The Shadow Companion - Laura Anne Gilman [54]
Ailis walked forward, drawn toward the well in the center of the grove. Constans slipped off Newt’s shoulder, twisting as he fell, then disappeared into the thick grass that grew around the well.
The flat stones that made up the well were pitted and pockmarked with age, and curved in a way that was not found in nature, but yet showed no obvious marks of chisel or hatchet.
“Like the stone in your doorway,” Gerard said.
Ailis nodded, running her fingers over the stones as though trying to read them through her skin. “This isn’t magic, though. Or if it is, it’s very very old. So old that all traces of its magic have worn off. Or it may be some kind of magic I don’t know…It’s lovely. So very lovely.”
“And not drinking water.” Newt had reached down and cupped a handful of the impossibly turquoise water and sipped it, then spat it out on the grass. “Salt. This is ocean water. Only…it’s warm.”
“Sun-warmed?” Ailis suggested, clearly still entranced by the feel of the stones.
“What sun?” he asked in return.
That was a good point. There was light in here, diffused and hazy, but definitely not sunlight. The trees grew, the grass grew, the water was warmed…and they were inside a mountain.
“I hate magic,” Newt said. “It…complicates everything.”
“What’s the difference between magic and a miracle?” Gerard wondered, touching the Grail, safe in his pack, with the hand not gripping his sword-crutch. They had had this discussion once before. He had thought that faith was something you just had, like brown eyes, or the ability to run fast. A lot had happened since then. A lot had been seen and experienced since then. He wasn’t as sure of his answers as he used to be.
“A miracle has no explanation,” Ailis said softly. “Magic has a cause, a reason.” She had seen a lot, too. Somehow, along the way, she had become more certain, while he became less so.
“So what are we looking for, exactly?” Newt leaned over the well’s mouth, trying to see if anything was written on the stones inside. “A name? A picture? Oh, there’s something written here.”
And Newt was still Newt: solid, dependable, practical; a good person to have on your side.
He pulled back out of the well, looking at his black-smudged fingers. “It’s soot. There are all these markings down there. I can’t see what they are exactly, but they seem to be written in soot. Looks like they haven’t been there very long. Or maybe the water’s keeping them from disappearing. I don’t know.”
“A spell. Morgain’s spell,” Ailis said. “The one she said she used to call the companion.” It was a guess, but a reasonable one. “Come here!”
The two boys turned to see what she was pointing at. A small fire pit, just beyond the grass. The coals had been carefully banked, but they were still glowing.
“Someone left a fire burning?” Newt sounded outraged.
“The stones are cold,” she noted, bending down. “So are the ashes.” Her hand held over the coals. “The coals are hot, though. It’s just been banked.”
Something—the smell of the wind, a rustle, a change of air pressure—made Ailis stand up and turn around quickly.
“Morgain!”
But this was not the Morgain of worried confidences. This was not even the thoughtful teacher of magic.
Clad in a gown of deepest violet, a band of gold and silver held her heavy black locks in place, and thicker bands of silver were seen at her neck and wrists. This was Morgain the Queen. Morgain the Enchantress.
Morgain Le Fay.
Ailis saw her and was afraid.
“Morgain?” she said again, reaching with voice and magic to the woman behind the coldly perfect face, the coolly impassive eyes.
And then a figure appeared behind the enchantress: cowled and dark, menacing, here in this place of unexpected beauty.
Ailis took a step backward, almost landing in the fire, causing the salamander, who had slithered from the grasses to take refuge in the coals, to hiss in agitation.
“Morgain, behind you…”
“You’ve done well, witch-child.” The enchantress