Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  “Gwen,” Morgana says, every bit of her remaining patience disappearing. “What happens in Lyonesse?”

  Gwen swallows, biting her bottom lip. “It’s the moon,” she says. “When it rises, it . . . takes hold of the people here—only those born here. It changes us. You saw my father yesterday—his claws. In his old age, it takes hold of him earlier than most. In a few years, he will have only mere hours of humanity a day.”

  “We saw you under the moon in Avalon plenty,” I point out. “You never . . . changed.”

  Gwen shakes her head. “Not there, no. It has to be here. It has to be under the light of the Lyonessian moon. But even in Avalon, I felt it. I could rarely sleep and only when the moon was thin or gone altogether. I might not have changed outwardly, but I did inside. I felt restless and hungry and angry and I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t quench it. It wasn’t until I came back here and participated in the first ritual that I realized what it meant, what it made me.”

  She presses her lips together tightly, drawing her legs up to her chest and hugging them tight. She doesn’t want to say more, but Morgana leans toward her.

  “What does it make you, Gwen?” she asks, her voice soft but still dangerous.

  Gwen meets her gaze, hazel eyes unwavering. “It makes me monstrous,” she says slowly.

  “You wrote Arthur then,” I say, drawing her attention to me. “It’s why you broke off your engagement, why you wouldn’t tell us what was happening.”

  “I didn’t want you to know,” she says, shaking her head. “I didn’t want you to remember me like this. But you cannot stay here another day, do you understand? You have to convince Arthur to leave today, before dark.”

  “Why?” I ask. “If you come back with us to Camelot, the curse won’t take hold of you anymore. You’ll be like you were in Avalon.”

  Gwen doesn’t answer, but after a second, Morgana does.

  “Because she doesn’t want to be like she was in Avalon,” she says softly. “Because she likes being monstrous.”

  I wait for Gwen to deny it, but she doesn’t.

  “Gwen,” I say. “You’re taking lives.”

  “Bad lives.” She shakes her head. “You don’t get it, you don’t understand how it feels—you couldn’t possibly. You should see me, Elaine . . . under the light of the moon, with my claws and fangs and hunger. I am powerful and unstoppable and my fury takes over, drives me, consumes me and everything around me. And it feels good. It feels great. It feels right. I can’t give that up for a life in stiff corsets, spouting pretty words over tea in Camelot. I can’t. I won’t.”

  Her voice breaks on the last word, splintering into shards sharp enough to cut.

  Morgana looks at her again, but now there is no malice in her eyes. There is only understanding, an unspoken peace between them. I understand it, too, even without Gwen’s claws and fangs or Morgana’s bubbling fury. I understand the desire to destroy, to take something instead of always giving, giving, giving. There are too many days to count when I wouldn’t mind being a little monstrous myself.

  But not all of us have the luxury of hiding in the wild and offering our bodies up to the moon. Not all of us can afford to tear the world to shreds. Some of us have to live in that world. We have to survive it.

  “We could change Camelot,” I say after a moment. They both look at me like I’ve gone mad. “You’re right, Gwen. It’s a terrible place, restricting and shallow. It is not a place for women like us—women at all. It is a place shaped by men for men to thrive in, and that is all. But together we could cultivate enough power to change it. We could shape it. We can break their world and make our own in its stead.”

  “Elaine—” Gwen starts, but I don’t let her get any further.

  “We could,” I say, louder. “Together. But we can’t do it without Arthur on the throne. Please, Gwen.”

  Gwen shakes her head. “An alliance with Albion won’t stand. If the people there learned what we are—”

  “They would set out to destroy you,” Morgana interjects with a shrug of her shoulders. “It would be a bloodbath, our numbers against your monsters. But make no mistake, that bloodbath would end in Albion’s victory. If it were just Camelot, you might stand a chance, but with the entire continent . . . there would be no hope.”

  Guinevere’s mouth pulls down into a frown. “Is that a threat, Morgana?” she asks, her voice dangerous.

  “I don’t threaten, Gwen,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s a fact. And one you can’t dispute.”

  Gwen crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m assuming you think you have a better option?” she asks.

  “Elaine’s right,” Morgana says, nodding toward me. “If you come to Camelot, if you stand at Arthur’s side, we can change not just the country but all of Albion, including Lyonesse.”

  “That’s exactly what I don’t want,” Gwen says. “For Albion to try to change Lyonesse, to tame it.”

  “Lyonesse needs a good taming,” Morgana says with a hard and mirthless laugh. “You know it as well as I do—what happened last night was barbaric. Not the monsters, no, but the bloodshed itself. The ritualistic murder.”

  “They were criminals,” Gwen says.

  “That doesn’t mean they all deserved death,” Morgana counters. “You know that, Gwen. You looked sick when you came in here. You still do.”

  “The ritual is older than memory,” Gwen says. “If you want to change that, the people will revolt.”

  “But I won’t be changing it. You will be—as queen of not only Camelot, not only Albion, but Lyonesse as well. You once said that power trumps all in Lyonesse—you would have the power. Lyonesse wants to revolt? Let them. You’ll have the power of the continent behind you, and no one could take that away.”

  Gwen is quiet for a moment, considering it. “You’re forgetting one thing,” she says finally. “A queen of Albion has no power of her own. She is a charming smile and an elegant gown and a body meant for bearing children. Nothing more.”

  “That might have been true, before,” I say. “But we are in an unprecedented time, and it just so happens that you have something Arthur and Albion desperately want. It just so happens that you are in a position to make demands. So demand.”

  Gwen purses her lips, but I know I have her. I can see it in the set of her jaw, in her thoughtful eyes—Gwen is never one to be consumed by thought. She acts first and thinks later, makes decisions quickly and without regrets. But not this time. This time she is considering it, weighing it, thinking about the outcomes. If she’s pausing, she’s wavering. If she’s wavering, I’ve won.

  “My father has his own demands,” she says finally. “And he is still the king here. I am only the princess.”

  Morgana smiles, and though she was not born here under this cursed moon, I can almost imagine she has fangs of her own.

  “You have your father’s ear, though,” she says with a shrug. “I suggest you lead him by it.”

  “It won’t be that easy,” Gwen says, shaking her head. “You don’t know what my father will ask of Arthur, what no other envoy of Uther’s or his father’s or his father’s before him would agree to. Arthur won’t agree to it, either, I promise you.”

  “And what is that?” Morgana asks.

  Gwen levels a look at her, and for just an instant, something soft flickers behind her eyes before she steels herself once more.

  “Prey.”

  31

  MORGANA UNLOCKS THE door to Arthur and Lancelot’s room, and we meet them in the hallway once they’re dressed and ready. Judging by their glazed-over eyes and haggard appearance, they didn’t sleep last night. Understandable, since they didn’t have Morgana to block out the sound of the screams. When Arthur sees the three of us, though, his shoulders sag.

  “Thank the Maiden, Mother, and Crone,” he says, rubbing his tired eyes absently. “With
all of that screaming . . . well, we worried.”

  “You think I would have let that happen?” Gwen snaps.

  For a beat, Arthur doesn’t answer, but then he shakes his head. “I don’t know anymore, Gwen. They were someone’s screams, weren’t they?”

  “The screams of criminals,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Some more than others,” I say quietly, thinking of the seamstress who had stolen from her patrons. A crime, yes, but not one on the same level as abusing animals or rape. I can’t begin to say with any kind of certainty who deserves life and who doesn’t, but the whole affair sits queasily in my stomach.

  Lancelot looks at me, then back at Gwen. “Would someone like to explain what is happening?” he asks.

  As quickly as possible, the three of us fill them in on what Gwen said this morning and what Arthur should expect going into his audience with King Leodegrance. When we finish, Arthur and Lancelot wear matching perplexed expressions that would be funny under other circumstances, but today I just want to shake them until they understand.

  After a moment, Arthur clears his throat and gives a decisive nod. “Good,” he says.

  “Good?” Morgana asks with a sharp laugh. “What about this is good? You can’t seriously be willing to agree to those terms. And even if you did want to, you know it wouldn’t hold once the rest of Albion hears of it.”

  “It’s good that we know what we’re going into,” Arthur amends. “It’s good to know what Leodegrance’s cards are, what he wants.” He looks at me. “What cards do we have?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “None,” I say. “There’s nothing we have that he wants, beside lives. Opening trade would benefit him, but I don’t think he cares about that. Having his daughter be queen of Albion isn’t a bargaining chip—he would much rather keep her here.”

  “Please don’t speak of me as a bargaining chip,” Gwen says.

  “I’m only saying, there’s nothing we can offer.”

  Arthur nods, his brow creased. “Then we are like every envoy that has come before us,” he says. “And we’ll leave empty-handed, just as they did, if we make the same attempts.”

  Something in his voice gives me pause. It isn’t the practiced, thoughtful voice Arthur usually uses when discussing strategies, not his king’s voice, either, all full and round and demanding attention. No, this is something else, something rough at the edges, and wild. Something desperate.

  “Arthur,” Lancelot says, his hand coming down on his shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

  Arthur blinks, like he’s pulling himself out of sleep. When he looks around at us, his expression is set.

  “I’m thinking that bargaining will get us nowhere. Offering will get us nowhere. Trading will get us nowhere. If we want to return to Camelot victorious, it will take force.”

  “We don’t have their numbers,” Lancelot says. “Not to mention last night—”

  “No, a full-out battle would be impossible,” Arthur agrees. “But there’s another way.” He looks at Gwen, his eyes leveling on hers.

  “You can’t be part of this, Gwen,” he says, not unkindly but unflinchingly. “You made your choice, you chose your side. I’m grateful for your help, but unless you’re prepared to stand against your father and your people, you need to go.”

  For an instant, Gwen hesitates, her eyes darting around the hall before they find mine. In the dim candlelight, they glow amber ever so slightly, like a cat’s. For an instant, I can imagine her roaming the woods beneath the Lyonessian moon, her fine hands curled into claws, her teeth sharp as daggers, her spine bent low to the ground.

  “He’s my father, Arthur,” she says, her voice soft. “This is my country.”

  “I know,” he says. “And I’m not asking you to betray them. I wouldn’t. But I’d also be a fool to put you in a position to betray us.”

  Gwen looks at him like she’s been slapped, her mouth gaping open slightly. “I wouldn’t . . . I didn’t . . .” She trails off, the realization settling on her shoulders. There is no neutral ground, not anymore. It is two halves of her heart, and that is a terrible choice to have to make.

  So Arthur is removing the choice. Maybe he thinks it’s the noble thing to do, the kind thing, but Gwen doesn’t feel the kindness, and she’s never had any patience for nobility.

  “Fine,” she says, her emotions sealing themselves away behind her eyes once more. She straightens up, squaring her shoulders. “My father will receive you in the throne room when you’re ready to make your appeal.”

  She turns to go, but Arthur reaches out, catching her elbow. He hesitates before bending his head toward hers, a few murmured words slipping past his lips and into her ear, too quiet for me to hear them.

  Gwen lingers for a fraction of an instant, then pulls away from him, surveying the rest of us with a look so distant, she might as well be looking at strangers. She gives one decisive nod.

  “Best of luck to you,” she says, her voice cold. “Believe me, you’ll need it.”

  * * *

  THIS TIME, KING Leodegrance isn’t alone in the throne room. Now, in the cold frosted light coming in through slatted windows, he is surrounded by his court in all their wild glory. The women wear their hair loose and tangled, their gowns cut off at the knee. Before Avalon, the sight of their bare legs would have scandalized me, but now I understand the practicality of it. They are women who have not been raised to stand idly and curtsy and twirl around a dance floor elegantly. These are women like Guinevere—women who have been raised to run.

  The men are similarly unkempt, with scraggly, overgrown beards that cover half of their faces, and loose shirts in need of a good wash and mend. Many of them are barefoot, and those who do wear shoes look uncomfortable in them, shifting their weight from one foot to the other.

  At the center of it all, King Leodegrance sits on his rough-hewn throne, hands resting on the arms of it with his talons curving over the edges. As we step closer, I notice the dark color staining the tips of them, how it is also wedged beneath his nail beds. I cannot tell if it is dirt or blood, and I’m not sure I want to know.

  I think of the visions I had of this day, of Arthur dying at the claws of beasts. Arthur is smarter than that, I tell myself, but it gives me little comfort. After all, there were several versions of Arthur that weren’t smarter than that.

  “Tell me, Prince Arthur, how did you sleep?” King Leodegrance asks as we approach, Arthur at the forefront with Lancelot, Morgana, and me a step behind.

  Though the question itself is innocuous enough, the sort of question any courteous host would ask of his guest, there is nothing innocuous or courteous in Leodegrance’s smile. It is a curling, smug thing, a question he knows the answer to. It is a challenge, but it is a challenge Arthur rises to with a smile of his own.

  “The bed was very comfortable, Your Grace. I daresay I’ve never slept in its equal,” he says, his voice calm and level. As if he actually had slept. As if he hadn’t even heard the screams or, if he had, they didn’t unnerve him the way King Leodegrance expected they would.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Leodegrance says, looking anything but glad. “Are you ready to discuss my terms?”

  Arthur pauses, as if considering it even though he knows exactly what those terms are. He takes a step toward Leodegrance, and the men on either side of him growl low in their throats as they crouch, as if ready to pounce on Arthur at any moment. Beside me, Lancelot sees this, and his own hand goes to the pommel of his sword.

  “I don’t need to hear your terms,” Arthur says, stopping a few feet before the king. “You want men, sacrifices for your blood sport.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Leodegrance says with a laugh. “We don’t share Albion’s gender prejudices—we will accept women as well as men.”

  Around him, his court bursts into titters, but the sound isn’t
human. It reminds me of the hyenas that lived in the caves at the west end of Avalon, how their laughter would echo throughout the mountains on quiet nights, haunting and bloodcurdling.

  “Then I’m afraid you were correct that no peaceful treaty can be reached between us with words,” Arthur says.

  “Well, you did try,” Leodegrance says with a pitying smirk. “And let it be known, you got much further than other men have dared.”

  “Oh, I’m not done,” Arthur says, straightening up. “There is one last recourse for a peaceful treaty. I hereby challenge you, King Leodegrance, to a duel.”

  “A duel,” Leodegrance says, derision dripping from the word. “Such an Albionian concept—a fight without blood, without risk, without death. All show, no real action. All that can be lost is dignity.”

  “Then we’ll make it a duel to the death, though if you were to offer surrender, I might show mercy,” Arthur says with a shrug. “The terms would be simple—I’ve brought with me over a hundred men. Should you win, they are your prisoners to do with what you wish.”

  Leodegrance arches a gray eyebrow. “You would offer the lives of your men?” he asks.

  “They knew the risks when they agreed to join me here,” Arthur says, though I know this part of the decision troubled him.

  “What of the witch and the oracle?” Leodegrance asks, glancing at Morgana and me. At the term oracle, I jump, which makes him laugh. “Oh yes, I knew what you were the second you stepped into my castle. I’ve heard that ingesting oracle flesh gives one the Sight, though it’s been centuries since we were lucky enough to have one in Lyonesse.”

  I can’t suppress the shudder that racks through me, and Morgana places a steadying hand on my back.

  “That isn’t part of the—”

  “It’s a deal,” I say, my voice coming out thin but sharp.

  A murmur breaks out among the court, and I try not to hear them, try not to listen to the strangers speculating about eating my flesh. I have to have faith in Arthur. He will not fail. He can’t fail. But then, I didn’t foresee any outcome of a duel between him and King Leodegrance.