Chapter 27
A week or SO later, the huntsman brought the news.
“There’s a woman at the boundary, my lady, claiming you summoned her. She says you’ll know what it’s about.”
I noted he looked faintly dazzled. “I do,” I replied. “Let her in.”
Gathering all I would need, I prepared the entrance hall for her arrival and waited. Soon after, she swept in, a blaze of impatience in the cool quiet house.
“Where is my son?” Ninianne of the Lake demanded.
“You know,” I mused, “the last time that phrase was uttered between us was when I discovered you had snatched mine and Accolon’s newborn child. How things change, but ultimately remain the same.”
“Only I did not snatch your son,” she retorted. “Whereas you did take mine. Where is Lancelot?”
“Then I assume you have come to meet the terms of our exchange,” I said evenly. “Firstly, where is the Shroud of Tithonus?”
She lowered her voice to its most alluring pitch. “I told you—I do not have the Shroud. Nor do I know what Merlin did with it.”
The light from her skin settled, turning deep gold and reaching across the space between us. Her warmth was the quality of a perfect evening: a long walk under the sunset; good wine generously poured; one’s true love waiting open-armed in bed. Pleasures of life she had also stolen from me.
My nerves pulled taut but I held fast to my self-control, sharpening my senses to her presence. Waves of silver-bright vitality flowed off her, calling out to the healing within me. She lied; the Shroud of Tithonus was somewhere upon her person.
I let her bodiless embrace soothe me for a moment longer, then shook it off as though it were a wet cape.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” I said. “That you still do not appreciate the depth of my intelligence, or you think I have time to waste.”
Her light dimmed, withdrawing. “I am not here for the pleasure of refusing your request. I am here for my son.”
If I had worried she would sense my lies about Lancelot’s liberty, I knew then she could not. Her powers of reading me had diminished, and to realize it was odd, empowering.
“The son whose handsome neck you are risking with your denials,” I replied.
“I know you, Morgan,” she said. “I have held my hand on your heart. You would not do that to me.”
“Yet much has changed since then, any closeness we shared so long in the past.” I put my palm to my chest. “What would you feel now, do you think, if you put your hand to the shattered pieces of my heart that you and Arthur left behind? Would it spare your son?”
She stepped towards me, her glow expanding, threatening to combust.
“Careful,” I said. “Any moment now, you may decide that you wish to dominate me with your far greater magic. Remember, the moment you allow it, you will be dragged out of this valley by my protective charms. I will not permit you entry again.”
“Why are you being this way?” she said. “I know you have been grieving these past years, but what you are doing and saying is not who you are.”
“How dare you,” I said. “I have not been grieving—I still am. And I will keep being this way until what I lost has been restored.”
“This is beneath you,” she insisted, her vehemence rising to match my own. “Suspicion, destruction, control—I didn’t risk my life to rid the world of Merlin for you of all people to become just like him.”
“I am nothing like Merlin!” I shouted.
The sound snapped throughout the hall, echoing my anger back to me, the trap Ninianne had tempted me into. I pulled back on the reins of my fury.
“This is a ransom, nothing more,” I said in a controlled voice. “A simple exchange widely accepted in knightly circles. It is you who prevaricates over saving your son.”
“Lancelot doesn’t need me to save him,” she replied. “But kidnap, ransom, threatening his death? I came here because I was concerned about your state of mind.”
“How bold of you to question my rationality,” I scoffed. “I’ve never threatened Lancelot with death. Indeed, I have already saved his life once.”
I had never seen Ninianne pale so fast, not even when Merlin had sliced open her arm to prove that I could heal it. She drained to the colour of bone dust. “What do you mean?”
“The only danger to his person has come from himself, throwing his body at destruction at every opportunity. Just recently, he refused to eat or drink and almost perished. I was the one who brought him back from the brink.”
“He wouldn’t,” she said, half to herself. “He is too… ”
“Honourable? Courageous? Beloved? Yes, that’s what I thought. Yet when I found him, he told me to leave him to die. I said I would never let that happen.”
I advanced towards her until we stood within arm’s reach. The silvery force of the Shroud thrilled through my body like a lover’s whisper, reminding me of its presence.
“Above all, I am a healer,” I said. “But I am not omniscient. You can walk away now knowing I won’t slay Lancelot, but with his disposition, I make no guarantees I can keep him alive.” I paused, holding her dimmed green gaze. “Place your hand on my heart now and see if I am telling the truth.”
She made no move. I know you are, her mind said to mine.
“A wise choice,” I replied aloud. “Perhaps your son cannot escape the confines of his inner troubles, and I sympathize, but he can be freed from Belle Garde.” I held out my hand. “Give me the Shroud.”
With a glittering reluctance, Ninianne reached into her cloak and drew out a red-and-white silk bag. Seeing Arthur’s colours surrounding the precious object put my teeth on edge. I grabbed the bag before she could change her mind, turned away and reached inside.
The Shroud looked and felt the same as before—bleached soft linen, the shade of old bones.
Greedily, I clutched the fabric, running the linen through my fingertips, looking for damage, falseness, fairy traps.
A symphony of vitality shot into my blood in reply, scattering bright goodness through my body.
No counterfeit charm could recreate the pleasure of it, or my unique connection.
In my hands, I held the true Shroud of Tithonus.
I smiled at Ninianne over my shoulder, victory singing in my veins. “It’s about time,” I said. “Stay exactly where you are.”
I went over to a table by the fireplace, and the provisions I had made before she arrived.
A reliquary of blue glass and silver stood waiting within a cage of protective charms. I opened the hinged lid, folded the Shroud with delicacy, then placed the marvel inside with a rush of satisfaction.
At long last, I possessed what I most wanted; there wasn’t a person in the world, armoured with magic or steel, who held power over me anymore.
“Our deal is done, Morgan,” Ninianne said. “Bring me my son.”
Slowly, I turned back and faced her. Perhaps what I had done was fraudulent, even theft, but she had stolen from me first. She had lied to me countless times.
“Lancelot,” I said casually, “is not here.”
She recoiled, then charged forwards, snapping like a she-wolf. “You lie.”
“Spoken by one who knows how,” I replied. “Nevertheless, I have no reason to, now I have what I want. Sir Lancelot has left my Val Sans Retour.”
“He is here; I can feel it,” she insisted. “You cannot fool me, Morgan. I have ways of knowing where he is.”
“Maternal instinct, I suppose?”
She bridled at the bitterness in my voice. “A ring he wears that I gave him. The enchantment acts as a link to his presence.”
“Ah yes! The ring that also protects against magic.” I reached into the top of my bodice, brandishing the dull grey band. “This one, I believe.”
Ninianne’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the brown stone. “How did you get that? No one but Lancelot is able to touch it.”
“I know. It thoroughly scorched me when I tried. Impressive work from you, as ever.” I flicked the ring up on my thumbnail and caught it in my palm. “Your magic didn’t fail. He gave it to me.”
She shook her head fervently. “That is not possible.”
“Then how do you explain my possession?” I said. “Or why you were sure he was still here when he is truly gone.”
Ninianne cast her gaze about the echoing hall, as if hoping Lancelot might leap out from behind an arras to carry them both off to safety.
“Search the entire manor if you wish,” I said. “You won’t find him.”
She turned back to me, her light fierce. “How do you have that ring, Morgan? He would not part with it willingly.”
“Oh, it wasn’t willingly,” I said. “I will say this for your indomitable son—you have raised the stubborn fairy side of him to perfection. But there is a mortal heart in that deep chest of his, scored with honour and love. Sir Gawain was in peril and he wished to rescue him. I generously agreed to it, if he gave me his other ring to guarantee his return. He couldn’t bear the thought, for obvious reasons, so he gave me your magical gift instead. ”
“What other ring?” she asked. Unease shimmered through her, but I couldn’t tell if it was due to knowledge or lack thereof.
“You know well enough. The square emerald in a gold band which Lancelot wears around his neck. A token of love from one who favours such stones, with her royal name carved within the band. Guinevere.”
This time, Ninianne could not hide her shock. It came off her in waves.
“And you dare speak to me about betrayal,” I said.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she protested. “I…I—”
“Then let me explain it to you,” I cut in.
“Your darling son, the most honourable, eminent, perfect knight of the realm, is the greatest traitor this kingdom has ever seen. Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere are lovers. If Merlin’s precious predictions must be believed, they are the betrayal that was promised, not me. ”
I returned to the table and unwrapped the final object I had brought: the Book of Prophecies. I picked up the golden volume and opened it to the page I most wished to burn.
“Here,” I said, thrusting it towards her. “Read the prophecy that Merlin decided was definitively about me. The one that Arthur and you chose to believe.”
She caught the open book in her hands, and I paced back and forth while she diligently read, as if she didn’t know exactly what was there.
“Show me where it says my name,” I demanded.
“Where anything about me is written.” I stopped and slammed my finger onto the page.
“Nowhere does it say Morgan. Or sister. Or even a woman of magic. Merlin’s cursed prophecy was never speaking of me—I’ve said it ten thousand times.
Read what he wrote and tell me who it is truly referring to. ”
Ninianne made no reply, reading and rereading the prophecy, flicking to further pages, her presence mired in confusion. I couldn’t tell whether she was learning of all this for the first time, or was gathering her thoughts because I had discovered her son’s secret.
I reached out and took the Book of Prophecies from her hands. She didn’t protest, only closed her eyes with a pained expression.
“Where did he go?” she said. “My son. Where is he?”
At first, her reaction surprised me, just ahead of understanding.
For her, this was not about me, the Shroud nor even the prophecies.
It was about Lancelot—the love she had let into her life.
She was a mother now, protecting her son from harm.
No matter how strong or famous, how formidable he became, she would always fear for him.
I felt myself relent. “I’ll tell you where he isn’t. In Arthur’s court.”
Her eyes snapped open. “Why not?”
“As a condition of release, he swore not to go near the court before Christmastide. I told him to ride to his own castle, and laid out the exact route he was to take.”
“Which route?” she asked immediately, but I shook my head.
“I will not say, for my own good reasons. But he accepted my terms, and there was no trickery or purposeful danger to where I sent him. That I will swear to.”
I expected a thousand more questions, but Ninianne merely nodded. She believed me, suddenly, without qualm—a feeling she had not bestowed for a very long time. We regarded one another, time stretching around us as if it could not move on until we did.
I held out the Book of Prophecies. “Take this. You have earned it.”
She did not reach out or speak, only looked at me quizzically.
“I promised you an exchange for a son, and he’s not here,” I said. “It’s only fair.”
Tentatively, Ninianne raised her hands. I placed the book on her open palms but didn’t let go. “This does come with one last request,” I admitted. “Do not seek Lancelot yet.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“I put Yvain on the same road. Because of me, his reputation was damaged in court, so in exchange for the prophecies, I ask you to let my son find Lancelot and be the one to return him to Camelot. It’s not his fault that his mother is Morgan le Fay.”
She paused, then nodded. “I will do as you wish.”
I took my hands away from the Book of Prophecies, leaving it with her. Ninianne looked at the golden covers, then back at me, her eyes searching my face. I felt strangely exposed, as if I was about to confess something.
“Is it truly not you, Morgan?” she asked. “Are you not the betrayal prophecy?”
“No,” I said. “I never was. Which is partly why I cannot believe anything written in that book. If not for Accolon… ” My head dropped at speaking his name, but I forced my chin up.
“Everything I have done since he died—every act of chaos and revenge I have rained upon Camelot—they are treasons and I regret nothing. But I did not betray Arthur first.”
Astonishingly, Ninianne kept believing me, her light as soft and enrapturing as years ago, when she said she couldn’t teach me, then did so anyway.
“Can we speak?” she said suddenly.
Instantly, I wanted to, but my reaction galled me, the way I was still compelled by her. To talk peaceably to one another felt natural and apt, and an indulgence I couldn’t afford.
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
She gestured at the Shroud, safe in its glass box. “Because you won,” she said.
To her credit, she always knew what I wished to hear.