23
Emerlyn knew the cantrip for the bogwood gate as well as the one for the wide front door of the house.
In fact, Emerlyn seemed to know the cantrips of every door in the city, and Morgana wondered if the councillor’s memory was absolute, like her own.
Her perfect memory was useful, although sometimes a burden rather than a blessing.
If Emerlyn possessed it, she must feel the same. It would be another link between them.
The front door swung open, and the councillor walked in without waiting for an invitation. Morgana followed, and the two half-blood servants came just behind.
Two human servants peered out of a side door but swiftly withdrew at the sight of the councillor.
A tall man, a half-blood, appeared briefly at the end of the long hall, then also melted away into a side room.
Everything about the place spoke of tension.
Morgana could guess Ursula was not a popular employer.
The delegate appeared a moment later. She was thin, of middle age, wearing the customary robe in a light shade of gray. Belatedly, Morgana understood that the delegates’ gray robes grew more and more pale as the wearers aged. The Keeper’s white robe had been a demonstration.
Dama Ursula spoke no word of welcome, only put her hands on her hips and glared at the visitors. “I gather you want something, Councillor.” Her piercing voice echoed down the broad hallway. “I have never known you to pay me a social visit.”
“I am not doing so now.”
“Then why are you here?”
Morgana stepped past Emerlyn and her servants. “Dama Ursula, I presume? I am Priestess Morgana of the Lady’s Temple.”
“Ah, the pretender,” the older woman said. “You interrupted our session the other day.”
“I do not apologize for that. I have an urgent errand, and no time for diplomacy.”
“What could your errand possibly have to do with me?” Ursula demanded. Her voice was strident with what Morgana suspected was a perpetually foul temper. She folded her arms and lifted her chin in Morgana’s direction.
Morgana said coldly, “I feel certain, Dama, that you know the answer to that question.”
Ursula gave a grating laugh. “Insolence!”
“Hardly. I am aware that you are magicking the boy king and harming my country.”
Ursula’s lips tightened and thinned until they nearly disappeared. “You are aware?” The word dripped sarcasm. “By what means have you become aware?”
Morgana ignored the question. “Sero Faolin we have already dealt with. It is your turn.”
At this, Dama Ursula visibly stiffened, her chin pulling in, her shoulders rising.
The miasma of resentment and hatred that surrounded her intensified so that it was almost visible to Morgana, as if it were a gathering storm cloud blurring her vision.
A rivulet of magic, dark and icy as a forest stream in winter, flowed down the hallway and chilled her skin, bringing gooseflesh to her neck and chest.
Ursula snapped, “Faolin is a fool.”
Emerlyn said in a tone of dull resignation, “Faolin has always been a troublemaker. You should have known better, Ursula, than to ally yourself with him.”
Ursula drew a hissing breath, and when she spoke again, it was like listening to a snake use human speech. “I should have thought, Councillor, that you would put fae country before the humans of Lloegyr!”
“Do the Lloegyrians not have a right to exist?” Morgana asked.
“If they are too weak to defend themselves, they might as well surrender to the Romans and get it over with. Is it our fault they cannot?”
“Ursula,” Emerlyn began, but Morgana interrupted.
Her voice dropped into its deepest register.
It rang through the hallway with an intensity that made Ursula blink.
“It is, Dama. It is most definitely your fault. You have been magicking the king of Lloegyr, a hateful thing to do. You have weakened his reign and the country’s defenses, and people are dying because of it! ”
Emerlyn said, “You will stop immediately, Ursula. This is an egregious violation of the Rule, and you will pay the price.”
“The Rule!” Ursula spat. “Everything is blamed on the Rule.”
“You have relied on it often enough yourself.”
“We’ll see what the council has to say about this!”
“I have spoken to the council. Faolin has received his punishment, and you are next.”
Ursula’s eyes were dark, nearly black, and now they narrowed to mere slits. “You can’t prove anything!” she shrilled. “Get out of my house!” She unfolded her arms to throw up one hand, palm out, a gesture Morgana knew very well.
“Ursula, don’t do that!” Emerlyn said.
“If you are not strong enough to stop me, perhaps you should step down, Councillor!” Ursula hissed another breath, and her outstretched hand began to twitch and judder.
The rivulet of magic flowing along the hallway became a stream, darkening as it expanded, growing thicker and denser until it appeared as a black river.
Morgana’s nostrils flared at the choking smell it emitted, as if from an abattoir or an untended privy.
The air grew foul, and Emerlyn began to cough.
Morgana had the same need to cough, but she suppressed it.
She lifted her own hand with the intent of driving the flood of evil-smelling magic back, but it was surprisingly hard to do.
She had not been prepared for Ursula’s power.
It was an insidious form of magic the fae employed, this noisome black stream, eddying and flowing, tendrils flashing out to pierce the circle of protection Morgana was trying to cast. It carried with it a sense of hopelessness, of futility, of despair, the classic emotions of defeat.
This was the dark magic the fae were using on King Mordred, that was spilling over onto Sir Lancelin and all the king’s men.
Humans might not detect the smell, or be capable of seeing the darkness of the tide of power, but it confused and weakened them.
This was Ursula’s weapon, and Faolin’s, and that of the third conspirator, as yet unnamed.
For Morgana and for Emerlyn the magic was tangible.
For humans it would be enervating and distracting, stifling their breath and blurring their thoughts.
It was an insidious kind of magic that could only come from the most malevolent practitioner.
When Emerlyn began to choke, Morgana said to her servants, “Take the councillor outside.” She had both hands up now, struggling to deflect the flood of evil that was meant to envelop them, to drown them in despair.
She said, “I will not leave, Dama Ursula, until I know you can no longer interfere with King Mordred!”
Morgana was younger than Ursula, and stronger.
She had been trained since childhood by the Black Mage himself and had honed her power through her years as one of the Nine and in the first battle to protect Lloegyr.
Ursula’s poisonous torrent began to disperse, breaking into little clots of darkness that pooled here and there like a river drying up.
The sense of defeat weakened and began to fade.
Morgana focused all her energy through her hands, driving away the befouled air so she could draw one deep, clean breath.
She felt Ursula’s strength waning as the river of magic broke apart.
It must be almost over.
But even as Morgana thought that, a second person appeared. Another fae woman, younger, with a receding chin and a long, crooked nose, stepped out into the hallway. She laid her hand on Ursula’s shoulder, and immediately, devastatingly, the power of the stream of dark magic doubled.
It was Vivyan. When she realized who was joining Ursula in this battle, Morgana faltered.
They had known there must be a third person, but she had never thought it would be Vivyan.
The noxious flood of dark magic assaulted her lungs again.
She drew a shallow breath, but it caught in her lungs.
Her chest convulsed against the foulness.
Her hands began to shake, and she struggled to hold her position.
Vivyan barked a laugh. “Do you think you can resist us both?”
Morgana held her ground with all her strength, fighting magic with magic, but a thread of fear ran through her that it would not be enough.
The sense of despair penetrated her defense.
Did they mean to kill her? She thought they would if they could.
As she struggled to breathe, defeat seemed the likely outcome.
These women would feel no compunction if she died.
A tendril of poison wound its way down her throat, making her gag. Her spirit quailed at the thought that this could be the end, the end of her mission, the end of her magic, the end of her life. If only she could breathe—could think—
When a hand gripped her shoulder, her strength resurged.
Her power rose again to meet the enemy. She didn’t need to glance back to know that Emerlyn had returned to face the danger with her.
Emerlyn’s power joined with her own, and Morgana felt a rush of relief.
The councillor’s magic was clean and precise, not crude like that of their adversaries.
Next to her, Emerlyn held up her free hand, palm out, mirroring Morgana’s stance.
Her hand was wrinkled and gnarled, but it held steady, a lamp in the darkness, a beacon of hope that banished the insidious sense of defeat.
The river of magic began to dissolve. Morgana drew a clean breath into her lungs.
Emerlyn’s breathing was labored at first, rattling in her chest, but it soon eased.
The torrent broke apart. The tendrils of foulness collapsed and vanished as if they had never been.
Together, side by side, Morgana and Emerlyn drove the darkness back.
The river of it reversed, first splashing against the side walls, then coalescing to roll back down the hallway toward Vivyan and Ursula, until the two of them were surrounded by its revolting stench.
It was their turn to feel defeat and despair, to be drowned in a sense of utter futility.
Ursula dropped her hand, surrendering. Beside her Vivyan, with a muttered curse, did the same.
Instantly, the black flood of magic vanished, and the air in the hallway was as clear as it had been when Emerlyn first stepped inside.
The two fae women stood with their hands hanging empty beside them, their eyes glinting with hatred.
Emerlyn’s voice vibrated with fury. “Vivyan! You?”
Vivyan spat, “And why not? Their Lady tried to banish us from human country! And now her daughter is doing the same!”
“And so you take revenge on all humans, no matter how innocent,” Morgana said.
Ursula said, “They deserve it. They show us no respect.”
“Why should they?” Morgana responded.
Vivyan screeched, “Because we are fae!”
The outrage in her voice might have made Morgana laugh had she not been so angry. “If you are representative of what the fae have become, Dama Vivyan, then the time of your kind has reached its end.”
She spun, her black robe swirling around her ankles, and marched out of the house. Emerlyn came close behind. She spoke the cantrip to close and lock the door as they moved down the walk to the gate, being held open now by her servants.
Morgana had to pause when they reached the palanquin, bracing herself with one hand on its roof, waiting for the blood to stop pounding in her temples, the aftermath of the battle. She said, blinking against the pressure in her head, “Will they stop now, do you think?”
“I will convene the council and make certain that they do.”
“Soon?” Morgana said, wanting—no, needing—for this to be the end of it.
Emerlyn said, “This very day. You have my word.”
It took a moment for them to settle into the palanquin. Morgana’s blood was still high, threatening a headache. She thought it must be worse for Emerlyn. “It took courage to come back, to brave their attack, Emerlyn. Thank you.”
“It was necessary. I am ashamed of them both.”
Morgana had no answer for that. Her own emotion was more violent than shame. She wanted to throw something, to break something. She longed to go to the woods, to walk, to scream, to find relief for the fury that still burned through her body.
As they rattled down the lane toward the boulevard, Emerlyn turned to her.
“Morgana, I need you to understand. The greatest concern of my life is that the fae will be no more.” Morgana, her fingers rubbing her temples, cast her a concerned glance at the tremor in her voice.
Emerlyn said, “I have fought to prevent that.”
Morgana dropped her hands to her lap and leaned back against the cushions, slowing her breathing in an effort to calm herself. When she felt steadier, she said, “Braithe is not here to quote the stanza, Emerlyn, but I think she would cite this one:”
The greatest river
Will one day run dry.
“One of the Lady’s stanzas?”
“Yes.”
“She was so wise.” Emerlyn turned her head away, but not before Morgana saw tears welling in her eyes.
“Yes. She was.”
Emerlyn’s tears never fell, but they left Morgana wondering why they should have appeared at all.