Midsummer's Eve
It was just before dusk when Morgana returned to Helva. The birds were bedding down for the night, their songs falling into silence one by one, though the singers and minstrels in the town picked up where the birds left off, filling the air with their songs and stories. A pang of regret touched her heart at the sound of one silvery voice, and for a moment she wished she could stop, listen, and forget her cares for a while.
But Morgana had a task to complete, and only a little time in which to do it. She sighed and soldiered on, her hands tight upon the walking stick she leaned on as she took a long, deep breath and did her best to ignore the aches and pains that riddled her prematurely aged body.
Aging spells. They were hardly the best disguise, and certainly not one that she needed here in Helva, a refuge where magic had never been illegal and had always been practiced. Here, a Priestess of the Goddess could walk openly, and she would be given the respect due one of her station.
Tonight, though, she needed the disguise. The appearance of Morgana Pendragon would frighten her quarry away, while an ailing old woman would inspire the girl's compassion and bring her close.
Close enough to capture, cage, and be made to sing a song of Morgana's liking.
Just down the road a little at the edge of an open air market, a crowd had gathered around a pair of musicians- a man and a woman singing a bawdy song about a fussy milkmaid and her much-put-upon shepherd lover. The man held a long, high note that broke off into a loudly whispered aside that made the crowd erupt into peals of laughter. Morgana edged closer. Their ebullience hid her movements as she searched out her agent, one of the remaining sorcerer-warriors left in her service.
Yver must have sensed her gaze upon him. He glanced over his shoulder at her, meeting her eyes, and nodding toward a slender girl at the edge of the crowd. 'Is that her?' he seemed to be asking.
Morgana looked up at the girl, at the firelight touching the lines of her sharp features, and how her dark hair flowed in waves to her hips. She certainly looked like the young woman Morgana had Seen, but she had to be sure.
The cracked paving stones underfoot gave Morgana a reason to stumble. She reached out and caught herself on the girl's arm to keep from falling.
"Oh!" The girl cried out and turned, her brows knit and mouth open to berate Morgana before she noticed that it was an old woman who had grabbed her. "I'm sorry, Mistress, did I get in your way? All you all right?"
"Yes, child," Morgana smiled up at her, looking deep into the girl's eyes, green as the midsummer leaves. Yes, this was the girl she was looking for. "I am quite all right. 'Twas nothing more than this road that made me stumble. I'll shuffle on now and let you be. I'm sorry to have disturbed you." She tried to straighten and winced.
"Is it your back that's troubling you? I can help you with that, if you'd like." The girl offered her arm, and Morgana took it. "There's a potion I can blend for you to ease your pains. It'd be no trouble."
"You are a sweet girl, but there's no need." Morgana said. She patted the girl's hand and shifted her weight as though she were about to pull away. "'Tis only the problem of growing old, and there is no remedy for that." A bit of broken stone underfoot lent truth to Morgana's stumble. She might have fallen if it hadn't been for the girl's grip on her arm.
"At least let me see you home, mistress. It's getting dark, and the street's no better on the way up. Please. I'm a healer, you see. An apprentice, at least." The girl smiled sweetly, a flash of firelight catching in her green eyes. "I'd be remiss in my duties if I didn't make sure you got home without a problem. Maybe another wouldn't see it that way, but I would." The girl folded Morgana's arm around hers and straightened. "Shall we, then?"
"I'd hate to take you away from your friends. You should be with them, not with an old woman." Morgana patted the girl's hand again. Twice. It was the signal she'd arranged with Yver, and she saw him nod slightly out of the corner of her eye. He disappeared into the shadows to wait. "Don't you have a boy waiting for you? A pretty girl like you should have a sweetheart somewhere. Or a lot of friends, at least. Surely they'd miss you."
The girl laughed, the sound was bright and happy in the evening gloom. "I'm often away all night listening to the singers. There are so many here, and I want to hear them all before I leave Helva." They were away from the firelight and headed up the street almost before Morgana knew it. The girl's stride was quick and sure, but not more than an old woman could keep up with. "As for a sweetheart, well," she looked away, and Morgana could have sworn she blushed, "there is one young man. But he's… he's so far beyond me, that it seems like wishful thinking to imagine that he might come to care for me, or even learn that I exist."
Morgana chuckled as she turned them down an abandoned side road. "Take heart, child. I've seen the strangest things come to pass in my life. Perhaps one day, this young man of yours will think the same thing about you." She stopped in front of a dark little house and let go of the girl's arm. "Thank you, child. You're very kind for helping an old woman reach her doorstep. I wish there were more young people like you about. So helpful."
The girl smiled and took a breath to reply. A gloved hand clamped itself around her mouth, cutting off her words and her scream as another arm pinned her arms close to her body. Her eyes widened as Morgana raised a hand and breathed a word, "Sweofot."
Then the fear drained away and her eyes closed. She went limp and Yver swept her up into his arms and carried her into the little house. Morgana followed and closed the door, dismissing the aging spell as quickly as she could.
With her youth returned to her, Morgana stood straight, closed the shutters, and turned to where Yver had put the girl on the long workbench in the middle of the room. "Well done," she said.
Yver inclined his head. "It was a simple enough task, My Lady. She was so trusting."
"Kind-hearted people like her are overly inclined to trust. They think their goodness is a shield against the darkness of the world. I once thought the same, for all the good it did me." Morgana traced a finger along the girl's cheek and tucked a strand of the dark hair behind her ear. It seemed a shame to waste such beauty, but there was nothing for it. There were always sacrifices that had to be made.
"Kindness is only a virtue in fairy stories, My Lady. It is seldom rewarded anywhere else." Yver stepped away from the table to light the candles. Morgana watched him work for a moment. His movements were quick and graceful as he lit the candles with a whisper of magic. She had wanted Accolon at her side for this, but he was away fighting his father's battles, and so she had quiet, graying Yver instead.
"Shall I leave you to your work, My Lady?"
"Stay awhile. Casting the Mark of Yseult is a long, complicated process. I don't want someone to interrupt in the middle of it." Morgana flicked her fingers and a fire burst into life in the hearth. She brought the tray over that she had prepared days earlier. Asphodel, amaranth, cypress, and lobelia. Lovely flowers, combined for a dark purpose, to be blended with water drawn from the Goddess's own well on the Isle of the Blessed, as well as other, stranger items. Ingredients that had taken her weeks to collect.
Then there was most important one of all…
Morgana pulled a long, flat box out of its hiding place in the wall and opened it with a whisper of magic. There were two items inside- a small cloth soaked with old, dried blood and a slender iron blade that was also crusted with blood.
Merlin's blood.
She had taken it from him in the dungeon under Blackheath after she'd captured him, bound his magic, and handed him over to the Sarrum to be burned. Alas, it hadn't been enough to destroy Merlin. He lived- though scarred and blinded- and was still a thorn in her side, foiling her efforts to spy on Arthur and sniffing out her agents, whether they were man, woman, or beast. And as always, Merlin stood between Morgana and her rightful place on the throne of Camelot, along with everything else that should have been hers.
She set the tray down on the table next to the girl, being careful not to knock the vials over or jar any of the crusted blood off the little blade. She arranged everything gingerly, resetting it all so all was ordered just-so in neat rows. Her hands only shook a little as she did so. She took her time.
"My Lady?" Yver said from the shadows.
"What is it?" Morgana said without looking up.
Yver took his time responding. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm but still subservient. "Are you certain this is the best course of action, My Lady?"
Morgana glared up at him through her lashes. "Do you think the Goddess no longer speaks to me? Or do you think that, because I lost my ancestral holdings at Tintagel, that I am weak?"
"No, My lady. Never that. But this is a powerful rite that you are about to perform. Once you set foot upon this path, you cannot step off of it. I only want you to be certain of what you do."
She watched him for a long time, waiting for Yver to flinch away from her gaze, or to stammer an apology and say that a mere warrior should not question the will of a Priestess. But he stood as still and unyielding as an old oak tree. A younger man would have wilted, but Yver was not a young man. His gray hairs and scars spoke of a wanderer's life, and as one of the survivors of the fall of Tintagel, she supposed he had the right to ask a question or two.
Perhaps he sensed the tiny worm of doubt niggling in her heart.
Morgana clenched her jaw. "Tomorrow, a serving girl- my serving girl- will marry Arthur and be crowned Queen of Camelot. She will sit upon my throne and wear my crown. The knights will swear fealty to her when they should be giving their loyalty to me. And with Merlin standing in my way, I cannot stop it from happening. And Merlin…" she let out a bitter laugh. "Arthur used to listen to my council and follow the paths I laid out for him. Then Merlin came along and replaced me in Arthur's eyes. When my magic made itself known, Merlin could have helped me. But he stood by and let me believe that I was alone. He has been in my way for years, foiling all my plans, preventing me from taking my rightful place on the throne, helping to take away everything I held dear." Morgana took a deep breath to calm herself. "Magic is legal again. Merlin is loved by those around him, with a place at Arthur's side and in his household. He has everything now, and I am reduced to this." She gestured around the ramshackle little house.
Yver nodded, pondering her words. He was silent for a while, then drew in a raspy breath. "I don't pretend that I have a right to challenge your actions, My Lady, but what comes after this? If Merlin is destroyed, will you attempt to reclaim the throne?"
"Of course I will. Do you think I fear Arthur or his knights?"
"No, My Lady. You seem to fear nothing at all, But I..." Yver shook his head gave her a weary smile, "I am not a young man. My sons may lust after the thrill of battle, but my heart yearns for a land of my own and four walls to protect me from the storm. I have been a wanderer for too long, My Lady. When a man sees his end drawing near, he wants a place to call home."
Morgana opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. She looked down and traced the edge of the tray with a fingertip. "Where would you have us go, then? We are not welcome in Camelot, and are merely guests in Rheged. The other lands are still hostile to us, and even my ancestral home of Tintagel is no longer an option. Not while Arthur's lords hold it with an iron grip." She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Would you have us stay here, in Helva? Shall we mingle with the salt of the earth and the minstrels and mummers? Should I declare myself queen of this little village and its dusty folk?"
Yver smirked, then his expression softened. "There is a place we could go, My Lady. A land where magic once thrived, and sorcerers lived in harmony with priests and priestesses of all the gods."
"And where is this mythical place?"
"It is not so mythical as all that. You have been there yourself, though I admit that the Isle of the Blessed is not so glorious as it once was. In my youth, it was a place of light and beauty, where some of the greatest minds in the Five Kingdoms gathered to teach and learn. It could be like that again."
It was tempting. There was a little piece of Morgana's heart that longed for a place to call her own. She was only in her second year of exile, and already she had grown tired of always moving, never having a place to simply stop and rest for longer than a few weeks. Maybe….
Maybe when her visions stopped pushing her down this path or that, and the Goddess gave her time to pause and pursue her own wishes. She could marry Accolon at last, re-establish the Order of the Goddess, perhaps bear a daughter to carry on her line.
On the Isle of the Blessed.
Morgana pushed those thoughts aside and stared into the face of the sleeping girl. 'She is meant to have that which should have been mine.'
A priestess should have had a heart made of stone, untouchable by such things as love or jealousy, but this girl was so bright, so young and beautiful, that Morgana felt old and withered in comparison. It wasn't fair. Morgana had spent most of her youth plucking at Uther's sleeve in endless vain attempts to get him to see reason and show mercy. She had dismissed dozens of suitors, dispensed more advice than she cared to think of, and set aside her own desires for the sake of Camelot, only to have her every effort be for nothing. And now this slip of a girl, a barefoot waif from the forest would find a place at the side of the Queen of Camelot.
This girl would win Merlin's love. A love that should have been Morgana's to claim. After all, if Arthur could fall for a servant, why couldn't she do the same?
But that possibility had burned away in the snowy courtyard in Blackheath.
The poisoned flower of jealousy bloomed anew in Morgana's heart. She reached for the silver blade she needed to begin the ritual. "I will think on it, Yver. But go for now. Wait outside and leave me to my work. I likely won't be finished until dawn."
Yver watched her for a while before he nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind himself.
Morgana waited for a while to make sure he wouldn't come back in. Then she turned the sleeping girl's head to one side and brushed the dark hair away from the nape of her neck. The blade's edge had been sharpened to the finest point possible, so it barely hurt when Morgana drew it along the palm of her hand. Bright blood flowed out of the cut. She cupped her hand and traded the blade for a slender brush.
"When this is done," Morgana whispered into the girl's ear, "you will not remember me. But my commands will bury themselves deep into your mind all the way down to your heart, and you'll never know they are there." With her own blood, Morgana began to draw lines on the girl's neck. As the ritual progressed, the design would grow more complicated, binding her to Morgana's will.
"You told me you love a man, though you doubt he knows you exist. When this is over, he will know you as well as his own name. You will give him your heart, and he will give you his." Morgana let her blood run out of her hand and into a little silver dish. When she had enough, she bound the wound with a strip of linen and took up the iron blade that held Merlin's dried blood. She knocked a few, precious pieces of it into the flask that held the water from the Goddess's well.
"The Mark of Yseult is a powerful binding," Morgana said as she worked, though the girl couldn't hear her, "it makes a weapon out of love itself. You will make your way to Camelot and into Merlin's heart. And when he trusts you more than he trusts himself, that is when you will strike. You will not know what you are doing, but in the end, you will kill Merlin."