Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  Arthur will be beside me, his arm linked through mine as we stumble away from the banquet hall. Muffled strains of harp music will follow down the hall, and my mind will be fuzzy at the edges. But if I will have had one glass of wine too many, Arthur will have had three, and he will wobble on his feet, his words slurring and louder than he means for them to be.

  It won’t do for the courtiers to see him like this, unable to hold his wine even though he’s approaching his late twenties now. Which is why I will be leading him away from the gathering—a summer solstice banquet, perhaps? Or is it someone’s birthday? That changes often enough, but what happens next is always the same.

  There will be voices, hushed and frenzied farther down the dark corridor. Moonlight will pour through one of the narrow windows, illuminating an entwined couple in pale light, just enough to make out the shape of them.

  “At least someone is enjoying themselves,” Arthur will whisper to me, his breath smelling like wine as he leans further on me.

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself plenty,” I will reply, adjusting his arm around my shoulders so that I can support his weight better.

  But something will be wrong. I will know it, but I will not be able to put my finger on what it is. Whether it is the alcohol or some strange oracle sense, I’m not sure. Still, no matter how many times I have seen it happen, I am always surprised when the light shifts and the color of the scene comes into focus.

  Pale arms scattered with constellations of freckles.

  Coal-black hair, overgrown and curling over his collar.

  The embellished green silk gown fit for a queen.

  A deep blue velvet jacket that I will have picked out myself, with neat gold buttons that I helped do up only hours before.

  “They’re too small,” Lancelot will have groused when we got ready earlier that evening, frustrated as his large fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons.

  “Here,” I will have said, laughing as I stepped closer to him, slipping each button into its corresponding hole.

  “What would I do without you, Shalott?” he will have asked.

  I will have answered with a kiss that had stretched out into far more, until we were quite thoroughly late to dinner.

  But now it will be someone else’s fingers on those buttons—long pale fingers, one ringed with a familiar stone.

  “It will go well with her eyes, don’t you think, Elaine?” Arthur will have asked me what feels like an age ago, holding up the ring for my inspection.

  Yes, I will remember agreeing. Gwen will adore it.

  Even incoherently drunk, Arthur will not be stupid. I will try to pull him away, to distract him—even then my concern will be to protect Arthur’s heart, even as my own will be shattering. But it will be too late and he will be unmovable, rooted to the stone floor like a centuries-old oak tree.

  “Gwen?” he will ask, his voice suddenly going quiet. “Lance?”

  They will break apart as if burned, scalded by horror and shame, but they will have no words. None of us will. Instead, we will stare at one another, the four of us locked in a moment that will feel like it is perched on the edge of a cliff, a mere breath away from falling over.

  * * *

  THERE HAVE BEEN other visions, other betrayals. Sometimes Arthur and I find them together like that, but other times it is only me, sometimes it is only Arthur, sometimes neither of us at all but some other friend reporting seeing them together. When it is the last, Arthur refuses to believe it. He sends the friend away for daring to lie.

  In several visions, it is Gawain who comes to me, telling me in carefully phrased words what he saw.

  “Do you think he loves her?” I will ask him as we walk through a rose garden, the smell from the blooms sickly sweet and almost noxious.

  His gaze will cut to me, brow furrowed. “What does it matter?” he will ask me.

  But it will matter, because that is one thing I never managed to figure out from my visions, and I’m not sure why I care about the answer as much as I do. Would it be better if he loved her, if she loved him? Or would that make it so much worse?

  “Arthur will find out,” Gawain will say, his voice low. “These things never stay secret for long. No matter how he will try to protect you from the fallout, you will still be the wife of a traitor.”

  “The wife of a traitor,” I echo. “The friend of two other traitors too,” I add, because by this point, Morgana will have already gone, chased away from court by shame and vengeance.

  “Camelot is turning more volatile by the day,” he will say. “And with your . . . connections. And your ties to Avalon. There will be plenty who will want to see you executed with the others.”

  I will swallow. “You think Arthur will have them executed? It’s Gwen and Lance, Gawain—no matter what they’ve done, he still loves them.”

  “I don’t think he’ll have much of a choice in the matter,” Gawain will say softly. “When word gets out, they will label her an ungrateful monster, him a traitorous fay. What will they label you?”

  A dozen possibilities will whisper through my mind, and I will know he speaks the truth.

  “You should leave this place,” he will continue. “As soon as you can. We should leave.”

  That will take me by surprise, and I will turn to face him fully. “You would leave too?”

  He will try to shrug in some sort of nonchalant manner, as if he is offering something simple and easy—a coat to keep me warm, the dessert he is too full to finish. But it won’t be simple and easy. He will be offering to break his vows to Arthur, the loyalty he prides himself on. For me.

  “Arthur needs you,” I will remind him. “And he needs me as well.”

  Gawain will shake his head, a small, bitter smile rising to his lips. “I was afraid you would say that.”

  * * *

  IN THE END, it is always Mordred who strikes the death blow against Arthur. It is always the blade in his hand, the hate filling his gray eyes until they are nearly black. But who puts Arthur there, facing him alone in the middle of a battlefield strewn with bodies? Who puts that sword in Mordred’s hands? Who brings us to that battle, with Arthur ill-prepared and desperate for something I’m not even sure he understands?

  Mordred might be the one to take Arthur’s life, but we all will have a hand in it. The moment will have been shaped by Morgana’s betrayal, forged by Guinevere breaking his heart, strengthened by Lancelot ruining his trust. It will even be wrought by me, in some ways. In ways I don’t understand, can’t put a name to, but that I feel all the same, in the deepest part of my soul. After all, when Arthur falls, he will fall alone. I will not be beside him.

  So perhaps it is unfair of me to hold Lancelot’s failings against him—his possible failings, I remind myself. If Arthur cannot trust him, he can’t trust any of us. And if that is the case, he is already lost.

  * * *

  IT ISN’T DIFFICULT to find Lancelot—all I have to do is look for Arthur. As always, Lancelot isn’t far away. Just now, he’s standing guard outside of Arthur’s study, spine straight and chin lifted so that it’s parallel to the ground. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I approach, and though I know I deserve it, the gesture still makes my face heat up.

  “He’s with Lord Eddersley,” he says.

  “Lord Endersley,” I correct. “And I know. I made his schedule, remember?”

  Lancelot makes a brusque noise in the back of his throat. “You can go in if you want,” he says after a second. “I’m sure he’d welcome your trusted counsel.”

  Another barb that hurts more than I’d like to admit.

  “Lord Endersley is harmless,” I say. “I think Arthur can handle him alone. Besides, I came to see you.”

  At that, his eyes finally slide to me—still cold, but at least he’s looking at me. I tell myself that’s an improvement. I open my mouth to apologi
ze but quickly close it again. I’m sorry. Two words. They should be easy to say, but they stick in my throat. They don’t feel like enough.

  “I hate this place,” I say instead. “I hate who it’s turning me into. I shouldn’t have said what I said to you, it wasn’t fair.”

  “No,” he agrees before hesitating. “But was it the truth?”

  I should have known he’d ask that, should have prepared something to say in response, but instead I just shrug my shoulders. “The truth is that there are versions of you that hurt him,” I say slowly. There are versions of you that hurt me, I want to add, but I hold my tongue. “But there are versions of me that hurt him too. And Morgana, and Gwen. That’s what scares me. It isn’t only you, but it’s a possibility. One we can avoid.”

  For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, turning the words over in his mind. “You’ve seen everyone betray Arthur,” he says finally. “But have you ever seen Arthur betraying any of us?”

  “No,” I say immediately before faltering. It’s not the entire truth, is it? The big betrayals and abandonments have all been ours, it’s true, but smaller things, perhaps. Raindrops that might gather enough to cause avalanches.

  He sees the answer in my eyes, and his mouth hardens into a grim line. “Love goes both ways, El,” he says after a second. “So does betrayal. You’re looking at Arthur as a victim, and you aren’t doing him any favors there.”

  “He’s a piece of the puzzle, as much as any of us,” I say, something sliding into place—something small, admittedly, but another piece that makes the picture just a little bit clearer. “Do you love him?”

  He blinks at me slowly, considering it. “Yes,” he says. “Of course I do.”

  “And Morgana?” I ask him.

  One corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “Maiden, Mother, and Crone help me, but I do.”

  I hesitate. “And Gwen?” I ask him.

  He seems to expect the question, but beyond that there is no response, no flash of lust in his eyes, no hidden passion in his gaze. He only shrugs his shoulders. “Of course. Arthur, Morgana, Gwen. I love them all. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  I nod slowly. “Good,” I say. “That’s all I need to know.”

  When I move to turn away from him, he stops me with his voice. “You’re forgetting someone,” he says.

  I turn around. “I know you love me, Lance,” I tell him. “No matter what happens, I don’t think I will ever doubt that.”

  He holds my gaze. “But you doubt me,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I doubt that it’s enough.”

  20

  THE NIGHT BEFORE we leave for Lyonesse, a banquet is thrown in Arthur’s honor. At least, that is the official reason, though even before I arrived, I’d heard murmurs and snickers that referred to tonight as Arthur’s good riddance feast.

  “Like the meal you give a lame horse before putting it down,” one man said, not realizing I was walking just behind him.

  It’s nothing I didn’t already know—most of Camelot doesn’t expect we will return—but the words burn in my veins all the same, and the anger simmers even as I enter the banquet hall with Morgana. The large room is already overflowing with people and filled with the smell of cooked meat and the sound of harp song.

  Long tables in the banquet hall are already piled high with a feast for a king, even if Camelot is currently lacking one. I try to scan the hall for Arthur, but it’s too crowded to see much of anything. Everyone is talking, and as I walk through the crowd, I catch bits and pieces.

  “Did you see his face when Sir Caradoc refused him?” one man in a crushed velvet doublet asks his friend. “I thought the boy was going to faint on the spot.”

  I frown. Arthur held his composure well, I’d thought, but I suppose that hardly matters. Gossip thrives not on what is true but on what people wish to believe. Maybe they wish to believe Arthur is weak and overemotional.

  “Surely he must have known,” an old woman with white hair held back in a long braid says, clicking her tongue. “This is not his court. Those were not his men. If he wants an army, he should get one from Avalon. The sooner the upstart is gone, the better off we’ll all be.”

  By my side, Morgana turns toward the woman, ready to say something undoubtedly rude, but I loop my arm through hers, keeping her at my side.

  “Let them talk,” I say, though I hate it as much as she does. “The more you try to stop it, the worse it’ll be.”

  “Speaking from experience, El?” she asks, glowering at the woman over her shoulder. “How well did ignoring them work for you? Did they simply stop when you didn’t respond?”

  “They stopped when I left,” I say pointedly. “And now that I’ve returned stronger and more powerful, they haven’t dared start again. We leave at dawn, and Arthur will return stronger. That is the only thing that will stop their wagging tongues, I promise you.”

  “I can think of quite a few spells that would have the same effect,” she points out.

  Though I would love to see that, I shake my head. “They already view the fey as the enemy—you using magic against them wouldn’t serve to change their minds.”

  “They don’t need to know it was magic,” she says. “Just a touch of tongue sores? A mysterious case of throat rashes? The possibilities are truly endless if you get clever enough.”

  “Yes, well, the trouble is, you aren’t quite as clever—or subtle—as you think you are,” Lancelot says, appearing on my other side with a goblet of red wine already in hand. He lifts it to his lips, but before he can take a sip, Morgana pulls it from his grasp and claims it for herself, draining it in one long gulp.

  “You take that back,” she says, wiping her hand across her mouth in a most unladylike fashion that draws all manner of raised eyebrows and glares. “I don’t care for subtlety, true, but you can’t take my cleverness from me.”

  Lancelot glowers at her but doesn’t complain. Instead he shakes his head and lets his gaze scan the crowd again.

  “I haven’t been able to find Arthur. He sent me ahead, said he’d join in a minute. Perhaps I shouldn’t have left him alone, but there were other guards to see to him,” he says. “I saw Mordred and Morgause and Merlin, but there’s no sign of him anywhere.”

  The foreboding feeling in my stomach grows larger. “Something’s not right,” I say, as much to myself as to them.

  “He had guards,” Lancelot says again, firmer this time. “Gawain was one of them. You said you trusted him.”

  “I do,” I say. If Gawain is with Arthur, he must be safe, but the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach doesn’t subside.

  Before I can say more, a boy no older than ten approaches, stopping before me and bowing deeply at the waist. “Lady Elaine, the mage, Merlin, requests you join him at his table for dinner.”

  I open my mouth to turn down the invitation, my mind still spinning with all the reasons for Arthur’s absence, but when I truly hear the boy’s words, I hesitate. I’ve been hoping to speak with Merlin since we arrived, but the opportunity hasn’t arisen. This may be my last chance before we leave for Lyonesse. I glance at the others.

  “Find Arthur,” I tell them. “I’ll meet you when I’m done.”

  As I turn to follow the boy, Morgana calls after me.

  “Bring more wine, will you?”

  * * *

  IN MY VISIONS, Merlin has always existed as a blank spot. There are scenes where I know he has been present, where I hear his name mentioned, but the instant I try to focus on him, to see what he is doing or hear what he says, the scene goes topsy-turvy and a splitting pain erupts behind my eyes, strong enough to draw me out of the vision entirely.

  Nimue, I would later find out, had the same issue when she scried. As did every other seer on Avalon, dating back to Merlin’s birth some five hundred years ago.

  He is nothing short
of an enigma.

  * * *

  NOW, HE SITS at the head of the smallest table, placed on a dais that holds it above all the others. When I step up the stairs, he rises in one fluid motion, inclining his head toward me. Part of me still flinches the second his eyes meet mine, a ghost of a headache sprouting up out of pure habit. As I look at him now, though, the scene doesn’t go wonky. I see him clear as anything, and he sees me and the strangest feeling comes over me.

  Fear.

  “Lady Elaine, thank you for joining me,” he says, his voice jovial enough as he pulls out the chair next to him. For his great age, he moves nimbly, something that shouldn’t surprise me after being around Nimue, but I’m not sure I ever grew used to Nimue either.

  They’re the same age, thereabouts, but where Nimue is ageless and eternal, there is something at odds about Merlin, something that makes him a contradiction. He appears middle-aged, but at the same time he’s all knees and elbows, like an adolescent, and on top of that, his hair is the white of an elder and his voice reminds me of my grandfather’s, soft-edged and lightly rasping.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” I tell him, ignoring my uncertainty and taking the seat he offers. “I’ve been hoping for us to speak.”

  “As have I, but I fear we’ve both been quite busy the last few days,” he says.

  He reaches for a crystal decanter of red wine and pours some into my golden goblet. “In her letter, Nimue mentioned that you were an oracle.”

  “I am,” I say, taking the goblet. Something tells me that this conversation is one I will need my wits for, so I’m careful to take only a small sip.

  “Actually, what she said was that you were the most gifted oracle she’d ever taught,” he continues.

  I almost spit out the wine in my mouth but force myself to swallow. “She said that?” I ask.