“If you want to scry King Arthur, try a mirror, Mordred,” said Nyneve wryly. “The pool will not show him to you.”

I stiffened, because her tone condescended to me, as if I should have known this already. “Why not?”

“I will show you. Take the water in your hands.”

“But—” But that would ripple the surface, and surely I would lose sight of her.

“It will be all right, Mordred. Go ahead. Touch the water.”

I had touched it before. I had washed in it, the last time, and it was just water like any other water. Nevertheless, because Nyneve told me to, I bent over the pool and cupped a splash of water between my two hands. It sparkled like quicksilver for a moment, then trickled away—but in that moment, I felt a presence wash through me or around me as big as the world, and for no reason I thought of a warm brown woman I had almost forgotten: my fishermother.

Ripples spread and faded. Once again the water lay dark and still. I could not see Nyneve.

Yet somehow she spoke to me. Within my mind. It is motherwater, Nyneve told me softly. The very tears of the Lady. It will show you only what is good for you to know.

I stood up and walked to my pony, my back straight and hard as a sword. I left that place.

“My lady.” As befitted a humble page boy, I dropped to one knee before Queen Morgause. I never called her Mother; that word was for Gawain and Garet to say. When Garet ran to her, her smooth face softened into a smile, her dark eyes shone. But looking on me, her eyes went as dull as pebbles.

Gull pressed warm against my leg as I said to Queen Morgause, “I would like to beg a boon, my lady.”

She sat at her chamber window with her needlework in her hands but her hands slack in her lap. Her face, turned to me, looked as blank as her head linen and nearly as pale. She had grown even more silent and white since Garet had let the secret out like letting a devil loose to fly in the air of Lothian. Now King Lothe found me a sour jest, the sight of me puckered his mouth like pickled sweets. Now all his temper was for her.

Knowing what it meant to be Mordred troubled me so much that it made me bolder. I had never before dared to beg a boon of her.

“My lady?”

“Speak.”