Chapter XLII:
War!

HIGH HOLY MERCIFUL God, how my head throbbed! And, oh, how ever so thoroughly I despise time travel.

“Ho, there! What treachery be this?”

I had no idea who had spoken, though he sounded familiar. Not Ambrose; his wrist remained within my grasp, and since he was not struggling, I surmised that he had yet to recover his senses. Mine were slow in returning—notably, my vision—though I wished the pain had taken its time in making its presence felt.

“Morgan? How didst thou arrive herein?”

My sight cleared to find Arthur bent over me, his eyebrows knotted into the same question. I was not sure how to answer him. We were inside a large tent furnished with a table strewn with a document and dotted with ink pots, quills, and stubby candles. Bishop Gildas, the quill in his hand dripping ink, sat at the table, staring agape at Ambrose and me. We were lying tangled in a heap on the cold dirt floor. Behind Arthur stood two factions of knights—including Mordred—looking as stunned as the priest.

The parlay tent! Sweet Jesu, we had arrived too early!

I extricated myself from Ambrose as carefully as I could, but it woke him, and he clenched my arm with cruel force. With his other hand he grabbed my throat and squeezed. My vision began to blur and dim. As if from a long way off, I heard a ragged gasp burst from my lips. Before the world went altogether black, I kicked Ambrose where it would hurt the most, wrenched free, rolled clear, and scrambled up to stand behind Arthur, whose surprise had transformed into wrath. Gritting his teeth, Ambrose lurched to his feet, reaching for the butt of a laser pistol he had concealed beneath his coat, tucked into his trousers.

“Bitch! I’ll kill you this time—”

The rest of Ambrose’s threat died in a gurgle of blood; he did not get the chance to draw. At the word “kill,” Arthur whipped his sword free and skewered him like a pig. A full foot’s length of Excalibur emerged, coated with blood and flesh, through Ambrose’s back. Arthur jerked it out, and Ambrose stumbled backward against the table, causing the bishop to leap clear. Ambrose’s rage muted to shock as he grasped his riven midsection and watched the red stain spread for a few moments, before his eyes rolled back and he fell, lifeless.

“Be thou well, sister?” Arthur asked in quiet earnest. His kind but shrewd eyes took in my full measure. “Why garbed so strangely?”

I never had a chance to answer him. The menacing whispers of swords leaving scabbards alerted us to another problem: in unsheathing Excalibur to protect me, Arthur had violated the truce terms. I tried my level best to reason with the knights of both factions, supplying answers close enough to the truth for them to comprehend: Ambrose was a powerful new sorcerer bent on the destruction of Camelot who had kidnapped me and brought me hence by means of his black arts to waylay these proceedings, and so on, and so forth. I even tried—Lord God, how I tried!—casting a spell to calm the knights and influence them into being amenable to my explanation.

And yet there can be no reasoning with unreasonable men. Tempers flared, accusations flew, challenges blared—

I raised both arms and shouted in Gaelic, “Reothadh!”

Obediently Arthur, Mordred, and their knights froze mid-charge. Bishop Gildas froze while diving under the table, which was tilted on two legs, the document sliding toward the ground, ink and candles toppling. The quills, forming a skewed X, hadn’t quite hit the ground.

I threaded the maze of armored bodies, stopping first in front of Mordred. Such a waste! Such an evil, bloody, senseless waste. With but a word at any time during the past decade of his life, I could have turned him from his treasonous path. I raised a hand to within an inch of his face and bowed my head, but with objects and men already showing signs of winning free of my time-freezing spell, I had perforce to keep my prayer short.

Gazing at my brother, I smiled: his pose suggested a batter beginning his swing. Arthur was a cracking good shortstop—in fact, I had watched him turn the first double play in history—and an even better batter. I stepped clear of Excalibur’s path and touched his arm. The spell upon him melted; he checked his swing and lowered the sword.

“Morgan! What deviltry be this? Release the others at once!”

“So Mordred may kill you and all England’s hopes with you?”

As he stammered a confused reply, I swept an arm—careful not to touch anyone else lest I lose this precious opportunity. All the knights, Mordred included, had drawn closer to one another. The table had dropped further toward the ground, as had the bishop, candles, ink, and quills. The treaty parchment lay in danger of being ignited by one of the candles.

“I must act speedily to save your future and mine. My magic cannot long hold them.”

A wave of my hand transformed my suit and heels into the same gown, cloak, and shoes I had worn the first time I had arrived upon this accursed battlefield. I conjured my circlet into place and knelt—for the first time in my life, all sixteen-hundred-plus years of it—in front of my brother. We had ancient unfinished business, him and me, and I would have rather been thrice-damned for all eternity than let our relationship remain in its sorry state. I said:

“Arthur Pendragon, High King of England: I, Morgan, Queen of Gore, do humbly acknowledge you as my rightful lord, liege, and master. I swear fealty to you and henceforth pledge my life and my lands unto your good will, upon pain of death in the forswearing thereof.”

He dropped Excalibur, tore off his crown-encircled helmet, threw it aside, knelt by me, and bowed his head.

“What I did to you, all of it—I never forgave myself.”

I pulled him into an embrace and kissed his forehead. “Hush, Arthur. The past is past. The game goes on.” He pulled back and looked at me quizzically. I said, “Our time grows short. I pray you finish your portion, so that I may finish mine.”