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“The letter mentioned a stone too,” Aidan said. “That must be the Sh’vad Tual referred to here. And Daz spoke of the High King. He said Father and the others promised Arthur would return.”
“As in King Arthur? As in Knights of the Round Table? Excalibur? Camelot?”
“As in all of the above.”
“I hate to throw cold water on your theory, but Arthur’s a legend. He’s just stories to pass a winter’s evening.” She faltered under Aidan’s solemn gaze. “Please say he’s just stories to pass a winter’s evening.”
He shrugged. “Some believe he existed. That in fact Arthur was the last in a line of great kings of Other. Ruling over a world that not only accepted the Fey-born powers of our race, but admired them. That once upon a time our kind walked this earth without fear of persecution. Without the shadow of superstition clinging to our every breath.”
Did he know his eyes lit up with pride when he spoke like this? A new, razor-sharp arrogance crept over his features? A battle brilliance emerging with each lengthening stride?
“During the Lost Days, the walls between the faery kingdom of Ynys Avalenn and the mortal realm remained open with both sides able to pass as needed. Blood ties strengthened between Other and Fey as a result. There have even been theories the mage Merlin was the product of one such liaison between a mortal woman and her Fey lover.”
“So what happened to end the idyll?”
“Arthur’s death. Some say with his passing, that bright age ended, and magic fell into the shadows to be hidden and feared.”
“Some?”
“My father believed.” His gaze focused inward, his words coming faster now. “He used to regale us with stories of Arthur’s court. But he treated them like history. Our history. Making sure we understood where we’d come from while explaining how modern writers had twisted the truth to suit their slanted agendas. The incestuous coupling between Arthur and his half sister, the adultery of Guinevere, even Arthur’s bastard conception—all of it was designed to blacken the High King and cast darkness on a time of Other dominance.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because to them, we’re naught more than devils. You heard those men in the alley in Dublin.” Anger deepened his voice. “The Duinedon have always feared what they don’t understand. They’re frightened and envious of what we can do. Of what we are. And so they seek to destroy us. Or at least drive us so far into obscurity we’ll never recover.”
His features hardened, his eyes burning with a fearsome energy as he stalked the room in ever more agitated circles.
“My father was proud of his Other heritage to the point where to be Duinedon was a failing in his eyes. As if Fey blood and mage energy alone made you more of a person. To him, Arthur’s world must have seemed like the embodiment of everything he dreamed. A world that accepted you for who you are. Not who they think you are.”
The yearning in his voice pushed through Cat’s exhaustion. Did Aidan seek such a world? It sounded too good to be true. A place where the people accepted you without comment. Without restrictions. Loved you no matter what you’d done. What so-called sins you committed.
She threaded her fingers together to stop them from shaking. Focused on Aidan. And off the rush of her own yearning for such a dream existence where she could speak of her son. Where her memories of him would no longer be colored with her own shame.
“So your father collected a stone and a tapestry,” she said, hating the shaky vibrato in her voice. “For what purpose? What do they have to do with King Arthur?”
He plowed a hand through his hair. Gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Daz said they promised the High King’s return . . . Art
hur’s return . . . they promised—” he stopped. She could almost see the gears turning. “Could they have actually wanted to restore Arthur? Begin a new reign of Other?”
She straightened. “By bringing Arthur back to life?”
“Daz said he’d always imagined Brendan as Arthur.”
“Could that be why he’s after the diary?”
“It’s not Brendan,” Aidan insisted. “Besides, the letter says Brendan knows where the stone is. He doesn’t need the diary.”
“You don’t know what else is in here. There could be any number of things Brendan might need.”
“I won’t believe it. They promised his return. Not a new Arthur, but Arthur’s return.”
“You can’t bring people back from the dead,” she argued.
Green eyes met brown. And Cat knew exactly what Aidan was thinking. Because she was thinking it too.
The Domnuathi. Lazarus.
Aidan finally broke the heavy silence. “Can’t you?”
