Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  I have long been told that Morgana will destroy Arthur, I have seen visions of her slipping poison into his drink, burying a dagger between his ribs, but this would destroy him as well. Morgana herself would become the poison, turning whatever she touches to ruin. Unless. Gwen is right, there is one way to stop it.

  “Which means we have the duration of our journey back to Camelot to tell them a better story,” I continue. “Specifically, we have Shalott.”

  “What sort of a story?” Arthur asks.

  “One where Morgana did not take the moon from the sky. One where it was little more than an optical illusion.” I swallow and look at each of them in turn. “One where Morgana is powerless and docile.”

  * * *

  MORGANA RETURNS NOT long after, a black wool shawl drawn tight around her shoulders and her violet eyes sunken and tired. When she sees us all gathered, she deflates for an instant before straightening up again, taking in the sight of us. Arthur up and dressed, his wounds healed. Gwen in a fresh gown, her hair and skin cleaned of the dirt and blood that caked them. Lancelot still in his armor as if expecting an attack at any moment. And me . . . when she looks at me, I look away and hate myself for it.

  “I can’t say I’m sorry for what I did,” Morgana says before anyone else can speak. She sounds like she’s practiced the words while she walked, how to apologize without actually apologizing. “I’m not. I would do it all over again if I had to. But I am sorry I had to do it. And I’m sorry you don’t understand that.”

  “We do,” Arthur says, no longer angry but only tired. Only resigned. “Give us the room, please.”

  Gwen and Lancelot start toward the door without looking at Morgana, as if fearing that meeting her gaze will reduce them to ash on the spot. When I move to follow them, Arthur stops me with a hand on my elbow.

  “Would you stay, Elaine?” he asks quietly. “Your guidance has always been true, for both of us. I think we could benefit from it now.”

  I nod and close the door, stepping fully back into the room, though part of me hates that I have to stay for this. But this is my mess as well, as much as it is Morgana’s.

  “Is this a conversation or a meeting?” she asks Arthur. “Am I speaking to my brother or my future king?”

  Despite the venom leaking into her voice, Arthur holds firm. “You’re speaking to both,” he says. “Since what you did, you did as my sister and my adviser. What you did does not reflect on only you anymore.”

  “What we did,” Morgana says, her eyes falling to me.

  “What you both did,” Arthur amends.

  “What we did is the only reason you will have a crown to claim when we get back to Camelot, if you can even manage the third task,” she says. “You weren’t going to win against the Lyonessians with your logic and your books and your pure heart. You needed to be ruthless. You needed to take power rather than ask for it.

  “You will be a great king, Arthur, I believe that with every ounce of me, but you will never get the chance if you can’t take the throne, if you can’t hold it against the enemies who would see you dead. And you don’t have what it takes to do those things. So I did what I always do, what I have always done. I protected you, no matter the cost.”

  Arthur looks away, focusing out the window.

  He doesn’t have the heart to say it, I realize. He knows he has to, but Morgana is right: At the end of the day, he can’t make the difficult decisions. He can’t hurt people, especially not the people he loves.

  “Gwen’s agreed to marry Arthur, to accompany us to Camelot and take the throne beside him,” I say. “It’s only a matter of time before what happened tonight is known throughout Albion, and when that story is told, you will be the villain.”

  “I know that,” she snaps. “I did what I had to do. You said it yourself, there would be a cost. I agreed to pay it, and so I will.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be that way,” I say. “We have a few days to change the narrative, to make a heroine of you, and to preserve Arthur’s reputation in the process.”

  Morgana looks between Arthur and me, brow furrowed. “How?” she asks. “They hated me before this, before they knew what I was capable of. They’ll hate me more now.”

  “Not if they think you are incapable of anything,” Arthur says.

  “They saw—”

  “They saw what they needed to see. A bit of smoke and mirrors you employed to convince the Lyonessians to surrender. Clouds that shifted to cover the moon entirely, a candle you held in your hand. You could have faked it all,” he says.

  “But I didn’t,” Morgana says.

  “But you did,” I say, my voice firm. “Please, Morgana, this is the only way.”

  She shakes her head. “They won’t believe it,” she says. “They know I have magic, they know—”

  “You won’t have magic,” Arthur cuts in.

  Silence follows the declaration, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for her response. I expect fury, bewilderment, protests. Instead, Morgana laughs.

  “Of course I’ll have magic,” she says. “You could sooner drain my body of blood, my mind of thoughts.”

  “It’s a simple spell,” I say, my voice softer than Arthur’s was, but that doesn’t make the words any less bitter. “A binding. Easy to apply and easy to remove, when the time comes.”

  “When the time comes,” she echoes. “And when would that be?”

  “When Arthur is secure on the throne,” I say. “When the alliance with Avalon is made official and the boundaries between our worlds have fallen, when magic is seen no longer as a curse but as a gift. When what you did can be appreciated.”

  “A few years, perhaps,” Arthur adds, but he doesn’t look at her when he says it.

  “No,” she says. “Absolutely not. I just . . . won’t use magic anymore. You have my word.”

  I shake my head. “You said it yourself—it’s part of you. How long until you forget, until you slip up?”

  “I won’t,” she says.

  “You will,” I say, softening my voice. “You know it, Morgana. You can’t go a full day without magic, let alone years.”

  “No,” she says again, her voice firmer.

  “The alternative is banishment,” I tell her.

  Morgana looks between Arthur and me, mouth slack. “You cannot be serious,” she says, her voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “This is my punishment?”

  “It isn’t a punishment,” I say before Arthur can speak. “We are trying to control the situation, and we can only do that if you are no longer a target. These are the only two ways to accomplish that.”

  “We,” Morgana spits out. “Please. Yesterday I was a part of that we. And now you’re treating me like an enemy, seeking to bind me. And why? Because I saved the lot of us?”

  “Because I can’t trust you,” Arthur says, all but yelling. “Because you put the world at risk to save a mere handful of us.”

  “Who else matters?” Morgana asks him. “What world would it be without you?”

  “It would survive, at least,” he says, shaking his head. “Someone else would rise up. The world would go on. I am not more important than anyone else who breathes on this earth, human or fay. And I cannot trust an adviser who doesn’t understand that, who holds the world on an imbalanced scale, who has that kind of power at her fingertips.”

  “Then call this what it is,” Morgana says, her voice rising. “A punishment.” She chokes out a laugh, collapsing to sit on the bed, her spine curved and shoulders hunched. “I don’t know why I should be surprised, though. This is how it’s always been. Ever since we were children, I’ve had to sacrifice so that you could flourish, Arthur. Protecting you has always fallen to me, no matter the cost I endured, and you’ve finally found a cost that is too high.”

  “That’s unfair—”

  “Is it?�
� she snaps. “Then why aren’t I on Avalon right now? Why did I have to follow you to this goddess-forsaken land? If I had any say in it, I would have stayed in Avalon, I would have been happy there. But no—as always, I had to trail after you. And now even you won’t have me, not all of me, just some chained and docile version you can control. Where is the fairness in that?”

  Arthur doesn’t have an answer. All he can do is stare at his sister, wounded and shaken.

  “There is no going back, Morgana,” I say, when he can’t bring himself to speak. “There is only going forward. You can do it alone, or you can join us. And it will only be temporary—”

  “And you?” she demands, turning toward me. “Will your powers be bound? This was your doing as well, you had the vision—”

  “Elaine’s power isn’t threatening,” Arthur says.

  “And Gwen’s?” she presses. “Those same knights saw Gwen turn monstrous, saw her try to kill you.”

  “A curse Arthur broke,” I say softly. “That is how they will see it—a beautiful girl made monster by evil magic, a spell broken by a valiant young prince. And so long as she is in Camelot, away from the Lyonessian moon, that story will hold.”

  “She still has magic,” Morgana points out.

  “Yes,” I agree, glancing at Arthur. “But no one knows that. No one even suspects it. No one fears her.”

  “So you trust that she’ll be able to hide it?” Morgana asks with a scoff.

  “Yes,” Arthur says, unflinching.

  Morgana shakes her head, speechless for a moment. “Let them fear me. Let them cower and whisper and plot my destruction—they will fail.”

  “But what kind of a life would that mean for you?” I ask her. “A lonely one.”

  “Not if I had you,” she says, but her voice breaks over the last word.

  “Of course you have us,” I say, even as I feel her slipping further and further away. “But when you saved us, you toppled a tree in a crowded forest. I told you there would be consequences and here they are. You agreed to risk them, and one day, people will see what a hero you were. But that day isn’t today. Today you are a monster to them—those are the seeds that Morgause will all-too-happily plant and water until the vines of fear and hate grow thick enough to strangle us all.”

  “Not once Arthur returns to Camelot, once he completes this third quest and is crowned king—”

  “Kings can be overthrown,” I say. “And the ties that hold Albion together are already fraying. War will be on us before next winter’s frost. Arthur needs to hold on to as many allies as he can if we want to stand a chance when that happens, and he can’t do it if your shadow is cast over him.”

  Morgana and Arthur both stare at me. It’s the most I’ve ever told them about the future, and maybe it was an error, but I need her to understand what is really at stake here—I need them both to understand.

  After a long moment, Morgana smooths her rumpled gown over her legs and gets to her feet.

  “It is something of a relief, to finally understand,” she says, her voice stiff.

  “I would have told you sooner, but it’s dangerous—”

  “Oh no, I don’t care about that,” Morgana says. “I meant that it’s a relief to understand that our loyalties are so imbalanced.”

  “Morgana—” Arthur starts, but she holds up a hand to silence him.

  “I have spent my life in your shadow, Arthur, and I have done it willingly because I love you and I want the world to unfurl at your feet,” she says quietly. “But I never imagined my own shadow would be such a burden for you. I’ll have my power bound, but not until we’re out of Lyonesse. To do so before would put us in danger, and then everything I did would have been for nothing.”

  She doesn’t give either of us the chance to respond before turning on her heel and walking out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  35

  ARTHUR AND GWEN marry that night, in a small ceremony—more private than the one they will have in Camelot after Arthur’s coronation, but both are spectacles in their own ways. This one is for Lyonesse, for the family Gwen has left, an attempt to spin the murder of a king into a triumph, the joining of the country with Albion as a victory for all.

  It works better than I expected. Gwen was right—Lyonesse respects power above all, and we have that. They fall in line with surprising ease.

  I didn’t think that Morgana would make an appearance at the wedding, but she arrived on time in a fine black gown with lace overlay and sweeping trumpet sleeves. She pastes a smile over her face and stands at Arthur’s side with Gawain to represent his family, and when the ceremony is done and Arthur and Gwen are husband and wife, she embraces Gwen and kisses her cheek to welcome her as a sister.

  No one would know that there was anything rotten between them. No one would know how they acted against each other.

  “Cheer up, Shalott,” Lancelot says, coming to stand at my side as the crowd breaks off to celebrate with food and wine and dancing. He hands me a heavy gilded goblet filled with red wine. “It’s a happy occasion, after all.”

  “You could have fooled me,” I tell him, still watching Morgana warily. I know her too well to believe the facade. I know her too well to believe she can hold it up for long. “She agreed to the binding, but it isn’t over.”

  “She’ll still be Morgana, even without her magic,” he says softly.

  “I know that,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “But she doesn’t. That’s the problem.”

  Lancelot looks at me like he wants to ask why, but he doesn’t and for that I’m grateful. “It’s still meant to be a happy night,” he says. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think Arthur and Gwen would ever get here.”

  I laugh. “There were times I doubted it,” I say. “Especially after the last week.”

  “You think it’s possible, for them to forgive each other for everything?” he asks, watching them.

  I don’t answer for a moment. Instead, I follow his gaze. Both of them are tall enough to stand above the crowd. Her arm is linked through his as they speak to a Lyonessian lady I don’t know. They look right together, side by side; it is easy to forget that just yesterday they were literally at each other’s throats.

  “I think they already have,” I tell him. “I think they’re the same, at heart. They understand why the other acted the way they did—they would likely have done the same if they’d had to. And they love each other. That love is a difficult thing to break.”

  Lancelot doesn’t say anything. Instead, he holds a hand out to me as the musicians in the corner strike up a song.

  “Lance—” I start.

  “Come on, Shalott,” he says with a smirk. “It’s bad luck to not dance at a wedding.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I’ve never heard that superstition.”

  “It’s a fay thing,” he says.

  “Fey don’t have weddings,” I point out.

  “Fine,” he says. “It’s my superstition. Starting now. But do you really want to risk it? It seems like we need all the good fortune we can scavenge.”

  Despite the world falling to pieces around us, I take hold of his hand and let him lead me to the middle of the dance floor.

  “You might have to help me out here,” he murmurs, placing a hand low on my hip. “I don’t know any of these mainland dances.”

  “Well, for starters,” I say, moving his hand up a few inches so it is on my waist, just like a lifetime ago when we danced in front of a bonfire. “And you’re quite lucky it’s only a dievité and not a clommende, or you would have gotten positively trampled in the commotion.”

  “Don’t look so disappointed, Shalott. The night is young and there is plenty of time for me to get trampled during the next dance.”

  We begin to move together and he carefully follows my steps, one step back, two to the left, a quick twirl und
er his arm. His eyes are stuck on his feet, so I take the opportunity to look him over—the half-moon shadows beneath his green eyes, the dark stubble along his jawline, the tension he holds in his mouth. Beneath the gilded veneer of sarcasm and stoicism, he’s as anxious as I am.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  “Am I not doing it right?” he asks, looking up from his feet, perplexed. “The steps are complicated—”

  “You don’t have to keep me distracted,” I clarify.

  His mouth bows into a smile, but not a true one. When Lancelot smiles fully, it’s a blinding thing. This one is about as bright as a dying candle in a sunlit room.

  “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not trying to distract just you? It’s been a bad day for all of us,” he says, his gaze trailing to Morgana again. “I wish I could do something that would fix it all.”

  The words make my heart lurch. “Me too,” I tell him. “But I don’t think there’s anything to do.”

  He looks at me, and in that instant of distraction, he stumbles, tripping over my foot and grabbing my elbow. It’s all I can do to keep us both upright.

  “Sorry,” he says, his cheeks reddening.

  It’s strange to see him like this, so out of his depth. He is always poised and confident, as graceful in the middle of a duel as he is walking down a hallway. Now, though, he is unsure, as clumsy as a colt taking its first steps across fracturing ice.

  “It’s alright,” I say, looking around the room. No one is watching us. Most eyes are on Arthur and Gwen as they do their own twirls across the dance floor. The only pair of eyes I meet are Morgana’s, but as soon as I do, she glances away and turns to the man standing beside her, whispering something low in his ear.

  He looks up, and when his eyes meet mine, the earth shifts beneath my feet and it’s my turn to stumble. Lancelot steadies me, but I’m barely aware of him. I can’t take my eyes off the man—a stranger, but a stranger I know. A stranger I have seen.