Working with earth magic to shift rock and shale, he had cleared out a few of the ancient passageways and kept them hidden with sheets of rock covering their entrances. This tunnel was only one of several secret ways he had of moving in and out of the castle.
The first time Sidonie had hit him had been an annoyance, but the second time she had struck directly on the new wound. He had felt something tear, a few of the stitches, no doubt, and wetness had seeped through the bandage.
He kept pressure on the wound, and when he lifted his palm away briefly, his skin felt sticky and wet. He would have to suture the area again before he could rest, all while avoiding detection from anyone else so Isabeau could not force him back to her side.
In the normal course of things, hiding from the Light Fae was relatively easy. They had keen eyesight and hearing, and many of them were proficient in magic, but none of them were as proficient as he was.
This time wasn’t in the normal course of things. Once he’d made the decision to return to Avalon, he’d raced back as fast as he could. With the fresh silver poisoning his system, Morgan was much weaker than normal, his magic was dampened, and he hadn’t had time to recover the way he’d planned.
Healing Sidonie’s hands had taken everything he had and then some. To make sure he did the job properly, he’d had to use several healing potions to supplement the meager trickle of his own returning Power.
Not only that, but Isabeau’s Hounds were lycanthrope, just as he was, and they had the ability to track him by scent.
He had prepared for that eventuality by using a chemical hunter’s spray developed on Earth that helped to eliminate scent. If worse came to worst, and Isabeau tried to have one of her Hounds track the person who had broken into Sidonie’s cell and healed her, they wouldn’t be able to glean any information.
He hoped he had brought enough of the spray to last for a while, because he couldn’t think of any way to make Sidonie’s situation better. While he could take her food and supplies and offer healing and whatever comfort she might accept, he couldn’t release any prisoners, or aid in their escape. Isabeau had forbidden that a long time ago when she had first ensorcelled Morgan.
Thrusting aside the memories, he focused on the challenges of the present. As he eased through the narrow opening he had hidden long ago with subtle concealment spells, he looked up at the lightening sky grimly.
He hadn’t expected to find Sidonie so badly injured, and he had stayed with her longer than he had meant to. The tunnel exit lay deep in the shadow of a stone buttress, but he needed to cross an open area of ground that was clearly visible in the growing morning light, all the while bleeding and drained of Power.
His other option was to hide a few yards inside the mouth of the tunnel, but the passageway was too narrow for someone of his bulk to fold his legs to sit down. He needed to get to his supplies to suture his wound again, plus he needed to eat something himself, take pain meds and antibiotics, and rest. His headlong dash back to Avalon from London had taken its toll, and he felt feverish again and as weak as a newborn kitten.
There was no other real choice. He had to dredge up Power somehow. He had such a wealth of war spells in his knapsack he could destroy the entire demesne if the geas would only let him, but the one spell he needed was the one he hadn’t thought to cast into a magic item.
Digging deep, he wrenched Power out through sheer force of will and cast an aversion spell over himself. Then, as rapidly as he could, he crossed the open area. His muscles shook with the effort to hold a spell so simple a magic student could throw it, and for a moment he was tempted to let it drop. The morning was early yet, not quite dawn, and there would be few people about.
Just then, a young voice called out and another answered, and two youths dashed toward the kitchens. They might or might not notice him, but if they did, he was highly recognizable. Gritting his teeth, Morgan held onto the casting.
As he reached the stables, he knew he wasn’t going to make it to his destination. Slipping inside, he let the spell go as dizziness overtook him. Reeling, he almost went down but managed to catch himself on the closest stall door.
Unsteadily, he made his way past the most spacious stalls, which held the nobles’ mounts and Isabeau’s own white destrier. He wanted to make it to the back of the stables where he knew there were empty stalls, but as black dots danced in front of his eyes, he changed course to slip into the stall of the gray dappled gelding he used when he was in Avalon.
A soft whuffle greeted him, and the gelding nosed him, looking for treats. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Nothing for you today.”
Catching the scent of fresh blood, the gelding pulled back and stamped its hooves uneasily. Morgan managed to latch the stall door, then the world went gray and formless, and he felt his legs buckle underneath him.
Chapter Six
The sound of rhythmic thumping and voices roused him. Isabeau’s voice, calling out wordlessly.
As awareness coalesced, he realized he was lying prone in his gelding’s stall. The horse had decided to ignore him and stood with his nose in a box filled with hay, as far away as he could get from Morgan.
Adrenaline kicked him into action. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but he’d been easily visible to anyone who might have glanced into the stall. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he edged back against the shadow of the stall door.
His head swam, black dots danced in front of his eyes, and the wound in his side gave a warning twinge. He pressed a hand against it and glanced down at himself. Liquid red had soaked his shirt and the hip of his pants. He had been bleeding the whole time he’d been unconscious.
The thumping increased in speed, and Isabeau cried out again. Distaste curled Morgan’s lip. She was screwing someone in the stables. The man muttered something unintelligible then emitted a long, low groan. Apparently, at least one of them had achieved culmination.
Isabeau and Modred had a long-standing relationship, to which they were both unfaithful. Modred had pressed Isabeau to marry him for ages, but she refused. She would never let Modred get so close to the power of her throne. Modred was eternally ambitious, and as she had said before to Morgan more than once, he was already close enough to the throne as it was.
And so Isabeau and Modred danced around each other through the centuries, both lovers and conspirators, endlessly colluding in ventures for mutual and individual gain.
Morgan wished they would destroy each other, but as long as Isabeau kept possession of Azrael’s Athame, which gave her control over Morgan and the other Hounds, Modred would never act against her. Aside from her political power, she held too much personal Power and made a deadly enemy.
Morgan had watched them destroy other friends and lovers with their dramas and jealousies. They broke people like children broke toys, carelessly throwing them away when they were ruined to reach for other, brighter playthings. This man, whoever he was, would be no different.
After the man’s groan, the thumping had stopped. There was a rustle of clothing.
“When can we make the announcement?” the man asked. “I don’t want us to hide what we are to each other any longer.”
Morgan recognized his voice. The other male was Valentin, a high-ranking noble from Arkadia, a Light Fae demesne whose crossover passageway was located near Mount Elbrus in Russia.
Valentin had arrived some months ago with a view to strengthening trade and ties between the two demesnes. As Arkadia’s rulers were nearly as xenophobic as Isabeau and had similar views on maintaining racial purity, she had welcomed Valentin with open arms. Quite literally, it appeared.
“We must take our time, my love,” Isabeau purred. “Approach matters gently, and let my court get used to your presence. Let them come to love you as I have learned to. I don’t allow many emissaries from other demesnes to visit here, in the seat of my power. You are still strange to many of us.”
“It’s been months since I’ve arrived,” Valentin insisted. “More than time enough for you and me to fall in love.”
Valentin was another toy that would soon be broken. Not clever enough to have perceived Modred’s enduring position at court, he would push either Isabeau or Modred too far, and Modred would never allow a foreign noble to supplant him.