Beating.
His heart was beating.
“The king lives.”
Morgyn.
I reached for the edge of the granite slab, digging my nails in hard enough they cracked as I hauled myself up. She stood on the other side of Arran, a few feet back on that perfectly emerald grass. As always, her pale lavender gown fell as flawlessly as her sheet of brown hair. One neat braid, the width of a finger, fell from each temple. And she stared at me with those blue eyes, with the same unshakeable calm.
I wanted to gouge those eyes out.
“The Lady of the Lake speaks the truth,” Isolde said before I could launch myself through the air and start ripping her apart.
“I have no reason to lie,” Morgyn said, watching the faerie.
I put a hand on Isolde’s shoulder. “You would do anything to preserve your precious neutrality,” I spat at the priestess. At my sister.
The word was loathsome. A mockery of what Arthur and I had been to one another.
He lied, too.
My heart was breaking inside my chest.
“You were supposed to heal him. Help him!”
“Your Majesty….” Isolde tried to interject.
“His chest is cleaved open! He is dying! You left him alone in this infernal mist to die!”
“My queen…”
“What is wrong with you? Are you every bit as heartless as our mother? Do you blame me, is that it, for being their precious chosen one?”
“Veyka.”
Isolde’s quicksilver voice finally penetrated. But I was beyond words anyway.
I was going to kill Morgyn. And then every priestess in this cursed place. Even if I spent the next hundred years hunting them all down through the mist.
Morgyn held my gaze. Her lips did not curve or press down into a line. But her eyes… they swirled with feeling. I couldn’t have named which ones. But I recognized the storm swirling inside of her.
My hand slid to my knife.
But Morgyn simply lifted her hand, spinning her palm in a graceful wave.
The mist disappeared.
And hiding beneath that velvety white blanket…
Dozens of priestesses. Males and females, dressing in indistinguishable flowing robes. Reminiscent of the ethereal styles of the elemental court, but with thicker, heavier fabrics against the cool air. That remained, even with the mist gone.
All shades of purple, from palest lavender to rich aubergine. All the forms moved with graceful purpose. Walking betweenbuildings carved from the same granite as the slab where I braced my palms. Some carried platters and bowls toward stone altars. Another led a group of children—young acolytes—into a copse of aspens. A small white crystal dangled around each neck. Communication crystals.
But not a single word was spoken. Maybe that was another bit of magic, like the fog.
Beside me, Isolde exhaled slowly.
They’d been here all along, hidden by the mist while we bumbled about. They’d let us walk right in. After denying me access for weeks, Morgyn had let me walk to my mate unhampered.
