Chapter 33 #2
Roman-style sun dials, but too small—and, of course, not positioned anywhere to be useful.
Instead of numerals along its edges, it appeared as though names had been carved and filled with ink.
Nyneve leaned closer. Not ink—blood. Despite the lack of direct sunlight, a shadow fell from each dial, though she had no idea what it was marking.
The magic felt familiar, though, like a tug or a knot.
“Bargains,” Morgana whispered at the same moment Nyneve realized.
Mordred turned to face them, and she thought he looked as though he could have been a thousand years old at that moment, the planes of his face impossibly ancient in the gloom, a sorrow in his eyes too immense for his age. Then she blinked, and the knight looked as he always did.
“You have to tell the Morrigan,” he hissed at Morgana, his eyes wild. “Merlin has opened Kronos’s prison. These bargains are strengthening him.”
Morgana nodded, though she stooped to examine the dials.
“Yes, I will call upon Her when we surface. Thankfully, it is only a single open latch among a thousand tightly locked ones,” she said, gesturing toward the gate that still shimmered on the edge of Nyneve’s vision, though she could no longer look directly at it.
“It will take Merlin years to open another one.”
“No, Morgana,” Mordred said roughly, reaching for the sorceress’s shoulder. “You do not understand.”
The elegant woman turned on him, eyebrow arched. “Please, pray tell. What do I not understand of my own goddess’s magic?” she demanded.
At that moment, Nyneve realized. Her stomach plummeted, and horror stretched its cold fingers up her neck. “Merlin doesn’t have to open the gate at all,” she whispered, looking up at the sorceress and the knight. “He just needs to make enough bargains until Kronos is strong enough to get out.”
Mordred looked at her wearily as Morgana straightened.
“Fuck,” she spat. “There is not even the barest shadow of these happenings except for in this cavern. They’re bargaining time, yes?
What else could this be? So then why aren’t we seeing people live for too long or survive impossible situations?
Why aren’t people worshiping him again?” Morgana stepped back, pointing at the slab. “This has been going on for some time.”
A thought struck Nyneve so suddenly that her legs went out from under her, and she abruptly sat down on the cavern floor. Mordred was immediately at her side in a way that made her mind go soft and warm—which was not helpful.
“Because they’re not worshiping Kronos,” she said, burying her head in her hands, feeling so stupid for not realizing sooner. Everything had been right before her eyes, and yet she had not seen. “Because the High Court and people like you, Morgana, would know, and you would do something.”
The sorceress’s sharp intake of breath echoed through the cavern, loud as a blacksmith’s strike.
“They’re worshipping the Resurrected God,” she whispered in horror.
“But in truth, it is Kronos. That is why Merlin’s monks behave in such opposition to Christ’s teachings.
They do not follow him. They merely use him. ”
“The sheep’s clothing,” Mordred muttered, “for the wolf.”
Halfway between the cliffs and the meadow where the horses waited, Morgana asked the kelpies to stop beside a hawthorn tree.
It was old and twisted, growing out of a crumbling Roman wall and the hedgerow that ran along it.
Everything smelled of dried earth and dust. The sun was beginning to set, the wind dying down, making Nyneve feel as though she were standing in one of Molly’s giant cooking hearths.
“This will take a few moments,” Morgana said, reaching into the pockets of her kirtle and pulling out what appeared to be an assortment of bones and crow feathers.
She knelt before the hawthorn tree and placed the magical fetish onto a flat part of its trunk.
But before Morgana said any of the things Nyneve knew one must say to entreat one of the greater goddesses into appearing, a great rustle of wings filled the quiet air.
Nyneve turned on her heel, going for her dagger instinctually, but the sight that awaited her stilled her entire body.
A being stood in the field, tall and sinewy—taller even than Mordred.
The majority of Her frame was hidden by a trailing cloak of feathers so dark they seemed to swallow the fading sunlight.
She was unusually still, as though She did not need to breathe.
Her black eyes, set in a long, angular face, watched the three of them carefully.
“Morrigan,” Morgana said from behind Nyneve, walking forward to bow to the goddess.
“You spoke My name in a place you should not have been,” the goddess said, Her voice like cawing crows and autumnal winds.
“Your wards are weakening,” Morgana protested, rising from her bow. “Merlin is using the Resurrected God to make bargains that strengthen Kronos.”
The goddess’s thin lips parted. “I know,” She said.
“So do something,” Mordred snapped.
The goddess tilted Her head to one side, the movement eerily animalistic, and looked at him. “I did,” She said. “I made you.”
All the supplications and pleas waiting in Nyneve’s throat died.
There was only the rush of the wind through the hawthorn tree.
Heart beating wildly, Nyneve dared to look up.
The goddess stood right in front of her now, Her lithe, woad-tattooed hands clasped.
Long, intricate black braids tumbled from beneath Her hood as She leaned forward to examine them.
Nyneve’s hand reached for Mordred’s. She did it without even thinking, but his fingers closed around hers immediately, easy as breathing.
“Little ones, can you not see how diminished I am?” the goddess asked, letting out a surprisingly human-sounding sigh. “The Nameless One is a gift,” She continued. Mordred’s hand tightened around Nyneve’s. “He comes with a price.”
The goddess turned toward the setting sun, but the light did not seem to reach Her. “Fate’s eye is heavy. There is much to be determined. Much on your shoulders, little mortals. I have given all that I can. Now it is up to you.”
Morgana stepped forward, her spine straight and defiant. “Morrigan,” she said between clenched teeth. “No.”
The being in the crow-cloak turned back to meet Morgana’s gaze. “Yes,” the goddess murmured. “You are my chosen Three.”
Nyneve blinked, and then the Morrigan was gone, though three crow feathers floated in the air, coming to rest on the dusty ground at her feet.
“What the fuck did any of that mean?” someone roared. It took Nyneve a moment to realize the voice had come from her own throat.
Morgana leaned against the hawthorn tree, looking utterly spent.
“In times of much turmoil,” she explained, not looking at either one of them, “the gods and greater powers are often prevented from intervening directly. I do not know if it is some law of their making, or simply a cruel game they play. Instead, they bestow gifts and guidance upon their creations. Fey and mortals alike.”
Morgana’s words hit Nyneve with the weight of a millstone.
She had learned about the Chosen as a child among the Druids, but it always seemed more like a fairy tale than anything else.
In a sudden rush, she recalled playing with the other children in the forest, all of them proclaiming which deity’s Chosen they might be one day.
She could not remember what her answer had been, but it should not have mattered what a child uttered some ten-odd years ago beneath an oak tree.
“I do not want this,” Nyneve said hoarsely, bitterness souring her tongue.
She had come to Camelot in the hopes of proving herself to the Elders—proving that she deserved to have her baneful magic unbound and to return to her home, her meadows, her people.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the wind and saw the body of Uccu’s son, battered and bloodied, looking as though he had been torn apart by an animal. By a monster.
Nyneve did not want any of this, no—but perhaps she deserved it.
“Of course,” the Druid girl muttered bitterly, looking down at the wide part of the stream where she usually bathed.
It had resisted much of the drought thus far, but now, in the light of her raised lantern, it was little more than a mud pit.
She shouldn’t have expected anything else, not after the day she’d just had.
Clenching her jaw, Nyneve turned and trudged up the bank, following the deer trail to the meadow behind the physician’s cottage.
Halfway across the clearing, awareness prickled her skin, and she paused, the lantern swinging. All the usual nighttime sounds of the forest abruptly halted. Then there was a rustle of feathered wings, and for the second time in one day, a great divine thing appeared before Nyneve.
In the icy light suddenly bathing the clearing, she found herself face-to-face with a tall, willowy creature. Pale wings arched out of the deity’s back.
She drew in a deep breath and reached for her dagger, the scent of brine and tarnished silver hitting her nose.
“I’ve really had enough of your kind,” she spat.
She was sweaty and dusty, and every time she closed her eyes, she saw Elaine’s body.
“If you are not here to actually help me, please, piss off.”
“I am here to assist, child,” the being said in a voice like starfall and turning wheels. Teeth flashed in the dark like mother-of-pearl, entirely too sharp. “I do not yet have a proper name in these lands, but you may know Me simply as Fate.”
Nyneve almost laughed in the deity’s face because there was nothing more absurd than the avatar of Fate appearing in a dusty meadow to a Druid girl who just wanted a damn bath.
But the pulse and pull of the creature was undeniable—much like the Morrigan, except there was something about Fate that made Nyneve’s blood run cold.