There was a rustle in the back and Wroth suddenly emerged into the torchlight, broad-chested and fierce. His deep-set black eyes studied Nimue closely. Then he growled, “Gof uch noch we’roch?”
Mogwan suppressed a smile.
Nimue frowned, curious. “What did he say?”
“He says are you sure you are not part Tusk?”
Wroth allowed a grin that showed off a golden fang. “Brach nor la jech.”
Mogwan translated, “You are harder woman than his first wife. My mother.”
Wroth snarled something at Arthur and swatted him in the chest, knocking the wind clean out of him.
Mogwan said to Nimue, “My father says when you are tired of this chicken-legs Man Blood, you can be his third wife.”
“Let’s not rush things,” Nimue said with a smile. She took Wroth’s hand in hers. “But I do need champions. I need you and Arthur to lead the Fey Kind to the Pendragon ships. Will you do this for me?”
Wroth enclosed her small hand in his giant ones. She felt his great warmth and his rough skin. His nails grazed her arm. “Gr’luff. Bruk no’dam.” Then his mouth struggled to form words she could understand. “Born in the dawn.”
“To pass in the twilight,” she finished, touching her heart in thanks.
Wagons, sheep, donkeys, palfreys, screaming Fey Kind children, carts, a dozen oxen, shouting Fauns, buzzing Moon Wings, crying babes, and hundreds of refugees both Fey Kind and Man Blood alike swarmed Cinder’s main square by the western gate. Half a dozen rumors of treacherous plots had set off near riots throughout the day, and it had taken all Arthur and Wroth’s determination and discipline to ward off disaster. The mob was not stupid. They knew they were marching defenseless into Red Paladin territory. Nerves were on a knife’s edge.
Emotions ran just as high at the wicket gate, where Nimue and Morgan went to see Merlin off on his mission. Nimue had never seen the mage so rigid and unsure. “Wait for the raven,” he told her for the twentieth time. “Be sure it’s Arthur’s writing.”
“I will,” Nimue assured him.
“Have him leave you the very same letter so that you might compare them. Uther has the means to devise adept forgeries.”
“Already done,” Nimue told him.
“That’s good.” Merlin pulled at his beard. “If I sense a plot, I will do all I can to warn you. But I—”
“I know you will.” Nimue smiled.
Merlin started to say more but could not find the words. Instead he merely nodded and ducked through the gate, climbing onto his freshly saddled horse. With a meaningful gaze at Nimue, he yanked the reins and wheeled around onto the path, galloping off toward the king’s campground.
Nimue turned to Morgan, who appeared to be preparing to say her goodbyes. “No, not yet,” Nimue said, and took her arm, leading her away from the mob and down a series of narrow alleys, hugging close to the ramparts.
“What is happening?” Morgan asked as Nimue pulled her down one switchback after another. She would not answer until they came upon a goateed Faun lounging on a wagon in a dark corner between two sagging buildings, picking his teeth with a piece of straw. “Where in the Nine Hells are we?” Morgan asked, finally yanking her arm free.
Nimue gestured to the Faun. “Morgan, this is Prosper.” She nodded to Prosper, who hopped off the wagon and pushed it aside. Beneath the wagon was an empty sack. Nimue pulled the sack away, revealing a tunnel in the ground. Morgan leaned down, fascinated, as a dark-skinned Plog popped out of the opening, chittering in its strange language. “Gods!” Morgan leaped backward. Prosper chuckled.
“And this,” Nimue continued, gesturing to the Plog, “to the best of my ability to pronounce, is Effie.”
Morgan swung around, beaming. “You’re escaping!”
Nimue shook her head. “No, my love.” And she unslung the Sword of Power from her shoulder. “You are.”
FIFTY-FOUR
THE POPULAR CINDER TAVERN WAS known as Red Eye’s Lonely Horse, but Nimue had decided to take it over as her own Great Hall in order to stay closer to the preparations for the Fey exodus. Arthur was sweating and filthy as he entered, surprised to find Nimue nearly alone, apart from the harried barmaid, Ingrid, the great-great-granddaughter of the original Red Eye, an unsmiling woman who nodded curtly at Arthur as he pulled a chair over to Nimue.
“Quiet in here,” he observed.
“Not as quiet as that ghastly keep,” Nimue said, sipping a cup of wine. She added, “The Elders have all gone to their clans.” She took another sip.
The enormity of Nimue’s sacrifice kept crashing down on Arthur in fresh waves. “You don’t—”
“Stop,” Nimue interrupted. “I do.” She laughed, fighting back tears. “Trust me, I really want to go with you.”
Arthur clutched her head to his chest. He pressed his lips to her ear. “Don’t make me do this.”
She held his cheek to hers. Their mouths touched. “Are you sorry you came back?”
“Enough sorrys. You’re not my queen. You don’t command me. You’re my friend.” His thumb swept away her tears.
“I have a secret,” she confided. “I’ve never been on a ship. It was always my dream. To be on the ocean. To be somewhere that never ends. To sail to that point where the sea meets the sky. Just to be a speck in all that stillness.”
“Not very Sky Folk of you,” Arthur teased.
“I’m a traitor to my kind,” she admitted. Then she snapped her fingers. “I missed it by a few days. My ship. It was the day we met, actually.”
“Meant to be, then. Just think of all the fun you would have missed,” Arthur said.
Nimue put her face into her hands and chuckled darkly. She reached for Arthur and he cradled her, in silence, for long minutes. She gave him one last lingering kiss, then slowly stood up. She offered her hand. He took it, and she led them out of the tavern.
The cacophonous mob of Fey Kind quieted and parted as Nimue and Arthur moved through the crowd, hands locked. Those who understood Nimue’s sacrifice reached out to her, touched her arms and her shoulders, while the children tried to walk in beside her and hold her hand. Others bowed or murmured prayers in their native tongues. Nimue smiled to them all. She couldn’t let them see her fear.
When they reached the front, she turned Arthur to her and kissed him deeply. She touched his face, his eyes, his wet brow, his neck, and his sweaty hair matted over his ears, trying to remember every detail. When she softly pulled away, he put the heel of his hand to his eyes and climbed onto Egypt. Her long neck twisted to Nimue, and she gave Egypt a kiss on the nose and a scratch.
There was a thunderous squeal and Wroth emerged from a side road atop the giant boar, leading his Tusk warriors. The crowd wisely made room for the fearsome beast, which jerked angrily at its reins. Riding up beside Arthur, Wroth nodded to Nimue. “Budach ner lom sut! Vech dura m’shet!”
From his horse, Mogwan translated, “If the paladin scum give us any trouble, we’ll be sure to make them pay.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Nimue said, touching her heart, and Wroth answered with a fist to his own.