“There are only two things to understand about Nyneve,” sang Morgan le Fay. “That she loves Arthur. And that she lives to prove Merlin wrong, even now that she has put him away.”

“And you?”

“I hate Arthur, you know that.” Morgan le Fay’s voice became silky. “Give the boy to me.”

I scooped up Gull, for her claws made more noise on the stone than my soft leather shoes did, and I ran. Just like Morgause, I ran away.

Without thinking I ran to her chamber. Her door was closed. I could hear her moving about in there and breathing raggedly. Had she been crying? I had not thought she ever cried.

She was my mother; I wanted to ask her why she had run away from Morgan le Fay and King Lothe, and I wanted her to tell me that she would not let Morgan le Fay take me away. But then she would know I had been listening. I could not tell her that, for if she told King Lothe he would beat me. With Gull in my arms I walked away.

There was no one with whom I could talk in this place where folk looked at me with knowing smiles—when they smiled. No one to comfort my fear.

After a week, Morgan le Fay rode away—without me. Perhaps King Lothe did not wish to be caught between two sorceresses. Perhaps he did not wish to give in to Morgan. Perhaps he favored Nyneve. Perhaps he planned a game of his own. I do not know, for I could not ask him.

Time went by. Another winter, deep with snow; the bard did not return to Lothian that winter. Nor did Nyneve. Another summer. Gawain turned fifteen and rode away, as was customary, for Camelot, hoping to be knighted and serve King Arthur. After that, Garet went as sour as pickled cabbage. He would joust with me, for he usually bettered me, but he stopped studying arithmetic and letters with me. We rode out together hawking—he flew the goshawk, I the smaller birds, the merlins, the hovering kestrels—but he was a stormy stripling now and I was still a child; we seldom liked each other.