Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  At that, Leodegrance laughs again. “You mean to help me,” he scoffs. “You have no country to offer and a scant hundred men at your back.”

  “And yet you do want something,” Arthur says. “I can’t help you unless we discuss terms.”

  For a moment, Leodegrance says nothing. “Very well, princeling,” he says finally. “Perhaps this won’t be a waste of time—at the very least, you amuse me, so there’s that. Stay until sundown tomorrow. We will have lunch together and, should you be particularly amusing, perhaps you’ll stay for supper as well.”

  Arthur inclines his head, but I can tell he’s bristling at the term amusing. Still, we got what we wanted.

  * * *

  GUINEVERE LEADS US down the maze of narrow hallways to our rooms, but as soon as we are far enough from the throne room, she spins around to face us, her freckles standing out starkly against furious red cheeks, apparent even in the dim lighting.

  “You great buffoon,” she snaps at Arthur. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Arthur, to his credit, doesn’t wither beneath Gwen’s glare. He holds it. “No, frankly,” he says, his voice calm. “I haven’t the slightest idea what I’ve done because all you’ve done is offer up vague warnings and ill omens.”

  “To protect you all,” she says. “I told you, you shouldn’t have come. And now, you should leave at dawn. Go home and never come back.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  Gwen shakes her head. “I can’t talk about it,” she says, glancing around the empty hallway. “But after everything, I would think I’ve earned your trust. Trust me when I say you won’t find what you want here. Go home.”

  Morgana laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. “What home, Gwen?” she asks. “Avalon won’t have us—you know that—and Camelot . . .” She trails off.

  I jump in. “Camelot won’t have Arthur as its king unless we can solidify an alliance with Lyonesse. If we return with nothing, there is no home for us there either.”

  “Royalty is overrated,” Gwen says, glancing away. “You can still return, even if there’s no crown waiting for you.”

  Arthur stares at her for a moment. “No, Gwen,” he says. “If I fail, Mordred takes the throne. And he will drive Albion into the ground—and I doubt he would stop at Lyonesse’s borders either.”

  I freeze, worried that I said something I shouldn’t have about my visions, but I know I didn’t. Arthur doesn’t know what I’ve seen about Mordred, but he doesn’t need to—he’s seen the truth of it just as clearly without glimpsing the future.

  “I didn’t come for me,” he continues. “And I didn’t come for you either. I came for Camelot, for Albion. I came because it’s the only way to protect my people, and I won’t leave until I’ve done that.”

  Guinevere chews so hard on her bottom lip that I worry she might draw blood. After a moment, she straightens up, squaring her shoulders.

  “Then it seems what is best for your country and what is best for mine are at odds with each other,” she says, her voice cold. “If you’re determined to stay this path, I can’t stop you, but believe me when I say it won’t end well. For any of us.”

  * * *

  GUINEVERE LEADS ARTHUR and Lancelot to their room first, and when she closes the door, she draws a heavy iron key from the pocket of her skirt, turning it in the lock with a heavy click that I feel in the marrow of my bones. It doesn’t feel quite like fear, but it is close. Trepidation, perhaps. Foreboding.

  “And here I thought you wanted us gone,” I say, keeping my eyes on the key as she tucks it back into her pocket. “Why lock them in?”

  Gwen glances at me with wary eyes, pressing her lips together in a thin line. “I’m not locking them in. I’m locking the others out,” she says.

  “The others?” Morgana asks slowly. “What others?”

  Gwen doesn’t answer, instead leading us farther down the hall to the next room. She pushes open the door and ushers us through.

  “You know I can unlock that door without a key,” Morgana says to her.

  “You won’t need to,” Gwen says, drawing the key out from her skirt once more and pressing it into Morgana’s hand. “But you shouldn’t. Not until sunrise.”

  Morgana rolls her eyes. “Come on, Gwen,” she says. “You know me. You know right now that I’m tempted to do exactly the opposite of what you ask, just because. I need a better reason not to.”

  Gwen glances over her shoulder into the empty, dark hall. When she looks back at us, her eyes are heavy. “I can’t,” she says through gritted teeth. “Just stay here. Please. No matter what you hear. I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important. Please.”

  Morgana and I exchange a look, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing—Gwen never says please. She never begs. Whatever she’s hiding, it’s important.

  “Fine,” Morgana says, practically biting out the word. But when Gwen starts to close the door, Morgana stops her, holding the door open with a white-knuckled hand. “I thought our friendship meant more to you than this, Gwen,” she says, her voice low. “Break Arthur’s heart if you have to. He’s asking a lot of you, and I would never blame you if it was too much. But we were friends, and I thought that meant something.”

  “We are friends,” Gwen says. “And Arthur—”

  “I don’t care,” Morgana says. “Friends don’t do this to one another.”

  At that, Gwen laughs, but there is no mirth in the sound. “You don’t even understand what this is,” she says. “You don’t even understand that I am trying to help you.”

  “If you want to help us, talk to us,” I say.

  Gwen looks back and forth between us, opening her mouth to speak, then closing it again. She shakes her head. “I can’t. Just . . . stay here. Lock the door behind me. Promise me that.”

  “You don’t deserve any promises from me,” Morgana says, her voice heavy with scorn.

  For a second, I think Gwen might push the issue, but eventually she shakes her head and casts a pleading look at me, but I keep my expression placid.

  “Fine then,” she snaps. “Do whatever you like. See if I care when all that’s left of you is blood-soaked bones and rotting flesh.”

  She slams the door so hard it echoes throughout the room. Morgana and I stay still, listening for her footsteps, but the sound never comes. Instead, Gwen lingers outside our door, her shadow dancing beneath the doorjamb. When her light steps do finally fade down the hallway, Morgana turns to me, fury still simmering off her like oil in a hot pan.

  “Well,” she says to me. “Your plan of pleading friendship didn’t get us very far, did it?”

  I open my mouth to remind her that it wasn’t my plan, that she agreed with it, that Gwen was her friend too. But I know Morgana well enough by now to know that when she gives in to anger, she is unreasonable, and there is nothing I can say to quell her temper. Instead, I shrug my shoulders.

  “She’s afraid of something,” I say. “Perhaps you should lock the door.”

  Morgana laughs, shaking her head. “Gwen is afraid of nothing,” she says. “It’s the most frustrating thing about her. Do you remember when Lancelot dared her to dive into the kraken’s lagoon and steal a bit of its treasure? She didn’t even hesitate before plunging in.”

  I consider it for a moment. “Gwen told me once that only fools are fearless, that it was the difference between her bravery and Arthur’s—Arthur was wise enough to know what to fear but did the right thing anyway, but fear never reached her in the first place.”

  “So you see?” Morgana says. “She’s not afraid then.”

  I shake my head. “Everyone’s afraid of something. And the way she looked at us . . . she’s not afraid of what’s outside.”

  Morgana looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You think she’s afraid of us?” she says slowly.

  “I do
n’t know,” I say. “But I think you ought to lock the door, Morgana.”

  * * *

  THOUGH IT WOULD have been impossible to bring my whole loom with me on this journey, I don’t need it. I find the skein of oracle thread in my satchel, and with Morgana’s help, I loop the thread under and over my left fingers and the fingers of both her hands, knitting them together and creating a small loom—too small to be able to stitch any actual images, but enough that I will be able to catch a glimpse of whatever there is to be Seen.

  “Will I See anything?” Morgana asks me when I explain it to her.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, frowning. The only times I’ve done this have been with Nimue, and sometimes I did See things then, but Nimue assured me it was only my own sensitivity as an oracle. Someone without the gift, like Morgana, shouldn’t be able to glimpse anything.

  Shouldn’t would have to be enough.

  As we sit on the large velvet-draped bed, facing each other with our hands bound, though, a feral shriek pierces the air outside our window, followed by another, and then more and more until the sound fills the air.

  “It sounds like howling,” Morgana says quietly, looking toward the window, though we both know there will be nothing to see outside in the dark.

  I swallow. “Gwen said there would be noises. She said to ignore them.”

  Morgana rolls her eyes. “Gwen said a lot of things,” she points out. “None of them terribly helpful.”

  Still, she doesn’t get off the bed. When the howls fade to silence, she bites her lip. “I hope Arthur and Lancelot heed her words,” she says.

  It’s all too easy to imagine them doing just the opposite, finding a way out of their room and charging into the bleak night with no idea of what they’re going to face, no idea how to fight it, but foolishly determined to try anyway.

  I don’t need to scry to know how that would end for them.

  The howls begin again, louder this time. I try to concentrate on the loom stretched between Morgana’s fingers and my own, on threading the white silk, on keeping my mind blank, but it proves more difficult than I imagined. I’m too aware of the sounds, how I can feel the howls deep in my bones; I’m too aware of Arthur and Lancelot down the hall and what must be going through their heads; I’m too aware of Morgana just inches from me, her fear and worry eating her alive.

  “Did you see Leodegrance’s claws?” I ask her, unweaving my progress for the third time to start fresh.

  Morgana nods, her eyes far away. “He’s not human,” she says. “But he’s not fey either. I don’t know what he is.”

  I hesitate, winding the yarn back up into a skein. “And Gwen?” I ask.

  “Gwen doesn’t have claws,” Morgana says quietly. “There’s nothing monstrous about her. She’s just a girl—a girl with power, yes, but not like this.”

  She sounds so sure of it, so sure of Gwen. I imagine it must be nice, to be sure of someone like that. To not constantly have to think of all the facets of a person that exist, how they are constantly in flux, how impossible it is to truly know anyone—even and maybe especially the people we love.

  The howls outside the window start up again, but this time they are different, tinged with laughter—human laughter—and then . . . there, so clear it turns my whole body to ice. The sound of a human scream, anguished and terrified.

  But not Arthur’s. Not Lancelot’s. I assure myself of this over and over again as the screams continue, as they are joined by the screams of others, as those screams are drowned out by howls and laughter, pain and mania and joy mingled in a way that is not quite human and not quite animalistic but something wholly other.

  I try again to empty my mind and focus on nothing beyond the shimmering thread, but the sounds outside mingled with my own mounting frustration make it impossible. I let out a frustrated groan and rewind the skein once more, my movements angry and jerky. Morgana covers my hands with hers, squeezing them so tight it hurts.

  “You’re going to drive yourself mad like this,” she says.

  “I’m going to drive myself mad if I don’t try,” I reply, shaking my head. “Besides, it isn’t like we’ll be able to get any sleep.”

  Morgana looks toward the window for a moment before pulling her hand from mine and waving it toward the walls. The effect is immediate, a heavy curtain falling and blocking out all sound except for our own breathing.

  But even though I can’t hear the screams anymore, I know they’re out there. I know they’re going on and on. I swear that I can feel them in my bones.

  Still, I try to smile at Morgana. “Thank you,” I tell her.

  She tries to smile back, but I don’t think either of us are comforted. But we try to be. We lie down together and hold each other tight and try to pretend there is nothing happening outside this room.

  * * *

  I MUST MANAGE TO fall asleep at some point because suddenly, I’m aware of Morgana shaking me awake and a hazy yellow predawn light filtering in through the window.

  “It’s morning?” I ask, my voice coming out rough and groggy. Going by the dark circles under Morgana’s heavy eyes, I doubt she managed to sleep at all.

  “Not quite, but someone’s outside,” she says, nodding toward the door. Sure enough, the light of a candle slips beneath the door, flickering wildly like a living thing. “I’m going to lower the spell, but I didn’t want it to frighten you if it’s still . . . if it’s still going.”

  I nod, sitting up and watching as she waves her hand again, letting the outside world back in. I brace for the screams and howls to return, but instead only silence greets us, pierced by the occasional chirp of birdsong. The quiet and idyllic atmosphere is strangely disconcerting, juxtaposed with the chaos and horror that swarmed only a few hours ago.

  “Hello?” Morgana calls toward the door.

  For a moment, there’s no response.

  “It’s me,” a voice says finally, thin and tired.

  Gwen.

  I start to get out of bed to let her in, but Morgana stops me, her hand on my arm.

  “What do you want?” she demands.

  Gwen doesn’t reply for a moment. “Please can I come in,” she says.

  Something in her voice wraps its hands around my stomach, twisting. It’s the please again. Never in more than a decade did I hear Gwen beg for anything. Now it seems she does nothing but beg.

  Morgana looks at me, lifting an eyebrow. I nod.

  There’s a beat of silence as Morgana climbs out of bed and crosses to the door, key in hand. She slides it into the lock and turns, the sound of metal grinding against metal filling the silent room. I lean back against the headboard and pull the quilt up to my chin to block out the early-morning chill as Gwen steps inside, holding a candle that casts a pale gold glow about.

  She looks like one of the frescoes that covered the walls in Avalon, with candle-warmed skin and wild red hair down to her waist in tangled curls. Her nightgown is torn in places, more dirt streaked than white, and . . . my eyes catch on the stains that stand out, crimson splotches on her nightgown, on her skin, in her hair.

  “Is that blood?” I blurt out. “Gwen, what happened last night?”

  Before Gwen can answer, Morgana jumps in. “It’s not hers,” she says, surveying Gwen with cold eyes. “There’s not a scratch on her.”

  She’s right—dirty and blood streaked as she may be, her skin is unblemished. No scratches, no scrapes, no cuts.

  “What happened?” I ask again, but this time my voice quivers.

  Because as much as I have seen of Gwen, of all the terrible choices she can make, all the coldness she’s capable of, all her stubborn pride and rash decisions, I never thought her capable of actually hurting someone. I think of the screams last night and I want to be sick. I can’t look at her—every time I try to meet her gaze, I have to look away.

 
“It wasn’t me,” she says quietly.

  At that, I force myself to look at her. Relief sings through me for an instant before she speaks again.

  “I mean, it was me. But it also wasn’t. I don’t . . . I don’t know how to explain how both can be true, but they are.”

  “Who was killed?” Morgana asks, her voice somehow coming out level. “If it was any of our men—”

  “It wasn’t,” Gwen interrupts before swallowing. “One was a farmer who mistreated his animals. Another was an earl who bedded his servant without her consent—several servants, actually. The third was a seamstress who stole from her patrons.”

  “Criminals,” I say, and Gwen nods.

  “It’s the punishment here,” she says. “For any and all crimes. Lyonesse demands her sacrifices, however she can get them.”

  “What happened?” I ask, for the third time.

  Gwen comes toward us and sets the candle on the table beside the bed before crawling into it. She doesn’t touch Morgana or me and keeps a careful distance between us, but for a second, it feels like we’re back in Avalon, too exhausted after a bonfire to go back to our separate rooms and instead just curling up together in the same bed, drunk and giggling and talking until we fall asleep one after another.

  But this is nothing like those nights. I focus on the blood on Gwen’s hands to remind myself of that.

  “Something . . . happens in Lyonesse,” Gwen says carefully, her voice shaking. “I remembered part of it, but in my mind it was different. I suppose I didn’t see the worst of it as a child. I thought the ceremony wild and exciting. And it is, in a way, but I . . .”