Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  Morgana shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “My brother knows me well,” she says before turning and going back to her room.

  I wait until the sound of her footsteps fades down the hall before I approach my vanity. It feels too small for me now, the ivory paint peeling from the wood in places. Even after being cleaned, the cushion on the stool before it still smells of must.

  I remember sitting here while my mother brushed out my hair every night, her fingers merciless against the tangles. I would always go to bed with a sore scalp.

  Now, though, I sit before the gilded mirror and braid my own hair, but my mother’s words echo through my mind all the same. They will try to use you, my mother warned me once. She was talking about Camelot’s courtiers, and I’m sure that in that, she was correct. But now, I can’t stop thinking about my conversation with Merlin. I can’t stop thinking that humans weren’t the only ones who might have used me—not just me, but the others as well and Arthur in particular.

  You think such a thing as peace exists when fey and humans walk together? Merlin asked me.

  I had thought just that. The fey couldn’t tell lies, after all, so what reason did I have to disbelieve Nimue? But truth is like fine lace, full of open loops to slip through if you’re clever enough, and Nimue has had centuries to hone her cleverness. As I think back over everything she’s told me of the World Before, I realize that when she spoke of peace, she spoke of peace for us. I interpreted the us as being general, peace for everybody, but perhaps she only meant it as “us, those with fay blood.”

  I tie off the end of my single simple braid with a pale yellow ribbon. When that is done, I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath.

  “Nimue,” I say, my voice coming out level and clear.

  For a second, nothing happens. Then, slowly, the surface of the mirror ripples, like a once-still pond when rain begins to drizzle. When the surface stills again, it is not my own face looking back at me, but Nimue’s.

  It’s strange—I saw her only a week ago, but I think I’d already begun to forget her face. Seeing her again now takes me by surprise. I suppose when I saw her every day, I grew used to the sheer inhumanity of her, but now after a week of humans, I’m taken aback by the sight.

  Her features are too sharp and, at the same time, too full. Her eyes too large. Her obsidian skin too luminous.

  “Elaine,” she says, when I don’t speak. “Is everything alright? You know to be careful about calling on me. Arthur has been crowned, yes?”

  “No,” I say, biting my lip. Though I know the complications we’ve faced since arriving have been well outside of my control, I still feel like they are my fault somehow. Like I’ve failed her.

  “Arthur hasn’t been crowned,” I say. “When we arrived, Merlin set him a quest, and I’m starting to suspect it might be an impossible one.”

  Nimue frowns. “You delivered my letter?”

  “Yes.”

  “He read it?”

  “Yes. He sought me out last night and said . . . well, he mentioned that the two of you have had your differences. He said that a united world would not be in the best interests of humanity. I don’t know that I agree with him, but I would like more information.”

  Nimue considers this. “Of course you would,” she says after a moment. She isn’t angry—I don’t know why I expected she would be. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her truly angry. I’m not sure she has it in her to be. “Merlin and I have not always stood on the same side of things,” she says slowly. “It was my hope that Arthur would be able to convince him that the fey are not malevolent. A human child, raised among us. I think you would agree that Arthur was never treated as anything lesser.”

  I flinch, thinking about the footrace, about the other fay children who reveled in bringing Arthur low, who never saw him as an equal. When I tell Nimue about this, her expression clouds but she does not falter.

  “Hate is learned, Elaine,” she says, her voice level. “The way those children acted was inexcusable, and I wish you had told me of it earlier. But inexcusable as it is, I do understand the impulse, as I’m sure you do as well. They were exiled by humanity, bound to an island; in some cases their families were broken up in the process. There are many differences between humans and fey, but I’m sorry to say our adolescents are every bit as rash and emotional as human adolescents are. More so, perhaps. They were angry, and they were taking out that anger on the representation of someone they were raised to view as the enemy. But, if our plan succeeds—if Arthur succeeds—there will be no need for bitterness any longer, no need for hate. We will have peace.”

  There it is again, the we.

  “And humans will have peace as well,” I press.

  Her smile is nothing but open and guileless.

  “Yes,” she says, her voice emphatic. “Arthur’s reign will mean peace for everyone—humans, fey, and everyone in between.”

  I search for the holes in the lace, but there are none. Except the major one, that is. Which is that she is telling the truth as she believes it. Whether or not that is the objective truth is something no one can truly know. She must see my hesitation, because she leans forward, as if there isn’t a sea between us and she might reach out to touch me.

  “You have more questions,” she says, her voice softening. “Of course you do. I would expect nothing less of you, Elaine, and I will answer any question you can think to pose, as best as I am able. You have my vow in this. But for now, there is only one truth that matters—I wish for Arthur to succeed, as do you. We are on the same side. Do you believe that?”

  I don’t hesitate to nod. That much I know to be true.

  “Good. Then tell me—what has happened?”

  As quickly as I can, I tell her about what has occurred since we arrived, the quest, the knights, Mordred’s scheming, and Gwen’s letter. Lastly, I tell her about my scrying last night and what I learned.

  Nimue purses her lips when I finish. “What was the first thing I told you about scrying, Elaine?” she asks quietly.

  I think back to a cave on Avalon, Nimue standing behind me while she showed me her scrying mirror and how she used it to summon visions. I hear her voice, low and melodic, in my ear like a lullaby. I feel her hands on mine, guiding but also cold and unlined and not quite human.

  “The future is not set until it is the past,” I say.

  She nods. “Maybe a hundred—a thousand—versions of Arthur will fail. But you know now that one will succeed. Do you know how?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. I know more of what not to do. I know not to let him duel for her hand. I know not to let it come to a battle. I know there are things he shouldn’t say, shouldn’t do.”

  “That will have to be enough, to start,” she says.

  “But Gwen—”

  “Gwen is human, mostly,” Nimue says with a sigh. “Which means that she is always a variable.”

  “More of a variable than the rest of us, I think,” I say.

  Nimue laughs loudly at that, shaking her head. “You might think that,” she says. “But I assure you it isn’t the truth. You are all variables. If anything, Gwen’s flightiness makes her more of a constant—at least you know to expect it.”

  “I thought I could at least count on her love for Arthur, but in some of my visions . . . she just let him die,” I say. “It was like she didn’t care for him at all, like he was a stranger.”

  Nimue’s smile goes straight, and she gives a sigh. “I believe she does love him,” she says after a moment. “But love is never a steady force, and it is always relative. She loves Arthur, yes, but what does she love more?”

  I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “Is that all you’ll tell me?” I ask.

  Nimue gives me a sad smile. “Oh, Elaine,” she says. “I haven’t told you anything you don’t already kn
ow. I’ve trained you well. All I can do now is wish you luck. You mustn’t reach out to me again unless it is an emergency.”

  I bite my lip and nod. “I . . . I didn’t think it would be this difficult, Nimue,” I say. “I imagined Arthur would be welcomed back with fanfare, that the people would cheer for him. But it’s getting to him, and it’s getting to me as well. How can he be any kind of ruler if he can’t keep everyone happy? His throne will always be in jeopardy no matter what.”

  “Yes,” she says plainly. “But that is a problem for another day, Elaine. In order to keep his throne, first you must get him on it to begin with.”

  * * *

  WE LEAVE AS the sun rises over Camelot, painting the gray stone in shades of bleeding pastel. With the nine knights and a cook, we are a party of only fourteen. A scouting party, practically, not a royal delegation by any stretch of the imagination, and certainly not an army if it comes to it.

  The cobblestone streets are quiet this early, but the few people already out wave as we pass. Arthur waves back, shouting greetings and well-wishes. The people return them, their smiles growing. I imagine it isn’t often they’re spoken to kindly by a nobleman. One man calls him Prince Arthur. Another bows and calls him king.

  It was a smart thing to do, court the common people. We won’t find much support with the nobles, after all, and we need people on our side. But even as I think it, I know that isn’t why Arthur showed them attention and kindness. He did it simply because he’s Arthur.

  Simple a thing as it is, his goodness bolsters me. Maybe Nimue is right and humans are fickle creatures, forever changing and unpredictable, but there are some things I believe are solid, and chief among them is Arthur’s goodness, his selflessness. He won’t fight for Gwen, he won’t duel over her, he won’t offend the king there. And not because of any warning I might give but because it’s just not in his nature.

  A million ways this could go wrong, but I believe in Arthur. That has to be enough.

  24

  WE STOP FOR the night in a thicket of woods about halfway between Camelot and Shalott, all of us exhausted and grouchy—apart from Lancelot, whose inhuman reserve of energy only serves to further sour the mood in the air. Especially when he suggests we keep on riding and try to make it to Shalott tonight.

  “We wouldn’t get there before sunrise,” Arthur points out mildly before I can snap at Lancelot. “And besides, we need food and sleep—well, maybe you don’t. But the rest of us do. Not to mention the horses.”

  “We can just make do on bedrolls for the night, but the women should have a proper tent,” Gawain says, glancing at Morgana and me. “I’ll pitch it.”

  “No need,” Morgana says with a smile. She reaches into her saddlebags to pull out the folded tent. The material leaps from her like it’s possessed by a spirit. It makes a large arc through the air and then hangs in the clearing in the shape of a tent, large enough for the two of us.

  “Morgana,” I hiss.

  Morgana looks at me with wide eyes. “What?” she asks. “If we return triumphant, Arthur will be crowned king, and magic will no longer be a death sentence. And if we don’t . . . well, we’re dead anyway, aren’t we?”

  I look around at the others—the knights are eyeing Morgana with a blend of awe and wariness, but no one speaks for a long moment.

  Finally, the cook clears his throat. “I don’t suppose you can help me get the fire started as well?” he asks.

  He’s a mysterious figure, our cook. Overgrown black hair covers his eyes more or less, and he wears a red kerchief around the lower half of his face due to what he described as a fear of illness.

  If I fall ill, he said earlier when Lancelot asked him why he wore it, all of you will surely fall after me.

  Now, Gawain gives him a suspicious look, but Morgana only laughs and follows him to where he’s set up wood for a fire.

  “Are you alright?” I ask Gawain.

  He tears his gaze from the cook’s retreating figure and looks at me sheepishly. “It’s nothing. His voice just sounded familiar for a second is all. I’m more tired than I thought.”

  Everyone begins to unpack their own bedrolls and other necessities, but there’s little for me to do since Morgana set up our tent.

  “Do you need help with anything?” I ask him. “I don’t have Morgana’s gifts, but I can be an extra pair of hands at least.”

  He glances at me and smiles. “If you really don’t mind,” he says.

  “Elaine,” Lancelot calls from the other side of our camp. “I think we need more firewood.”

  I look at the fire and the collection of wood beside it. I might not know much about fires, but it looks like enough to last us until morning. When I say as much, though, he just shrugs.

  “It might be enough,” he allows. “But I’d rather we don’t find out it’s not when it’s dark as pitch out and we can’t find more.”

  The last thing I want is for exactly that to happen—not because of the cold, but because it would mean I’d have to listen to him gloat about being right, so I send Gawain an apologetic smile before starting into the woods around us.

  A few moments later, as I’m picking through the underbrush, a twig snaps behind me and I whirl around, dropping the two pieces I’d already found.

  “It’s just me,” Lancelot says, coming toward me, holding his hands up like I’m a wild animal who might flee or attack at the slightest provocation. It’s not an unfair gesture, because for an instant I’m tempted to do just that. “I thought you might like some help.”

  I crouch to pick up the wood I dropped. “I don’t see why you didn’t just come then,” I say. “This isn’t a two-person job.”

  Lancelot shrugs, coming toward me and taking the wood from my arms. “Maybe I wanted to walk in the woods with you, Shalott,” he says with a slow smile. “Maybe I thought it would be romantic.”

  “In the last seven years, you’ve never been one for romantic gestures,” I point out. “But I suppose on Avalon, there was no one you found worthy of jealousy. I don’t belong to you, Lance.”

  “You made that perfectly clear, and I’ve never argued it,” he replies before pausing. “Do you like him?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t really know him. Courtship isn’t high on my list of priorities at the moment, in case you didn’t notice. But he’s been nothing but kind, and I didn’t see the harm in offering him kindness in return. He’s one of us, Lance. Whether you like it or not.”

  He doesn’t flinch from that, his eyes holding mine. “One of us,” he echoes. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just . . . we were raised, in a sense, to support Arthur, weren’t we? Raised to be his allies, his confidants. Gawain . . . is the same somehow. I can’t explain it. He just is.”

  Lancelot shakes his head. “He isn’t. The same, I mean. Us—you and me and Gwen and Morgana and Arthur—no one can touch what we have. Avalon bound us together in a way that I don’t think anyone else would ever be able to understand. Other people are good, necessary, I know that. But at the end of the day, it will always be us against the world.”

  I look away, and he reaches out with his free hand to take hold of my arm.

  “There it is again,” he says, stepping closer. “You disagree with me. Why?”

  I hesitate. “All I see is possibilities. Nimue said that there is nothing certain about the future until it becomes the past. But there are possibilities, possible futures, where you’re wrong.”

  “Then don’t let me be,” he says, as if it’s that easy. He releases my arm and reaches up to touch the side of my face instead. “Fate is all well and good, Shalott, but it’s nothing without us, without our choices. I know myself. I know what I choose, what I will always choose.”

  I step closer to him, closing the distance between us, but before I do something I know I will regret, Morgana’s voice pierc
es the air, announcing that dinner is ready.

  Grateful for the interruption, I step back, letting Lance’s hand drop. “You should find a few more pieces of wood, since it was your idea,” I say, surprised that my voice comes out level.

  “Elaine—” he starts, but I shake my head.

  “Right now, we need to focus on getting Arthur crowned,” I say. “Nothing else matters until we do.”

  He holds my gaze, and in that moment, I swear he sees every one of my thoughts laid bare. All of the dangerous thoughts about him, all of the things I’ve Seen, every twisted and ugly part of me.

  “Arthur is like a brother to me. Of course he matters,” he says, his voice low. A secret spoken in the dim woods, lost to the trees. “But you, Shalott . . . you’re the sun. Without you, nothing wakes. Nothing grows. It’s just darkness.”

  I stare at him for a moment, unsure of what to say.

  “And,” he continues, a smile spreading over his features once more, “for what it’s worth, I thought we had a few romantic moments in Avalon. The waterfall, for one.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks as I remember that afternoon, the memory warm with sunshine and the smell of grass and salt water.

  “You were terrified to go anywhere near the water, remember?” he asks.

  I remember the fear fluttering in my belly, the sound of the rushing water sending my pulse pounding, loud enough to drown out any thoughts. But I also remember his smile as he stood knee-deep in the churning river, his hand held out to me, palm up. I remember only a beat of hesitation before I slipped my hand into his and stepped into the river beside him. I remember the fear that felt primed to overwhelm me reduced to a simmer. I remember feeling safe and, at the same time, like I was standing on the precipice of something great and dangerous, something that for the first time had nothing to do with water at all.

  It wasn’t the stuff of the Camelot courtships I was raised around, the ballads about fair, demure maidens and valiant, pure-hearted knights who saved them from all manner of evil. But I had to admit, it was romantic.