Morgain's Revenge - Laura Anne Gilman [45]
“And now, witch-child, back to work.”
In the face of that calm control, Ailis swallowed the questions she desperately wanted to ask, the salty tang of blood a reminder that there were things she did not want to be involved with any further, if she could possibly help it. This was a dangerous place. A bad place. Despite the contentment she had discovered here, a part of her mind still remembered that Morgain was an immense danger, an evil woman, the enemy of Arthur and Merlin, and therefore of Ailis as well.
Do not think on things you cannot change. There was no doubt that it was Morgain’s voice, soothing the raw edges of Ailis’s mind. Focus on who and what you are, who and what you may become. That and that alone you may control.
It was good advice. Ailis wrapped herself again in that soothing tone and took comfort in its words as the two went back up into the workroom and closed the heavy wooden door behind them.
“This is where Morgain is hiding?” Newt, remembering the glories of the Isle of Apples, was incredulous.
“According to the lodestone…yes.” Gerard shrugged, as though to deny responsibility for the answer.
“Well, it’s not much to speak of, is it?” Sir Caedor said. “Not that I was expecting Camelot in miniature, but I at least thought there would be streets.”
In truth, the village barely earned that name; a double handful of wood and stone houses built not along any discernible row or road, but scattered as though by whim and chance along the shoreline. Narrow paths wound around each building, created not by hoof and wheel, but by human feet. Gerard could hear the faint chatter of voices—children, he determined—off to the left, but there were no adults to be seen. The sun was well-risen in the sky, however, so it was entirely likely that every adult in the village was called to work. Gerard didn’t know anything about the patterns of coastal life; he had been born to fertile farmlands and was fostered in a rocky domain where livestock, not fish, were the main concern.
“All roads lead to…what?” Sir Caedor wondered out loud, tracing the direction with his gaze. “Down to the sea. And what is of such interest in the sea?”
“Their livelihood,” Newt said in a tone of amazement. “This is a fishing village. Everyone here takes their living from the ocean.”
“Information. We need more information,” the knight went on, ignoring Newt entirely. “The lodestone sent us here, to a place from which we can travel no farther, so there must be an answer of some sort waiting for us. Let us go and inquire, if we can find a soul to speak with.”
The two boys rode their horses forward, and followed Sir Caedor down one of the wider, more clearly defined paths, down a slight incline to where three larger square buildings partially blocked their view of the water down below.
“Do you know what you’re going to say, to convince someone to let us borrow a boat?” Newt asked.
“I was thinking about invoking Arthur’s name,” Gerard said. “We are on his business, after all.”
“You think they’ll believe that?” They did have a parchment with the king’s signature on it, the same one they had used to gain a room at the inn. Inns were used to that sort of thing, but the odds of anyone in this rough place being able to read were slim, at best. And even if they could, they would likely be disinclined to give over something as valuable as a boat to three strangers, so far from Camelot’s immediate reach and reward.
“Well, we do have a knight with us,” Gerard responded. “Maybe they’ll be impressed by that.”
“Optimist,” Newt muttered, dire down to his toes. Gerard laughed for the first time in days.
He was optimistic, or at least optimistic in this regard, on this day, this hour. They were close, the lodestone had led them well, and he had confidence in Ailis. She was well. She would remain strong until they could rescue her. They could accomplish anything so long as they held together. Sir Caedor might not believe it, but Gerard knew Ailis; knew her better than anyone.