The Road to Avalon by Joan Wolf

were going to their bedrooms to change.
    Claudius looked at the two youngsters and smiled with pleasure. Morgan’s face was flushed with rain, fresh and dewy as a newly opened flower. Arthur’s black hair was sleek against his head and his wet clothing only served to bring out the fine lines of bone and muscle. He would never be a big man, Claudius thought, his eyes going over the young male body appraisingly, but he moved with the grace and coordination of a cat.
    “When you said you would take a bath, I didn’t realize you meant in the rain,” said Merlin.
    Arthur grinned. He looked lit-up with happiness, Claudius thought. It was difficult to look away from him.
    “I wanted to talk to him,” Morgan answered her father.
    “I hope you got all your talking done,” Merlin returned austerely. “Arthur is going to be too busy these next weeks to go larking about Avalon with you, Morgan.”
    Merlin’s words proved to be true ones. Arthur was closeted for most of each day with Claudius Virgilius, going over lists and maps and troop dispositions. Claudius was impressed by his pupil. “He has a grasp of tactics that is astonishing in so young a boy,” he told Merlin and Ector. The two old men were delighted. They considered Arthur their own personal creation and had him out on the practice field every day to demonstrate his prowess to Uther’s general.
    Arthur performed without complaint. As he said to Morgan one night, “I need Claudius Virgilius. I need all of Uther’s officers. I cannot command an army if I don’t have the loyalty of its leaders. If Merlin thinks I should dance for Claudius, I’ll dance.”
    They were in Morgan’s room, in Morgan’s bed. For the first time they had begun to take advantage of the fact that their bedrooms were next to each other. Arthur’s days were not free any longer.
    Arthur had not yet spoken to his grandfather about marrying Morgan. She wanted him to wait until after the council. In her deepest heart, Morgan was not as confident as Arthur that there would be no obstacle in the way of their marriage. She wanted to keep things the way they were . . . for a little while longer, at any rate.
    What would she do . . . what would Arthur do . . . should Merlin object to their marrying? Before, there had been no doubt. When they were just Arthur and Morgan, nothing and no one could have kept them apart. Before. Before Arthur was Britain’s next king.
    Amazingly, Arthur himself seemed to have no doubts. His major fear had always been that his birth was not good enough for her, and now that that concern had been put to rest, he was confident that their future was secure. He wanted to speak to Merlin, wanted everything out in the open. She had to beg him before he would agree to wait.
    On the day before they left for Venta for the council, Merlin presented Arthur with a sword.
    “One day you will have your father’s sword,” he said to the boy. “Constantine’s sword. But this was forged for you alone.” The whole household was gathered in the reception room of the villa and in the quiet one could clearly hear the general intake of breath as Merlin handed the sword to his grandson.
    It fitted into Arthur’s hand as naturally as if it had grown there. Arthur flexed his wrist and light glinted, quicksilver bright, off the blade. The pommel was set with a magnificent ruby. “The Emperor Hadrian presented that ruby to my ancestor,” Merlin told Arthur. “It is fitting that an emperor’s gift should grace the sword of the High King of Britain.”
    Arthur’s dark face was very still. Then he raised glowing eyes. “Thank you, sir,” was all he said, but Merlin was satisfied.
    “I have a gift for you too,” said Morgan, and ran out of the room. She was back in a minute carrying a white hound puppy. “Here, Arthur”—she put the puppy into his arms—“for you.” The puppy promptly began to lick his face.
    “Have you named him?” Arthur asked Morgan around the licks.
    She