She gestured him to step on board. Never lay hands upon an outsider- the words of the old priestess who had schooled her; a priestess of Avalon must be even as a visitor from the otherworld. She wondered why she had to stop her hand from reaching out to touch his wrist. She knew, with a sureness that made the blood beat hard in her temples, that under the smooth skin would lie hard muscle, pulsing with life, and she hungered to meet his eyes again. She turned away, trying to master herself.
His voice was deep and musical as he said, "Why, now you move your hands, I know you-everything else about you has changed. Priestess, were you not once my kinswoman, called Morgaine?" The dark eyes glinted. "Nothing else is the same as when I used to call you Morgaine of the Fairies ... ."
"I was, and I am. But years have passed," she said, turning away, gesturing to the silent servants of the barge to pole it away from the shore.
"But the magic of Avalon never changes," he murmured, and she knew he was not speaking to her. "The mist and the reeds and the cry of water birds ... and then the barge, like magic, gliding from the silent shore ... I know there is nothing for me here, and yet, somehow, I always return ... ."
The barge moved silently across the Lake. Even now, after years of knowing that it was no magic, but intensive training in silencing the oars, Morgaine was still impressed by the mystical silence through which they moved. She turned to call the mists, and was conscious of the young man behind her. He stood, easily balanced beside his horse, one arm flung across the saddle blanket, shifting his weight easily without motion, so that he did not visibly sway or lose balance as the boat moved and turned. Morgaine did this herself from long training, but he managed it, it seemed, by his own natural grace.
It seemed that she could feel his dark eyes like a palpable warmth on her back as she stepped to the prow and raised her arms, the long sleeves trailing. She drew a deep breath, charging herself for the magical act, knowing she must concentrate all her strength, intensely angry at herself for her own awareness of the man's eyes on her.
Let him see, then! Let him fear me and know me as the Goddess-self! She knew some rebel part of herself, long stifled, was crying out, No, I want him to see the woman, not the Goddess, not even the priestess, but another deep breath and even the memory of that wish was exhaled.
Up went her arms into the arch of the sky; down, with the mists following the sweep of her trailing sleeves. Mist and silence hung dark around them. Morgaine stood motionless, feeling the young man's body warmth very close to her. If she moved even a little, she would touch his hand, and knew how his hand would feel, scalding against her own. She moved away with a little swirling of her robes, and collected distance about herself as with a veil. And all the time she was astonished at herself, saying within her mind somewhere, this is only my cousin, it is Viviane's son who used to sit in my lap when he was little and lonely! Deliberately she summoned the picture of that awkward boy covered with bramble scratches, but when they sailed out of the mist the dark eyes were smiling at her, and she felt dizzy.
Of course I am faint, I have not yet broken my fast, she told herself, and watched the hunger in Galahad's eyes as he looked on Avalon. She saw him cross himself. Viviane would be angry if she had seen that.
"It is indeed the land of the fairy folk," he said, low, "and you are Morgaine of the Fairies, as always ... but you are a woman, now, and beautiful, kinswoman."
She thought, impatient, I am not beautiful, what he sees is the glamour of Avalon. And something rebellious in her said, I want him to think me beautiful-myself, not the glamour! She set her mouth tightly and knew that she looked stern, forbidding, all priestess again.
"This way," she said curtly and, as the barge's bottom scraped silently on the sandy edge, signalled for the bargemen to attend to his horse.
"By your leave, lady," he said, "I will attend to it myself. It is not an ordinary saddle."
"As you like," Morgaine said, and stood and watched while he unsaddled his horse himself. But she was too intensely curious about everything concerning him to stand silent.
"Why, it is indeed a strange saddle ... what are the long leather strappings?"
"The Scythians wear them-they are called stirrups. My foster-father took me on pilgrimage, and I saw them in their country. Even the Roman legions had no such cavalry, for the Scythians with these can control and stop their horses in mid charge, and that way they can fight from horseback," he said, "and even in the light armor the horsemen wear, an equestrian knight is invincible against anyone on foot." He smiled, the dark, intense face lighting up. "The Saxons call me Alfgar-the elf-arrow which comes out of darkness and strikes unseen. At Ban's court they have taken up the name and call me Lancelet, which is as near as they can come to it. Some day I will have a legion of horses equipped this way, and then let the Saxons beware!"
"Your mother told me you were already a warrior," Morgaine said, forgetting to pitch her voice low, and he smiled again at her.
"And now I know your voice, Morgaine of the Fairies ... how dare you come upon me as a priestess, kinswoman? Well, I suppose it is the Lady's will. But I like you better like this than solemn as a Goddess," he said, with the familiar mischief, as if they had parted but the day before.
Clasping at shreds of her dignity, Morgaine said, "Yes, the Lady awaits us, and we must not keep her waiting."
"Oh yes," he mocked, "always we must scurry to do her will. ... I suppose you are one of those who hurry to fetch and carry, and hang trembling on her every word."
For that Morgaine found no answer except to say, "Come this way."
"I remember the way," he said, and walked quietly at her side instead of following behind with proper respect. "I too used to run to her and wait upon her will and tremble at her frown, until I found she was not just my mother, but thought herself greater than any queen."
"And so she is," Morgaine said sharply.
"No doubt, but I have lived in a world where men do not come and go at a woman's beckoning." She saw that his jaw was set and that the mischief was gone from his eyes. "I would rather have a loving mother than a stern Goddess whose every breath bids men live and die at her will."
To that Morgaine found nothing whatever to say. She set a swift pace that meant he must scurry at her heels to keep up.
Raven, still silent-for she had bound herself by vows of perpetual silence, save when she spoke tranced as a prophetess-let them into the dwelling with an inclination of the head. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Morgaine saw that Viviane, seated by the fire, had chosen to greet her son not in the ordinary dark dress and deerskin tunic of a priestess, but had put on a dress of crimson and done her hair high on her forehead with gems glittering there. Even Morgaine, who knew the tricks of glamour for herself, gasped at the magnificence of Viviane. She was like the Goddess welcoming a petitioner to her underworld shrine.
Morgaine could see that Galahad's chin was set and that the cords in his knuckles stood out, white, against his dark fists. She could hear him breathing, and guessed at the effort with which he steadied his voice, as he rose from his bow.