I awoke in near darkness, a film of damp between my back and what I came to realize was my own bed. All was quiet, the only sounds the low crackle of the fire and the faint scratch of branches against windowpanes. The air was thick with the smell of tallow and sweat.
I didn’t remember going to bed, and the drapes were drawn, when I had never slept with them that way. As I attempted to reach for one, the hanging flew away from my hand and I was bathed in a golden light.
“You’re awake,” said a low, soothing voice. “Good.”
I shifted onto my elbows, trying to sit up, but my limbs felt weighted, slow. “Ninianne,” I croaked.
“Careful now, moving won’t be pleasant.”
She slipped her arms under my shoulders and hoisted me up against soft pillows. Her copper hair was like trying to stare into a fire and I had to avert my hazy eyes.
“What happened?” I asked. “The last thing I remember is pain, shooting low through my back and…” The thought slipped away as a goblet of water appeared before my lips.
“Drink,” Ninianne said.
I gulped greedily at the cold, cleansing liquid. “Not too fast!” she warned, but I couldn’t help myself. The water was her enhanced kind, tasting of goodness and clarity, washing away the fog in my head with every nourishing mouthful.
As my mind awoke, so did my body, unleashing a deep, persistent ache beneath stiff linens tied between my legs. I put a hand to my belly and found it swollen, still rounded, but flatter. Empty.
“The child,” I said. “I was in labour.”
Ninianne took the goblet and refilled it. “Yes. Your waters broke and you fainted. Merlin called for me.”
“I don’t remember, I…” A sudden, sickening ache pressed down on my temples. “God’s blood, my head is splitting.” I reached for the water again, drinking until the pain subsided. “What was done to me?”
“Merlin cast a sleep enchantment on you before he left us. You were feverish, delirious. Given the danger of panic, it was best to keep you soothed while delivering the child. You’ve been at rest for three days.”
“Three days!” I exclaimed. “But that’s no way to labour—it’s not safe. No wonder I can’t remember.”
I shifted again and a twinging throb pulsed through my abdomen, bruises coming to life where I had been kneaded and shoved—marks of a birth I hadn’t participated in. I had no recollection and, I realized with a sudden sick dread, no baby in my arms.
“The child,” I said. “Did it…?”
“He lives,” she said. “A son, large and healthy. Dark-haired.”
The rush of relief sent me back against the pillows. I glanced around, seeking a cradle, the flutter of small sleeping breaths on the air. “Where is he? I want to see him.”
Ninianne’s brow flickered with confusion. “He is already gone.”
“Gone? But you said he was alive.”
“He is, and thriving,” she said. “We thought it best if he was conveyed as swiftly as possible to his home and guardians.”
“He what?” Panic struck my insides like throwing knives. “Are you saying my son has been taken from me against my will?”
“No, in accordance with your wishes, as agreed in the deal you made with Merlin. As soon as the child was born, it was to be taken away and raised elsewhere.”
“I never agreed to anything of the sort! Do you truly think I would consent to a thing like that?”
She paused, her light dimming like a cloud across the sun. “But he showed me the chains of your binding. The runes can’t lie, they—”
“Damn the runes!”
I pushed the coverlet back and stood up, but the aftermath of birth had stolen my balance and I pitched forwards. Ninianne caught hold of my arms. As soon as her skin touched mine, her eyes widened in horror.
“By the goddess,” she said. “You’re telling the truth.”
I leaned into her, pain and exhaustion washing through my body from one ordeal I could not remember, and another that was just beginning.
“Ninianne,” I said. “What happened to my child?”
She shook her head in still-dawning shock. “Only Merlin knows.”
Ninianne tried to prevent it, but a pack of hell-hounds couldn’t have kept me from his door. With quick hands, I healed enough of my pain to allow me steady feet, drank another goblet of her fortifying water, then ran to the demon’s lair.
“Where is my son?”
“Lady Morgan, what a pleasant surprise.” Merlin didn’t look up. He sat behind his huge desk, casting coloured pebbles across a tablet, plotting what would befall the world next. “Do come in.”
“Where is my child?” I demanded again. “Ninianne said you took him away. Tell me it isn’t true.”
Merlin considered the scattered stones, then picked up a raven quill, making a careful note. “Of course it’s true, as you well know. You agreed to it back in Camelot, as part of the bargain we made.”
Sheer fury and panic had driven me up three flights of stairs but had used up my strength. I leaned against my work chair, willing the resurgent pain in my body away.
“No,” I said. “I would never…”
I thought fervently back to that day when I had gone to the sorcerer in begrudging desperation. I knew to the bottom of my hammering heart that if he had once mentioned taking my child away, I would have torn him limb from limb where he stood.
“Your child will be the best-guarded secret in the realm. Not a soul in the court will ever know if you do not speak of it. Arthur’s glory and that of his Crown will be preserved.” Merlin met my gaze, his eyes glittering black. “Was that not what I said? To which you readily consented?”
“There was no mention of you stealing my child.”
“I did not steal; you gave,” he insisted. “Clearly, you were so eager that you did not stop to think how this would be achieved. I cannot, for example, bewitch an entire nation, or convince its High King to overthrow his own ideals and laws. Nor could the integrity of the Crown remain unharmed if you kept the child with you. The terms could only ever be within the parameters of how the world works. I assumed you knew that.”
It came to me then that I could shout and rage until the stars burned from the sky, but I could not argue with the sorcerer’s reasoning, because every word of it was true.
“You tricked me,” I said. “You know I never would have agreed to such a thing.”
“Indeed I did not know that, my lady,” Merlin said. “How could I? You told me nothing of the child’s father—whether you were on terms of love, indifference or even violation. I believed the decision you made was entirely rational, given your place by King Arthur’s side. Hasn’t your ambition long been to assist with his rule and strengthen the Crown’s greatness? There seemed more reasons for your choice than counterpoints. Did you really think you could stand beside the High King of All Britain—to sit at his council table—with a child of adultery at your breast? The slightest hint of your sins could damage his reputation irrevocably, yet you expected all to stay as it was?”
His logic buzzed in my mind like a nest of wasps. “Arthur and I have a bond,” I insisted. “I would have protected him with all I had, but he would never wish to cause me pain, or expect me to make this choice. My child is his nephew, and––”
“An illegitimate nephew, and proof undeniable of your adultery.” Merlin steepled his fingers under his chin, as if only now realizing I was serious. “If you love your brother, Lady Morgan, why would you risk forcing him to put you on trial, and endure scandal on your behalf? He has already weathered so much for you.”
A wave of nausea surged up my gullet, my fury drained by resurgent exhaustion. Merlin made a quick gesture, dragging my chair over from its corner. I didn’t resist, sinking into the seat and gripping the arms like they were driftwood.
“I’ll leave,” I said weakly. “Tell me where you took my son, and I’ll go and retrieve him.”
“You cannot,” Merlin said. “You swore to give me a year, and it is four months from over.”
“I’ll break our bargain,” I said. “You cannot physically keep me here. I’ll go and tell Arthur everything you’ve done.”
The sorcerer sighed, rising from his seat and leaning against the desk beside me, pointed face arranged into an approximation of sympathy.
“Let’s say I could not keep you here,” he said. “Even if I let you go galloping off to King Arthur with these unfounded claims, you will still not find your child. His life is elsewhere now.”
I recoiled. “What is his life without me?”
“His life without you is one that fulfils our arrangement. The child will be raised in safety, comfort and happiness with a devoted noble couple, unfairly childless and as fine and adoring a set of parents as you could wish for. Within our agreement, your son will want for nothing, be loved and cherished, live a knightly life of ease and success—far from how it would be with you as a mother. If you seek to break the bargain you made, nothing will change, but you risk disrupting the magical balance, and the contentment he is promised may not be guaranteed.”
“No,” I said. “He is my son and he belongs with me. I want him back.”
Merlin sighed in impatience and returned to his seat. “You want what can never be. I could tell you precisely where I sent the child and it would be of no use. He has been placed under a powerful enchantment—unbreakable even by myself—to conceal him from you for all time. The two of you cannot cross paths.”
“Lies,” I said. “There will be a counter-spell.”
“The word unbreakable means exactly that, Lady Morgan,” he replied. “Do you not see? You can never regain what you gave away, nor change an impossibility. That part of your life is over, but think of the rest, everything we have done for the realm thus far—miraculous work that could alter the very fabric of the future. Power, influence, King Arthur’s respect—there is so much yet to gain. What a waste, to throw it all away.”
I pushed myself out of my chair, breaking away from his tone of temptation. “Enough of your attempts at persuasion, Merlin. I’ll go to Ninianne—if anyone can break your curse, she can.”
The sorcerer sat back, stroking his beard, face unamused.
“If that’s what you are hoping, Lady Morgan, then I’m afraid I must bear bad news. It was Ninianne herself who cast the enchantment.”
Ninianne was gazing into a cloudy mirror when I staggered into her study. Its surface shimmered like a pool disturbed by a breeze, but I was too tired, too hopeless, to feel the slightest stirring of curiosity.
She turned, her beautiful face hollowed out with guilt. “He told you.”
“You have to undo this,” I said desperately. “Wherever Merlin has taken my son, go and find him. Bring him back to me.”
She was already shaking her head. “I swear on the old gods, Merlin never told me where he was taking him. I can no more lead you there than I can undo the masking enchantment.”
I stared at her, seeking the lie in her anguished face. She had lied to me before, but I knew her better now, could feel her fluttering heart through the air, leaping with sadness and regret. If this wasn’t the truth, then I had learned nothing.
“The spell is utterly unbreakable?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “It is a protective charm of great and irreversible power, not unlike…” She made a low sweeping gesture indicating her ink-scarred thighs. “Different, without visible mark, but it cannot be undone. Even if I held the child in my arms, it would walk me in circles before I got within a mile of you, or anyone of direct blood.”
She went to the marble table and pressed her palms against the surface. “I thought it was what you wanted. If I could take it back…”
“Would you?” I said sharply. “Knowing the shadow it would cast on King Arthur’s rule, his realm, his great destiny. Would you truly undo it, if you could?”
She looked back at me for a long moment, then ducked her head. “I don’t know.”
My anger drained to hopelessness. “You are honest, at least.”
I followed her to the table, where she had taught me so much, and she faced me, emerald eyes glistening. “I am sorry, Morgan. If there was anything else I could do, I would.”
A thought shuddered through my aching body. “There is,” I said. “You can teach me protective charms.”
She shook her head. “That’s not the answer. The ramifications alone…Fairy magic changes the mortals who practise it forever. You do not age at the pace you should, leaving those you love behind, and it affords awareness—of others, of your surroundings—that you cannot unknow. The more you use it, the more fairy you become, and more detached from the ways of this world.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “This world has never made much sense to me. If you sincerely regret what you’ve done, you will help me now.”
I took her hand, holding it to my fast but steady heartbeat. “You owe me this, Ninianne. I will live with the guilt of my son’s loss for the rest of my life, but I deserve the ability to protect my future. Make me stronger.”
Ninianne gazed at me, searching my face, my heartbeat, for doubt, where I knew she would find none. At length, she sighed and took her hand away.
“All right,” she said. “I will do it.”