Morgana Trilogy Complete Series

by Alessa Ellefson

  “Actually, Arthur did manage to lop off a piece of it,” I say, drawing an irritated look from both Arthur and Sir Boris.

  “It did?” Sir Dagonet squeaks out in shock. He clears his throat. “It did?” he repeats, licking the nib of his pen to start writing. “How did that happen, and why was I not informed of this earlier?”

  “My broth…, that is, Mordred was sitting in it,” I say, “in the process of opening the Gates, when Arthur went for him.”

  “We all saw the results of that miss,” Sir Dagonet’s squire says with a smirk.

  “I don’t recall seeing you there,” Keva snaps at the man.

  “And that’s when he managed to cut off a piece of the chair,” I finish.

  “Well that’s fantastic news,” Gareth says.

  “It is?” Sir Dagonet asks, looking up in surprise from his notetaking.

  “Of course,” Oberon says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Next time, we can just ask Mordred to please sit in the chair while we turn his source of power into matchsticks.”

  Sir Dagonet nods, already back to his scribbles.

  “There is no need to be flippant, Lord Oberon,” Lugh says. “We always knew the Siege Perilous could not easily be destroyed, but at least now we know its weakness.”

  “Who cares about this precious information of yours if we can’t act upon it?” Lord Oberon retorts.

  “You seem to be forgetting something,” Lugh says, pushing away from the window to slowly circle us. “That Mordred is but a half-Fey.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’d be easy to subdue,” Oberon says.

  “A half-Fey with a sister whom he’s helped rescue once before,” Lugh continues, as if Oberon never opened his mouth.

  Chills run down my arms as he stops behind me. I know where this is going, and though I understand the logic of it, Papillon’s words keep bouncing around my head like an incessant warning. What is it Lugh wants from me?

  “A half-human with human needs and desires,” Oberon says, tapping his chin in thought.

  “Like the desire to reconnect with his family,” Lugh says.

  “No!” Arthur shouts, jumping to his feet.

  “What do you mean no?” Sir Boris asks. “What better way for her to redeem some of the damage she’s inflicted by going back there to be our own spy?”

  And to assassinate my own brother in the process, I silently add. Their intent couldn’t be more clear.

  Arthur turns his cool eyes upon our former teacher. “If she falls into their hands again, she may not survive it this time.”

  “It’s worth the risk,” Oberon says, stretching his legs out. “It would pay to have someone else working for us from the inside, other than that filth of a clurichaun.”

  “That clurichaun has a name, you know,” Keva says, surprising us all with her vehemence. “And if it weren’t for Nibs, who knows what else Carman would have used Morgan for beside that dragon of hers?”

  I groan as the two older knights’ eyes go round with shock at the news. Guess that’s one piece of information Arthur chose to withhold from them that’s now out of the bag.

  “That dragon is actually your doing, squire?” Sir Dagonet asks with a hiccup.

  “Yes,” I whisper, stomach sinking.

  “Against her will,” Keva adds, trying to repair the harm she’s done. “Carman tortured her and used her blood to activate the Sangraal, and—”

  “Well that settles it,” Sir Dagonet says, clapping his notebook shut. “If that girl’s blood is as powerful as you state it is, then she must be incarcerated, and there’s only one place secure enough for her. Caamaloth’s dungeons.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Hadrian says.

  “Dead serious,” Sir Dagonet says, standing up with a flourish and handing his precious notes over to his squire. “I will let the Board know right away. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  I frown as I watch the Council Room’s door close behind the pompous man and his squire. Talking about our Headquarters’ prison stirs my memory, something Nibs said to me before our escape from Hell.

  “I’m so sorry, Morgan,” Keva says.

  It was something about Cain and Abel, I remember.

  “I didn’t mean to let it slip out like that. Again.”

  No. Another name. Like Cabe.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t let them take you,” Gareth says, swinging his war hammer arm around dangerously.

  “Caim?” I whisper.

  Oberon freezes at the name, his eyes flattening to slits. “What did you just say?” he asks, and I don’t think I’m imagining the tension in his voice.

  “Nibs mentioned that name to me,” I say. “Said this Caim would be able to help us somehow.”

  “And you’re only mentioning it now?” Sir Boris says, struggling to get back to his feet with all his injuries.

  “I forgot,” I say lamely.

  “We did have quite a bit on our mind at the time,” Keva says, jumping to my defense.

  “It would make sense to question the one who was once Carman’s lover,” Oberon says scathingly, “if he were still around to tell the tale.”

  Lugh’s eyes grow distant. “He could, so to speak. Though I believe him to be under lock and key at the present.”

  “That’s what Nibs said, too,” I whisper.

  Oberon’s face turns purple, but before he can throw another of his dark fits, Lugh continues, “Although he went by another name back in the days.”

  “And what name is that?” Arthur asks.

  Lugh’s golden eye settles on me. “Sir Joseph.”

  I let out a strangled cough, almost choking on my own spit. Surely he can’t mean my father’s squire. I remember when my uncle introduced me to him through his personal scrying mirror. The squire had looked like a sickly old man. Not at all like a Fey.

  Yet why else would the Board have detained him inside the most secure prison in the world?

  Perhaps, then, Nibs and Lugh are right, and the one who once was my father’s squire can give us the key to Carman’s undoing. And, hopefully, before the Council tries to lock me up.

  Chapter 24

  I shift restlessly on my moss bed—despite my exhaustion, something’s dragged me awake. And then I feel it again, that light, rhythmic breeze against the nape of my neck, as of someone breathing.

  “Maybe I should bite her?”

  I freeze at the squeaky whisper, heart pounding wildly.

  “And make her bleed, you stupid furball?”

  “Just a tiny pinch!”

  I turn around on the bedding so quickly I hear a squeal of surprise, then the strong whirr of a giant insect’s wings.

  “She’s awake!” Papillon exclaims, the jewel at his throat scintillating in the near darkness. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “What are you two doing here?” I whisper harshly, afraid anyone else might notice them, might notice their interest in me.

  Papillon buzzes closer to my face, his ogham searing my vision. “You need to come with us.”

  I suddenly sit up. “Are we under attack?” I ask, looking around for signs of fire.

  But the adjoining rooms where the others are sleeping are peaceful, the cousins’ hefty snores reaching me through the partitions. I go very still, turning my attention back to the two flying mice.

  “Do you mean my…mother?” I ask in a strangled voice.

  “Hurry up, she hasn’t got much time,” Papillon says, zooming away.

  “Just follow me,” the russet mouse says, flying at a statelier pace.

  Still a little groggy, I track the whir of the flying mouse’s wings, my feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. I wonder how the others would feel if they found me creeping out like this?

  They’d probably get on my case again. And rightfully so—no matter the size of the creature, a Fey’s a Fey, and could be dangerous. I dare a glance towards the rounded recess where Arthur’s sleeping, and my footsteps falter.

  He must’ve
been really exhausted, for he hasn’t bothered to pull down the moss-like drape that serves as a door, and his usually pristine room is now in total disarray—clothes, maps and books covering every inch of the floor.

  I promised I wouldn’t leave him again without his knowing. And here I am, breaking my word at the first occasion.

  “Over here, your ladyship,” the russet mouse calls out in a reedy whisper.

  I lick my dry lips. I know I’m risking a lot on the word of two mice, but I can’t let this opportunity slip me by. Not if they’re telling the truth, and this could be my only chance to finally meet my mother.

  “What are you two dilly-dallying for?” Papillon asks shrilly, making me jump. “You know her holy-light, the mother-of-all, cannot sustain the opening in the barrier for very long!”

  “I know,” the russet mouse replies, “but the girl chimes to her own clockwork.”

  “What is that even supposed to mean?” Papillon asks, bristling. “Nobody should make her most-scintillating-lady-of-the-dragons wait! Not even her own daughter.”

  I wave the mice to shush, afraid that their angry squeaks are going to wake everyone up. “Alright, alright, I’m going,” I whisper at them, trying to ignore the sudden guilt swelling in my chest.

  But as I reach the door to our burrow-like suite, a soft moan makes me stop again. I cast another worried look at Arthur’s sleeping form, his mussed hair highlighted by Excalibur’s soft glow. The sound returns, an anguished sob barely muffled by a pillow. Arthur’s hurting! The mice completely forgotten, I dash across the living room and to Arthur’s side.

  He’s thrashing and turning on his bed, as if in the throes of a terrible nightmare. I lean over, and hiss out a shocked breath. Five large bruises stain his shoulders, sternum and kidneys, dark lines spreading out from them like wheel spokes, striating the rest of his torso.

  I sink to the floor beside him, a feeling of helplessness spreading through my chest.

  “Princess, there isn’t much time…,” the russet mouse says softly.

  I ignore her. My hands hover above Arthur’s black and white chest without touching him. This can’t be right. Arthur can’t have been poisoned by Dub. We killed him!

  My throat aches with unshed tears. How long has he been suffering like this?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the twinkling lights of the two flying mice’s oghams as they talk to each other. Then Papillon zooms in front of me.

  “I am not sure you are entirely aware of the opportunity that has been offered you,” he says once he’s certain to have my attention. “Her ladyship is, and may the heavens above strike me for saying so, much weakened from both sustaining us throughout these long millennia, as well as fending off those who wish us ill.” He pauses, his large eyes peering at me intently. “Are you sure you wish to spurn her in this here moment?”

  Papillon’s last words dissolve any doubts I may still have had, and I frown at the flying mouse. “Spurn her?” I ask, anger flaring. “Last I checked, she’s the one who threw Mordred and me out! Now I suggest you both leave before I call for Lugh.”

  Papillon draws himself up in affront, his wings beating the air furiously. “Know this, then,” he says loftily, “the offer will only take place once again, and not more. I hope you’ll choose better then.”

  And with a sniff, the two mice fly away, out through the nearest window.

  “Fine by me,” I mutter, trying not to feel the pangs of regret suddenly pulling at me.

  “Morgan?”

  I start at the raspy voice guiltily. “I’m here, Arthur,” I say, placing my hand over his. “Everything’s fine.”

  Arthur’s breathing calms at my touch. “I thought…I thought you were gone,” he says.

  My heart constricts knowing how close he is to the truth. His eyes find mine, the hazel of his irises turning gold under Excalibur’s soft light, and he attempts a weak smile.

  “Was I making that much noise?” he asks, sounding like a little boy caught stealing cookies. “Sorry if I woke you.”

  I shake my head, unable to speak.

  “Glad you’re here,” Arthur mumbles, shifting his hold on my hand to lace our fingers together.

  Such a small switch, yet so much more intimate. My whole body flushes, as if overtaken by a sudden fever, and I find myself unable to move.

  I watch Arthur’s eyes close again, the worry lines smoothing away from his damp brow. All this time he’s been suffering, yet not once has he let it on. I bite hard on my lower lip. I wish I could heal him, as I’ve healed him before. But I’m scared. Scared I’m going to make things worse. Scared I’m going to fail him yet again.

  So when his breathing deepens with the steady rhythm of restful sleep, I carefully untangle our fingers, pull the covers back over him, and steal back to my sleeping cot, feeling like I’m abandoning him.

  Seems I take after my mother after all.

  ◆◆◆

  “Sir Cade should have been ready by now,” Sir Boris harrumphs, checking his pocket watch for the fourteenth time this morning, as if it’s going to make it move any faster.

  Sir Dagonet was very clear about us not moving from our post until we got the green light from Caamaloth, and we’re all feeling the strain of this latest, useless hold-up. We should’ve seen Sir Joseph already, and managed to get our hands on some of the Fey weapons that the Order’s kept under lock and key in the armory.

  I glance at Arthur’s pale face. Traces of his nightmare are still evident there, at least to me, and I repress the irascible need to hit something. When I sought out Blanchefleur this morning, while everyone else was at breakfast, to ask for her help, I didn’t realize she already knew of his condition. Knew, and didn’t bother to tell me. So I was forced to listen to her curt dismissal, telling me Arthur’s state was beyond her healing ability. And that the only one who could’ve done something would have been me, before my little trip in Hell perverted my powers.

  “It’s unlike Sir Cade to be late,” Hadrian says, tapping his boot impatiently on the floor.

  “Maybe Pendragon’s giving him a hard time again,” Daniel says, his snickers cut short when Keva pushes him off his fat mushroom stool.

  The burnished trefoil set in the middle of the meeting room floor starts to shimmer.

  “He’s here,” Lugh says, before sweeping his hand over the glossy symbol.

  We watch as the three leaves expand, pulling out of the floor, before joining again along the blades to form a round bowl that quickly fills up with limpid water.

  “Sgàthan soilleir,” Lugh intones.

  A thick fog lifts from the water’s surface, clouding our images as we eagerly lean forward. When the mists dissipate at last, we find our reflections replaced by the image of a single face. One that I can barely recognize, scars and burns now marking what had once been smooth skin. Yet the square jaw and military crew cut have remained the same.

  “Good morning, Sir Cade,” Sir Boris says thickly.

  “Not good,” my uncle replies with a stiff nod. His voice echoes slightly through the copper cup he’s holding to his mouth, the Hall of Mirror’s only way of communicating through the constant scrying his team does.

  Sir Cade’s reflection ripples, blurring his features, and Hadrian leans further down.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  The crystal-clear water stills once again, and we catch the end of his explanations, “—now the armory’s under heavy fire.”

  Gareth jumps off his stool with a repressed shout. My knuckles whiten on my knees as an assistant appears behind my uncle, bleeding hand curled against his chest. Sir Cade turns away from us as the man’s mouth moves, delivering his message. His voice is a distorted murmur, but the meaning is clear in my uncle’s bunched shoulders, and the scene unfolding behind them.

  The Hall of Mirrors is in total chaos, people moving from one mirror to another, shouting orders. I hear someone yell, followed by the loud crash of glass breaking, and I realize that th
e whole building must be under attack.

  Sir Cade’s face turns back to us. “She’s here,” he says.

  Three words is all it takes to instill a deep fear in the pit of my stomach. Something lands on the surface of the water, and everyone jumps in surprise, only to realize a bug landed on my uncle’s scrying mirror.

  “Locusts,” Blanchefleur hisses.

  “We’ll be right there!” Gauvain shouts, pacing around the wooden basin impatiently. If we could travel through it, he’d be the first to jump in the water.

  Sir Cade’s eyes find mine, and he mouths something to me, but he’s lost the mirror’s mouthpiece and I can’t hear a word. Then the water fogs over again, and we all find ourselves staring instead at our troubled reflections.

  “What are they after that they didn’t already take last time?” Gareth asks, putting his iron-threaded gloves back on.

  “Sir Cade mentioned the armory,” Hadrian says, making sure his sword belt is firmly attached around his hips.

  Sir Boris’s large mushroom seat tilts its wide cap forward to prop him up. “It’s not weapons they want,” he says, eyeing me disdainfully. “It’s that fake squire of Sir Gorlois.”

  “Caim,” Lugh says, his long fingers tapping nervously against the windowsill.

  “It can’t be,” I say, stunned. “He’s our only way to defeat Carman.”

  “It looks like Carman’s figured that out too,” Keva says with a grimace.

  “We need to get going, stat!” Arthur says. He glances at Lugh. “Do you think Pigfain can manage to transport our knights to Caamaloth?”

  The Fey Lord nods. “The portal has been created once before, so transporting that many soldiers should be feasible,” he says.

  Arthur nods tightly. “Then let’s get to it.”

  The room erupts into action, Sir Boris, Blanchefleur, Hadrian and the cousins slipping away first to get ready for battle, Keva and Daniel close on their heels.

  Too soon, yet not soon enough, all the able-bodied troops are ready, filing in the burned-down glade towards Pigfain’s portal. Ready to face Carman’s ire, and save Caamaloth from her fires.