Knight of Cups (Knights of the Tarot Book 2)

by Nina Mason

  “The spell I cast shall remain in force until we meet again.”

  The vapor cleared, restoring her vision and orientation.

  “Did the spell work?” To her eyes, she was still visible. “Can you still see me?”

  Feigning a look of surprise, he cast around as if in search of the source of the voice.

  “Who said that?”

  His teasing made her smile. “I’ll take that as an affirmation.”

  Mirthful expression evaporating, he arched a green eyebrow. “Do you doubt my powers?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that…”

  Leaving her answer hanging on the wind, Gwyn turned her attention to the misty landform looming on the horizon.

  She worried her lip as they drew closer. A narrow, rocky beach surrounded the towering cliffs and the water was rough near the shore. Defeat wilted her courage until she remembered that Manannan mac Lir was affiliated with the Children of Danu, the demi-gods born of the mother goddess who later became the Fae. According to the legends Gwyn’s father shared, the race of supernaturals arrived in Ireland on clouds—a feat aided by the deity beside her.

  “Let me guess. You’re going to conjure a cloud to float me to the top like a magic carpet.”

  The Lord of the Seas let out a booming laugh. “You’re not going over the cliffs, lass. You’re going under them.”

  Brow furrowed in confusion, Gwyn scanned the imposing crags for an opening. As far as she could see, their etched faces were rock-solid from top to bottom. Just as she started to ask for clarification, the chariot veered to the right. Her heart lurched along with her body. She grabbed the front of the Wave Sweeper for stability just as an enormous sea cave came into view. They appeared to be heading straight for it.

  “That’s where you’ll enter,” Manannan said, pointing. “Normally, none can do so without Morgan’s permission, but my magic will take care of that hiccup. I’ll also fix it so you can breathe underwater.”

  He must have seen the color drain from her face because he set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t trouble yourself, lass. I’ll escort you as far as the ingress.”

  * * * *

  Gwyn was shivering, not because of the cold, but because she was frightened of the idea of going on alone. Even with the power of invisibility on her side, she could not see how she could possibly prevail.

  Or even make it to the island alive. The swells all around were growing in size and fury. Spray burst across the bow as the chariot rocked and pitched under their power. All at once, she felt small and alone. What made her think a coward like herself could do this?

  The Wave Sweeper stopped a few yards from the entrance of the cave and, taking her by the elbow, the sea god helped her into the gently swirling surf. The water was knee-high and neither cold nor warm.

  Using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she looked up at him, hoping her face didn’t give away how anxious she was about going forward alone. She still had no idea how she was going to get the cup—or even get from here to the queen’s castle.

  “What do I do now?”

  “The current’s too strong for you to wade to the cave from here, so you’ll have to go over the butte and climb down,” he said. “Once you get to the cave, wait inside. Someone will be along soon enough to take you the rest of the way.”

  She didn’t like the idea of hiking her way to the cave, but felt better knowing she’d have an escort, even if she didn’t know who or what that escort might be.

  After thanking Manannan, Gwyn waded through the temperate, tugging surf to the narrow band of sand surrounding the island. The instant her feet touched solid ground, her clothes dried, astonishing her. Worry gnawed as she made her way up a mossy rise and down a terraced cliff to the cave.

  Inside, she looked around her in awe. The way the basaltic columns lined the cave’s marbled walls resembled an immense pipe organ in a curious oceanic cathedral. The music that poured forth—a symphony of rushing water, sweeping waves, and gentle gurgling—created a booming, cavernous echo.

  She took a seat on a rock out of the way of the spray, as anxious to get on with it as she was about the mission itself. Or maybe she should call it a quest. A quest for the Holy Grail, because that was quite literally what she’d undertaken. Or, better yet, a quest like the thousands she’d embarked upon in Final Fantasy and Worlds of Warcraft. It would be easier if she imagined she was only playing a game.

  After she’d sat there several seemingly endless minutes, the water swirling over the cave’s rocky floor began to glow with golden light. Forgetting she was invisible, Gwyn scrambled off her perch and took cover behind a basaltic pillar. From there, she watched in fear and wonder as the swirling surf rose up and assumed the shape of a magnificent watery horse.

  “The Lord of the Seas sent me,” the horse said. “To take you under the waves to Avalon.”

  Under the waves? She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that, even if she could breathe underwater. Still, it was better than the alternative. Turning back meant certain death from the curse. Going forward only risked probable death at the hands of Queen Morgan.

  Truthfully, neither option thrilled her, but the odds of survival were better if she went with the horse, so she picked her way through the rocks to where the beast stood and hoisted herself onto its swirling but impossibly solid back.

  No sooner did she find her seat than the horse dove under. Out of habit, Gwyn held her breath as they plunged deeper and deeper into the salty surf. To her amazement, she didn’t feel buoyant or the least bit wet. When its hooves struck the ocean floor, the horse broke into a gallop. She tightened her hold on its foamy mane and, remembering the sea god’s briefing at last, started to breathe.

  The horse stopped outside the entrance to an underwater cave. The cave turned out to be an upward-climbing tunnel. From the top, streams of light flooded downward at an angle like heavenly rays. As they emerged in the shallows of a cove, the horse dissolved into the surf, leaving Gwyn alone on the rocky beach of an island. The towering volcanic walls she’d seen from the other side formed a fortress about a mile out to sea.

  Overhead, the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky. The air temperature was moderate. Perfect, really. A soft, balmy breeze carried the scents of sea and fish to her nose. Tiny waves lapped at her ankles.

  Deep green hills rose in the distance, forming an undulating ridge of round peaks and deep clefts. Not knowing what else to do, she walked toward them. The terrain grew rockier. Curious mists crept across the ground in curling ribbons of transparent white. Flowering trees dominated the flora. The air smelled sweetly of blossoms and felt remarkably fresh and mild. Birdsong resounded from every branch.

  When she reached the crest of the hill, she gazed down into the glen below. Her breath caught when she spotted a storybook castle set atop a small island in the center of a loch, its water unbelievably blue.

  A rope bridge stretched from the shore to the island and a gate stood between her and the bridge. As she made her way toward the gate, dread’s iron fist clenched in her gut. The gate was guarded by two uniformed sentries.

  She stopped just outside, grateful for her invisibility. Since the enchantment didn’t allow her to pass through solid objects—especially objects made of iron—she’d be forced to wait until the guards opened the gates.

  Luckily, two men on horseback were approaching. Turning to get a better look at them, she decided men wasn’t quite the right term. Yes, the mounted visitors were male, but not human. They had long, straight white hair, pointed ears, and wore leather armor and thigh-high boots.

  Pulse racing, she slipped through the gate behind the riders and followed them to the dicey-looking rope bridge spanning the divide between shore and castle. The elves dismounted, hobbled their horses, and proceeded to cross the bridge on foot. She followed them, gripping the knotted rope railing for dear life and stepping only where they did to avoid falling through.

  They couldn’t see her, but
seemed to sense her presence, because every few seconds, one or the other glanced behind them. Her heart nearly stopped each time one of them turned round. To make matters worse, something stirred in the depths of the waters below. Afraid to see what it might be, Gwyn kept her gaze glued to the backs of the elves.

  Two uniformed soldiers met the elves on the other side and escorted them into the castle. She hurried after them, staying hard on their heels. Once inside, she continued to follow the foursome through a labyrinth of corridors. To her astonishment, they passed several naked men sporting erections and a handful of women in togas as sheer as her own.

  Holy cow. She could see everything they owned. So could the elves, who clearly enjoyed the view. Each time one of the scantily-clad faeries passed them in the hall, both turned to ogle her. Not that Gwyn, who did her share of rubbernecking when those naked men appeared, blamed them. Only a saint wouldn’t look when they put it out there like that.

  When the soldiers took the elves through a pair of red lacquer doors, she slipped in after them. A runner spanned the distance between the doors and an ornate golden throne, upon which sat a stunning black-haired woman. Queen Morgan, presumably.

  The soldiers turned and went out. She dodged one of them to avoid a collision. The elves waited until the queen gestured for them to approach. As they did, Gwyn hung back, curious to know what their business might be.

  They bowed to the queen and exchanged a few words before Morgan clapped her hands together twice. Seconds later, two naked female faeries came in. The elves looked them over as if they were animals at a livestock auction. They checked their teeth, squeezed their breasts, stroked their hair, groped between their legs, and made them bend over.

  The elves seemed pleased with the faeries. One of them produced a leather pouch and, with a deep bow, set the offering at the queen’s feet. From the jangling sound the bag made, Gwyn deduced they’d given her money.

  Each of the elves took one of the faeries by the arm and led her toward a side entrance. As they went out, a fat man came in. Like the guards, he wore the military uniform of a bygone era, only his frockcoat was fancier and his knee breeches the same shade of red. Underneath, the buttons of his golden waistcoat strained to cover his immense girth.

  The long hair framing his bloated features was curled, powdered, and queued. His complexion was pale and putrid, his deportment enormous and menacing. He approached the queen without waiting to be summoned. As he began his addresses, Gwyn strained to hear what he was saying.

  To her great frustration, no more than murmurs reached her ears. She crept closer, noting that the fat man spoke with a refined English accent. When Leith’s name pricked her ears, she moved still closer, eager for the context.

  “He claims to know nothing of the drone he sired.”

  “We shall learn soon enough if he’s lying.”

  They could not be talking about Leith because he was waiting for her on the other side of the vale, safe and sound. At least she hoped he was. Otherwise, she’d have to save him as well as steal the cup. Both tasks seemed unmanageable on their own, let alone when linked together.

  The queen pulled from her robes a gem-encrusted golden chalice and handed the cup to the fat man.

  Gwyn’s pulse quickened at the sight of what had to be her objective.

  When the fat man took the chalice and strode toward the side exit, Gwyn hurried after him, hoping he’d lead her to the man they’d been discussing. If it was Leith—and she prayed it wasn’t—she’d need to come up with a plan to save her knight as well as steal the cup.

  She followed the fat man for an exasperatingly long time before he arrived at the entrance to the dungeon. Along the way, they’d passed a few guards, more than one naked drone, and one couple going at it like a couple of feral dogs.

  Forgetting at times she was invisible, Gwyn dove back around corners and flattened herself against walls with a hammering heart. Then, remembering the cloak of mist, she’d hold her breath and slink past them as quietly as a cat.

  All the guards they’d passed saluted the fat man, confirming he was their commanding officer. They all wore uniforms like the sentries guarding the gates. Red coats with buttoned-down blue lapels over matching white vests and knee-breeches with tall black boots.

  She hung back when the fat man stopped before a heavy door. On the other side was a downward-leading bedrock staircase. She crept down the steps, staying close to the wall for balance as well as security.

  The corridor at the bottom was cold, creepy, and dimly lit by flickering wall-mounted torches. The smell of dank and fetid straw rushed out to greet her. A miserable chorus of muffled moans echoed all around.

  Please let Leith’s not be one of them.

  Several large doors lined the corridor’s weathered stone walls. Each had a small viewing slit through which she could glimpse the cell beyond. The first two were empty. Inside the third she spied a woman sitting against the back wall. The cell was inhumanely small and insanely dark. Not until the woman rattled her chains, did Gwyn realize she wore manacles.

  The fat man turned into a room opposite the cells—his office, probably. Rather than follow him inside, she went back to the cell with the woman inside. Two eyes peered out of the dark.

  “Are you okay?”

  “And who might be speaking to me from the ethers? The banshee come to presage my death, I suppose.”

  “I’m a friend of Sir Leith’s. Under a cloak of invisibility.” Afraid the fat man might overhear, Gwyn kept her voice low. “Is he here?”

  “Aye, he is, the damn fool.” The woman shook her head. “But who couldn’t say the same about me?”

  Gwyn neither knew what she meant nor cared. She just wanted to find Leith. “Where is he?”

  “The next cell over.”

  Hers was the last cell in the row and the one next door was empty. “I’ve looked. He’s not there.”

  “Then they’ve taken him.”

  Alarm accelerated Gwyn’s already racing pulse. “Who’s taken him?”

  “The duke’s guards.”

  She must mean the fat man. Gwyn shrugged it off. She couldn’t care less about his rank. She only cared about finding her knight without getting caught.

  “Where has he taken Leith? Do you know?”

  “I do. But you’d be wise to wait until they return him to his cell.”

  Gwyn’s heart flared in protest. She was not about to wait around twiddling her thumbs while that grotesque tub of lard tortured the man she loved.

  “I have to help him,” she insisted. “Please tell me where he is.”

  “First, set me free.”

  Gwyn would rather not waste the time, but could see no way around it. Besides, the faery had helped her, so it only seemed fair. “How?”

  “There should be a ring of keys hanging on the pegs just behind you.”

  Gwyn turned around. The long board of pegs, reminiscent of the one in Leith’s dungeon playroom, held whips, shackles, and tricorn hats, for the most part. Her heart leaped when her gaze landed on the ring of keys.

  She grabbed the keys only to drop them the next second. Darn. They’d burned her fingers. As she tried to work out how to handle the keys, a blood-curdling scream assaulted her ears.

  Her blood pressure shot higher. Was it Leith? Taking a deep breath, wrapped her hand in the fabric of her skirt, and stooped to retrieve the keys.

  The ring held a dozen or so large skeleton keys and numerous smaller ones. She opted to try the larger keys first. The keys jangled, threatening to give her away, as she inserted one after another into the lock. A few curses and a couple of singed digits later, she managed to spring the lock.

  Another piercing scream covered the groaning hinges as she pushed open the heavy door. Dim light filled the tiny cell, providing a better view of the shackled faery within. Her dark hair was a tangled mess and her skin shone with grime.

  With trembling hands, Gwyn tried one key after another until she finally found one th
at fit. Hastily, she set about unlocking the rusty manacles. Underneath the cuffs, the faery’s flesh was blistered and oozing. The second Gwyn freed her last limb, the faery shifted into a rat and scurried out of the cell.

  Gwyn, dropping the keys, charged after her only to crash full force into a red-coated guard. The man reeled backward, staggering to keep his balance. Thrown off balance herself, she fell back against the door, which, in turn, slammed into the wall with a resounding clang. The guard looked around, eyes wide, mouth agape. Before he could put the pieces together, she recovered her bearings and slipped past him.

  Another heart-stopping scream shattered the quiet. She set off down the hall in the direction from which it seemed to have come. After a few steps, she pulled up. Invisibility alone wouldn’t be enough to save Leith. She needed a weapon of some kind. Turning back, she scanned the row of pegs for something to suit her purpose.

  Only the coiled bullwhip held promise. As she moved to grab it, a plan began to take root. Just as she tucked the whip under her arm, the guard she’d bumped into raced past her. She hurried after him with a knife in her heart.

  Leith had stopped screaming.

  Chapter 19

  “Where is the bastard you begat with Belphoebe?”

  Leith looked down with a churning mixture of feelings at the familiar golden chalice the butcher held under his nose. The enchanted cup was the key to his salvation in more ways than one. If only he could grab it and run. If only he wasn’t locked in this bloody pillory with his legs in irons.

  “I don’t know,” he bit out.

  The cup remained whole.

  Cumberland had just come in with it—a mixed blessing. Until he’d entered, the guards who’d locked him in the stock had been taking turns punching and kicking him.

  “What do you know? You’re telling the truth.” The duke sounded genuinely surprised. “You may be the first of your worthless breed ever to do so.”