Cursed

by Frank Miller

  The first mile the caravan traveled was eerie for its silence. Arthur could not detect a single birdcall, could not hear a fly in the brush. It was cold but still. Even the steady and biting Minotaur winds seemed to pause for their crossing. There was only the slow rumble of the wheels and hooves and boots behind him, the steady clops of Wroth’s boar. Ahead there were only barren trees and the rising hills.

  The first sign of trouble was a Red Paladin checkpoint. Five tonsured brothers stood by a Vatican banner, shouldering flails and heavy maces, and watched them approach with murderous eyes.

  “Easy, Wroth,” Arthur whispered, knowing the Tusks would take their cue from their prideful leader and knowing how difficult it was for Wroth to walk away from a fight. For his part, Wroth was quiet. That worried Arthur more.

  As the caravan came within fifty feet of the paladins, the name-calling began. The paladins had different names for different clans: squealers, roaches, twisters, blood beaks, hedge pigs. They hurled them all, trying to goad the warriors into a conflict that might give the excuse for an all-out assault.

  Wroth kept his eyes locked on the road, but as they passed the checkpoint, he dug in his heels, and the boar gave a squeal that shook the cliffs of the Minotaurs and sent the Red Paladins scurrying into the forest. Arthur feared reprisal but saw no sign of the monks. He smirked at Wroth, who let out a satisfied huff. But the good feeling was short-lived, as the next mile led them into the heart of the Red Paladin camp.

  A quarter mile behind Arthur, Sister Iris had slowly been letting herself drift to the back of the caravan. She didn’t belong to any clan. No one had claimed her. No one particularly wanted her. She had played the vagabond between clans for days. So no one cared when she wandered off on her own. When eyes were ahead, she ducked into the high grasses and slid onto a wet embankment. She slung a stolen longbow out from under her sackcloth cloak, slipped an arrow between her fingers, and darted into the forest, curling back toward the town of Cinder.

  At the front of the caravan, Arthur saw that spears had been lit aflame and were stabbed into the ground in symmetrical rows along the road, and hundreds of paladin horsemen filled in the spaces between the trees of the forest that surrounded them on all sides. This was a terrible sign. Arthur’s heart sank. They’d never survive a direct assault. He vowed to take as many with him as he could, but it was impossible not to let some of the hopelessness in. He felt an ache in his heart knowing he would never see Nimue again. A growl rippled in the boar’s throat. It could feel the threat all around them. Arthur’s hand drifted to the pommel of his sword.

  “Keep moving,” he called back to the caravan, sensing the building panic.

  Wroth grabbed his war hammer.

  “No, Wroth,” Arthur whispered.

  The paladin horses grew agitated in the woods. Arthur saw their swishing tails and jerking heads. One spark was all it would take. Someone had ordered the paladins to stand down, but Arthur could feel it was a tenuous hold. They wanted any excuse to charge and would do so at the slightest provocation.

  A rumble of horses pulled Arthur’s attention to the road ahead. Another column of horsemen approached from the north, about to meet them head-on.

  It’s over, Arthur thought.

  “Not them,” Wroth said in broken English.

  It was true. The approaching horsemen carried the banner of House Pendragon.

  I don’t believe it.

  The caravan moved forward and the column of soldiers split around them, forming a barrier on both sides between the Red Paladins in the forest and the caravan of Fey Folk.

  Arthur thought he might cry as one of the king’s soldiers nodded to him and he nodded back. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The murmurs of fear turned into a burbling relief as the Fey Kind families realized the king’s men were shielding them from the Red Paladins. Some cheered, others wept, some took the opportunity to hurl invective at their tormentors. As the caravan rolled along, the horsemen turned and rode beside them.

  King Uther had kept his word.

  I never should have left her. I pushed this. I pushed her to give the sword to Pendragon. Arthur looked across a sea of grateful families who’d had so little to celebrate in the past few months. This was victory. Arthur had been right. The Fey would live and a human king had done it. Still too high a price. To barter for the sword was one thing. But not Nimue. Not her. I should go back. The Fey were not safe, not yet, not until they were on the ships. He had promised her. But he couldn’t help playing things out in his mind. She arrives at Uther’s camp. They seize her. Take the sword. Deliver her to Father Carden and the Red Paladins. And then? The thought made him sick. They had fed their wolf to the lions.

  The rest of the journey was a strange, bittersweet dream. The Fey Folk were uplifted, even celebratory, setting aside the unknowns of their future to relish the peace and mercy of the present as the caravan rolled through the lowlands and the air misted from the nearing ocean. The sandstone cliffs took on jagged, violent forms, shaped through the ages by the battering coastal winds, and the forests leveled out, becoming undulating fields of wild grasses.

  Arthur and Wroth rode to the edge of the bluff, climbed down from their mounts, and gazed out upon the churning green seas of the Beggar’s Coast. A heavy fog had settled offshore, whiting out all but the rocky beach and the nearest lapping tide. Their eyes searched the horizon for signs of life, but all they heard were the gulls. A heavy silence fell over the Fey Kind as expectancy turned to fear.

  A mast cut through the fog, followed by a sail emblazoned with the three crowns of House Pendragon. A joyful whoop erupted from the Fey Folk, and even Arthur was caught up in the rush of the moment. Wroth threw his arms around Arthur, nearly crushing him with joy, as up and down the cliffs, Fey clans embraced, children pointed and shouted, and mothers and fathers wept from relief and gratitude.

  As Arthur wiped his own tears, all he could think about was Nimue.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  TWO PENDRAGON FOOTMEN ESCORTED Merlin into King Uther’s pavilion and shoved him before the throne. Sir Beric shook his head in disbelief as he rose from a table filled with parchments to stand beside the king.

  “He rode into camp and surrendered, Your Highness,” the older footman explained.

  As Merlin smoothed his sleeves, the king regarded him with reptilian calm. “Hello, Uther,” Merlin said, nodding.

  Uther smiled coldly. “Dispensed with the formalities, have we?”

  “What are your intentions with the Fey girl?” Merlin asked, cutting to the chase.

  “Are you here on behalf of the witch? We thought you served the Ice King? Honestly, Merlin, you have to be careful or you’ll earn a reputation as a loose wizard.” Uther made an effort to control himself. “Your audacity coming here is the vilest affront of all. Do you presume us so castrated that you can stand before us after your crimes and survive?”

  “I’ve given up trying to survive, Uther. It just happens,” Merlin offered.

  “Oh, we shall test that theory.”

  “I would have expected to find you in better spirits, considering that we are on the eve of your greatest victory as king. You’ve stopped the Fey slaughter, subdued the Church, negotiated a firm but just peace with the leader of the Fey rebellion, and, despite all my best efforts to destroy it, the Sword of Power is within your grasp.”

  Uther’s eye twitched. “We swear, Merlin, if you are about to claim credit for this, we will have you quartered here on the carpets before our eyes.”

  “Not at all. The victory is yours and yours alone. After all, Beric here could hardly negotiate his way out of a sack of turnips, so one might argue you have done this with one arm tied behind your back.”

  “Indeed!” was Beric’s indignant reply.

  Uther smiled despite himself. He always enjoyed when Merlin poked at Sir Beric. However, his smile faded into a snarl. “But unlike you, Beric is loyal to us. Whereas you, while professing friendship, rode to an enemy camp and
delivered the dagger to slay this monarchy.”

  “Where is your mother?” Merlin asked, defiant in the wake of Uther’s murderous rage.

  “Dead,” Uther spat.

  Merlin quickly did the math. “My condolences,” he said.

  “Don’t be too sad. You’ll join her soon enough, and together you can scheme for eternity in the Nine Hells.”

  “The midwife was your mother’s crime, Uther, not yours. And fight it all you like, but the light of truth will always burn away the shadow of lies. Be that as it may, you are finally your own man. If you want to be recognized as the one true king, now is your chance to finally earn it. Chop my head off tomorrow if you like, but let us finish this business with the sword today. So I will ask you again: What are your intentions with the Fey girl?”

  “As stated,” Uther replied.

  “And do you trust Father Carden?”

  “About as much as we trust you,” Uther countered.

  “Then you have made arrangements in case he betrays you? The Wolf-Blood Witch is in his reach. I assure you he hasn’t come this far only to cower before you now, unless he’s planning something,” Merlin warned.

  “How dare you interrogate us after your numerous treacheries? Your gall has no equal. Guards, put Merlin under watch until the Wolf Witch arrives. Once we have the sword, kill him.”

  The guards took Merlin roughly under each arm and led him out of the royal pavilion.

  Nimue sat in her quarters, staring at the eel pie on the plate before her, and listened to her stomach growl. She had no appetite. The hours of waiting for word of the caravan had left her ragged with worry. Ector’s wife, Lady Marion, had taken it upon herself to make sure Nimue was fed.

  She hovered over Nimue, taking away the eel pie. “We have some lovely guinea hen with an almond glaze on its way.”

  “No, please,” Nimue protested.

  But Lady Marion sat beside her and held up her hands, suggesting it was beyond her control. “You won’t die on my watch. You are too pale, my dear.”

  “I’m very grateful for your hospitality, Lady Marion. Considering . . .” Nimue trailed off.

  “That you stole Lord Ector’s throne?” Marion finished.

  Nimue smiled softly. “Well, yes.”

  Lady Marion thought about it. “Why shouldn’t a woman sit on the throne?”

  Nimue’s hand shook as she reached for her cup of wine.

  Marion gazed at her with deep sympathy. “What you’ve done for your people is very brave.”

  Nimue was about to speak when a distant squawk echoed down the corridor. She stood suddenly. “Was that a raven?” She broke into a run, Lady Marion following far behind. Nimue searched frantically. “Hello!” She rounded a corner to find Steuben climbing the stairs, a note in his hand.

  “The bird came, milady,” he said, handing her the message.

  Nimue unrolled the small parchment. She read it aloud: “ ‘Ships are here. Boarding now. The king has kept his word. The Fey Kind will sail to the point where the sea meets the sky. Thanks to you, my love. Giuseppe Fuzzini Fuzzini.’ ” She dropped the note and put her hand to her mouth, fighting her tears. “They’re safe,” she said.

  “This pleases me, ma’am,” Steuben said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  FIFTY-SIX

  THE PORTCULLIS ROSE NOISILY UNTIL it locked into its mooring in the top of the gate. Nimue nudged her palfrey forward and passed under Cinder’s northern wall, riding alone onto the King’s Road. A cool breeze rustled through the tall grasses and caused the treetops to sway and rattle the last of their orange leaves. The woodlands hummed with life. Nimue detected the tight peeps of thrushes and the looping whistles of blackbirds. Her clenching fear, the gnawing worry of the past days and weeks, sank away and a serenity fell over her. She felt the Hidden very close. Don’t be afraid. She remembered the fawn in the Iron Wood. Death is not the end. This was not the life Nimue had imagined for herself. So fast. So brutal. And yet so full. Of course there was more she wished for: to see Arthur again, for one. To unravel his mysteries. To sleep in his arms. To travel the seas and explore the world together. To one day raise a family. Nimue took a shuddering breath but fought back the tears. What she had known, she was thankful for. The rest was known only to the Hidden. Born in the dawn, to pass in the twilight.

  The tranquility was broken by the sounds of approaching horsemen, Nimue was jerked back into the present, and a chill poured down her spine. A dozen men in full plate armor emerged from the wooded road, presenting a banner of three crowns. They slowed to a trot as Nimue approached, forming a steel barrier in the road before her. One of the armored soldiers lifted his faceplate. The eyes behind it were cold, the skin pocked, black mustache groomed.

  “You are the Wolf-Blood Witch?” he asked her.

  “I am.”

  “I am Sir Royce of the king’s personal guard. Have you the sword?”

  Nimue forced herself to look Sir Royce straight in the eyes. “I do not.”

  The soldiers exchanged looks at this. Sir Royce frowned. “Is this a jest, madam? The king has kept his word to you. Have you been false to His Majesty?”

  “The sword is near. But I have conditions of my own.” Nimue hated the way her voice shook.

  Sir Royce’s face contorted with anger. “You’re a bold wench, aren’t you? Where is the sword?”

  “Grant me an audience with King Uther. To him only will I share its location.”

  Sir Royce twisted his reins in his gloved fist. Nimue assumed it was her neck he was imagining. “This ends poorly for you, girl,” he warned. “Keep up.” With that, he wheeled his horse around. The soldiers fell in around her as they rode to Camp Pendragon.

  Nimue’s saw the ocean of black-and-gold tents reaching across a vast plain and speckling onto the low hillside. She had never felt quite so small or unimpressive as she passed glowering soldiers with muddy faces, some regarding her with suspicion, others making lewd faces or gestures. A cold hand squeezed her guts when the sprawling royal pavilion came into view and she saw six Red Paladins and six Trinity guards stationed outside. Her heart was thudding as Sir Royce dismounted, took her palfrey’s reins, and allowed her to climb down. Her legs were weak, but she straightened herself and glanced into the paladins’ murderous eyes as the flap was opened and she entered.

  She wondered if they would grant her some water. Lush carpets covered the ground. There were tables of abundance and luxury all around her: heaping bowls of fruits and cakes and breads, jugs of wine and golden candlesticks. King Uther sat on a throne, a thin golden crown over his narrow forehead. He was younger than she’d expected. Standing to his left was the man she knew as Sir Beric. Next to him was a small and dark-eyed man in exquisite black church robes, and across from the king was Father Carden, tall with a warm, round face that belied the evil that lived within. He gazed upon her with thin pity.

  Sir Royce brushed ahead of Nimue and knelt before the king. “Your Majesty, the witch requested an audience. She doesn’t have the sword. She claimed she would only reveal its location to you, sire.”

  “She mocks your kindness, Your Majesty,” Father Carden said. “Why waste another breath on her? We are more than capable of drawing out the sword’s location from her. Indeed, it would be a privilege.” Father Carden turned and smiled at Nimue.

  “I concur, King Uther,” the little man in the rich robes offered. “Give us the witch and the Sword of Power will be yours by sundown.”

  “Girl, we fear you presume too much mercy from us,” the king said to Nimue. “You are aware what awaits you should we hand you over to the Red Brotherhood?”

  “Aye, very aware, Your Majesty,” Nimue said. She looked at Father Carden. “He had my mother killed. My family. Those who raised me. My best friend. He burned them all. Burned our village down. I know him well.”

  Nimue saw Carden’s jaw clench while she felt a heat rising through her.

  “We will humble you before Almighty God, child,
I swear it,” Carden replied.

  “That’s what your boys in the glade thought,” Nimue heard herself say.

  Father Carden took an aggressive step toward her, and on instinct, Sir Royce stepped in his path. Nimue turned back to the king, a fury building.

  King Uther studied her. “You promised us the sword. Now where is it?”

  “I will deliver you the sword, Your Majesty, when the Green Knight is released and returned to me.” Nimue turned to Father Carden. “Alive,” she finished.

  Father Carden scoffed, “The Green Knight is ours, and we will continue to purify him until his soul is clean.”

  “Then you will never have the sword,” Nimue promised Uther. “And you will never be the one true king.”

  Sir Beric’s eyes grew wide. “How dare you speak to the king in this manner?”

  “Please, Your Majesty,” the man in black robes implored the king, “it pains me to see this witch degrade you so.”

  “I believe you are fair,” Nimue said to Uther, “and merciful. You would not have sent your ships for my kind were you otherwise. You have me. I will pay for whatever crimes I must. But in return for my life and the sword I beg you, free the Green Knight.”

  “More lies,” Carden said.

  “I am ready to die. Are you?”

  “Is that a threat, girl?” Carden asked.

  “Torture me all you like, strip me to the bones, I will never reveal the sword. It will never be found. Never,” Nimue said directly to the king.

  Uther sighed. “Gods, it will give us great joy to be rid of you all.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. “Royce, take the witch to a tent while we deliberate.”

  Steel hands took her arms and led her away as heated voices erupted behind her.

  Arthur stood on the beach, suffering through the interminable wait as the rowboats transporting the Fey Kind to the two-masted hulks offshore fought the wintry tide. Over and over again, the waves bashed the boats back ashore and the Fey passengers would need to unload into smaller groups. Complicating matters still more were the Fey’s unfamiliarity and discomfort with the open seas. Many panicked as the rowboats left the sands, and it was only fear of Wroth and his war hammer that made them scurry back to the boats. In twelve hours, they had only loaded half the refugees, and the rest shivered on the beach, huddling near the large rocks by the cliff wall.