“It brings war for all,” Morgaine said, her voice trembling with some emotion I couldn’t name, because I couldn’t see her. “Arthur, do you really think Aeslinn will lie down and just allow you to take his helm from him? If you fail, he’ll kill you. If you succeed, he’ll come for you. And you will not be able to withstand him, for you cannot wield it! Recreate this armor if you like, but there is none to wear it anymore!”
“There doesn’t need to be.” Arthur didn’t sound even slightly abashed. “The Svarestri plan to pour all the power of the different pieces into one, to combine their strength—and so do I. But instead of choosing a weapon, as they would, I will make another choice, Grandmother’s choice—”
“Grandmother’s? You mean—” Her voice broke off. And when it came again, there was wonder in it. “You plan to expand it, don’t you? Her shield. To increase its size—”
“Until none may touch us!” he agreed eagerly. “Let the Saxons come, with all their men. Let the fey, let the gods themselves! We will be safe, Faerie pacified, and Aeslinn toothless. We can do this, Morgan. We can bring about all that my father wished, and more than he dared to dream. Now do you understand?”
Yeah, I thought, feeling dizzy. Yeah, I kind of thought I did.
Chapter Fifty-one
Pritkin gripped my arm, because apparently he’d decided it was time for that chat, like right freaking now. But my head was swimming too much to care. I let him pull me back into the outer room, unprotesting.
“Is that why you want the staff?” he asked softly. Well, the tone was soft. The hand on my arm was another matter. “To make a weapon?”
“No—”
“Who are you working for?” he whispered harshly. “It can’t be the Svarestri—they tried to kill you. And the same is true for the Blue Fey—and the Green!”
“It’s a gift,” I said numbly, which didn’t help.
“And it can’t be the king. I saw your face just now—you didn’t know all that. Some, but not all.”
“No.”
“Who, then? Who else is involved? Who is it?”
“I’m not working for anyone,” I said, because he was starting to flush, and I was afraid he’d drag me in to Arthur, demanding an explanation. And that would be bad, that would be very bad, because Arthur—
I looked up at Excalibur, gleaming on the wall, the firelight glinting off the carved figures on the hilt, turning them from bronze into solid gold. It was beautiful, even with the blade hidden. Truly, a piece of art. Which if it had been forged by a god would make sense. But if that was true, then Ares was infused in the sword, just like all the other pieces of that cursed set of armor Adra had mentioned. Not all of him, no, but part of him, enough to drive a fey queen close to madness.
What had it done to Arthur?
He hadn’t had the sword that long, not the millennia Nimue must have had her shield. But he wasn’t Nimue. He was only a quarter fey, and while he wasn’t mad, was he influenced?
I didn’t know, but I knew one thing.
“They can’t be allowed to get all the pieces,” I told Pritkin urgently. “The Svarestri are planning to make a weapon with them, but not to use on the fey. They’re trying—”
Shit!
The door opened, and I whirled, kneeling in front of the fire, hoping the desk would hide me. And throwing on some more wood in case it didn’t, like an exotically dressed chambermaid. Beside me, Pritkin went into a deep bow, low enough to hide his face, because the billow of sea green skirts I’d glimpsed could only belong to one person.
Fortunately, queens rarely glance at the help, and Nimue continued through to the inner rooms without pausing, presumably to see her granddaughter. Along with four of her personal bodyguard, who I guessed were there for Morgaine, because none of them stayed in the outer room. And then they actually closed the door!
As soon as it snicked shut, I scrambled onto the desk, which didn’t turn out to be close enough. So I scrambled down again and tried dragging Arthur’s chair back a few feet, which was all I needed. But the damn thing was heavy English oak, and might as well have been made out of lead.
“Help me!” I told Pritkin, who wasn’t helping.
Instead, he was standing there, arms crossed, eyes deadly serious. “If you want my help—or even my silence—you’re going to tell me what you’re doing. Right now.”
“Trying to save our asses,” I whispered while tugging and heaving. “The fey aren’t trying to get some advantage in a war. They’re trying to bring back a god—”
“What?” He blinked, like that wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
“—the god of war—who’s going to murder us all, except his devout Svarestri worshippers,
no doubt. Which will bring peace, but not the kind I think you want!”