“She’s also known as the goddess of the moon,” he added.
“I know.”
We went through an archway and up a flight of curving stairs, to a wide hallway with a skinny guard. He was slumped against an arched door, looking bored. But he straightened up quickly enough when we approached.
“Dye your hair, then, Myrddin?” he asked while checking us for weapons.
Pritkin sighed. “I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention to any fey that you saw me.”
“In trouble again, are you?” the guard asked, amused, and peered under the cover of the tray Pritkin was carrying, since we’d switched loads after the hall.
“Roast pork with sage, lamb and nettle stew, blackberries and cream, ale,” Pritkin told him.
The guard looked wistful. “When’s our dinner, then?”
“I was told sundown,” I said.
“Aye, but we won’t eat then, will we? What with the hall packed with guests.” He looked at the pork, which did smell heavenly. “Probably should check that for poison—”
I slapped his hand.
It was unthinking, and could have been a big mistake, but he just sighed. “Worth a try.”
And with that, we swept in.
As the king’s half sister, Morgaine was housed in the royal apartments, which looked like a fey had designed them, since they followed each other like cars on a train. And I guessed this was the station, where several trains met, what we’d have called a study. I walked slowly forward, trying not to stare like a fangirl, and probably failing spectacularly. Because it was exactly like I’d imagined. Exactly.
There were parts I recognized from the shard of mirror I’d found at Nimue’s: the thick oak slab Arthur was using for a desk, the great stone fireplace, the mural I’d glimpsed a tiny piece of, which turned out to be a cavalry charge done in hasty sketches and vibrant with life. And something that had been out of view of the mirror, something over the mantel, something that looked like . . .
I stopped dead in the middle of the room, my heart pounding. “Is . . . is that—”
“The king’s great sword,” Pritkin confirmed. “A gift from the Lady upon his accession.”
“You mean . . . Excalibur?” I whispered.
Pritkin looked confused. And said something that the spell didn’t translate, but which sounded like he was clearing his throat. I glanced at him. “What?”
He repeated the sound, which I guessed hadn’t been a mistake, after all. “It means Hard Lightning in the old tongue,” he told me. “You see the chimeras, on the hilt?”
I nodded. What looked like two lions, if lions had birds’ wings and snakes for tails, twined together to form the grip. They were cast in bronze, and so finely wrought that I could see the individual scales on the serpents, the feathers on the wings, and the ripples in the lion’s muscles. It was breathtaking.
“They’re nothing compared to the blade,” Pritkin said softly. “A wondrous thing, like no other, bright as flame.”
I glanced around at the empty room. “Could . . .” I licked my lips. “Do you think we could see it?”
He chuckled. “Not according to legend.”
“What?”
“It is said that the wielder is protected, but for everyone else, the blade is dreadful to look upon, a sword of fire that blinds an enemy—or a whole host—before it cuts them down.”
“Blinds them,” I repeated, and suddenly, that searing brightness I’d experienced in Nimue’s rooms made more sense. Arthur must have returned during the attack and unsheathed the blade in front of the mirror. Half blinding me, and forcing Jo to run off because she could no longer see to fight.
I blinked, realizing that my life had been saved by King Arthur, wielding Excalibur. And Billy Joe’s words came
back to me. Yeah, you gave up a lot for this job, but sometimes . . . it was almost worth it.
Pritkin was looking at me. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me what this is all about?”