speaking to you.”
Both Arthur and Morgan turned toward his voice with identical startled looks. Then Arthur said calmly, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t hear. What was it?” Across the table, Morgan’s eyes dropped and she began to eat her venison.
It was not difficult to cover their tracks. They had been constant companions since childhood and it simply had never occurred to Merlin that the relationship between his daughter and his grandson could be other than that of sister and brother. They had many long afternoons alone, and the weather was beautiful.
“Wake up, Arthur! Look at the bird!” Morgan was tugging at the lock of black hair that always seemed to slip down over his forehead, and he raised his lashes drowsily.
“What?”
“Look. Over there.” He followed her pointing finger and saw a beautiful yellow-and-black bird rising from the hawthorn bush near them.
“I see.” He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun and said with faint reproach, “I was asleep.”
“I know you were.” She leaned over him so her long hair tickled his bare chest. “You were snoring.”
His gray eyes smiled. “Was I?”
“No.” She sat up straight again. “But it’s getting late. They’ll be looking for us.”
They. The unreal ghosts of Merlin and Ector and Justina and the others; everyone, in fact, who was not Arthur or Morgan. He sighed and raised himself effortlessly to a sitting position. He was wearing only brown wool breeches and he looked around now for his tunic. He rubbed his head.
Morgan’s eyes watching him were filled with tenderness. He swiveled around to reach for his clothing and the tenderness darkened and sobered. Very gently she put out a hand and traced the thin line of a scar on his shoulder. She felt the muscles tense under her finger.
“You’ll carry them on your flesh all your life,” she said. “I wish I could do something to erase them from your mind.”
He turned to look at her. The skin under his eyes looked suddenly bruised. She was the only one he had ever spoken to about Esus. “It wasn’t the pain,” he said. “I could live with that. It was that I let him do that to me. That I allowed it.”
“Arthur”—her voice was matter-of-fact, revealing none of the terrible pity that possessed her—“you were a child. You were helpless. There was nothing you could have done.”
The darkness around his eyes did not fade. “I don’t think about it,” he said.
“You dream about it sometimes.”
He stared at her, his face naked.
She made herself go on. “Blame Esus. He was a wicked, evil man. But don’t blame yourself. You are not the one at fault.” Her calm broke and she said fiercely, “I would like to plunge a dagger into his black heart.”
A little of the darkness lifted from the skin beneath his eyes. “You,” he said. “You would probably feel sorry for him.”
“Never.” She made a thrusting movement with her hand. “Never would I feel sorry for that man.”
A glimmer of a smile touched his mouth. “Oh Morgan,” he said. “How I love you. Come here.”
His tunic was forgotten as they lay back together on the saddle rug Arthur had spread. He ran his hands over the skin with which he had become so familiar; he knew all its soft silkiness, knew where the scratches and cuts were, where she liked most to be touched. Over the last month their bodies had learned each other very well.
Afterward, on their way back to the villa, they carefully arranged their faces to meet the ghosts who were awaiting them.
On his sixteenth birthday Arthur planned to speak to Merlin about marrying Morgan. But on his sixteenth birthday Merlin was not at Avalon; he had gone to Venta to see the king.
Uther did not look well. “The time has come,” he said to Merlin almost as soon as he had dismissed his servants. “I do not think I have much longer to live.”
Merlin looked at him for a long moment in silence. Then he said only, “When? And how?”
“I have
Both Arthur and Morgan turned toward his voice with identical startled looks. Then Arthur said calmly, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t hear. What was it?” Across the table, Morgan’s eyes dropped and she began to eat her venison.
It was not difficult to cover their tracks. They had been constant companions since childhood and it simply had never occurred to Merlin that the relationship between his daughter and his grandson could be other than that of sister and brother. They had many long afternoons alone, and the weather was beautiful.
“Wake up, Arthur! Look at the bird!” Morgan was tugging at the lock of black hair that always seemed to slip down over his forehead, and he raised his lashes drowsily.
“What?”
“Look. Over there.” He followed her pointing finger and saw a beautiful yellow-and-black bird rising from the hawthorn bush near them.
“I see.” He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun and said with faint reproach, “I was asleep.”
“I know you were.” She leaned over him so her long hair tickled his bare chest. “You were snoring.”
His gray eyes smiled. “Was I?”
“No.” She sat up straight again. “But it’s getting late. They’ll be looking for us.”
They. The unreal ghosts of Merlin and Ector and Justina and the others; everyone, in fact, who was not Arthur or Morgan. He sighed and raised himself effortlessly to a sitting position. He was wearing only brown wool breeches and he looked around now for his tunic. He rubbed his head.
Morgan’s eyes watching him were filled with tenderness. He swiveled around to reach for his clothing and the tenderness darkened and sobered. Very gently she put out a hand and traced the thin line of a scar on his shoulder. She felt the muscles tense under her finger.
“You’ll carry them on your flesh all your life,” she said. “I wish I could do something to erase them from your mind.”
He turned to look at her. The skin under his eyes looked suddenly bruised. She was the only one he had ever spoken to about Esus. “It wasn’t the pain,” he said. “I could live with that. It was that I let him do that to me. That I allowed it.”
“Arthur”—her voice was matter-of-fact, revealing none of the terrible pity that possessed her—“you were a child. You were helpless. There was nothing you could have done.”
The darkness around his eyes did not fade. “I don’t think about it,” he said.
“You dream about it sometimes.”
He stared at her, his face naked.
She made herself go on. “Blame Esus. He was a wicked, evil man. But don’t blame yourself. You are not the one at fault.” Her calm broke and she said fiercely, “I would like to plunge a dagger into his black heart.”
A little of the darkness lifted from the skin beneath his eyes. “You,” he said. “You would probably feel sorry for him.”
“Never.” She made a thrusting movement with her hand. “Never would I feel sorry for that man.”
A glimmer of a smile touched his mouth. “Oh Morgan,” he said. “How I love you. Come here.”
His tunic was forgotten as they lay back together on the saddle rug Arthur had spread. He ran his hands over the skin with which he had become so familiar; he knew all its soft silkiness, knew where the scratches and cuts were, where she liked most to be touched. Over the last month their bodies had learned each other very well.
Afterward, on their way back to the villa, they carefully arranged their faces to meet the ghosts who were awaiting them.
On his sixteenth birthday Arthur planned to speak to Merlin about marrying Morgan. But on his sixteenth birthday Merlin was not at Avalon; he had gone to Venta to see the king.
Uther did not look well. “The time has come,” he said to Merlin almost as soon as he had dismissed his servants. “I do not think I have much longer to live.”
Merlin looked at him for a long moment in silence. Then he said only, “When? And how?”
“I have
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