Page 15 of Vale of Dreams

He leans against a carved column. “Most of the portals in and out of Brocéliande are closed now. But mine isn’t. I don’t think they know about it. And that is why you’re here. I am the last refuge for a desperate, shipwrecked soul washed up on my shore. But when you get into Brocéliande, then what? You’ll ask for directions to the king’s dungeons? Or do you think if you ask the black-hearted prince nicely, he’ll release his prisoner?”

“I’m trained in espionage.”

“I’m trained in espionage,” he says in a mimicry of my voice. Then his dark eyebrows knit together as he studies me. He’s looking for something in my expression. What is it? Is he trying to decide if he can trust me?

And then I know. I’m his daughter, and he wants to see the resemblance. And more than anything, he wants company.

The Fey thrive on merriment and pleasure, on parties and banquets. The man has been starved of other people for eons, waiting centuries alone for a celebration that never happened, with only memories and ghosts for companions.

I’d worried about my own desperation shining through, but he’s as desperate as I am. I’m the first family he’s had since his world ended, and the more he thinks we have in common, the more he’ll want to help me.

I take a step closer to him, examining his features. It’s easy to see the similarities between us. The thick, dark eyebrows and large eyes, the black eyelashes, the straight nose. His eyes gleam an eerie gold, while mine are dark—but their almond shape is the same.

I certainly don’t have his height, but I can mimic his stance, head high and chin raised. I adapt his posture subtly, sliding my hands into my pockets like he does.

“When I get there, I can handle myself. Once I get through, I’ll find him.” I adjust my tone slightly, making it sound more imperious, like his.

He wants me to ask for his help, but if I seem too weak, he might change his mind. Mordred doesn’t want a connection to someone useless. He respects power and strength.

With a sliver of satisfaction, I see in his expression that I hit the mark.

“You can’t find him,” he says. “Auberon keeps his prisoners well-hidden. But I can help you, daughter. If you help me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Help you destroy Avalon Tower?”

He shrugs slowly, flashing me a half-smile. “It is foretold.”

“What does it mean to destroy Avalon Tower?” I ask. "Like, do you want it demolished, or what?”

“Every stone in every building may remain where it is. But Avalon Tower is and always has been run by the Pendragons. Arthur’s descendants. I merely want all the Pendragons to die, one by one. That’s all.”

CHAPTER 6

Achill ripples over my skin. It seems that my father has something in common with a few of my friends.

Still, as much as I hate Wrythe, Tarquin, and Ginevra, I’m not sure I can justify killing an entire group of people just because of their family name.

But I’m not really working with him, am I? I’m manipulating him.

I hunch my shoulders in the cold air. “Avalon Tower is no longer just Pendragons. It’s not like it was in your golden age. What about the rest of us? The demi-Fey? The humans who are not Pendragons?”

“I want the Pendragons dead.” He gestures at the table. “I want Arthur’s line extinguished. Then we celebrate.”

He really is doing all of this for a party, isn’t he? It’s the Feyest thing ever.

“Fine. Now, will you tell me how to save Raphael?”

He stretches out a long arm and plucks an apple from a tree. “Of course. To save him, we must learn exactly where they’re keeping him.”

“So, you don’t know where he is?”

“In my dreams, I see mere glimpses. He is in Auberon’s fortress, but it’s a vast place, with countless dungeons, cells, and torture chambers. I need to think.” He takes a bite of the apple, closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the column.

I grit my teeth in frustration as I turn back to look at the banquet table. He’s actually still got ancient wine in the decanters. Dust and snow cover the plates and the faded gold tablecloth. There are food trays with silver domes on them. I hate to think of what’s underneath them.

I have no idea what Mordred is doing right now. Eyes closed, he seems deep in thought. He begins to hum, an eerie, haunting tune that raises the hair on my nape and pulls my attention from the banquet table. The song is uncanny, strangely familiar, and his body glows with silver. And for some reason, I feel as if the tune is beckoning me closer.

After a while, movement catches my eye from above, and I glance up to see a cloud of silver moths fluttering down from the ruined ceiling. As Mordred hums, they twirl and dance in the air, their wings ignited by the slate-silver moonlight. Mordred holds out his hand, and a moth lands on his palm.

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