Father Carden entered the freshly carved path to look upon the bodies with his own eyes. The Weeping Monk followed. The Red Paladins were nothing more than unrecognizable lumps of meat cradled in the embrace of the hedge.
“An abomination,” Carden whispered. He pulled the bloody hood away from one of the paladin’s faces, a face contorted by terror. Carden shook his head and replaced the shroud. Again, he took note of the small footprints at the heart of the scene. “One child did all of this?”
The Weeping Monk knelt by another body. “Simon saw a girl leave the temple carrying something.” His finger grazed what looked like a burn on the Red Paladin’s arm.
Carden joined him. He studied the burn. “Observe. The skin was not marked from the outside. Our brother here was burned from within. This is powerful evil.”
The burn had a unique shape: a branch with three stems. “The Devil’s Tooth,” Carden mused. “This is its mark.”
The Weeping Monk looked up at him.
Carden threw back the robes from another dead paladin. His throat bore the same brand. Another Red Paladin wore the mark on his cheek.
Carden stood up, shaken. “We have flushed out the ancient weapon of our enemy. The Sword of Power has been found and is in the possession of one of the Devil’s children.” He spread his arms to the hedges. “One maid with the power to do this. To pervert God’s creations, to make monsters of the earth and air. At all costs this child must be cleansed. The great conflict has begun.” Father Carden pulled the Weeping Monk’s hooded head into a whisper. “Find the sword. And find her.”
Nimue lay against an embankment, in a bed of wet leaves, thinking about Squirrel. The high midday sun was bright but gave off little heat. She had gone back to their hiding spot in the hollow of the ash tree, but he was not there. Instead she had found six men of her village cut down in a nearby field. Left for the dogs.
A cold rain began to fall. It made Nimue’s bones ache. Her legs throbbed from running, she’d lost count how many miles. Her only possession in the world was the sword.
Why would her mother conceal it?
If it was important enough to sacrifice her life for it, why had Nimue never been told of its existence?
And was Merlin the same Merlin from the children’s stories? Was he a real person? How was that possible?
No matter, Nimue thought. She would never last the night. Hunted, without shelter or food or water, her chances were grim. The forest hid thieves and wolves. The city harbored Father Carden’s spies. She knew no one outside her clan, and that clan had just been slaughtered before her eyes. Nimue was alone.
She regarded the sword again. The rune carved into the pommel was filled with silver and had to be worth something. Surely it could bring her enough coin for safe passage across the sea? After all, wasn’t survival the most important thing? Wouldn’t her mother want her to do everything to survive? Nimue turned the sword in her hand, so light. Incredible.
Mother gave her life for this sword.
Would Nimue honor that sacrifice by selling it for scraps? What other choice did she have? She was a murderer. She had slain seven Red Paladins. They would hang her for this, or worse. And she had used the Hidden to aid her in the task. She would be branded a witch.
Nimue cried pitiful tears, which were lost in the raindrops. She’d had no time for anything. Pym. Dusk Lady. Her mother. It had all happened so fast. Nimue felt a despair welling up that could swallow her. But before she gave over to it, a name popped into her mind.
Arthur.
Nimue thought for a moment. Then she took the sword to her wet blond hair. She sawed through a hank of hair in her hand and let the strands fall to the ground. She needed a cloak. She’d be far too suspicious waltzing into Hawksbridge in her ragged skirts with a valuable sword slung on her back.
Less than an hour later, Nimue crept through a field of wheat toward a laundry line strung up with the clothes of a peasant family: wool stockings, tunics, and shifts. She tore the farmer’s cloak and pants from the line and bolted back into the field, running as low as possible so the wheat would conceal her.
As evening approached, Nimue tore strips from her skirts to make a belt that would keep the farmer’s trousers around her waist. The oversize cloak concealed the sword on Nimue’s back, despite being as long as she was. She needed to reach Hawksbridge before sunset: she doubted she could survive another night of exposure.
Her feet felt like stumps. Her arms hung like iron weights. She ached with hunger. As she approached Hawksbridge, she was panicked to see very little traffic at the gates, and worse still, a Red Paladin stood with the guards.
Suddenly a whistle carried on the air—barely familiar. Nimue turned and saw the traveling dentist from earlier that morning atop his one-horse cart.
The dentist was bald with long brown sideburns and a mustache that curled down his cheeks, giving him the look of a sad hound. His smock was stained dark with the blood of his patients, and though his eyes were still red, with bags under them. Nimue attributed it to fatigue rather than ale. The dentist appeared to be through with his rounds of the local farms and headed back home inside the gates of Hawksbridge.
Without much of a plan, Nimue stepped into the path of his cart. The dentist frowned and pulled the reins. “Everything all right, miss?”
With her chopped-off hair and baggy clothes, Nimue was unrecognizable from the morning. She pressed a hand to her cheek and winced. “It’s my tooth, sir.”
“Oh? Well, I’m afraid my work’s done for the day. Give me directions and I may be able to squeeze you in day after tomorrow.”
“But that’s far too long! Please, sir.”
“Best I can do, miss.”
Nimue’s eyes brimmed with desperate tears. Given her misery, they were ready to fall at any moment. “But the pain is just shooting, and I can’t do my chores, and my mother beats me if I can’t work.”
The dentist looked her over. He wasn’t impressed. “You’ve got coin, have you?”
“My brother can pay you. He’s just inside the gates with his chums at the Raven Wing. I’m sure he’d treat you to a mead for taking pity on me.” Nimue grimaced and clutched her jaw. “It’s a torment, sir.” As Nimue held her cheek, her cloak dropped away from her wrist and the dentist saw the totems on her bracelet. It was then that he recognized her.
“I know you from this morning.” He frowned. “You and your friend.”
Nimue’s mind went numb as she watched the wheels turn in the dentist’s mind. He looked over to the gates. They were one cart away from the Red Paladin. After a few moments of conversation, the guard waved it through and walked toward the dentist’s cart.
“State your business,” the guard said, bored.
The dentist turned back to Nimue.
“Please, sir,” she whispered.
Fear, pity, and guilt washed over the dentist’s rheumy eyes. He looked at the guard, at a loss for words, as the Red Paladin approached.
“Hello?” the guard asked, annoyed.
“T-t-teeth, sir,” the dentist managed.
Nimue noticed the dentist’s hands shaking.
“Just—just finishing my rounds,” he added.
“And this one?” The guard stared Nimue up and down.