“You should have joined us,” I said, and heard her snort.
“I preferred to take my chances at Nimue’s, where I knew the staff would show up eventually. The fey had told me that much, at least. But heading into that hellhole hadn’t been my idea of fun, either, until you forced it on me—”
“And you failed again.”
“I didn’t fail.” It was sharp. “I blended in perfectly, just another human slave. I might as well have been furniture! All I had to do was wait for the half-breed to bring the staff to me.”
“Because that’s what was supposed to happen,” I guessed. “Before you and I got involved. He freed Morgaine.”
I was trying to keep her talking, in order to pinpoint that voice. But it fluctuated in and out, one second a shout, the next a whisper. And sometimes sped up or down, like a kid playing with an old-fashioned turntable.
Or like an acolyte having trouble straddling the barrier.
“Who went on a tear,” Jo agreed. “And despite showing up a day late, when attacks from the covens had heightened security to a ludicrous degree, he somehow got in anyway. Both of you did. But you didn’t have the staff. I watched them search you, and later looked through your possessions, but it wasn’t there. How did you manage it?”
“Trade secret,” I said, wondering if there was a reason the ghosts were framing the doorway, instead of standing in front of it. But if I sent my knives and I was wrong . . .
I didn’t think it would be good if I was wrong.
“Don’t tell me, then,” she said spitefully. “It doesn’t matter. I already won!”
“You—” I stopped, halfway through a thought. “You don’t have the staff.”
“I don’t need the staff. Do you still not get it? Something I did—or you did—caused it to end up in Nimue’s greedy little hands after the battle, instead of disappearing like last time. Morgaine was supposed to die valiantly, and her grieving grandma to forget to look for the staff until it was too late. By the time she did, somebody else had already snatched it, and it disappeared from history, seriously screwing up Aeslinn’s plans.”
“His plans? Then . . . all this happened before.”
“Of course! What do you think I’m doing here?” It was scornful. “They tried with three last time, which was all they had, but it didn’t work. They realized they had to have four, but although they searched for the missing staff, they never found it.”
“But this time, Morgaine survived—”
“And the staff went to Nimue,” Jo agreed, “who brought it here. That’s why she wants to fight Aeslinn tonight, before Caedmon figures it out and forces her to return it. It’s also why she insisted on the ancient rules, which allow almost anything—including using two godly weapons to your opponent’s one!”
“But . . . the staff isn’t her element—”
“Which means it won’t work for her as well as for Caedmon, but it will work. Enough to give her the edge. Or it would—if Aeslinn hadn’t spelled the arena! As soon as the duel starts, so does the breach. And from what he told me, it won’t take long.”
“If he had all four pieces,” I said, feeling seriously off-kilter. Like my brain had noticed something, something important, but had too much to watch to figure it out. “And he doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t he?”
“That’s why you pulled me out! So we couldn’t get the sword—”
“Is that what you think?” She laughed. “I pulled you out because you’re a menace! At the mill, at Nimue’s—both times it should have been easy. Just pop out and grab the thing. But then you showed up, no idea what you’re doing but shedding chaos anyway! But not this time. Everything is set up perfectly, and I’m not about to let you ruin it.”
“It’s already ruined!” I stared around. “Missing the sword or the staff—it doesn’t matter! They’re still one piece short!”
“Oh, but they’re not. Nimue is taking them the staff and shield as we speak, and Aeslinn already has the helm. And as for the sword . . .” She laughed again. “Arthur, the stupid prick, buried it. Under the sands of the arena—”
“No.” I shook my head. “No, I saw—”
“You saw a pommel and a sheath. That’s all anybody ever sees. Otherwise, it sears your damn retinas out, like it almost did to me. That’s when he did it, you know? Last night, when we were wrestling in Nimue’s caravan, he was here, drawing the sword to replace the blade with another. The real one is now under the arena, where he plans to use it to fool Aeslinn. As if a being thousands of years old was likely to be taken in by any trick a human could devise!”
“It’s already there?” I asked numbly, feeling hope erode. At the back of my mind, I’d assumed that Pritkin had it, that he’d hidden it somewhere, glamouried so the fey couldn’t find it. And maybe he had.
But if so, he’d hidden the decoy.
The real one wasn’t there.