I said, “I wish to see you and speak to you. All of you. Come here before me.”
Silence deeper than sky.
I fingered my druid stone ring and tendered it just a silky stroke or two, like touching a newborn. I told the denizens, “I have no wish to distress you or hurt you. Come out, now. Take your time.” I continued to give the milpreve a slow, soft stroke, then a moment’s pause, then another stroke.
Shrill voices chittered, clamoring like mice, and in the corners shadows darted and milled. Little by little, gently, with just the power of one careful fingertip, I gathered them toward me. Dragging their bare brown feet they came, some falling to their bony knees and bracing their knobby fingers against the stone, some squealing like hedgehogs, so that my heart misgave me. But it had to be done if I was to be mistress of Caer Morgana.
At last they all stood before me plain to see in the light of the hearth fire, just a rabble of tiny skinny brown folk, naked, of course—just as a pedlar cannot heal herself, brownies and piskies and the like clothe their betters, not themselves. Naked, dirt-colored, homely if not downright ugly, they pouted at me like bony babies, some of them glowering, some weeping. “Shhh,” I coaxed. “It will not be so very different than before. Tell me your names.”
“No!” cried one who looked like a big-eared lad with a scraggle of brown beard starting on his pointed chin. “No, we canna! You’ll make us all your slaves.”
“You’ll be my servants,” I agreed, “but cherished, not enslaved. You can tell me your names, or I can give you names. You’d rather be called by your own names, wouldn’t you?”
Some, mostly female and less defiant, named themselves to me: Willow, Heartsease, Crimson, Root, Gilly. Others I named: Puck, Wisp, Mandrake, Winkle. As they named themselves or as I named them, I took them one by one in my hands. At my first touch each of them shivered like a baby hare lifted from the nest, but then grew very still, hearkening to my hands as I stroked their small bodies taller to about half human size, stroked their hands and feet and features finer and less brown, more the color of a fallow fawn, then stroked fine blossom-colored clothing onto them. They liked it, I think. “Willow, what color shoes do you want?” I would ask. “Red? Yellow? A green cap? White owl’s feather?” And sometimes one of them would murmur a reply. I gave flaxen hair to one. Hazel eyes to another.
When I had finished, they surrounded me to the reaches of the hall, a crowd of servants waiting to do my bidding.
I told them, “True Thomas is coming.”
They faced me soberly, their great brown eyes intent on my face.
“I have summoned him,” I went on. “I feel him approaching.” In my dreams and sometimes in daylight, in a flash of vision, a glimmer in the surface of the pool, an intimation glimpsed in the shadow of a cloud—in many ways I felt him riding nearer. And I felt the hardship of his journey—hunger, nights of cold and rain, sometimes robbers or worse foes to fight. “He is not too far from here even now, even as I speak. But he is very weary.”
They chirruped and murmured sympathy for True Thomas. Of course they knew him. They knew True Thomas perhaps better than I did.
“He has almost lost heart,” I told them. “I want for him only rest and peace and happiness when he comes here. I want to make Caer Morgana into a paradise for him.”
Now they chittered and rustled among themselves, their whispers rising to a clamor of excitement. I smiled. It was as I had thought; what they might do only grudgingly for me they were more than willing to do for him.
“A paradise,” I said. “And a place of safety.” This was the most important part. “It is for this that I have taken you into my hands: I shall make Caer Morgana into a stronghold that cannot be breached. No sword must ever slash Thomas, no pike run him through; True Thomas must never die in some lord’s petty war. Never. He must live to be old, older than Ongwynn. I love him.” I was not afraid to say this out loud, although I should have been, I should have known how dark wings flew silently overhead in the night. “I love him truly; I have loved him since I was a child. And this one love of my life I will keep forever safe from harm.”
A chorus of squeaks and squealings rose. Bless the little ones, they were cheering.
Within a few days Caer Morgana rose from what had been Caer Ongwynn. Where there had been a hilltop now there stood a domed palace magicked out of honeysuckle and sea foam, sunset gold and my memories of Ongwynn’s smile. Witchcraft, thought the shepherd lad who first saw it and ran to tell the distant crofters. Witchcraft, magic, illusion, thought the few hardy villagers who came to gawk—but magic is neither witchcraft nor illusion. True magic is made of love, not witchery, and it is more real than real, more solid than stone, for only a greater magic can breach it. This I had learned during my seasons at Avalon. The onlookers were kept back by walls they could not even see, invisible battlements as stubborn as stone, made of my own willful love, manned by sentries who never slept—black-feathered soldiers all named Rook. And a river flowed down now, my life my love my heart’s blood, deep and impetuous it streamed down and embraced Caer Morgana with its protection then plunged into mother sea. Within the encircling walls and white water, the wellspring sparkled brighter every day, the still pool spread wider, the bittern stood motionless and wide-eyed in the rushes by the verge, and the rushes gave forth lavender-and-white blossoms with the sweetest fragrance I have ever known. In the mirroring silver water, the blossoms nodded velvet purple, and where ivy wreathed the dome, in the pool I saw golden filigree.
Ladywater. The very tears of the mother of us all.
Throughout the days of these transformations I sat by the pool, my skirts a circle around me, my fingers stroking the circles of my rings, my thoughts and dreams circling out farther to encompass river and walls and domed keep, and what I dreamed into being, my servants tended and cherished. Only the pool itself I could not and did not change and make my own, for Ladywater flows by the hidden ways from Avalon.
I would not have put a border of amaranth and moonstone around the springwater pool anyway. I loved it as it was.
On the day all seemed completed, I sat by the pool and gazed at the shadowshining water and let my musings make sure that all was ready, my fingers idly fondling the ring made of Thomas’s hair, my thoughts eddying like white water, my dreams circling out, out, reaching—
Shadows swirled just beneath the mirroring surface of the pool, and for a moment I stopped breathing, for Ladywater showed Thomas to me.
Just his face at first. His true-blue eyes gazing into mine, a plea in them, and love and grief and pain that pierced my heart like a dagger. Around the edges of the pain, part of my mind noticed that he wore a soft hat of wine-colored velvet, not a warrior’s helm. And a velvet cape, and—where was he? What was happening to him? I saw that he was on his knees, supplicating, his hands lifting toward me, and—the misery in his eyes—
Such misery that I could not bear to see. I blinked, shook my head and looked away.
What could this be? I sensed quite surely that Thomas was riding toward me. Very near now.
But—Ladywater did not lie.
And Ladywater was kind.
What was it that I had seen? And when was it?
I drew a long breath and looked at the pool again, but now I saw only the shining surface of the water showing me images of reeds, blossoms, sky, clouds.
I did not really wish to see anything more. What fearsome thing had I scried?
Frowning, I stood up, looking around me—and what I saw sent all thought of the vision fleeing from my mind.
Over the top of the hill a knight came riding. At first I saw only his helmed head, bent, but even then I knew him and began to run toward him.
A knight riding a weary horse, a battered knight with one arm in a sling, his shield hanging from his saddle. Its device, a single heart-shaped green leaf with a violet blossom.
As I ran toward him he lifted his head, and his eyes smiled at me the warmest blue the world has ever known.
16
LYING AT HIS EASE ON A COUCH IN THE SUNSHINE, with his head pillowed on cushions scented with rosemary, his hair strewn in shining black curls across the white linen, Thomas smiled up at me. “My sweet lady,” he murmured. “You terrify me.”
“How so?” Although he smiled, his words astonished me. Sitting on a broidery chair to keep him company, in my simplest green gown with my hair in plaits down my shoulders, I could not imagine what had put such a thought into his mind.
He said, faltering a little, for he was still very weak, “You—you commanded me here—”
The summons. He had ridden through rivers of blood to get here. I had not considered, when I sent for him, I had not remembered how the force of such a sending would allow no rest. He had barely slept on his way here. And when combatants had come in his way he had not made shift to avoid them, but had fought his way through, riding on when he was wounded, riding on when he was almost too weak and worn to stand.
“I had forgotten what it was like to be summoned,” I told him humbly. “I am sorry, Thomas. If I had thought, I would have made shift to do it more gently.” The way I had healed him. I had learned, finally, how to use my milpreve with mindful caution, so that we were partners in magic, the druid stone and I, and I could somewhat govern it not to hurt me. I had made shift in that way to heal the worst of Thomas’s wounds without wounding myself, letting time take care of the rest: the bad memories, the bone-deep weariness.
“It was as if you pulled me here by an invisible line and a hook caught in my heart.” Thomas gazed into my eyes, all in wonder, not bitter at all. “Such power—it unmans me.”
“More than the clashing power of knights in battle?”
“Yes. No.” I sensed in him a memory, quickly suppressed, of his father captured, his own capture when he was but a boy. “I don’t know. That power I have known all my life. But this—it’s uncanny.”
“It is uncanny that I should wish you by me?”
He caught my teasing tone and smiled anew. “Yes. I cannot encompass it. You did—all this—”
His glance and a movement of his hand took it all in: Caer Morgana. The many candles and pleasant gold-groined chambers drawn from my memories of Avalon, the courtyard where we were enjoying a day of sunshine, the arbors of fruit trees, the white doves nesting in the ivy, the blue roses blooming.
“Do you not like it?” I teased.
“I—it is paradise.” He stirred as if some bad dream troubled him, shifting his head on the pillows. He whispered, “But—such power—”
“Shhhh.” He had seen too many horrors if he saw something fearsome in me, I decided. “Hush, Thomas. Just rest. Or are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“Maybe—something to drink—”
I touched my milpreve, sent a thought, and in a moment one of the servants, I think it was Gilly, hurried out with a goblet of pear ambrosia on a tray. I smiled, for goblet and tray were of matching silver beaded with gold. Gilly was learning.
Thomas watched as she placed the tray on a little table at his right side. She should have handed him the goblet also, but she went away without doing so. I would speak to her later.
Thomas turned his blue gaze back to me. Like a puzzled child he said, “I miss the piskies and their mischief.”
“Do you truly?” I did not. I preferred to have my stockings mended and my meals prepared without mischief, thank you; I had never liked hearing the little wretches giggling behind my back in the evenings. I preferred them obedient, as they were now. Still, if Thomas missed them ... “If you want mischief,” I said slowly, “I suppose we could manage some. When you’re stronger.”
“My lady ...” Thomas shook his head with a look I could not quite understand, as if he wanted to laugh or cry.
“What, Thomas?”
“Nothing. I was thinking that mischief is not mischief if it is managed, that is all.” He reached for his goblet of pear ambrosia, lifted it toward me and asked, “Would you not like some also, my lady?”
I shook my head with a smile. I smiled often those days; it was heavenly to have him there with me, my faithful knight, my True Thomas.
He drank, set the goblet upon its tray, then asked me, “Do you never thirst, Lady Morgan?”
“Of course I do.” Silly boy. “But I go down to the pool and drink at the spring.”
He gave me an oddly intent gaze. “Still? Like when you were a child here?”
“Yes.”
“But, my lady, why do you not ask a servant to bring you springwater if it is springwater you crave?”
“I ...” But I loved the pool. I always sat for at least a few minutes there, alone with the herons and rushes and the mirroring water. This morning I had watched the dawn brighten that water and turn it blue—rare, such blue water, such a blue-sky day, by this stormy, misty seaside. I had watched the pool shine as blue as Thomas’s eyes.
Why not ask a servant to bring me springwater? Something in Thomas’s question and his sky blue gaze tested me, and I did not like that. Therefore I did not tell him the truth, or not the whole truth.
“The servants are for you,” I said.
“But if I would rather walk down to the pool and drink at the spring?”
“Then of course you should do so, Thomas,” I said. “When you are well again. Hush, now, and rest.”
“You rest in the grass and violets, do you not, my lady?” Thomas asked softly. “You rest awhile and gaze at the peaceful water?”
“Shhh, Thomas! Save talking for when you are feeling stronger.”
We would have a lifetime for talking.
He smiled at me, obeyed me and closed his blue, blue eyes.
I had not yet given him the ring that I had made for him. My token. A knight must earn the token of his lady, and Thomas had not yet had a chance to do so. But he would; I felt certain he would.
“I could give you a mare just like Annie,” I told Thomas.
“No, my lady, please.” He rode the tall saddle horse I had magicked for him, shining black to match his hair—it is not hard to make a horse given a stick of blackthorn or two and the right dreams to work with, and Thomas often dreamed of horses, sleek prancing horses, usually black or dapple-gray but once in a while sunny gold. I rode the golden gelding at his side; with the summer wind lifting our hair like wings we rode the crest of the moor, and although Thomas did not know it, the walls of Caer Morgana followed along with us, invisible fortifications encircling us to protect us. Thomas would meet with no knights errant upon this summer day.
My stables were like my battlements, invisible and without set form or size, taking no space at all, yet in them I kept any steed Thomas or I could wish to ride, whether a swan-necked red or silver mare of the hot Araby blood, a black charger, or a gentle white palfrey. And, yes, a dapple-gray mare just like Annie, only larger.
“It would break my heart,” Thomas said.
I nodded. That was why I had not showed her to him.
Something in the face of the moor that day reminded me of Rhiannon, all flowers and flutter, heather as green as her wise merry eyes, white and yellow butterflies flitting to sip at bluestars, buttercups, heartsease, daisies.
“Sir Thomas,” I said, trying hard to be more formal than coy, “I wish you to bring me a bouquet of butterflies.” I could not keep a smile from tugging at the corners of my mouth, confound it.
He looked at me with astonishment quirking his eyebrows, laughter hiding in his blue eyes, a dawning of color in the pearl white skin over his cheekbones, his mouth severely grave. “My lady’s wish is my command,” he declared, swinging his leg over his saddle to leap down off his horse. Thanks to my care and his own strength and goodness of heart, he was as well and strong as ever.
“And make sure you don’t hurt any of them,” I added.
He gave me a look that made me duck my head to keep from laughing. This solemn silliness, that a knight must perform the tasks his lady commanded of him whether possible or not, earned him her favo
r and her token. When I looked up, Thomas was darting toward a patch of daisies aflutter with butterflies, his blue velvet cape flying over his linen shirt as if he himself had wings.
I watched, thinking of the more serious quest he had already performed for me: finding my half brother, Arthur. A stripling named Arthur, he had told me, lived with the family of one Sir Ector of the north midlands, nobly reared but of no known parentage. Meanwhile, all the petty kings and pretenders churned the land with their wars, Lothe of Lothian marching on Uryens of Gore, while Gore besieged Caer Argent to take it from Redburke or Carados or whoever occupied it at the time, unless it was Caer Leon they were fighting over today; it went on and on, relentless. Never ending.
Never to take my Thomas away.
Thomas’s horse slowly strayed, grazing despite the bit in its mouth and the reins falling around its ears. Soon it would step on the reins and either spook itself or break them or both. As a proper haughty lady, I should have let the horse do what it would and enjoyed watching Thomas deal with the annoyance. But as Morgan, I found that I could torment Thomas only just so much. I rolled my eyes, rode after the straying horse, dismounted and stood in the furze holding both horses by the reins. I was trying to think how to tether them so as not to look like a servant lass when, confound everything, Thomas walked up behind me.
I heard his footsteps and turned. “Lady Morgan,” he said with just a hint, a ripple, of laughter marring the smooth surface of the words. He bowed low, presenting me with an armful of blossoms—daisies, buttercups, bluestars. Beautiful.
“But Sir Thomas, they are not butterflies,” I said, finding it very hard to keep a petulant face and chide.
“The butterflies will follow, my lady,” he said, and even as he spoke, one floated down a shaft of sunshine and lit on the topmost blossom, fanning wings all jewel colors, topaz and ruby and amethyst, more exquisite than my mother’s finest jewels.
Mother. Forever crying and scrying for Arthur, Arthur. Now that I knew, or thought I knew, where Arthur was, did I mean to tell her?
I Am Morgan le Fay Page 15
