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She folded her hands across her chest, cocking a brow in impatience.
“Very well. Protecting Arthur’s tomb.”
“Arthur who?”
“Arthur. The Arthur. You know, the High King and legendary Arthur. Defender of Britain. Scourge of Saxon invaders everywhere. His tomb is warded from intrusion by spells placed upon it at the time of his death. The Sh’vad Tual is the key to breaking those spells and opening the tomb.”
“Arthur’s a nursery tale. He’s not a real person. He’s a . . . a fable. A myth. The sword from the lake, the green knight, Morgan le Fey’s evilness and Galahad’s faith. They’re stories.”
“Are you through denying my history now?”
“Your history?”
“Arthur was the last great king of the Other. He ruled during a golden age. A period when carrying Fey blood was a wondrous gift. Magic needn’t be hidden away in attics and cellars. We weren’t persecuted. Targeted as freaks or witches or devils. Our families didn’t pretend we didn’t exist or refuse to acknowledge us as if we were crazy.” His gaze landed squarely on her.
She flushed but refused to rise to the bait. “Why does Máelodor want to open Arthur’s tomb? Is it full of treasure? Gold and jewels?”
“If only it were that simple. Máelodor is a master-mage. He’s studied for years, every scrap of knowledge he could get his hands on. He begged, borrowed, and stole whatever he had to in order to further his understanding of magic and the Fey world. He delved into powers he shouldn’t have and played a dangerous game with creatures from a nightmare. Arthur would be his greatest masterpiece. A feat unlike any ever undertaken.” Brendan’s eyes took on a feverish light as he spoke, his face transfixed. Almost as if he’d conjured the mask of the fith-fath to become once more a stranger.
“Unlocking his tomb?”
His gaze snapped back with knife-point intensity. The look of excitement dimming. “No. Bringing him back.”
She must have shown her confusion, because he pressed on.
“With the bones of the king in his possession, Máelodor can resurrect the man. He can bring Arthur back to life. He would be all he was previously. A glorious warrior. An amazing statesman. Cunning. Wise. Courageous. Resourceful. Everything a leader should be. Everything one looks for in a ruler.”
“I still don’t see—”
“The Other are hungry for a return to that lost age. With Arthur to unite them, they could rally an army unlike any this world has seen. The superstitious Duinedon would fall before his power and a new reign of Other would emerge.” He drew in a deep breath through his nose. Let it out on a defeated sigh. “That’s the idea anyway. There aren’t enough of us nor are we strong enough to take on the Duinedon and their armies, but Máelodor is beyond caring.”
“That’s why he wants the stone.”
“That’s why he wants you. He believes you have the stone. Or know where it’s hidden. He’ll stop at nothing to achieve his ends. Torture. Murder. He’s obsessed to the point of insanity.”
She sat there quietly, sorting through all he’d told her. Unable to take it all in. He was right. It did sound mad. And yet, why tell such an outlandish tale unless it was the truth?
“Lissa?” he asked gently.
She came to, throwing herself to her feet. “How dare you drag me into this? How dare you hide something like that with me? Are you bird-witted? What were you thinking? Didn’t it ever occur to you I would be in danger if this madman murderer found out where you’d hidden it?”
“I was out of time and being hunted. I had to find a safe place for the stone. It was my insurance. It still is.”
“Insurance against what?”
His gaze grew somber. “Against being murdered like my father.”
Elisabeth made a nest among the pile of empty sacks, Killer’s comforting weight in her lap. Brendan had stepped out. He’d given no explanation, o
nly a terse command to stay put, followed by a more sympathetic “Try and get some rest.”
Rest? She wished she could. She wished she could close her eyes and wake in her own bed with Aunt Pheeney’s cajoling and Aunt Fitz’s scolding and the sun streaming across her coverlet and the larks in the trees outside her window and a thousand other little moments that until she’d lost them had seemed inconsequential.
At every voice in the passage or approaching step outside, she braced herself for Brendan’s return.
Murdered. Like my father.
His words had hung frozen in the air between them. She’d ached to push him further. To make him explain and yet another part had held back. Too frightened by what he’d revealed. Too afraid of what else she might discover. Already she felt as if she’d waded unknowing into a bog, the ground unstable beneath her feet. Every step taking her deeper into treacherous grounds where she might never find her way out again.
