Page 91 of The Faerie Handmaid

When Faolin began to whisper foul things to her, she knew he was trying to distract her. He thought if he could shake her confidence, her new, untested magic might fail. He might even believe it was flawed, which could be true. He spoke louder and louder, his voice as abrasive as rocks tumbling together. He described obscenities to match the hideous sculptures in his house. He used her name, involving her in scenes meant to disgust her. There was nothing too vile or shameful for him to say, and she heard everything, because her energy was spent on maintaining the block. It was all that kept him and his knife away from her until help could come.

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Idhri ran faster than he had ever run in his life. He knew Emma was trying to follow, but she would be too slow. Braithe would not have used the title of priestess in begging for help from the castle unless she truly needed it. The Camulod maids and servants and lackeys all believed her to be a priestess, and in this perilous moment, it was a useful if unintentional deceit.

He skirted the gardens, a longer but faster way to reach the main gate, without the impediments of tilled rows and people working. He pounded up the path to the gate, calling out for help before he even reached it. The gatekeeper heard his shouts and rushed to meet him. One of the knights’ lackeys was cleaning his master’s boots in front of the eastern tower, where the fighters were billeted. He took up the alarm, calling for someone to come to Priestess Braithe’s aid. Several knights emerged, but none had grasped the immediacy of the danger, and they had to turn back for their weapons.

Idhri spun toward the keep, thinking to beg Bran to lend his voice, but he saw that one knight, at least, was ready to fight. That knight strode across the keep, already loosening his sword in its scabbard. “Where is she?” he called, his deep voice ringing through the clear air.

“This way!” Idhri answered, and without waiting to see that Sir Lancelin followed, he raced back through the gate and along the path below the gardens. His heart beat louder in his ears than the thudding of his sandals on the packed dirt. He couldn’t hear Lancelin behind him, but he didn’t slow. If the knight was not there in time, he, Idhri, would fight in his place.

He passed Emma on the path without a word, pressing on with all the power he had in his now-burning legs. As he ran, he begged the Lady to keep Braithe safe, and he begged to be endowed with all the courage he might need.

He reached the cottage. His whole run to Camulod and back could not have taken more than a few minutes, but it felt as if he had been gone forever. As he wended his way through the cluttered yard, he listened as hard as he could above the pumping of his heart. He heard nothing from inside, and the ominous silence made his heart tighten.

Faolin had finally stopped speaking. Braithe hoped he had run out of revolting things to say, but his smirk told her he believed he had succeeded in distracting her. He was wrong, but she was tiring. Her forehead burned, and the sweat now ran in stinging rivulets down her ribs and over her belly. If a mind could ache, hers did.

She made herself breathe. She tried to ease her muscles, but her trembling had grown more intense. Where was Idhri? Where was her help? She wished with all her heart Morgana were here to share this effort, to strengthen her magic, to hold her steady in that sure way she had. If only—

And then he was there, right by her shoulder. Not Idhri. Not one of the warriors from the east tower. She knew his height, the iron strength of his body, even the scent that identified him.

Lancelin. Who should not be out of his bed, let alone carrying a sword.

Faolin’s face paled as all the blood drained from it. Lancelin said in Braithe’s ear, in the deep voice she knew well, “Release him, little priestess. He’s mine now.”

With an exhalation that was almost a cry of pain, she did. The shimmer of the block dissolved. Lancelin’s sword came up, gleaming and sharp and long. Faolin gesticulated once, weakly, with his own short blade, but it was futile, an empty gesture.

Braithe bent forward, her hands on her knees, gasping. Through her fatigue and fear for Lancelin, she heard Faolin’s final thought: At last. At long last. It’s over.

Sir Lancelin of Camulod, born to war, trained since boyhood, drove forward in practiced fashion. He ended the fae man’s long, long life with one perfect thrust.

Braithe forced herself not to look away. She watched Faolin crumple, and she understood that his expression was not one of pain or surprise or anger but acceptance. Blood spilled over the packed dirt of the cottage floor and trickled from his pale lips, but there was no sound, no cry of agony. Faolin had received a kinder, swifter death than any of the people he had tortured.

Unexpectedly, Braithe’s knees buckled. She had not known Idhri was there until she felt his young, strong arms around her. He caught her before she could fall. He picked her up as if she were a little child, clicking his tongue in sympathy as he carried her away from the coppery scent of blood and the sight of Faolin’s crumpled body, taking her out into the cool, clean air of the waning afternoon.

Others had come from Camulod, slower than Idhri and Lancelin. Bran was there, and the swordmaster with two lackeys. Finally, too late, three warriors arrived with their swords, looking sorry to have missed the chance to use them.

Mordred was among the little crowd, his face a mask of worry. “Braithe, you are safe? Is Lancelin? He got away from me, though I commanded him to stop!”

Lancelin spoke from the doorway. “Forgive me, my lord. I knew if Braithe used the title of priestess the situation was dire.”

Idhri settled Braithe on an upturned boat. Lancelin was leaning against the doorjamb, his bloody sword held out from his side. His tunic, the same one he had been wearing in bed, was also stained with blood. “My lord, your wound!” Braithe exclaimed, and tried to get up.

Idhri gently pressed her back onto her makeshift seat. “I’ll see to him,” he said. “I’ll escort him back to his chamber, and you follow when you’ve recovered.”

Emma came puffing up from the path, her face red with effort. Braithe was relieved to see that the cut on her cheek had already stopped bleeding. In the blunt way of a country woman she asked, “Dead, is he?” When Braithe nodded, she said, “Good.” She bent to put a warm hand on Braithe’s damp forehead. “Now, now, lass, all over, yah? All’s well. I’ll fetch you an ale, and that will restore you.”

Idhri said, “But, Emma—the man is still in the house. Still on your floor.”

His foster mother lifted her hands in question. “Dead, though, Idhri?”

“Yes. He’s dead. But there’s blood everywhere, and—”

“No matter, lad. I’ve seen blood before.” Emma straightened and walked toward the cottage. As she passed Lancelin she said, “Good to have a champion about, sir,” and went inside. In moments, as if having to step around a corpse had not slowed her in the least, she returned with a cup of ale for Braithe. “Off with you,” she said to Idhri, but Braithe heard the pride in her voice. “Best take our champion back to his bed. He’s gone and torn his stitches.”

Emma was right. When Braithe reached Lancelin’s bedchamber, she found him lying in bed, with Loria hovering over him, gingerly and more or less ineffectively dabbing at the blood seeping from his reopened wound. Braithe scrubbed her hands in the washbasin, then carried her basket to his bedside.

“It’s nothing,” he said as she leaned over him to examine the damage. He added, with laughter in his voice, “Priestess Braithe.”