Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  * * *

  WHEN THE CROWD disperses, I lose Arthur to a group of well-wishers, though many of them are the same ones who kept their sons from joining his last quest. I suppose now, with two challenges accomplished, they’ve decided to hedge their bets a little more evenly, impossible as this final task might seem.

  I linger in the courtyard until everyone but Lancelot and Guinevere has gone. When it’s only the three of us, I step toward the sword, taking hold of it myself and trying to pull it free. It isn’t that I expect it to come loose for me, but I need to feel it myself, how firm the grip is, what that glittering hilt feels like in my own hands. And I am not the only one—as soon as I step back, Gwen tries her hand at it, then Lancelot. But it stays stuck.

  “An impossible task,” Gwen says, shaking her head.

  “It seems that way,” I say, biting my lip.

  I’ve seen Arthur with this sword in hand, seen Morgana try to use it to kill him through Accolon, seen him fall on a battlefield with it clutched in his hand. This will be his sword—I know that as sure as I know my own name—but I don’t know how to get it for him.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Elaine,” a familiar voice purrs.

  Morgause is walking toward us from the courtyard entrance, her movements delicate and small. It will never not be strange to see Morgana’s face on someone so different from her, I think.

  “Arthur did better than anyone expected,” she continues. “But no one can free that sword, and Merlin knows it. I doubt he could even do it with all his great power. He knows, though, who should sit on that throne.”

  “Mordred would bring destruction to this land,” I say. “Though I respect your attempt to defend your husband . . . or your stepbrother? I’m sorry, the genealogy is so intertwined—which term would you prefer?”

  Morgause’s smile grows more simpering, tighter at the corners.

  “If you had any sense, you would take your pretend prince and leave Camelot before Mordred is crowned—he wouldn’t be the first king to execute a would-be usurper and his accomplices,” she says.

  “Well, you’re quite lucky, then, that Arthur is far too noble to consider doing the same when he’s crowned king,” Gwen interjects with a smile of her own. “I don’t think we’ve met, though I’ve heard so much about you I feel I know you like a sister. Morgana sends her regards, by the way.”

  At the mention of Morgana, Morgause’s eyes glint. “Smart of you to leave her to the beasts, though I didn’t think you had that sort of ruthlessness in you, Elaine. To abandon your friend like that . . .” She breaks off, clicking her tongue like a condescending schoolmarm.

  “It must be tempting to breathe easier without your sister present,” I tell her, trying to ignore the guilt her words spark in me. “But I wouldn’t, if I were you. You don’t frighten me anymore, Morgause.”

  She laughs, but it is tight-lipped. “Arthur will fail tomorrow, and you will fail with him,” she says, her words sharp as a sewing needle. “And when I am queen, I will see the lot of you burned for your treasons. Perhaps I will even send an army to bring back my sister’s head.”

  I don’t doubt she means it, but I force a laugh. “You would send an army because you are too afraid to face her yourself,” I tell her. “Little do you know though—I am every bit as fearsome as she is. I could snap your neck this instant, and I can assure you, I would feel no guilt over it.”

  Something like fear flickers behind Morgause’s eyes. “You’re lying.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe I am,” I say. “If you would like to find out, then please—say Morgana’s name once more. I beg of you.”

  For an instant, I think she might call my bluff, but instead she clenches her jaw and turns away, stalking back into the castle and leaving us alone once more.

  “You couldn’t really,” Lancelot says, but all of a sudden, he doesn’t sound sure.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I suppose I could,” I say. “But I meant what I said. No more magic—not until Arthur is secure on the throne and I can find a way to give it back to Gwen and Morgana. Morgause, however, doesn’t need to know that.”

  “I didn’t know you had it in you, Elaine,” Gwen says, with something that might be akin to pride.

  I shake my head, pushing the compliment away. It makes me wish Morgana were here to have seen it. She was right, after all. She made me.

  “We have only a few hours to figure out how to get that sword from the stone,” I say. “There’s no time to waste. Meet me in my tower—I’ll be along soon, but there’s someone I must speak to first.”

  * * *

  I FIND MERLIN IN the cloister that runs along the northern side of the courtyard, leaning back against one of the pillars with his arms crossed over his chest. For just an instant, he doesn’t look ageless or ancient; he looks like an adolescent boy crushed by boredom. At least until he sees me. Then, he pushes away from the pillar and his eyes light.

  “Lady Elaine,” he says before pausing and tilting his head to one side. “I beg your pardon—Lady Du Lac. I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Would it be presumptuous to assume you were waiting for me?”

  “Perhaps,” he says, his mouth crooking into a smile. “But you would not be wrong. I assume you’ve been keeping Nimue apprised of your progress. Was she pleased to hear about your nuptials?”

  I can’t help but grimace at the mention of Nimue. In the days since I spoke to her, I’ve heard her words echo in my mind again and again, painting the picture of a future that is unavoidable—a future she has no desire to avoid. Lancelot dead, Morgana as a goddess of death, and Guinevere locked away somewhere, away from the sun and fresh air and everything that makes her Gwen.

  And me? Where does that future leave me? I never asked Nimue. I forgot, I suppose. There was so much to process, after all. But I’m not sure that’s the entire truth. I think part of me knew that if I asked, she would answer me with honesty, and I did not want that. I did not want to know.

  “I don’t want to talk about Nimue,” I tell him, pushing the thought away. “It seems an impossible task that you’ve given Arthur.”

  He lifts a single dark eyebrow. “It seems that way, perhaps, but it isn’t,” he says. “I don’t cheat, Elaine. If Arthur is a worthy king, I will do everything in my power to assist him. If he isn’t, he has no business taking the throne.”

  “And Mordred does?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t answer, instead shaking his head. “Tell me, would Arthur have returned triumphant from Lyonesse without your counsel?” he asks. “I don’t think he would have. I think he would have perished the second he set foot over the border.”

  My stomach tightens. “I’m his adviser,” I say. “So is Lancelot. So was Morgana, for that matter. It is our duty to advise him.”

  “Ah yes,” he says, something hard and knowing coming into his dark gaze. “Morgana. She didn’t return with you, but I have had word that she left Lyonesse at your side. Dare I ask what transpired between there and here?”

  I found my line, Elaine. Where is yours?

  When I don’t answer, his smile tightens. “It was always foretold,” he says, his voice lowering. “You know that.”

  I don’t say anything for a moment. “Nimue said it could be changed,” I tell him finally. “I thought the fey couldn’t lie, but she never really believed that.”

  He considers this. “Perhaps it could have been,” he says. “Perhaps Nimue did not wish it changed. Perhaps she was perfectly happy with the path she had set you on.”

  The path she’d set us on, I think. A path that leads to ruin for all of us—all of us except Arthur, though he will be ruined in plenty of ways as well. He will merely be alive at the end of it, whatever that may be worth.

  “Nimue wants magic back in Albion,” I say. “You want to prevent that.”


  “And you?” he asks me. “What is it you want?”

  It occurs to me that Nimue has never asked me that. As long as I have known her, it has not been a question worth pondering. It has always been Arthur above all, above everything and anything I have ever wanted for myself. And that has never chafed, exactly. Not the way it did for Morgana or even for Gwen. But suddenly, it does.

  “I want to protect the people I love,” I tell him. “And that includes Morgana. Nimue believes that losing her—that losing Lancelot and Gwen and maybe even losing me—is an acceptable loss for reuniting Albion and Avalon. If you had asked me a fortnight ago, I’d have agreed.”

  “And now?” he asks.

  “Now, I’m not sure.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud, and part of me fears that lightning will strike me down for it. It feels so treasonous, so sacrilegious, that I should perish on the spot. But I don’t.

  He doesn’t speak for a moment, instead nodding his head once. “There is new power in you, Elaine. I sense it. But it isn’t yours.”

  I don’t see the point in denying it. “It’s Morgana’s and Gwen’s,” I tell him. “We thought it best. Morgana was capable of frightening things, and Gwen . . . well, it seemed fair. They both agreed to it, on what was meant to be a temporary basis.”

  “Meant to be?” he asks.

  I hesitate only a second. I don’t trust Merlin, but in this, I trust him more than Nimue. “I tried to give Gwen her power back. I couldn’t.”

  For a moment, he doesn’t speak. “You played with magic you didn’t understand,” he says, shaking his head. “Magic I don’t understand. But one thing I do know is that magic like that has a cost.”

  “You don’t think it can be undone,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I didn’t say that. But the cost might not be something you’re keen on paying,” he says.

  “More hypothesizing?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “I’m afraid I don’t have the answers to questions that have never been asked before.”

  “That isn’t comforting,” I tell him.

  “It isn’t meant to be,” he says. “But one thing I do know is that you possess power too great for one girl to hold. You didn’t trust your friends with it; why do you trust yourself?”

  For a moment, I don’t reply. I promised I wouldn’t use their magic, but it’s a promise I’ve broken twice already in less than a week.

  “There doesn’t seem to be another choice,” I say, instead of answering.

  He smiles, a thin-lipped thing. “Perhaps there is a third option. I could bind your powers, and theirs along with them.”

  For a moment, I don’t understand what he’s saying, why he’s saying it.

  “You’re mad,” I tell him.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “You aren’t the first to say it,” he says, unbothered. “But you’ve seen the future, Elaine, all kinds of futures, I’d imagine. Tell me, does magic ever do the lot of you any good? Does it prevent misery? Does it save the good, punish the evil? At the end of it all, when the world burns, does magic save anyone? Or does it merely strike the match?”

  I open my mouth to answer but quickly shut it again. Because he might just be right. Everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve Seen—magic has caused problems, never solved them. Not without causing ten more in the process.

  What if, in the end, magic is the ruin of us all?

  “I don’t need your answer now, Elaine,” he says when I don’t reply. “I’ve given you much to think on, I’m sure, but I want you to ask yourself if the road ahead would be simpler for you—for all of you—if you unburdened yourself.”

  I swallow, but he must sense my hesitation because he smiles.

  “You’re a newly wed woman, Elaine,” he continues. “Your entire future is ahead of you, a future you can fill however you like. Imagine it—not having omens pressing in on you, not having to worry what horrors await you, not having to fear you will go as mad as your mother. Imagine how happy you could be.”

  And the worst thing is, I can imagine it. It is the same future my mother tried to force on me once, but then I wasn’t ready. Then, I wasn’t given a choice. Then, I didn’t understand the gift beneath the cruelty.

  “I will think on it,” I tell him, hating myself for uttering the words.

  But he only continues to smile and inclines his head toward me. “Then we’ll speak again soon.”

  43

  THERE IS NO future where Arthur pulls the sword from the stone.

  I have sat at my loom for hours, Gwen, Arthur, and Lancelot with me in my tower. I have stared at the shimmering white Sight thread until my eyes have begun to cross and blur. Every time, though, it is the same.

  Arthur will stand before the sword, the entire court crowded around him in the courtyard, watching from the windows that overlook it, shouting his name. He will take Excalibur’s hilt in both of his hands, and for the briefest shining instant the world will align, it will feel right. Then he will pull with all his strength and . . .

  Nothing.

  Every single time I scry, I see Arthur fail.

  “But you’ve seen him as king,” Gwen says when I come to again, shaking my head.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And you’ve seen him with Excalibur,” Lancelot adds.

  “Yes,” I say again.

  “Then this doesn’t make sense,” Gwen says, frustration blooming in her voice.

  Arthur is quiet, sitting near the window, his own expression thoughtful. When he feels my gaze, he turns to meet it.

  “Merlin knows what you are,” he says after a moment. “He knew you would use your gift to help me. So he’s found a way to get around you.”

  I nod, picking the stitches from the loom once more. I didn’t tell them about my conversation with him, but his words are still echoing through my mind. As I sit at the loom and weave futures, I wonder—could I give this up?

  Once the answer would have been an emphatic no. Of course I couldn’t give it up. It was like Morgana said, her magic was such a deep part of her that she didn’t know who she would be without it. But she survived losing her magic. Gwen survived leaving Lyonesse. I could survive losing my Sight.

  And life without it would have its advantages.

  I push the thought aside and focus on the task at hand.

  “I can’t see the outcome of a choice until it’s been made,” I say. “Not until it’s been at the very least considered. This is not an impossible task, but it is a riddle, and one designed so that my gift is useless.”

  Gwen shakes her head. “It doesn’t make sense,” she says. “How many people do you think have tried to lift that sword over the centuries? Thousands, millions even. Many, I’m sure, who were stronger than Arthur—no offense, Arthur.”

  “None taken,” he says mildly. “You’re right—not a single person has been able to do it.”

  Something in his words prickles at me.

  “No,” I say, sitting up. “No single person has been able to do it—you’re right. But what if you aren’t just a single person?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Lancelot asks.

  “Merlin’s riddle is confusing enough, there’s no need to add your own to the mix,” Gwen says.

  Only Arthur is silent, watching me with eyes bright.

  “What are you thinking, El?” he asks.

  I smile, gathering the Sight thread in my hands once more and beginning to warp the loom. “It will mean my using magic again,” I say, with a wary glance at Gwen, who frowns. “But more than that, I’ll have to draw on the rest of you—just as Morgana did in Lyonesse. But if I can do it, Arthur wouldn’t be drawing Excalibur on his own, with only his own strength—he would have the strength of all of us together, and that—that—just might be enough.”

  It is a faint glimmer of a pl
an, full of too many hypotheticals to be at all solid. I wait for them to protest, to poke holes in it, but they don’t. After a moment of consideration, Arthur nods slowly.

  “Can it be done?” he asks me, wary eyes lingering on the loom.

  I bite my lip. “If I try to scry the outcome of that spell, I should have an answer.”

  “No,” Arthur says, surprising all of us. “No more scrying. If this plan succeeds, it succeeds, but at this point, there is no use knowing before we know. I trust you, Elaine.”

  * * *

  THE BINDING SPELL will be too wide to hold for long, so it must be put off until the last possible moment, until we are all together in the courtyard, gathered around Arthur as he stands before Excalibur. Until his hand rests on the hilt, his grip on it white-knuckled.

  That is when I let my magic—Morgana’s magic, Gwen’s magic, I remind myself—loose. I feel it stretching from my fingertips, feel it burning, like a hand reaching in to pull my very heart out.

  Lancelot’s hand comes to rest on the small of my back, to steady me or maybe to steady himself. On my other side, Gwen sways, digging her nails into her palms, her expression twisting like she has stomach pains. I’m sure my own face looks similar, but I bite my lip and try to mask the pain, keeping my gaze focused on Arthur.

  The first time he pulls, Excalibur doesn’t budge, but the second time—the second time it shifts, ever so slightly. Just enough to make the crowd pressing in around him lean in closer, just enough to elicit a few quiet gasps.

  It’s not enough, though. I need to take more. I send a silent apology to Lancelot and Gwen before I steel myself, forcing more power still, drawing on Gwen and Lance to support the spell. My knees go weak, Lancelot’s grip on me becomes harder, like he’s using it to keep himself upright instead of to steady me.

  And Gwen—Gwen falls to the ground in a faint.

  When the crowd turns toward her, though, Arthur pulls again, a third time, and Excalibur slips from the stone like a knife pulling from a pat of butter. He holds it in the air, triumphant, and the crowd erupts into cheers.