was not pleasant. “Little Gwennifer. Where is she? Where is Fernanda Morcadis?”
“Your sister has gone,” Gaynor said, and was surprised to find her voice steady.
“My . . . sister?”
“She went with the boat,” said Gaynor. Desperately, she drew on her knowledge of legend, on the words of Nimwë. “They took my king. Have you forgotten?” She had no idea how the others were reacting to her improvisation and she did not dare to look; her only hope was to divert Morgus. The witch queen was wearing the clothes she evidently considered suitable to her status: a twenty-first-century evening dress of some silky material, in the deep purple of vintage wine. Her high heels were probably Prada. To Gaynor, the costume appeared incongruous, and somehow this gave her courage.
“I will never forget,” said Morgus. “What of it? Morgun died long ago. I seek Morcadis. She was here—they told me she was here—”
“She was here,” Gaynor echoed. “She has grown in power, since her death.”
“My twin died: that was final. Morcadis—”
“Death has many kingdoms, but only one portal,” Gaynor said. She thought it was a line she must have read somewhere.
“Enough! You were never bright, Gwennifer, but dabbling in magic has made you witless—or are you trying to deceive me? That would indeed be folly. Speak! Or I will split your brain in two and pick out your thoughts with red-hot pincers. Where is Morcadis?”
“Why don’t you ask me?” Will interjected. “She was never here. It is your spies you should punish—they were cheated by a ghost.”
And Ragginbone, quick to follow: “The world of Time has blinded your thought, queen of Air and Darkness. Are you so sure your sister passed the Gate? Did you close it behind her?”
“Do you mock me?” she snarled. The tiny needle of doubt jabbed her into greater fury. She tossed the wereglow upward into a hovering ball of light, unleashing a whiplash of power from her hand that might have taken the Watcher’s head clean off. But Fern’s spell encased him, and the lash rebounded, flicking sparks from the barrier. Morgus screeched with rage, cursing in several ancient languages, striking again and again at Ragginbone, Will, Gaynor, even the little she could see of Moonspittle. But for the moment, Fern’s magic held.
Gaynor tried not to flinch, struggling to keep what was left of her nerve. Nimwë was right, she thought. Mention her twin, and Morgus stops thinking clearly. Anything to distract her from Fern . . . “Morgun was here,” she reiterated. “She came to the circle. She left you a message.”
The witch strode forward until her face was within a yard of Gaynor’s. “You’re lying,” she said. “I can read the lies in your mind. They run to and fro like mice in a cage, looking for a way of escape. Stupid, pointless lies. Morgun is a fruit hanging on my Tree. As for this barrier—Fernanda has called on an old power, and she does not know how to harness it. How much longer do you imagine it can resist me? An hour—or merely a few more minutes?” Her hands pressed against the spellfield, squeezing it tighter, tighter—Gaynor saw her mouth ruck into a grimace of pain, the red weals springing up on her palms. Yet there was nothing visible between them but a glittering on the air. Will seized Morgus’s arm to pull her away—the protection spell did not impede its object—but she shook him off almost without effort.
“Try reading my mind!” he challenged her. “What do you see?”
“That you’re a better liar,” Morgus snapped. She was still focused on Gaynor, intoning a counterspell: “Xormé abelon, zinéphar unulé—“
Disregarded for the moment, Ragginbone drew on the surrounding magic, attempting a charm of banishment. He knew the risk—he was draining his own spellscreen—but Morgus caught the whisper of his chant even through her own, and she rounded on him again. The lash of her power did not break the barrier, but he was flung to the ground, the charm scattered. He knew they had very little time left.
Morgus clasped her hands once more around Gaynor’s spellfield, compressing it closer and closer to her face. The witch’s skin blistered and cracked where it touched the magic; sweat ran in great drops from under her hair. Will returned to the assault, but a vicious kick dented his shield, knocking him sideways. “Xormé!” Morgus cried. “Néfia!”—and all spells broke.
IX
Luc saw very little of the attack. The leaf shudder became a surge—a vast shadow sprang past him—there was a smell