A Final Night in Cambas. #3
“Was,” Billy chimed in, his tone as bitter as a lemon wedge. “Never again will I lend my wisdom to that wicked witch!”
Margaret frowned.
“Why’s he here?” she asked, her arms folding tightly across her chest.
My mind went blank, unsure of where to begin.
“Can I have an ale first?” I asked, offering Margaret a smile she didn’t return. “There’s much to explain.”
Tankards in hand, we gathered around the trestle table as I recounted the events of the past week. Even for Bash and Fletcher, what had transpired during my time on the Isle was unknown—so I had everyone’s undivided attention.
I painted a vivid picture of the castle’s grandeur—the indulgent feasts, lavish bedchambers, and goblin servants attending my every need.
I spoke of Regina’s power, her mastery over weather incantations, and the arsenal of spells she’d created.
Then I explained how she experienced visions and heard prophecies, much like Emma.
But Regina wielded her abilities as a weapon, cutting through the fabric of the realm around her to shape her favored visions into reality.
When I mentioned how she had lured me into exposing my witchhood to Avice, my words faltered. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about what had followed—the death of my dearest friend, and Dog’s necessary act to spare my life. That part I left unsaid.
Instead, I shared the merciless side of Regina that I’d witnessed: how she hurled Elizebeth against a wall in fury over her failure to revive Wolver; how she coldly beheaded the elven healer; how she robbed Billy of his sight to amplify her prophetic powers; and how she stripped the skin from that tearful selkie who’d washed ashore in Cambas.
Finally, I recounted her conquest of the Isle—stealing it from the fae, dethroning Mabina, and claiming queenship over the stolen lands.
“She sounds terrifying,” Jane murmured, combing her dainty fingers through her auburn locks. “Was she cruel to you?”
I shook my head. “To me, she was generous—almost as if she sought to win my favor.”
“Did Regina give you that cloak?” Emma asked, tickling her palm with the fur trim. “It looks rather regal!”
I shook my head again. “No. It belongs to Fitzroy,” I replied, hearing Fletcher snarl at the mention of his name. “I’m borrowing it because I returned to Cambas in a gown and had nothing practical to wear.”
Both Bash and Fletcher eyed the witches, as if expecting them to query why Smith—a man—would sport a gown.
Yet no one seemed surprised. I suspected Margaret had already revealed what she’d uncovered about me the night I learned of their witchery.
“Smith’s a woman,” Bash finally announced.
The witches burst into cackles.
“We already knew,” Jane said, smiling warmly at me.
“How?” Bash asked, his brows pinching as if he couldn’t understand how they’d seen something he hadn’t.
“A woman’s intuition,” Margaret replied, her thin lips tugging into a one-sided smirk.
Hoping to distract her before she disclosed too much, I retrieved the parchment from my cloak pocket and slid it across the table.
“Fitzroy asked if you could review his battle plan,” I explained.
Margaret’s eyes lit up, clearly pleased that Fitzroy once again sought her counsel.
“When does he require my opinion?” she asked.
“Sunrise at the latest,” I said. “War begins tomorrow.”
“Against Regina?” Jane gasped, clutching her bosom like her heart had stopped.
“And King James,” I clarified. “The knights and soldiers at Cambas—and the fae and elves from the Isle—have planned a mutiny. Fitzroy has laid it all out. What he expects from you three is detailed here.” I placed the scroll on the table. “If we win, magic will return to Lyonesse.”
My heart fluttered as the words came out of my mouth.
Margaret unrolled the parchment as Jane leaned over her shoulder to read its contents.
“We suspected something was afoot,” Margaret said. “Emma heard a prophecy of an impending battle and the rise of a new ruler.”
Emma cleared her throat, squeezed her eyelids shut, and recited the prophecy from memory:
“Soldiers march to the beat of war drums,
As the Battle of Kinfolk this way comes.
All will lose, but one will prevail,
A new ruler will reign, that all shall hail.”
Her words gave no hint as to whether Fitzroy or Regina would emerge victorious in the end.
“Did you say that Regina hears prophecies like me?” Emma asked, her bright eyes wide with wonder.
I nodded. “But she also sees visions.”
Billy sighed, sorrow thick in his knobbly throat. “Only because she used me like a vessel,” he said, snatching up his tankard with his bony fingers and draining it in one noisy gulp.
A thunderous belch followed as he slammed the empty mug onto the table.
“Without channeling through me, she couldn’t see possible futures.”
“Do you think it’ll work on Emma?” Margaret asked.
Billy shrugged, offering her his spindly hand. “We can try.”
Emma hesitated, then took it. As Billy placed his other hand atop hers, his eyes rolled back, and he began chanting in an unintelligible tongue.
At first, Emma remained unchanged. Then her eyes widened, her pupils swelling until her irises turned blacker than coal.
Saliva beaded on her bottom lip, tears streamed down her cheeks, and a thin trickle of blood dripped from her nose.
For a long, tense moment, she remained frozen in that pained expression. But as Billy withdrew his hands, light slowly returned to her eyes.
Emma clasped her head, gasping as though she’d barely escaped a predator.
“Are you all right, love?” Margaret asked, rubbing her back in tender concern.
“Yes,” Emma whispered, peering through her fingers—an innocence etched into her frightened eyes.
“What did you see?” Jane pressed, eagerly leaning forward.
Emma wiped the blood from her nose with the back of her hand. She hesitated, her gaze flicking from Billy to me, then to Bash, before locking eyes with Margaret.
“Well?” Billy urged.
“Nothing,” Emma managed to squeak out. “Nothing but endless black. I mustn’t have the gift of visions like Regina.”
“Very strange,” Billy muttered, tapping his hairy chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I needed to be blind for it to work after all.”
I nodded, finding his assumption plausible.
“Excuse me,” Emma said, stumbling to her feet. “I’m parched.”
I watched as she bumbled her way to the bar, her gaze distant as she placed a tankard beneath the keg.
After a moment, ale overflowed and spilled onto the floor, jolting her back to the present.
I wondered why she appeared so unsettled after claiming she had seen nothing—perhaps being faced with eternal darkness had stirred questions she wasn’t ready to confront.
“If you’ll give me a moment,” Margaret announced as she rose, gathering Fitzroy’s battle plan. “I’m going to review this in my private chambers.” With parchment in hand, she ducked beneath the curtain.
“Anyone want another ale?” Jane asked, strutting toward the bar.
“Please,” Bash replied, trailing after her. “Smith?” he called back.
I shook my head, craving a moment of fresh air.
Stepping into the cooling night, the door closing behind me muffled Fletcher’s loud voice—his attempts to coax Billy into a card game fading as I walked along the wooden planks.
I took a seat at the end of the dock, my legs swinging over the edge as I savored a rare moment of stillness. During my months at Cambas, I’d grown to find comfort in the sound of the rolling waves—the tide sweeping inland, carrying away the remains of the day and leaving the beach a clean slate.
A moment later, the creak of approaching footsteps caught my attention. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Bash settling beside me. I didn’t mind his interruption; his company was a comfort.
“I cannot wait for this to be over,” he murmured. “I don’t want to spend another night in Cambas.”
“Me too,” I agreed, watching the sea shimmer under the gentle glow of the moonlight.
Bash leaned back, resting his hands behind him as he stared up at the stars twinkling overhead. I mirrored him, my hand landing close to his—our fingers almost touching.
“My father used to say those blinking lights are the eyes of the gods,” Bash said, looking skyward. “Always watching over us—they see everything we do, both good and bad.”
I thought of all the misdeeds the gods might hold against me. Yet my mind lingered more on the wrongs I’d done to Bash.
“I promise I’ll never lie to you again,” I whispered, tracing a cross over my heart with my fingertip. “I swear that everything that happened between us—every laugh and kiss, all those nights I stole your warmth—it was real. Every moment of it.”
Tears welled in my eyes, guilt burned in my chest, and worry twisted my gut. I hoped—prayed—that I hadn’t lost my grip on him entirely.
“I believe you,” Bash said, wiping away the tears clinging to my chin.
A deep breath escaped me, relieved that he was so understanding. Even now, after everything, I still felt at ease in his presence. There was no company I preferred to his. I wanted to spend every second near him.
“Do you remember when you promised to take me to the Headlands?” I asked, my thoughts drifting past the battle on the morrow to the future—one I hoped he’d be a part of.
Bash nodded.
“I hope you still want to. I want nothing more than to eat lamprey with you, meet your family, and go out on your father’s boat.”
Bash squeezed my leg, his hand resting on my thigh.
“We’ll still do that,” he said, his big mouth curling into a reassuring smile.
“Promise?” I asked.
He nodded, mimicking drawing a cross on his heart like I’d just done.
I let out a breathy laugh, blowing my tears off my upper lip.
“I’ve done my time being angry at you,” he said, his comforting grin fading. “And if you’d never pretended to be Smith, I’d never have met Niamh. And the idea of that is just…” His voice trailed off, as if unable to finish that painful thought.
His gaze drifted out to sea, his brow drawn tight as he watched the silvery haze ripple across the water.
“Like I told you last night, our friendship—”