Something shifts. Something changes. The air feels cool against my cheek, my black
feathers ruffle in the breeze. I look down as a little girl dissolves into light and shadows, and I
know that I am free!
Merlin knows it too. I can see him down there, shading his eyes from the sun as he stares
up at me. I feel such exultation, such triumph, I could almost burst. I am Morgana, Merlin’s
raven, and I have the whole realm in my power. All that I can see below me will be mine one
day. I know that’s true because my father has willed it, and Merlin has promised me.
He’s waving at me now, beckoning me to come down, for I have proved myself to him.
But I am gone beyond him. I am intoxicated with joy, with the sensation of flying and the
knowledge that at last I have unlocked the secret to shapeshifting. Now I can escape from my
earthbound body and become anyone or anything that takes my fancy. And so I fly on, for
the first time able to look down on the land that will one day be mine, and on the people over
whom I shall rule. Beyond the spit of land on which our castle stands is the dark blue ocean,
buffed into sharp waves by a brisk wind. It’s a ragged coastline of jagged cliffs, marked by
the foam of breaking waves at their base. The sea hides a multitude of broken dreams, ships
coming close to harbor but caught by waves and tide instead, and torn to pieces on the cruel
and unforgiving rocks below the surface.
Bells ring out as I fly over the abbey. Obeying their urgent summons, the monks of
Tintagel hurry to Mass in their great stone church with its cross at the summit. In my bird’s
mind I pull a human face at them, for their love of the Christ is not for me. I put my trust in
Merlin’s magic, not the will of their god.
On a whim I fly onward, to the place where my father died in battle, for I have never been
allowed to see the place where he fell, just as I was not allowed to see his dead body, nor was
I able to mourn him openly, as a daughter should.
Once I come to the battlefield, I alight on a branch and look out across the bare scrubby
grass that lies baking in the glare of the sun. I try to imagine how it must have been: my
father’s troops trying to defend our territory against the soldiers of the High King; a battle
that ended in the death of my father, Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. My heart fills with sorrow as
I recall the events that led to that moment.
It all began when my father was summoned to London to pay tribute to the new High
King, and made the mistake of bringing his family with him, for it was then that Uther
Pendragon fell in love with my mother and she with him. I remember how awed I was by the
magnificence of the High King’s palace and the presence of kings and nobles from across the
southern country. We’d walked along the banks of the River Thames, my father and I, while
he’d announced his dreams for my future.
“I shall not make any arrangements for your betrothal, Morgana, not yet. There is time
enough to choose a worthy consort to be at your side, but it is you I shall name as my heir,
and it is you who will rule Cornwall in my stead. I’m putting my trust in you, Morgana. You
must take care of my realm and rule wisely and well. You must not fail me in this. Do I have