“Please don’t tell me you need some kind of sex ed class,” Keva says the moment we’re alone. “I know you guys have managed to get past your issues, and I’m glad for you. Truly. But do you really need to rub your relationship in my face?”
“Actually, I need you to do something for me,” I say.
“Please tell me you need some kind of sex ed class,” Keva says.
“I’ve decided to join hands with Mordred.”
Keva’s jaw drops open.
“It’s the only way,” I say hurriedly. “You’ve seen it for yourself. Even with the Fey’s help, we’re not strong enough to defeat Carman.”
“You did just fine the other day,” Keva says.
I grimace. “That was my mother, not me. And she says she’s dying, so she can’t do that again.”
My voice catches, and to my shock, I have to stop talking to keep from tearing up.
“The only way we can stand a chance to do so,” I continue, coughing slightly, “is if Mordred and I work together to separate Carman from her dragon. Only then will she become weak enough for us to face her. I’ve put some thought into it—”
“Surprisingly.”
“—and I think the only way we can do that is to have Carman entirely focused on something else for the time needed.”
“Focused on you, you mean?”
“Well, on us,” I say, with a slight laugh I hope doesn’t sound terrified. “And then the knights can take care of the dragon.”
Keva eyes me for a long moment, as if deciding whether she should conk me on the head instead of listening to all the crazy talk.
“Arthur doesn’t know, does he?” she asks.
“He thinks he’s going to come with me,” I say, fingers curling and uncurling around the hem of my jacket.
At last, Keva lets out a resigned sigh. “Very well. But promise me one thing.”
“What?”
A wolfish smile pulls at her tired face. “That at the end of all this, you’ll make the bitch burn.”
Chapter 31
I rush after Sir Cade as he storms on ahead, his disgust rolling off him in angry waves. Luther’s trial is over, and as I promised Arthur, I’ve gone against everyone’s expectations and actually taken up the man’s defense. Maybe being Gorlois’s daughter helped, for in the end, the jury voted in favor of stripping Luther of all his ranks, allowing him to keep his life in exchange for becoming a regular soldier in our army.
“Uncle, please,” I call out, “let me explain!”
I turn another corner, and finally catch up with him in front of a tarpaulin wall. The blue canvas has been stretched across the hallway to seal off the now-missing eastern section of the Ops Center.
“I know it’s hard to understand, uncle, but—”
Sir Cade lifts his hand, and I clamp my mouth shut, only just now noticing he isn’t alone.
“Whatever did you do to the mutt, Cade, that she turned against you?” Sister Marie-Clémence asks, her voice quavering with age. “I had warned you not to trust her, but I thank you nonetheless. Having Sir Luther demoted on baseless grounds was mistake enough.”
My uncle hefts a tired sigh. “Has anyone ever told you that you suffer from glossolalia[105], Sister?” he asks instead.
Sister Marie-Clémence’s eyes narrow to slits. “You might have won a couple of jousts, Cade,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean your stream of luck won’t tarry. Politics is a long game, boy.”
“And I’d suggest you keep your patronizing tone for those who care,” Sir Cade says coldly. “I, on the other hand, know you’re out of touch with reality, or you’d know we’ve run out of time to play these silly games of yours.”
I can’t help the surge of satisfaction I feel at the sight of Sister Marie-Clémence sputtering in outrage, and quickly look down before she can see it on my face. My gaze catches instead on the old newspapers that still litter the floor, and feel any fleeting mirth dissolve at the old headlines.
Dämon Besitz![106]
Les Templiers sont toujours parmi nous ! [107]
The end of days is near – the dead walk again!
My uncle’s right. If Sister Marie-Clémence can’t tell we’ve got more urgent business to deal with than who gets to sit on the Board, then maybe she should be forced to retire.
A gloved hand pushes the blue tarpaulin aside, and two knights freeze at our sight, before saluting.
“News?” Sir Cade asks sharply.
“Another report from Newgrange, sir,” the first man says, handing over a manila folder.
I watch over my uncle’s shoulder as he opens it up, and riffles through the pictures within. My eyebrows hike up as I immediately recognize the patterns on them. They’re the same symbols I saw burned into Carman’s clavicle the time I tried to kill her.
“These come from engravings found deep under the site,” the knight continues, “down the passage sir Lamorak uncovered before he got caught. As you see, the triple moon superimposed by the sign of a troll cross[108] is surmised to represent Carman herself. And, if you look further down, it appears her people tried to burn her at the stake.”
“Still not enough to know her weakness,” Sir Cade mutters.
My uncle snaps the file shut before Sister Marie-Clémence can have a good look at what the knight’s talking about. I can see it infuriates her, but like my uncle said, they don’t matter much at this point, except as further proof of Carman’s semi-mortality.
“Get Emmerich to join me in the Hall of Mirrors,” Sir Cade says, whipping around to march back the way we came from.
I want to call him back, let him see me with pride as he once did. But it’s too late. Sister Marie-Clémence has dismissed the two knights and is already hurrying after him, leaving me alone in the drafty corridor.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat at the thought that my only living relative—scratch that—my only living human relative doesn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. Not now that I’ve broken his trust.
I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath. Perhaps it’s for the best. It’ll make my next betrayal easier for him to accept.
Shivering against the cold, I push the tarpaulin aside and make my way between the debris of the old east wing. The sky’s clear of clouds tonight, the tempest I’d brought down over Caamaloth long gone, but people are still working hard to clear out the rubble, searching for those who are still unaccounted for. In a few hours’ time, I’ll be gone. Would any of these people miss me, and search for me too? Or will they say good riddance? Yet I know I shall miss my friends.
Keva with her knowing airs, the only one who knows exactly what I’ve already had to go through at Carman’s hands, the only one who’s always been brutally honest with me. Then there’s the cousins’ goofiness, and Hadrian’s seriousness. Gale, always there when we need him most. I’ll even miss Lugh’s brooding, despite his lies, as well as Blanchefleur’s fighting spirit.
And, finally, there’s Arthur.
Arthur who’s stood by me through thick and thin, who’s believed in me no matter what, and who’s defended me against everyone.
Just the thought of leaving him behind again is like a solid punch to the gut. It’ll be like stabbing him in the back again, and, this time, I won’t be coming back to ask for forgiveness.
It’s this last, heavy secret that leads my feet up the stairs to the dorms’ second floor, down the dim hallway, to stop before a simple wooden door marked with the number 327.
Heart pounding, I scratch softly on its panel before cracking the door open, and slipping inside.
“Who’s there?” Arthur’s sleepy voice growls.
“Shh, it’s just me.”
“Morgan?” Arthur sounds confused, though more awake.
He’s kept the drapes to his windows open, letting the moon’s silvery light limn the furniture in his room—the desk, where the notes he took in preparation for his father’s trial can still be seen, the dresser, where his clothes h
ave been carefully folded, and his bed.
Arthur sits up, the covers folding back, his hair mussed. “Is everything all right?”
Hanging from the bedpost near his head, is Excalibur. The sword’s soft glow reflects in Arthur’s eyes, eyes so full of care and concern for me I almost want to scratch my whole plan and toss it in the bin.
I bite on my lower lip to keep from spilling the truth. Instead, I slowly cross the room, taking my boots off, then my gloves and coat. But for once, Arthur doesn’t complain, keeping his eyes on me the whole time.
I note the hitch in his breath as I lift his cover and slide into the bed next to him.
“Wh-What are you doing?” Arthur asks at last in a strangled voice.
“Finding a little peace in the middle of this war,” I say, sounding braver than I feel.
“Did Keva put you up to this?”
I move closer to Arthur, but he shifts away from me with a low hiss, until his back’s flat against the wall.
“No,” I say, a little annoyed at his reaction. “But if you don’t want me to be here, I can always leave.”
“Don’t!”
Arthur’s hand shoots out before I can scoot away, and a dumb smile spreads on my face.
“Don’t,” he repeats, softer, his fingers doing little circles around my forearm that send tingles all the way down to my toes.
“Good,” I whisper, so giddy with relief I want to laugh. “I didn’t want to go.”
For a long moment we don’t say another word, staring at each other until I can barely breathe. I feel suddenly shy, my thoughts all drawing blank.
“I thought you wouldn’t want to see me,” Arthur says, and my heart squeezes at the hurt in his voice.
“Why would you think that?” I ask.
The bed shifts as he shrugs. “Because of what I asked you to do for me. For Luther.”
“You didn’t ask me for anything, Arthur,” I say, drawing closer to him so he can see I’m not making anything up. “I did it willingly. You know”—I force myself to breathe—“you know I don’t want you to get hurt. Ever.”
He lets out a relieved chuckle.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
Arthur brushes my hair back, out of my face. “It’s amazing how little you’ve changed,” he says.
I pull a little away from him. “Hell stopped my growth spurt, if that’s what you’re talking about,” I mumble, wondering if it’s strange for him to be with someone who still looks like a high schooler, when he could be in college. I’d heard of time flowing differently in some Fey Demesnes and the nasty side effect it can have on humans, as Sir Rip van Winkle can attest. I simply never bothered to think it would be the same in Hell.
“No, I mean, there’s still so much…innocence in you.”
As I feared. He must be seeing me as a child now. “Yeah, that’s exactly why I got here,” I say, piqued, “because I’m oh-so-innocent.”
“You know what I mean”, Arthur says. “It’s like none of the horrors you’ve been through have managed to touch you, touch your soul. And I’m grateful for it.”
I pause, turning his words over. “Maybe…,” I start, turning back to face him. “I guess…it’s how I’ve learned to cope with life. By forgetting everything that can hurt. That way, I leave plenty of room for the good stuff.”
Ever so carefully, I reach up in the semi-darkness, my hand coming to rest lightly upon his cheek. I trace his recently-shaved jaw down to the tiny cleft in his chin. Arthur sucks in his breath as my fingers graze his mouth. Smiling, I lean into him, until my lips meet his in a soft kiss full of ache and yearning and barely conceived hopes.
I slide my hand to the back of Arthur’s neck, fingers playing in the soft curls of his hair. His lips part, tongue darting over mine, as if to taste me. I gasp in surprise, relishing the feel of him. Then Arthur’s hands are at my sides, tentative, exploring, lighting tons of tiny fireworks along my skin.
I wish we’d never stop, that Fey and knights alike could leave us alone, and that Carman would stay holed up in whatever part of Hell she favors.
Arthur’s lips leave my mouth to trace a burning trail down my throat, and, in that moment, I forget about everything else.
Keva was wrong.
There is something better than kissing.
◆◆◆
I wait until I hear Arthur’s breathing slow to the steady rhythm of sleep, his chest rising and falling gently beneath my cheek, then carefully slide out of bed. I quickly dress up, careful not to wake him up, then pause one last long second to memorize every plane of his face. The way his lashes fall over his cheeks. The dark curls framing his face on the pillow. The frown that usually creases his brow momentarily erased.
“Please take care,” I whisper, throat constricted. I let my hand hover over his without touching, and, before I lose my will, I flee.
My legs feel like lead as I retrace my footsteps down the long hallway, head lost in thought. This is the best I can do, the best chance of success I can offer, however flawed my plan may be. Yet why do I still feel so wretched?
A slight rustle draws my attention to the left. I start to turn towards it, when I register movement on my other side, and a fist connects with my temple. My head snaps sideways, stars bursting in my vision. My legs give out, and someone catches me before I can fall, wrenching my arms behind me at the same time. I choke back a gasp of pain before a thick piece of cloth is forced into my mouth.
Within seconds, it’s all over.
I whimper, still dazed, as both captors carry me away. My knee bangs against the banister as they rush down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, they turn into a narrow hallway that leads to a side exit. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cold night air. The wind nips at my face. My shoulders hurt, arms tingling from being nearly twisted out of their sockets.
The two men haul me across the gravelly path towards the Central Ops building, and I glimpse the warm fires that line the main alley where knights are standing watch. But they’re keeping an eye out for invaders, not for a couple of their own soldiers carrying a girl between them, and we slip by unnoticed. Up a flight of stairs, across another hallway, and out again into a small, inner courtyard.
Finally, the men stop. Light spills on the flagstones as they open a door, stabbing at my eyes.
“Here’s the demon,” the man to my left says, as both toss me down.
I’m still too stunned, my arms numb, to try to soften the fall, and I crack my head on the stone floor. I moan in the gag, roll slowly into a kneeling position, and blink blearily around.
We’re inside a small chapel, judging by the large wooden cross that takes up half the far wall. In front of it is a lonely prie-dieu[109], the wood smoothed down where countless people have knelt before to pray.
And standing to the side, is Sister Marie-Clémence, her pale face stern inside her coif[110].
“It is time for you to repent of your sins,” she says.
One of the men grabs my hair, and I growl in pain and fear as he drags me across the chapel towards the forbidding woman.
I try to fight back, scratching uselessly at the man’s gloved fist. Sparks shoot out from my fingertips, and the knight jerks back in shock. But the second man is on me in a split second, and drags me the rest of the way, chaining me down to the prie-dieu, before finally removing my gag.
“You,” I spit.
I glare up at Sister Marie-Clémence’s lined face, her own flinty eyes boring into me like a scientist before a dissection of a particularly gnarly toad.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, pulling futilely at my chains.
One of the knights hits me hard on the shoulder with his sheathed sword, and I yell sharply, folding over the prie-dieu in pain.
“You will only speak when spoken to,” the man says gruffly.
“I know what this is about,” I say, breathing hard. “You’re afraid of me. Afraid of what I may have planned for Luther. Didn’t think I’
d talk for him, did you?”
This time, the knight hits me in the back of the head. Pain explodes behind my eyes. I pull at my chains, but they’re made for the toughest Fey and only cut into my wrists.
“Sir Luther would have been found innocent even without your intervention, girl,” Sister Marie-Clémence says scathingly. “All he’s guilty of is defending our Order against a growing cancer before it could wipe us all out. A cancer you are working to bring back.”
“Peace is a cancer to you?” I say through gritted teeth.
Sister Marie-Clémence motions with her pointy chin at the man behind me, and a pair of gloved hands grabs the back of my shirt, before ripping it in two. Goose pimples spread down my spine.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
“I don’t trust you,” Sister Marie-Clémence continues. “I know you’re planning our downfall. But our Board’s been blindsided by your little display of power the other day. They forget that the only good thing about the Fey is their ogham.”
“But that wasn’t m—”
The first lash hits my back, tearing a cry from my lips. The second lash hits. Burning pain cuts across my skin. I slump forward on the prie-dieu, body jerking as the whip cracks across my back, again and again, until I lose count.
“In my generosity, I am giving you two choices,” Sister Marie-Clémence says as the flogging continues. “Either you tell me where you’ve hidden your ogham, or we carve you up until we find it ourselves.”
A bark of laughter escapes me. “Go. To. Hell,” I gasp.
The lash bites into my flesh again, spraying blood across the white stone floor. I scream, dark spots swimming in my vision. Tears stream down my face. My whole back is blazing, throbbing in agony.
Indistinctive shouts reach us from outside. And despite the pain, a little part of me perks up—they’re here.
“Make sure we’re not interrupted,” Sister Marie-Clémence says.
The whip strikes again, tearing another cry from my bloody lips. A shudder passes through me as the knight pulls his arm back, readying for another hit.
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