Free The Road to Avalon by Joan Wolf Page A

would help him deal with this.
    The son of Uther and Igraine. Arthur suddenly stopped dead, his chin lifting as a throught struck him. Morgan was Igraine’s sister.
    It can’t be, he thought. Then: Don’t panic. Think it out. He stared straight ahead with unfocused eyes, and under his tan he was very pale. Not her sister, her half-sister. They had had different mothers. That meant . . . the only relative he and Morgan had in common was Merlin. Merlin: his grandfather, Morgan’s father.
    The blood bond was not that close; no closer, certainly, than first cousins. Arthur’s legs carried him forward again and he sat limply on the side of the bed. He and Morgan would be all right. Within the various tribes of Britain, first cousins married all the time.
    He and Morgan would be all right. After all, how could Merlin refuse her hand to the High King of Britain?
    The High King of Britain. He was back to that again. Could it actually be true?
    The window was open to let the warm air into the room and Arthur got up and went to look out at the scene before him. The summer sun was setting, and the sky was filled with brilliant color. Against the dramatic oranges and pinks, the colonnade of the forum stood out with a pure beauty it did not normally possess. As Arthur stood there looking out at the sky, the colors slowly began to change and fade. And with the fading sunset came belief.
    It had to be true. This was what Merlin had been preparing him for all these years. This was why he had been brought out of Cornwall and into the security of Avalon. Merlin had only been waiting for this day.
    This day. The day he was to meet his father.
    I can’t. His breath came hard through constricted nostrils. The scene before his eyes was a blur. He has had a chance to prepare himself for this. I haven’t.
    Uther. His father. The man who had left him to Esus.
    “Arthur.” The voice at the door was Merlin’s. Arthur stood at the window, rigid, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that the bone showed yellow through the skin. “Come with me,” Merlin said from the door, and Arthur forced himself to walk forward.
    As they passed through the corridor on their way to Uther’s chambers, Merlin kept glancing at the boy out of the side of his eyes. Arthur’s face wore the look that Merlin most dreaded: reserved, withdrawn, faintly hostile. When Arthur looked like this, his grandfather thought despairingly, he was impossible to deal with. It was not going to be easy for Uther.
    They were at the king’s door. “Go in,” said Merlin. “He is waiting for you.” He rarely touched the boy, nothing about Arthur ever invited contact, but he found himself putting a comforting hand on his grandson’s shoulder. The muscles under his fingers were rocklike with tension. Arthur did not pull away, but turned to give him a quick questioning look. Merlin smiled reassuringly. “It will be all right,” he said. “Go on.”
    Arthur opened the door and went in.
    Uther was alone, sitting in a chair on the far side of the room. Outside, the sun had almost set, but the room was bright with lamplight. Arthur stopped just inside the door, his eyes on the man who was watching him so intently.
    Uther had always looked like a king. His dark head, now so liberally sprinkled with silver, was held with all the arrogance of power. He wore a white tunic trimmed with imperial purple and about his dark brows the slender gold circle of his office. “Come here” he said in a deep, level voice. Arthur crossed the room slowly.
    When he reached the king he stopped. Then, remembering Merlin’s instructions, he went down on his knees, bowed his head, and said, “My lord king.”
    “Rise, Arthur,” the king replied. To Arthur’s ears his voice sounded distant. Only Uther knew that inside the fine wool of his beautiful tunic, he was trembling. “Let me look at you,” he said, and let his eyes roam hungrily over the figure who was standing before him.
    The boy’s