35 #2
A chill of dread tightened Idhri’s middle. He wanted to drop his head, look away from those cold yellow eyes, but he told himself he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man. He would face his nemesis directly. “How can I help you, Skye? Unless you plan to kill me?”
The fae man’s lip curled, half sneer, half smile. “Willem, whether you live or die is not up to me. I intend to deliver you to the council, and they will decide. If you’re lucky, they will just set you to work in the fields with the other abominations!”
Idhri said, in a low voice that vibrated with loathing, “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
“And I thought I had killed you, long ago. But here we are. Now you will pay for your cowardice.”
“I will not go with you.”
“You think not?” Skye’s laugh was as sinister a sound as Idhri had ever heard, worse than the hiss of a snake or the growl of a wolf. “Not only will you go with me, you will take me there in this ridiculous little boat.”
“Why would I do that?” Idhri snapped, in a voice so deep he hardly recognized it.
For answer, Skye slipped the rope off the bollard and climbed into the boat before Idhri could react.
He brandished the scythe directly over Idhri’s head, briefly blinding him with the waning sun’s gleam in the blade.
“Row,” Skye said. “Or I will kill you here and use this boat to take your pitiful half-blood corpse to the White City.”
Morgana was not in her chamber. Braithe spun about, wondering where she might be. On the courtine? In the gardens? She was ready to dash down the stairs to search for her in the keep, but she paused. Morgana could be anywhere, and there was no time to waste.
Braithe made herself stand very still. She pressed a hand to her breast, dropped her chin, and closed her eyes. Listening. Sensing. Opening her mind to—
She saw exactly where she was. Morgana was in the king’s council room, and so was Sir Lancelin.
Braithe dashed down the corridor and flung the door open.
Morgana and Lancelin were seated next to each other at the round table, not touching but clearly deep in conversation.
They looked up in alarm as the door banged against the inner wall.
“Brat?” Morgana said, already getting to her feet.
Braithe described what she had seen as quickly as she could.
Lancelin also stood up, and before Braithe had finished her account, the three of them were on their way down the stairs.
Morgana said, “Sir, this man is capable of anything. He has already committed at least one murder and would not hesitate at another.”
Lancelin grunted his understanding. Braithe fairly flew across the keep to the gate, then down the path through the woods to the lake.
She heard Lancelin’s and Morgana’s feet behind her, but she didn’t look back.
She could have wept with tension, but she disciplined herself.
Tears were an indulgence, and there could be no weakening while Idhri was in danger.
When she reached the dock, she ran straight to the end, teetering there on her toes as she gazed desperately out over the lake.
The boat was close enough for her to see that Skye had a weapon he was brandishing all too close to Idhri’s head.
They were terrifyingly far out on the water.
It seemed to her Idhri might be rowing slowly, even erratically, but with that blade threatening him, she could guess he had to appear to be propelling the boat forward.
Morgana came up beside her, out of breath and angry. “The Royal Council,” she muttered, the words sounding as harsh as a curse.
Lancelin was close behind. He had his sword, but it was useless. “Can the lad swim?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” Braithe said. “Can you?”
“Yes. Learned as a boy.”
“They are too far away for magic,” Morgana said. “If we were closer, and if I had help…” She broke off and turned to Braithe. “Together, perhaps?” she said.
Braithe bit back her habitual denial of magic. She said tersely, “We have to try,” and Morgana nodded.
Lancelin was untying one of the other boats. “I can get you closer,” he said. “I have rowed a boat or two in my day.”
“I have, too,” Braithe said. “But I had help.”
“We will ask for help once more,” Morgana said.
“Let’s go,” Lancelin said. He clambered into the boat and held out his hand for Morgana and Braithe to do the same.
They were careless, hurrying, and the little craft rocked wildly.
There were boxes and coils of ropes here and there, and they had to search for places to put their feet.
The water was growing dark with approaching evening, and a breeze had come up, rippling the surface.
The boat steadied as Morgana and Braithe found places to balance in the bow.
Lancelin unshipped the oars and began to row.
To Braithe, their passage was agonizingly slow, in the same way running in nightmares always seemed to be.
Lancelin pulled the oars, and the boat drove through the water, but it hardly seemed they got any closer to Skye and Idhri.
She leaned forward, every muscle straining, as if that would make the boat go faster.
Under her breath, she prayed for the Lady to help. A moment later, she felt the sudden lift and propulsion that she remembered from her own brief voyages. The boat shot forward, as if ten men were at the oars. Lancelin, lifting his dripping oars above the water, exclaimed, “What’s happening?”
Morgana said, “It is the Lady at work.”
“The—what?” Lancelin began, but then dug the oars into the water again to steer the boat on its proper trajectory. They sped toward the other craft, and Braithe felt the wind sing in her ears as they came close.
Skye spotted them and gave a shout that echoed across the darkening lake. “I will kill him!” he screeched, and waved the scythe perilously close to Idhri’s throat.
Braithe said, “Skye is afraid he won’t be able to manage the boat on his own.”
“You heard that, brat?”
“I did. Also—” Braithe paused, wrinkling her brow.
“He never learned to swim.” She lifted her head, looking around her.
“We have to stop now!” At her command, the boat slowed.
They were close enough to see Skye’s wild eyes, the white marks of fear around his mouth.
Idhri looked up at them from beneath his cap, and Braithe’s heart twisted at the alarm in his youthful face.
She understood. One blow of that scythe would mean swift and certain death.
Even as Morgana turned to her, Braithe knew what she had to do. The boat bobbed to a stop, with Lancelin’s oars keeping it in place. Braithe said, “Morgana. We need a wave.” She lifted her right hand, her fingers spread, and her palm began to tingle. “A huge wave.”
Morgana said, very low, “You can do it, brat. I am with you.”
Braithe drew a long breath, closed her eyes, and dipped her hand into the water.