PROLOGUE, THE ROAD RISES

The winds howled outside the caer, shrieking through the narrow windows like the voices of the damned. Under the sound of the banshee wind, the cries of a young woman in labor pierced the night.

“Oh God,” she cried, “God…”

There was a stir in the chamber, the shuffle of feet and the click of flint before a candle sputtered to life. In a moment’s time, a young girl came to her bedside. The light pierced through her pain as a small voice spoke, “Milady Margaise, what-what’s wrong?” She pressed the back of her small hand to Margaise’s forehead, then turned her hand and wiped the beads of sweat away.

Margaise forced herself to smile, but it came out more of a grimace. “Ragnell, it’s the
baby.”

“But it’s tae soon!” Ragnell’s voice rose in alarm. Her mother had died in childbirth, and she knew all too well the risk to the queen and the child.

“I know, but you must…” Margaise’s voice died off in a cry. She rallied herself. “You must get the midwife. Hurry…”

Ragnell fled the room.

Margaise gasped with a new contraction. “No, God, I cannot die here!”

She became vaguely aware of the pulsing red veins in the embers at the base of the fire, throbbing as if sympathetic to her pain.

At length, the door opened and the room was flooded with torchlight.
Within moments, Ragnell returned, leading the midwife, Brid, and her small train of nurses.

Brid took charge. “Get her up. Stoke the fire! I want water boiling and cloths steamed! Do it now, or I’ll fetch the wrath of King Lot Luwddoc on ye!” Her orders fell on the other women like strokes of lightning and they leaped to action.

While the women bustled about the chamber, Ragnell returned to her mistress’ side. The queen felt two small hands clasp her fingers, and Ragnell gave her a gentle kiss on the knuckles. In the torchlight, Margaise could see the soft golden hue of the child’s hair and the lightness of her bright, blue eyes. Those same brilliant orbs turned to her and Ragnell smiled, displaying in full the freckles sprinkled across her dimpled cheeks. Her mother died giving birth to her, and her father was killed the winter after Margaise and Lot had married. She had been Margaise’s constant companion ever since.

“Dinna’ fret, milady.” She smoothed Margaise’s wavy brown hair away from her face, still clutching her hand to her chest so the queen could feel her heartbeat. “Brid is the best in all of King Lot’s realm for delivering bairns. She says ye’re ga’ng tae have a pretty, peedie lass.”

Margaise began to calm. She grasped for even a thread of the courage Ragnell possessed. Such was the faith this child displayed, she could not worry for another moment, only perform the task which had too early come upon her.

The hours waxed long. Margaise’s labor was difficult and she prayed only that she would survive and hold her child, that she would not die so far from her family. She wondered if this would seem so unbearable if her mother were with her.

Ragnell patted the sweat from Margaise’s brow, and the young queen smiled in spite of herself. At least she had a little sister to look after her.

“I can see the head,” Brid pronounced.

Ragnell squeezed the queen’s fingers, “See, milady? Ye’ll have a fine bairn soon.”

Margaise rallied. Once she was delivered she would not have to be alone to pine anymore. She would have one of her own blood near at hand, and it wouldn’t matter how little she saw her husband. In her secret heart she wished that it would be a girl so she could always keep the child near her. A boy would have to be fostered and trained by others. She’d have so little time with a son. But a son was what Lot needed to ensure his line would continue.

“It’s almost done, my lady,” Brid said. “Give us another push.”

She did again, and again, until the pressure in her body finally broke and her burden came free.

There was a sudden bustle of cleaning and collection common to any birthing chamber, but Brid stopped. All eyes turned to her.

Too much time passed and the only cry was that of the relentless wind outside.

“Brid,” Margaise began cautiously, still holding Ragnell’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

The woman looked up at her queen, tears of pity in her eyes and her voice trembling,
“Ach, my lady, she is still…”

Margaise, overcome by the shock of grief, fell back in a dead faint.

***

The remaining winter months were that much more biting for the queen. Her child had not stirred so much as a breath outside the womb, and she had no one to hold. After she recovered from the birth, she wandered the corridors, lost in a fog of emptiness. The only company she dared to keep was Ragnell’s. Still, she was lonely, awake because sleep brought nightmares of her lost daughter. Ragnell stayed with her, though, silent more often than not, but devoted to her mistress.

All day, short as ever the days were in Orkney, she saw men come and go. These were the clansmen from the high reaches, Lot’s battle chiefs. They had crossed Pentland Firth early in the season to bring tribute and men and arms to fortify the islands against the Norse threat. Dressed in furs and tartans, their every appearance was uncouth and wild. In the south, the influence of Rome was clearly felt – here, there was precious little, save the solitary footfalls of the Roman priest, Axenus, or the occasional passage of one of the monks.

Lot accepted the Christians and their practices, so long as they didn’t become overzealous. Margaise knew that was one of the conditions Uther laid down in his treaty with Lot, for it was the same treaty he had used to barter her off. Lot no more believed the teachings of the Church than the clansmen who had never heard the name of Christ. But then, she never knew Lot to believe in much of anything except his own strength. He even flouted the teachings of his people’s pagan gods.

He certainly did not believe in love.

She was still a girl who dreamed of being deeply loved. She remembered her father, Goloris, the master of Tintagel in Cornwall, and how he had so loved her mother he challenged the High King, Uther Pendragon, himself. Yet, in spite of that love, Goloris lost in the end. Uther took Igraine for his own, made a whore of her for nothing, and managed to clear his conscience by using his stepdaughters to forge alliances.

Margaise remembered the day Lot rode into Uther’s court at Caerleon, bedecked in his battle gear, his greatsword slung across his back and his targe hanging at his side. His influential lords, lairds, they called themselves, accompanied him. Lot was second in power only to the High King. During his reign he had expanded his realm from the Orkneys and the northern reaches of the mainland to the southern border of what once belonged to the kings of Scotland and Garlot. This, he called Lothian. He intimidated and made allies of the other northern kingdoms and reigned his own through stewards. Uther, who knew Lot to be among the strongest of his allies, offered him first choice of the three sisters, and it was Margaise, the youngest, he chose. He wooed her with gifts and shows of valor. He was kind to her then. Convinced that Lot was a man she could come to love, who could rescue her, Margaise accepted his offer of marriage. She was grateful to leave Caerleon, grateful to leave her imprisoned mother and her father’s murderer behind.

Her reverie broke as he crossed the hall ahead of her. Ragnell let go of her hand and ducked behind her, her head bowed and her body lowered in an unsteady curtsy. It seemed he had this effect on everyone. Even if she didn’t know him she couldn’t miss him. He was the tallest man in his court. His confidence made it seem he towered over the others. He could have been a son of Cú Chulain, or a son of his wild stag god Herne, so wild was his nature, so fierce were his brilliant blue eyes.

Those eyes met hers, piercing her to the heart and she offered him a weak smile. Her feeble warmth was rejected by a look as cold as ice before he went back about his business. She felt Ragnell shift slightly and then the child appeared at her side again. The girl glanced at her queen’s face, and for a moment the two studied each other.

“What’s wrong, milady?” Ragnell asked.

Margaise sighed heavily. “He can never love me,” she said, looking away from her young friend, “not when he loves his kingdom so much.” How often had she envisioned lying in his arms after a passionate night? Such things never materialized. He was much too preoccupied with affairs of state to properly make love to her. He came to her chamber often, but he never lingered, which left her feeling worse than if he had not come at all. It was no special thing if she bore a child. It was an expectation. It was her duty as his queen, as his wife, and if she could not produce an heir, he would find a woman who could. It was no secret that the king had a small army of bastards spread throughout his kingdom, but most were out of mothers too humble of station for him to bother marrying.
Ragnell leaned on her slightly, squeezing her hand as she did. “Dinna’ fret, milady. King Lot…” she paused, looking down and chewing her bottom lip as if searching carefully for her next words. “He’s a good king. He keeps us safe, and he’s very brave.”

‘Ah, child, but none of that matters,’ Margaise thought. ‘What makes him a good king has not made him a good husband. I care not if he is brave, I only want him to love me.’ Margaise’s eyes stung and she wiped at them to clear the tears that rose and the awful bite of loneliness that accompanied them.

A few months ago, when Lot had decided to move the court from Thurso in north Lothian to Caer Gwyar in Orkney, she had welcomed the change. Now this dreadful place, with its obscenely short winter days and frigid, windy nights was hateful to her. Was it not because of the strain of the move and the constant fear of attack by the Norse that she had lost her child? Was it not, then, Lot’s fault this had happened? What then, did he owe her to repay the debt?

Margaise steeled herself. “He must at least give me something, some way to keep me happy in this place.” She released Ragnell’s hand and began to walk away, toward Lot’s throne hall, where he and his lairds sat in council.

“Milady, what do ye mean tae do?” Ragnell asked, her voice shuddering.

“I must speak to King Lot,” she replied. At least her voice sounded more confident than she felt. “Go back to my chamber and wait for me there, Ragnell.”

“Yes, milady,” Ragnell said, then curtsied again before she trotted away.

Once Ragnell was gone, Margaise opened the door and slipped into the hall. A man stood near Lot, delegating between the lairds and their king. He was not as tall as the king, and his frame was far more slender, yet he carried himself with the same confidence and authority. This was Elóil, the most powerful prince of the Orkneys and hereditary steward. He and his king were bound by kinship, their mothers were twin sisters and they had grown up together, fostering a depth of loyalty Margaise had never seen before. They were like brothers, each tempering the other.

When the lairds settled, Margaise walked into the great hall, stopping several steps from her husband’s throne. She wanted to throw herself at his feet and beg for him to show mercy, but such an outburst would cost more than she was willing to give. Her mere presence was an intrusion. Elóil’s voice died in his throat and he canted his head, an eyebrow raised in puzzlement, while the other lairds stood, gaping at her.

She knelt before the king, not daring to look into his ice-cold eyes again. “My lord, I must speak with you.”

Lot, who had ignored her entrance, slowly turned his head to look at her. Then he stared as though he were trying to bore through her. “What…” he began slowly, “do ye want?”

Margaise had to choose her words carefully. A misstep and she’d be laughed out of the hall and made to pay for her impertinence that night. She took a deep breath, fighting the nausea threatening to overcome her. “There is a pressing matter I must discuss with you.”

Lot stood with as much deliberation as he’d spoken. He closed the distance between them in a few strides and took hold of her shoulder. His grip, rougher than it appeared, was almost crippling as he snatched her to her feet and herded her out of the door. Margaise glanced back once to see Elóil leave his place to follow. Then Lot slammed the door behind them, the first indication that he was frustrated. The wall was cold on her back when he pressed her against it.

“Now what is so damned important that ye found it needful tae interrupt?”

Margaise met his eyes. His face was inches from hers, but the expression he wore was scornful of her, the outsider queen, the foolish girl-child. She swallowed hard. “My lord, I grow lonely.”

Lot groaned, then waved a hand, dismissing her as he would a peasant farmer. “Lonely? Ye stupid wench! Ye disturb a council of war because ye’re lonely? When those men lose their crops and homes and families in a damned Norse raid, ye’ll be the one explaining tae them why ye thought yer loneliness was more pressing than their safety.”

The door creaked once behind them. Elóil took his place to Lot’s left. He alone never disparaged her. She was grateful to see him now, even as the blood rushed to her face. Lot wanted to shame her, she knew, but was there no room for her to see to her own needs? Was it always to be about these people?

“I have heard naught of my family since you brought me here,” she persisted. “I miss them.”

“I am yer family now, does that na’ suffice?”

“You,” she spat, but quickly recovered herself. She was only annoying him now, but as soon as she defied him, he would deal her a worse turn than embarrassment. She softened, “You are busy with your court, or away with my stepsire in delegations and war. And I know you do not wish to keep a woman’s company for countless hours.”

“In that,” he replied, “ye are right, for night and day all I see of ye is this blathering and sighing and sobbing, lamenting yer terrible lot.”

“Terrible,” she repeated, coy. This was the best chance she’d have. She leaned on him, letting her fingers trail along his arms. “I never thought you so, and I do not always lament.”

He smiled. It was a foxlike expression Margaise had come to both love and hate with equal fervor. “When ye’re na abed with me then, all ye do is whine. Now, what do ye want?”

“Allow me to send for my sister.”

“Sister? Anna can na’more shirk her duties tae her husband than ye may shun yers tae me.”

“Not Anna,” she said. “Morgan.”

Elóil coughed but said nothing. Several beats passed in the oppressive quiet. Finally, Lot broke the silence with an abrupt laugh. “Morgan! Ye would have me call that witch here?”

“She is no witch!”

“Na’ a witch then, is she?” he asked. Then he stood back, leaning on the wall, pretending he was shocked by some half-forgotten revelation. “That’s right, Uther’s had her in prayer, hasn’t he? I suppose she’s a fair fetching little nun now and the monks will agree. She was the pretty one.” He had his joke at her expense and then his tone changed. “Dinna forget that there are those in this court who’ll call her a servant of the Morrigan.”

Elóil quickly made a sign to ward off the war goddesses’ influence. Lot didn’t move except to cross his arms over his chest and grin at his wife. He wasn’t concerned with a threat from black magic or deities. He was trying to win the game.

Margaise gripped his forearm. “Let her come to me, my lord, she will do no harm.”

“Ye think I shall allow this without first making ye promise tae keep her under control?”

Margaise straightened. “A promise I gladly make.”

He laughed again, long and loud, his voice booming within the corridor. “Ye promise it, do ye? Ha! The bitch Uther Pendragon himself had tae ship tae a nunnery because she was tae uncontrollable! And ye, who canna keep yer own handmaids behaved if your Gahd himself commanded it, promise tae govern Morgan!”

She withdrew. It was time for a new tactic. “You would not be so cruel to me if I told you she knew what arts would guarantee us a son.”

He stopped laughing, but the mockery hadn’t faded yet.

“Ye think she’ll succeed where Brid failed?”

“I know so.”

Margaise thought she’d finally won, finally gotten what she longed for. Then Elóil spoke.

“My Laird, I dinna’ ken…”

Margaise cringed. The mere suggestion of doubt from him was death to the question at hand. He stood there like a stag beside Lot, invincible, immobile. She met his dark green eyes, his impassive gaze. Even then, she had to admit to herself she’d have loved him if he’d let her. It would have been easier than loving Lot.

“I dinna’ ken if it’s a wise idea,” he said, turning to his kinsman.

Margaise ground her teeth, any admiration she had for him vanished. This was proving much harder than she’d thought. “Elóil!” She gasped. “How dare you? Why would you deny me the one thing I have requested since I was brought here?” Tears stung her eyes and her voice trembled. “Have I not treated you well, and your wife, and your sons? What more may I do?”

“My queen, it is na’ for lack of respect or gratitude I voice doubt.” Elóil half bowed to her. It was more respect than any laird owed her, but he offered it anyway. She wouldn’t accept it.

“Then what is it?” She asked sharply.

He sighed. “Morgan is dark.”

“No she is not!” she snapped. “What is this talk of darkness? She is stronger than Uther wills her to be! That is why he told you these lies!”

Elóil faced Lot. “Only harm will follow if she is permitted here.” Now he shut her out and returned to the business only he and Lot were to attend. It wasn’t fair. The only thing she wanted was moments away from being taken from her because of heathen superstition. Damn Uther for sending her here, damn Lot for taking her, and damn Elóil because he stood in her way.

Margaise shook head to foot, rife with anger and she sank, giving in to the tears that burned their way down her cheeks.

“I hate you!” she screamed like a child out of control. A queenly request had failed, so all she had left was a tantrum.

“My lady queen, please, understand….”

She peeked over her forearm to see his suddenly pale face. Elóil, the diplomat of Lot’s court, was embarrassed, not an emotion he carried well. Ordinarily she would’ve been sorry for it, since he alone respected her. Today she felt a surge of triumph as he searched for words to calm her.

Lot’s voice cut the tension.

“Haud yer wheesht, Elóil.”

Elóil nodded once and stepped back.

“Margaise, compose yerself,” he continued. The order wasn’t harsh, but she didn’t dare ignore it.

She looked at her husband. It was not compassion in his hard blue eyes, just as his voice had not been gentle and cajoling, but it gave her hope.

“Yes, my lord,” she said quietly and rose to her feet, clasping her fingers to steady the shaking in her hands.

“I shall bring yer sister here tae try her hand.”

“You will? Oh Lot!” she said as she leaped upon him, arms around his neck, “Thank you, thank you!”

“Lot?” Elóil asked, his tone unchanged. “Are ye sure?”

Lot pried Margaise’s arms from around his neck and gently pushed her away. “I said
quiet. Or would ye rather wish tae foster over one of yer boys?”

“I should rather lose them both than have a prince and a king be touched by darkness.”

Lot laughed. “Leave it be. Ye ken her magic is nae more than plants and potions.”

The other man was not settled, Margaise could see that in the tightness of his jaw.

“So now, Margaise,” Lot said, “what happens if her ‘arts’ give us only another stillborn whelp?”

“I shall be wrong and you may send her away.” Margaise conceded the conditions to him. She knew him well enough. He always had to think he’d won whatever challenge he’d engaged in.

Lot nodded. “Very well then, send for her, and we shall test her juggling. Now out of my sight with this glaikit railing, before I change my mind.”

***

Winter ended, the days grew longer, and rolling fog soon dominated the southern waters of the Orkneys. No word came from the messengers, but little doubt remained that Morgan would soon arrive in Lot’s court.

It was a cool morning late in the spring when the watchman’s horn sounded the approach of a vessel. The groaning carynx shook Elóil from sleep as the sun, which barely dipped below the horizon in the summer, brightened.
“Must be today, then,” he said.

There was a stir beside him and warm skin brushed against his own as Liusaidh woke. “What must be today?”

“The queen’s sister.”

“Ach. Lady Margaise will be pleased,” she replied as she yawned, then stretched like a cat before settling in against his side once more.

“Before it’s over she may be sorry.”

“Ye dinna’ really believe she is so bad, do ye?” she asked.

He sighed. Did he? He had not met the woman before. Yet the dreams had begun, and he had not rested well since her coming was suggested.

“I hope I am wrong, Liusaidh. I would love na’thing more than tae see the queen happy with her sister at her side, but it’s the dreams….”

“Dreams?” Her half closed eyes opened wide.

“Aye.”

“What dreams?” She shifted so she lay partly on his chest, resting a hand against his cheek.

“A blood moon,” he said, “rising over Orkney in the simmer dim. Then shadows overtake us, but na’ the Norse. This shadow is from the south, from Uther’s kingdom. There’s always blood, and always, always a bairn crying in the night.”

They lay quiet for a few minutes that seemed to go on forever. He saw the intensity in her sea-green eyes as she studied his face.

“Ye have na’ dreamed like that in years.”

The carynx sounded again, and Elóil groaned. “Be whate’er it may, the king asked me tae escort Margaise, so I must.”

He released his wife from the embrace and got up.

“Aye,” she said. “Take care when ye go. I dinna’ want the crying bairn in yer dream tae be our sons.”

***

Elóil was uneasy as he led Margaise to the seaside to meet her sister. They waited together on the coarse gravel sand, both straining their eyes to see through the fog, one for an appearance of her sister’s vessel, the other for the hidden horror he knew approached. A moment passed when a shadow moved within the fog, then the graceful arched prow of the boat emerged. This did little to set Elóil at ease. The dragon figurehead looked like a misshapen monster, the boat that followed, a shadow-laden body about to sink beneath the darkness it carried. The boat docked and the gangplank was lowered. A few guardsmen marched in file down the ramp, their Romanesque armor shining in the vague light.

Morgan descended behind them. She was a lovely young woman, her porcelain skin flawless, with hints of color on her cheeks and lips. Her fairness was heightened by the black novice’s habit that framed her face. A few long strands of hair peeked from beneath the habit, showing her disdain for strictures. She was striking and Elóil knew there was a time not too long past that she might have come down the gangplank in the garb of a priestess rather than a nun. She would have been that much more beautiful because he could have respected her beauty and still known exactly what she was and what she planned to do. As it stood, the novice’s habit hid more than her hair. It, like the God she supposedly prayed to, was being used to hide a much more sinister aim.
To Elóil, who at the very least understood the Christians’ God to be good, the prospect was unsettling.

He was given no more time to muse. Morgan’s feet were hardly on the ground before Margaise ran to her with open arms. When the sisters embraced, such was the show of genuine affection it would have melted the most stalwart heart. Had he not been so sure of his dreams, Elóil might have dropped his guard. He didn’t dare turn his back on them.

He felt Morgan glaring at him over Margaise’s shoulder before he saw her. Morgan’s eyes, though lovely and deep, shone with serpentine malice. Elóil returned the challenge, but she merely smiled. He knew then that this was no battle, but the beginning of a war.

***

For all of Margaise’s efforts, Lot’s court treated Morgan with fear and disdain. The queen’s maidservants, even young Ragnell, were rigid and silent when Morgan was with the her sister, and Margaise could not count the times that she watched Ragnell change before her eyes from a happy, talkative child into an almost perfect statue. How Margaise hated the fear and superstition that pervaded this court. Part of her blamed Elóil for it, for it was he, not Lot, who earnestly believed her sister was evil.Even his wife avoided her. Should Morgan turn a corner on the noblewoman, Liusaidh would regard her with the same malice as a mother wildcat turns upon an intruder, and herd her sons away.

Lot ignored Morgan as he usually ignored the women of the court. What was she to him? Her purpose here was to ensure her sister’s fertility, and Lot played his part in the work to the hilt. Margaise had never had his company so often, and some part of her began to believe, perhaps, that he was beginning to care for her, at the very least. Still she drank the vile brews her sister concocted, and followed all of Morgan’s directions to the letter. A legitimate heir was what Lot needed, and if she filled that need then maybe, just maybe, his visits would become more than use and duty. Maybe he would treasure her for the gift she had given him. Maybe, finally, he would love her. If it was so, she could live forever scorned by his court. What were they to her, if Lot loved her?

The weeks passed and by late summer, all of Morgan’s work came to fruition. Margaise was pregnant. No sooner had the queen learned of her condition than she went to her sister. “Morgan! Morgan! Wake up!” She pounded at the quarter door in her excitement. “Sister! Sister, it worked!”

Morgan slowly opened the door, looking as though she had slept little that night.
“What is it?”

“It worked! Whatever the spell or the potion, Sister, it worked! Scry for me and tell me what it shall be.”

“Very well then,” Morgan said. “Come, I’ll see what I can learn.” She led Margaise to the center of the room. “Sit here,” she said, indicating a place on the stone floor. “I must prepare the ritual.”

She shut the door, plunging the room into darkness. At that moment, Margaise realized there were no windows in this chamber. A spark in the blackness brought a candle to life, then another, and another. She heard the shift of bare feet on the floor as Morgan began to walk a counter-sunwise circle around her, stopping to place the candles in a pattern as she went. Margaise felt a chill enter her heart as her sister’s voice rose in a chant. The deep, pure tones of Morgan’s voice were corrupted by the words and by the chamber itself, and echoed as though there were a demonic choir hissing the chant from the rafters.

“Morgan,” she began unsteadily, “Morgan, please stop. I don’t want to do this anymore.” Her voice sounded small compared to the sinister song. She found herself weak against it. The tones hammered at her will, ate at her resolve. Soon, it began to lull her into complacency. The song rose and engulfed the room until everything became nonsensical.

Another strike of flint, and the strong odor of incense filled the room. At first it stung Margaise’s nose and made her eyes burn. It had the sickly-sweet smell of decay about it. Her head reeled. The smoke diffused the candlelight and the chamber took on an eerie glow. Morgan filtered in and out of the incense smoke like a wraith.

A scratching noise crept along the floor as Morgan marked the stones with a bit of burned wood from the fireplace, connecting each of the three candles with a line till Margaise found herself sitting in an inverted triangle. Morgan then painted a circle on the floor around her sister with a thick, dark liquid, unidentifiable in the low light.

Margaise felt trapped, as if she could no more move than a bird in a cage could fly away. The chant grew louder as these feelings of misgiving grew in her, stamping out her resistance. Again, she could hear the echoes in the rafters, the demon choir above her head. The incredible weight of a pressing darkness leered at her from the hidden places in the chamber. It chained her and sank deep into her mind to lull her anew.
A sudden pain in her hand made her eyes fly open. Morgan knelt before her, pressing the fresh cut on her hand into an obsidian bowl no bigger than her cupped palm.

“Wh-why did you cut me?” Margaise asked.

Morgan looked at her with eyes transfigured to a reflection of the strange, glowing redness. “I need your blood to see your son.” When she spoke, her voice was a low hiss. The chant had stripped it of its beauty. She set a candle between them and lowered the bowl to look at the blood under the light.

Their breaths and the dancing of the candle flame stirred the liquid. Flickering images crossed in the ripples, and Margaise thought she saw the beginnings of a vision materialize when Morgan spoke again.

“A son,” Morgan said, “his father’s very image.”

Margaise smiled. “Will Lot love me then?” she asked.

Morgan looked back into the blood. Slowly her face drained of color and her eyes widened. A twisted grimace appeared on her lovely lips but faded quickly. “Lot’s love will be hard won,” she said. “What are you willing to do to earn it?”

“Anything. I would bear him twenty sons! I would break my body to pieces!” Margaise seized Morgan’s shoulder.

“Will you kill?” Morgan pulled away.

“Kill? Who would I have to kill?” Margaise was confused. Elóil? Surely not. That would
earn her death.

Morgan reached across the bowl and rested her hand on her sister’s still flat abdomen.

“This boy.”

“I cannot! My God, this is my son!” Margaise gasped. She laced her fingers over her womb and curled, instinctively protective of her child.

“If you want to preserve Lot’s line and his claim, you will.”

“Why? What did you see?”

Morgan raised her hand to the back of Margaise’s head and lowered her face to the blood-bowl. Morgan spoke as Margaise looked, never removing her hand from the back of her sister’s neck.

“King Lot has sired a fine son on you, Margaise, my sister,” she said. “But he has also sired his doom, if you let this one live. Blood speaks true. There is treachery in the one you carry now.”

Margaise saw the blood swirling in the light with the ripples her breath made on its surface.

Morgan continued to speak, her voice regaining its resonance as the smoke thickened around them. “The banner of Orkney stands proud now,” she said, “and you contribute to its strength. Lot knows not what his son shall do, but listen and I shall teach you. You wish for a great and wild man to love you. You must prove worthy of that love, even if it casts from you something else you would cherish with your dearest heart.”
The ripples moved again and Margaise began to see what the future held. “There will be a great Dragon in the south. Uther will be thrown down and the Wyrmling will take his place. He will fight to bend all the peoples of Britannia to his will. Those he cannot subdue, he will have his magician enchant. Sons will turn against fathers, fathers against sons in favor of this new risen Dragon.”

It was a horrible beast, red and gleaming in the light of a golden sun, engulfing all of its assailants in a great black maw that spewed sulfurous smoke. Soon it faded, and Margaise saw the visage of a young man, red haired and in the full strength of youth, walking away from Lot. He had her eyes.

“Your son will turn from his father. He will betray and abandon his hereditary lands and title. He will let the shadow from the North invade and rape his father’s realm to serve this new dragon-king. Then Lot will stand with eleven allies against the wrath of the invader.”

The vision shifted and became a portrait of two armies coming together in the early dawn. Banners flew in the wind, proud, triumphant.

“The son’s treachery will cause his father’s death.” Morgan paused as Lot’s banner fell. There was a man’s battle cry and a sword stroke fell. The sound of Lot’s last shout was cut short and Margaise saw his circlet fall to the ground, split in half.

“Death follows death, and all of your sons who come after will die because of this one.”

“Lot will die?” she asked slowly.

“If you suffer this child to live. You will have other sons who will be brave, strong, and loyal to their father. These sons will teach him to love you. Your second born will be the fittest for Lothian’s throne.”

Margaise saw another face, with her dark hair and light eyes. This son had a calculating expression, the look of a contained ruler who studied his subjects and was an able diplomat, a man who could control those beneath him.

“And the last born shall be the greatest of them all,” Morgan whispered, her words sinking deep. “You will be the mother of kings, the mother of great princes, remembered forever for their deeds. Lot will see this, and he will love you, for through your sons, his name will become immortal. So, Sister, I ask you again, will you kill for his love? Do you love him enough to save his life?”

Desperately, Margaise searched her memories for a time her older sister’s gift was wrong. She needed one reason to be a skeptic, to say no and save her baby. Even when they were children, Morgan had predicted things. The events had always come to pass. Morgan had told her their father would die, that an enemy would steal their mother from him.

Within five days, Goloris was dead.

If Morgan was right, she carried her husband’s killer. The boy would become the man who would murder his brothers and bring his kingdom, the only thing Lot loved, crashing down.

She closed her eyes against the tears. She had to save so much. Her son would die. She would have others. Lot would overlook the death, somehow. He would love her though he would never know her sacrifice. Her other sons would grow into strong men, into kings and heroes. Perhaps one of them would even become the High King.
Because of her decision, Lot would live to see it. Lot would have everything he wanted and he would love her for it.

“Yes,” she finally gasped, “yes, I will. I would do anything for him.”

A smile crept across Morgan’s face, and the queen thought it was a look of comfort.

“I will drug him when he is born so that the others think he is dead. He shall be cast into the sea. We shall have to send one of the maids to do it to protect ourselves,” Morgan said. “Someone who will not notice. The child, Ragnell. She will do nicely.”

“Ragnell?”

“An orphan with little to lose. She will do as she is told. As for Lot, we shall tell him only the babe was stillborn and you had someone take him away for burial preparation.”
Margaise shook her head. Killing her son was one thing, but asking her to endanger another innocent child to do it? She accepted the murder as her own burden.

“She’s barely six.”

“I am well aware of her age,” Morgan replied. “If all goes as planned, none of us will suffer.”

It didn’t settle well on Margaise’s conscience but she kept quiet.

“She’ll never know and neither will the boy,” Morgan said. “Unless of course you don’t care that the innocent you’re trying to protect will kill his father.”

Margaise cringed at the memory of the vision. “All right,” she said. “Whatever it takes, as long as it’s painless.”

Morgan clasped her sister’s shoulder. “Of course I will,” she said. “We’ll give him to the sea and he’ll go quietly. She’ll never know and you can forget all of it.”

Margaise looked away. She could never forget it.

“Is there not some spell or some potion that will ensure he is not born at all?”

“Not without serious, perhaps fatal, cost to us both. No, you must carry the infant, bear him, and let him drown. His death is the only way.”

***

The months passed too quickly, and Margaise dreaded the day of her delivery. It was an unseasonably warm day in May. Margaise wandered the halls of the caer, trying to distract herself from the coming challenge, hoping she would fall and free herself before she sinned so unforgivably.

For the first time in many months, Ragnell walked with her, clutching her hand. A sharp pain ripped through the queen and she gasped.

“Milady?” Ragnell said. “Are ye well?”

“Ragnell,” Margaise rasped, “go get a nurse. It’s time.”

Even when her labor began, she prayed the boy would die before she had to order him killed. The nursemaids bustled to her side and herded her into the birthing chamber. Morgan waited for her there, a vial tucked into the folds of her dress.

While the queen lay there crying out, Morgan’s plan was foiled. Lot waited in the corridor.

The hours dragged by before the prince was born. To the sisters’ dismay, he let fly a lusty roar at the world as soon as he was able. Once the nursemaids cleared away all signs of the birth and the queen was bedded down with the child, Lot came into the room.

The child was big, but in spite of that, the birth had not gone badly for Margaise. She was grateful for that, and her heart soared when she saw Lot come so quickly to her side. Her sadness forgotten in the wake of her joy, she placed their son into his father’s arms.

Lot looked him over and smiled at great length, “His name is Gwalchmais, my son and heir tae Orkney and Lothian.” The Hawk of May. Margaise thought it a fine name suited for kingship and glory. She saw the joy in her husband’s face and thought Lot might finally love her for giving him such a healthy, stalwart child, a boy worthy of the name his father bestowed.

Ragnell smiled and laughed with Margaise. “What will ye call him when he’s baptized?” she asked. “He’s a fine bairn, my lady, and needs a fine name tae go with it.”

“Gawain, I think,” she said. “If King Lot agrees.”

“Tis fine enough for a name the world will ken,” Lot said. “If I must allow this christening business, then let it be Gawain.”

Margaise took her son to her breast. Lot watched her for a moment. She met his glance and saw that the harshness was gone from his eyes and he regarded her with pride.
Morgan must have been wrong. Lot’s fondness would turn to admiration, and soon love. Then she would have everything she ever wanted.

***

Days passed, the baptism occurred, and Margaise did not follow her sister’s order. The week waxed long and Morgan could not shake the vision from her head. She waited, seething. The boy would be an obstacle in the future, a man outside of her realm of control unless she employed trickery.

She went to Margaise’s chamber in a rage, which was only stoked when she saw her sister coddling the princeling.

Margaise looked up, “Morgan. Good evening…”

Morgan stalked to her side and wound her fingers in Margaise’s hair, and snatched it.
Margaise’s cry startled Gawain, and he started to fuss.

“I told you to throw him in the sea!” she hissed. “I should make you drown him in a trough! Where is that girl, Ragnell?”

“Morgan no, please don’t! Lot…Lot finally loves me. I don’t need to do this.”

Morgan slapped her, “He doesn’t love you, don’t fool yourself! You gave him a son, that is all he cares about! I told you your future sons will win his love for you. This one will kill them all.”

Margaise began to cry. “You take him then!” She shoved the infant into her sister’s arms, “You do it! I shall tell Lot he died in the night!”

Morgan thrust the boy back to his mother, hissing through her teeth. “It’s too late for that now! You let him be baptized and I cannot touch him. Now Ragnell will have to pay for his murder. I shall put it in Lot’s mind to hunt in the morning, and then the boy dies.”
Morgan left before Margaise could protest.

***

The next day, King Lot and his resident lairds went hunting. A stag had been sighted near the caer. Many of the men suspected it was a ghost or an omen, for there had been no deer on the islands since Gwyar’s time when a mainland stag and three hinds had been captured and set free there. While a stag was not the quarry Morgan had anticipated for Lot, it would suit her purpose, distracting the king, and save her the trouble of conjuring an illusion she would have to sustain.

Ragnell was summoned as soon as Lot rode out of sight, and Morgan made her carry Gawain to the seaside. He was quiet but Ragnell had seen him breathing. She sang and talked to him all the long walk to the water’s edge, hoping to bring him back from the sluggish state his aunt’s drugging had induced. She knew she couldn’t throw him in the waves of the inlet.

“If I give ye my basket,” she said, “mayhap ye’ll float tae the next island, or maybe the selkies will take ye tae the mainland so someone may find ye.” She lowered the basket she used for gathering and placed him in it after wrapping him securely in his blanket to shield him from the sea spray. “Forgive me…” she said quietly. “May the angels watch over ye.” She bent to place the basket and its sleeping occupant into the washing tide.
As the basket began to tip and bobble, Ragnell wiped her eyes. A stag, panting and bewildered, leaped into the waves of the inlet and swam across to a parallel bank. This stole her attention even as she sobbed. When he climbed onto the rocky beach again, he looked at her.

She watched him until a voice broke the silence.

“Lot, in the water!”

The stag gave a start and broke once more for the sparse forest. Then Lot’s hand fell heavily on the back of her neck. She thought the grip might break her spine, and curled herself into a defensive ball. It did no good, though. Lot lifted her off the ground and threw her onto the sand. She slid a few feet before she was able to face him.

“What are ye doing?” Lot demanded.

“My Laird, I--”

He shoved her into the water. “Get the boy or die in the attempt!”

“She willna’ reach him in time,” Elóil said. “Let me go.” He’d already started to steer his horse after the child.

“Stay where ye are,” Lot replied. “She gets him or I shoot her myself.”

“But yer son…” Elóil said. “If we tarry he’ll…”

“Enough.” Lot returned to his horse and removed his bow from across the saddle cantle. He nocked an arrow and drew the bow, leveling the weapon at Ragnell’s back.

The basket had not washed far, but the rough tide pushed Ragnell back and she was forced to scramble to the basket, half swimming and staggering. As she finally came near it, a wave thrust the child out of her grasp and back toward the bank. She let out a wail of despair, and another wave knocked her down.

Behind Lot, Elóil urged his horse into the surf after the children. As Ragnell recovered, but before Elóil could reach her or Gawain, a pair of steady hands lifted the misted infant free of his basket. The waves lapped around the newcomer’s legs and toyed with the trailing edge of his cloak.

“Mind your son, King Lot. Small princes are of little use if misplaced.”

The stranger waded to the stony shore as Elóil pulled the desperate Ragnell out of the water and returned to Lot, who threw his bow aside and dragged the girl from the saddle as soon as she was within arm’s reach.

“Lot, hold your wrath,” the stranger said. He approached Lot but looked at the princeling first. “There is wanderlust in him. This first adventure has spoiled him for staying near home.” He forced the child into his father’s arms before he stooped and got Ragnell to her feet and away from the king. “I claim the girl under my protection. For your son, return him to his mother. She shall be surprised to see him again.”

“Merlin,” Lot said as he wrapped his cloak around his son. “Was it ye who put this thought in that little bitch’s head?”

Merlin shook his head. “It was not. But there was an order given. Trust to it, Lot, this girl would do the prince no harm of her own volition. That was why he was in the basket and not under the waves.”

Lot glared at Ragnell. “Who told ye tae do this, lass?”

“My laird it was Lady Morgan. She said that the prince was dead and I had tae take him tae the sea gahds and…” she cringed, expecting death any moment. “Then I saw him breathing and I didna’ want tae hurt him but she said if I didna’ do it, she’d hurt Lady Margaise.”

Lot glared at her, studying her. Ragnell looked steadily at her king’s boots, but it seemed his eyes might burn a hole through her head.

“It’s Morgan ye need tae punish,” Elóil said at length. “She manipulated the child.”
Silence stretched into eternity and finally, Lot said, “Leave my sight. Two good men vouch for ye today and one has claimed ye as his responsibility. It seems the auld gods favor ye.”

Ragnell wept with relief. Merlin spoke at the sight of her tears, “Don’t weep so, child. I shall set you on a new road.” He put a hand on her shoulder for a moment.
She nodded and looked down.
“It is a fortunate thing your stag escaped this way, Lot.”

“Aye, escaped because of my dealings with this dalliance.”

“He was never meant to be caught,” Merlin said. “Your fate was to find your son before it was too late. The stag’s was to lead you to him.”

“Fate,” Lot spat on the ground. “I ken Morgan’s. I’ll have her skull on a pike.”

“Let it all be a lesson to you not to trust to trickery when time will work the same result. This boy would have been conceived without any help from Morgan. Now he and all your sons to follow will be touched by her darkness. Only their hearts’ character will
determine whether they bear up against it.”

Merlin, guiding Ragnell, left Lot standing on the shore beside his mounted battle chief, holding his son.

***

When Lot returned to the castle, Margaise met him. “My king, your hunt went…” she froze. Terror and relief tore her heart at seeing her son alive in his sire’s arms.
“Gawain…”

“Where is Morgan?” Lot asked, each syllable strained.

“I know not.” It wasn’t a lie. Since she’d sent Ragnell away that morning, Morgan had been scarce.

He struck her so hard across the face that she fell back from the force of the blow.
Once on the ground, she clutched her swelling cheek.

“Ye tell me where she is or I’ll hunt her, and when I find her I’ll cut her head off and hang it in yer quarters!”

Margaise paled further, setting off the bruise rising in her cheek, “I haven’t seen her,” she whispered, grasping at his boots. “Please, my lord husband, you do not understand.”

He kicked her in the ribs before she had a chance to rise. “Whatever trap she lays for my line, I’ll have none of this from ye! Ye, the mother who would let a witch destroy yer own son!”

“She scried it!” she screamed. “She said he would shame Orkney and Lothian! She said he would undo you! She said he would betray!”

“Damn her!” Lot shouted. “If the boy shames me it will be on his own head, na’ in a witch’s hands!”

Margaise clutched at his feet. “Do not kill her, Lot! She’s my sister!”

“And Gwalchmais is your son! Tell me, did ye beg her tae spare him?”

The words cut to some deep reach of her soul. Margaise released his leg. “She said he would kill you. I did it because I love you,” she said.

“Ye love na’thing but yerself. Get off the floor and get this writhing brat tae a nurse. And if, when I see him next, he is a mite more damaged, I shall murder ye and yer precious sister both. Ye’ll have nae more dealings with the boy. The nurse will feed him till he’s auld enough tae eat on his own, then Elóil and Liusaidh will be responsible for him. As for Morgan, she’s going back tae Uther’s court. He can deal with her there as he likes. I willna’ risk open war with the Pendragon. Be grateful for that, or I’d kill ye where ye lie.”

Margaise got to her feet and Lot shoved the child into her arms. She turned, her face swollen and her breathing shallow, to do as her husband ordered. Gawain curled against her, and for the first time since his birth, she felt revulsion. All her love, all her wish for it, had come to this? The boy would live but he would not be her son.