by Sarah Zettel
Morgaine smiled and glided forward. Laurel raised the knife, cold iron wet with her salt blood, and slowly, like the chill before death, Morgaine closed her phantom hand over the blade.
We will finish this, you and I, little child, but it is not worth it now. I have what I need here. Go back to your man and wait.
The strength drained from Laurel’s hand, and her arm fell, limp. The knife slipped from her fingers, clattering to the chapel’s floor.
But Morgaine was gone. Gone.
On his bed, Lot groaned once, and fell back like a discarded puppet.
Laurel stood there, pain throbbing in her hand, rooted once more to the spot, but this time because she feared if she moved she would fall.
‘She is gone?’ whispered Agravain, amazed.
Laurel nodded. ‘Can you not feel it?’
‘Dimly. Lady …’
Laurel swayed. Her stomach heaved. ‘I need to sit down.’
Agravain caught up the wooden stool at once, shoving it into place.
‘What has she done to you?’
‘Nothing. I am only tired.’ Supporting herself on his arm, she sank onto the stool, ashamed of her own weakness, and of the fear in her heart as Agravain knelt at her side and turned her hand over, looking at the wound. She saw the blood smeared on her hand but felt nothing of it. The pain was real enough, but the hand, the blood, these were distant things, and she could not understand what they might have to do with her.
Agravain picked up one of the rags left beside the basin and wrapped the cut, quickly and efficiently, as a soldier would know how to do.
‘What did you do to her?’ he asked quietly.
Laurel swallowed, a new and unnamable fear shuddering through her at the cold in his voice. ‘She was only a shadow, and I knew that. I just … reminded her of it.’
His gaze was hard. ‘It was nothing so simple.’
‘No.’
He was going to question her further. Laurel was not certain she could bear his cold gaze while she answered. She was already so cold. Cold as death, cold as shadows and the wind that prowled suspiciously about her ankles like a dog not certain of where its master was.
But from behind there came a low, weak, but infinitely welcome sound. ‘Agravain …’
Lot. King Lot, speaking clearly, though weighted down by an exhaustion that was beyond anything Laurel felt now. Agravain went to him at once, kneeling by the bed so his father could turn his head and look at him more easily.
‘Agravain,’ said Lot again, reaching up. His eyes shone clear, his voice was steady.
Agravain caught his hand. ‘Father.’
‘She is gone, Agravain.’
‘And will not return. It is over.’
‘Yes. Over.’ Lot kicked once. ‘Good. That’s good.’ His gaze drifted a moment to where Laurel sat, tears burning in her own eyes. ‘This is your wife, I think?’
‘Yes, father. This is Laurel.’
Laurel rose, and gave Lot her hand. His grasp was so light it felt more like a glove lying in her uninjured palm than a man’s hand.
‘Good. Good,’ Lot murmured, seeing her clearly for the first time. And the last time. ‘Keep her close, Agravain,’ murmured Lot urgently. ‘Do not let her leave you. It is when you let them go, the darkness comes.’
Laurel could not leave Agravain to make the answer to that. The pain in her husband’s eyes was past bearing. ‘Rest, Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘It is nearly morning.’
But Lot would not rest. Perhaps he’d had too much of it. Perhaps he felt what was coming. ‘You know, don’t you?’ he said, clutching her hand, weak as a child, but trying to hold on. ‘You have eyes like my Geraint. Like my wife. You know why she was able to enter here.’
You do not have to do this, Majesty. ‘She entered by deceit. It is her way.’
‘Because I wanted her. I knew what she was, what she made me and I still wanted her.’
‘Do not think on it any more. It is over.’
‘She never died. Not really. I kept hoping …’ He squeezed his eyes shut.
At last Agravain found his voice. He gently pressed his father’s hand between both his own. ‘Rest, father.’
‘Yes,’ Lot nodded, his eyelids drooping. ‘There is nothing else now. Forgive me, my son. I leave you only ruin.’
Another man would have denied this, murmured some comforting lie. Not so Agravain. ‘I forgive you,’ he said quietly.
Lot breathed a few harsh, ragged breaths, trying to muster the last of his strength. His fingers twitched against Laurel’s palm. ‘Take my blessing, both of you. Poor thing that it is … I … I hurt, Agravain.’
‘It will be over soon.’
Lot’s eyes opened once more to gaze on his son, and there appeared over his face a look of pure trust, of utter innocence.
‘Yes,’ Lot murmured. ‘Yes.’
His eyes closed, finally peaceful, all the ravages of pain and madness wiped away as his frame sagged down, no breath of life left to fill it.
With his son holding his hand, Lot, King of Gododdin, died.
Laurel staggered back to the chapel doors. Once more she pushed them open and stood blinking in the light of dawn.
She filled her lungs with the sweet morning air. ‘Lot is dead!’ she cried out. ‘God save King Lot!
‘Long live King Agravain!’
And from the high walls, her cry echoed back, caught up by a dozen throats, a score, a hundred.
‘God save King Lot! Long live King Agravain!’
‘Long live King Agravain!’
In her own pavilion, the smoke of her brazier mingling with her misted breath, Morgaine rose slowly from her bed. No smile lightened her visage. Pain throbbed in her head and in the joints of her hands. She stumbled towards the brazier and nearly fell, catching herself on the table, rattling the wine jar there.
‘How is it possible?’ she whispered to the dim morning light. ‘How is it possible!’
Laurel Carnbrea was not that strong. Morgaine had the girl’s measure from their previous engagements. She had no learning, no gift of sacrifice or need. Laurel could not have held her back, not if she had drained all the blood in her veins and shouted out the whole panoply of saints in the great cathedral of Rome itself.
Morgaine’s fingers curled into talons, digging into the splintering wood. She wanted to stand straight, but she was not certain her knees would hold her. The weakness was humiliating, and it fuelled her anger.
How? How did she keep him from me? How did she drive me out? She is not that strong! Morgaine slammed her hand down. The jar rattled, turned and toppled onto the ground, spilling out the red wine like blood into the dirt. Morgaine found herself staring at it, her breath high and harsh against her throat.
Omen, whispered an unwelcome, long-buried voice in her mind. A child’s mischievous voice in her ear. It’s an omen for you, sister.
Slowly, Morgaine realized what lay underneath her anger. It had been so long, she was slow to understand.
Fear. Morgaine, the Sleepless One, the Goddess, the Fey. She was afraid.
Afraid of an untutored child who had the gall to stand before her in her ignorance and aid a bastard, a murderer and the child of a murderer.
Who had stood before her with an ordinary knife, and a little blood, and a name or two, and had driven her away from her vengeance.
She wanted to scream, to run out beneath the morning sky and call down the storm wind and the ravens, and all else in her power. It was not possible. It was not permissible that this misbegotten creature should keep her from what was hers by right of blood and vengeance.
Morgaine held herself still. With the strength of a well-trained will, she forced her breathing to slow. She would not act in anger. That way led to defeat. She would do nothing without forethought.
Moving slowly and deliberately, Morgaine picked up the fallen jar and reclaimed its lid. She set it once more on the table.
The action steadied her. The spilled wine had
already soaked into the damp earth, leaving only a vague odour behind. Morgaine turned. One step at a time, she crossed to her chair. She sat, smoothing her skirts. Her distaff and spindle lay in her workbasket. She picked them up and let the spindle drop. The wool prickled at her fingers as it twisted. The rhythm of it, as familiar as the pulse of the blood in her veins, gave order to her thoughts, calling them back from anger and from fear.
Laurel Carnbrea did not have the strength to do what had been done. So, there were two possibilities. Either she had not done it, or she had help.
Breathing deeply, Morgaine closed her eyes to draw her concentration into herself. She searched her senses. Her fingers spun the wool and her mind spun her thoughts, binding them tightly, making a smooth, strong thread of them that would not break.
Had there been another there? A presence, a spirit or a fey? No. She had felt nothing. There had been Agravain, and Laurel, and Lot, poor Lot lying there wanting her so badly and that creature keeping her back.
It was not the bucca-gwidden who aided Laurel. So great a spirit could not have entered that place without Morgaine sensing it.
Now that her mind had calmed she could consider the possibilities without flinching. Even so, the next came only slowly, and her hands faltered in her work.
Was it Morgause? Reaching down through her son? The tie of blood is strong. Blood and bone prevent you, the little girl said.
The idea of Agravain accepting any aid from the invisible countries was laughable.
Not so. He is her son, and he did bind himself knowingly to this other.
Riddle me. Riddle me. Morgaine’s hands found the trick of the thread again, pulling and twisting, measuring the weight of the spindle as it turned. Did I neglect to believe you would come prepared for all aspects of this war?
No. I did not believe your preparations would be effective. Ah, my sister. She turned her smile northwards. You can be proud of your son, Morgause. Cold he may be, but he is not blind. Indeed, he may see the most clearly of them all.
Very well. Morgaine set her jaw. If Laurel did not have an ally, what aided her?
She must know. She must know. If Laurel was able to work her will effectively over the invisible … then there was danger that Mordred’s forces might be defeated in this war, and if that happened …
The thread snapped off sharply between Morgaine’s fingers, and the spindle thudded to the ground. Morgaine did not even look down to it.
It cannot happen. She can raise the whole of the sea against me and it will not be enough!
Why then this fear that shook her? Why this anger that would not relent and let her think?
She closed her eyes again, swallowing, forcing herself to breathe. For a moment she thought to call Mordred to her, but what would she tell him? That she feared to be alone? That she had retreated from one small sortie, and it left her trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale?
She laid her distaff in her lap. It was cold. She was cold. The damp snaked through her skin and left her hands aching. There would be rain soon. She was hungry. Where were her women? There should be food here, and wine to replace what was spilled.
Why am I alone?
She pressed her brow against her palm. Stop this. Stop this. You are alone because you bid them leave you. Because you could not work as you must while someone watched you. Nor is your work done.
Which was true, but that truth sent a fresh wave of exhaustion and anger through her. She forced it away from her. She must think. She must consider clearly. She did not have the strength or the clarity of mind now to send her spirit walking again. She could not risk becoming lost while she travelled in that way. But there were other ways.
With the merest flicker of a thought, she touched a small mind, dark and restless, mischievous and ready for flight, for the hunt. She showed him the bulk of the great rock, the square, unnatural shape of the fortress squatting on top of it.
Always ready for sport, the raven launched itself. Morgaine felt the play of the wind through her feathers, the joy of flight, of the hunt, pouring through his mind. The wind above the great rock was tricky: warm and cold, weak and strong, its currents required great skill and the raven laughed for the delight of it.
What do you see, little brother?
I see nothing.
No. She pushed the raven’s mind, pushed its sight. It could see, it must see, it carried her spirit’s vision. It was so close now …
But the raven only croaked, voicing its pain and displeasure as it wheeled on the wind. It saw nothing. There was nothing to see.
Somehow, Morgaine’s vision had been blinded.
Son and stone bar your doo … She does not have the strength!
Her binding to the raven snapped as suddenly and violently as the thread had in her fingers. She gasped at the pain of it and for a moment could only sit, dazed and blinking in her dim pavilion.
Slowly, so slowly, she gathered her spilled and scattered thoughts together.
Very well. Very well. The child thought herself protected behind her walls. She thought she had sheltered her man with her paltry words and her little workings. But what was hidden could be found, and whatever thing she had brought with her to loan her such power … that could be taken.
Once more, Morgaine called to her raven. Little brother, I have an errand for you. I need you to find our friend, little brother. I have a message.
FIFTEEN
‘My lady … Your Majesty?’
Laurel whirled around, spoon clutched in her hand as if it were a sword. Pedair stood there, looking awkward in his bright formal clothing of leather jerkin and trailing cloak of beaver pelts.
‘What is it?’ She did not want to sound cross, but the truth of the matter was, she had awakened with the sun, and already felt overwhelmed by the day. It was three days since Lot’s death and today at last they would hold both his funeral and Agravain’s ascencion. There was barely enough food to go around, even though, thanks to the arrival of so many women in the train of Agravain’s army, there were finally enough hands to prepare and serve it. Byrd, Cait and Jen were doing their best to supervise, but despite all their work of the day before, chaos still threatened the hall. To add to this, the knowledge that the king’s death brought war loomed over them all as heavy as storm clouds.
She did not feel like a queen. She was stirring thin gruel over an uneven fire because every other hand was either busy clearing away the detritus of the hundred souls who had slept the night in the great hall or was busy shovelling out the stores. She was hot, and annoyed, and worried that one more thing would go wrong. That they would not find enough cups to give all the new arrivals proper welcome. That the whisky and milk could not be stretched far enough to give each a swallow. That her silk would be stained despite the thick overdress she wore, and she would look like a slovenly serving woman when she must stand in her dignity beside Agravain today. That someone else who did not relish the idea of actually working to serve their new lord had crept away and left some vital task undone.
Pedair must have seen at least some of this, because he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking more like a nervous boy than the sire of a clan. ‘The folk have come to view King Lot and make their oaths. They wait at the gate. My lord – His Majesty – is in the chapel and has told myself and Ruadh to not disturb him.’
Laurel closed her eyes briefly, gathering her patience for what must have been the thousandth time that morning. She was in truth not surprised to hear this. Agravain had risen from their bed before the sun had risen in the sky, waving her back when she had made to follow him.
‘Very well.’ Laurel set the spoon back in the kettle. ‘Byrd! Byrd!’
Through the milling bodies, she saw the old woman giving orders to a cluster of amused young men who carried away a board that had recently served as a table. The sound of her name made her crane her neck, causing her to look for a moment very much like her namesake. When she saw it was Laurel who called, she hurried
over, looking far more spry and alert than Laurel felt.
‘Go find Jen and Cait.’ She drew off her overdress, revealing the gown of blue silk she had worn on her wedding day. She handed the coarse garment to Byrd. ‘We need the welcome cups brought to the gate. They are to greet all comers in our name. Make sure everyone takes a cup, and if anyone refuses or is shorted, you are to come get me at once.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’ Byrd bobbed a quick curtsey and scuttled off once more.
Thank God for her, sighed Laurel. ‘Lord Pedair, find Lord Ruadh. Lead all concerned to the yard before the chapel. Wait for my knock, then open the doors. I will go speak with the king.’
The king. It sounded so strange. She had called him by so many names now: Sir Agravain, my lord, husband, that one more should not make any difference. But this one did, for it made her queen, on a throne that was even more uneasy than the one she had abdicated.
It made a difference because today was the day they would find out if this title would be acknowledged by those who were not his own men.
Outside the hall, the yard teemed with life and activity. Half-a-dozen makeshift forges had been set up. The din of hammering set her ears ringing, and the hot metal left its tang in her mouth. Horses waited to be shod. Carpenters worked with adzes, hammers and axes, fastening gears and bolts and ropes to great timber beams. Soldiers worked with their whetstones and their leather rags. Devi, wearing a tunic of white wool belted with white leather, was arguing with an ancient whose hands were stained grey and white with ash and grease.
Those who saw her made brief obeisance, and went straight back to their tasks. She in turn waved to them in barest acknowledgement. Din Eityn would not pause to mourn the loss of its king. This was Agravain’s order. The War was on its way. They would be ready to meet it.
The chapel’s doors had been shut tight. She took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. Laurel had spent much of the day before in this place, washing King Lot’s body and preparing it for burial with such poor perfumes as Din Eityn and her dower chests had to offer. There was, thankfully, enough linen to make a proper, though plain, shroud. Ros had been sent yesterday to sail down the coast to the monastery of St. Joseph so that a cleric could be brought to perform the rites of Christian burial.
