Morgain's Revenge (8 page)

A
ilis had spent the night twisting and turning in the comfortable bed in her comfortable bedchamber, staring out the window at the gray sky washing into the gray sea. She plotted ways to escape until she fell asleep to dream of riding Sir Tawny through impossible underwater canyons made of whitewashed stone.

Waking brought the realization that she was no closer to finding a way out of the fortress. The air was only beginning to lighten, the sun rising on the other side of the compound, when Morgain herself arrived at the door of Ailis’s chamber. The girl had been sitting at the window, looking at the dark waves while brushing out her hair, when the sorceress walked in without bothering to knock. The usual magically propelled breakfast cart waited behind her,
bearing twice as much food as days past.

The sorceress looked vastly different from the last time Ailis had seen the woman face to face. In her throne room on the Isle of Apples, Morgain had been dressed in a lovely gown, bejeweled and almost blindingly beautiful. Now, although her beauty remained, she wore a more demure outfit. Her hair was pulled away from her face with narrow braids, one tucked behind each ear, and she had simple slippers like those Ailis wore.

The sorceress said nothing, merely allowing the cart to roll itself in. Then she helped herself to a share of the food. Taking her cue from that, Ailis put aside her need to assault the woman with questions, and settled in to satisfy her own hunger.

When the last flaky pastry and slab of sausage had been consumed, Morgain washed her fingers in the bowl of water set aside for that purpose, and held out her clean hand for Ailis to take.

“Come with me, witch-child.”

Ailis resisted expressing her initial reaction to the nickname, and allowed herself to be escorted into the hallway. There was nothing to be gained by annoying her captor, apart from being turned into a fish, or something more cruel.

The sorceress brought her down a staircase one level, leading the girl to a room filled floor to ceiling with books and parchments and maps. Most of them were in languages Ailis could not recognize, much less understand, but she was fascinated. Who knew there were so many sheets of paper on the entire island? Morgain walked from shelf to shelf, taking down one book then another, putting together a pile that she said “might be of interest, and a way to pass the time.”

“I don’t want to pass the time.” If Ailis had stopped to think, she would never have dared speak back to the sorceress, but the words simply came out of her mouth. “I want to go home.”

“I know, witch-child, I know,” Morgain said. Her tone was disturbingly gentle, the way adults sound when they’re about to tell you something really, really bad. “You can’t go home. Not just yet. But I will not allow you to waste away, witch-child, no fears.”

What could Ailis say? She had no weapons to fight her way free, no way to contact Merlin to rescue her, no way to do anything but submit. She made a dutiful curtsey, shallower than she might have to the queen, which merely made Morgain laugh. Ailis took the parchments and books back to her room,
and piled them on a small table that appeared next to the sofa. A gorgeous quilt, with gold and blue and green and deep purple squares, was draped across the back of the sofa, its texture softer and warmer than anything she had ever felt before.

“If you have need of anything else,” Morgain said, “just ask.” She stood in the doorway watching Ailis with a strange sort of satisfaction on her face, almost as though she didn’t know how to express what she was feeling, or even how to feel it at all.

“Ask who?” The thought of someone listening in on her at all times made Ailis suddenly feel self-conscious. She looked around nervously, as though something would suddenly be revealed.

“Ah, yes.” It was clear that Morgain had never thought of such a discomfort, and Ailis suspected that she was so accustomed to having servants underfoot that she never saw them. Though to be fair, Ailis had not seen any servants at all since that first morning. Were they discreet? Absent for some sort of holiday? Or had Morgain turned them all invisible for some reason? Might they be lurking anywhere, everywhere, watching all the time?

“Here,” and the sorceress stepped forward into the room, casting her gaze around until she saw what
she was looking for. “Here.” She picked up a small silver candlestick and touched it with her free hand. A blue-green spark jumped from her fingertip to the top of the candlestick, and a slender foam-colored candle appeared in the previously empty socket.

The sorceress considered the result, then nodded with satisfaction. “Light this when you wish to make a request. Someone will hear you. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Ailis looked away, trying desperately to remind herself that despite the kindness and consideration this woman was showing her, she was still an evil sorceress, a wicked woman who had tried to destroy Camelot, had threatened her and her friends, had stolen her away from her home, and was keeping her a prisoner.

Any more a prisoner than you were in the queen’s solar? Any more a prisoner than you were, tied to the roles they want you in, not the one
you
want?

To that small voice inside her own head, Ailis was unable to respond. And when she looked up again, Morgain was gone.

The next afternoon, Morgain again appeared for a brief time, interrupting a nap filled with disturbingly
vivid dreams. This time the enchantress took Ailis to the far tower, where they stood by a huge open window and watched seabirds circle and dive into the ocean.

“I’ve never seen birds so large.”

“There are none larger on this isle, and indeed, few larger anywhere,” Morgain said. “They are warriors, in their own right.”

“I’ve dreamt…” Ailis stopped, suddenly shy, then plowed forward again. “I’ve dreamt of flying like that.”

“Have you now?” Morgain asked, her head cocked in curiosity. Then the sorceress raised her left hand, and made a movement with four of her five fingers. A strange noise rose from her slender throat as she did so. One of the birds, not quite as massive as the others, broke away from his circling and came closer—close enough that a sleek white feather fell from its wing, spiraling down in a lazy eddy, directly into Morgain’s upraised fingers.

Almost as long as Ailis’s hand, the feather gleamed with sea spray and some strange iridescent sparkle that seemed to come from within the quill itself.

“A talisman of your own,” Morgain said, a sly
reference to the last time they had met.

Ailis tucked the feather into the knot of her braid, where she could feel it occasionally brushing against her back. Then they descended the tower into a huge dining hall, where the afternoon meal was laid out: the most incredible food Ailis had ever tasted, beginning with a soup made from fresh berries, followed by a massive baked fish, crisp tubers, crusted bread that steamed when she broke it open to discover butter already melted inside, and a strange vegetable that looked too spiny to be edible but tasted wonderful.

Faintly visible ghostly servants moved platters around and refilled empty glasses, then retreated against the wall to wait until they were needed again. Ailis wondered if they were real people, ghosts, or, perhaps, purely magical constructs. Did they serve willingly? Did magical creatures care who they served? Was this to be her fate, someday? And could she possibly convince any of them to help her?

Raising a hand, she indicated to one that she would like more wine. Watching carefully, Ailis saw a figure look to Morgain first for permission. So much for that. If it needed approval to even give more refreshment, helping Ailis to leave without Morgain’s knowledge was out of the question.

“Do you like the sturgeon?”

“It’s quite good.”

And it was, along with everything else at the meal. They sat at a long table, covered with a cloth of shimmering white linen and set with plates of polished metal that glowed in the candlelight, goblets of crystal filled with dark ruby wine, and horn-handled eating instruments that might be useful as weapons, were she to slip them into her pocket and take them away from the table.

And now, as the translucent servants cleared away the meal’s dishes, another platter floated in, this one was covered in bite-sized pastries, cunningly made in the shapes of miniature animals. Ailis, after looking to Morgain for permission and receiving an encouraging nod, chose a white stag. Biting into it revealed a fruited filling that filled Ailis’s mouth with a tart, tangy sensation.

“Pears,” Morgain said, in response to Ailis’s happy sigh. “There’s nothing quite like a pear.”

Awash in a strange contentment that seemed to come from nowhere, Ailis was willing to take her word for it. The thought that this was magic, all magic, and she might well be under an enchantment, flitted through the girl’s mind. But since she couldn’t
do anything about it if it were so, Ailis let the notion pass, and chose another pastry: a unicorn with an impossibly tiny gilded horn.

The unicorn was halfway to her mouth when the doors behind her crashed open. Ailis froze, an instinctive response. Morgain’s face seemed to tell her to stay still and say nothing.

“Woman, you have lied to me!”

Morgain smoothed the fabric of her dress and rose to meet the newcomer, one of her well-groomed eyebrows raised in a calculated expression of surprise. “Be careful what you say, my friend. Bursting into my presence with such an accusation might be considered ill-manners. What is this lie you claim that I have told?”

“That!” From the way Morgain’s gaze did not shift, the girl suspected that she was the subject of the spiteful voice’s words. But she remained very still, very silent, wishing for the ability to turn translucent like the sorceress’s servants. “The agreement was that none were to know I was here.”

“And no one does. And no one would have, had you not burst in here like an ill-mannered child.”

Don’t look, child,
a voice in Ailis’s head warned her.
Don’t turn, don’t move, don’t look….

Merlin?
But while familiar, the voice did not feel like the enchanter’s, not entirely.
Morgain?
No response.

“You did not tell me you had brought this one here. Why?”

“Because I did not trust you to behave,” Morgain said. Her back was straight and her voice was steady, though a careful observer might have detected a faint tremor in her hand.

“She is—”

“She is a guest in my house,” Morgain said. “As are you.”

There was tension in this room that terrified Ailis more than she had ever been before; even more than when she hid under the low bed in her parents’ cottage and heard the sounds of battle raging all around her; even more than coming out of that cottage and seeing bodies strewn about her village. This wasn’t violence or madness. Those memories were hot and fierce. This was cold and severe; it whispered around her soul like the sound of a frigid winter’s wind.

There was a long silence, before the door was slammed shut again. Morgain held herself very still, but for the rise and fall of her chest as she took a long
breath in, then let it out in an equally long and slow movement.

“I am afraid I need to ask you to stay in your rooms…until I can decide what to do with you,” she said, not looking at Ailis. “I will have someone continue to bring meals, and whatever books or amusements you desire. It is…temporary, I promise.”

Temporary because she would go home soon? Temporary because she would be allowed to roam the castle again? Or temporary because…Ailis decided not to finish that thought. All she knew was that she didn’t want to be anywhere near that shadowy voice. She wanted it to forget she ever existed, and never see her ever again.

Morgain scared her and made her angry—but she had to admit Morgain also fascinated her. But the speaker of that voice terrified her. The fact that she didn’t know
why
she was so terrified only made it worse. But she would not give the sorceress the satisfaction of knowing that.
Strength,
she thought.
She respects strength as well as talent, especially in females.

“I think I would very much like to return to my room now,” she said, standing up on legs that were only a little shaky. “With your permission…”

Morgain merely nodded, her mind clearly
leagues away on some other matter. “I shall escort you.” Not because Ailis did not know the way, and not, the girl suspected, because Morgain feared Ailis might try to escape. The only other reason was that the intruder might be lurking, waiting for her somewhere in the hallways between here and there, and neither female believed that the results of such a meeting would be pleasant for Ailis.

And for the first time, the restrictions that had kept her trapped before, now seemed comforting.

The three rescuers had been riding since dawn that day, following the tug of the lodestone that hung around Gerard’s neck. Both Gerard and Newt had been awake before the sun, lying in their bedrolls, silently wrapped in their own bleak thoughts, until Sir Caedor woke and went through his now-expected morning routine. That was Newt’s cue to build the fire back up and start breakfast, while Gerard fed and watered the horses. It might have made more sense to do it the other way around, but Sir Caedor’s manner set off a stubborn reaction in both boys. They had gone about the other’s normal chores with a studied cheerfulness.

That had been many hours ago. Gerard felt as though his backside had somehow merged with his saddle sometime between the noon meal and now. The daily routine back home of weapons-practice and classes and more practice seemed so much easier than merely sitting on horseback.

“You’re sure there’s an inn ahead?” Gerard asked.

“I am certain,” Sir Caedor replied, leaning back to take the waterskin Gerard was passing him as they rode. “Your uncle and I stayed there while paying a visit on the warleader, ah, what was his name…Ragnar? A heathen Norseman who thought to set himself up as competition.”

That was a story Gerard had heard before, how his uncle Kay had met the Norse warrior and bested him thrice: once on the battlefield, once at the banquet table, and once in a contest of song. Never before had he heard that Sir Caedor had traveled on the same quest, but then Kay was not the most modest of men, and he would not have willingly shared his story with another.