Chapter 3 #2
Pushing the tapestries aside, I stowed the bowl near the bottom, under where I kept the Ars Physica and the chess set Accolon had given me at Tintagel.
The uppermost shelf bore only one object—a silver box, containing Accolon’s heart in its cocoon of blue silk, turned to stone, waiting for me.
I pressed my palm to the lid, savouring the sweet high music of his heartsong. He was still there.
I let the tapestries fall back into place and looked to the worktable.
As instructed, the sacks from Merlin’s had been left there, so I went across and opened the first one.
A confident golden light shone back at me—the Book of Prophecies.
I took out the manuscript and laid it on the table.
The covers gleamed like the sun, its rubies bloody.
I had no intention of reading it, but threw it open anyway.
Arthurus Rex.
The sight of my brother’s name brought a feeling I couldn’t quite parse, so I turned the page, revealing another gold-crown border, and a distinct title.
The Death of Arthur it said, in thick black ink.
Unexpectedly, the Book of Prophecies began at the end. I flicked to the next few headings—Arthur’s birth, the War of Eleven Kings, his drawing the sword from the stone. Rather than time, Merlin seemed to have placed his prophecies in order of importance. Where then was my so-called betrayal?
Looking for your own prophecy? I imagined the sorcerer saying in his waspish voice. Admit it, dearest Morgan—you are more interested in my work than you claim.
I slammed the manuscript shut again. There was no need to go further: I had heard what was said about me—by the stars and others—and it meant nothing.
Picking up the volume, I took it to the alcove and shoved it to the back of the lowest shelf.
If I could not see it, then I wouldn’t be tempted to read it.
Leverage was my only purpose for Arthur’s golden book; it would stay in the shadows until Ninianne brought me the Shroud of Tithonus, or I found the miraculous object myself.
If it can be found, came the dark thought, followed by the question that Alys could not bear to ask. Can you raise Accolon from death without it?
On the road back, I had spent hours asking myself the same, and the answer had proved unchanging: no matter how remarkable my mind, how good my formulae, or how much of my blood I poured forth, without the resurrection power of the Shroud, raising a dead man whole from only his heart was impossible.
My insides gave an involuntary swoop, but I could not think of that now. I had told Alys and Tressa I would bring Accolon back, just as I had assured the household that everything would be all right again. Failure was not a choice I could make.
The room felt stifling, so I escaped out onto the balcony.
From the balustrade, I saw Robin leading his horse across the bridge to the tilt field, for the two hours of morning practice he still kept up—the routine he and Accolon had shared.
As he mounted and began his drills, I knew I would not go and see his carnedd that day.
Nor would I go the next day, or the one after that, or even when Alys gently pointed out it had been a week and I had not yet been.
Instead, I would do what I had done for the past nine months, to show the household my dedication to our future beyond devastation.
I would attend the evening meals with a smile painted on my face, but never take my seat.
I would drink an entire jug of wine until my vision blurred and I saw Accolon in the tail of my eye, talking and laughing with others, or sitting atop a table, playing the lute, his musical voice ringing in my mind.
After that, fevered and wine-hazy, I would climb to my circular bedchamber and light the candles in a way that made it look as though there was more than one shadow upon the wall.
I would lie down on my bed and let my senses conjure Accolon’s weight on the mattress beside me, the phantom of his warmth along my body, even if indulging this meant I would turn over to find the terrible gulf where he no longer lay.
A few weeks later, when Alys and Tressa asked if the household could hold a feast in my Gaul’s honour for his approaching September birthday, I would agree wholeheartedly, to prove how in balance I was.
When they told me the revel’s theme would centre upon Accolon’s various passions, I would advise on his favourite foods, drinks, music and interests and not let my voice shake.
Every day, when my women asked how I was, I would say I was fine, I was well, and nothing more.
I could not say that while time and the world moved on, all I did was notice the small, constant abysses created by his absence.
I never spoke of the cavern his loss had hollowed inside of me, that only our love could fill.
I told no one that the emptiness he left was so great it had conquered the vast and quiet sky, and there had not been a storm in Belle Garde’s valley since Accolon had died.