will seek Joyous Gard in vain, condemned to wander forever across the face of the Earth, until you stop
loving Arthur’s Queen
… Mab gloated.
Lancelot swung into Bayard’s saddle and urged the horse at a gentle trot through the gates of Camelot. No one but the stableboys
was there to see him go.
Mab laughed soundlessly as she disappeared.
CHAPTER THREE
T HE B ATTLE OF S ORROW
A fter much hardship, Arthur and his band of knights had
loved.”
“She died of a broken heart,” Merlin said softly. He had met the Lady Elaine only once, but surely she deserved better of
knowing him than this? Was everything he did so doomed, that Elaine, like the Lady Igraine before her, should die just because
he had come into her life? The thought was terrifying. He was Mab’s creation—did that mean that everything he did was to be
tainted with her evil?
“It was because of you,” Merlin said, more harshly than he wished to.
It is your fault, Sir Lancelot, not mine. Yours the sin, and yours the blame. Not mine—not mine!
Lancelot groaned aloud, staggering away from the boat and the sight of his dead wife as though he’d been dealt a mortal wound.
He slogged toward the shore, only to stop short at the sight of Guinevere.
He raised a hand and let it fall again without touching her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then he lowered his head and strode
past her, shutting her out of his life.
Guinevere stared after him, only slowly realizing that Lancelot intended to leave her with no more word than that. She turned
back to Merlin, her eyes narrow with fury.
“Well, wizard?” she said angrily. “Happy now? You must despise love, if the sight of it causes you so much pain that you must
always destroy it!” She gathered up her skirts and followed after Lancelot.
Merlin stood in the water beside the boat, his sodden robes chilling him and weighing him down, though not as much as his
own thoughts. He gazed after the lovers.
I judged them too harshly,
he thought.
The guilt is mine as well—I picked Lancelot, after all. I wish I had told them that instead of shouting at them. It might
have made this easier.
The lake was cold, and the last rays of twilight were fading. Merlin shook his head sadly as he waded to shore. A flick of
his fingers sent magic to guide Elaine’s funeral barge on its interrupted journey again. He stood on the shore and watched
after it until it had disappeared into the evening mist, then began to walk slowly along the shore, toward his little hut
at the edge of the village. His wet robes flapped around his legs, but he hardly noticed.
Oh, Arthur! Come back to us, I beg you! Without you we are truly lost.
Standing unseen and invisible in a corner of the courtyard, her eldritch finery covered by a cloak woven of black cobwebs,
Queen Mab watched as ostlers saddled Black Bayard, Lancelot’s destrier. Lancelot was leaving Camelot, and the Queen.
Mab was pleased with the way matters had turned out. Elaine’s death was an unexpected stroke of good fortune—all Mab had dared
to hope for was a tearful letter, or perhaps an angry visit. But Elaine was dead, and now his guilt and complicity would drive
Lancelot mad. Certainly his guilty conscience would destroy any vestige of good sense he possessed.
Lancelot, fully dressed in his armor and sword, came across the stableyard toward his stallion. If she listened now, Mab could
hear his thoughts. They were all of Galahad, his son, deserted and orphaned by Lancelot’s actions. All he thought of now was
getting home to the boy.
Let him hope in vain.
Mab spread her hands and fingers, and for a moment a blue tangle of energy seemed to stream between them. With a quick gesture
she flung the intangible cat’s-cradle toward Lancelot. It settled over his head and shoulders as he mounted Black Bayard,
but he gave no sign of having noticed it.
Now, Lancelot, you will seek Joyous Gard in vain, condemned to wander forever across the face of the Earth, until you stop
loving Arthur’s Queen
… Mab gloated.
Lancelot swung into Bayard’s saddle and urged the horse at a gentle trot through the gates of Camelot. No one but the stableboys
was there to see him go.
Mab laughed soundlessly as she disappeared.
CHAPTER THREE
T HE B ATTLE OF S ORROW
A fter much hardship, Arthur and his band of knights had
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