"Whether liketh you better," said Merlin, "the sword or the scabbard?"
        "Me liketh better the sword," said Arthur.
       --Le Morte d'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory, Chapter XXV
       
       Vivien was an enchantress of the first degree, and the specialty of her art, that for which she took her mage-name, as Merlin the Wild named himself after the woods and their myriad beasts, as Morgan the Fey named herself after the Fair Folk and their sly green arts--that for which Vivien named herself was the Lake. The Lake came first; all else followed; the Lake was all, our sky, our sea, our land and our world. And Vivien ruled it--Vivien du Lac--the Lady of the Lake, Fairy Queen of the Waters, Guardian of Excalibur, and my gracious mother.
       Of course, she was not my real mother--the Fair Folk do not have children the way we do; they grow from streams and hillsides and very old trees--but she took me so young from the cradle I never knew another parent. She did not know what to feed me and gave me lake water and frogs' eggs 'til my skin turned blue and my eyes slit-pupiled, and ever after, there was something a little aquatic about my face. I could swim before I could walk, breathed water like a fish, and spoke Sturgeon and Otter long before I could speak French. My mother caressed me, combed my hair with broken shells, and carried me around in a net made of lake grass strapped across her shoulders like a heavy yoke.
       By the time my brother Lancelot came along, Vivien was more skillful at raising human children. She fed him on goats' milk--I tended the goats--and stolen bread, and when he was older, on meat.
       From the beginning, I knew there was some difference between Lancelot and me, an indefinable way others treated him they did not treat me. Later, I learned that trait was called 'royalty.' Lancelot was the son of a human king, Ban of Benoic, while I was the daughter of nobodies. My birth parents, wherever they were, could have other children to replace me; Ban had been slain three months before we spirited Lancelot away. The King of Benoic would never produce another heir. The night Saraide returned with the babe in her arms, her face was dark and troubled. With my ear pressed to a closed door, I listened to her speaking with my mother in low, hushed tones. "Claudas has overtaken the marsh; it burns with his rage, fire overcoming water as it never should. Benoic has fallen; the men of the Wasteland infest this country like ants in a rotten apple. No matter where we hide the boy, Claudas will find him and end his line."
       And my mother Vivien replied, "Then we must hide him here with us until he comes of age."
       We changed the name his mother had given him, Galahad; we called him Lancelot, for my mother said, "I have looked into his future, and seen that he will be first among men in usage of the lance; as well the sword and the spear, on horseback or unmounted, alone or as a leader of men. He will be the greatest warrior this land has ever known." We dressed him in white, and I carried him on my back as I delivered messages and curried goats and visited my friends, the fishes, who lived outside the gates of my mother's grand palace and were always glad to see us if no one else was.
       We took our lessons together until Lancelot was about seven years old. One day, when we came into the classroom, Saraide was standing beside my mother, lean and grim in her long black shawl. "Nimue," my mother said, "today you will take your lesson with Saraide, and I will teach Lancelot alone."
       "I am sorry if I have done aught to offend," I said.
       "It isn't that, my little minnow." Vivien bent to kiss my brow; her mouth was cold, like a trout's smooth scales. "But it is time for you and your brother to be educated in different ways. He will be a man one day, and you will be a woman. Saraide will show you all you must know to be a lady in the world."
       Saraide's hand was cool and dry, drier than anything I had felt before. She led me down a long hallway into a dark storeroom, narrow, with only a single ghost-light flickering in the window looking out into the lake. The water outside was murky, and I did not recognize the silhouettes of the fish that floated slowly by, their eyes tarnished silver, coins twirling and twirling slowly through the gloom. Saraide jerked the curtain across the window, sheathing the shadows from view. She turned to face me, arms crossed over her chest.
       "What do you know of magick?" It was not the question I had been expecting, and I stared dumbly back. Saraide tsked between sharp teeth. "Answer me quick, child; we haven't got all day."
       "I know almost nothing," I hesitantly replied, "save that my lady Vivien knows some, and you and my lady's other maidens know some, and it is the force which keeps our palace standing beneath the Lake, what mortal men would call a marvel."
       "The magick of the Lake," said Saraide in her sand-harsh voice, "was cast by Merlin the Wild long before you and I were born, and there are none living who can now match it, not even Merlin himself. Compared to him or the lady Vivien, my power is but a pebble beside a mountain range. Nevertheless, I am sufficient to teach you to begin the art. We will start by learning to read and write the old tongues. Get out your wax tablet, and listen closely when I speak, for I shan't repeat myself. Now, this is the line that represents the Earth…"
       I fell into magick as a drop of rain falls into the Sea. It swallowed me, consumed me; I dissolved into its depths without so much as a single gasp for air. Months, sometimes years, passed in great sweeping suspended beats while I devoured books and lore and made myself sick on the fumes of herbs. As I wandered about the palace halls with my nose in a dusty tome, memorizing ten uses of liverwort in potions or the alignments of constellations, I sometimes glimpsed Lancelot and the Lady out of the corner of my eye sparring with spears in the arena, practicing swordplay, or mounted on great white horses with lakeweed-tangled manes and backwards-facing hooves, which galloped through the water so ferociously the blood of fishes swirled red-hot in their wake. At these times, I thought my Lady appeared most magnificent, ten feet tall, with her sword Joyeux in her hand and her eyes like live coals. Lancelot beside her was a weedy lad, lank of limb, quiet and without vivacity, except for when he fought. I paid him no account, and yet, throughout the years, he grew and grew, and so did his skill at arms.
       For my seventeenth birthday, Saraide sewed me a proper gown. It went on in three parts, and the topmost part was all deep blue and green brocade, spangled with stars and fish scales that interwove across my chest like they belonged together. I hugged Saraide tight around her bony waist. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen besides the real night sky!"
       "You'll outgrow it within the year." Saraide was nothing if not practical. But her mouth twitched to the side in that way it always did when she was pleased and trying not to show it. "Growing like a pollywog, you are, Nimue."
       "If I grow, I've always got you to let down the hems for me," I said with a laugh, kissing her cheek.
       She shook her head. "Time's coming fast, you won't be able to rely on me for such things."
       I pulled away. "Saraide, whatever do you mean?"
       But she only clicked her tongue and told me I knew perfectly well how to let my own hems. That night, I wore the gown to my mother's quarters, where she had summoned me. Lancelot was standing at attention near the door when I came in. We looked at each other, and I realized that at some point in the last year, he had grown taller than me. There was a new definition in his limbs and a somber light in his eyes I did not recognize; a sword in a plain leather sheath hung by his side. He stared at me as though I was some foreign creature, a wyvern or chimera never seen before. I set my shoulders back so Saraide's embroidery glimmered proudly around my neck and walked past him into the chamber.
       My mother was pouring the wine into her silver cups. I saw to my gratification that, for the first time, she filled my cup halfway, while Lancelot got only a splash into the bottom before she topped the cups with water. Sweetmeats were arranged on an ornate platter at the center of the table, but no one touched them. I sipped my wine while my mother told Lancelot to douse the ghost lights at the windows. The mouthful was bitter, and I had to force myself to swallow. The warmth that bloomed in my belly was worth the bitter taste.
       "Tonight," said Vivien, as Lancelot returned to the table, "I am showing you a great wonder." From her robe, she drew a long, thin package wrapped in white samite. I heard Lancelot draw in a short breath. Vivien undid the ties and loosed the silk, and there upon the table lay the most magnificent sword I had ever seen.
       Its steel glowed lucid-white, unimaginably pale, its cutting edge so fine it verged upon translucent. The hilt alone was a work of art, a gold and a silver dragon twining around each other to form the grip, their outstretched tails the guard, all adorned with massive uncut rubies that shone like drops of blood gushing from the dragons' jaws. But oh, the part that pierced the heart, that dragged a sound from Lancelot's throat like that of a wounded dog, was the scar that struck like God's terrible lightning through that perfect blade's design. It lay in three pieces, each smooth and polished as a mirror save for the ugly jagged edges where they had split. It was as though we beheld a church defiled, a queen dethroned, a miraculous animal slaughtered and spilling its heart's blood out into the dirt.
       "Excalibur," said the Lady of the Lake softly. "The greatest sword that has ever been forged."
       "Who did this?" burst out Lancelot, gripping the table with both hands. "By God, if I had been given such a weapon, I'd guard it with my life--"
       "No!" Vivien said sharply. "A sword exists to guard your life. Not the other way around. Never chastise the one who last bore this blade, for he bore it valiantly in battle, and at the end, its sacrifice was not made in vain." For a moment, she touched the largest piece, her face as distant as clouds reflected over water. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler. "Besides, that was long ago. It was right that Excalibur rest here, beneath the Lake, for all these years the world could not tolerate its radiance. Now comes another who would take it up to defend a great sovereignty."
       "Who?" Lancelot's dark eyes were still fast on the blade. His strong, scarred hands clenched and unclenched themselves, leaving white marks fading on his skin.
       "Arthur, son of Uther," said Vivien, "King of the Britons."
       Beneath the shards of the blade was a plain leather scabbard. I hadn't even noticed it 'til Vivien drew it forth. The shards clinking against each other made a chiming noise that harrowed me down to my bones.
       "Lancelot." He turned to her. "You will take charge of the blade. You have learned the ways of weaponry and the forge. Devise a way to join what has been broken, and Excalibur will rise again, the greater and more powerful for having borne a wound that has healed." Lancelot bowed his head, and on his face shining in the light radiating from the blade-shards, I saw a trace of that hard, brilliant look that would ever after come into his eyes as he rose to meet a challenge. Then Vivien turned to me.
       "Nimue. You will take charge of the scabbard." She laid it in my hands. It was so old it was falling apart, the strap severed, the leather scuffed to a pale dun. "It will sheath and protect Excalibur when not in use." Vivien's quick gaze flicked over me, a glimmer dancing in her eye as if she saw through my facade to the stab of disappointment within. "The scabbard is not lesser than the blade, my daughter," she said more quietly. "I trust you will understand the importance of your assignment."
       I held the sheath close against my chest and bowed. Vivien gathered the blade shards in their wrapping and handed them to Lancelot, who held them with as much care as for an infant child.
       "Now let us sit and make merry and celebrate the day my daughter came to us," my Lady said, gracing me with her luminous smile. But as we ate and drank that evening, I knew my mother and brother thought not of me. And I, too, thought not of myself but of that hidden starlit steel, gleaming under its silk wrapping, balancing the fate of worlds upon its invisibly fine edge.

       Lancelot took immediately to the forge. An endless parade of practice blades flowed from his anvil and hammer, each of them deemed unworthy by my brother's cynical eye and unrelenting mind. His swords were long, fine, sharp as a glance and elegant as a leaf in the wind, reflecting the temperament of their maker, and sometimes he would break them so he could practice forging them anew. On some days, he would not emerge from the forge 'til long after the rest of us had finished taking supper; he would slink into the kitchens, soot-stained and sweaty, and wolf a few mouthfuls of bread before disappearing back into his workshop like a dragon into its lair.
       I sat and looked at my sheath. It was leather. It was old. There was nothing wrong with it, save for its general oldness and ugliness and the broken belt that would prevent a man from slinging it about his waist. I crafted a new belt, trimmed the tatters, and oiled the worn spots 'til they shone like new. Then I put the thing aside and went back to my studies, losing myself in spells for poisoned cloaks and enchanted caskets to forget the fact that I knew not how to fulfil what my Lady asked of me.
       Saraide brought Lancelot's cousins, Lionel and Bors, to the palace, rescued from the villainous Claudas's grasp. For the first time in a long time, I had companions my own age, or near enough, for Lionel and Bors were friendly and warm, where Lancelot was aloof. We roamed the waters of the Lake, hunting carp and catfish and tormenting the river spirits, who learned to shriek and vanish in a burst of bubbles when they saw us coming. Saraide shouted herself hoarse when we came back to the palace covered in hunting gore, but though Lionel and Bors hung their heads in shame, I didn't care. I outgrew the star-and-scale patterned gown and didn't bother to let down the hem; it hung in a corner of my closet, collecting dust. I no longer cared how I dressed or what I looked like. I wanted to be a river spirit, no more than a vaguely girl-shaped current rushing swiftly through the vast cold water, free of everything but the great roar of the Lake to fill my ears.
       Vivien called Lancelot and me to assess our progress. She nodded in approval as Lancelot spread his blades upon the table. "You have done fine work, my son." Lancelot glowed beneath her praise as a plant stretching its leaves broadly toward the sun that gives it life. Vivien placed her hand on his shoulder. "Now you are ready to work on Excalibur itself."
       She looked at my sheath, which sat brownly on the table beside Lancelot's gleaming swords. I could see her frown in the shape of her eyes, though her voice did not change. "And Nimue, I see you have made this scabbard presentable and serviceable again."
       I did not meet her gaze. She touched my face gently with her cool, smooth hand, lifting my chin ‘til I was forced to look up. "You have done the work and done it well," Vivien said to me. "Why look ashamed?"
       "I'm not."
       "Then why not look me in the eye?"
       When I did so, I found such radiant compassion and tenderness in her face I had to look away again. "Because I know you wished more from me," I muttered, "and I have not done it. But if I knew what you wanted me to do, I swear, I would! I have little to work with; it is only the sheath that holds the sword. If you had given me the sword itself, I could have done as fine a job as Lancelot."
       "And yet, if I had given Lancelot the scabbard," said Vivien, "he could not work upon it as I know you can." She picked up the sheath and handed it back to me. "There is yet time, Nimue. It will be a year and a day before we go to meet the young king in his own land. Practice your own art as well as you can. That is all anyone can ever ask of you."
       
       The day Lancelot reforged Excalibur in a shower of fire and steel, the whole of the Lake ignited as though the Sun itself plunged from the sky into our waters. A thunderclap sounded on a clear day, and the birds flew from their trees and sang glory to God as fish fainted everywhere from terror and heat. All this others saw and heard, but I only heard their tales. That day, I was deep below the Lake, ensconced in my workroom in the cold and dark, laboring over a small wooden table upon which I had placed my scabbard.
       It was my scabbard by then; you understand that. I knew every inch of its form, the way it creaked when bent, the smell of its leather when touched by my hands. I had fastened gems all around its edges: agate for protection, Persian bloodstone for purification of the blood, rich deep garnets, red as any ruby, for passion and vitality. Now the spell I wove through the stones of power drew me ever deeper in, 'til my very bones hummed with the song I sang: salvus, salvus, semper salvus. Somewhere in the black between transcendence and exhaustion, I disappeared into the steady working of my hands.
       A vast field littered with flesh. The smell of gore, the drone of flies. White bones piercing from vulture-torn bodies oozing dark brown muck, armor and clothing losing shape as the bodies that had filled them turned to putrefaction.
       I fell to my knees, both hands covering my nose and mouth, trying not to breathe. My knee hit something solid, muscular and jingling with mail: a man's arm, still half-attached to his sprawling body, the head of which stared at an angle towards the flat grey sky. I sank towards that head, unable to stop, unable to do anything but scream through a silent mouth as I hurtled closer and closer to the death-pale flesh. Then I was through and into the man.
       He was still alive, hanging on to life by a rapidly narrowing sliver, like a child's loose tooth clings stubbornly to the gum. The torpor crawled up his limbs; his guts cold, wounds aflame; breaths coming shorter the more he tried to take them, each one loud as a crashing wave in his own ears. And most vital of all, I realized, the blood inhabiting every inch of his body from fingertips to brain, spurting in warm gouts from the still-desperate heart. I saw him as a lake, its dams broken, too many rivers flowing outwards and none flowing in, 'til all that remained was a deep, wide pit of bone-dry earth.
       His head lolled against the ground as his ghost left him. I, too, rose away as one steps out of a shucked-off gown, and from above saw his body framed in a great widening pool of that rich red substance, more precious than silver and gold, which if only retained in the body would have kept him living. Fumes of death stung my eyes, and I blinked to clear them, finding myself back in the close, dark safety of my workroom, the stones of power trembling beneath my hands.
       A dream or a memory not my own? It mattered not; I knew the final piece. Bending over the jeweled scabbard, I whispered words that sprang to my tongue as my fingers brushed each stone, securing each with a piece of my own magick. "May he who will wear this scabbard lose no blood from his body while it touches his form, no matter how grievous a wound he takes. May he never use it to shed the blood of others, save in an hour of greatest need, and may this scabbard refuse to yield the killing edge if the cause be not just. Should he ever wield Excalibur without good cause, let this scabbard lose its power and be taken away from him. I pray to all the spirits that it be so."
       I felt the spell take as I spoke the final line. It settled, and the song in my bones settled with it, landing into a silence that filled my heart with calm and joy. At that moment, the window went a blinding white, and I looked up as Excalibur's voice pierced the silence with a single exultant cry.

       We traveled north in spring. Everywhere, little rivulets of melting ice babbled a tale of winter closing, leaves unfurling, and the sun throwing rays of dazzling light from behind the dissipating clouds. We had crossed through the ocean to get to Britain, and my clothes still smelled of salt and sea creature. Lancelot carried Excalibur, sheathed, wrapped in silk, in his arms the entire journey. My lady Vivien wore a shawl over her hair and spoke little. I danced in the ocean currents, braided ribbons of kelp through my hair, and coaxed curious sea serpents out of our path with my loveliest songs. I was bursting with light and joy in all the world.
       As we approached the meeting point, Lancelot held back. Vivien stopped and put a hand on his shoulder.
       Lancelot stared at his feet, Excalibur clutched tightly against his chest. "How do we know this king is who he says he is?" His voice was low and rough, just starting to break from a boy's into a man's. "How do we know he won't use the blade for evil?"
       "Even enchantresses and magi," said Vivien gently, "cannot tell all the future holds. All we can do is choose--in what we are to have faith, in what goodness we are to believe--and hold steadfast to our chosen course. If we cannot bring ourselves to take risks in the name of the good, then we do nothing to protect the sacred balance and are little different from those who wreak havoc upon it."
       Lancelot said nothing for several seconds. His face worked; his dark eyes shone, the proud brow above them furrowed, as it would furrow in moral distress so many times throughout his life that a permanent line would eventually mark the thought-worn place. Finally, he said, hoarse and soft, yet full of more feeling than I had ever heard: "I could wield it!" There was no arrogance in what he said, just simple revelation. Vivien's words came back into my mind: Lancelot, the greatest warrior this land will ever know. His name rang in my mind like a bright-struck bell.
       "I know," said my Lady, just as soft as he. Lancelot looked at her long; then, without ceremony, passed the blade into her hands. Vivien walked forward into the shaft of light streaming down from the far-off surface of the water, and I took Lance's hand in mine.
       There rose from the murk a set of old stone stairs, overgrown with water-moss. Vivien ascended, stripping the blade of its silk wrapper as she did. The white silk flashed as it fell soundlessly away. Near the top, she unsheathed the blade. It dazzled in the light, and my brother and I had to shield our eyes, but Vivien's step never faltered.
       Standing at the base of the stairs, Lancelot and I could see the world above, a shapeless blur of color and light. A shade came into view: the keel of a small wooden boat, darkening the scattered sky. Two figures leaned over the side. One was young and fair, a swath of gold above a swath of scarlet. The other was grey and tall, and the sight of it blew foreboding through me like a long-forgotten wind. As the boat came close, Vivien took the last step and rose head and shoulders out of the water.
       The young king's face came into clearer focus as he leaned towards her, mouth moving as he spoke words we could not hear. Vivien replied, her voice the murmur of low breeze across the water, while below, Excalibur gleamed against her knee. After a moment, she retreated a few steps, submerging herself entirely again. Slowly, she gripped sword and scabbard, raising them together. The tip of the sword sliced the surface, sending brilliant glimmers rippling outward as it disappeared inch by inch. Finally, her hand broke through and ceased to move.
       Arthur's eyes were wide. His hand was only half-outstretched as if he meant not to seize the blade but only to wonder at its existence there, in the middle of what to him must have seemed an entirely ordinary pond. His wheat-gold hair flopped in his face, making him look boyish, but I saw the glint of the gold crown band behind that rumpled forelock. I looked to Lancelot, who had stopped breathing. I have known men who claim to have seen the Holy Grail; I have walked beside them as they witnessed marvels, Fair Folk and mythical beasts and acts of sorcery beyond their wildest dreams. No light has ever rivaled that which I saw in Lancelot's eyes as he gazed at the young King Arthur, whose fingers touched Vivien's as they closed around Excalibur's hilt.
       I looked past him at that shadow, who loomed ever taller behind. I saw many things in that moment, things which would not come to pass for many years, which I could no more understand at that time than a frog trapped in a barrel understands the first drops of rain, which will fall and fall ‘til the barrel is brimming over with his miraculous freedom. As Arthur withdrew, Excalibur's glow receding from our world, Vivien listed to the side and sank, her hair and gown streaming around her like wind-blown flame. Lancelot and I were there to catch her as she fell.

       One year hence, Lancelot du Lac left the water for Camelot to join King Arthur's table. I did not go with him; it was not my time. My time would come; I had seen it while I sat by the window in my workroom, spinning threads of prophecy ever thinner on my spindle, as day by day Arthur's tapestry grew. I helped my brother arm himself; I strapped my mother's sword, Joyeux, around his waist, fastened close each piece of gleaming plate, and drew the blank white tabard of the anonymous knight over his shoulders.
       "Keep the faith, brother," I said to him, touching the steel of his arm.
       He looked down at me with those dark eyes and touched my arm with his heavy gauntlet. "And you, sister. Until we meet again."
       I smiled and let him go. I watched, my gown rippling round my legs in the soft spring current, 'til he and the white flash of his tabard reached the line where the Lake lapped at its shore and rose above it.
       
       
       "Ye are more unwise," said Merlin, "for the scabbard is worth ten of the swords, for whiles ye have the scabbard upon you, ye shall never lose no blood, be ye never so sore wounded; therefore keep well the scabbard always with you."
       --Le Morte d'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory, Chapter XXV