When Stella arrived at the grove, she found it deserted. Although she could not have said how, she sensed that Oberon had been absent for some time. She called his name a few times anyway and sat on the stone bench to think.
Could he have meditated himself out of existence, dematerialized? No, that was absurd—she laughed at herself, that such an idea should be the first to occur to her. If he’s gone anywhere, she thought, that’s good. It means he’s coming back to life. Could he be out gathering information about the axe?
She waited for an hour, staring down the avenue between the two straight rows of oaks, but she knew somehow he would not be back that day. She and her brother had always known each other’s mind—at least, until Oberon had lost himself in meditation. She thought back to their life in the Old World, to the period spent on the great starship, to the day he captained the pod that set their group down on a rocky island to colonize this planet—all long ago now. Ah, would that he could be more like he was then!
Stella stood and began her way down the track that would take her back to the stream. When she next saw Oberon, she must convince him of the importance of what she had been learning from the mortals. Having fought her desire to possess Karman, having witnessed his unshakeable devotion to Etaine—which she herself had put to the test—she had now also been confronted with the love of father and son, of mother and child. She was beginning to realize that the highest form of love expected nothing in return; real love was the desire to live heart and soul for another.
The knight she was in love with was mortal; one day, he would grow old and die. The same fate awaited young Darin, but Stella’s love would go on and on. Now she could see that the years spent watching over the stream had foreshadowed something far greater. Henceforth, she would care for Karman’s family, for Darin and his descendants, generation after generation—her knight’s bloodline would be the stream she would watch over, forevermore.
A thin mist had crept down the hillside and gradually invaded the woods on either side of the track. Suddenly, from up ahead, came the din of many hooves; dark forms were materializing through the haze. Stella stepped off the path to wait beneath the trees.
The first two riders to emerge from the mist rode side by side. One was a knight, mailed but bareheaded. He had a lean face, young, with fierce eyes; over his armour, he wore a scarlet surcoat and his shield displayed a dragon—like Arthur’s, but black instead of red. Next to him, astride a fine white stallion, rode Morgan the Enchantress, her long raven hair blowing wild from under a conical helmet of silver and gold. She too wore chain-mail, gleaming beneath a cloak of dark blue silk fastened at the neck by a wolf’s head clasp. A jewelled sword hung at her side. Close after these two came a score or more horsemen, their steeds snorting steamy breath in plumes to mingle with the surrounding vapours.
Morgan lifted her hand and the whole troop came to a halt. Then she rode slowly towards Stella, fixing her with her gaze. The red knight made as though to follow, but she waved him back.
“So, faerie, we meet again at last.”
Stella nodded her head in acknowledgement and stared wordlessly up at the enchantress.
Morgan drew her ripe, red lips back in a sneer. “I know you helped Karman’s boy to free him—and to despatch my servant,” she said. “You reneged on our agreement.”
“We had no agreement, Morgan.”
“The axe in exchange for your knight, remember? But none of that matters now. There are greater things afoot.”
Stella jerked her head towards the red knight. “Who do you ride with?”
“That is Mordred, Arthur’s nephew. We go together to raise an army against the might of Camelot.” Morgan looked back at Mordred and his men, then sidled up closer and spoke softly. “But I can stop him, if you will take a message to Arthur.”
“What message?”
“Tell him I can assure him of victory over Mordred’s forces if he will renounce Guinevere and return to me. She doesn’t love him—the whole world knows she cares only for Lancelot.”
Stella stared at Morgan. It’s true then—she and Arthur were once lovers. “He will never agree,” she said after a pause. “He swore an oath to his queen—as sacred to him as the oath he swore to his subjects and to the Knights of the Round Table. But you wouldn’t understand.”
Morgan threw back her head. “But I do understand! What Arthur has brought about—Camelot, Logres, the law, the bond of honour, what you will—is the noblest, most magnificent achievement his race shall ever know.” Morgan’s voice was savage. “And that is why I shall take such satisfaction in watching Mordred trample it into dust.”
She pulled her horse’s head round and started back towards the waiting company. Then she turned in her saddle to look at Stella one more time. “Tell him he has three days,” she hissed. “Otherwise, he shall die—they will all die. And all because of a faithless wife.”
She dug in her spurs and galloped into the mist, followed closely by Mordred and his men.