First: she wanted the power for herself, she had said as much, to let her displace Nimuë. Very well; he could accept that, and understand the fears she had admitted about her fate in the long banishment from Arthur’s favour. Second: she had professed herself very sure that he, Alexander, young and untried as he was, could succeed where the others had failed. Why?

There was an obvious conclusion: he had not been (and, in spite of what she had said, never would be) admitted to the councils of the Young Celts, because he was known to be loyal to the High King, and whoever watched and reported what went on in the Dark Tower could confirm it. Consequently he might come near Nimuë where Morgan’s other emissaries, known to be members of Morgan’s court, could not.

Another conclusion sprang from this: that Luned had been right, and Queen Morgan was – wanted to be – Arthur’s enemy. She could not know that Luned would tell him about the secret council meetings, but even so, how could she, Morgan, be so sure that, once Alexander was away from her, and had had time to think, he would even go on with the quest, let alone carry the grail back to her?

He sat watching the swans, a knuckle to his lip. The chestnut, finding itself unheeded, pulled the reins through his slack fingers and lowered its head to graze. The sun was well above the hilltops now, and struck a glitter from the lake.

It was as if it had struck light somehow in the prince’s confused brain. Free he might be, but his mistress was a witch, so he could reckon himself to be free only as a falcon is free, at the end of a lure, to be twitched back to her service when she so willed it. And Luned had told him how it was done. He carried her magic with him, in the pretty silver flagon she had given him, with such care, and with so many kisses, as he had left her bed that morning.

He pulled it from the saddle-bag, unstoppered it, and held it to his nose. The heady fragrance, herbs, fruit, honey, all the sweet enchantments she had used came vividly back to mind. He thought of the Lady Luned and the wine brewed by the monks in the riverside monastery, and how he had flung it from him and left the poor lady to mount herself and ride back to face her unwelcome guest in the lonely castle.

The flagon’s stopper was made of a carved garnet. A flick of his hand sent it spinning into the water, startling the swans, which barked at him and oared away through the rushes, hissing. The flagon went after them, the cordial making a train of spilled drops that curved like a rainbow in the sunlight, then vanished into the lake.

“Drink that,” said Alexander to the swans, suddenly cheerful, “and have sweet dreams tonight!”