The Shadow Companion - Laura Anne Gilman [56]
“But if I had it…we would not need to use the girl. The Grail holds the blood of the land—that has always been its power. It can hold the power, and be the sacrifice instead of her.”
Ailis’s eyes met Gerard’s. He had heard it, too: the tone in Morgain’s voice. Not strong, not loud, but a definite note of reluctance. Of wistfulness. Of regret.
The shadow-figure had heard it, too. “Foolish mortal! You wish for everything, without giving up anything. It does not work that way.”
It hissed and reached out to strike Morgain across the face. “I told you once, I have everyone in the end. The girl, you, all who desire to see their enemies struck down; they are all given to me, to grant their wish.”
The sorceress stepped away, regal once more, and raised her chin, staring into the hooded shadows as though she could see what lay beneath, and banish it by sheer force of will.
Suddenly sidelined, Ailis’s mind was racing even as she stood very still and hoped not to be noticed again. Morgain had used them. But, as Ailis had said to Gerard and Newt, everyone used them. Everyone had their own reason for doing things, saying things. Evil is all in how you look at things.
Morgain had said that; it had been one of her first lessons to a much more idealistic Ailis.
The companion had used Morgain: used her ego, and her jealousy, and her love for the land she claimed the right to rule. Used that love, and twisted it to its own ends.
But what could they do with it? How could they use that note, that hint in Morgain’s voice, before it was too late? Ailis’s magic was weakened by her efforts with the rockslide. She was useless now.
Where was Newt? Gerard wondered.
There was a blur of action, and the sound of a high-pitched scream.
While the companion was distracted by Morgain’s wavering commitment, Newt had gotten closer, unseen or ignored by everyone else. With one lunge, he had reached out and, in a diving move, grabbed at whatever lay underneath the figure’s hood, and pulled.
The shadow-figure screamed.
Falling and rolling away, Newt looked down and saw a thin gray fabric in his hand, slippery and sheer, like a veil, only with a warm and unpleasant texture. He dropped it, disgusted, and rubbed his hand hard against the leg of his pants, trying to erase the memory of the touch, even as he got to his feet to defend himself against any counterattack.
What he saw was more terrible than any weapon. The hood had fallen back off a hairless skull, and the face glaring out at him was not human.
Shaped like a human’s face, yes: a chin, mouth, nose, two eyes. But beyond that, it had as much in common with the dragon, or his salamander, as any of them. There was no skin on the flesh that held the features together, only a raw, oozing substance, white like the belly of a snake that had never seen sunlight. Raw like hunger.
And the eyes, the deep-set pits, which caused even Morgain to back down, were flame red; they were, in fact, flames, flickering inside that unholy skull with the heat of a hundred generations of impassioned prayers.
“Goddess, mother of us all,” Morgain whispered, as taken aback by the revelation as anyone.
“What is it?” Gerard asked. “What have you called down upon us, Morgain?”
“Hatred. Hope. Fear. Anger. All the things soldiers left behind, when they returned to Mother Rome to save their own land, abandoning us as callously as they had arrived.” Morgain swallowed tightly. “They broke my people, broke the Queen, brought their own gods, their own laws, all the things Arthur embraced. It seemed only right to use their own remnants, their own gods against him….”
Something stirred in Newt’s memory: some faded scrap of song or story, his