Chapter 54
CHAPTER 54
W e’re nearly at the top of Shalott Tower now.
Every step drags, the grief for Serana pulling at me with brutal, unrelenting weight, like the earth itself wants to drag me down with her.
I shove the sorrow aside, forcing my focus back to the door ahead, the door to Shalott Tower’s turret.
Nivene throws it open, and for a moment, sunlight floods in, blinding me.
When my eyes adjust, my breath catches. Twenty knights stand on the battlements here, guarding the anti-dragon gun. And Wrythe stands among them.
Their eyes turn to us, and they unsheathe their swords.
It doesn’t take long for the melee to start. Nivene, Talan, and Raphael erupt into violence—swords clashing, blades carving. I carefully hang back, cradling the bag of vials. I want to join the fray, but keeping this bag safe is more important than anything.
This time, Talan unleashes his nightmare magic as he fights. I feel it skimming, dark and cold over my skin, and watch as one of the knights leaps to his death from the turret.
The sound of shouts and clashing metal fills the air. Men scream and claw at their faces, trapped in the waking nightmare Talan has woven around them.
Through the chaos, I spot Wrythe standing by the gun. Our eyes lock, his hatred mirroring mine.
“The Kingslayer’s daughter,” he roars, pointing at me. “Mordred’s child. You know the prophecy. Kill her! ”
Carefully, I set down the vials and stand again, readying my daggers. Magic surges in my blood, cold and ancient as the lake, a slumbering power awakening. I throw one of my knives at a charging knight, and it sinks into his throat.
Another knight swings at me with his sword, but I duck. And while I’m down, I thrust my hand out and touch his ankle, slamming my magical energy into his mind.
Cecil is scared. He never wanted a civil war in Avalon Tower, but Wrythe was in charge, and Cecil was raised in Camelot.
You didn’t say no to the Pendragons. Not if you wanted a career.
He’d always thought the Pendragons were a little old-fashioned, clinging to ancient codes and ceremony. But he never thought they were idiots. And yet, here he was, standing over an Avalon Steel Knight, about to kill her because they told him to.
He could say no. He could let her live. But disobeying the Pendragons? Getting cast out of Avalon Tower? His parents would never forgive him. The shame would follow his family forever. So, if Wrythe says to kill a fellow knight, he’ll shut his mouth and do it.
I pour more fear into his mind. Absolute, abject terror.
Look out behind you, he’s going to kill you! I shriek in his mind.
He whirls, panicked, and slashes at a nearby knight, bringing his sword down in the other knight’s skull. I grab my second knife and leap to my feet, sinking my blade into Cecil’s throat. He really should have listened to his instincts.
He falls to the ground, and I steal his sword. I turn to I see Wrythe marching toward me, his face a mask of loathing.
He raises his sword. “I’ll kill you myself.”
I grip the hilt of my sword, my eyes locked on Wrythe.
He swings, thrusts, ripostes. I’m not as skilled with the sword as I am with a dagger, and Wrythe, it turns out, is very good. He’s swift, brutal, practiced.
As we fight, my mind is half on the bag of vials. I want to stay in front of the viruses, protecting them. Wrythe could so easily end all this now if he just smashed the bag, but I don’t think he knows what’s in it.
He’s cornering me now. Steel whooshes through the air, and sparks fly between our blades.
I scan for an opening, a brief touch that will allow me to invade his mind, but there’s nothing—just his face, out of reach while he wields his sword.
“We should have never let your kind in here,” he spits. “Enemies within our ranks. Rotting our Pendragon heritage from the inside out.”
Swing. Thrust. Parry. It’s a wild dance, and I’m trying to keep up with the pace.
“You needed us,” I say through gritted teeth.
“An atrocity. Mordred’s daughter in Avalon Tower’s halls. A disease.”
“And you sabotaged the chance to kill Auberon!” I shout.
Lunge. Riposte.
“Diametric powers! Twisted. Wrong.” Thrust. “And they gave you an Avalon . Steel . Torc . An abomination.”
Each of his words is punctuated by a vicious swing that pushes me further back against the wall.
I parry a thrust, but he twists, sharp and sudden. My sword tears from my grip and clatters to the stone.
I’m at the edge of the turret now, and terror deafens my thoughts.
Talan is moving toward me, carving his way through another knight, and I can feel his terror and panic for me.
Slowly, Wrythe raises his sword until the blade kisses my throat. My focus snaps back to him, my heart stuttering. I lean away, nearly toppling over the edge of the parapet. Fear courses through my nerve endings.
Then Talan’s sword bursts through Wrythe’s chest from behind, ripping through his heart, and Talan stands above him like a god of vengeance.
Wrythe gasps, his mouth slack. Blood spills down his chin as his wide, pale eyes lock onto mine and fade.
Talan drags his sword from Wrythe’s back, and the Seneschal crumples to the ground like a discarded rag doll. Lips curled, Talan stares down at him.
I throw myself at Talan, and he pulls me close, crushing me against his chest. He’s holding me like I’m a magical talisman, something sacred to keep the nightmares away.
“You’re okay,” he breathes into my hair. “You’re okay.” It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
But then he sucks in a sharp breath. His body tenses, and his hand goes to his stomach. He winces, and I realize he’s bleeding.
The world tilts beneath me. “How deep is it?” My words are sharp, panicked. When I look closer, I see how bad it looks, a slash right thorough his abdomen.
“Iron,” he grunts. “Iron poisoning.”
I hold him up, my mind reeling. Most of the knights have fallen now. Raphael is injured, gripping his bleeding head, but he looks like he’ll make it.
But Talan has gone pale, and the look in his eyes—agonized and distant, like he’s already halfway gone—that look undoes me.
Mentally, I’m unraveling as Talan leans back against the parapet, holding his gut. “Nia, you have to destroy the plague. Now.”
“We’ll destroy it together,” I say. It comes out as a shout, as if I can just scream it loudly enough for it to be true.
He shuts his eyes and shakes his head.
Panicking, I turn to look around me. Death, everywhere. Nivene is fighting the last Pendragon standing.
Talan slumps against the wall, the light in his eyes going dim.
“You’re not dying,” I shout, furious at him for some reason.
Shaking, I crouch down next to him and find his dragon whistle.I pull it out and blow with all the air in my lungs, and a high-pitched screech rends the air.
Nivene finishes off the last knight, and as she does, a loud roar rumbles over the horizon. The rhythmic beat of wings pulses in the air. I peer over the parapet to see Tarasque soaring toward us. Blood streaks from her body, and one of her wings is ragged and torn.
She’ll never be able to carry us back to Brocéliande, but she lands on the tower with a boom. I feel as if the whole tower is compressing under her weight.
I pull Talan close against me.
“Help me,” I shout to Nivene. “We need Raphael’s healing magic. He’s dying.”
Nivene rushes to my side. “Raphael been hit in the head—the flat of a blade, but still hard. He’s incoherent.”
Talan meets my gaze, and the fading look in his eye wrecks me. I can’t breathe. The world is going dark, turning to ash.
“Help me get him on the dragon.” My voice sounds wild, panicked, but an idea has sparked in my mind. “Talan, can you walk?”
“Of course I can fucking walk,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound convincing.
Nivene and I help him up, his arms slung over our shoulders as we half-carry him toward Tarasque. She watches us with narrowed metallic eyes. She’s suspicious, but after a moment, she lowers her neck for him. Talan climbs on her back, swaying, and I slide up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist to steady him. I take care not to press against his wound.
As we settle onto her back, Nivene pulls out the vials and sets them carefully on top of a stone merlon. Then she backs away rapidly, muttering, “Burn that shit, will you?”
I glance at Raphael. He’s still clutching his head. “Take care of him, will you?”
She nods. “Of course.”
I lean in closer to Talan, heart hammering. “Talan? Can you tell Tarasque to burn the vials?”
He exhales a ragged breath, then rasps the command.
Tarasque raises her head with a low growl. Fire engulfs the vials, boiling the liquid for a few moments. The glass shatters, and the liquid sizzles and evaporates, its threat extinguished by the flash of blistering heat. Steam hisses into the air, rising in harmless tendrils.
I exhale in relief and hold tightly to Talan. “Will you be able to stay on?” I ask.
“Yes,” he murmurs, “but Tarasque is too hurt, Nia. She won’t get far.”
I press my face against his back, breathing in the beautiful, familiar scent of him. I can hear his heart beating through his back, and I never want it to stop. “That’s okay. We don’t need to go far. I have a place. Somewhere safe.”
At his command, Tarasque rises into the air and glides over the still waters of Lake Avalon.
And as Talan slumps against me, barely conscious, all I can do is thank the gods I spent one storm-wracked day learning to fly her on my own.