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a man any woman would be glad to call son.” She turned her level, direct gaze on me. “I don’t know that he cares to hear it, but if you’ve a chance, tell him I’m proud of him.”
    For a minute more she stared into some unseen space, summoning what was left of her strength.
    “It was only later, when the remorse and barrenness closed in, that I looked for forgiveness and understanding, and found them in the new Christ.” The Queen Mother began to grope for my hands. “It’s getting so dark,” she murmured, catching hold of my fingers and holding them tightly. “It was never easy, between Uther’s wild and stormy nature and the constant demands of being High Queen. At first I hated my new position, quailing inwardly before the crowds and wishing desperately we could retreat to some quiet spot of our own. But a Queen belongs to the people, and I was theirs as much as his. Over the years I grew bolder and not so shy just as he grew less harsh and abrasive. And we ruled well together, of that I’m sure, for he held the Saxon invaders in check and the people prospered.”
    Igraine was panting now, frowning into the distance at shadows I could not see. Suddenly she tightened her grip.
    “I loved him in spite of everything, and in his own way he loved me; like the wind of Tintagel, he brought me life while I brought him calm. But you must understand the price we paid for such a love, Gwen…the cost in children who were left motherless too early…in personal desires held forfeit to duty…in penances paid and raw edges abraded by our own consciences. And yet…”
    The death rattle struggled in her throat, but she turned her face to me as a blind one does, a sweet smile suffusing her features.
    “…I would do it all over again, tomorrow.”
    ***
     
    They were her last words, and in the silence that followed, a single warbler’s song stole across the room.

Chapter III
     
    Return to Silchester
     
    We buried Igraine in a simple convent grave, the ring Uther had given Ulfin clasped in her fingers. A profusion of wildflowers filled the meadow beyond the convent wall and I spread a blanket of them over the coffin to break the fall of the clods. It seemed the least I could do for her.
    Ettard stood beside me, pale and damp with grief. Her meager possessions were already packed and after the funeral was over we bade the nuns good-bye and prepared to return to Silchester.
    I have always hated litters and intended to ride Featherfoot and let Ettard use Igraine’s litter by herself. But the pretty girl burst into tears at the idea of being left alone, so I relented and joined her in the swaying box. She grew calmer once we were on the Road, and lapsed into the silence of her sorrow.
    Parting the curtains, I stared out over the sea of grass. Drowsy with the hum of bees and the sweet smell of wild thyme, the downs stretched lazily under pale, dreamy clouds. But I saw instead the dark towers of Tintagel and the steps to the postern gate carved into the face of the cliff itself. Like a bit of timeless history or the thing that myths are made of, the destinies Merlin had set in motion swirled in that darkness…
    ***
     
    A night of sleet and pelting rain from above, of spray and storm-tossed surf that spumes up from below. Patient as Cronos in midwinter, the Magician waits for the child to be brought. Warm, bundled against the cold, the infant is handed over, the talisman around his neck the only gift the grieving mother can give him. That, and a name…Arthur. Arthur from the Roman family of Artoris; Arthur from the Celtic word for bear; Arthur, from the heavens where Merlin has seen the prophecy.
    ***
     
    Within the heart of Wales, small and unimportant, the court of Sir Ector rings with the shouts of boys at play. Racing at breakneck speed along the rides of the woods, swimming in Bala Lake, listening to the tales their seedy tutor tells of bigger worlds and courts of power—the three are brothers in all save blood.