Morgain's Revenge

by Laura Anne Gilman

  The horses shifted, the pages having finished their last-minute checks. The mule carrying their extra supplies lifted first one leg then the other, indicating a desire to be off.

  “Will we be beginning our journey, then?” Sir Caedor shouted, kneeing his mare forward to join the three of them. “Or is there some unknown-to-me reason we yet delay?”

  Gerard sighed. Why had Merlin placed him in charge, and not Sir Caedor?

  “There is indeed reason yet to wait,” a rich alto voice said from above them. All four looked up, and Newt almost fell off his horse. Queen Guinevere stood on the balcony above the courtyard where they were gathered. Several of her ladies-in-waiting clustered around her like pastel wildflowers to her golden rose. “I have come to see our brave questers off if they would care to wait for me.”

  “My lady, we would,” Sir Caedor said, bowing to her as gallantly as one could while on horseback. Gerard didn’t mind him taking the lead here, not at all. He had no idea what you said to a queen. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to bow properly.

  He didn’t have much time to think about it before Queen Guinevere was coming through the courtyard archway. She was tall and fair, with golden hair coiled about her head and a deep blue gown draped about her body in a way that made her seem even more regal. She was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the entire kingdom. Gerard thought she was very pretty, but preferred Ailis’s lively expressions and energy to the Queen’s slow and studied movements.

  “Jenny,” Merlin said with unflattering familiarity. “You’re late. As usual.” She smiled at him, the indulgent smile someone has for a much-loved but often impossible brother.

  “My queen,” Sir Caedor said, sliding down from his horse to make another impressive bow. She gave him a more reserved smile than the one granted to Merlin, then turned to face Newt and Gerard, who followed Caedor’s lead and slid down from their horses as well.

  “You go to rescue my Allison.”

  “Yes, my queen,” Gerard said. Newt managed a stout nod.

  Guinevere’s smile warmed again, and she gestured to the young girl who had followed her out. The girl, dark-haired and pale-skinned, held out a small box from which Guinevere removed two silver bands.

  “A token for Allison’s champions,” she said, offering the first band to Gerard, the second to Newt. After a moment’s hesitation, Newt took his and slid it up on his arm the same way Gerard had. Each band was worked with a delicate pattern of small blossoms winding its way around, and a dark green stone set in the clasp.

  “Wear them with honor and courage. I know that you will bring my Allison home to me unharmed.”

  Gerard remembered the basics of how to bow to royalty and managed not to embarrass himself too badly executing it. Newt went to one knee, his shaggy head bent for the barest moment before he was back on his feet.

  The queen did not seem to take offense, either at Gerard’s clumsiness or Newt’s brevity.

  Sir Caedor looked expectant for a moment, before a glower settled on his face. Guinevere must have sensed that because she turned back to him, reached up into her hair, and pulled out one of the silver pins holding the coil in place. She raised one delicately arched eyebrow at the knight until he lifted his hand so that she could place the pin into his gauntleted palm and closed his fingers over it.

  “And for you, brave protector, a token of my own. Bring these boys, so dear to my lord and husband, back home safe.”

  “As God is my witness, madam.”

  And with that, Guinevere turned and departed, leaving only the sound of the horses shifting and chomping at their bits and the muted murmuring of the servants.

  “Well, I had hoped to be able to send you directly to wherever she’s taken the girl,” Merlin said, filling the gap in the conversation. The three travelers winced at the thought of being transported magically into an unknown situation, but Merlin went on as though he hadn’t noticed. “Unfortunately, Morgain has covered her tracks far too well. It is some small consolation that my wards have held up and that she could not scry into Camelot but had to risk coming here herself to spy.”

  “A pity she uses her skills in such unwomanly ways as to challenge her lord and brother,” Sir Caedor said.

  Once, Gerard would have agreed with the knight. Having faced off against the sorceress before, and having looked into her eyes as she faced defeat not with fear but dignity and pride, he was no longer so quick to condemn. Morgain was an outsider, and by nature of her gender deemed unfit to use her talents to do more than maintain her own household, or support her brother Arthur’s goals. That seemed unfair, somehow.

  Yes, she was a woman. But she was also powerful—a strong warrior with unusual skills, second only to Merlin himself. Could there not have been some way to make use of her; to make her into an ally, rather than a foe? If so, that moment was long gone.

  And if Ailis did have magical abilities, the way Merlin believed she did, Gerard hoped for her sake that they were not as strong. She would doubtless be happier that way. He would not wish Merlin’s isolation, nor Morgain’s bitterness, on her, ever.

  “But you will not have to ride the entire way,” Merlin continued. “I’m not so far in my dotage as that. I shall set you on your way with a bit of a…hmmm…let us call it a push. And I will grant you some aid once you arrive.

  “Here.” Merlin handed Gerard a small object. “Since Morgain is so inconsiderately capable at warding herself, you’ll have to do things the difficult way. By sneaking in.”

  Gerard looked at the object Merlin had given him, then held it up by the leather thong wrapped around it.

  It looked like an ordinary river-stone; gray, smooth, and flat, about the size of Gerard’s palm, rounder at one end and narrow at the other, almost like a teardrop. The rawhide strap was strung through a neatly bored hole at the narrowed end and tied off, creating a loop long enough to hang over one’s neck. With a glance at Merlin for confirmation, Gerard put it around his neck.

  “A stone?” Sir Caedor asked.

  “A lodestone,” Merlin said. “A lodestone containing a hair from the missing girl-child and a drop of my own blood, among other things you need not worry about. It will lead you to her by the swiftest means available to you, like a pigeon flying back to its cote. I strongly suspect that Morgain has gone to ground in the Orkneys, her mother’s home. She is well-known there, and will feel protected by that. It is a rough land, full of tough-minded folk, but keep to the lodestone and let nothing deter you.”

  Merlin looked at Sir Caedor. “That is where your companion comes in. My good sir…” and Merlin put a rounded, rich tone into his voice that made the knight’s shoulders go back and his chest puff out almost instinctively. “Good sir, King Arthur himself places these lads into your care and protection. They have a mission to accomplish that none other might manage, not only to rescue the girl-child, but to learn in doing so what the sorceress Morgain plans next. Upon you, then, rests the responsibility of getting them to their destination intact, and in time to do what they must do.”

  Gerard realized that he had underestimated Merlin once again. The enchanter was still dangerously short-tempered and rude, with a wicked sense of humor that most did not appreciate, but he also knew how to coax people when his other tools would not work. And he was very, very good at it.

  “Right, then,” Merlin said, stepping back from the trio as they remounted their horses. “As Sir Caedor has urged, time is fleeing. Off you go. And boys”—Merlin caught their gazes—“remember to trust your instincts. What you have inside you is more important than what you may see outside. Remember that!”

  “We will,” Newt said. Gerard nodded solemnly, reaching down to take Merlin’s hand in his own. The enchanter seemed somewhat surprised by the action, but returned the clasp firmly, his hand as hard and strong as any knight’s.

  “Go. And may the gods, old and new, be with you.”

  Gerard turned his mount to face the arched exit. Newt fell in close behi
nd on Loyal, and the mule was tied by a lead rope to his saddle, leaving Sir Caedor to take up the rear.

  Merlin raised his arms and chanted something that was caught up in the sudden wind. Gerard shook the hair out of his eyes and squinted, watching the space in front of them. He could hear Newt muttering to Loyal, keeping his mount calm while the portal formed.

  When the circular hole in time and space was complete, Gerard took a deep breath and put his heels to his horse’s flanks. Sir Caedor and Newt did likewise, and they rode through the portal, out of Camelot, and once more into the unknown.

  SEVEN

  There were waves crashing outside, white-capped waters dashing into and around the rocky cliff. Ailis could see them from the window of her room. This was not the same place where they had confronted Morgain before, on the Isle of Apples, although it did seem to be an island. From the coastline she could see in the near distance and the heavy tang of salt in the air, Ailis suspected that she was in the Orkneys, in the castle of Morgain’s—and Arthur’s—birth; the one place where Arthur had given Morgain sole rule, as the daughter of their mother, Ingraine of Orkney.

  That was all Ailis knew from the gossip that flew around Camelot. She had never cared nor had a reason to learn more before encountering Morgain in person. And afterward, there had been no one she felt comfortable enough to ask.

  When she had finally woke completely, the same servant from before had been waiting for her. Ailis’s eyes were clearer, but the woman still seemed not to be solid around the edges, as though she wasn’t quite entirely there. Ailis had decided that she didn’t want to think about it too much and focused instead on the warm robe and deerskin slippers that were offered.

  The fact that she was now Morgain’s captive had filled her mind, driving everything else out. Morgain, the sorceress. Morgain, who had reason to hate her. Morgain the cruel…the evil…the merciless.

  Play meek, her common sense told her. Play mild. Be the good, gentle maid. Morgain won’t do anything to you if you don’t provoke her.

  Once dressed, she had been escorted by the servant from a small room to a much larger one. It held a bed, a wardrobe, and a small desk with writing implements, as though she were free to write a letter to anyone. There was a window large enough for her to climb through—though so far above the rocky ground that to attempt it would be certain death.

  The servant had given her a warning: “Do not try to escape, or dire things will happen, child,” and had left her to her own devices. That had been, as far as she could tell, two days ago. The sun had moved across the overcast sky and set, the night stars had glowed and faded, and the sun had risen again. Food was delivered at regular intervals, morning and evening, brought in on a small silver cart that moved as though pushed by invisible hands. Ailis ate, and ate well, and then the silver cart went away, her chamber doors opening for it without hesitation.

  Meek. Mild. Well-behaved. Taking the servant’s warning to heart, Ailis tried to keep herself busy within those four walls; tried not to think about what might be awaiting her. She counted the stone blocks in the walls. She counted the oval tiles around the window. She tried to create recognizable shapes out of the shadows the candles cast around her. She recited to herself every poem she had ever heard a love-struck courtier utter, and all the scraps of songs and stories she could recall.

  Even before she had ridden out with Gerard and Newt, patience had not been a strength of hers, and boredom had overcome her fear by the end of the first day. After pacing back and forth in front of the door all morning, Ailis found herself reaching for the latch. It turned easily, opening into a larger room, this one with a fireplace, a soft couch, and a thick white fur rug on the floor from some impossibly huge beast. The fireplace was laid with wood that lit itself when she said she was cold, and extinguished itself when she told it she was warm enough now, thank you.

  That discovery occupied her for the course of one evening. She justified herself by saying that she was still staying where she had been placed. Would the room be furnished if she were not meant to use it? Would the fireplace have been laid and ready for her, if she was not meant to warm herself in front of it?

  The next morning, she grew restless quickly. Ailis paced the confines of the two rooms, stopping only to eat the meals brought to her and to take a bath in the small tub filled with warm water that appeared by the fireplace, fresh white towels piled beside it.

  Clean, well-fed, and totally without anything to do for the first time in her life, Ailis thought she might scream. Meek and mild had never been her—not even when she was a servant. But you did what you needed to do to survive.

  “I’m bored,” she told the room, as though the magic that brought meals and fire might bring entertainment as well. But nothing happened.

  Finally, something inside Ailis snapped and she could not take one more hour of those same walls, that same view. She dressed in the warm wool garments she found in the wardrobe, combed and braided her hair into one thick red plait that fell halfway down her back, put the warm slippers back on, and opened the one door she had not yet tried—the one that led to the rest of the castle.

  “This isn’t the wisest thing you’ve ever done,” she told herself. “But it’s better than growing any older waiting in that room.”

  Like Camelot, the halls were made of stone, cut into blocks and mortared together. Unlike Camelot, the stone of the floor was covered with a narrow carpet that ran down the center of the hall as far as she could see. The carpet was midnight blue, with intricate patterns in dark reds and traces of silver thread, and was surprisingly soft to her hand. Ailis could not even begin to imagine how expensive such a carpet must be, to be placed on the floor where anyone might tread on it, rather than hanging on the wall where she was used to seeing them.

  The stone of the walls was smooth-textured, cream-colored, and lit by sconces set into it. The dark yellow candles inside burned brightly, without any smoke or soot, and gave off a delicate odor of wax. There were a few other doors along the hallway similar to hers, but she chose not to try any of them. Instead, she went to the end of the hall and pushed open a pair of heavy, carved doors.

  “Rrrrrrrrr…”

  Startled by the sound, Ailis almost turned on her heels and ran, but the thought that it might be better to be eaten by a beast than die of boredom in that room kept her where she was.

  “Rrrrrrrr?”

  The noise changed from threatening to inquisitive, and she was able to slow her heartbeat enough to actually look at the creature confronting her.

  It was the size of a plow horse, but no horse had ever been so fabulous. The head was that of a great hawk, black eyes shaded by a tuft of golden-yellow feathers, the cruelly curved beak dark as jet. But instead of a bird’s body, the hawk’s head was attached to the crouching form of a great cat, the tail lashing back and forth tufted not with fur, but a clutch of small golden feathers.

  Ailis walked around the beast, carefully keeping her distance. The hawk’s head turned to follow her movements, its tail slowing its movement as the creature went from surprised hostility to curiosity.

  She wished that Newt were there with her. He grew up with beasts—dogs and horses, admittedly. But he dealt well with the dragon they had encountered, under that same beastish logic. And that dragon had been a thinking, speaking creature!

  “Do you…can you speak?” she asked it. Best to be polite, rather than risk offending a creature that could tear her flesh with one pounce. The great clawed forepaws twitched, but the creature did not make another noise.

  “That might be a no, then. Or it might be that you’re choosing not to speak. Which is it?”

  The beast shifted to follow her movements, and Ailis jumped back, stumbling and hitting her shoulder against the wall in her surprise. Not because the creature moved, but because of what that movement revealed.

  Wings. Great, thick-feathered wings, folded against the plush fur of its body.

  “Aren’t you lovely!”
she exclaimed.

  “Rrrrrr?” Ailis took the sound to mean that although the beast might not be able to speak with its beak, it understood her words. Or at least her intentions.

  “Such a lovely creature,” she said, keeping her voice modulated normally, not resorting to the high-pitched tones some of the ladies of the court used when speaking to their lapdogs. Those whines annoyed her, and she couldn’t imagine it wouldn’t annoy a creature with the acute hearing of a bird.

  “May I pet you? I promise not to muss your feathers.”

  The beast watched her, then lowered its head to the floor, resting its beak on the carpet. One eye kept watch on Ailis but the gesture seemed a clear invitation, so she took a step closer, then another, until she was close enough to reach out and touch the golden pelt.

  The fur was thick and rougher than she had been expecting, but warm and pliant, the muscles underneath flexing and relaxing under her touch.

  “Oh, you are such a lovely. Are there any others like you? I have heard of dragons and bridge trolls, and everyone has heard of unicorns, of course. But I’ve never heard of anything like you.”

  And then she noticed it at the same moment she felt it vibrating under her hand. A massive purr rumbled up from deep within the creature. Delighted laughter filled her throat and for the first time in days, perhaps weeks, Ailis felt totally relaxed and happy.

  “Are you magic?” she asked it. “Of course you must be; you’re a magical beast. But are you magic to cause such happiness with such a simple sound?”

  The beast sighed, shifting slightly as though to lean more into her touch, and kept purring.

  “No, I can’t stay here all day and pet you, silly thing.”

  Why not? a small voice in her head asked; not the voice she had become somewhat used to hearing, of Merlin giving advice. But a more familiar one—of self-doubt and second-guessing. Why shouldn’t she stay here? Surely they could not call this an attempt to escape, not if she was found with a beast clearly belonging to Morgain. And it would be difficult to feel bored or trapped in the company of such a happy purr. And think of how much you would enjoy telling Newt about it. He would be so jealous, not to have met—