I confess that with much fair speech I caused them to yield. With the flattering of my lips and the enticement of my body I forced them. I lusted for them. I flattered them. I refused them no office of my body. I pleaded for them and cajoled them, insatiable as a vixen in heat.
Thus does my shame surpass even that of the harlot and the whore: for I think to seek no reward beyond my own base pleasure.
I confess that my house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.
"I confess that—” My voice breaks on the last line. It’s harder and harder to breathe, to see, through the burning air, but I know Morgan's behind me. I can sense her, feel her.
Her life in my hands.
“I confess that my house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death,” I finish.
Through the haze, I see the Prior roll the paper. Tuck it into his sleeve.
"It is done." He turns toward the Brothers holding Morgan. "Release the witch."
Relief floods through me—sharp, desperate, so powerful I almost collapse.
It's over. She's safe. It’s over, I did it.
And then Morgan's feet begin to turn…white.
She screams, terrified, but it happens so fast. Crystalline, shimmering white, blooming up from the ground like frost, swallowing Morgan’s legs, her hips, her reaching hands—she's trying to speak, her mouth opening, and then that too is white, is still.
Salt.
Morgan is gone.
THIRTY-NINE
KAI
I just see flashes.
Gwenna kneeling. Yellow crosses. A pillar of white crumbling something. And Brothers everywhere. Robes and robes and robes.
No time to think, just fight. I streak behind Callahan. Leap up the steps three at a time and smash the guard of my weapon against the head of the nearest Brother I can reach. Fuck him. I don't care. I need to get to her.
Kingston darts ahead of me, dodging a swinging white arm. There's chaos, shouting, confusion, but he cuts through right to the Prior. Good. Fine. Touch for touch, I might be a better swordsman, but King can stay in control when I can't. And right now, I really can't.
The Brother I knocked stumbles into me, weapon barely raised, and I whale on him, slam down with my hand on his shoulder, and knock him sideways. Then cut across with my blade and stab. I cut through him, mow him down, and kick him as he falls to clear him out of the way.
I have to get to Gwenna. That's the goal. Everything else, animal, vegetable, or mineral, is just an obstacle I will blast to pieces.
Ahead in the center, Kingston's blade is a blur against the Prior's. He's tired, fighting from a deficit, and the billowing haze of smoke from whatever's left of Camlann House isn't helping. I cough as another Brother wings his blade at me, but I catch it, bind it easily, and shove it off, aiming another kick at wherever his balls are under that goddamn dress of his.
He's down. I head to my right as something slices through the smoke. Callahan. Three on one, but he's cutting them down easily. Berserker mode, whipping the blade back and forth and back and forth and catching each of them each time.
Pride and surprise flicker in me. Good for him.
But just as quickly, I snap my gaze around.Where is she? Where is she? What did those bastards do to her? Make her?—
A blade whistles past my ear, too close. I jump back, but barely. The haze is getting too thick, genuine smoke, black more than gray, hard to breathe, hard to see. And I'm a good fighter, but I need my eyes to fight. My one handicap, I guess. So I wend around a little, haphazard, cutting and slashing and trying to listen as much as I look for attacks, but it's hard. It's really hard. This isn't lined up on a strip facing each other, no turning backs, timers going, safety equipment on. This is a brawl. An all-sides assault, no rules, no halting, and no final score until someone hits the deck. And I can't fucking see.
I roar some kind of sound—frustration, rage, pent-up energy—and thrust at the nearest scrap of white I see—a head, a hood, who knows—but I miss. Don't hit flesh or bone. Just catch the tip of my blade somewhere in the juncture between the hood and the mesh of the mask. It drags me forward, and I rip it away, flicking the tip of the blade as I go, hoping I can cut the bastard across the face.
But he falls forward onto me, full body weight, two-hundred-some pounds of French swordfighting monk, and slams me to the flagstones. The back of my skull cracks, and I wince, almost positive the skin is split and I'm bleeding, but I ignore it. Push, kick,heavethe man off of me, but he's heavy and it's hard and his cut mask is flapping around in the breeze and the smoke. I glance up—could grab his throat if I can just see where his fucking face is—and horror chokes me.
I can't believe what I'm seeing.
