“On my soul I know not.”
“Then, sire—”
“All women are dead to me save one. Conjure her into my being, and I will give you the wiser half of myself, even my heart.”
For an instant Merlin smiled—a smile like an afterglow in a winter sky,—clear, cold, and steely. He drew nearer Uther, his purple robe with its fantastic scroll-work dim in the twilight, his black hair falling down about his face. His words were like silken things purring from his lips.
“My lord, tell me more.”
“You are a prophet. Read my past.”
“Sire, my vision fails at such a depth.”
“But not thy flattery.”
“Her name, sire?”
“I will read you a fable.”