Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lance motion towards Father Tristan, and steel myself for what’s about to happen. But, an eternal second later, the priest’s comfortingly dull voice rings out, urging the congregation back to prayer, and I finally let myself breathe again.
“Stay close to Arthur,” Keva says, the moment the last blessing has been given. “You’re now at his beck and call at all times, remember that.”
“Believe you me, he won’t get out of my sight,” I grumble. Not until he’s told me all he knows about my father, I silently add.
But I don’t have to worry about losing Arthur in the crowd for he grabs me by the arm and pulls me after him like an angry parent would his disobedient child.
“Ouch, let me go!” I say, trying to pry his fingers off my wrist.
Arthur only tightens his hold on me and I hear people snigger as we pass them on our way out. It isn’t until we reach the burned remains of the asylum that he finally lets me go.
“What do you think you’re doing, shouting nonsense like that in church?” he asks me in a harsh whisper.
“You know what it was about,” I retort, folding my arms, “you heard me.”
“That’s exactly the problem!” Arthur snaps. “Everyone in there heard you! As if they needed any more ammunition against me, here you go, reminding everyone around of your link to Carman and her son.”
“There wouldn’t have been a link if your family hadn’t hired Dean to begin with,” I retort. “Why should I get all the blame in this?”
Rubbing his forehead in exasperation, Arthur starts pacing before me, as if searching for a way to explain particle physics to a baby.
“There you are,” a shrill voice says behind us before Arthur can launch himself into another diatribe.
Arthur’s face twitches before he can school his expression, and he turns to face the newcomer. “Lady Irene?” he asks calmly, as if he wasn’t just yelling at me a second ago.
“I want to know what you’re going to do with this little mongrel of yours,” Irene says, her eyes sharp behind her black birdcage veil.
“I fail to see what you are referring to,” Arthur says.
But I know exactly who she means, and I feel my temper rise at the insult. Before I can do anything to her, however, Arthur steps in front Irene so that she’s forced to tip her head all the way back to look at her son.
“Unless you wish to speak with me of matters regarding the Order,” Arthur says, “I’m afraid I cannot make any time for you.”
Irene’s face grows livid, the thick vein on her forehead pulsing more quickly. “I told you not to get involved with that tramp, Arthur,” she says. “She’s tarnishing your reputation at a time when you can’t afford any more bad publicity. And if you insist on keeping her around, you at least need to appease the crowds and placate the opposition by making it clear you have her under control.”
“And how do you suggest he do that?” I ask. “Keeping me leashed at all times?”
“Although I wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Irene replies coldly, “I was thinking of something a little more classical,”—she pauses, her smile stretching over her pale features like a bleeding wound—“like a public beating.”
I exhale quickly. No matter how many times she’s proved me wrong, I still have a hard time accepting such evil intents from someone I once considered my mother.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur says. “We’ve got enough on our hands to worry about without having to throw a circus show in the mix.”
“You’re running a circus show right now,” Irene hisses, flinging her hands towards me, “you two parading together when we all know she helped Carman escape!”
“I didn’t help her, you stupid witch!” I exclaim. “How many times do I have to tell you that before you get it in your pea-sized brain?”
“Morgan!” Arthur exclaims, shocked.
There’s a loud clearing of throat and we all spin around to find Lady Ysolt and Sir Boris coming over to us.
“We are not interrupting anything, we hope?” Lady Ysolt asks, her grimace of distaste belying her words.
“Not at all, Ysolt,” Irene says, tucking a loose curl back into her chignon. She eyes me malevolently. “I was just on my way to report to headquarters.”
“Send my regards to Lady Parcenet, will you?” Lady Ysolt replies.
Irene nods stiffly before hurrying away, and Lady Ysolt and her husband close in on Arthur and me. I watch Sir Boris as he leans heavily on his thick cane, pulling on his long, handlebar moustache thoughtfully. Despite his latest injuries, the man is still imposing and I have to resist the urge to back away from him.
“She is right, you know,” he tells Arthur, rolling his ‘R’s. “You have to be more careful than any of them. You’ve displeased quite a number of people with your latest stunt, and not just on the Board.” His shrewd eyes come to rest on me. “As for you, girl, you’re Gorlois’s heir, one of the greatest knights of our time, and whose family ruled over this Order for centuries. So stand tall, be confident in yourself.”
“Perhaps not too confident,” I hear Lady Ysolt mutter. “She is rather disaster prone.”
I nod to Sir Boris, stunned to silence. I’ve only ever heard my father spoken of in hateful terms, as a traitor and a thief. Never in my wildest dreams did I think a professor, and a Board member at that, would praise him. But before I can find my voice to express my gratitude, Lady Ysolt thrusts some forms in front of me.
“Fill these out,” she says, “then return them to Lady Vivian. It’s for your custodianship transferal. And please do try to stay out of trouble.”
She wheels around and, with a nod to Arthur, marches away, Sir Boris limping after her.
I look down at the papers curiously, only to have them snatched away.
“Your license to freedom, huh?” Percy says with a wicked grin. “Let’s see…” He riffles through the pages and his eyes go round, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Well, well, would ya look at that?”
“What?” I ask, reading over his shoulder.
He holds up a recent bank statement and when I see the numbers, I go weak in the legs. There’s no other appropriate response to finding out you’re a billionaire, short from passing out cold.
“Don’t believe even the Pendragons got this much tin8,” Percy says, shaking his head in amazement.
“Too bad no amount of money can change her personality,” Jennifer says, gliding over to us and nabbing my account statements from Percy.
“Give those back,” I growl.
Jennifer cocks an eyebrow at me. “Or else…?” she asks petulantly, but Arthur plucks the papers from her slender fingers and hands them back to me before she can peruse them.
“I don’t believe this is anybody’s business but Morgan’s,” he says.
Jennifer smiles at me genially, a true Saint in the making if it weren’t for the dead look in her eyes that she can’t quite mask. “Honey, I was wondering whether you were ready to head to the dining hall?” she asks Arthur. Her dainty hand comes to rest possessively on his sleeve like a pale butterfly. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a chat and I thought we could catch up.”
“That’s a great idea,” I tell the two of them with a fake joviality of my own, edging towards Percy who looks ready to bolt himself. “You guys can go play the bashful lovers in your corner while I go have breakfast with my friends.”
But I don’t make three steps before a hand seizes my collar and tugs me backward.
“Not so fast,” Arthur says.
I try to shake him off, but his fingers are firmly hooked in my jacket. Arthur turns quickly to his fiancée.
“There’s nothing that’s happened that you don’t already know,” he says. “I need to show this one what her new duties entail. But don’t let me detain you, I don’t know how long this is going to take and I wouldn’t want you to miss breakfast.”
Though I rejoice in seeing Jennifer boil with indignation at his
rebuttal, I don’t relish the thought of being caught in Arthur’s clutches again—literally and figuratively.
“Let go of me!” I say as I watch Percy get dragged away by a furious Jennifer.
“Only if you promise not to run away,” Arthur says lightly.
I twist around so that we’re face to face in a very close, very uncomfortable embrace.
We stare at each other for a moment, eyeball to eyeball, before Arthur finally releases me, his face beet red. I straighten my jacket and scowl at him.
“I don’t want to miss breakfast,” I say. “I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, in case you’ve forgotten, and I won’t be a pawn in whatever little game you’re playing here.”
“This isn’t a game,” Arthur says, the blush receding from his face in splotches. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been sticking my neck out for you over and over again. Yet somehow you’re always the one who swings the axe down.”
“If only you weren’t being metaphorical,” I say, with a heartfelt sigh.
Arthur lets out a heavy sigh then says, “Just follow me.”
Despite my best intentions, I trail after him across the gravelly path, though not without dragging my feet. “I want to make something clear,” I say as the Eastern door comes into view, its dark wood gleaming dully in the flickering light of the tall torches that line the path.
Arthur flicks his hand in annoyance, uttering a word under his breath. A flash of green erupts from one of his rings and the heavy, oaken door flies open to let us in.
Realizing I’m no longer following him, Arthur stops. “What is it?” he finally asks with a guarded air.
“Two things,” I say. “First, I’m not going to be your personal slave.”
“A squire is not a slave,” he says slowly. “The second?”
“I want you to tell me about my father,” I say past the growing lump in my throat.
“Deal,” Arthur says immediately.
My mouth drops open. “Just like that?”
Arthur shrugs. “It’s going to be easy since I don’t know all that much about him.”
So there’s the hitch, I realize with a frown, but I suppose I’ll have to make do with it. For now.
And on that thought, I hurry after him. Instead of turning down towards the dining hall, as my stomach demands it, Arthur heads in the opposite direction, towards the staircase located at the back of the armory.
“You’ve got to understand,” he tells me on our way up, “that being a squire requires a number of things from you. It’s not slave work, mind, but it’s work nonetheless. You’ll have to take care of my armor and weapons, for one”—we emerge onto the second landing and head down its main corridor—“that includes replacing anything that’s broken, and dressing me.”
Arthur stops before what I can only assume is his bedroom, one door down from the KORT room, and I snort. “So not going to happen,” I say
Arthur shakes his head. “Meaning you help me put my armor on before battle and official events,” he says. “You really need to get your head out of the gutter.”
“I-I never…” I stammer then clamp my mouth shut when I see him gloating.
Arthur coughs, becoming serious once more, and adds, “It also includes a number of other courtly etiquette requirements, but I won’t hold you up to them. At least not now while we’re in Lake High, but…”
He stops and I feel my stomach tighten apprehensively.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Being a squire also means you’ve got to follow me wherever I go,” he says, looking at me pensively as if to gauge my reaction. “In battle as well.”
I take a half-step back. “Battle? Me? I don’t think so.”
“That’s what you’ve been training for, Morgan,” he says. “What did you think? That we were getting you reading for a theatrical performance?”
“Considering the way I’m treated here,” I say, crossing my arms defensively, “it might as well be. And after everything you put me through—”
“I did not put you through anything,” Arthur says through clenched teeth.
“Well you certainly didn’t help,” I snap back. “What with you lying to me all the time.”
“What did you want me to say?” Arthur asks. “That you were on heightened security because of what you are? That we couldn’t let you know so that you wouldn’t run away and get caught?”
“Yes, actually,” I say. “It would have been better than not knowing anything while being locked up all the time. Besides, your parents are the ones who unleashed Dean on me, you can’t fault me for that!”
Arthur bangs his fist on the door, making it shake in its hinges. “Maybe if you hadn’t been disobeying orders all the time, none of that would have happened to begin with!”
“Obviously you guys don’t know me at all if you think I’m ever willfully going to be kept in the dark,” I retort. “So you and your conniving mother can go stuff yourselves!”
Arthur’s face turns to stone. “Throwing yourself into dangerous situations when you don’t know what you’re getting into is pretty stupid of you,” he says, his voice brittle, “but I suppose I shouldn’t expect more from you considering that’s exactly what got your father killed.”
I feel like I’ve just been sucker punched. “What?” I breathe.
The sound of rapid footsteps clacking on the flagstones draws Arthur’s attention away. A moment later, a squire appears from around the corner, out of breath.
“An urgent message, sir,” the girl says, straightening up. “From Sir Ywain. He says that there’s a whole batch of weapons that have…gone rogue.”
She finishes her message looking down at her feet, as if ashamed of being the bearer of such news.
“How many?” Arthur asks, already moving to action.
But before he can escape from me, I hold him back, and I hear the girl suck in her breath in shock. “I asked you a question first,” I say. “What did you mean about my father?”
Arthur pries my fingers off him. “Does it matter?” he says, his tone so cold I could get frostbite. “You never listen to me anyway.”
I see the girl smirk before the two of them dash away, leaving me seething behind.
“You just wait, Mr. I’m-so-great-I’m-so-brave-I’m-gonna-make-you-my-personal-slave!” I shout at his retreating back, my blood coming to a rapid boil. “You think I’ll just take your orders meekly? I don’t think so!”
I feel something react in the pit of my stomach, hot as lava, before it erupts out of me. There’s a loud BANG and I crouch in sudden fear, covering my head as bits of plaster and wood shower down on me. When I look up again, I find that Arthur’s bedroom door has imploded and is now lying sideways through its casing, cracks and fissures stretching out along the wall around it.
“I swear I can’t leave you alone for one minute before you unleash another catastrophe!”
I jump in surprise as Keva surges before me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask numbly.
“Saw Arthur a second ago without you so I thought I’d check in,” Keva says.
I swallow with difficulty as we both eye the wreckage.
“I didn’t do that,” I say, and wince at the sudden stabbing pain in my gut.
“Sure you did,” Keva says tiptoeing around the debris.
“I mean, not intentionally,” I add, joining her to peer through the gap left by the torn door.
I pause for just a second before I push my way into the room. Dust and fragments of wood have been blasted over the entrance of an otherwise pristine suite of rooms. Keva slaps her hand on the splintered frame and the salamanders slowly light up in their colored bowls up on the ceiling, throwing iridescent patches over rich furnishings fit for a king.
Heavy embroidered rugs cover the floor between a boat-sized four-poster bed at one end of the suite to the beautiful, claw foot bathtub on the opposite end. The Prussian blue curtains that frame each window along the wall have been
tied back with golden tassled cords, revealing the church’s illuminated façade in the distance.
“Nice,” Keva says, admiring a wall covered in jewel-encrusted weapons displayed in order of size, from small knives and daggers, to broadswords, axes, nasty-looking maces, and even a long halberd. “He’s even got a katar!” she adds, hopping up and down in an attempt to grab a long, triangular dagger with a double grip hung near the ceiling.
But all she manages to do is raise a cloud of dust from the rug that makes her sneeze, and she gives up.
“Every single one of them is covered in oghams,” she says, trailing her hand down the wall as she continues her fawning. “Do you even know how much just one of these is worth?”
“No, and I don’t care,” I say as anger rises inside me at the sight of all this luxury. How could Arthur have let me rot away in jail while he was up here lounging about?
A smile splits my face as an idea strikes me, and I roll up my sleeves: Time to get busy….
I walk up to Arthur’s desk, take a cursory look at the perfectly aligned pens and stacks of papers, then sweep everything off the table. My smile widens as a glass paperweight shatters on the floor.
“Let’s see how long it takes before he fires me now,” I say gleefully as I upend all of Arthur’s drawers onto the floor, leaving behind heaps of clothes in disarray.
“Morgan!” Keva shrieks. “Have you gone completely mad?”
“Yes, I’m very, very angry,” I reply, moving on to a massive trunk placed at the foot of the bed.
“That’s not the kind of mad I was talking about,” Keva says in a small voice.
I fling the trunk’s lid open, and stacks of books and pieces of spare combat armor stare back at me in neat piles. Then, with a loud whoop, I place my booted foot on the coffer’s edge and knock it over, letting its contents spill onto the plush carpet.
“Morgan, stop!” Keva says, holding me away from my next intended victim: Arthur’s gigantic bed.
Rise of the Fey Page 7