by Skye, Sariah
“You said it,” Rhys muttered in agreement. He sat nearby cross-legged, bouncing a weak orb of white magic in his hand.
We’d been at it for hours, and finally just before sunrise, we’d done all we could for the little village. As we anticipated, no one who attacked had remained—not Mordred or any other of Nimue’s shadow fae. So I spent the time assisting the witches of Avalon either by healing whoever I could or helping them pass on. After a time I didn’t even feel sad watching them pass, as their last expressions on their faces were pure bliss. At least we could do that for them, even if we couldn’t save their village. Thankfully, all the children were spared, and I’d made a deal with the devil, essentially, to save the youngest of the ones injured. After healing that one young man, who I learned was named Ashton, Xander had tended to him for a while. He seemed pale and shaken, but no worse from the wear. At least outwardly. I worried about the sort of impact Morgaine’s magic could have on him, but I’d seen nothing to indicate that he would be anything other than totally fine. So far. Which was a relief.
The guys with their strength and experience on the battlefield helped in fighting fires, removing the fallen, or comforting those left behind. Xander, who I officially learned had been a medic in the very war where he saved Trystan from being severely hurt by a bomb, tried to patch up who he could with his medical skills and crude supplies given to him.
Bash had helped me after a while, but it tired him too quickly so he relented to following me along and just being my unwavering support.
Now, with sunrise on the horizon, we learned that fifteen people had perished, another forty had been severely injured and had been able to be healed, and only about a quarter of the village was habitable. The rebels had begun to set up contained fires and a camp with tents in the center of town and gathered the survivors to get them settled.
Trystan had flopped down by me and set his head in my lap. “Och, this war shite is for the fuckin’ birds…”
“You’d know, eh?” I quipped, as he laughed gently. I watched Rhys pointedly; his knees were tucked into his chest and his gaze was pointed down at his lap; hair falling out of his ponytail and tumbling over his face. I expected him to joke about something, especially pertaining to Trystan because he loved to torture the shifter, but… nothing. I frowned sullenly, hating what the heartbreak of Mordred’s betrayal was doing to him.
“He’ll be okay. Trust me, he’s a tough, ornery bastard,” Lachlan said, sighing out loudly as he sat on the ground nearby, pointedly staring at the wizard, egging him on. “He has to be, he has to torment me for the rest of eternity.”
Rhys didn’t look up, but one of the hands that rested on his knee lifted and he weakly flipped Lachlan the bird.
“That a boy,” Lachlan said, with a light laugh, as he slapped the wizard gently in the shoulder. Rhys finally looked up at him strangely, like Lachlan was a green-spotted ogre who’d just slid out of the swamp.
“Why are you being nice to me?” Rhys demanded skeptically.
“Don’t mistake my nicety for affection, Merlin. I merely tolerate you because my daughter—for some gods forsaken reason—has taken it upon herself to befriend you. So because of that, I will tolerate you,” Lachlan uttered, and Rhys barely managed a glare.
“Thanks. Cocky, arrogant fucker…” he muttered under his breath.
“Priestess, I am sorry to disturb your rest.” Stifling a groan, we all turned to look up at one of the rebels who appeared as if he had a question.
“It’s okay. What’s up?”
“I could use your protectors for one more task if you will. There is still someone trapped in their home, unfortunately they were unconscious and couldn’t call,” he explained, and with a groan Trystan begrudgingly stood up.
“Aye. Lead the way.” I nudged Bash but he was out like a light, nearly drooling on my shoulder. I chuckled affectionately and gently stroked his hairline around his ear.
“Eh, let him sleep. I got this. Rather be helpful than treated nicely by fucking Sir Lancelot. That’s just too freaky,” Rhys said with a shudder, not bothering to stand. He just teleported to his feet, briefly startling the rebel. “Let’s go.”
“Will you be all right? Mathias and Xander are nearby,” Trystan said anxiously, and I waved him off.
“I’ll stick with her,” Lachlan said, and Trystan nodded slowly.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he said sternly, shaking a finger at me.
“Well I have to pee, to you want to watch that?”
Trystan grimaced. “Not so much.”
I laughed as they walked away for wherever.
“You did good today. This is how opinions change, you know,” Lachlan said. “Next time Arthur starts spewing his anti-Avalon garbage everyone here will think twice.”
I shrugged. “What else am I gonna do?” Groaning, I felt every muscle in my body tense and ache as I stood. “I really do have to pee, so—keep watch?” I gagged at the idea of going to the bathroom along the back of a building, especially one that only had three walls but as there was no running water in Camelot, I had no choice.
“Ugh,” I muttered, slipping behind the building. I glanced around, making sure there was no one to see me, and I began to unzip my pants, suddenly really missing Xander’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies to always be prepared with toilet paper.
“Priestess,” a voice barely whispered, and I felt a hand on my shoulder that pulled me backward. I nearly lost my footing as I was yanked back against the wall, and I let out a sharp squeal. A thick hand pressed over my mouth and my eyes widened in horror, instantly panicking.
“I am sorry, please be quiet,” the voice whispered again. “I am a friend.”
There was something vaguely familiar about the low voice as he released his grip over my mouth. I swiveled around, trying to find the source of the voice, but through the cracked building I could see nothing until a figure stepped out between the edges of the empty wall, like he was emerging from the shadows. I almost screamed, when he put a finger to his—mouth? It was hard to tell.
“Show yourself, then,” I instructed, looking at the figure in the shadows skeptically.
He stepped out slowly, and I narrowed my eyes at the tall, imposing figure, dressed entirely in black armor. “Please… do not say my name.” His hand went to his helmet, and he lifted the face mask portion, revealing his face: deep ebony skin, large brown eyes and strong features. My jaw dropped.
“Are you Be—?” I asked and quickly stopped.
“Yes. Once I learned of Arthur’s treachery—his plan to harm the witches, I knew he was corrupt. But no one can know you’ve spoken to me or it will blow my cover. Arthur still trusts me, even despite Percival’s defection.”
I nodded slowly but didn’t speak.
“You must know, Priestess. I wouldn’t have allowed the woman to be harmed. It would have meant giving myself up as a traitor, though, but I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. It is fortunate you arrived when you did,” Bedivere said, bowing his head towards me. “I also need to tell you… Mordred. He is innocent.”
“What?” I exclaimed sharply.
He put his finger to his lips, urging me to hush. “I was the one sent here to plant Mordred’s dagger and parchment for you to find. I was also the one sent to place the charm inside your room at the tavern. I intercepted Mordred before he could be found; everyone had to think it was him. I am sorry for that.”
“So… how? Where is he?” I demanded, my voice squeaking at the news.
“I turned him over to Arthur’s army—but I kept his restraints loose. He will escape the dungeon. Before we planted the charm, Mordred used his spell skills to weaken the charm; it was all to distract you. I don’t know what Arthur plans, but I do know that Mordred is innocent.” That was one hell of a distraction, I thought, hate to see what it was like before he weakened it…
I crossed my arms over my chest and rose a skeptic brow at him. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“Mordred asked me to tell you, ‘thanks for introducing him to Jack.’ He also gave me this for you to use.” Bedivere retrieved and object inside the arm of his armor; a small black linen sachet. “He says you will know what it is.” Gingerly I took it from him, dumping the contents on my opposite palm. It was a fine, white powder—truth powder. Frowning, I wiped it between my hands, and outstretched.
“You should know, if you lie, this will kill you.”
Bedivere inclined his head and took my hand. “I have nothing but truth to give you.”
I nodded once, taking a deep breath. “Is Mordred innocent? Is everything you told me true? Are you really an ally? Is he in the dungeon now? Does Arthur know anything else about our plans? Was it him that caused the destruction of this village?” I shot off the questions quickly before the powder, however it worked—not that I knew how—stopped working.
Bedivere hesitated for a moment, cringing slightly before he spoke. “Yes, Mordred is innocent. He was set up by Nimue, everything I’ve said is true to the best of my knowledge, Priestess. I am your ally, but I must remain in the shadows, hence the black armor,” he said, pointing to his dark helmet that appeared like it’d been scalded in a fire. “As far as I know Arthur isn’t privy to any of your plans, but I do know it was Nimue that orchestrated the destruction of this village. Arthur may or may not be privy to her doings, of that I am not sure. Mordred was taken to the dungeon, where Lancelot was kept.” He kept his gaze downcast, but his eyes upward, fixated on me. I narrowed my eyes, waiting for some sort of tell that he was lying. “And, please if you will, Priestess… give your father my apologies. He was right about everything.” His full, stern lips quirked into a quick smile. “You look so much alike, the moment I saw you in the mirror image I knew it was you.”
My brow furrowed. “Mirror image?”
“You have a piece of the Round Table in your dwelling, do you not?” I nodded slowly, wondering what he was getting at. “Nimue is able to see into it with her magic and view the other side.”
“She—fuck. No. Shit!” I swore, balling up a fist and punching myself in frustration in the thigh. That explained so much—including how I was able to be transported to Camelot in the first place, and how she seemed to know what was going every time. “Goddammit!”
“Ava?” My father called, and he turned the corner, finding me and looking concerned.
Sheepishly I turned, backing against the wall Bedivere had snuck out of. “Huh?”
He glanced at me suspiciously. “What’s wrong? You yelled.”
I scoffed. “Oh Dad, you should know better than that. I’m always yelling.”
He gave a mild grin. “Well, yes, but this sounded angrier than usual.”
“True. I forgot that there’s no Charmin here. Drip drying in my skivvies is not what I call a fun time,” I retorted, hoping my smile was innocent and demure enough.
My father bit his laugh. “Well… if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. Be right there.” With a single nod, he disappeared back around the building, and I exhaled tensely. “Okay, now—” I swung around, peering into the destructed building and found no trace of him. I didn’t know if I was supposed to divulge how I heard his news, but I assumed I wasn’t.
It was unlikely anyone would believe me that Mordred was innocent anyway.
As I stepped back around the building, re-emerging into the chaos, I felt my heart sink. Dozens of people milling about, looking hopeless and distraught; my guys were doing their best to console everyone or make things better, and Bash was still sound asleep on the ground. Rhys was using his magic to entertain a couple of the children who had lost their home—at least I hope that was all they lost—but there was a tormented look in his eyes. I swallowed, wanting to tell him my news, to fix his broken heart but I wasn’t sure if I could yet.
All the destruction, the pain and horror… Nimue did this. She violated my family, my life… she made people fear and destroyed all she touched.
Excalibur trembled on my wrist and I peered down at it as it flashed a deep red, like it was angry. No… infuriated.
That was it. This ends today.
With resolute determination, I stalked through the square until I met up with Trystan, who was currently speaking to Percival and the rebels. I stabbed at his back with my finger to get his attention, and he spun around. Once he saw the rage on my face, any smirk he had fell away. “Ava, luv. What—”
I cut him off with a dismissive gesture. “Go fly. Get the rebels. This fucking ends now. I’ve had it with everything. All of this,” I motioned outward at the weeping families, “and all she’s done to us. I’m done.”
“But we—” he began to protest, but I set my hands firmly on my hips.
“No, Trystan. No more. No more schemes, no more plans. No more secrets. This is it. This is what it all comes down to. We storm the castle—now—and whatever happens, happens. But mark my fucking words,” My tone was a low rumbling growl. The guys had all heard me—including Bash that had awoken—and were now hovering nearby, looking concerned. “That bitch is going down.”
“Dearest, but we had—” Xander began to protest, and I flicked up my hand, pinching my fingers shut, indicating he needed to stop. He stopped.
“I know things now. Now it is time for you all to trust me again. Can you do that? Can you trust me, without knowing the reason why?” I asked, regarding each of them with determination. Mathias’ chest heaved, Xander immediately nodded, Bash appeared concerned, and Trystan was stoic. “Please.”
With a silent conversation, all four seemed to communicate and come to an understanding. Trystan placed a hand on my shoulder and bent in, brushing a scruffy kiss on my cheek. He flashed me a wink. “Ya heard her. Let’s get fucking moving. Time to take out a shadow bitch. Aye?”
Xander pumped his fist and nodded in agreement, Mathias made haste in going to speak to the rebels, and Bash entwined his fingers with mine. “Let’s do this,” he said quietly into my ear.
Chapter Forty-Four
Meanwhile at Camelot Palace…
Arthur strode the length of his war room nervously. He was alone before the fire in the stone hearth to rub his hands, more out of habit than for warmth.
His execution didn’t go as planned; for they were here. Here, in Camelot.
How did they get here without being noticed? And how many were there? He witnessed Lancelot’s daughter—that trollop—with her four incubus consort protectors. Whatever they were. He shuddered at the mere idea. A woman of all things… with four mates? Ridiculous. But of course he would expect nothing less of Lancelot’s daughter.
“Ridiculous,” he growled to himself under his breath, pausing to lean over the shiny surface of the Round Table and snarled at his reflection. He frowned, raising a hand to touch under his eyes. Darkness pooled around and underneath them, and the edges of his mouth were lined in a permanent frown. He looked… old.
When did that happen? Nimue always assured him his youthful exuberance was always in great supply, from his handsome features to his sexual prowess, but right now he doubted her words. He seemed to age about five years in the past few hours. Tired… just tired.
Planning a war on humanity? Hard work.
Speaking of… where is Nimue? He hadn’t seen her in hours now. After the botched executions, she had blown away in her burst of shadow magic and hadn’t been seen since. He’d instructed all of the palace staff that if they had seen her, she was to report to him immediately.
Something just wasn’t right, and Arthur couldn’t put his fingers on it. For years they’d been inseparable, even when Guinevere had lived in the palace as his wife. Except for today. Technically Guinevere and he still were married but given these new… developments… he would remedy that somehow. Divorce was unheard of in Camelot but there were… other ways.
He was briefly disturbed by his own thoughts. Murder, he thought. Was I really comprehending murder?
When in Nimue’s presence, every
thing seemed so… clear. What was right, what was wrong… why they were going to war in the first place. They needed to get into Avalon, and from there they were to… what? Were they really going to take an entire army through the portal and attack countless people?
It didn’t make sense. No logical sense, anyway. This is what happened when Nimue was away; everything became confused. He was still pondering his self-doubt when a loud knock interrupted him.
“What?” Arthur barked irritably. He knew it wasn’t Nimue because if it was, she would have just appeared, not bothering with a door.
“Your majesty you wanted to be informed if your son or any of the rebels had been found.” Sir Lamorak spoke with reverence as he entered.
“And?” Arthur prompted shortly, folding his arms over his chest and shrugging his shoulders to adjust the red cloak fastened at his throat, hoping he looked more put-together than he felt. After all, he still had to keep up appearances.
“Mordred has been found. He is in the dungeon.” Sir Lamorak gave the king a slippery smile.
One of Arthur’s brows lifted. “You have seen him?”
“I locked him up with my own bare hands,” the knight boasted.
Arthur lifted his hand and tapped his finger against his chin, nodding with approval. “Very good, Sir Lamorak. Very good.”
“What are we to do with him, milord?” Sir Lamorak inquired, a sneer rising from his lips up to crinkle his eyes.
Arthur released a troubled sigh. “Leave him for now. He cannot simply be killed like a mere human.”
“Sir?”
Arthur waved him off dismissively. “Never you mind. Suffice it to say that Mordred is difficult to kill. I am not as of yet sure that is the best course of action for him. I will ponder it. In the meanwhile, have you any news as to the location of Nimue?”
Sir Lamorak shook his head once. “No, milord. I—” he began but he was interrupted by the sound of the large door opening, its rusted iron hinges squeaking rudely. Arthur immediately glowered at the interrupter.