Page 26 of The Sword & the Stone

The sorcerer tilted his head, considering. "I can try to dampen our magical signature, make us harder to sense. But if this stranger had dark magic, it might not fool them for long."

"Do it," Lancelot ordered. "Anything to give us an edge." He turned to me. "Galahad, keep your hawk circling above. We need her eyes."

I nodded, already reaching out to the hawk once more. She caught an updraft and soared higher, sharp gaze scanning the forest below.

We advanced slowly, the usual clomp and jingle of the horses muffled by Merlin's magic. The air felt thick and heavy, the eerie silence broken by the occasional birdcall and the creak of leather.

As we neared the spot where I'd seen the figure, I held up a hand, signaling a halt. The others reined in their mounts, hands hovering near weapons as we peered into the shadowed tree line.

At first, I saw nothing, just the endless vertical bars of the trees and the shifting patterns of dappled sunlight on the forest floor. Until a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom, resolving into the cloaked figure I had seen through the hawk’s eyes. They stood unmoving, facing our party, their stance relaxed but radiating coiled menace.

"Who goes there?" Lancelot called out, his voice echoing. "Show yourself and state your business!"

A low, rasping chuckle emanated from the depths of the black hood, sending chills skittering down my spine. "My, my," a voice mused, sounding more amused than threatened, "such bravado from the handsome faerie."

Slowly, almost lazily, a pair of hands emerged from the figure's sleeves, rising to push back the concealing hood. Aman's face was revealed—gaunt and angular, with skin as pale as bleached bone. His eyes were the color of emerald, glinting with cruel amusement as they raked over our group.

A thrill of recognition and dread shot through me as I stared at the man's face. I knew those eyes, that cruel twist of lips. I'd seen them before, on the body of another.

But it was Tristan who spoke the name, his voice hard as flint. "Mordred. Your disguises might fool some, but I see through them clear as day."

Mordred chuckled. "Clever faerie. But you always were the perceptive one, weren't you, seer?"

As he spoke, his form shimmered and blurred, like a reflection in a disturbed pool. His features melted and reformed, sickly skin morphing to a rich porcelain hue, eyes bleeding to a vivid bright green. Black hair lengthened and curled, turning the color of spilled blood. In the space of a heartbeat, the gaunt man was gone, and in his place stood a woman of stunning, terrible beauty.

I heard Arthur's sharp intake of breath beside me, felt Merlin's magic surge and crackle in the air like an oncoming storm. Lancelot had drawn his sword, the steel rasping against the scabbard.

Mordred, the exiled daughter of King Uther himself. He’d banished her from Camelot after she tried and failed to force the sword from the stone using twisted, dark magic. My eyes shot down to her right arm, and sure enough, gnarled scars and pockmarked skin still mottled her once flawless beauty. A sign that the sword had fought back against the dark magic.

"Ah, so the prodigal daughter returns," Gawain said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I thought we'd seen the last of you when you fled Camelot in disgrace."

Mordred's green eyes flashed with malice as she flexed her scarred hand. "A temporary setback. One that will soon be rectified once I claim the Grail."

Her gaze slid to Arthur, a predatory smile curving her lips. "Hello, little sister. It's been far too long."

I watched in stunned disbelief as Arthur reeled back in her saddle, and her face drained of color. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. The shock and confusion in her eyes mirrored my own.

"Sister?" she finally managed to choke out, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you talking about? My father was a farmer before he and my mother were killed. I’m not…" She trailed off as a flicker of uncertainty crossed her features.

Mordred threw back her head and laughed, the sound harsh and mocking in the stillness of the forest. "Oh, you poor, naïve little thing. Did you really believe the faerietale that you were just some ordinary girl, plucked from obscurity by chance?"

Yes. Even I had believed it. What other explanation was there?

She shook her head, tutting softly. "You’re so much more than that. The blood of kings flows through your veins. You’re the daughter of Uther Pendragon and the fae whore who tempted him from my mother’s marriage bed."

Chapter Nine

ARTHUR

Had Uther known?

Had hefuckingknown?

I wanted to scream, to lash out, to unleash the storm of rage swirling inside me. I wanted to scratch Mordred’s eyes from her skull but to wipe the smirk off of her face.

She took a step closer, her emerald eyes boring into mine. "Embrace it. Embrace your true bloodline—your birthright. We could rule Albion together, you know. Uther would never know what hit him. We could bend the very fabric of the realms to our will if we bring the sword and Grail together with my dark magic.Thinkabout it..."

“She’s lying to you, Wart,” Merlin warned.

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