Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy)

by Alessa Ellefson

  “Can I ask you another question?”

  I can feel Keva’s murderous intent from across the room. “What?” she snarls.

  “Who was this duke? What happened to him?”

  “Nobody knows,” Keva says. “Now leave me alone.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Not even an idea?”

  “You’re not going to stop unless I tell you, huh?” she asks, sounding defeated

  I grin despite myself. “Nope.”

  “Duke Gorlois was the president of KORT about, oh, twenty years ago,” she says. “He was great with his studies, especially in his tactical courses, and was renowned for capturing a lot of Fey. Kinda like Arthur, if you want.

  “But then something happened. Nobody really knows what exactly, but it happened on one of his hunts. When he came back, he seemed fine at first, but he started acting all erratic. Unfortunately, we’d lost the Sangraal centuries before, so we couldn’t heal him, and he was sent to the nuthouse. But then this one night, he set fire to the school and used the confusion to steal the most powerful weapon we owned. When the Board found out about it, they exiled him from this place for ever.”

  “What was it?” I ask.

  “A sword,” she replies wistfully, “that makes anyone who holds it practically undefeatable. Excalibur…”

  Keva lingers on that name, as if able to taste its power.

  “So where is it now?” I ask.

  Keva sounds bored. “Who knows? He and the sword both disappeared, and they were never seen again. Father Tristan went to find him. And that turned out to be the biggest mistake of his life.”

  “Because he went crazy too?” I ask, recalling Bri’s story.

  “Not that.” Keva chuckles. “He’d been engaged to Ysolt before leaving to find Gorlois, but he was gone for so long, everyone thought he was dead.”

  “And when he came back, she was married to Sir Boris,” I say, struck by the sadness of the story. It’s no wonder Father Tristan always sounds so cross.

  “At least the forest didn’t spit him back out a hundred years later like it sometimes does,” Keva says. I can tell she’s enjoying telling me this—maybe she’s trying to scare me, a very plausible explanation. “You know, there’s supposedly one of them in the asylum now. They say he’s, like, three hundred years old and has turned into an albino from living inside all the time.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, thinking back on this morning’s visit. “I didn’t see anyone like that.” Just some crazy Father Christmas trying to choke a poor lady to death.

  “Well then,” Keva says, annoyed, “since you know everything already, you can shut up now. I need my beauty sleep.”

  I leave Keva alone, and, soon enough, I hear her steady breathing. Could fighting Fey people really be that damaging to the mind? What is it exactly that they do to us? Hypnosis? I think back to Owen, then to the duke, who had been the best knight around. Just like Arthur, Keva said.

  A knot forms at the pit of my stomach and I punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape, annoyed at my getting worried about him. And, in the middle of all that, I still don’t know zip about my father.

  The first pink tones of dawn are already bleeding into the sky when I manage to fall asleep, only to be immediately woken up by the morning bells. I hear Keva shriek, and roll over on my bed to see what’s the matter.

  “Mwhaddizit?” I ask, bleary-eyed.

  “Why is that filthy thing touching my stuff?” Keva yells.

  Holding on to her mirror, she wrestles something from a small, furry creature.

  “Puck—” I say, yawning.

  Puck snaps his little head around, lets go suddenly, and runs over to me, his tiny hooves ringing against the flagstones. He jumps into my arms, and I collapse onto my bed.

  “What didja do?” I ask, grabbing his face spattered with red between both my hands until his lips pucker.

  “He ate my makeup, that’s what he did,” Keva says, tossing her a small tube into the trash can. “And you owe me a new lipstick.”

  I hear her slam the door behind her, and then the world gets all fuzzy.

  When I wake up again, there’s a loud roaring sound above me, and my whole body’s vibrating. I crack my eyes open to find a black cat purring on top of my chest, looking down at me with eyes of gold, and Puck curled up in a ball at my side.

  “Hello.” I cough. My mouth is parched, and every limb feels like it’s been doused in acid. “What are you doing here?”

  The cat jumps off me as soon as I try to pet him. Blinking, I try to get my bearings again. From what I can see of the sky, I take it it’s almost lunchtime.

  For a second, I feel a surge of panic—I’ve missed classes! And I haven’t even caught up with all of my lessons yet. I hurry down the narrow steps, tripping over my bootlaces. But as I hobble toward the courtyard on my way to Runes, my steps falter. Why am I even bothering when I don’t get to do any of the interesting stuff and I get punished all the time?

  My emotions in turmoil, I let my feet take me out a side door, then head due north until I reach the church. After a moment’s hesitation, I sneak inside in search of peace and quiet.

  “What are you doing here, child?”

  I startle at the quiet voice uncomfortably close to me. I hadn’t even seen Father Tristan when I walked in. He resumes his sweeping.

  “Shouldn’t you be in class?” he asks. His black cassock seems to float about him as he moves away, giving him the air of a jellyfish.

  “I, um, wasn’t feeling well,” I say. I sign myself before I can get struck to death for lying inside a holy place.

  “Were you hoping for a confession?” he asks.

  “Not exactly,” I reply. “I just…needed a break.”

  Father Tristan stops his sweeping to look at me with eyes that are so pale they’re almost white. He sets his broom against the wall and holds his hands at his sides, fingers splayed.

  “If you seek some form of asylum, or counsel, you are more than welcome here,” he says. “The house of God always welcomes His children.”

  As he picks up dusting with an old rag, I make my way to an alcove where a dozen votive candles are lined before a statue of Saint George defeating the dragon. A very appropriate place for me, I muse as I kneel on the prie-dieu to pray.

  Despite my best intent, all I can think of is this new world, a world where, no matter how hard I try, I don’t fit.

  Did you expect anything else?

  I ignore my guardian angel’s voice. The initial excitement I’d felt at one day being able to control elements has abated. I wonder now if this isn’t a ploy to keep me from running away so I won’t cause trouble elsewhere.

  Your place is not among them.

  This last sentence surprises me, but again, I ignore the voice, screw my eyes shut, and try to form the first stanzas of the paternoster. But to no avail—vivid images of Percy and Arthur fighting the demon bull superimpose themselves over those of Jennifer bossing me around like I’m her own personal slave, then flash back to Owen and the giant bull before its flames take over the school.

  “Are you getting answers to your questions?” Father Tristan asks behind me.

  I stare up at the saint’s statue; his face is taut with concentration as he spears the beast at his feet. I know his tale. The knight had been the only one brave enough to face the deadly dragon, saving entire villages and the king’s own daughter.

  My eyes travel down to the dragon at his feet writhing in pain, a look of sheer terror on its face. For once, I sympathize with it, which just goes to show how messed up my life has become.

  “Not any answer I want,” I finally say.

  “Often it’s not until much time has passed that we see the lesson we were to learn from our hardships,” he says. The light of the candles reflects in his pale gaze. “You remind me of a friend I once had. He, too, had many questions. And those answers he did have left him dissatisfied.”

  “What happened to him?” I ask.


  “He sought new ones.”

  “Did he like those better?”

  “He died for them.”

  Well, that’s just peachy. Is that what’s going to happen to me too? But the thought of my potentially imminent death brings those of Agnès and my father to mind, and I shiver.

  “Do not worry, child,” Father Tristan says. “God is faithful, He will not let you be tried beyond your ability, but will provide a solution that you may be able to endure it.” His voice lowers as if he’s rewound his memory way back. “However scarred you may end up afterward.”

  Gloomy words from someone who professes to help people out. But then again, none of his sermons have been of the cheery sort. Perhaps he, too, is suffering from some chronic case of depression.

  “Father, can I ask you a question?”

  Father Tristan seems to shake himself out of his reverie and smiles. “What is it?”

  “I’ve heard you speak of the Fey and their abilities,” I say. “You speak of all that magic as being evil, and that it must be wiped away from the face of this earth, that we must send them all to Hell. And yet—”

  “And yet I live here,” he finishes for me, “in a world that only exists because of such magic, a practice clearly condemned by the Bible for leading down the path of evil. True. However, you need to understand that, sometimes, one needs to be with one’s enemy to understand it and therefore be better able to defeat it. A worthy cause, don’t you think? Damning the few to save the many.”

  His words echo those of Keva’s, and I’m starting to wonder if they aren’t right. Quiet as a haunting spirit, he moves away.

  “You better get to class now,” he says, “or you’re going to get into trouble.”

  “Yes, Father,” I say with a sigh.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but somehow I feel a little relieved. I might not be literally sleeping with the devil and I don’t ever want to, but I can withstand being near it. For now.

  I know I’ve just told a priest I’m going back to school, but the last thing I want to do is go practice with a wooden knife while everyone else is training in EM.

  Instead, I beeline to the back of the asylum, past a dark stairwell that buries deep into the ground, then stop when my feet reach the edges of the first row of fields.

  My eyes scan the horizon, beyond the long hills where a long green line denotes the forest—the very forest that is supposedly the Fey’s last standing line, where people are said to lose their minds or get swallowed up, not to be seen again for centuries.

  I wonder what it would be like to come back here in a hundred years. Would the school still be here? Would I have to face the same problems, with bratty students and pitiless teachers? At least I’d be rid of my annoying family…

  Drawn by the sweet scent of flowers, I continue on my way north. Soon, a single large rock rises up to meet me, the size of a small cottage.

  Before it stands a beautiful woman, her long brown curls falling in a soft cloud over her lavender dress. As I hesitate to approach her, unsure whether she’s a teacher or not, the woman turns around and smiles.

  “Morgan,” she says in a voice as sweet as the chirping of birds, “how very nice to meet you.”

  The hem of her dress starts to move on its own, and a very familiar bearded head pokes from around her ankles.

  “Puck!” I say, surprised to see him so far from the school.

  The woman laughs. “Yes, it was time for him to get some fresh air and a change of scenery. The poor little fellow’s still afraid of closets.”

  And it’s no wonder. The hobgoblin bounds over to me and nearly tackles me to the ground. I laugh—this is the warmest welcome I’ve ever experienced!

  “I’m so glad he’s made a friend,” the woman says. Her eyes seem to be changing colors with every movement of her head.

  Puck detaches himself from me and from my petting, and charges the stone with his tiny horns. He bounces off the rock and lands on his hairy bottom, dazed. The woman picks him up into her arms.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that won’t work on that stone?” the woman says kindly.

  I notice then that the stone’s blue-gray surface is covered in thousands of small runes.

  “What do they say?” I ask.

  The woman slowly passes her hand over the inscriptions without touching them.

  “It’s part of a ward,” she says.

  “A ward? Like a protection spell?” The runes look like they’ve just been carved, not a single patch of moss growing on the stone’s smooth surface. “Is that why they say Fey people can’t come here?”

  “Unless they’ve been invited,” she says.

  My eyes widen at the thought that some old writing has that power. “So what Keva said was true,” I murmur, remembering our sacred geometry class.

  “I would hope you were at least taught the truth here,” the woman says. “Otherwise, what would be the purpose of this place?”

  My gaze drops to the bottom of the long runic text, near grass level, where a large symbol is carved—a five-pointed star inscribed within a circle. I take a few steps back.

  “I used to think that was the sign of the devil,” I say, forcing a laugh out, though the thought still makes me break out in a cold sweat.

  “If that was the case, a lot of things around us would be considered evil,” she says. “The inside of an apple, flowers, the passage of Venus around the Earth…No. That pentacle is a protection seal.

  “Each point represents one of the four prime elements, with the fifth being the spirit. Then the circle that joins them all to preserve life.”

  “Preserve life?” I point to the large building in the distance. “You mean the school?”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  The woman starts walking back the way I came, and I follow her. She’s still carrying Puck, who’s now munching happily on a strand of her hair like a rabbit on a carrot, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Can it do other things?” I ask. “That seal there?”

  “Everything has more than one facet in life,” the woman answers without stopping. “It all depends on how it’s used.”

  Which means yes. I kick a pebble, and it bounces off the track a couple of feet away. I don’t know who this woman is, but it’s a good thing she’s not a teacher. For one, I’d already have gotten detention otherwise, and two, her way of answering without answering would be problematic.

  As we pass between the church and the asylum, we hear the bell ring the end of classes.

  “I believe we’re right on time for EM,” the woman says, with a smile, a clear sign of dismissal.

  “Damn this place to hell!”

  I jump at the angry voice and find an old man ferreting around the flower bushes, his long beard caught in their spindly branches. I recognize him immediately as the crazy old man from the asylum.

  I rush over to help the poor man. “How did you get out here?” I ask him, trying to untangle his beard from the bush.

  “On my own two feet,” he replies, his moss-green eyes flashing. “What a silly question!”

  “I mean, how did you get out?”

  The man looks even more outraged. “Through the door, of course!”

  With her clear laugh, the woman approaches us. “It’s too easy for you to get out, dear friend,” she says in her singsong voice.

  It seems her presence has a calming effect on the old man, for his features soften. In a few seconds, she has him freed and is holding his arm, probably to prevent him from escaping again.

  Students are now streaming out of the school toward the practice field, all decked out in their training gear. And in their midst are two familiar faces.

  “Morgan! Where have you been?”

  Bri rushes toward me, Jack on her heels. Behind them is Lady Ysolt, her stony face menacing.

  “I’m so going to get punished for this,” I tell myself. “I just hope torture’s a practice that�
�s long been abandoned.”

  “Bah, nothing your death can’t take care of, dear,” the old man says, patting my shoulder as he and the lady leave.

  “We’ve been worried about you,” Bri says when she reaches me. She sounds more excited than worried, however. “What happened? We came to get you before lunch, but you were gone.”

  “Were you called into the principal’s office?” Jack asks, looking nervously toward the odd pair who can still be seen walking to the asylum.

  “No. I just woke up late.” I shrug. “Then things just happened that kept me away.”

  “So why were you talking with Lady Vivian, then?” Bri asks, awed.

  “And Myrdwinn, too?” Jack adds.

  “Who and who?” I ask.

  “The school’s principal and the director,” Bri says, a note of impatience tingeing her voice. “You were just talking to them. We saw you!”

  “That’s who those two were?” I shake my head. “But the man…”

  “Myrdwinn,” Jack says.

  “Yes, he’s gone a little senile,” I say.

  “Well, it’s no wonder,” Bri says, “considering how old he is. He was already here when my grandfather attended school.”

  “My granddad says that Myrdwinn was the school’s president back when his grandfather was a kid,” Jack says. “They even say he’s the grandson of the original Myrdwinn, the enchanter who first taught knights EM.”

  I scoff. “That’s not possible. That’d make him waaaaay over a hundred years old!”

  “Which makes it perfectly reasonable for him to have dementia,” Bri says.

  I stare openmouthed at my two friends. Do they even hear themselves speaking?

  Jack shakes his head at me. “I don’t know how you do it,” he says, “to be hanging out with KORT people and talking to the school’s owners. You’re either very lucky or in deep trouble.”

  Once again, I’m relegated to a corner of the field to train on my own, but with a wooden sword this time. Curse my tendency to be easily swayed by the smallest kindness. I should’ve just skipped this part of the day too!

  “At least give me something to practice on,” I huff. I step sideways and bring the sword up, two-handed, in a mock parry. “Something I can hit to a pulp!”