by I know this may seem hard to believe but I am actually the very soul of discretion, most of the time.
Not that my new status as the current Merlin is a secret, exactly. But I haven’t broadcast it to the far corners of the earth (or, at least, the Society), and neither have my nearest and dearest. I’d like to hang on to my identity, I suppose: I’m Ves, most of all.
That being so, I had no intention of instantly spreading the news of Milady’s secret identity all through the House (or Baroness Tremayne’s, either). In fact, I was incredibly restrained; I told absolutely no one at all.
Well: no one except for Val, anyway. Sort of.
ALERT, read the text I sent her the second I was at liberty. Code reddest of RED: urgent information requisition. What have you got on Morgan le Fay and Queen Mab?
Note that I didn’t say why I was asking. I felt quite proud of myself.
OH! Came Val’s response. Been wondering about that for the LONGEST time.
SUSPICIONS CONFIRMED.
Stand by: information overload incoming.
I didn’t ask her which suspicions, or to whom they pertained. I didn’t dare.
So much for subtlety.
Morgan le Fay. Said to be one of the most powerful enchantresses in British history. Connections to the supposed King Arthur, etc. Unlike the aforementioned probably did exist in some form—known archetype but hasn’t been heard of in ages and I mean literal ages, Ves.
Trust Val to text in words of several syllables.
Known or at least reputed powers: shape-shifting, especially into animal forms. Also illusions, famously castles-in-the-air or like mirages.
I filed those thoughts away: maybe there’d be something we could use.
Mab: info sparse, Val went on. Famously mentioned in Shakespeare; facility with dreams implied; once monarch of a now defunct faerie kingdom.
Mention in same bracket with Morgan suggests subjects related?? Never heard of Mab as an archetype but could be. Would explain a lot.
I hastily wrote back. I don’t know what you mean nothing is explained I’m explaining nothing.
Lol, said Val, most uncharacteristically. I took this unusual utterance to be expressive of profound sarcasm.
Nothing to see here, move along, I returned, and put my phone away before I could compromise myself—or Milady—any further.
I’m practiced at packing light and packing fast, and these days—to Ornelle’s relief—I don’t tend to need much from Stores. I was ready to go in under an hour, buzzing with energy and alarm, and with nothing to do but wait for go time.
I went out to the Glade.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but nothing soothes the spirit like a tranquil hour or two in a magickal grove littered with unicorns. Extra points for being One with the Horn Squad yourself. I was feeling rattled when I came in, head all awhirl, nerves on highest alert; not the ideal state in which to undertake a top secret mission of the greatest importance. I needed the prismatic calm of a mountain lake, especially if I was going to have to go in there and Merlin all over the place. People expect more from the living embodiment of the most famous wizard in Britain than they do from a mere, common-or-garden Ves (including me).
An hour or so of sweet, juicy grass, dulcet spring sunshine, and (inevitably) fragrant roses and I more or less had it. Serene, smooth waters, fathomlessly blue. Doves cooing peacefully as rose-stained dawn breaks over a softly rippling meadow. The unearthly tones of panpipes at—
‘VES!’
My head shot up, several half-chewed stems of grass falling out of my gaping jaw. That was—that was not Jay, that was another male voice, a familiar one—I was off at a gallop before I’d even finished the thought, and so much for the mountain lake.
Baron Alban stood at the mouth of my sacred glade, inflating his lungs in preparation for another earth-shattering bellow. I ran at him full-tilt and planted my nose into his massive chest, almost knocking him over (and with a person of Alban’s stature this is no mean feat).
‘Oof,’ declared he, grabbing my face. He planted a smacking kiss on my nose, and glowered at me: a confusing combination. ‘I’m here to deliver a key,’ he informed me as I went questing through the pockets of his jacket (I could smell baked goods somewhere in there, I swear). ‘Which means I’m here to dispatch you on a mission of probable danger and I can’t go with you.’
Alban had been part of our first, only minorly disastrous mission to Farringale. It could have been catastrophic: Alban could have fallen prey to the ortherex, the malignant creatures infesting the depths of Farringale (and several other Troll enclaves). They were deadly; they’d have eaten Alban alive, if we had been unlucky.
We wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk that again.
‘I wish you could come with us, too,’ I informed him, though little of it emerged past my equine teeth.
Alban patted my neck. ‘I would understand you better if you were Ves-shaped. Just saying.’
I felt a curious reluctance to step out of my glade, my sanctuary. Once I did, I was committed—off to Farringale, and whatever fresh disaster awaited us there. Off to wield some of the most ancient and powerful magick in the country, in one of the most ancient and powerful magickal courts in the country, and try desperately not to mess it all up.
Courage, Ves.
I took a deep, whinnying breath, and stepped over the invisible threshold of the glade. The moment I did so, the transformation began: within a few shuddering, uncomfortable seconds I was myself again, with arms as well as legs, and fabulous hair.
The hug I immediately received was, I felt, recompense enough. It was engulfing.
‘Mmf,’ I said against Alban’s grey silk shirt.
‘Sorry.’ He eased the pressure of his massive arms, and I could breathe again.
‘It may sound shockingly ungrateful,’ I told him, ‘but I wish just a little bit that I’d got Morgan’s magick rather than Merlin’s. The Baroness showed up as a griffin, Alban. A griffin! And flashed out of it again easy as pie. Imagine that.’
‘Ves, two minutes ago you were an actual unicorn. Four legs, horn, everything.’
‘I know. Exactly. That only happens when I step into the glade, and fades again as soon as I step out. And I’m only ever a unicorn. I have no control over it.’ I indulged myself in a few moments of green-eyed envy, picturing myself soaring over the land upon the wings of a creature of legend.
‘Surely you’ve accomplished something equally marvellous as Merlin?’ said Alban, proving himself as superb a diplomat as ever.
‘This morning I turned myself into a chair,’ I concurred. ‘That’s not nothing.’
‘A chair.’ Alban twinkled at me, wordlessly.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ I admitted. ‘I haven’t really got the hang of this Merlin thing.’ Merlin’s magick seemed to be of the land: the magick of tree and stone, of air and water, and the vastness of it appalled me almost as much as the poeticism of it enchanted me. I probably needed a solid decade of practice before I could call myself a creditable Merlin—if then.
‘You’ll be marvellous,’ Alban replied, apparently reading my thoughts.
I put away my anxious face, replacing it with a set expression of firm resolve. ‘Marvellous or not, I’ve got to go.’
He nodded, and dug a hand into a pocket in his trousers. The keys, when he handed them to me, were blissfully cool against my hot fingers: thoughts of that serene lake returned. They were gold and bronze, exquisitely worked, and set with rubies and emeralds: the fanciest of fancy. Typical of the Troll Court. ‘I half expected to hear they’d been stolen,’ I told Alban, tracing a finger over a glimmering ruby.
‘I don’t know how these intruders got into Farringale, but it wasn’t with the keys,’ Alban confirmed.
I sighed, and carefully vanished the keys into an air-pocket: Indira’s trick. It’d taken me much longer to master it than I liked to admit, and I might never have been able to do it at all without Merlin’s magick. ‘I’ll take the best care of them,’ I said.
‘And of yourself, too, please.’
I nodded. ‘Always. All right, here I go.’ I dropped a hasty kiss on Alban’s cheek, flashed a beaming, confident smile, and took off at a run for the House.
***
Jay and Rob were already waiting for me. I found the pair of them in the cellar, pacing in circles around the Way-henge House keeps for our resident Waymaster’s particular use. Jay displayed a key for me the moment I stepped in: wrought silver and gleaming sapphire-blue: the third key we needed to open the gate into Farringale, the one House has in its keeping.
‘I’ve got the other two,’ I told him. ‘Alban just brought them.’
Jay nodded. He was tense and terse, barely speaking: I was oddly reassured to learn that it wasn’t just me feeling the pressure.
Rob, though, smiled at me. I was even more reassured by his presence, and it’s partly because he’s a big, visibly capable man, the exact sort you’d like to have around if there’s trouble in the offing. But he’s also the collected type, radiating calm and cool, and I breathed a little easier in consequence. ‘All set?’ he asked me.
I patted my satchel. It wasn’t as burstingly full as it used to be, my need for paraphernalia being somewhat diminished. But it held an article of supreme importance: Gallimaufry, or Mauf, our semi-sentient encyclopaedia of everything. We had acquired the book from Farringale in the first place (or its predecessor: Mauf was a clever copy). I didn’t know for sure that we would need his extraordinary reserves of knowledge, but it never hurts to have a know-it-all along, now does it? ‘I’ve got two magickal keys and one remarkably well-mannered tome,’ I informed Rob. ‘All set.’
‘Then we’re going,’ said Jay, in a tone one doesn’t argue with. But he squeezed my fingers when I took his hand, a note of affection I very much welcomed.
‘Wait, we’re forgetting Baroness Tremayne,’ I pointed out.
Jay shook his head. ‘She’s already gone back. Griffin shape. She’s waiting for us.’
Right. Great. I stayed quiet as he mustered the Winds of the Ways: he’s well practiced at it by now, but it seems a delicate process. A strong breeze circled about the henge, tossing my hair; the world began to turn around me; I shut my eyes.
A vast, slightly sickening whoosh, and we were gone.
