Knight of Swords: New Camelot, #3

By Barbara Russell

Excalibur has chosen her bearer.

 

Getting married to the woman of his dreams isn't as easy as Nathair thought. Not when his bride-to-be is a Morrigan and a wanted criminal. When he asks the king for an audience to speak in defense of Bryhannon, he ends up sentenced to death.

 

Locked up in the Tower of Londinium, he wonders if the story about the Morrigans cursing those around them is real and if his lock-picking knacks and fighting skills will save him before Bryhannon unleashes her destroying power. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: May 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781926681290

Barbara Russell

Dragons, short-tempered archdemons, and hysterical damned souls—Shax is used to dealing with all that. He’s a young fire demon and lives in Hell, after all. What he’s not used to is being possessed by a human. A very good human and a pretty girl at that: sixteen-year-old Tolis. Despite still having control of his body most of the time, Shax can hear Tolis’s voice inside his head and feels what she feels constantly.Shax’s mentor claims that Tolis hides an ancient, powerful grimoire, a book of spells, and proposes a deal: if Shax finds it, he’ll help Shax get work as a dragon keeper—Shax’s dream job. Tolis swears she doesn’t have the grimoire and asks Shax to help her father, whose soul is turning evil by the minute. Unless Tolis does something, her dad’s soul will end in Hell. Hoping to convince her to give him the grimoire, and not because Shax cares about the man’s soul, he agrees to help.Goodness is overrated. Since Shax decided to help Tolis, his life has turned into a hurdle race. Thugs chase him, the scientists in Hell want to prod and examine the first possessed demon in history, and he can’t find the darn grimoire.And the worst part? Due to the unavoidable presence of Tolis, who keeps intruding into his evil thoughts, Shax discovers an almost decent side of himself. In no time at all, he catches himself doing actual good deeds. Is he becoming—yuck—good?

Book preview

Knight of Swords

New Camelot, 3

BARBARA RUSSELL

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Knight of Swords

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2020

eISBN: 978-1-926681-29-0

Copyright © 2020 Barbara Russell All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Melody Pond

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you by complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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Chapter One

Whoever said getting married was the easiest part of a marriage had never dealt with New Camelot’s endless bureaucracy.

Hands clasped behind his back, Nathair paced on the sparkling marble floor of King Arthur XVI’s audience chamber. His leather boots reinforced with fireproof tips—in case a dragon had the brilliant idea to roast his feet—smacked on the tiles that had to cost ten times his monthly senior knight salary. The purple velvet curtains with golden leaf pattern embroidered on the hem probably were worth a year’s wage.

He clenched his fingers around rolls of parchments filled with stamps, signatures, and seals of no less than four-and-forty clerks and administrators scattered in different offices in New Camelot.

You have to fill form B17 in triple copy before completing the leave request for the honeymoon. Under the Queen Guinevere’s Royal Act, you need the approval of a member of the royal family to marry a princess, tripled signed by the eldest member of the said princess’s family. The Wizarding Economy Reform states that you must present proof of your knighthood status and salary before asking for a wedding license. Since you’re a half Snake, you’ll have to fill a waiver that frees New Camelot’s administration from any responsibility in case you attack the bride and eat her.

As if Nathair would ever hurt Bryhannon.

Honestly, he’d rather wield his sword and fight the entire Saxon army single-handedly than queuing in yet another dusty, crowded office for the umpteenth paper, and he didn’t want to consider the amount of forms he’d need once he brought up that Bryhannon was actually wanted dead or dead by the witch hunters.

Ewhen, standing next to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, tapped a hand on the hilt of his sword, his sharp gaze following Nathair. Would you please stop pacing? His deep voice boomed around the domed ceiling.

Nathair skidded to a halt, screeching the boots’ soles and leaving a dark smudge on the pristine floor, maybe because he had been used to obeying his mentor’s orders since he was eleven.

Swyve. Exactly what he needed. The royal major-domo would probably charge him for having soiled the marble. I’m nervous. He tried to wipe the stain with his foot, but no luck. The grease he used to waterproof his boots was sticky and thick.

Hopefully, one of the Moppers—the cleaning automatons that swiped the floor—would scrub it before anyone noticed it. On top of everything else, the spot on his arm where Torgall had injected something in his body itched, but he’d given his word to the wizard. Torgall had helped the Swans during their mission in Nazzar, and Nathair had promised to let Torgall test his immunity to magic.

Are you sure you want to do this? Ewhen shifted his weight, and his massive frame blocked the sun.

Nathair’s shoulders slumped. Marrying Bryhannon should make him happy. A wedding was a celebration, but what if the king denied him the permission to marry a wanted woman, and a Morrigan witch at that? He glanced at the door. If I’m her husband, I can be with her when she is put on trial by the Wizarding Council. I can have my say. It’s the least I can do for her.

For now, a magical disguise protected Bryhannon, but it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, the Council would know who she was, and he wanted to be ready.

Ewhen ran a hand through his auburn mane of hair. I understand, but I doubt the king will give you permission to marry a princess who’s also a criminal. You’re one of his knights, after all, and you took an oath to always protect the king and obey his orders.

Nathair swatted the roll of parchments against his thigh. It was ironic that becoming a knight—his dream since he was a child—was now standing between him and the love of his life. I have to try.

The double doors swung inward, accompanied by the notes of sweet music. Nathair straightened and smoothed his leather Swan uniform. It wasn’t the first time he’d met the king. A few years ago, King Arthur XVI had thanked Nathair and Bryhannon for having caught a traitor, and the king hadn’t flinched at Nathair’s russet skin, curled brown hair, or golden eyes—traits of a member of the Snake tribe.

An Ametor, one of the clockwork knights—Sir Lancelot judging by the straight nose and glassy sapphire eyes—stomped his brass boots on the floor. Subtle metal screeches resounded at each step, itching along Nathair’s skin. Tubes pumped blue animax in the knight’s limbs, the same he’d once set on fire, almost destroying the entire Sky Tower. Accidentally, of course.

Lancelot bowed from the waist and stretched out an arm toward the adjoining room. A caption appeared on its sparkling breastplate, His Majesty will see you now. Lancelot shot a glare at Nathair, who wondered if the mechanical knight’s memory box stored what had really happened in the Sky Tower and not what the New Camelot Courier had reported as an accident.

Ewhen nodded toward the door, while Nathair strode forward on wobbly legs. The bright lights of the royal chamber glared at him, amplified by the shiny white marble of the walls and floor. When he requested the audience with the king, he hadn’t thought about how intimidating the statues of the round table knights, the vases rimmed with gold, and the portraits of the previous kings, could be.

Lancelot stopped in the middle of the room, its shiny armor catching the sunlight. Clad in a burgundy jacket and golden tunic, King Arthur XVI raked a gaze over them as if assessing their value.

My lord. Ewhen took a knee, somehow managing to be threatening even in his crouched position.

Nathair knelt as well, staring at the mosaic of the floor depicting King Arthur brandishing Excalibur. The sword looked so real with her gleaming blade and gilded hilt that he almost recoiled. Whoever touched Excalibur and wasn’t the rightful king, a Pendragon, would die a painful death.

At ease, my warriors. King Arthur XVI sat behind a desk so big Nathair’s mare could recline on it.

Straightening, Nathair shot a glance at another painting of King Arthur wielding Excalibur. Wild dark hair, piercing black eyes, broad shoulders—King Arthur hadn’t passed his features on to his descendant whose lithe, lean body and pale complexion belonged to a dancer. Nathair’s arms had more muscles than the king’s, but then again, King Arthur XVI had never met his Saxon enemies on a battlefield. Probably the only physical activity he did was dancing at royal balls or riding his horse in his private park.

What is the reason for this audience? The king rose, stroking his strawberry blond beard. Even his manicured hands had only held quills and ladies’ waists.

Ewhen cocked his head toward Nathair.

Sire. Nathair coughed in his closed fist. I’m here to request a special marriage license.

Special? King Arthur XVI arched a brow. Who’s your bride-to-be? Ah, I see. You wish to marry a girl from the Snake tribe. She’ll need valid identification papers and to sign a non-belligerent contract to be admitted in New Camelot. The list of necessary documents is quite long, I’m afraid.

No joking. Nathair wiped his clammy hands on his trousers. Interrupting the king would be a bigger insult than smearing his floor, so he ground his teeth and waited his turn to talk.

I can speed things up, the king continued. But the Wizarding Council is very strict about immigrants. With the war against the Saxons raging on, and the Picts stirring on the northern border, we can’t allow any foreigner to enter our empire lightly.

A muscle in Ewhen’s jaw ticked as if he wanted to intervene, but he merely changed his stance.

Snakes aren’t really our allies. A quill swayed when the king toyed with it. The fact that my knights didn’t kill any Snake in the past years doesn’t mean we can let Snakes marry our citizens at will. Britons’ blood is too precious to be diluted.

There was a pause during which King Arthur XVI gazed at the window, and Nathair took advantage of it. My king, I wish to marry Princess Bryhannon, he blurted out.

At the name, the king stiffened, hand twitching on the hilt of Excalibur sheathed at his side. If Nathair were a Pendragon, he wouldn’t sleep knowing that such powerful sword was with him at all times. He’d live in fear of unintentionally killing someone. His normal, strong Durlind was much better.

Another silence stretched, filled only by the ticking noise from Sir Lancelot.

You want to marry a criminal, a witch who’s a Morrigan. Disgust dripped from the king’s voice. Each word was like an arrow straight to Nathair’s chest. Why, young knight, there are grounds for treason here.

My lord. Nathair swallowed the knot in his throat. Despite the fact Bryhannon’s father disowned her and she’s a criminal, she remains a princess. To marry her, I need either her father’s permission or a royal sanction. Also, since Bryhannon is, ahem, unavailable, I need a further paper to marry her in her absence. Finally, he bit down a pang of humiliation rising up his throat, since I’m the son of a Snake woman, I need a special permit to add to my wedding license signed by a member of the royal family. As if being born and bred in New Camelot didn’t make him a proper citizen.

The king’s lip curled into a snarl.

I know she’s wanted by the Wizarding Council. I know she’s a Morrigan, but I love her. Nathair’s speech didn’t seem to have the desired effect on the king, who tensed by the minute. I also believe that she isn’t as evil as the wizards think. I know her heart. Bryhannon is kind and gentle. Being a witch doesn’t mean being evil.

Princess Bryhannon, or should I call her the Destroyer, isn’t evil? The king’s low tone didn’t bode well. Come closer, young knight, here next to the window.

Ewhen’s shoulders tensed, but he gave Nathair a quick nod.

Nathair did as told, brushing past Sir Lancelot. He stopped six feet from the king as it was appropriate.

Do you see the Sky Tower? The king pointed a finger at the ivory tower that loomed in the middle of New Camelot.

Half of it was missing as if a dragon had chewed and clawed at its side, revealing the spiral staircase winding up to the top. Last time Nathair had climbed those stairs, he’d been with Bryhannon and hadn’t known she was a Morrigan.

A sound halfway between a cough and a snort came from Ewhen.

And do you see that hole over there behind the trees that border the city? The king beckoned Nathair closer.

Yes, he could see it. How could he miss a fissure that was nearly as tall as the Sky Tower? The hole in the protective dome around New Camelot had cobweb-like cracks extending over the city.

Bryhannon did all this. King Arthur XVI stuck out his chin. Since she’s a Morrigan, and not just any Morrigan, but the Destroyer, my wizards can’t rebuild the tower or fix the dome with magic. They have to repair it in the old-fashioned way. Teams of builders have been working night and day for two weeks to repair the damage your bride-to-be did in less than half an hour.

Nathair didn’t care if the wizards’ seat had been reduced to a crumbling building or if the protective dome was falling into pieces. Bryhannon had done what had been necessary to save her life. He dug his fingernails in his palms to not comment. What should she have done? Let the wizards take her, strap her to the Exterminator Maleficarum that sucked her power and killed her in the process? Or worse, the machine could leave her like an empty shell, half mad and sick with melancholia.

Princess Bryhannon is at the top of the wanted criminals’ list of the entire Briton Empire. The king marked each word by smacking his fist on the sill. As I said, wanting to marry her is akin to treason against the crown. So think again about what you wish, young knight.

Nathair’s mouth went dry. Ewhen gave him the slightest shake of his head, probably meaning to not pursue the argument. Rage shuddered through Nathair. If he couldn’t marry her, he couldn’t protect her. It was as simple as that.

Sire, Ewhen said, Nathair loves Bryhannon dearly. He’s aware of the charges against her and wishes to help redeem her from her crimes. If he marries her, he could be present during her trial.

Nathair forced himself to keep staring ahead and to not turn toward the king in case his anger showed in the set of his jaw. Redeem Bryhannon my foot. If it weren’t for her, the last Swans’ mission in Nazzar would’ve been a disaster. She’d saved all of them. She’d saved the entire kingdom with her power. Pity that her involvement in the mission had to stay a secret.

The king let out a humorless laugh. "Young love. I do understand it, believe me I do. Love makes us do the most outrageous things, but I’m afraid I can’t allow Nathair to marry a Morrigan. If she…no, when she is on trial, because I’m sure my Reapers will find her, she’ll be alone, as is right. She doesn’t deserve any support."

So Bryhannon had already been judged guilty. What was the point of a trial then? Nathair stifled a protest. He wouldn’t leave her alone.

Thank you, Sire. He clenched his teeth as the king lowered his head graciously.

Sir Lancelot twitched and took a step closer. Letters appeared on its chest. Do I know you?

Oops. Yes, it did. Nathair smiled and pretended to be interested in a bright green plant growing in a corner.

The king chuckled. Lancy, of course you know Nathair. He helped retrieve the Rache from the Saxons and catch a traitor. I thanked him myself in that occasion.

And Bryhannon, Nathair couldn’t refrain from adding. She helped as well.

The king waved a dismissive hand. Well, yes, but who knows what she was conspiring. Mayhap she did it only to ingratiate herself to me. Morrigans are canny and mischievous witches. Never trust a Morrigan.

I beg to differ, Sire. Nathair had to close his fists tightly to keep his boiling rage under control, but some of his frustration slipped into his voice.

Ewhen pierced him with a warning glare.

Besides, the king said, what’s the point of marrying her? Do you know where she is now? Because if you do, it’s your duty to report her location to the Reapers.

No, Sire. I don’t know where she is. Which was a half lie. Nathair didn’t know where she was exactly in that moment. She should be with his sister and Tristan somewhere in New Camelot. I simply wanted to be ready for when the excellent Reapers find her. There. A bit of flattery wouldn’t harm his cause. If the excellently idiot Reapers ever found Bryhannon, he’d rather die than watch them taking her.

I know you. The writing on Sir Lancelot’s chest blinked furiously. Smoke puffed from its nostrils. Animax leaked from the junctions of its limbs.

Not again. The king shook his head. Since that unfortunate accident in the Sky Tower, my Lancy isn’t the same.

Oh swyve. That answered Nathair’s previous question. The blasted automaton had a phenomenal memory box. Apparently, having wrenched it hadn’t helped.

Sir Lancelot’s arms jerked. The words ‘I know you’ flashed.

Lancy? What are you doing? The king slammed another fist on the sill. It had to be a habit for him.

Nathair bowed and shrank away. Time to retreat. It’d be complicated to explain what he and Tristan had been doing in the Sky Tower’s storeroom and how they’d set it on fire, while almost destroying Sir Lancelot. Sire, I’m deeply grateful for your time and consideration. I’ll burden you no further and leave you to your—

Sir Lancelot hissed. Its eyes glowed red, hands closing and opening in rhythm with the smoke and steam blowing out. The clockwork knight lunged. Nathair leaped back. His hand searched for Durlind, but the sword had been taken by the major-domo. Ewhen blocked Lancelot and tackled it, but Lancelot shoved him away with an arm. A thud resonated when Ewhen hit the wall with his back and groaned.

Ewhen! Nathair rushed to him. Are you all right? He took the Swan captain’s arm and hauled him up to his feet.

Another hiss came from Sir Lancelot. The clockwork knight smashed a fist on the desk, breaking it in two.

Lancy, enough. The king jabbed a finger at it, but Lancelot seized him by the shoulders and shook him like a hound that caught a rabbit.

Nathair gasped. An Ametor attacking the king? That was a first.

The king tripped on a fold of the carpet, trembling in Sir Lancelot’s arms, his teeth chattering. Excalibur detached from the holster on his belt. In its fury to reach Nathair, Sir Lancelot kicked the sword. A metallic screech filled the room. The magic blade arched toward the ceiling and spun in deadly circles toward Nathair and Ewhen. The breath punched out of Nathair’s lungs. If Excalibur simply brushed his or Ewhen’s arm, they’d be dead in a moment.

Move! Nathair pushed Ewhen out of the way, fell over, and hit the floor with his rear. Pain burned his bottom as Excalibur rotated straight into his arms. The cold, heavy hilt smacked his wrist while his fingers gripped the blade on reflex.

Dread coiled his gut. That was it. The moment when he died. He was touching the sacred sword of the Pendragon, the blade forged by a god and blessed by Merlin himself. The slayer blade that would kill anyone who didn’t have King Arthur’s blood in their veins. Time slowed to a crawl. Even the dust motes floating around seemed to remain suspended mid-air. He didn’t regret anything aside from not having married Bryhannon and helped her find the justice she deserved.

I love you, Bry.

Nathair squeezed his eyes shut, expecting pain to slash his body, or intense cold to freeze him, or anything that would make his heart stop, but aside from the king’s grunts and Sir Lancelot’s hisses, nothing happened. Not even a change in the temperature.

He opened his eyes. The king had his hands around Sir Lancelot’s neck, likely trying to reach the power button to turn it off. He seemed funny with his face reddened, his jacket open, and the disheveled hair that—

What in the blazes are you doing? Drop it! Ewhen clasped Nathair’s shoulders and dug his fingers into his flesh. Do you want to die?

Nathair let go of Excalibur. She clattered on the floor with a sharp click-clack of metal against marble.

Sir Lancelot’s eyes lost their eerie red light. Its shoulders slumped, and its arms hung on its sides. Panting, the king brushed his hair off his face and stared at Nathair and Excalibur. The smoke still hissing from Lancelot’s nostrils was the only sound.

How did you— The king rubbed his face, mouth dropping open. A vein in his neck pulsated. This is not possible. You touched Excalibur and survived.

Ewhen took Nathair’s elbow and helped him to his feet. I can’t believe it either.

Leave. The king clenched his jaw and snatched Excalibur from the floor. His body quivered with poorly concealed wrath. Now!

Ewhen bowed quickly and pushed Nathair toward the door. My lord.

Nathair bowed, almost tripping on his feet when Ewhen half-dragged, half-ushered him out of the room. Once in the main corridor of the palace, Nathair checked his hands. His right palm where Excalibur had landed, bled from a shallow cut. Nothing that wouldn’t heal in a day or two. The blade wasn’t even sharp although the legend said that Excalibur didn’t need to be sharpened. It kept itself razor-sharp by magic, but it was nearly blunt.

They crossed a wide antechamber lined with suits of armor that seemed to glare at him and sidestepped maids and courtesans chattering about the next royal ball. As Ewhen strode toward the exit, Nathair slowed his pace.

Durlind. I have to retrieve her, he muttered, trying to shrug free from the captain’s steely grip.

How is that possible? Ewhen hissed when they arrived at the front yard. You should be dead.

He had a hunch. I, I’m immune to magic. The Morrigans’ power can’t do anything to me, so I guess the same thing applies to Excalibur.

I’m not sure your skill applies to Excalibur. Ewhen led him to a quiet corner under the trees outside the royal manor. He put his bear-size hands on Nathair’s shoulders. Do not talk about what happened with anyone, understood? Not a word.

Last time Ewhen had said something like that, Nathair was twelve and had broken a mechanical knight the cadets used to practice with. At nineteen, he didn’t have to tilt his head up to stare into Ewhen’s eyes or stretch up on his toes. I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Bryhannon almost killed me when she blew up that clockwork dragon I was flying on. Kundry can’t access my mind and change my memories and even Sybil can’t see my future. This isn’t the first time something like that happened. I’m immune to magic. I learned it when I visited the Snake tribe.

Ewhen’s fingers clasped harder. No one is supposed to be able to touch Excalibur and live. Only a Pendragon can do that. Only the king. Whoever can handle Excalibur becomes king. Even among the Pendragons, there’s only one destined to control the sword. Do you think the king wants everyone to know that a senior knight, a half Snake at that, can touch Excalibur? Do you realize he can see you as a threat to the throne? You’re not going to tell anyone, and you’re going to stay away from your house and the Swans’ headquarters.

Even the headquarters? he whispered because he didn’t have the energy to say it out loud.

I’ll do what I can to help you leave the city quietly, but if you run away now, it’d be too suspicious.

Leave the city? But—

The king let us go only because he was shocked. Ewhen snorted. As usual. He isn’t the type who thinks quickly on his feet. There’s the High Wizard for that. If this story reaches the High Wizard, he’ll put you in the royal dungeon. The deadly serious note in Ewhen’s voice shot a sliver of pure fear in Nathair’s chest.

He nodded and clasped Ewhen’s forearm in a warrior-to-warrior salute. I promise. I won’t tell anyone. Bryhannon didn’t count, right?

Chapter Two

Bryhannon closed her hand on the banister of the stairs and went up the stone steps of the Sky Tower, or what was left of it. Until a few weeks ago, before she unleashed her Morrigan power, the mechanical stairs would’ve coiled up around the tower on their own. The noise of stone grinding against metal wheels and gears used to unnerve her, but after having climbed no less than two hundred steps, she missed the old stairs.

Behind her, Nineveh and Tristan bringing up the rear seemed unaffected by the exercise. In fact, she wondered how they could steal kisses between a step and another. It was like their lips couldn’t stay apart for more than a second or they’d die. Bryhannon chuckled. Mayhap they’d think the same of the way she and Nathair behaved.

The banister ended in a broken slab, and a red rope replaced it. She moved closer to the wall when a series of stone cones marking the beginning of the working site reduced the space. Builders in rough leather breeches perched on the scaffoldings, and she winced at the thuds of hammers and mallets hitting the wooden logs. She paused, clenching against her chest the leather folders filled with parchments, and studied the destruction she’d left.

In the middle of the tower, a void replaced the marble columns and pillars that had formed an amphitheater. The crumbled walls showed the pavement of King Road bustling with people, and sunlight streamed from the half-collapsed ceiling. She’d done all that. It was a miracle no one had died that day. Now her magic was different. She could control her immense power. Hard work and determination had helped achieve this result.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder. Nineveh smiled in the same kind and warm way Nathair did. That was the only thing brother and sister had in common. With her pearly white skin, blue eyes, and dark hair, Nineveh didn’t resemble her dark skinned, golden-eyed older brother.

Are you all right, Bry…I mean Brangwyn? Nineveh asked. You look pale.

Brangwyn. That was the name Bryhannon’s forged documents reported, and her name wasn’t the only thing new about her. She twirled a long tendril of blonde hair around her finger and nearly recoiled. Torgall had done a great job with his disguising potion, but her raven hair had always been part of her, like her power. Now she had blonde hair, green eyes, and fuller breasts. Not that she was complaining, and her gowns fit quite snugly.

I was thinking about the tower. She gestured at the chasm gaping at her. It’s overwhelming.

Nineveh offered a quick squeeze to her hand. Your control is better now. This won’t happen again.

Tristan nodded, an arm protectively around Nineveh’s waist, and opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His gaze traveled skyward.

Still no voice? Bryhannon asked.

Alas. Nineveh sighed. We tried everything, but Raulyn’s spell is stronger than I thought. Tristan managed to say a word or two last night after I gave him leaves of witch’s feet, but the effect lasted only ten minutes.

To be an untalented wizard, Raulyn’s magic had seriously damaged poor Tristan’s throat, but then again, even poor Snitch hadn’t recovered his mind-reading power.

Speaking of Raulyn, we’d better hurry. Nineveh gave a peck to Tristan’s cheek. He should be waiting for us in front of the High Wizard’s office.

Bryhannon gulped the ball of emotions in her throat and clenched the folder harder. If Sagremor discovered or even suspected who she was, her mission to help New Camelot witches would end today. Just like her life, but the cause was worth the risk.

You aren’t alone, sister. We’re with you, Kundry’s and Sybil’s voices echoed in her mind using the special mental link the three Morrigans shared, and Bryhannon’s neck muscles relaxed.

Thank you, sisters. She loved this private connection with the other two Morrigans. No matter how far away they were, they could always communicate telepathically. Their affection and support warmed her chest.

If that idiot of Sagremor doesn’t listen to you, I’ll change his memory and convince him he’s a squirrel for the rest of his life, Kundry said.

Bryhannon grinned. It’d be something easy for the Deceiver.

Nineveh touching Bryhannon’s arm drew her away from the conversation. After all this is over, we’ll go somewhere where you can relax.

Easier said than done. When are you going back to Londinium? she asked, climbing another flight of stairs.

A glow radiated from Nineveh as if a sun shone within her. After the wedding. She batted her lashes at Tristan and leaned against his shoulder.

A sigh tore from Bryhannon’s mouth. Lucky you.

He flashed the charming smile that had ensnared many New Camelot girls, and it was easy to understand why, staring at his sapphire eyes rimmed with golden lashes, but her Nathair had no comparison.

She stopped at the landing where a young man paced, humming a tune. Wayward wisps of blue hair bounced over his cheeks, and the dark robe of the wizards swished about his ankles.

Raulyn! Nineveh waved.

He kept wandering and humming, a frown marring his brow.

Raulyn? Bryhannon touched his arm.

Gah! His shout pierced her ears.

No need to shout. She scowled, her eardrums ringing.

What? he yelled, tapping a finger on his ear. Speak louder, please.

A quick glance was exchanged between Nineveh and Tristan. He threw a hand up.

What happened to you? Bryhannon asked, raising her voice.

Raulyn scrunched his face. An experiment, to enhance my hearing, but surprisingly it didn’t work. This time I was sure I did everything by the book.

Tristan scoffed. Nineveh bit a corner of her mouth, and even Bryhannon had to cough to not burst out laughing. Let’s meet Sagremor.

What did you say? The wizard cupped an ear.

Nothing. With a hand on his arm, she led him toward the end of the corridor. She inhaled deeply when she arrived at Sagremor’s door, or rather, the plain wooden panel with the caption ‘work in progress’ that replaced the original oak door.

Would you like me to be the one to talk? Nineveh asked. "I’ve done a bit of