“You know of her?” Bedivere spat, hand clutching his sword once more.
“Oh,” the hag wheezed. “I say this only for her beauty. With those flame locks and fire heart, her romance would be a difficult blaze to control.”
Morganne flinched at the word and repeated it in her mind. Fireheart.
Kay wandered toward them, unaware of the brewing tension. “Greetings,” he said, then jerked backwards, his face a comical grimace. He stared at the haggard old woman, her face pitted like ancient bark from a tree, and her eyes as dark as death itself. He cleared his throat, turning to Bedivere with a sly smile. “Your luck is in. Seems to be the day for maidens running astray unguided. Would you care to warm your bones at our fire, old woman?”
She nodded, but looked not at Kay, and instead, fixed those beady dark eyes on Morganne.
A crow cawed into the darkened sky.
“Don’t mind him,” the hag said, flicking age-old hands toward the back of the cart. Several cages trapping crows and ravens sat stacked amongst other covered boxes, and Morganne did not care to think what they concealed. A raven’s amber eye watched her, it cawed again in time to the same scraping sensation within her bones. She gulped, remembering the blue flamed visions.
“Help an old woman down to warm her soul by the fire, would you?” she asked Morganne, proffering her hand adorned with age spots and blue, blue veins.
Morganne took it. Angelfire, grazing nearby, pawed the ground—agitated. Several crows sang sadness into the air.
“I have something for you, a message,” the old woman whispered to Morganne as Kay and Bedivere set about cooking broth with the left-over meat and bones. The woman pulled at her cloak, exposing her collarbone that bore a darkened mark. Two black crescent moons back-to-back.
Morganne shrugged, nervous. “I—I don’t know it’s meaning.”
And the old woman laughed a terrible laugh. “Oh child, you soon will. You soon will.”
10
A Pile of Earth
It did not take long before the king’s men fell asleep, serenading the nighttime frogs and crickets with heavy snores. Morganne could wish for no such thing. She glared at the old hag across the fire’s dying flames.
“She sent you?” Morganne asked, and the hag smiled, exposing her blackened gums like freshly dug graves.
“Nobody sent me, Fireheart. I am but a gypsy traveler. But I felt what you did, we all did.” She pulled at her collar once more exposing the crescent moons as if that gave an answer to everything.
Bedivere snorted and rolled over. Morganne jumped in surprise, then watched him a few careful moments as the flames danced across his bruised face. She softened then, watching the curl of his eyelashes and the fullness of his lips as he slept.
“How—How did you—and who is we?”
The hag glared.
“Tell me,” Morganne demanded through gritted teeth, checking Bedivere had not stirred.
This time the hag smiled. “You awoke her, brought her memory back to life and invited her into your home—”
“I did no such thing!” Morganne spat, yet guilt pulsed through her veins. She closed her eyes to the truth, then softened her voice. “It was a mistake. You must understand it was all a stupid mistake. Please, I beg you...” Morganne reached out, taking hold of the old woman's arm. The hag pulled away, scowling. “Please, if you have any information that can help my family, then pray, you must tell me, I want nothing more than for this stupid quest to be over—”
“Over?” the old woman interrupted. “This will never be over. This is a war as old as time itself.”
“What war?”
“Witches versus necromancers.” The hag cackled, with an incredulous shake of her head.
Bedivere gasped, then imitated a few gentle snores. Morganne turned to him, but missed his eyes flinging open in surprise… in terror. He squeezed them shut now, laying as quiet as sleep itself as they continued, hoping to gain the information he knew they would not share had they known he was listening.
“I am no witch, old woman,” Morganne spat when she was content the boy would not hear, her eyes narrowed in caution.
“And yet, here you are on a quest to unleash Emrysa herself! Queen of dark magic.”
The words hit Morganne like a punch in her solar plexus. “My family is under her curse, what choice am I left with? Let my entire family die?”
The old woman nodded. “But I wonder what caused her the ability to latch onto them in the first place, child?” Her eyes narrowed, and Morganne understood that this hag did not wonder—she knew. “You must have welcomed her into your home, no? Greed, perhaps? Jealousy? Ah, yes, these are emotions Emrysa adores.”
Tears stung the back of Morganne’s eyes, and her nose tickled in a way it often did before crying. “Yes,” Morganne admitted, gulping her tears away. “All of those things.”
“You need not explain, child. You cannot wield the power like your sisters that much is clear. But you still have witch blood.” The old woman picked at her grubby nails, feigning nonchalance or indifference, but Morganne sensed the hag’s hunger from across the fire. A shadow flickered across the old woman’s face. “Are you not aware that spells do not need magic to work, no?”
Morganne’s green eyes widened, but she remained silent, waiting for the hag to continue. And she did.
“A spell,” she said, snarling up her face as if a bad smell had floated by. “A spell is nothing more than a recipe. Just as you can bake a cake by following simple instructions, so you can create a spell. Say the right words, use the right tools. It’s all—” her nostrils flared with distaste. “—Academic.”
“You mean to say I don’t need magic to find Emrysa?”
The old woman shook her head, and a smile crept across her paper-thin skin as though it would slice her face apart. “That is correct. Spells and magic are different. A spell created by a witch is a recipe, a set of instructions that work with nature. Magic is a magnificent manipulator. It takes nature, and bends it to a whim, it’s a fantastic and cruel power… in the wrong hands.”
And as if testing her own words, the old woman rubbed her own decaying hands together until a miniature thunderstorm formed in her palm—a foreboding black cloud filled with minute lightning and power pulsing in the dark.
“Tell me,” Morganne said, edging closer to the old witch. “Tell me how I can find her and reverse this stupid mistake.”
“Rather you than me, Fireheart—for though I wish to see Emrysa returned to this world in flesh and blood, I would not want to pay the price to be the one to do so.”
“If I do not find her, I’ll pay with a heavier price. What can be worth more than my mother and sisters’ lives?” Morganne’s voice rose, and she winced at herself, checking the bulk of both Kay and Bedivere’s sleeping bodies once again.
“Come, help up my old bones.” The woman gestured from the small log she sat upon. Morganne sighed and helped the hag rise, noticing the touch of the woman’s hands were as cold as ice, despite the warmth of the fire. “Do as I say, though I shall not incant or be any part of this. Now, draw a circle, a large circle here in the open, and place a pile of earth just there.”
Morganne trailed a circle with the toe of her boot in the forest loam, and scrambled together the pile of earth, her fingertips black and dry.
“Opposite it, you need water,” the witch continued and Morganne picked up the water skin lying next to Kay and placed it in the circle. “Good, good. Now, fire is easy, you can get a small flame a’flickering from the campfire, no?”
Morganne did, scalding her fingers in the process.
“Now, you need a representation of air. As you might have already guessed, the four elements of this world will complete your magic circle.”
Both Morganne and the witch looked around for inspiration. “We did not do this at home,” Morganne muttered, knowing air to be as impossible to catch as wishes.
“No, because your sisters used magic.”
The hag cackled, her cruel words twisting like a knife in Morganne’s side.
Morganne forced a heavy exhale, stopping mid-breath.
“Oh!” Morganne thought with sudden clarity. “Breath.” She knelt and blew on the circle boundary with a long, slow exhale.
“Yes, yes,” cooed the old witch.
In the darkness of the shadows, several ravens cawed. A hard shove sent Morganne stumbling backwards into the circle.
“Get in there,” the witch ordered, her face darker than before and for several heartbeats, Morganne wondered if this was all a cruel trick. But what other choice did she have? Do nothing and her family would die. Try the spell and risk restarting an ancient war.
And all the while, unbeknown to her, Bedivere watched through his eyelashes, too stunned to stop what he knew he should.
“Walk the circle clockwise and repeat my words… carefully.
I call upon the goddess of night
To give me the power of second sight
To walk the path to where you stay
To find you by the break of day.”
Morganne shuddered. The words, they sounded all wrong. Dark and heavy like death and dread. I shouldn’t do this, she thought, the little voice inside that is not so much magic, but somehow always right. She could still hear her sisters’ screams scraping at her bones. The final goodbye her mother gave, expecting to die. No, she was their only hope, and she would make this wrong right, somehow.
She walked the circle thrice, then stood, head cast back to the withering moon, hands splayed at her side. And she spoke the words.
“I call upon the goddess of the night…”
Wind howled through the midnight trees.
“To give me the power of second sight…”
Nothing. Not yet.
“To walk the path to where you stay…”
The flap of ravens’ wings; a cackle of an old witch hoping for other things.
“To find you by the break of day.”
The wind ceased. Still. Too still. Morganne looked around. Nothing had outwardly changed, save for Bedivere who sat bolt upright staring at her with those dark eyes that made her melt.
“What just happened?” he said, slowly rising to his feet, his cape askew.
Morganne stuttered, failing to find the words. Yes, she felt it too. Something.
Something.
He walked to her, alarmed, fearful, uncertain, and he held out his hands for her to go to him, his forehead creased with concern.
It’s nothing, Morganne thought. Just the fear that accompanies expectation. She sighed, smiled at Bedivere, and walked toward him, her feet cutting open the circle.
And as she did, the magic gushed outward into the night.
11
Marionette
A long, insidious scream bellowed along the air like the last war song sung by a dying solider. The old hag laughed, cackling between wheezing coughs.
“You did it, Fireheart!” the old woman said, gasping for air. She pointed a crooked finger.
Morganne and Bedivere followed her gaze toward the scream churning their blood thick and cold.
It was coming from Kay.
With ghastly movements and perverse jolts, Kay’s body shuddered and jerked until he stood on his feet. Here, wobbling like a toddler standing for the first time, Kay’s eyes snapped open. But they were not his intense blue eyes of charm and mischief, but rather red as the devil’s own skin. And they stared into nothing and everything. Morganne sensed the vastness of the universe in those black, black pupils. His mouth opened, an unnatural movement like a marionette on performance.
“Fireheart,” the voice said, and Morganne recognized the tone in a heartbeat. Not the deep, husky voice of Kay, but a time-worn tenor of ancient knowings. The voice she had felt in her mind.
Emrysa.
“You come, good. Your family are weakening under my blue flame. They have but hours before it will strip them of their memories and powers. You must come—”
“Am I not here?” Morganne bellowed, sickened as Kay’s body lurched toward her like a living doll, arms outstretched, stare penetrating. “Tell me, tell me and I will come, please.”
Kay’s—Emrysa’s—right arm flung outward, gesturing to Angelfire, but that frightful stare remained fixed on Morganne. “Fetch me the horse. A spellbound witch like yourself cannot know such things. I need to share. I will share with the beast, and the beast will bring you to me.”
Morganne shook her head, her trembling fingers steepled to her lips. “No,” she whispered, not wanting her poor, innocent horse to suffer under Emrysa’s demands—though she knew she must.
“Come!” screamed the voice from Kay’s mouth; and Angelfire did.
He took slow and proud steps, like a warrior marching into a war he knew he couldn’t win, but would battle for honor, regardless. His coat glistened shades of amber and lava as he passed the campfire with measured steps. He stood and tossed his head, his magnificent mane dancing like the firelight. Kay’s body teetered over to the horse and placed a hand on the steed’s forehead beneath his forelock. Angelfire took one step back, then steeled himself against his fear. His swishing tail the silent evidence of his discomfort.
Tears streamed down Morganne’s face, warm and hot against the night. My poor, brave horse. She stepped forward, but Kay’s head turned with an unnatural jolt, the red eyes boring into Morganne and stopping her from taking another step.
Bedivere hissed through his teeth. “I’ve got to do something.” He strode forward. “Go, you wretched soul. I demand you to leave Kay’s body. Leave him, now!”
Kay’s head bent back, too far back, as though it may snap clean off. A chilling laugh erupted from his mouth. Kay’s arm flung from Angelfire’s head toward Bedivere, sending the dark-haired knight flying backward through the nighttime air, his body crashing against a tree.
Bedivere landed in a heap.
“No!” screamed Morganne, running to the knight as he staggered to his feet.
A fox cried into the night. An owl hooted. Angelfire reared, screaming a neigh as chilling as a frost-laden grave. Morganne yelped, staring helplessly back at her horse. Kay’s body turned, his face morphing now, aging and cursed. “The beast knows the way, and the beast will come. For he knows what will happen to his dear companions if he fails in his quest. I need not tell you what will happen if you fail in yours…”
Morganne turned, sprinting to Angelfire; his coat glistened, and his entire body trembled. She thudded against his body, embraced his hot, sweating coat as her own tears roared from within.
As her tears fell, the air in the forest softened, as if the world had been holding its breath, and now exhaled long and slow. Morganne looked around the dying campfire, the gypsy hag and carriage was gone, only a raven left in her place. Bedivere watched her with horror and something else behind those deep, dark eyes.
Then Kay dropped to the floor.
12
A Different Kind of Magic
“No!” screamed Bedivere, dropping to his knees beside his friend’s lifeless body.
“Is he breathing?” Morganne asked, heart racing as Bedivere bent his head close to Kay’s gaunt face. She watched the boy’s chest and saw no movement.
Bedivere jostled Kay into his arms, one arm under his neck, the other under his knees and stood. Kay’s head fell backwards and Morganne gasped at the blueness of his lips, the grayness of his skin.
“He is barely breathing, I must get him to Camelot—the king’s magician will know what to do.”
Bedivere struggled with his friend’s weight as he tried to hoist Kay into his saddle.
“Here, let me help.” Morganne rushed to Bedivere’s side, her entire body shaking with shock and guilt. This was all her fault. Again. Her hands trembled as she helped move Kay into place.
“It’s okay, I can do this,” Bedivere said, raising his voice when Morganne failed to step away from his task. “I said, I can do this!”
The venom in his words hit her like a slap to her face, and Morganne shot backward. Bedivere turned, his stare compelling her to step back further. Yet, as much as she hated the accusations laced in his beautiful dark eyes, she could not turn away. He was right; this was her fault. His face softened then, and he caught a tear that clung to Morganne’s lower lashes with the pad of his thumb.
“I’m sorry, Morganne. Please forgive me. I’m just… I’m scared.”
Morganne nodded. “Me too,” she admitted.
“Come here,” he whispered, pulling her into an embrace.
Morganne melted into his arms, her head resting on his chest. His heart pounded to the rhythm of her own. She wanted to stay for eternity in his safe arms but with reluctance, pulled away.
“The king’s magician,” Morganne whispered, staring up at Bedivere. “He knows of such magic, this…dark magic?” she cringed, holding her breath.
“Merlin? Dark magic? No, of course not. Arthur’s arse, you’ll get yourself killed for treason for repeating such things,” Bedivere said. He stared at her incredulous, his face a picture of both fear and concern. “Dark magic was, as you well know, outlawed centuries ago.” He flung his arm toward Kay’s motionless body slung over his horse’s saddle. “For this very reason.”
Morganne turned away from the truth of it and whispered so quietly that Bedivere had to step closer to hear.
“What did you say?” he asked, cursing his angry tone when he noticed Morganne’s shoulders shuddering.
“I believe nothing else but dark magic can help him now.”
Bedivere stamped the ground, sending dust swirling upward from the forest loam. He yelled with frustration, and punched into the nighttime air causing his horse to spook away from him, rocking Kay’s body in the saddle.
“Damn it all!” Bedivere called, then calming himself when he saw the fear in the steed and his reflection in Morganne’s emerald eyes. He took three measured breaths before nodding. “I hate to say this, but I think you are right,” he said, softening his tone and holding her gaze.
Fire Heart (Magic and Mage Series Book 2) Page 4
