Thus it had all led to this fateful day and this final battlefield.

Sundown. King Arthur stood bloodied and so heartsick that he wept. Dead, dead, they all lay dead, Gawain these three days in his grave, Garet killed by Lancelot, and every remaining knight of the Round Table, the flower of all knighthood, the jeweled crown of all knighthood, they all lay dead or painfully dying on the trampled grass. No one remained horsed, and only four remained standing: Arthur himself, Sir Lucas, and Sir Bedivere, and—staggering toward them like a shadow out of the sunset, all in black armor, carrying a black shield, running at them with lifted sword—Sir Mordred, he who would have called himself King.

A worthy foe. He had fought mightily. King Arthur felt almost proud of him.

A different sort of pride made him harden his face and stop his tears.

Swooping low in the golden light over the battlefield there flew a great bird on black wings that rustled like a rising wind. King Arthur barely noticed. Many ravens had gathered over the battlefield, feasting.

It was time.

“Sir Mordred,” he challenged, “defend yourself!”

He lifted his lance in his hand and ran, tottering with weariness and the weight of his armor, at his son, his enemy, Mordred, rushing to meet him.

He aimed well. His long weapon caught Mordred in the belly just below the black shield, and the force of King Arthur’s attack and the force of Mordred’s own charge drove the lance through Mordred’s armor and mail, deep, a mortal wound. It should have been over then. But such was the courage of the lad, or the fire of his hatred, or the power of fate, that Mordred welcomed the wound and ran up the shaft of the lance, brandishing his sword with both hands, and struck—then fell dead.

And the raven flew low over them both, laughing its croaking laugh.

Arthur remembered little, then, until Sir Lucas and Sir Bedivere brought him to Avalon.

Odd: That old trickster Merlin had lied after all. He was supposed to be dead, but he had not died. The wound Mordred had given him to his head was severe; he would need to rest and heal for a long time—maybe hundreds of years—but he was not dead.

King Arthur awoke in an airy pavilion alight with the white scent of water lilies. He felt no pain, only a great, lazy ease. For a moment he drifted on a wisp of dream, something about floating in a bright, still pool, amid blue swans—but no, he lay in a white bed canopied with gossamer, his wounded head upon a white pillow, and he looked into the smiling face of a lady he remembered: Vivien, she who had given him Excalibur.

“Rest,” she told him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead with one petal-soft hand; the touch of her hand sent peace rippling through him. “Sleep.”