Morgan I
"Use it wisely, and remember your oath."
Morgan quirked her lips. No worries, my dear fairy. I shall fulfill my word to the letter. She nodded politely at her mirror image. "Naturally. The Avatar of Britain shall perish."
Vivian tightened her grip on her staff, and narrowed her ice-blue eyes. "He had better. I know you like I know myself, witch," she purred. "And I know you and he were born of the same essence. The instant I suspect you have violated our pact, I shall .back," She bit out, punctuating each word with a tug on her "gift" through their bond.
Her nostrils flared. She dares threaten me? I cannot wait to be rid of this jumped-up slave. Morgan turned her back on her counterpart, and glided over the field of luminous blue flowers. "Understood, then I shall return to Lot at once. I imagine you shall be too busy with your French project to keep an eye on our home, but rest assured, the dragon shall die far sooner than he would have, if we carried out whatever scheme you concocted."
Vivian had no answer to that, and soon Morgan arrived at the stone circle she had used to enter this plane. Crossing the boundary line, Morgan's field of view shimmered, and an altogether different environment replaced the otherworldly meadow beneath a sparkling night sky. For one, it was absolutely frigid!
Morgan's skin prickled, and she shivered. Sixteen years on this island, and the cold continues to surprise. It confounds me that anyone lives here by choice. Fortunately, as a magus, she was not bound to suffer as her subjects did. Lifting her hand up, she snapped her perfectly-manicured fingers. "Gwres."
A warm hand ruffled her hair.
Her jaw grew taut, but blessed heat settled over her like a heavy cloak.
She sighed heavily. Much better. At times like this, Morgan wondered if she should alter the cut of her dress, but she never followed through, for the same reason as always: In Orkney's court, she needed every advantage she could get. Drawing herself up to her full height, she incanted another spell, and rose into the foggy spring air.
The ancient circle faded into the mist, and she darted away like a swallow, glimpsing its twin when she flew over the waters dividing them. No sooner had she passed that goddess's property than the fog parted like a curtain before her.
A squat, gray castle clung to a jagged cape, thrusting like a dirk into the roaring, gray sea. Starting where the cape ended and the mainland began, a triangular curtain wall with an excessive amount of watchtowers for its length enclosed the rude little keep. Two sides held back the endless salt-spray from waves battering the cliffs, while the third guarded against the hordes of lumpy, gray sheep grazing beneath the walls while they maintained their eternal siege of her home.
Morgan wrinkled her nose. I swear, it grows uglier every time I see it. Nevertheless, she had an appointment to keep with her 'dear husband.' And if these negotiations went well? She would never have to see it again. But first things first, be careful when entering a castle uninvited. Morgan muttered a spell, and vanished from mortal sight.
The courtyard was strangely empty of her husband's soldiers. Strange, but certainly welcome, as she touched down without a care for stealth, and sauntered through the open gate into the keep. But while the courtyard was deserted, the same could not be said of the castle's passageways, and more than once she had to press flush against a wall to avoid collisions with Lot's servants. Nevertheless, after passing through two hallways, and a nerve-wracking climb up the spiral staircase, Morgan arrived at the half-open door to her servant's study.
Rhys, the castle's aging seneschal, hummed absently while he bent over his desk with a quill in hand, giving a clear view of his mop of bright red hair. At least, bright red outside a patch of gray on the crown of his head, which had not been there three days ago.
Morgan bit her lip. I ought to make a new batch of potion soon. His arthritis should be acting up any day now. Filing that away for later, she crept forward, and peered at his work. To her delight, it was a draft of the trade proposal she had suggested after that embassy from Dalriada came a month ago…with that charming crown prince of theirs.
Idly, she fanned herself. Fergus, you lived up to your name as well as Lot sadly lives up to his. A pity that my plans have changed…I was looking forward to that reciprocal mission. In any case, it was a joy to see Rhys as dutiful as ever—she certainly had to whip up those potions soon, but business came first. Cancelling her invisibility spell, she politely coughed.
Rhys glanced up, froze, and leapt to his feet, dropping into a bow. "Queen Morgan, it's great to see you back. How did your mission go?"
Morgan smiled faintly, and inclined her head. "It was fruitful. I expect you shall hear the results soon enough. What happened when I was gone?"
Rhys grimaced, and played with the laces on his tunic. "Uh…I hate to tell you, your majesty, but the Northmen attacked yesterday. We caught them carrying off the natives of a fishing village a few miles north of here."
Something in the dark bared its fangs.
Morgan gnashed her teeth, her fingers curling into talons. They dare? They dare steal my property? The wretched, blood-drunk, tree-hugging whoresons!
Their surroundings plunged into inky blackness.
The true owner of Britain paced back and forth. So, it seems I have been too merciful of late. Rotting their crops was not enough? Sending them nightmares was not enough? Very well. If the barbarians are so eager to reach their gods, let them start with a voyage that shall burn in their memories for a hundred years! I shall strike them with a curse so terrible, so all-encompassing, they shall pray for their rotting goddess to drag them into Hel—
A sudden scraping noise drew her attention to the room's other occupant.
Rhys had gone bone-white, and huddled in his chair, flinching away from the roiling shadows that had swallowed the room's margins, and reached out feelers to grab hold of him. A paradoxical cold heat licked at Morgan's fingers.
Eyes widening, she jerked her gaze down.
Gobbets of black flames dripped from her hands, and pooled on the floor, spreading over the stone to lap at her servant's desk.
Morgan's blood froze. She frantically felt around for the yawning cavern in the back of her mind. I am the master of my magic. It does not master me! Then she slammed the gate closed.
The shadows around them vanished at once, and the flames guttered. In moments, the only signs of her slip were scorch marks on the legs of the seneschal's desk.
Releasing a shaky breath, she looked Rhys in the eye. "Tell me they were crushed."
Rhys fearfully glanced at his surroundings, and seeing her magic had disappeared, he swallowed hard. "Utterly. The start of the fight was a little hairy, because the militia responded before the knights, but then Gwyar broke out of his grotto and fell upon the b—barbarians. The result was…" He grimaced. "…messy."
She suppressed a smirk. I need to conduct a scrying session later on, just to see the looks on their faces. Perhaps that flesh-eating plague can wait another day. Reaching through her familiar bond, she greeted the hero of the hour. Well done. Someone is getting Pict for dinner soon!
Morgan received an impression of blood-soaked joy, and two shrill screams.
Her lips twitched. So easy to please. It baffles me why he was imprisoned in that circle—once you get past the…skinlessness, he is such an engaging creature. She refocused on her seneschal, who had finally relaxed. "I imagine that shall keep them in their holes for a while."
"Of course, my queen," he answered, a bit too evenly.
She narrowed her eyes. Something was up. Part of the reason she had cultivated Rhys was he had an excellent grip on his emotions—a vital trait in one of her own, especially when they were play-acting arguments to convince Lot to support one of her proposals disguised as his. However, nothing could fool fairy eyes, and everything about her servant screamed that he was hiding something. "Out with it, Rhys. What is the problem? I shall not be angry with you, so long as you are completely honest."
Rhys shrunk under her gaze. Setting the paper down, he looked at her warily. "Um, your majesty…after the attack, the king went looking for you, to bring Gwyar to heel—no one else will go near him, you see. They searched the castle top to bottom, but they couldn't find you, so the king instructed all the staff to report you the moment you were found." He sucked breath through his teeth. "He was…not pleased to put it lightly."
Internally, she scoffed. When is he ever? Never mind that I have given the man four heirs, he still treats me like I would melt his face off at the first opportunity. Which was not untrue per se; with his winning personality, her husband would have been dead in a month if she had the ability to harm him.
Her mouth twisted. Speaking of harm…she ought to take down that…anti-bandit bounded field…she had placed over the stables last week. If Lot listened, they would be empty, and the…bandits…would be unable to steal his horses, even though Rhys's report showed that banditry was at a five-year high. What a shame, she had been eager to see it in action…
Morgan squared her shoulders, and sighed heavily. "Fine. I was planning to visit my lord husband anyways. Good day, Rhys."
Fumbling around his desk, Rhys snatched up a half a dozen papers, and held them out to her. "Your reports, Queen Morgan."
She idly flexed her jaw, but after a moment's consideration, she waved them away. "Hold onto them for now. I shall need every ounce of focus for these…negotiations. Again, good day."
Vanishing once again, Morgan crept out of the office, and started towards her next engagement.
XXX
After another round of skulking through the halls, and dodging a patrol of knights, Morgan finally stood before the entrance to her chambers. The heavy walnut panels towered over her forbiddingly, threatening to bar her entry…but she knew that the hinges were well-oiled. All it would take was a light push, and they would swing wide open.
Morgan steeled herself, and dropped her spell once again. Then there is no point delaying. Lot must agree, or all my plans shall come to nothing. It went without saying that the more she delayed, the angrier he would get. Pasting on a smile, she opened the door, stepped through, and spotted her husband hunched over his desk in his usual black tunic and breeches, his crown lying forgotten on their bed. At the sound of the door opening, he snapped up his head.
Lot had once been a powerful man with a certain striking, jagged handsomeness, but sixteen years of marriage had made that a thing of the past. His dark salt-and-pepper hair had thinned out, turning steel-gray, and his hawklike features were marred by a dense web of frown lines. When Lot spotted her, he clenched his jaw. Then he abruptly screeched his chair back, rose to his full height of six feet and a head, and glared down his sharp nose. "I see you are home, wife," he ground out.
A pit opened in her stomach. Gods, that face…he has not been this angry since Agravain caught a fever. She swallowed. "My king—"
"QUIET!" he barked.
Her jaw snapped shut. Oh dear.
Lot prowled around the room, clenching and unclenching his gnarled fists, but not once taking his dark eyes off of her. "I like to imagine I am a merciful husband. When your father forced a witch upon me as a bride, I did not lock you in the oubliette like your kind deserve. I dressed you in silks, showed you in my court, even let you keep that abomination once it proved its worth against the raiders." He gave her a grudging nod. "And in hindsight, that was the right choice. You performed your duty as a wife, and I have not heard any complaints of curses coming from my subjects." His eyes narrowed. "Rest assured, if I had heard so much as a peep from a one-legged gong farmer, I would have sewn you into a sack and tossed you in the sea, daughter of Uther or not."
Morgan mentally rolled her eyes. Gods, it has been a while since I heard that gem. This was getting out of hand—she had to go on the attack, and quickly.
Having returned to his starting point, Lot carried on. "But even after all these years, you find new ways to make me question that choice." His hard eyes bored fiercely into her own. "When my witch of a wife vanishes from my castle without telling me why, it makes me suspicious. Tell me, where were you?" He barked. After a short pause, he added, "You may speak."
Morgan forced down her indignation, and put on a sultry smile. "Of course, husband. I was preparing you a gift." Stepping out of her shoes, she kicked the door shut behind her…then she reached for the straps on her dress, and pulled them loose.
Her dress fell to the floor—and so did Lot's jaw.
An ounce of smugness worked its way into her smile. Superstitious bastard or not, he is still a man. Morgan's eyes gleamed like sapphires, and her long, golden tresses swayed in time with her hips when she sashayed across the bedchamber to her spellbound husband.
Lot was powerless to resist when she gently pressed him back to his chair. His legs struck the edge, and he fell heavily onto the seat. Then she followed him, straddled the man and brought her mightiest set of doe eyes to bear. "Would you like to know what it is?"
Lot gulped. Tugging at his collar, he stuttered, "W-what is it?" One of his hands wound around her back, and grasped her bottom.
Internally she gagged. Outwardly, she gave him a smoldering look. "Why, the weapon that shall make you King of Britain, of course!" She simpered. Then Morgan raised her right hand.
Motes of golden light appeared out of thin air and flew into her palm. When they filled her hand, a shaft of light sprang into existence.
Sacred lance…
In the next beat, golden filaments spiraled out of the ether, past her hand, up the shaft, and fused together at its apex, forming a narrow cone that ended shortly above her grip.
…released from the ends of the world.
When the golden light faded, a softly glowing, pale-blue lance extended towards the heavens.
Morgan smiled triumphantly. "Lot, I present you with Rhongomyniad."
Lot gaped at the armament grasped in her hand. His mouth opened and shut soundlessly, until with a hard cough, he finally regained his senses. "What…is…that?" He gasped.
Satisfaction pooled in her belly. I have you now. Gently prying Lot's hand off her backside, she rose to her feet, and thrust it in the air. "Rhongomyniad is the Lance that Shines to the Ends of the World. It is a weapon forged by the gods of this land, that can pierce any armor, slay any monster—up to and including dragons."
Lot's eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "Vortigern," he whispered. But as soon as it came, the wonder faded from his face, and he shook his head. "No, I have seen that monster. No man can kill him."
Morgan cocked her head. "But who said anything about a man?"
Her husband blinked—then he glared fiercely at her. "Are you saying I should let you do the job?" he growled.
A dark sensation arose in her chest. Oh, if this works, I shall be killing more than my uncle. But she forced a smile nonetheless. "Yes—unfortunately, the lance requires magical power to wield to its full potential, so only I, or another magus can use it. But to answer your first worry, do not fear, for the Vile King has grown weak."
Morgan waved her hand, and the far wall of their bedroom rippled like a shaken bowl of water. When it settled, the stonework had been replaced with a dark, decaying throne room. It was empty, lifeless…except for one figure. Slumped on the throne, breathing weakly, was a mass of shadows in the vague shape of a man.
Lot's eyes bulged, and he lurched back in his seat. "Fu—" He paused mid-curse, staring in disturbed fascination at the illusion of her uncle. "What happened to him?"
She mentally breathed a sigh of relief. That was close. Morgan waved Rhongomyniad at Vortigern's motionless form. "Six days ago, a magical calamity swept across Britain. Hundreds of ritual circles dating back to the Age of Gods started channeling enormous quantities of ether south to the island's spiritual heart, Stonehenge." The illusion shimmered, and shifted to an image of cracked bluestones strewn across the earth. "Whatever it was used for, the circle did not survive."
Lot regarded the scene warily. Even her husband, magic-averse as he was, knew the power of these sites—he lived but miles from the two oldest circles in all of Britain. "Who caused this, and what happened to them?"
Morgan's lips thinned. "Some foreign magus was involved. Whatever he did, he was quickly captured by forces from Caer Gradawc. He is…enjoying their hospitality for now." I do not know whether to thank you, or curse you, sad excuse for a magus. On the one hand, you wrecked every leyline south of Hadrian's Wall…but on the other, I only have this chance because of your bumbling. Maybe I shall retrieve you from that cell once the war is over, and ask what you were thinking.
Seeing Lot's pleased expression, she continued. "In any case, Vortigern is helpless. If we gather the fleet and sail to Londinium, we can strike him down with impunity!"
Lot shot her a suspicious look, and crossed his arms. "I think not."
Morgan's jaw dropped, and so nearly did the holy lance, but she recovered, and caught it at the last second. Is he jesting? "W—whyever not?"
His face could have been carved from granite. "You speak pretty words, wife. But I am reluctant to sail my forces to the far side of the island, and attack the mightiest creature in Britain in his own home with a weapon I trust not, wielded by a woman I trust even less."
Beneath her mask, Morgan's blood boiled. The wretched worm! I hand him one of the most powerful weapons in the world on a silver platter, and he spits in my face? Her thoughts whirled. She had to salvage this disaster. Her hard-headed fool of a husband threatened to bring all her ambitions crashing down! She would do anything to see them through—and as much as it galled her, she knew exactly what to say.
Morgan dismissed Rhongomyniad, feeling a sense of loss when she did so, and climbed back into Lot's lap, smiling gently. "But if not me, who? I am yours, Lot. You own me utterly, completely, without a single doubt that I would disobey you. What other magus could you trust to wield it in your name? Where would you find one to begin with? Even if you did, you would find none that are half as skilled as I am, and none more dedicated to defeating your enemies." Because they are mine. "Please, what say you? What wife does not wish to serve their lord husband?"
Lot's eyes clouded over in thought—and other things—while he considered her plea. The man ruminated for a heart-stoppng minute…then shook his head with utter finality. "I will not attack Vortigern."
Her eyes bulged—
"But I am open to attacking another great enemy first," he continued. His eyes glinted darkly. "The King of the Picts has been wreaking havoc for a generation now. It would be pleasurable and informative all at once to see that beast cut down by a magical spear, so at least I know how it actually works." He chuckled, and for the first time in months, something resembling a smile worked its way onto his face. "Imagine the looks on my brothers' faces when Lot of Orkney throws the Terror of the North's head before their feet. I bet they would swear themselves right then and there."
She slumped. I suppose it is better than total rejection. It pained her to leave the old monster alone for any longer than she had to…but Lot did have a point. It would be far easier to bring the other kings to heel with a smashing victory against a common foe. Then they would strike at Vortigern, and once he was within arm's reach…
Freedom…and vengeance.
Morgan smiled. "Then I suppose I shall topple two kings in your name."
He grinned. "Yes, I think you will, though other matters have my attention at the moment." Lot's arms wrapped around her back, and he yanked her tight to his chest. His hot, humid breath washed over her ear. "I can only hold back for so long when a naked woman drapes herself all over me. I think it is time that you serve your lord husband."
She mentally grimaced. Oh gods, I walked right into that one. But...hmph, fine!. If Lot is appeased…then it is time to pay my dues. Drawing back, Morgan trailed her hands up Lot's tunic, then his neck, and stopped to cup his aged face. She put on her best sultry grin. "I reckon it is."
She leaned in close…