To her surprise, Bedivere took both Morganne’s hands in his own, and she staggered at the heat of his palms.
He shook his head. “But I need to know how all this madness came to be. What did you do to awaken this evil being? You’ve been so secretive, but I’m involved now. You must tell me—why did you start this?”
Morganne wanted to pull away, to turn from him and hide her shame. She had a million reasons to justify her answers: jealousy, loneliness, betrayal, anger, but there was only one true reason. And it sounded as hollow and as pathetic in her mind as it did when it dripped from her tongue.
“I wanted to be magical,” she said, the words choking and wavering as they left her quivering lips.
Bedivere caught a wisp of Morganne’s auburn hair grazing her cheek. “You are the most magical being I have ever seen,” he said, his dark eyes wide. “Magic…” he let go of her tresses, grazing her pale cheek with his dark fingers as he did so. “Magic, real magic,” he tapped his heart three times with his fist, “lives here.”
And despite everything, for one brief second, Morganne forgot herself, and felt her lips parting as Bedivere leant in close. The universe shrank to surround them in its embrace. The warmth of his breath touched her face.
A screech—and Angelfire plowed between them, breaking the magic of the moment. He stamped a hoof, sending swirls of dust into the pre-dawn air, and tossed his head toward his back with impatience. Morganne did not need to hear Angelfire’s words to understand his intention.
“We must go,” Morganne said, breathless, holding Bedivere’s hands in her own and her heart in her mouth.
A question hovered between them as Bedivere broke her gaze to look back at Kay’s pitiful form and Camelot in the far distance.
“Together,” said Bedivere. “We will find this witch together.”
Morganne risked a smile and within moments, they were on their way.
And as silent as an assassin, the raven with the amber eye followed.
13
Angelfire
Angelfire pelted across the land, uncaring of the rough terrain.
Black and White. Shadowind and Moonglow, his companions and best friends both, were going to die.
He cared not about his bruised hooves; he had experienced worse. Nor did he care about his cramping muscles as his hind quarters powered and propelled his body forward. Angelfire did not care if he died trying to save them.
And try he did, scrambling over rocks, sliding down steep river banks, sloshing through ice-cold water that froze his tired legs and sucked the very air from his lungs. The Immortal One had shown him the way, and as they blurred through fields and valleys and mountain passes, Angelfire knew he was in no natural land. Nature bent around him, opening old worlds and old paths neither walked nor galloped in centuries.
The faerie roads.
Treacherous lands of lies and trickery and deceit, yet he slowed not—cursing his inability to talk to the girl, Morganne. She needed his advice now more than ever, but as silent as a lightning-struck tree, he continued, heart clenching at the images of his fellow horses buckled under the weight of the blue flame. Dying, slowly and painfully whilst wrapped in cascading torrents of memories—sadness, fear, and terror. The flame was sucking the life from them, and though Angelfire tried not to think about it, the arduous journey was sucking the life out of him.
But on he galloped…
14
Fallen
Hooves pounded the ground with relentless fury. Morganne had not spoken a word, neither Bedivere upon his giant white steed as they sliced through the air. He followed the little red horse, constantly grappling with Kay’s corpse-like body that threatened to slip and fall, whilst battling to keep leading Kay’s horse that lagged behind as they hurtled across the rough terrain.
Angelfire slowed to a shaky walk, his limbs weak beneath his sweating body.
“This place,” Morganne said breathless, clutching her chest with one hand as she looked around. “This place is not natural.”
They walked through a craggy pass; cavernous stones loomed over them like a threat. Leafless trees grew here and there through cracks and crevasses so deep they looked to have no end. On they continued, sloshing through a stream, the rocky riverbed and moss-covered stones making the horses slip and scramble. Morganne found it hard to breathe—the air dense as if stumbling into a room where the remnants of a heartbreaking argument lingered, its memory imprinted in the air, making it hard to swallow.
They rounded a bend, and the path opened to a wilderness more soul-sucking than breathtaking. An immense plateau spanned the horizon, desolate and empty bar scattered skeletal trees, whose naked branches reached upward like withered veins pleading for life from the sky. Towering over the vast wasteland rose a mountain peak with obscure turrets that jutted from its bulk, penetrating the sky bruised purple with dawn.
Morganne and Bedivere exchanged a silent glance, hesitating to say the words. But they knew they had reached the place. A blackness called to them like a morbid curiosity—a pulling at lung and liver despite the heart’s protest.
They rode toward the mountain, dwarfed by the surrounds as its shadow loomed across the land and engulfed them in a shroud of darkness.
Morganne pointed a trembling finger. “Do you see that?”
Bedivere nodded, jaw clenched.
At the base of the mountain, a dark cavernous hole opened, and beside it, a stone carved as a rearing horse rose from the ground, its limbs too lifelike to be the work of a craftsman. Wordlessly, they continued until they reached the carving at the entrance of the cave. Each step closer whispering a promise of sorrow and dread that somehow etched itself on the face of the stone horse.
Angelfire shuddered and groaned beneath Morganne, then dropped in a heap to the floor.
Morganne slammed into the ground beside her horse and scrambled toward him with grazed knees. “Angelfire?” she sobbed, placing a hand on his neck slick with sweat.
Angelfire groaned. He tried to lift his head but failed, its heavy weight crashing to the floor once more. “Angel?” she said again, this time the name choking in her throat like a last goodbye. He rolled his dark orbs toward her, exposing the whites of his eyes. His nostrils flared, quivering as he gasped for air.
“He has exhausted himself,” Bedivere said, dismounting quickly. He placed a hand on Morganne’s shoulder; it shook beneath his touch.
She shot to her feet. “I’ll go. I’ll face Emrysa and force her to make him better, and I won’t give her what she wants until she does.”
Morganne turned to run, but Bedivere refused to let go of her hands.
“And what is it she wants?” Bedivere asked.
Morganne turned away, and Bedivere looked back at his lifeless friend still slung over his horse. “You shall not go alone. I will accompany you.”
“You cannot. Please, Bedivere, you must stay here, you must stay with Angelfire and Kay to protect them, and…” Morganne paused, pulling her hands from Bedivere’s and flinging her arms toward the cave like an incantation. “If anything happens to me in there, at least you’ll survive to find someone, anyone, who can help.”
Her eyes shot to Angelfire as he groaned on the ground, his body heat swirling as mist around him in the cold dawn air. It was the desperate look on her face that caused Bedivere’s shoulders to drop. Defeated.
He nodded once, tapping his heart three times with his fist. Morganne tried to smile, repeating the silent gesture worth a million words. And she turned, disappearing into the cursed chamber that reeked of broken promises and deceit.
15
Undoing
Her footsteps echoed as she stepped into the darkness—the light from the entrance behind her casting an eerie blue glow upon the wet walls. Drops of water fell in the distance, a deep and tinny sound hinting at the depths of the hovel. Rats scuttled past Morganne’s feet, but she pressed deeper into the chamber, Angelfire’s pain-riddled moans and Kay’s lifeless body sti
ll filling her mind.
Deeper. A voice whispered, overcoming Morganne’s thoughts. Deeper still.
The urge to follow the voice continued, pulling at sinew and bone, and despite the stench of death and decay, Morganne crept forward until the light behind her disappeared. The darkness was not the type to allow her eyes to adjust to its gloom as they would when waking in the stillness of night. Despite blinking several times in the hope to renew her sight to the blackness surrounding her, the darkness did not clear. Instead, Morganne cast one hand ahead, while the fingers of her other trailed the damp, sticky wall as she edged deeper.
With each step the air cooled, wrapping itself around her like a coffin, and Morganne felt something other than her hands guided her.
A scratch, like a match striking stone stopped her. Ahead, a small glow emanated. A small blue glow.
The blue flame.
“Show yourself!” Morganne called into the darkness.
Her voice bounced back from all directions, twenty times or more, each one sharing the horror in her tone. A whisper of wind lifted her hair, and a swoop of feathers gathered close; the light touch of a raven’s wing brushed her cheek. It cawed into the echoing blackness and a wild, wicked laugh cackled into the fetid air.
A strike of lightning erupted when raven and the Immortal One met; the blue glow exploded, lighting the entire cavern. Morganne gasped at the depthless chasm surrounding her. She staggered backward, but the heel of her right foot found no purchase and she teetered on the brink before righting herself. Morganne swayed upon the pillar, whose surrounding depths stretched into the core of the universe itself. Bile rose to her throat as she realized she had made the entire journey this way—from pillar to pillar, like morbid stepping stones, yet instead of a river flowing around them, there was nothing but bottomless darkness.
“How?” she questioned herself, wishing she had something to grasp to stop vertigo swaying her vision.
“Walk,” ordered the now-familiar voice.
Emrysa was far enough away that Morganne could only make out her hunched form and blackened cloak hanging over bony shoulders. A hood rose over the crone’s head, hiding her face in shadows and darkness.
“Walk!” This time Emrysa’s voice boomed from walls slick with brown moss shining under the unnatural glow in her hands.
Morganne placed a foot forward and hesitated as it hovered over the chasm. She shook her head, trembling. “I… I can’t!” and though she hated herself for it, Morganne sobbed.
“No harm will come to you if you do as I say,” the witch promised. She pointed toward Morganne, then crawled her fingers back into her palm commanding Morganne forward. “No harm will come to your family, if you do as I say.”
Sounds erupted around the cave that Morganne both recognized and despised. Her sisters’ screams formed, bouncing from the walls in wails of fear, growing in volume and intensity. The sound of tinny water dripping morphed into her mother’s tears. Somehow, from the ground beneath her feet, a trembling groan erupted and Morganne knew it to be the pain from Angelfire. And a choking call spluttered in her mind; it sounded like Kay.
Morganne braced herself, not knowing if these were mere illusions, threats, or something far worse. She had no choice but to make her way across the impossible path. Squeezing her eyes shut, Morganne took her first step, stones cracking and forming under her feet as she did so. She released a measured breath though her jaw still clenched with fear and anger both.
“Yes, yes. Come, Fireheart.” The witch cackled once again.
Morganne fought a paralyzing urge and sprinted across, the ground reforming beneath her feet. Breathless, she reached Emrysa, and the witch looked upward, pulling her hood back to get a better look at the girl.
“You do me a great service by seeking me,” Emrysa said, and smiled like a cat before pouncing on an unsuspecting mouse. She flickered in and out of view, like a mirage or an illusion, or a memory of what the witch once was.
“I had no choice,” Morganne said, recoiling at the sight and stench of the centuries-old hag up close. Her withered skin looked paper thin, but despite the flickering transparency of her fragile form, the witch’s life force was astounding. Morganne tried to hold Emrysa’s stare, but the witch’s eyes, entirely black, caused Morganne to turn away with repulsion.
“You,” Emrysa said, reaching for Morganne’s hand. “You have no idea how your call woke me from my slumber. I was merely a thought, a cursed memory, before you breathed life back into me.”
“I did not mean to,” Morganne spat, returning her gaze with her chin held high, feigning confidence. The old woman laughed and the raven on her shoulder flapped its wings. Morganne mustered her courage to continue. “You need something from me, I understand that now. And I, in return, need something from you.”
“You dare to barter?” A lopsided grin split the hag’s withered face in two. For a few seconds, the witch’s form was almost perfectly physical and Morganne noticed her peeling skin.
Morganne took three measured breaths, trying to remember who she was. Eldest sister, voice of reason. “Yes, I dare to barter. I know you cannot leave this hole, or you would already have fled this woebegone place centuries ago. You are held here.”
Emrysa nodded, and flakes of skin fell from her face as she did. “You may not wield magic, but you have sense young Fireheart, and passion. I long for that passion in my own veins.”
Morganne gulped. “If you undo the wrongs I’ve brought on by summoning your memory back into this world, then perhaps you’ll feel that passion once again.”
Emrysa turned to her raven and stroked its head. When she turned back to Morganne, her face was a mask of concern and her voice as sweet as overripe berries. “And what wrongs might these be?”
“You know very well!” Morganne spat. The ground trembled, pieces of rock disappearing into the chasm below.
“Tread carefully,” the old witch warned, shaking her hooked finger in warning.
Morganne fought the instinct to back away and held her ground, though beads of sweat formed at her temples despite the cold and damp of the enormous cave.
“My family, the boy outside, my horse,” she pleaded. “They are all innocents in this stupid game, they should not have to pay with their lives. I brought your memory back into this world, I should be the one to pay the price. Please, whatever it takes, release them from your hold.”
The old woman smiled and nodded, thoughtful. This concerned Morganne. After centuries of imprisonment, the witch was in no rush to exit the place, she had patience, which meant she was dangerous. Morganne’s heart beat triple time.
“I will need three things for the three undoings,” the witch said. She paused, then licked her lips, her tongue pale and white. “And one more to answer your prayer to me.”
“What prayer?” Morganne shot back.
“Magic, dear girl. Did I not promise to make you more powerful than all?”
“Yes,” Morganne said, her brow as creased as the craggy rocks around her. “But I care not for the stupid magic any longer. I just want everything to go back to normal. I just want my family safe. Forget about that stupid oath—”
“But I cannot!” screamed the witch. She lurched, bracing both hands to Morganne; a blue light charged from her fingertips, crackling through the air toward the redheaded girl. “You are oath-bound, not just to me but to the nature of things. Nothing without consequence. No action without reaction. You will give me the three things for the undoing spells, and you will give me one more for the oath. Then, only then, can we untie our bonds.”
She flicked her fingers and lightning grabbed Morganne in its clutches. Morganne fell to her knees with the pain of the blue light surging through her veins—though she needed no pain to force her into a decision. The decision had already been made.
“I’ll do it,” she swore, the light binding her still. “I’ll do whatever it takes to save my family. Even if that means I release you from this hellhole.”
16
Blood Oaths
The light splintered into a billion pieces, dancing like falling snow under a blue moon glow, and Morganne had the chilling feeling that the world as she knew it, was already dead.
“Your blood for your family, your heart for the boy, your strength for the fire horse, and… something else to break the bond.” Emrysa could not hide the look of glee and greed in her eyes. “Your life.”
Those black orbs pulsed and danced in the blue light, and Morganne could see the fear in her own reflection staring back.
“You will take my life…” Morganne’s innards lurched, as if a hole deeper than the crevices below her entered her soul. “You will kill me?”
“Oh, I won’t kill you, of that I promise. Now, follow me,” Emrysa said.
The witch turned and shuffled deeper into the cave, her physical form flickering like a candle flame in the wind. Feet sloshed in rank and stale water that smelt of broken promises and guilty secrets. Morganne followed, each step her own undoing, but shuffled on regardless. The witch led her to what once would have been a grand fountain, now sitting decrepit in the center of an oval opening. Morganne had to tilt her head back to see the structure in its entirety. Bones as white as ghosts interlinked to form the basin, and the rim around the structure stood on a base of skulls. Morganne clutched her chest as she peered in, but the fountain had long ago run dry, the bones cracked with the passing of time.
“Your arm,” Emrysa demanded, holding her hand out expectantly. Morganne responded, shivering at the witch’s touch as her wrist was grabbed with more force than the old hag’s fragile-looking hands seemed able. With her free hand, Emrysa stroked the soft and sensitive skin on the underside of Morganne’s forearm, relishing in the beauty of its youth. She snarled then, and pressed into Morganne’s skin with a nail as sharp as a raven’s claw. She cawed with fiendish pride as a prick of red swelled around her nail, and Morganne gasped, gritting her teeth with feigned bravery. Though her bowels felt weak, she clenched her fear inside.
Fire Heart (Magic and Mage Series Book 2) Page 5
