Ride the Storm

by Karen Chance

  “How can I trust you when you will tell me nothing?” Morgaine demanded. “You ask me for trust, yet you will give none?”

  It was Pritkin’s turn to point.

  Arthur and I sighed.

  There was a lull in the conversation, accompanied by the sound of a stool being dragged across stone. When the king’s voice came again, it was lower, both in tone and position. “I will tell you this. The Svarestri came to me, after Grandmother’s latest demands, and offered to exchange her protection for theirs. They said they wanted food for their people—”

  “That isn’t all they want,” Morgaine said, her voice sharpening. “They want to weaken us, to divide our family—”

  “More than that.” The king’s voice dropped, to the point that I was straining to hear him, even this close. “They want to make a weapon, one with which to seize all Faerie. They want to steal from me, to make this weapon possible. But instead, I will steal from them—and make a protection for our people such as the world has never seen. A protection even the combined armies of Faerie could not undo. And let them make slaves of us then!”

  “What?” Morgaine sounded as confused as I was. “Arthur . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Neither did I,” he said. “But their ambassador made a mistake. He slipped up and called the staff they stole from Caedmon a spear. He only did it once, and only because he was surprised I had heard of the theft. Worried, lest I realize they planned to follow up one with another. But I played it off. They think us so foolish, it was easy to make him believe—”

  “Believe what? Arthur, what are you talking about?”

  “A story, one I heard as a child. Of a great set of armor, made by a god and worn by a hero. It was damaged in battle, some pieces beyond repair, but four remained: a helm, a shield, a sword . . . and a spear.”

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, and then clapped a hand over my mouth.

  But no one inside seemed to notice, maybe because Arthur’s voice had risen again in excitement.

  “The pieces were lost after a great battle, and scattered, until rescued by the gods and gifted to the great fey houses for their protection, for no human could wield them without going mad. It was said they had been imbued with the power of the gods themselves—”

  “Arthur, what are you saying?”

  “That I’ve finally found a way for both our people. Think of it, Morgan! Your name means Bright Sea, but how often are you there? Your people spend half their lives in the woods, constantly fighting. But if the Svarestri lost their helm, the one that gives their king so much of his power—what then? Would you still be fighting then? Or would the Dark Fey push him back to his own lands, to wither on those damn cold rocks? Would he not have to offer accommodation then, cede lands then, make peace then?”

  Pritkin and I stared at each other. He looked as shocked as I was. It looked like Arthur had been playing his cards pretty close to his chest.

  “Why shake your head at me?” his voice came again, after a brief moment. “Isn’t this what you’ve wanted, too? Why you’ve trained the covens? There will be no need for slaves if there is not constant war! It brings surcease for all—”

  “It brings war for all,” Morgaine said, her voice trembling with some emotion I couldn’t name, because I couldn’t see her. “Arthur, do you really think Aeslinn will lie down and just allow you to take his helm from him? If you fail, he’ll kill you. If you succeed, he’ll come for you. And you will not be able to withstand him, for you cannot wield it! Recreate this armor if you like, but there is none to wear it anymore!”

  “There doesn’t need to be.” Arthur didn’t sound even slightly abashed. “The Svarestri plan to pour all the power of the different pieces into one, to combine their strength—and so do I. But instead of choosing a weapon, as they would, I will make another choice, Grandmother’s choice—”

  “Grandmother’s? You mean—” Her voice broke off. And when it came again, there was wonder in it. “You plan to expand it, don’t you? Her shield. To increase its size—”

  “Until none may touch us!” he agreed eagerly. “Let the Saxons come, with all their men. Let the fey, let the gods themselves! We will be safe, Faerie pacified, and Aeslinn toothless. We can do this, Morgan. We can bring about all that my father wished, and more than he dared to dream. Now do you understand?”

  Yeah, I thought, feeling dizzy. Yeah, I kind of thought I did.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Pritkin gripped my arm, because apparently he’d decided it was time for that chat, like right freaking now. But my head was swimming too much to care. I let him pull me back into the outer room, unprotesting.

  “Is that why you want the staff?” he asked softly. Well, the tone was soft. The hand on my arm was another matter. “To make a weapon?”

  “No—”

  “Who are you working for?” he whispered harshly. “It can’t be the Svarestri—they tried to kill you. And the same is true for the Blue Fey—and the Green!”

  “It’s a gift,” I said numbly, which didn’t help.

  “And it can’t be the king. I saw your face just now—you didn’t know all that. Some, but not all.”

  “No.”

  “Who, then? Who else is involved? Who is it?”

  “I’m not working for anyone,” I said, because he was starting to flush, and I was afraid he’d drag me in to Arthur, demanding an explanation. And that would be bad, that would be very bad, because Arthur—

  I looked up at Excalibur, gleaming on the wall, the firelight glinting off the carved figures on the hilt, turning them from bronze into solid gold. It was beautiful, even with the blade hidden. Truly, a piece of art. Which if it had been forged by a god would make sense. But if that was true, then Ares was infused in the sword, just like all the other pieces of that cursed set of armor Adra had mentioned. Not all of him, no, but part of him, enough to drive a fey queen close to madness.

  What had it done to Arthur?

  He hadn’t had the sword that long, not the millennia Nimue must have had her shield. But he wasn’t Nimue. He was only a quarter fey, and while he wasn’t mad, was he influenced?

  I didn’t know, but I knew one thing.

  “They can’t be allowed to get all the pieces,” I told Pritkin urgently. “The Svarestri are planning to make a weapon with them, but not to use on the fey. They’re trying—”

  Shit!

  The door opened, and I whirled, kneeling in front of the fire, hoping the desk would hide me. And throwing on some more wood in case it didn’t, like an exotically dressed chambermaid. Beside me, Pritkin went into a deep bow, low enough to hide his face, because the billow of sea green skirts I’d glimpsed could only belong to one person.

  Fortunately, queens rarely glance at the help, and Nimue continued through to the inner rooms without pausing, presumably to see her granddaughter. Along with four of her personal bodyguard, who I guessed were there for Morgaine, because none of them stayed in the outer room. And then they actually closed the door!

  As soon as it snicked shut, I scrambled onto the desk, which didn’t turn out to be close enough. So I scrambled down again and tried dragging Arthur’s chair back a few feet, which was all I needed. But the damn thing was heavy English oak, and might as well have been made out of lead.

  “Help me!” I told Pritkin, who wasn’t helping.

  Instead, he was standing there, arms crossed, eyes deadly serious. “If you want my help—or even my silence—you’re going to tell me what you’re doing. Right now.”

  “Trying to save our asses,” I whispered while tugging and heaving. “The fey aren’t trying to get some advantage in a war. They’re trying to bring back a god—”

  “What?” He blinked, like that wasn’t the answer he’d expected.

  “—the god of war—who’s going to murder us all, except his devout Svarestri worshippers,
no doubt. Which will bring peace, but not the kind I think you want!”

  “What are you talking about? Stop that and answer me!”

  I stopped, but not because he told me to. But because I needed his help to do this. No way was Excalibur just hanging on a wall with no protection. It was probably warded all to hell, and while I might eventually manage to reach it, I couldn’t do shit about that.

  I blew a strand of sweaty hair out of my face.

  “Look, I can’t tell you everything, but . . . I’m after a girl, someone working with the Svarestri. I was told that she wants the staff to punch through a . . . a sort of spell . . . that’s protecting earth, and bring back the gods. But if one piece of the armor was enough for that, the Svarestri would have already done it. It looks like they need it all: Nimue’s shield, Aeslinn’s helm, Caedmon’s staff, and . . .”

  I looked up at Excalibur, hanging on the wall, and Pritkin’s expression darkened.

  “No.”

  “We have to take it!”

  “No!”

  “It’s the only way—”

  “You are not talking about stealing the king’s sword!”

  “We don’t have a choice! We don’t know where the staff is, or how to get it back. But the sword is right there—”

  “We have to tell the king!” He started for the door.

  I lunged over the desk and caught his arm. “We can’t tell him! The armor was infused with the soul of a god—the same god they’re trying to bring back! Anyone who’s owned a piece is suspect!”

  He stopped moving, I guessed because he’d have to drag me along to get any farther, but he still looked incredulous. “You can’t seriously think—”

  “Can’t I? What do you think is wrong with Nimue? Was that normal, what we saw at camp? Was that what you’d have expected from her?”

  Pritkin paused, forehead wrinkling. “No. She has the reputation of a fierce foe with a . . . lively . . . temper. But she is not reputed to be cruel.”

  “Maybe she isn’t. But the shield played on her fears, her desire to protect her people, her growing paranoia. She was probably a hard nut to crack, but she’s had it a long time, and the Svarestri have made sure she had no choice but to use it. You told me so yourself, when we were in Faerie, remember? How they constantly attack the Dark Fey, taking their lands, forcing them into conflict with her—”

  “But that’s Nimue. Arthur—”

  “Has the sword!” I gestured at it. “Achilles’ freaking sword that I’ll bet you anything Nimue took from the Dark Fey and gave to him!”

  And finally, it looked like something got through. “She captured it after a battle,” Pritkin said, sounding numb. “But she couldn’t use it to full effect; fire isn’t her element—”

  “So some little voice told her to bring it here, where it’s been whispering to Arthur ever since, promising things he’s yearned for his whole life. Dreams of a peace he’s never going to get because the Svarestri are going to reassemble that armor and kill us all!”

  Pritkin stared at me, and then at the door, clearly torn. He’d heard most of the story from Arthur’s own lips, and he’d seen the bloody mess at Nimue’s camp. Yet, for a moment, he just stood there.

  “She has the shield, and possibly the staff,” I told him desperately. “And the Svarestri have the helm. That means the sword—”

  “Is the only thing left.”

  I nodded. “They can’t get their hands on it.”

  “And your role in all this?”

  “To make sure they don’t!”

  Pritkin didn’t answer, but he suddenly picked up the massive chair and deposited it by the wall. He climbed up, his hands running over the length of the blade from a good two feet away, scowling. “Understand this,” he said grimly. “The sword stays with me. If you attempt to take it—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. It’s not that I don’t trust you—”

  “Of course not.”

  He glanced down. “I do. But that’s the problem. I’ve known you all of three days. And here I am, stealing the king’s sword for you!”

  “It isn’t for me.”

  “And that . . . incident . . . yesterday. I’ve never—” He looked down at me again. “If you’ve spelled me, I promise you’ll regret it!”

  “I haven’t! Can you hurry?”

  He went back to work, muttering something, although whether at the sword or at me, I wasn’t sure. But a moment later, it sprang off the wall. “What did I just say?” he asked, pulling it away when I reached for it.

  “I was just going to hold it while you got down!”

  He jumped down beside me. “I’ll manage.”

  “You think I’m going to disappear with it, don’t you?”

  “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have helped you. But you know what they say. There’s no honor among thieves—”

  “So it would appear.”

  My head jerked up, because that voice hadn’t been Pritkin’s.

  Only to see a furious, damp, blood-splattered king of the fey breathing at me from the doorway.

  Goddamn it.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I was in a dank cell, stuffing my face. It wasn’t my idea; Caedmon’s fancy-dressed officer, who had shown up with him for some sort of parlay with Arthur, had gotten it into his head that we’d not only planned to steal from the king, but to poison him, too. So he was letting the punishment fit the crime.

  The tasty, tasty punishment.

  God, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was!

  “More bread?” I asked Pritkin, who was being forced to eat, too, only not looking so happy about it. He shook his head. “Then do you mind if I—?”

  He passed me the bread.

  The officer’s eyes narrowed as I used it to sop up the last of the lamb and nettle stew, which hadn’t sounded particularly appetizing, but tasted divine. But not as much as the pork, with its crispy caramelized skin, like meat candy. Or the blueberries, plump and sweet, and swimming in warm cream. I made a desperate little sound and saw some of the guards looking at the depleted tray with envy.

  They were missing dinner because of us, or more accurately, because Arthur had a problem with their boss just killing us. Of course, he also had a problem with us stealing his stuff, even though Pritkin had tried his best to explain. But that was a little hard with Arthur yelling and Morgaine staring and Caedmon demanding his staff back—until I happened to mention that Nimue probably had it. . . .

  Which might have worked better if she hadn’t been standing right there.

  But we weren’t dead yet, and we’d even gotten dinner. Most of it, I corrected, as the officer reached over and snatched the tray away. I didn’t know why; it was pretty much empty at this point. But I supposed he thought it could be used as a weapon or something.

  Sure, I thought resentfully, one wooden tray and my skinny arms against a roomful of fey, thick stone walls, and nothing to cheat with.

  Like nothing, because I’d been calling Billy for almost the whole time, and where was he?

  Of course, he might not know that. Sometimes I thought we had a connection: I’d feel him before I saw him, or he’d swear he heard me calling. But sometimes he said that when I hadn’t called, too, so who knew? But damn, I wanted out of here!

  Apparently, the fey felt the same, because one of them cleared his throat.

  “Sir, perhaps we could cycle out—”

  “He’s a triskelion,” the officer snapped. “You’re going nowhere.”

  The fey blinked, and slid a surprised glance Pritkin’s way, but didn’t say anything else. I, on the other hand, had nothing else to do with my mouth, now that my dinner was gone. “Triskelion?” I asked.

  “Someone who owns three elements,” Pritkin murmured, before the officer yelled at him to
shut up.

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Is that unusual?” I asked, because I’d kind of gotten the idea that the fey weren’t allowed to hurt us, and I’d been yelled at before.

  “Fairly,” Pritkin said, hiding a smile.

  It didn’t look like he liked the officer, either.

  “So, how many do most people have?” I asked, and found a fey in my face.

  “Be. Silent,” the officer told me, in what was the closest thing I’d ever heard to a genuine hiss.

  “Or what? You’ll throw me in a cell and take away my food? Oh, wait.”

  “Oh, shit,” Pritkin murmured admonishingly.

  And yes, he was right; antagonizing the fey was stupid. But right now not antagonizing them was just as stupid, since nothing was happening. And if nothing continued to happen, we lost.

  “How many?” I asked again.

  Pritkin looked at the guard, and a little smile escaped his lips. “One.”

  And, okay, something was happening now, I thought, as the fey jerked Pritkin up.

  And was quickly surrounded by his own guards, looking concerned. One of whom even dared to put a hand on his arm. “Sir, the king said—”

  “I don’t take orders from a human king!”

  It had been pretty savage, but the fey wasn’t deterred. “But the lord was standing right there, and if he hadn’t agreed . . .”

  “We can’t hurt them unless they try to escape,” another fey recited.

  The officer looked back at Pritkin. “Try,” he ordered.

  But Pritkin just stood there, with that same little half smile.

  Until the officer released him with a sound of contempt.

  After a moment, everyone settled back down, and the room grew quiet again.

  “So,” I asked, “what do they call someone with four?”

  I didn’t get an answer, but coincidentally, that was the same number of fey who grabbed the officer, halfway through a lunge. And that included the guy who’d been standing by the door. Which probably explained how we came to be inundated by a flock of beauties bearing gifts.