by Ines Johnson
Arthur’s feet left the ground as he was swung up on the hart’s rack like a coat flung on a peg near the door. The hart gave a shake of his head which sent Arthur sailing into the air. His body hit the ground with a thump and a crack. A pool of red crimson stained the melting white snow.
16
“Is it the money? Because I’m sure I can find a grant.”
Morgan pressed the receiver to her ear as Simon Accolon spoke. “It’s not the money,” she said. “I’d do it for free.”
Simon chuckled on the other end. “Never say that. Women are still paid less than their value all across the world. You’ll take the whole gender back a step in the progress of the Women’s Movement. Why are you stepping back now, might I ask?”
Why indeed? Morgan could hardly bring herself to say it out loud. Because this guy who never showed interest in me is suddenly giving me the full courtly press and I kinda like it. Honestly, I really like it.
Morgan had never walked arm and arm with a man, other than her father of course. The memory of the heat radiating off of Arthur’s thick bicep, the burn of his gaze when he’d looked down at her, the blaze of warmth from his breath hitting her cheek as he’d chuckled at something she said, just thinking about it made her feel feverish.
Morgan had marveled. Half in a trance at her reactions to him. The other half of her was all data nerd as she cataloged all the stats of the encounter.
She’d been perspiring on her forehead. Her palm—where she’d held onto Arthur’s bicep as they promenaded around the castle grounds—had been both damp at the center and warm at her fingertips. Her knees wobbled every few steps and she’d had to lean into him once or twice. Her pulse had raced the entire time, and her neck had been hot.
All of those symptoms pointed to a severe case of the flu. Which made sense. She had to be sick in the head to even consider this.
A courtship?
With Arthur?
She had lost all her good sense. Her thoughts whirled around in her mind like a star slipping out of orbit. Gravity eluded her because she couldn’t tell which way was up from down.
Was this reality? Arthur making a play for her hand? Or could this be a ploy to get her to give up her academic pursuits and stay at home?
Morgan still wasn’t sure. She still couldn’t truly believe that Arthur desired her out of anything other than a sense of duty because they’d been caught in a compromising position. Twice.
Still, she’d liked having his full attention. She’d liked walking by his side. She wanted to do it again. Just to gather more data.
Meanwhile, while she was collecting input on whatever this thing was between her and Arthur, she couldn’t take on the research position with Simon. But she couldn’t tell him her true hesitation. She didn’t want to lose his respect. So she told a modified truth.
“I have some family obligations that I need to take care of.”
And, boy, would this be an obligation if she accepted it. Marriage was a life sentence. And lives were long where she came from. There was no such thing as divorce in Camelot. Death was the only way out, as her sister knew.
“I’m so sorry,” said Simon. “Is someone ill?”
“Oh, no. It’s nothing like that.” Well, it kinda was something like that if she pointed the finger at herself. This thing had definitely afflicted her with something out of her ordinary stasis.
“Is it that your family disapproves of your scientific endeavors?” Simon asked.
“They’re trying,” Morgan said. It wasn’t a lie. Some of them had tried.
Gwin, their father, and Igraine had always encouraged Morgan. It was her mother that had turned up her aquiline nose at Morgan’s little hobby.
Arthur, too, had regarded her work with open contempt. But not yesterday. Yesterday, he’d been interested.
“I understand,” said Simon.
His tone was soft, filled with concern and compassion. Morgan also detected a note of empathy. Had Simon’s own family disapproved of his scientific endeavors?
“It’s just that science isn’t practiced in my community’s … religion,” Morgan said by way of explanation.
“I can understand that, too. My parents come from different religions. My father was a devout Christian. My mother dabbled in the occult.”
“The occult? What? Like a Wiccan?”
Wiccans were not admired in Camelot. They were a nuisance that liked to dance around a fire bare-breasted. They didn’t cause any harm, but the knights kept them away from any sacred place with a marked amount of ley energy.
With or without magic, a collective of like-minded women could move mountains. Literally. The Banduri had proven that time and time again. Monuments like Stonehenge were case in point.
Much of humanity thought the arrangement of stones was either a marvel of man’s engineering or alien interference. It was the work of the original Banduri priestesses. And the stones weren’t meant to tell time or serve as a gathering place. It was protection, their only weapon against knights and witches.
The stones of Stonehenge and other stone circle arrays around the world were made of mainly sarsen stones. The stones were, as Loren put it, witch kryptonite. A single rock could bring a knight, witch, or wizard to their knees.
“My mother’s wife is a Wiccan,” Simon said. “My birth mother was raised in an old, ancient religion. More cultural than spiritual. The custody battle between my parents was grueling. It nearly tore me apart.”
“Are they cordial now?” Morgan asked.
“My mother’s remarried and living in a commune in New Zealand. My father … was lost to us some time ago.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Oh, he’s not dead. Just lost. Doesn’t want to be found is more like it. He still reaches out to me from time to time. He’s … eccentric.”
A sad fog settled over the communication line between them. Morgan wasn’t sure how to lighten the mood. She still had both her parents. At over five hundred each, they were still the picture of health.
“Anyway,” said Simon, “I found refuge in science. In things that are concrete, present, and make sense to me.”
“Yet here we are searching for an unseen element that only exists for microseconds. One which we will never actually see with our eyes and can only find in the traces it leaves behind.”
“Yeah. Here we are.”
Come to think of it, elemental physics was much like trying to find love. Men and women the world overthrew themselves at each other in bars, in clubs, online. All trying to cause a collision that would result in something new. They, too, would never see proof of the chemical reaction of love. They could only measure it by the signature it left behind.
Morgan’s eyes landed on the hart flower resting on a tissue on her vanity. She’d taken the flower out of her jacket after the meeting at the university. The petals had dried up now that the flower was long exposed to the elements. The stamen that surrounded the central stigma had wilted down. It no longer resembled electrons orbiting a central nucleus of protons.
“Come out tonight …” Simon was saying.
But Morgan’s attention held on the dying flower. Hadn’t she picked that flower the first time she and Arthur had been caught in a compromising position?
“… few colleagues are coming over to the lab to relax after a long week and …”
The night Arthur had proposed to her, hadn’t the flowers been hanging from the flags?
“… no pressure about the job …”
And out in the field as Arthur had held her close, they’d been standing in a patch of the flowers. Hadn’t they?
The hart festival was known to heighten the pheromone levels in the town. Many assumed it was due to the flowers, like a carnal allergy. But no one had ever done tests to prove it. Morgan had never had any interest in the theory. Until now.
What if she and Arthur were having a reaction to the plant? What if this thing between them was nothing more than a hypersens
itive reaction to plant dander? It made more sense to her than Arthur truly being interested in her.
“Morgan? Morgan?”
Morgan turned her attention back to her phone. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I’d like for you to come out with me and my colleagues tonight. Nothing fancy. Just a couple of cheap drinks, debates on the latest findings on string theory with a few inappropriate jokes about engineers tossed in so we look like the cool kids. What do you say?”
She should say yes. Simon and his colleagues were far more her speed. They were her peers, not the ladies of Camelot’s court.
What lay in wait for her tonight here? Would Arthur take her to one of the local restaurants where everyone knew them and would pretend not to gossip about them right in front of their faces about how the two of them didn’t suit?
“I can’t,” Morgan said. “I’m out of your way.”
“You’re just outside of Caerleon? In one of the villages there? I don’t mind the drive.”
Morgan was about to answer. Whether it would be in the affirmative or the negative she would never know. A commotion sounded down in the belly of the castle. The fact that it rose up to her floor gave her pause.
She lived in an old castle filled with magical artifacts, charmed children, and armed knights. So, it could’ve been anything. But the wails of distress and shouts of panic sent a rush of cold water down her spine.
This was Camelot. No one wailed in Camelot, not from danger. No one panicked out of any real distress.
“I have to go.” Morgan disconnected without saying bye.
As she made her way out of her room, the sounds of the commotion increased. Morgan’s pace picked up. She took the stairs two at a time, her heart skipping as her feet hopped over every other step on the staircase. When she reached the ground floor she froze.
It was Arthur. Morgan had never seen him lying down. He was always standing proud, balanced, and at the ready to spring into action. His eyes were always bright and alert and accusing.
But now he was prone. His eyes closed. His feet flopped out. Dark ribbons of blood covered his tunic.
Battle was constant in their world. There was always an army to face or magic that needed to be contained. But those threats almost never came inside the city limits, and never once across the drawbridge and inside the castle.
“It was the hart,” said Lance. “It charged. He shoved me away to save me. I didn’t see it coming. I was too busy—”
Lance choked on a cry. That sound frightened Morgan more than seeing Arthur hurt. Knights did not get choked up. Unless they were watching the World Cup. But no balls were being bandied about in the hall.
This was the work of the hart? Morgan knew the hunt was dangerous. But she couldn’t recall a single instance of the magical stag actually attacking any of its pursuers.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” came Gwin’s voice. “We need to get him to the infirmary.”
Lance and Percy carried Arthur in their arms as they headed for the stairs. Morgan stood on the last step of the stair. She knew she should move, that time was of the essence. But she couldn’t get her limbs to budge as she stared down at Arthur’s near-lifeless form.
Thoughts ran through her head, spiraling like electrons around an orbit. Only the atom had been blasted and the negative charges had escaped the trajectory and were now pushing the boundaries of Morgan’s mind.
What if he was dying? What if he was dead? What if she never got to feel the heat of his lips press against her lips?
“Morgan? Morgan! Get out of the way.”
But she couldn’t move. Her mind was a mess of severed particles. Her sole attachment to the world was lying prone in front of her. Blood poured from a wound at his chest.
She needed him to be alive. She needed him to open his eyes. And then he did.
Arthur opened his eyes. The pale gray of his irises were nearly opaque. When his gaze connected with hers, they darkened, shifting into focus.
“Constant …” His voice was hoarse. But the single word was clear.
Arthur’s eyes closed, and he let out a painful sigh. The gust of his breath was like a hurricane wind to Morgan. She felt her heart plummet to the floor.
“Constance,” another male voice called. “Come help Lady Gwin. Lord Arthur needs a witch’s power, not these wails of women.”
Morgan looked from Arthur to Sir Bors to his approaching daughter. Constance’s hands already glowed with witch fire preparing to warm Arthur’s body.
Morgan’s palms were empty, cold. There was nothing she could do. And so she stepped aside, clearing the path up the stair.
The next hour was a fog. Morgan sat at the foot of the stair with the rest of the town as Gwin and Constance worked on Arthur.
The town always came together during a time of crisis. She felt many arms around her, many pats on the back, and murmured words of encouragement.
She didn’t hear much of anything. She felt nothing at all. Until her sister tilted up her chin so that blue gaze met blue.
“He’s fine,” said Gwin. “We patched him up, and he’s sleeping it off.”
“Did he …? Did he ask for me?”
Gwin twisted her lips in that way she did as her erudite mind tried to twist the truth for the sake of compassion. “He didn’t say much of anything.”
“But he managed to say Constance’s name.”
Gwin grimaced. Her lower lip jerked as though she was forcing herself to keep her mouth closed on the topic.
“What? Did he say something else?”
“No,” sighed Gwin. “Only that. He kept repeating her name until we got him to sleep.”
Morgan looked up as a door opened and closed. It was the door to the infirmary. As Sir Bors came out, Morgan caught the slightest glimpse inside. Constance leaned over Arthur, brushing his hair from his face before applying a cloth.
Morgan’s throat tightened. She tried to take in air, but it felt like the oxygen would choke her.
“We’re all tired and shaken,” said Gwin. “Why don’t you go and get some rest. I’m sure this will all be worked out in the morning.”
Yes. It likely would. Now that Arthur had come to his senses.
Morgan doubted he’d been under any outside influence when he’d courted Constance. That had been a logical decision on his part. Both she and Arthur had struggled with their attraction to each other; this thing. They both had suspected it was unnatural. And now the anomalous effects had worn off.
Well, good. She could get back to her normal life, to her regularly scheduled programming. She’d never wanted to run a castle. She hadn’t planned on marrying. She wanted to be a scientist. She wanted to go to school. In fact, why wait.
“I’m not tired,” said Morgan. “I’m going to go and get a drink.”
17
Fire burned in Arthur’s gut, blazing bright and hot as it cauterized his wound. The blue flames scorched the four chambers, incinerating his sense of self-preservation. He reached for it. He needed the heat, wanted to taste the warmth. The sizzle and singe of it made his mouth water, his blood boil. Though the flames surrounded him, the source of the warmth was beyond his reach.
Arthur jerked awake on a strangled moan that died in his dry throat. All was dark and it took his eyes longer than normal to adjust. He knew he wasn’t alone. His gaze raked the room, searching for the cold heat from his dreams.
And there it was. Just there, in the corner where a sliver of light stole through. Cloaked in darkness, she rose and came near to him.
As she moved, the sliver of light began to separate her form from the darkness. Arthur’s breaths caught pace with the pounding of his heart. He was certain the organ would burst out of its ribbed cage. He wanted more than anything to sit up in bed, but his strength failed him.
“Don’t move,” she said. “You’re still not back to yourself.”
Arthur shrank from the voice. It sounded wrong. The tone was too high. The pitch more breezy than smok
y.
He collapsed back down upon the mattress only to fall into further discomfort. The pallet caught his body in a puff of softness. Where the hell was he? This was not his firm bed.
But he didn’t bolt up, not when Morgan leaned over him. Instead, he recoiled. She didn’t feel right. She didn’t smell right. And the hair was wrong. A forest of brown surrounded eyes the color of treetops, not a dark curtain of night made for seduction under a deep blue you could only find in the corners of space.
“Please, my lord, I beg you to stay in bed.”
Please? Beg? Morgan would never use such supplicating, solicitous, imploring words. She would give direction after outlining a well-researched procedure.
It wasn’t Morgan. It was Constance Bors. Lady Constance brought a cool cloth to Arthur’s forehead, and he felt instantly chilled.
It took him a few tries to get the words out, and when he did, he sounded like a frog. “Where is she?”
Constance’s smile was sad. “Morgan? You want to know where Morgan is?”
Arthur felt only a second’s worth of shame. He’d never had to deal with rejecting the women he dallied with. They were all human. He’d never went in carnal pursuit of a witch. He owed Constance his compassion.
“My lady, I’m—”
“You don’t have to explain.” She wrung the rag out and placed it again on his forehead. “I always suspected there was something between you two. No one could bicker that much with no shared feelings.”
Arthur frowned. There had never been anything between him and Morgan before. Not on his part.
Had there?
None of that mattered right now. Only one thing did. “Where is she?” he said again.
“Morgan was out in the hall waiting with the rest of the community last I saw her. Poor thing. She went white when they brought you in. I’ll go and get her.”
