by Zoë Archer
“I know who Arthur will listen to,” he said.
All conversation stopped as five pairs of eyes stared at him.
“Merlin.”
Never before had Edgeworth the privilege of speaking with a monarch. The Heirs dealt solely with ministers and shadowy members of the government—the Queen herself meant little compared to these forceful, influential men.
But even Disraeli himself was nothing more than a mewling milksop compared to the powerful majesty of England’s most revered king: Arthur.
Edgeworth bowed, a hand pressed to his chest, as Arthur approached the hilltop where he and the other Heirs stood. Excitement the likes of which Edgeworth had never known hummed through him, in time with the ground that shook with each step Arthur took. At last! A true ruler for the glorious English Empire! The Heirs had summoned King Arthur when his kingdom needed him most, just as it had been prophesied. Edgeworth could barely begin to imagine what glories lay in store for his homeland, and felt a savage surge of pride that it was him, Jonas Edgeworth, who had allowed it to happen.
None of the Heirs, himself included, knew precisely what the Primal Source might do once it had been unlocked. Mages toiled at all hours, pouring through dusty tomes, chanting spells in dark mirrors. The one who knew the Primal Source best, Astrid Bramfield, had hidden herself away in the mountains of Canada, and the attempt to abduct and torture the information from her failed. But that didn’t stop the Primal Source from working its power.
Arthur’s resurrection had sent a beacon of purest magical energy straight to the Heirs’ scrying mirrors. Everyone gathered around the mirrors to watch not only the coming of the king, but the genesis of the England each Heir had dreamt of since the organization had been founded, hundreds of years ago. An England who was master of the globe. Cheers and celebration, even some tears.
Yet now, as the giant advanced, the Heirs were too awed to do much beside stare.
“Bow, you fools,” Edgeworth hissed.
As expected, the Heirs obeyed him at once, each bowing low. They all looked pale beneath their makeshift bandages and bruises, but Edgeworth flushed with glee. Within moments, he would speak to King Arthur. If only his father were alive to see this!
Memory of his slain father wrapped cold rage around Edgeworth’s throat. He would soon have his vengeance against the Blades, especially Bennett Day. As he waited for Arthur, he amused himself by replaying thousands of painful scenarios, all of them agonizing, and all of them ending with Edgeworth forcing his traitorous sister to watch Day’s torture and murder, before Edgeworth reclaimed his family’s reputation by killing her.
“What darkness shadows your heart, knight?” thundered Arthur.
Edgeworth peered up to see that Arthur stood two dozen feet away. The Primal Source must allow Arthur access to the Heirs’ thoughts and feelings. Edgeworth would have to remember that, to guard himself. “Forgive me, Your Highness.” He bowed lower. “I seek only to restore honor to my family and enforce those noble virtues which Your Highness upheld in the splendor of Camelot.”
Evidently, this response pleased Arthur. He rumbled his approval. “You and your retainers may rise.”
Slowly, Edgeworth obeyed. His gaze traveled up the length of the king, seeing the golden surcoat, the armor, Excalibur, the gleaming crown atop a regal head. The embodiment and image of English nobility. Exactly as he’d imagined Arthur to look.
He had done this! He had brought King Arthur back to England!
“My liege and king, words cannot express—”
Arthur’s eyes burned down at him. “You have summoned me for a reason, have you not?” His voice boomed like ancient cannon. “Else why tear me from the silence of Avalon and deathless slumber?”
Not used to being interrupted by anyone, even a legendary king, Edgeworth found himself fighting his irritation. “Indeed, yes, Your Highness.” He glanced back at his assembled men, who naturally looked to him to speak for them all. Turning back to Arthur, he said with deliberate reverence, “You know from our dreams that we seek the restoration of your kingdom.”
“Since my waking, I have sensed your desires. Your hearts reveal that there are those who seek to obstruct these ambitions.”
“They are the enemies of England, Your Highness. They undermine all that is good and great in our nation.” Rancor ground his voice to an edge.
Arthur shifted, gazing stonily at the village he had leveled. “The next time I encounter those villains, my hand will not stay my sword.”
Edgeworth hoped he would be witness to the destruction of the Blades by Arthur. But even their deaths were secondary to the Heirs’ true purpose. The mages had divined shortly after Arthur’s resurrection that when the king was united with the Primal Source, all magic within England would belong to the Heirs. And this was but a stepping stone to the conquering of every nation. Every dream of the Heirs would come to pass, once Arthur touched the Primal Source.
It was too risky to take the Primal Source from its security in the Heirs’ headquarters. They must get Arthur to London.
“Your Highness’s presence is urgently required in the capital.”
“I have felt the call,” answered Arthur.
“If you would but follow me.” Edgeworth gestured down the hill, toward the dell where the fire still burned. “I can transport us there immediately.”
“Transport? How?”
Edgeworth roiled with impatience. He had already taken Bracebridge from Canada via the fire. It might task his command of the element to bring Arthur through the fire to London, but Edgeworth was willing to chance it.
“A simple and harmless form of magic,” Edgeworth answered.
Arthur frowned. “I like not such uses of enchantment. It has the sinister glamour of my treacherous sister, Morgan.”
Didn’t Edgeworth know all about treacherous sisters? He gritted his teeth with a combination of frustration and fury, renewed by thoughts of London. “Truly, Your Highness, there is nothing sinister about what I propose.”
“Dare you to challenge me?” Arthur rumbled.
Temper, the same that had been Edgeworth’s lifelong blessing and burden, flared. The Heirs behind Edgeworth stirred anxiously, knowing that Edgeworth never responded well to being opposed. Had Arthur been anyone other than who he was, Edgeworth would have given him the beating of a lifetime—and had done so, many times. But this was King Arthur, the mythical king, and a hulking giant of a man, to boot.
Biting down his anger, Edgeworth bowed. “Of course not, Your Highness.”
“I shall march on the capital,” Arthur declared.
Edgeworth smiled coldly. This could work to his advantage, especially if Arthur crossed paths with any Blades along the way. And if Arthur ever somehow broke away from the will of the Heirs, Edgeworth had something that ensured the king’s disobedience wouldn’t last long.
“Once there,” he vowed now, “you shall be welcomed as king and savior.” With Arthur as king, the Heirs controlling Arthur, and Edgeworth in command of the Heirs, dominion over the globe would be his. First order of business would be the extermination of the Blades. Finally, he would have everything he ever wanted: power and vengeance.
Stunned silence greeted Catullus’s revelation. Until—
“That’s bloody perfect,” Bennett breathed.
Everyone began talking at once. Everyone, except Gemma, whose quiet caught Catullus’s attention much more than anyone shouting. In the midst of the general chatter, she stood, still and separate, a pensive line between her brows.
Catullus strode toward her and took her slim hands in his own. “Something troubles you.”
She looked up at him, so serious and lovely, her eyes blue as daydreams, yet the awareness within them showed she was no dream, but a woman fully in and of the world. Interestingly, a flare of ruefulness gleamed there.
“This is where I prove I’m just an ignorant American.” Her mouth curled, wry. “I know Merlin was a magician in Camelot, but not much m
ore.”
Ah. She wanted knowledge, just as he did. “Like everything about Arthur, there are countless myths and stories about Merlin. He’s thought to be a wizard, a prophet, an adviser. Of everyone within the legends, Merlin is believed to be the one Arthur trusted most.”
“If Arthur can live again, then we can find Merlin,” she said decisively.
He savored her spirit, which was as integral to her as breath and blood. “It shan’t be easy.”
“Never thought it would be otherwise.” Her brash smile stirred within him a potent combination of respect and desire.
“Yes,” broke in Bennett, “it’s all well and good to say, ‘Let’s go fetch Merlin.’ Quite another pot of stew to actually locate the bugger.”
Trust Bennett to phrase this dilemma so eloquently.
“So, what do we know about Merlin?” asked Lesperance. “What was his fate in the legends?”
“He fell in love with a sorceress, Vivien,” Astrid recalled.
“But she only wanted his magic,” added Catullus, gently releasing Gemma’s hands. “Sealed him up within a tree. Merlin knew it was going to happen, that she’d beguile and betray him, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted what he wanted, and damned the consequences.”
“Love does that, I’ve heard,” murmured Gemma. She didn’t look at him, but one of her blushes turned her cheeks vividly pink.
Catullus’s heart abruptly began to pound. He pointedly ignored Bennett’s meaningful grin. “Yes, well, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, he’s still in that tree. Not dead, but not entirely alive, either.”
“Where is this tree found?” asked London.
“An enchanted forest,” said Astrid.
“There can’t be too many of those.” Gemma glanced around. “Anybody have a map of enchanted forests in England?”
“Indeed, no.” Catullus prowled the archives of his memory, searching through shelves and stacks to find precisely what he needed. Turning to Bennett, he asked, “Do you remember Bryn Enfys?”
“The pixie who sometimes delivers reports to headquarters?”
London’s face lit up. “I know him, too! Or, at least,” she amended, “I did, long ago.”
“Don’t mention pixies,” Gemma said with a shudder. “I can still hear their awful giggling and feel their pinching little fingers.”
“There are dozens of varieties of pixies,” said Catullus. “Some more benevolent than others. Bryn has been helping Blades for centuries. He occasionally visits my workshop to see what I’m tinkering with. Rather fascinates him, actually. Calls it my ‘human magic-making.’ One night, I asked him where he goes when he isn’t amongst us mortals. He said that the realm of magic exists, not so much beneath this world as it does parallel to it. Otherworld.”
A communal shiver ran through the group, but not from fear—it was a recognition rising up from the innermost reaches of collective imagination.
“You spoke of it before,” said Gemma. “At Glastonbury Tor.”
“That’s one entrance of many to Otherworld.”
“And that’s where we’d find the enchanted forest that holds Merlin,” Gemma deduced.
“In all of the Blades’ history,” continued Catullus, “none have ever been to Otherworld. But, if that’s where Merlin is, we need to find a way there.”
Bennett, who never heard of a quest he didn’t like, beamed, as did London. The pair of them seemed to thrive on adventure. For most of her life, London had lived under the controlling thumb of her father, and then her late husband, who both firmly believed that virtuous English ladies were decorative, empty-brained vessels. London was anything but that. And Bennett … well … there wasn’t an experience on this earth that Bennett didn’t want to have. Catullus thought it was a fortunate day indeed when the two of them found each other. Likely, they would drive anyone else mad with all their capering about.
“When do we start?” asked London eagerly. “I’ve always wanted to see the realm of faerie.”
Catullus gave her a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, London, but we cannot spare so many of us on this task.”
She looked crestfallen, yet dutifully nodded. “Of course.” Then she brightened. “Bennett and I can go to London, gather information, and cause a spot of trouble. It used to be my city,” she added with a saucy wink.
“Someone needs to let the Blades know that Arthur is headed for London,” said Astrid. She and Lesperance held each other’s gazes in a silent communication. At his subtle nod, she announced, “Nathan and I will travel to Southampton, reconnoiter with the other Blades.”
Before Catullus could speak, Gemma turned to him, determination shining in her gem-bright eyes. “And I’ll go wherever you go.”
“You and I will be searching for Merlin. If we are to open a door to another world, who better to have with me than a woman who can defeat any lock.” He was surprised he sounded so calm, so level, when inside he rioted with fierce pleasure at the thought of not only seeking the mysterious Otherworld but having Gemma, and only Gemma, with him on this voyage of discovery.
Leave-taking was muted. The knowledge of what was at stake weighed heavily upon everyone, so that, when it came time for the group to disband, they did so without the usual high spirits that characterized so much of the Blades’ various comings and goings.
In the wood, good-byes and well wishes were exchanged like small silver coins passed from hand to hand, quietly given, tucked away.
As the women said their farewells to one another, Catullus faced his old friend and irritant, Bennett. “What are your plans, Ben?”
“London’s going to try and talk to some of the ladies she knew when she was part of that world, see if she can’t rally them to our cause.”
“These would be the Heirs’ women.”
Bennett nodded thoughtfully. “Most of ‘em don’t know much about what their husbands, sons, and brothers do. It’s how the Heirs operate—keep their females ignorant.” He gave a disgusted snort. “Could anything be more repulsive? Even London, the cleverest woman I know, even she was kept in the dark until she was taken to Greece, right up until she met me.” His grin flashed quickly. “She was hungry for knowledge, and I was happy to provide it.”
“Let’s leave that aspect of her education out of it,” said Catullus.
Sobering somewhat, Bennett continued. “Suffice it to say, when she learned the true nature of her family and dead husband’s work, she wanted nothing to do with it. Joined the cause of the Blades without regret. Now she’s hoping to enlighten the Heirs’ other women. We could use all the allies we can muster.”
“And what will you do whilst your wife plants the seeds of revolution?”
Bennett tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, and Catullus had to sigh. All of Catullus’s fresh clothing had been lost, including two gorgeous silk waistcoats he’d purchased in New York. Being in the field often meant forgoing his own exacting standards of dress. A burden for him to bear, but more so because he wanted to look his best for Gemma. At the moment, he resembled a crumpled, street-grimed advertisement for a gentleman’s emporium.
“Oh, the usual,” Bennett said, unaware of Catullus’s acute case of clean-waistcoat envy. “Gather information exercising my talents as a second-story man.”
“A fortunate set of circumstances that led you to being a Blade and not England’s most notorious thief.”
“Who says I’m not both?”
“You’d have better taste in boots.”
Bennett glanced down at the footwear in question. His boots were appallingly scuffed and, if Catullus wasn’t mistaken, stained with saltwater. The haberdasher within Catullus shuddered in horror.
“Badges of honor,” Bennett said. He looked over at Catullus’s boots. “Isn’t that a scratch on your own bespoke Jermyn Street boots?”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” Catullus said darkly.
They bantered, but an undercurrent of tension made each attempt at levity feel that much more
false. Eventually, their words drifted away like dried weeds.
“It’s going to get brutal out there,” Catullus finally said. “Be careful, Ben.”
“Where London’s concerned,” Bennett answered, serious, “I’m always careful. You, too, Cat. None of us has ever gone to the realm of magic. Stay sharp. And take care of your Yankee.”
“I won’t let anything happen to her.” He’d never meant any words more.
“Glad you took my advice,” Bennett said, looking like a proud uncle.
Catullus said nothing. Bennett was his friend, but like hell would Catullus describe the wonder that had been making love with her. Still … “My gratitude, Ben.”
Bennett nodded, approving. “Godspeed to you.”
The two men shook hands, then broke apart.
Catullus turned, to see Astrid staring at him with her wise, clear eyes. Her expression bordered on cool, but he knew that, after the trials she’d endured and survived, she kept her innermost self well guarded. She still felt as deeply, only with less openness.
Yet, when she stepped closer to him, there was no hiding the bittersweet warmth in her gaze.
“We’ve not truly been apart since you came to Canada,” she murmured, “to protect me against the Heirs.” Before that, she’d hidden herself deep within the mountains for four years, four years of silence that had strained their friendship terribly. “I still don’t know why you came all that way, just for me.”
“I wonder that, myself.” But they both knew the bonds of friendship endured beyond distance and time.
They shared a small smile, and he could not help thinking how utterly Astrid had changed from the eager young girl arriving with an equally young new husband at the Blades’ front door so many years ago. Catullus wouldn’t wish Astrid’s sufferings on anyone, yet she’d emerged from them as tempered steel, and with the love of a man as strong and fierce as she.
Suddenly, Astrid wrapped her arms around Catullus in a hard, quick embrace. “Thank you,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I don’t know if I said it before, but … thank you.”
