Chapter 55
CHAPTER 55
T he wind lashes at us as we soar, icy and sharp against my skin, but I barely feel it. I’ve led us straight through the mystical veil toward Avalon.
The shadowed castle rises through the fog ahead, looming like a half-remembered dream.
Talan slumps in front of me. I cling to him tightly, trying to keep him upright. He’s slipping in and out of consciousness. His head rests back against my shoulder.
“Can I help you find a book?” he mumbles in English, his voice soft.
He’s echoing phrases from my old life, which makes my heart splinter. I am in his head, always.
His blood has soaked through his clothes. It’s warm against my hands, and the fear inside me is sharp and wild, thorns that scrape inside my skull.
Up ahead, Avalon takes shape in the mist, and my heart races.
Last time I flew Tarasque, she knew exactly where to go. She carried me right back to her home in the Lost Palace, where she belonged. But now, we’re heading for Avalon, and I have no idea how to tell her that. The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing at all.
“Talan,” I say, my voice cracking, “can you guide her down to Avalon?”
Nothing.
His body is slack, the tension fading from his muscles, and I know with sickening certainty that if I don’t get him help soon, he’ll die.
Tarasque veers suddenly, arcing away from the city, and I grit my teeth in frustration, my hands shaking.
“Talan!” I’m screaming his name into the wind, my throat raw. “Please wake up, for me. I love you.”
Still nothing.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until the world blurs. Talan’s body trembles against mine, and my mind is chaos—wild, brambly, panic-stricken.
The roaring wind fades to a hush, as if the sky is waiting for Talan to speak again.
I press my head to Talan’s back, breathing hard, trying to feel any sign of life. I need him to survive this. Taking a deep breath, I summon my powers, unfurling my magic and sliding into his mind.
His thoughts are vivid and beautiful—and mostly about me. There I am, lying in soft grass beneath a weeping willow, bathed in coral light, the branches swaying above me. Now he’s dreaming of me in a bookstore, sliding romance novels onto a shelf.
I love the way he sees me, but that’s not what I need right now.
I remember what Raphael and Viviane once told me: If a telepath isn’t careful, she can drown in another’s mind. Lose herself. Forget where she ends and the other begins. Since then, I’ve always kept an anchor, a piece of myself tucked away.
But not now. Now, I let go and dive deep into Talan’s mind, drowning in his memories.
His mind is a raging storm—the years of isolation, the torment of the dungeon. The haunting memories of his mother holding him in her lap, then her agonizing, excruciating death from dragon fire.
The memory burns away, and he’s swimming in a river. It’s the first time he heard my voice in his thoughts. The first time since his mother was killed that he no longer felt alone. He swims under the icy river, wanting more.
There’s so much of him. Too much. How can someone with such turbulent, powerful emotions remain as calm and aloof as he does?
I’m racing on the back of a dragon, tearing through the skies. Rain hammers against my skin, and I like it that way.
I guide her, touching the scales by her throat to urge her to turn. Dragons used to terrify me. Dragon fire killed my mother, and the terror of that almost broke my mind. But now? I’m certain they’re misunderstood creatures, and that’s something I understand very well indeed.
I touch my dragon’s neck on a scale by her spikes, guiding her.
Then, suddenly, cold fury. All-consuming. I think of my father, Auberon, as he leads me through the streets of Brittany. I think of him burning his own subjects, scorching them into oblivion. My father speaks of duty like he means it, but no king has ever ignored his duty more than he. I will kill him.
But that’s not my father…that’s not my memory.
You are Nia.
You are my love.
You walked the hot pavement beneath an unrelenting sun.
You put out the fires, swept up the broken glass, locked the doors and windows each night.
You lived with a silent ache, holding everything together until the world that needed you finally opened up, and you fell in.
It’s as if Talan has gathered every scattered piece of me from the sea of consciousness, each one collected with careful, steady hands. One by one, he’s threaded them back together, making me whole. And then, gently, he places them in my mind.
My eyes flutter open.
I’m on top of Tarasque. Talan is slumped, nearly unconscious in front of me.
And now, from his memories, I know how to guide Tarasque.
I lean sideways, touching the back of her neck just so to let her know that she needs to veer left.
We sweep back around, heading for Mordred’s castle.
At last, we land in the water with a splash, and I let out a long, shaking sigh.
Inside a castle bedroom, Mordred helps me lay Talan on one of the beds.
He glares at him, his golden eyes burning. “Just like always, dragging in your broken things. Two soldier corpses last time. A usurper prince this time. When I was young and I’d visit Queen Morgan, I’d bring her flowers and mead. But this is better. Much better. Like a cat, my vicious princess keeps bringing me gifts with blood on her claws.”
My stomach tightens. “No, that’s not what’s happening here. He’s not dead, and he’s not a gift . He’s my husband. He’s the one who’s going to help us tear Auberon off the throne and put him in the grave. I need you to heal him. He’s been cut with iron. Can you heal him? You told me you knew how.”
He glares at me like he thinks I’ve lost my mind. “ Save him? Surely nature should take its course.”
“He was injured saving me,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Was he, now?” He sounds deeply unimpressed.
“Mordred!” I shout, flustered. “He also killed Wrythe Pendragon. He drove a sword through his heart.”
Sunlight streams into the room, flaring off his sharply spiked crown. He thinks for a moment, then one of his dark eyebrows rises. “I’m listening.”
“We did what you wanted. We killed Wrythe and his nephew, and at least several other Pendragons.”
“ Several ? Can you be more specific? I want them all dead.”
“I don’t know the numbers yet, but it didn’t look good for them. Their great weapon against the Fey is disabled. And the usurper, as you call him? That’s Auberon. Not the prince. If you help me heal Talan, that usurper king is our next target. And Talan is going to make an excellent guest at the banquet, I promise.”
Slowly, he nods. “I know how to treat this. Nimu? taught me just the other day. I doubt she gave the knowledge to those usurpers in Brocéliande.”
I swallow hard at the mention of Nimu?. “I don’t think she did.”
“Take off his shirt and clean his wound. There are clean cloths in the closet over there. I’ll set some water to boil on the hearth.”
He places a caldron on the fire and stalks out of the room. I unsheathe my knife and use it to cut Talan’s already shredded shirt. It clings to his bloodstained skin, and I peel it off him in strips. The wound is long and ragged, the skin around it swollen and red.
I rush to the closet and yank it open. It’s packed with silks, some glittering with gemstones, each one probably worth more than a house. Made with magic, no doubt, for the fabric to survive thousands of years and still look this perfect.
I grab a blue robe, its texture smooth and cold, and dip it in boiling water to sanitize it, then set it aside to cool. When the cloth is cool enough, I carry it over to Talan and gently dab at his wound. It takes me several trips back and forth from the cauldron to properly clean the injury, then I get a clean piece of cloth, soak it with water, and dab his forehead.
He looks so still right now, peaceful in a way that makes my chest tighten. His dark lashes rest against sharp cheekbones, his beautiful lips parted just slightly. He doesn’t look like a warrior or a Dream Stalker, a killer or a prince. He just looks…breakable. If it weren’t for his blinding beauty, he’d almost seem human right now.
“Don’t leave me,” I whisper. “You’re in good hands. We’ve got Nimu?’s healing knowledge. I won’t lose you. I absolutely fucking refuse.”
“Nia?” he asks, his voice hoarse, eyes half shut.
“I’m here.”
“Where?”
“We’re somewhere safe.”
His eyes snap open. “The plague?”
“It’s gone, love. We burned it.”
He relaxes again, his eyes closing.
Mordred bursts back into the room carrying a wooden bowl with a green paste in it. “Apply this to the wound. Clean it and put on a new batch of paste every half hour. I’m going to go deal with the dragon. She’s bleeding, too, you know. It’s like you don’t even care about the dragon.”
Guilt knots in my chest. “Right. Thanks. Be careful, though. She can be dangerous when she’s injured.”
“I am Mordred, son of Morgan. I know how to talk to dragons. You take care of your prince.” He marches back out, his dark, fur-lined cape trailing behind him.
Gently, I apply the salve to Talan’s wound. It smells of fresh earth and mint, and spreads a relaxing scent in the room.
I got it from Nimu?, just the other day. How strange that my father actually knew them both—the two other thirds that make my power whole.
Talan’s eyes open. “Where are we? It feels like home.”
I smile at him. He’s never been here before, but he feels it anyway, the Fey connection to this island. “Avalon. You are home.”