Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  “I need a guarantee that you will lift it,” she says after a moment.

  “You have my word,” Gwen says.

  Morgana snorts. “Arthur had your word, too, didn’t he? You still would have killed him if you could have.”

  Gwen doesn’t retort. “What sort of security would you like?”

  “You’ll be taking something of mine,” she says. “I’d like something of yours in turn.”

  I hold my breath, readying for another fight, but I think Gwen is as tired of fighting as I am because she doesn’t argue. Instead she looks at Morgana with a single eyebrow raised.

  “Very well. I won’t insult you by assuming you don’t have a suggestion for what that might be,” Gwen says.

  Morgana’s smile is tight but there. “It’ll be an even trade,” she says. “I’m binding my magic, so you should bind yours as well.”

  “Morgana,” I say, my voice a warning.

  Gwen shakes her head, laughing. “My magic is practically inconsequential compared to yours,” she says. “It’s tied to my emotions, yes, but what is the worst that can happen? I get angry enough to cause a light rain? I’m incandescently happy, and bunnies and birds begin to follow me everywhere?”

  “She’s right,” I say. “Gwen’s magic isn’t harmful. If anything, it’s a good way of acquainting the people with the concept of it. Get their feet wet in lukewarm water instead of plunging them into the deep end of a freezing-cold lake.”

  “No, hear me out,” Morgana says, holding up a hand. “If my use of magic will reflect back on Arthur, then so will hers, harmless or not.”

  “Yes, but I’ve never used my magic to threaten to destroy the world,” Gwen says. “And I think I’ve given up enough, don’t you? I left Lyonesse.”

  There it is, the bitterness already seeded deep within her, already taking root.

  “I think that you’re the one strong enough to take my magic,” Morgana says, ignoring her question. “And I think you won’t give it back willingly when the time comes.”

  Gwen opens her mouth to answer but quickly shuts it again.

  “What is your plan then?” I ask Morgana. “You take Gwen’s magic? Then there is no one to take yours.”

  “I take Gwen’s magic,” she says. “And then I give you both of our powers.”

  I pause, frowning. “Can you do that?” I ask.

  Morgana shrugs her shoulders. “Theoretically,” she says. “A bit like with the moon—I can take Gwen’s powers and then, using both my physical magic and her nature magic, I should be able to instill my powers in you. It would be a mix of both, you see.”

  “So you want us to make you more powerful,” Gwen says with a scoff.

  “For a moment—only long enough to give both powers to Elaine,” she says.

  “And what would that do to me?” I ask, not because I have any intention of going along with this mad plan, but because I’m mildly curious.

  “Again, this is theoretical,” Morgana says with a sigh. “But theoretically, you wouldn’t feel differently. Think of it as me placing our magic in a metal box and locking it with a key. Then giving you both the box and the key. You’ll have the power to unlock the box anytime you like.”

  “And when I do?”

  Again, Morgana shrugs. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t recommend it. That much power, loose in someone who isn’t used to it . . . it very well may consume you. When you unlock it, it should only be when it’s time to give our powers back.”

  “You trust her more than you trust me,” Gwen says, not sounding surprised, but a little hurt nonetheless.

  “I killed your father, Gwen,” Morgana says. “And you tried to kill my brother. Trust is more than a little broken between us at the moment.”

  Gwen doesn’t argue with that, instead frowning ahead, her gaze focused on nothing in particular.

  “No,” I say, before she can respond. “It’s unnecessary, Morgana, and I fear it will do more harm than—”

  “Done,” Gwen says, before I can finish. “Take it. It isn’t as if I’ll need it, is it? And fair is fair.”

  “Gwen!” I say.

  She only fixes me with a cool look. “Careful, or we’ll lock yours up too.”

  “Nimue would kill us,” Morgana says, spurring her horse to walk faster, Gwen right beside her. “Elaine was always her favorite.”

  “That isn’t true!” I say, struggling to keep up.

  Gwen laughs, and as happy as I am to hear that sound, to see the two of them laughing together again, I wish it were under different circumstances. And I wish they weren’t laughing at me.

  “And what if I die before unlocking your powers?” I ask.

  “Actually, if my theorizing is correct, your death would unleash our powers. So try not to tempt me to murder, will you?”

  Gwen laughs again, and I scoff.

  “This is a terrible idea,” I tell both of them.

  “Says the one of us not sacrificing anything,” Gwen calls over her shoulder.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from retorting. She’s right, after all. They’ve both been forced from their homes now, and soon, they’ll have their magic bound. I can’t imagine how that will feel, and I’ll never have to imagine it. No one will ever take my power from me.

  “Besides, no one is going to die,” Gwen says, shaking her head. “The two of you are so dramatic. We’ll do both bindings tonight, when we’re somewhere safe and sequestered at the castle.”

  A heavy silence falls over our trio at that, and I know both of their thoughts have traveled down paths mine cannot follow.

  “Lancelot asked me to marry him,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Well, maybe this time I asked him. But either way, we’re betrothed.”

  For a moment, neither of them speaks, but after what feels like an eon, Morgana laughs.

  “You owe me,” she tells Gwen.

  “That doesn’t count!” Gwen protests. “We were on Avalon when we made that bet—where am I supposed to find fay wine in Albion?”

  “I don’t know, but a bet is a bet,” Morgana says.

  “You bet on me?” I ask, looking between them.

  Gwen shrugs her shoulders. “You couldn’t have made your vows on Avalon and helped me win?”

  “How long has this bet been going on?” I ask.

  Morgana and Gwen exchange a look. “Oh, two years now?” Morgana says. “It was only a matter of time, and we decided to make it interesting.” She pauses and glances sideways at me. “And not that I’m not glad to win this bet, but why now, El? Before, you seemed to think . . . well, you had fears about the future. Did those . . . dissipate?”

  She tries so hard to dance around saying exactly what she means, but for once I actually want to speak plainly.

  “No,” I say. “The visions I had of Lancelot and me breaking each other’s hearts are still very much there, very much possibilities. But it was breaking my heart to keep my distance. I just figured that this way, at least we have a chance.”

  I try not to look at Gwen when I say it—I swear I do. I try not to think about the visions I’ve had of her and Lancelot, of the heartbreak that follows, strong enough to rupture an entire continent. But I don’t quite manage it. Gwen must feel my eyes on her, and I suspect she knows me well enough to know there is something beneath the surface of my words. Part of me wants her to hear it, to know what I’ve seen and to promise me that it will never happen. But that won’t help anything at all, so I push the thoughts aside.

  “We’ll marry before we leave Shalott, once my father gives his approval.”

  “You sound certain he will,” Morgana says carefully. “Lancelot is a half-fay bastard—not exactly what most noblemen hope for in a son-in-law.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I have a plan.”

  “Of course you do,” G
wen says, shaking her head with a fond smile on her lips. “Elaine Astolat, Lady of Shalott, always has a plan.”

  * * *

  MY FATHER GREETS us at the gate to the castle near midnight, his eyes tired but a smile on his face that broadens when I step into his embrace. My brothers were part of the first group to arrive, and now they stand with him, flanking him on either side.

  When he holds me, his grip is strong and true, his hand secure on my back.

  “One day,” he says softly to me, “I hope I can begin to expect your return rather than merely hope for it.”

  I kiss his cheek and step back, making way for the others.

  Arthur dismounts behind me and starts to bow before my father shakes his hand and clasps him firmly by the shoulder.

  “You return to me triumphant,” he says.

  “Word travels very quickly indeed,” Arthur says with a bashful smile.

  “Word didn’t travel at all,” my father quips. “But seeing as how you’re alive, it’s easy to surmise.”

  Arthur’s smile wavers, but he turns to help Gwen off her horse, though we both know she doesn’t need the assistance. She accepts it, though, letting him hand her down with a demure smile, playing the role she needs to.

  “And may I present my wife, Princess Guinevere of Lyonesse,” he says.

  I’m sure my brothers have already told him all about Gwen and the circumstances of their wedding, but my father looks at Gwen much the same way he looked at Arthur, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips for a chivalrous kiss as he bows before her.

  “We are honored by your presence, Your Highness,” he says, before turning to Morgana, dismounting last. “And Lady Morgana, as well,” he says with a pleasant smile. “You left several of my men lovesick when you left—I’m glad you’ve returned. It should serve to lift spirits.”

  “Your Grace,” Morgana says with a dimpled smile. “If you were a younger man, I would think you were flirting.”

  My father laughs. “If I were a younger man, I might be. Sadly, I am not. But there are plenty of men who are up to the task, I’m sure.”

  Suddenly, I realize how strange it is that my father hasn’t remarried. It’s been three years now since my mother’s death and even then, they’d been estranged for some time before that. But he shows no signs of even considering it.

  My father clasps his hands together, the important greetings out of the way. “Now, it is late. Please, come inside and we’ll show you to the rooms we’ve set up.”

  “Actually,” I say, taking everyone by surprise. I clear my throat and gesture to Lancelot, where he stands with the rest of the knights. Tentatively, he comes forward, eyeing my father with a strange expression I’ve never seen on his face before. I think it might be fear.

  “You remember Sir Lancelot,” I say.

  “Of course,” my father says, frowning. He might dimly recall Lancelot, but a knight with no family to speak of wouldn’t have left much of an impression.

  “Before we retire, we would like to have a word with you.”

  My father is a sharp man. I see the pieces fall into place before his eyes—his daughter, a young woman of marriageable age, introducing him to a handsome upstart knight by name, seeking an audience. There is really only one thing this could concern.

  He nods.

  “Very well,” he says. “I’ll have tea brought to my study. I’m sure you would like the chance to freshen up after your journey—meet me there when you’re ready.”

  Lancelot nods, only just finding his voice. “Thank you, my lord,” he says, bowing his head.

  As we make our way into the castle, my brothers fall into step beside me, Torre on my left, Lavaine on my right, both of them amused.

  “It seems our little Lily Maid has caught herself a fish after all,” Lavaine whispers.

  “Quite a small one, though,” Torre replies jovially. “Perhaps you should throw this one back—catch yourself a duke or an earl instead.”

  Playfully as the barb might be, it is still a barb, though it is one I am ready for.

  “Sir Lancelot is the best swordsman in all of Albion, and he will be the right hand of our new king,” I tell them, lifting my chin. “I daresay I’ve caught myself a bigger fish than either of your wives can claim.”

  That surprises them both to silence, though it is short lived. After a moment, Lavaine laughs, shaking his head.

  “Our little Lily Maid has teeth,” he says, looking to Torre with amusement flashing in his eyes.

  “And claws to match,” Torre adds, putting a hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

  * * *

  A TOURNAMENT,” MY FATHER says slowly, giving the word an extra syllable. He, Lancelot, and I sit in his study, porcelain cups of steaming tea before us.

  Lancelot hasn’t said more than a word after he proclaimed his intention to my father, instead quietly sipping his tea and letting me discuss the logistics he still doesn’t fully understand.

  “A tournament for my hand as well as a parcel of Shalott land that would serve as my dowry,” I say.

  “You would like to be given away with a parcel of land?” my father asks with a laugh. “I wish I’d known. There are plenty of wellborn men who have written to ask for your hand over the last week. I turned them all down because you said you wouldn’t have a husband.”

  “I won’t have any husband,” I say. “It will be Lancelot or it will be no one.”

  As I say the words, something twists in my stomach, and I see my vision once again, Arthur and I heartbroken, Lancelot gone, Gwen imprisoned. I push it aside. The future is still wide enough to change, and I meant what I said to Lancelot last night—I trust him. I trust him more than a hazy future in flux. I even trust him more than my visions.

  “But a tournament leaves it to chance,” my father says, shaking his head. “Anyone can win. And you would be giving your word—you would have to marry whoever won. And a prize like this—not only your hand, but land as well—the competition will be fierce, with swordsmen far more experienced and well trained than your boy.”

  Lancelot sets his cup down on the table beside him, leaning forward in his chair. “All due respect, my lord, but though I lack experience and what you call training, there is no one who is my equal with a sword.”

  “And you,” my father says, turning on Lancelot with a raised finger. “Do not get me started on you. What sort of a noble knight do you imagine yourself? You were meant to be serving your prince—your future king—not seducing a defenseless maiden.”

  “It isn’t like that,” I say, heat rising to my cheeks. “He asked me to marry him in Camelot, and we’ve been in love long before that. We know that it will be a tricky road to navigate, that people will talk, that they’ll say exactly what you just did and far worse. But I’ve thought it through. He makes me happy.”

  “For now,” he says, and those two words knock the breath from me.

  He doesn’t know, he can’t know. He’s only speaking of the future he imagines, with both of us poor and disgraced, our love turned to rot in the face of reality. Still, it hurts.

  “I’m sure of him,” I tell my father, my voice firm. “And I will marry him with or without your blessing, with or without land or a title to make it palatable to the court in Camelot. But I would hope, as my father, you would seek to make the road I walk as smooth as you can.”

  That gives him pause. He reaches for his cup of tea, taking a deep sip while he considers it. “A tournament,” he says finally. “And you will marry whoever is victorious. You swear it.”

  A brittle smile comes to my face—not because I’ve won, but because he thinks he has, and that is more or less the same thing. So I swear it.

  38

  WHEN LANCELOT AND I leave my father’s study, my limbs are heavy with exhaustion and I’m longing for my bed, but the night is not ov
er yet, and the most unpleasant task still looms large. But it is a necessary thing.

  A powerless Morgana will not be able to summon a sword from a river. She will not be able to brew poisons—not the kind I’ve seen her brew, at least. A powerless Morgana will mean a Morgana who is less a danger to Arthur. I don’t need Nimue to convince me it is the right choice.

  And, if navigated correctly, a powerless Gwen has advantages as well. As she is, she will still be too wild for the Camelot court. There will still be whispers and those who seek to bring her and Arthur down. But without magic and separated from Lyonesse, Gwen will have no choice but to adapt to court life. Though I hate myself for thinking it, I have to wonder if we all won’t be better off if she does, if she becomes the queen Camelot expects—docile, sweet, ladylike.

  You must protect Arthur at all costs, Nimue told me once, and at the time I’d thought that was a simple thing. Of course I would protect Arthur. There is not a price I wouldn’t pay to keep him safe. But when I made that vow, I never imagined the price wouldn’t be mine.

  But Gwen and Morgana grew up with Nimue’s words in their ears as well. They made the same vows, and they have agreed to this willingly.

  The others are already at work when Lancelot and I step into my room. Arthur is thumbing through one of Morgana’s spell books while Gwen bustles around the room, twisting at the length of rope in her hands. It isn’t long—just enough to loop around our wrists to provide a physical bond.

  For her part, Morgana sits utterly still in the chair by the window, her hands folded in her lap in a way that might be described as prim if it were anyone else. It’s only on closer examination that I notice how tightly her hands are clasped—so tight her knuckles have gone white.

  Perhaps we should discuss this, I want to say, but I hold my tongue.

  We have discussed this, so many times I know exactly how the conversation will go. And I know how it will end. There is no point in pretending otherwise.

  “Did you find the spell?” I ask Arthur.