King of the Scepter'd Isle

by Michael G. Coney

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Military Sci-Fi

Synopsis

The beautiful Dedo Nyneve's innocent tales of a land called Camelot have spawned a real-life cast determined to choose their own fates, yet each move draws them closer to catastrophe. And as the many happentracks of the universe narrow to a dangerous few, the actions of every sorcerer, man, and living creature will determine whether the great god Starquin lives or dies. For the first time in remembered history, humans and gnomes find themselves sharing the same Earth happentrack. But King Arthur has larger concerns as he watches the society he rules spiralling toward ultimate destruction. Little does he know that the evil Mogan Le Fay has been working her treacherous magic to split the happentracks wide open - a deadly betrayal that could spell the end of Camelot. With the ma possible futures swiftly shrinking to one last destiny too awful to contemplate, courageous Fang the gnome joins forces with Arthur and Nyneve to manipulate history in a final confrontation of wills and worlds. The last move is Fang's, as he unravels the strands of time to keep his clan from the brutal vision of Starquin's end.

Release date: April 29, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 393

Sample

THE TWO GREATEST STORYTELLERS IN ALL ENGLAND came to Castle Camyliard late one autumn afternoon.

“He calls himself king,” said Merlin.

“And why not?” Nyneve regarded the grim bulk of the castle in some awe. “It looks like the kind of place a king would live in. But not me. Not for any title.” She was fifteen years old at that time, still learning about men but already beautiful enough to influence them.

The castle of this western land loomed dark and granite-faced from a breast of broken moorland. From its battlements the gray Atlantic could be seen on three sides, restless, sucking hungrily at the cliffs. North lay Wales, south lay France. Prisoner rocks struggled in the western sea, abandoned by the defeated land. Remains of a sunken Lyonesse could be seen all the way from Land’s End to the Scilly Isles.

England lay to the east of the castle. There the Romans, with troubles at home, had been withdrawing their forces for many years. This made little difference to Camyliard. The Romans had never penetrated this far into Cornwall, and King Lodegrance reigned unchallenged.

“They’ve all started calling themselves king. Every little chief in England. Once the Romans move out, they get delusions of grandeur. Empty-headed peacocks, that’s what they are. What we need is someone strong enough to unite them.” A fine drizzle was falling and Nyneve was anxious to get on, but Merlin had shambled to a halt, gesturing with the willow twig he called a wand. “A leader of men!” he cried, addressing the empty moorland with shrill enthusiasm. “A man of courage and wisdom, with the strength of a lion and the gentleness of a deer.”

“Have you ever seen stags in the rutting season?”

“A female deer, although manly in all other ways. To bring them all together in peace and understanding. A man like—”

“Like you, Merlin?” asked Nyneve skeptically.

“Like Arthur!”

A surprising change came over Nyneve. She flushed and said, “Yes.”

“We will tell the people of Camyliard about Arthur!”

“Well, yes. That’s what we’re here for, remember? And this is about as far as we can get, thank the Lord. After Camyliard we head back home.”

Merlin gazed resentfully at the sea beyond the castle. “These last few weeks have been a wonderful experience for you, Nyneve. I’ve protected you and fed you and sheltered you—”

“And tried to get in bed with me.”

“—and given you the benefits of thousands of years of experience, and …” Her last remark filtered through to him and his voice grew petulant. “And all I’ve asked in return is a little friendship. A little daughterly affection. And what have I received?” He searched his ancient brain for the right word. “Rebuffment.”

“Don’t let’s go into all that again. Come on, Merlin. I’m getting frozen to the marrow standing here. We’ve got another two miles to go, at least.”

By the time they reached the castle it was getting dark. Lanterns cast a sickly yellow light on the wet walls and a cold sea breeze eddied around their ankles. The gulls were silent now, settling down for the night; and sleepy Camyliard goats uttered the occasional complaint from nearby barns.

A guard stepped clanking from the shadows. “Halt!”

“We are halted, for God’s sake. Put that pointed thing down before you hurt someone. I’m Merlin.”

A derisive laugh. “Oh, yes? Cast a spell, then.”

“I will do as I choose. Now let us through. Nyneve and I have come to entertain the castle.”

A sudden change came over the man. He didn’t exactly spring to attention, but he was clearly impressed. “Nyneve? She’s the storyteller. We’ve heard about her.”

“And about me, clearly,” said Merlin, piqued. “Now take us to the king.”

King Lodegrance sat before a cavernous fireplace with his boots off, drinking wine. He was a short, thickset man with the dark hair of the Cornish Celt and a geography of lines on his face that suggested laughter, or cruelty, or both. In a deep chair opposite, his queen gazed at the flames, pale of face and hair, captured from Saxon forebears many years ago and never able to forget it. A handful of favored soldiers lolled about the chamber, attended by servants. A minstrel strummed a lonely air about a lost lass.

“For pity’s sake stop that twanging,” shouted the king. “The night’s bad enough without your whining.” Then he noticed the newcomers. “Come over here and let me look at you,” he commanded. He examined the pair as they stood dripping onto the flagstones. “The girl’s pretty enough. Clean her up and put some decent clothes on her. There’s nothing we can do for the old man, though. By the Lord Jesus, I hope I never get that old. Feed him to the dogs. It’s the kindest thing.”

“I am Merlin!” cried the wizard, outraged.

“They are Nyneve and Merlin,” said the guard. “You know, sire. The storytellers.”

“Oh, yes. I’d heard they were heading this way. Well, you’ve come at the right time.” The lines on his face arranged themselves into a grim smile. “Now we can hang that minstrel. And our daughter is sick. I understand you are some kind of a healer, Merlin. You will have a chance to practice your skills before you entertain us.”

“Certainly,” replied Merlin, trapped.

“Get them cleaned up, then,” commanded the king.

Some time later Nyneve, bathed, scented, and dressed, was led into the king’s presence again. His eyebrows lifted as he took in her black, lustrous hair, her heart-shaped face with its warm brown eyes, and her cuddlesome figure. They’d dressed her in one of the king’s daughter’s dresses, and it was apparent Nyneve was the more rounded of the two. In contrast was Merlin, with sacklike smock and bony ankles. “I trust my robes will soon be available,” said the latter with a pathetic attempt at dignity.

“You look more entertaining like that,” said the king. “But first you must see to my daughter.”

The daughter, Gwen, was a pallid younger version of her mother, lost in a large bed. The bedchamber was vast and smoky, and as Merlin and Nyneve entered, a wad of soot flopped into the fireplace, discouraging the fire but offering compensation in the form of a rook’s nest. The king accompanied them to the bedside.

“Work your miracles, Merlin.”

Merlin took the girl’s limp hand. Her eyes watched him with the docility of a heifer. Her face was thinner than Nyneve’s, the jaw coming to a narrow point. “What seems to be the trouble?” Merlin asked her, hoping for an instant solution to his dilemma.

“That’s for you to find out, Merlin,” snapped the king. He swung around and left.

Merlin turned to Nyneve. “Rule number one is to ask the patient first,” he said.

“The king wouldn’t know that, not being a healer himself,” said Nyneve mischievously.

Merlin laid a hand on the girl’s forehead. “She has no fever.” He took her wrist. “Her pulse is weak.” He pulled down the bedclothes and gazed at the girl’s half-clad breasts, seeking inspiration. He reached out a hand.

“Don’t you dare!” snapped Gwen.

“I’m a healer. I’m accustomed to such things.” His hand hovered over her breast like a vulture, awaiting a sign of weakness.

“I think you’re a filthy old man.”

“You’re right,” said Nyneve. “He is a filthy old man.”

Gwen smiled. “You’re the first human being I’ve seen for months. Get this old fool out of here, will you, and let’s talk.”

Grumbling, Merlin departed. “He’s all right, really,” said Nyneve. “You just have to keep him at arm’s length. It’s his sister Avalona I’m frightened of. Or she may be his mother. I always forget—they’re both so old.”

“How old?” asked Gwen. “I’ve never seen anyone quite so old as him.”

“Thousands of years, so he says. And I believe him, because he knows an awful lot. How old are you?”

“Seventeen. And you?”

“Fifteen. My name’s Nyneve.”

“Fifteen … ?” Gwen regarded her curiously. “You look much older. I mean, you don’t look older, but you seem older. Where are you from?”

“Mara Zion, to the east. It’s a village in a forest, not far from Castle Menheniot.”

“You must have seen an awful lot of the world.” Gwen looked sad. “I’ve seen nothing. I’ve never been farther than the beach in seventeen years.”

“I’ve seen the greataway,” said Nyneve, rather smugly.

“The greataway?”

“It’s up in the sky. It’s all of time and all of space, and it’s huge. All the stars are in it, and Earth too. The stars are suns just like our sun, you know. Avalona took me into the greataway once. She showed me a god up there, called Starquin.”

Gwen, baffled by all this, seized one solid fact. “God is called God.”

“That’s just what the Church tells you. Avalona says the Church doesn’t know what it’s talking about. Do the people in the village here believe in the Church and all that stuff?”

“I don’t know. My father doesn’t like me talking to the villagers.” Gwen sighed. “He says I’m a princess and I should act like one. And that means not having friends in the village, apparently. I expect you have lots of friends in Mara Zion.”

“Not so many.” Now it was Nyneve’s turn for sadness. “Since Avalona and Merlin took me into their cottage, I’ve lost touch with people. I sometimes see Tristan, our local chief, but that’s about all. Except for the gnomes, of course. Avalona encourages me to be friends with the gnomes. She has some kind of a plan for them.”

“Gnomes? We call them piskeys around here. But how can you be friends with them? You can’t even speak to them.”

“I can.” Nyneve stood and walked across to a slit window. The hillside fell away to the unseen sea. The rain had ceased and the wet grass glittered silver in the light from the moons. In a rare coincidence, all three were full: Mighty Moon like a hard-edged coin, Misty Moon watery but still bright, and Maybe Moon a pallid shadow above the other two. Close by a rocky outcrop of granite she could see a ruddy glow. Tiny, shadowy figures sat around a wood fire. It was a gnomish tradition to meet at night and discuss the day’s events. She’d seen such gatherings several times since leaving Mara Zion. It seemed the gnomes were becoming more visible all the time.

“As a matter of fact,” Nyneve said, “my best friend is a gnome called Fang.”

“That’s a funny name for a gnome.”

“His real name’s Will, but he killed a stoat and they renamed him Fang. It’s an honor for a gnome to get a new name like that.”

“But how can you talk to him? We can’t hear gnomes and they can’t hear us. We can hardly see them.”

“There’s a place in Mara Zion where the mushrooms grow in a circle. Avalona tells me it’s because the gnomes’ world and ours meet there like two bubbles touching. She said the atmospheres react and fix nitrogen in the soil—whatever the hell that means—and fertilize the mushrooms. Anyway, I can step through into the gnomes’ world whenever I feel like it.”

This didn’t surprise Gwen, who already considered Nyneve to be omnipotent. “What’s it like in there?”

“Much like this world, except the humans look shadowy and you can’t touch them. The gnomes call us giants, and they call our world the umbra.” She chuckled. “Sometimes I sit in the gnomes’ world and spy on our people. I saw Tristan feeling a girl’s tits once, but then she got frightened and ran away. What a bloody shame! Anyway, he’s in Ireland visiting a woman called Iseult, whom he’s sweet on.”

Gwen was enormously impressed with Nyneve’s worldliness. “Have you ever … made love, Nyneve?”

“Once. With Tristan just after Iseult left. He looked so unhappy and I wanted to cheer him up. It was nice. But then something happened and I haven’t done it since.”

“What happened?”

“Oh …” Nyneve flushed. “It’s ridiculous, really.”

“Go on!”

“Well, Merlin and I have been telling stories to the people in Mara Zion for a little while. Travelers have heard us and the word seems to have gotten around. And suddenly Avalona insisted we come to Land’s End, telling stories on the way. I think she somehow has the idea we’re going to change the whole human race. ‘We are using the stories to make the world see sense,’ “ she said, mimicking in a cracked voice. “You see, the people in the stories are different from real people. They fight a lot, but when they’ve won, they don’t gloat and kill their enemies. They let them go free. And they’re funny about women too. They respect them, and if somebody insults a woman they beat the shit out of him. And they do one another favors, and they trust one another, and they go on quests that last for years. It’s all kind of different, and fun.”

“But what does it have to do with you not fucking?” It was Gwen’s turn to flush as a forbidden word slipped out. She’d never talked like this before.

“Merlin and I have a kind of talent. When we tell the stories, the audience sees them happening, in their minds. I can’t explain it, but you’ll see what I mean later on. This makes the stories seem very real to people. And they’re very real to Merlin and I.

“The hero of the stories is Arthur. He’s the best man that ever was. I know him so well, I dream about him every night, and I can see him and talk to him in my mind whenever I want to. Sometimes when my stepmother is being nasty, or I’m feeling bad about something, I slip my thoughts toward him and there he is, big and strong and gentle. To me he’s real. I could never love anyone else.”

Gwen’s eyes were shining. “What a lovely story! How romantic you are, Nyneve!”

“Yes, aren’t I.” Nyneve noticed Gwen’s heightened color. “You’re looking better.”

“All I need is someone to talk to. I’ve been going crazy all by myself in this castle, ever since Father caught me talking to Jacob in the village. And that was last spring. I’ve begged Father to send me away for a while—there are places where they send daughters of the gentry, and they learn all kinds of things and meet different people. But he says no. He says no to everything these days. He says there’s too much unrest in England for me to travel. He says the Saxons are taking over, and he keeps worrying about someone called Vortigern. To hell with Vortigern, that’s what I say. I want to see the world!”

“Maybe he’d let you come to Mara Zion sometime. You’d enjoy that. A girl can get into all kinds of trouble in Mara Zion. And I could introduce you to the gnomes.”

“Oh, Nyneve. Would you have me there?”

“Of course.” She regarded Gwen thoughtfully. “Are you going to listen to our story tonight?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Like I said, the stories are real. In a way, it’ll be your chance to see something of the world. And it’s a really exciting world, I can tell you. Get dressed, and let’s go downstairs.” She hesitated. “How would you like to be a part of the story yourself?”

“How do you mean?”

Nyneve grinned. “You’ll see.”

King Lodegrance regarded his daughter in amazement. “Merlin, you’ve worked a miracle. And I thought you were an old fraud.”

“Old I may be,” said Merlin with dignity, trying to conceal his equal amazement, “but fraud I am not. There’s a strange magic in these ancient hands.”

Gwen stood before them, fully dressed, a changed girl. “Nyneve says I can go and stay with her in Mara Zion for a while,” she said.

Her father bit back an instant refusal. “We’ll think about it,” he said.

“We’d be happy to have her stay,” said Nyneve.

“Let her go,” said the queen. They were the first words she’d uttered all evening.

“No,” he said automatically. Then, seeing the change in Gwen’s expression, he said quickly, “Not at present. It’s autumn now. I’m not having you spend the winter in some forest hovel. We’ll talk about it in the spring.”

She eyed him closely. “Are you just putting me off?”

He favored her with a rare smile. “No, Gwen. We’ll really talk about it, and I’ll make a few inquiries. And if I get the right answers, you can go.”

“Father!” She threw her arms around his neck. Then she moved away a little, looking into his face. “Why? You hardly know Nyneve.”

“Neither do you.” He glanced at Nyneve, puzzled. “What the hell has come over me? Are you some kind of a witch?”

“Of course not. Merlin thinks he’s a wizard, but I’m just a girl.”

The queen said in flat tones, “Her witchcraft stems from her beauty. Any fool could see that, except my husband.”

“Well, I think it’s about time Gwen saw something of the world,” said the king, “and she can’t come to much harm in Mara Zion. It’s only two days’ ride away. Vortigern’s never come that close—and if he did, Baron Menheniot’s more than a match for him. They say there’s a new fellow on the way up too. Name of Tristan. I daresay you’ve heard of him, Nyneve.”

“He has a magic sword,” said Nyneve. “Merlin made it. It’s called Excalibur. It’s such a good sword that we use it in the stories.”

“A sword with a name? That’s not a bad idea.” He glanced at his own weapon, leaning against the fireplace. “I think I’ll call my sword Charles. Charles is a dignified kind of name. Anyway”—he recalled himself to the business at hand—”time’s getting on. You people have a reputation as storytellers. So tell your story.”

He settled back in his chair, gulping wine and gazing expectantly at Nyneve.

She walked to the center of the chamber and looked around. “Here will be fine,” she said after a moment. “And you bring that chair over and sit beside me, Merlin. I’ll stand. We’ll go over what we rehearsed last night, except I want to make one or two changes to my part. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Who’s in charge of this story, that’s what I’d like to know,” grumbled Merlin, setting down his chair heavily and slumping into it. He still wore the washed-out smock, but he’d put on his conical hat to try to enhance his presence.

“This is the story we’ve been telling in Mara Zion,” Nyneve told the audience. “Avalona and Merlin started it, and I joined in soon after. It’s not like a normal story, because we’ve hardly invented any part of it ourselves. It just comes into our minds like a dream. It’s a very real story and it follows its own path—we hardly guide it at all. It seems to have no end, although Avalona says it will finish thirty thousand years in the future.

“Sometimes I think it is real,” she confided. “Avalona talks about happentracks—you know, other worlds near our world, like where the gnomes live—and I sometimes think the world of Arthur really exists on another happentrack very close to ours. Because sometimes we put real people into our stories, and they fit perfectly. And that tells me Arthur’s world can’t be far away. Tonight I want to put a real person in.” She smiled at Gwen.

She brought her audience up-to-date on the saga as it had unfolded so far. She told them of King Uther Pendragon and his desire for the beautiful Igraine, and the underhanded way he got her into bed. She spoke of the birth of Arthur, then Merlin took over and described his part in teaching the boy. The audience listened attentively because the couple spoke so well; but this was ordinary storytelling, nothing more. Then Nyneve introduced the Sword in the Stone.

“When matins were over, the archbishop led his congregation out into the yard. Here was a marble block with an anvil in it, into which had been thrust a beautiful sword. Letters of gold were inscribed on the anvil:

WHOSO PULLETH OUTE THIS SWERD OF THIS STONE AND ANVYLD IS RIGHTWYS KYNGE BORNE OF ALL BRETAGNE.

That’s what it said.”

And there was a sudden restlessness in her audience, and cries of astonishment.

“I can see it,” said someone. “By the Lord Jesus, I can see the Sword in the Stone!”

The chamber had become a theater. “The nobles all tried to pull it out,” cried Nyneve, and her audience saw a succession of grunting, sweating men laying hands on the handle, pulling, jerking, cursing, turning away in disgust. The men were real, with faces and hopes and families, and the audience knew all this. A murmur of wonder arose. This was better than a troupe of traveling players. It was better than anything they’d ever experienced before. It was also a little frightening.

“She’s a witch,” a voice cried.

“I don’t care if she is!” shouted King Lodegrance. “Don’t interrupt!”

Now Merlin took over, taking the part of the archbishop. “Nobody will ever move this sword,” he cried. “You’re all wasting your time. We will hold a tournament on New Year’s Day to decide who will be king!”

And the audience saw winter close over the land, and they felt the Siberian winds blow.

The knights gathered for the tournament, helmeted, armored, and armed. Slipping easily into the part of Sir Kay, Merlin said, “Arthur, I’ve left my sword behind at our lodgings. Go and fetch it for me, there’s a good fellow.”

“Certainly, brother,” said Nyneve.

She walked a few paces across the chamber, but her audience saw a young man walking through the streets of London. She stopped, and Arthur stopped. Before him was a marble slab with an anvil and a sword protruding from it.

“Then he caught sight of the sword stuck in the stone, and thought it was worth trying to pull it out. The marble slab sat in the churchyard under the trees, glowing in the January sunlight. There was a sound like angels singing. Arthur’s hand tingled as he touched the sword.”

Nyneve had told this part of the story before, so the words came easily, as did the visions. She felt her heart pounding as she said, “He took hold of the sword. He braced his foot against the rock. And then … he drew the sword out easily, as if it had been embedded in butter. For a while he stood with it in his hand.”

The audience saw the sunlight on his auburn hair, and they heard the angels—which might have been birds—singing. And because they saw everything, felt everything, and knew everything, they knew he hadn’t even seen the words on the anvil, and had no idea what a wonderful moment this was. He felt glad that he’d found a sword for Sir Kay, his foster brother; and that was all.

Arthur took the sword back to Sir Kay and the revelation took place, and the audience felt just as amazed as the characters in the story, even though they already knew it was the sword. They shared the emotions, they shared the joy. “So they crowned him king of all England,” said Nyneve. “Nobody disputed him. It was right and proper.”

Nyneve gave her audience a chance to relax, describing in words the subsequent events, giving them occasional glimpses of battles and tournaments, but saving the next big event for Gwen.

“A king should marry,” said Merlin eventually. “England needs a queen. Tell me, Arthur, is there anyone you have in mind?”

The transition from narrative to action was smoothly done. Nyneve became Arthur in the audience’s eyes, talking to an ancient magician of somehow greater stature than the real-life Merlin before them. That was one of the secrets of the story’s appeal. Everybody was a little larger than life. “I love Guinevere,” said Arthur, “the daughter of King Lodegrance of the land of Camyliard. She is far and away the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s good,” said Merlin. “It saves me having to find someone for you. That kind of quest is doomed to failure before it starts. Now, I know you’ve made up your mind, but I have to tell you—Guinevere will cause you grief. The time will come when she’ll fool around with a fellow called Lancelot. When that happens, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said Nyneve. “Go and break it to Lodegrance, Merlin, and bring Guinevere to me.”

Then came the most amazing part of the performance, as though the audience hadn’t had enough to marvel at. In their minds, they followed Merlin on a journey that culminated with the arrival at Camyliard and an audience with King Lodegrance. They saw Merlin walk into the same chamber in which he now sat. And they saw Lodegrance in their minds, and in reality at the same time.

And then: “This is my daughter Guinevere,” said the vision of the king.

Into the chamber walked a fair, pale girl.

The real Gwen smiled, enchanted. “Bravo!” murmured the real Lodegrance.

“I can see why King Arthur is in love,” said Merlin. “Your daughter is the fairest lady I have seen in all England.”

“Thank you, Merlin. I find myself well satisfied with the match too. Arthur is a worthy man for Gwen’s hand. Indeed, he could have all my lands, if he needed them. But he has enough land of his own, so I will give him something else.”

“And what is that, Sire?”

“It is the Round Table, which Uther Pendragon gave me. It seats a hundred and fifty knights. I can let Arthur have a hundred knights to go with it, but I’m fifty short after beating off the Irish last autumn. I’m sure Arthur can raise the other fifty.”

“Arthur will be highly pleased,” said Merlin, and departed.

It took a fortnight to prepare for the departure of Guinevere and the hundred knights. The villagers set to work with a will, seamstresses working on Guinevere’s wedding dress, ostlers preparing the horses and harness, carpenters dismantling the Round Table and loading it into carts. Meanwhile in the castle there was a fortnight of feasting and celebration, music and dancing, and Guinevere was the belle of the occasion.

By the time Guinevere and her escort departed, Nyneve’s audience was as exhausted as if they’d danced for a fortnight themselves.

The storytellers fell silent. The images faded. The audience returned to the present, blinking like people coming in from the dark.

“That was amazing,” said King Lodegrance.

“Wonderful,” Gwen sighed.

“But I must tell you I never knew King Uther, if there was such a man; and I have no Round Table.”

“It’s just a story,” said Nyneve, “I think. But it’s had quite an effect on people. Tristan’s based his whole behavior on it, and built a Round Table himself. Even Baron Menheniot’s introduced the idea of chivalry to his court. With some difficulty, because they’re a rough bunch of people. Anyway, it seems to be spreading around, the way Avalona hoped it would. Or,” she said, correcting herself, “the way Avalona knew it would. She knows everything.”

“Well …” The king yawned and stretched thick arms. “It’s long past midnight. I must thank both of you for a very entertaining evening. You lived up to all the reports I’d heard.”

“Are you going to continue the story tomorrow night?” asked Gwen.

“We must leave in the morning,” said Merlin testily. It was well past his bedtime, and lack of sleep made him irritable.

“I’ll tell you the rest when you come to Mara Zion, Gwen,” said Nyneve.

She awakened the next morning to gray daylight and a tap on the door.

“Who’s that?” She’d bolted the door in case Merlin came shuffling into her chamber during the night, on the pretext of sleepwalking.

“It’s me, Gwen. I’ve brought your clothes. They’ve been washed and dried.”

Nyneve unfastened the door. Gwen was dressed and, Nyneve was pleased to see, looking much brighter than yesterday. “Come in. I think I must have overslept. Telling the story often does that to me.”

Gwen sat on the bed while Nyneve pulled on her clothes. “The story. How does it end?”

“I told you. I don’t know.” In the cold light of day, Nyneve was beginning to regret her impulse in inviting this girl to Mara Zion. Without the lamplight to flatter her, Gwen had a vapid look. “Last night was as far as the story’s gotten so far,” she explained, relenting.

“Do you suppose they really do get married?”

“I suppose so.”

“This Arthur. He’s so real. I … I dreamed about him last night, Nyneve. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? It’s difficult to believe he doesn’t exist. I mean, how could everything be so exact?”

“I told you last night. I have a suspicion that it might be a real world on a different happentrack.” Looking out of the window, Nyneve saw the tiny, half-seen figures of gnomes flitting about their business. Obviously they had a village here; some of their dwellings were probably under the castle. The umbra: that was what the Mara Zion gnomes called the shadowy worlds of other people. You could see people in the umbra—just—but you couldn’t hear them. When she got back, she must ask her friend Fang. Apart from her own world, had he ever glimpsed any other world in the umbra—a world of chivalry and honor, peopled by humans?

And if she could step through the fairy ring into Fang’s world, could she perhaps take a further step into Arthur’s …?

Suddenly she was impatient to get back to Mara Zion.

“Arthur—” Gwen began.

“You’d better forget about Arthur,” said Nyneve, more sharply than she’d intended.

Gwen said, “You’re jealous, aren’t you!”

IN THOSE FAR-OFF DAYS THE ROMAN EMPIRE WAS MEN-aced on all sides by barbarians. The Vandals, the Suevi, and the Burgundians had attacked Gaul in the early part of the century, and Alaric, King of the Visigoths, had besieged Rome itself. Small wonder that the Empire