Newt stifled a groan and followed Gerard into the underbrush.
TEN
“Blast it, Merlin! I need more information! How can I rule this island, filled with madmen and magic, without knowing who is doing what, planning what, when, and to whom?”
“You would have a dozen such as myself, could I arrange it, but there is only one Merlin to fly to your lure, my king,” Merlin said, settling himself in a chair and sighing like the tired ancient he was.
Arthur looked up at his enchanter. “I need only one. But he needs to stop griping and do what he does best: reassure his liege that the battles are indeed engaged.” Arthur was seated on a bench in Merlin’s workroom, the same seat Newt had taken not a handful of days before, tapping his fingers on his knee impatiently.
“Gripe, gripe, gripe. I am not the one intruding on another’s space and making impossible demands, Arthur the King.” But his mockery was equally affectionate, and the enchanter obligingly closed his eyes and spiraled down into his sense of Morgain, the familiar sharp tingle of her personality, the salty flavor of her magic.
Like the bird he was named for, wings spread and dipping into the wind, following the familiar sense. Eyes were blind, but the sense was true, leading him to the source, the enticing magical aroma that was the sorceress.
And there his wings slammed up against a black wall, invisible until you made contact, and then felt in every point of his non-existent body.
Ow!
She was good. He would admit that freely. She was very very good. He changed form, feathered wings becoming leathery, talons turning into claws that could cling to the walls. He swung upside down and cocked his head—the better not to listen, but to sense.
Morgain, yes. And fainter, far fainter, a tinge of something carrying Merlin’s own mark, intentionally placed there for just such a need. Ailis. Alive.
He was about to launch himself off the wall and return to the safety of his own quarters when something else moved. Faintly, faintly, barely sounding behind Morgain’s protections, but…there. Something new. Something unsettling. Something foreign.
A whiplash of unknown power slapped the bat off the wall and sent it tumbling back into the ether, tumbling claws over head, even as Merlin struggled to regain control.
He thought, as he changed form back to the more familiar bird of prey; something did not want him there, not anywhere near Morgain or her distant tower, or whatever she might be plotting there….
“Are you all right, my Merlin?” Arthur asked.
The enchanter coughed, his chest painful inside and out, as though he had been kicked by an irate plow-horse, and he waved his king away. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, his eyes turned inward. “I’m fine.”
Forgive me, children, Merlin thought. Forgive me for sending you into danger I had not foreseen. Forgive me for waking something that should have remained unaware.
Forgive me for not being able to help you, now.
“And there I was, standing tall despite my horse having been taken down moments before. Arthur fought on beside me, magnificent as ever, but it was my responsibility to defend his left flank, and not allow any barbarian to reach him with sword or spear….”
Newt had fallen asleep some time earlier, but he was propped up against an old log so it looked as though he were still listening intently. Gerard actually was listening, although exhaustion was starting to overtake him as well.
The story was interesting, especially considering that his own master, Sir Rheynold, had never been all that fond of “danger and adventure at all costs,” despite riding willingly into battle at Arthur’s command. But after living with and around knights and more ordinary fighters for almost half his life, Gerard knew how battlefield exploits could and would become exaggerated. And the more time that passed between battle and retelling, the more exaggerated the stories would become.
The battle Sir Caedor was telling them about had taken place before either boy was born. By those standards, the entire story might be myth. But even if so, it was an entertaining myth. Gerard finally fell asleep, and dreamt of epic battles of his own.
Gerard woke to find the sun barely peeking over the hills, but Sir Caedor was already awake, practicing in a clearing a few feet away from the fire. He had put aside his armor, and, clad only in his pants and a sleeveless jerkin, had drawn a beautiful sword tempered to a dull gloss, and a smaller but no less deadly looking long dagger. He thrust and parried with the dagger in his right hand, even as the left arm drew back the sword, raising it to make a killing blow while his phantom opponents were distracted by the dagger. He pivoted seamlessly on his back leg, his forefoot carrying him into the attack of a phantom behind him. His dagger swung high, to threaten the eyes of a new opponent. It was all graceful and unhurried, his movements perfectly balanced, from the loose set of his shoulders to the way he rocked back and forward on his feet as he moved.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Newt asked. He was awake, lying on his side and wrapped in his blanket with his backside to the coals of the fire, watching the knight thrust and parry.
“Yes. Yes, he is,” Gerard said, sitting up to better observe. He had never realized quite how good. Although there was a world of difference between practicing weapon forms in a peaceful clearing and fighting in the thick of battle, Sir Caedor had done both.
Sir Caedor was very, very good. And Gerard suddenly understood a little better why the king and Merlin had chosen the seasoned soldier to go with them. Not because they had thought that the two boys might need protection—or because they didn’t think the boys could carry out both parts of their mission—but because they could learn from seeing this experience in action. Ignore the stories, he could almost hear Arthur say. Ignore the snobbery. Look to the man.
It didn’t make the knight’s attitude any less annoying. But it gave Gerard a reason to look past it, to see the dedication, the power in his arms and shoulders, the focus given to his art.
He didn’t know how to say any of that to Newt. The stable boy would never be allowed to fight with sword and shield, never ride any of the horses he cared for into battle. He would never stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother knights to protect the innocent and defend the kingdom. It wasn’t fair, but Newt’s birth would forever keep him from the ranks of knights and landowners. So what use was Sir Caedor’s knowledge—and what protection did he have against Caedor’s cutting remarks?
Gerard lay back down on the ground with a sigh, crossing the back of one arm over his eyes as though to block out the awareness of another day ahead of them.
All he wanted to do was free Ailis and go home.
ELEVEN
Ailis had spent the night twisting and turning in the comfortable bed in her comfortable bedchamber, staring out the window at the gray sky washing into the gray sea. She plotted ways to escape until she fell asleep to dream of riding Sir Tawny through impossible underwater canyons made of whitewashed stone.
Waking brought the realization that she was no closer to finding a way out of the fortress. The air was only beginning to lighten, the sun rising on the other side of the compound, when Morgain herself arrived at the door of Ailis’s chamber. The girl had been sitting at the window, looking at the dark waves while brushing out her hair, when the sorceress walked in without bothering to knock. The usual magically propelled breakfast cart waited behind her, bearing twice as much food as days past.
The sorceress looked vastly different from the last time Ailis had seen the woman face to face. In her throne room on the Isle of Apples, Morgain had been dressed in a lovely gown, bejeweled and almost blindingly beautiful. Now, although her beauty remained, she wore a more demure outfit. Her hair was pulled away from her face with narrow braids, one tucked behind each ear, and she had simple slippers like those Ailis wore.
The sorceress said nothing, merely allowing the cart to roll itself in. Then she helped herself to a share of the food. Taking her cue from that, Ailis put aside her need to assault the w
oman with questions, and settled in to satisfy her own hunger.
When the last flaky pastry and slab of sausage had been consumed, Morgain washed her fingers in the bowl of water set aside for that purpose, and held out her clean hand for Ailis to take.
“Come with me, witch-child.”
Ailis resisted expressing her initial reaction to the nickname, and allowed herself to be escorted into the hallway. There was nothing to be gained by annoying her captor, apart from being turned into a fish, or something more cruel.
The sorceress brought her down a staircase one level, leading the girl to a room filled floor to ceiling with books and parchments and maps. Most of them were in languages Ailis could not recognize, much less understand, but she was fascinated. Who knew there were so many sheets of paper on the entire island? Morgain walked from shelf to shelf, taking down one book then another, putting together a pile that she said “might be of interest, and a way to pass the time.”
“I don’t want to pass the time.” If Ailis had stopped to think, she would never have dared speak back to the sorceress, but the words simply came out of her mouth. “I want to go home.”
“I know, witch-child, I know,” Morgain said. Her tone was disturbingly gentle, the way adults sound when they’re about to tell you something really, really bad. “You can’t go home. Not just yet. But I will not allow you to waste away, witch-child, no fears.”
What could Ailis say? She had no weapons to fight her way free, no way to contact Merlin to rescue her, no way to do anything but submit. She made a dutiful curtsey, shallower than she might have to the queen, which merely made Morgain laugh. Ailis took the parchments and books back to her room, and piled them on a small table that appeared next to the sofa. A gorgeous quilt, with gold and blue and green and deep purple squares, was draped across the back of the sofa, its texture softer and warmer than anything she had ever felt before.
“If you have need of anything else,” Morgain said, “just ask.” She stood in the doorway watching Ailis with a strange sort of satisfaction on her face, almost as though she didn’t know how to express what she was feeling, or even how to feel it at all.
“Ask who?” The thought of someone listening in on her at all times made Ailis suddenly feel self-conscious. She looked around nervously, as though something would suddenly be revealed.
“Ah, yes.” It was clear that Morgain had never thought of such a discomfort, and Ailis suspected that she was so accustomed to having servants underfoot that she never saw them. Though to be fair, Ailis had not seen any servants at all since that first morning. Were they discreet? Absent for some sort of holiday? Or had Morgain turned them all invisible for some reason? Might they be lurking anywhere, everywhere, watching all the time?
“Here,” and the sorceress stepped forward into the room, casting her gaze around until she saw what she was looking for. “Here.” She picked up a small silver candlestick and touched it with her free hand. A blue-green spark jumped from her fingertip to the top of the candlestick, and a slender foam-colored candle appeared in the previously empty socket.
The sorceress considered the result, then nodded with satisfaction. “Light this when you wish to make a request. Someone will hear you. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Ailis looked away, trying desperately to remind herself that despite the kindness and consideration this woman was showing her, she was still an evil sorceress, a wicked woman who had tried to destroy Camelot, had threatened her and her friends, had stolen her away from her home, and was keeping her a prisoner.
Any more a prisoner than you were in the queen’s solar? Any more a prisoner than you were, tied to the roles they want you in, not the one you want?
To that small voice inside her own head, Ailis was unable to respond. And when she looked up again, Morgain was gone.
The next afternoon, Morgain again appeared for a brief time, interrupting a nap filled with disturbingly vivid dreams. This time the enchantress took Ailis to the far tower, where they stood by a huge open window and watched seabirds circle and dive into the ocean.
“I’ve never seen birds so large.”
“There are none larger on this isle, and indeed, few larger anywhere,” Morgain said. “They are warriors, in their own right.”
“I’ve dreamt…” Ailis stopped, suddenly shy, then plowed forward again. “I’ve dreamt of flying like that.”
“Have you now?” Morgain asked, her head cocked in curiosity. Then the sorceress raised her left hand, and made a movement with four of her five fingers. A strange noise rose from her slender throat as she did so. One of the birds, not quite as massive as the others, broke away from his circling and came closer—close enough that a sleek white feather fell from its wing, spiraling down in a lazy eddy, directly into Morgain’s upraised fingers.
Almost as long as Ailis’s hand, the feather gleamed with sea spray and some strange iridescent sparkle that seemed to come from within the quill itself.
“A talisman of your own,” Morgain said, a sly reference to the last time they had met.
Ailis tucked the feather into the knot of her braid, where she could feel it occasionally brushing against her back. Then they descended the tower into a huge dining hall, where the afternoon meal was laid out: the most incredible food Ailis had ever tasted, beginning with a soup made from fresh berries, followed by a massive baked fish, crisp tubers, crusted bread that steamed when she broke it open to discover butter already melted inside, and a strange vegetable that looked too spiny to be edible but tasted wonderful.
Faintly visible ghostly servants moved platters around and refilled empty glasses, then retreated against the wall to wait until they were needed again. Ailis wondered if they were real people, ghosts, or, perhaps, purely magical constructs. Did they serve willingly? Did magical creatures care who they served? Was this to be her fate, someday? And could she possibly convince any of them to help her?
Raising a hand, she indicated to one that she would like more wine. Watching carefully, Ailis saw a figure look to Morgain first for permission. So much for that. If it needed approval to even give more refreshment, helping Ailis to leave without Morgain’s knowledge was out of the question.
“Do you like the sturgeon?”
“It’s quite good.”
And it was, along with everything else at the meal. They sat at a long table, covered with a cloth of shimmering white linen and set with plates of polished metal that glowed in the candlelight, goblets of crystal filled with dark ruby wine, and horn-handled eating instruments that might be useful as weapons, were she to slip them into her pocket and take them away from the table.
And now, as the translucent servants cleared away the meal’s dishes, another platter floated in, this one was covered in bite-sized pastries, cunningly made in the shapes of miniature animals. Ailis, after looking to Morgain for permission and receiving an encouraging nod, chose a white stag. Biting into it revealed a fruited filling that filled Ailis’s mouth with a tart, tangy sensation.
“Pears,” Morgain said, in response to Ailis’s happy sigh. “There’s nothing quite like a pear.”
Awash in a strange contentment that seemed to come from nowhere, Ailis was willing to take her word for it. The thought that this was magic, all magic, and she might well be under an enchantment, flitted through the girl’s mind. But since she couldn’t do anything about it if it were so, Ailis let the notion pass, and chose another pastry: a unicorn with an impossibly tiny gilded horn.
The unicorn was halfway to her mouth when the doors behind her crashed open. Ailis froze, an instinctive response. Morgain’s face seemed to tell her to stay still and say nothing.
“Woman, you have lied to me!”
Morgain smoothed the fabric of her dress and rose to meet the newcomer, one of her well-groomed eyebrows raised in a calculated expression of surprise. “Be careful what you say, my friend. Bursting into my presence with such an accusation might be considered ill-manners. What is this lie
you claim that I have told?”
“That!” From the way Morgain’s gaze did not shift, the girl suspected that she was the subject of the spiteful voice’s words. But she remained very still, very silent, wishing for the ability to turn translucent like the sorceress’s servants. “The agreement was that none were to know I was here.”
“And no one does. And no one would have, had you not burst in here like an ill-mannered child.”
Don’t look, child, a voice in Ailis’s head warned her. Don’t turn, don’t move, don’t look….
Merlin? But while familiar, the voice did not feel like the enchanter’s, not entirely. Morgain? No response.
“You did not tell me you had brought this one here. Why?”
“Because I did not trust you to behave,” Morgain said. Her back was straight and her voice was steady, though a careful observer might have detected a faint tremor in her hand.
“She is—”
“She is a guest in my house,” Morgain said. “As are you.”
There was tension in this room that terrified Ailis more than she had ever been before; even more than when she hid under the low bed in her parents’ cottage and heard the sounds of battle raging all around her; even more than coming out of that cottage and seeing bodies strewn about her village. This wasn’t violence or madness. Those memories were hot and fierce. This was cold and severe; it whispered around her soul like the sound of a frigid winter’s wind.
There was a long silence, before the door was slammed shut again. Morgain held herself very still, but for the rise and fall of her chest as she took a long breath in, then let it out in an equally long and slow movement.
“I am afraid I need to ask you to stay in your rooms…until I can decide what to do with you,” she said, not looking at Ailis. “I will have someone continue to bring meals, and whatever books or amusements you desire. It is…temporary, I promise.”
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