I learned some of what I know of magic from the Lady of the Lake, but most of it from Merlin. I knew him well . . . .

. . . little more than a charlatan. He would appear as a child, a beggar, an old charcoal burner, for no purpose but to make folk shudder with fear.

Think, Mordred. If fate is all-powerful, a sure doom, if no one can escape—then why did Merlin tell Arthur to kill you?

I did not know the answer to Nyneve’s question.

I knew what she wanted me to think: that fate could be fought. I, also, wanted to think that.

But I had not died when my father tried to fight fate by killing me. Had fate saved me?

My father. Had he felt as trapped in fate as I did now?

“My father,” I whispered to the dark pool. “Show me King Arthur.”

Trees rustled. The surface of the pool did not ripple, but deep in the still water, shadows swirled. It was happening. I made myself be as still as the pool, calm, not blinking, barely breathing. I waited.

And then I saw.

My father, King Arthur? No.

All I saw was Nyneve.

As plainly as if I watched her through a glassed window, there she was, Nyneve, seated at her ease in a pleasant solarium, her green silk gown bordered with gold. On a small table before her stood a golden goblet. Beside her at the table sat a tall man with a gentle, handsome face, and on his mantled shoulder perched a milk-white falcon. The man—the knight, for he had the bearing of a noble—gazed at Nyneve with love like sunlight in his eyes as she reached for the goblet, and drank, and set it down again, and smiled on him.

“Nyneve,” I whispered, my heart turning to water as always when I saw her. Then it was as if in the vision I drew closer, somehow, although I sat by the pool and had not moved. As if I had tapped her on the shoulder, Nyneve turned.

“Why, Mordred!” Her dark eyes gazed straight into mine as she gifted me with her merriest smile. “Your mother’s blood runs strong in you. When did you learn scrying?”

I could not answer. My heart was beating hot at the sight of her sitting there with that handsome knight, and I felt all too much the child. I whispered, “Where are you?”

“Caer Avalon. My home. With my husband. Is something wrong, Mordred? You wish to speak with me?”

I shook my head. “I wished—I asked to see King Arthur.”

“Ah.” Her smile grew softer, as if to say, I see. But instead she said, “Why?”

“I—I don’t know.” I was hoping for something, but not sure what. Hoping that if I saw him, if I looked into his kingly face, I would find some knowledge, some certainty, some measure of peace.