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Like a heavy mechanism, understanding shifted into place.
Not just for me.
Arran’s breath shook out of him, skittering along my neck and shoulder as he drew me back so he could look at me. Stare at me as if seeing me for the first time. “All the times you should have bled… at the Offering, when the witch attacked you in the Tower of Myda. You were wearing the scabbards.
I swallowed hard. “But I wasn’t at the Joining. I wore Excalibur instead.”
My heart was in my throat, pounding wildly, as I spoke. “Arthur gave me the scabbards. They were a gift—so I would be able to protect myself wherever I went, he said. I thought… I thought he meant the daggers. But he didn’t… he meant the scabbards.”
Arran was staring down the space between us, staring at the jewels on my scabbards, glinting at my waist. I wore them all the time. I always felt safer with their weight at my waist. Now I knew why.
But Cyara didn’t have to ask the last question. I was keeping track in my head. “What about the chalice?”
“The chalice gives life. Drink from it once, and you are healed of any ailment. Sip from it forever, and you shall never die.”
I knew it was Percival’s voice, but it had become something else. Disembodied, to my ears at least. Like I was hearing him through a wall, or while underwater. It wasn’t a human speaking to me… it was destiny. And it was fucking terrifying.
“We don’t have the chalice,” Arran said.
“But Parys and Gwen might,” Cyara said softly. “There is only one chalice of any note in Baylaur.”
“The one used in the Offering and the Joining,” I finished her thought. “The same one that has been used since Nimue and Accolon.”
Arran’s brow tightened, his eyes lifting back to mine. He eased his arm slightly; testing to see if I would fall over. I stayed standing. He rubbed a hand over his brow, through his hair, over his chin. Percival was still wrapped tightly. But Arran was too deep in thought to notice. His battle commander’s mind was at work, his eyes tracing from the sword strapped to my back, to the scabbards on my belt, then back again.
“What is the value of any of this? We are fae. We can heal from nearly any wound, live thousands of years. This sacred trinity is useful, but it would hardly make us so much more powerful that it is worth making such a fuss about.”
I wanted to agree with him.
But there were too many coincidences. Too many careful pieces being moved around the battlefield. I hated the feeling that it was all happeningtous. To me. While we scrambled to piece things together.
“Arthur knew,” I said.
This was so much worse than being pulled apart by the void. This was being pulled apart by the one person I’d trust above all others—my brother. My twin. My other half.
But I still said the words. “Arthur knew about all of it. And he lied.”
53
VEYKA
I stalked into the forest. The others could deal with Percival. Punish him, kill him, set him free. I didn’t care.
Arthur lied.
Arthur lied.
Arthur lied.
The words were a painful throb in my chest, my head, my heart—that echoed with each step I took.
Mine weren’t the only steps.
“I have a magical sword and I cannot bleed. I think I can take an Ancestors-damned walk by myself—”
Cyara and Lyrena blinked at me. The latter’s eyes were wide as saucers. The former… well, she was quite used to my fits of temper.
But neither of them was Arran—the one I’d expected to follow me. And the fact that I hadn’t realized, hadn’t recognized two soft sets of footsteps rather than my mate’s heavy tread… it said enough about the mangled state of my mind.
