Trigger warning for reference to sexual assault.
Hunith preferred the endless labour of ploughing and planting and haymaking and weeding and harvest and butchering that consumed the seasons of spring, summer, and autumn to the tedium of winter. It was dark in the morning and dark by evening and although the animals still had to be cared for and there were still clothes to be sewn and washing to be done, the days dragged. Cold and rain kept everyone indoors and made people irritable. The only one not bothered by the inclement weather was Morgana, who spent most afternoons with Aithusa in the hills despite the damp chill. The dragon disliked wet weather as much as any of them, but cold seemed not to bother her.
Today was a breath of warmth, a last echo of autumn, and Hunith joined Morgana and Aithusa among the nearly-bare trees. Some of the herbs she used for healing were easier to collect without a covering of grass, and it was pleasant to be out of her hut in the sun with a woollen cloak and gloves to guard her fingers against wet, frosted ground. Aithusa enjoyed the sunny day by soaring higher and farther and showing off her most intricate flying for them, an enormous, iridescent bird flashing in the sun above the treetops. Morgana laughed as Aithusa dove into the barren woods, scaring a flock of crows into the air. It was the most carefree Hunith had seen the young woman and it warmed her heart, coaxing an answering laugh from her.
Aithusa squawked from among the tree trunks a little distance away.
"Morgana, can you collect those conifer needles for me?" Hunith pointed to a splash of green amid the brown forest while she went the other way, eyes open for juniper berries.
Aithusa gave another muffled squawk, just beyond a fallen trunk, as if she had something in her jaw.
Hunith ducked beneath the deadfall to see if Aithusa had done something foolish. "What have you found?"
She stopped in shock when she saw the little dragon, wrapped in wet blankets, her mouth stuffed with soaked cloth. She whimpered, trying desperately to shake off the wetness plastered to her scales and blocking her breath, but was hindered by a dozen armed warriors. Half the soldiers had long spears pointed at her, half were keeping the blankets drenched by dipping bucketfuls from a cartload of water barrels.
Angrily, Hunith rushed forward, about to snap out a reprimand when her arms were grabbed from behind. She struggled and Aithusa's wide, blue eyes fixed on her as the dragon attempted to spit out its gag. Hunith twisted and tried to kick backwards, but her soft boot made no impression on the legs of her captor.
"If you're going to be trouble, I'll have him kill you now." A portly, bald man wearing metal-studded leather armour beneath a brown cloak stepped forward. He smiled wolfishly. "But what fun would that be?"
Heart beating wildly in her chest, Hunith stopped struggling. She had no idea who these men were, but their leader wore enough gold to buy a king's ransom. His cloak was fastened by elaborately carved buckles with a sigil she did not recognize. Nobility, but not from Essetir nor Camelot. She dropped her gaze, hoping he would not bother with a peasant woman. Instead, he chuckled. The sound sent quivers up her spine.
"Is this your pet?" he asked casually.
Without raising her head, her gaze flicked to him, then the dragon. "No." Aithusa was no one's pet.
"So you won't mind if we kill her?"
This time, Hunith's head shot up. Would they be able to kill a dragon, even such a small one? Her breath snagged in her throat when she saw a ring of warriors armed with crossbows beyond the spear-wielding group surrounding Aithusa.
"It won't be the first dragon I've killed, you know." The bald man tipped his head, still smiling.
She believed him. Despite his short stature and rounded belly, there was an edge of manic cruelty in his expression.
"Are you a witch?"
Hunith's pounding heart sped faster. "No."
"No?" He raised a brow, then looked from her to the dragon and back again. "But you're keeping company with a magical creature. Surely you must condone magic."
She prayed Morgana had gone far in the other direction, beyond earshot of these madmen.
"Answer me." His voice was suddenly dark and powerful. "Do you condone magic?"
Her heart was racing so fast, she could barely draw breath to answer. "No."
"You agree that sorcery is evil?"
"Yes." She clenched her jaw, dropping her gaze to the cold ground.
"Then you should thank me." The man grinned again. "I've impaled hundreds of evil sorcerers; I've listened to their pleas, first for their lives and then when they prayed for death."
Realization dug its way into Hunith's terrified thoughts: this was Amata's ruler, who was reputed to enjoy having those accused of sorcery impaled on tall spikes that surrounded his castle. Likely, many of the accused were not sorcerers-she imagined his enemies and former friends had all faced such a fate when he wished to be rid of their company. No matter what she said, if he decided to execute her, she would die here. Gwen's royal sigil, pinned inside her skirt, would not protect her from this man.
"You haven't thanked me yet."
Her mouth opened and closed but she could not force air through her choked lungs. Aithusa whimpered again and was promptly doused with water as well as stabbed with spears. Greenish fluid leaked down her neck and legs. Hunith could only watch helplessly.
"No matter." The bald man gestured at his soldiers. "Take her and this creature. We'll see if the real quarry comes to find them."
She nearly fainted with fear as her captor lifted her from her feet. It was a trap for Morgana; she and the dragon were bait. She prayed to the gods Morgana was smart enough to see through the ploy.
"Where are you going with my servant?"
Hunith's head whipped around at the sound of Morgana's voice. She stood, arms crossed, cold green eyes fixed on the bald man. Even dressed in the peasant garb Hunith had altered for her all those months ago, she held herself like a queen.
Vicious delight spread across his face. "The Lady Morgana." Despite using her title, he made no sign of obeisance. "I heard you might be found nearby."
Hunith's heart sank. Run, she shouted in her mind. Get out of here.
"I hoped we might become acquainted. I am Sarrum of Amata." He drew himself up, though he was barely taller than Morgana.
She appeared more bored than impressed.
He looked at Hunith, apparently gratified by the terror that must have shown plainly in her face. "Your servant?" He looked delighted. "She means something to you?"
Morgana did not so much as twitch an eyebrow in Hunith's direction. "Of course not, but she's my property."
The Sarrum merely shrugged and gestured slyly at the imprisoned dragon. "And this one? I hear you're quite enamoured of the little creature."
Aithusa squirmed, the wet blankets apparently painful as well as restraining, and tried again to spit out the wad of drenched cloth muzzling her jaw.
He gestured to his men. "People think they're invincible, but they have weaknesses like all living creatures."
One soldier dug a spear into the joint where the dragon's rear leg bent, another beneath her front leg where it met her body, and another below her jaw while she tried to shrink away from them, mewling softly.
Only a tick of Morgana's right eye betrayed emotion, but the Sarrum's viciously delighted smile returned. He gestured and the warriors with crossbows raised them, bolts pointed at Aithusa.
"If you don't want to see the creature suffer needlessly as it dies, I suggest you come quietly with me."
Hunith prayed the magic Morgana thought she had lost would make a reappearance now when it was needed. By all accounts, she was a powerful witch, though whether she could neutralize a score of warriors before they harmed the dragon or herself, Hunith did not know. It may be futile in the end, a gesture to amuse their captor. Still, if the alternative was surrendering to the Sarrum's justice, she hoped Morgana would try.
The witch's eyes showed no flash of yellow, her cold stare fixed on the Sarrum. She did not resist when one of his warriors, a heavily-muscled man with a scar marking his left cheek, snapped iron shackles around her wrists. Five more warriors with crossbows surrounded her while a dozen of their fellows loaded the dragon into another cart, taking every opportunity to dig their spears in as they did so. Panic overtook Hunith when a soldier lifted her off her feet and tossed her in with the dragon.
#
Trigger warning
Hunith kept track of the days; it was her only grasp on sanity. Her mouth was so dry, her lips stuck to her teeth and she had soiled her clothing several times, though now her bladder no longer filled and her bowels had long since emptied. The soldiers had not offered her food or water which suggested they had no wish to waste supplies on someone who would not be alive much longer. The idea of dying by impalement made her blood run cold so she continually forced her thoughts away from what might happen when they reached the Sarrum's kingdom.
It was getting easier to avoid that dread as dizziness took hold. Inside the cart, she could not see much passing scenery, only the bare tree branches alternating with empty, grey sky. Beside her, Aithusa finally ceased trying to remove the gag and merely shivered in the saturated blankets, barely flinching anymore when they stabbed at her joints and neck with their spears.
Occasionally, Hunith glimpsed Morgana, wrists shackled to a length of chain around her waist, walking between the soldiers' mounts, eyes straight ahead. Hunith had not yet seen her stumble. How she continued without tiring, Hunith did not know. The only sustenance she had seen offered to Morgana had been when the Sarrum dangled a hunk of bread in front of her, taunting her to snap at it with her teeth. She ignored both him and the bread.
Once they left the hills of Essetir and approached the southern plains, it was more difficult for Hunith's tired mind to guess their location. They would not dare cross into Camelot, so they must be skirting its eastern border. The soldiers became more vocal, inventing ways to torture the infant dragon or egging each other on as they bragged about what they would do to Morgana. The witch took no notice, but from the fluttering of her sides, Aithusa seemed to understand that more pain was in store. One soldier leered at Hunith and she shrank down within the cart.
When they stopped beside a stream on the fifth night, the voices around the campfire grew loud and drunkenly slurred. From the lack of any attempt to mask their presence, Hunith feared they may have reached their homeland. The suspicion that she may face a gruesome execution the next day made her empty stomach turn. She welcomed the disorientation that blanketed her thoughts, concentrating on the calls of night birds instead of the jumble of noise near the fire. She ignored jeers and catcalls and Morgana's tense, pale features, sitting nearby with her chained wrists in her lap. Hunith paid no attention to the Sarrum's sharp reprimand when one of his warriors made a obscene comment about the witch.
When strong arms hooked beneath Hunith's armpits and dragged her from the cart, all she felt was confusion. Sharp twigs dug into her back as she was dragged further from the fire and noise, then her head hit the rocky ground with a thump and a weight landed on her chest, cutting off her breath. She gasped and struggled to get out from under the heaviness pinning her down. Sour breath panted in her face. Cold air touched her bare legs and the tear tracks on her cheeks. She struggled without understanding why.
Abruptly, the weight and sour smell were gone. Hunith lifted her head and saw Morgana, hands outstretched, chains running from the iron around her wrists and looping around her waist, the flash of gold just fading from her eyes. She seemed as surprised as Hunith.
Hunith tried to organize her sluggish thoughts. The Sarrum could not know that Morgana had used magic. Hunith forced her bruised body to roll over, saw the soldier lying motionless not far away, and dragged herself closer. There was a knife strapped to his thigh. She used the last strength in her arm to pull it out and plunge it into his neck between his leather armour and brown headscarf. Blood spurted up, staining her sleeve.
She looked over her shoulder at Morgana. "Go," she hissed.
Quickly, Morgana retook her seated position at the edge of the camp, eyes forward once more. Hunith crawled deeper into the darkness until she found a hollow beneath a rotten fallen log. She dug her way into the damp, spongy wood and curled up.
There were more jeers, then boots stamping in the woods where she had been dragged. She balled herself tighter.
"How long can it take?"
"Bain? Not long."
There was rough laughter.
"Here he is."
"Get up you-" There was a heavy gasp. "He's dead."
A whimper crawled up Hunith's throat and she bit hard on her lip to hold back any sound, hoping her trembling would not give her away.
More boots stamped into the woods. Angry voices talked over each other before the Sarrum's cold tones overrode them. She heard his furious accusation to Morgana and her cool reply.
"Does your serving wench have something to do with one of my men being dead?"
"How would I know?"
"You wouldn't care if we disembowel her for attacking us?"
"I wouldn't mourn either of you."
There was a moment of silence.
"Drag that body away so the stink doesn't attract pests. Let that be a lesson to anyone stupid enough to be disarmed by a serving wench and stabbed with his own weapon," the Sarrum growled. "The rest of you, no more entertainment. We leave at first light."
There was a bustle of noise but not a single protest at the treatment of their comrade. Hunith dared not move, even as it grew colder and darker and her muscles cramped. She spent hours huddled in the shredded, damp chips of rotten wood, her thoughts fuzzy and her ears ringing.
When her thoughts cleared, the sun was high in the east and the rustle of forest creatures and shrieks of birds were the only sounds. She hesitated, listening for any sign of humans, but finally the need to move overrode caution. She crawled out from the fallen trunk, gaze darting around. Last night's fire was a ring of ash. She lifted her arm to rub at her dry, stinging lips, saw the blood on her sleeve, and bent over, gagging.
There was not even enough moisture in her body to spit, so she stumbled toward the sound of moving water. Ignoring the churned-up mud where horses had drunk not long ago, Hunith fell to her knees at the stream's shallow edge and used her dirty hands to scoop up mouthfuls of water. For a long moment, she braced herself on her hands and knees in the shallows, heedless of the wet cold. When she felt strong enough, she drank again, more slowly, then crawled onto the bank and sat in the mud to rest. The smell of mint made her stomach twist, and she lifted her hand to find crushed leaves. Quickly, she grabbed a handful, eating it raw.
The sun moved up the sky until the shadows of nearby trees shrunk to the base of their barren trunks. Slowly, her thoughts coalesced: she needed to get out of Amata; and she needed to get help to rescue Morgana. Hunith dropped her head back to stare at the wispy sky. Nearly half a day since the Sarrum and his men had moved on. She had to hurry.
She found a clump of watercress, more mint, and drank her fill again. Luckily, the stream ran roughly westward, the direction she had to go. She would follow it for as long as possible. She reached beneath her skirt and felt for the gold dragon pinned to the underside; it was still there. Relieved, she stumbled along the creek bed in the direction of Camelot.
#
"My lady." The servant bowed deeply, his head nearly to his knees in the corridor outside the royal chamber.
Still uncomfortable with her former colleagues making obeisances, Gwen urged him up. "Yes, Dale?"
"A Camelot patrol just returned."
Puzzled as to why she was being informed of matters typically directed to Arthur, Gwen waited for him to continue. Rather than saying anything, he held out his open hand to display a gold dragon-shaped pin with rubies for eyes. Gwen's heart nearly stopped. One hand flew to her throat.
"Where did they get this?" She dared not lift her gaze from the pin, fearing the servant was about to inform her of a woman's death.
"The patrol encountered a peasant woman travelling on foot near the southeast border."
Relief that Hunith was alive made Gwen's legs weak and she braced a hand against a tapestry on the nearest wall. "Where is the woman?"
"She's being escorted here by the patrol, but they sent a man ahead with this pin." Dale watched her with wide-eyed curiosity, no doubt anxious to know who Gwen had entrusted her royal sigil to.
"Thank you." Gwen took the pin and squeezed it so tightly the edges cut into her palm. "Bring her immediately to my chamber."
Looking disappointed that he was not to learn more about the visitor, Dale bowed again and headed back down the corridor.
Her mind spinning with possible explanations for Hunith's presence in Camelot, especially in the southeast rather than the north, Gwen picked up her long, brocade skirt with one hand and hurried back into the room she had just departed. She sat at the long table, then stood again and paced from one end of the room to the other. Hunith must be in peril and it must involve Morgana, but more than that Gwen could not guess. Half a dozen times, she lamented that Arthur had left at first light and would not be back until suppertime. Why had she waited so long to tell him where Morgana was? She had hesitated so many times when the words were on the tip of her tongue, unsure how to explain, and the longer she waited the harder it became. There would be no choice now and he would be angry she had kept such important information from him, especially if Hunith had suffered harm.
Gwen had nearly worn a path into the stone floor when there was a knock at her chamber.
"My lady-" the knight began as he opened the door.
Gwen pushed past him and threw her arms around Hunith. Almost as quickly, her nose wrinkled and she pulled away to hold Hunith at arm's length, examining every detail. Her green headscarf was gone, her normally neat clothes were filthy with a smear of what Gwen feared was blood on one sleeve. The thinness of Hunith's shoulders and gauntness in her face suggested she had been entirely without food for several days. Her blue eyes were sunken and bruised and Gwen felt a shudder beneath her hands as Hunith's thin shoulders shook. Heedless of the stink, Gwen pulled her close again.
"Leave us," she commanded the knight.
He opened his mouth as if to protest, then bowed at her sharp glance and closed the door to the royal chamber.
A maid came through the servant's entrance, her arms full of washing. "My lady, I thought you were going downstairs." She stopped in surprise to see the queen with a guest.
"Sefa, bring bread and wine and see that no one else disturbs us until the king arrives."
The red-headed girl dropped the laundry on the bed, curtsied, and hurried out to do her mistress's bidding.
Gwen steered Hunith to the table and sat her down in a tall-backed, carved wooden chair, then sat beside her and took her hand. "Is there anything you need besides food and drink?"
"Help," Hunith said. Her bony fingers clutched at Gwen's hand. "I need help."
"We'll give it, anything you need." Gwen rubbed soothing circles on Hunith's back, wincing at the thinness of the fingers clutching her other hand. "You know you have only to ask."
"Where is Merlin?"
"He and Arthur left this morning to inspect the rebuilding in the outer villages. They'll be alerted to your presence the moment they return."
Hunith's dull blue eyes stared into hers. "Arthur has to rescue Morgana."
Gwen froze, trying to make sense of what she had heard.
"The Sarrum has her prisoner in Amata. Arthur has to rescue her."
Dread spiked through Gwen's stomach at the name; she knew little about Amata except that its ruler made Uther seem rational and even-tempered by comparison. If the Sarrum had a known witch in custody, Morgana's life was forfeit and it would not be an easy death. For all the pain she had caused, Gwen's heart hurt for her former mistress and friend.
She looked at Hunith pityingly; if Gwen felt sorry for Morgana, what must Hunith be suffering? "I'm sorry, I wish there was something we could do."
Hunith's bruised eyes hardened. "You can do something: rescue her."
Taken aback by Hunith's adamant demand and guilty at having to refuse, Gwen shook her head. "There's nothing we can do if the Sarrum has her and they've reached Amata."
"You can convince Arthur to try." Hunith sat up straight despite her obvious fatigue.
Gwen folded her hands helplessly in her lap. "We can't cross armed into the Sarrum's sovereign lands; that would be an act of war. And even if he's willing to barter for her custody, Arthur would be forced to execute Morgana for her crimes anyway." Gwen's conscience pricked her as Morgana's voice echoed in her head: I would be under a death sentence merely for existing within his borders.
"You believe she deserves that fate. I understand, I do." Hunith's blue eyes, so like Merlin's, glimmered with sympathy. "Morgana has done terrible things to you and to people you love. But she doesn't deserve this, Gwen. We have to save her, not because she's entitled to our help, but because it's the right thing to do."
Heart thumping in her chest, Gwen was transfixed by Hunith's pleading.
"She saved my life, Gwen." Hunith's voice was calm, though a thread of desperation wove through her words.
Surprised, Gwen waited for her friend to explain.
"I was captured, too. The Sarrum's men carted me from Ealdor to Amata."
Even knowing Hunith was alive and safe, dread shivered through Gwen at the image of Hunith at the Sarrum's mercy. She reached out again and squeezed Hunith's bony wrist.
"They were going to kill me, but one of the soldiers..." Hunith's voice choked off.
Icy fear clawed at Gwen's chest. Had Hunith...? Her eyes scanned the peasant woman, searching for evidence of assault.
"Before he...before he could..." Hunith swallowed. "Morgana used magic to stop him."
Relief at Hunith's rescue mingled with dismay that the witch's powers had returned. "If she has her power, she can defend herself."
"She won't use magic against the Sarrum."
Sceptical, Gwen frowned. "Why?"
Hunith hesitated and Gwen suspected there was something Hunith feared would discourage Gwen from wanting to assist Morgana.
"The Sarrum holds captive something she loves."
A bark of laughter escaped Gwen. "There is no one and nothing she loves."
"Not true." Hunith shook her head. "She cares deeply for Aithusa, and the Sarrum knows it. He tortured the little one all the way from Ealdor to Amata and he'll kill both her and Morgana if she uses magic against him."
Gwen narrowed her gaze. "Who is Aithusa?"
There was another suspicious hesitation before Hunith blurted, "The little white dragon."
"Dragon?" Could it be the same creature whose lucky appearance facilitated their escape from Ealdor in the spring? But why would Morgana develop an affection for the creature who destroyed her detachment of soldiers? In any case, all the witnesses swore that dragon had been dark-coloured and monstrously large, similar to the one that had terrorized Camelot.
"I've seen it in the woods, it's never caused harm to anyone in Ealdor. Morgana befriended it."
Gwen could not imagine a dragon being harmless.
"It's just a baby, and the Sarrum is torturing it to control Morgana."
Inwardly, Gwen grimaced at the idea of an infant, even a terrifying magical infant, being tortured.
"The Sarrum tried to use me the same way but Morgana never betrayed any concern for my welfare."
"Because she has none." Gwen tried to soften the harsh reality with a kind tone.
"Then why risk herself and Aithusa to save me with magic?"
Gwen paused, unable to answer. If Morgana had truly put herself in peril to save Hunith from the soldier's assault, she must care a little. Unless she benefited somehow. "What happened after she saved you?"
Some of the blood drained from Hunith's face and she looked down to rub at her stained sleeve. "I took the soldier's dagger and stabbed him in the throat."
Shocked, Gwen merely blinked.
"It had to look like I killed him in self-defence. Because Morgana kept up the pretence of not caring about me, they didn't even bother to find me. I hid in the woods until they were gone."
A hint of the terror she had endured made Gwen shudder in sympathy. She paused. "We'll have to tell Arthur everything."
"I know."
#
They threw Morgana in first. The pit was not deep enough for the fall to seriously harm her, though her left wrist and ankle were likely sprained. The weight of the shackle added to the throbbing pain of her wrist. In the narrow hole, she wiggled into a sitting position, then pulled her injured foot away just before Aithusa landed heavily beside her. One delicate wing slapped Morgana's cheek as dirt stung her eyes. Aithusa whined pitiably, still wrapped in saturated blankets with the gag in her mouth, and Morgana's heart broke at the infant's pain and fear.
She felt her magic simmer just beneath her skin, not nearly as powerful as when she was cultivating her talent with daily practice, but ready to act on her command, yet she held back. The Sarrum was careful; he always had multiple warriors armed with both spears and crossbows surrounding Aithusa as well as herself. There was no way to strike without risking further injury to the dragon. Dragons lived for a thousand years, Aithusa would outlive all of them if Morgana could only keep her alive through the current peril.
The warrior with the scarred cheek stabbed down with his spear and she thought with relief they may simply kill her now. Instead, he used the point to fish up the chain linking her hands together, pulling it up high enough for another soldier to fasten it to a hook above her head. She grimaced as her left hand was jostled, aware that she would be unable to feed herself or drink with her hands suspended above her. As much as she tried to maintain her indifferent facade, tears prickled the back of her eyelids.
"Sleep well, witch." The Sarrum grinned down at her as a cover was dragged into place over the top of the hole, cutting off the last flicker of light.
Morgana tried to spit a chunk of dirt from her mouth but did not have enough saliva, so she worked her swollen tongue in an effort to get rid of the mud on her lips.
"Aithusa?" Her voice was hoarse, her throat dry.
A faint whimper answered. Morgana heard the dragon shift, felt the brush of scales against one arm, but could not make out even a faint luminescence from the white body. The darkness was absolute; darker than a moonless night in the woods where a shred of light still permeated the air, enough for night creatures to hunt. This dark was impenetrable, utterly without sight or sound. She had seen other pits in the dungeon before she was thrown into this hole, but if they were occupied by any living creatures, those creatures had ceased to be capable of movement or noise.
"You'll be all right, Aithusa. You hold on."
She felt Aithusa's cold, wet nose bury against her neck.
"I promise you'll be all right."