She gave a heavy sigh, still not turning to look at me. When she spoke, I thought I heard tears in her voice. “By the time you See things, they are already too far gone to change.”
I’ll never be sure if she was lying to me or if she was simply telling me the truth as she knew it. My mother and her mother and her mother before her had smothered their visions, not tried to use them, to understand them, to try to manipulate them. They hadn’t had Nimue to explain what a vision was, how some were solid as stone, yes, but others were always changing, like the tides of the sea.
Either way, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I believed her all the same.
“Take your medicine, Elaine, and try to sleep,” she told me. “Things will seem better in the morning.”
It had been more than two years since that night, but things never had managed to seem better. My mother refused to speak of it ever again, even after the queen did die, just as I had foreseen. And in the two years after that night, I’d kept my promise. I hadn’t told a soul the truth, even after they’d all started calling me mad. I did exactly as my mother told me, taking a sip from the bottle each night and telling her when I ran low.
I had always done everything my mother told me to do.
Until I didn’t. Until I broke my promise and told Morgana everything.
* * *
WE HAVE ORACLES on Avalon,” Morgana said when I finished, her tone far more casual than I expected. There I was confessing the moment my world had turned inside out, and she was reacting as simply as if discussing the behavior of an odd but harmless neighbor, a curiosity rather than a curse.
“Only a couple, though. It’s a rare gift,” she continued. “Was that the first time you had your monthly blood as well?”
The question took me aback, and I could feel my cheeks heat up. I nodded. “A day or two later,” I admitted. I remembered a pale pink dress, a luncheon, my stomach cramping so terribly I thought I’d eaten something rotten, the dampness on my thighs I’d mistaken for sweat, getting up to excuse myself only to hear the entire room burst into laughter at the blotch of red that had ruined my skirt.
“They tend to start around the same time. It was the same with me and my magic. Have you noticed any changes in your visions since? Depending on where in your cycle you are?” she asked without so much as a twitch of discomfort.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Perhaps? It’s hard to say. The medicine stops them for the most part, just as my mother said, though now that you mention it, I suppose my sleep is always more restless around then. I assumed it was only the pain.” For a second, I’d considered telling her about my dreams of drowning, how those, too, got worse around the time of my monthly blood, but I couldn’t make my mouth form the words. Saying it out loud would have given the nightmare even more power, and I didn’t want that.
“And you actually take the medicine?” she asked, looking truly alarmed for the first time. “Every night?”
I frowned. “My mother said it was important.”
She leaned forward. “But weren’t you ever curious? What if you saw that you were going to fall down the stairs and break your neck tomorrow?”
“But my mother said—”
“Yes, I know what your mother said.” Morgana gave a loud and dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “But she doesn’t know everything, does she?”
It was a new concept for me. Before that moment, I had never considered the fact that my mother might not know everything. Wasn’t that why she had so many rules, why she always seemed so cautious? Because she knew things that I didn’t?
“You don’t do everything your mother tells you, do you?” Morgana continued, reading my expression. It was an innocuous enough question, but I remember how the corners of her mouth quirked up, in a way that was almost taunting. I remember the question feeling like a challenge.
“Didn’t you?” I asked before I could stop myself. After telling that story, the queen was fresh in my mind.
Morgana didn’t lose her smile, but her eyes narrowed. When she spoke, her voice was level and calm.
“Ygraine was Morgause’s mother, and Arthur’s, and she was a wonderful mother to them. But she never really felt like mine. Morgause was always her favorite—she took no pains to hide that fact. And it was just as well since I was my father’s favorite, at least for the year we were on this earth together. Or so I’ve been told—I can’t remember him myself. You probably haven’t heard much about him. No one likes to remember the losers when a war is done.
“My father loved me best because he knew I had his blood in my veins,” she said. “My mother was afraid of me, though, for the same reason everyone else in this damned place is. And for the same reason they’re afraid of you.” She inclined her head toward me, taking me by surprise.
“No one’s afraid of me,” I said, unable to keep from laughing at the thought. “They laugh at me behind my back and call me names and—”
“And why do you think they do that?” she interrupted. “They do those things because they know that you are different. They knew it that night, and they know it now, even with your mother’s potion keeping you caged and docile. You are different and it terrifies them, so they try to push you down and keep you small and manageable. They know that if they keep you huddling in your corner, you will never stand to your full height. They know that if you ever do, you’ll be great enough to ruin them.”
She seemed so certain of me, even then when we were little more than strangers. To this day, I’m not sure why. Whenever I ask her about it, she just shrugs and says she thought I needed her. She was right, but I don’t think that’s the whole truth. I think that there was a piece of her soul that recognized mine, just as a piece of mine recognized hers. Maybe it was destiny. Maybe it was just that we were both so terribly lonely. Perhaps she needed me too.
“That’s not me,” I told her. “Surely you’ve seen that by now.”
“What I have seen is a sheltered girl who is so afraid of her own shadow that she won’t walk in sunlight, a girl who closes her eyes and takes all the injustices the world pushes on her without a word in response, a girl who does everything her mother tells her to and never questions why.” The words pierced me through like well-aimed arrows tipped in poison. I suppose that was how I knew they were true. “I was the same way, before Avalon.”
She said the name like a caress, like a solemn promise. That alone was enough to make my stomach clench with a yearning I didn’t understand. It was like the way I missed my father and brothers and our home in Shalott. But how could I have felt homesick for a place I had never been?
“You would like it there, Elaine,” she continued, looking truly happy for the first time since I met her. “There’s an island off the coast of the Great Lake, but you can’t see it from shore. You can’t see it unless you know it’s there, unless you know its secrets. And there are no castles, or towers, only homes built into the branches of the trees and little cottages built into cliffsides. No courts or kings or queens, and you can be free there. You can run through the forest and swim in the lake and the river, and do anything you want and there’s no one to tell you no. Well, apart from Nimue, I suppose,” she admitted, almost as an afterthought.
“Nimue?” I asked. It’s strange to think now that there was a time when Nimue was a stranger to me. That first time I said her name, I stumbled over the strange syllables. Nim-way.
Morgana smiled. “She’s the only one who understands. She helped me realize what I was capable of, what it was about me that made everyone fear me so much. And she helped me control it. She’s the Lady of the Lake.” She gave the title the reverence most people used when talking about the king—or even a god.
“I saw what you did with the fire in the tapestry room,” I said.
She laughed. “That’s the very least of what I’m capable of. It’s fay blood—on my father’s side,” she says. “You mu
st have some on your mother’s side, I imagine.”
The thought left me flabbergasted. “But I’m not . . . I’m not fay, I’m just . . . me.”
She gave me a look that was half exasperation and half pity. “Oh, Elaine. Do you doubt the things I’ve told you?”
The strangest part was, I didn’t doubt them at all. The outlandish, impossible things she had said all felt like things I already knew, deep down somewhere.
“I believe you,” I said finally.
“So you see?” she said, leaning forward and taking my hands in hers, squeezing them tight in her grasp. “This is wonderful.”
A laugh wrenched its way from me, bitter and hysterical. “How is it wonderful?” I asked her. “Not only am I insane, now I have fay blood? My mother was right, if anyone found out—”
“They would kill you,” she finished, her expression calm. “They won’t, of course, if you keep taking your medicine. You can pass as normal for the rest of your days. The vision incident will blow over eventually, once they realize you aren’t a threat to their way of life. You’ll be quite pretty someday soon, with a healthy dowry, I’d imagine. You’ll make a lovely match. And then you’ll have children of your own, maybe a daughter for you to pass your gift on to. And then, one day, you’ll teach her to fear it, to stop it with potions and lies. Is that what you want? To become your mother?”
“No,” I said, the force of the word surprising me. It didn’t feel like my voice, too loud, too harsh.
She smiled, gripping my hands tighter. “Then, you see, it is good that I’ve found you. Now, you can come back with me to Avalon and meet Arthur, and Lance, and Gwen, and they’ll love you right away like I do because you’re one of us. There are oracles there who can teach you to control your gift so that it isn’t frightening anymore. Isn’t that what you want? To belong?” she asked.
It was. The idea of belonging somewhere—of having friends—was dizzying. But as wonderful as it sounded, it wasn’t that simple.
“I can’t just leave, Morgana,” I told her. “My mother is here, and I have my father and brothers to think about. If I just left—”
“They would be fine,” she said. “Everyone would think that we became such fast friends that I insisted you come back to Avalon. Uther would have to favor your family quite a lot for that to happen. Your brothers could end up with their own titles and lands if they played their cards right.”
“But my mother,” I said. “She would know the truth.”
“I expect she would puzzle it out, yes.”
I knew that my mother, with all her rules, would never understand my choosing to live without them. She was already so fragile a strong gust of wind could shatter her. I would be that wind. And yet . . . I wanted it more than I could put into words: a place where I belonged, where I would have Morgana to talk to and an island full of people who understood me. I didn’t want to live in fear that I would make a misstep and bring my entire life to ruin. I didn’t want to live where people whispered about me behind my back and made jokes at my expense. I wanted a home, not a lonely tower where I felt more ghost than human. I wanted Avalon so terribly it made my chest ache.
“My mother needs me,” I said.
“She’s touched in the head, Elaine,” Morgana said, her voice surprisingly delicate. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if it was that medicine that did it to her. Your power isn’t meant to be dulled. Suppressing it can’t be healthy. Not for her and not for you.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me, but it didn’t change anything. But in that brief instant, Morgana saw me hesitate. She found her opening. “Don’t take your potion tonight,” she said, almost desperately. “I’m leaving in two days, after my birthday banquet. Abstain from your potion until then, and if you still don’t want to come with me, I’ll understand. But it is an important choice, and you should have all of the information before you make it.”
“Morgana—”
“Just promise me that much,” she interrupted. “Two nights. Can you do that?”
In hindsight, I don’t suppose I had much of a choice. I’ve never been good at saying no to Morgana.
7
IT WILL BE raining so brutally that each drop will feel like a tiny icicle digging into my skin. A cacophony of waves will crash, pounding against my eardrums. Every few heartbeats will be punctuated by a clap of thunder. Each time it will sound like war. Each time it will sound like death. I will run, my bare feet sinking into the sand with each step until my legs burn with pain, but I will know that I have to keep running. If I stop for even a second, everything will be lost.
Cliffs will rise up from the shore in front of me—jagged, sharp things full of nooks and crannies big enough to house entire families. When I get closer, my eyes will find what they are looking for: a large, broad stone jutting out over the tumultuous water where a dark, cloaked figure stands over a cauldron, stirring with a wooden staff. As I get closer, lightning will strike, and I see her face cast in sharp relief.
“Morgana!” The voice will be mine and yet not mine. Too old, too loud, too sure. “Morgana, stop!”
If she hears me, she will give no sign of it. She will continue to stir the cauldron, eyes bright and intent. I will start to climb up to her, scrambling up the craggy surface of the large rock, scraping my hands and feet until I feel blood, but still I won’t stop. When I pull myself up to her ledge, I will see her take a piece of white cloth dappled with dark red and drop it into the cauldron before stirring it again.
“Morgana,” I will say again, struggling to catch my breath as I get to my feet. “You can’t do this. They are our people.”
Her violet eyes will flash over to meet mine, and I will realize with a jolt how old she is—she’s aged at least a decade, but her hollowed-out cheeks and sunken eyes will make her look even older.
“No. They aren’t,” she will say. She will sound like darkness, cold and harsh. Like death itself. She will continue to stir, but there will be tears streaking down her face, and her lips will press into a thin line. Her hands will tremble, but they will not cease their movement. “And if I don’t, who will?” She will look up at me, her expression empty. “Will you, El?”
The thought will leave me chilled. I will want to help her, but my hands will stay stuck to my sides as I watch her work. When she pulls out the cloth again, it will be pure white, and I will see that it is, in fact, a shirt. A man’s shirt, the kind my father and brothers often wear under their armor when they host jousting tournaments in Shalott. She will throw it to me, and out of instinct I will catch it. It will already be dry, but that won’t seem strange to me.
“You might as well make yourself useful, it will be a long night,” she will say.
“Tomorrow will be longer,” I will warn, but I will oblige and fold the shirt neatly, setting it at my feet.
We will continue in tense silence for a few excruciating moments. It won’t be until I feel wetness course down my cheeks that I will realize I am crying as well. Each time thunder strikes and war echoes in my mind, my hands will clench, digging my nails into my palms.
I have to stop it.
I can’t stop it.
I am powerless in this.
“How do you do it?” I will ask her, so quietly I don’t think she will actually hear me.
But she will and she won’t need to ask what I mean.
“I try not to think about it,” she will say, her voice hoarse. “I don’t think about the names, or the faces. Just the shirts, just the blood, just the cleansing.”
I will look at the dozens of piles of shirts left to go, each pile tall as I am and each shirt more red than white. I will feel like I am going to be sick, but I will swallow it down. If I break, Morgana will, too, and then we will both be useless. And we will both be too needed for that. Morgana will be right: There will be a job to do and someone must do it.
; Morgana will reach for the pile again and come away with a white shirt that looks, at first, like any of the others. But it won’t be.
A foreign, strangled cry will erupt from my throat, and I will launch toward her, trying to grab it out of her hands.
“No,” I will say, sobbing as I tug at it, trying to free it from her grip. I will feel the stitches pull, close to breaking. Stitches I will have made with my own hands. “Not him, you can’t. Morgana, please. Anyone else.”
She will let go of the stick, and both of her arms will come around me, holding me tight against her so that the top of my head will tuck under her chin. Her hand will trace circles on my back.
“Elaine,” she will murmur. “It is already decided. You know that.”
I will struggle against her, but her grip will be too strong. “You can’t take him,” I will say, my voice cracking around the words.
“He made his choices,” she will say quietly in my ear. “This is where they led him.”
Still sobbing, I will clutch the shirt to my chest, and Morgana will clutch me to hers. I will be hollow with loss already; there will be a hole where my heart should be. I won’t be able to stand this. I won’t. I will have given enough to this world, I will not give him up as well.
* * *
THAT WAS THE first vision I had willingly, that night when I kept my mother’s potion stoppered and on its shelf, when I fell asleep with Morgana’s words echoing in my mind, mingling with thoughts of the image of Avalon she’d painted for me.
I woke up drenched in sweat, grasping for the potion, desperate for oblivion again, desperate to drive that image of Morgana, of the dark cliffside, of my own desperate anguish from my mind.
But I didn’t take the potion. Instead, I stood there in my nightgown, my sweat-drenched hair plastered to my forehead and my heart thundering in my chest. The bottle was grasped in my white-knuckled hand while a war raged inside me, until I finally forced myself to place the bottle back on the shelf.
Half Sick of Shadows Page 5