The Ring of Morgana (The Children of Camelot) Page 15

  I raise my head slightly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Did you just call me a witch?”

  “She is no witch,” interrupts Melehan. “Lady Mila is a child of Camelot, but she is also a child of the Gorians. Just like me.”

  He throws down the books and the scrolls. The unnatural flames from the two torches have illuminated all three of us in a royal purple shadow. Melehan’s skin looks shiny, but his eyes, normally so dark, are now reflecting with a midnight blue sheen.

  “You have to come with me, Lady Mila,” says Melehan urgently. “There are people who will need to see you. People you will need to help.”

  “She isn’t going anywhere,” yells Rustin, stepping forward. “And especially not with you.”

  “I will not harm her.”

  I leave Rustin and Melehan arguing. Boys! I could slap them both around the head. Do they think I’m stupid? Do they think that I’m incapable of looking after myself? I have been taught every skill in self reliance since I was five years old. And that white light has cleared my head of the noise and terror. The past is really clear to me now. My past. Everything I have learnt has been leading to this. There was a reason my father and aunt have taught me how fight, ride and camp. And while the future – my future – is uncertain, I don’t need two boys dictating what I do and how I do it. I look down at my fingers and then up at the purple flames in wonder. I did that. Me. Sixteen-year-old Mila Roth, who a few days ago was getting grief from school career counsellors because I still didn’t know what I was capable of doing after school.

  “Shut up the pair of you and listen to me,” I say. I don’t shout. I don’t need to. It’ll only hurt my throat.

  “I did not mean to displease m’lady,” says Melehan.

  “Well, you did, you both did,” I reply, standing with my hands of my hips. I’m starting to feel the wind chill again. I had better hurry up and say what I have to say before the power of speech and coherent thought gets frozen. “Now listen to me, both of you. I’ve been brought here to help Lilly, but it’s clear that people either don’t know how, or they don’t want to tell me. I’ll do anything for her, but I need information.”

  “Jeez, you can tell you’re the daughter of a teacher,” mutters Rustin.

  I glare at him. “Right now, I’m the daughter of the king. And so this is what you’re going to do, or I swear I will turn you both into cabbages or something equally heinous.”

  “I am your servant, m’lady,” replies Melehan.

  “A cabbage? And in case you’re forgetting, I’m your best friend,” replies Rustin, throwing a filthy look towards Melehan. “Which totally trumps servant.”

  “Melehan, is there a library here?” I ask.

  “There is, m’lady. Scholars travel across the seas to view its magnificence.”

  “Couldn’t reply with a simple yes or no, could you?” says Rustin, rolling his eyes.

  “I want you both to go to the library and start researching this Ring of Morgana. There has to be something there. In fact, I want everything that is written about Morgana, period.”

  “It will be an honour to help you, Lady Mila,” replies Melehan helpfully. On the opposite side of the spectrum, Rustin looks like I’ve asked him to write a thesis on relativity.

  “Can you also take me to my aunt and Queen Guinevere?” I ask Melehan. “I’ll need to speak to them too.”

  Melehan bites down on his bottom lip. “I can take you to the Great Hall where the knights are holding a council at the Round Table. Lady Natasha and Queen Guinevere will be there.”

  Damn. Speaking to them will have to wait then, but a sense of satisfaction warms me, just a little. Being proactive is way better than being reactive. That’s another mantra my dad has. Be prepared. I will show everyone that I can be trusted to put right the terrible harm I’ve put my sister in. My father has a castle to run; my mother has Lilly to protect. It’s down to me to discover what’s wrong and find a cure.

  And I will.

  The library is enormous. It’s the size of my school. It’s also very dirty and very cold. Huge freestanding metal brackets, filled with burning moss, light the room at intermittent points. The smell is strange and a mixture of pungent scents that come in waves. In the darker areas, the lovely smell of old paper lingers. Get closer to the fire and warmth, and the acrid smell of public toilets wafts around me. It makes my eyes water and itch.

  The sheer size of the library overwhelms me, but not as much as it does Rustin, who visibly shrinks.

  “Melehan, do you know your way around?” I ask.

  “I know what to seek and where,” he replies. “Follow me.”

  I sneeze twice in quick succession as we walk through the labyrinthine library. There doesn’t appear to be any kind of order in the way the books and papers are stacked. Most of the thick leather spines propped up on shelves don’t even have titles on them.

  “How am I going to do this, Mila?” asks Rustin. “It’s not as if I can scan and attach. And most of this will be written in medieval English. I can barely read the books they give us in school now.”

  “I trust you,” I reply flatly. “And history is your thing. Melehan can find the answers to your questions.”

  “And you trust him?” he whispers, leaning in to me. Ahead of us I see Melehan’s shoulders stiffen slightly. I know he heard Rustin.

  “Yes,” I reply. I have to, I mouth.

  Melehan’s long fingers are sliding over the cracked spines of several huge books. Some are bound by leather string, others by thick strips of magenta coloured material. The light in this section of the library is poor, but Melehan seems to know exactly what he’s looking for, and it isn’t long before he gives an exulted cry of triumph as he pulls a thin paperback-sized book from a dusty shelf.

  A bell starts ringing in the distance. Second later it is joined by a second, deeper, bell. Then a third, a fourth.

  Soon a cacophony of bells is ringing out.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, as the sound of heavy, pounding feet, vibrates through the stone floor of the library.

  “Warning bells,” replies Melehan. “The castle is being called to arms.”

  “A warning for what?” asks Rustin. “Are we under attack?”

  But Melehan ignores him. He starts to move away from us; the book falls from his hand.

  “Melehan,” I call. “A warning for what?”

  He turns and stares at me.

  “You.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ortum Morgana, Regina Druidum

  Several things happen simultaneously. Rustin makes a strange movement, like a gymnast doing a floor routine. He dips, twists and then flings his arms out to cover me. Several guards, brandishing swords, burst into the library. A table containing loose parchment is knocked to the floor in their haste.

  Then Melehan disappears. Not like a magical poof into nothing. He slips into the shadows and doesn’t reappear.

  “Lady Mila,” cries a voice. “Lady Mila, are you in here?”

  “Quick, this way,” whispers Rustin, grabbing my hand. He pulls me down a long row of empty cases covered in a thick layer of undisturbed dust. Already my nose is starting to tingle with the anticipation of a sneeze.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper. “Why have they come for me? I haven’t done anything.”

  “I’ve got no idea,” replies Rustin, ducking down behind a collection of large, bulging hessian sacks that have been haphazardly stacked into a corner. They smell of dirt and cut grass. “But we’ll stay here until we see someone we know. I don’t trust anyone here, especially when they have swords.”

  About twenty yards away from us is a smaller, iron-cast sconce fixed to the wall. It’s emitting a feeble flame that looks as if it’s about to extinguish. Rustin creeps out from behind the sacks and starts blowing on it. I look around and see a small pitcher, shaped like a milk jug. I pick it up and swill it around. It
feels as if there’s some kind of liquid in it. With the sound of footsteps getting louder, I run to Rustin, push him back and tip the liquid over the fire. The smell is rancid, like manure, but it works. We are plunged into darkness. Feeling our way along the cold, damp stone wall, we find our hiding place once more in a corner of the labyrinthine library.

  “Lady Mila,” calls a man. I don’t recognise the voice and so I don’t move.

  A spherical amber glow starts to inch towards us. They – whoever they are – are coming closer. Rustin presses back against the wall; I’m sitting on his lap, his arms are wrapped around my waist and I can feel his fingers digging into the gap beneath my ribs. I push myself back as well, dislodging some of the fibres from the hessian sack. Before I can stop myself, I sneeze.

  “Down here,” cries a voice.

  “RUN!”

  Rustin and I scramble out of the hiding place and take a sharp turn to the left. I look behind me and see four guards wearing long black cloaks running after us. All are armed. The one holding the flaming torch has fallen behind the other three. With their faces half-hidden by shadows, they look scary.

  “Lady Mila, stop.”

  I have no idea which way is out. There’s no order to this library. There are dead ends and bookcases that have been moved to block rows and...

  “MILA!”

  “DAD!”

  “Oh thank god,” says Rustin. “I thought we were done for.”

  “Why were you running away?” cries my father, pushing past the guards. “I sent men to protect you.”

  “Since I was two years old you’ve told me not to go off with strangers,” I shout back. “Warning bells are going off and then armed men start shouting my name. What was I supposed to do?”

  But dad doesn’t continue the fight. He just grabs me and hugs me. Then he takes my face in his hands and I start laughing.

  “What are you wearing on your head, dad?”

  I don’t need the answer, because I can see. My dad, the math tutor, is wearing a golden crown.

  Rustin is choking, trying not to laugh. I’m not sure my emotional state can take much more of this pushing and pulling. One moment I’m terrified, the next I’m in the middle of a farce. How do my father and aunt live like this and stay sane?

  “Mila, you need to return to your room,” says my father, rising above our laughter with the dignity of...a king. “The warning that just rang out was for a Gorian encroachment. I don’t have time to explain now, but I will. I promise. But right now all you need to know is that the Gorians are bad news, Mila.”

  My father turns to one of the guards that chased us.

  “Jerome, take my daughter and Rustin back to their rooms, and have guards posted outside.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  I go quietly. So does Rustin. I daren’t look at him, because if I do, I’m scared I’ll cry. There’s a heavy sick sensation in the pit of my stomach that’s spreading.

  And then it gets worse.

  “Mila,” calls my dad. I stop and turn. “If you see blue fire, or unnatural flames of any kind, do not go near them, ok.”

  I nod, biting down on my bottom lip. There’s a raggedy piece of chapped skin and I pull on it with my teeth. The metallic taste of blood is all I concentrate on as we climb back up to our rooms.

  “Mila,” says Rustin quietly as we reach our corridor. “Take this, it might help.”

  He pulls out a small book from the back of his pants. It was hidden by his sweater which was tied around his waist. It’s the same book that Melehan dropped in the library, before he deserted us and ran away.

  “Aren’t you staying with me?” I ask.

  Rustin shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair.

  “I’m going to have a bath and more food,” he replies. “Plus, if your dad comes up here and finds me in your room...”

  He makes a slicing gesture across his neck.

  The latch on my door is heavy. It takes both of my hands to lift it. I push the wood and it feels like something is pushing against me on the other side. Every joint, every muscle is aching to the point where I feel I can’t put one foot in front of the other. It’s an effort to close the door, but I do because I want to be alone.

  The Gorians are bad news, Mila.

  If you see blue fire, or unnatural flames of any kind, do not go near them, ok.

  My father’s words repeat themselves over and over again as I lie on my new bed and stare up at the canopy. It’s purple, and threaded with tiny golden stars. I stare at them for so long they start moving in my mind. Forming the same words.

  The Gorians are bad news, Mila.

  If you see blue fire, or unnatural flames of any kind, do not go near them, ok.

  Why can’t I control this magical power inside me? Why do I have it in the first place? I don’t want to be a Gorian. I don’t even want to be a princess. I just want to be me. I want things to go back to how they were.

  My head is thumping with all of the questions in my head. I need to talk to someone, but I don’t know who to trust anymore. Melehan ran off and left us. Left me. He was supposed to be helping me find answers, but all I got were more questions.

  The book from Rustin is lying next to me on the bed. It’s small, but thick. The leather cover is cracked and the silver lettering is fading and peeling away. It’s either really old or it’s been read many times. I have books like this back home in Avalon Cottage. My aunt gave me an original Harry Potter novel. It’s held together with tape and love.

  Somehow I don’t think the same can be said for a book titled Ortum Morgana, Regina Druidum. Especially one that’s written in Latin.

  I swear and throw the book against the crushed velvet drapes that are pulled across the end of my four-poster bed. It falls back, opening on a drawing that looks like an image from a stained-glass window.

  It shows a woman with long dark hair and bright green eyes. I shudder. Even though it’s a drawing, the profile is unmistakable.

  It’s my mother.

  She’s wearing a long red dress and her neck and wrists are covered in square-shaped jewels. On the middle finger of her right hand is a large oval-shaped ring. The stone is white. Her arms are raised at a ninety degree angle to her upright body, and blue flame is curling in tendrils from her long pale fingers.

  Scrambling along the bed, I pick up the book again. I may not be able to read the words, but I might be able to read it as a picture book. On every page there’s a drawing. Some are small, not much bigger than a stamp. Others take up an entire sheaf of A5-sized paper.

  Carefully, I turn each page. The parchment is thick but flaking. Some pages crack and splinter away under my touch. A dusty residue starts to coat my fingers, and so I wipe my hands down on the satin bed covers as I turn each page, taking care not to contaminate the next one.

  The pictures start with a full size drawing of a group of nine women and girls. There’s golden text beneath the image and the name Morgana is centred amongst the other nine. Am I looking at my mother’s family? No. I can’t be. My mother is an only child. I have to stop making the correlation.

  The next images are much smaller. They show the same figure in various actions: holding out a smoking red chalice; kissing a man with wavy golden hair; throwing a sword into a lake; kissing another man; holding balls of blue flame in each hand; and watching on the edge of a river bank as a hand reaches out of a stretch of water to clasp a jewel-studded sword.

  The final image is on the very last page. It’s of the same woman and she’s cradling a dying man in her arms. They are sitting in a small rowing boat with raised ends. I choke back a cry. The man has long blonde hair and blue eyes. His mouth is open, like he’s crying out in pain.

  It’s not my dad, it’s not my dad, I repeat over and over again, even though it looks exactly like him.

  The ring is featured in every drawing.

  I slam the book shut and a small plume of fine dust billows out.

  I feel sick and yet
empty. Hollow. I was born here. In this time and this land. I’m not who I thought I was. I can dismiss pictures in a book easily enough, but I can’t dismiss the actions of my own body. Purple flame, blue flame. Does the colour matter? It isn’t normal. Morgana holds blue fire majestically in her hands. Purple flames erupted out of my hands and lit the torches downstairs in the dark corridor.

  I’m not just a princess of Camelot. I’m a child of the Gorians.

  The Gorians are bad news, Mila.

  If you see blue fire, or unnatural flames of any kind, do not go near them, ok.

  My dad doesn’t know, but Rustin does, and so does Melehan. Is that where he is now – with the Gorians? Did he take Rustin and I into a trap? Or could he be grassing me in to Sir Gareth and the other knights right now?

  But what about my mother and Lilly? Could I use this magical power to save my sister? Or was I the reason she became cursed? If so, they can’t use me to save my sister, not now.

  “You bite on your lips when you are thinking, Lady Mila.”

  My stomach jumps and a cold shot of adrenaline activates my aching body into defending itself. I’m off the bed in a second and straight into a back stance. If Melehan rushes me, he’s getting my boot to the front of his pretty face.

  My hands are in two tight fists, but my fingers have a will of their own. They’re tingling, aching to be stretched out.

  No. Not again.

  “Control it, Lady Mila,” says Melehan. He’s standing to the side of the fireplace; his hands raised in surrender. “I’m not here to hurt you. I want to assist, m’lady.”

  “Stay where you are,” I say calmly, breathing in slowly through my nose and out through my mouth. “I could take you down right now, or scream and have the guards outside do it for me.”

  “I’m your friend.”

  “You ran away and left us.”

  “The bells were tolling for a Gorian encroachment on the castle. My absence would have been noted from the halls, had I not returned there with haste. Forgive me, Lady Mila. I should never have left the purple fires flaming. I did not think, for I was overcome with joy.”