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“You are the queen from the Void Prophecy,” Cyara said. She’d slid her hand down my arm, cupped my hands, was rubbing my ice-cold fingers between her own to warm them. “You have never been powerless.”
I looked to Lyrena. “Did he know?”
Her brow furrowed. A soft shake. “I don’t know. He never told me his plans.”
I could hear sounds in the distance. The rest of our companions—my mate—approaching. I could feel him coming closer, the pressure in my chest I hadn’t even noticed starting to ease. He couldn’t stand to be parted from me any longer. He’d given me space, given me my friends. But if he didn’t see me soon, with his own two eyes, his control might fray.
Ancestors, I could understand all of that from a twinge in my chest.
A tiny ray of sunlight slipped between the thick barrier of leaves overhead.
It caught on the gold—glinting brightly. Not Lyrena’s braid or her goldstone—on Excalibur. The mighty, magical sword lying carelessly on the ground.
The gold of the pommel gleamed brightly. The swirls in the blade, different tones of silvery gray, seemed to shift and move in the filtered light. Ancestors, maybe they were actually moving.
It was a magical, Avalon-made blade.
I had no idea what it could actually do.
Just like I had no idea who Arthur had truly been.
There was more. I could feel the sinking inside of me, the heavy realization as I stared down at the sword that had chosen me. The same way my brother had chosen me. And I wondered aloud—
“What else didn’t he tell me?”
54
PARYS
The clashing sound of metal greeted him long before he reached the dusty training ring. This was getting out of control. He was hardly sleeping. Waking hours were divided between the library, trying to unobtrusively trail Merlin or Igraine, and meetings with the human delegation. Dinners with Guinevere weren’t nearly sufficient to sort through the intricacies of ruling.
Running a kingdom was so much fucking work.
Parys swiped back the curls that fell over his forehead. He’d nearly taken a pair of shears to the errant curls the night begore in a moment of weakness. But even tired Parys was too vain to cut away his thick curls.
He knew he’d find Guinevere in the sparring ring at this hour of the morning. She kept a routine—strict and predictable. He wasn’t sure that it included sleep.
She worked her way through a rotation of palace guards. She even let them use their magic against her blade. To no avail.
But it wasn’t one of the palace guards at the other end of her sword today—it was Elora.
And it was impressive.
Parys glanced around the training courtyard. More spectators than usual. And why not? Guinevere parried and swiped, curving her body into elegant shapes as she darted away from blasts of Elora’s ice magic. Even with those constant blasts of ice, a translucent wall of ice thrown up in her path, the chill in the air—none of it slowed Guinevere down.
A scent on the wind caught his attention, though it took him a moment to locate…
The humans.
Three of them, including their leader, the elderly woman called Sylva. There were three palace guards flanking them—not to rein them in, but to protect them. Though Parys doubted the need. The court had been subdued since Guinevere had made an example of Brennar.
Parys had learned in that moment—clever maneuvering was one strategy, and an effective one… but sheer brutality and strength had its place as well.
If Sylva was here, she probably wanted to speak with Guinevere.
Too bad—Parys needed her first.
Elora shot out a blast of magic, the ice forming a spear with a wicked tip that launched straight for Guinevere. But Guinevere was already rolling, anticipating the way that Elora relied on her hands to manipulate her power and using it as a warning. She didn’t roll away. She went forward, straight for Elora, and when she came up into a crouch, her sword was in her hand—the tip lodged just below Elora’s breastbone.
