Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  I regret it the second I pull my dress over my head and drop it on the dry grass, leaving me in only a thin cotton shift that ends at my knees. He’s seen me in far less—seen me in nothing at all—but the way his eyes darken and his mouth goes slack feels like liquor rushing through my veins. It makes me bolder. I take his hand and let him draw me into the rushing river until we are standing together in the deepest part.

  “You see?” he says with a grin. “I’ve got you. You aren’t drowning on my watch, Shalott.”

  It is a difficult thing, for an oracle to trust. I have seen Lancelot betray me a hundred different times, seen him let me drown, if not literally then figuratively at least. I have seen us rot on the vine, seen us poisoned, seen us rip each other to shreds. Trusting him isn’t only foolish, it’s masochistic. It is stepping into a riptide and hoping that it doesn’t drag me under.

  And yet . . . I do trust him. The woman I am now trusts who he is. Not who he has been, not who he will be, but him in this moment. And despite everything, that feels like enough.

  “In Camelot,” I say, my voice suddenly dry, “you asked me to marry you. Do you remember?”

  “Of course,” he says, wincing. “A worse proposal has never been made—even Arthur and Gwen managed it better than I did, and she still had her father’s blood on her dress.”

  I laugh, taking a step closer to him so that we are only an inch apart. “Maybe so, but I find I’ve changed my mind. If the offer still stands.”

  It is not an easy thing, to surprise Lancelot, but I’ve done it. He stares at me, mouth agog.

  “Why?” he manages to ask after a moment of floundering.

  I shrug my shoulders. “Because you’ve never let me drown,” I tell him. “I mean, not in water, but also not in myself. Not in futures, even when they begin to close in and smother me. Not in hopelessness, whenever that begins to creep in. You have never let me drown, and I don’t believe you ever will.”

  No matter what I’ve seen, I add silently.

  He kisses me then, warm water rushing around us, and his arms secure around me. And even though the rest of the world feels wrong, even though Lyonesse still haunts me, even though I am already haunted by the prospect of binding Morgana’s magic and what that might lead to—this here and now is right. And that feels like enough.

  * * *

  I WILL BE LED through the halls by a guard, through the royal wing, lined with paintings of the royal family, of Arthur as a child, standing with his mother and father, of King Uther at his coronation. There are no pictures of Morgana, but there are others that I haven’t seen before—Arthur, wearing his father’s crown and sitting on his father’s throne. A wedding portrait of him standing with Guinevere. In her white lace dress and gold crown she is effulgent, but her eyes are unsure, an animal in the seconds before the trap is sprung.

  The guard will push open the door to the library, ushering me inside. As I pass, I will see something in his eyes that I’ve never seen directed at me before: fear. It’s the same way I’ve seen people look at Morgana. This man will be afraid of me.

  The door will close firmly, and it will take my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting.

  “Elaine,” a voice will say, unmistakably Arthur’s. Not his public voice, booming and clear, but not quite the soft voice he uses when only with friends either. Now, there will be a rawness to his voice, a sleepless haggardness that breaks something deep in my chest.

  He will be sitting in one of the high-backed chairs by the fire, the body of a bejeweled golden goblet as tall as my forearm cradled in his hand. “Come, sit.”

  He will be older, but not by much. A year, maybe two, still with the same boyish roundness to his face. There will be violet circles under his eyes and stubble covering his jaw that age him further, and not in a pleasant way. Like this, he certainly won’t look like a king, though his shoulders will be straight and square, and his head will still be held high, even though he will be angry and brooding and deep in his cups.

  Something will be wrong. Not only with Arthur, but with me as well—with the world itself; it will seem darker, swathed in gray chiffon. My own mind will feel dull and far away, not quite present. Not quite awake. It will be like moving through a fog.

  Still, when I come sit down in the chair across from him, Arthur will reach his free hand out to take mine, clutching it so hard in his that his knuckles turn white. And I will return the grip just as tightly. We will cling to each other like shipwrecked sailors in a storm. We will be all we have left.

  “I’m sorry for dragging you over here at this time of night. I know this isn’t easy on you either.” It will be his diplomatic voice, the one he uses when addressing a crowd or his knights before a battle. The voice that charms subjects and negotiates treaties, not one that he uses when it is only the two of us.

  My throat will feel too tight to form words. Arthur will realize this because without being asked he will pass me his goblet of wine.

  A lifetime ago, we drank wine together on Avalon’s beach, from far less ornate goblets, both of us by turns giddy and melancholy, in love with people we thought would never love us back. We will have laughed about that at my wedding, I will remember, both of us triumphant and happy and in love. Even for me, this future felt unfathomable.

  But maybe we had the right of it back on Avalon. Maybe they never did love us back. Maybe it was all cursed from the very start. We should have known, should have let it be and walked away when we still could. After all, wine and dancing will not be enough to mend our broken hearts this time.

  “Did you know?” he will ask me as I take a tight-lipped swig. His voice will be casual, but there will be an edge as well. He will be looking for someone to blame. Even with Gwen in the dungeon and Lancelot banished from Camelot, he will hunger for something more, for something to ease his pain.

  I will hold his gaze, taking a longer drink before passing the goblet back to him. “It was a possibility,” I will say, choosing my words carefully. “There are many possibilities, Arthur. But Gwen and Lancelot—there was a future where you fell off a cliff after being set upon by dozens of butterflies, and even that seemed more likely than the two of them . . .”

  My voice will break, and Arthur’s expression will soften. “I’m sorry. I didn’t ask you here to talk about your visions,” he will say, shaking his head. “When we left Avalon, I thought that I was surrounded by people I could trust with my life. It turns out I was wrong in every respect, except for you. You are the only person I can trust, El.”

  I will take a breath, steadying myself in a way I’ve never had to with Arthur before. “Are we speaking now as friends, or are you my king and I your oracle?” I will ask tentatively.

  “Friends,” he will answer without hesitation. “I haven’t . . . I haven’t wanted to see anyone at court since it happened. The way they all look at me . . .” He will trail off and shake his head. “Friends,” he will repeat, more emphatically.

  “Morgana once told me to guard my heart with iron and steel, above all else. She said if a person has your heart, they have all of you, and love is never a steady force. It is always changing.”

  He will laugh, the sound sharp and bitter, but beneath that there will be something else, a hint of fondness. “That sounds like her, doesn’t it?”

  Despite myself, a laugh will burble up in my throat. “It was advice I never truly knew how to take,” I will say, holding my hand out for the goblet again. He will give it to me. “Gwen was always better at it. She tried for so long to resist giving you her heart.”

  He will scoff at that. “I never had Gwen’s heart,” he will say. “I don’t think she even has one to give.”

  For a few seconds, I won’t say anything. If Morgana were here . . . if Gwen were here . . . if Lancelot were here . . . but no else will be here now. No one will be left to tell him the truth, no one will be left to confr
ont him. No one will be left who dares speak to their king that way. There will only be me. So I will dare.

  “Gwen loved you as much as she could.”

  His expression will turn stormy. “She told me I expected too much of her,” he will say, his own voice breaking. “But what did I ask for that was so difficult to give, Elaine? Love? Faithfulness? Loyalty?”

  “And what of your faithfulness, Arthur? Your loyalty?” I will ask, so quietly the crackle of the dying fire will threaten to drown out my words.

  He will hear them, though. With a strangled cry, he will throw the goblet into the fire, causing it to flare up. I won’t jump; I won’t flinch. I will keep my eyes level on him until he finally looks away. The door will open, and the guard will look in questioningly, but Arthur will impatiently wave him away.

  “I never would have if she hadn’t pushed me away,” he will say when the door closes once more. “She was never herself after we came to Camelot, after we left Avalon even.”

  “None of us were the same,” I will say.

  I will reach forward and take his hand in mine. It will shake, but it slows in my grip. He will turn his head to look at me, blue eyes glowing in the dim light. Bringing my hand to his lips, he will brush a kiss over my knuckles, his stubble scratching me. It will hardly be an intimate gesture, but it will still bring tears forth all over again. I will feel them sliding down my cheeks. I will be surprised I have any left after the past few days.

  “Do you remember that night on the beach on Avalon, when you danced with me to try to cheer me up? You wore that green dress.”

  “I remember,” I will say, a smile struggling to break through.

  “I thought for a moment that night that I might kiss you. I wanted to. A real kiss, not like the first one. Because I wanted to, not just to prove something.”

  “Arthur—” I will start, but he will interrupt.

  “No, I did. I thought: I could fall in love with her. She’s lovely and kind, and talking with her always makes me smile. And I wanted to kiss you. What a lot of trouble that would have saved us. We would have made a better match, Elaine. We never would have broken each other like this.”

  “We wouldn’t have broken each other,” I will agree, squeezing his hand. “But, Arthur, we wouldn’t have made each other great either. Whatever you will say about Gwen—and I’m sure you have said a great many things these past days—she made you a better ruler, even a better person. You did the same for her.”

  He will see where I’m going, and he will pull back from me. “El . . .”

  “Let her go, Arthur,” I will say. “This execution business—you can’t truly mean to kill her—”

  “What she did was treason,” he will say, his voice sharpening. “The punishment for treason is death. Lancelot would be facing the same if he hadn’t run like a coward.”

  “You can’t mean to kill her, though. It’s Gwen.”

  “She doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

  “She doesn’t deserve to die either,” I will say. “And we both know that if you truly wanted Lancelot found, he would have been by now.”

  Arthur won’t say anything for a moment, his gaze focused on the dying fire. “Granting her clemency would be a sign of weakness,” he will say slowly. “They are already calling me weak, you know. How weak I must be to be made a cuckold by my own knight. I can’t have that, Elaine. Rebellion is already growing—if more families defect to Mordred’s side, Camelot will fall. Gwen made the same choice about me once, if you remember. In Lyonesse, she would have let me die to protect her country.”

  “But that’s not you, Arthur,” I will say. “You might not be able to grant her clemency, but we both know Gwen, don’t we? If she were to escape the dungeon, none of your men would be able to find her again. Your hands would be clean, your authority would hold.”

  His face will contort into a grimace. “I can’t, Elaine.”

  “You won’t have to,” I will say. “Just let me handle it.”

  Still, he will hesitate.

  “If you go through with this, Arthur, the decision will haunt you for the rest of your days. The guilt will drive you mad. You will hate yourself for it every minute of every day.”

  “Oh?” he will say. “Did you See that as well?”

  He will be mocking me, but I will ignore it. “I don’t have to See it,” I will say. “I just know you. I know your heart. It is not made for this kind of cruelty, Arthur.”

  His eyes will find mine again, and after a moment, he will nod, his eyes dropping away to focus on the ground. “You have never led me astray, Elaine,” he will say. “I trust you. Do what you will, but if she is caught in Albion, I will have no choice.”

  As I leave, I will hear Arthur call out behind me for more wine.

  37

  LANCELOT AND I tell no one of our engagement. I say it’s because I want to talk to my father first, that I am his only daughter, and as Lancelot has no title, no land, that makes things trickier than they should be. It is the truth, but it is not the whole truth.

  The vision lingers on the outskirts of my mind as we ride across the border and into Albion. It is an old vision, mostly, but more solid now, with references to Lyonesse.

  Lancelot and Gwen.

  It was true, what I said to Arthur—what I will say—though I’d seen visions of their affair and the aftermath, I have never seriously believed any of them. In all the years that I’ve known them, there has never been a hint of anything romantic between them, not even on Avalon, when Lancelot went through girls as often as he changed clothes.

  They are too similar, I told myself. They looked at each other the same way Arthur and Morgana did, with love, but the familial kind. Anything else had seemed unfathomable.

  And yet.

  And yet that future seems to be fleshing out now, no longer tendrils of smoke but solid roots taking hold in my mind.

  Why, though, is the question. Why now? Is it because of Lancelot’s and my new engagement? No, that can’t be it—there have been so many visions of life after that, in all different directions, some pleasant but most not.

  I look up, searching for Gwen in the crowd of riders. She’s a ways ahead, riding beside Arthur, her posture ramrod straight and her eyes set directly ahead.

  She was never herself after we came to Camelot, Arthur said in my vision. I also remember the painting I’d passed in the hall, of what will be their wedding portrait. I remember the look in her eyes, that of a caged animal searching for escape.

  Perhaps the cage will grow smaller and smaller. Perhaps she will find the only escape she can.

  * * *

  DO YOU THINK it will hurt?” Morgana asks as we cross into the woods around my father’s castle later that afternoon.

  She, Gwen, and I ride together, me in the middle and them on either side. For once, Gwen is the one slowing us down, her horse’s gait awkward and a pleat of concentration between her brows as she struggles not to fall off the horse entirely. Every so often, she mutters a curse under her breath and tries to adjust herself, to get comfortable, but there is no help for it.

  Gwen is not used to riding sidesaddle.

  Of the three of us, I’m the only one with any breadth of experience at it, but Morgana managed to get the feel of it on our journey out. Gwen, however, is hopeless at it, and with every step her horse takes, she grows more frustrated.

  “Will what hurt?” she asks, dragging her attention from her horse to Morgana. “Apart from my arse, that is,” she adds, wincing. “Who decided this was more comfortable than the regular way?”

  “I don’t think it’s meant to be about comfort,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “But it wouldn’t do for ladies to go about straddling horses, now would it?”

  Gwen rolls her eyes skyward. “Maiden, Mother, and Crone, save me from the obligation of modesty,” she says.


  “They won’t,” Morgana says. “They’re the ones who sent us here.”

  Neither Gwen nor I know what to say to that, and after a second, Morgana shakes her head as if she can rid herself of the thought.

  “I meant the binding,” she says. “Do you think that will hurt?”‘

  The mere mention of it sets me on edge, but there is no one to overhear. Gwen is moving so slowly that we’ve fallen behind the rest of our party. I can still hear them ahead of us, but that is only because they aren’t making an effort to be quiet. Some of them have even taken to singing folk songs to pass the time.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her, frowning. Morgana hasn’t mentioned the binding since we left Lyonesse, and though it’s been weighing heavily on my mind, I’ve been glad for her silence on it. It’s almost felt like something I imagined, something we will not actually have to go through with.

  “I’ve been good about keeping myself from using magic,” she says after a second. “It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed it. I could keep managing it.”

  “Morgana,” Gwen says, and though I think she tries to soften her voice, there is still a hard edge to it.

  “It just takes one slip,” I say, before Gwen can make it worse. “And you know your sister—she will do whatever it takes to provoke it from you. And if word gets out before Arthur has had the chance to make a treaty with the fey and lift the ban on magic . . .” I trail off.

  “You’ve spread pitch everywhere,” Gwen continues. “And maybe we’ve managed to convince people that you haven’t, that there’s no pitch at all, only their imaginations. But all it will take is one spark, Morgana, and we will all go up in flames.”

  I don’t think this is anything Morgana doesn’t already know, but she needs to hear it all the same.