Ever since she had ripped open the Veil, Morgana had sensed the patches of ground where her people had died like bleeding pustules across the land. They burdened her in every village she fled to and burned her soul in her sleep.
Ealdor was no different.
Camelot's knights had burned the village's wise woman in the square. The creek babbled with the voices of desperate children. The field ached with the bones of sorcerers crossing the border who had not run fast enough.
Ealdor had been a natural wellspring of magic once, an irony that both infuriated and amused her when she considered who the place had spawned and what he had done to thwart magic's return.
The magic of the place was gone now, sucked clean. The village named for eternity was dying, even if none of the inhabitants could sense it.
She'd just have to help a few of them along, wouldn't she?
Yes, Merlin, I know where your mother lives. Don't you think you should have thought of that before you crossed me?
She remembered where the little hut was, but she almost didn't recognize it. When she had first come here, all she had been able to see were the frail walls and the dirt floor.
Now she could see the blinding gold of magic humming comfortingly around it.
Love. Warmth. Protection.
Now she could see the signs, invisible to all but magical eyes, etched on the walls.
Safe house. Good woman. Food. No traps. Vengeance be on the one that hurts her.
She was breathless from the sheer shock of it. Who would have thought it?
How dare he? How dare he turn on her if he had not even the excuse of his upbringing? How dare he condemn her for what she couldn't help?
She could hear Hunith humming inside.
She briefly considered just leaving, but it was getting dark, and another possibility was far more enticing.
She refreshed the aging spell she'd used to disguise herself with a quiet murmur and knocked. Hunith, generous woman that she was, was happy to share her meager supper and give up her bed to a traveler she assumed was an elderly woman.
Morgana lay under the thin blanket and pulled it closer to herself as she tried to pull some of the warmth and light from the magic dancing on the walls into herself.
The magic shuddered and drew back, defenses slamming down and sending a blinding pain through her eyes.
She muffled a scream before Hunith could hear it.
This house's comfort was not for her.
. . . . .
A/N: In America during the Great Depression, drifters would scratch signs onto fence posts and walls to let others know what to expect from the people inside. Good food? Dog that bit? Chance of work? Someone that would call the police? I loved the idea of sorcerers fleeing Camelot doing the same.
