Wait, Morgaine was Uther’s daughter? Was there some kind of sister/wife thing going on that nobody knew about?
“You were still being fostered when that happened?”
“Yes. Uther had no more use for me than I had for Mordred.”
I had really married into a messed-up family.
“Are you going to send him away?”
“I’m not sure what to do with him,” Arthur said. “He’s Morgaine’s creature and it might be prudent to have him here where I can keep an eye on him.”
I realized I wasn’t angry anymore, just very, very tired. “He has her magic,” I warned, “and her spite.” After my encounter with Mordred, I’d examined the tourmaline ring. The crack had widened to a split in just a few minutes and within the hour, it had cracked apart, and the setting with it, so that it fell off my hand, a useless scrap of stone and metal. Emrys was locked away in his tower, so I hadn’t been able to discuss events with him or ask him to renew the protective charm.
“I think you should send him away,” I said, but his next words dashed my hopes.
“His cousins will keep an eye on them.”
He sounded more assured than I felt. Gareth was clearly not a fan and I was certain Gawain wouldn’t be either, but I was worried about Agravain. He had a discontented soul, and something told me Mordred was someone who would exploit that discontent for his own advantage.
“I’d feel better if he was wearing an ankle monitor so we could track his movements,” I said. I really had been unsettled by his sudden “departure” from the castle walls.
“I imagine there’s something Emrys can do along those lines,” Arthur said, draining the rest of his brandy in one long swallow.
I hope so, I thought.
Chapter 11
Magic has an odor. It smells different to different people but to me it smelled like the fragrant spices of Indian food—cardamom and turmeric and cumin, and curry leaf. Emrys had given me a reading list and I was dutifully making my way through the books he suggested, none of which were available digitally, which would have allowed me to pursue my studies a little more discreetly. I spent a lot of time in the castle library, which was so completely permeated with the smell of magic, it was like someone had ordered a takeaway curry feast and then left the open containers sitting out for a week. It was so strong it almost made me sneeze the first time I went into the library.
The room itself drew me in. It was paneled in exotic woods from trees long—and not-so-long—extinct, like the beautiful light wood of the Saint Helen’s olive. The wood was kept so well-oiled and polished, it seemed to still be alive, and being inside it felt very much like sitting in the heart of a great tree. Emrys avoided the library at all cost, which made sense if the stories about his captivity in a tree were true.
I felt at home in the library. I knew it contained secrets. I knew the room wanted to share its secrets with me. Or so I imagined. Emrys had warned me of the dangers of seeking knowledge without purpose, but after Mordred arrived and the charmed ring was broken, Emrys had adjusted my lessons to the new reality. “Concentrate on protective spells,” he told me, scrupulously dodging my questions about what he called “more pro-active magic.” He had been unnerved when I showed him the broken ring. But even so, he did not want me to venture too far into my study without his supervision. Almost every week he gave me some variant of his speech about the dangers of untrained people using powerful magic. But I felt like I needed all the magic I could get and the place to get it was the library.
But I was not alone in my assumption that there was magical gold to be mined there.
One of Morgaine’s young ladies-in-waiting, one of the more ambitious ones, was always there, scuttling around the dark corners like a colorful roach. She was always scrupulously polite to me, but there was always an edge to her courtesy. Magge knew her protocol, but there was always something sneering in her manner.
“May I help you my queen?” she asked as she came upon me at my desk in the library, writing a thank you letter to a benefactor who’d bought five hundred sets of the hemp-fabric scrubs my charity clothing company manufactured. He’d shipped everything to a refugee camp in Lebanon where they were handed out to refugees who’d left their homes with nothing but the clothes on their back. With Emrys’ help, I had infused the fabric with a little bit of magic so that the clothing not only screened out harmful UF rays, it would repel bullets, dirt, and microbes, hopefully keeping the wearer a little safer and healthier.
I like writing personal notes better than sending emails. They take more effort and therefore seemed more sincere to me. I found letter-writing to be one of my more pleasant obligations, but the stack of correspondence was a task that seemed endless.
I got a lot of mail—bags and bags of it every day. I was so reliant on texts and emails for communications that it surprised me how many people still liked to send snail mail. I had a team that combed through the letters and packages I was sent, but they didn’t always catch the threats, they didn’t always catch the hate mail.
The hate mail was bad—beyond hateful and sometimes terrifying. At first, I simply burned them—there was always a fire in the library because it was in the heart of the castle and always chilly. I could always tell when the sender had infused the missive with malign magic because when the paper burned, the flames turned purple and green and colors I sometimes had no name for. Eventually, I started handing over the threats to Gareth, who put together what he called a “threat matrix” from the database of correspondents. People who ranked high on that particular scale got a personal visit from him or one of his team. They never had to make a return visit.
“I’m fine Magge,” I said, hoping she would go away. No such luck.
“If you like I can fetch you a book from the top shelves. I know it’s harder using the ladder when you’re older.”
Oh no you didn’t, I thought. “I have all the books I need at the moment. But feel free to browse yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed at that, but I kept my expression bland and pleasant, so she couldn’t really be sure if I was dissing her or not.
Magge reminded me of some of my clients, ambitious young actors and singers who were ready for their closeup about five years before they’d actually earned it. I know there were people who leveled that same charge at me—that I found success much too young and much too easily—but in my defense, I was always publicly and loudly grateful for every single thing I got, including the lucky breaks.
Maggie was sucking up to Morgaine in hopes of currying her favor in return for what? It was hard to say. Power? Prestige? Money? Unfortunately for Magge, she was kissing the wrong ass. Morgaine didn’t care about anyone except herself, or possibly Mordred, although I wasn’t even sure about him. Still, there were plenty of people lining up to be her surrogates, providing her with gossip and intel she could use against people.
Magge was particularly adept at extracting information out of people. Both Lady Kay and Ragnall had admitted the girl had lured them into conversations where they let slip with some tidbit that was later weaponized. Magge and her cohorts never let me alone. I’d developed a strategy I hoped would lull them into thinking I wasn’t nearly as dangerous as they thought. Mostly, I just pretended to misunderstand whatever taunt they leveled at me. sometimes I’d pretended to succumb to the irritating little spells they cast—things like making my teacup spill or making the fire smoke or causing me to tear my hose—yes, the royals still wear panty hose—on the edge of a piece of furniture. Pretending to suffer at the hands of their simple magic was a great way to camouflage my own talents.
I hoped to lull Morgaine into a false sense of security. I didn’t want open war with her—I knew I couldn’t win that way—but like the Americans fighting the Brits in the 18th century, I was well aware of the techniques of guerrilla fighting and asymmetric warfare. I liked my chances going at her from that direction.
And as it turned out, I had allies, particularly among t
he wives and mothers of the men who made up Arthur’s inner circle. the first alliance of these alliances was forged in the aftermath of a tragedy.
Chapter 12
Lancelot finally returned to Camelot and was greeted by his friends with the fervor of fans celebrating the return of a retired rock god. All the young lords vied for his attention, and he was generous in giving them all face time as they surrounded him like a litter of puppies. It must have been gratifying to be showered by so much adulation. He spent much of his time closeted with Arthur, talking about the possibility of war with the Red Lands. There had been border incursions and an uptick in kidnappings for ransom, and from what Lancelot said, it would not be long before the country’s emboldened leader would attempt to annex the borderlands and claim them for his own.
I was excluded from these talks for the most part. Lancelot was the kind of sexist who claimed his misogynist behavior was merely “laddish.” When Arthur was round him, he adjusted his behavior, calibrating it to be in synch with his best friend. Which meant that they hung out the “no girls allowed” sign over their little private club.
I took the exclusion philosophically. I didn’t really like Lancelot. I never particularly cared for the “pretty boys,” and he was that. All the women wanted to sleep with him—some of the men too—and I thought he was altogether too impressed with himself. Arthur was way too impressed by him as well. It wasn’t just his looks everyone was responding to, though. He had charisma to burn. His aura of confidence was so strong that at first, I thought it was magic-enhanced. Lancelot was always formal and respectful around me, as if he didn’t know how to deal with a woman who didn’t want to jump his bones. He did plenty of bone-jumping on his own. It seemed to be one of his favorite activities. That and hunting. Even though Artie didn’t indulge in blood sports like foxhunting, once Lancelot returned, it was not unusual for the two of them to go out on the weekends to shoot game birds or deer. They’d drag their grisly trophies home for the kitchen to prepare and everyone was expected to lavishly praise them as they smacked their lips over the dishes of wild meat. As if there was still a need to hunt boars and pheasants for the table.
I wasn’t a vegetarian, so I couldn’t take the moral high ground, but it was unsettling seeing this other side of my husband. I began looking forward to Lancelot leaving for Dulac, where he had property to attend to, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to do so.
My favorite room in the castle was the Conservatory, a room my grandmother would have referred to as “the sun room.” When I first officially moved in, Artie told me I could redecorate any room except the official rooms to my personal taste. I had started with the Conservatory because it was the only room in the whole pile of stones that was warm enough for a life-long Angeleno. I had made very few changes in the overall design other than asking that full-spectrum lights be installed—I was already weary of the gray rainy day that seemed to be the default weather in Camelot—and I’d given instructions for the thermostat to be permanently set at eighty degrees. This scandalized certain of the household who claimed to find the chilly air “bracing,” but I didn’t care. I suffered horribly from seasonal affective disorder the first winter I was in residence and I knew I had to do something if I wasn’t going to go screaming mad. I made up for the indulgence by lowering the thermostats in the other rooms to a chilly sixty-eight degrees and wearing layers. Sometimes I had so many layers on I fancied I would simply bounce if I fell down.
I’d also had a water feature installed—a waterfall that fell down a glass wall into a rectangular basin about three times the size of a bathtub. The sound of the falling water soothed me. The Conservatory was a place I retreated to often and with Emrys’ help, I’d warded it against spells, so it was literally a sanctuary for me. From the day I’d moved in, despite Emrys’ protective spells, I’d felt the pull of Morgaine’s subtle, spiteful spells and only in the Conservatory was the background buzz of that negative magic absent.
Morgaine’s magic assault was relentless and much of it was just petty. After an unexpected encounter with her in the library, I suddenly developed a voracious sweet tooth that compelled me to gorge on desserts as if I’d never tasted a sweet in my life. One day, while taking tea with the Prime Minister of Sweden, I was horrified to discover I’d picked up a serving plate with an entire huckleberry pie on it and was forking up huge mouthfuls of the dessert as Olaf tried to hide his disgust.
That round had gone to Morgaine, though I’d eventually found a way to counter the spell. Unfortunately, Morgaine didn’t always pick on people her own size. Too often, she preyed on the weak and the vulnerable. People like Elayne, a young lady-in-waiting whose whole family lived in the castle.
One morning, I came into the Conservatory hoping for a restorative half-hour of doing nothing but listening to the quiet burble of splashing water and found Elayne floating in the basin at the base of the falls. She as very pale and very still and even from the doorway, I could see she was very dead. I rushed over to the basin anyway, hoping there might be some last spark of life in her. I pulled her out of the water and onto the floor—she weighed almost nothing—and then I called Gawain, who arrived moments later with half the castle’s security team at his back.
He was visibly moved by the sight of Elayne. Her face was serene, as if she was just sleeping, and there was a lily held between the hands she’d clasped over her breast.
Poor kid, I thought and wondered what had driven her to take her own life.
Gawain knelt down beside Elayne and checked for vital signs, then gave some sort of signal to Gareth, who left the room and did not return.
Elayne had left a suicide note, proclaiming her love for a man she did not name, and when I read the note, I inhaled the scent of gardenias, which is what Morgaine always smells like to me—a gardenia past its prime, the white floral notes of its scent turning dark and fecal, like Morgaine’s rotten soul. I wondered if there had been some evil force guiding the poor girl to her death in the one room of the whole castle that I had claimed for my own, but I shook it off as being paranoid as well as narcissistic. This wasn’t about me.
Poor Elayne. She had been her parents’ only daughter, a child they’d had late in life. Her death would have devastated them in any circumstance, but knowing she took her own life made it worse. Arthur ordered her body to lie in state in the castle’s small “lady chapel,” until her funeral and dispatched a cadre of your soldiers who were friends of her brothers to take turns standing vigil.
The chapel was nearly empty when I slipped inside. Lilies filled the room and their animalic odor mixed with the hot beeswax and the incense in a way that made me light-headed. It was unpleasant, but I could detect no tinge of magic, which was something of a relief.
Elayne’s mother turned her head as I entered the chapel. She looked as if she’d aged a decade since the last time I’d seen her. She moved as if to stand and curtsey, but I waved her down. The last thing the poor woman needed was my intrusion or being required to offer meaningless courtesies.
“I am so very sorry Lady Agnes,” I said, knowing my words were both inadequate and uninvited.
“Yes,” she said. “Everyone’s so very sorry.” Her eyes were glued to her daughter’s body.
Elayne looked lovely, there was no other word for it. She’d been beautiful in life and now in death, there was a purity about her, as if she was already living among the angels. Someone had put a spell on her so that her body had not yet begun to decay.
I sat there quietly, hoping my presence would offer some comfort to the bereaved woman and feeling utterly and completely useless. Eventually, Agnes began to speak, so softly she might as well have been talking to herself. “Elayne was my youngest child,” she said, “and my only daughter. I had her when I thought I was well past child-bearing age, but even though she was an accident, she was cherished and loved.”
Agnes looked at me, her dry eyes red-rimmed. “I didn’t want her to come to court,” she said, “but
her father insisted. He thought it would be good for us, bring us favor in the eyes of the king.” She laughed bitterly. “As if Arthur even noticed her.”
He hadn’t, I knew, at least not in any meaningful way. Arthur had told me once that the young girls at court were like wildflowers. There was a new crop every year replacing the last year’s faded blooms. That sounds awful, but it was only the truth.
“I don’t know what she did to anger Morgaine,” Elayne’s mother continued, “but there was no natural reason for my daughter to hurt herself, no matter what that forgery of a suicide note said.”
“You don’t think she wrote it?” I asked.
‘I’ve not doubt she wrote it,” Lady Agnes said, “but there was some other intelligence guiding her hand.” She shook her head in denial. I desperately wanted to ask her why she thought Morgaine had driven Elayne to such an act, but it would have been unkind to satisfy my curiosity at the expense of the other woman’s pain. I put my hand on Agnes’ forearm, tentatively sending a small spell her way. It was a simple charm Emrys had taught me, a rhyme for bringing peace on a sleepless night. I thought it might help her.
She was quiet for so long I thought she had finished speaking and I stood up to go. I had intended to say a prayer for Elayne but found that my own angry thoughts and suspicions refused to let me quite my mind.
“I will do everything in my power to help you bring the bitch down,” Agnes said finally. “Just ask and I’ll be there.”
I squeezed her shoulder. “I will,” I said so softly that the young soldier standing guard could not hear me. “And if you need me, you have only to ask as well.”
“the only thing I need is for my child to be alive,” she said. “And that is beyond anyone’s magic.”
Playing With Fire Page 131