I close the distance between us, and wrap my arms around Arthur’s shoulders. I feel him stiffen in surprise, then his arms snake around my waist to clutch me tightly to him.
And there, in that deserted staircase, Arthur finally allows himself to cry.
◆◆◆
We march in awkward silence down the tortuous hallway to Lugh’s Council Room. If I’d hoped letting Arthur cry on my shoulder would have made him open up to me more, I was dead wrong.
If anything, he’s gotten worse over the past few days, nagging at me for every little thing. I know that the Board’s envoy has been a lot to handle, especially since the clumsy man has a tendency to provoke issues instead of assuaging them. And that Carman’s incursions—both in the surface world and throughout Avalon—have become harder to contain since our failed attempt to destroy the Siege Perilous.
But if Arthur keeps this attitude up with me for much longer, I may just sock him.
The floor shifts beneath our feet, turning into another twisted staircase that leads up to a curving door.
Arthur pauses before opening it. “Remember to not—”
“Say a word, I know,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “I should be like Ella: Do as I’m told without a word of complaint.”
Arthur presses his lips into a thin line at the mention of the Pendragons’ former Fey servant, nostrils flaring. We both know Dean killed her, but I still hold it against his family for not doing more to protect the Fey woman.
With a shrug, Arthur manages to school his expression into a bored mask. “As long as you know,” he says, setting his hand on the triquetra[19] chiseled into the door.
At his touch, the likenesses of the four elementals carved around the Celtic symbol shiver to life, then quickly scurry to the door’s corners, pulling the heartwood open behind them like a curtain.
“Good morning,” I say loudly, pushing my way in past Arthur. “Hope everyone slept well.”
I wave back at the cousins, then cross the room to stand next to Keva by the wall, like a proper squire.
“We were just waiting for you,” Sir Dagonet says.
The Board’s emissary motions for Arthur to sit on the giant mushroom stool growing out of the floor to accommodate him. Apparently, Arthur caused quite the stir back in Caamaloth while I was away, his quest to forge a new alliance with the Fey and reclaim Lake High ending in a rift between the Board’s two main parties—those in favor of working with the Fey, and those who chose to uphold the old ways.
In the end, Keva told me, the latter prevailed, and tried to shame Arthur and his followers. They even petitioned to cross them out of the Order’s register, until they realized more than a quarter of their members were willing to lose their knighthood to follow him. At which point they recanted.
Instead, they keep sending Sir Dagonet to keep an impartial eye on things down in Avalon. A constant thorn in Arthur’s side to remind him of his place.
“Must you bring that girl to every one of our meetings?” Sir Boris asks Arthur, lounging to the man’s left. “For all we know, she’s a spy. Let’s not forget it’s because of that girl this war even started.”
“I thought it was the other way around,” Gauvain says casually. “Us betraying our accord with the Fey, and her trying desperately to clean up centuries’ worth of our mess.”
“Just like her father,” Gareth says, nodding emphatically.
“And look where that got him,” Gauvain states. “It just shows prophets aren’t ever taken seriously until it’s too late.”
“There’s no such thing as prophets and prophecies,” Arthur says in a cutting tone that makes me wonder if he’s thinking of Mordred right now. My brother’s been quite adamant about fulfilling some sort of prophecy, as if any divine message could ever condone his vile acts.
“Are you quite sure about that?” Lugh asks, leaning against the knotted mullion[20] of the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks his territory.
“Let’s get on with the meeting now, shall we?” Sir Dagonet says, dismissing Lugh with a wave of his hand. “I have some bad news to share with you.”
“You mean more so than the worlds falling apart around us?” Oberon asks, with a little growl that makes Sir Dagonet jump.
His notepad clatters to the floor, and he rushes to pick it up, blushing furiously. “The Board’s decided to stop funding your activities,” he says, looking down at his copious notes to avoid having to look at either of the Fey lords.
“Out of the question,” Arthur says. “If we leave now, we risk losing all of Avalon to Carman, and our chance to close the Gates once and for all goes out the window.”
“You’ve tried twice already, and failed both times,” Sir Dagonet says. “And the number of injured parties doesn’t cease to grow.”
“So does the number of rescued,” Hadrian counters.
“Not quite to the same degree,” Sir Dagonet says testily. “Besides, I heard the blood of our dead has been used to finish Carman’s wards around the school, wards meant to keep Hell’s Gates permanently opened.”
“They haven’t succeeded,” Gareth says.
“Nonetheless, the Board believes your activities are no longer justified,” Sir Dagonet intones. “Particularly when not even Excalibur was able to destroy the Siege Perilous. Which nullifies your latest argument for mounting yet another attack on Lake High, Sir Arthur.”
“Actually, Arthur did manage to lop off a piece of it,” I say, drawing an irritated look from both Arthur and Sir Boris.
“It did?” Sir Dagonet squeaks out in shock. He clears his throat. “It did?” he repeats, licking the nib of his pen to start writing. “How did that happen, and why was I not informed of this earlier?”
“My broth…, that is, Mordred was sitting in it,” I say, “in the process of opening the Gates, when Arthur went for him.”
“We all saw the results of that miss,” Sir Dagonet’s squire says with a smirk.
“I don’t recall seeing you there,” Keva snaps at the man.
“And that’s when he managed to cut off a piece of the chair,” I finish.
“Well that’s fantastic news,” Gareth says.
“It is?” Sir Dagonet asks, looking up in surprise from his notetaking.
“Of course,” Oberon says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Next time, we can just ask Mordred to please sit in the chair while we turn his source of power into matchsticks.”
Sir Dagonet nods, already back to his scribbles.
“There is no need to be flippant, Lord Oberon,” Lugh says. “We always knew the Siege Perilous could not easily be destroyed, but at least now we know its weakness.”
“Who cares about this precious information of yours if we can’t act upon it?” Lord Oberon retorts.
“You seem to be forgetting something,” Lugh says, pushing away from the window to slowly circle us. “That Mordred is but a half-Fey.”
“That doesn’t mean he’d be easy to subdue,” Oberon says.
“A half-Fey with a sister whom he’s helped rescue once before,” Lugh continues, as if Oberon never opened his mouth.
Chills run down my arms as he stops behind me. I know where this is going, and though I understand the logic of it, Papillon’s words keep bouncing around my head like an incessant warning. What is it Lugh wants from me?
“A half-human with human needs and desires,” Oberon says, tapping his chin in thought.
“Like the desire to reconnect with his family,” Lugh says.
“No!” Arthur shouts, jumping to his feet.
“What do you mean no?” Sir Boris asks. “What better way for her to redeem some of the damage she’s inflicted by going back there to be our own spy?”
And to assassinate my own brother in the process, I silently add. Their intent couldn’t be more clear.
Arthur turns his cool eyes upon our former teacher. “If she falls into their hands again, she may not survive it this time.”
“It’s worth the risk,”
Oberon says, stretching his legs out. “It would pay to have someone else working for us from the inside, other than that filth of a clurichaun.”
“That clurichaun has a name, you know,” Keva says, surprising us all with her vehemence. “And if it weren’t for Nibs, who knows what else Carman would have used Morgan for beside that dragon of hers?”
I groan as the two older knights’ eyes go round with shock at the news. Guess that’s one piece of information Arthur chose to withhold from them that’s now out of the bag.
“That dragon is actually your doing, squire?” Sir Dagonet asks with a hiccup.
“Yes,” I whisper, stomach sinking.
“Against her will,” Keva adds, trying to repair the harm she’s done. “Carman tortured her and used her blood to activate the Sangraal, and—”
“Well that settles it,” Sir Dagonet says, clapping his notebook shut. “If that girl’s blood is as powerful as you state it is, then she must be incarcerated, and there’s only one place secure enough for her. Caamaloth’s dungeons.”
“You can’t be serious,” Hadrian says.
“Dead serious,” Sir Dagonet says, standing up with a flourish and handing his precious notes over to his squire. “I will let the Board know right away. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
I frown as I watch the Council Room’s door close behind the pompous man and his squire. Talking about our Headquarters’ prison stirs my memory, something Nibs said to me before our escape from Hell.
“I’m so sorry, Morgan,” Keva says.
It was something about Cain and Abel, I remember.
“I didn’t mean to let it slip out like that. Again.”
No. Another name. Like Cabe.
“Don’t worry, we won’t let them take you,” Gareth says, swinging his war hammer arm around dangerously.
“Caim?” I whisper.
Oberon freezes at the name, his eyes flattening to slits. “What did you just say?” he asks, and I don’t think I’m imagining the tension in his voice.
“Nibs mentioned that name to me,” I say. “Said this Caim would be able to help us somehow.”
“And you’re only mentioning it now?” Sir Boris says, struggling to get back to his feet with all his injuries.
“I forgot,” I say lamely.
“We did have quite a bit on our mind at the time,” Keva says, jumping to my defense.
“It would make sense to question the one who was once Carman’s lover,” Oberon says scathingly, “if he were still around to tell the tale.”
Lugh’s eyes grow distant. “He could, so to speak. Though I believe him to be under lock and key at the present.”
“That’s what Nibs said, too,” I whisper.
Oberon’s face turns purple, but before he can throw another of his dark fits, Lugh continues, “Although he went by another name back in the days.”
“And what name is that?” Arthur asks.
Lugh’s golden eye settles on me. “Sir Joseph.”
I let out a strangled cough, almost choking on my own spit. Surely he can’t mean my father’s squire. I remember when my uncle introduced me to him through his personal scrying mirror. The squire had looked like a sickly old man. Not at all like a Fey.
Yet why else would the Board have detained him inside the most secure prison in the world?
Perhaps, then, Nibs and Lugh are right, and the one who once was my father’s squire can give us the key to Carman’s undoing. And, hopefully, before the Council tries to lock me up.
Chapter 24
I shift restlessly on my moss bed—despite my exhaustion, something’s dragged me awake. And then I feel it again, that light, rhythmic breeze against the nape of my neck, as of someone breathing.
“Maybe I should bite her?”
I freeze at the squeaky whisper, heart pounding wildly.
“And make her bleed, you stupid furball?”
“Just a tiny pinch!”
I turn around on the bedding so quickly I hear a squeal of surprise, then the strong whirr of a giant insect’s wings.
“She’s awake!” Papillon exclaims, the jewel at his throat scintillating in the near darkness. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“What are you two doing here?” I whisper harshly, afraid anyone else might notice them, might notice their interest in me.
Papillon buzzes closer to my face, his ogham searing my vision. “You need to come with us.”
I suddenly sit up. “Are we under attack?” I ask, looking around for signs of fire.
But the adjoining rooms where the others are sleeping are peaceful, the cousins’ hefty snores reaching me through the partitions. I go very still, turning my attention back to the two flying mice.
“Do you mean my…mother?” I ask in a strangled voice.
“Hurry up, she hasn’t got much time,” Papillon says, zooming away.
“Just follow me,” the russet mouse says, flying at a statelier pace.
Still a little groggy, I track the whir of the flying mouse’s wings, my feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. I wonder how the others would feel if they found me creeping out like this?
They’d probably get on my case again. And rightfully so—no matter the size of the creature, a Fey’s a Fey, and could be dangerous. I dare a glance towards the rounded recess where Arthur’s sleeping, and my footsteps falter.
He must’ve been really exhausted, for he hasn’t bothered to pull down the moss-like drape that serves as a door, and his usually pristine room is now in total disarray—clothes, maps and books covering every inch of the floor.
I promised I wouldn’t leave him again without his knowing. And here I am, breaking my word at the first occasion.
“Over here, your ladyship,” the russet mouse calls out in a reedy whisper.
I lick my dry lips. I know I’m risking a lot on the word of two mice, but I can’t let this opportunity slip me by. Not if they’re telling the truth, and this could be my only chance to finally meet my mother.
“What are you two dilly-dallying for?” Papillon asks shrilly, making me jump. “You know her holy-light, the mother-of-all, cannot sustain the opening in the barrier for very long!”
“I know,” the russet mouse replies, “but the girl chimes to her own clockwork.”
“What is that even supposed to mean?” Papillon asks, bristling. “Nobody should make her most-scintillating-lady-of-the-dragons wait! Not even her own daughter.”
I wave the mice to shush, afraid that their angry squeaks are going to wake everyone up. “Alright, alright, I’m going,” I whisper at them, trying to ignore the sudden guilt swelling in my chest.
But as I reach the door to our burrow-like suite, a soft moan makes me stop again. I cast another worried look at Arthur’s sleeping form, his mussed hair highlighted by Excalibur’s soft glow. The sound returns, an anguished sob barely muffled by a pillow. Arthur’s hurting! The mice completely forgotten, I dash across the living room and to Arthur’s side.
He’s thrashing and turning on his bed, as if in the throes of a terrible nightmare. I lean over, and hiss out a shocked breath. Five large bruises stain his shoulders, sternum and kidneys, dark lines spreading out from them like wheel spokes, striating the rest of his torso.
I sink to the floor beside him, a feeling of helplessness spreading through my chest.
“Princess, there isn’t much time…,” the russet mouse says softly.
I ignore her. My hands hover above Arthur’s black and white chest without touching him. This can’t be right. Arthur can’t have been poisoned by Dub. We killed him!
My throat aches with unshed tears. How long has he been suffering like this?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the twinkling lights of the two flying mice’s oghams as they talk to each other. Then Papillon zooms in front of me.
“I am not sure you are entirely aware of the opportunity that has been offered you,” he says once he’s certain to have my attention. “Her ladyship is, and may the
heavens above strike me for saying so, much weakened from both sustaining us throughout these long millennia, as well as fending off those who wish us ill.” He pauses, his large eyes peering at me intently. “Are you sure you wish to spurn her in this here moment?”
Papillon’s last words dissolve any doubts I may still have had, and I frown at the flying mouse. “Spurn her?” I ask, anger flaring. “Last I checked, she’s the one who threw Mordred and me out! Now I suggest you both leave before I call for Lugh.”
Papillon draws himself up in affront, his wings beating the air furiously. “Know this, then,” he says loftily, “the offer will only take place once again, and not more. I hope you’ll choose better then.”
And with a sniff, the two mice fly away, out through the nearest window.
“Fine by me,” I mutter, trying not to feel the pangs of regret suddenly pulling at me.
“Morgan?”
I start at the raspy voice guiltily. “I’m here, Arthur,” I say, placing my hand over his. “Everything’s fine.”
Arthur’s breathing calms at my touch. “I thought…I thought you were gone,” he says.
My heart constricts knowing how close he is to the truth. His eyes find mine, the hazel of his irises turning gold under Excalibur’s soft light, and he attempts a weak smile.
“Was I making that much noise?” he asks, sounding like a little boy caught stealing cookies. “Sorry if I woke you.”
I shake my head, unable to speak.
“Glad you’re here,” Arthur mumbles, shifting his hold on my hand to lace our fingers together.
Such a small switch, yet so much more intimate. My whole body flushes, as if overtaken by a sudden fever, and I find myself unable to move.
I watch Arthur’s eyes close again, the worry lines smoothing away from his damp brow. All this time he’s been suffering, yet not once has he let it on. I bite hard on my lower lip. I wish I could heal him, as I’ve healed him before. But I’m scared. Scared I’m going to make things worse. Scared I’m going to fail him yet again.
So when his breathing deepens with the steady rhythm of restful sleep, I carefully untangle our fingers, pull the covers back over him, and steal back to my sleeping cot, feeling like I’m abandoning him.
Curse of the Fey: A Modern Arthurian Legend (Morgana Trilogy Book 3) Page 21
