by Frank Miller
“Yes!”
“Yes, brilliant! That’s all you know! That’s all you ever do!” Arthur shouted. “And where’s that gotten you, sister? Hmm? Nowhere. You just burn it all down and move on.”
“How dare you?” Morgan snarled.
“Stop it!” Nimue snapped. She turned to Morgan, softening a bit. “This is my decision alone.” She held up the note. “King Uther has offered us ships to the north.”
Morgan put her face in her hands.
Nimue put her hand on her friend’s shoulder, fighting her own emotions. “This is the only way, Morgan. All these lives”—she waved to the entire city—“are my responsibility. I don’t want to leave you, but I see no other way.”
“We can sneak you out, tunnel you out,” Morgan said, grasping at straws. “You can rally other towns, cities even.”
“And what happens here?” Nimue asked. “What happens to these children?”
Morgan persisted. “If they find out you’re gone, they won’t care anymore. They’ll lose interest in Cinder.”
“Really?” Nimue said. “That is not my experience of Father Carden. Something tells me that were I to leave, he would more likely take out his wrath upon all of you.”
Morgan turned to Merlin with tear-streaked eyes. “Can’t you do something? You’re Merlin. Can’t you turn her into a bird or change her face to hide her? Can’t you do something? Anything?”
Nimue had a glimmer of hope as she turned to Merlin, curious for his answer. But in that moment, Merlin almost looked his full seven hundred years. He shook his head sadly. “Were it even in my power to do so, King Uther’s conditions demand Nimue as his prisoner. Furthermore, she has rejected the Ice King’s offer.”
“Only because he makes no allowance for the Fey Kind at all,” Nimue reminded him. “I have to be sure they are protected.”
The table was quiet and somber as Nimue weighed her decision. In barely a whisper she asked Merlin, “How would it work?”
Merlin considered this, then offered, “Someone must lead the Fey Kind out of Cinder. That will be the first very dangerous task. There’s no predicting how the Red Paladins might react. I can’t imagine they are contented by King Uther’s offer. It’s a job for a soldier.”
Nimue took Arthur’s hand. “Arthur?”
“No.” His voice shook. “I want to stay with you.”
“I don’t trust anyone else with their lives. Please,” Nimue pleaded.
“I don’t want to leave you,” Arthur insisted. Then, revealing his shame, he added, “I don’t want to run.”
“You’re not. This isn’t the same.” She took his face in her hands. “Listen to me, Arthur. This is your path to honor.”
“Another way, please,” Arthur begged softly.
“It has to be you.”
Merlin continued, “It will be a day’s march to the sea. When the Fey Kind are aboard Uther’s ships, Arthur will send a raven informing you of this.” He paused. “And that is when you will surrender yourself and the Sword of Power to King Uther.”
“How does that happen?”
Merlin scratched his beard, not entirely sure. “I suppose a royal escort. Outside the gates. The note demands that you surrender yourself unaccompanied.”
Morgan shook her head, horrified.
As Nimue absorbed this chilling idea, she added, “And Gawain. They must return the Green Knight to us. Alive.”
Merlin did not appear hopeful. “We can certainly ask. But if this Green Knight is in the hands of the Red Paladins, I fear the worst.”
“These are my conditions,” Nimue said flatly.
Merlin repeated, “We can ask.”
“Will you write the reply?” Nimue asked, feeling foolish and young. “I don’t want to sound . . .” She trailed off.
Merlin nodded, understanding. “I will write the note agreeing to the king’s revised terms and bring it to you for your approval.”
Nimue turned away from the table, and headed to her chambers without another word.
An hour later Nimue was at her window, staring out at the glowing twin camps of Pendragon and Red Paladin. A distant squawk turned her attention toward the northern gate, where a blackbird soared low over the heads of the archers on the wall. Moments later she heard a knock. “Yes?”
Merlin entered. “The raven has been sent to Uther with your reply.”
“I saw.” Nimue smiled bravely.
Merlin swayed awkwardly at the door. “I’ll leave you,” he started.
“No, please. Join me.”
He closed the door and approached the window where Nimue sat.
“You must think me very foolish,” she said.
“Not foolish at all, no.” He shook his head, amazed. “You are Lenore to your very bones.”
Nimue managed a smile.
Then he added, “With a touch of Merlin as well. A very combustible combination, if I may be so bold.”
Nimue laughed. “It explains a lot, yes.”
Merlin smiled. He even covered it with his hand, so rarely did a smile appear on his lips. “I can tell you this: she would be deeply proud of your choices here.” He hesitated, then added, “As I am.”
This meant more to her than she realized, and she was caught off guard by the tears that streamed down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away. She had never had a father, not truly. And though part of her yearned to reach out to Merlin, another part of her feared his rejection. “But I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“And that is how courage is found. When the path is least clear.” He started to say more but looked away.
“What?” Nimue noticed this.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin said simply. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t save her.”
Nimue nodded, accepting this.
“And I was wrong about the sword,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Merlin suddenly turned, a revelation forming. “It wasn’t Uther’s blood that rained on the castle, nor was it mine. And I daresay it was not portending death but great transformation. It was Wolf Blood that rained on that castle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All this time I’ve been chasing the sword, believing that somehow it was turning events, but it was never the sword. It was you. The Wolf-Blood Witch.” Merlin grew sad. “I could have helped you. I—”
“You are here now.”
“I will ride ahead to seek audience with King Uther. To smooth the path in whatever way I can. Please be under no illusions, the king has gone for my head already once in these past days, and my actions since have only served to heighten his animosity. I could very easily be dead before you even arrive.”
Nimue regarded Merlin. His tired eyes met hers. She saw no calculation, no chess game, no manipulation there. This was a very human Merlin. This was her father. “You don’t have to,” she told him.
“Yes, I do,” he answered.
FIFTY-THREE
ARTHUR PUSHED OPEN A CREAKY barn door on the fringes of town near the southern wall. He turned back to Nimue. “Are you sure about this?” She brushed past him. The air was thick with musk and it was very dark. Nervous horses whinnied in their stalls. Nimue held out her torch as a Tusk lunged from the shadows, barking and baring chiseled fangs.
Arthur drew his sword, but Nimue stood fast. “Where is Wroth?”
The lunging Tusk settled into a grimace as a low bark came from the back of the barn. The young Tusk thrust his jaw horns at Arthur but allowed them to pass. As her torchlight spilled over Tusks squatting and huddling in the straw, she was reminded of their uncanny night vision and their preference for total darkness. They found Wroth slouched on a hay bale, chewing on a gypsum root. A pale and silent B’uluf lay nearby, his bloody stumps tucked under his arms.
Mogwan stood and approached. “You are not welcome here.”
“What would you have done, were you in my shoes?” Nimue addressed Wroth directly. “If you wielded the sword and a Sky Folk defied you?”
> Wroth spat a few words at Nimue and waved her off.
Mogwan was impassive. “We’ll never know, he says.”
“I don’t need your love or worship. I don’t even need your respect. What I do need is your strength to protect the Fey Kind in my absence,” Nimue said.
Arthur added, “She’s giving the sword and her freedom to King Uther.” He allowed that to sink in. “She is sacrificing herself so that the rest of us may live. So that Tusks can survive to the next generation.”
Surprise flickered over Mogwan’s face and he began to interpret, but Wroth cut off his son with his own response. Mogwan said, “My father says it is not like you to give up.”
“I am not giving up. The Fey Kind have been through enough. I won’t subject them to a slaughter. If my life buys you freedom, then it is well spent.”
There was a rustle in the back and Wroth suddenly emerged into the torchlight, broad-chested and fierce. His deep-set black eyes studied Nimue closely. Then he growled, “Gof uch noch we’roch?”
Mogwan suppressed a smile.
Nimue frowned, curious. “What did he say?”
“He says are you sure you are not part Tusk?”
Wroth allowed a grin that showed off a golden fang. “Brach nor la jech.”
Mogwan translated, “You are harder woman than his first wife. My mother.”
Wroth snarled something at Arthur and swatted him in the chest, knocking the wind clean out of him.
Mogwan said to Nimue, “My father says when you are tired of this chicken-legs Man Blood, you can be his third wife.”
“Let’s not rush things,” Nimue said with a smile. She took Wroth’s hand in hers. “But I do need champions. I need you and Arthur to lead the Fey Kind to the Pendragon ships. Will you do this for me?”
Wroth enclosed her small hand in his giant ones. She felt his great warmth and his rough skin. His nails grazed her arm. “Gr’luff. Bruk no’dam.” Then his mouth struggled to form words she could understand. “Born in the dawn.”
“To pass in the twilight,” she finished, touching her heart in thanks.
Wagons, sheep, donkeys, palfreys, screaming Fey Kind children, carts, a dozen oxen, shouting Fauns, buzzing Moon Wings, crying babes, and hundreds of refugees both Fey Kind and Man Blood alike swarmed Cinder’s main square by the western gate. Half a dozen rumors of treacherous plots had set off near riots throughout the day, and it had taken all Arthur and Wroth’s determination and discipline to ward off disaster. The mob was not stupid. They knew they were marching defenseless into Red Paladin territory. Nerves were on a knife’s edge.
Emotions ran just as high at the wicket gate, where Nimue and Morgan went to see Merlin off on his mission. Nimue had never seen the mage so rigid and unsure. “Wait for the raven,” he told her for the twentieth time. “Be sure it’s Arthur’s writing.”
“I will,” Nimue assured him.
“Have him leave you the very same letter so that you might compare them. Uther has the means to devise adept forgeries.”
“Already done,” Nimue told him.
“That’s good.” Merlin pulled at his beard. “If I sense a plot, I will do all I can to warn you. But I—”
“I know you will.” Nimue smiled.
Merlin started to say more but could not find the words. Instead he merely nodded and ducked through the gate, climbing onto his freshly saddled horse. With a meaningful gaze at Nimue, he yanked the reins and wheeled around onto the path, galloping off toward the king’s campground.
Nimue turned to Morgan, who appeared to be preparing to say her goodbyes. “No, not yet,” Nimue said, and took her arm, leading her away from the mob and down a series of narrow alleys, hugging close to the ramparts.
“What is happening?” Morgan asked as Nimue pulled her down one switchback after another. She would not answer until they came upon a goateed Faun lounging on a wagon in a dark corner between two sagging buildings, picking his teeth with a piece of straw. “Where in the Nine Hells are we?” Morgan asked, finally yanking her arm free.
Nimue gestured to the Faun. “Morgan, this is Prosper.” She nodded to Prosper, who hopped off the wagon and pushed it aside. Beneath the wagon was an empty sack. Nimue pulled the sack away, revealing a tunnel in the ground. Morgan leaned down, fascinated, as a dark-skinned Plog popped out of the opening, chittering in its strange language. “Gods!” Morgan leaped backward. Prosper chuckled.
“And this,” Nimue continued, gesturing to the Plog, “to the best of my ability to pronounce, is Effie.”
Morgan swung around, beaming. “You’re escaping!”
Nimue shook her head. “No, my love.” And she unslung the Sword of Power from her shoulder. “You are.”
FIFTY-FOUR
THE POPULAR CINDER TAVERN WAS known as Red Eye’s Lonely Horse, but Nimue had decided to take it over as her own Great Hall in order to stay closer to the preparations for the Fey exodus. Arthur was sweating and filthy as he entered, surprised to find Nimue nearly alone, apart from the harried barmaid, Ingrid, the great-great-granddaughter of the original Red Eye, an unsmiling woman who nodded curtly at Arthur as he pulled a chair over to Nimue.
“Quiet in here,” he observed.
“Not as quiet as that ghastly keep,” Nimue said, sipping a cup of wine. She added, “The Elders have all gone to their clans.” She took another sip.
The enormity of Nimue’s sacrifice kept crashing down on Arthur in fresh waves. “You don’t—”
“Stop,” Nimue interrupted. “I do.” She laughed, fighting back tears. “Trust me, I really want to go with you.”
Arthur clutched her head to his chest. He pressed his lips to her ear. “Don’t make me do this.”
She held his cheek to hers. Their mouths touched. “Are you sorry you came back?”
“Enough sorrys. You’re not my queen. You don’t command me. You’re my friend.” His thumb swept away her tears.
“I have a secret,” she confided. “I’ve never been on a ship. It was always my dream. To be on the ocean. To be somewhere that never ends. To sail to that point where the sea meets the sky. Just to be a speck in all that stillness.”
“Not very Sky Folk of you,” Arthur teased.
“I’m a traitor to my kind,” she admitted. Then she snapped her fingers. “I missed it by a few days. My ship. It was the day we met, actually.”
“Meant to be, then. Just think of all the fun you would have missed,” Arthur said.
Nimue put her face into her hands and chuckled darkly. She reached for Arthur and he cradled her, in silence, for long minutes. She gave him one last lingering kiss, then slowly stood up. She offered her hand. He took it, and she led them out of the tavern.
The cacophonous mob of Fey Kind quieted and parted as Nimue and Arthur moved through the crowd, hands locked. Those who understood Nimue’s sacrifice reached out to her, touched her arms and her shoulders, while the children tried to walk in beside her and hold her hand. Others bowed or murmured prayers in their native tongues. Nimue smiled to them all. She couldn’t let them see her fear.
When they reached the front, she turned Arthur to her and kissed him deeply. She touched his face, his eyes, his wet brow, his neck, and his sweaty hair matted over his ears, trying to remember every detail. When she softly pulled away, he put the heel of his hand to his eyes and climbed onto Egypt. Her long neck twisted to Nimue, and she gave Egypt a kiss on the nose and a scratch.
There was a thunderous squeal and Wroth emerged from a side road atop the giant boar, leading his Tusk warriors. The crowd wisely made room for the fearsome beast, which jerked angrily at its reins. Riding up beside Arthur, Wroth nodded to Nimue. “Budach ner lom sut! Vech dura m’shet!”
From his horse, Mogwan translated, “If the paladin scum give us any trouble, we’ll be sure to make them pay.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Nimue said, touching her heart, and Wroth answered with a fist to his own.
Nimue gave Arthur’s hand one last squeeze and
then backed away, nodding to the Fauns at the gate. There was a groan of steel as the portcullis rose, and the procession began its march. Nimue watched them, waving to some, bowing to others, acknowledging every face she could as they passed under the gates of Cinder and onto the King’s Road. Nimue’s heart was in her stomach. Her own fate seemed very far away. All she could think about were the Fey’s trusting eyes and how she might be leading them to a burning cross.
It wasn’t until the last of the carts had vanished through the gates and the portcullis had been lowered again with a grinding of chains that Nimue felt the crush and scope of her decision. What have I done? I’ve sentenced them to die. How had it come to this? That she felt like a mother to her entire race? She had never been accepted by her own kind, had always been shut out, judged for her scars and her uncontrollable connection to the Hidden. We’re not perfect, Nimue mused. Like B’uluf and her village Elders, the Fey were capable of tribal hatreds and carried ancient grudges. Like Man Bloods, they feared what they didn’t understand. But they were the exception. Nimue thought of the torchlight spilling over all those wondrous and unique faces in the cave on that first night with Morgan and Arthur. The beauty and creativity of the Hidden had been on full display that night. These were races attuned to the beating heart of the earth, to their lands, to the animals that shared those lands, and their curious faces were both a mirror and a window into those worlds. Where Father Carden saw monsters, Nimue saw families in a deep, abiding and ancient connection to the Hidden and the Old Gods, all with their own dances and magic, languages, crafts, and stories. The Red Paladins wanted to burn all the Fauns and Moon Wings and Tusks and Sky Folk, burn all the colors and textures away until everything was gray like the ashes of Dewdenn. Nimue would not abide such a tragedy.
If I die, it’s still worth it, she thought. It’s worth protecting.
From outcast to queen.
She looked over the trampled dirt of the square and saw only human faces staring back at her with fascination and fear, curiosity and disgust. Lord Ector grimaced at her and turned his horse back to his castle, a castle he was about to reclaim.
