Morgain's Revenge - Laura Anne Gilman [37]
Sir Caedor, having gotten no response, kicked his horse into a slightly faster trot and rode on ahead.
“I do worry…” Gerard said.
“About what?” Newt asked.
“Ailis. Being with Morgain all that time. Being around magic, and not good magic.”
Newt tightened his grip on his reins again, then relaxed Loyal back into a slow, steady walk. “There is no good magic. She shouldn’t be around any of it at all.”
“Not even Merlin’s?” Gerard knew he was poking a sleeping boar with a short spear, but he couldn’t stop. “The kind of magic that we’ve been using to save our very precious skins? The magic that animates the lodestone? The magic that keeps fires from destroying villages and clears muck from wells? Are we going to go through that argument again?”
Newt shrugged, looking away as though wanting to pretend they weren’t having this conversation. But the topic of magic had been simmering—and boiling over—too many times since Gerard had met the other boy, and there never seemed to be a reason for it. Time to confront the question head-on. Newt’s unease around magic might become a real problem down the road. It might help to know why he reacted that way, just in case.
So Gerard took a deep breath, and plunged in. “Why are you so opposed to magic, anyway? I mean, I know that Sir Gawain thinks it’s an affront against God, but that doesn’t seem to be your thing….”
“It’s…a long story.”
“We’ve got nothing but time right now. Unless you’d rather Sir Caedor talk to us some more about his long and glorious career….”
Newt gave a dramatic shudder, settling himself even deeper in the saddle and reaching up to rub again at his face. As Gerard had suspected, the words that came out of his mouth after touching the scar were gentler, more even-tempered. “Anything but that! I’m not sure I could deal with yet another retelling of the Battle of Deeply Impressive Me, as told through his much more experienced point of view.”
Gerard checked to make sure that Sir Caedor hadn’t been close enough to overhear.
“Tell me again, why did Merlin think we needed an adult along?” Newt asked, clearly trying to change the subject away from himself and magic. “And why this particular adult? You think maybe it was because Arthur didn’t want him hanging around Camelot?”
Gerard almost choked. “Okay, that was cruel. Possibly true, but cruel.” But he wasn’t going to let Newt slip away that easily. “Magic, Newt. You’re using it now, don’t you feel it? The warmth from the scar? That’s Merlin’s spell working in you.”
“Yeah. Thought it might be.” Newt didn’t seem particularly excited by the idea.
“And it’s keeping you from doing—or saying—anything you know is really stupid?”
“Mostly.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“There is no problem.”
Gerard let that one pass for a bit without saying anything, then he asked again, “What’s the problem?”
“Ger…”
“Newt…come on. Why can’t you ever admit to anything? Newt’s not even your real name, is it?”
“No.” Newt was clearly reluctant to admit even that, although it wasn’t exactly a secret. As a nickname it was bad enough. To be named that by your parents—that was hard to imagine.
“So…?”
“So, it’s not my real name. I’ve been called that since I was barely crawling. I don’t even remember my real name anymore.” Newt’s voice was wistful. Then, as though realizing he had given something away, he hardened his voice back to the brash, rough-and-tumble stable boy Gerard had first met. “Not that it matters what anyone yells, so long as they leave me to get my work done.”
“And magic—”
“Has no part in my work. Let it alone, Gerard. Let it alone.”
Gerard gave up for now. They both knew that the subject would not be forgotten. When Ailis was safe. When Morgain was no longer a threat.
With an inward laugh, Gerard admitted that he had been beaten. Newt would always be able to find some crisis he could claim was more important than his past. That just made Gerard all the more curious.
He would find out, eventually….
TWELVE