Free The Road to Avalon by Joan Wolf

is just back from the north,” Merlin had told Ector, “and this is a good opportunity for Arthur to meet him.”
    “Has the army returned to Venta as well?” Ector asked, and Merlin had smiled and answered, “Yes. And I promise to bring Cai home for a visit if I can.”
    This conversation was in his mind now as he remarked to Arthur, “It will be good to see Cai again.”
    “Yes,” said Arthur.
    The boy was not making it easy. He had responded politely to all of Merlin’s comments, but his face had an abstracted expression that said he was not listening very closely to his grandfather’s conversation. There was nothing about him to offer a clue as to how he was going to react to the news Merlin had to impart. You know him, Uther had said. Merlin thought he knew his brain. He knew the trained skill of that young body. But he did not know Arthur. He doubted anyone did. Except, of course, Morgan.
    Merlin cleared his throat. “Arthur,” he began determinedly, “the time has come to speak about your parentage.” Merlin stared at the road ahead, not at the boy beside him. Arthur did not answer. “I know you think you are my son,” Merlin went on, “and, indeed, you have cause to think so . . .” There was a movement from Arthur, and Merlin turned.
    The boy’s gray eyes were perfectly steady. “But I have never thought I was your son.”
    For some reason, this revelation sounded a note of warning. Merlin tried to shake it off. “You are probably the only person at Avalon, then, to feel that way,” he said with an attempt at dry humor. Arthur’s face did not change. “Why didn’t you think so?” Merlin asked curiously.
    “I remember well my mother telling me that I looked like my father,” the boy replied. “I don’t look like you.”
    Dear Christ, thought Merlin with unaccustomed blasphemy. “Whose son did you think you were?” he asked at last.
    “I have no idea.” Arthur looked at him. “Are you going to tell me?”
    “Yes. Well . . .” Merlin took a steadying breath. “Malwyn told you true when she said you looked like your father. You will see for yourself shortly, although the resemblance is not so clear since he became ill. Arthur . . .” Here he stopped his horse. Arthur’s pony stopped as well. “Your father is Uther Pendragon, High King of Britain.”
    There was not a flicker of expression on the boy’s face.
    “Did you hear me?”
    “Yes. I heard you.” Dark shadows suddenly appeared under Arthur’s eyes. “So he is the one who sent my mother to Cornwall.”
    “No.” Merlin leaned a little forward in his eagerness to explain, and his horse, feeling the shift in weight, walked forward again. Merlin halted him. “You don’t understand, Arthur. Malwyn was not your mother. She was Igraine’s serving woman, and when it was deemed necessary to send you away, she assumed the role of your mother. But the woman who bore you is Igraine. You are the son of Uther and Igraine, Arthur. The legitimate son, born three months after they were wed. And you are heir to the high kingship of Britain.”

Chapter 7
     
    I T was still light when they rode into Venta, but even though this was Arthur’s first visit to a city of this size, he scarcely noticed his surroundings. There were columns on the front of the high king’s house, and soldiers guarding the door. Then he was shown to a bedchamber that did not look unlike his bedchamber at home, and was told to wait until he was sent for. Arthur merely nodded and stood, tense and watchful, until the door closed behind his grandfather.
    As the door closed shut, a tremor of relief ran all through him. Alone. He began to pace back and forth across the mosaic floor, free to think now that he was no longer expending all his energy to guard his face.
    He was the son of Uther and Igraine. One day he would be king. He could not take it in.
    He wished desperately for Morgan. Her calm good sense would help buttress the turbulence of his own emotions. She