Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  As if on cue, the third match ends with the blare of the trumpet and a burst of cheers.

  “Help me up,” Lancelot says. “I have to get back in the tent to give my spot up to Galahad before the round ends.”

  Lancelot being only half-fay means he can lie, but he’s never been particularly good at it.

  “You aren’t going to resign, are you?” I ask him.

  He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “No,” he says plainly. “I will fight, I will win, and I will be fine. If this is a test from the Maiden, Mother, and Crone, it is a test I will pass.”

  Gwen picks up a rock from the ground. “If I hit him just right, I can knock him unconscious without causing any real damage,” she tells me.

  “Don’t you dare,” he says to her, before looking back to me. He reaches for my hand, holding it tightly in his. “This is our chance, Elaine,” he says, his voice raw but determined. “What happens if you end up with a husband who wants to keep you in some country palace like a doll on a shelf? Without you, Arthur will fail. You know it as well as I do.”

  “I could win,” Gawain says quietly. “If I do, nothing will change. I won’t even marry her if she won’t have me.”

  “If,” Lancelot echoes. “That is a large risk to take. You don’t need to search your futures to see that, Elaine. I need to fight.”

  I close my eyes and bite my lip. If I concentrate, I can feel the power inside me—Morgana’s and Gwen’s together. Folded away neatly in a box, just as Morgana said. I felt it, there at my fingertips. And I couldn’t give it back, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use it myself.

  I think about the vision I saw last night, the extended scene with Morgana. In that scene, I was able to use her magic, to call upon it as easily as if it were my own.

  I prod at the borrowed magic like a child with a new tooth growing in, exploring the unfamiliar surface. I don’t know how to use magic, not this kind of magic, but if I could . . .

  “Lancelot needs to fight,” I say slowly. When I open my eyes again, Gwen and Gawain are staring at me, mouths agog.

  “He could die, Elaine,” Gwen says.

  “He won’t,” I say. “Gawain, go get his shield.”

  Gawain doesn’t wait for further instruction, running toward the tent as quickly as he can.

  “He won’t fight on that field, but Lancelot will,” I say.

  Lancelot’s frown deepens. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

  “Healing is a complicated thing, you told me it took you years to learn. But illusion charms are easy, aren’t they?” I ask Gwen. “There were toddlers on Avalon who could craft them, and it was one of the rare spells both you and Morgana could do.”

  “Easy, yes,” Gwen says, looking even more bewildered. “But still entirely beyond me now. I couldn’t cast a spell to disguise my pinkie nail, let alone anything bigger.”

  “But what if I could?” I ask, looking to Gwen. “I don’t trust myself to try healing, but what if I could place an illusion charm on the shield? So whoever wields it will look like Lance, even if they aren’t. Even if you aren’t.”

  Gwen’s hands go still and she looks up at me. “You want me to take his place?” she asks, her eyes brightening for only an instant before she shakes her head. “I can’t do that. Even in armor it would be obvious I’m not him.”

  “Hence the illusion charm,” I say.

  “You want to use Morgana’s and my magic,” she says slowly.

  I swallow. “Normally, I would never,” I say. It feels like a violation, like a theft. “But . . .”

  Gwen takes a deep breath, not looking happy about it, but after a moment she nods. “Just this once,” she says.

  I nod, though if my vision is anything to go on, it is a promise already broken. “Just this once.”

  * * *

  WHEN GAWAIN RETURNS with Lancelot’s shield, Gwen has changed into Lancelot’s armor. It’s big on her, but she can still move in it, and a hindered Gwen is still more ferocious than anyone else I’ve seen.

  “Can you manage it?” Lancelot asks her, his voice low with worry.

  She gives a test lunge, sword held aloft.

  “Yes,” she says, leaving no room for hesitation.

  “Anyone with eyes will know right away,” Gawain says, shaking his head.

  “Pass me the shield,” I say.

  Gawain does so without question, handing me the great plate of metal, painted Camelot red and gold.

  “Elaine, are you sure you can do it?” Gwen asks.

  She told me the basics while we waited for Gawain to return, how to feel the power in my fingertips, how to let it travel into the shield, powered by my intention.

  Visualize it, she said. See exactly what you want to happen. And then trust that it will.

  I don’t answer her. I’ve never tried to use magic before; I don’t even know where to begin with it. But, it turns out, the magic knows. It reacts instantly, sensing what I need of it and seeping from my fingertips before I can so much as move.

  No wonder Morgana had such a difficult time controlling her magic—it is not something easily reined. It almost feels like it has a life of its own.

  Gwen, Lance, and Gawain stare at me in silence as the smell of jasmine and oranges—Morgana’s scent, but not quite right somehow—fills the woods, and the shield begins to quiver in my hands.

  “Elaine,” Lance says, his voice low.

  I don’t answer. Instead I shove the shield away from me, toward Gwen, who takes it without hesitation.

  “Go on,” I say. “Lift it.”

  Gwen looks at me like she’s never seen me before, but she obeys, lifting the shield up as if she’s blocking a blow.

  The air around the shield shimmers for an instant, and her features shift and morph until her face is no longer hers. It’s Lancelot’s.

  “You’ll have the helmet on most of the time, but if you win—when you win—you’ll have to remove it to claim your prize,” I say.

  No one speaks, not even Gawain, who must be terribly confused.

  “Morgana can’t know,” I say, looking between them. “It would destroy her if she found out I used her magic. She would blame me.”

  “But it isn’t your—”

  “The moon trick was my idea,” I say. “I didn’t argue for her to keep her magic, I even helped with the spell. You think there isn’t a part of her that will believe I wanted this?”

  I did want it, I think, but I push that thought aside. I didn’t want it like this.

  “Elaine,” Lancelot says, but before he can say more, the horn sounds again.

  “It’s time,” I say, looking at Gwen. “Can you do this?”

  Gwen looks at me with Lancelot’s face for a long second before she nods, donning his helmet.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  40

  I MAKE MY WAY back to the spectator box just as the trumpets sound again to announce the start of the final tournament. Lancelot is still in the woods, as he couldn’t return to the tent without someone noticing there were two of him, but as soon as we can get away, Gwen and I will return for him.

  “Where did Gwen go?” Arthur asks as I retake my seat.

  My father glances at me, and I know he’s listening to the answer as well.

  “Lady problems,” I say carefully. “But I’m sure she’ll be along soon—you know how she loves a good fight.”

  The last bit is meant for Arthur alone, but he frowns, not catching my meaning. Morgana notices something is amiss, though, and I feel her eyes on me as I focus on the field, trying not to let my guilt overwhelm me.

  As soon as Gwen steps onto the field and begins to fight, Arthur knows her. The illusion is good enough to fool everyone else—they’ve never watched Gwen fight like Arthur has, not even Morgana, who always found watching their tourn
aments boring. Arthur recognizes the way she arcs her sword through the air, how her steps have a dancer’s grace, how she is faster than Lancelot, her movements quicker.

  “Elaine,” he says to me, his voice low. “What did you do?”

  I don’t answer, but Arthur doesn’t seem to expect me to. His eyes are glued to Gwen as she just barely ducks in time to miss a blow from Lamorak, using the momentum of his movement to let him tumble to the ground, touching her sword to his neck and disqualifying him in a single fluid motion.

  “If she’s found out—”

  “She won’t be,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Your beau seems to have recovered well,” my father says, drawing my attention to him. “I thought certainly that wound would have hindered his performance.”

  “He’s tougher than he looks,” I tell him with a smile.

  “I’ve heard the fey heal quickly,” he continues. “But this is something else entirely.”

  “Perhaps the wound wasn’t as dire as it appeared,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “It’s hard to tell with the chainmail, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” my father says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

  Gawain falls quickly after that, though I think he does it on purpose, because he glances at me just before he does, letting the other knight touch his blade to his throat to disqualify him before hurrying off the field.

  “Curious,” my father says. “I know many men placed good money on Sir Gawain. He was considered the favorite—I’ve heard rumors of his training in Tintagel. They say he’s even more skilled than his father was, which is truly saying something.”

  “Well,” I say, keeping my eyes on Gwen. “Everyone has an off day.

  “Tell me, who is this last man?” I ask, eyeing Gwen’s final opponent—a mountain of a man with a greasy scraggle of a beard bursting through the openings of his helmet.

  “Ah,” my father says. “That would be Lord Uhred. Nasty fighter, I’ve heard. He won the games in Camelot last fall, though there were some rumors of foul play.”

  As if on cue, Lord Uhred delivers an elbow to Gwen’s face, knocking her helmet clear off, though she keeps a strong hold on the shield so at least the illusion holds, even as blood trickles from her clearly broken nose.

  Arthur grabs my arm, squeezing it hard.

  “It’s alright,” I assure him, keeping my voice quiet so that even Morgana can’t hear me. “Gwen has withstood worse than that.”

  He shakes his head. “But if he won’t play fair, then she stands no chance,” he says.

  “Gwen isn’t you. If he won’t play fair, neither will she,” I say, nodding toward the field where Lord Uhred lunges toward Gwen again, but this time, she anticipates him. She steps out of his way, light as a cat, but leaves her foot sticking out. He trips, sprawling out on the ground with a groan so deep and loud it makes the earth quiver. His sword drops from his fingers, and Gwen kicks it away, out of his reach.

  When he tries to get to his feet again, Gwen hits him—not with her shield, but with the pommel of her sword. It is not lost on me that she could have ended the fight then and there by placing her sword to his throat. No, she’s toying with him now, paying him back for her broken nose.

  “Careful, Sir Lancelot,” my father bellows from his seat. “Another move like that and I’ll have to disqualify you.”

  “Apologies, my lord,” Gwen says, pitching her voice deeper in a frightfully good imitation of Lance’s. “My sword slipped.”

  She doesn’t even try to make it convincing, and I think I see a smile ghost at the corners of my father’s lips.

  Just finish it, I want to scream at her. Every instant she drags it on is another opportunity for the illusion to shatter.

  But Gwen seems in no hurry, and it takes me a moment to understand why: This is the last time she’ll get to do this, to fight out in the open, against someone who isn’t afraid to hurt her. After this, she will go back to being a princess, soon to be queen. Soon, she will restrict herself to a life of gowns and diplomacy and good manners, but not today. Today, she gets to hit and stab and fight with every ounce of repressed fury she holds on to.

  Lord Uhred doesn’t stand a chance against that.

  She fights circles around him, leaping and running and striking, her familiar smile stretched wide over Lancelot’s face. She is a cat playing with a mouse, and when she eventually does pin him with her blade aimed lazily at his throat, part of me is sad to see it end. To see this part of her end.

  I force my gaze away from Gwen, and only then do I realize that Morgana is no longer watching the fight—she’s watching me, and I can see her put the pieces together. Lancelot would never have turned to unfair play, not even when confronted with it himself. And the voice Gwen used—close enough to fool most people, but not her. She knows it’s magic, but it’s a leap to the how of it.

  It isn’t a leap for Morgana, though. Maybe she feels the magic still thrumming in the air, pulling at her heart. Maybe the scent of jasmine and oranges lingers.

  I can’t feel it anymore, I remember her saying, her voice high and panicked. It’s gone. It’s really gone.

  Surprise flickers over her expression, followed by disbelief, denial, and, finally, anger.

  “Morgana,” I start, but she’s already gone, bolting out of her seat faster than I can blink and storming from our box without a word.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS the match is called, Gwen dashes off the field, only for Lancelot to return a moment later, without a shield or a sword in hand. He still grimaces a bit when he walks, but I think I might be the only one to notice it. Even my father looks pleased.

  “It seems you’ve given favor to the right man, Elaine,” he tells me as Lancelot approaches our box, the crowd in a mad frenzy of cheers behind him.

  “I did tell you as much,” I say, getting to my feet.

  When Lancelot comes to stand before us, he drops to one knee before my father until he motions for him to stand.

  “You fought bravely, Sir Lancelot,” my father says. “It is my great honor to offer you my daughter’s hand in marriage, along with a dowry of fifty acres and fifteen thousand pieces of gold.”

  Lancelot bows his head, but his eyes linger on mine.

  “If she will have me,” he says, his voice low but clear, traveling all the way to the back of the crowd. It is a trick of Arthur’s, I realize, though I didn’t think it was one Lancelot had ever picked up on.

  I try to fight a smile, but it is a losing battle. It blossoms and grows so broad it hurts my mouth, but I barely feel it at all, because Lancelot’s smile matches mine, and despite all the people watching us, it feels like it is only him and me.

  “I will have you,” I tell him, and in front of the crowd I lean over the railing of the box and kiss him soundly.

  The cheers grow deafening.

  * * *

  I SLIP AWAY FROM the crowd as soon as I can, leaving Lancelot to his new admirers, eager to offer up their congratulations. In some ways, this is what was taken from him on Avalon, when he lost the tournament to protect Arthur. I won’t be the one to dampen his glory, but I also need to find Morgana.

  She makes it easy on me. As soon as I approach the castle, I see her leaning against the stone wall beside the door, waiting.

  “I did it because I had to,” I tell her as soon as I’m close enough for her to hear me. “I didn’t know if I could even manage it, small a spell as it was. I found out quite by accident.”

  Morgana shoves off the wall and closes the distance between us in a few quick paces.

  “That’s just it, Elaine—it’s always an accident,” she bites out. “You’re always scheming and plotting and making decisions in favor of some unknowable future, performing your sacred duty. But here we are, now, and your actions have consequences. But not for you—never for you. You have
everything you’ve ever wanted now. The status and power you craved when I first met you, but also love, Lancelot. And still it wasn’t enough. Tell me, is my magic finally enough?”

  I don’t think the words could hurt more if she’d punctuated them with physical strikes. I reel back from her, stumbling slightly.

  “You think so little of me,” I say, but that only makes her laugh.

  “Oh no, I assure you I think a great deal of you,” she says. “You want things and you take them—Maiden, Mother, and Crone, I admire you for it. Perhaps I should be proud, I helped make you that, didn’t I?”

  I swallow and try again. “I didn’t want this,” I tell her. “I don’t want your magic. Giving it to me was your idea. I used it today because it was necessary, but I promise I won’t again. I’d give it back if I could—”

  “No one’s stopping you, Elaine,” she says, taking a step closer to me, then another. “Come on, if you mean it, then go ahead.”

  “I can’t,” I say, before I can stop myself. I flinch as she searches my expression, reading every inch of me with no effort at all.

  “You tried,” she says, going still. “Of course you did, it would have been easier for Gwen to just heal him. You tried and you couldn’t.”

  I don’t deny it. “Maybe I did it wrong,” I say, shaking my head.

  She tilts her head to one side, her expression closed off. “Do you think you did?”

  A yes rises up in my throat, but I know she will see the lie. I think I could get away with it if she were anyone else, but I cannot lie to Morgana. “No,” I tell her, looking away. “No, I felt it. Visualized it, just as you said—a locked box and a key. But no matter how I tried, I couldn’t release it back to her.”

  Morgana looks at me like I’ve struck her, shocked and wounded and betrayed all at once.

  “I tried,” I tell her. “But you said it yourself, it’s all theoretical. Perhaps you miscalculated—”

  “So it’s my fault?”

  “No,” I say quickly. I bite my lip. “There must be a way. I’ll ask Merlin about it when we get back to Camelot, I’ll even reach out to Nimue. I’ll read every magical text I can get my hands on, but I’ll find a way to get it back to you, when it’s safe.”