by Zoë Archer
“A kind of tart—a butter crust with fruit preserves along the bottom and an almond custard on top.” He smacked his lips. “Our cook at headquarters makes the best Bakewell pudding for tea. I’ve been known to bolt from my workshop in the middle of a project when Cook says she’s made some.”
“I detect a sweet tooth.” It charmed her to think of Catullus like an eager boy racing down a hallway for a treat.
“On occasion. Too many Bakewell puddings makes for a Blade with a belly.”
She gave him a poke in his very flat, very hard stomach. “Yes, you’re really going to seed. Didn’t want to be obnoxious and point it out, though.”
“Yankee jade,” he said affably. “I’m not a young man anymore. I can’t eat like one.”
“Don’t tell that to my mother,” Gemma said. “Anyone who refuses seconds she treats like a challenge. She’ll bombard you with food until not a single waistcoat will fit.”
“Is she a good cook, your mother?”
Now it was her turn to smack her lips. “No one can top Lucia Murphy for cooking. Corned beef and cabbage for my father. Featherlight gnocchi. Panettone at Christmas. That’s a sweet bread with raisins and candied orange.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“I could eat a whole loaf of panettone all by myself, but she always gives it away as gifts. If you come home with me, maybe she’ll give you your very own loaf. But you have to promise to share.”
He smiled warmly. “I’m looking forward to it. But, Gemma,” he asked gently, “would she welcome me into her home?”
The question surprised her. “Why would you ask that?”
“I’ve been to your country. It isn’t precisely the most progressive where colored people are concerned.”
She bit back a retort. It wasn’t her Catullus questioned, or even her family. And he had a point. In Chicago, parts of the city were white, parts were Irish, or Italian, or Polish. And black. Some of the neighborhoods mixed. Others … didn’t.
What if she did walk into her family’s parlor on Catullus’s arm? Even if her family accepted him, the neighborhood wouldn’t. Mixed marriages had been legalized in Illinois only the year before, but that did not mean they were applauded and endorsed. Some states wouldn’t recognize marriages between different races, or outlawed them. In the newsroom, she’d heard stories of black families being forced out of white neighborhoods, violence, and the few mixed-race couples had a difficult time finding anyplace where they could make a home. The Trib boys laughed and said crude things about these families and couples, while Gemma sat silently, her face burning in shame. Shame because she did not speak out. Shame because she was surrounded by intolerance.
Her mood, which had been buoyed by Catullus’s presence and the cheer of the fire, sank. Too much had been happening for her to stop and think about what lay ahead for her and him. It didn’t matter what she felt in her heart. To her homeland, she and Catullus should not be together.
“Is that cauldron done boiling?” she asked, rather than voice any of her worries.
He rose to check the pot. As he moved, his spectacles lost their reflective gleam, so she could see his eyes again. A sadness there. They both knew that, if they did manage to survive this mission for the Blades and avert the Heirs’ intended disaster, Gemma and Catullus had another battle to fight. A battle with no clear villains, no single evil to defeat. Never-ending and amorphous. The hardest kind of battle to win.
His unexpected cry of triumph had her on her feet and at his side. “What is it?”
He held up the square of muslin. As he did so, steam rose up from the boiling water, misting his spectacles. “It’s done.”
Gemma peered at the fabric. Steam had soaked it until it became almost transparent. Lightly, she touched the muslin.
“Wet.”
“With water from the cauldron.” He moved the damp fabric away from the cauldron, farther than the flask that had held water, and the muslin remained heavy with liquid.
She looked back and forth between the fabric and Catullus, truly awestruck at his inventive mind. “You are a marvel, Mr. Graves.”
“Basic science, Miss Murphy.” Yet he beamed at her praise. Then sobered. “We cannot congratulate ourselves just yet. We have to take it back to Merlin before the water evaporates.”
Gemma groaned, thinking of the long voyage back across the Lake of Shadows and along the Deathless River. No doubt more awful creatures would try to stop or hurt them, making progress painfully slow.
A feminine soft chuckle caused her and Catullus to spin around. At the edge of the firelight stood a woman, her skin the color of a starless night, hair like silver cobwebs waving in an unseen current. She wore a circlet, studded with black stones, and her eyes glowed whitely. A shadow-hued gown draped over her ageless body. As she floated toward Gemma and Catullus, her approving gaze lingered on him.
“Oh, God,” Gemma muttered under her breath. “Not another magical tramp.”
“No ‘tramp,’ mortal.” The woman neared, becoming, upon closer inspection, even more uncanny, her proportions more elongated than a human’s, as though she were an odd reflection of beauty. “A queen.”
“Queen Mab,” said Catullus.
Gemma gulped. It wasn’t a smart idea to call faerie queens names as she inadvertently had. “Sorry, Your Highness. We had a little trouble on our way here.”
“With a Baobhan Sidhe,” Mab said, her voice cool as mist. “’Tis no wonder they tried to drink from your companion, mortal. With a light as strong as his, who could stay away?” She turned her gleaming eyes to Catullus and trailed her fingers across his jaw. “You even tempt one as ancient as I.”
Catullus blushed. “Ah … thank you, Your Majesty.”
Hell, Gemma thought. Was she going to have to fight this immortal queen for him? Well, Gemma knew a few dirty tricks, and she’d use them if it came to that.
“None have yet solved this riddle,” Mab continued, turning to the cauldron. “Until now. And I do so appreciate a clever, devious mind. For your cunning, I grant you two boons.”
A small metal box appeared at the faerie queen’s hem. “Place the fabric within this coffer, and it shall keep the water from returning to the air. You have but a few hours,” she cautioned, “and then the coffer shall disappear, and with it whatever was inside. Take it.”
Gemma quickly picked up the box, surprised at its heaviness. Catullus opened the box and carefully set the damp fabric inside before securing the lid.
“You are very generous, Your Highness,” he said, bowing.
“My generosity continues, clever mortal. Within the coffer is a piece of iron.”
Catullus’s brow knit as he tried to understand the significance of this.
“In the old stories,” Gemma explained, remembering, “iron is used to ward off faeries and faerie magic.”
“So long as the coffer is in your possession,” Mab continued regally, “you shall pass through the Night Forest unharmed.”
Though Gemma knew next to nothing about being in the presence of royalty, she attempted a curtsy. “Thanks again, Your Highness.”
The faerie queen inclined her head. “’Tis a trifle. You have amused me, mortals, and in my long, long life, I find it increasingly difficult to be amused. Now go,” she said, voice cooling, “for my temper is a mercurial thing, and I may decide to punish rather than reward you.”
Gemma and Catullus immediately began backing away from Mab. As they reached the edge of the clearing, the queen added, “And give my compliments to that madman in the oak. By sending you to me, he has supplied a moment’s respite from the weariness of my existence.”
“We are grateful—” Catullus began.
“Leave now!” Mab snapped. The air chilled, and barren trees rattled like bones at her words.
Not needing further encouragement, the two mortals hurried away, with Mab’s brittle, uncanny laughter ringing through the trees.
The journey back through the Night Forest p
assed much more quickly than before. None of the inhabitants of the Lake of Shadows or the forest troubled Gemma and Catullus, though creatures did watch from the depths of the darkness with malevolent, baleful stares. Gemma had no doubt that if they didn’t have the iron’s protection, the return voyage would have been a messy, ugly business.
“Think we’re not the most well-liked people in the Night Forest,” she murmured as they passed a pack of growling demon dogs.
“Not here to nurture friendships,” Catullus answered. He carried the box under one arm and had his shotgun ready in the other.
“You seem popular with the females, though,” she pointed out.
He made a noise of disgust. “I don’t want to be anyone’s plaything … or meal. Besides,” he added, “it’s you I love, so the matter is closed.”
There it was—that happy leap her heart gave when he said such things to her. She doubted she’d grow used to hearing him say that he loved her. Even in this damned dark forest, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. What the future held, no one knew, but for now, she had this, she had him, and she told herself it was enough.
“I think I see Bryn up ahead,” she said.
The edge of the Night Forest grew nearer, the boundary between light and darkness still sharply delineated. Only when Gemma and Catullus crossed over into the dusky light did she allow herself to sigh with relief. Her eyes ached as they adjusted to the brightness.
Bryn hopped down from a nearby branch, clearly surprised. “I never thought to see you alive,” he piped. “Did you get the water from Mab’s Cauldron?” “We did,” said Catullus.
Bryn danced in the air, gleeful. “You’ve done it! The Man in the Oak tested you, and you prevailed! ‘Tis marvelous!”
Catullus wrapped an arm around Gemma’s shoulder, and she clasped his waist, both grinning at the jigging pixie. It was marvelous. They’d faced some of the most dangerous, horrible creatures ever known, and solved the riddle of Mab’s Cauldron. The experience had been awful and terrible and thrilling. Not only did she and Catullus survive, but they had succeeded in their quest.
“Even got Mab’s protection for the journey back,” Gemma said.
Hefting the box, Catullus said, “Have it here.”
Bryn reared back. “’Tis iron! Keep it away from me!”
Catullus shifted the box away. “Apologies, Bryn.”
The mood of triumph evaporated. Gemma realized that their quest wasn’t over, only that they had accomplished only one small part of it.
Catullus must have realized the same thing. All levity gone, he said, “You must take us back to Merlin, at once.” He glanced at the box. “We’ve but one chance to free the sorcerer.”
“Will you truly free him?” the pixie asked anxiously. “Though he spoke sensibly, he is still quite out of his senses.”
“In or out of his senses,” Catullus said, grim, “he is our sole hope for survival.”
The pixie gulped, but nodded. He fluttered away, marking the path for Gemma and Catullus’s journey back to the mad sorcerer. There was still a long way to go.
Chapter 20
The Silver Wheel
Merlin remained as he had been for untold centuries, partially entombed within the oak tree. As Catullus, Gemma, and Bryn entered the clearing, the sorcerer was amusing himself by conjuring phantasms in the air. Figures of light and shadow danced to curious, hectic music, whirling together in dizzying reels.
Watching the shadow play, Catullus wondered if the figures reflected the spinning mind of the sorcerer. Hopefully, Merlin retained enough sense to remember who Catullus and Gemma were and on what errand the sorcerer had sent them.
Catullus and Gemma neared, with Bryn cautiously following. The sorcerer paid them no notice, absorbed in the spectacle dancing before him. Fascinating as it was, there wasn’t time to indulge in amusements, and Catullus reluctantly cleared his throat to gain Merlin’s attention.
“I know you are there, mortal.” The sorcerer kept his eyes focused on the swirl of color and movement. “This must play out.”
Catullus could not stifle his impatience. “But we haven’t any time—”
Merlin’s gaze darted to and from Catullus. In a distracted voice, he said, “And that is all I have. Time. An abundance of it. My mind is crowded with time.”
The metal box in Catullus’s hands, and its precious contents, could vanish at any moment. “We brought what you have asked for: water from Mab’s Cauldron.”
“We can set you free,” added Gemma, hopeful.
“Free,” Merlin repeated. He barked words in an ancient tongue, and the phantasms blew away like leaves. “The sun is free, and who shall reap his grain?”
A wary glance passed between Catullus and Gemma. They both wondered the same thing—if they could free Merlin, would the madman be of any use?
“Tell us what to do with the water,” Catullus prompted.
Merlin shifted, and the trunk of the tree moved with him as though its bark were a long robe. The sorcerer bent at the waist, partially disengaging himself from the trunk and placed his hand in the earth at the base of the oak. Though the soil was firm, when Merlin rose up again, his hand left a distinct impression within it.
“Pour the water into that,” the sorcerer directed.
From the metal box, Catullus removed the fabric. Thank God—or Mab—none of the water had evaporated. The box vanished the moment he took the fabric from it.
“Guess there’s no going back,” Gemma murmured.
Catullus knew they had the one chance to get this right. Crouching down next to the handprint, he grasped the wet muslin and wrung it out carefully.
“Clever.” Merlin chuckled. “I believed the only way to take water from Mab’s Cauldron was to use magic.”
“I used the magic of converting liquid to its vapor state through the application of heat.” Blades could not use magic that wasn’t theirs by right or gift, and none of his family nor ancestors possessed any magic. In the course of his work with the Blades, Catullus had witnessed and felt the power of magic, but never wielded it. The scientist in Catullus longed to experience it, even if only once. Sadly, he’d never been gifted with any magical power, and so could only speculate.
He focused now on the power he did command: the laws of science. Droplets of water dribbled from the fabric. It wasn’t much, but Catullus hoped it would be enough. He watched, and scarcely believed what he saw. Once again, his notions of science dissolved in the logic-defying principles of Otherworld.
The water did not absorb immediately into the earth. Nor did it fill the hand-shaped imprint. Instead, the water beaded and moved like liquid metal, forming itself into a circle in the middle of Merlin’s handprint. Spokes bisected the circle. The water solidified, turning not into ice, but silver.
“Take it,” said Merlin.
Gingerly, Catullus picked up the tiny wheel. It exuded subtle warmth in the center of his palm. Peering closely, he saw that it appeared to be entirely solid, the metal an unbroken ring. He held it up between his fingers and it gleamed in the sunlight.
Gemma cautiously touched the circle and smiled faintly at the marvel of it. “Wonderful enchantment.”
“It is the Wheel,” said Merlin, solemn. “The Round Table. The circular World.” He fixed Catullus with this fathomless gaze. “The Compass.”
Catullus’s hand unconsciously drifted to the pocket that held his Compass. No surprise that this essential symbol of the Blades meant so much. And it could not astonish Catullus that Merlin knew not only about the Blades of the Rose, but also about their use of the Compass as their symbol and unifying principle. Energy prickled along the back of Catullus’s neck as he truly began to fathom the breadth of the sorcerer’s power and knowledge.
“The circularity of Magic,” Merlin continued. “No beginning, no end. Hold it sacred and safe, for the bearer of the Silver Wheel shall have the means to speak to and be heard by Arthur.”
The wheel suddenly felt much h
eavier and more precious. “Meaning, that we are the ones who will communicate with Arthur and break his connection to the Heirs.”
Gemma glanced back and forth between the silver wheel and Merlin. “Can’t this free you from your prison? Wasn’t that the reason we went into the Night Forest?”
“My liberation was never the purpose. The Wheel has not that power.”
“We can’t just leave you here,” she objected.
“’Tis not your quest to undertake. Now your object is to reach Arthur before he reaches the Primal Source.”
Catullus slipped the wheel into an inside pocket in his coat. The wheel’s warmth radiated like a second heart. “On behalf of the Blades, I thank you. I am only sorry that we cannot help you.”
“Presumptuous mortal,” scoffed Merlin. “To assume I need or want your aid.”
“I meant no insult.” Negotiating the sorcerer’s unbalanced mind proved a constant challenge.
Quick as lightning, Merlin’s temper shifted again. Deep wrinkles of humor fanned at the corners of his eyes as he looked Catullus and Gemma up and down. “Fine knightly heroes you make in your tattered garb. In Camelot, you would’ve been sent straight to the kitchens. Or stables. No,” he tutted, shaking his head, “this shall not do.”
The sorcerer sang out a quick spell. The words left his mouth in a cloud of bright moths, fluttering around and then alighting upon Catullus and Gemma.
“Hey!” She tried to shoo the moths away. “They’re eating my clothes.”
“No great loss,” Merlin chuckled.
The moths were, in fact, devouring both Catullus and Gemma’s garments, faster than any moth in the ordinary world might. The insects ate everything. From Catullus’s heavy coat to Gemma’s drawers, nothing was safe. Not even their boots. The moths nibbled through the leather. The sensation was peculiar—not painful, more like an aggressive tickling.
As the moths moved over her, Gemma giggled, then scowled in consternation. Catullus, too, was forced to keep his mouth pressed tight to prevent a very unmanly giggle from escaping.
