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What ensued was a series of extremely disappointing attempts to free herself. She couldn’t pull the chains off the wall. She couldn’t burst into flames because of the iron chains. She couldn’t even summon her wings anymore. She couldn’t reach the door, so it didn’t matter if it was locked or not.
She was really running out of options.
She even checked to see if there was a keyhole in the cuffs that would release her. Nope. It was like they had been forged in place. So, she couldn’t even pick the damn things with some straw. The only place for a key she saw was where the chain met the ring embedded in the wall. There was an oldey-timey padlock on it, but she had nothing to pick it with.
Not like she really knew how to pick locks, but—whatever. What else was she going to do with her time? But regardless, even if she got the chain off the wall, she’d still be without her power and locked in the cell. She’d have to get past a ton of guards with no ability to protect herself.
She was going to have time on her hands.
Shit.
To make matters worse, it was cold in the jail. A kind of humid, insidious chill that didn’t seem so bad at first but slowly worked its way in until she couldn’t deny how uncomfortable it was. She wished she had socks. Or a coat. Or anything other than the chainmail outfit she was still wearing.
Slumping down on the mattress, she at least got her bare feet off the cold stone. “This sucks.”
She was the only prisoner in the room, which was both a relief and a bit of a disappointment. A relief because she wasn’t stuck next to Doc, Grinn, Lancelot, or Zoe. A disappointment because it meant she had nobody to talk to. She was alone. She really didn’t deal well with being alone.
The only other “person” in the space with her at all was a single metal guard standing by the door. He was odd-looking, even in comparison to all the other hollow-armor-people that Mordred created.
One of his arms was floating next to him, the joint where it met his shoulder having rusted away to jagged fragments. Part of his face was smooth while the other had features, making him look almost like a sketch that had been abandoned halfway through. He held a spear in his hand that was missing two fingers. There was that faint, telltale opalescent glow from within his chest.
Gwen supposed that answered the question about what happened to Mordred’s people—they were still around. Which was good news, she supposed. She had hoped that Maewenn was all right, even if she was made out of the stolen bits of magic taken from other people. How she had been made didn’t make her any less of a friend to Gwen.
She shivered, goosebumps spreading over her. “Excuse me? Mr. Guard, sir?” She assumed the creature was male by its proportions, but honestly, she didn’t quite know. The guard turned its head toward her with a creak but said nothing. After a pause, she smiled, a little unnerved by his silence. “I’m cold. Would it be possible to get a blanket or a cloak or something?”
The guard looked down at the ground, then up again, then nodded with anothersqueak-squeak-squeak.He turned and left the room, the large wooden door closing behind him. She was pretty sure that leaving her entirely alone made him a terrible guard. Or it meant the iron chains were super effective and he wasn’t at all concerned. Either way, she was happy for the assistance.
So, she wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her head on her knees and waited. Not like she had anything else to do. Stupid demon. Stupid Mordred. Stupid Doc.
The door opened, and she looked up, expecting to see the half-finished guard walking in with a blanket.
Her heart dropped.
It was Percival, the Knight in Copper. He walked up to the cell and, lifting an old iron key, unlocked the door. It swung open with a creak. He stepped inside. “The prince would like to see you.”
Not like she could argue. But it sent her stomach twisting into knots. Nodding, she stood and waited. Percival stepped forward and undid the padlock that linked her to the wall. He walked away, leaving her to follow him. He apparently trusted her not to make a fuss or attack him. Or run.
Then she remembered she was half his size, a tenth his age, and had no ability to really do any damage. With a sigh, she followed, twisting the three-foot length of iron chain around in her hands. It was heavy, but not obnoxiously so. At least it gave her something to fidget with.
“If I had my way, you’d be dead.” Percival’s tone was bland as they walked through the halls. She didn’t know where he was taking her. She supposed it probably didn’t really matter.
“Thanks.” What the fuck else was she supposed to say to that?
“It was bad enough when you were a distraction. Now you’re a traitoranda distraction.”
“Says the guy who mutinied and tried to kill Mordred back in the day.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. He was stocky and still reminded her of what a fantasy dwarf might look like if he didn’t have a beard. Only a little taller, she supposed. His expression was dour.
“What?” She smiled sarcastically. “Pot, kettle, that’s all I’m saying. Oh, wait, I’m sorry—you probably don’t understand that phrase since you’ve been stuck here for the past sixteen hundred years having to lick the boots of the man you hate.Sorry.”She grew up having arguments with strangers on the internet. She wasn’t going to just bend over and take it from some angry so-and-so for no good reason.
Percival mumbled under his breath and shook his head, turning his attention forward, clearly giving up on talking to her. Which was fine by Gwen. He took her through hallways to an area of the keep she had only been in maybe once before, when Mordred had been giving her a tour.
But when she walked through the doors behind Percival, she knew this was a room he had skipped. It was a throne room. Rows of stained-glass windows lined each side, some cracked and some missing—likely from the blast when the Iron Crystal shattered. It was dark out, the moonlight streaming in, with flecks of color from the remaining glass scattering across the stone floor. It fought with the amber light of the fires that burned in large metal braziers attached to the columns that stretched up high overhead, disappearing into the darkness of the ceiling.
Soldiers stood like so many suits of armor on display—but she knew they were alive. The telltale opalescent glow coming from their eyes or gaps in their breastplates told her as much. The throne itself at the far end was made, unsurprisingly, entirely from iron. And sitting there, looking entirely bored, was Mordred. His arms were covered in armor, as they often were. But his clothing wasn’t as casual as it usually was. He was wearing a coat that was split down the middle, the black fabric woven with thread that matched the unruly and tangled vine-like motif of his armor along the seams.
Caliburn, in all its terrible glory, was leaning against the arm of the throne beside him.
