Morgain's Revenge (9 page)

The sun had fallen below the tree line some time ago. The light around them had darkened in response, but since the lodestone seemed to point in
the direction of the supposed inn, Gerard had given the go-ahead to continue on. If it would sweeten Sir Caedor’s mood for the evening, the next day might go more smoothly.

The only drawback was that the horses were more likely to stumble when they could not see the road. The air was filled with the dusk chorus of birds and insects, intercut every now and again by the cry of a distant wolf. Gerard had looked at Newt when the first howl sounded, but when the other boy seemed unconcerned, the squire decided it wasn’t something he should be worrying about, either. Even more telling, while his horse had started at the first note, the mule still trotted along placidly.

Gerard just wished that they would arrive at the inn already, to put an end to this conversation, if nothing else. Being caught between the two, friend and knight, was making him feel horribly uncomfortable, and caused his wound to itch horribly. He noticed that Newt was having the same trouble, often interrupting his words to scratch irritably at his own scab.

Sir Caedor finished drinking from the waterskin, wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, and handed the skin to Newt, diving right back into an
ongoing debate. “Your faith does you credit, boy. But yes, my experience tells me otherwise. It’s been almost a week since the girl was taken. Deep down inside, you know that she’s most likely dead by now. Or worse.”

Newt glared at the knight. “There’s nothing worse than being dead.”

Sir Caedor made a sound low in his throat, filled with pity at Newt’s innocence. But Gerard knew what his friend meant. You never got another chance after death. Anything else…anything else, you could come back from.

That was Ailis. Solid, strong, dependable. She could come back from anything.

“Well, if she’s dead, why are we still going after her?” Newt’s voice was stern, almost bitter in his challenge, and Gerard tensed.

Sir Caedor surprised him, though. “To avenge her, if needed. To bring her body home. To care for her, as is our sworn duty, as knights—and as men of our word.” This was the kindest thing Caedor had said about Newt until now, even indirectly. “To bring that sorceress to justice, once and for all.”

Gerard almost fell off his horse at that last bit. The three of them? Take down Morgain against her
will? Sir Caedor must have gotten into the berries they always warned the pages about, because he sounded like he was hallucinating. Not even Merlin could do anything about Morgain—or rather, he could, but would not because Arthur would not allow it. She was evil and treacherous and dangerous…and she was the daughter of Arthur’s mother, the girl who had once held the baby Arthur in her arms. A fact that the king never, ever forgot, and woe to the man who thought it wasn’t important.

Newt slumped deeper into his saddle, almost becoming one with the leather and wood, and refused to look at the knight. He stared straight between Loyal’s ears at the road in front of them.

Sir Caedor, having gotten no response, kicked his horse into a slightly faster trot and rode on ahead.

“I do worry…” Gerard said.

“About what?” Newt asked.

“Ailis. Being with Morgain all that time. Being around magic, and not good magic.”

Newt tightened his grip on his reins again, then relaxed Loyal back into a slow, steady walk. “There is no good magic. She shouldn’t be around any of it at all.”

“Not even Merlin’s?” Gerard knew he was pok
ing a sleeping boar with a short spear, but he couldn’t stop. “The kind of magic that we’ve been using to save our very precious skins? The magic that animates the lodestone? The magic that keeps fires from destroying villages and clears muck from wells? Are we going to go through
that
argument again?”

Newt shrugged, looking away as though wanting to pretend they weren’t having this conversation. But the topic of magic had been simmering—and boiling over—too many times since Gerard had met the other boy, and there never seemed to be a reason for it. Time to confront the question head-on. Newt’s unease around magic might become a real problem down the road. It might help to know
why
he reacted that way, just in case.

So Gerard took a deep breath, and plunged in. “Why are you so opposed to magic, anyway? I mean, I know that Sir Gawain thinks it’s an affront against God, but that doesn’t seem to be your thing….”

“It’s…a long story.”

“We’ve got nothing but time right now. Unless you’d rather Sir Caedor talk to us some more about his long and glorious career….”

Newt gave a dramatic shudder, settling himself even deeper in the saddle and reaching up to rub
again at his face. As Gerard had suspected, the words that came out of his mouth after touching the scar were gentler, more even-tempered. “Anything but that! I’m not sure I could deal with yet another retelling of the Battle of Deeply Impressive Me, as told through his much more
experienced
point of view.”

Gerard checked to make sure that Sir Caedor hadn’t been close enough to overhear.

“Tell me again, why did Merlin think we needed an adult along?” Newt asked, clearly trying to change the subject away from himself and magic. “And why this particular adult? You think maybe it was because Arthur didn’t want him hanging around Camelot?”

Gerard almost choked. “Okay, that was cruel. Possibly true, but cruel.” But he wasn’t going to let Newt slip away that easily. “Magic, Newt. You’re using it now, don’t you feel it? The warmth from the scar? That’s Merlin’s spell working in you.”

“Yeah. Thought it might be.” Newt didn’t seem particularly excited by the idea.

“And it’s keeping you from doing—or saying—anything you know is really stupid?”

“Mostly.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem.”

Gerard let that one pass for a bit without saying anything, then he asked again, “What’s the problem?”

“Ger…”

“Newt…come on. Why can’t you ever admit to anything? Newt’s not even your real name, is it?”

“No.” Newt was clearly reluctant to admit even that, although it wasn’t exactly a secret. As a nickname it was bad enough. To be named that by your parents—that was hard to imagine.

“So…?”

“So, it’s not my real name. I’ve been called that since I was barely crawling. I don’t even remember my real name anymore.” Newt’s voice was wistful. Then, as though realizing he had given something away, he hardened his voice back to the brash, rough-and-tumble stable boy Gerard had first met. “Not that it matters what anyone yells, so long as they leave me to get my work done.”

“And magic—”

“Has no part in my work. Let it alone, Gerard. Let it alone.”

Gerard gave up for now. They both knew that the subject would not be forgotten. When Ailis was
safe. When Morgain was no longer a threat.

With an inward laugh, Gerard admitted that he had been beaten. Newt would always be able to find some crisis he could claim was more important than his past. That just made Gerard all the more curious.

He
would
find out, eventually….

“Y
ou have been very patient,” Morgain said. Ailis jumped in shock. She had been sitting on the divan in front of the fireplace, paging through one of the books the sorceress had given her. Ailis could not read any of the writing. It was in some strange, flowing script that she had never seen before, but the drawings of fantastical beasts and monsters were so beautifully rendered that she almost didn’t need the words.

She missed Sir Tawny. The griffin could not fit into her room, and in the several days since that frightening episode at her meal with Morgain, she no longer felt comfortable wandering the hallways with him, not knowing if that whispering shadow-figure was still within the same walls,
watching her
.

“I haven’t had much choice, except to be patient,”
Ailis said in response, once her heart settled back into a normal rhythm.

Morgain had simply walked into the sitting room without so much as a knock on the door. Ailis supposed that, as a prisoner, she shouldn’t expect any such courtesy. The bitterness behind that thought surprised her; she had never thought herself a grudge-holder. Then again, she hadn’t thought herself the type to talk back to a sorceress, or pet a griffin, or dream of blasting open doors with just a twitch of her hand, either.

“True,” Morgain acknowledged Ailis’s words. She sat down on the sofa next to her and smoothed the fabric of her skirt. The outfit today was a serviceable royal blue woolen, but she had boots on, indicating that she had been outside. “But you have borne it with…surprising dignity, for one your age.”

Ailis waited. Four days of eating alone, without even ghostly servants for company, had left her feeling adrift, alone in a way she had never known before. Her entire life, from the very first moment she could remember, she had been surrounded by people on all sides. While she hoped that Morgain’s reappearance meant that the mysterious stranger had left the castle and she would again be free to roam, she knew that the sorceress’s sudden reappearance might mean another kind of end to her captivity. Ailis had no desire whatsoever to die.

No matter what happened, at least she wasn’t alone anymore. Even the chatter of the ladies in the solar was better than being alone all the time. She had tried reaching out to Merlin with her thoughts, but to no avail. Either she didn’t have the ability, despite what he had said (likely), or he wasn’t listening (also likely). Or, most probably, Morgain had protected her stronghold against magics other than her own.

She was totally dependent upon Morgain now, for everything, even companionship.

“Would…”

Something about the sorceress’s voice distracted Ailis from her own self-pity. Morgain seemed almost awkward. And angry about feeling awkward, Ailis decided.

“Would you care to see my workspace?” Morgain finished.

All of Ailis’s thoughts of bitterness disappeared with that offer. She almost fell on her face, leaping up from the divan without untangling herself from the blanket around her lap.

“I…yes, I would,” she said, trying to regain what little dignity might be left after that. She wasn’t going to die! At least, not right now. Not without seeing more of the fortress.

Morgain, although clearly amused, merely indicated with a tilt of her hand that Ailis should put on her slippers and follow her.

This time they used a staircase Ailis had not encountered before. It was a short, very steep staircase that seemed to lead nowhere for a surprisingly long time before depositing them in front of a thick blackwood door without any handle or grate.

“Let me in,” Morgain said in a voice that brooked no argument, and made a slight gesture with her left hand. The door opened; not outward, but slid sideways into the wall itself. The sorceress didn’t seem to take note of anything wondrous there, but entered, carrying Ailis along by the sheer force of her casualness.

The room sang to her. The tidiness of it all was so different from Merlin’s disaster of a study. This room appealed to Ailis’s organized nature, and the flavor of magic that she had become so attuned to in the rest of the fortress, almost without realizing it, practically pooled in the air around her here.

There was an oaken table in the center, hip-high, so that Morgain might work at it standing or seated on one of the stools pulled up to its side. The surface was battered and scarred from years of heavy use, but the quality of the table still shone through. Its inner sheen reminded Ailis of tales of the Round Table, although otherwise the two had nothing whatsoever in common.

Drawing her gaze away from the table, Ailis looked around the rest of the room. Like so much in the keep, the room was larger than it seemed it should be from the outside. Shelves lined the walls, and there were racks and cabinets holding strange objects, some of which seemed to shimmer when you looked at them indirectly. There was a cozy sort of clutter to it all, and it felt more like a blacksmith’s workshop than a magician’s study.

Whatever it reminded her of, it fascinated her. The memory of all the things she knew about Morgain’s magic being bad and unnatural and purely wrong faded. Ailis let herself be seated on a small wooden stool next to Morgain, who started lifting powders and vials from a rack on the wall and placing them in a very definite order on the battered surface of the wooden table.

Ailis watched in silence for a few moments as a purple liquid was mixed with a powder of tiny golden flecks. The result was poured into a glass vial closed with a wax stopper, then shaken firmly and turned upside down to rest. Morgain studied the vial carefully, so Ailis did as well. Then curiosity overcame her.

“What are we looking for?”

“The goldstone extract should react to the enathras to form a solid,” Morgain said, gesturing at the purple liquid, distilled from flowers that grew on a vine on the outside walls.

“Out of liquid?”

Morgain gave Ailis a look. “Have you never made stew?”

Ailis had, of course, but the thought of Morgain the Sorceress, user of Old Magics, mistress of this fortress, in this very room making something as homely as stew, was hard to imagine.

“So the flecks act like heat, to draw the liquid away?”

“Very good. Not quite accurate, but it shows a basic grasp. The characteristics of goldstone are that of extraction and transformation. An alchemist would no doubt spin you some complicated theory on how it all works.

“Alchemy, you should know, is the province of fools and madmen who think to cheat the Universe. Magic—proper magic—knows that we are all part of the Universe, and must dance to her tune. And if we dance well enough, and please her with our skill, she returns gifts in equal measure.”

Morgain returned her attention to the vial, then gave a pleased little exclamation. “Ah, there it is!”

Ailis squinted, and in the middle of the murky purple liquid, she thought that she could see a slightly more solid shape.

“What is it used for?” She wasn’t sure what she would be told: a poison, perhaps? Or a curse—something to choke a rival, or blight a crop?

“It is to ease stiffness in the fingers, from the sea-cold,” Morgain said instead.

Ailis must have let her astonishment show, because the sorceress laughed. “The folk who live off the ocean are a hardy sort, but even they suffer from her moods. We barter, they and I: A share of their catch feeds me and mine, and a small portion of my work sustains them.”

“So it’s an ointment?” That was all Ailis had ever heard of that helped such pains, a messy salve that smelled bad enough to empty the area around the
stillroom for the rest of the day after they bottled it.

“No, a charm. You wear it around your wrist on a string of ox hide, like a trinket, and it sends ease into the bones. It’s a little thing, hardly worth my energy or talents. But it is what they need, and are willing to trade for.”

Underneath Morgain’s dismissal of this “trinket,” Ailis could hear a subtle pride. Not the sort that the sorceress had shown in their earlier meetings, but the kind Newt showed occasionally, when he talked about the horses he helped to train. Or of work done, and done well, no matter how seemingly small in the scheme of things.

A well-trained horse would not become skittish in battle and throw his rider. A healthy fisherman would not allow his family to starve, come the winter storms.

And work well-done is the mark of a craftsman—or woman—worth the hire.

This did not sit well with the accepted view of Morgain, the view Morgain herself provoked and maintained, of the vengeful and dangerous sorceress. Of the
evil
woman, set on taking down her brother’s rightful claim to the title of High King.

It puzzled Ailis. So she did what she did with all
things that puzzled her. She put it away in a corner of her mind, and went on with what was in front of her.

“What is this?” she asked, pointing to a series of linked crystals on the table, glimmering blue and gold and black deep within the links.

“Those are not for touching. Or looking too deeply in,” Morgain said brusquely, reaching up to cover them with a dark cloth, shielding them from Ailis’s gaze. “Not everything in this room is so gentle as the bone-warmers.”

Ailis knew she should have felt rebuked. Instead, she turned to another object, this one a polished bone the size and shape of a pigeon’s wing, set in a block of onyx. “And this?”

Morgain looked, then smiled. “That, my dear, is for a woman whose man strays.”

“It brings him back home?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Morgain’s smile twitched, but she refused to elaborate further.

All right, perhaps that might be something evil. Or not. Ailis wasn’t sure—and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“Here, try this.” Morgain lifted a flat piece of wood off the table and handed it to Ailis. The girl
took it hesitantly, almost expecting it to transform into something dangerous, or at least surprising. But it remained a piece of wood.

“Tell me about it,” Morgain demanded.

Ailis looked at Morgain, then back at the wood.

“It’s wood.” She ran one finger along the length of the piece. “A soft wood, not hard. Birch?” Morgain didn’t respond, instead turning to a box of tiny metal figures which she began to sort, almost as though they were threads for embroidery.

The thought made Ailis nostalgic for an instant, for the boring sameness of the queen’s solar. Then she looked down at the wood in her hands, and was absorbed again in the task set to her.

“It has been planed, smoothed. So it’s not meant for whittling. Birch isn’t used for building, nor tools. My cousin…” Ailis stopped. She hadn’t thought of her cousin in years. He was dead now, in the same battle that took her parents, and his parents as well. He would have been a man now, had he lived. “My cousin used to make boats out of birch bark.” Ailis stroked the wood some more, lost in her memories.

Birch is the wood of memory. The wood of remembrance.

The voice didn’t sound like Merlin’s. It didn’t
sound like Morgain’s, either. Deeper, more rounded, more feminine than either, and yet powerful at the same time, and it came not from outside Ailis’s mind, but somewhere deeper inside. It was the same voice that had warned her away from looking at the figure behind her in the dining hall.

“It’s meant to…hold things? A box, or a chest…no.” Visions came to her then, of the shelves in Merlin’s study, the upper reaches of Morgain’s library. “Spellbooks. It’s used to bind spellbooks.”

“To bind, yes, and it’s often used as the pages themselves,” Morgain said. “For things that are best carved, not written with anything as flimsy as ink.”

Ailis looked at the blank wood and tried to visualize what sort of spells might be best carved rather than penned. She could almost see the heated prong etching runes into the pale wood, red and char marking the smooth surface in a mockery of the magical characters Merlin had drawn with fire on ice when he gave them the riddle to find the talisman to break Morgain’s sleep-spell.

“You mean a dangerous spell. One that hurts people,” Ailis said.

“Spells are just words, witch-child. They don’t do anything, of themselves. A spell to drive the
strength from a man’s body is only a word removed from the one that drives infection from a wound. I’ve cast both, in my time. And will cast them both again. It all depends upon who is asking, and why.”

“And how much you hate them.” Ailis said, daring greatly, speaking for the first time of the one thing that everyone knew. “The way you hate the king.”

Morgain’s hands stilled at her task.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “How very much I hate.”