Hawk of May by Gillian Bradshaw

to my eyes.
    â€œIt is enough,” said Morgawse. “Medraut will stay.”
    I looked at her, ready to cry out in protest, but could not speak. The room became cold, achingly cold and dark. The candle-flames swam before my eyes, as if from miles away. I sobbed for breath in the black tide that drowned me.
    Morgawse jerked back the wall-hanging.
    One of my father’s warriors lay there, bound hand and foot. I had known there would be blood. The man’s eyes above the gag were wild with fear, running about the room without fixing on anything. I recognized Connall of Dalriada.
    â€œOh,” I said. There was a sick taste in my mouth.
    â€œHe went to Lot and told him of my oath,” said Morgawse. “I fulfill a promise. We will do to him as we did to the lamb last month, but a man is better for these things.” She smiled again, looking at Connall. “Pull him to the center.”
    Medraut stepped forward. I stood, staring, sick. Connall’s eyes met mine. His held the knowledge of horrible death.
    I looked at Medraut and thought of what he had said: “So this is wrong, and Mother is wrong…”
    Lastly, I looked at Morgawse, and for the first time saw her without illusion: a power wrapped in human flesh, long ago consuming the mind that had invoked it. A dark power, a Queen of Darkness. She had summoned it as a servant for her hate, had welcomed its control when she controlled it, and every day became more it and less herself. A power that drank life and hope and love like wine. Ancient beyond words, evil beyond thought, hideous despite its beauty, the creature stood there and gazed on me with a black, insatiable hunger.
    I screamed and my hand rose to ward it off, and I saw that I held my dagger.
    Her face changed, became as a woman’s again, turning to fury. She lifted her arms, and power surrounded her leaping up like fire.
    â€œGwalchmai!” Medraut was shouting. “What are you doing?”
    â€œGet out,” I said, finding my voice steady. “This has not been Morgawse, daughter of Uther for years. You must get out, while there is still time. If you love me, if you love your life, get out of here!”
    He looked at me, then at the Queen of Darkness. His face twisted desperately—and then he stepped towards Morgawse, stepped again, past me, to stand beside her. “You are mad,” he said. “Mother is perfect. It is Father who is wrong. Put down that knife and come and help us.”
    I began to weep. “She will sacrifice Conall.”
    He looked uncomfortable for a moment, but she touched his shoulder and the unease faded from his face. “She is perfect. He insulted her. He deserves to die.”
    â€œShe will kill Father one day.”
    Medraut actually laughed. “Good! Maybe then…I will be the successor to the kingship! Mother has promised me. And, after all, Arthur is a bastard too.”
    I stared at him where he stood under her upraised hand, his eyes again wild with misery, and with a pain I had only suspected. I had been wrong about him. I should have realized that his ambition was not just to be a fine warrior, but rather to be something beyond his reach. It was too late to help, even if I could have. Too late.
    I looked again at the creature who had once been Morgawse, daughter of Uther, and knew that my knife could not harm her. I was only alive because she hoped that I would come. And I could come, could drown in the black tide, forgetting confusion and loneliness and guilt and, yes, gain a kind of immortality. Easy is the descent of Avernus, I thought.
    I lowered my hand slowly. Medraut smiled with joy, and my mother smiled again also, at me.
    And then I threw the dagger straight into Connall’s throat, saw the thanks in his dying eyes, and dragged open the door, fleeing the Darkness that rose up behind me.
    I heard Medraut run to the door after me, his shout ringing across the yard; “Traitor! Traitor,