Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  “We’ll need to leave for Camelot at dawn if we’re to make good time, and I’d like a decent night’s sleep,” I tell my father with a smile. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  My father raises his eyebrows at me, bemused, but motions for the tournament to begin.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Arthur murmurs to me as the first matches are set up. The tournament ground has been sectioned into smaller squares where early matches will go on simultaneously until the number of victors has been narrowed to four. Then the four will be set against one another as a group, the last man standing the winner.

  “Have you ever seen a greater swordsman?” I ask him.

  “No,” Arthur admits. “But I don’t claim to have seen very many. And the look of those men is enough to cause me some concern. But then, I don’t have to marry one of them if this goes poorly.”

  The thought pools like oil in my stomach.

  “You could have told us what you were planning, you know,” Gwen says, though her eyes are fixed on the first set of matches. “Arthur could have given him a title as soon as he’s crowned, there was no need for the spectacle.”

  Lancelot isn’t in this group, but Gawain is, matched up with a man I don’t know, with angry eyes and a thick scar over his left cheek. I realize I’ve never seen Gawain fight before, but he is better than I would have thought, with his quiet demeanor. His movements are deliberate and precise. He doesn’t waste energy with theatrics, unlike his opponent, who quickly runs himself ragged with his overextended movements and extra footwork.

  I shake my head. “It isn’t enough to just give him a title. It might even make things worse—you saw how he and Lamorak already clashed. They would say you favored a half-fay knight over your own men.”

  “Lancelot is one of my own men.”

  “I know that,” I tell him. “They don’t. But this will ensure they at least respect him.”

  “So long as he wins, you mean,” Arthur adds.

  “He will,” Gwen says, giving me a tentative but reassuring smile.

  Gawain falls to the ground in his match, his sword landing a few feet away from him, just out of reach. A few seats down from me, Gareth winces, his eyes glued on his older brother as his opponent crosses toward him, victory already shining in his eyes.

  “It’s not over yet,” I tell Gareth, though even I don’t see a way out for Gawain.

  His opponent raises his sword, ready to lift it to Gawain’s chest to declare victory, but in the instant before he does, Gawain uses a final burst of energy to kick the sword out of his opponent’s hand, taking him by surprise and giving Gawain the few seconds he needs to retrieve his own sword and point it at his opponent’s throat, all in what looks to be one fluid movement.

  “See?” I say to Gareth. “He did it.”

  The boy’s relief is followed quickly by a petulant sigh. “I don’t see why I couldn’t compete as well. I’m sixteen in a few weeks—it should have counted.”

  “Your turn for glory will come,” I tell him. “Quests and triumph and damsels in distress—all that and more. You just have to be patient.”

  The promise must sound hollow to him, the sort of condescending thing adults often say to children, because he lets out another sigh.

  “I didn’t think you wanted to marry Elaine this badly, Gareth,” Arthur teases gently, making his cousin’s cheeks turn bright red.

  “I don’t,” he insists, his expression sour. “I just want to fight—to show that I’m just as good as Gawain. Better, even.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” I say. “But your time will come. And you’ll know it’s here when you hear the name Lynette. Can you remember that?”

  He looks at me, brow furrowing. “Lynette,” he repeats, but he no longer looks annoyed. Instead, he looks curious. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I shrug my shoulders, unable to let myself say more, but Gwen jumps in.

  “It’s a Lyonessian name,” she offers. “Maybe you’ll return there one day, on some noble quest.”

  “I hope not,” Gareth blurts out before catching himself. “No offense, Your Highness.”

  “None taken,” Gwen says with a smile, though her attention is not fully on Gareth, or in the box at all; it is on the field, watching the one remaining match dwindle to its end. Her eyes follow each strike and movement, sometimes before they are even made, and there is something akin to longing in her eyes.

  “Lucky you can’t compete,” I say, trying to make light of the situation. “I think Albion might frown on a polyamorous queen.”

  That earns a laugh. “Shame, though,” she says, glancing at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that I haven’t seen there since Avalon. “We would have made quite a formidable couple, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” I say, returning her laugh. For just a second, I forget about my visions of her and Lancelot, but all too soon I hear my mother’s voice in my mind, the prophecy I never quite understood until now.

  Trust not the girl with the golden crown, she’ll take what’s yours and watch you drown.

  “I am right here, you know,” Arthur says mildly, drawing me back to the present. He’s looking at Gwen with an amused smile. “And we’re married now—I don’t think you’re supposed to flirt so shamelessly in front of me.”

  “Well, that certainly wasn’t in our wedding vows, was it?”

  He laughs before his attention is drawn back to the field. “Oh, look, here comes Lance. Morgana, Lance is up.”

  Morgana moves like a shade, coming to sit next to her brother without a word.

  I force myself not to look at her, instead turning back to the field, where the first group is exiting and the new group is coming out. Lancelot catches my eyes right away and I get to my feet, walking toward the railing and beckoning him over. He quickly looks to where the other competitors are settling into their spaces before jogging toward me, his helmet at his side.

  In the spectator box, I tower over him by more than a foot, and I have to lean well over the railing to speak with him.

  “I have something for you,” I tell him.

  His eyes brighten, and a grin works its way past his nerves. “A favor?” he asks, remembering my stories about how tournaments work. He’d been so fascinated by Albion traditions back on Avalon, though he usually called them all ridiculous. The tradition of favors was no exception—he’d laughed at the idea of a scrap of silk protecting a knight, but now that we are here, he actually looks excited about it.

  I take the ribbon that binds the end of my braid. Without it, my hair comes loose around my shoulders, blowing in the gentle wind. It will be the last day I will be able to wear my hair down like this, I realize with a pang of sadness. I have not been a true maiden in several years now, but according to society I still am, at least until I’m wed.

  “Here,” I say, holding the ribbon out. “Let me see the hilt of your sword.”

  He holds it up to me, gripping the blade in his gloved hands so that I can tie the green silk ribbon around the handle.

  “The Maiden, Mother, and Crone smile on you,” I tell him.

  “You smile on me,” he says. “That is all the good fortune I need.”

  In the end, I’m not sure how much he even needs that. His match is over in an instant, in a single movement that brings his tower of an opponent down to the ground with a thud that echoes throughout the space and brings several other matches to a pause.

  At my side, my father leans forward, his eyes locked on Lancelot and wide with shock. After a second he looks to me, mouth gaping open.

  I shrug my shoulders, unable to suppress a grin. “I told you,” I say. “He’s the best swordsman in the country, the world even.”

  My father scoffs at the bold claim, but there is wariness in his eyes now. What sounded ridicu
lous last night suddenly has a measure of credibility to it.

  “Well,” he says, leaning back in his seat and steepling his fingers on his lap. “That is only the first round.”

  * * *

  IT HAPPENS QUICKLY. One moment, the semifinal round of jousts is going well, with Lancelot fighting against Galahad. It should have been an easy match—Galahad is good but not anywhere close to Lancelot. Still, I see the moment when Lancelot slips, when his movement is just a breath too slow, when Galahad’s blade makes its way past Lancelot’s shield and in between the chainmail that covers his torso.

  It is a lucky hit—one even Galahad looks surprised by—but that doesn’t make it any less effective.

  Lancelot falls to the ground slowly. I’m not sure if Gwen reaches for me or me for her, but suddenly her hand is in mine, clutched so tight it’s painful. I reach for Morgana’s hand as well, but it is weak in my grip. She does lean forward, though. Seeing Lancelot hurt shakes loose some part of her; I can see it in her eyes. She lets out a shudder of a breath.

  On the field, Galahad blinks out of his surprise and advances toward Lancelot, ready to strike the defeating blow, but that instant of shock, of hesitation, is all Lancelot needs. With a final burst of energy, he launches himself up once more, throwing Galahad to the ground instead and positioning his blade at his throat.

  I let out a breath of relief, but Gwen’s grip on my hand doesn’t loosen.

  “Elaine, his side,” she whispers to me.

  I follow her gaze to where Lancelot stands, helping Galahad up. He winces at even that small effort, his free hand clutching his side where blood stains his chainmail red.

  “He can’t fight like that,” Gwen continues, her voice low in my ear as dread pools in my stomach.

  “I’ve never seen him hit,” Arthur says, sounding dazed. “Not seriously, at least.”

  I shake my head, trying to quell my panic. “Come on,” I say, getting to my feet and pulling Gwen with me.

  “Morgana,” I start, before hesitating. She won’t be of any use now, not without her magic, and I worry her presence will only make things more difficult. “Stay with Arthur, send word when we’re needed back.”

  Morgana looks like she might argue, but after a second, she sinks back into her seat and nods, looking back at the field. “Alright,” she says.

  As Gwen and I pass Arthur on our way out of the spectator box, he leans in.

  “Please help him,” he whispers again, an edge of worry in his voice. “And remind him that he’s supposed to avoid getting stabbed.”

  As soon as Gwen and I are out of the box, we break into a run toward the tents where the contestants are being held.

  “Wait, Elaine,” Gwen says, pulling me to a stop. “We can’t just burst in there. I’m their future queen, and you’re meant to be their prize. What would you say to explain?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, my voice cracking. I know she’s right, but it is strange to have Gwen arguing for caution instead of the other way around. I force myself to take a deep breath. “He can’t lose, Gwen,” I say.

  “I know,” she tells me, glancing at the tent and the copse of woods just behind it.

  “Go, wait there,” she tells me, nodding toward the edge of the trees. “I have an idea.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but the trumpets sound again from the tournament field, indicating that another match has ended, and quickly too. There are only two more now, and hopefully they go on much longer than the last.

  “Hurry,” I tell her, before lifting my skirts and running toward the edge of the field and out of sight.

  From the edge of the trees, I watch Gwen lurk near the entrance of the tent, never setting foot inside. When the two competitors make their way back from the field, she motions them toward her.

  Gawain and Kay, neither hurt but both smiling and happy—for them, this is nothing more than a game, I suppose. Gwen speaks to both of them for a moment, wringing her hands in front of her and biting her lip. She gestures over to me, and both of them look before glancing back at her. After a moment, Gawain nods.

  The two of them disappear into the tent, and Gwen runs over to me.

  “Gawain will bring him here,” she says. “Didn’t take much convincing—most of the men like Lancelot. They can’t stand Lamorak, so their fight made him some new friends.”

  “You told them I was here?” I ask her. “But—”

  “Relax,” she says. “The two of them have been traveling with us long enough to see the affection between you and Lance. You aren’t exactly subtle. I’d imagine for them, this tournament is for fun. Here they come.”

  She nods toward the tent, and I follow her gaze to where Gawain is helping Lancelot walk toward us, though each step makes him wince.

  As soon as they make it to the tree line, I help Gawain sit him down so he can lean against a trunk while Gwen gets to work examining the wound.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks, really,” Lancelot says through clenched teeth.

  Gwen shoots him a contemptuous look. “You’ve lost so much blood, it’s surprising you’re still awake,” she tells him. “So kindly shut up and let me fix it.”

  “You can’t fix it,” I remind her, my voice soft.

  Gwen flinches. “I forgot,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I can’t believe I forgot already.”

  “It was an accident,” Gawain says, paying our whispering no mind. “Galahad felt terrible about it. He didn’t even want to compete this morning, but I told him I thought it would be fun.”

  “Are there any herbs?” I ask Gwen. “Any medicines that might help?”

  She looks at the wound for a few more seconds before looking at me. “I can bandage him up and stop the blood. Gawain, can you find some hallowroot for the pain? It’s a blue flower with yellowish leaves, and I thought I saw some in the woods.”

  Gawain nods and starts deeper into the woods, and Gwen turns to me. “It won’t be good as new. I’m worried there’s more damage inside.”

  She pauses.

  “If I had my magic . . .” she starts.

  I bite my lip, temptation to agree rising up. I could give her the magic back. What was it Morgana said? I have the locked box and the key, all I have to do is unlock it. I don’t even hesitate before nodding.

  “How?” I ask.

  She shrugs her shoulders. “The same way you took it to begin with,” she says.

  I use a scrap of my skirt, torn where no one will notice, to bind Gwen’s hand with mine, and I remember how Morgana bound the power, how she described it to me—a locked box with the key. I imagine myself using that key, feel the box open, the magic just within reach. I smell oranges and jasmine and grass and rosemary . . . but the more I try to channel it back to Gwen, the more fruitless it feels.

  After a moment, I open my eyes.

  “Anything?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head, her brow furrowed.

  “It should be easy to undo,” I say.

  “In theory,” Gwen replies softly. I hear what she doesn’t say, that all of this has been in theory and those theories have held so far, but now? It is possible what’s been done can’t be undone. And what will that mean?

  Lancelot pushes himself to sit up, looking between the two of us. “We’ll figure it out later,” he says. “Gwen, fix what you can with bandages and herbs—it’ll have to be enough. I’m still half-fay—my body will heal quickly. By tonight, I’ll be fully healed and have won.”

  “Not if you breathe the wrong way and your spleen ruptures,” she tells him, pushing him back against the tree trunk once more. “You can’t fight—it’s too dangerous.”

  Lancelot glances at me, then at Gwen. “You can’t be serious,” he says, his voice low. “You want me to forfeit? You know what that means, Gwen.”

  “Of course I do,” she snaps. �
�But if you go out there, you could very well die. Would you rather that?”

  “No, she’s right,” I say before Lancelot can protest. “You can’t fight. It’s too dangerous.”

  Lancelot stares at me. “Elaine . . . if someone else wins—”

  I cross my arms tightly over my chest. “I would rather marry someone else than see you dead.”

  He shakes his head. “We never should have made this deal. It was foolish.”

  “It wasn’t foolish,” I say, swallowing. “It was a calculated risk—you should have beaten every one of these men with ease nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand.”

  “The Maiden, Mother, and Crone just have a cruel sense of humor then,” Lancelot says, wincing as Gwen gives his wound a prod.

  “It’s already starting to heal,” she says. I follow her gaze, watching as the bleeding stops before my eyes. Gwen uses a wet rag to wipe away the blood. It’s neatly closed, without so much as a scar. To look at him, he wouldn’t appear hurt at all, but she’s right—he’s still in pain.

  Gawain returns with the flowers Gwen requested, and she immediately holds them up to Lancelot’s mouth.

  “Eat them,” she says.

  He frowns. “Leaves too?”

  “Leaves especially,” she says. “I don’t know how much good it will do, though.”

  Lancelot groans, but does as she says, stuffing the flowers into his mouth and chewing, wincing as he does.

  “So it’s over?” Gawain asks, looking between us all. “He can’t fight?”

  Gwen presses her lips together into a thin line and shakes her head.

  “Not without putting his own life at great risk,” she says.

  “I’m in the final as well,” Gawain says. “What if I were to keep the others away from Lance? Keep him from getting hit again? Then in the end, he can give me one good hit and I’ll fall and he’ll win. Easy.”

  “It’s still too much of a risk,” I say. “Even if he moves the wrong way, if he sneezes—his fay blood might have begun to repair the superficial injury, but the rest of it will take longer.”