Seems I take after my mother after all.
◆◆◆
“Sir Cade should have been ready by now,” Sir Boris harrumphs, checking his pocket watch for the fourteenth time this morning, as if it’s going to make it move any faster.
Sir Dagonet was very clear about us not moving from our post until we got the green light from Caamaloth, and we’re all feeling the strain of this latest, useless hold-up. We should’ve seen Sir Joseph already, and managed to get our hands on some of the Fey weapons that the Order’s kept under lock and key in the armory.
I glance at Arthur’s pale face. Traces of his nightmare are still evident there, at least to me, and I repress the irascible need to hit something. When I sought out Blanchefleur this morning, while everyone else was at breakfast, to ask for her help, I didn’t realize she already knew of his condition. Knew, and didn’t bother to tell me. So I was forced to listen to her curt dismissal, telling me Arthur’s state was beyond her healing ability. And that the only one who could’ve done something would have been me, before my little trip in Hell perverted my powers.
“It’s unlike Sir Cade to be late,” Hadrian says, tapping his boot impatiently on the floor.
“Maybe Pendragon’s giving him a hard time again,” Daniel says, his snickers cut short when Keva pushes him off his fat mushroom stool.
The burnished trefoil set in the middle of the meeting room floor starts to shimmer.
“He’s here,” Lugh says, before sweeping his hand over the glossy symbol.
We watch as the three leaves expand, pulling out of the floor, before joining again along the blades to form a round bowl that quickly fills up with limpid water.
“Sgàthan soilleir,” Lugh intones.
A thick fog lifts from the water’s surface, clouding our images as we eagerly lean forward. When the mists dissipate at last, we find our reflections replaced by the image of a single face. One that I can barely recognize, scars and burns now marking what had once been smooth skin. Yet the square jaw and military crew cut have remained the same.
“Good morning, Sir Cade,” Sir Boris says thickly.
“Not good,” my uncle replies with a stiff nod. His voice echoes slightly through the copper cup he’s holding to his mouth, the Hall of Mirror’s only way of communicating through the constant scrying his team does.
Sir Cade’s reflection ripples, blurring his features, and Hadrian leans further down.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
The crystal-clear water stills once again, and we catch the end of his explanations, “—now the armory’s under heavy fire.”
Gareth jumps off his stool with a repressed shout. My knuckles whiten on my knees as an assistant appears behind my uncle, bleeding hand curled against his chest. Sir Cade turns away from us as the man’s mouth moves, delivering his message. His voice is a distorted murmur, but the meaning is clear in my uncle’s bunched shoulders, and the scene unfolding behind them.
The Hall of Mirrors is in total chaos, people moving from one mirror to another, shouting orders. I hear someone yell, followed by the loud crash of glass breaking, and I realize that the whole building must be under attack.
Sir Cade’s face turns back to us. “She’s here,” he says.
Three words is all it takes to instill a deep fear in the pit of my stomach. Something lands on the surface of the water, and everyone jumps in surprise, only to realize a bug landed on my uncle’s scrying mirror.
“Locusts,” Blanchefleur hisses.
“We’ll be right there!” Gauvain shouts, pacing around the wooden basin impatiently. If we could travel through it, he’d be the first to jump in the water.
Sir Cade’s eyes find mine, and he mouths something to me, but he’s lost the mirror’s mouthpiece and I can’t hear a word. Then the water fogs over again, and we all find ourselves staring instead at our troubled reflections.
“What are they after that they didn’t already take last time?” Gareth asks, putting his iron-threaded gloves back on.
“Sir Cade mentioned the armory,” Hadrian says, making sure his sword belt is firmly attached around his hips.
Sir Boris’s large mushroom seat tilts its wide cap forward to prop him up. “It’s not weapons they want,” he says, eyeing me disdainfully. “It’s that fake squire of Sir Gorlois.”
“Caim,” Lugh says, his long fingers tapping nervously against the windowsill.
“It can’t be,” I say, stunned. “He’s our only way to defeat Carman.”
“It looks like Carman’s figured that out too,” Keva says with a grimace.
“We need to get going, stat!” Arthur says. He glances at Lugh. “Do you think Pigfain can manage to transport our knights to Caamaloth?”
The Fey Lord nods. “The portal has been created once before, so transporting that many soldiers should be feasible,” he says.
Arthur nods tightly. “Then let’s get to it.”
The room erupts into action, Sir Boris, Blanchefleur, Hadrian and the cousins slipping away first to get ready for battle, Keva and Daniel close on their heels.
Too soon, yet not soon enough, all the able-bodied troops are ready, filing in the burned-down glade towards Pigfain’s portal. Ready to face Carman’s ire, and save Caamaloth from her fires.
“I really don’t think you should go,” Arthur says quietly as we wait for our turn.
“Oh, and are you going to tell any of these other people here to stay as well?” I retort.
We take a few steps forward as another group of knights steps inside Pigfain’s Fey circle, many barely our age.
“It’s not the same thing,” Arthur says.
“Are you saying their lives matter less than mine?” I hiss out.
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Arthur says. “What I’m saying is that you’re way more dangerous than they would be should you fall into Carman’s hands again.”
“I thought that was exactly where you guys wanted me,” I retort scathingly.
The people in line ahead of us throw curious glances over their shoulders at us, before quickly looking away again when they see me. I repress a flinch, hurt at the thought that these knights would rather face Carman than be anywhere near me.
“But in that, you guys are right,” I say at last. “No one around here knows how Carman works better than I do, not even Lugh himself.”
It’s now time for the group in front of us to move into Pigfain’s portal, and with a bright flash they all disappear.
“Morgan, please,” Arthur says urgently as the Fey circle starts glowing again, “try to understand—”
“No, you try to understand!” I fire back at him. “I know what it’s like to be at her mercy, and believe me when I say that I’m the last one who’s going to want to fall into her clutches again. But she’s used my own blood to create that damned dragon of hers! So I must, no, I need to find a way to undo it. And believe me when I say that I’m not going to let anything, nor anyone, stop me from fighting her, not while there’s a breath left in me.”
Shocked at my own outburst I push past him, but not before I see the pain and fear in Arthur’s eyes. I know he means well, that he cares for me as any knight would his younger, more inexperienced squire. But if I allow him to sway me today, I’ll never get the courage to face Carman again.
I nod to Pigfain as I step inside his wide circle, and the Fey boy nods in return, his features strained with evident exhaustion. The rest of our usual group follows suit, pointedly looking everywhere but at me.
At the last second, Arthur jumps inside the circle too, and I barely have the time to let out an annoyed expletive before we’re all sucked into the ground.
Chapter 25
“Watch it!”
Arthur’s hand shoots out to stop me from dropping to the ground, and I heave right over his shiny boots instead, the whole world still spinning around me.
“Great,” he mutters, patting my back soothingly as Pigfain disappears once more to fetch th
e next batch of soldiers.
“Disgusting,” Keva says with a sniff.
“I hate traveling this way,” I mutter, wiping my mouth on the back of my coat sleeve.
Pigfain’s taken us to the woods on the southeastern part of the Order’s expansive property, far enough away from the battle so as not to warn Carman of our presence. But even under these trees, the trampled snow is blood red, and a strange rumbling permeates the freezing air.
Keva and I exchange nervous glances.
“Maybe she’s already gone,” I hear someone say as Sir Boris shouts for order.
“Shut up,” someone else says. “If she’s gone then that means our—”
The sound of a distant explosion sends a flock of birds cawing away in alarm, and a heavy silence settles over what remains of our troops.
“Better hurry,” Keva says, taking the lead.
But Hadrian calls her immediately back. “When did I say you could go?” he barks at her.
Keva’s cheeks flush red. “But I thought—”
“I didn’t ask you to think, I asked you to follow my orders!”
Keva’s eyes widen in surprise. Never has Hadrian talked to her with that tone before, and the shock of it seems to be difficult for her to swallow.
“You are to remain at my side at all times, unless I order you otherwise, understood?” Hadrian asks.
I look at Arthur, wondering suddenly if he’s going to pull the same I’m-your-mighty-knight-so-obey-me kinda crap, especially after my earlier outburst.
The plan was for us two to slip through Carman’s forces, unseen, and head straight for the prison, while everyone else helps Caamaloth survive its latest invasion. But maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he wants to go alone.
But instead, Arthur gives me a resigned sigh.
“Come on,” he says, turning to cut across the trees that border Caamaloth’s main compound, and, with a silent thank you, I fall into step behind him.
It doesn’t take us long to arrive behind the security hall, or what’s left of it. Half the building is missing, as if a giant’s swiped it clean off the face of the earth. Bodies litter the ground—mostly those of guards and knights. However Carman’s army managed to get in this time, it was a massacre.
We angle right to head up the main road, when my footsteps falter. I glance again over my shoulder, and catch sight of a lone figure roaming about the rubble, poking at the debris with a short spear.
“Wait,” I whisper, grabbing Arthur’s arm before motioning him towards the remains of the last guardhouse.
“We can’t afford to stop,” he whispers back at me.
“But it’s hunting for survivors,” I say, peering around the wall. “We can’t let it kill defenseless people like that!”
Arthur’s lips thin out. “OK,” he says at last, “but we can’t—”
“Another transgression, unbelievable!”
We both startle at the deep French voice. I tilt my head to the side in confusion as the figure straightens itself, holding onto what I hope isn’t a human head, a cigarette burning red at its lips.
“Inspector Bossart?” I call out in my surprise.
The man jumps, dropping whatever he’d caught on his spike, and reaches for his gun.
“Wait, don’t shoot!” I shout, pulling away from the cover of the guardhouse, hands held high above my head.
With a frustrated sigh, Arthur follows suit.
“It’s only me,” I add, carefully edging towards the weaselly man. “Morgan de Cor—Pendragon,” I add, remembering belatedly he only knows me under my old family name. The fake one.
“Morgan Pendragon,” Inspector Bossart repeats.
My ears might be deceiving me, but it seems he isn’t saying my name with as much venom as he once did. Then again, it’s been a couple of years since he last saw me, so maybe he doesn’t remember who I am.
“Why am I not surprised to find you here?” the inspector continues. “You seem to attract trouble wherever you are.”
I grimace, finally dropping my hands to my sides. The man evidently has the memory of an elephant.
“You really shouldn’t be here,” I say. “It’s too dangerous for…for someone like you.”
“Are you saying there are more of those aberrations of nature?” the man asks, holstering his firearm, and I know he means the draugar.
“Look,” Arthur says, “I have no idea what kind of reports you’ve received about our center, though I can venture a good guess. But I’ll have to second Morgan on this one. This isn’t a place for untrained people to be. So I suggest you hurry back out before—”
“I will not let a couple of emo teenagers tell me what to do,” Inspector Bossart says, picking his spike back up to point behind him, its end weighed down by a small creature with pink and black fur.
“Isn’t that Lady Tanya’s pet?” I ask Arthur.
“I’m twenty,” Arthur growls, ignoring me.
Inspector Bossart shrugs, lighting up a second cigarette. “Could be my great-aunt, for all I care. Besides, I need to know what to tell that lot over there.”
“Tell who?” I ask, finally looking at what Inspector Bossart’s pointing at.
I go very still. Pressing angrily against the entrance gates down the driveway, is a crowd of journalists, their cameras aimed straight at us, flashes going off like machine guns.
“What are they doing here?” Arthur asks tensely. “They shouldn’t even have made it this far.”
“I’m actually surprised they’ve never made their way down here before,” Inspector Bossart counters, waving the tiny Fey’s carcass around, “what with all the exceedingly odd things that always happen around here, and how the whole world seems to have gone down the rabbit hole too.”
“Our security team’s usually pretty good at intercepting them beforehand,” Arthur says.
The security team which was taken down in the assault, I silently add, my skin prickling with dread. I look at the storm clouds gathered over the rest of the compound, wishing I could already be at the prison looking for Sir Joseph. But I can’t let these innocent humans get into harm’s way either.
“Well, they’ll certainly have a ball when the militia finally gets here,” the inspector says.
“You didn’t!” Arthur exclaims, going pale.
“Of course, I did, boy,” Inspector Bossart says, stabbing him with his finger. “Whatever your secret sect may say, there are too many things happening in here, in my country. Not to mention those monsters you keep harboring. I’ll be damned if—”
“If those soldiers get here, you’ll be responsible for their deaths,” Arthur says, seething. “Call them off. And you”—he points at me—“get those civilians away!”
“What do you expect me to do?” I ask. “Shoo them away?”
“Exactly,” Arthur says, a crazed glint in his eyes. “Remember that time you played with the clouds on our way here?”
“Yeah.”
“Do it again.”
My mouth drops open. “I don’t think that’s very wise,” I say. “What if the thunderstorm falls over us? We’re all carrying a lot of iron on ourselves.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Arthur says grimly. “All I’m asking is for you to move the clouds lower to create a fog. Anything to hide what’s happening from their lenses.”
“And what, exactly, is happening here?” Inspector Bossart asks, a little subdued. He may be prickly and an annoying stickler for his rules, but he isn’t stupid.
The ground shakes as a loud explosion thunders across the Headquarters. The inspector loses his footing, and Arthur rushes up to catch him before the man can tumble all the way down to the bottom of the pile of rubble. The angry skies above the Tactical Operations Center light up as our troops respond to the attack with elemental power.
“What was that? Another gas explosion?” Inspector Bossart asks, looking like he rather wished it were.
“They must have gotten to the p
rison,” Arthur says in alarm.
“There’s a prison here?” Inspector Bossart exclaims, dropping his third cigarette.
Arthur turns on him. “If we manage to repel this latest attack, I’ll get someone to answer any question you may have, if that’s what you want,” he says quickly. “If you’re still alive, that is. And the longer you stay here, the lower the probability.”
I crane my head up to look at the dark clouds rolling over the Jura mountains, trying to recall my animal figure-making when we were landing here on my first visit to Caamaloth.
“Very well,” I hear the inspector say. “I’ll do my best to detain those journalists while your people handle…whatever that is. But you better wrap things up quick, cause the militia isn’t going to listen to me.”
Drawing a deep breath, I point to the closest cloud with my index finger, then sweep it down, an artist painting on her canvas. For a moment, nothing happens, then a sharp breeze picks up, funneling the cloud our way.
“It’s working!” I exclaim, as Inspector Bossart casts us weary glance before heading down the long driveway to the gates.
“Don’t stop now,” Arthur says, keeping a worried look at the back of the compound where we can hear our troops fighting.
Dutifully, I turn to the next cloud, doing the same as with the first, until the whole sky seems to have dropped onto our heads, burying us in a cold, vaporous blanket.
I let out a giddy laugh, all my senses tingling. This is what being Fey is supposed to be: Using the elements to help others, not waging war and destroying everything around.
Then the first rumblings of a storm roll in, and I feel my hair rise with static electricity.
“I think I may have overdone it,” I say, as the clouds turn a nasty shade of grey, lightning bolts sizzling all around us.
“It’s perfect,” Arthur shouts in my ear, pulling me after him. “Now come on!”
We bolt across the rough terrain, navigating around bodies and fallen buildings as quickly as we can. Which is still not fast enough.
Curse of the Fey: A Modern Arthurian Legend (Morgana Trilogy Book 3) Page 22