Chapter 349: I am the reason your mother is ill

The old fire.

The phrase struck her like a cold finger. It was the second time she’d heard it. Tavish had said it at the ford, in a whisper, with his eyes closed.

The key to the old fire.

"What does that mean?" she said.

"I will tell you. In a moment." He raised a hand. "But first, I think I owe you an answer. You are quite right. I am the reason your mother is ill."

Silence.

Kaelen’s chair scraped.

"Sit," said Draeven.

It was very quiet. It cracked across the room like a whip.

Kaelen sat.

His face was white. The frost had spread across the table, a creeping fan of ice that ran from his fingertips across the cloth and glazed the silver. The candle flames bent toward him. A crystal glass cracked, with a small sharp ring.

"Gently, brother," said Draeven.

"He said...."

"I heard what he said."

"He admitted...."

"He did. He wished us to hear it." Draeven’s eyes did not leave Ormund’s face. "Which is why we will sit, and listen, and say nothing hasty."

"You are wise, Your Majesty," said Ormund.

"I am careful."

"It is the same thing, in a king."

"Say what you came to say."

"I shall." Ormund folded his hands. His eyes moved to Morgana. They were quiet, and kind, and utterly without mercy. "It was a very long time ago. Your mother was twenty-two. She had come to the temple as a healer’s apprentice, and she was very good. Quick. Clever. Gentle with the sick." His mouth curved. "She took her vows in the spring."

Morgana did not move.

"On the day she took them, I placed a seed in her."

"A seed," she said.

"A small thing. A mere precaution." His voice was soft, and reasonable. "I do it with all those I trust. One does not hold a position like mine without some safeguards. It lies dormant. It does no harm. It is a thread, only, that one may pull, if one has need." He lifted one slender hand and made a small, delicate gesture, as of a man drawing in a string. "It is not cruelty. I should not like you to think it cruelty."

"It’s not cruelty," said Morgana.

"No."

"It’s theft."

His eyes flickered.

"You put a thing in her body," she said, very low, "without asking. You left it for twenty-five years. And when you wanted something, you woke it up."

"Yes."

"And it’s been killing her."

"Slowly."

"Why?"

"To bring you home."

The room was silent.

It was a flat, enormous, ringing quiet. She could hear the candles burning. She could hear her own heart, hard and slow, like a fist against a door.

"I did not wish it," said Ormund, gently. "I assure you. I had hoped it would not be necessary. But your mask began to fail. And I thought, she will be found, by the kings or by worse. And she will not come to me of her own will. And I needed...." He stopped. He lifted his hands, palms up. "I needed a reason."

"A reason."

"A thread."

"My mother is a thread."

"She is a very strong one." His eyes were warm. "It has been a great grief to me."

Morgana said nothing.

She could not. She sat at the foot of a long white table, with silver candlesticks all around her, and looked at a gentle old man with a kind face who had just told her, in a voice like a father’s, that he had been killing her mother for her own good. She felt the world tilt. She felt something enormous and cold open up inside her chest.

It’s all right, said a voice.

It was very faint. It was a thread of heat, deep under her ribs. It was INFERNUS, quiet and low, curled around her heart like a banked fire.

Easy, it said. Easy. We have you.

And beside it, bright and cold, GLACIUS, a wash of silver. Breathe.

And behind both, far away, very faint and very dark, a shadow like a hand laid flat against her back. NOCTYS. He was a hundred miles from her. She could feel him anyway. He was awake. He was listening. He was furious.

She drew a long, shaking breath.

"What do you want?" she said.

"Ah."

"Say it."

"Very well." Ormund smiled. It was gentle, and sad, and patient, and utterly terrible. "I will make you an offer, child. A plain one. I find it saves time."

"Go on."

"I can undo it."

Silence.

"The seed. The sickness. All of it." His voice was soft. "It is a small thing. A word, and a touch. I could do it tonight, in the room above this one, and by morning your mother would be sitting up in bed asking for porridge. She would be well. Entirely well. Better than she has been in twenty years."

Her breath stopped.

"And in return?" said Draeven.

"In return," said Ormund, "the lady comes to Valorhold."

"No," said Kaelen.

"Freely. Of her own will. With the kings, if they wish." He lifted a hand. "I do not ask her to be alone. I have no wish to separate her from those she loves. She may bring them all. There is room."

"She will not," said Draeven.

"I did not ask you, Majesty."

"She will not."

"I should like to hear it from her."

"You will hear it from me," said Draeven, very quietly. "She is under the Law of Crown Protection. She is the ward of the crown. And I say that a thing offered with a knife at her mother’s throat is not an offer. It is extortion."

"That is a hard word."

"It is an accurate one."

"I prefer bargain." Ormund’s smile did not waver. "But I shall not quarrel over terms. I only say that the lady is of age. And that a mother’s life is, I think, a thing she may wish to weigh for herself."