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my friend, Myrddion. I wish they were still with us. But Frith’s ashes lie in Gallia’s Garden, and Myrddion must have succumbed to old age by now.’ He smiled gratefully at Gareth. ‘It’s neither death nor the end of things that I fear.’
    The warriors and the spymaster were not inclined to respond, but Odin sensed the danger in allowing Artor to fret, so he answered for them all.
    ‘Those among us who care for you know that the kingdom will eventually be lost after you have gone beyond the shadows, master. We don’t fear this fate, for we know it is inevitable. But we dread the pain of slow decay, and a return to the bad old ways of the past.’
    ‘You’re my second self, Odin,’ Artor answered him. ‘Sometimes I wonder why you’ve stayed with me for so long, why you’ve forsaken children, love and comfort for my cause. Why, my friend?’
    ‘We each gave an oath, master. And I’ve never regretted my part of the bargain.’
     
    The autumn wind that stirred the fruit trees of Cadbury wound sinuously through forest, mountains and grey, glacial valleys. In far-off Cymru, the breezes sought impudent entry to the stone villa built around the ruins of a venerable oak tree. Persistent as cold winds are, they managed to find entry through tightly sealed shutters that had worn a little at the hinges. One single tendril of frigid breeze stirred the hair of a woman who sat by a guttering fire.
    Gradually, the wind died in the heat of a room that was awash with colour. The black, close-knit walls, the aged timbers and the smoke-blackened rafters were brought to life by great woven and embroidered hangings that coiled with strange creatures and the persistent image of a black-clad man. Hanks of vegetable-dyed wool, in every imaginable shade of green, gold, orange, red and woad blue, hung from the ceilings ready for the great loom that glowed with hand-polishing in the corner. Dried herbs, flowers, leaves and even seaweed hung in another corner, their heads hanging downwards and the fading colours adding to the rich ambience of the room and its occupant.
    The floors were flagged, an unusual feature in these climes, and were softened with woven rugs and knotted whorls of brilliantly coloured rag. Soft, brain-tanned hide was stretched over cunningly shaped wooden benches to provide seating and, in a series of pegged shelves, racks of crude glass jars stood like miniature soldiers along the stone walls. Those jars had survived the long journey from Cadbury, and now the flames from the fireplace played over their surfaces, hiding their contents under the sheen of scarlet and gold.
    The woman turned as she felt the cold air stir her knee-length, braided hair. She rose with unconscious grace and moved to the troublesome shutters with a hank of new wool in one hand. Her eyes sharpened in the chill draught and, with concentration, she rammed the wool into the narrow gap, checked with her hand that no more cold air could intrude into her sanctuary and then returned to her seat.
    The grey-muzzled wolfhound at her feet didn’t bother to rise from its comfortable rug.
    Beauty and sorrow hung on Nimue like a rich, invisible cape.
    Her face remained unlined, although she was almost thirty-nine years of age. Unlike Queen Wenhaver, the advance of middle age had only brought Nimue gravity and fine-boned elegance. Her hair was still silver, but it was now exceptionally long and was bound at several lengths by argent clasps. She wore grey, as was her habit, but the colour was pale and tinged with a memory of green, like still water under full moonlight.
    Nimue’s face was unchanged, but her eyes showed the passage of long, hard years. The deep blue of her irises no longer snapped with the curiosity and the fire of her youth, for the Maid of Wind and Water was now wholly dead. Her essence had fled on that doleful evening when Myrddion Merlinus went to his gods upon a huge pyre on the mountain peak. The Lady of the Lake now ruled her inner