There will be time enough when you have Guinevere's silken cunt wrapped around your cock. And Elenora's too, for that matter.
My lips curved upward as I fully basked in my good luck. Everything had changed in the span of heartbeats. Arthur believed himself alone in his transgression, Guinevere in her surrender. Neither suspected they had performed their dance of desire before an audience. This knowledge settled into my chest like a key sliding into a lock. And the fact that Arthur was quite a bit more than he seemed? That was the icing on the cake—an icing I didn't understand just yet, but I would make it my business to solve that riddle, just as I solvedallriddles.
I rose slowly, the strand of the little whore's hair still wound around my finger. The forest watched me with a thousand eyes, but it would keep my secrets—all of them.
My steps back toward Camelot were measured, unhurried. Each footfall seemed to mark time to a new rhythm, a different song than the one I had walked to only that morning. My mind moved like pieces on a chessboard, calculating angles and possibilities.
Tonight, when the castle slept and shadows claimed the corridors, I would visit her cell—not as the dutiful knight offering rescue from her predicament. And certainly not to extend comfort. I would come as myself—as a man who had witnessed the truth of what lay between king and subject—and I would use her predicament to my advantage.
The thought sent heat spiraling through my groin. Perhaps she would be receptive. If not, I was unfazed. There was nothing quite like an unreceptive cunt. The fight always made the payoff so much better. Yes, I hoped she would attempt to fight me so I could show her just how much trouble she'd caused me.
As for Elenora threatening me if I were to ever touch the little whore again? I was not concerned. Not only was Elenora nowhere to be seen or found over the last few days (hopefully, someone had had enough of her and put the bitch to the sword), but I would not be intimidated by a woman. Yes, Elenora was far more than a mere courtesan—of that, I was certain. She possessed magic, and I didn't know why she was here or what her interest in Guinevere might be—something I was in the process of uncovering as I unraveled all mysteries.
My smile deepened as Camelot's imposing towers came into view, their banners snapping proudly in the wind. The familiar sight should have brought me comfort, but tonight it stirred something far more potent—anticipation. I was not a man who smiled often. Truly, life had not given me many opportunities about which to smile.
But this... this was entirely different. This was a gift wrapped in white hair, presented to me by fortune's own hand. More than one gift, in fact. Each revelation was a weapon I could wield, cutting away at the foundations of power that had always excluded me.
I was eager, thrilled really, to see how this game would unfold, how each player would move when I began pulling the strings from the shadows where I'd learned to thrive.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
-VAELEN-
The Silver Stag Inn, which was located on the eastern border of Camelot, smelled of stale ale and desperation—appropriate, considering the nature of this meeting.
I'd ordered an ale and chosen a corner table far from prying eyes, my hood pulled low despite the dim lighting. The establishment catered to travelers who asked no questions and remembered even less, which made it ideal for conversations that could end with nooses around necks.
Carlisle arrived first, his bulk filling the narrow doorway before he spotted me and crossed the room with deceptive grace for a man of his size. Melisande followed moments later, her face partially obscured by a traveling cloak that did nothing to diminish the sharp intelligence in her eyes.
The lady was in her sixties, with elegant gray hair pinned into a crown of braids that gave her the appearance of a queen without the need for a throne. Her face was angular, her cheekbones high, her mouth set in a line that suggested she had survived more betrayals than most men had drawn breaths. Every movement she made was deliberate—measured,efficient. But her eyes were her true weapon: cool, incisive, and utterly devoid of fear. Court rumor claimed she could silence a room with a single raised brow, and watching her, it was easy to believe. Anyone foolish enough to underestimate her rarely made the same mistake twice.
"Well?" Carlisle dropped into the chair across from me, wood creaking beneath his weight. "Your message said it was urgent."
"It is." I leaned forward, keeping my voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond our table. "The Thorn has been discovered."
'The Thorn' was the shortened version of 'The Thorn in the Crown'—a code name I had carefully crafted for Lioran (and I was rather proud of myself as the title was quite witty), designed specifically to prevent discovery should our conversations be overheard by unwelcome ears. Even now, months later, the abbreviated form served its purpose well, allowing us to speak of our most valuable asset without drawing attention from the Silver Stag's other patrons or any ears that might be pressed against thin walls.
Carlisle's eyes widened, understanding now the weight of my warning and the importance of this meeting.
The color drained from Melisande's face. "Discovered how? By whom?"
"Arthur himself." I watched their reactions carefully—the way Carlisle's hand tightened into a fist, how Melisande's breathing quickened.
"Is he dead?" Carlisle asked.
I shook my head. "Imprisoned. In Arthur's dungeons." I took a breath. "Likely to be dead soon though, the longer we tally."
"Gods." Carlisle scrubbed his fingers over his face before dropping his massive hand to the table, where the thump disrupted my ale. "On what charges was he arrested?"
"On the charges thatheis actually ashe."
Now, this information about Lioran's true nature was not a surprise to either Carlisle or Melisande, as I had, in the past week or so, informed them of as much. And though they had both been beyond surprised, they and I had agreed that this was rather even better news, as no one would suspect a woman of posing as a knight. Though it had raised questions as to what Guinevere was doing in Camelot in the first place—a mystery I had not yet fully solved. But I intended to.
Melisande perched on the edge of her chair, gaze slipping back and forth between us like a pendulum. “What will happen to him?"
We had opted to continue referring to Guinevere in the masculine in order to further throw the scent off, in case anyone happened to be listening who shouldn't have been.
I shook my head. "That's not important right now. What matters is timing. If the resistance is going to act, it needs to be soon. As in days, not weeks."
