Chapter 2
In the end, it was her light that opened my eyes.
The sight of her beauty was arresting as ever, my eyes so unused to her otherworldly glow and fire-bright hair I was forced to blink away the dazzle.
“Ninianne,” I said. “I could ask you the same question.”
“I have every right to be here,” she replied. “It is where I lived for a long time.”
“You don’t anymore. No one has been here for years.”
Her sigh was impatient, the skim of wind across a lake.
Little had changed in her, it being only a year since I had seen her last. That inauspicious day, on the road home from Camelot, with my entire household devastated from Accolon’s death, Merlin’s former Lady of the Lake had taunted me and galloped off, trying to draw me away from Arthur.
It didn’t work, but it was an insult that she had even tried.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
I saw no reason to lie. “The Shroud of Tithonus. In fact, perhaps you can be of help. Where did Merlin keep it in this puzzle chamber of his?”
“It seems I have helped you enough already,” she said. “You were using your senses to find it. Fairy skills.”
Those which I taught you, she did not say, but the past hung between us in the illuminated dust.
“I am no fairy,” I said dismissively. “Just tell me where the Shroud is. As Merlin’s beloved, he must have shown it to you.”
Her light darkened a shade. “I know of the Shroud’s existence, but Merlin kept a great many secrets from me, as I did from him. Why do you think it is here?”
“The last I saw of it was when your sorcerer took it to Camelot, a few days before I escaped this place,” I said. “Presumably, he brought it back when he returned.”
She glided towards me through the mess, shutting the cupboard doors with soundless care. Halfway, she paused and said, “Merlin never came back to this house. After his time at Camelot, I met him outside the city and took him directly to the cave.”
Such honesty was a surprise. “The cave where you…?”
Her eyes glittered at me, green as spring. An open drawer slid home with a bang. “Yes. The cave where I sealed him in, and brought about his death.”
Instinctively, I wanted to ask her about it, my fascination with her world-altering feat separate from the enmity I felt.
That she had dared tangle with Merlin after decades of living with him, learning from him and enduring his obsession with her, was still shocking.
How long had she known she would do it? Was she planning his punishment as she sat teaching me how to dance with the elements?
What did he do to finally push her too far?
But she would not tell me, and I would never ask.
It was too intimate, requiring a level of closeness that we had briefly shared, but no longer.
To her, I was treacherous and a mortal enemy to Arthur, whom she had served since his birth.
To me, she had participated in Accolon’s death at his and Arthur’s fateful duel.
Ninianne of the Lake had visited as much destruction on my life as she had on the sorcerer’s, and I was still alive to remember it.
“Then how did Merlin know I had escaped here?” I persisted. “Why was he outside my valley, waiting to capture me back?”
She spread her hands in a gesture of obviousness. “He was a seer, Morgan. One of the very best. Merlin had his ways of knowing things.”
It had the ring of veracity. “In that case,” I replied, “you were the last person to see Merlin alive. That can only mean you have the Shroud.”
She recoiled. “It means nothing of the kind.”
I didn’t read her as lying, though the air between us vibrated with unease. She always said I shouldn’t trust her.
“Why would I believe you? Doing so has only ever caused me misery and loss.”
She stiffened, glancing briefly at the window behind me. “If that is what you think, Morgan, then so be it. Only one of us in this room turned traitor on her own brother and tried to bring down the entire kingdom.”
“Do not say that, as if it’s simply true,” I snapped. “I am the one who has been betrayed, in the worst possible ways.”
I heard the heat in my voice and drew a deep breath. She would not have the satisfaction of my lost composure.
“Why are you here, anyway?” I asked. “Quite the coincidence that we meet in this house at the exact same time, no?”
“I certainly did not plan it. I am here on another matter.” She paused, considering me. “Then again, fairy connections work in curious ways. Perhaps there is something in our being drawn together, on this particular day.”
Her casual reference to Accolon’s fateful anniversary flashed fire up my spine, but again I would not let her goad me.
She did not know me as she once had; years of love and contentment had mellowed my flame, and though loss had once more made jagged my edges, it had also made me cautious, watchful. Wiser.
“We have no connection,” I said. “This is nothing but an attempt at distraction, as always. What is it you are hiding this time?”
I looked about the ruined room, to the window where she had glanced moments before. The gold-bound book gleamed back at me from the lectern.
“You’re here for Merlin’s Book of Prophecies,” I said. “Or rather—Arthur’s.”
The quiver of her light was confirmation enough.
“I see how things are,” I continued. “Arthur has not asked for your advice, your magic or even your presence. You haven’t been called to fill the absence by his side.”
“It would not have been possible,” she replied. “I have been busy these past few years, away from Britain. Until recently, I have not had time to often be in the court.”
I shook my head. “If Arthur felt inclined, he would have summoned you, and you would have gone,” I said. “But Merlin’s death stands in the way—he cannot forgive such an act. However, if you have his Book of Prophecies, his sorcerer’s precious words, he might let you do his bidding.”
Her blaze surged, growing so incandescent I had to squint away. Accusing Ninianne of not being mistress of her own destiny had always landed like a scorpion sting.
“To be by King Arthur’s side is a gift, not a right,” she replied in a terse voice. “My actions with Merlin may have caused him grief, but I have always been loyal and was there when it mattered. I saved him from Sir Accolon’s sword and your treason.”
This time, she succeeded in lighting the fire in my belly, but I still could not let her win. Instead, I paced back and forth before the lectern, trying to douse my temper with calm.
“I could have killed him, you know,” I said. “Arthur—at the abbey. He was asleep when I got there. I could have destroyed him a hundred times.”
“I know,” Ninianne replied. “He told me.”
“I’ll bet he did,” I said scornfully. “Endless verses on his suffering and outrage. Though I showed mercy where he—and you—had none.”
“You betrayed him, Morgan. It broke your brother’s heart. And not just his. I… ”
She faltered, and it was so sudden, so full emotion, that I stopped to stare at her.
“After everything you and I shared,” she continued, “I believed our faith in the High King bonded us, that we cared for the same things and even…each other. I thought we had an understanding.”
A laugh tore out of me, harsh as a blue jay’s call. “An understanding?” I cried. “The man I love is dead because of you!”
By God, she had broken me, and so easily. Just my being forced to invoke Accolon’s death was enough. I pointed a trembling finger at her.
“You knew I loved him,” I said. “From the first moment we spoke on Tintagel’s headland you knew what Accolon and I felt for one another.
Your indifference to my feelings didn’t even begin with his death.
You saw a so-called deal I struck with Merlin in a handful of runestones and took our child away. You never cared for me.”
“That’s not true,” she protested. “If I had known—”
“How did you help Arthur?” I cut in. “The day Accolon died. What did you do?”
Ninianne stepped back, smoothing over her demeanour. Her silence said I did not deserve any answer, but I was far beyond her authority. I flipped open the Book of Prophecies and steepled my fingers against the parchment, a lick of fire flaring in my palm.
“Do not test me,” I said. “We both know I burn hot enough to turn these pages to ash. And I will.”
Before that moment, I could never have imagined burning a book, but this thing, full of Merlin’s scrawled assumptions and obfuscations, could certainly prove the exception.
Ninianne made no move; she believed me. “What do you want me to say, Morgan? Sir Accolon died because that was how it had to be.”
Her words bruised my heart, but I pressed my burning hand closer to the page. Good parchment would not catch too easily, but the star chart began to pucker under my heat.
“These pages will not withstand long,” I warned. “Answer my question.”
Her eyes flicked to the book, then back to my face. “The battle was ferocious,” she said. “There were serious injuries on both sides. King Arthur was at risk of death, so…I took the scabbard from Sir Accolon’s belt.”
I closed my eyes against the implication, the nausea that followed. Excalibur’s scabbard prevented bleeding and healed the wearer as he stood. When Ninianne snatched it from Accolon, the magical effect would have ended instantly. Everything Arthur had done to him, he would have suddenly felt.
The agony of it rushed through me, how excruciating it would have been, my healing instinct flaring in useless recognition. The thought was unbearable.
My hand fell away from the Book of Prophecies, flames guttering to nothing. In a way, I had known it, had understood the circumstances of the duel from the message Arthur had sent. But I had never let myself apply too much logic to something I couldn’t think about without wanting to die myself.
“There was no choice,” Ninianne continued. “The King was distraught—he insisted they both be taken to the abbey to be healed. Sir Accolon lay there for four days before King Arthur would accept nothing could be done.”
“Four days?” I clutched at the lectern, my body gone cold. “Accolon was lying in the abbey all that time, when I could have healed him? You knew and didn’t send for me?”
She paled at once. “You don’t understand… ”
“You knew I would have come for him, no matter the consequences awaiting me. I would have flown there on the wind.” My voice was wild, thick with rage and repressed tears.
“Whatever quarrel I had with my brother, Accolon was innocent of it all. You knew better than anyone I would have given my life to save his.”
Ninianne stepped forwards, reaching for my hands. “Morgan, no… ”
“Don’t touch me,” I spat.
With a flick of my wrists, I captured the air between my palms and pushed her sideways.
Ninianne collided hard with the cupboards, and I felt the breath knocked from her lungs.
She attempted to rise, but was too winded to move or access her own magic.
I grabbed the golden book and strode past her, skirts dragging through the destruction I had left.
“What are you doing?” she gasped. “You have no interest in Merlin’s prophecies.”
At the doorway, I stopped and looked back. “No, but you do. If you want to ensure your place by Arthur’s side and Merlin’s version of the future, there is a tax. Bring me the Shroud of Tithonus, and I’ll consider an exchange.”
“I told you—I don’t know where the Shroud is.”
“In that case, I suggest you find it. You know where I am when you do.”
Before she could right herself, I swept down the small staircase and out of Merlin’s study. I rushed through the house, suddenly desperate to be free of the sorcerer’s lair, the oppressive walls that still held his essence.
When I reached the outside air, Phénix stood waiting, regarding my panting, trembling form with his usual placidity.
I went to him, stowing the Book of Prophecies in the saddlebag, then gathered enough focus to weave a few charms of protection over the manuscript.
The silver threads came out kinked and shirred, but they would serve.
Weariness washed through my limbs, so I rested my forehead against Phénix’s chestnut neck, inhaling warm scents of hay and horse, not unlike how Accolon used to smell when he came in from the tiltyard, flushed and invigorated, calling for hot water so he could steep his body in a bath.
I leaned harder against the horse’s bright hide, lest I buckle to the ground.
A year he had been gone from this world. How could that be?
“Morgan?”
I turned almost involuntarily. Ninianne stood by the door, regarding me with a quiet scrutiny that felt like sun in my bones. Through her searching gaze I saw myself—drawn face, dark hair escaping my rough braid, the defiant set of my jaw that I felt aching all the way up to my scalp.
She took a step forwards, bearing up her hands; a priestess of ancient days making an offering. “Take this,” she said. “Before I change my mind.”
On her palms sat a curved bowl, silver and smooth, thin as a crescent moon.
“I have its identical counterpart, enchanted by my own powers,” she explained.
“If you pour water into the bowl and ask it to seek me, we can speak via the elemental connection—even see one another, if the magic is strong enough.”
I didn’t consider touching the bowl. “Why would either of us want to do that?”
“Just in case. We do not know what the future holds, or how it will change us.”
I looked at her, trying to read the trick, and her beautiful face flickered, the waver in her fairy heart unfamiliar. Ninianne was uncertain in a way I had never known her to be.
However, I could not let myself be drawn. I retreated and put my foot in the stirrup, swinging up into the saddle.
“Keep your spying bowl. I have no need of it,” I said. “I don’t care what the future holds, and it will make no difference to me. Who I am now is who I will remain.”
I turned Phénix away and urged the horse towards the bridge.
“That can never be, Morgan,” Ninianne called, but her voice sounded close, as if she were murmuring into my ear. “You are water—eternal but ever-changing. There is no final form.”
Her words washed through me with an oblique recognition, but I ignored it and rode on.
It wasn’t until I reached Belle Garde the following morning that I saw the cool glint in my saddlebag, and discovered Ninianne’s silver bowl there, as if I had accepted it after all.