Morgain's Revenge (7 page)

Oblivious of where Gerard’s thoughts had taken him, the knight was still talking. “All that aside, no matter that it might be the perfect location, it might
indeed be the best campsite in all of Britain. But servants should serve, not make decisions.”

That was it. That was just
it.
Gerard had tried to heed Merlin’s words. Had tried to be polite. Had tried to hold on to the last scraps of his patience and tolerance, and respect that a knight of Sir Caedor’s years and experience deserved, no matter how he behaved now. But nobody insulted Newt except Gerard. He rubbed again at the wound and spoke his mind.

“We
all
serve. We were sent on this journey by our king. A journey, in accordance with the code of the Round Table, to protect and defend a damsel in need—a person under Camelot’s protection, threatened by one of Camelot’s foes.” It was as though Sir Rheynold—or even Arthur himself—had taken over Gerard’s mouth, speaking with his tongue. The emotion behind the words, though, was his own. He believed in the code of chivalry, the idea that the stronger protect the weaker. He believed in it with a passion that fueled everything he did, everything he was—everything he wanted to be.

Sir Caedor had the grace to look down, in shame, hearing that reminder of their responsibilities and obligations.

“As to your comments about Newt, you might wish to reconsider them as well,” Gerard went on. “We are traveling light, as you yourself have noted. No tents. No pavilions. No servants to fetch and carry for us. Despite what you may think of Newt, on this he is an equal to me and to you.
Not
a servant or stable boy.”

That brought the knight’s head back up, his cheeks burning with anger. “You dare speak so to me?”

Gerard was quaking in his saddle, actually terrified at what he was saying—and to whom. Still, the point needed to be driven home, no matter the cost. “I have no choice, Sir Caedor. This must be said.”

The knight took a deep breath, ran one hand over his thick ruff of graying hair, and stared off into the distance. His face was seamed and heavy with age, and his mouth was turned down in a frown. But he was hearing what Gerard had said. Hearing, and thinking. Gerard went on.

“If we had passed an inn last night, or tonight, or any other night, we would have stayed there.” They had to rest, and given the choice between dirt and a bed, not even Newt would choose dirt. “Have you seen any inns along the way?” Gerard asked.

Sir Caedor now looked thunderous. “No.”

“And do you know of any in the near distance that we could arrive at before dark?” Gerard knew that he was pushing his luck, but Sir Rheynold had always taught him that you needed to establish control the first time someone questioned your authority, not the sixth or seventh time. By then it was too late and your weakness was known.
Arthur, your wisdom, please. Merlin, your cunning. Now would be a good time for the spell to kick in….

“There are no inns around this part of the countryside,” Sir Caedor said, spitting out each word as though it were bitter. “It’s a desolate, godforsaken land. I know this. I fought here during the battle of Traeth Tryfrwyd.”

Gerard looked around, as much to avoid yet another story of Sir Caedor’s “glorious past” as to figure out what the knight was talking about now.

Sir Caedor had a point. The lands around Camelot were fertile, even where rocky, and the trees were tall, strong things. The farther north they had traveled, fewer things grew, either cultivated or otherwise. Their destination would be, Sir Caedor claimed, even more stark; islands of barren rocks and dry soil, with nothing to recommend it, save access to
the seas and a reputation for fierce fighters.

“Yes, it is barren,” Gerard agreed. “And this is the best place we saw for making camp.”

Sir Caedor did not respond.

Gerard took the silence as tacit compliance. He raised a hand as though to officially end the conversation, then turned and walked down to the creek, meeting Newt as he came back with the horses on lead ropes, the mule trailing behind on its own.

“The water cold?”

Newt shook his head, his wet hair spraying drops into Gerard’s face, as intended. “Cold enough. You should bathe, too. You’re getting somewhat ripe under there.”

Newt had declined the offer of leather chest and leg protection like the ones that Gerard wore, claiming that it would slow him down if it came time to fight or run. When the sweat began to form under the padding, sticking to his skin until it itched, Sir Caedor’s armor had to be even more uncomfortable. Gerard thought that maybe the stable boy was the wisest of the three of them.

“Perhaps in the morning, when the sun’s come up again.” He didn’t have the distrust of bathing that many of the knights and squires had, but it seemed
foolish to tempt fate by getting himself wet in the cool air.

“Sir Caedor taking care of dinner?”

Gerard let out a surprised laugh. Newt and Ailis had always managed to do that; to make him laugh, even when he didn’t want to. “Somehow, I don’t think so. You want to wrestle for the job?”

“Nah, you can do it.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Hey, I watered and fed the horses. Least you can do is feed us.”

The temptation to offer to water him, too, by throwing him back into the creek, was great, but Gerard resisted. “If I cook, you have to eat what I cook. Sure you’re ready for that?” Ailis and Newt had handled the limited cooking detail the last time they were on the road, and for a good reason: Gerard’s rabbits always came out half-raw, and the birds half-burned. He could mend armor, wield a sword, brandish a mace reasonably well, and ride a horse better than most, but he couldn’t cook.

They started walking back to the camp together, pausing to set up a picket line for the horses. A rope tied between two stakes in the ground would allow the horses to move around and graze at will, but
would keep them from wandering off in the night. The mule didn’t need tethering—it was smarter than the horses, and would be fine no matter what.

“You think she’s all right?” There was no need for Newt to say whom he was talking about: No matter what other mission Merlin might have for them, no matter what the king might think, Ailis was the whole reason they were there.

“I don’t think Morgain’s hurt her, if that’s what you mean,” Gerard said slowly, finally allowing himself to speak it out loud. It was easier to worry about Sir Caedor than to imagine Ailis alone and frightened. “Merlin was right about that. Whatever reason the sorceress had for taking her, she did have a reason. And I don’t think it was just to keep Ailis from telling anyone that Morgain was in Camelot. Otherwise, why not kill her right there in some way that wouldn’t raise questions?”

“Maybe she was in a hurry and needed time to do it properly?” Newt caught the look Gerard gave him, and shrugged. “It’s possible. I don’t want to think about it either, but…”

“Merlin would have known if Ailis were…hurt.” He couldn’t bring himself to say dead.

“Maybe.” Newt didn’t sound convinced. Gerard
didn’t feel convinced, either. But they had to believe that Ailis was all right.

Morgain hated her half-brother Arthur. And for some reason she hated Merlin even more. But she had shown no sign of hating the three of them, even when they had stopped her from destroying the Grail Quest. Even when Ailis was urging Gerard to kill Morgain, the sorceress had seemed more amused and—perhaps—intrigued by the servant-girl who showed such affinity for magic.

That was the hope Gerard clung to, even as it terrified him. Because he knew—even if Ailis herself didn’t—how much appeal magic held for his friend. And from their brief encounter, he knew how appealing Morgain herself could be, if she decided to charm rather than oppose.

“You, boy!” Sir Caedor stood by the fire and pointed to Newt. “Gather some firewood!”

Newt made a sour face and whispered to Gerard, “If I were to pour water over his armor, might it rust shut with him inside it?”

“He’d expect me to polish it all clean again,” Gerard said in disgust. There would be time enough to go back to polishing and repairing and running errands when he was back in Camelot with Ailis
safely back in the queen’s solar.

“Come on,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s go find some deadwood and give Sir Caedor a nice big comfortable fire to sleep by. Maybe, if we’re lucky, he’ll tell us some more stories about his great role in the battle of Traeth Tryfrwyd.”

Newt stifled a groan and followed Gerard into the underbrush.

“B
last it, Merlin! I need more information! How can I rule this island, filled with madmen and magic, without knowing who is doing what, planning what, when, and to whom?”

“You would have a dozen such as myself, could I arrange it, but there is only one Merlin to fly to your lure, my king,” Merlin said, settling himself in a chair and sighing like the tired ancient he was.

Arthur looked up at his enchanter. “I need only one. But he needs to stop griping and do what he does best: reassure his liege that the battles are indeed engaged.” Arthur was seated on a bench in Merlin’s workroom, the same seat Newt had taken not a handful of days before, tapping his fingers on his knee impatiently.

“Gripe, gripe, gripe. I am not the one intruding
on another’s space and making impossible demands, Arthur the King.” But his mockery was equally affectionate, and the enchanter obligingly closed his eyes and spiraled down into his
sense
of Morgain, the familiar sharp tingle of her personality, the salty flavor of her magic.

Like the bird he was named for, wings spread and dipping into the wind, following the familiar sense. Eyes were blind, but the sense was true, leading him to the source, the enticing magical aroma that was the sorceress.

And there his wings slammed up against a black wall, invisible until you made contact, and then felt in every point of his non-existent body.

Ow!

She was good. He would admit that freely. She was very very good. He changed form, feathered wings becoming leathery, talons turning into claws that could cling to the walls. He swung upside down and cocked his head—the better not to listen, but to sense.

Morgain, yes. And fainter, far fainter, a tinge of something carrying Merlin’s own mark, intentionally placed there for just such a need. Ailis. Alive.

He was about to launch himself off the wall and
return to the safety of his own quarters when something else moved. Faintly, faintly, barely sounding behind Morgain’s protections, but…there. Something new. Something unsettling. Something foreign.

A whiplash of unknown power slapped the bat off the wall and sent it tumbling back into the ether, tumbling claws over head, even as Merlin struggled to regain control.

He thought, as he changed form back to the more familiar bird of prey; something did not want him there, not anywhere near Morgain or her distant tower, or whatever she might be plotting there….

“Are you all right, my Merlin?” Arthur asked.

The enchanter coughed, his chest painful inside and out, as though he had been kicked by an irate plow-horse, and he waved his king away. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, his eyes turned inward. “I’m fine.”

Forgive me, children,
Merlin thought.
Forgive me for sending you into danger I had not foreseen. Forgive me for waking something that should have remained unaware.

Forgive me for not being able to help you, now.

“And there I was, standing tall despite my horse having been taken down moments before. Arthur fought on beside me, magnificent as ever, but it was my responsibility to defend his left flank, and not allow any barbarian to reach him with sword or spear….”

Newt had fallen asleep some time earlier, but he was propped up against an old log so it looked as though he were still listening intently. Gerard actually
was
listening, although exhaustion was starting to overtake him as well.

The story was interesting, especially considering that his own master, Sir Rheynold, had never been all that fond of “danger and adventure at all costs,” despite riding willingly into battle at Arthur’s command. But after living with and around knights and more ordinary fighters for almost half his life, Gerard knew how battlefield exploits could and would become exaggerated. And the more time that passed between battle and retelling, the more exaggerated the stories would become.

The battle Sir Caedor was telling them about had taken place before either boy was born. By those standards, the entire story might be myth. But even if so, it was an entertaining myth. Gerard finally fell asleep, and dreamt of epic battles of his own.

Gerard woke to find the sun barely peeking over the hills, but Sir Caedor was already awake, practicing in a clearing a few feet away from the fire. He had put aside his armor, and, clad only in his pants and a sleeveless jerkin, had drawn a beautiful sword tempered to a dull gloss, and a smaller but no less deadly looking long dagger. He thrust and parried with the dagger in his right hand, even as the left arm drew back the sword, raising it to make a killing blow while his phantom opponents were distracted by the dagger. He pivoted seamlessly on his back leg, his forefoot carrying him into the attack of a phantom behind him. His dagger swung high, to threaten the eyes of a new opponent. It was all graceful and unhurried, his movements perfectly balanced, from the loose set of his shoulders to the way he rocked back and forward on his feet as he moved.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Newt asked. He was awake, lying on his side and wrapped in his blanket with his backside to the coals of the fire, watching the knight thrust and parry.

“Yes. Yes, he is,” Gerard said, sitting up to better observe. He had never realized quite how good.
Although there was a world of difference between practicing weapon forms in a peaceful clearing and fighting in the thick of battle, Sir Caedor had done both.

Sir Caedor was very, very good. And Gerard suddenly understood a little better why the king and Merlin had chosen the seasoned soldier to go with them. Not because they had thought that the two boys might need protection—or because they didn’t think the boys could carry out both parts of their mission—but because they could learn from seeing this experience in action.
Ignore the stories,
he could almost hear Arthur say.
Ignore the snobbery. Look to the man.

It didn’t make the knight’s attitude any less annoying. But it gave Gerard a reason to look past it, to see the dedication, the power in his arms and shoulders, the focus given to his art.

He didn’t know how to say any of that to Newt. The stable boy would never be allowed to fight with sword and shield, never ride any of the horses he cared for into battle. He would never stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother knights to protect the innocent and defend the kingdom. It wasn’t fair, but Newt’s birth would forever keep him from the ranks
of knights and landowners. So what use was Sir Caedor’s knowledge—and what protection did he have against Caedor’s cutting remarks?

Gerard lay back down on the ground with a sigh, crossing the back of one arm over his eyes as though to block out the awareness of another day ahead of them.

All he wanted to do was free Ailis and go home.