Page 125 of Lady of the Lake

“Wait.” Mordred holds up a hand. “Are they all truly dead?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” Nivene says. “Most are gone. Dead, and?—”

“How many are dead?” Mordred’s golden eyes burn with a slightly fanatical gleam. “There are a total of one hundred three Pendragons, not including the bastards and the descendants of women who married out of their dynasty. Are they all dead?”

Nivene wrinkles her nose. “I mean…I didn’t count.”

Mordred takes a step closer. “And what did you do with the bodies? I assume you severed their limbs and hung them from the parapets? Nailed their heads on the gates and doors throughout Camelot as a warning to those who would strike at the Fey?”

“I really apologize for him,” I say. “He’s not used to company.”

“We didn’t do much with the limbs,” Nivene says weakly. “I think it’s a bit out of fashion these days. I’m pretty sure that’s a war crime.”

“Awar crime.” Mordred rolls the words over his tongue, testing them out. Then his attention seems to drift. “Pendragons. One hundred three. Each and every one should die. The prophecy foretells it.”

“Do you really need me to compile a list of dead Pendragons?” I ask, exasperated.

He smiles at me. “Yes, daughter, that would be lovely. Thank you.”

My stomach tightens. “We’ll get to that later. Right now, we have to stop Auberon.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Nivene interjects. “Like I said, with the fall of the Pendragons, most of our communication with the human allies ended. We’re trying to get in touch with thearmy commanders, but it’s taking too long, and they’re used to reporting to Wrythe.”

A dark thought takes root in my mind. “Whether Auberon knows it or not, this is his best chance to attack. We’ve never been weaker or more defenseless.”

“I saw it,” Tana says, her voice haunted. “A great army from above. Death from the skies.”

Nivene pales. “With Avalon Tower in shambles, we’re helpless. I’d hoped maybe Talan could stall his father.”

Talan strides down the winding path, radiating health. He slides his hands into his pockets as he stalks closer. The breeze toys with his dark hair. “We can do better than a distraction. We can snuff the usurper’s light entirely. Come with me to Brocéliande, and we will set all our plans in motion. All those dreams, all those minds you held in your thrall. The moment has arrived, and the stage is set. Let’s finish what we started.”

CHAPTER 57

Tarasque’s path is smoother this morning as we soar across the damp, grassy fields of Brocéliande. We’re miles north of Perillos, racing toward the Fey army and the fleet of dragons Auberon keeps far from the city walls.

Gone is the sparkling snow. Grass stretches beneath us, a velvet mantle of green dappled with pale silver flowers that Talan calls lady-smocks.

Swallows sweep through the blue skies. Only days ago, winter reigned in Brocéliande. Now, fresh shoots of green rise around us, and tiny green buds sprout from the hawthorns. Wren song fills the air.

A deceptively serene day. I’m afraid that before the day ends, blood will feed the kingdom’s silver lady-smocks.

Up ahead, I spot a few dragons flying in the sky, circling each other. They breathe plumes of fire, bright orange streams against the blue.

They seem to be playing, reveling in the sheer joy of flight. But then, as we get closer, all of them dive and land in a large grassy field.

“A lord named Niolf will be in charge of the dragon command,” Talan says. “I’ll need to persuade him to fly the dragon fleet far away from the portals.”

“Do you want me to mind-control him?”

“No, I think I have another plan, but Nia, it’s going to be chaotic today. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

I lean against his powerful chest. “Don’t make me give you my father’s lecture about being the granddaughter of Queen Morgan.”

The dragons and their riders form a haphazard half-circle over the field, waiting for their prince. Gracefully, Tarasque glides down before them. She lowers her neck to the grass, and Talan slides off. He still hasn’t completely healed from his iron poisoning, but he doesn’t let it show. He strides forward like he’s at home, and all the dragons and riders are his guests.

I slide off Tarasque and follow him over the grass.

“Your Highness.” A Fey man in black armor dismounts an enormous black dragon. He stalks forward and bows brusquely, a short, shallow gesture.

---