Page 135 of Lady of the Lake

CHAPTER 61

Last year, on my birthday, I was sitting at a café in the South of France by myself, eating blackberry cake I hadn’t ordered and fielding frantic phone calls from my mother.

A year ago today, I was running for my life from the Fey trying to murder me. I got kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend, Raphael, and taken across the English Channel to Avalon Tower. I spent the journey terrified, bewildered, and totally unprepared for what came next. With no idea I’d survive training at Avalon Tower, let alone that I’d become the Lady of the Lake.

A year ago today, I discovered I had hidden magic, that I was half Fey.

And this year?

This year, I’m not alone. This year, I have friends who would bleed for me, and I’d do the same for them. A family carved out of chaos. A mom I’ve left behind in Camelot to finally learn how to look after herself.

Today, my birthday takes place on a mossy island of rambling ruins and ancient Fey magic.

As I polish the crystal glasses, my gaze roams over the castle’s carvings—the triple spirals above each arched doorway that humwith magic whenever I pass beneath them. Already, musicians are setting up in the banquet hall, a drummer, a lyre player with shimmering silver hair, and a lutist.

Aisling bustles in over the sun-dappled floor of cowslips, violets, and rue. She sets out a crystal tray of buttered chanterelles with apple slices. “So, Brados said to me, like he was serious, ‘We control the kingdom now.’ A republic. Can you imagine such a thing? He ran a bloody tavern, pulling pints ofgoat pissfor mead, now he’s overseeing a bloody kingdom with some backward farmers? Not that I’m judging the country types, but in my experience, they don’t know their arses from their elbows. Of course, most of the Fey who stayed in Brocéliande seem to be happy. My daughter thinks it’s the best thing that ever happened, but it’s not for me, no. I like the old ways. Arepublic.It all seems a bit human to me, no offense, I know you’re half, but I am willing to overlook it. Not judging, not being funny or nothing, it’s just that humanity is a withered, empty, and soulless culture of deformed and fleshy imbeciles. I’ll take a Fey king, thank you very much. Arepublic,” she mutters. “Bloody outrage.”

I set out salmon wrapped in sorrel leaves and wild garlic cakes. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, and Mordred is delighted.”

She beams at me, cheeks glowing. “KingMorded, yes, the true king, who will set the world right again. He’s lovely, you know. I told him, there’s venison roasting in a bilberry glaze, and we’ve got boar stewed with parsnips and watercress. It was his favorite, but we’ll want that hot. He’s lived on acorns and apples and dried figs this whole time. Your father has been waiting for this a long time, so it must be perfect. King Mordred, gods bless him. The Chosen King. Trapped all this time.” Her eyes gleam with tears. “Mind you, Talan does have a regal air about him, but Mordred, you can tell the gods set that crown on his head.”

“And the mead?” I ask.

She blinks and jolts to attention. “Ah, yes. His Majesty wanted the crowberry mead from Shalott, but I’m afraid he keeps forgetting that Shalott drowned in the war fifteen hundred years ago. We have an approximation, which is crowberry from Val Sans Retour.Brados has taken over that palace, you know, the marquis’s place, but Brados wants to turn it into some kind of university. Anyone can study there, no money needed. Can you imagine? Full of books. Farmers and innkeepers getting notions. Dangerous notions.” She tuts, scandalized.

Another servant brings in a tray of carrots glazed in honey and goat cheese, sprinkled with herbs.

I take a step back, surveying the beauty of the banquet hall. The air thrums with magic. Flickering flames burn in the candelabras, and the crystal glasses shine under the sunlight.

I cross to the window, where a soft breeze blows in through the stone arches, carrying with it the scent of grass and wildflowers.

The island of Avalon has come to life again. The children from the Blue Dragon Project are playing in the water by the shore, with Ysolde overlooking them. The nobles are settling into the old stone houses again, tending to their vast rose gardens.

And boats are arriving with some of the guests from Camelot.

I smile and head out to meet them. The air is heavy with the scent of apple blossoms. The lake laps against the shoreline, and Raphael climbs the winding path toward my father's palace, his arm linked through Nivene’s.

Behind him is Tana, wearing bright yellow like the first day we met. A flower crown sits on her dark curls—meadowsweet, wild poppies, cornflowers, roses—wildness and beauty threaded into her hair.

My heart cracks at the absence of Serana. She should be here with us now. Viviane, too.

My friends are all carrying a bottle or two of mead.

“Come in, come in!” I shout. “My father is so excited.” Truly, he’s like a little boy. He spent all morning changing his clothes to try to get the perfect banquet outfit.

As she gets closer, Nivene grins and raises her bottle in greeting. “I plan to get absolutely wankered tonight,” she shouts, her red hair bright against her green dress. She looks vivid as an apple tree.

Darius saunters up the path behind them, wearing silvery eyeshadow and a suit to match that catches in the sun like polished coins. But he’s not looking at me—he’s looking over my shoulder.

“King Mordred,” he shouts. “You legend. You absolute legend!” He pushes past the others to climb up the path.

I turn to see Mordred in the doorway. He is draped in a deep crimson tunic, the Fey color of the royal bloodline. He wears a golden cloak fasted with a brooch—a raven and a moon, symbols of his mother, and an Avalon Steel torc, just like mine.

Apparently, Nimuë gave it to himjust the other day.

Darius bows to him. “Honoredto meet you. Big fan of your portraits. Very dramatic.”

Mordred radiates happiness. “I do hope some of you will stay here afterward.” He gestures at the island. “There's still plenty of room.”

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