Curse of the Fey: A Modern Arthurian Legend (Morgana Trilogy Book 3)

by Alessa Ellefson

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Luther shouts at me. “You let the witch escape, and now you dare defend that filth who’s been murdering our people?”

  “I’m not letting him go,” I say, although I’m not quite sure what I should be doing instead. All I know is that I don’t want Mordred dead.

  But isn’t that what’s going to happen to him if he doesn’t get out of here now?

  A bitter smile stretches Mordred’s lips. “Oh, but you have no choice in the matter, sister dear,” he says. “You owe me three favors now, and I’m calling one back.”

  A strange torpor spreads through my limbs, as if I’ve suddenly been caught inside a dream. I watch helplessly as Mordred launches himself over the breach to punch Luther, clocking him in the jaw so hard the man drops to the ground without a sound.

  “Don’t even bother,” Mordred tells Arthur as he tries to come to his father’s defense.

  Then, with casual unconcern, Mordred bites down on his thumb, and starts tracing symbols with his own blood along the edge of the fountain. I watch, as if from very far away, as the whole water basin starts to shimmer, and a portal appears in its place.

  “Retreat!” Mordred shouts to the last of his men.

  Urim and Thummim are the first to leap into the fountain, quickly followed by the few Dark Sidhe who haven’t abandoned Mordred’s side yet.

  “Remember that we’re two sides of the same coin, sis,” Mordred says, ignoring the knights slowly circling him. “Take as long as you need for your wee brain to process that. And when you finally see reason, come join me like you were always meant to.”

  Mordred looks like he’s about to add something, but shakes his head instead. Then, with a final wave at me, he disappears through his portal.

  Chapter 27

  “Unhand her,” Arthur growls.

  I try not to wince as the two guards tighten their hold on my wrists instead.

  “The sentence for treason is death,” Luther says. “And don’t you dare throw a temper tantrum, Arthur. This isn’t Lake High. She let that Dark Sidhe go, even though she had him in the palm of her hand.”

  “It’s not like she chose to,” Arthur says, sounding calm despite his clenched jaw. “And if it weren’t for Morgan, we’d all be dead. You saw it. Everyone saw it.”

  The knights holding me look over my head at each other. I can feel their nerves in the slight tremors of their hands.

  Luther’s mouth curls into a heinous sneer. “I think a night in jail might straighten you out, son. Despite the mounting evidence of her evil purpose, you’re still acting like a neophyte around her!”

  The virulence of his tone startles me. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine Luther would look at Arthur, his own flesh and blood, like he’s the scum of the earth, like he’s…me.

  Anger boils inside me. I’m ready to gouge Luther’s eyes out if he keeps this nasty business up.

  “I would hold your tongue if I were you.”

  Luther flinches as Sir Cade strides over to us, no trace of injury on him either beneath the grime and soot. My uncle looks pointedly at the knights flanking me, and they wither away under his glare, releasing me.

  “That Fey bitch is a traitor,” Luther spits, “she deserves to burn!”

  Arthur blanches, hands balling into tight fists. I wish I could go to him, tell him not to worry, that such insults have no bearing on me. But now is not the time, not in front of all these people. They may think I’ve saved them today, but I know it’s not enough to get rid of all the prejudice and suspicions that have weighed on my shoulders since the day I was born. And I don’t want to have these people cast the same looks at Arthur.

  “I believe you are getting things mixed up,” Sir Cade says. His chin lifts a fraction higher. “The one who should be arrested isn’t Morgan. Emmerich.”

  My uncle’s right-hand man steps up, handcuffs in hand. “As you very well know, anything you say can and shall be held against you,” the knight tells Luther in a monotone voice, as if arresting a high-ranking officer of the Order is a daily occurrence.

  Luther’s face turns purple. “Surely you’re not going to put me through this circus of yours again, are you? You’ve tried me before, and I was proven innocent.”

  “A ‘not guilty’ verdict doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re innocent,” Sir Cade says. “As we both very well know. But there are new charges that have been brought against you.”

  “Sir Luther, you are hereby officially charged with failing in your fiduciary duty to your ward by misusing her funds,” Emmerich says, handing the handcuffs over to one of the guards, “as well as embezzling the Order’s assets for personal use, bribing other officials, intimidating subordinates, destroying of evidence…shall I continue?

  “And unfortunately for you,” Sir Cade states, “your actions did leave traces this time around.”

  I snort back a laugh of derision. The Board could look over the murder of Jennifer’s dad, but mess with their funds, and now Luther gets to walk the plank. How typical.

  Luther watches in stupor as his men turn on him, snapping the handcuffs around his wrists. The once proud knight and contender to the Board Presidency looks at last to his son for support.

  “Arthur, tell them they’ve got it wrong,” Luther says, as the guards march him away through the growing throng of onlookers. “Arthur! This is all fabrications, lies!”

  But Arthur remains mute, eyes staring sightless at some distant point, lost in thought.

  “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for our Order!” Luther protests, his cries carrying over the buzzing of the crowd.

  I stare in shock long after he and Sir Cade are gone, my thoughts in total disarray. Why this? Why now, of all times? We have more important things to take care of, like letting everyone know the truth about Carman, and finding ways to stop her. Or did my uncle feel it necessary to protect me?

  “Toppling the status quo, as always,” a sarcastic voice says. “And you wonder why so many hate you.”

  I whirl around to face a grinning Keva. I can’t help but return her smile, relieved to find her still in one piece.

  “Might wanna keep your distance from that devil spawn,” Daniel drawls, scowling at me.

  Keva pinches him in reprisal. “Lucifer, for your information, means Bringer of Light,” she states, reminding me of the two flying mice. “And that was quite the lightshow you put on,” she adds to me. “Way cooler than anything else I’ve seen any Fey do. I mean, look at my skin. It’s positively glowing!”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I mumble, growing increasingly uncomfortable as those still around turn their attention upon me.

  “It can’t have been her, she’s just a child,” I hear someone say, somewhere off to my left.

  Keva’s dimpling cheeks belie the manic gleam in her eyes. “Quite the Saint Thomas, aren’t you?” she says at the woman, tossing her braid back. “You saw it all, and yet you still don’t believe. I wonder, would it be the same if the truth smacked you right in the face?”

  Daniel puts his hand on her shoulder, as worried as I am that Keva may actually carry out her threat.

  “How did she do that?” someone else asks.

  “Why didn’t she save us before?” an older man juts out, elbowing his way to the front of the growing throng. “My son died out there!” He points at me. “She could have saved him!”

  “Hey now,” Keva says, sounding a little less certain of herself. “Her powers don’t come with a set of instructions. Did you know how to use oghams properly from the get-go? I don’t think so.”

  “She’s one of them,” a younger woman spits. “It’s in her blood to know these things. She’s been holding back!”

  I stumble back, afraid of how quickly their looks have turned from hope and gratefulness to bitter resentment and hate.

  “Enough,” Sir Pelles says. He may be just inches taller than I am, but his presence is enough to appease the choleric knights. “We have mu
ch to—”

  “Lady Helen has a point,” Sister Marie-Clémence says, arriving at the scene with a contingency of guards.

  To my surprise, Bri’s father’s at her side, looking grave despite the sagging belly peeking through the rend in his mailed shirt where a demon must have stabbed him.

  “I don’t believe I was done speaking,” Sir Pelles says with a withering stare for the nun.

  A sudden gust of wind whips around the gardens, raising so much dust and snow that everyone’s forced to seek cover. I cough, shielding my stinging eyes.

  The bale dies away as quickly as it appeared, and we find Lugh and Oberon standing by the fountain, golden eyes glowing in the burgeoning dusk. Their silent presence is enough to quell some of the dissenting voices in the crowd.

  “I entreat you all to remain composed,” Sir Pelles states. “This war has already taken too many of ours, why then are you antagonizing those who would be our allies? This squire here has done nothing but try to protect us, as is her duty, and you wish to lynch her like a crazed mob?”

  Some of the knights look away in shame at the older man’s reproach.

  “Because she displays powers you do not possess?” Sir Pelles continues. He lifts a hand before Sister Marie-Clémence can interrupt him again. “Do not judge lest ye be judged,” he continues, voice growing louder so even those at the back can hear him. “For if her sin is to carry Fey blood in her veins, then we are all sinners.”

  Shocked gasps rise from those assembled, and Sister Marie-Clémence’s scowl deepens.

  “Sir Gorlois was right when he claimed our parentage to those we hunted,” Sir Pelles forges on. “We can no longer go on, with our heads in the sand, refusing to believe the truth simply because it doesn’t suit our fancy. Let us, therefore, take example on our own children, who have more readily embraced their abilities, under the tutelage of these two Fey Lords.”

  Lugh and Oberon finally move, parting to let us see a red-haired girl standing just behind them. Marianne. The knight Oberon nearly killed in Lugh’s Oak Tree. She looks shyly at the rotund Fey who nods at her obligingly.

  Taking a shaky breath, she steps forward, and holds her hands out. At first, it doesn’t look like she’s doing anything, then a boy cries out, pointing at her feet. And there, peeking from between two slabs of stone, is a growing plant stem, the shoot a vibrant green. Shocked gasps race across the gathered throng. For this time, Marianne isn’t using a single ogham.

  “I know that our relations have not always been the fondest,” Lugh says, as Marianne coaxes the plant up, leaves now unfurling in small bouquets, “not even when fighting side by side these last couple of years. But as demonstrated tonight by Morgan, daughter of Sir Gorlois, it is by embracing our differences that we can grow stronger together, and help each other win.

  “To that effect, Lord Oberon has reached out to your very own sons and daughters to help them regain abilities that had been lost for generations. Powers that are yours to command should you choose, and you have only to ask.”

  At a sign of Lugh, Oberon steps forward. “Pages, please advance.”

  Keva gasps as seven more boys and girls break timidly away from the crowd to join Marianne’s side.

  “Is that Brown Bag?” Daniel asks, using the nickname he, Ross and Brockton had come up with for Elias, after the latter had had an unfortunate accident during an EM combat class with Lady Ysolt.

  Elias is the tallest of the group—the only one in our class who didn’t become a squire like the rest of us, or even a knight, like Daniel. He’s the second to demonstrate his newfound abilities. Carefully, almost reverently, he extends his hands and coaxes a bright blue flame to life, letting it drip from one hand to the other like a fiery liquid.

  “I think you’re the one about to shit your pants now,” Keva tells Daniel with a smirk.

  Encouraged by Elias, the other six pages follow suit, displaying their own innate abilities, laughing at the adults’ gawking.

  Sir Pelles uses the stunned silence to speak up again. “As Lady Marianne and these pages can attest, although training sessions have barely started, they are already bearing fruit. Many of you have complained of the unreliability of ogham use. Well, this is your chance to take matters into your own hands. Should any of you desire to learn as well, Lord Oberon has kindly offered to assist in this as well. Everyone else is to report for cleanup duty, and—”

  I jump as someone’s hand lands on my shoulder.

  “Saved by the great Pelles himself,” Gauvain whispers in my ear, steering me carefully away from the captivated throng, “and a perfect opportunity to escape.”

  Exchanging curious glances, Daniel and Keva follow close behind as Gareth falls into step with us, the latter having evidently lost his shirt and jacket in the fight.

  “First of all, we’d like to thank you for saving our derrières[22],” Gauvain says.

  “Truly,” Gareth says, pectorals gleaming in the light of a passing torch.

  “But we must ask for your help, again,” Gauvain says.

  “OK,” I slowly say, wondering what all the fuss is about.

  “See, Arty’s somehow disappeared,” Gauvain says, hefting a loud sigh.

  I try to look back over my shoulder. “But isn’t he…here?” I ask. “I thought—”

  “Alas, no,” Gareth says, scratching his belly with his war hammer.

  “Rumors say he disappeared yonder,” Gauvain says, stopping finally at the edge of the path, and pointing back the way we first arrived, towards the thick forest that borders Caamaloth’s northeaster side.

  “Looking rather distressed,” Gale adds emphatically.

  “Arthur’s missing and distraught,” Keva says, catching on to the cousins’ game. “Gee, I wonder who might be able to cheer him up?”

  “A good meal with some eghajira[23] always works for me,” Gauvain says, smiling thankfully at her.

  “I think he’d need a more…delicate touch,” Keva says, waving at me to go.

  “A soothing presence,” Gareth says, voice shaking with barely-concealed laughter.

  I roll my eyes at their theatrics. “I, uh, guess I’ll go and check up on him,” I finally say. “As his squire, you know.”

  “Would you do that for us?” Gauvain asks, hand on heart.

  “Might be preferable to have her away,” Daniel grumbles. “Safer for us.”

  Ignoring his comment and the others’ embarrassing giggles, I scamper off in search of Arthur. Everyone was laughing, as if it’s some kind of joke, but what’s happened with his dad is serious. And his inability to help Luther, even when he asked for help, must be weighing on him. I’m only too familiar with the bitter taste of guilt to want Arthur to taste it as well.

  I navigate my way through the wreckage and dead bodies as quickly as I can, my eyes darting to the pockets of darkness where he may have found refuge. But it isn’t until I pick my way around the Security Hall’s debris that something makes me look up, and I catch sight of a tall silhouette melting inside the woods, the cruciform pommel of a sword flashing once above his head.

  “Arthur!” I call out, taking off at a run.

  My boots hit the packed snow at breakneck speed, thoughts racing. Why is he going away in the middle of the forest like that, all alone? Surely, he can’t be thinking about—

  “Arthur!” I shout again, heart thumping.

  This time, Arthur hears me and he stops, though his back is still turned to me.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” I say, breathing heavily. “What are you doing here?”

  My hand brushes lightly against his elbow as I circle around him so I can see his face, and my heart stops. Tears trail down Arthur’s cheeks, his teeth digging into his lower lip so as not to make a sound.

  I open my mouth, start to say something, then click it shut again. Nothing I say can make him feel better. So I do the only thing I can think of, and wrap Arthur into a gentle hug, patting his shaking shoulders to let him know I’m
here for him, just as he has always been there for me.

  “I…I’m really sorry about all this,” I whisper to him.

  At last, Arthur pulls away, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. “You shouldn’t be the one to apologize,” he says. “It is I who”—he takes in a shuddering breath—“I should have prevented this.”

  “What are you talking about? You haven’t done anything.”

  “Exactly,” he says hotly, “I did nothing!”

  He looks up at the stars peeking through the forest’s interlacing branches, eyes sparkling with the last of his tears.

  “Arthur, none of this is your fault,” I say.

  He pulls brusquely away. “But my father—”

  “Is his own man,” I say. “You’re not responsible for his doings.”

  Just as I’m not responsible for my parents’ actions either.

  Arthur looks away, shoulders tense, face unreadable. But I know him well enough now to see that no matter what anyone says, he’s going to keep blaming himself. Just like I keep blaming myself for what I am and what Carman’s been able to do through me.

  I reach for him again, my warm fingers closing around his gloved hand. Arthur’s frown turns into a look of surprise as I pull him after me, deeper into the woods, away from Caamaloth’s smoldering ruins and corpses, from the Board and the Order’s constraints and obligations.

  We break into a run, bounding through the trees until our breaths are ragged, sweat pouring freely down our backs and foreheads. We run until our sides ache so much that the pain drives all other thought aside, and only stop when we reach the foot of a wide cliff.

  Heart thumping loudly in my ears, I return Arthur’s dazzling smile. We’ve landed in a small clearing, the blanket of snow that covers it untouched by man or beast. The last of the clouds have long since disappeared, leaving us alone beneath the twinkling lights of a thousand galaxies. Staring up at them, it’s hard to imagine that what’s happening here is so important. I feel so small, and insignificant, and…free.