Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  “Interesting,” King Leodegrance says, leaning back in his throne to survey us thoughtfully. “And what is to stop me from simply taking your men and your women prisoner without any duel?” he asks, directing the question to Arthur, though I am the one who answers.

  “Because I am Elaine Astolat, Lady of Shalott, and if any harm comes to me in these lands, my father will rally his armies and the armies of his many allies, and he will attack Lyonesse until there is nothing left of this land but razed earth.”

  At that, Leodegrance sneers at me. “You think I fear your human armies?”

  “I think you’re wise enough to know that what powers you have are dependent on the strength of the moon, and that fangs and claws are only so powerful when facing armies that outnumber you thrice over,” I say.

  King Leodegrance sucks his teeth, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room.

  “And if you happen to win this duel, Prince?” he asks Arthur. “What would you demand in return? An alliance written on paper?”

  “An alliance written in blood,” Arthur says. “The sons and daughters of your court—let us say twenty-five—will be sent to the great houses of Albion to solidify the alliance, as husbands or wives, if they desire it, or wards and knights. Should you decide to break our alliance, their lives will be forfeit.”

  Leodegrance grunts, but I can tell he’s impressed. The way he’s looking at Arthur is different from last night. I doubt he will call him boy now.

  “And would your own marriage be part of this deal?” he asks, looking sideways at Gwen, where she stands at his right side, her eyes downcast.

  Arthur shakes his head. “I have made my intentions clear to your daughter, Your Grace, but I would not have an unwilling bride. The terms as they stand are enough for me.”

  “And will you let me set the time of this duel?” Leodegrance asks.

  “Of course,” Arthur says, nonplussed. “I assume you will want it to take place after nightfall?”

  “Under the light of the moon, yes,” Leodegrance says. “But even with that advantage, I am an old man, Prince Arthur. To expect me to fight a warrior as young and virile as you . . . well, that isn’t fair, is it?”

  Arthur’s smile is tight. “I think you are selling yourself far too short, Your Grace. I’m sure we would be evenly matched in a duel.”

  “You are kind,” he says. “But you won’t begrudge an old man such as me the opportunity to choose a surrogate for this battle in order to make things more fair?”

  “I would not,” Arthur says. “Choose your surrogate. I will gladly fight whoever will stand in your place.”

  King Leodegrance’s grin is a sprung trap. “Very well,” he says, voice smug and gleeful as he glances to his right, where Gwen already looks sick. Because she knows her father, I realize. She knows his mind. She knew where this would lead even before he did. “Then you will fight my daughter, Princess Guinevere.”

  * * *

  WHEN THE CROWD in the throne room dissipates and I move to follow Arthur out, Gwen grabs my arm, pulling me to the side of the room while everyone else pushes past us. When we are the only two left, I wrench my arm from her grasp.

  “Arthur shouldn’t have challenged him,” Gwen says, her eyes flittering around the room. Her voice, for all of its crisp edges, wobbles in the middle like a half-baked cake. “Was that at your advice?”

  “Your father gave him no choice,” I reply. “Did you expect him to sacrifice his people, Gwen? Or return home empty-handed and let his bastard half brother drive Albion into the ground? He found a third choice, and if you expected anything else of him, you don’t know Arthur at all.”

  She takes a step back from me, pressing her lips together in a thin line.

  “What is wrong with you, Gwen?” I ask her. “You know your father is wrong, you don’t like what he’s doing.” I pause. “You know he’s mad.”

  Gwen flinches from the word but doesn’t deny it.

  “He’s my father,” she says quietly. “I am all he has in the world, and he is all I have.”

  “You have us,” I remind her.

  She shakes her head. “I saw your face this morning, El. Yours and Morgana’s. I saw the horror in your eyes when you realized what I was, what I was capable of. Arthur will look at me the same way tonight, and whatever regard he thinks he holds for me will fall away quicker than he will be able to draw his sword, quicker even than I will pounce on him with bared teeth and claws. You don’t have to be an oracle to know how it will end.”

  I swallow, but I can’t deny she’s right. Even when they face each other on an even field, with matched weapons, Gwen has always been able to beat Arthur handily nine times out of ten. And the tenth, it was usually agreed, was mercy on Gwen’s behalf.

  “You would really kill him?” I ask her. “You would kill him and doom all of us?”

  This time, Gwen doesn’t flinch. She looks at me with a level gaze that chills me to my bones.

  “Better to have my hands bloodied than bound in chains,” she says. “There’s still time for Arthur to leave. As his adviser, you should encourage it.”

  * * *

  I WAS SURPRISED BY how quickly the others accepted me on Avalon, how seamlessly I became a part of their lives and they of mine. In so many ways, Avalon felt like an exhale, like until I’d set foot on her shores, I’d been holding my breath, waiting and waiting and dying in the process. I worried that coming back to Albion would mean going back to that, but it hasn’t. Now, I realize it wasn’t the place—not entirely, at least; it was the people. Morgana and Arthur and Lancelot and, despite everything, Gwen.

  There were moments, though, when I still felt like an outsider, even there, with them. Arthur and Lancelot were often on their own plane, making jokes no one else understood or challenging each other to any number of physical contests—races and duels, yes, but also things like seeing who could eat the most cherry tarts at dinner before they got sick. And then there was Morgana and Gwen, who bickered as often as they didn’t and would sometimes go days without speaking, until they couldn’t remember what they were fighting about to begin with.

  But they also had magic, the kind that I couldn’t understand any more than they could understand my visions, and sometimes it felt like that magic formed a glass wall, one I could see through but never fully breach.

  “In theory—” Morgana said one day over lunch. We’d arrived at the dining hall late, and it was otherwise empty, with only scraps left over for us to eat. Perhaps that would have been a bad thing if we were anywhere else, but scraps from Avalon’s kitchens could have made for a feast in Albion.

  “Theories are useless,” Gwen had cut in before Morgana could say anything more. She took a bite of toasted bread, piled high with fruit and cheese. “If you can’t perform it in person, there isn’t a point.”

  Morgana made a low noise in the back of her throat that might have been a grumble if her mouth weren’t occupied with a bite of apple. She swallowed and leaned forward, elbows on the table and loose black hair spilling down, threatening to drag through the open pot of peach preserves.

  “A theory is the first step,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s the dreaming of a thing—”

  “And don’t even start about dreams,” Gwen replied. “Do remember who you’re arguing with.”

  Morgana rolled her eyes. “Not literal dreams, not always at least. But ideas, musings. Surely you’ve had those, Gwen.”

  Gwen didn’t respond, but she waved a hand for Morgana to continue.

  “If we didn’t theorize, how would we ever test our limits? We would never know more than what we’re taught, never expand our horizons, never try something new. Theories are the basis of discovery.”

  Gwen swallowed and set her half-eaten toast aside. “Fine,” she said. “What are you theorizing about today?”

  At that, Morgana�
��s smile stretched into a grin, and she glanced around the empty dining hall. “Something quite scandalous,” she said, lowering her voice. “Something Nimue would certainly not approve of.”

  And then her gaze finally slid to me, like she’d forgotten I was there. I didn’t blame her—when the two of them got to talking about magic, I often forgot I was there too.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said, taking a sip of my tea. “I don’t understand half of what the two of you say anyway, and I wouldn’t repeat it if I did. Carry on with your scandalous theorizing.”

  Morgana shook her head, looking back at Gwen, and just like that, I faded from the conversation once more while they bent their heads together and murmured about impossible possibilities, the ways they sought to stretch their powers, just how they might go about doing so.

  They must have had dozens of conversations like that, around me alone, and I meant what I said to Morgana—I only ever understood half of what they talked about. The rules and laws of magic were complex and fragile as a spider’s web, and there was only so much I could hear of them before my mind began to fray and my eyes glazed over. I imagined it was the same way they would have looked if I’d tried to explain my Sight to them.

  But one thing I understood was this: Fragile and complex as the rules of magic might have been, they were also flexible, and Morgana had all sorts of ideas about how to bend them to suit their will.

  * * *

  I FIND MORGANA IN the hall, waiting for me. In the shadowed castle hallway, her eyes are heavy and guarded—uncertain, though that is a look I am unfamiliar with from Morgana. When I approach, she forces a tight-lipped smile and links her arm through mine, her grip firmer than it usually is.

  “Whatever happens tonight . . .” she starts, but she doesn’t seem to know how to finish that sentence.

  “Whatever happens tonight, we lose,” I finish. “We lose Arthur and our own lives and everything Nimue has been working toward for centuries. Or we lose Gwen.”

  Morgana nods, her eyes focused forward. “I thought she would come around,” she says after a moment. “I thought it would be like it always has been—we argue and bicker and throw our tantrums, but at the end of the day, we come back to one another.”

  “I think . . . I think she tried to come back,” I say, biting my lip. “But so much has changed these last weeks, for all of us. I think she forgot the way.”

  Morgana stops short, turning to face me and forcing me to meet her gaze. “Elaine,” she says, her voice low. “Tell me there’s a way through this. For all of us.”

  My throat tightens. “The last time I was able to scry, there was one chance in dozens. A sliver of hope. We’re past many of those possibilities now—there won’t be a battle, no duel for Gwen’s hand—but I didn’t see this outcome. I don’t think I need to scry to see that there is no happy way through. No matter what, we will lose something.”

  Morgana nods, her lips pressed tightly together.

  “But I’ve been thinking,” I say, the words slow and careful. “I’ve been thinking about your magic theories, the ones you and Gwen used to talk about—what I understood of them, at least. You’re capable of a great deal, Morgana. But if your limits were stretched, if you pushed the boundaries of your power . . .”

  I trail off, but Morgana’s eyes spark with understanding.

  “It isn’t a simple thing,” she says.

  “I know,” I tell her. “As I said, no matter what we do, we will lose something.”

  “Will we lose Arthur? Gwen?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “But the more I turn this over in my mind, the more I think it’s our best chance to leave this place, whole and together. I’ve seen a future, a glimpse of a choice you make that I never understood before. It never made sense to me, but I think maybe it does now. But it requires big magic—the kind of magic that would make Nimue furious. The kind of magic that might break you.”

  Morgana’s shoulders square, but I can see the fear lurking beneath the surface. Still, she holds my gaze and smiles.

  “I’d like to see it try,” she says. “What do I have to do?”

  32

  WHEN THE SUN goes down, we gather in the courtyard, Morgana and me on either side of Arthur while Lancelot stands just behind, dwarfing us all in his shadow. The Lyonessian court is already there, fanned around King Leodegrance in their tattered and dirty finery. At first, I thought they looked sad, even destitute, but now there is nothing pitiable about them, and the sight raises goose bumps on my arms that refuse to go away no matter how I rub them.

  “You alright, Shalott?” Lancelot asks, his voice low, meant only for me. Though he tries to sound nonchalant, I hear his own fear lurking beneath the surface.

  He knows as well as I do that no matter what happens, there is no coming out of this night in total triumph. If Arthur somehow manages to win, we lose Gwen. And even if my plan with Morgana works, that will have its consequences as well.

  Arthur’s knights wait on the other side of the courtyard, armor on but helmets held at their sides. I’m not sure what they’ve seen or heard from their own lodgings, but it must have been enough to spook them. They don’t look at us as we approach, not even Gawain, who stands beside his brother with a hand on his shoulder. For his part, Gareth looks even younger than his fifteen years, bright eyes large and sunken, mouth thin.

  Seeing him sends a pang of guilt through me. He came along looking for adventure, searching for a purpose. Instead we have led him—led all of them—into the claws of monsters.

  We come to a stop, and I step toward Arthur, helping him put his helmet on. As I do, I meet Gwen’s eyes across the courtyard. Her red hair is down again, wild and tangled with dirt. Her freckled face is smeared with lines of red across her cheekbones, and I don’t want to ask what that red might be.

  But it isn’t Gwen. Not really. She has already sealed herself away, sealed everything away that would interfere with what she feels she has to do. Sealed away her love for Arthur and for all of us. For just a moment, though, there is a flicker of something that might be remorse.

  Remorse. Not conscience. Because no matter how guilty she might feel about it, her mind is made up and there is no changing it.

  “She will kill you,” I tell Arthur, adjusting his helmet.

  Through the eye slit, he meets my gaze, his dark blue eyes steady.

  “I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry for putting us into this mess. I should have seen—I should have listened.”

  “You weren’t the only one,” I tell him.

  Arthur shakes his head. “That’s just it, though. I understand it, understand her. She is protecting her father, protecting her country. I can’t think badly of her for that—I’m not sure I would have done differently if I was given the chance.”

  “Your father sent you to Avalon for your own protection, even though it cost him,” I say. “For all of Uther’s faults, he would never have demanded you sacrifice yourself for his pride.”

  “But she loves him,” he says. “And that is not a thing of logic.”

  “Arthur,” Morgana says, her voice low and desperate. “You have to fight back. Please.”

  He looks at her, surprised. “Of course I’ll be fighting back,” he says. “I’m going to fight with everything I have.”

  Lancelot glances between Morgana and me before his eyes settle on Arthur. “We all just assumed that you would . . . have problems with that. Because . . . well, it’s Gwen.”

  Arthur lifts his helm. “I do have problems with it. Normally I would never . . . but, well, it’s her or you three. Her or all the men who followed me into this wasteland. Her or all of Camelot, all of Albion. And she’s made her choice. So I will do what I have to, and if it comes down to it, I’ll defeat her.”

  “You’ll kill her,” I correct. “Because that’s what it is, Arthur. It
isn’t just another practice duel on Avalon. It isn’t about defeat. It’s a fight to the death, and you know she will not ask for mercy. She dies, or you do, and all of us with you.”

  He flinches but then nods. “I’ll kill her,” he says, and despite everything, he does sound certain.

  Morgana catches my eye, her expression set and eyes hard. We both hope it won’t come down to that, but theories are only ever just that. We can’t get his hopes up, not until we know for sure.

  I smile and kiss his cheek before putting his visor back down. Morgana hugs him next, so tightly that I think she might manage to break his bones even through the armor. Lancelot merely claps him on the shoulder, but the gesture is somehow just as intimate.

  And then Arthur turns away from us and steps into the center of the courtyard to face Gwen.

  At first, they appear woefully mismatched—Arthur in his armor with his sword in one hand and shield in the other, Gwen in nothing but a tattered gown, with no weapons but her own two hands.

  Behind me, I can almost feel the relief of the knights. They must think this will be easy, that it will be over in mere seconds, that we are safe and victorious before a single blow is dealt.

  “Strike first,” I murmur under my breath. “Strike now.”

  But of course, that is too much to ask of Arthur. He stands, shoulders squared and ready, facing Guinevere and waiting.

  Morgana takes hold of my hand, squeezing it tightly in hers. I squeeze back, readying myself.

  The clouds shift overhead, and moonlight shines down on us, pale and silver, and in that moment, there is fear in Gwen’s eyes. For an instant, she looks like she wants to run. But the second passes and then she falls to the ground on all fours, her back showing through her ripped gown. Her spine ripples underneath her skin like something with a life all its own.