The Shadow Companion

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Maybe because it needs to be held?”

  “Then why isn’t one of us holding it?”

  None of them made a move to be the first to pick it up.

  “Isn’t not feeling worthy a sign that you’re worthy?” Newt suggested.

  Both Gerard and Ailis looked at him. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. Even if it were glowing and singing hymns and calling down angels, none of it would help unless there happens to be a slip of parchment in there that has what we’re looking for. Or did you forget why we’re really here?”

  “How can you say that?” Gerard was outraged, his former uncertainty giving way to anger that made his spine straighten even against the pain. “The Grail is everything. It’s what this has all been about!”

  Newt bent down and picked the Grail up, his hand closing around the carved stem without hesitation. “To you, to the rest of the knights, sure. It’s a relic, maybe even a powerful one. But it’s not going to save us from Morgain’s companion and whatever it has planned. Only we can do that.”

  They were brave words, and true. Unfortunately, he had no idea what to do. And from the look on his friends’ faces, neither did they.

  TWELVE

  “So…What do we do now?” Newt asked.

  Ailis looked around, checking carefully around the bulk of the dragon without getting too close. There was nothing that, as far as she was able to determine, could lead them to the name of the shadow-figure. Giving up, she turned to watch her friends.

  Newt was helping Gerard hobble a few steps. Then he stopped and tested the bandages she had tied. The bleeding had stopped, for the most part, and his sword was doing decent second duty as a crutch, which was almost more painful to Gerard, she suspected, than the wounds themselves. They’d have to go slowly, but he would be able to travel.

  “Morgain said the answer was here—a Well of Bitter Water.” Again, the reference tickled at her memory, but nothing came of it. “Whatever that is, it’s not in this room…so we must go on.”

  “And the Grail?” Gerard asked.

  “It waited for decades, inside a dragon’s gut,” she said, reluctant but practical. “It can wait a little while longer.”

  “And if we don’t make it?” Gerard didn’t intend for it to sound so harsh, but the question had to be asked.

  “We make sure that we make it,” Newt said firmly. “Agreed?”

  “I can agree to that,” Ailis said, and Gerard nodded his own reluctant agreement. He longed to take the Grail to Arthur, but what would be the point, if abandoning Morgain’s charge left them at the mercy of the companion’s evil plans?

  “So,” Newt said. “There are no ways out except the way we came in. So we go back and take the other passage.”

  He looked around for a place to put the Grail, but his pack was already overfull, thanks to Constans taking up residence there again. The urge to give it to Ailis, rather than let Gerard hold it, flashed through his brain, and he squelched it. The squire would not abandon them to return to Camelot with his prize. Of all three of them, Gerard had risked the most, going against Sir Matthias, facing down the dragon. He had earned the right to carry it, if nothing else. Besides, it would give him something to think about other than the pain, which had to be intense.

  “Let’s go.”

  As they walked, Newt felt a strange sense of unease crawling in his veins. Constans seemed to be twitchy as well, crawling out of the pack slung against the boy’s back and up to the top of Newt’s head in order to see better. After the salamander deliberately dug his claws into Newt’s scalp a few times when Newt took specific turns, the boy shrugged and started letting the lizard lead them. It was no worse a way of choosing direction than any other, he supposed.

  Constans led them down branch after branch of the main artery, each hallway becoming narrower and darker.

  “Your head is glowing,” Ailis noted once. Newt’s shaggy black hair was indeed lit from underneath—specifically where Constans was. The salamander’s skin was emitting a faint glow, which picked up the highlights and made it seem as though Newt’s hair were made of low-burning twigs, or faint flames.

  “There are women back in Camelot who would pay good money to make their hair do that,” Ailis said. “Perhaps when we get back, you could sell Constans to them.”

  “Sell?” Newt clutched at his heart dramatically, as though horrified she could suggest such a thing.

  “All right then, loan. For favors in return.”

  Favors were the coin of the court, in many ways; that and gossip. Newt seriously doubted that any of the ladies would be willing to owe him anything even for the use of the salamander. But it was an amusing thought to pass time while they walked through dark, stone hallways, trying not to wonder too much about what they would find—if anything.

  “Wait.” Gerard stopped, resting with the sword’s point digging a scratch into the soft rock of the floor under his weight. “Do you smell that?”

  “What?”

  “Saltwater,” Newt said, sniffing the air as well.

  “In the middle of a mountain?” Ailis blinked, looking between the two of them. “Bitter water…”

  That had been the phrase she was trying to remember. Back in the Queen’s solar, what seemed like a lifetime ago, a young singer had recited a poem from an earlier generation, about a sailor’s sweetheart longing for the scent of sea to remind her of the man she missed.

  “And bitter water she cried into the well

  Calling the shape of her master

  Mastering the water the waves he rode

  And wishing him home on the next tide.”

  They picked up the pace as best they could with Gerard’s leg slowing them down. Another turn, and the smell of the water mixed with something sweeter but equally sharp.

  “Oh.”

  “That’s…unexpected,” Newt said dryly, holding his nose, while Constans hissed in what might have been agreement or pleasure.

  The passageway broadened suddenly into a bright cavern so large they could not see the ceiling or the sides. A grove of trees grew in the center, their roots digging directly into the rock as though it were the richest soil.

  Newt started listing off the trees he saw there: “Rowan, oak, yew—lots of yew. Ash, hazel—none of these should be growing here. None of them should be growing together.”

  “Hush,” Ailis said, but it was impossible to be annoyed, not in the face of the miracle in front of them.

  “This…this is where I would have expected to find the Grail,” Gerard said slowly.

  “I wonder if the dragon came from here, too,” Newt said. “I never quite understood why it would want to live within stone. If there’s drinking water here, as well as bitter…”

  Ailis walked forward, drawn toward the well in the center of the grove. Constans slipped off Newt’s shoulder, twisting as he fell, then disappeared into the thick grass that grew around the well.

  The flat stones that made up the well were pitted and pockmarked with age, and curved in a way that was not found in nature, but yet showed no obvious marks of chisel or hatchet.

  “Like the stone in your doorway,” Gerard said.

  Ailis nodded, running her fingers over the stones as though trying to read them through her skin. “This isn’t magic, though. Or if it is, it’s very very old. So old that all traces of its magic have worn off. Or it may be some kind of magic I don’t know…It’s lovely. So very lovely.”

  “And not drinking water.” Newt had reached down and cupped a handful of the impossibly turquoise water and sipped it, then spat it out on the grass. “Salt. This is ocean water. Only…it’s warm.”

  “Sun-warmed?” Ailis suggested, clearly still entranced by the feel of the stones.

  “What sun?” he asked in return.

  That was a good point. There was light in here, diffused and hazy, but definitely not sunlight. The trees grew, the grass grew, the water was warmed…and they were inside a mountain.

  “I hate magic
,” Newt said. “It…complicates everything.”

  “What’s the difference between magic and a miracle?” Gerard wondered, touching the Grail, safe in his pack, with the hand not gripping his sword-crutch. They had had this discussion once before. He had thought that faith was something you just had, like brown eyes, or the ability to run fast. A lot had happened since then. A lot had been seen and experienced since then. He wasn’t as sure of his answers as he used to be.

  “A miracle has no explanation,” Ailis said softly. “Magic has a cause, a reason.” She had seen a lot, too. Somehow, along the way, she had become more certain, while he became less so.

  “So what are we looking for, exactly?” Newt leaned over the well’s mouth, trying to see if anything was written on the stones inside. “A name? A picture? Oh, there’s something written here.”

  And Newt was still Newt: solid, dependable, practical; a good person to have on your side.

  He pulled back out of the well, looking at his black-smudged fingers. “It’s soot. There are all these markings down there. I can’t see what they are exactly, but they seem to be written in soot. Looks like they haven’t been there very long. Or maybe the water’s keeping them from disappearing. I don’t know.”

  “A spell. Morgain’s spell,” Ailis said. “The one she said she used to call the companion.” It was a guess, but a reasonable one. “Come here!”

  The two boys turned to see what she was pointing at. A small fire pit, just beyond the grass. The coals had been carefully banked, but they were still glowing.

  “Someone left a fire burning?” Newt sounded outraged.

  “The stones are cold,” she noted, bending down. “So are the ashes.” Her hand held over the coals. “The coals are hot, though. It’s just been banked.”

  Something—the smell of the wind, a rustle, a change of air pressure—made Ailis stand up and turn around quickly.

  “Morgain!”

  But this was not the Morgain of worried confidences. This was not even the thoughtful teacher of magic.

  Clad in a gown of deepest violet, a band of gold and silver held her heavy black locks in place, and thicker bands of silver were seen at her neck and wrists. This was Morgain the Queen. Morgain the Enchantress.

  Morgain Le Fay.

  Ailis saw her and was afraid.

  “Morgain?” she said again, reaching with voice and magic to the woman behind the coldly perfect face, the coolly impassive eyes.

  And then a figure appeared behind the enchantress: cowled and dark, menacing, here in this place of unexpected beauty.

  Ailis took a step backward, almost landing in the fire, causing the salamander, who had slithered from the grasses to take refuge in the coals, to hiss in agitation.

  “Morgain, behind you…”

  “You’ve done well, witch-child.” The enchantress’s voice was tinged with regret, but only faintly.

  “I don’t understand….”

  “She lied, Ailis.” Newt’s voice was as cold as Morgain’s expression. “Everything was a lie.”

  “Not everything,” the woman replied, smiling in a way that sent shivers down their spines. “I did indeed call my companion forth from this Well of Bitter Waters, with the spell inscribed just inside the rim,” and she gestured at their soot-smeared fingers. “And there was certainly a bargain struck, between us two.”

  She paused. “In fact, had you discovered my companion’s name, it would indeed have been a thing of great power over it, enough for me to drive it from these lands. A pity that you did not have time to succeed.”

  The shadow-figure behind her glowered at that, but Morgain did not seem to notice. Or perhaps she did not care.

  “So no, I did not lie. I simply was not…forthcoming about the price that would be required, to pay for the bargain I made.”

  “Not your magic,” Gerard said, things suddenly falling into place. He shifted the sword in his hand, testing to see if his leg would support his weight. “Not your blood. Hers.”

  “Indeed.” The enchantress nodded her regal head once in acknowledgment.

  “Morgain!” Ailis was having trouble accepting what she was hearing.

  “It would not have been my first wish, or even my second,” Morgain said, meeting Ailis’s gaze squarely, without flinching. “But I am reminded that there are sacrifices which need to be made to achieve a final goal.”

  The companion brought forth a soft envelope of cloth, unrolled it, and placed it on the ground. It was a map. But it shimmered, and the markings rose from flat ink into shapes and figures above the parchment that seemed to be moving.

  Newt took a cautious step back, even as Ailis leaned forward, fascinated.

  Morgain’s cold voice warmed, slightly. “You will become part of a new world, Ailis. Not gone, but reformed. A world in which the Old Ways are honored once again, where men are not the sole leaders, the sole rulers. A world in which women reclaim their rightful place, their rightful powers.”

  “But I won’t be around to see it,” Ailis said, shaking her head. The shadow-figure, who had moved closer to her, hissed.

  “That can be done without death,” Newt said. Despite his own fear, he inched forward to take her arm, move her farther away from the triple threat of Morgain, her companion, and the map. The companion turned its glare on him, and did not back down. “Ailis, I know it’s appealing, but think—”

  Ailis found an outlet for her conflicting emotions. Turning on Newt, she said, “Appealing? What do you think of me?” She turned to Morgain, then. “And you. You speak of women having power. Where is my power, Morgain? Where is my right to decide what I want to do?”

  “Child…”

  “No!” Ailis knew that it was useless, but just as it had when facing Merlin, the anger she felt now reformed as power and welled up inside her. She felt it burn in her veins, a twitch forcing her arm out, throwing that power at Morgain.

  The enchantress caught the spear magic easily, absorbing it without more expression than a gently raised eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry, Ailis. But the end result will be worth it.”

  “What about the Grail?” Ailis shouted.

  Morgain checked herself mid-gesture. “What of it?” There was a new tone in her voice, a hunger that made Newt shiver, increasing his desire to pull Ailis out of range, out of sight, out of danger.

  Ailis only saw that she had the upper hand, at least for the moment. “You said that it was yours more than Arthur’s. That its ‘blood-infused power’ was more Old Ways than New—that it would be enough to bring you to power. Wasn’t that part of your plan as well? To find it, use it, to help you find an heir, and save the land?”

  Gerard, sensing imminent danger, tried to silence Ailis, but he could not.

  “The Grail came to us!” the girl continued, caught up in her anger. “We were deemed worthy enough to carry it, not you.”

  “Grail? You have the Grail?” Morgain’s voice was scornful, but there was a terrible hope in her eyes.

  “It matters not.” The companion’s voice was as terrifying as Ailis remembered: It wasn’t heard with the ears as much as it was felt in the spine, crawling like cold fingers and sneaking into the back of her head, sending chills everywhere. “Morgain, I have given you what you desired, what you needed. Even the Grail in their possession cannot save Arthur’s kingdom from your wrath. And it cannot unbind our bargain, if you were thinking of that.”

  “But if I had it…we would not need to use the girl. The Grail holds the blood of the land—that has always been its power. It can hold the power, and be the sacrifice instead of her.”

  Ailis’s eyes met Gerard’s. He had heard it, too: the tone in Morgain’s voice. Not strong, not loud, but a definite note of reluctance. Of wistfulness. Of regret.

  The shadow-figure had heard it, too. “Foolish mortal! You wish for everything, without giving up anything. It does not work that way.”

  It hissed and reached out to strike Morgain across the face. “I tol
d you once, I have everyone in the end. The girl, you, all who desire to see their enemies struck down; they are all given to me, to grant their wish.”

  The sorceress stepped away, regal once more, and raised her chin, staring into the hooded shadows as though she could see what lay beneath, and banish it by sheer force of will.

  Suddenly sidelined, Ailis’s mind was racing even as she stood very still and hoped not to be noticed again. Morgain had used them. But, as Ailis had said to Gerard and Newt, everyone used them. Everyone had their own reason for doing things, saying things. Evil is all in how you look at things.

  Morgain had said that; it had been one of her first lessons to a much more idealistic Ailis.

  The companion had used Morgain: used her ego, and her jealousy, and her love for the land she claimed the right to rule. Used that love, and twisted it to its own ends.

  But what could they do with it? How could they use that note, that hint in Morgain’s voice, before it was too late? Ailis’s magic was weakened by her efforts with the rockslide. She was useless now.

  Where was Newt? Gerard wondered.

  There was a blur of action, and the sound of a high-pitched scream.

  While the companion was distracted by Morgain’s wavering commitment, Newt had gotten closer, unseen or ignored by everyone else. With one lunge, he had reached out and, in a diving move, grabbed at whatever lay underneath the figure’s hood, and pulled.

  The shadow-figure screamed.

  Falling and rolling away, Newt looked down and saw a thin gray fabric in his hand, slippery and sheer, like a veil, only with a warm and unpleasant texture. He dropped it, disgusted, and rubbed his hand hard against the leg of his pants, trying to erase the memory of the touch, even as he got to his feet to defend himself against any counterattack.

  What he saw was more terrible than any weapon. The hood had fallen back off a hairless skull, and the face glaring out at him was not human.

  Shaped like a human’s face, yes: a chin, mouth, nose, two eyes. But beyond that, it had as much in common with the dragon, or his salamander, as any of them. There was no skin on the flesh that held the features together, only a raw, oozing substance, white like the belly of a snake that had never seen sunlight. Raw like hunger.