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I peeked my eyes open and glimpsed fair hair and silver metal.
Fenyx.
Merlin’s spell had been more powerful than perhaps she had known. After I had begun to scream, the strength had gone out of me, and I had lain on the floor in a daze.
Now I could feel my body’s power returning slowly.
I had my blade at my belt. It would be the work of a moment to slide that blade right into Fenyx’s smooth, golden-tanned throat.
He had murdered her. He had murdered Merlin.
Merlin. The woman I belatedly understood was not simply my anchor, not simply the heartbeat of the Temple of the Three but the cornerstone of all of Camelot, perhaps even Pendrath.
She was dead.
And I could not avenge her. Yet.
She had planned for this. She had known it would happen. The look in her eyes as she had felt her life blood drain out of her had not been one of agony or regret but of peaceful acceptance. As if her time had come, and she had known it down to the very last second.
She had lured me to her rooms, used the magic she had hidden for so long, and then sacrificed herself to convince the king of the lies she had told. So that he would pity me. See me as nothing more than a weak victim of the High Priestess’s manipulation.
And then have his most trusted general carry me straight back into the heart of the Rose Court.
Her plan was working to perfection.
Except that she was dead. And my heart was breaking.
I was breaking. She had given her life so that I could do what? Save the kingdom without her?
If that was the case, then the weight of what she believed I could accomplish was too much to bear.
First Beks. Then I had left Draven. Kaye was nowhere in sight. Now Merlin was gone forever.
There was a sound of a commotion from up ahead, and I opened my eyes.
We were still in the temple, walking down a corridor I recognized. We were nearing the main entrance.
Another group of Arthur’s soldiers were coming towards us from the opposite direction down the stone hall.
My heart skipped a beat.
They were dragging someone between them.
A woman, tall and lanky with short, cropped, blonde hair.
She had been badly beaten.
Lancelet.
One of her eyes was swollen shut. Her lips were split and dripping blood.
As the armed men neared us, half-dragging, half-carrying her, one of the men in front stepped forward and grinned eagerly at my brother.
“Look what the cat dragged in.”
“Lancelet de Troyes,” my brother said coolly, eyeing my friend. “Merlin claimed to have no idea where she had gone. Even her own family pleaded ignorance. And I pressed her father. Hard.”
Lancelet leaned forward suddenly, spewing blood on the floor at Arthur’s feet.
