Chapter 17 #2
Calla’s laugh was bitter. Lamorna flinched, taking a step back, but Calla shook her head, her tone gentle. ‘You think any of us know? We all lived in that place, with eyes on us all the time, terrified that if we put one foot out of line, we’d be bound to that awful stake like you were.’
Lamorna swallowed.
‘I’m glad the Konsel are dead,’ Calla said viciously. ‘I am. I hated them so much. I don’t feel bad for them, for what happened to them. None of us do.’
The others nodded.
‘Please come and sit,’ Arwen said. ‘We can work this out together.’
‘You… really want that?’ Lamorna asked.
‘This is a new world,’ Calla said, lifting her chin. ‘And we get to help build it. Now sit and tell us what’s been going on.’
Two days later, Calla hurried into Lamorna’s room. A group of people, mostly men, had arrived outside the castle gates. Lamorna sighed inwardly. More refugees.
‘They’ve come from Malist,’ Calla said as they headed towards the hall.
‘I hope they brought food with them,’ Lamorna mumbled.
Calla caught her arm, her expression worried. ‘They’re from the Sacellum.’
Lamorna’s heart sped and her mouth became as dry as the dead earth beyond the castle battlements. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘I don’t know, but it can’t be good,’ Calla replied in a low voice. ‘They have Witchfinders with them.’
‘Mordred will take care of them,’ Lamorna said.
Calla shook her head. ‘And if they don’t listen to him? You do remember what a Witchfinder can do, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ Lamorna said, but her voice trembled. She had forgotten. Mordred and many of those from Cruithea were Magic Wielders. She quickened her pace, chewing her lip. When she and Calla entered the hall, she stopped dead, heart in her throat.
At least ten men gathered there, red robes gleaming in the light pouring into the hall through the stained-glass windows.
Mordred sat on his throne. He saw her and beckoned her forward.
Lamorna swallowed, leaving Calla at the door.
She wanted to walk around the other side of the long table, as far from these men of the Sacellum as possible, but she didn’t.
She made herself lift her chin and walk straight through the middle of them.
She felt their eyes on her back, heard the mutterings about her unbound hair and the tight fit of her bodice.
By the time she reached Mordred, her palms were sweaty.
He gave her a reassuring look and indicated she was to sit.
Elaine was already present, a step behind Mordred’s throne, her white eyes roving over the men spread like a blood stain before them.
Mordred did not introduce her or Lamorna.
His gaze rested on a tall man with dark hair, cropped close to his scalp, who stood at the front of the group.
The hem of his robe was dirty and beginning to fray.
It made her smile. How hungry they all looked, how thirsty and desperate.
Mordred’s arms were bare, his swirling warrior ink as visible as the daggers on his hips, and his braided hair fell over his shoulders.
His chin was lifted proudly, his expression smooth and composed.
Strong. If he was worried, he didn’t let it show.
He was a god compared to these men in their filthy robes.
The furious beating of her heart slowed a little.
‘Welcome to Dinas Emrys,’ Mordred said. ‘Do you know who I am?’
The tall man nodded. ‘We have heard rumours.’
‘Oh? What have you heard?’ Mordred asked.
The man’s lips formed a thin line. ‘That a heathen Cruithean has styled himself a king and plans to bring back the Old Ways to Teyath.’
Mordred shook his head. ‘This is the trouble with rumours, isn’t it? They are just that. I may be a Cruithean, but I am a devotee of the One God. In fact, everything I do here is for Him and is in preparation for His return to this world.’
The men exchanged glances, the tall man clearing his throat. ‘We hear you’ve been in Kernou.’
‘I have,’ Mordred said, as Lamorna’s muscles coiled into tight springs. She eyed the men warily, wondering which ones were the Witchfinders.
‘Where is Ulrian Tregarthen?’ the tall man demanded.
‘He remained behind. He did not believe that the One God’s return was imminent. I could not convince my uncle otherwise, so I left with the true faithful and we have been here ever since.’ He leant forward. ‘What is your name?’
‘You are Ulrian’s nephew?’ the man asked in disbelief and Lamorna knew what he was thinking – that it must be a lie, that Ulrian Tregarthen would never have sullied himself with any familial connection to Cruithea and her people.
‘I am,’ Mordred replied, then, voice hard, ‘I asked for your name. Are you refusing to give it to me?’
The red-cloaked men shifted nervously behind their leader.
‘I am Mark Merchion, Senior Officer of the Sacellum.’
‘And have you come to join us, Mark Merchion?’ Mordred asked.
‘It depends,’ Mark said. ‘Are you truly a devotee of the One God?’