Emrysa pulled Morganne closer to the fountain, turning her arm and skewering the nail deeper so blood trickled into the basin. Morganne gasped again, pulling back.
“Stand still,” the witch demanded, yanking Morganne’s arm toward herself.
Her blood dripped on the top of the skulls forming the basin. Black smoke swirled from the crimson liquid that looked like dark ink in the hollow blue light. The witch finally flung Morganne’s arm back at her, and stared at the bowl. Morganne compressed the wound to stop the bleeding though it still crept through the gap of her fingers as she watched her own blood in the basin swell like a mini ocean—crashing with dreadful red waves as it spread outwards and upwards. Soon, the entire fountain roared with cascading blood, filling the cavern with a sweet and sickly metallic twang.
She recoiled when the witch submerged those withered hands, her arms, her face in the fountain, drinking in the taste of Morganne.
“Oh dear goddess,” Morganne said, gagging.
Emrysa turned, bloodied face and hair, and somehow more solid than she had appeared moments before. “Your family is safe now. The blood oath complete.”
“How can I tell if you are lying?” Morganne demanded, finding a strength in the little hope she held.
The witch shrugged and smiled again, her rotten teeth dripping with red like a feasting wolf. Morganne turned away, but not before noticing the witch’s skin blossoming, pale and smooth.
“And now, your heart for the boy.”
For a moment, Morganne hesitated. She did not owe Kay her heart, she did not even know him. Why should she give him her heart? If anyone was to have it, her heart was for Bedivere. Brave, beautiful Bedivere. The witch cackled as if reading her thoughts.
“Your knight will forever blame you for my little puppet’s death if you forfeit his life. He will forever know you to be a selfish, greedy, little girl,” the witch barked. “And Kay is not only his best friend, but his cousin bound in blood and love.”
Morganne chastised herself. How could I consider such a thing as to leave Kay to die because of my own heartless fear? “Why would you want my heart?” Morganne said. “It is nothing if not weak and pathetic.”
“It’s not your pity I need, girl. Now, come.”
The witch held out her arms as if welcoming a loved one into an embrace. Clenching her fists, Morganne took two nervous steps toward the witch's open arms, and Emrysa held her, pulling her so close, Morganne had to hold her breath against the stench of death.
Morganne’s heart pounded, louder and louder, ricocheting against her ribs. The sound boomed from both outside and inside, bouncing against the walls of the cave and throbbing in her head.
Da-dum.
Da-dum.
Da-dum.
Faster and faster, it strained against a violent grasp.
A searing pain, and Morganne screeched into the darkness; a ripping sensation pulling at her very soul. Her heartbeat quickened until it was no longer the double-sounding beat she had felt her entire life, but a sorrowful, singular sound.
The pain ebbed. Sound diminished. And somehow Morganne knew only half her heart pounded in her chest—its beat reduced to a mournful dirge, echoing sadness in a chamber that had once been full. She sobbed, clenching her broken heart and fell to the floor with a splash. And on the cold, wet ground, Morganne wept.
But while half a heart brought Morganne to her knees, Emrysa clutched her chest in wonderment. Her body glowed, losing its deathly pallor and transparency; age spots disappeared, and her hair—the knotted, colorless, tangled mess, grew into red tresses, thick and lush and full.
Emrysa placed her hand on Morganne’s head as the girl cried on the floor. “What strength you have left is almost too easy to take. This, for the fire horse.”
Morganne's life-force diminished further, and it was not just strength that fled from her body like a herd of spooked horses, but hope and belief and anything strong and true.
She wailed, clutching her broken body and soul, holding herself in a tight embrace to salvage anything left of herself from seeping from her bones. “I have nothing left to give you,” she cried, knowing the witch had one more desire before she broke the oath tie.
“But you are wrong, Fireheart,” Emrysa said. Her voice was no longer raspy and cruel. It was silken. Familiar.
Morganne looked upward and her words caught in her throat. Emrysa was no longer a hag, an ancient witch of decay and bones. She was radiant. She was young. She was the image of Morganne herself. Morganne tried to scramble to her feet but fell back to her knees.
“What? What are doing? How can this be?” She spat the words like broken arrows from a flimsy bow.
Emrysa laughed. “The one thing I needed for the oath bond, was…your life.”
“You said you wouldn’t kill me, you promised!” Morganne screamed, pulling at her hair, rocking on the spot. The woman before her smiled, a chilling smile that would never belong to Morganne though the face was just the same.
“Oh, darling girl,” Emrysa said, like a gentle mother concerned for her child’s pain. “I will not kill you. I’m doing something far, far worse.”
The witch snapped her thumbs and fingers, and the ground around Morganne shuddered and crumbled, thundering into the chasm below. A canyon separated her from Emrysa—separated her from escape, from life, from everyone and everything. A deep, dark nothingness as deep as Morganne’s regret.
“But fear not,” Emrysa said as she strode away, her old black cloak morphing into flaming red silks that trailed the floor behind her as she walked. She hesitated, her fingers reaching for the mark she already knew to be in place at her collarbone.
The mark of the dark. Two crescent moons back to back, like hooks, clawing the witch into its darkness. “This is not a complete transformation, not yet—even I do not possess the power for such things. But if the boy should love me, if he should see me as you and love me in your place, then the transformation will be complete and we will both have what we want.”
The ground tumbled and disappeared as she left.
“Both have what we want?” Morganne screamed and sobbed over crashing rocks. “How is any of this what I want?”
Emrysa stopped and turned, her emerald eyes as fiery as flames. “Because if I transform, you, dear girl, shall forever transform too… into the bones and skin I leave behind. You will become Emrysa.” She paused, cocking her head to the side. “Fireheart, why do you look so sad? You should smile, did you not once wish to be the most powerful witch? Well, you shall. While our transformation takes place, you shall have all my magic, but alas, you will also bear the curse your family placed on me all those centuries ago. Forever.” She shook her head. “All that power, and nowhere to go.”
And Emrysa departed the cavern leaving Morganne alone on her small island of stone and tears.
17
A Witch’s Steed
Emrysa strode toward her freedom, leaving behind the clutches of the living hell that had imprisoned her for centuries. Young, fresh blood pumped around her body, and the witch reveled in her fine limbs, soft skin, the mass of red curls tumbling down her back. Her eyes, so accustomed to utter blackness, squinted when a touch of dim light splintered upon wet rocks by the faraway exit. She prowled, taking steady, measured steps despite a rapid heartbeat, taking her time to welcome the light back into her new, borrowed body. To welcome life itself.
But even Emrysa, for the hundreds of years she dreamt of walking back into the world, hesitated as she reached the threshold. To realize one of her most sought-after desires was not the ecstasy she imagined, and instead, a paralysis of fear and doubt and disbelief heaved in the pit of her stomach. Her emerald eyes welled with tears that had long ago dried and she stood, silent, trying to gain her composure…
She stepped out into the weak morning sun.
The first thing she noticed was birdsong, the chirps and warbles of finches and sparrows that flitted over the borders of the faerie realms with ignorant b
liss. Then, the air. Emrysa closed her eyes and breathed the sweet taste of freedom with ravenous gulps—she almost laughed with joy when the fresh air filled her rank-stained lungs. She swirled with pure pleasure—the soft morning wind a playful dance through her tousled red locks and gown.
A gasp soiled her bliss. Her eyes flung open, and there he was.
Bedivere, his scarlet and gold cape shining in the gloom of the vast, rocky plateau. His black eyes shining all the more.
She should have been prepared. Emrysa was not a young harlot nor a whimsical maiden with her head in books filled with romance and petty affairs of the heart. Emrysa was the Immortal One, older than time itself and crueler than winter’s frost. She had seen the boy through her visions, thanks to the pitiful child she left wallowing in despair.
But still… those eyes.
Emrysa stood like a work of art, relishing the admiration and inspection of the boy as he stared in awe. She followed his eyes, looking down at herself in her flaming red silk. Yes, crimson, it was a good choice. Her lips parted into a smile.
“You—you—” he steeled himself, clearing his throat. For composure’s sake, he turned away, shaking his thoughts from his mind, though not his face. When he spoke again, his voice was sturdy and deep, but his eyes still stared with awe. “Are you okay? What happened in there? The witch?”
She smiled and cast his questions aside with an elegant flick of her hand.
“One question at a time, dear boy. We need not worry about her,” Emrysa said, enjoying her effect on him. Yet a dagger of a thought pierced her mind. It was not she he saw, but the girl. Black crept around Emrysa's heart, its rapid beat slowed, the magic lost. Bedivere’s face morphed from mesmerized to agonized. He turned to Kay, who lay on the rocky ground, a saddle bag under his head as a pillow, and his cape wrapped around him like a blanket—his face whiter than death. Beside Emrysa’s puppet-boy, the red horse groaned with short, sharp breaths.
“They’ve got worse, both of them,” Bedivere said, his face painted with the agony that comes with waiting for another to decide the fate of a life. “Did you barter? Did you convince the witch to help?”
Emrysa frowned; she wanted Bedivere to run to her, to embrace her and set the true transformation in place right away, but the darkened mark still itched on her skin like a threat. Emrysa pulled the collar of her dress closer to her neck and hissed under her breath before resigning herself to play her part.
“The witch, she gave me something—something special, look,” Emrysa cooed, trying to imitate Morganne’s soft tones. She placed her hands on Angelfire’s cold yet sweaty body as he rasped with labored breaths. From her hands, blue tendrils of smoke wrapped around the horse’s body, cocooning him in a mist of other worldliness. Bedivere stepped back, cautious, thinking of the eerie glow that accompanied Kay while the witch spoke through him. But the soft blue light healed this time, pulsating stronger as the horse’s breath relaxed, his coat dried and began to shine. In moments, Angelfire rose to his hooves and shook his body. He stepped forward but before Emrysa could soothe him, Angelfire reared.
You! he said in her mind, knowing the witch at once. He reared again, boxing his forelegs outward to strike her to the ground. He shrieked a neigh in an attempt to alert the knight of the deception.
Oh shut up you insolent nag, Emrysa spat back into his mind. She flicked her fingers at him, and with it a coldness seeped through his veins, shuddering as it reached his heart and mind. He no longer formed the thoughts he knew he had—they flitted from his mind like forgotten dreams at daybreak and were locked inside him like a silent scream. Angelfire tossed his head against the words he could not stop from penetrating his mind.
I command the horse to say no more
Binding him unto my law
To do exactly as I need
And do the work of a witch’s steed.
“All better,” she said aloud, patting Angelfire, and he accepted—only a tiny part of his mind recoiled, his body and soul bound to the spell. A spiteful smile crept across Emrysa's face and she turned, then staggered. With a gasp, the witch stared at her hands—magic drained from them, ebbing away. Of course. Emrysa was using Morganne’s physical form as a vessel—meaning she did not have the ability, nor permission, from nature to replenish her own magic after she used it until the full transformation was complete.
“Pathetic,” Emrysa muttered, her features fuming at the dwindling magic and the burden of wearing a mortal's body.
Bedivere narrowed his eyes.
She turned, plastering a beatific smile across her face and without realizing, licked her lips at his stare. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“And Kay?” he asked. “You can help him, can you not?” Bedivere rubbed his temples, then pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice rising in panic. “Can you not help him?”
Emrysa cast a downward glance at the pale knight on the ground before her. An oath is an oath. The pathetic, spellbound girl had given half her heart in payment for Kay’s health—though Morganne was yet to learn what that would mean… not that she could ever leave the clutches of the hovel.
“No,” she said.
Bedivere smiled at first, a smile that arrives with the sudden impact of disbelief and denial. He shook his head, the color fading from his cinnamon cheeks. “What—but…?” he gulped, and his dark eyes watered as the truth sank into his bones.
“What I mean is,” Emrysa said, calculating her plan. “I can’t help him here. We must get back to my homestead.”
He paced away from her, covering his open mouth with his hand. Bedivere shot her a stare, looked back at Kay, and then toward the distant hills in which awaited Camelot.
Emrysa turned her back to hide her lips parting in a snarl. “The witch explained that my family hold the answers,” Emrysa lied with urgent tones. She turned and stood before Bedivere as he paced. Emrysa grabbed his sweating hands in her own, hoping to tear his eyes away from her puppet on the ground. “He will get well at home, Bedivere, of this I know. She promised.”
Emrysa nodded and Bedivere found himself nodding along with her.
“Okay, okay,” he said, taking two slow, measured breaths. “So we ride back to your homestead—are you sure we shouldn't take him back to Camelot, back to Merlin?”
“Merlin?” Emrysa raged. She dropped Bedivere’s hands and clenched her own into tight fists. Her nostrils flared. “What would he understand of such magic? He’s a fourth-rate magician if ever I’ve known one.”
Bedivere cocked his head to the side, like a dog trying to comprehend nonsensical words. He watched the witch through narrow eyes. “I thought you knew not of Merlin until I spoke of him—in fact, he’s a closely guarded secret, Morganne. What could you possibly know of his magic and abilities?”
He stepped away from her, eyeing her crimson silks from head to toe, yet this time Emrysa did not feel admired but scrutinized. Mortals were so complicated. So riddled with ridiculous emotions…emotions I crave to hold once more, she thought in the deepest part of her half-heart. She sighed, closing her eyes to the boy with the fierce stare, and tried to recount the human emotions she once felt so long ago. She had to make him love her.
Somewhere, in the farthest reaches of her mind, she caught a whisper of compassion—the delicate emotion to feel for someone else. She allowed that clinging remnant of emotion to wrap around her thoughts, her body, and her words, so when she next spoke, it was a gentle whisper belonging to Morganne.
“I’m sorry, I should not have said that. It’s just something the witch told me. I’m scared, Bedivere—I’m scared for Kay. I’m scared… for us.” Bedivere softened then and took her hands once more. Emrysa looked up at him through Morganne’s emerald eyes. “For all the witch promised, how can we trust her?”
“I don’t know…” Bedivere said. “Perhaps we’ll know in here.”
He tapped his heart three times with his fist and Emrysa smiled.
“Come,” she said. “Let’s make hast
e to my homestead.”
He kissed her forehead, and a tsunami of new emotions—and new life—flooded into her.
It was happening…
18
A Stronger Heartbeat
Emrysa flashed a smile at Bedivere as they rode side-by-side, hoping to get a reaction. She did not, and Emrysa recoiled at her pettiness. Yes, it was important to get the boy to fall in love with her so she could keep the vessel of Morganne’s body, but the longer they rode, the more bitter her thoughts became. And she would not allow mortal, dizzy desires to shade her real cause.
Now she smiled for herself, a secret smile full of irony as they rode toward the Cheval homestead and overdue revenge. It was, after all, the Cheval family whose bloodline incarcerated her into the depths of dread and forgotten memories. Knowing it was a Cheval that brought her back from a fate worse than death gave a certain poetic justice to her betrayal all those centuries ago. Knowing she would kill the family in Morganne's skin was a masterpiece in retribution.
But still, for all these thoughts, the boy's sullen moods were beginning to grind against her bones.
Days had passed and Bedivere’s moods altered from urgent, to angry, to morose, and now, finally, silence. And Emrysa could not stand it. Yes, of course she had the ability to pull on the power of nature and use her remaining magic to whisk them back to Morganne’s homestead in an instant—it would cost her a lot of magic in the process, but it was certainly within her power, even within the mortal frame hanging around the essence of her soul.
Fire Heart (Magic and Mage Series Book 2) Page 6