He could not look at me. He turned to the sea, and stared out over the waves, and he said, very low, “I was heartsick, last time. I did not want to live my life at such a price. Then I was glad despite all reason when I heard that you had survived.”

Close. He came so close to saying it.

He walked along the stony shore, and I walked with him, the chill, salt sea wind hissing in my ears. We walked in silence, side by side, with the unspeakable truth hovering on the windy space between us, until I could not bear that haunted silence any longer and broke it.

“My King, it is not death that I fear,” I told him. “But until death comes, it is hard for me to be who I am.” I waited for King Arthur’s reply. He gave me none. “Sire,” I said, “when I first came to Camelot, you offered me a boon. I will claim it now.”

His voice as harsh as the gravel, he said, “Do not ask me to kill you in cold blood.”

“No, Sire. There is a span of life left to me, and I am not so willing to throw it away. But neither do I wish to spend it suffering.” I stood still, and he stopped his pacing and faced me, and I described to him what I wanted him to do.

He was so aghast that his gray eyes winced and his face paled behind the proud tilt of his beard. “Sir Mordred,” he protested.

“Sire, I charge you by your promised boon to do this thing. It is because of you that I find myself born to be in constant pain.”

We stood staring at each other. Perhaps as he stood there by the sea he saw in me something of himself. I would like to think so.

“Sire,” I urged.

“You are mortally certain that this fearsome thing is what you wish?”

“Yes.”

“Then I must do as you say.”

15

WE HAD TO WAIT FOR SEVERAL DAYS, UNTIL THE MOON had waned and the time came for doing mystic acts. Then on that night, the night of the dark of the moon, we had to wait until innocents were asleep. Long after dark, after midnight, on a night when not even stars shed light, we met in the courtyard. King Arthur commanded the guards to open the gates, and we slipped out—on foot, for the blind harper was too old and frail to ride—walking in silence.

Over the wide sweep of the meadows, night hung silent; the summer crickets had not yet begun to speak. Only an owl spoke sometimes from the forest.