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The air was heavy with anticipation.
Arthur stepped forward into the grassy courtyard of the temple and into full sight of the surrounding army.
“I am Arthur, King of Pendrath.”
Lady Marjolijn looked at him, her expression unchanging. “So you are.”
My brother cleared his throat. “I take full responsibility for my crimes. All that I ask—no—all that I beg is that you spare my child.” He turned and gestured to Medra in Draven’s arms.
Lady Marjolijn’s face became disdainful. “We do not harm infants. Only you would do such a thing.”
My heart twisted in my chest. My brother had ruled with iron-fisted brutality. His admission and his presence before the armies of his enemies was, in itself, the strangest and rarest spectacle, a twist of fate no one could ever have anticipated.
It was as if the Three themselves had reached through the veils of existence and touched his soul, allowing him to finally see the haunting visage of his own wickedness and the darkness that had consumed him.
Across the river, Lady Marjolijn was raising her hand.
Almost instantly, a deadly hail of arrows was released into the air.
The missiles cut through the night in a grim volley of retribution and converged upon my brother where he stood. Arthur Pendragon. King of Pendrath. The scourge of three kingdoms. The Childslayer.
Without exception, the deadly shafts found their mark.
Arthur staggered, then collapsed on the riverbank at the foot of the temple he had constructed to honor his cruel, warlike god.
But it wasn't over. Lady Marjolijn's voice was ringing out again, firm and resolute.
“By the laws of warfare and through the bloodshed brought upon these lands, we declare Pendrath to no longer be a sovereign kingdom,” she declared, her words echoing over the water. “As a consequence of King Arthur's campaign of tyranny and aggression, this land is now under the dominion of Tintagel and Lyonesse. The Pendragon's throne, a symbol of former power and authority, shall be shattered, and henceforth, our two kingdoms shall jointly preside over Pendrath.”
The words shocked me to my core. There was no room for negotiation or compromise in her declaration. Only the echoes of war-terms and the unyielding determination of the victors.
The fate of Pendrath seemed to hang in the balance as the weight of her pronouncement settled over us all.
I could feel myself shaking.
“No.” I stepped forward. “No. The throne belongs to Kaye Pendragon.”
Across the river bank, Lady Marjolijn was peering at me.
“Who is that? Who are you, girl?” She frowned. “Is that the sister? The fae-blood girl?”
“I am Morgan Pendragon,” I said clearly, hearing my voice carry over the water. “Arthur Pendragon was my brother. And while he may have been a tyrant to your people and mine, my youngest brother has done nothing wrong and hewillsit on the throne of Pendrath as is his due.”
“You seem to believe you are entitled to a negotiation,” the older woman replied drily. “Perhaps you think we should all sit at a table and discuss what is due. But there will be no negotiating.”
“Then you are no better than my brother.” I heard my words ring out and watched as she stiffened.
“Sir Ector, perhaps you should have a word with the girl.” The words were spoken by King Mark. He was turning to someone behind him.
A man stepped out from in between the horses. A man in the armor of a Pendrath knight.
The look of defeat on Sir Ector’s face told me everything I needed to know. He had helped this army reach Camelot. But he had not anticipated they would treat Pendrath with the same contempt Arthur had them.
“Hold.” Guinevere stepped up next to me. “Greetings, Aunt. Brother.”
A look of astonishment came over Guinevere’s family members’ faces.
Lady Marjolijn recovered first. “Niece, we had believed you to be dead.”
