Morgain's Revenge

by Laura Anne Gilman

  And that thought stopped any inclination to stay put. How could she tell Newt anything while trapped in Morgain’s castle? No one knew where she was or who had taken her, or that Morgain had been inside Camelot to start with. Nobody would be coming to save her. If she wanted to do more than grow old inside her gilded cage then she had to find answers for herself.

  “I’m sorry, lovely. But I have to go.”

  She stepped away, watching carefully to make sure that the beast did not take offense, and looked around to explore more of the chamber they were in. It was a round room with high ceilings, and three sets of wooden doors; the ones she had come through were carved with dragons, the ones to her left had sleek cats entwined in play, and the ones to her right had flames wrapped around twined roses.

  Neither of the two new sets of doors gave her a clue as to where to go.

  “Any suggestions, my friend?” she asked, not expecting an answer, and therefore not disappointed when none came.

  Merlin? she asked inside her head. Do you have any suggestions for me? Now would be a good time.

  She hadn’t expected an answer from the enchanter, either. Not here inside Morgain’s own home. But the silence in her head felt lonely nonetheless.

  “That one, then,” she decided, purely on impulse, and pushed through the carved doors.

  “She’s a brave one, that’s for certain,” Morgain said to herself, watching the girl move on down the hallway. The griffin perked up, as though it had somehow heard her words, and seemed to look directly into the scrying crystal Morgain was using to observe her unwilling guest.

  “Yes, all right,” Morgain said in response to the unspoken question posed by her pet. “Go on, then.”

  Given permission, the beast got to its feet and, with an agility natural to its cat body, turned to follow Ailis through the doors.

  “Interesting,” Morgain said to herself, a smile curving her bloodred lips, giving a softer cast to her face.

  The sound of the door opening behind her caused her to curl her fingers over the crystal, blanking out the scene she had been watching. Only one person would dare intrude upon her, and she had no intention of sharing everything that went on in her home with that individual.

  When she turned to greet the uninvited guest, the smile on her face had changed to a warmer but less sincere one.

  “It is customary to knock,” she said lightly, nothing in her tone or posture showing her anger, “when entering your host’s private study.”

  “We have gone beyond politeness, you and I,” the figure said. Wrapped in a heavy gray cloak, despite the warmth of the room, the speaker poured a glass of deep red wine from the bottle waiting on a small table, then sank into an ornately carved wooden chair and looked sideways at Morgain. “We have no time for your little games right now. There are more important things to deal with. Your brother has taken the bait we set for him.”

  “As I knew he would,” Morgain said with satisfaction. “Using the Marcher Lords’ pride was a brilliant stroke. No king worth his salt dares ignore unrest along his borders.” She settled in her own seat and smoothed the fabric of her dress before looking up again, her eyes intent. “Tell me more.”

  EIGHT

  “Oh. My. Lord.”

  Newt was too busy throwing up to care about the misery in Sir Caedor’s voice. The moment they had trotted through Merlin’s gateway, he had slipped from Loyal’s back, landing on his hands and knees in the grass. He puked up the oatcakes and hot tea he’d had for breakfast.

  “That’s…never happened before.” Like Gerard had been through so many portals, to be such an expert, Newt thought with what energy he could spare.

  “Hush, pup,” Sir Caedor said, clearly echoing Newt’s own thoughts. The knight was leaning against his own mare, one hand curled around his stirrup-cup as though needing it to remain upright. Gerard alone remained on his horse’s back, but he was leaning forward against its neck, clenching the mane between his fingers, his complexion pale. Giving up, he slid with a groan down onto the grass behind Newt and rested his face against the cool earth.

  Newt stopped heaving, set back on his heels, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Water. He needed water to wash his mouth out. He got to his feet slowly, unsteadily, and turned to remove a waterskin from its tie-down on Loyal’s saddle. What he saw, over the horse’s withers, made him forget all about his recent incapacitation.

  Black clouds scudded across the sky, ominous roiling shapes gathering over distant hilltops, moving far too fast to be anything other than a rainstorm—a very bad rainstorm.

  “I think we’ve hit a patch of bad weather,” Newt said, trying to sound casual. “Any idea if there’s shelter nearby?”

  “The blighted wizard’s thrown us near three or four days’ riding upland,” Sir Caedor said, looking around before raising his eyes to the incoming storm. “Well past Londinium and the worst of the Cotswold Hills.”

  Gerard was still on the ground, now looking decidedly green. “I don’t think I can ride.”

  “Then we’re going to get very wet.”

  “Over there,” Sir Caedor said, recovering faster than either one of them. He gestured toward a low rise of grass, with a notable overhang facing them. “Come on, lad, get up. You can make it over there.”

  “I…”

  “Get up, boy. Now.” His voice was tough, but not unkind. With a combination of encouraging words and a strong hand, Sir Caedor got Gerard back on his feet, and the three began walking as swiftly as they could, not willing to get back on their horses until the dizziness of the magical transport subsided.

  “Umm…” Newt said as they got close enough to see the overhang better. The rise was perhaps twice Sir Caedor’s height, and several man-lengths long, with enough room to shelter all three of them and at least two of the animals.

  “It’s the only thing around, boy.” Sir Caedor was clearly impatient at Newt’s hesitation. Even Gerard looked at him sideways when the stable boy dug his heels in. The horses continued forward, but the mule also stopped, its ears twitching in agitation.

  “That’s a barrow: a giant grave, a resting place for the bones of great warriors from an earlier time, built into the turf.”

  “It’s shelter. The dead won’t mind.”

  “The dead always mind,” Newt said, but allowed himself to be coaxed forward, dragging the mule along in turn. Neither of them looked happy about it.

  Gerard and Sir Caedor were two stones from the same quarry, Newt thought ruefully; it didn’t occur to them that disturbing the dead, even the long-dead, never led to anything good. Stubborn, headstrong, ignorant warriors, both of them, so certain that nothing in the ground could be a threat.

  He hoped that they were right.

  The barrow was smaller than they’d thought, so they unsaddled the horses and took the packs off the mule. They shoved the packs as far under the overhang as they could just as the air darkened around them, going from clear morning light to shadowed dusk instantly with the arrival of the storm clouds.

  “I hate storms,” Sir Caedor muttered. “All inconvenience, no redeeming value.”

  “Grows the crops,” Gerard said.

  “Hmmmph.” The knight removed his armor and fit as much of himself under the overhang as he could, his legs sticking out into the open air. Gerard sat next to him, his legs tucked up underneath.

  “Newt, leave them. They know about storms.”

  “It’s not the storms I’m worried about,” Newt muttered again, but not loud enough for either of them to hear. He finished tethering the horses to a running line, gave the mule a comforting pat on the side, and came to join the other two.

  “This reminds me of a time during my early years, when I was still trying to make my name…” Sir Caedor began, and while Newt didn’t bother to look interested, Gerard settled in to hear the man’s story. At the very least, it would be a way to pass the time while they waited for the storm to pass.

  Halfway into Caedor’
s somewhat disjointed and rambling tale of a long-forgotten battle in the highlands, a downward strike of lightning startled the horses, making them shift and shudder uneasily.

  “Here comes the rain,” Gerard said needlessly, as a wave of water came down in sharp pellets. “Hopefully it won’t last long. Merlin gave us a gift, sending us this far along. I’d hate to waste it.”

  Sir Caedor grunted, clearly annoyed at how nature had taken the steam out of his story. Newt merely shifted on the ground, feeling a cold prickle on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the air turning colder.

  “We shouldn’t be here.”

  “No, we should be back at Camelot, warm and dry,” Sir Caedor said. “But that’s not the lot of a knight, and we do not complain. The lot of a knight is to champion his king, and complete his mission no matter the cost.”

  But Newt had stopped listening to the knight.

  “Something’s spooking the horses,” he said, watching them shift and look over their shoulders out into the driving rain.

  “More than the storm?” Gerard asked. He might be leading this journey, but when it came to livestock, he deferred to Newt’s experience.

  “I think so.”

  “There is nothing out there save a few sodden rabbits,” Sir Caedor said, dismissing Newt’s fears. “As I was saying, this reminds me of when I was a young knight, out to—”

  Newt got to his feet and walked slowly out into the rain, his hand resting lightly on the dagger he kept strapped to his upper leg.

  “Be careful,” Gerard said, picking up on Newt’s unease.

  The ground squished under Newt’s feet, all grass and mud. His balance was thrown off by the slippery surface, and when he reached the first horse, he laid one hand on the beast’s flank to steady himself while he tried to wipe the waterlogged hair out of his eyes in order to see better.

  “Newt?”

  “I don’t know. I think—” He got no further before the ground seemed to rise up to assault him, a hard slap across his face pushed him away from the horse, causing him to stagger and fall on his backside. The mud splashed up around him, getting in his mouth and eyes, but not so much that he couldn’t see his attackers coming forward through the rain: tall, elongated, with narrow, sharp-chinned faces; mouths too wide; eyes oddly shaped. Narrow hands reached for him, mud dripping off to reveal white bones underneath.

  “Barrow-wights!” Newt yelped, scrabbling backward toward the overhang. Realizing that it would be no safer there, he crawled forward just as quickly.

  “Look out!” Gerard yelled, dashing forward as another figure rose out of the dirt, coming toward Newt. The horses stamped their hooves and snorted, clearly wanting to run away, but restrained by the tie-downs.

  “Sir Caedor, help me!” Gerard shouted, knocking up against one of the mud-covered figures and coming away with only a handful of mud to show for it. His sword did no damage at all, as far as he could tell. The wight slashed at him, scoring him on the same cheek Merlin had cut. Unlike Merlin’s blade, this slice stung like fire. He might not be able to hurt them, but they could clearly hurt him.

  “Sir Caedor!” he called again, more urgently this time. The knight, his sword drawn, took a pair of wights down with one blow, but found himself surrounded again almost immediately.

  “We need to get away from here!” Newt said, somehow getting to his feet and fumbling with the knots he had recently tied in his horse’s reins. The water had already swollen the leather to the point where the knots were almost impossible to undo. In desperation, he swiped at them with his dagger, cutting the horses loose and grabbing at the now-flapping reins before they could bolt.

  “Our supplies!” Sir Caedor said, reaching back underneath to grab the closest pack. “Squire, distract them!”

  “Distract?” Gerard asked in disbelief, then turned to face the mud-covered skeletons once again. “Right. Distract.” Lifting his sword and holding it lengthwise across his body like a barrier, he charged the nearest wights—four of them now, and more shaking free of the ground even as he moved—screaming at the top of his lungs: “Arthur! The Pendragon! Camelot!”

  By now covered with mud from the number of times he had slipped and fallen, Newt was worried that Gerard might attack him, as well. Using the horses as cover, he reached out to grab the first pack from Sir Caedor, slinging it over his mud-and rain-slicked shoulder. He shoved one foot into Loyal’s stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. He pushed the horse forward, using the beast’s bulk to knock over one of the wights. It fell, while striking out with one bony hand at the horse’s eyes.

  “Sir Caedor, here!” He shoved the reins of one horse into the knight’s hands, not waiting to see what the older man did with them. He was a knight; he knew how to handle himself in battle. Kicking his horse forward again, Newt moved away from the barrow and into the melee of Gerard and six—no, seven mud-coated wights. “Ger! Up!”

  The squire risked a look away, saw the third horse, and dove for the saddle, dragging himself up into it by sheer force of will.

  The moment Gerard was secure in the saddle, Newt urged both horses into a full-out run, not bothering to check and see if Sir Caedor and the rest of the supplies were with them. From the thundering of hooves hard on their heels, the knight had wasted no time following their lead.

  The barrow-wights, having driven the intruders away from their resting place, did not bother to follow.

  NINE

  The morning of the fifth day after her abduction, Ailis woke in her comfortable bed and stretched, feeling not fear or boredom, but anticipation. For the first time in her life, the first time she could remember, there were no chores in front of her; no duties, no responsibilities. Nothing except what she might find in the course of her explorations.

  It had taken her a while to get over her fear that someone would drag her back to her rooms and punish her for leaving. But this morning those fears seemed as far away as…Camelot.

  After a quick sponge bath in front of the fireplace in her sitting room, she dressed in the comfortable clothing unseen servants had left for her the night before: a durable russet wool dress that matched her hair color, worn over a cream-colored shift of some soft material that moved against her skin as though it were alive, and her now-familiar deerskin slippers. She supposed that the slippers on her feet were a reminder that she was not to leave the castle, while the clothing—otherwise suited for exploring—was tacit permission to continue as she was going.

  But regardless of the clothing’s purpose, there was no possible way Ailis could stay in her room. Not when she had discovered such magical wonders waiting for her in the seemingly endless hallways of this place!

  “Rrrrrrrrr?”

  The griffin’s greeting had become an expected part of her morning. Ailis pushed through the wooden doors and walked confidently over to scratch its lowered head, just behind where ears might be on another beast.

  “Good morning to you, too, Sir Tawny.” She had not been able to come up with a name that conveyed the combination of dignity and affection the beast showed her, and so fell back on a descriptive nickname, the way her family had once called her Red. “Are you ready to go?”

  She had been surprised on the first day when the griffin had decided to follow her—surprised but strangely comforted. At the same time, she was not at all surprised that every passage she wandered down in the seemingly endless maze of halls, and every room she chose to go into, was large enough for the creature to go with her, save her bedchamber. When she returned to her rooms, the beast waited in the hallway until she was safely inside, and then disappeared back to whatever lair he slept in.

  “Are you guard or guest?” she had wondered. Yet there was no reply beyond a black-eyed blink and a low rumbling purr.

  Now Sir Tawny followed her wherever she went, and if Ailis was disappointed to encounter no other living thing in her rambles, the things she did discover more than made up for it.

  Today she was returning to the ha
ll of colors. As best she could tell, it was in the center of the keep. The ceiling was arched with great soaring beams, and between those beams, rather than wood or stone, glass separated inside from out—colored glass, blues and greens, shading from dark to light the way an ocean might if you were to see it from below the water’s surface.

  When you stood in the middle of the hall and looked up, you were under the surface of the ocean. Great fish swam by, huge-finned things with sharp teeth, elongated creatures with silvery shells and dark red eyes, massive schools of tiny glittering fish that turned and turned again almost more quickly than her eye could follow.

  None of it was real. She knew that. But it was so lovely, so solid-looking, that even Sir Tawny tried to take a bite out of a passing fish.

  “Do you think Morgain wishes she were able to live underwater? Is that why she created this? Do you think she’s actually been under the ocean?” Anything was possible to one with as much magic as the sorceress.

  Ailis stood watching the magical illusions float past, and could almost imagine that she herself was underwater, breathing as fish do. Her arms rose, and she moved them the way she might in a pond or lake. Her eyes closed, and the fish began to gather around her, as though drawn by her efforts. One of them brushed by her cheek, and the contact made her giggle. That in turn made her open her eyes again, and she stared into the gullet of a huge fish, four times her own size, toothy mouth open as though it were about to swallow her whole.

  Ailis screamed, jumped back, and fell, landing on her backside on the floor. Her eyes went wide, and she spread her fingers as though searching for a rock or stick or anything that might be used as a weapon to fend this monster off. Her heart sped up to the point where she couldn’t hear anything except a thumping in her chest. The air suddenly felt cold and clammy against her skin.