Behind her, as she took up the bronze mirror again, she saw her sister in the door. Viviane had taken off the breeches she wore for riding, and put on a loose gown of undyed wool; her hair hung down, soft and dark as the wool of a black sheep. She looked small and fragile and aging, and her eyes were the eyes of a priestess in the cave of initation, years away and in another world... Igraine cut off the thought, impatiently. pg.19

"You wronged me," she said, her voice stinging with ice, "and you do well to beg my pardon, which you shall not have until the hells rise, and the Earth sinks beneath the western ocean! Better you should go and make your peace with Uther- do you truly think you can stand against the wrath of the High King of Britain? Or will you end up by buying his favor as you sought to buy mine?" pg.66

Gwenhwyfar was young and dazzlingly pretty; she seemed all white and gold, her skin pale as ivory just stained with coral, her eyes palest blue, her hair long and pale and shining through the mist like living gold. She wore a long white dress which she was trying unsuccessfully to hold out of the water. And somehow she seemed to shed tears without any ugly distortion of her face, so that, weeping, she only looked prettier than ever. pg.157

He was slightly built, his face aquiline and darkly handsome, set off by the crimson cap with an eagle feather in its band and the wide crimson cloak that fell gracefully around him. When he dismounted, the natural grace with which he moved, a dancer's grace, took her breath away. Had she ever wished to be fair and rounded, when dark and slender could show such beauty? His eyes were dark too, glinting with a touch of mischief- mischief which alone gave Morgaine awareness of who this must be, although, otherwise, not a single feature remained of the scrawny boy with bony legs and enormous feet.
"Galahad," she said, pitching her voice low to keep it from trembling- a priestess trick. "I would not have recognized you."

Morgaine came too, to play the harp, while he was unable to leave his bed. One day, watching them when they spoke of Avalon, Gwenhwyfar caught the look in Morgaine's eyes and thought, Why, she still loves him! She knew Arthur had hoped for this- a match between Morgaine and Lancelet, and she watched, sick with jealousy, as Lancelet listened to Morgaine's harp. Her voice is so sweet; she is not beautiful, but she is so wise and learned- beautiful women are so many, Elaine is beautiful, and Meleas, and the daughter of King Royns and even Morgause is beautiful, but why should Lancelet care for that? And she marked the gentleness of Morgaine's hands as she lifted him, and gave him her herb medecines and cooling drinks. She, Gwenhwyfar, was no good at all with the sick, she had no skills, she sat dumb while Morgaine talked and laughed and amused him. pg.431

Morgaine took off the headcloth with which she covered her hair, and Gwenhwyfar thought suddenly that Morgaine was beautiful. Morgaine was older than Gwenhwyfar- she must be past thirty; but she looked no older than when Gwenhwyfar had first seen her... it was no wonder all men thought her a sorceress! She wore a fine-spun gown of dark blue wool, very plain, but colored ribbons were braided into her hair, which was looped about her ears and fastened with a gold pin. Next to her, Gwenhwyfar felt dull as a hen, a simple housekeeping woman, even though she was High Queen, and Morgaine only a heathen duchess. pg.440

Her voice was very clear and low, but, the trained voice of a priestess, it could be heard to the farthest corners of the hall. "My king, I bid you look now on the sword you bear, and think on those who laid it in your hand, and what you swore-" In later years when all that had befallen that day was talked of far and wide, no two of the hundreds in that hall could agree on what had happened first. Morgaine saw Balin rise in his place and rush forward, she saw a hand snatch up the great axe Meleagrant had left leaning against the throne, then there was a scuffle and a cry, and she heard her own scream as the great axe came whirling down. But she did not see the blow, only Viviane's white hair suddenly red with blood as she crumpled and fell without even a cry. pg.498

She turned her face toward the guesthouse. Should she go there and breakfast with the nuns, speak perhaps of the old days at Camelot? Morgaine smiled gently. No. She was filled with the same tenderness for them as for the budding apple tree, but that time was passed. She turned her back on the convent, and walked down to the Lake, along the old path by the shore. Here was a place where the veil lying between the worlds was thin. She needed no longer to summon the barge- she need only step through the mists here, and be in Avalon. Her work was done. pg.876

Back to Mists of Avalon