My second summer at Lothian had passed. The sheep grew fat and wooly on the hillsides, blessed by the goodliness of Arthur, the flower among kings. Facing the long winter, I wished every day that Nyneve would come to see me—but instead, in late autumn, after a fine harvest, amid a great riding of retainers, came Queen Morgan le Fay, daughter of Igraine and a fearsome sorceress, to visit her sister, Queen Morgause.

Or that was her pretext. I think now that she came to have a look at me.

I will never forget. She swept into the great hall, and I stood there with a dozen serving lads, any one of whom looked more princely than I did, yet her glinting black glance darted like a starling straight to me. “Well met, Mordred!” she cried. It was like the seaside day Nyneve found me, that recognition—yet utterly unlike. Nyneve’s regard had been merry and friendly and tender and sad. Morgan’s gaze gloated, and made me shiver.

“Mordred, my nephew.” Now Morgan le Fay’s black eyes laughed, but it was a midnight laughter. “Come here, darling. Kiss me.” She bent and presented her cheek. This was a favor not to be refused, so I went to her, trembling, and my lips came away from her crusty with powder. It seemed that ladies coated themselves with powder to look so pale. That surprised me; I had thought that ladies were made differently from other women. Now I saw that, without her powder, Morgan le Fay might have been mistaken for a peasant woman. She had a coarse nose, and she was older than her sister, plump and beginning to wrinkle. Yet she wore her hair in a gold net instead of a white linen wimple like Morgause’s. Instead of Morgause’s sober blue, Morgan wore a wine-red gown edged with gold.

Morgan le Fay’s eyes glittered with life. Morgause stood like a dead person next to her.

“What a lovely brachet hound!” Morgan’s glittering glance fell on Gull, and Gull crowded close to me, pressing against my legs. I bowed, backed away, and Gull and I fled.

I went to find Garet, but Garet had been put to work in the kitchen, turning a spit—I had indeed learned what it meant to be a prince in that castle, and it was this: to be silent unless asked to speak, to run errands as a page boy for the king and queen, to be as much of a servant as anyone but be bruised by swordplay and bleary-eyed with learning Latin as well. Having no desire to join Garet in the kitchen, I wandered back toward the audience hall. My fear slowed my feet. Yet I found myself fascinated by the presence of this sorceress, my aunt, Morgan le Fay.

As I reached the archway with Gull padding at my heels, I paused in the shadows to listen.