A mast cut through the fog, followed by a sail emblazoned with the three crowns of House Pendragon. A joyful whoop erupted from the Fey Folk, and even Arthur was caught up in the rush of the moment. Wroth threw his arms around Arthur, nearly crushing him with joy, as up and down the cliffs, Fey clans embraced, children pointed and shouted, and mothers and fathers wept from relief and gratitude.
As Arthur wiped his own tears, all he could think about was Nimue.
FIFTY-FIVE
TWO PENDRAGON FOOTMEN ESCORTED Merlin into King Uther’s pavilion and shoved him before the throne. Sir Beric shook his head in disbelief as he rose from a table filled with parchments to stand beside the king.
“He rode into camp and surrendered, Your Highness,” the older footman explained.
As Merlin smoothed his sleeves, the king regarded him with reptilian calm. “Hello, Uther,” Merlin said, nodding.
Uther smiled coldly. “Dispensed with the formalities, have we?”
“What are your intentions with the Fey girl?” Merlin asked, cutting to the chase.
“Are you here on behalf of the witch? We thought you served the Ice King? Honestly, Merlin, you have to be careful or you’ll earn a reputation as a loose wizard.” Uther made an effort to control himself. “Your audacity coming here is the vilest affront of all. Do you presume us so castrated that you can stand before us after your crimes and survive?”
“I’ve given up trying to survive, Uther. It just happens,” Merlin offered.
“Oh, we shall test that theory.”
“I would have expected to find you in better spirits, considering that we are on the eve of your greatest victory as king. You’ve stopped the Fey slaughter, subdued the Church, negotiated a firm but just peace with the leader of the Fey rebellion, and, despite all my best efforts to destroy it, the Sword of Power is within your grasp.”
Uther’s eye twitched. “We swear, Merlin, if you are about to claim credit for this, we will have you quartered here on the carpets before our eyes.”
“Not at all. The victory is yours and yours alone. After all, Beric here could hardly negotiate his way out of a sack of turnips, so one might argue you have done this with one arm tied behind your back.”
“Indeed!” was Beric’s indignant reply.
Uther smiled despite himself. He always enjoyed when Merlin poked at Sir Beric. However, his smile faded into a snarl. “But unlike you, Beric is loyal to us. Whereas you, while professing friendship, rode to an enemy camp and delivered the dagger to slay this monarchy.”
“Where is your mother?” Merlin asked, defiant in the wake of Uther’s murderous rage.
“Dead,” Uther spat.
Merlin quickly did the math. “My condolences,” he said.
“Don’t be too sad. You’ll join her soon enough, and together you can scheme for eternity in the Nine Hells.”
“The midwife was your mother’s crime, Uther, not yours. And fight it all you like, but the light of truth will always burn away the shadow of lies. Be that as it may, you are finally your own man. If you want to be recognized as the one true king, now is your chance to finally earn it. Chop my head off tomorrow if you like, but let us finish this business with the sword today. So I will ask you again: What are your intentions with the Fey girl?”
“As stated,” Uther replied.
“And do you trust Father Carden?”
“About as much as we trust you,” Uther countered.
“Then you have made arrangements in case he betrays you? The Wolf-Blood Witch is in his reach. I assure you he hasn’t come this far only to cower before you now, unless he’s planning something,” Merlin warned.
“How dare you interrogate us after your numerous treacheries? Your gall has no equal. Guards, put Merlin under watch until the Wolf Witch arrives. Once we have the sword, kill him.”
The guards took Merlin roughly under each arm and led him out of the royal pavilion.
Nimue sat in her quarters, staring at the eel pie on the plate before her, and listened to her stomach growl. She had no appetite. The hours of waiting for word of the caravan had left her ragged with worry. Ector’s wife, Lady Marion, had taken it upon herself to make sure Nimue was fed.
She hovered over Nimue, taking away the eel pie. “We have some lovely guinea hen with an almond glaze on its way.”
“No, please,” Nimue protested.
But Lady Marion sat beside her and held up her hands, suggesting it was beyond her control. “You won’t die on my watch. You are too pale, my dear.”
“I’m very grateful for your hospitality, Lady Marion. Considering . . .” Nimue trailed off.
“That you stole Lord Ector’s throne?” Marion finished.
Nimue smiled softly. “Well, yes.”
Lady Marion thought about it. “Why shouldn’t a woman sit on the throne?”
Nimue’s hand shook as she reached for her cup of wine.
Marion gazed at her with deep sympathy. “What you’ve done for your people is very brave.”
Nimue was about to speak when a distant squawk echoed down the corridor. She stood suddenly. “Was that a raven?” She broke into a run, Lady Marion following far behind. Nimue searched frantically. “Hello!” She rounded a corner to find Steuben climbing the stairs, a note in his hand.
“The bird came, milady,” he said, handing her the message.
Nimue unrolled the small parchment. She read it aloud: “ ‘Ships are here. Boarding now. The king has kept his word. The Fey Kind will sail to the point where the sea meets the sky. Thanks to you, my love. Giuseppe Fuzzini Fuzzini.’ ” She dropped the note and put her hand to her mouth, fighting her tears. “They’re safe,” she said.
“This pleases me, ma’am,” Steuben said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
FIFTY-SIX
THE PORTCULLIS ROSE NOISILY UNTIL it locked into its mooring in the top of the gate. Nimue nudged her palfrey forward and passed under Cinder’s northern wall, riding alone onto the King’s Road. A cool breeze rustled through the tall grasses and caused the treetops to sway and rattle the last of their orange leaves. The woodlands hummed with life. Nimue detected the tight peeps of thrushes and the looping whistles of blackbirds. Her clenching fear, the gnawing worry of the past days and weeks, sank away and a serenity fell over her. She felt the Hidden very close. Don’t be afraid. She remembered the fawn in the Iron Wood. Death is not the end. This was not the life Nimue had imagined for herself. So fast. So brutal. And yet so full. Of course there was more she wished for: to see Arthur again, for one. To unravel his mysteries. To sleep in his arms. To travel the seas and explore the world together. To one day raise a family. Nimue took a shuddering breath but fought back the tears. What she had known, she was thankful for. The rest was known only to the Hidden. Born in the dawn, to pass in the twilight.
The tranquility was broken by the sounds of approaching horsemen, Nimue was jerked back into the present, and a chill poured down her spine. A dozen men in full plate armor emerged from the wooded road, presenting a banner of three crowns. They slowed to a trot as Nimue approached, forming a steel barrier in the road before her. One of the armored soldiers lifted his faceplate. The eyes behind it were cold, the skin pocked, black mustache groomed.