Blood and Iron (28 page)

She breathed in, breathed out, bit down on a sigh. “And let's not even get into Gawain, Agravaine, Gareth, and Gaheris. And you're supposed to wake up and save us? When? How, and from what, Dragon Prince?”

Her head snapped up, her bound hair bobbing on her shoulder. “Morgan's tapestry,” she said out loud. “The witch never does anything without a reason. A white stag and a black . . .” Knuckles whitened on the edge of the bier. “Surely not the Sluagh. The white stag is the mark of Kings, and the black stag is Cernunnos.”

And Cernunnos leads the Hunt.
Seeker shivered, and felt her way backward to the bench.
Is that what Arthur's for? The Wild Hunt? Ah, no. Let that stay chained. Please, for the love of everything holy.

But it wouldn't be beyond him. Arthur, King of Britain . . .

... wouldn't be beyond any of the Dragon Princes—the ones who lived long enough to meet their destinies, anyway. Numbly, Seeker stood, and came back a third time to the sleeping King. His lips were slightly parted, his eyelashes bright against the pale weathered skin of his cheek.
Sleeping Beauty,
she thought.
Snow White.

And impulsively, Seeker leaned down and kissed Arthur Pendragon once, wetly, on the mouth. She tasted roses, pungent as the Merlin's tea, and she tasted her own bittersweet blood, and the fainter sweetness of the sleeping man's saliva. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and her left hand knocked the slender crown askew; she kissed him with enough force to open his warm, pliant lips and press his slack head back against the feather pillow. His unchanging breath stroked her face. She pulled back a moment later, only a little, to see that his expression had not altered.

“Damn you, Arthur. Wake up, damn you, and do this for me. I can't do it alone.” Seeker bit her upper lip and thumped one hand on the edge of the bier. “Dammit. Arthur Pendragon. I need you.”
You are a thousand stories, Ard Ri. And all your stories end the same.

He never stirred, though she stared at him for long minutes, counting the rise and fall of his chest. And then she smoothed his hair carefully, straightened his crown and his clothing, and left him as she had found him, a frown between his eyes and a trace of enigma bending his smile.

Chapter Thirteen

The Leannan Sidhe was like a gossamer doll. The outlines of Cliodhna's bones showed through skin as translucent as her gown, as translucent as the fog, and her hand on Keith's arm was cool to the touch, like wax. He didn't look at her when she said his name, falling into step beside him on the gravel path. “Your Highness?” she tried again.

“A bit premature, isn't that, my lady?”

She smiled. Needle teeth in his peripheral vision; he didn't turn. “Are you waiting to be crowned?”

“I have no intention of being crowned,” Keith answered. He shook her arm off and moved faster, unease prickling the hair on his neck. “All I'm needed for is a figurehead. There is no reason why Fyodor Stephanovich cannot lead the pack—”

“You know what happens when a Dragon Prince refuses the crown.”

“Is it anything like what happens when he refuses the sacrifice?” Keith stopped and turned his back to a yew hedge, folding his arms and squaring his shoulders forbiddingly.

Cliodhna stopped well back, taking the hint. She let her own hand hang gracefully against her thighs, raising her chin so the tendrils of her hair that had come loose from her chignon slid across collarbones like wings. “Far worse,” she said. “In the past, it has been fate that decided the advance of a Prince, and the men who are sons of the Dragon are not often the sort without ambition . . .”

“I have ambition,” Keith answered, when she had let the silence linger too long. “I am simply not the sort who is willing to kill to get it. Especially not to kill a wolf like the Russian wolf.”

“So it's the blood that worries you? Keith MacNeill—” She smiled. “Blood is your destiny, my Prince.”

“
Your
Prince is the Cat Anna, Cliodhna. Do not taunt me with titles.” He scrubbed his hands against his trousers. The tape on his bandaged throat tugged his skin when he glanced down. “In fact, do not taunt me at all. What do you want?”

A tilt of her head invited him to continue walking beside her. He settled himself more firmly on his heels, and she awarded him the point with a faint sigh and a smile. “Add me to the parade of those seeking an alliance, then, Keith. Is that straightforward enough for your wolvish sensibilities? ”

“I have that offer from the Mebd already,” he said, a chill of premonition stroking his shoulders as if a shadow fell across him.
Like a bone to be chewed.

“Not like mine,” Cliodhna said, and reached up to pull the pins from her hair. It came down over her shoulders in a tumble of black as lusterless as dusty velvet. “The Mebd wishes your influence. And if you are to be a warlord, you must have an army. And if you are to be a Prince, you must have a throne.”

“You'll tell me the Cat Anna would come to me as chattel, with no vow of the pack's aid against the Magi
or
the Daoine Sidhe? The Mebd has offered me fealty. What if I accept both?”

She reached out and pressed the jeweled hairpins into his palm, combing her fingers through her hair so that it fell in smoother waves. “I say you nay,” she said, with a seashell curve of her lips that showed the edge of those fatal teeth. “I say that if you come to us, my Prince, you will have no need to shed the blood of any wolf to become Prince of the pack. That the armies of the Unseelie host will be yours to command, and you will be our warlord and our Prince in truth as well as courtesy.”

Her scent peaked; she held his gaze steadily, daring him to look away. And he did, down at his shoes and the coils of mist that made them seem so different, the premonition crystallizing into prophecy. “This is a marriage proposal.”

“Aye, my Prince. Your freedom from blood debt in exchange for your hand for my Queen.”

Keith swallowed hard, trying to choke down the all-too-vivid memory of a closing door. At the offer held out to him as if on a gilt salver. At the spectre of hope, of the possibility of preserving Fyodor Stephanovich's life along with his own. The Dragon Prince must rule, and he must make the sacrifice.

“I'll think on it,” Keith said, and gave back her jewels.

“Come back to my rooms,” Cliodhna said. “I will show you the documents, so your decision may be more informed. ”

Gharne flew down to Seeker's shoulder and began preening her hair as she emerged from the pavilion.

“I saw the werewolf,” he said.

“Here?” Seeker's foot throbbed. The path to Morgan's cottage led through the woods, and Seeker walked toward them.

“With the Leannan Sidhe. The vampire muse.”

“Cliodhna.” Seeker pressed both hands to her forehead but didn't stop walking. The pain was returning. “Politics,” she swore. She ran her hand down Gharne's warm, buttery-soft neck. “I'll ask him about it later. Gharne, follow them for me?”

“Your wish is my command,” he answered, and slithered free of her neck, falling into flight. Seeker watched him go. She wanted to walk through the mist-swirled open spaces under the trees and crunch leaf litter under her feet. But she also wanted to find Morgan in time to weasel a better breakfast out of the sorceress—assuming Morgan didn't throw her out on her ear.

She reached through shadows to see if she was observed, pausing so distraction wouldn't trip her down a well. She saw nothing, and sought the dappled shadows under the trees. A moment later, she stepped out of the rose-scented shade along the north wall of Morgan's cottage and into watery daylight. Somewhere in the forest a woodpecker sang of beetled wood; Seeker chuckled at the bird's singlemindedness.

She paused with a hand raised beside the open door, ready to knock, but—“Come in,” Morgan called over the rustle and
thwack
of the loom. She never looked up.

Seeker stepped across the threshold, waving a greeting to Connla and Evèr, whose plumed tails murmured on the mat. She stood in silence for a moment, watching Morgan work. A forest glade took shape under the sorceress' fingers, delicate knotwork showing the outline of a silver unicorn peering through a fall of tripartite leaves: poison ivy, and the edge of the unicorn's horn was bright with a rusty stain. Morgan glanced up and caught the expression on Seeker's face.

“People forget,” she said softly, “what the myths were for. I used my own hair for the bloodstains. Do you like it?”

Seeker nodded and came the last few steps into the room. “Caledfwlch. Where is it?”

Morgan threw back her head, startled into laughter. Cinnamon-colored strands cascaded over her shoulders. She set her shuttle aside and stood, dusting off the front of her skirt, still laughing. “Clever girl. How did you know?”

“You told me you collected swords from vanquished knights.”

“Not vanquished, not precisely. But I might be able to lay hands on this thing,” she said. “For a price.”

“Don't you owe me something for everything you've concealed from me . . . Grandmother?”

Morgan stepped between her dogs to swing the kettle over the fire. “What of the things I've given you?”

Seeker shrugged. “I thought that favor was to your sister. ”

“I don't do favors for my sisters,” Morgan replied. The familiar scent of her herbs rose from the box beside the fire as she measured. “Have you broken your fast, Elaine?”

“I could eat,” Seeker answered, wondering why she didn't feel the need to fight the name today. “I need the sword.”

“For Ian?”

“For Keith.” Seeker pulled the bench out from the wall a few inches and sat down on it. “Or maybe for Arthur. I'm not sure. I'm not sure what happens next.”

“War,” Morgan said, and walked away from the fireplace. She sliced bread on the table and brought it back to the fire, toasted it while the water boiled and spread it with honey. “Come sit at the table and eat, and we'll talk about swords.”

“Swords and dragons.” The tea smelled sweeter today, or maybe it was the honey. Seeker took the smooth-grained wooden plate that Morgan handed her.

“You'll bind him, all right.” Morgan looked down into her mug as if reading the tea leaves, or perhaps the reflection in the steaming surface. “It's what you're for, and it only matters if you do it witting or in heedlessness. One way, you can accomplish great good, or great evil. Or both—the two often go hand in hand. The other way, you will find only failure: for Keith, for yourself, for your son.”

“I want . . .” Seeker took a bite of mealy bread and washed it down with tea. “I want to do what's best. Avert the war, maybe. I want Faerie to exist.” It felt strange in her mouth when she said it, but she knew the words were true. “But mortal men . . . my family, Morgan. I had friends.”

“I had lovers,” Morgan answered. “I had a husband, and I had sons. I had a brother. Don't you understand yet?”

“No,” Seeker said, but honesty wouldn't let her leave it there. “I don't want to.”

“Learn,” the witch said brutally, and stood. “You can have a sword for the taking, but the price is this, Elaine Andraste. One answer, to one question. Whenever and wherever I choose.”

“Done,” Seeker said, and stuffed the rest of her bread into her mouth. Her fingers were sticky; she dipped them in her tea and rubbed them clean before swallowing the rest.

“Hmph,” Morgan grunted. “You make a deal too quickly, girl. But done is done.” She turned away, and came back a moment later with the leaf-bladed Celtic sword that she had let Seeker hold before. Seeker put out her hand and hesitated. She glanced over at Evèr and Connla. The male seemed to be dozing, but Seeker swore Evèr winked at her, a doggy grin.

Seeker shook her head and let her hand fall. “No.” She turned and walked to the wall, to the tapestry of the white and black harts running as if teamed. “This,” she said, her hand hovering alongside the plain-hilted sword in a sheath covered in worn embroidery. “That's Caledfwlch.”

“Excalibur,” Morgan said, leaving the other sword beside the empty mugs. “A sword beaten from the iron in a falling star, a meteorite. Do you suppose it's true?”

“All iron comes from stars,” Seeker replied, her hand still not quite brushing the hilt of the blade. “It's the last element they can burn before they go nova. Iron's the skeletons of stars, and it's what makes our blood red. I was going to be an astronomer. Ironic, isn't it?” She thought of the tapestry, of the white hart, of the unicorn.

“This one fell farther than most,” Morgan said, and took it down from the mud-chinked wall. She slid it from its sheath and let the edge taste air.

The blade was dark and shiny with oil. There was no trace of rust on it, and the edge glittered in the firelight like a shaft of sunlight falling through clouds. Seeker held her breath as Morgan thrust the blade out to her, hilt first. “Well, take it. You bought it.”

Seeker shook her head. “Arthur was cautioned to remember, ” she said, “that the sheath was more valuable than the sword. And you won that away from him first.”

Morgan smiled, a sly downward glance, and weighed the limp tapestried sheath on the palm of her hand. “I did, didn't I?” She looked up and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Strands caught on ivory cotton. “Clever girl. Go, then. Take them both. And may the Devil's own luck go with you.”