by Frank Miller
“And leave my people to the mercy of the siege?” Nimue asked incredulously.
“I don’t know who has put these ideas in your head,” he said, glancing pointedly at Morgan, “that you are the savior of your race. That was not Lenore’s charge. She bade you bring me the Sword of Power. You’ve done all you can, but now you must think rationally. To stay here is to die. The only hope for the Fey is for you to plead their case to the Ice King and seek his protection.”
Nimue imagined what it would feel like to hand off the responsibility to someone else. The burden lifted. Like a dream. She turned to Arthur. “What do you think?”
“Quite a risk. The raiders aren’t known for their mercy. But if Merlin has shown him a path to the throne, perhaps it’s a risk worth taking.”
“Morgan?” Nimue asked.
“You know my answer. The sword is where it should be. With you.”
Nimue could feel the heat of the sword on her back, resisting her. Memories arose of the hot wind that blew as Dewdenn burned, as the timbers of the barn crackled and the horses fled in panic. The Ice King would never feel this. The Fey and their plight would remain what they always were to human kings: an inconvenience, a distraction, an obligation.
There is no human savior. We can only save ourselves.
“I am sorry that you have gone to so much trouble on my behalf, but I cannot leave them,” Nimue said.
“I implore you, take the evening and think on this. There is no other way.”
Nimue rose from her throne, dizzy with exhaustion and the crushing pressures of the day. “You may stay if you like. But my decision is final.”
With that, Nimue took the Sword of Power and left the hall.
FIFTY
I DID THIS,” NIMUE SAID TO arthur as she stared from the tower window at a horizon aglow from thousands of campfires. “I trapped us here.”
Arthur sat at the window beside her. “We all did this. It was the best of a lot of bad options.”
Nimue smiled sadly. “You should have stayed away when you had the chance.”
“We can still leave.” Arthur took her hand. “Just you and me. Throw the damned sword over the wall and let’s run. We stand a chance out there. Get to the sea.”
“I would like that,” Nimue said, running her hand over Arthur’s knuckles. But she turned back to the small city of Cinder below, the barrel fires, the motion of the crowds. “I’m not what they think. I feel like such a fraud. They must think or hope that I know what to do. But I don’t. I don’t even know myself. I feel less and less control.” Nimue’s eyes turned to the Sword of Power, slung over a chair by the bed. “Perhaps it’s best if I die tomorrow.”
Arthur took her arm gently. “No, that’s not happening.”
“At least then I won’t turn into something horrible.” Nimue’s eyes were locked on the sword. “You don’t understand what it can do.”
“It’s just a sword, Nimue.”
“It’s more than that,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Your rage is your own. They took everything from you. Your mother. Friends. Loved ones. You’ve earned that rage, but don’t let it— You are Nimue. Not the savior. Not the Queen of the Fey. That sword is nothing more than the coin that buys your freedom.”
“It’s the sword of my people,” Nimue protested.
“You won’t have a people unless you bargain the sword.”
Shouts below drew their attention. There was activity at the gates.
“Someone’s here,” Arthur said.
Moments later Steuben appeared at the door, slightly out of breath. “A representative of King Uther requests an audience with the Fey queen,” he said.
Nimue took this in. “Is that the title he used?”
“It is, milady.” Steuben nodded.
Sir Beric was shown into the Great Hall. He wore a pinched expression as he stood alongside a Pendragon footman holding the banner of his house. Before him sat Nimue on the throne, flanked by Arthur and Morgan, while Merlin stood by one of the roaring fires. Sir Beric made a point of ignoring the magician.
“King Uther sends his regards to the Queen of the Fey and congratulates you on your recent military successes. Surely, you have proven yourself a formidable leader.”
Nimue was caught off guard by this approach. She was not sure she had heard it all correctly until Morgan elbowed her.
“Thank you,” Nimue sputtered, knowing she sounded absurd. She had once heard that royals spoke of themselves as “we” and wondered if that was something she should try, then thought better of it for fear of confusing herself. “That is nice of King Uther to say . . . to . . .” Nimue paused. “Me.”
Morgan winced.
Sir Beric went on. “His Majesty would prefer to end matters peacefully and has authorized me to present the terms of your surrender.”
Nimue felt the back of her neck go hot. Slender vines crept up her cheek. “My . . . surrender?”
“You are surrounded and outnumbered. Until now, His Majesty has rejected Church entreaties to besiege the town as a united army, though the opportunity still exists for such an alliance. There simply is no other choice for you. Accept His Majesty’s terms or be annihilated.”
Nimue took a deep breath to marshal her temper. “And what are those terms?”
Sir Beric folded his arms behind him. “Your Fey army must surrender its weapons and leave this town within twenty-four hours, at which time you will give yourself over to His Majesty’s custody, whereupon you will be tried for treason and, if found guilty, be held in his dungeons for the remainder of your life. A mercy His Majesty offers in return for the Sword of Power.”
“Might I suggest what you can do with your offer?” Merlin growled from the wings.
“You may not,” Nimue shot at Merlin.
Sir Beric sniffed in Merlin’s direction. “I assure you that is as generous an offer as you will receive, milady.”
“And what about my people?” Nimue asked. “What assurances of their safety can you give me when they leave this town? For the only reason we are here at all is because they were forced from their homes with only the clothes on their backs, after their families and friends were put to the torch.”
Sir Beric shifted awkwardly. “His Majesty promises no Fey Folk will be harmed by Pendragon forces.”
“But what about Red Paladin forces, who have done this massacre under the king’s nose with no sanction at all? Will King Uther stop this rampage?” Nimue asked, her voice rising.
Sir Beric shook his head, annoyed. “His Majesty does not command the Red Paladin forces.”
“Then what sort of king is he if he cannot protect his own people?”
“You are in no position to make any demands.”
Nimue drew the sword, filling the hall with a ghostly blue light. “This is the Sword of Power. It is said that whosoever wields the sword shall be the one true king. It was forged by my people when the world was young. If King Uther believes he is worthy of this sword, then let him prove it. Let him be the protector of men and Fey alike.”
Sir Beric spread out his hands. “I am afraid that is all I am authorized to offer, milady. Is there a message you would like me to convey to His Majesty?”
Nimue sat back on the throne, deflated. “Tell him there is still time to be a king worthy of his people.”
Sir Beric nodded. “Very good, milady.” He turned to go, then hesitated. “Just to be clear, if King Uther were to guarantee protection for your people from Church forces, you would deliver yourself and the sword to him?”
Morgan turned to Nimue, panicked.
Merlin stepped forward. “Don’t answer.”
“I would.”
FIFTY-ONE
GAWAIN HAD TO BREATHE IN shallow gusts. Holding his breath seemed to be the only defense against the searing pain. His hands were numb and tied behind his back in the chair, and his feet were tied to the legs. They had stripped him to a loincloth to ply their burning tools. The blind ma
n had taken his left eye. The skin felt stuck together. With his good eye he tried not to look down at his burned flesh. He flinched when he sensed movement at the tent entrance, fearing the return of the blind man with his leather roll of tools. Instead Gawain saw a dark angel. No, not an angel, he realized. The Weeping Monk.
“Don’t be afraid, Asher, I won’t bite,” Gawain mumbled through swollen lips.
The monk entered but kept close to the walls.
Gawain was overwhelmed by agony. His head drooped and he moaned for several long moments. Then his breathing became very fast.
The monk lowered his hood. His marked eyes regarded the torture tent.
When the wave passed enough for Gawain to breathe again, he tilted his head at the Weeping Monk. “Have you come to watch me die?”
“Why did you keep silent?” the monk asked.
“When?” Gawain’s thinking was dulled by pain.
“The tent. When I brought you in. You could have”—the monk paused—“told them what you knew about me. Why didn’t you?”
Gawain tried to chuckle. “Because all Fey are brothers.” His good eye welled with tears of pain and sorrow. “Even the lost ones.”
The monk approached. “This suffering, it will cleanse you.”
“You don’t believe that. You know it’s all lies, brother.”
“Don’t call me that,” the monk warned.
“Look at you.” Gawain tried to hold his head up to stare at him. “They turned your mind inside out.”
“Through suffering you will see the light of truth.”
“Why does your God want the little ones to die? I’ve seen the paladins chase down the children with horses. Why them?”
“I have no argument with the children. They don’t know what they are.”
“You kill children.”
“I don’t kill children,” the monk said, his voice rising.
“All right, then you stand shoulder to shoulder with men who do. Who do it for the same God. And you let it happen. You’ve seen it with those weeping eyes. That makes you guilty.”
The monk shook his head and turned to leave.
Gawain implored, “Brother, you can fight. I’ve never seen anything like it. You could be our greatest warrior. We need you. Your people need you.”
“You’re not my people,” the monk growled.
“Then tell them the truth,” Gawain said, jerking his head to the encampment. “Tell your Red Paladins, if they are your people, if they are your family, tell them what you are and see how they react.”
As the tent flap was pulled back, the Weeping Monk swung around as though nervous they had been overheard.
A Red Paladin poked his head in and addressed the monk. “Father Carden wishes to see you, sir.”
The Weeping Monk nodded. He turned to Gawain. “I’ll pray for you.”
Gawain was grim. “And I for you.”
With that, the Weeping Monk swept out of the tent.
Squirrel spotted the Weeping Monk riding from the Red Paladin encampment and followed him at a sprint into the thick woods that divided the paladins from Camp Pendragon.
After a few miles, the Weeping Monk caught up with Father Carden, Abbot Wicklow, and an entourage of twenty Trinity and Red Paladin guards as they entered the muddy Pendragon encampment. The king’s soldiers regarded them with more curiosity than aggression. Most had only heard stories of the Red Paladins and especially the Weeping Monk, whose lethality had grown to legendary status. The Trinity death masks were another exotic touch, and as they passed each campfire, there were murmurs and sidelong glances.
Squirrel snatched a discarded Pendragon tunic from a wagon and threw it over his head as he darted between tents, eyes on his sworn enemy.
When the monk and his party reached the king’s sprawling pavilion, only Father Carden, Wicklow, and the monk were allowed entry.
Squirrel waited several minutes behind a half-built siege engine. As the Trinity guards drifted to the front of the royal pavilion, Squirrel dashed to the side of the tent and gently lifted the flap.
He saw the back of the throne. Abbot Wicklow and Father Carden faced the king, whom Squirrel could not see.
The Weeping Monk lingered in the background.
Squirrel could sense a thick tension.
Abbot Wicklow spoke. “We all desire an agreeable end to this uprising of the Fey. How do you, King Uther, envision such an ending?”
“With the Sword of Power in our hands,” Uther answered.
“The Devil’s Tooth is a very powerful and symbolic Fey relic,” Father Carden spoke up, reasserting his authority, “highly coveted by the Church. Indeed its capture would be a crushing defeat to the Fey. Were we to relinquish our own claim to the sword, we would insist, at the very least, that the Fey witch be delivered to us alive, so that she can be made an example of, and to answer for her crimes before Almighty God.”
The king answered him, “Had you coordinated from the start, such an outcome might be acceptable to us. Unfortunately, this Fey girl has aroused the passions of the mob. Burning her at the stake will only enflame those passions. Therefore, we have decided to accept the Fey witch as our prisoner, to be housed in our dungeons, until such time as we feel these passions have subsided sufficiently. Only then might we be willing to discuss her exchange with the Church.”
“Weeks? Months? Years? What sort of time are we talking about?” Carden asked, agitated.
Abbot Wicklow put a quieting hand on Carden’s arm as he said, “And what of the Fey inside those walls, Your Majesty? These are murderous creatures with paladin blood on their hands.”
“They will be given ships to journey north. Let them settle in Denmark or Norway or fall off the face of the earth for all we care,” Uther said.
But Father Carden seethed. “This will be viewed as a victory for the Fey over the Church. Unacceptable.”
Abbot Wicklow folded his hands beneath his draping sleeves and assumed an air of deep sobriety. “I share Father Carden’s concerns, Your Majesty, and I know Pope Abel’s mind on these matters well enough to assure you he would be greatly alarmed by this leniency shown to such licentious and demonic creatures.”
“It saddens us to upset the Church. You would have known our intentions sooner had you not presumed to negotiate with the Queen Regent behind our back. If the Church takes exception, we have conveniently assembled five thousand soldiers to answer your grievance.”
Father Carden practically spat, “This is an outrage.”
Suddenly Squirrel’s legs were lifted into the air and he was dragged out from under the tent. He wriggled his body around to stare into the dead faces of the Trinity guards. One of them took his neck in an iron grip and walked him around to the front of the tent as Carden, Wicklow, and the Weeping Monk exited in a fury.
Carden growled to Wicklow, “All you’ve done since you’ve arrived is undermine this cause—”
Wicklow interrupted, “I wouldn’t bloody be here if you had smothered this rebellion in its crib and not turned this Fey whore into an icon! Now I have to clean this up.”
Their attention was drawn to Squirrel, who kicked and thrashed in the guard’s arms.
The Weeping Monk recognized him.
“What is this?” Carden asked the guard.
“We caught him trying to sneak into the king’s tent,” the guard said behind the death mask.
“I’ll have your eyes, you—” Squirrel threw every wicked, awful curse he had ever heard at the Red Paladins.
Father Carden curled his lip. “Have Brother Salt take his measure. And tell him to start with that foul little tongue of his.”
The Red Paladins nodded, but the Weeping Monk stepped forward. “He’s just a boy,” he said to Father Carden.
Wicklow stopped and stared at the Weeping Monk.
Father Carden shook his head, turned, and slapped the monk with a force that nearly knocked them both over. The monk’s hand went to his cheek as Carden straightened his robes
.
Wicklow turned to the Trinity guards. “Well? What are you waiting for? Take him away!”
The guards obeyed and dragged Squirrel away to the Red Paladin camp.
Father Carden turned and grabbed the monk’s arm. “Why would you embarrass me like this? Why?”
The Weeping Monk shook him off and stalked away into the maze of tents.
In the moment afterward, Wicklow gave a silent order to two of his Trinity guards. They nodded and headed off along the same path taken by the Weeping Monk.
When Father Carden returned to the Red Paladin camp, he entered his tent and found that a woman was already there, standing with her back to him, her cloak of snow-leopard pelts spilling over his carpets. She turned, lowered her hood, and gazed at Carden with cold blue eyes painted with green pigment. “Father Carden, I am Eydis, first daughter of Cumber, the one and true blood heir to House Pendragon. I believe we have mutual interests and mutual enemies.”
FIFTY-TWO
NO!” MORGAN CRIED AS SHE raced down the corridor to the Great Hall. When she entered, Nimue, Merlin, Arthur, Lord Ector, Steuben, Cora, and several Fey Elders were gathered at a table, discussing a tiny note just delivered by raven. “Is it true? Is it?” Morgan demanded.
Nimue’s answer was written all over her face. Her eyes were defeated.
“No!” Morgan howled, running at the table. “You can’t give it to him. They’ll kill you. They’ll kill us all!”
“Morgan—” Arthur started.
“Shut up!” Morgan said, turning fiercely on Arthur. “Are you happy now? Do you think he’ll make you a knight now, you fool? Do you think King Uther will make you his pet? He doesn’t care about you! You’re doomed like the rest of us.”
“And what is your answer, Morgan!” Arthur bit back. “What’s your brilliant solution? Oh, I know! Fight the bastards! Fight them all!”