“What do I have to say?” Gawain repeated. Then he turned and looked at the Weeping Monk, who did not return his look. “There is much I can say.” He let his words hang in the air. “There is much I have learned.”
Abbot Wicklow frowned.
Father Carden grew testy. “No matter, we are very skilled at making your kind sing.”
As he regarded the Weeping Monk, Gawain had a change of heart. Instead he turned back to Father Carden. “I’ll tell you this much, old man. The Queen of the Fey has taken back Cinder and left five score of your Red Brothers dying in the wood.”
Carden’s cheek twitched.
“Are these lies?” Wicklow asked Carden, who did not immediately answer. Wicklow turned to the Weeping Monk. “Is this true what he says?”
“The town has fallen,” the monk said without emotion.
“She’s taken the damned city?” Wicklow said to Carden incredulously. “How did this happen?”
“Brother Salt,” Carden said, eyes burning with fury, and ignoring Abbot Wicklow, “take this abomination to your kitchens.”
Gawain’s face went slack and he fell into the arms of the Red Paladins supporting him. He struggled as they led him away. The Weeping Monk turned, and their eyes met for a brief moment before Gawain was dragged outside.
Hundreds of yards away, Squirrel crept across a high branch in an old black alder, pushing aside the wide leaves, eager to get a better view of Gawain. He was careful not to shake loose any seeds onto the heads of the Red Paladin patrol beneath him. He had been upset when Nimue had not allowed him to join the other fighters in the market wagons at Cinder. But when he saw Gawain break away from the gates in pursuit of Red Paladins, Squirrel had seen a chance to play a part and gave chase. He’d only arrived in time to see the Weeping Monk lift a bloodied Gawain onto the saddle. Now he watched as Gawain was half dragged across the muddy encampment by two paladins, followed by a blind old man, also in red robes, to a square pavilion with two entrances and an open hatch at the top that belched a thick gray smoke. The coppery, sickly-sweet taste in the air told Squirrel what happened inside that tent. With his eyes he plotted his course between the tents and the campfires. There would be three near misses with Red Paladins before a final sprint to the torture tent and to Gawain’s rescue.
FORTY-FOUR
IN CROW HILL A RED paladin checkpoint was desecrated with wolf blood and the heads of farm dogs. Farther east, still in the French provinces, many peasant farmers have turned their loyalties to the Wolf-Blood Witch, believing she is some kind of savior. They’ve burned several Red Paladin outposts and driven them out of the villages of Gryphon and Silver Brook. A church was put to the torch in Gray Moor. And then of course there is the case of Cinder, a large town in the hills of the Minotaurs”—Sir Beric smoothed one of his thick eyebrows—“previously occupied by the Red Paladins, quite against Your Majesty’s wishes. It was taken four days ago by the witch and an army of various Fey Folk with grave paladin losses—”
“What is the population of Cinder?” King Uther asked in a low, menacing voice. His fingers were white as they gripped the arms of his throne.
“Perhaps five thousand, sire?” Beric guessed.
“Gods, that’s a small city! And who is the lord of that keep?”
“A Lord Ector, sire, a distant cousin to the Baron of Thestletree. I believe he attended your games in the—”
“We don’t care what games he attended. We want to know how he’s lost his city twice in a fortnight! Wine!” Uther held out his cup to a footman, who hurried to fill it.
Sir Beric lowered his parchment and drew a line on the stone floor with the toe of his leather shoe, considering his words. “It would appear the keep was surrendered willingly, Your Majesty.”
“Willingly?”
“It would seem what Your Majesty faces is a popular uprising in favor of the Wolf-Blood Witch. She has become a symbol of defiance against the Red Paladins, who seem to have overplayed their hand, the final straw being the burning of miles of farmland in the Minotaur Valley, apparently in an effort to starve out the witch and her kind—a strategy that has most definitely backfired.”
“I can walk on my own, thank you very much,” Lady Lunette snarled, pulling her elbow away from her footmen escort. Her shoes clicked as she marched to the throne. “What is the meaning of this, Uther? I don’t like being summoned. I don’t like leaving my tower, you know this.”
Sir Beric hurried as quickly out of Lady Lunette’s way as dignity would allow.
Uther sat up rigidly in his throne. “Mother, did you order soldiers to follow Merlin to his meeting with the witch?”
“Of course I did,” Lady Lunette scoffed. “And what of it?”
“That was not our wish, and those are not your soldiers to command,” Uther fumed. “Prior to your interference, we had Merlin in check and the sword in our grasp, and now we have neither!”
“I would advise you to lower your voice when you speak to me.”
“We will speak to you as we like because we are the crown!” Uther roared.
“Clear the hall, please,” Lady Lunette ordered.
Sir Beric and the footmen headed for the door.
“Stay where you are,” Uther countermanded.
Sir Beric and the footmen hesitated, caught between the two monarchs.
Lady Lunette sighed. “Yes indeed, stay where you are. But a warning: those in the past who have heard the words I am about to speak have a terrible habit of winding up dead.”
After a few tense moments of silence, Beric sputtered, “With your leave, Your Majesty,” but hurried off without actually receiving permission, only to be followed in short order by the footmen. The door closed soundly behind them.
Lady Lunette and King Uther were alone.
“I’m done coddling you, Uther. It’s done you no favors.”
“ ‘Coddling’ is not how we would describe your parenting, Mother.”
“Yes, well, I was never meant to raise children, Uther. You see, I was meant to rule. That was my talent. But in this world of men and their bloodlines, that was not meant to be. Instead it was my task to make you king.” Lady Lunette’s words hung in the air. “And it seems I have failed in that task.”
“You undermine us and then sit in judgment. How rich.”
“I wasn’t about to sit idly by as you crawled back into Merlin’s lap. I’ve given you far too much rope, and now the kingdom hangs for it. From this moment on, I am the throne and my words will flow from your lips like a fountain statue as I pour them into your ears, or you will suffer the consequences.”
“We lost track of the outrages in those last few sentences, but we have noted, with great concern, that your faculties seem impaired, Mother. You are not yourself. A good rest by the sea, perhaps.” Uther savored the thought.
But Lady Lunette was wistful. “Sadly, Uther, this is my truest self. For it is you who are the lie.”
FORTY-FIVE
SISTER IRIS TURNED TO THE ramparts that grew out of the castle and surrounded the town, and where Faun archers patrolled. Without a word, she headed back into Cinder. The influx of Fey refugees had created congestion and confusion through the streets. Many of the villagers of Cinder were frightened by the different Fey races and had shuttered their shops to hide in their homes, only to discover that shy and anxious Moon Wings had taken up residence in their rafters and spun themselves into silk cocoons; while the more generous residents—the innkeeper of the Seven Falls, Ramona the baker’s wife—struggled to meet the demand of the starving invaders. The roads were almost impassable by wagons thanks to the divots dug up by burrowing Plogs. Loud, shoving, anxious lines grew in the square as Fey and humans struggled to work together per the queen’s orders. Iris walked past the stone church and its smashed windows. The words Wolf-Blood Witch were smeared on its walls with calf’s blood.