Chapter 8 #2
“I wouldn’t condescend to creep inside anyone’s mind,” I said. “That was Merlin’s way—never mine.” Then, the lie. “Whatever you dream of, brother, you dream alone.”
Arthur said nothing, but held my gaze for so long I almost gave in and looked away. I felt his disbelief through to my bones.
“If that is the truth,” he said eventually, “then what purpose, all of this?”
“My letter promised vengeance, and I meant it,” I said. “I intend to punish Camelot to the full extent of my power. However, there is a way—only one—to prevent it.”
“Which is?”
“Give me what I am owed,” I said. “The Shroud of Tithonus.”
His face showed no sign of recognition. “The what?”
“A large piece of white linen, ancient and delicate, once possessed by Merlin. He brought it to you in Camelot in an ebony box, the same month I escaped from him.”
Still no flicker of familiarity, and he had never been skilled at lying.
“It has no use to you, and I can do you no harm with it,” I continued anyway. “Bring it to me, and I will leave Camelot alone. Tell the court you defeated me. I don’t care.”
Arthur scowled, as if the idea was distasteful to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of this…piece of cloth. The last object that Merlin gave me was one you traitorously stole for yourself. My scabbard.”
His account of my actions was both true and not.
I had hardly thought about Excalibur’s death-defying scabbard, but only Alys, Tressa and I knew I had thrown it into a lake to be lost for eternity.
The last Arthur had seen of it was when I leapt out of his abbey sickbed window with the miraculous object in my hands.
“Do not think I’ve forgotten,” he added. “I will not rest until it is returned.”
“Then you will never rest,” I said. “You didn’t deserve the scabbard, nor appreciate the marvels it was capable of.”
“It belongs with Excalibur. It is mine by right.”
“No one has the right to such power,” I said. “Any king worth his crown would know that.”
His eyes hardened immediately. “And you used my property with care, did you, sister? If you hadn’t tricked Sir Accolon into carrying it, he would still be alive.”
Despite the chill of the rain, my blood ran cold.
In a few words Arthur had cut into the darkest reaches of my grief, my self-hatred, and carved out the tortures I most favoured: what if I had not let Accolon go; if I had followed him sooner; if I had not given him a High King’s magical scabbard and told him to keep it close.
Even at my mercy, somehow my brother could read the internal scars of my defeat.
We stood frozen before one another, our silence stretching so far the air felt taut with pain, until Arthur almost looked chastened. His lips parted as if he was about to speak—explain, recant—but I couldn’t stand more of his cruelty. Instead, he deserved some of mine.
“You might as well forget about the scabbard,” I snarled. “It will never be back in your possession. I swear it upon my life.”
“That would be a very foolish oath to make,” he said. “The scabbard is the one means of negotiation left to you. Otherwise, I have no choice but to bring you to justice.”
His enduring belief that he was in charge lit up my fury at once. Raising my hands, I reached into the remaining storm and pulled down a shower of thin lightning bolts.
Luckily for him, Arthur’s feet were quick. He leapt backwards, staring at the scorch marks where he had stood, the snakes of steam rising from wet stone. His hand went to the gleaming weapon at his belt.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Even if you could draw that sainted blade before I melted it into liquid steel—it doesn’t matter. You cannot reach me.”
He hesitated, sword hand falling to his side. I studied him through the steady rain, soaked to the skin, pale-gold hair darkened and dripping, mantle the colour of blood at night. Excalibur’s hilt burned brightly at his hip, the only remnant of sun left in the world.
“I didn’t have to, Morgan,” he said. “All I had to do was know you. The moment I rode close enough to your valley, here you are, as if by my command.”
Despite everything, I felt his words, his defiance, within myself. My brother had set a trap for me exactly as I had created one for him, and we had both fallen in. How sharp it felt to discover that we still shared one mind.
The thought was too much, and I could not let it stand.
“I hardly think you are the one in control here.” I gestured to the roiling sky. “Have you learned nothing? You did not summon me—I brought you to this place with my own power. I made this storm.”
He looked up at the tumult and shrugged. “It’s just weather. I’ve survived worse.”
“Very well,” I said. “We shall see.”
I lifted my hands to the raging waterfall.
At my request, the element arched forth, looming over my brother in a foaming, muscular channel.
He watched it rise and hang suspended, waiting to crash upon him.
No matter how strong he was, or that he had been born within Tintagel’s seas just as I had, he understood that if I chose this, he would not survive.
Arthur looked back at me, his grey eyes calm.
“Do as you must, sister,” he said.
I savoured the water’s force through my body, rippling against my muscles, fierce and deadly. Yet sometimes, I knew, its power lay elsewhere; in the still blue lake, running deep. I would not be told what I must do.
“No,” I said. “Not like this. I want much more than a swift revenge.”
Carefully, I drew the waterfall down. It obeyed me like an eager young horse, strong but letting me lead the way. Arthur drew breath to argue, but I shook my head.
“Hear this,” I said, as I guided the water to the pool.
“What you love, I will take from you—those you hold dearest, the realm’s reputation and the faith of the ones who follow you.
I want to disturb your peace, your days and nights, disrupt your world until you are hollow with shame and despair.
Camelot will feel my vengeance, until you know how it feels to lose everything, as I have. That is my due, nothing less.”
For a heartbeat, Arthur looked stunned, then his face changed, jaw set hard, eyes steel and flashing with challenge, the faint snarl of a smile about his lips. What I read there was not doubt, or anger, but exhilaration.
“If that is a declaration of war, Morgan, then be sure you mean it,” he said. “You forget, I know this life far better than you. I have never ridden into a battle I did not win.”
“And I have never known how to walk away from a fight,” I said. “Think of that before you question my purpose. It will save you time.”
Unexpectedly, his smile grew, breaking into a laugh that echoed in the last of the rain. “In that case, say no more,” he said. “You have started this, and I will end it. I will do whatever it takes to protect my kingdom. Be warned—it will not be over until I have justice.”
The sound of his confidence ignited in me as competition, a note of similarity between two siblings, both headstrong, both convinced they are right, but utterly opposed.
I gathered the storm again in my hands, thunder snarling its own reply.
“Give me your very worst, brother,” I said. “For every act of war you bring, I will rain down chaos.”