Morgain's Revenge (10 page)

T
he air smelled of warm horseflesh and dry straw, with an undertone of mold and rot. It was familiar and comforting and disgusting, all at once. Somewhere off to the right side of Gerard’s head, a bug was making a soft chirping noise.

“You awake?”

“No.” Gerard kept his eyes closed, hoping that Newt would take the hint.

“This is a nice inn.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Supper was really good.”

“Yes, it was.” Gerard wished that Newt would get to the point already and let him sleep.

“We should remember to tell Sir Caedor that in the morning—that it’s a good inn, I mean. Since he chose it.”

Gerard rolled over on his side and stared at Newt across the stall they were sleeping in. The hay crinkled underneath, bits of it poking through the blanket and scratching his skin—a small price to pay for the smell and sounds of the horses kept in the stalls on either side of them. But the hay was clean and dry, and there was a roof overhead.

“Out of the only two we saw all day, yes. We should tell him. Newt, what are you up to?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He was beginning to remember why his first act upon meeting Newt had been to blacken the other boy’s eye.

Newt flopped onto his back, exhaling heavily. “Nothing. Really. I just thought it would soften him up a little.”

“And?” Gerard didn’t know if it was Arthur’s wisdom or Merlin’s cunning, or just his own knowledge of the fact that Newt didn’t care a whit about Sir Caedor, but he could tell there was a logic at work that had nothing to do with the knight’s mood, softened or otherwise.

“And if things were better between the two of us, you could sleep in the inn itself, the way you should. And not spend the night in a stable like—”

“Like a stable boy?”

“Yes.”

“Newt…” Gerard tried to figure out how to get his point across without using the wrong words or making things worse somehow. “If I had wanted to sleep in the inn, I would have. But they only had one room, even with our script from the king authorizing whatever we needed, and only one bed in that room. I would rather sleep in the stable.
Without
straw.”

Gerard lay back down and stared at the wooden ceiling. “Besides. He snores.”

“Fair enough. So do you.”

“I do not!”

“Sure you don’t,” Newt said soothingly.

Gerard snorted and pulled his blanket up over his shoulder, indicating that the conversation was at an end, and he was, by God, going to sleep.

“I heard what you said,” Newt said softly, almost to himself. “To Sir Caedor, before supper. Thank you.”

There really wasn’t anything to say to that. So Gerard was silent.

In the small but comfortable room in the Oak Tree Inn, Sir Caedor lay on a narrow bed and stared at the
whitewashed wood-beam ceiling. He had wanted nothing to do with this journey. He was supposed to be preparing for the Quest to find the Grail—the greatest undertaking in the history of Britain, the crowning achievement of Arthur’s reign. Instead, he was playing nursemaid to two boys who clearly saw him as nothing more than a hindrance to their own headstrong ways.

Arthur had warned him of this. “They are young yet, and while tested and proven in courage and skills, their experiences are limited. Be their wise right arm, their protector. Do this, and you shall be rewarded.”

In his quieter moments, Caedor could see that it made sense. He was to be young Gerard’s protector, his teacher. And the best way to teach was often not to lead, but to allow the student to lead, and correct him when he went wrong.

But Gerard did not take well to being corrected. This afternoon had been a perfect example of that.

“We will have your best rooms. And supper, a full supper. Newt, take the horses to the stable, and ensure that they are taken care of.” Sir Caedor swung down from his saddle, bringing out from inside his tunic the script from Arthur—a sheet of parchment that gave them the right
to ask for anything short of military aid or treaty, and that Camelot would stand surety for it.

“We have only one room, but it is yours, sir knight. Supper is served in the common room, but I assure you, it is everything you might desire.”

The innkeeper was a slimy ball of a man, stuttering and practically salivating over them. Caedor could only imagine how the man thought to turn their presence to his benefit, perhaps charge the locals a coin each to view the bed the “famed knight from Camelot” slept in, or to eat from the same bowl he used.

“You will stay a night? Two nights? Longer? We can accommodate you better the next night, I will have another room open for your squires.”

“Thank you, no. We will have need only for one night.” Gerard butted into the conversation before Caedor could inform the innkeeper of the same thing. The man looked taken aback that a squire would interrupt his master, and Caedor could feel his jaw begin to grind in frustration.

“If you have only the one room,” Gerard continued, “Newt and I will bed down with the horses. But the meal would be most welcome.” The stable boy, who had hung back while Caedor spoke, nodded and led the horses off.

When the innkeeper bowed and scurried off to make
the room ready, Caedor turned to face his charge.

“There was no need to offer to sleep with the horses. I’m certain he could have found a room for you.”

“We have discussed this before,” the squire said, leaving Caedor at a loss. “You must treat Newt with more respect, or we will leave you here, despite Arthur’s request that we include you in our journey.”

The squire stared him directly in the eye in a way that could only be described as defiant. “I mean it. I will leave you here, and report back that you failed in your obligation—failed in the basic task of showing courtesy and respect to your companions.”

Caedor’s jaw worked, but no words came out. How dare this youth, this stripling, this child say such things to him? To reprimand him over how he treated a mere stable boy?

“Accept Newt as a travel companion, not a servant,” the squire said. “Or stay here on the morning when we leave.”

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, Caedor knew what he would do when the sun rose. Duty was duty. But it left a bitter taste in his mouth; the taste of ashes and saltwater.

Ailis had no idea what time it was. She wasn’t even really sure what day it was. One faded into the next, no way to set one day off from another. After a while, it didn’t matter. But her brain, confused and filled with new and strange information, could not let go of one question: “Why did you steal me?”

Morgain didn’t bother to look up from the parchment she was reading. “Focus on the spell, witch-child.”

“I
am
focused.” Ailis thought that she could do this in her sleep at this point. “Why did you steal me from Camelot?”

The enchantress gave a dramatic sigh, placing the parchment down carefully on her workbench. “Have you never seen a shiny button on the ground and picked it up?”

Ailis didn’t need to have it explained further. Morgain had taken her not from any planned intent, but because she thought that Ailis might possibly be useful in some way, at some later time. Or not.

And if not, she would face the fate of all unmatched buttons: being discarded.

Ailis pursed her lips into a tight line, and focused
again on the small silver globe floating in the air in front of her. She would show the sorceress. She would show Morgain that she was worthy of not being discarded.

As though sensing Ailis’s thoughts, Morgain smiled, a sly, smug smile of her own, and rose to walk over to where Ailis was working. She leaned her head of shining dark hair over the girl’s red braids to check her progress.

“Gently,” she said. “Gently wins the day.” Then the two of them leaned forward as one to breathe on the sphere, and it dissolved into a spray of noxious-smelling fumes.

“I did it!” Ailis said jubilantly. “I did it!”

“Yes,” Morgain said, leaning back and gazing at her student with pride. “Yes, you did.”

In her fascination with the spell’s result, Ailis completely missed the dangerous glint of satisfaction in Morgain’s eyes.

“The lodestone says we take the left-hand road.” Gerard looked up from the stone hanging from its leather cord over the unfolded parchment. He was getting quite good at reading Merlin’s maps. Once
you got past the fear of touching a sigil and setting off some unpredictable protective spell, they were remarkably useful things.

“There is nothing there but a small village,” Sir Caedor said, dismissing the map and the lodestone. “I do not think a dangerous sorceress would be hiding among the fisherfolk cottages. If she were, even a young girl like your maiden would be able to escape, no? To the right, boys. Follow the road to the right,” and he pointed to the fork in the road, to where a small but elaborate watchtower rose. “That is where we must look.”

“Does he never tire of being wrong?” Newt asked quietly. He reached up to touch the scab on his face, feeling the warm glow that spread from his hand into his chest when he did so. It had the feel of King Arthur to it, a wry awareness of bigotry and frailty in even the best of men, rather than Merlin’s more brusque, abrasive affection. How he knew that, Newt didn’t know. But that warmth was all that kept his calm intact, worn to shreds by the endless hard riding and continued uncertainty. Sir Caedor’s negative opinion about Ailis’s fate was not helping matters, either. The boys were trying so hard to stay optimistic, but every day that passed, and every doom-saying comment by the knight…

No. She had to be safe. She
had
to be. Otherwise there was no point to any of it. He didn’t care about Morgain, or her plans, or Merlin’s power plays. Newt just wanted Ailis to be safe.

“Apparently not,” Gerard said in response to Newt’s question. The squire folded the map into well-creased quarters and handed it back to his friend. Then he replaced the lodestone around his own neck, where it slipped comfortably under the open collar of his shirt.

“Sir Caedor, the lodestone tells us to take the left-hand path. And so we shall.”

The knight muttered under his breath, just as he had every other time Gerard had gainsaid him, but did not protest further.

Finally, Caedor said, “It may be that the village is more important than it looks.”

And that, both boys knew, was as much as they would get from Sir Caedor. It was enough.

“Come on,” Newt said, swinging back into the saddle and gathering up the reins. Loyal shifted, as impatient as his rider to be done with this traveling. “Every hour we waste is an hour Ailis is waiting.”

Left unsaid was the awareness that they might already be too late.

“T
hree touches of air to a dose of water, and…” Ailis’s memory failed her for a moment. Then the voice she had come to depend upon rose up from inside her and supplied the answer. “Grave dust to fill the air,” she finished triumphantly as she meandered through a new hallway.

“So.”

A voice came from out of the shadows, before the speaker came into view, scaring all thoughts of spell-work out of her mind completely. Ailis had heard the ladies-in-waiting speak of their blood running cold, but she had dismissed it as foolishness; the overreaction of women who didn’t understand fear or fright.

She would have whispered an apology for underestimating them, if she could have found enough moisture in her mouth to form the words.

“So, you are the girl who has interested our hostess, distracted her from that which she must be doing. This costs me time, that I must be here, and not elsewhere.”

The speaker stood directly in front of her, but Ailis could not have said what she looked like, or if, in fact, she was indeed female. The voice was a strange whisper, as genderless as the wind, and the body…

Ailis could not have focused her gaze on the figure even if she had wanted to. And she didn’t. The warning voice in her head was now a scream.
Don’t look at the eyes! Don’t look! Don’t look!
So she only had an impression of a silver-gray robe flowing from cowl to floor; a hooded cloak hiding features in shadows, despite the well-lit hallway they stood in.

The hooded figure leaned in, inspecting Ailis the way a cook might have inspected a chicken brought in from the yard. “What is it about you that is of such import?”

Ailis could only shake her head, unable to even stutter out a disclaimer. She had been working with Morgain most of the morning, helping her set up preparations for a major working. This was the first spellwork Ailis had been allowed to watch. She had felt a strange combination of nerves and excitement
which had led to her needing to stretch her legs a bit.

Clearly, leaving the workroom had been a mistake. But if Morgain had known that the shadow-figure had returned, why had she not said anything about it that morning when they began their work? And if the danger from this person had passed…

No, the danger certainly had not passed. The danger was right here now. Every instinct she had—ordinary and magical—was screaming at her to turn and run. But there was nowhere
to
run—nowhere to hide that this creature could not find her. Ailis knew that the way she knew her own breath.

“Tell me, child. Tell me what you are, that I should feel moved to see you again. That I must take note of you, and weave you into my plans.”

“I…I don’t know.” The words were torn from her throat; the sensation of claws dragging along the flesh of her neck and mouth was so real she could almost taste the blood welling up and splashing her tongue.

“She is no one.”

The relief Ailis felt at hearing Morgain’s voice behind her was immeasurable. She would be happy to be no one, of no importance forever, if that figure would just stop staring at her. All Ailis wanted was
to turn tail and hide behind Morgain’s woolen skirts, like a child threatened by a snarling dog running home to its mother.

The shadow-figure’s attention was not so much distracted as split. Ailis could feel the power of a cold wind, but it expanded to include the sorceress as well.

“You are a fool, Morgain. Would you jeopardize all that you have worked for? Delicate wheels are in motion, at your command. Do you hesitate now?”

“I am not hesitating,” Morgain said, her voice still and hard, like the woman Ailis had first encountered, the cold and powerful sorceress Morgain Le Fay, scourge of Camelot. “All will be as we have planned it. Arthur will feel the weight of my hatred, and I shall have my revenge. The witch-child does not change that. The witch-child changes nothing you need be concerned with.”

Ailis almost stopped breathing, willing them
both
to forget she existed.

“You think not. You know nothing. Fool mortal. Fool woman. Allow this, and all your plans will come to nothing. Arthur will gain the Grail, and you will fade from history, forgotten and unmourned.”

The air in the hallway seemed to grow even colder, and Morgain drew herself up to her full
height—a warrior-queen afraid of nothing, beholden to no one. Her face twisted in anger, the even white teeth suddenly showing like the fangs of the great cat she kept as a pet. “I am your hostess. I am she who called you to these shores. Forget that at your own peril.”

Ailis still couldn’t breathe. She didn’t dare breathe. Warrior-queen or no, evil sorceress or no, couldn’t Morgain feel how dangerous this stranger was? It was like keeping a dragon on a jeweled leash; fine until the dragon tired of the game and snapped the leash and devoured you in one bite.

“You know nothing of peril,” the figure spat.

“I know
everything
of peril,” Morgain spat back. “Do not push, Old One. I brought you to these shores, and I can still send you hence.”

A hiss from the shadow-figure, a warm note of anger cutting through the cold wind, and when Ailis blinked, it was gone.

Morgain muttered something in a language Ailis did not know, but the girl could agree with the thought it conveyed, and sighed in relief.

Then Morgain let out a deep breath, and turned to face Ailis. Her expression was calm, controlled, her perfect features perfect once again.

“And now, witch-child, back to work.”

In the face of that calm control, Ailis swallowed the questions she desperately wanted to ask, the salty tang of blood a reminder that there were things she did not want to be involved with any further, if she could possibly help it. This was a dangerous place. A bad place. Despite the contentment she had discovered here, a part of her mind still remembered that Morgain was an immense danger, an evil woman, the enemy of Arthur and Merlin, and therefore of Ailis as well.

Do not think on things you cannot change.
There was no doubt that it was Morgain’s voice, soothing the raw edges of Ailis’s mind.
Focus on who and what you are, who and what you may become. That and that alone you may control.

It was good advice. Ailis wrapped herself again in that soothing tone and took comfort in its words as the two went back up into the workroom and closed the heavy wooden door behind them.

“
This
is where Morgain is hiding?” Newt, remembering the glories of the Isle of Apples, was incredulous.

“According to the lodestone…yes.” Gerard shrugged, as though to deny responsibility for the answer.

“Well, it’s not much to speak of, is it?” Sir Caedor said. “Not that I was expecting Camelot in miniature, but I at least thought there would be streets.”

In truth, the village barely earned that name; a double handful of wood and stone houses built not along any discernible row or road, but scattered as though by whim and chance along the shoreline. Narrow paths wound around each building, created not by hoof and wheel, but by human feet. Gerard could hear the faint chatter of voices—children, he determined—off to the left, but there were no adults to be seen. The sun was well-risen in the sky, however, so it was entirely likely that every adult in the village was called to work. Gerard didn’t know anything about the patterns of coastal life; he had been born to fertile farmlands and was fostered in a rocky domain where livestock, not fish, were the main concern.

“All roads lead to…what?” Sir Caedor wondered out loud, tracing the direction with his gaze. “Down to the sea. And what is of such interest in the sea?”

“Their livelihood,” Newt said in a tone of amazement. “This is a fishing village. Everyone here takes
their living from the ocean.”

“Information. We need more information,” the knight went on, ignoring Newt entirely. “The lodestone sent us here, to a place from which we can travel no farther, so there must be an answer of some sort waiting for us. Let us go and inquire, if we can find a soul to speak with.”

The two boys rode their horses forward, and followed Sir Caedor down one of the wider, more clearly defined paths, down a slight incline to where three larger square buildings partially blocked their view of the water down below.

“Do you know what you’re going to say, to convince someone to let us borrow a boat?” Newt asked.

“I was thinking about invoking Arthur’s name,” Gerard said. “We are on his business, after all.”

“You think they’ll believe that?” They did have a parchment with the king’s signature on it, the same one they had used to gain a room at the inn. Inns were used to that sort of thing, but the odds of anyone in this rough place being able to read were slim, at best. And even if they could, they would likely be disinclined to give over something as valuable as a boat to three strangers, so far from Camelot’s immediate reach and reward.

“Well, we do have a knight with us,” Gerard responded. “Maybe they’ll be impressed by that.”

“Optimist,” Newt muttered, dire down to his toes. Gerard laughed for the first time in days.

He
was
optimistic, or at least optimistic in this regard, on this day, this hour. They were close, the lodestone had led them well, and he had confidence in Ailis. She was well. She would remain strong until they could rescue her. They could accomplish anything so long as they held together. Sir Caedor might not believe it, but Gerard knew Ailis; knew her better than anyone.

“You! Sirrah! Stop when I speak to you!”

“Oh, drat!” Newt said, and they both continued forward, too late to stop Sir Caedor from accosting a man walking toward them, away from the shoreline.

“Getcher hands off me,” the man growled, then blanched at the sight of two more riders bearing down on him.

“Sir Caedor. Release him.”

“He was insolent!”

“Release him.” For just an instant, Gerard sounded like the king. So much so that Sir Caedor’s hand released the man of its own accord, in an instinctive reflex.
Wow,
Gerard thought, but couldn’t stop to
enjoy the moment. Newt dismounted, holding Loyal’s reins so that he stood off to Gerard’s side. It was a planned move on Newt’s part; not of a servant but as a well-treated companion of lesser social standing. With luck, that consideration would offset Sir Caedor’s poor manners and reassure the man enough so that he would speak to Gerard without fear.

“I apologize,” Gerard said now. “We have been riding for many days and we had hopes that you might be able to aid us.”

The stranger looked at Gerard warily, glancing first at Sir Caedor, then at Newt, and then to Gerard again.

“With what?”

“We are in need of a guide to the home of Morgain Le Fay.”

The villager stared up at them, his weathered face creased even more as he scowled. Then his mouth worked, and he spat a yellowish globule that hit Gerard on the leg.

The squire didn’t flinch, not even when Sir Caedor pulled his sword from its scabbard, ready to slay the villager where he stood.

“I have offended?” Gerard asked, as mildly as he
could, while Newt moved to be ready to restrain Sir Caedor, if needed. How, Newt wasn’t sure. But he would give Gerard time to ask whatever questions he needed to.

“You
are
offensive,” the villager said. “You ride here, you grab, you demand, you would disturb the Lady Morgain—why? What business have you with her?”

“The king has sent us to parley with the Lady Morgain on matters of importance to him, and to her.”

“Then the king should have sent you the means and direction on how to visit her,” the old man said. “None here will convey you without her own request.”

“But the king—”

“We have served the Lady Morgain’s family for generations,” the local said, his voice dripping scorn. “The family that
stayed
here, walked the sand, same as us. Not some bastard child gone off to warm a fancy chair down in the southlands.”

Sir Caedor surged forward at the insult to the king, and even Newt jerked in reaction. But Gerard stayed them both with a glance and an upraised hand. Arthur had surely heard worse in his years.

“We have reason to believe that she would make us welcome on our arrival.”

“Then she will send a way for you to make that arrival,” the old man said. “’Tis not our place to make it happen.”

They stared at each other, one pair of eyes lined and weighted but still bright, the other road-weary and shadowed. And in the end, it was Gerard who blinked and looked away, feeling the surge of Arthur’s wisdom rising up inside him, even without the scar’s itching.

“Let’s go,” Gerard said, finally. “Perhaps someone down in the village proper will be more open to discussion.”