“What are you talking about? Stop that and answer me!”
I stopped, but not because he told me to. But because I needed his help to do this. No way was Excalibur just hanging on a wall with no protection. It was probably warded all to hell, and while I might eventually manage to reach it, I couldn’t do shit about that.
I blew a strand of sweaty hair out of my face.
“Look, I can’t tell you everything, but . . . I’m after a girl, someone working with the Svarestri. I was told that she wants the staff to punch through a . . . a sort of spell . . . that’s protecting earth, and bring back the gods. But if one piece of the armor was enough for that, the Svarestri would have already done it. It looks like they need it all: Nimue’s shield, Aeslinn’s helm, Caedmon’s staff, and . . .”
I looked up at Excalibur, hanging on the wall, and Pritkin’s expression darkened.
“No.”
“We have to take it!”
“No!”
“It’s the only way—”
“You are not talking about stealing the king’s sword!”
“We don’t have a choice! We don’t know where the staff is, or how to get it back. But the sword is right there—”
“We have to tell the king!” He started for the door.
I lunged over the desk and caught his arm. “We can’t tell him! The armor was infused with the soul of a god—the same god they’re trying to bring back! Anyone who’s owned a piece is suspect!”
He stopped moving, I guessed because he’d have to drag me along to get any farther, but he still looked incredulous. “You can’t seriously think—”
“Can’t I? What do you think is wrong with Nimue? Was that normal, what we saw at camp? Was that what you’d have expected from her?”
Pritkin paused, forehead wrinkling. “No. She has the reputation of a fierce foe with a . . . lively . . . temper. But she is not reputed to be cruel.”
“Maybe she isn’t. But the shield played on her fears, her desire to protect her people, her growing paranoia. She was probably a hard nut to crack, but she’s had it a long time, and the Svarestri have made sure she had no choice but to use it. You told me so yourself, when we were in Faerie, remember? How they constantly attack the Dark Fey, taking their lands, forcing them into conflict with her—”
“But that’s Nimue. Arthur—”
“Has the sword!” I gestured at it. “Achilles’ freaking sword that I’ll bet you anything Nimue took from the Dark Fey and gave to him!”
And finally, it looked like something got through. “She captured it after a battle,” Pritkin said, sounding numb. “But she couldn’t use it to full effect; fire isn’t her element—”
“So some little voice told her to bring it here, where it’s been whispering to Arthur ever since, promising things he’s yearned for his whole life. Dreams of a peace he’s never going to get because the Svarestri are going to reassemble that armor and kill us all!”
Pritkin stared at me, and then at the door, clearly torn. He’d heard most of the story from Arthur’s own lips, and he’d seen the bloody mess at Nimue’s camp. Yet, for a moment, he just stood there.
“She has the shield, and possibly the staff,” I told him desperately. “And the Svarestri have the helm. That means the sword—”
“Is the only thing left.”
I nodded. “They can’t get their hands on it.”
“And your role in all this?”
“To make sure they don’t!”
Pritkin didn’t answer, but he suddenly picked up the massive chair and deposited it by the wall. He climbed up, his hands running over the length of the blade from a good two feet away, scowling. “Understand this,” he said grimly. “The sword stays with me. If you attempt to take it—”
“I won’t.”
“Good. It’s not that I don’t trust you—”