Dropping his smile, Mordred shrugs. “Maybe next time you won’t be so picky,” he says, before sending his Fey horse galloping over the lake’s frozen waters.
I watch him raise a long, curved horn to his lips and let out a deep, drawn-out blow. The remaining Fey halt their slaughter, shackles raised, then howl in unison before bounding over to their leader.
“They’re escaping!” Percy yells, veins bulging on his muddy forehead.
“Let them,” Lance shouts back.
The ice sheet glows red as a circle forms around the pack of Fey, Mordred in its center. He gives me a brief salute, and then they all vanish.
“Morgan?” Arthur asks, turning me around to make sure that I’m not hurt.
My eyes focus on the woman panting on the ground, her arms wrapped around her protruding stomach, in obvious pain.
“The baby!” I say, automatically reaching out for her frail figure.
But Arthur holds me back. “Help is on its way,” he says, “but we can’t stay here. They can’t know what we are. What we do.”
“But she already saw everything,” I say as Arthur drags me away.
“They’re confused,” Arthur says. “By tomorrow they’ll only remember the fire and think some of them died in it, while the others lost their minds fleeing.”
“After all of this?” I say, skeptical.
“People believe what they want to believe,” Arthur says stopping out of sight behind a large house.
I look down at myself as we stand before the lit kitchen window, the light’s warm glow catching the silvery threads of my dirty uniform. And I see that I’m not covered in mud, but in blood.
Yes, I finally admit to myself as Arthur grabs me around the waist then launches us into the air, the mind does like to play tricks.
We land next to the cars, snow whirling around us in a wide circle, Percy’s salamander orbs lighting our way. As our feet touch the ground, Arthur brusquely lets go of me and I nearly slip.
“What did I tell you?” he yells, his face red.
I stare, wide eyed, caught off guard by his sudden anger.
“I told you to stay out of trouble!” he continues.
“I went looking for Daniel,” I say, stung. “Besides, I couldn’t let all those poor people—”
“We would have gotten to them without you meddling in!” Arthur explodes.
“I sent for help, Keva—”
“—almost got killed because you decided to go check things out on your own,” he cuts me off again. “You never listen, Morgan! How can I trust you, when you keep getting everyone around you killed?”
“That’s not fair,” I say, as the rest of our troop lands in the parking area around us.
“And you,” Arthur snaps, pointing at Daniel who’s jingling a now fat pouch filled with oghams, “you failed your very first mission. You were to remain with the squires and keep an eye on things over here, not try to play the hero.”
Daniel’s face turns ghostly white, but for once I’m too mortified myself to enjoy his predicament.
“If you call a hero someone found cowering in the bushes,” Gauvain says, his dreadlocks bobbing up and down as he shakes his head.
“You’ve got no nuts,” Gareth tells Daniel with a deep frown. “I should teach you to grow them bigger so you don’t hide next time.”
“He means ‘guts,’” Gauvain says, “but I agree with him. You can’t consider yourself a knight if you run away from danger.”
“Give him a break, guys,” Percy says, an excited gleam still lodged in his eyes, “he’s just a button18. Might be he ain’t knight material yet, but he can still grow into his britches.”
“We should probably call the base,” Hadrian says, looking at his watch. “Lance is still back there, but the longer the laymen are left alone, the harder it’ll be for us to take care of them.”
“Right on it,” Gauvain says, the glowing orbs of fire now hovering above him.
We crowd around him as he tilts the nearest car’s side view mirror towards him. In a few quick strokes, he draws a few runes in the condensation then mutters a couple of foreign words.
The surface of the mirror swiftly fogs over before turning dark. Suddenly, a single point of light appears in its center, growing bigger and bigger until a face comes into view.
My mouth drops open as I recognize Bri’s father.
“Sir Neil,” Gauvain say, “we have an emergency to report.”
Sir Neil’s eyes grow into the side view mirror until all we can see is his veiny eyeball, eyelid lined with dark lashes blinking rapidly over it. His voice crackles in the air, as if coming from very far away through an old phone line. “Who is this?”
“This is Sir Gauvain,” Gauvain says, “reporting from battle. We need a team of cleaners sent over urgently, as well as one from the trauma center.”
“The trauma center?” Sir Neil exclaims. “For how many people?”
“We’re not sure,” Gauvain says.
“Two dozen laymen,” Hadrian interjects, reading off a list Keva’s holding before him.
“Two dozen!” Bri’s father exclaims, dousing the surface of the mirror with droplets of saliva. “Y-yes, of course,” he says, quickly wiping his spit away. “I’ll let Lady Irene know straightaway.”
“We’re at Little Lake Butte des Morts,” Gauvain says. “An exit away from US 10, on the northwestern corner of Fritse Park, but the teams are needed further north along the coastline.”
“Noted,” Sir Neil’s dim voice responds as the side view mirror fogs up again.
“I’ll wait here for them,” Percy says.
Arthur frowns at him. “You should go back and get your wounds treated,” he says. “I can stay here until the teams arrive.”
“Ya’ve got quite a few injuries too,” Percy says, resisting the cousins’ attempts at forcing him into his bright orange car. He grins with pride despite the new gash on his forehead. “And ya’ve got Morgan to think about,” he adds.
“True,” Arthur says with a scowl in my direction. “I’m still not done with her. Very well, please report to me as soon as you get back from Dr. Cocklebur’s. And do put your shirt back on.”
“Righto,” Percy says, waving at me as I drag my feet back to Arthur’s car, then sink into the passenger seat.
I watch the others through my window as they pack up, envying their Arthur-less state, until the car turns down a corner and the group drops out of sight.
An uncomfortable silence settles between Arthur and me, and my thoughts drift back to Mordred. The tattooed Fey is a knot of contradictions, one minute offing everyone who stands in his way, the next saving me and that woman.
I made the right choice not to go with him, I tell myself, trying to quell the feeling of regret growing inside me. He’s got no qualms killing humans like animals at the slaughterhouse. He probably lied about my mother too so I would go to Carman without resisting.
I shiver at the thought, remembering how he said I now owed him for sparing the woman’s life.
“What’s the trauma center?” I ask Arthur to distract myself from my disturbing thoughts.
“A treatment center for laymen,” he says in clipped tones.
“I gathered that much for myself,” I say. “But what does it do?”
Arthur casts me a furtive look. “It’s where we take care of those who’ve been in contact with the Fey,” he says.
“Like the asylum?” I ask, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe.
“Not exactly,” Arthur says. “Regular people react differently than we do. The trauma center consists instead of different forms of treatment, mostly psychological. Anything to get them over their encounter.”
A strong sense of suspicion descends upon me. “You mean brainwash?” I ask.
“You could call it that,” Arthur says. “We basically find ways to recreate the events they went through and turn them into something more believable, something more rational, that their minds will more r
eadily accept.”
“It’s still brainwashing,” I say. “Manipulating people against their will.”
“We’re helping them live their lives with fewer worries,” Arthur says. “Even if they knew about the Fey, they wouldn’t be able to do a thing against them. Would you rather they live in constant fear? You saw all those people out there. Did they look like they were taking things well?”
The laymen’s screams when they woke up from their trance echoes in my mind, giving credence to Arthur’s assertion.
“What’s your success rate?” I ask instead, unwilling to admit he’s right.
“About seventy six percent,” Arthur says. “But we’ve got people working to get that figure up.”
“What happens to the remaining twenty-four?”
Arthur shrugs. “They’re sent back to their families just the same.”
“Just like that? I didn’t think you’d be comfortable with people spreading around your dirty little secrets.”
“It’s easy to discredit people when others think they’re crazy,” he says, casting me a careful glance. “Some ideas catch on, of course, like UFO abductions and whatnot. But they never truly become mainstream, which allows us to continue with our mission.”
“Your mission to rid the world of people like me, you mean,” I retort.
“Of getting rid of the Fey who are a threat to humans,” Arthur says.
But we both know that, to some, those two statements are one and the same.
We arrive at Lake High just as the morning church bells ring Lauds. I groan at the thought of having to attend another interminable hour listening to Father Tristan while I’m still caked in blood.
I find Keva already seated, all prim and proper, as if she hasn’t just spent the whole night out battling Fey.
“What took you so long?” she asks.
“Arthur’s grandpa driving,” I say, sitting next to her.
Keva scoots further away from me, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “You could have at least cleaned yourself up.”
“I took a dip in the lake,” I say, stifling a yawn. “That’ll have to do.”
I stare sightlessly at the back of Arthur’s head, struggling to keep my eyes open. Now that my system’s no longer flooded with adrenaline, my whole body wants to shut down. Which is strange. I’ve pulled my fair share of all-nighters before, back in Switzerland, when I wanted to escape the confines of the boarding school. But I’d never had such a hard time staying awake afterward, despite the nuns’ own brain-deadening lectures.
My eyes close of their own volition as the first notes of the Kyrie Eleison ring out. Moments later, I jerk awake as a sharp elbow digs into my ribs.
“Ow,” I say, rubbing my sore side.
“You were snoring,” Keva whispers. “Can’t you at least wait till mass is over?”
I note Arthur’s look of reprobation and smile sheepishly back at him.
“In short,” Father Tristan says, his deep voice echoing down the nave, “I entreat you not to lose faith and courage in the face of adversity. For let me remind you of these words from Deuteronomy, ‘Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you!’”
I keep myself from rolling my eyes, sure that my every movement is under scrutiny for any hint of my own demonic side. If I’m to believe Father Tristan’s words, my sole existence was condemned from the moment of my conception, and nothing I do will change that. Yet I’m still forced to spend an hour every day listening to him preach about my own and other Fey’s burning at the stake.
I watch the priest lean over his stand, his dark eyes ringed with black, and catch myself wondering what he must have been like before, when he and my father were friends. If what Arthur said about my dad is true, then Father Tristan must not always have been the zealot he is now. Something drastic must have happened for him to change like this….
“That was the true light which enlighteneth every man that cometh into this world,” says Father Tristan, already in the middle of the Last Gospel, a sign that mass is almost over. “He was the world, and the world was made by Him, and the world knew Him not. He came unto His own, and His own received Him not.
“But as many as received Him, to them He gave great power to become the sons and daughters of God: To them that believe in His name, who are born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.”
We all drop to one knee, right hand over our heart.
“And the Word was made flesh,” Father Tristan continues over our prostrated figures, “and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.”
“Deo gratias19,” we all say in unison, making the sign of the cross, before we all rush to get out.
Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I find myself trailing behind the crowd on our way out, when an odd sight catches my attention: Lining one of the aisles are the cousins, Percy, Daniel, and Hadrian, all waiting with obvious impatience by the confessional. As I watch them draw strings to see who gets to go first, Lance and Arthur join them.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
“It’s a tradition,” Keva says, standing exactly one foot away from me so I won’t dirty her uniform. “All those who take part in battle go to confession the next day.”
“You’re not,” I point out, surprised nobody’s made me confess since I first got to Lake High. Back in Switzerland, Sister Marie-Clémence was always most adamant I be absolved of my sins on a weekly basis.
“I was more of a bystander than anything,” Keva says. “Besides, this is just a more religious version of a psych’s couch, where people can relieve themselves of their guilt.”
“Which is obviously not something that you ever have to struggle with,” I mutter with a twinge of jealousy.
“Come on,” Keva says, “we’ve been dispensed from morning classes, and I need my beauty sleep.”
But as Keva prods me towards the exit, an idea strikes me.
“Go on without me,” I say, already making my way between the benches towards the confessional.
Arthur eyes me wearily as I move down the line, looking ready to pounce on me with another scolding. But before I can reach him, Lance motions for me to cut in front of him.
“You look like you’re about to fall asleep standing,” Lance says.
“Why thank you,” I say, ignoring Arthur’s irritated look. “It’s very gentlemanly of you.”
Lance doesn’t answer my smile, and I wonder if his considerate treatment of me lately is a thank you for saving his sweetheart Jennifer. But I don’t mind, not if it means I get to annoy the brat standing right behind him.
Arthur glares at me from above Lance’s shoulder, and I raise my chin in defiance.
“You were the one who stayed behind, right?” I ask Lance.
The tall knight eyes me without saying a word.
“You know…after the battle…,” I add.
I still get no reaction from him, and I clear my throat self-consciously.
“Because you see,” I continue, wishing Lance would fix someone else with his unblinking stare, “there was this woman there, a pregnant woman, and I was wondering…is she OK?”
Lance finally shrugs. “Our trauma team took care of everyone,” he says curtly.
I wait for him to continue with his account, but it appears that’s all he’s going to tell me. My shoulders slumping in disappointment, I turn back towards the front of the line.
As my turn at confession draws nearer, I find myself growing more and more anxious, wondering if my idea of getting info on my dad this way is a daft one after all. But I see no other way I can get the priest to speak to me in private, especially on what must be for him a rather sore topic.
My stomach plummets as the velvet drapes move to the side to let Hadrian through, and I fight back the urge to push the knight back inside so I can have more time to work on my argument
s.
“It’s your turn,” I hear Arthur grumble behind.
I nod and, taking a deep breath, finally step inside the wooden structure, the drapes swishing closed after me. Behind his screen, Father Tristan’s sober face looks paler than usual.
I kneel before him, my head bowed, then sign myself. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” I start, old habits kicking in. “My last confession was…a long while back. I’m not quite sure where to start, but I suppose the worst sin I’m guilty of these days is anger.”
I chance a quick look at the priest’s face, but he doesn’t bat an eye, and I continue.
“Anger at everyone always judging me for things I’ve never done,” I say, my voice quivering slightly, “anger at the betrayal I’ve experienced at the hands of those I once considered my family, and…”
I pause, biting on my lower lip.
“Go on, child,” Father Tristan says, though his tone tells me he wants me to shut up.
“…and because you never told me anything about my father,” I finish, looking up.
Father Tristan stiffens in his seat. “If those are all your sins, child—”
“Arthur said you were the one who found me,” I say over him. “That you were the one who witnessed my father die. Did my father say anything to you then?” I drop my voice to a whisper, “Did he say anything about…my mother?”
“If you are truly sorry for all of your sins,” Father Tristan says as if I haven’t interrupted him at all, “then do—”
“I’m not sorry for it!” I retort, furious at his lack of response. “Even God was subject to righteous anger. You guys all see me as evil, but I’m God’s creature too. All Fey are, despite what you preach at mass. And maybe if you guys hadn’t decided to ostracize us and make us all to be demons, we wouldn’t be at war right now!”
“You sound just like your father,” Father Tristan hisses, his eyes gleaming dangerously in the thin light filtering through the gap above his door. “He too was a fool who believed in impossible things, like forging a bond with those who ought to be cast down into Hell’s eternal flames. That’s what got him killed.”
Rise of the Fey Page 14