Chapter 24
Helplessness sat like a stone in Arthur’s stomach, filling the space, leaving him without an appetite.
Sleep was hard to come by as well. Every time he closed his eyes, he fell into some strange space.
Not between the worlds, like he’d thought at first, but somewhere else – it was like he was dreaming while he was still awake.
The images that flooded his mind were of the past, he was certain of that, because when they came, the Sword of the White Dragon thrummed with power and memory.
A sombre mood had fallen over the crew with Ordes’ absence.
Arthur hadn’t realised his friend had been the glue holding them all together.
He wondered if Ordes realised that. Rarely was Ordes not smiling, and no matter what troubles of his own he might have had, he always made time to talk to the crew.
To Arthur, he was not much changed from the man he had first met.
Power had not altered him. The Bow of Mists had not altered him.
Arthur wished he could say the same thing about the Sword of the White Dragon.
Maybe it was the atmosphere on the ship – maybe it was simply everything that had happened or the weight that rested across Arthur’s shoulders, but the Sword liked the darkness crowding around the edges of the world.
He had been warned of this, but he’d underestimated the Treasure’s desire for conflict.
And he’d utterly underestimated the impact it would have on him.
The desire of the weapon swam through him, and although Arthur knew he should go above deck, leave the Sword on the bed or put it away, he couldn’t.
Without it, he couldn’t breathe. The air would grow stale and thick in his throat, and a terrible thirst that no amount of water could quench would leave him gasping.
He had no one to talk to about what was happening – no one who was here anymore, at least. Ordes was as lost in all of this as he was, but talking to the man with a god’s magic was comforting.
No matter how ridiculous his questions sounded, Ordes never made Arthur feel ridiculous.
It was a far cry from the life he’d used to have, where he was not only made to feel less for not instinctively knowing the answers to something, but where he had given up asking, storing everything deep inside. Since leaving Kernou, Arthur had never asked more questions in his life.
Someone knocked at his door. It opened before he could respond.
‘You should come above deck,’ Katarin suggested.
She didn’t come into the cabin, leaning casually against the door frame.
At least, casual was what she was trying to be.
Every muscle in her face was tight, and her hands were tucked into her pockets.
Arthur could see her fingers worrying at the cloth.
‘What for?’ he asked, aware of how sullen he sounded. Above deck was the last place he wanted to be. He wanted to stay in his cabin and listen to the Sword of the White Dragon.
Katarin blinked at him. ‘What do you mean, “what for”? Those are your people up there. I know you’re hurting – we all are – but I think it would be best if you—’
‘You think?’ Arthur sneered as anger blazed through him. ‘What makes you the authority on how to rule people, Morgaine? You’re hiding on the ocean instead of returning to your people. You’re hardly in a position to lecture me, are you?’
Even as he spoke, Arthur was horrified, but the words flowed from him, driven into being by some darkness he could not control.
His fingers teased the hilt of the sword as a voice whispered in his ear.
He knew that voice – hard, resolute, unforgiving.
The words ‘I’m sorry’ danced onto his tongue, but before he could say anything, they dissolved there, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
His sister’s lips were a thin line. ‘You have no right—’
‘I have every right,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m the one chosen to be king, and I’m the one Merlin saw rule this land.’
Yes, the Sword crooned. This is what it means to be powerful, Arthur. Stand up to her!
‘Bang up job you’re doing at the moment,’ Katarin snapped. ‘Sulking in your cabin.’
‘Sulking?’ He stood, lifting his chin, the Sword grasped tightly in one hand. ‘You want to know what I think? You know you’re not fit to be the High Priestess. That’s why you won’t claim your role. You know Inanna made a mistake. You’re weak.’
Katarin stormed into the cabin, kicking the door shut, her face like thunder. ‘Listen here,’ she began but the Sword laughed, and Arthur laughed too. Katarin’s eyes narrowed. ‘You need to put that thing down.’ Anger rolled off her, deep and dark and bitter.
‘You’re jealous.’
Katarin barked a laugh. ‘Jealous? What the fuck gives you that impression, little brother?’
‘It’s a powerful weapon with powerful magic. Everyone is jealous of it. You’re no different.’ The Sword purred in encouragement. ‘It was chosen for me, Katarin. It’s mine.’
Katarin’s eyes hardened. ‘Right. Get your hand off it.’
‘No.’
‘Arthur—’
‘I like it,’ he said from between his teeth, and it was him speaking, not the Treasure. ‘I like it, alright? I like the way it makes me feel when I touch it. I like how I feel when I hold it.’
His sister put her hands on her hips. ‘And how do you feel?’
‘Powerful,’ he whispered. His grip on the hilt tightened. ‘Indestructible. Like nothing can hurt me, nothing can touch me and if they do—’
Katarin stalked across the cabin and, without a word, smashed her open palm across Arthur’s cheek.
He reeled, his grip on the Sword loosening for a moment before rage surged through him, thick and heavy, reaching for every part of him.
But instead of crushing him, it steadied him, made him stand taller.
He lifted the Sword, holding it between him and Katarin.
‘Now what?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘You going to run me through with that toy, Arthur?’ There was no fear in her. Her eyes were hard like chips of blue glass, and she lifted her chin – a challenge. ‘Well?’
Arthur hesitated, and before he could do anything, her hand snaked out and snatched the Sword from his grip, tossing it on the bed.
With a cry, Arthur threw himself towards the weapon, but his sister’s arms closed around his middle.
She was stronger than she looked, holding him back.
All he could see was the Sword of the White Dragon. Its voice was in his head.
With a gasp, he tore his eyes from the Treasure. Chest heaving, Arthur collapsed back against Katarin. He was shaking, tremors ripping through him, a dreadful ache resting in his chest, his blood on fire.
‘Do you see?’ she whispered. ‘It’s changing you, and not for the better, Arthur.’
He let out a strangled sob. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I said.’
‘Once this is done,’ Katarin said, her voice in his ear. ‘You and I will get rid of that thing. I don’t care what we have to do, but it will be gone.’
Arthur nodded miserably. She shook him.
‘Promise me. I need to hear you say it, little brother. I’m not going to lose you to a fucking piece of steel, magical or not.’
‘We’ll get rid of it,’ he breathed, even as the Sword of the White Dragon screamed its opposition.
Everything about him was achingly familiar. The way he stood, casual but watchful. The broad sweep of his shoulders and that beautiful soft slice of exposed skin on the back of his neck. The colour of his hair, like sand struck with sunlight.
Arthur made his way to Jalen’s side, stomach clenched, memory and pain and longing settling inside him. He recognised the feelings at once – they had always been there, smothered beneath the Sword of the White Dragon.
Alarmed, Arthur brushed his hip, finding an emptiness that was as unfamiliar as this place. The corners of his vision shimmered.
A dreamwalk then. Of course.
‘Where are we?’ Arthur asked softly.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ murmured the demi-god. Only, Arthur wasn’t sure that was right. There was something different about Jalen, but he couldn’t determine what. Jalen gave Arthur a surreptitious glance, then sighed. ‘The Otherworld.’
‘Are you dead?’
A ghost of a smile. ‘No.’
‘I’ve crossed realms before,’ Arthur reminded him. To find you, he wanted to add. ‘Are we in the past?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jalen answered. Then, ‘Why are you here?’
Arthur said nothing, turning his attention to the view.
They were somewhere high, looking through a set of stone arches similar to the ones he remembered from Avalon.
And like Avalon, the Otherworld was filled with rolling green grass, hills, and the scent of apple blossom.
The sky was a vibrant blue with fluffy white clouds dotted across it.
‘It’s not what I thought it would be,’ Arthur admitted.
Jalen’s smile was soft. ‘It’s not what anyone thinks it should be. Humans are so scared of death – why wouldn’t the world after death reflect that fear? Instead, the Otherworld is a parallel world, existing alongside the human one. There is nothing to be scared of here.’
They stood in silence, shoulders close but not touching. Despite everything, despite the cutting sting of Jalen’s betrayal, Arthur wanted to lean over and rest his head on Jalen’s shoulder or weave his fingers through Jalen’s. He wanted comfort, he realised. Maybe that was what had drawn him here.
‘Arthur,’ Jalen’s voice cut into his thoughts.
‘Everything is going wrong,’ Arthur murmured.
Jalen turned to him. ‘What’s happened?’
Arthur bit his lip, hesitating, then exhaled sharply. Before he could speak, he sensed someone at his other side. A skeletal face, black sockets for eyes.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ the God of the Otherworld declared, before he placed a bony finger between Arthur’s eyes.
The world fractured, flinging him sideways, and he was floating, lost. As terror started to swallow him, Arthur landed on moss and leaf covered ground.
The air was cool and sweet. Trees arched above him.
This place was familiar. He was in Cruithea.
He stood a moment, waiting for a clue, for some sort of guidance.
The dreamwalks tended to work that way, he’d realised.
If he waited, something would appear to guide him.
He closed his eyes and the world around him shifted.
When he opened them, he saw a young girl with deep red hair disappear between the trees.
Heart hammering, Arthur followed her, picking his way over mossy logs and layers of leaf litter.
She darted ahead of him, light and agile.
A twig exploded beneath Arthur’s foot, the sound echoing through the forest like a snapped bone.
The child stopped, her small hand dropping to the dagger she carried at her hip before she turned, eyes narrowed entirely without fear.
Her face.
Arthur sucked in a breath.
Katarin!
The child that his sister used to be gave the forest one last hard stare, before she turned and hurried away.
Wait, Arthur wanted to shout. She’d heard him following her!
Kat had told him she used to dreamwalk. Something skittled along his spine in warning.
What happened if a dreamwalker stumbled into the dream of another walker?
He threw the feeling aside – he’d walked in Mordred’s dreams and nothing had come of it.
But those had been present and future dreams, not the past.
Arthur had the feeling he shouldn’t be here, but at the same time, he felt an incredible urge to follow his sister. His dreamwalks had always – so far at least – shown him something important. What would she see?
Katarin led him to a kibitka tucked beneath trees that dripped their branches over it.
The leaves were golden and orange. The High Priestesses tent?
No – this kibitka was smaller and less grand than his aunt’s.
Katarin paused, glancing suspiciously over her tiny shoulder, before pushing open the flap and disappearing inside.
Arthur followed. She stood beside a woman with red hair who was chopping herbs at a small table, their scent filling the air.
‘I got it,’ Katarin said, reaching into her vest and pulling out a bundle of green. ‘They’re crushed. Sorry, Mother.’
Mother!
Arthur’s heart swelled. The moisture fled his mouth as he stared at the woman, willing her to lift her face. He needed to see her, just for a second. That would be all he needed to memorise every line and contour of her face.
Igraine Tintagel lifted her head to look at her daughter.
‘Thank you, Morgaine. You’ve done well.’
Her voice was the sweetest, most yearned for music in the world.
A tear slipped down Arthur’s cheek. He didn’t wipe it away, not wanting to move a muscle.
He soaked up his mother’s face: the dimple near her mouth when she smiled in satisfaction at the herbs Katarin had brought her; the colour of her eyes – like his, he realised; the shape of her mouth, a perfect hunter’s bow and the graceful curve of her jaw.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Arthur was crying and smiling so hard it hurt his face. Igraine moved away, Katarin – Morgaine – trailing her.
‘Will he die?’
Igraine shrugged. ‘It will be up to Inanna,’ she said. ‘But he is young and strong. I think he wants to live. We shall see if the herbs you found help him.’
It was then that Arthur noticed the man lying on a pile of blankets on the far side of the kibitka. He couldn’t breathe as Igraine bent and placed her hand on the man’s forehead, blocking Arthur’s view. She made an unhappy noise, then pulled back.
Ulrian’s eyes were closed, his breathing laboured, hair damp and clinging to his forehead. Sweat beaded his upper lip.
Morgaine suddenly met Arthur’s eyes. Before he could say or do anything, the world splintered and he was tumbling through the darkness, his muscles screaming, his heart fractured.
He slammed to the ground, and when he opened his eyes, he was in his bed on The Excalibur, the ocean rocking the ship beneath him like a mother might rock a babe.