“The truth.”
“She lives, sire!”
A great silence fell within the hearts of the three, an ecstasy of silence such as comes after the wail of a storm. Merlin stroked his lip, and smiled, the smile of one who dreams. The King’s face was as the face of one who thrusts back hope out of his soul. He sat rigid on his horse, a scarlet image fronting Fate, grim-eyed and steadfast. There were tears in the eyes of Tristan the knight.
“What more?”
Tristan leant against his horse, his arm hooked over the brute’s neck.
“In the valley, sire, is a sanctuary; you can see it yonder by the ford. Two holy women dwell therein. To them, sire, I commend you.”
“You know more!”
“Sire, spare me. The words are for women’s lips, not for mine.”
“So be it.”
The three rode on in silence; Merlin and Tristan together, looking mutely in each other’s faces. Uther’s chin was bowed on his breast. The reins lay loose on his horse’s neck.