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Arthur and Bedivere the fosterlings, Cei the Baron’s own true born. “Tell us about Merlin, who has hidden the King’s son on a magic isle,” they beg, never guessing it is the Mage of Britain himself who teaches them.
    ***
     
    Uther harries the Saxons, and is harried in return. Ambrosius drives them back to the Saxon Shore, his brother strives to keep them there. Igraine and her husband are well thought of, and no one asks about the child, for Uther has a wild, unruly nature and a sore conscience where Gorlois is concerned. Even as a girl, growing up in Rheged, I’d heard of the Pendragon’s temper.
    ***
     
    In the north Morgause begins producing sons for King Lot. Gawain, born barely a year after Arthur, Gaheris, and Agravain—firebrands all, as stubborn and headstrong as their parents.
    And Morgan, when she is old enough to take the veil, suddenly leaves the convent to marry the King of Northumbria. A Celtic ruler, Urien devotes more time to hunting and cattle raids than to his new wife, and she soon returns to the Old Gods, becoming a druidess in the Sanctuary. When Vivian dies, Morgan is herself named Lady of the Lake. I had seen her once, hidden in the woods at the edge of the Black Lake, performing strange and frightful rites.
    ***
     
    As I had seen King Lot— brawny, boisterous, visiting Rheged in an effort to solicit our support against the young man Merlin had brought forth after Uther died. “Puppet of the Magician—said to be Celtic on his mother’s side, but Roman in training, through and through,” the King of Orkney thunders, trying to rally our support against the new Pendragon. Yet for all Lot’s impressiveness as warrior and leader, the men of Rheged have no wish to join his cause—it is Urien he seeks to elect High King, and our Northumbrian neighbor had too often raided cattle across our border.
    ***
     
    So the ancient land of Albion convulses in civil war. The Cumbri, those northern Celts clinging to the Old Ways, roar and howl and fight against the southern Britons who cling with equal stubbornness to the memory of the Empire. And when the Great Battle is over twelve northern kings lie dead, including Lot. Urien surrenders, and later, at the Sanctuary, the Lady of the Lake bestows the sacred Sword of State on Arthur, making him the new High King. I had met him then, as he made his way to the Sanctuary—a young man who seemed more from the land than the nobility…an odd candidate for what Merlin called the greatest King in all of Britain’s history.
    And I, what had I to do with the dreams of an aging sorcerer? Not much, I suspected.
    It was Arthur, not Merlin, who picked me to be his Queen. Of all the northern kingdoms, Rheged alone had stood at Arthur’s side, and now that he needed to solidify his victory, what better way than to marry a northern princess?
    So I had gone to my fate, raging at the moira which sent me south, into the shadow of the ruined Empire.
    But Arthur turned out to be far less Roman than I had feared, and easy to love as well, and with the Queen Mother’s guidance I’ve taken my place as his partner with very little trouble. I had much to thank her for, and loved her as dearly as I loved my own mother.
    For a moment a vision of Mama rose before me…the beautiful, laughing young queen who had given her life for her people as surely as if she had climbed into the Need-fire on Beltane and been offered up as a human sacrifice. Not that the May Day rites include such sacrifices nowadays, but every Celt remembers what lies at the heart of the royal promise—that any true monarch stands between the people and their Gods, willing to bridge the distance with life itself if the two become estranged.
    Mama’s sacrifice had not been that dramatic, but she had died nonetheless, back when I was barely ten years old.
    In her own way, Arthur’s mother had also given over her life to the people, for although she had become High Queen because of a personal love for the