Merlin's Shadow (17 page)

“Of course it's yours, dear. Let's try it on.”

Before Ganieda knew it, she was dressed and feeling beautiful.

The woman left to get some ointment for the small cuts on Ganieda's legs. While she was gone, Ganieda flopped back on the bed and repeated the woman's name out loud to herself.
Safrowana
…
Safrowana
… It sounded similar to her mother's name
Môndargana
, but of course not half as special. From her vantage point, Ganieda looked up at the cast-iron lamp hanging from a hook nailed into a beam running across the roof. The oil had nearly run dry, for it sputtered in the still air. And just as she was about to look away, the wick flared up, revealing a line of white nearly hidden on the lamp's ledge. White? Could it be?

She jumped up, almost losing her balance on the stuffed feather mattress. She leaned forward to see what the white thing was, but the wick was too dim. Blowing at it as hard as she could, she couldn't make it flare up. Looking around, she found her old dress, nearly rags now, and she waved it at the lantern until the wick flashed, revealing what lay on the edge of the lamp … and it was … her fang!

She reached forward, straining, tilting, but the bed was too soft and too far away. She spied a broom in the corner, and jumped off the bed to get it. She had just returned to the center and raised the broom handle toward the lantern when someone knocked on the door.

She froze. What if she were caught? They would take the fang and hide it somewhere else. Maybe break it. Maybe bury it in a hole where she would
never
find it again.

The door began to open. She dropped the broom to the ground and pretended to sweep.

It was Safrowana, come back with a small crock of ointment. “Ah, lass, there's no need for that,” she said, and she gently took the broom away.

Ganieda let it go, for she could grab it if only Safrowana would leave again. But for what excuse? Ah, that was it. Ganieda picked up the empty soup bowl and held it out.

Safrowana smiled. “In a moment, lass, let me put this on your cuts … That's it, hold your leg out. So many scratches. You must have run for hours through the woods to look like this.”

The ointment felt cool as it was spread on Ganieda's leg, and it smelled of thyme and lavender. Safrowana smiled, picked up the bowl, and left.

Ganieda ran to the broom, grabbed it, and went swinging at the lamp. She hit it once, but the fang didn't fall. A second time, but still nothing.

Ganieda banged the lamp hard, and the fang fell to the rushes that covered the floor. She seized it and tucked it into her shoe —
just as the door opened. The three girls entered the room, the tallest of whom was in front — her with the maroon, green, and white plaid. She had a funny look on her face, and the two in back were whispering.

The front one stood there, looking down her nose at Ganieda, who could almost feel the scorn. The girl held her hands behind her back, hiding something.

Stay away from the other girls, ya hear?
Ganieda's mother had said.
They hate ya and they'll hurt ya
. The words rang through her head, and she repeated it to herself.

The big girl made a hesitant step forward.

Ganieda tensed, holding the broom ready to defend herself. She would hit the tall one in the head and throw the broom at the others. Then she'd pull the fang from her shoe. They would learn not to hurt her, for she'd teach them the power of the fang, and they'd never forget.

N
atalenya ran crying to Colvarth and Merlin, the slave collar's chain banging into her shins. She had escaped, by God's grace, from Necton, but at what cost? He knew now the depth of her sickness, for he'd seen the black boils gathering on her upper arms, and he had shoved her away, yelling at her as if her life was worth far less than the mud beneath his feet.

Strangely, she had begun to place her hope in him — that if she fell too ill to keep up on the trail that he would put her on his horse. But now that he knew about the boils he would never help her — and if she faltered, she would be killed or left to die.

But even as her itching sickness condemned her, it had also saved her from an unholy marriage, for once Necton saw the truth, his interest faded and turned into anger. Maybe fear.

And in her disgrace, she barely had the courage to go back to her friends. To Merlin. Especially Merlin. She had hidden the boils from him, but now she couldn't conceal them anymore. He would
see and would also reject her, even loathe her, and their love would die another death. Could she face that?

Hadn't he sworn to protect her? When had that ended? She knew he'd been kicked by Scafta, but why had he allowed her to become a slave? Wouldn't it have been better to die an honorable death fighting the Picts? Her father would have never willingly become a slave.

But then there was Arthur. Merlin thought of the little boy as the future king of the Britons — and all of his painful decisions hinged on that uncertain future. Did that matter to Natalenya? Not so much. She cared more for the little boy's chubby cheeks, his ready laughter when she tickled him, his soft fingers when he held her earlobe, his sweaty toes that smelled like vinegar — and most of all, his quiet, thoughtful nature.

Oh, how it had hurt when she'd been forced to give Arthur over to Garth. She was just too sick to carry him, clean him, feed him, and love him. Could she give him up to the Picts to raise? For that is what would surely happen unless she got well … and … what? Would that really change anything? She would probably have to marry Necton simply to take care of Arthur. But could she? That beast of a ruddy-haired pagan? And maybe he was already married, and that sickened her. No, she could not. Never. But what then? Would she ever get well? Or would she die, overcome by the black, encrusted boils beginning to cover her body?

As she ran, the questions swirled around her, calling out, clawing at her ragged clothes and trying to pull her down to a quick grave. For such questions she had no ready answers, and she stumbled — and stumbling again she passed through the ranks of the Picts, over a small hill, and finally collapsed at Merlin's feet. Her whole body ached, and her sobs rolled in and out of her throat like jagged stones.

At Colvarth's urging, Merlin had finally found the strength to stand on his wobbly legs — and then Natalenya had come to him and fallen
at his feet. He knelt down to her, but pain throbbed into his eyes and blinded him for a moment.

“Are you all right?” he asked, but it was a stupid question, for she was sobbing. Of course she wasn't all right.

“I'm … I'm …” but she didn't say more, so he reached out and touched her shoulder to offer some comfort, and found she was trembling.

“Don't touch me!” she said, and slapped his hand.

Merlin recoiled just as his vision cleared. Her sleeve had been ripped open past the upper arm, and the skin was covered in black and purple boils. Her sickness wasn't just making her tired, or giving her a fever. It was infecting her flesh.

“Did Necton hurt you?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

She shook her head, and Merlin took a deep breath. He'd been unable to protect her, sure, but at least he didn't have to add that to his list of failures. But her sickness — this black death creeping over her body — it made his insides churn in wrath until tears slipped from his eyes.

He had to find a way to help her … but how? Then his dream floated back to him of the fisherman who had really been a king, wounded and bleeding … and the Sangraal had healed him. All this time Natalenya'd been sick. and they had held this relic in their possession — the very cup of Christ!

Merlin needed to get it back from Necton.

Now.

Her suffering must end.

But how could he retrieve it while he was chained to Garth and Bedwir? He turned to talk to them — only to find that Necton had failed to pin his collar on again. He'd been set free to challenge Scafta, and so for the moment he was still free. He saw Necton's tent within a stone's throw, and the man himself nowhere in sight. Most of the warriors slept on the ground in the open, but Necton, along with a dozen others, had been afforded the privilege of a tent.

Around Merlin, the Picts milled about their newly lit campfires preparing food and laughing. But Merlin needed a way to hide his face, or else one of the warriors would stop him. At his feet Colvarth and the others were sorting through a new pile of tunics, breeches, and cloaks taken in the raid, and Merlin found a tunic with a hood. He slipped it on, ignoring the lifeblood spilled through a rend in its side.

Garth stood up from talking to Peredur, the young man who'd been chained behind Caygek. He tugged at Merlin's elbow. “What're you doin'?” he asked.

“Quiet.”

“I said, what're you doin'? We're supposed to be sortin' these.” He pointed to the clothes.

“Since when do
you
care about work?”

“Necton's not goin' to like it, and I don't want'a miss dinner.” Garth sniffed the smoke wafting through the camp from the many spits of roasting meat.

“You think you'll get anything other than dry bread, huh? Well, I'm going to get something from his tent.”

“Food? If'n so, then we'll come with.” He made to grab a few tunics. “Maybe we can get me bagpipe from Scafta's tent while we're at it.”

“No! I'm not getting food, and you're staying put. If you want any kind of dinner, then distract Necton if you see him.”

Merlin slipped off toward the tent. He tried to appear as relaxed as possible, and this suited him for it minimized the pounding in his head. A strong urge to glance left and right came over him — to see if anyone was approaching to stop him — but the hood blocked his vision.

He was now only ten paces from the tent, and still no one had noticed. He walked forward and ducked under the opening. The air was hot inside, and he tied the flap behind him. Before him lay an unfolded cot, an empty pewter mug, a small cask of drink — and a large bag.

Merlin knelt down and began sorting through the bag. It contained items of plunder, including rings and jewelry, clothing and
cloaks, a leather satchel of dried meat, a woven bag with ground horseradish root, various coins amounting to a small fortune, and many other things stolen from the people of Kembry. At the very bottom Merlin discovered Colvarth's tin box.

He pulled it out from the bag, but found the box had been locked once again. Not having his knife, he needed something to unlatch it. Looking through the bag, he found a slim but large coin, and attempted to slip it into the gap near the lock and wedge it open. This had worked before when he and Colvarth had first examined the Sangraal — but this time it didn't open.

Sweat began to form at his hairline and trickle down to his eyebrows. He dug back into the bag and found a woman's copper hairpin, with many tines, and using that began working at the lock, but still the box would not open.

Outside, he heard some footsteps.

His heart began to beat wildly, making his cheeks hot. He blinked away sweat dripping into his eyes and tried to remember the iron locks his father had made in their blacksmith shop. They had different kinds of mechanisms, and that gave him an idea. Taking the hairpins in his teeth, he bent it and tried fishing it deeper into the mechanism.

Necton's voice called from near the tent entrance, and a distant warrior hailed him.

Click
. The box opened. The bowl was still there with its golden circlet upon the bottom, but he'd be caught with it and …

Necton began untying the tent flap.

To get away, Merlin tried to find a place to slide under the side of the tent, but there were too many tent pegs, and the fabric was held too tightly to the ground.

There was no escaping before Necton entered.

Ganieda pulled the broom back, ready to swing it upward at the tall girl, who wouldn't expect something fierce like that from one
as short as Ganieda. No one ever did, and Ganieda prided herself at that.

The tall girl stepped forward again.

Ganieda knew it was the last time the girl would look at her like that. The broom would strike her in the face before she knew what was coming.

But the girl acted quicker than Ganieda … and pulled a rag doll from behind her back. She held it forth, saying, “We made this for you, and want you to have it.”

Ganieda gulped. She still wanted to strike the girl, but how could she do that now? Maybe if the doll were ugly, but it wasn't. The cloth was a bright blue, maybe the brightest blue Ganieda had ever seen. Bluer than the flax flowers that grew near her house. Her house that had burned down such a short time ago.

Ganieda had no doll. Had nothing to love. Not anymore. And these horrible girls had made it … for her? She wanted to reach out and touch it, take it, hold it, but she was afraid it would become smoke, like everything else in her life.

The girl gave it to her, and then knelt down and tried to hug her.

Ganieda scrunched up her shoulders and stepped back. She'd sit in Safrowana's lap, receive the dress, and maybe even a doll — but she surely wouldn't hug this strange girl.

A look of pain — of fear and confusion — passed over the girl's face. The smirk was gone.

This girl had been afraid too, Ganieda realized.

Safrowana returned with the second bowl of soup and exchanged it for the broom.

The earthenware bowl felt warm, and the steaming goodness wafted upward. Ganieda sniffed deeply. After replacing the broom in the corner, Safrowana left the room with the girls, and Ganieda was alone.

She set the soup on a small table next to the bed, bent down, and pulled out the fang from her shoe. What was this thing? This white length, sharp as a needle, that could hurt those who tried to love her?
Even Grandpa had been hurt by it, for she remembered clearly his pressed lips and blinking, tightened eyes when she had first cut his remaining hand. She had betrayed him in that moment … had cut her own grandfather.

If she kept the fang, would she keep hurting people? Would she hurt this family that was trying, however awkwardly, to love her?

But the Voice called again.

The sharp fang vibrated, pulsed, and slowly writhed upon her palm, making her itch to close her small fingers upon it. Making her want to grow again into Gana the great. To become
Mórgana
. To take hold of the vigor and power of a life obedient to the Voice.