“Only because he makes no allowance for the Fey Kind at all,” Nimue reminded him. “I have to be sure they are protected.”
The table was quiet and somber as Nimue weighed her decision. In barely a whisper she asked Merlin, “How would it work?”
Merlin considered this, then offered, “Someone must lead the Fey Kind out of Cinder. That will be the first very dangerous task. There’s no predicting how the Red Paladins might react. I can’t imagine they are contented by King Uther’s offer. It’s a job for a soldier.”
Nimue took Arthur’s hand. “Arthur?”
“No.” His voice shook. “I want to stay with you.”
“I don’t trust anyone else with their lives. Please,” Nimue pleaded.
“I don’t want to leave you,” Arthur insisted. Then, revealing his shame, he added, “I don’t want to run.”
“You’re not. This isn’t the same.” She took his face in her hands. “Listen to me, Arthur. This is your path to honor.”
“Another way, please,” Arthur begged softly.
“It has to be you.”
Merlin continued, “It will be a day’s march to the sea. When the Fey Kind are aboard Uther’s ships, Arthur will send a raven informing you of this.” He paused. “And that is when you will surrender yourself and the Sword of Power to King Uther.”
“How does that happen?”
Merlin scratched his beard, not entirely sure. “I suppose a royal escort. Outside the gates. The note demands that you surrender yourself unaccompanied.”
Morgan shook her head, horrified.
As Nimue absorbed this chilling idea, she added, “And Gawain. They must return the Green Knight to us. Alive.”
Merlin did not appear hopeful. “We can certainly ask. But if this Green Knight is in the hands of the Red Paladins, I fear the worst.”
“These are my conditions,” Nimue said flatly.
Merlin repeated, “We can ask.”
“Will you write the reply?” Nimue asked, feeling foolish and young. “I don’t want to sound . . .” She trailed off.
Merlin nodded, understanding. “I will write the note agreeing to the king’s revised terms and bring it to you for your approval.”
Nimue turned away from the table, and headed to her chambers without another word.
An hour later Nimue was at her window, staring out at the glowing twin camps of Pendragon and Red Paladin. A distant squawk turned her attention toward the northern gate, where a blackbird soared low over the heads of the archers on the wall. Moments later she heard a knock. “Yes?”
Merlin entered. “The raven has been sent to Uther with your reply.”
“I saw.” Nimue smiled bravely.
Merlin swayed awkwardly at the door. “I’ll leave you,” he started.
“No, please. Join me.”
He closed the door and approached the window where Nimue sat.
“You must think me very foolish,” she said.
“Not foolish at all, no.” He shook his head, amazed. “You are Lenore to your very bones.”
Nimue managed a smile.
Then he added, “With a touch of Merlin as well. A very combustible combination, if I may be so bold.”
Nimue laughed. “It explains a lot, yes.”
Merlin smiled. He even covered it with his hand, so rarely did a smile appear on his lips. “I can tell you this: she would be deeply proud of your choices here.” He hesitated, then added, “As I am.”
This meant more to her than she realized, and she was caught off guard by the tears that streamed down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away. She had never had a father, not truly. And though part of her yearned to reach out to Merlin, another part of her feared his rejection. “But I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“And that is how courage is found. When the path is least clear.” He started to say more but looked away.
“What?” Nimue noticed this.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin said simply. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t save her.”
Nimue nodded, accepting this.
“And I was wrong about the sword,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Merlin suddenly turned, a revelation forming. “It wasn’t Uther’s blood that rained on the castle, nor was it mine. And I daresay it was not portending death but great transformation. It was Wolf Blood that rained on that castle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All this time I’ve been chasing the sword, believing that somehow it was turning events, but it was never the sword. It was you. The Wolf-Blood Witch.” Merlin grew sad. “I could have helped you. I—”
“You are here now.”
“I will ride ahead to seek audience with King Uther. To smooth the path in whatever way I can. Please be under no illusions, the king has gone for my head already once in these past days, and my actions since have only served to heighten his animosity. I could very easily be dead before you even arrive.”
Nimue regarded Merlin. His tired eyes met hers. She saw no calculation, no chess game, no manipulation there. This was a very human Merlin. This was her father. “You don’t have to,” she told him.
“Yes, I do,” he answered.
FIFTY-THREE
ARTHUR PUSHED OPEN A CREAKY barn door on the fringes of town near the southern wall. He turned back to Nimue. “Are you sure about this?” She brushed past him. The air was thick with musk and it was very dark. Nervous horses whinnied in their stalls. Nimue held out her torch as a Tusk lunged from the shadows, barking and baring chiseled fangs.
Arthur drew his sword, but Nimue stood fast. “Where is Wroth?”
The lunging Tusk settled into a grimace as a low bark came from the back of the barn. The young Tusk thrust his jaw horns at Arthur but allowed them to pass. As her torchlight spilled over Tusks squatting and huddling in the straw, she was reminded of their uncanny night vision and their preference for total darkness. They found Wroth slouched on a hay bale, chewing on a gypsum root. A pale and silent B’uluf lay nearby, his bloody stumps tucked under his arms.
Mogwan stood and approached. “You are not welcome here.”
“What would you have done, were you in my shoes?” Nimue addressed Wroth directly. “If you wielded the sword and a Sky Folk defied you?”
Wroth spat a few words at Nimue and waved her off.
Mogwan was impassive. “We’ll never know, he says.”
“I don’t need your love or worship. I don’t even need your respect. What I do need is your strength to protect the Fey Kind in my absence,” Nimue said.
Arthur added, “She’s giving the sword and her freedom to King Uther.” He allowed that to sink in. “She is sacrificing herself so that the rest of us may live. So that Tusks can survive to the next generation.”
Surprise flickered over Mogwan’s face and he began to interpret, but Wroth cut off his son with his own response. Mogwan said, “My father says it is not like you to give up.”
“I am not giving up. The Fey Kind have been through enough. I won’t subject them to a slaughter. If my life buys you freedom, then it is well spent.”