The Weeping Monk’s hand, its texture and color, was entirely invisible against the moss. It had blended to the bridge surface like some lizard’s camouflage. Gawain gasped, “You’re one of us?”
The monk bared his teeth and shoved Gawain across the bridge. Gawain dropped to one knee and tried to keep his sword up against a merciless rain of blows, but the monk was enraged and Gawain had lost far too much blood. As his arm weakened, the monk took advantage and stuck him in the ribs.
Death will come soon, Gawain mused grimly, his thoughts turning to Kaze in the stream. Yet as he awaited the fatal blow, the Weeping Monk cracked him across the skull with the grip of his sword. The world spun. Gawain collapsed against the wall.
He heard the monk hiss, “They want you alive,” as another blow fell and all went dark.
FORTY-TWO
LORD ECTOR’S CASTLE WAS SMALL and compact and capable of a worthy defense, with four rounded flanking towers protecting the curtain walls, a chained bridge, murder holes in the gatehouse, and machicolations along the parapets, but when the Red Paladins fled, the remaining guards, having been vanquished once, surrendered it without a fight.
Ector’s disarmed guards huddled in small groups, talking in low voices, as Wroth led Nimue, Morgan, and Arthur into the Great Hall, a vast space held aloft in a point by crisscrossing timbers and by stone columns of black and gold, the colors of Lord Ector’s seal. His banner of a gold dragon against a black background hung behind his modest throne.
Morgan and Arthur walked a few paces behind Nimue.
“What angle are you playing, brother?” Morgan asked.
“Well, clearly I’ve been missed. It’s nice to see you, too, dear sister.”
“Are we to believe you are suddenly the defender of the Fey?”
“Isn’t it enough to be a friend to Nimue? What is the problem? Are you disappointed you don’t have her all to yourself?”
“We’ve actually made progress without you. I just don’t want you filling her head with foolish ideas.”
“Like proclaiming herself Queen of the Fey?”
“You doubt her?”
“I doubt the strategy.”
The four of them paused before the empty chair as huge logs snapped in the wide fireplace along the western wall. Then Nimue walked forward, climbed the four steps, unslung the Sword of Power, and hung it on the corner of the chair.
Then she sat on the throne.
Morgan smiled and nodded. Arthur’s expression was less joyful. Wroth pounded the end of his war hammer on the stone floor and barked, “Stra’gath!”
Two Tusk soldiers led Lord Ector into his hall. His round, soft features showed the strain of the past weeks. His cheeks were patched red from drink and his eyes were heavy with bags. But he comported himself with dignity as he approached Nimue.
“Lord Ector, I want to thank you for this sanctuary,” said Nimue.
“Well, it was not offered, milady, it was taken,” Ector answered darkly.
Wroth growled.
Ector shot a look at Wroth and added diplomatically, “I have no argument with your kind. And I have no love for the Red Paladins, I promise you that. But when you say that Cinder is free and then take your seat in my hall, I must question your sincerity, milady.”
Nimue glanced at the damp imprints her hands left on the arms of the throne. She spoke slowly. “All we want is to go home. We want our land back. As you know, we are not city folk. But my people were starving, and it appears that to deny us food, the paladins set fire to your lands. If we can support each other through this, if you can let my clans recover here, then perhaps we can attack Father Carden and stop his paladins. Nothing would make me happier than to return your keep to you and to have my people return to their homes in peace.”
Lord Ector smoothed his mustache and sized up Arthur and Morgan and Nimue. “You’re practically children,” he said in disbelief.
“Easy now,” Morgan advised.
“Do you think you’re safe here? Is that what you think?” Ector pressed, assuming the adult voice in the room. “You were safer in your caves or your trees or wherever the hell you were hiding. You’re the most hunted woman alive, madam. And you’ve just painted a brilliant white target on your back. You will never leave Cinder with your life.”
Arthur was quiet.
Morgan was not. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s reality, girl!” Lord Ector spat at Morgan. “The witch is here. The Sword of Power is here. Soon the armies of Uther Pendragon and the Vatican and the Ice King will be here, and then what? Then they will rain fire on Cinder until even the rats are dead. So eat lightly, for these provisions you crave will have to last a long and bloody winter.” Ector gave Nimue a dark look before turning on his heel and marching from the hall.
But his words lingered. Nimue felt cold sweat trickle down her back. In truth, the walls of Cinder had felt like a shield. She had fought for this, urged against other plans for escape, used the trust of her people to force this action. But what if she had been wrong? What if the walls of Cinder were not their shield but their cage, entrapping them until the slaughter?
“You all right?” Arthur asked her, perhaps reading her face.
“I’m fine,” Nimue lied.
She turned to the Tusk soldiers. “Is there any news on the Green Knight?”
Mogwan was one of them and shook his head. “No, my queen.”
She winced at the word “queen” but nodded crisply.
Mogwan added, “What do you want us to do with the prisoners?”
“Prisoners?” Nimue asked, struggling to catch up with events of her own making.
Mogwan led Nimue and Arthur to the gatehouse and down several curving stairways to a claustrophobic and reeking corridor of cells. Glancing through the small barred windows in the doors, Nimue saw dozens of bleak, frightened eyes blinking back at her. The dungeon was full to bursting.
“Free them,” Nimue said, sickened by it all.
“All?” Mogwan asked.
“Some may be dangerous,” Arthur offered.
“They’ve been treated as poorly as we have. Let them pledge their loyalty to us, if necessary, but free them.”
“And what of these brutes?” Mogwan asked, pushing open the door to one of the last cells in the hall. Inside, four broad-shouldered, scruffy warriors lay in chains against the walls. Their beards and long, embroidered woolen tunics and baggy pants identified them as Northmen. One of them was shirtless and had been beaten bloody and burned with torches. He was barely alive, his breathing shallow.
“Raiders,” Arthur warned.
Nimue entered the cell. The Vikings regarded her with sullen looks. She knelt by the tortured prisoner. She took his hand in hers.
Nimue thought of Lenore kneeling by Merlin’s bedside. She remembered her prayers. She wondered if she might have the same healing gifts.
A thread of silver wound up her neck, and the raiders’ eyes shone with fascination. She reached out, silently asking the Hidden to bind the raider’s wounds. After a moment of contemplative listening, Nimue gently placed the man’s hand down. “Your friend is beyond my help,” she told them. “He’s joining the Hidden soon. The most I can do is ease his pain.”