FIFTEEN
MORGAN TURNED THE LOCK ON the back door of the Broken Spear and felt the pain up her wrist. She shifted the bag of spell ingredients she’d collected on her walk that morning to her right shoulder and finished turning the lock with her left hand. Her right wrist was still wrapped in rags to lessen the nagging pain that came from hauling trays of mugs, spilling with ale, for ten hours a day. As she dropped the keys into the pocket of her smock and turned to the road, a swollen rat waddled past her foot. Morgan put the toe of her boot on its tail. The rat squeaked and half rolled onto its back.
“Are you the one that’s been digging in my corn?” Morgan drew a small dagger and jabbed it through the skull. She cleaned the blade on her smock, sheathed it, plucked up the rat by the tail, and plopped it into her spell bag.
The white moon was Morgan’s torch as she crossed the lone road of Cinder’s Gate, a village that was merely a prelude to the actual town of Cinder set deeper into the hills of the Minotaur Mountains. Cinder’s Gate was only a handful of farmhouses, a stable with a decent smith, a recently built chapel to the One God, and the Broken Spear for thirsty travelers. The hills on both sides of Cinder’s Gate were thick with forests of spruce, larch, and various pine trees as well as a variety of limestone caves.
Morgan pulled her hood up and was about to enter the woods when someone whispered her name from a mound of boulders several feet away. Morgan drew her dagger again and took a few steps back. “Who’s there?” She was ever keen to the dangers of the open road and had stabbed holes in more than a few overeager drunks. But her heart jumped just the same as a tall, lanky figure emerged from the shadows of the rocks.
“Morgan, it’s Arthur.”
Morgan’s cheeks flushed with relief and a more complicated stew of emotions. “Arthur?”
He stepped into the moonlight and she shoved him with both hands. “Gods, I nearly jumped out of my skin! That’s not funny! What in the Nine Hells are you doing out here?” Though her tone was harsh, she was happy to see him.
Arthur gestured for her to lower her voice. “I’m in a bit of trouble.”
“Lost your trousers at dice again?” Morgan scoffed. “Haven’t I warned you about gambling?”
“It’s not money,” Arthur said, not playing along.
“Good, because I don’t have any.”
“I’m sorry to drag you into this, Morgan. I—truly, I didn’t know where else to go.” Arthur kept glancing back at the rocks.
Bothered by all the cloak-and-dagger, Morgan changed her tone. “Very well. Get on with it. What have you gotten into now?”
Chagrined, Arthur called over his shoulder, “It’s all right.”
Morgan frowned, not expecting more company, particularly not the kind Arthur kept.
Slowly Nimue crept out from the rocks. She walked toward Morgan until she entered a shaft of moonlight, then pulled back her hood. Her eyes were dark as pits, her cheeks tight against her bones.
Morgan was unimpressed. “Is she with child or something?”
“Hardly,” Arthur chuckled without mirth. “Have the paladins been through here yet? Calling out for rewards and the like?”
Morgan frowned. “I’ve heard some things. Rumors of dead paladins and witchcraft.”
“Allow me to introduce you to Nimue.” Arthur hesitated. “The Wolf-Blood Witch.”
Morgan burst into laughter. “You shit. What is going on?”
“It’s the truth,” Arthur insisted.
“Where’s your horns, love?” She turned to Arthur. “Her? I think a breeze might blow her over.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” Nimue said in a flat, threatening tone.
“Can we discuss the rest indoors?” Arthur asked, craning his neck to the road, then turning back. “It would be safest.”
Morgan took another beat, brow furrowing and mouth slowly opening as she realized: “You’re serious.”
Arthur nodded. “I am. Nimue, this is Morgan, my half sister.”
Morgan took a step back from Nimue as though she suddenly had grown horns. “And you brought her here?”
“Please, I’ll explain everything, but can we just—just do it inside the tavern?”
Morgan poured a pot of wine into three tin cups and served two bowls of porridge made from beans, peas, cabbage, and leeks with two hunks of black maslin. Nimue gnawed into the hard bread as Morgan studied her. Arthur finished his cup of wine in one swallow and pushed it toward Morgan for another pour.
“She doesn’t say much, does she?” Morgan observed, obliging Arthur.
“Normally, she never shuts up.”
Nimue kicked Arthur under the table, causing him to grimace.
“There’s a girl,” Morgan said approvingly. “Arthur definitely needs a good kick now and again. I think I like you.”
Nimue turned suspicious eyes on Morgan as Morgan sat down across from her.
“How is it?” Morgan asked, gesturing to the porridge.
“Good,” Nimue said with her mouth full. Then she added, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Morgan sipped her wine, considering Nimue. Then she leaned forward. “Is it true? Did you kill those Carden bastards?”
Nimue looked up at Morgan from her porridge bowl. After a beat, she nodded.
“Good for you,” Morgan said with deep satisfaction. She looked at Arthur and then back to Nimue. “How many?”
Nimue thought about it. “Ten. I think. Maybe more.”
Morgan sat back in disbelief. “Ten?” She again turned to Arthur, who nodded. Now it was Morgan’s turn to empty her cup. She refilled it. “How?”
Nimue looked at Arthur, and he shrugged. “I trust her,” he said.
With that, Nimue stood and drew the Sword of Power from the sheath slung on her back. Whether a trick of the candles or something more mysterious, the empty tavern filled with a sudden light before darkening again as Nimue placed the blade on the table under Morgan’s wide eyes.
Morgan stood, eyes devouring the sword. She touched it lightly, fingers grazing over the rune on the pommel. “The Devil’s Tooth,” she whispered.
Nimue frowned. “The Devil’s Tooth?”
“Do you know what this is?” Morgan breathed, awestruck.
“I’ve heard that name. It was the sword from the old stories. The first sword,” Nimue said, seeing the glow in Morgan’s eyes. “No, come on. This can’t be.”
Morgan traced the runic symbols. “These are the elemental four circles. Water. Fire. Earth. Air. Bound together in the fifth circle. The root that binds. This is the first sword, forged in the Fey Fires. The Sword of the First Kings. Where did you find this?”
Nimue turned grim. “It was my mother’s. She gave it to me when—when the Red Paladins came to my village.”
“Incredible. Just incredible. You’re Sky Folk, aren’t you? Or do you prefer Sun Dancers?” Morgan asked.
“Sky Folk. How do you know?”
“I’ve become a bit of an expert,” Morgan said without elaborating. “Did your mother say where she found this?”