“If The Thorn is compromised, the whole rebellion risks falling apart before we can strike," Carlisle said as he speared his expression between the two of us. His hair—once black—had gone mostly iron-gray and was now tied back loosely. Carlisle was a man who had earned his title on the battlefield rather than inherited it. This was not a noble who relied on etiquette to command respect—his presence alone did that.
Melisande nodded. "Yes. The Thorn is the symbol of our cause—the face of our rebellion.”
Even if Lioran, orGuinevere, wasn't currently aware of as much. Yes, I should have done a better job of informing our target of exactly what we planned for her, but I hadn't wanted tofrighten her away. Furthermore, I was still trying to understand just what she was doing in Camelot in the first place—what her own goals were—goals that hopefully aligned with our own.
And if I'd sacrificed a few opportunities in order to lose myself in the intoxicating warmth of her skin, to worship her with my fingers until she arched beneath me, trembling with release—well, it was a sacrifice I'd gladly make a thousand times over. The rebellion could wait another hour when such a beautiful woman was in the throes of passion.
"If The Thorn is put to the sword," Melisande said, her voice carrying the weight of genuine concern as she leaned forward slightly, "will he break under interrogation and tell Arthur of our plot?"
Carlisle shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight. His hawk-sharp eyes moved between Melisande and me, calculating the possibilities with the precision of a seasoned military commander. "Perhaps it is no longer safe for any of us to remain in Camelot," he added, his weathered hands clasped together on the table's surface. "If Arthur's suspicions have been aroused, if he's begun to suspect the depth of our infiltration..."
I hesitated, drumming my fingers on the table's worn surface. The kind of revelation I was about to drop tended to make people irritable, though in this instance, it would also alleviate immediate concerns—if they could swallow their aggravation first. I took a slow breath, attempting to arrange my words in the best way possible.
"The Thorn," I started, eyes shifting between Carlisle and Melisande, "won't speak of our plotting, nor of our activities." I paused to sip my ale. "I can assure you of that."
Melisande's brow furrowed. "Why not?"
"Because," I replied, pausing for effect as I licked the foam from my upper lip, "he doesn't know what said plotting to speak of."
Carlisle's entire posture transformed in an instant, his broad shoulders drawing back as if bracing for an unwelcome blow. His weathered features shifted through a rapid succession of emotions—starting with surprise and ending with clear irritation.
"Explain."
I pursed my lips, pondering the right way to untangle myself in a truth that would look upon me less than favorably. In situations where one must dance around the truth, clarity isn't always the best strategy.
"My priority has been… earning his trust."
Carlisle's reaction was immediate, a deep sigh of exasperation mixed with disbelief. "The Thorn can't speak of our plot because you never explained it to him?"
Melisande folded her arms, leaning back against her chair, scrutinizing me as if she could piece apart the truth with sheer willpower alone.
I smiled at them both. "Quite right."
"Unbelievable," Melisande said as she looked to Carlisle, who glanced at me, both frowning.
"Every time I think you might possibly accomplish something, you don't," Carlisle sighed.
"Those are rather strong words, wouldn't you say?" I asked with a laugh, trying to infuse some humor into the dour ambiance. Otherwise, it was a bore.
"No!" Carlisle railed. "Just what the bloody hell have you been doing?"
I shrugged. "As I said—building his trust. And trust isn't built overnight, is it?"
It wasn't exactly true that I'd been earning Lioran's trust. It was more that I'd been... testing the waters of camaraderie. Lioran—Guinevere—had rather captivated me—just as most beautiful women did. I’d intended to keep my distance, not wanting to cross business with pleasure, but fate often takes unplanned turns.
Carlisle leaned forward, scowling. "You've had over a month, Vaelen."
"Might I remind you," I started as I locked eyes with both of them before taking a generous swig of my ale, "the Thorn knowing nothing is actually a blessing. If Arthur interrogates him, he won't be able to give up the plot because there is nothing to give."
Carlisle rubbed his jaw, processing the information. "Just to ensure I understand you fully, Vaelen, the Thorn knows nothing of our plotting and planning?"
"Correct."
"Does he even know of our existence—of the rebellion?"
I cocked my head to the side as I drummed my fingers along the table. "I cannot say for certain, though I should imagine so, as there are certainly rumblings to be heard around Camelot."
Carlisle dragged his palm across his forehead, the gesture slow and deliberate, as though he could somehow massage away the mounting frustration that appeared to have settled deep in his skull.
