holy.
But in those days she had been only a lowly postulant, and she knew from bleak experience that no one would listen to her
anyway. She was doomed to know the truth but never dare to speak it, a marred Cassandra, unable either to warn or to guide.
She knew that for as long as Arthur wandered, Merlin would remain at Camelot, helping to guide Arthur’s young Queen to rule
the land. And so every morning and evening for the last seven years Nimue had added her own special prayers to those of the
Abbey, praying for Arthur’s speedy and safe return.
But if God had heard her prayers, He had not granted them. Perhaps her faith was too weak to compel His attention, and she
must strengthen it through further vows.
Nimue hung her head, listening to the holy silence all around her. Was that the reason behind her decision to join the novitiate?
To make a vassal of God?
Or did she do this in the hopes of erecting a further barrier between herself and Queen Mab? On the night after Merlin had
left her, she had gone walking in the herb garden to calm her soul—and there Queen Mab had found her.
Though Nimue had heard tales of the wicked Queen Mab all her life, it had been the first time she had ever seen the Queen
of the Old Ways. She had been wary, and rightfully so, for the Queen of Magic had come to offer her a devil’s bargain:
“I’ll restore your beauty if you take Merlin away to a place I’ve created for you. You can live with him there to the end
of your days.”
Nimue had refused, but Mab had not withdrawn her offer.
“If you change your mind, just call my name. Out loud.”
And so the matter had lain between them for the last seven years. Was it any wonder that Nimue, weary with the unequal battle
between her mind and her heart, sought to put the temptation as far away from her as she could?
To be whole—to be with Merlin—there was nothing more Nimue could imagine wanting. But all Mab’s promises led to selfish and
wicked ends. Britain needed Merlin more than she did, so long as Arthur was away. And so Nimue turned to God to protect her
from her own heart.
Come back to us, King Arthur!
Nimue prayed angrily, clutching her fists against her chest.
Come back to us! Your people need you!
And I need Merlin.…
The woods were bright with the leaves of spring, a dappled canopy of green and gold between the knights below and the sky
above. Arthur gazed up at the sunlight, sighing disconsolately. The beauty of springtime was eternal, but even that could
not buoy his spirits at this moment. His quest had never been closer to failure than it was now, nor Arthur closer to despair.
When they had ridden out through the gates of Camelot seven years before, they had been four-and-forty of the most puissant
knights in Christendom. In seven years their travels had led them through Gallacia, Allemagne, and the kingdom of the Rus,
all in fruitless search for the Grail. They had seen marvels and wonders—serpents made of living fire, giants taller than
trees, peasant huts that walked on chicken legs—but they had received only tantalizing rumors of the Grail. The years that
had passed had winnowed their numbers. Some had died, some had been taken hostage by foreign kings, some had succumbed to
magic and enchantments. Only a scant two dozen of them remained, and Arthur feared that by nightfall their numbers would be
thinned further.
A narrow path led through the woods down to the banks of the river. Across that river lay the road to Rome, and Arthur had
hopes that the Eternal City would at last hold the answers he and his men had sought so diligently. Surely Roma Magnus, once
the center of the world, held news of the whereabouts of the treasure they so eagerly sought? They had been following the
banks of the river for three days, looking for a place that was shallow and slow enough that the armored knights could cross
safely.
But finding a ford hadn’t solved their problems.