by Frank Miller
“Of course we want the bloody sword,” Uther spat.
“Well then, you need a plan, don’t you? For instance, it might be nice to know who currently wields it. One might think this falls under Merlin’s jurisdiction. Where is he anyway?” Lunette smirked.
Uther gritted his teeth. “Rotting in our dungeons.”
“Well, that certainly won’t do,” Lunette said as she sprinkled sugar over her latest tray of treats. “A Merlin rotting is a Merlin plotting.”
Uther feigned a smile. “You do not amuse us.”
Lady Lunette wiped her hands on a cloth and got down to business. “Tell me, what loyalty has Merlin ever shown to this crown?”
“Shockingly little, Mother.”
“And yet you allow him to lounge about court like an old hound and empty your wine barrels.”
“Lest we forget”—Uther turned to face her—“it was you who imposed him upon us when we were ten years old.”
“Yes, I confess falling prey to the illusion of Merlin the Magician years ago. But I’ve learned, Uther. Have you? Kings rise and fall, yet Merlin always survives. What does that tell you about which master he serves? You? Or himself?”
Uther’s head was pounding. “Yes, fine, Mother, but what does this have to do with the sword or Cumber and our burning ports?”
“Your weakness,” Lady Lunette shot back. “That’s what they have in common. And I hasten to add to the mix Father Carden and his Red Paladins, who apparently can march through your lands and burn villages with impunity.”
It wasn’t just his mother’s criticism that galled him but the enjoyment she took in offering it. She made it painfully clear that he was worthless in her eyes. Not wishing to give her any more pleasure, Uther turned his attention to the trays of colorful treats adorning the tower.
“Are they all poisoned?” he asked her.
“Not all.”
Uther sighed. “What would you have us do, Mother?”
“Be the damn king,” she said as she flattened dough between her hands. “Demonstrate to your court, your subjects, and potential usurpers what happens to layabouts and traitors.” She pressed the dough onto a tray. “Kill Merlin.”
This shook Uther from his reverie of self-pity. “Kill him?”
Lady Lunette nodded. “Publicly, loudly, so that it rattles in the Ice King’s halls.”
At first blush, the idea buoyed Uther’s spirits. It was tangible. It was real. But just as quickly, fears of the fallout and repercussions from the mysterious Shadow Lords gave him pause. “It’s dangerous.”
“Even better. It will show there’s more than silk underneath those breeches. And it will send a warning shot to his friends the Shadow Lords that you are not to be trifled with and that this Age of Wizards has come to an end.”
Her certainty was refreshing. Unlike Merlin, Lady Lunette offered no qualifiers, no equivocations or multiple interpretations. For all her cruelties, she spoke in absolutes, something Uther had been yearning for of late.
“And after?” Uther asked, testing whether his mother had truly thought this through.
She had.
“Embrace the Church. Ally with the Red Paladins against the Ice King and throw him back into the sea.”
“And why would the Red Paladins agree to this?” Uther pressed.
Lady Lunette shook her head at Uther. “Because you’re the bloody king, that’s why,” she scoffed. “And Cumber is a heathen, easy to paint as sympathetic to the Fey and loyal to the Old Gods. That will do it.”
Uther waited for the slashing comment, the backstabbing, but none came. His mother’s advice was sound, shrewd, and strong. Uther straightened. His shoulders broadened.
Lunette chuckled. “It will be easier to claim the sword when there are no kings to resist you.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Lady Lunette bowed her head.
Uther turned on his heel and marched for the door, then hesitated. A twinkle in his eye, he studied the treats on the trays for a third time. He pointed to a powdered sugar cake, but Lady Lunette cautioned against it with a shake of her head. Uther nodded; that one was poisoned. He spied a cinnamon twist and pointed to that one, eyebrows raised to his mother. Again she shook her head. A touch frustrated, Uther examined a tempting gingerbread and again appealed to Lady Lunette, who finally nodded. Pleased, Uther plucked up the cake and took a satisfying bite. He left the tower, a new spring in his step.
TWENTY-SIX
THE CAVERN WAS AGLOW WITH torch-light in preparation for the Joining ceremony. The air was rich and sweet, for the uneven floors had been carpeted with wildflowers of pinks and violets and blues. Fauns had crushed grapes for wine, and Cliff Walkers had done the same with acorns to make a paste for the maslin bread Morgan had stolen from the kitchen of the Broken Spear.
The Elders had eased up on the water rationing to allow the refugees to wash off the dirt, the blood, and the suffering from their bodies as best they could. There was an atmosphere of expectation, a brief escape.
A few Tusks beat on canvas drums while Fauns answered them with the lilting harmonics of lyres and hurdy-gurdies. An arbor of flowered branches stood at the center of the caves, and the Fauns intending to be joined stood beneath it, holding hands. Cora assumed the role of priestess and whispered and laughed with the Fauns as everyone took seats on and around the rocks. A soft breeze filtered through the half-dome roof, and the sky beyond the canopy was filled with stars.
Nimue caressed the soft rose petals of her bodice, feeling strangely exposed without her sword slung over her back. Instead her shoulders were bare and threaded vines entwined her lower arms and fingers like sleeves. She wore a corona of laurel around her head, and a braid of autumn leaves spilled down her neck.
A trio of Fey children took Nimue by the hand and led her to a boulder perched above the altar, where they could watch together. Morgan joined her there, wearing her own tiara of raven feathers and a patchwork gown adorned with autumn leaves.
Each clan had its own small rituals and dances for Joining ceremonies, and in pockets around the caves one could glimpse a window into these hidden worlds. The Fauns accented their antlers, twisting their necks in choreographed movements to bless the union with fertility, while the Snakes prowled on all fours in concentric circles, brushing heads and shoulders together, and Tusks stomped their hoofed feet in rhythmic bursts and loud guttural calls. Above their heads, Moon Wings fluttered like moths, spreading fireflies throughout the canopy.
Nimue was thirsty for the beauty of it all but had a sinking feeling. Who would remember these dances? What would happen to these Fey children celebrating birthdays in cold caves with no idea, in some cases, whether their mothers and fathers were alive or dead? Were there other survivors of Dewdenn? Would the stories and rituals of the Sky Folk die with her? The thought was too much to bear.
A Snake child squeezed her hand and smiled at her with tiny, sharp teeth.
What hope could she offer them? She was as orphaned and homeless as they were. But she knew her fate was as “joined” to these Fey Kind refugees as the sweet Fauns under the arbor were soon to be. Could she put her faith in this Merlin to protect them? A man Yeva said was a traitor to the Fey? And if that were true, why in the name of the gods had Lenore implored her to deliver the sword to him?
Nimue saw Arthur enter from the other side of the cave, looking awkward and out of place. His eyes flicked to Nimue, then away.
Morgan saw it too. “I warned you about him.”
Nimue shrugged. “He can do as he pleases. He owes me nothing.”
“Don’t take it personally. He’s a lost little boy. He doesn’t know what he wants.”
Nimue did not answer. Instead she listened as a Cliff Walker Elder recited ancient prayers and Cora translated.
“Je-rey acla nef’rach . . . ,” the Cliff Walker sang.
“Let each soul and spirit here be blended in one sacred space, with one purpose and one voi
ce,” Cora repeated.
“Jor’u de fou’el.”
“Born in the dawn, to pass in the twilight.” The assembled spoke in unison.
A Snake elder bound the hands of the Fauns with a ribbon.
The couple said together, “Under the eyes of the Hidden, under the eyes of the Gods, I join with you and we become one.”
The Elders from each clan encircled the couple, reciting ancient prayers, and when they had finished, the Fauns kissed and raised their bonded hands. A horn blew and a shower of leaves fell from above.
Dancing circles formed around the newly joined couple.
Nimue smiled and looked over at Arthur. He returned her smile. She slid down from her rock and crossed over to him. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she frowned. “What?”
“Um, nothing. You look like a . . . dream or something,” he said.
“Oh.” Nimue flushed. “Well, I just thought, since you’re going soon, we could . . .” She trailed off and decided to start over. “I just thought, maybe for an hour, we could simply be us. Without swords or Merlins or debts or paladins.”
Arthur nodded. “I would like that very much.”
“So what you’re saying is: you would like to dance with me very much.”
Arthur laughed. “That’s precisely what I’m saying, yes. Though I fear I’m a sad comparison to”—he gestured to her dress of rose petals—“this.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I think you look rather sharp.” Nimue took his hand and led him into the circle of dancers, and they were swiftly caught up in the merriment. Cups of wine were thrust into their hands, and they drank as they tried to match the others’ fast steps, especially those of the agile Fauns.
Nimue could feel Morgan watching from above.
The dances came and went, and so did the cups of wine, and before long, Arthur and Nimue found themselves in a quieter circle, a lute’s soft melody seemingly guiding their movements. Arthur bowed his head to touch hers and at that moment, Nimue lifted her lips to his. The kiss was brief. Arthur seemed about to speak, but she put a finger to his lips. He held her hand to his mouth, then pulled her into another kiss.
This one lasted longer. Deepened.
Couples and families swirled around them, but in that moment they were unaware of anyone else. When the kiss ended, Nimue hid her eyes and Arthur held her head to his chest. They swayed there in the gentle rhythm of the lute. After several long moments, Arthur gently lifted her chin. She looked into his gray wolf eyes as something dawned on him.
“Nimue.” He hesitated. “What if it’s you?”
“What if what’s me?”
“What if you’re my honor?” Arthur was serious. “What if you’re the justice I’m meant to serve?”
Nimue had started to answer when a commotion near the front of the caves drew their attention. The children were running toward something. New refugees staggered into the cavern, bewildered and exhausted. The music ceased and the Joining was forgotten as Fey Kind hurried water and food to the new arrivals. It took a moment before Nimue noticed a boy covered head to toe in dried mud, hands on his hips, sizing up the cavern with fearless eyes.
“Sq-Squirrel?” Nimue whispered. She took a few steps toward him to be sure. “Squirrel!”
Squirrel turned to Nimue, and a giant smile creased the dried mud on his cheeks. “Nimue!” He dashed to her and leaped into her arms, nearly knocking her over. She swung him about, then checked him up and down for injuries.
“I tried to stay, but the paladins were everywhere—”
Nimue wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close to her. “You were so brave, my Squirrel.”
Over his shoulder, she saw two warriors enter the cavern. The first was a woman with long arms, wearing purple robes, the dye as deep as any Nimue had ever seen. Her face was hidden beneath a cowl and she held in her hands a lean staff, carved with runes, made from a smooth wood Nimue did not recognize. The nails on the woman’s slender fingers were gleaming black, unnaturally curved, and sharp as knives. Most notable was a lush speckled tail that trailed from under the woman’s robe, the tip twitching nervously.
The second was a tall knight in leather armor, with a green, gleaming pauldron across his right shoulder, a broadsword at his hips, a longbow across his back, and a green helm with a chain-mail face shield and curving antlers.
“And is that the one who rescued you? The Green Knight?” Nimue asked.
Squirrel chuckled. “Nimue, you don’t know?”
IN THAT MOMENT THEY WERE UNAWARE OF ANYONE ELSE.
The Green Knight lifted the antlered helm from his head, revealing a sweating face with lean cheeks, a high forehead, and a patchy goatee.
Nimue’s lips parted with shock as she processed a face she hadn’t seen in almost ten years.
“It’s Gawain!” Squirrel shook her arm.
Arthur frowned. “Who’s Gawain?”
Stunned, Nimue pulled Squirrel by the arm toward the Green Knight, who took time to acknowledge the Fey children pulling at his gloves and belt. When he looked up at Nimue approaching, he squinted with confusion, unable to place the face after so much time.
“Gawain, it’s me.” Her voice shook. “It’s Nimue.”
His face lit up like the sun. “No, no, no, this is not Nimue. This is not her.” He laughed loudly and lifted her into the air. They both began talking immediately.
“You have to tell me everything! When did you come back?” Nimue gushed.
“This can’t be the skinny little tree climber I left behind! Who is this young woman? Tell me all!” His words tumbled over hers.
Arthur stood awkwardly by until Nimue recognized his discomfort. “Gawain, this is Arthur. We’re . . .” She laughed with nervousness. “Friends? Hard to describe, exactly. We’ve been on quite the journey together.”
Gawain looked him up and down. “Sell-sword?”
Arthur nodded. “On occasion.”
“Human,” Gawain said, not smiling.
“Aye.” Arthur shifted his sword belt.
Gawain scratched his chin, considering. “Well, thank you for taking care of our Nimue.”
“Your Nimue?” Arthur said.
“I am my own Nimue.”
Gawain held out his arms, addressing Arthur. “Take as long as you need here to rest up. What little we have, we will share.”
Arthur smiled through clenched teeth. “Thank you.”
Gawain turned to Nimue. “There’s so much to talk about. Come with me.” Nimue shot an apologetic look back at Arthur before disappearing with Gawain into the shadows.
TWENTY-SEVEN
GAWAIN TURNED THE SWORD OF power in the torchlight, marveling at its design. “Who knows about this?” he asked with concern.
“Arthur, Morgan,” Nimue answered.
“The Man Bloods.”
“They’ve proven to be true friends. And you’re better than that. The Gawain I knew would never judge others by their blood.”
“Times have changed, Nimue.”
“Have they? I hadn’t noticed.” Nimue held out her hand. Surprised by the gesture, Gawain returned the blade to her. She slid it back into the makeshift scabbard she’d slung around her back.
“I’m not the only one who’s changed, it seems,” he observed.
Nimue stared at the flickering torch. “I watched the Joining and all I could see was blood. And burning crosses. I have no taste for war. We should strive for peace.”
Gawain pointed at the Devil’s Tooth. “You say that, but this is the sword of our people. This sword is our history. It’s our hope, Nimue.” He stood up, frustrated. “And you want to give this to Merlin the Magician? Who turned against his own kind? He’s a conjurer, serving a Man-Blood king.”
“It was Lenore’s wish.”
“I loved Lenore like a mother,” Gawain said. “But this is wrong. Why him?”
Nimue threw up her hands. “What do you want me to say? They were her very last words to me. She could have said any
thing to me, but this was what she chose: bring this to Merlin.”
Gawain looked puzzled. “A bargaining chip, then. She hoped this Merlin would protect you. But you don’t need that, because I will protect you.”
Nimue had no time for this. “I don’t need protecting.”
Gawain softened his tone. “Are you sure? For this sword is also called the Sword of the First Kings. ‘Whosoever wields the Sword of Power shall be the one true king.’ Uther Pendragon will want this sword, and if history is any guide, he will promise the world, then leave the Fey to the mercy of the Red Paladins.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know, for I am no king.”
“If you don’t want the responsibility, then give it to someone else. Someone here. I’ll take it if I must. Just not Merlin.”
“No one will take it.” Her fist was tight around the sword.
Surprised, Gawain sought to calm her. “All I meant—”
But Nimue was embarrassed by her outburst. “No, I just—I won’t dishonor her memory.” She still felt hot with anger. What is wrong with me?
Gawain sat on a rock. “Well, then I guess that’s it, then. We put all our hopes and faith in Merlin.”
“Not all,” Nimue offered. She knelt by her meager belongings, found what she was looking for, turned and scattered the stolen maps across the floor. Curious, Gawain got down on his knees to study them.
“We asked Yeva to send a bird to Merlin, but we haven’t yet received an answer. In the meantime, these are Carden’s plans. Arthur and I stole them. His maps, his death lists. We know his mind. We know what villages he’s targeting and with how many men.”
Gawain was stunned. “Gods, girl, why didn’t you show me this sooner? We’ll ride tonight.”
He gathered the maps and was nearly under the archway when Nimue called, “Gawain.”
He turned back to her.
“If you’re hunting paladins, I’m coming with you.”
For a moment, Gawain seemed bemused, but then he sensed her resolve, and his eyes turned a touch sad. He nodded and headed down the corridor.
