"I didn't realize it disturbed you as much as it obviously does," said Merlin. "Why do you think that is?"

"I didn't realize it disturbed you as much as it obviously does," said Merlin. "Why do you think that is?"

"Well, so do Billy and I, especially when Gorlois manifests himself," Merlin replied, gazing briefly at the

fire opal runestone in the ring he wore, the stone that held Gorlois's spirit.

"That scares me, too," she said. "Not you and Billy, I mean. I was able to get used to that. Maybe

because there was never really a physical transformation. But with Gorlois . . . jeez, one minute Billy's

standing there in his scruffy clothes and Mohawk haircut and the next, out of nowhere, this huge knight in

full armor suddenly appears, sword and shield, the whole works. And he doesn't speak. We've never

even seen his face."

"I have," said Merlin thoughtfully, "though I realize now that it was not his true appearance."

"What does he look like?"

"His true appearance, you mean? I don't really know. He was a fearsome-looking man. Pale, with

snow-white hair, and cruel-looking, though I realize now that it was only a magical disguise. He had

altered his features with a spell, so that he would not look like an Old One. As a child, I was always

frightened of him. He rarely spoke then, too. It was as if . . . as if there were always walls around him. A

veritable fortress, walls and barbican and moat. As a youth, I never understood what my mother saw in

him. He was a powerful man and power can be quite compelling, and yet my mother was never one to

seem excited by such things. It was a mystery to me."

"You've never spoken about your mother," Kira said softly.

"She was a lovely woman," Merlin said. He smiled, and when he did, Billy's face became transformed.

He no longer looked like a feral, tough, young street punk, but like an innocent boy, pretty and full of

wonder. "You would have liked her. She was small and frail, with beautiful golden hair that cascaded to

her waist. A shy and quiet woman. My happiest memories of childhood are of sitting on the floor beside

her, playing with my makeshift toys, while she worked at the spinning wheel, singing softly to herself. She

had a lovely voice. Sweet and pure. I could never imagine her together with my father."

Kira smiled. "Most kids can't picture their parents making love."

"It's not that, so much," said Merlin. "I just can't imagine my father being gentle with her. Perhaps there

was a gentle side of him I never knew. If so, it was a side of himself he certainly never showed to me.

And I grew to resent him for it. And finally . . . to hate him. Even now, when our spirits all share the same

body, he remains distant."

Kira glanced down at the floor.

It was a long moment before Merlin spoke again. "A man named Oscar Wilde once said that children

begin by loving their parents. After a while, they judge them. And rarely, if ever, do they forgive them."

He paused. "You see, my dear, you are not the only one with doubts about yourself, nor are you the only

one who has felt profoundly affected by what we have become. Iam my father now, just as I am also

Billy, my grandson so many times removed. Yet, in a sense, we all are and always were. We are all but

links in a long chain. Only in our case, those links are forged by magic. And magic makes them more

immediate, more palpable. More real. In some ways, that makes things difficult for us, but in other ways,

it makes us very fortunate. Because, thanks to the spell that we have fallen under, we perceive each other