Nimue took a deep breath to marshal her temper. “And what are those terms?”
Sir Beric folded his arms behind him. “Your Fey army must surrender its weapons and leave this town within twenty-four hours, at which time you will give yourself over to His Majesty’s custody, whereupon you will be tried for treason and, if found guilty, be held in his dungeons for the remainder of your life. A mercy His Majesty offers in return for the Sword of Power.”
“Might I suggest what you can do with your offer?” Merlin growled from the wings.
“You may not,” Nimue shot at Merlin.
Sir Beric sniffed in Merlin’s direction. “I assure you that is as generous an offer as you will receive, milady.”
“And what about my people?” Nimue asked. “What assurances of their safety can you give me when they leave this town? For the only reason we are here at all is because they were forced from their homes with only the clothes on their backs, after their families and friends were put to the torch.”
Sir Beric shifted awkwardly. “His Majesty promises no Fey Folk will be harmed by Pendragon forces.”
“But what about Red Paladin forces, who have done this massacre under the king’s nose with no sanction at all? Will King Uther stop this rampage?” Nimue asked, her voice rising.
Sir Beric shook his head, annoyed. “His Majesty does not command the Red Paladin forces.”
“Then what sort of king is he if he cannot protect his own people?”
“You are in no position to make any demands.”
Nimue drew the sword, filling the hall with a ghostly blue light. “This is the Sword of Power. It is said that whosoever wields the sword shall be the one true king. It was forged by my people when the world was young. If King Uther believes he is worthy of this sword, then let him prove it. Let him be the protector of men and Fey alike.”
Sir Beric spread out his hands. “I am afraid that is all I am authorized to offer, milady. Is there a message you would like me to convey to His Majesty?”
Nimue sat back on the throne, deflated. “Tell him there is still time to be a king worthy of his people.”
Sir Beric nodded. “Very good, milady.” He turned to go, then hesitated. “Just to be clear, if King Uther were to guarantee protection for your people from Church forces, you would deliver yourself and the sword to him?”
Morgan turned to Nimue, panicked.
Merlin stepped forward. “Don’t answer.”
“I would.”
FIFTY-ONE
GAWAIN HAD TO BREATHE IN shallow gusts. Holding his breath seemed to be the only defense against the searing pain. His hands were numb and tied behind his back in the chair, and his feet were tied to the legs. They had stripped him to a loincloth to ply their burning tools. The blind man had taken his left eye. The skin felt stuck together. With his good eye he tried not to look down at his burned flesh. He flinched when he sensed movement at the tent entrance, fearing the return of the blind man with his leather roll of tools. Instead Gawain saw a dark angel. No, not an angel, he realized. The Weeping Monk.
“Don’t be afraid, Asher, I won’t bite,” Gawain mumbled through swollen lips.
The monk entered but kept close to the walls.
Gawain was overwhelmed by agony. His head drooped and he moaned for several long moments. Then his breathing became very fast.
The monk lowered his hood. His marked eyes regarded the torture tent.
When the wave passed enough for Gawain to breathe again, he tilted his head at the Weeping Monk. “Have you come to watch me die?”
“Why did you keep silent?” the monk asked.
“When?” Gawain’s thinking was dulled by pain.
“The tent. When I brought you in. You could have”—the monk paused—“told them what you knew about me. Why didn’t you?”
Gawain tried to chuckle. “Because all Fey are brothers.” His good eye welled with tears of pain and sorrow. “Even the lost ones.”
The monk approached. “This suffering, it will cleanse you.”
“You don’t believe that. You know it’s all lies, brother.”
“Don’t call me that,” the monk warned.
“Look at you.” Gawain tried to hold his head up to stare at him. “They turned your mind inside out.”
“Through suffering you will see the light of truth.”
“Why does your God want the little ones to die? I’ve seen the paladins chase down the children with horses. Why them?”
“I have no argument with the children. They don’t know what they are.”
“You kill children.”
“I don’t kill children,” the monk said, his voice rising.
“All right, then you stand shoulder to shoulder with men who do. Who do it for the same God. And you let it happen. You’ve seen it with those weeping eyes. That makes you guilty.”
The monk shook his head and turned to leave.
Gawain implored, “Brother, you can fight. I’ve never seen anything like it. You could be our greatest warrior. We need you. Your people need you.”
“You’re not my people,” the monk growled.
“Then tell them the truth,” Gawain said, jerking his head to the encampment. “Tell your Red Paladins, if they are your people, if they are your family, tell them what you are and see how they react.”
As the tent flap was pulled back, the Weeping Monk swung around as though nervous they had been overheard.
A Red Paladin poked his head in and addressed the monk. “Father Carden wishes to see you, sir.”
The Weeping Monk nodded. He turned to Gawain. “I’ll pray for you.”
Gawain was grim. “And I for you.”
With that, the Weeping Monk swept out of the tent.
Squirrel spotted the Weeping Monk riding from the Red Paladin encampment and followed him at a sprint into the thick woods that divided the paladins from Camp Pendragon.
After a few miles, the Weeping Monk caught up with Father Carden, Abbot Wicklow, and an entourage of twenty Trinity and Red Paladin guards as they entered the muddy Pendragon encampment. The king’s soldiers regarded them with more curiosity than aggression. Most had only heard stories of the Red Paladins and especially the Weeping Monk, whose lethality had grown to legendary status. The Trinity death masks were another exotic touch, and as they passed each campfire, there were murmurs and sidelong glances.
Squirrel snatched a discarded Pendragon tunic from a wagon and threw it over his head as he darted between tents, eyes on his sworn enemy.
When the monk and his party reached the king’s sprawling pavilion, only Father Carden, Wicklow, and the monk were allowed entry.
Squirrel waited several minutes behind a half-built siege engine. As the Trinity guards drifted to the front of the royal pavilion, Squirrel dashed to the side of the tent and gently lifted the flap.
He saw the back of the throne. Abbot Wicklow and Father Carden faced the king, whom Squirrel could not see.
The Weeping Monk lingered in the background.
Squirrel could sense a thick tension.
Abbot Wicklow spoke. “We all desire an agreeable end to this uprising of the Fey. How do you, King Uther, envision such an ending?”