The Camelot Spell - Laura Anne Gilman [70]
“I think we’ve arrived,” Ailis said.
“Yes, but where? And how do we get from here to where we need to be?” Gerard asked Ailis.
Brains, child! You were given brains! Use them!
It wasn’t a voice in her head this time. Or, rather, not a new voice, but a memory of Merlin, particularly irate at one thing or another, storming down the hallway. He had seen her walking in the other direction and trying so hard not to be noticed. He snapped the words at her, as though she had personally displeased him by some act of notable stupidity.
Perhaps she had. Only not then. Now. How did he keep it all straight? The answer was that he didn’t, of course. That’s why he was so short-tempered.
“If the doorway led us to this place…then this courtyard must open to something. This is merely the entrance hall—the chamber where unexpected visitors might be judged friend or foe, and actions taken accordingly.”
“We’re not exactly friends,” Newt pointed out.
“No. But—”
Gerard came back, interrupting her. “There’s a door here.”
A door of the sort none of the three had ever seen before, not wood or hammered metal sheet but stones that, when slowly slid aside, revealed an entrance wide enough for them to enter one at a time.
“It may be a trap.”
“Of course it’s a trap.” Ailis sounded as though she had finally lost patience with the lot of them. “You have any other ideas?”
Gerard shrugged and stepped forward.
Passing through this doorway was not as painful as the other. They left the courtyard behind and entered a huge room, slightly smaller than the Great Hall in Camelot but more ornate, with rich rugs underfoot, jewel-toned tapestries on the walls, and gentle golden glow coming from hundreds of candles set in crystal holders that reflected their light up and out, brilliant enough to make the stars weep in shame.
And at the far end of the room, seated in a great golden chair shaped like a swan, was Morgain. Her long black hair was loose, falling in a glossy curtain down over her shoulder and pooling in her lap. A great black cat lay at her feet, its green eyes blinking at the three strangers without any curiosity at all.
“Welcome, my dears.” Her voice was soft, amused. Her face was a flawless mask.
“To your lair?” Gerard asked.
“To my home.” She spread her arms, indicating her surroundings. “Is it not lovely?”
Gerard took a long, careful look around. “It is indeed. All sparkly and doubtless sticky, like a spider-web. Did you let us in merely to kill us, or did you plan to bore us to death first?”
“Gerard!” Ailis was horrified, astonished, and not a little afraid, but Newt put a calming hand on her arm, pulling her back slightly. He was smiling faintly, as though he had finally figured out what Gerard was doing.
Morgain, rather than being offended, merely laughed. A wonderful laugh, full and rich, and all three were reminded once again that she was Arthur’s half-sister. Arthur had a laugh like that. “You have learned your lessons well, young man. Irritate your opponent, insult her. Make her lose control of her temper so that she does something without thought, something to show her weakness. Although it would not be ‘her’ would it? Always ‘him.’ Always the man as the opponent.” Her good humor had turned to bitterness.
“You are a worthy opponent,” Gerard said. “I would treat you no differently than any man.”
She looked at him, tilting her head slightly as though weighing the truth of his words. “Perhaps you would. If so, there may yet be hope for my brother’s otherwise worthless court.”
“A court which you’ve spelled to sleep,” he retorted.
“Ah. Yes. There is that. Is that what you’re here about?”
“We translated the spell.”
“And do you understand it? Do you truly?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain of that? Without someone to tell you, how can you be sure?” Her eyes sparkled with an evil sense of amusement, and her red-tinted lips curved in an unpleasant smile. Gerard was reminded of an adder hissing its defiance.
“We’re certain,” Ailis said, stepping forward when Gerard hesitated.