Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  Even Guinevere isn’t immune to it. Her forehead pleats as she nods her head, stepping more fully into the courtyard, the frilled hem of her gown dragging along the ground behind her like she’s trailing the ocean with her.

  “You could do that without magic,” she says after a moment, a small smile playing on her lips. It’s the closest she’ll come to an apology, and Morgana seems to realize that as well.

  “I don’t suppose you want me to help you change into something more comfortable?” she asks. “While I still can?”

  Gwen bites her lip before nodding. “If you don’t mind.”

  Morgana waves a hand in Gwen’s direction, and the air around her shimmers as her gown transforms into a simple cotton tunic and leather leggings. Gwen takes a full breath, reveling in the feeling of her lungs full, her torso unrestrained by the bone and laces of her corset.

  “That’s better,” she says before considering her next words. I watch her fight against them, against herself, but eventually they come through. “Thank you.”

  In a past life, Morgana might have reveled in Gwen’s gratitude, might have grown smug over it. She might have held it over her head, adding it to the tally between them. Now, though, she only nods.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she tells her—an apology not for her actions but for the outcome of them. It is the closest she will come. Gwen must know that as well.

  “My father wasn’t a good man,” she says after a pensive moment. “He wasn’t a good king, either, beloved as he might have been by the court he gave free rein to. I left for Avalon when I was so young—he was still a shining idol to me, a god who could never do anything wrong. When I returned, it was difficult not to feel the same way, to see him through a child’s eyes. But I was starting to, even before you came. It was why I wanted you to stay away—so you wouldn’t see it. So you wouldn’t see me.”

  “No one thinks less of you because of your blood,” Arthur says. “Even when you changed, Gwen, you were still you at heart.”

  She shakes her head. “Not that. Not just that. I thought you would think badly of me for my father’s actions, for the fact that I didn’t stop him.”

  Gwen looks at Morgana, her eyes level and somber, shining in the light of the fire with tears that she won’t cry, not even now, when she’s only among friends.

  “He was my father, and I loved him, and for that I can’t forgive what you did,” she says. “But I also know that when the goddess of death comes to collect her debt, she will not hold his murder against you.”

  * * *

  THE NIGHT DWINDLES on as the fire burns out and the five of us find familiar conversations, about Albion and Nimue and the other fey, about Camelot and what Gwen can expect. It is not like those nights we spent on Avalon’s shores, talking together with ease and laughter. Sometimes the words still strain. Sometimes anger leaks in. The cast of the night before hangs over us always.

  It is something, though. It is a step closer to who we were once, and even if we are never those people again, maybe there is a kind of peace in this.

  I wish I could do something that would fix it all, Lancelot said.

  But some things can’t be fixed, they can’t be glued back together as they were. Sometimes, all you can do is find the beauty in the broken. All you can do is figure out how to put the pieces together as best you can, to make something new out of them.

  36

  WE LEAVE AT sunrise but still have to stop for the night just past the Shalott border, in a clearing in the woods. No one’s happy about it, but it can’t be avoided. As everyone sets up camp, I can see Morgana’s fingers itching with magic, anxious to use it to help, but I take hold of her hand to stop her.

  Gwen stands on her other side, just as powerless. She might not be of any use with the tents, but the fire is a living thing, and she could get one started in an instant. She could hunt faster and more efficiently than those tasked with that as well, lure deer to her and end their lives as humanely as possible.

  We all know this, and Arthur and Lancelot must as well, but we all stay quiet. We’ve already planted the rumors among the men, with Gawain’s help, sowing the story of Morgana’s great illusion, her true powerlessness. It should surprise me how quickly it’s caught on, how ready these men are to believe the transparent lie over the truth they saw with their own eyes, but it doesn’t. It’s easier for them to believe Morgana is docile, so of course they don’t question it.

  And as for Gwen, well, it’s easier for them to believe their future queen is only a pretty girl, saved from a monstrous curse by their noble prince. They don’t look too closely at her, except in appreciation.

  And so we stand together, watching Gareth try to light the fire with only clumsy fingers and flint. Every time he fails, Gwen’s hands twitch at her sides. Finally, she balls them into fists and turns away from the scene.

  “This is my life now, I suppose,” she says, each syllable enunciated by bitterness.

  “Our lives,” Morgana corrects. “I think I’m almost looking forward to binding my power when we get to the castle. Somehow, this is even more torturous—being able to use magic but stopping myself.”

  “It won’t be so bad,” I say, but the words come out hollow. They give no indication, but I know that part of them hates me for saying it. After all, what do I know? My power is passive and nonintrusive. No one will ever take that away from me.

  But they have before, a voice whispers, and I think about my mother and her potion. I understand better than I’d like to, which is why I hold my tongue now and allow them their bitter fury.

  “Morgana once referred to Camelot as a gem-encrusted wasteland devoid of intellectual stimulation,” Gwen points out.

  “I meant it,” Morgana says.

  “It isn’t so bad anymore,” I say.

  “It’s worse,” Morgana cuts in. “Somehow, it’s worse. Maybe because I’ve seen beyond it. You can’t argue that, Elaine. Not to us.”

  My mouth tightens, but she’s right. I can’t argue it. So I don’t.

  “Gem-encrusted wasteland it may be, but it will be your gem-encrusted wasteland, Gwen, and when that crown is on your head, we can make real change, just as we planned. Get Arthur on the throne, secure him there, bring magic back, and unbind Morgana’s powers. As soon as we can.”

  Gwen shakes her head. “You know it won’t be that easy,” she says. “Their reaction to Morgana was proof enough of that. Nimue prepared us for a lot of things, but she never prepared us for the truth about men—they see you as either something fearsome to be cowed or something docile to be shielded, but either way, they don’t respect us.”

  “Not all men,” I point out. “Arthur and Lancelot respect us. And you haven’t spoken with Gawain, but he’s always been respectful.”

  Morgana scoffs, but Gwen speaks first.

  “Not all men, fine, but enough of them. Enough to drown out the few good ones. More than enough to ruin the whole damned world.”

  * * *

  I DON’T HEAR EXACTLY what Sir Lamorak says over dinner—only Morgana’s name underscored with venom and distaste, only the laughter of the men around him. Cruel laughter, ugly laughter, the kind that sets my teeth on edge. And I don’t need to hear exactly what was said to know the gist of it, to know its intent.

  I feel myself go tense. Morgana and Gwen must hear it, too, but they don’t acknowledge it, both of them keeping their eyes on their food. The only sign of Morgana’s displeasure is the narrowing of her nostrils, the tightening of her shoulders.

  A defense rises up in my throat, but Gwen’s hand on my arm stops me, reminds me of what’s at stake. Her other hand goes to rest on Morgana’s, an instinctual gesture that goes beyond their differences and their arguments. It is something deeper, an acknowledgment that no matter what happened, when it comes to this, they are together.

  Arthur, however, doesn
’t have to restrain himself. His spine goes ramrod straight as he turns toward the knight, goblet of water halfway to his lips. He pauses, lowering it.

  “Say that again, Lamorak,” he says, the words a dangerous dare.

  Lamorak glances around the fire, his smile uncertain. “It was a joke, Your Highness,” he says.

  “A joke about my sister,” he says. “Whose clever trick saved your life. So why don’t you repeat it?”

  “Arthur,” I say, a warning, but he ignores me, keeping his gaze steady on Lamorak.

  “It was nothing, truly,” Lamorak insists. His eyes dart to Morgana briefly, before settling again on Arthur. “I only said that perhaps Lady Morgana would have been happier in Lyonesse.”

  “That wasn’t all,” Gawain says, his voice soft but with a hard edge to it. “Say the rest. You seemed to think yourself clever enough, why not repeat it now?”

  Lamorak’s mouth settles into a thin, firm line, but he doesn’t back down from the challenge. “I said I thought she would have fit in well there, I’ve heard it said all their women have thorns between their legs.”

  The words are barely out of Lamorak’s mouth before Arthur is lunging toward him, but Lancelot gets there first, his fist colliding with Lamorak’s jaw so hard that a sharp crack echoes throughout the clearing, followed by a cry of pain. The other men erupt into gasps and murmurs, and Arthur takes the moment of distraction to gather himself, sealing away his raw emotions beneath the veneer of a future king.

  “There’s no need for violence,” he says, though I almost think he smiles at Lancelot as he says it. “But, Sir Lamorak, you have now insulted both my sister and my wife, your future queen, and I will have an apology from you.”

  “But, Your Highness,” Sir Galahad interrupts. “You saw with your own eyes—”

  “I saw a clever trick,” he says. “I saw my very clever sister take advantage of the clouds covering the moon, saw her use her reputation as a sorceress to hold a lit candle in her hands and pretend it was the moon to cow the Lyonessians into a surrender. Without her ploy, we would not be here, drinking wine and making jokes, and I trust that when you tell the story of what happened in Lyonesse, you will remember that part.”

  Lamorak lets out another cry of pain, touching his bleeding jaw delicately. “I think it’s broken,” he cries out, looking at Lancelot in disbelief before turning to Arthur for help. “He broke my jaw.”

  Arthur’s eyes immediately go to Gwen and Morgana, ready to ask for their help healing it before he remembers himself.

  “Yes, well, perhaps it will serve as a reminder,” he says.

  He gets to his feet, setting aside his mostly full plate. “I think I’ll head to bed, and I suggest the rest of you do the same—tomorrow will be a long day.”

  After he leaves, the rest of the camp hastens to clean up and help Lamorak bandage his jaw, but in the chaos, I see Lancelot slip into the woods and I follow him, running to catch up.

  “Let me see it,” I say when I fall into step beside him.

  He pauses, holding up his hand between us, though he won’t look at me. His green-gold eyes almost seem to glow in the moonlight, a rolling thunderstorm lurking behind them.

  “You’re going to tell me it was foolish,” he says, the edges of the words hard.

  I look at his hand, the knuckles red and slick, but—upon further inspection—not with his own blood.

  “It would have been more foolish if Arthur had done it,” I say. “Or if Gwen or Morgana had been provoked to use their magic. Or me, for that matter, I wouldn’t have minded a shot at him. All of us wanted to do it, Lance. But you were the only one who could get away with it. So I would say that it was impulsive and violent, yes. But I wouldn’t call it foolish.”

  We walk together until we find a stream, and I help him wash his hand, ensuring there are no cuts or scrapes or breaks that will need tending to, but there is nothing but smooth gold skin. Whether it’s fay blood or just dumb luck, he’s entirely unharmed.

  “If Morgana could have,” he says, sitting down beside the stream to roll up his pant legs above his knees, “she would have done far worse. Made his hair fall out, maybe.”

  “Transfigured his shirt into a swarm of bees,” I add with a smile.

  He laughs. “Set his pants on fire,” he counters.

  That gives me pause. I clasp my hands in front of me tightly. “Actually, the first time I met Morgana, she set a whole room on fire to spite her sister,” I tell him. “It was the first magic I’d seen up close. I remember thinking, How extraordinary it must be, to bend the world to your will like that. It didn’t occur to me then how the world would snap back, how it would punish her for it. All I saw was the glamour and the glory. All I wanted was to be just like her.”

  Lancelot eases his way into the stream. The water comes up only to his calves.

  “It’s funny you say that,” he says after a moment. “I often thought she felt the same way about you.”

  “Me?” I repeat, unable to hold back a laugh. The idea of it is ridiculous—a great oak tree doesn’t idolize its shadow.

  Lancelot shrugs. “Yes, you. Especially after we left Avalon—she could force her way through any situation—Lyonesse is proof enough of that—but she’s like a cannonball, destroying everything in her path. Normally, I don’t think that bothers her. In Avalon, she got away with it easily enough, but on the mainland . . . I think she envies you your ability to maneuver through difficult situations like a dagger, precise and sharp. You both solve problems in your own ways, you’re both frighteningly good at it. It’s just that you tend to leave less collateral damage in the process.”

  I shake my head. “Maybe you just can’t see all of my collateral damage yet,” I say, thinking of the futures, how they are narrowing down now, how paths are being chosen.

  I shake my head again, pushing the thought from my mind, but Lancelot watches me as if he can read my thoughts.

  “I’ve been doing some asking around, with the men your father sent,” he says slowly. “Some of them are old enough to have fought in the Fay War with my father.”

  I blink, trying to follow the change in subject. “And?” I ask. “Did you find anything?”

  He nods once. “A name. A soldier lost in a shipwreck, only to return home again some months later. The timing lines up. Banwick.”

  A memory slides into place. “Lord Banwick,” I say. “I remember. He was a friend of my father’s. His son, Ector, was friends with Lavaine . . .” I trail off, realizing what Lancelot must have already put together. “Ector’s two years older than you are.”

  Lancelot nods. “He had a wife when he met my mother,” he says. “And a baby. He went back to them. It was a choice.”

  He says the words impassively, reporting simple facts, but I see the emotion flickering beneath the surface. I want to reach out to him, but instead I wrap my arms tighter around myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  He shrugs. “We both knew there was a good chance it would end like this,” he says. “But I had to know.”

  I swallow. “And now that you do?” I ask.

  “I can’t say that it feels good,” he says, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “But it does feel finished. And I think that’s enough.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I keep thinking about how it will feel for me one day, when the future has become the past. Will it be enough, for it to simply be finished, for better or worse?

  “Well?” Lancelot says, drawing me out of my thoughts. He takes a step deeper into the stream so the water rushes up to his knees, reaching his rolled-up pants. “Are you going to come in or not?”

  I laugh, tucking my arms tighter around myself. “It’s freezing,” I point out. “And I had the good sense not to get all blood soaked, so what’s the point?”

  He shrugs, a famil
iar smile curling at his lips. “Actually, the water is warm—there must be a hot spring upstream. See?” Without warning, he splashes me, sending a wave of water that I don’t quite manage to step back quickly enough to miss.

  “Hey!” I say, shooting him a glare. But he’s right—the water seeps through the wool of my dress, warm against my skin. Still, I hold my ground. “I don’t feel like it,” I tell him.

  He eyes me for a moment. “You don’t think . . .” he says, trailing off. “You don’t think you’ll drown?”

  He knows all about my drowning visions. Even after I learned to channel my Sight through the loom, my drowning dreams persisted. He would be there sometimes, when I woke up thrashing and panicked, feeling like I couldn’t breathe. He always held me and stroked my hair until I calmed down.

  He didn’t press me for details at first, but eventually I told him about the vision, as much as I dared. He tried to help, offered to teach me how to swim, but I refused. I didn’t know how to explain that, in my vision, I didn’t even try to swim, how it wouldn’t make a difference if I could.

  I hesitate now. “No,” I say, biting my lip. “I don’t think I will. But . . . well, I can never be sure, can I? And I’ve done so much to see Arthur take that throne. I’ll be damned if I’m going to die before I get to see him sit in it. At this point, close as we are, I’m not about to take any chances.”

  He considers this, stepping back to the center of the river where it’s the deepest, the water now all the way up to his waist.

  “Your pants are soaked now,” I tell him.

  He waves away my concern. “Morgana can—” he says, before catching himself, his smile growing rueful. “Ah. I keep forgetting.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

  He steps back to the edge of the river, until he stands on its bank, only a foot away from me, holding a hand out.

  “Come on,” he says, with a smile full of mischief, the same one he always wore during bonfire nights on Avalon, the same one that never fails to set my stomach aflutter. “I won’t let you drown. I swear to the Maiden, Mother, and Crone.”