by J A Cummings
“Will you ever leave me for a man?” her lover whispered.
Morgana rolled onto her stomach and kissed Ganile deeply. She could taste herself on her lover’s lips. “Never.”
“Not even if one catches your eyes? One who is beautiful to you?”
“No man could ever be beautiful to me. They’re all brutes and cruel and too… blocky. They’re not like you,” she reassured. “You’re fine and beautiful and loving. So much better than any man.”
“But if you did…” Ganile sighed. “I know that this - loving women - this is who I am. I think that this is only your rebellion.”
Morgana smiled for her, trying to be reassuring. “I am a queen. Who should I rebel against? Others rebel against me.”
“No, not against you. Against your husband. Power lies in the hands of men.”
“Not always. Not in Britannia. A woman may rule as well as a man, and a woman can do anything a man can do.” Morgana tossed her long raven hair over her shoulder. “Why are you thinking about this now? Did I do something to displease you?”
She smiled. “Not at all, little flower. Not at all.”
“Why do you doubt my love?”
Ganile hesitated. “I don’t.”
“Then stop talking about it. I don’t like this conversation.”
“Of course. My apologies, Your Majesty.”
Morgana chuckled and kissed her nose. “That’s better.”
Ganile took her in her arms and held her tightly, and Morgana went happily. She nestled her head beneath her lover’s chin and smiled, her fingers intertwining with Ganile’s. She had not felt this happy since her father was still alive. She felt free, in a way that she had never felt before, and the world in general and Rheged in particular seemed both very small and very far away.
“Don’t tell people who you are.”
She frowned and craned her neck to look into Ganile’s eyes. “Why not?”
“You are still Queen of Rheged, and you will be worth a great deal in ransom. My people will not hesitate to take advantage of that.”
Morgana waved her hand dismissively. “Uriens would never pay a ransom for me.”
“Then my people will kill you.”
She had seen enough of Saxon ways since joining them here in Ceint that she knew Ganile was telling the truth. She shuddered at some of the images that floated to the surface of her mind, things she had seen and wished she had not. The Saxons were good at killing, and they were especially good at ways that were slow and painful.
“All right,” she said at last. “I won’t tell them.”
“Good.”
Someone pounded on the door, startling them both. Morgana shrieked and leaped out of bed, grabbing at her shift and holding it in front of herself. Ganile rose and walked to the door, supremely self-confident, and threw it open.
“What?” she demanded harshly.
Bearn’s eyes widened when he saw her standing there in the nude, and he instinctively ran his gaze over her body from head to toe. Ganile put her hand on her hip impatiently.
“What?” she repeated.
The man snapped out of his reverie and said, “King Hengist has called for you.”
She grumbled and began to dress, gesturing for Morgana to put on her clothes. Bearn stood and watched in silence.
“Get out of here,” Morgana snapped at him. “She knows the way.”
“I was told to bring her.”
Ganile put on her leather armor, then strapped her sword around her waist and pulled her bearskin cloak over her shoulders. “This had better be good,” she said.
“The King has asked for you,” he snapped. “I would think that’s good enough.”
She turned to Morgana. “Stay here.”
Morgana nodded and watched her leave. Bearn gave her a salacious look, then closed the door behind them.
The body of a dead boy, his head barely still attached to his slender neck, was carried past Ganile as she approached King Hengist’s hall. The man carrying the corpse lumbered along the path to the pigpen, grunting a little beneath his burden. He smelled of mead and sweat, and she wrinkled her nose up at his odiferous passage. Bearn hovered at her elbow impatiently.
“What are you waiting for?”
Ganile gave him a withering look. “For the refuse to pass. You may soak yourself in British blood if you so wish, but I prefer not.”
“Better to soak in pussy juice,” he laughed.
She whirled, a dagger in her hand, the point finding its rest in the soft part beneath his chin. “Speak to me like that again and I will slit you like a piglet,” she hissed. Her hard eyes bored into his surprised ones, and he gave the slightest of nods. She stepped back and dropped her blade from his skin, growling, “Be grateful that I stayed my hand.”
The door opened into the hall, which was a riot of reeking smells and body heat. Pitch torches set into the wall added to the stench. Ganile did not attempt to conceal her sneer as she approached the brothers sitting on their thrones. She did not bow.
“King Hengist,” she said. “You called.”
Horsa looked at her over the rim of his drinking horn, not enough of his face concealed for her liking. A trickle of mead ran down his untrimmed beard like rainwater through a bramble. She spared him a gaze filled with all of the hatred she could muster, then turned back to his royal brother.
“I did,” Hengist said. He did not demand respect or obeisance, and both of them knew that she would not offer any. “Walk with me. Alone.”
She waited for him to step down from his throne, then went with him through a side door leading out toward the stable. Ganile kept her hand upon her dagger, though the weapon was now sheathed, and Hengist, for his part, rested his palm upon the pommel of his sword. Distrust was as thick between them as smoke over a grass fire.
The king led her away from the longhouse, then away from the stable, walking out through the postern gate to leave the keep behind. She wondered what game he was playing.
“You are outside of your protections,” she told him.
“So I am.” He turned to face her. “My priests put up wards and spells to prevent you from harming me, but I suspect that the only thing preventing it is that you haven’t chosen to kill me yet.”
She raised her chin. “You suspect correctly.”
“Is there anything that magic cannot do?”
“Not in my experience.”
He chuckled, and it was not the reaction she had hoped for. She wanted him to find her fearsome, not amusing. “And can magic put a sword inside a stone?”
She frowned. Such magic was possible, but it could only be wielded by someone of great power. Ganile knew of only two who could do such things, and she herself had not done it. That left only Merlin as the wizard behind the act. “Some can.”
“And can mere men pull the sword free?”
“If the spell allows for it, yes. The man would have to meet the conditions set when the stone was pierced.”
“So the wizard could arrange for the sword to be pulled only by the person he wanted.”
“In theory, although that would be very difficult. Only if he had that person’s blood incorporated into the blade could he arrange it so. He would more likely need to set the condition for ‘only someone true of heart who received the blessing of Frey on Frey’s day’ or something similar.” She frowned. “Why?”
Hengist continued to walk, and she followed him. He was moving toward the crossroad outside his city. She dreaded crossroads and the powerful beings who dwelt in them. She stopped before he could reach the spot, feeling the spirit of the place awakening. He turned to face her, a mocking smile on his face. He knew of her fears. He had seen her suffer at the hands of a crossroads god once before.
“The Britons are massing in Londinium for a kingship test. They have a sword in a stone, and the one who pulls it out will be their new High King.”
She nodded. “And this involves me how?”
“I want you to g
o to Londinium and watch what happens. Tell me who pulls the sword, and whether he has the support of his fellows. Tell me how many warriors are there, and how well armed they are. Take your harlot with you.”
Ganile took a slow, steadying breath, then said, “I will leave in the morning.”
“Good.” He fixed her with a steady gaze. “Bring me good information. War will depend on what you have to say.”
“I always give good information,” she retorted. “But I understand.”
“I hope you do, sorceress.” He turned his back on her and continued to walk toward the crossroads. She watched him go, then returned to the keep without waiting for his permission.
Morgana closed and latched the door, then went to the black chest that Ganile kept in the corner of their bedchamber. She opened the heavy lid and pulled out one of the ponderous tomes that lay inside. The pages whispered as she turned them, the vellum sheets gliding over one another like lovers, skin on skin. The pages were covered in drawings of herbs and parts of animals and other things, and black ink runes filled the spaces in between. Morgana turned to the very back of the book, where a pocket had been sewn into the binding. With trembling fingers, she reached into the black pouch and drew out a sheet of equally black papyrus.
She had never seen black papyrus before, and hadn’t even known it could exist. She had seen Ganile looking at this once, but her lover had scolded her for her interest and had warned her never to touch it. Morgana was not one to let her curiosity go unsated.
She unfolded the papyrus on the floor, pressing out the creases against the hard stone. Circles and geometric shapes were drawn onto the black surface with gold ink, and drops of wax stained the outer corners. She touched the page and whispered the words she found there, grateful for the hours of study in Rheged dedicated to learning foreign tongues.
“Cuman gyden me tha lufian min haes,” she read aloud. “Come to me and do my bidding.”
The gold ink burst into flame, sparks shooting into the air as high as her shoulder. She jerked back in amazed fear, her dark eyes wide. The circle on the page rose free, floating and expanding until it filled the room. The scent of sulfur seared the air, with an underlying hint of something darker and much more organic. The floating circle began to turn, slowly at first, then more rapidly, the lines turning into light, first golden but then burning an angry red. It spun so rapidly that it made a humming sound, and the red light formed a kind of wall. She reached out her hand toward the light, but it was too hot to touch. She retreated into the corner of the room, suddenly aware that this thing she had unleashed was blocking her path to the door.
The circle exploded into a shower of red, fragments like molten glass falling all around, and in the center of the glowing mess stood a man. He was tall and fine, with a straight nose, high cheekbones and thick black hair. His eyes were red as flame, burning with an unholy fire that told her all she needed to know about what he was. He looked at her with an imperious air and folded his arms over his broad chest.
“Who summons me?”
She approached cautiously. “I am Morgana, Queen of Rheged,” she said. She knelt before him, her hands reaching up imploringly. “Make me powerful.”
He looked down at her, amusement in his eyes. “And what will I gain from this exchange?”
She had read enough of Ganile’s black book to know what to say. “If you grant me the power I desire, I will free you from the Pit. You will make me the most powerful sorceress that ever lived, make me the Dark Queen of Britannia, and in turn I will set you loose to destroy the world.”
The demon smiled at her, and his beauty was almost more than she could bear. It made her hate him. “And how will you use your power?”
“How I see fit. My intentions are not for you to know.” She rose. “You know my name. Tell me yours.”
A voice whispered in her head. Murduus. It felt obscene, like a cold, wet tongue licking her mind. She shuddered.
“Murduus,” she echoed. “Teach me.”
When Arthur woke, Griflet was still lying with his arm around his waist, his breath stirring the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Brastias and Garwen had returned, and from where he was lying, he could see everyone but Bedivere. He shivered at the tickling touch of Griflet’s exhalation and pulled away as gently as he could. His bedmate shifted but did not wake, and Arthur left the temple in silence.
In the dim light of the coming dawn, Letocetum was like a ghost of what had been. Its Roman past hung around it like a man’s tunic on a child, a reminder of greatness that the current town could not aspire to reach. The sight of faded grandeur made him sad.
He went to check on the horses and found them content where they had left them. Avona lifted his head when Arthur came into view, whickering a greeting. He went to the old horse and rubbed his forehead, and Avona responded by mouthing his shoulder.
“He likes you.”
It was a child’s voice and Arthur turned to look at the speaker. A young boy dressed in expensive attire stood in the stable door. His dark curls hung low over his brow, flopping into his expressive brown eyes. Arthur smiled.
“We’ve been friends for a long time.”
The boy came closer, walking slowly until he stood beside Arthur. He held out a hand to Avona, and the horse took in his scent with a whuff. The boy smiled. “He’s a good horse, I think.”
Arthur nodded. “One of the best.”
“My name is Owain. I’m King Uriens’ son.”
“Well met, Your Highness. I’m Arthur.”
“Well met.” The boy looked up at him. “You insulted my father.”
He hesitated, then admitted, “Yes, I did.”
Owain laughed. “That was amazing.”
Arthur had to smile. “So you’re not angry with me?”
The little prince shook his head. “Oh, no. I like it when people insult him. He’s not a very nice person.” A shadow of sorrow fell over his face, and he said, “It’s his fault my mother went away.”
“Queen Morgana.”
“Yes.”
Arthur took a breath. The child beside him was his half-sister’s son, his nephew. It was strange to have a blood relative at last, and stranger still to be unable to say anything to identify himself.
Owain looked at him. “What’s wrong? You have a strange look.”
“Just thinking.” Arthur dropped his hand, and Avona shuffled on his hooves, turning away to sink his muzzle into his feed bucket. “I’m sorry your mother went away.”
“So am I. She was never happy in our home. I hope she’s happy now.”
“I hope so, too.” The awkwardness was unbearable. Arthur nodded to Owain and said, “Good day, Your Highness.”
“Good day, Arthur.”
When he left the stable, the smell of cooking food wafted toward him from the mansio, and his stomach rumbled in response. It had been hours since his last meal. He doubted that they would be welcome to partake in the food being cooked in the great hall, especially since it was probably intended for King Uriens, so he turned back to the temple. When he arrived, the priestess of Minerva was beginning to dress the altar for the day’s worship. She moved silently, almost as if she was more dream than woman. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, standing to watch her as she worked.
Behind him, where his party was resting, he heard the murmur of voices, and he turned to see Bedivere and Merlin standing off to the side. They were speaking in hissing whispers, and they both had looks of anger and frustration on their faces. Arthur began to turn to them when the priestess spoke.
“Don’t.”
He stopped, surprised. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t go over there.” She smiled. “Two people to an argument are enough.”
Arthur looked at the two men. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”
“No, and I don’t care. It doesn’t concern me,” she said. “I daresay it doesn’t concern you, either, little man.”
He was too bu
sy wrestling with his curiosity to take umbrage at her words. He strained to hear what was being said without success. He was not the only person attracted by the argument, and Sir Ector went to join the bickering men.
“Do you worship our lady?”
Arthur turned back to the priestess. “Not in particular, but I honor all gods and goddesses.”
“Then you aren’t Christian.”
He smiled. “I am when I need to be.”
The priestess chuckled. “Very pragmatic. What is your name?”
“I’m called Arthur.”
“Well met, Arthur. I’m Portia. I wonder… will you help me with something?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
She held her hand out to him, and he took it in his own. She smiled, and he noticed that her eyes were a shining violet, a color he had not seen before. They were entrancing. He smiled back, his hand tingling where she touched it. She turned, not releasing his hand, and led him out of the temple.
They walked to the baths, past the public spaces and to a private room. A statue of Sulis-Minerva stood sentry over the steaming pool. A fragrance filled the air, partially floral, partially like spices, and it made his head swim. Portia closed the door behind them and barred it shut.
“This is a special place,” she told him. “This is where we make our votive offerings to the goddess, and where we ask her for her guidance through soothsaying. Have you ever had your fortune told, Arthur?”
“No, my lady. I have not.”
She reached into a basket beside the bath and scattered flower petals over the surface of the water. They floated there like a flotilla of tiny ships. Portia walked around the pool to stand beneath the statue of her goddess, facing him across the water. She studied him silently for a long moment.
