Chapter Ten
Panting, Morgan relaxed his hold, rolled off the puck’s back, and came stiffly to his feet. Fresh wetness seeped into the bandages covering the wound in his side. He’d broken it open again. He pressed the heel of one hand against it.
At this rate, he would never heal, and actually, he was okay with that. The longer he could go between stabbings, the longer he could stave off that final, inevitable choice, and the more time he might have to find a way to break free from Isabeau.
As his weight lifted, Robin curled into a ball, both fisted hands pressed against his head in impotent rage. With his magic bound, the puck was no physical match for Morgan. Morgan was faster and stronger. If the puck tried to run, Morgan would only catch him again.
He asked hoarsely, “What are you doing here? Are you suicidal? You do know the Queen has ordered me to find you and bring you back to her.”
Robin lifted his feral face. The glow from the waning moon lit his gaze as he hissed, “And you always do what your mistress wants, just like the dog you have become.”
The insult rolled off Morgan’s shoulders. He’d heard much worse. He considered binding the puck physically but was suddenly so fed up, he didn’t bother.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you and be done with it,” he snapped.
Robin’s thin, feral expression shifted. Suddenly he looked lost. “I can’t,” the puck keened. “I can’t give you one good reason. She’ll bind me with the burning rope again and make me do things I don’t want to do.”
In a burst of exasperation, Morgan bent down, grabbed the puck by his jacket, and hauled him to his feet. He roared, “Why her?”
“Tell me the Queen doesn’t want to kill my Sophie.” Robin’s face clenched. “Tell me that one thing, sorcerer, and make me believe it.”
A heartbeat went by, then another. Morgan could feel his pulse thudding in his clenched fists. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
Bitterness laced the puck’s voice. “And you would do it, wouldn’t you?”
“If she gives me a direct order to do so, yes, I will.”
“Yet you still wonder why I have done what I have done?” A touch of sly cunning flashed in Robin’s moonlit gaze. “The musician makes you want to disobey, doesn’t she? She may be the only thing that can. Isabeau will hurt her and hurt her, the way she hurt me, unless you stop it. Her fate is your choice, sorcerer.”
“You fool!” he spat. The impulse to violence took over, and he shook Robin. “You have no idea what you’ve done. You have no clue what is really going on.”
The puck laughed. “No? I know enough. Once, you were a kingmaker, and what a king he was. He was your best, brightest work, the most brilliant star in the night sky.”
Morgan went somewhere inside that was darker than the underground prison, undershot with red. He spat out, “You’re not fit to say his name.”
“Neither are you, anymore,” Robin said simply. “Now you’re just Morgan le Fae. A man without a real home or conscience, a man known only for his association with a people who are not his own. Why did you turn against him the way you did?”
“I never did,” he whispered.
The ache of that never lessened, never went away. Over the centuries, he had grown to live around the ache. That was all.
“But you must have. You abandoned him. He went to war, and he lost, and you did nothing to stop it or save him. What did she offer you that meant that much? How did you stop caring for a boy you raised to be both man and monarch, a boy you raised as if he were your own son?”
“I never stopped caring.” His throat closed as the geas tightened around it. After a moment, he said, “And if you could ask me that, you still know nothing. As unhinged as you are, your ignorance is the deadliest thing about you. Do you know what Isabeau did to Sidonie? She broke all her fingers and threw her in the dungeon.”
“I know.” As Morgan stared, Robin lifted one thin shoulder and said wryly, “I make a most excellent rat.”
Fury torched through him, as coruscating as a nuclear blast. He snarled, “You knew—you went down into the dungeon and saw her, and—and you still did nothing?”
“I didn’t have to do anything,” Robin told him. “You did it. Just as you’ll have to be the one to defy your Queen if you want her freed. I intend it to force a wedge between you and Isabeau that is so deep it will finally drive you two apart.”
The geas pulled tighter. For a moment, it cut off Morgan’s breath.
We are all spellbound, he thought. Sidonie can’t leave Avalon on her own, and I can’t help her escape. And I hold Robin captive again, while Isabeau holds me.
When he was able to speak again, he said, “Isabeau ordered me to recapture you and bring you to her. Luckily for you, another of her orders takes precedence. I will set you free, if you—”
If you help her escape.
They were five simple words, but the geas clamped down, and he couldn’t say them.
“Fuck it,” he finally managed to say in a strangled whisper. He loosened his hold on Robin’s jacket. More than enough had been done to the puck. If he had a choice—and right now, he did—he wouldn’t add to that. Besides, if Robin was free, he might relent and choose to help Sidonie of his own accord. “Someone else is going to have to capture and kill you. Robin, I’m sorry for what happened to you, but what you did to Sidonie was ugly. It was wrong. You are so wrong about almost everything.”
The puck straightened his jacket while he stared at Morgan uncertainly. “Am I? Then prove it to me. Change. If you want Sidonie freed, then free her. Break with your Queen and become a better man again. You were… Do you even realize how many legends have been told about you? How the truth has been twisted by the winds of time?”
Morgan rubbed his eyes. He said, “Get out of here before I change my mind. And, puck?” Robin had already begun to slip out of the clearing. As he paused to look over his shoulder, Morgan told him, “Next time I might not be so lenient. If you know what is good for you, you will leave Avalon and never return.”
Robin’s mouth twisted. “Those might be the wisest words you’ve spoken this evening. But, sorcerer, I never know what is good for me.”
Before Morgan could say anything else, the puck vanished into the underbrush. There was a brief rustle, then all he heard was the wind blowing through the trees.
All that effort he had expended to track Robin down. Ultimately it had been a waste of energy, when he could have been going through the texts he had gathered and reading about Azrael’s Athame.
Slowly, he made his way back to his hidden cottage, where he went through the mechanics of survival again. Food. Water. Cleansing the blasted wound again. The fact that it couldn’t heal—that he couldn’t let it heal—was some kind of goddamn metaphor he didn’t want to inspect too closely.
When he finally laid down on his dusty bed, he managed to fall into a light, uneasy sleep, rousing only when the sun dropped low in the sky.
Then he went through the mechanics of survival again. Using the hunter’s spray. Stealing at the night market. Gathering fresh, clean water for the flasks. This time he stole silver earrings and cherry pies. Given how she had responded to the other sweets, he was almost certain Sidonie would enjoy cherry pies.
As he slipped into his secret tunnel, a whispered spell brought faint illumination to the fingertips of one hand. He didn’t want a light so bright it ruined his night vision. He made his way to the end of the tunnel, where he had used earth magic to drape a thin sheet of rock over the entrance to hide it from discovery.
Placing one palm over the rock, he gently shifted it to one side and stepped into the prison tunnel that lay on the other side. Dousing his faint light, he made his way quickly to Sidonie’s cell.
As he drew close, he paused. There were too many scents in the tunnel, many more than there had been the last time. Something had happened. Silently, he moved forward to the cell door, listening intently.
His keen hearing picked up the soft sounds of breathing inside, from too many people. There were four, maybe five individuals in the cell, all but unmoving, except for the slight rustle of cloth and the quiet scrape of a boot against the stone floor.
Realization was like another knife thrust to the gut.
Sidonie was gone. The prison guard knew that he—or someone—had been there, and had set a trap.
Fury roared through him, born in large part from fear. Before he had fully formed a conscious intention to do so, he was springing forward. The battle with Robin had cost him, so he had to dig deep for the strength to cast a stun spell into the cell that would be strong enough to lay out several warriors. It flashed with white brilliance, highlighting the five guards inside.
They toppled to the floor. Quickly, he unlocked the cell and stalked inside. Setting aside his pack, he chose the nearest guard at random, put his palm to the other man’s forehead and, with another spell, forced him awake.
As the man came to with a muffled groan, Morgan pinned him and hissed in his ear, “What happened to the woman?”
“The w-woman?” the guard stammered.
He was the victim of two competing spells, both stunned and awake, but Morgan had no patience for the other man’s confusion. He snarled, “The prisoner from this cell. Is she dead?”
“No… no, not dead. I don’t know what happened to her… but I heard she might be back in a few days.”
Christos. The relief at hearing Sidonie was still alive was staggering.
The gods only knew what Isabeau had done to her, but where there was life, there was hope.
Whispering the spell that would erase the guard’s memory, Morgan straightened. Should he squander his waning energy on finding out what the other guards might know? One of them, Hoel, was a sergeant. Hoel would be in charge of the team.
He might know something, but each time Morgan talked to one of them he ran the risk of hearing them say something that might trigger the geas and force him back to Isabeau. They knew someone had gotten into Sidonie’s prison cell and healed her, and the choices were limited.
Robin could have done it, and, of course, Morgan himself. But to the best of their knowledge, they had to believe both Robin and Morgan were on Earth.
Robin had escaped Isabeau’s leash near the Welsh Marches earlier in the summer, and it was the height of insanity to consider that the puck might be so rash as to choose to return to Avalon of his own accord.
None of them would believe such a thing. Hell, Morgan himself wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t tracked Robin down and seen it for himself.
And Morgan had been injured and sloppy when he had left Avalon directly after Isabeau’s orders. He had put the guards to sleep at the crossover passageway and had left a clear trail. When he had returned a few days ago, he had covered his tracks much better.
So they couldn’t know for sure who had healed Sidonie. If they had truly believed it had been either Robin or Morgan, there would have been several of Isabeau’s most Powerful magic users waiting down here, perhaps even Modred himself. And Morgan had left no trace of his scent, plus he had kept the tunnel opening covered with the sheet of rock.
Sidonie wouldn’t be able to tell them anything. To the best of their knowledge, they had a locked-room mystery on their hands—but the weakest part of the mystery was Sidonie. Isabeau wouldn’t like an unsolved mystery in her basement. So she had set a trap to see what she might catch.
And she would keep Sidonie close, so that she could question her again at her leisure.
Certainty solidified underneath him. Sidonie was still somewhere close by, in the castle.
Morgan had to solve their locked-room mystery for them, so they would have no reason to question Sidonie again at length.
Stepping over bodies, he reached Hoel and threw the spell that would wake him. With a snap of his fingers, he called light back to his hand. As Hoel shifted and groaned, Morgan pressed a hand over the other man’s mouth.
“Wake up,” Morgan said. “Look at me.”
The sergeant blinked dazedly at him. Awareness widened his eyes.
When Morgan was sure Hoel had recognized him, he said in a voice laced with Power, “You will not speak unless it is in answer to a direct question. Is that clear?”
Hoel nodded.
Pulling his hand away, Morgan asked, “Where did you take the prisoner?”
“The Queen has given her leave to prepare for an audition while we hunt for—while we investigate who might have healed her.” Sweat broke out on Hoel’s forehead. “My lord, I-I-I’m supposed to tell you…”
Morgan clapped his hand over Hoel’s mouth again. He snapped, “I ordered you not to speak unless it was in answer to a direct question.”
Orders that had been laced with Power were difficult to disobey. Hoel must have a compelling reason for fighting Morgan’s directive, and Morgan had a feeling it might have something to do with Isabeau wanting him back whether he was healed or not.
Should he bother to try asking Hoel any more questions? Was it worth the risk?
After a moment, he decided it wasn’t. If Sidonie wasn’t dead, he could find her.
It was time to give the guards another story to take to the Queen, one that had just enough plausibility to set her suspicions to rest.
Looking into Hoel’s eyes, he said, “Don’t fight me. If you fight me hard enough, it might break your mind. Relax, sergeant. Relax every muscle in your body, and relax your mind. Relax your thoughts. Let them float away. There’s nothing urgent you need to do, and there’s nothing to worry about. All is well. There’s only the truth that you’re about to discover.”
As he spoke, he dug deep into the other man’s mind until he was sure he had a strong hold. Instinctively Hoel struggled against the control, at least at first, but the stun spell Morgan had originally thrown worked in his favor, and Hoel quickly lost the battle.
“A friendly water sprite had heard Sidonie’s cries of pain,” he whispered to the sergeant. “She traveled up the privy hole to see what was the matter. When she found Sidonie broken, she sent her to sleep and healed her hands. While you were waiting here in the cell, the sprite returned to check on her handiwork. She would have fled and cast a spell of sleep over the other guards, but you convinced her to stay and talk to you—at least for a few minutes. Remember, she asked after Sidonie, and was angry and concerned that she was missing from the cell. Water sprites don’t let go easily when they become attached.”
“A water sprite,” Hoel murmured, relaxing into the story. “That would explain it.”
“It explains everything,” Morgan told him, still working his magic on the man’s memories. “The lack of scent, the lack of any other evidence of an intruder in the tunnels. You’ve looked everywhere down here, and you know for a certainty there is no other way out, or in.”
“There truly isn’t.” Hoel shook his head, smiling. “We checked every inch of the tunnels, and every nook and cranny in the cells. She was beautiful, the water sprite, wasn’t she?”
Now Hoel’s mind was working with him to spin the tale. “She was extraordinary,” Morgan murmured. “Delicate and shimmering, and appearing to be made completely from water. She fit easily through the privy hole—after all, she’s a water elemental and can shrink or grow according to the space she’s in. You already know how water sprites populate this area of the river, and the shores of the sea beyond. They may be shy of the Light Fae, but they’re still there.”
Hoel sighed. “I’ve always wanted to see one.”
“She’s going to leave in a few minutes, and when she does, you’re going to rouse your men. You now have a story the Queen wants to hear.” Morgan touched his forefinger to Hoel’s forehead. “But for now, you’re going to immerse yourself in the experience of talking with the sprite.”
“Aye, she’s a tricky one, coming up the privy hole like that,” Hoel said with a grin. “Who’d have ever thought it? A disgusting way to travel, if you ask me… but she’s made of water, so she could just shrug off the waste.”
“That’s right,” Morgan told him as he pulled out the flasks of water from his bag and emptied them around the privy hole. “Nothing sticks to her as long as she flows. Watch for her now…. Look, she likes you.”
With those words, he walked out of the cell, locked the door, and made his way back to his tunnel. After he had stepped inside, he shifted the sheet of rock back into place.
The events of the past day and night had skated much too close to disaster for his liking. Robin was loose to propagate whatever mischief that came into his head, and Morgan had depleted what precious magic strength he had begun to accumulate as he healed.
But at least he’d had a chance to spin a tale of how Sidonie had been healed, and it should hold up under scrutiny. Plus it was still night, still the best time for him to move about, and he didn’t know where Sidonie might be kept.
Angling his jaw out, he headed down the tunnel. And he still had work to do.
* * *
Sid spent the rest of her day exploring the sounds each of the instruments could produce, and mechanically, she went through hand and finger exercises to help bring back the conditioning in her hands. Since she had started the exercises in the prison cell, at least she had a head start, but those exercises weren’t as effective as playing against the tension of a stringed instrument.
Not that her efforts would get her anywhere. Even if she taught herself how to play one of them—and she could—there was no way she could be prepared in enough time to play for the Queen.
The instrument she felt the most affinity for was the lute. It was similar to a guitar, so she thought she should be able to play it well enough to perform informally in a couple of weeks.
Not in three days’ time. Not for a woman who had a sophisticated palate, a demonstrated lack of tolerance, and very little reason to forgive any errors.
Finally she sat down at the table and put the lute to one side. She hadn’t bothered to go to the kitchens to find food. She felt too disheartened to eat.
She recollected all too vividly the sounds her fingers had made as Modred snapped each one, followed by the blinding shock of pain and despair.
She had hoped she would escape the darkness of that awful cell, but it turned out she had brought the cell with her. Every bleak detail lurked inside, waiting for a moment of weakness so the memories could flood through her mind.
Exhaustion weighed her down. Earlier in the evening, she had lit a fire, more for the comfort and light than the warmth, and the flames were dying, throwing the music hall into deep shadow. Intending to only rest her eyes for a little while, she lay her head on crossed arms and plummeted into sleep.
Something roused her, some slight sound of movement and change in the air. A large, broad hand came down between her shoulder blades.
“Sidonie.”
Some part of her knew his touch, even before she recognized his whisper.
Her benefactor. The magic man.
She jerked upright and stared at the broad, tall silhouette of the man standing beside her.
The flames in the hearth had died down completely, but a pale, indistinct glow came through the wall windows from a moon obscured by heavy clouds. The fugitive glimmer gave a rough outline of the room’s furniture and touched on the back of her benefactor’s head and shoulders.
“You found me,” she said stupidly, her voice still blurred from sleep. “I wish I’d been able to leave you a note.”
Something changed. The air grew heavier and sultry, as if in a storm before a lightning strike. The hand he had put at her back pressed down, and through that touch she felt the tension that ran through him.
Then the hard, pressing weight left her back. Lightly, he stroked his fingers over her head. “What happened to your hair?”
The whispered question sounded calm, even gentle, but suddenly she knew it was a lie. He was toweringly furious. She shrugged impatiently. “It doesn’t matter.”
That light, fleeting touch passed along the bare nape of her neck. The sensation of callused fingers caused a shiver to run down her spine. “It matters to me.”
“Isabeau ordered it to be cut off.” Pushing back from the table, she stood. “It was vindictive and childish, and the least important thing that happened today.” Eyes wide, she studied the outline of his head, his shadowed features, but she could only gain impressions.
His hair was short, or at least shorter rather than long, and it appeared to be brown, or even darker, maybe even as black as hers. If he had darker hair, that would mean he wasn’t Light Fae. While she couldn’t make out any definition of his features, he seemed to have a strong bone structure that would be in keeping with his tall, broad-shouldered height.
She still couldn’t see enough to identify him if she were to see him in daylight. She wasn’t even sure about the hair color. Maybe his hair was really blond, just darkened by shadows. If the moon would only come out from behind the clouds, she could get a good look at him.
“Don’t dismiss what happened as quickly as that,” he replied. That gentle touch stroked along her throat to her chin, and he tilted her face up. “Isabeau was trying to take away your beauty, and she failed. You’re quite striking with short hair. She won’t be pleased.”
She let loose an explosive sigh. “That doesn’t matter either. I fucked up. In fact, I fucked up so badly there’s no fixing it. Nothing else matters aside from that.”
He tilted his head sharply. “What do you mean? What happened?”
The events of the day crushed down on her, the unending stress, the fear, and she felt her face crumple. Suddenly remembering that his eyesight was sharper at night than hers, she bowed her head and dug the heels of her hands into dry, tired eyes.
“I did it all,” she gritted. “I told my version of truth and padded it with supposition and questions, and I got past the prison interrogator, past Modred, and I even survived a second meeting with the Queen. I won a second shot at playing for her, and she gave me three days to prepare.” Her voice broke. “It never occurred to me that I might not know how to play anything here. I play five instruments really well. Really well. Not one of those instruments is here in this hall.”
He took in a deep, audible breath, then let it out slowly. Grasping her by the shoulders, he pulled her into his arms. “Okay,” he murmured. “We will figure this out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out,” she said into his chest. “I can’t magically learn how to play a new instrument well enough to satisfy a music aficionado in the next… Today is over. It’s two days now, not three. She’s going to throw me back in prison, and next time I won’t have a nifty story I can tap-dance around to get somebody’s attention.”
“Don’t be too sure about that,” he told her. “It’s going to be all right, Sidonie. Just trust me and relax for a minute while I think.”
To go from such intense isolation and stress to someone actually caring enough to put his arms around her was an almost impossible emotional journey to encompass. Her breath shook in her throat as she fought to regain her composure.
He rubbed her back until gradually, muscle by muscle, she eased into the shelter of his long, hard body and slipped her arms around his waist. He was still wearing the bandage around his ribs, she discovered.
“I’m not supposed to trust you,” she whispered.
“Well, there’s that,” he replied dryly. “Let’s reframe that for now, shall we? For the time being—for tonight—you can trust me. Isabeau still doesn’t know I’ve helped you, so she hasn’t issued any countermanding orders.”
The solid weight of his arms around her felt too good. She couldn’t rely on it, and she shouldn’t enjoy it as much as she did.
But she did enjoy it, intensely. Comfort stole into her in like a thief and made itself at home. Burying her face into his chest, she said, “So I didn’t create any problems for you when I broke out of jail?”
He put his face in her short hair. She felt him smile. “You’ve been nothing but problems from the moment I found out you existed.”
“That sounds unfortunate,” she muttered, partly chagrined but mostly just grateful that what happened to her mattered to him in some way. The loneliness she had felt since being kidnapped was stronger than she’d realized.
One of his hands came up to cover the nape of her neck. “It was not a good moment when I discovered your presence in the cell had been replaced by five guards.”
Her head jerked up. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” Cupping her face, he rubbed his thumbs along the plump curve of her lower lip. He added, as if to himself, “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You’re still learning too much about me.”
She grabbed his wrists. “You can’t stop now. What happened? They didn’t attack you, did they?”
“Never mind. It gave me a chance to spin a story for how you got healed. It was a bit of a stretch, but they don’t have any other explanation—or any evidence—for what really happened.”
But her mind had gone down a different track. She said slowly, “You know I’m going to figure out who you are, don’t you? That is, if I live past the next two days. The whole reason you kept hidden from me was so I couldn’t tell anyone about you, or what you’ve done for me.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” he said softly. “You could still be questioned. Isabeau has kept you close for that very reason. If she does have you questioned, and she forces the truth out of you, right now the only thing you can tell her is an unknown man helped you.”
Her fingers tightened on his wrists. “I know she has you imprisoned in a spell,” she said tautly. “How many people does she control this way?”