And, sure enough, the ground kept on spinning, faster and faster, until she fell off the edge of the world.
CHAPTER 18
I can't be dead, Kiera thought, it's too dusty to be Heaven, and too bright to be Hell.
She was aware of herself lying on the ground, the body of her dying horse close enough to protect her from the hooves of Arthur's onrushing army.
But at the same time she seemed to be hovering several feet above the confusion. When she turned her head—even though she knew her face was still pressed unmoving against the ground—she could see the red dragon banner of King Arthur. Before she was even aware of wanting to go there, she was drifting above it.
Arthur was flat on his back on the ground, just as she had left herself, except that he was surrounded by a cordon of men to make sure he didn't get trampled. She wondered if he also floated above himself and if their spirits could collide into each other up here.
Farther away, her mother rode back and forth, getting in people's way, calling, "Kiera! Kiera!" But when Kiera tried to answer, no sound came from where she felt her mouth to be.
Bedivere was farther still, at the front, arguing with one of the captains, trying to convince him that he spoke for the injured Arthur.
"You show me some token of the King's authority," the captain said. "Otherwise, I take my orders from Arthur himself. Good Lord, man, they don't know how to fight! We're getting hardly any resistance at all. They're falling back almost as fast as we can move forward. I am not stopping that advance for anyone less than the King."
"Don't those ears of yours work?" Bedivere shouted, partly to be heard above the din of swords and shouts and horses, and partly out of frustration. "The King had his horse shot out from under him. He was on his way to tell the men to fall back because he has an agreement with Mordred. That is why you are finding it so easy: Mordred is holding them back. But any time now he is going to give up on us, and once he starts fighting, that will be the end of you."
Even Kiera knew that was the wrong thing to say; it was not the wording to convince anyone.
The captain's mouth twitched. "Maybe so and maybe not. You just send Arthur to tell me what he wants." He tugged on his horse's reins, and disappeared into the press of fighting men.
Bedivere sat for a moment longer, as if considering whether he should follow that captain, seek out another, or return to Arthur. With a cry of disgust, he wheeled his horse about, farther down the line, to the next company.
Kiera planned to follow him, but found herself, without having moved there, in someone's tent.
Here was an old woman, with yellowing hair and small eyes lost in a mass of wrinkles. She sat, cross-legged, in the middle of a pentacle drawn in black powder on the floor, her long fingers working, working, working at something. At Kiera's entrance, she jerked her head up as though she sensed something but didn't know what. With the woman's hands momentarily stilled, Kiera saw it was a lock of hair over which the fingers had fluttered, a lock of white hair—short, a mans. And even though she was still in the tent, Kiera saw Arthur, on the field, being helped to his feet—and then suddenly stagger forward, his hand to his chest.
No! she cried. No sound came out, but the old woman's head whipped around to look directly at her.
It was the eyes Kiera recognized: Morgana's.
The King's sister hissed. She dropped the lock of Arthur's hair, reaching out her gnarled and spotted hand to snatch at Kiera.
Kiera stepped back.
The grasping motion turned into a finger pointed in warning. Then Morgana swept her arm in front of her face, a flurry of black cloth.
She felt the rush of air. There was a moment, or perhaps it was an eternity, of nothingness—falling, falling in total blackness—but then the arm moved back and it wasn't diaphanous silk, but black armor. The aged Morgana was gone, and it was Mordred she watched now.
He sat on his horse, in the midst of the fighting, his hands gripped tightly on the reins. Even with his visor down, she knew his eyes were closed.
She felt the pulsating glow of Nimue's ring. The air crackled with summer thunder and lightning, and two of Arthur's men fell from their horses.
Mordred! she called, but he gave no sign that he heard. The hairs on the back of her neck and upper arms stood up.
There was another flash, an actual flame this time. The knight it was aimed at rolled off his horse, and the flames that danced over the surface of his armor were smothered as he thrashed on the ground. But the panoply of his mount—leather and brocade—flared and erupted into fire. The animal bolted, heading for Mordred's ranks. The horses of Mordred's knights shied away, close to panic.
Kiera mentally closed her eyes, covered her ears, held her breath, but couldn't be rid of the images and sounds and smells of the horror. She wished herself away...
...And found herself sitting on a small boat in the middle of a lake.
A woman, older than Morgana, but with a gentler look, sat at the other end of the boat. She looked directly at Kiera. "Etheral transference is a risky bit of business at any stage of development," she said. "But if you are determined to try it, you really should practice with shorter distances first."
Vivien, Kiera thought at her. The Lady of the Lake.
Vivien inclined her head, and her white, waist-length hair fell forward. When she spoke, it was with a voice, like normal people. "And you, of course, must be Kiera. Patience, Kiera. Practice. One level at a time."
They're using magic, Kiera thought at her: Morgana and Mordred.
Vivien raised her eyebrows.
In her mind, Kiera said, I don't think Mordred exactly knows what he is doing.
"No, I think we can safely assume that he does not." Vivien shook her head. "But you must go back to where your body is. I will do what I can." She leaned forward, and Kiera could have sworn she felt the long fingers gently brush her face. But that was impossible, she realized; she had left her face behind, pressed against the ground, next to a dying horse.
She opened her eyes. She was sore all over and had a mouthful of dirt. Gray fingers of fog curled among the stones and sparse grass on the ground. She sat up before she thought about the advancing army, but they had bypassed her already, long since.
The horse she had been riding was dead. She rested her head on her knees, knowing there was no time for mourning, that people were dying—and that people were more important than horses—but it was hard. She forced herself to stand.
What could she do? A young woman—a girl—just barely fifteen years old, involved in the affairs of kings, trying to prevent a war the entire countryside seemed determined to have. The air crackled with magic, and here she was with her puny visions and her ability to talk to animals and her pathetic desire to save the people she loved. For a year and a half she had first suspected, then known, what was coming and had been unable to do a thing about it. The most reasonable course of action now was to find a horse and get out of here, try to build whatever life she could away from those who knew her, who would always fear her—her, with her ridiculous, ineffective magic. Why was she cursed with being different if that difference was unable to help her? Visions of a future that could not be changed—pure vexation. Conversations with animals—so what? She must find a horse...
Something tugged at her mind. She must find a horse...
She must find...
She sucked in her breath. She must find a horse and explain to it that the knights could not fight without their steeds. That this battle was a misunderstanding which could be worked out in the time that would be gained if the horses refused to partake in this folly. The knights' field armor was too bulky, too ungainly for sustained hand-to-hand combat—all she had to do was convince the horses, get them to pass the word.
She glanced around, trying to gain her bearings, and saw a man approaching. He was tall, about the King's age—a lord, she could tell by the way he walked. But she stepped back warily, wondering who would stroll through a battlefield
without armor, dressed in a velvet gown.
He smiled, holding out his right hand to her. His left hand rested gently against his chest, holding something that hung from a chain around his neck—a disturbing gesture, which was reminiscent of Mordred, which in turn was reminiscent of...
"Halbert," she whispered. The past, which she had thought beyond her recall, seemed to slap her across the face. She felt his fingers digging into her shoulders, and heard her mother; strange-eyed and distant say, "Behave."
His smile broadened. "Kiera," he said. "Little Kiera, come to be with me at last." His hand moved down, showing the red stone that sparkled too brightly for this gray day.
She took a step back.
"Look at me. Surely, you don't think I would hurt you?" He beckoned with his right hand.
She turned and ran.
She couldn't hear, over the sounds of the nearby battle and the pounding of her blood in her ears, if he followed. Only when her sides began to hurt did she slow down. Then, prepared to run again, she spared a look over her shoulder.
Bodies—men and horses. Dropped shields and lances. And the fog, thickening, getting higher from moment to moment. A raven, perched on a saddle—no horse, just a saddle—flapped its black wings and cawed, but didn't take flight.
She came to a full stop, turned entirely around. Within her field of vision nothing moved. But the fog made the distance she could see not much at all. Who was behind that? she wondered. The wizard Halbert? Morgana? Mordred? Vivien was the only one she could think of who would have a reason to cut down visibility: If the knights couldn't find each other, they couldn't fight.
If Vivien truly didn't want a battle.
The raven pecked at a bridle bell, the only sound nearby.
Kiera wiped her sweaty palms on her grimy dress.
A shape solidified from the fog, moved relentlessly toward her, the hand extended, the long-nailed fingers beckoning.
She ran.
She headed for Arthur's camp, thinking there might be spare horses that hadn't been used in the first charge, but still the dead wizard followed. She veered off to the right, to the left, a zigzag he couldn't keep up with, but did.
She made it past the edge of the camp, beyond to the dense underbrush that bordered the field. Branches snapped, leaves crackled. She was smaller; she should have been able to get through places the pursuing wizard would have to go around. But still she could hear him close behind her. She dove into a pile of leaves near a giant oak. Her breath came in retching sobs.
If Halbert wanted her that badly, he could have her.
In another moment she calmed down enough to cram the back of her hand into her mouth to muffle the sounds she was unable to stop making.
She heard his footsteps—how could such an old man not get winded?
He slowed. He walked beyond the tree, then returned. "You cannot get away from me," he said softly, and his fingernails clicked against the red stone on his chest. "Come."
Come and get me, she thought. But he must not have known for sure that she was here, for he did not approach. She tried not to squirm under the gaze that she was sure must be directed at her, and closed her own eyes as though that would help. She resisted the temptation to check whether the leaves covered her entirely.
She heard his footsteps, not a handbreadth from her face. Then he kept on walking.
Kiera kept her eyes closed. Her shoulders shook. If he returned, he would see the pile of leaves trembling, but she couldn't stop.
A long time passed, and she caught her breath.
A longer time passed, and she thought about climbing out. Eventually, she brushed away the leaves from in front of her face.
From where she lay, the angle of her body, the tilt of her head—she could see nothing but more leaves, ground, bushes, the roots of the oak. If Halbert had circled back, if he was—for example—behind her, he had already seen her move and she needed to be ready. She jumped up, and out of the corner of her eye caught a movement. She whirled, with an involuntary gasp, and the jay she had startled gave an uncharacteristic squawk and almost toppled from the branch it had just landed on.
It beat its wings, started to fly off, then returned, on a higher branch, to chatter down insults at her.
Kiera sat heavily on the ground, half laughing, half crying, knowing she was making enough noise for even the most inept of wizards to find her.
The jay swooped down as though to make sure Kiera understood its opinion of her.
"I'm sorry," Kiera said. "I thought you were this bad man who is chasing me. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but that's the truth." She put her hand out. "Come, don't be angry with me. I have few enough friends as it is."
The jay landed on her finger—birds were the least likely of any creatures Kiera knew to keep a grudge—and immediately it started preening itself.
She smiled, looked up, and saw Halbert watching. "No," she whispered.
The jay fluttered about her head, screeching at her to flee.
Halbert smiled and crooked his finger at her.
She stood up. She took a deep breath.
The jay launched itself at Halbert's face.
"Don't!" she cried, for the wizard could blast it into a cinder.
And the bird flew through Halbert's head.
She blinked, disbelieving what she knew she had seen.
Halbert continued to smile, continued to beckon.
The determined jay made another diving swoop into his face, again coming out on the other side.
Kiera picked up a stone, threw it at the smiling wizard, and heard it hit the tree behind him. And still he only menaced, never approached, never touched. Unable to find a bigger rock, she scooped up dirt and leaves and pebbles. He was nothing but an illusion, a trick. She flung the handful of debris at him, saw it spatter on the ground behind. Somebody had set him on her all this while...
She felt her insides turn cold.
Morgana.
A second handful of pebbles dropped from her numb fingers.
Morgana.
"Come to me, little Kiera," the illusion of Halbert purred. "I will not hurt you."
She walked through him, and felt nothing. She began walking faster, toward the field.
"Come," Halbert continued, for that was what he was created to do. "You will come." He followed after, running but never catching up, his footfalls making sound, but not disturbing the leaves he passed over.
The field was an ocean of fog. She ran along the edge. There was a clear boundary: no trailing tendrils or patches of half-visibility. When she felt she was close to the middle, she stepped into the mist.
The nature of it changed as she advanced. It tasted of dust here, and smelled of burnt wood and meat, which didn't bear thinking of. She could hear others now, horses and men. Some were dying, and some were shouting to get their bearings, but many were still fighting: Swords clashed, maces thudded, a lance clunked against a shield.
"Arthur!" she screamed. "Mordred!"
Shapes moved close by, but none approached or tried to interfere with her or with the still-trailing figure of Halbert.
CHAPTER 19
Behind her, Kiera could hear hooves tear up the ground as two of the still-mounted knights came at each other. Metal crashed. Someone cursed. The momentum of the horses carried both men forward beyond the point where they could find each other again in the mist.
She rubbed her hand on the skirt of her dress to ease the sudden burning sensation. The more she walked, the stronger it got: Nimue's ring was nearby.
She came upon two men: One was a knight sprawled on the ground, half under a horse that still twitched; the other was a peasant, sitting on the ground, using his back to push against the dying horse. For a moment she wondered if he couldn't see, or wouldn't admit, that the knight was obviously beyond help.
But at the noise of her approach, the peasant pulled a sword out of the burlap bag by his feet and held it, two handed; pointed in her general direction. A loote
r.
She made a show of holding her hands away from the folds of her dress lest he think she had a weapon of her own.
The looter's eyes, blank in an empty face, shifted to the wizard, a half-dozen paces behind her.
"He's with me," she explained.
Halbert stopped when she stopped, for he had been created to threaten, not to actually touch, which would have given him away. "Come with me," he urged her.
The peasant said nothing.
Kiera eased to the right, a wide circle around knight and peasant and burlap bag.
The tingling of her hand lessened, and she saw she needed to edge back to her original path. But a hand came out of the particularly dense mist, and clasped hold of her wrist. She jumped. "Morgana," she gasped.
But there were two women, and though one was a once-again-young-and-beautiful Morgana, the one who actually held her was Alayna.
"Kiera!" her mother said. "Thank the Lord! I was so worried—" She stopped, gazing beyond Kiera's shoulder, her eyes wide with fear and surprise. She took a step backwards, pulling Kiera with her.
"He's not real," she assured her mother. "He's an illusion. Morgana made him to keep me from helping Mordred and Arthur."
Mordred's aunt shook her head. "No," she said, all hurt innocence. "Who is this man? I've never seen him before. Your mother and I have been looking everywhere for you. We have been together all afternoon." She raised her hands, palms outward, toward the figure of the wizard, who waited patiently just beyond reach, his arms folded on his chest. "But you are right," Morgana continued, "he is insubstantial; he cannot harm us. Maybe he is some trick of Vivien's. She must have been afraid you would help Mordred. She has ever been interested only in Arthur."
Kiera hesitated, weighing all this. But she remembered the snake.
"We were so worried," Morgana was saying. "I'm so relieved we found you." She sniffed and buried her face in her hands. "We became lost in the fog ... We looked everywhere. We couldn't find you, we couldn't find Mordred ... I was so frightened."