With My Last Breath

"Maybe," he acknowledged finally. "But the god of war should not be reduced to weak mortal form. This is unacceptable…and painful."

I patted his leg. "Perhaps," I agreed. "But you’ve done it for thousands of years and have been none the worse for it."

"None the worse?" he asked incredulously. "Have you not noticed the hole in my side?"

"So we’re back to that, are we?" I grinned. "You’ll be fine. My worry now is not your injury. It is Mordred. He tried to kill you and make it look like an accident. What did he call it? A ‘slip of the lance’?"

Lancelot instantly sobered. "Yes. He did. And he will not live to do it again."

"Father," I cautioned. "You know that you may not seek retribution. Not right now. His death isn’t meant for you."

My father’s glare was dark enough to eclipse the sun. He didn’t intimidate me. I shrugged. "You know it’s true."

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With My Last Breath, Book Three

He sighed heavily, stretching one leg gingerly in front of him. "Maybe," he acknowledged and then changed the subject. "How is your mother? Is she worried sick?"

He actually sounded pleased by the prospect. I rolled my eyes.

"She was," I offered. "But then she remembered who you are and how strong you are and she realized that you would be fine. She did send me to check on you, though."

He settled back into his pillows with a satisfied expression, reaching over to pick up an apple from his nightstand.

"You’re both treading a thin line," I told seriously, as he took a bite. "Arthur noticed that mother was the first to your side in the arena. I saw it on his face."

For once, my father took what I said seriously and I watched him ponder it.

"You know," he said thoughtfully. "I never thought I would say this, but I actually like your mother’s husband. He’s a good man."

"Yes, he is," I agreed. "And you will both break his heart."

"Perhaps," he replied. "But I won’t enjoy it."

"Like that matters," I muttered beneath my breath. "Okay. I’ve checked on you.

You’re fine, but for a foul mood. I will report back to mother and then I will continue to search for the sword. I only wish to find it and leave here. We can leave Camelot behind us and never think of it again. What say you?"

"I say that you’d better be jesting," Arthur said as he stepped into the room. My gaze flew to his face and he studied me curiously. "Leave Camelot? You can’t be serious."

I nodded. "Of course, your highness. I was simply telling Sir Lancelot that with his luck of late, he might be better served to ride away from Camelot and never look back.

But of course I was simply jesting. Where would the Roundtable be without your champion?"

He nodded and I curtsied.

"I’ll take my leave, your highness. I simply wished to check on Sir Lancelot’s injuries. He appears to be back to himself."

Arthur nodded and turned his attention back to his knight and I slipped from the door, pausing to lean against it as I gathered my thoughts. I had almost given us away to Arthur. I really would have to be more careful.

The hall was empty, but for me. This section of the castle contained bedrooms, all of which were usually empty during the day. The queen’s bower was here, a quiet place where she was supposed to sew and do womanly things, although I didn’t think that Guinevere had used it even once since we’d been here.

Down the hall from the bower was the solar, the long room used for entertainment for the royal family. Court jesters and musicians performed for the family in the Courtney Cole 66

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evening hours, after they had retired from dinner and before bed. It too was empty now.

A thought occurred to me and I ducked inside. Heavy chests lined the far wall.

They were intricately carved from oak, each standing three feet tall. Kneeling next to one, I removed the velvet table-runner from the top and unlatched the clasp, lifting the heavy lid.

Thick tapestries were folded inside. I rifled through them, feeling for anything metal within their depths. When I got to the bottom, I even checked to see if the chest had a false bottom. It did not. I sighed and began refolding the tapestries, wishing to leave it as I had found it.

"Are you looking for something?"

Merlin’s quiet voice came from behind me and I spun around. He was standing with his arms folded, silently observing me. I had no idea how long he had been watching me.

"Yes," I answered calmly. "A table-runner. And lucky for me, I have found several."

He remained impassive as I finished folding the soft material and closed the lid of the chest.

"Is there anything else I can help you find?" he asked me, his black eyes glittering.

"No," I replied. "There is nothing that you could find that I cannot, Merlin. I am as familiar with this castle as you are."

"Really?" he asked, his lip curling with amusement. "And have you ever been here?"

Instantly, we were standing in the bowels of the castle…in the oubliette, the most feared and treacherous room of the castle. Situated in the dungeons, it was a small dark room where prisoners were sometimes left to die. It was devoid entirely of light, for there were no windows. Thankfully for me, Merlin held a torch in his hand.

The smell was overwhelming and sickening and as I glanced around me, with my hand over my mouth, I saw why. A partially decomposed prisoner was in the corner, flies buzzed around him as squirming white maggots covered open wounds.

His eyes were open and glassy, while a few maggots even clung to the yellowed, crusty corners. As I watched one crawl from his slack mouth, nausea welled up and I couldn’t control it. I bent over and vomited onto the floor. The smell of this place coupled with the sight of the maggots was simply too much to bear. My pregnant mortal body couldn’t handle it.

Once I had emptied my stomach, I stood once more, wiping my mouth with my arm and facing Merlin.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked. "I don’t wish to be here."

"No of course you don’t," he agreed. "No one does."

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He held his torch above our head, illuminating the .

"Look above us, Heleyne. See that small hatch? That is how prisoners are lowered in here, with a rope. And that is how food and water is occasionally brought in as well, until that time which they simply decide not to do it anymore and the prisoner is left to starve. Or die from his wounds, whichever happens first."