Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  I step closer to him, a movement so natural it doesn’t even feel like a choice.

  “You trusted me then,” he says, reaching toward me, his hand coming to rest on my waist. “Did I let you drown?”

  “Lance,” I start, but before I can follow that train of thought—before I can say something I will likely regret—

  “Elaine!” Morgana calls from the camp. Nimue’s words come back to me. Love is never a steady force. It complicates everything—Arthur and Gwen are proof enough of that—and the last thing we need is more complications.

  So I turn and walk away from him, back to camp, where I let the conversation among the others drown out my churning thoughts.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT, AS Morgana and I get ready for bed, a single candle illuminating the tent in a hazy, dim light, she gives a loud sigh, tossing a rolled-up nightgown at me. It hits me in the face, taking me by surprise.

  “Hey,” I hiss, careful to keep my voice low. The walls of the tent are thin, and I can hear every move the knights outside make, each step, each breath, each snore.

  She fixes me with a bemused look, one dark eyebrow lifted high. “You were quiet all through dinner. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I say, pulling my traveling dress over my head. “I’m just . . . thinking about Gwen. And the quest. And seeing my father tomorrow. There’s a lot happening.”

  Morgana says nothing as she helps me with the laces of my corset, and I do the same for her. When we’ve both changed into our nightgowns and gotten into our bedrolls, she turns over to face me.

  “I don’t doubt all of that is bothering you,” she says, her voice a whisper. “But that’s not all it is, is it?”

  The candle flickers on the ground between us, casting her face half in shadow. Her violet eyes are darker than usual, the color of the amethyst that lined the walls of the Cave of Prophecies on Avalon.

  I bite my lip and pull my quilt up to my chin before telling her what Lancelot said in the woods. She knows the rest of it already, everything apart from the specifics of my visions, though I would be surprised if she hadn’t guessed the bulk of that as well. Though I’ve never said explicitly how I felt about him, I don’t think I had to. She knows, just as Gwen likely does.

  “Lancelot’s heart is fickle, we know this,” I whisper when I’m done. “Give it a few days—he’ll find some wild Lyonessian girl, and next thing you know he’ll be madly in love with her. It’s what he does and it’s for the best. Arthur and Gwen have already made enough of a mess of things with their feelings. We can’t afford any more.”

  Morgana doesn’t say anything for a moment, but her eyes stay on me, reading my features like I’m a book open before her. I hold her gaze, but of course, she sees through me anyway.

  “I used to envy you, you know,” she says.

  The idea of that is so laughable that I don’t know what to say. Ever since the moment I met her, I’ve envied Morgana. Envied her confidence and strength, her brazenness, her bravery. How can she possibly have ever envied me? When I don’t speak, she continues.

  “Seeing the future—it seemed like such a grand gift. That kind of knowledge . . . that kind of power. It used to be that I wanted it more than anything,” she says.

  “You certainly hid it well,” I say with a laugh. “Besides, you can create things, change things, summon things.”

  “Yes,” Morgana says. “Things. Gwen’s power is over nature, your power is tied to people. But mine . . . it’s only things. Inanimate objects. Maybe there is more of a scope to my gift, but the fact remains, I envied you. Both of you.”

  I don’t say anything for a moment, still trying to wrap my mind around her confession. “Why are you telling me this now?” I ask.

  Morgana rolls over onto her back, staring at the roof of the tent. “Because I never really considered how hard it would be,” she says. “What that kind of knowledge would do to you.”

  I frown. “What has it done to me?” I ask her.

  She looks at me again, smiling slightly. “It’s made fear your constant companion,” she says. “You look at a situation, even a happy one like a boy you’re madly in love with saying he loves you, and you see only how that love might rot.”

  “Do you think it won’t?” I ask. “You’ve seen him, Morgana. Love is weakness. That’s what you’ve always told me: Exploit it in others—it’s a useful trick to know—but guard your own heart with iron and steel. Guard it above all else. Because if a person has your heart, they have all of you.”

  Morgana frowns. “Did I really say that?” she asks.

  I shrug. “More than once,” I tell her. “Word for word. I remember it well.”

  “Maiden, Mother, and Crone, I can be prickly sometimes, can’t I?”

  “Sometimes?” I ask, earning a sharp glare.

  “Well, I’m sorry at any rate,” she says with a sigh. “You’re the last person I should warn to caution. You’re already far too cautious for your own good.”

  I snort. “Tell me, Morgana, do you really believe that Lancelot can be faithful to anyone?” I ask her.

  She doesn’t answer right away. “I think the danger in knowing someone as long as we’ve known one another is that it makes it harder to see when people change. It’s harder to let people grow.”

  “You think he’s grown?” I ask.

  She must hear the skepticism in my voice because she gives a loud sigh. “I don’t know, El. I’m only saying. He’s in love with you, and you’re clearly in love with him.”

  “For now. He’s in love with me for now.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “Maybe not. There’s really only one way to find out.”

  “You mean when I’m brokenhearted?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes. “Heartbreak isn’t as lethal as the name implies, you know. Maybe it feels that way at the time, but I swear it isn’t. You’ve seen Gwen and me both rebound from it eventually. I don’t regret anything leading up to it, and I doubt Gwen does either. It’s life, Elaine. Getting hurt, picking yourself up, trying again. You’re so focused on the ending sometimes that I don’t think you know how to appreciate the during.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, but I feel her words burrow their way under my skin. If we keep talking about this, I’ll drive myself mad, so I change the subject.

  “Do you think Gwen regrets anything with Arthur?” I ask her. “That letter . . . it was so short. It didn’t say anything, really. Nothing personal in it at all. It could have been a letter from a stranger.”

  Morgana doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Gwen’s emotions always run hot,” she says after a moment. “Sometimes it’s easier for her to turn them off completely to protect herself. Maybe to protect Arthur too. I don’t know.”

  “What do you think we’ll find in Lyonesse?” I ask.

  Morgana’s quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know,” she repeats. “All I know for sure is that I miss her. The circumstances aren’t ideal and I have no idea what to expect, but all of that aside, it will be good to see her again.”

  “I miss her too,” I say, even as I remember the Gwen from my visions, cold and emotionless as she watched Arthur die. That isn’t the Gwen I know, I tell myself. But it is, a small voice replies. That version of Gwen is a part of her, whether I like it or not.

  “We should get some sleep,” Morgana says. “I know you have mixed feelings about seeing your family tomorrow, but I for one am looking forward to sleeping in an actual bed.”

  She leans over and blows out the candle, shrouding us in pitch darkness. Her breathing slows almost immediately, soon replaced by soft snores, but sleep doesn’t find me right away. Instead, I stare up into the night air, my thoughts a whirlpool of fear and dread and plots that can go wrong all too easily.

  25

  I MET LANCELOT AND Gwen for t
he first time on my first day on Avalon, over breakfast in the dining hall. Of everywhere on Avalon, the dining hall was one place that at least felt somewhat familiar. There were no constantly changing paths, no writhing trees, no rivers full of mermaids waiting to drown you. It was just a dining hall, like any that might have been found in Camelot, with only one large table that stretched the length of the entire building, made of solid, polished black marble. The chairs that went down either side of it were simple things, carved from dark wood, with straight backs and no arms. Painted porcelain bowls and plates piled high with food covered most of the table’s surface. Some I recognized, like apples and toast, but other things looked strange to me: pastries shaped like daisies, and violets with petals that looked like they’d been crystalized, a round fruit the size of my palm with vivid green skin covered in spikes, a pot of jam the color of a new gold coin. There was a silver goblet at each place, filled with water.

  Morgana led me by the hand to the far end of the table, where a girl close to my age was sitting alone. All I could see of her was a cascade of candlelight-orange hair that fell down to the middle of her back. It looked like it hadn’t been brushed in months.

  “Elaine,” Morgana said as we approached. “This is Guinevere.”

  The red-haired girl turned to look at me over her shoulder, and I was struck for a moment. There were beautiful ladies back at court, tall and elegant with fine bones, luminous skin, and confident smiles, but next to Guinevere, they would have been plain at best. Though to look at each of her features individually, she was a collection of what I’d been raised to see as flaws. Her skin was the color of sun-warmed bronze, and there was a deep red flush across her sharp cheekbones. Thick eyebrows arched high over green eyes that looked like a cat’s—though not the tame, housebound sort. More like the large wildcats I had seen only in paintings. Her jaw was too strong and square, her mouth full but undefined, her whole face covered in freckles—all flaws Camelot women would have gone to great lengths to disguise or fix through whatever means necessary. But Guinevere wore her flaws like they were assets, and so they somehow became just that.

  “Hello,” she said through a mouth half-full of apple, the word coming out garbled. She paused and swallowed before smiling, not quite sheepish, but more like we were sharing a private joke. “Morgana mentioned you in her letters. I hoped she’d manage to bring you back with her.”

  “I told Elaine a bit about you, as well,” Morgana said, sitting down across from her and motioning for me to join.

  “Morgana said you’re from Lyonesse originally?” I asked Guinevere.

  In the stories I’d heard, Lyonesse was a wild land, overrun with beasts who walked like men and men who ran wild like beasts. I imagined it to be dreary, a world bathed in sepia and gray. It was difficult to imagine a girl like Guinevere there, with her bright hair and eyes and smile. When Morgana mentioned her Lyonessian friend, I’d expected a hunched-over, toad-faced girl who would sooner bite me than smile. I expected a monstrous thing, raised by beasts and not quite human. At the time, I thought she looked like only a girl, much like me, but later I would see the more wild parts of her. She might not have had fangs in the literal sense, but they were certainly there, hiding just in the corners of her blinding smile.

  At the sound of her country’s name, Guinevere beamed.

  “Yes,” she said, sitting up a little straighter. “Do you know it?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to tell her about the rumors I’d heard, especially since I was beginning to doubt the truth in them. “I was born in Shalott, though, and it’s just across the border.”

  “You should visit sometime,” she said eagerly. “It’s so beautiful, and you could stay with me.”

  It struck me then as an abrupt sort of invitation to extend to someone you’ve just met, but before I could answer, Morgana snorted.

  “Elaine, you would hate it there—so dark and wild. All overgrown forests and fog-draped moors—”

  “And monsters?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  Guinevere laughed. “Monsters,” she scoffed, “are in the eye of the beholder. Honestly, from what I hear about the so-called humans in Albion, I’m inclined to think they’re the monsters.”

  “That I can’t disagree with,” Morgana said with a smirk, reaching across the table to take a piece of toast and a spoonful of jam. “But really, Gwen. Lyonesse is not for the faint of heart. I’ve heard stories of knights fleeing back across the border in terror.”

  Guinevere frowned, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. “Perhaps their king should train his knights better then,” she said coolly, her eyes catching on a group of fey who stepped into the hall. “Here, we’ll ask Lancelot,” she said.

  I followed her gaze to the cluster of fey, trying to accustom myself to the sight of so many. Scales covered bare arms, horns protruded from slicked-back hair. It was overwhelming, almost, to see so many of them at once, all so brazen, but I couldn’t look away.

  I guessed the Lancelot Gwen mentioned must be the only boy in that group who looked close to our age, who also happened to be the most human in appearance. He stood beside a woman with golden skin like his, but where her hair was seaweed green, his was a perfectly human black. The boy’s eyes darted over to our part of the table before landing on me for an instant, confusion furrowing his brow, and I quickly looked away, embarrassed to have been caught staring. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him bend down to kiss the woman on the cheek before starting toward us.

  “Good morning,” he said to Gwen and Morgana with a grin at each of them before sinking into the empty chair across from mine. His hair was windblown and messy, and his peculiar green eyes shifted focus around the table, settling on each person before finally landing on me, his brow creasing into a frown. “Who are you?”

  “Elaine,” I told him, a bit taken aback by his bluntness. Before I could say more, Morgana interrupted.

  “I found her in Camelot,” she said with a hint of smugness, like I was a toy she was showing off. “She’s an oracle.”

  Lancelot’s gaze turned appraising for a second before shifting to Morgana.

  “And Nimue . . . knows about this?” Lancelot asked.

  “Of course,” Morgana said. “She was very glad I found her.”

  It was strange to have people talk about me but not to me. I found I didn’t care for it.

  “Nimue was very welcoming,” I said, which might have been a slight exaggeration. I could still hear her ominous voice in my mind, welcoming me to Avalon.

  Lancelot’s strange eyes weighed almost uncomfortably on me, and I looked away again quickly. “It’s all very new to me,” I admitted. “I certainly never thought it was something to be proud of.”

  I expected Morgana to jump in again, sharing my history as if it were some kind of exciting adventure story I never agreed to be a part of, but instead she only gave me a small smile, reaching over to take my hand. “Nimue will have a lot to teach you,” she said.

  That surprised me. “Nimue’s going to teach me herself?” I asked, thinking about the way she looked at me like I was an equation she couldn’t solve. It was discomforting, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be around her more than necessary. I certainly couldn’t imagine taking regular lessons with her.

  But Morgana only laughed.

  “Nimue’s the best oracle on the island,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  I suppose it did explain some things. But it mostly invited more questions.

  “But she’s the Lady of the Lake,” I pointed out. “Surely she has better things to do than teach me.”

  Gwen shook her head. “An oracle from Albion? I can’t imagine a pupil she’d be more interested in.”

  Gwen immediately went back to her breakfast, so I don’t think she saw the fear that came over me. Lancelot did, though, his eyes thoughtful as they met mine. I expected him to say
something, but instead he held my gaze for a second longer before tearing his eyes away.

  * * *

  AS BREAKFAST WOUND down and Morgana and Gwen started to head off to their lessons, Morgana suggested that Lancelot give me a tour of the island.

  Before I could respond, Lancelot did.

  “I can’t,” he said, clipped and curt.

  Gwen snorted. “What else do you have to do?” she asked before spotting something in Lancelot’s face. “Oh, meeting up with . . . what’s her name again?”

  Lancelot cleared his throat, a flush working its way across his cheeks. He gave a name then that has long faded from my memory, replaced by countless names that followed it, blending together until one was no longer decipherable from the rest.

  Morgana rolled her eyes. “Well, you can meet up with her some other time,” she said. “You can’t leave Elaine alone in a strange place where she doesn’t know anyone.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Really, I probably need a nap after everything last night. And by the time I wake up, your lessons will be over anyway.”

  Morgana didn’t budge, though. “Lancelot,” she said, her voice a warning.

  He held her gaze, and for a moment they were locked in a silent conversation before Lancelot finally looked away with a loud sigh. “Alright,” he said, turning to me. “A tour it is.”

  Morgana kissed him on the cheek as she got up from the table, surprising Lancelot. “Arthur should take note. That is some chivalrous, princely behavior right there.”

  “Now you’re just trying to cause a fuss,” Lancelot grunted, glancing farther down the table, where a group of fay girls with candy floss hair and stardust skin watched on and whispered behind their hands. “Where is Arthur, anyway?”

  “Early-morning lessons at the library,” Gwen said, getting up as well. “I’m about to join him.”

  After they departed, I looked back at Lancelot.