by Nina Mason
“Where?”
He swiped the air with both hands, feeling no more than he could see.
“Oh, my God,” she said loud enough to give him a start. “The cloak of mist must have returned after my clothes dried out.”
She was indeed as invisible as she’d been when she entered Cumberland’s chamber of tortures. Talking of which, he could still be seen as plain as day and the footsteps were drawing nearer by the second.
“Leith.” Her unseen hand touched his arm. “Who was that faery?”
His mind was elsewhere, so it took him a minute to realize what she meant. When he did, he swallowed before saying, “That was Belphoebe. Though what she’s doing here, I cannot guess.”
He went back to his planning. Time was of the essence. The only remedy was to shift into a creature big enough to paralyze them with fear or small enough to slip past them undetected.
“Are you still in love with her?”
He frowned at the space she occupied “No. Of course not. How can you even ask me that?”
“How can I not?”
His blood heated at the insecurity underlying the question. How could she doubt his love, given where they were and why?
“I love you, Gwyndolen, all right? You and only you.”
“What about your wife?”
“That’s different.” He rolled his eyes. “And this is neither the time nor place to have this discussion.”
She said nothing more. Good. He needed to concentrate on the problem at hand. He stroked his jaw, trying to decide what to shift into. Belphoebe seemed to get around fairly well as a rat, so he might also, unless Cumberland became an owl again. He shuddered as he imagined his rodent self being scooped up by the duke’s sharp talons. No, neither a rat nor any other creature birds of prey fed upon. His alter ego, while too big for an owl, stood no chance against a sword.
What then? A dragon?
He applied the litmus test. Whatever he turned into had to be small enough to move through the castle and tough enough to deflect swords and arrows.
On the upside, a dragon had armor-like scales, formidable claws, and fiery breath. A dragon could withstand anything the duke and his men might throw at him. On the downside, dragons were huge. While such a creature might handily defeat the garrison, it would be hard pressed to navigate the dungeon’s labyrinth of narrow corridors.
What else might work? He would need wings to fly them back to Brocaliande once they got out of here. And they would, dammit, or die trying.
He scrubbed his face and plowed his fingers through his hair. Think, man, think. There had to be a creature that was winged, fierce, and agile. The queen’s standard popped into his mind. Aye, of course. The creature depicted thereon not only fit the bill, it also was stamped upon his brain, making it easy to visualize. He’d used the banner as a focal point to endure the abuse of Cumberland and his guards.
The footsteps had stopped right outside the cell. The scuff of boots on stone and deep English murmurs came through the door.
He turned to Gwyndolen. “Can you find your way to the office?”
“I think so,” she whispered. “What are you going to do?”
“Shift into something nimble yet terrifying to hold them off while you go after the cup. Once you’ve got it, meet me at the edge of the cliff above the sea cave.”
“I’m not leaving you here to fight them alone.”
He was glad he couldn’t see her. If the look in her eyes matched her desperate tone of voice, it might melt his resolve.
“Aye, you are,” he hushedly insisted. “It’s the only way…and there’s no time to argue or strategize.”
“But, I’m afraid. What if one of us gets caught or—”
Before she could finish, he found her invisible yet still material form and clamped his hands around what he presumed were her shoulders. Pulling her to him, he gathered her in his arms and held her against his chest. “You’ve got great courage, my wee mouse.” He stroked her hair. “It’s one of the things I love most about you. Leave the duke and the guards to me and find the cup. If it’s not in the office, find your way back to the throne room and look there. Queen Morgan won’t like being without the source of her power for long.”
The jiggling of the lock broke them apart. With supernatural speed, he escorted her into the farthest corner and returned to the center of the room. Taking a deep breath, he called the image of the griffin to the front of his mind.
As soon as he’d spoken the incantation, his muscles began to pull and twitch. His face pushed out and hardened into a beak, his legs contorted into haunches, his tailbone elongated and sprouted a tuft, and his body grew feathers and fur.
Just as wings burst fully formed from his shoulder blades, the door swung open with a bone-chilling groan. Two uniformed guards came in and cast around in the dark. A second pair stood guard just outside. Leith opened his beak and let out an ear-piercing shriek. The men’s already pale faces turned as white as their waistcoats. Their eyes enlarged in stunned surprise as they stepped back with the precision of a well-practiced drill.
If Leith’s physiology had allowed him to grin, he would have. The duke might have prepared his men for the raucous Highland charge, but he’d wager anything he’d failed to train them to combat a griffin.
He was right. They turned and fled. He bounded after them, talons lashing at their backs. Let them run. Let them feel the swift sword of retribution. Let them know how it felt to be cut down like haystalks while retreating from a merciless enemy.
Chapter 20
The cup, to Gwyn’s great dismay, wasn’t in the duke’s office. After threading her way through the bewildering maze of corridors, she finally relocated the throne room’s red doors. She’d passed several guards along the way and a few naked drones, but managed to avoid discovery by pressing herself to the wall until they were gone. The whole time, her heart pounded so hard, she was sure they would hear it.
She was scared. Pee-her-pants scared. More scared than she’d ever been in her entire fear-ruled life. For once, she had good reason. She was about to steal the prized object of a hardhearted queen. The woman ate her own sons, for the love of God, and punished those who crossed her with the cruelest of curses. Gwyn shuddered at the thought of what Queen Morgan might do to the thief who purloined the precious cup she used for her sorcery. The prospects were far too gruesome to entertain, especially for someone with an imagination as vivid as hers.
Leith was right. She had courage. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. She’d just let fear keep her in chains. Not because her parents were killed. Not because of her foster father’s abuse. No, the blame for being a frightened mouse rested solely on her own shoulders. But no more. She was ready to take charge of her own life.
Relics lined the hall outside the throne room. Celtic crosses, statues of pagan deities, crescent moons, crystal formations, and chalices, many of them embedded with pearls and precious gems. She picked up a fancy gold goblet and slipped it into her belt, praying the cup would fool the queen long enough for her to rendezvous with Leith.
The red doors were only slightly ajar. She might be invisible, but she wasn’t immaterial. She’d have to wait until somebody came or went. Meanwhile, she’d use the time to devise a plan to distract the queen while she grabbed the real cup. Assuming, of course, the cup had been returned.
While waiting for her chance, Gwyn dipped into the well of stories she’d heard from her friends at SCA. In many of them, the hero used a magic harp or draught to put to sleep all who endangered his quest. Unfortunately, she had nothing of the sort at her disposal.
While keeping a wary eye out for trouble, she fished for another scheme. After several minutes of racking her brain, a kernel of an idea emerged. If Avalon operated in the manner of a beehive, maybe Avalonians would react to smoke the same way bees did. Yes, it was a long shot, but she didn’t have any other ideas.
First, however, she needed a smoker. Hope flickered when she spotted a large silv
er censer nestled among numerous burning candles. Excellent. Now, all she needed was the kindling.
The censer turned out to be empty but, luckily, there was a basket of dried herbs under the table. After filling the bowl with crispy foliage, Gwyn listened at the gap in the door to be sure the queen was inside. Morgan was and, from the sound of things, Cumberland had recovered his wits.
Gwyn grew anxious as the duke filled the queen in on what had happened in the dungeon. Now that Morgan knew of her presence in the castle, time was of the essence. With trembling hands, she positioned the censer in front of the crack and lit the herbs. Plumes of pungent white smoke began to rise at once. The plumes soon formed a cloud. She did her best to fan the smoke toward the gap between the doors. An eternity seemed to pass before someone shouted “Fire!”
Then, all hell broke loose. The doors flew open, upsetting the censer and spilling smoldering ash on the carpet, which ignited in a flash. While the guards attempted to stomp out the flames, Gwyn slipped past them into the throne room. The space was so thick with smoke, she found it hard to keep from coughing. On the up side, the queen had left her throne. Better still, she’d left the Cup of Truth behind.
Freeing the substitute chalice from her belt, Gwyn raced forward. Her throat tickled something fierce. Fighting the urge to clear it, she made the switch and turned to leave. The side door flew open. In came the queen, followed by the duke. Clutching the cup to her bosom, Gwyn sprinted toward the still-open red doors.
The urge to cough overwhelmed. She swallowed hard in an effort to abate the desire. It didn’t help. She held her breath. Do not cough. Do not cough. Whatever else you do, do not cough. She was just steps from the door when the queen’s shrill voice rang out.
“I am a fair and benevolent ruler!”
The cup broke into pieces in Gwyn’s hands. Clutching desperately, she cradled the shards against her breast and kept running.
Behind her, the queen screamed, “Guards! My royal chalice has been stolen!”
The guards who’d been stomping out the fire stepped into the doorway, blocking Gwyn’s escape.
“The thief is there,” the queen bellowed. “Where there is a gap in the smoke. Do you see?”
Nodding in unison, the redcoats entered the room and drew their swords with an unsettling swoosh of steel. The vacant expressions they wore as they cast around told her they hadn’t yet homed in on her. Tightening her grip on the broken cup, she veered around them. A terrible clatter greeted her exit. The tickle in her larynx was now acute. Unable to bear it any longer, she cleared her throat. The sound was lost beneath the crescendoing commotion.
She wasn’t about to stick around to find out what was making all the racket. Still clutching the broken pieces to her chest, she took off in the opposite direction.
The corridor was long and narrow. At the first opportunity, she ducked around a corner and stopped to catch her breath. A cautious peek back the way she’d come ignited her alarm. Guards swarmed the area like agitated red ants. A few had their weapons drawn. All wore expressions of terror.
Adrenaline coursed through her system as she observed the puzzling spectacle from her hiding place. Most of the soldiers streamed into the throne room. Some ran outside. Others tore down the corridor toward her. They seemed more concerned with what was chasing them than with pursuing her, so she stayed put and went on watching to see what had them all so frightened. A moment later, she got her answer.
The griffin was at once menacing and majestic. Its eagle’s head and long neck were covered in white feathers now stained pink with blood. The front legs were thick, more reptilian than birdlike, and ended in fearsome-looking talons, also bloody. Clamped in its sharp beak was a dismembered arm still wearing its red-wool sleeve. The huge wings sprouting from the beast’s shoulders obscured her view of its leonine hindquarters.
With a piercing shriek, the griffin tossed its head and flung the arm away. The wall at Gwyn’s back shook as if terrified. With a swipe of its claws, the creature cut down the nearest row of redcoats. Their agonized screams chilled her blood. The soldiers who’d come this way tore past and disappeared down another passageway.
Over the melee, the queen’s voice rang out. “Summon my archers! And find that little thief who stole my cup!”
* * * *
The queen’s outburst provided Leith the griffin with two critical pieces of information. The first was that Gwyndolen had succeeded in her quest and was likely still nearby. The second was that he needed to locate his brave mouse without delay. Swordsmen he could handle because none could get past his defenses. The same could not be said of archers, especially Avalonian archers, whose skills knew no equal.
His only chance was to find Gwyndolen and get the hell out of Avalon before the archers could assemble. Easier said than done when she remained invisible. He pushed through the crush of redcoats, beak and talons thrashing, careless of life and limb. There was a large leaded-glass window opposite the throne room. He made for it, knocking down guards like wooden soldiers. Crouching before the window, he cast his eagle-eyed gaze down the corridor opposite the one he’d just exited. She had to have gone that way. There was nowhere else to run.
“Gwyndolen,” he shouted loud enough to be heard over the din. “If you can hear me, come quickly and jump on my back!”
He turned his head from side to side, keeping an eye out for any ambush attempts. The guards, to his delight, were keeping their distance. Apparently, undead Englishmen were even more cowardly than when alive. After a few excruciating minutes, something touched his haunches. Alarm pricked, but didn’t deflate the balloon of hope in his heart. He pivoted his head for a backward glance. There was no one there.
“Gwyndolen?”
“Yes.”
Relief swept through his bloodstream as her weight came down just below his wings. He folded them over her and leapt. Though the glass shattered, the lead grid held the panes in place like a giant web.
“Hold on tight.”
“I can’t or I’ll drop the cup.”
Locking her down with his wings, he stepped back and charged the weakened window. The braces snapped under the force of the impact. In an explosion of glass and mesh, he sailed through, flew over the bridge, and set down on the other side of the gates.
“Toss me the cup so you can hold on.”
“I can’t. It’s in pieces. The queen broke it with a lie.” Her voice quavered as she added, “Oh, Leith. What are we going to do?”
“Say something truthful over the pieces and they’ll rejoin.”
The pieces clattered to the ground.
As he turned his head to look at them, she shouted from his back, “Gwyn the Meek is no more.”
No sooner had she said the words than the Cup of Truth repaired itself. When her arms encircled his neck, he snatched up the cup with his beak, spread his wings, and took flight. He soared over the cliffs and out across the sea, looking back every few minutes.
He had no doubt the royal archers would come after him and, if they got within range before he reached the borderlands, their chances weren’t good.
Still, better to meet a noble end than to be offered as a tithe to the Dark Lord or rot in prison for the rest of eternity. He’d been willing to make the sacrifice when Gwyndolen’s life was on the line, but not now. If he couldn’t return her to safety, he’d take her with him into the Afterworld so they could find each other again in their next incarnations.
He flew on, still checking the rearview every few minutes. When they were less than halfway to Brocaliande, a soft tinkling reached his ears. The sound was akin to dozens of wind chimes ringing all at once.
His skin prickled with alarm. He knew that sound. He’d heard it each year on Samhain when the whole colony rode out of Avalon. A backward glance confirmed his fears. The royal archers were in hot pursuit. Hundreds of them astride wave-trotting white ponies.
Brocaliande was still miles away, the horde of archers was gaining on them, and his stre
ngth was rapidly waning. His wings already ached so badly with fatigue it took everything he had to maintain his altitude. Still, he couldn’t give up. For the sake of Gwyndolen and the bairn. Reaching deep for hidden reserves, he flapped his wings as hard as he could.
“Oh, my God.” Gwyndolen’s cry was barely audible over the whistling wind. “Are those the archers?”
Lifting a foreleg, he plucked the cup from his beak with a talon. “Aye. They’re going to try and shoot me down.”
“Can they do that?”
“They can. But not until we’re in range.”
“Then fly faster.”
“I’m flying as fast as I can.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her his wings were trembling with exhaustion.
“How much farther is Brocaliande?”
“Farther than I’d like.”
He kept flapping, but his wings now felt leaden. Meanwhile, the archers had closed the distance with alarming rapidity. He pressed on, losing both speed and altitude. It was no use. Brocaliande had not yet appeared on the horizon and the archers were almost in range. If they let their arrows fly, they’d likely hit Gwyndolen and he couldn’t let that happen.
“Please tell me you can swim,” he said.
“Of course I can, but why?”
“I’m going to dive and, when I do, I want you to slip off my back into the sea.”
“But—the water will make me visible again.”
“Try to keep your head under until I’ve led them away.”
“Led them away? To where?”
“Where they can’t hurt you.”
“No! I won’t let you. They’ll kill you.”
“Aye, probably,” he agreed with a pain in his chest. “But it’s the only way to keep you safe.”
* * * *
There was no time to waste arguing against Leith’s plan. As much as Gwyn resented being left behind, she could come up with no better suggestion. Even as she let go of his feathery neck, she clung to her fraying hope. Yes, their situation seemed dire, but she refused to allow doubt to creep in. Somehow, they would prevail, damn it. She couldn’t see how, but they had to. That was all there was to it.
