Otherworld Challenger (16 page)

What annoyed Vashti most about Lisbet was that she was supposed to be Aydan's girlfriend. Sweet, kind, honest Aydan, who looked on with hurt in his pale green eyes as his girlfriend flirted and cooed at Jethro. Vashti wanted to tell him to fight for her. Actually, she wanted to tell him to dump Lisbet and find someone worth having. She had never met such a mismatched couple. Hadn't Tanzi been surprised they were together? She remembered her sister saying Lisbet had been infatuated with Lorcan. What was it with this woman? Should she tell her to leave Jethro alone? With everything else going on, it felt wrong to do so. As if she was allowing her personal dislike of Lisbet to intrude on the more momentous events surrounding the reason for this journey.

She waited until Aydan and Lisbet had gone up on deck and then fixed Jethro with a speculative look. “Necromancer groupies. Is that a thing?”

He choked slightly on his coffee. “Pardon?”

“You heard me. Are there women who follow necromancers around hoping to have sex with them?”

“Where is this going?”

“Tanzi said Lisbet had a thing for Lorcan when they were in Barcelona. She definitely has a thing for you.”

“Jealous, Vashti?”

She kept her voice light. “You can think that if you want. I happen to like Aydan and I don't enjoy seeing him humiliated.”

A faint flush tinged Jethro's high cheekbones. “I haven't encouraged her.”

“I didn't say you had.”

He was silent for a few minutes. “If she had a thing about necromancers, she'd have moved heaven and earth to meet Cal and Stella—the two greatest living necromancers. But she didn't come to the palace with us.”

“True.” Vashti smiled at him. “It must be your personal magnetism, after all.”

“Thank God for that. The idea there might be women out there who want me to drag them off and do unspeakable things to them over a tombstone doesn't bear thinking about.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Vashti teased him with her eyes. “I quite like the idea of doing unspeakable things with you. Tombstone optional.”

They were still laughing when Lisbet appeared. Her eyes narrowed as she took in their shared hilarity. “What's funny?”

“We've discovered Vashti here is a necromancer groupie.” Jethro stood, holding his hand out to Vashti. “I'm going to take the wheel from Aydan. Come and keep me company.”

“Just so we're clear, I'm a picky groupie.” Vashti slid her hand into his. “I won't follow any necromancer.”

“I should think not.” Jethro's eyes were still alight with laughter as he gazed down at her. “You're not the only one who can get jealous.”

She trailed behind him onto the deck, her heart pounding. Did he know what he'd just said? Or was he still teasing? If he could feel jealousy, that meant he must care about her.
Stop it. Stop right there.
She kept lecturing herself but it didn't work. As she reached the deck, her grin was as wide as the gates of Valhalla itself.

Her euphoria lasted about as long as it took her to follow the direction of Aydan's shaking finger. The island he pointed to was large enough to fill the horizon. Its outline had three distinct peaks, like cathedral spires, with the tallest in the center. The hills wore an encircling skirt of mist, giving the effect the island was floating just above the water.

“Avalon.” Aydan's voice trembled more than his finger as he infused the single word with a mixture of excitement and dread.

* * *

“I heard a story once.” Lisbet's voice had a soft, faraway note as if she were recapturing a childhood memory or a pleasurable dream. They were all standing on the deck beside Jethro as he steered the boat. None of them took their eyes off the island as it loomed closer. “It was a folk story about the hills of Avalon. It tells of two springs, one on each of the outer slopes. The water from the spring on the right is the purest in all Otherworld, as sweet and as clean as the morning dew. It is said to have healing properties. The water on the left hill comes from a different fountain. The liquid that bubbles up between its rocks is foul and stagnant. Where it touches the vegetation, it scorches it brown as if acid has been poured over the grass. No birds fly nearby, no living creatures drink or bathe in its waters.”

“There are many stories of Avalon. No one really knows which are true.” Jethro kept his eyes fixed on the island.

Lisbet continued as if he had not spoken. “It is said if the two spring waters ever flow all the way to the foot of the hills, they will meet at the base of the central mount. There they will merge to form an elixir more powerful than any magic that has existed since time began.”

“I heard the same story.” Where Lisbet's voice had been dreamy, Aydan's was fearful. “In the version I was told, the waters on the right contain the tears of angels while those on the left carry the blood of demons.”

The fog clinging to the lower slopes of the hills had a faint incandescent glow. What lurked in its depths? Jethro wondered. Mystery? Madness? His hand automatically groped for Vashti's. Seeking the security of her touch had become second nature to him now. Her fingers were cold as ice. When he glanced down at her, her face gave away nothing of her emotions, but he knew how much she was dreading this. She was here for him. Their unique symbiosis was her only reason for placing her life in danger. The thought strengthened his resolve. Jethro had never lacked courage, but couldn't courage and foolhardiness sometimes be confused for the same thing? Vashti's presence reminded him of the difference. She reassured him of more than that.

Somewhere, over the course of this mission, finding the challenger had started to matter to Jethro for reasons other than money. He had always known Moncoya was an evil bastard, but that knowledge had never touched him personally. Until now. He believed his feelings had changed because Moncoya had sent Iago after him. It surprised him to realize that was not the case. He wanted to find the challenger and topple Moncoya from his throne forever because of the way the faerie king had treated Vashti. Because of the untold hurt he saw in those glorious blue eyes whenever she heard her father's name. Because of all the things she never said. He wanted to hurt Moncoya in return for all the times the faerie king had made his own daughter suffer.

They were close enough now to see houses huddled on the central hillside within the drifting, ever-shifting fog. Higher again, rising out of the remnants of clinging mist, there was a vast castle. It was perched precariously on a ridge, perfectly positioned so it gave a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the surrounding ocean.

“We are being watched.” Jethro's voice was grim.

“Did you think we would not be?” Vashti looked up at him. “Iago knew we were coming. If he's here, and I sense he is, he will have been expecting us.”

“Will he kill us as soon as we step foot onto the island?” Aydan asked.

“That won't be nearly enough fun for Iago. He'll have some game in mind first.” Jethro tried to sound confident. “We have to make sure we emerge as the winners.” He glanced down at Vashti. “Right?”

There was a flicker of a smile in the depths of her eyes. “You've met my father. He taught me winning is the only way. Being a good loser was never an option for Moncoya's daughters.”

“You have never been to Avalon before.” Lisbet's voice was cold as she issued the warning.

“And on that cheering note, I think our welcome party awaits.” Jethro steered
Igraine
into a harbor. From what he could see through the mist, it was a pretty place, dotted with tiny fishing craft. His comment about a welcome party was a reference to the murky figures his sharp eyes had picked out. A group of three men stood on the harbor wall, observing their arrival. With a sinking heart, Jethro recognized Iago in their center. A confrontation on his arrival after a long journey would not have been Jethro's choice. But would anything about this have been his choice?

I chose you.
The words were spoken inside his head. The voice—a woman's—was soft and insidious, mildly amused and vaguely familiar.
My God, I need to stop listening to Lisbet and Aydan and their folk tales. I'll be spouting my own stories of woodcutters and wolves before we leave this place.
That did it. By focusing on the time when he—
they
—had accomplished what they had come here to do and could leave Avalon, he was able to look up and face the mocking smile of his nemesis.

“Welcome to my home.” Jethro didn't like the way Iago's eyes lingered on Vashti's face and wandered over her body. There was a promise of ownership within the action. Jethro wanted to challenge it. Actually, he wanted to rip the smile off the other man's face so he never dared look her way again. On balance, he decided it might be better to let it pass. Sooner or later, Iago was going to pay for every trick, every insult, every mocking remark...including each lecherous thought he had directed at Vashti. Iago would pay in blood. And Jethro was going to enjoy wringing every drop from him.

With that thought in his mind, he pinned a smile on his lips and brought
Igraine
into place alongside the harbor wall, shutting off her engines. Leaping onto the wall, he deftly secured the boat, gesturing for the others to remain on board. “I am here at your invitation,” he reminded Iago.

“That's not quite true.” Iago appeared more restless than ever. His green eyes glowed, he could barely stand still and there was a triumphant light in his eyes Jethro didn't like.
Let's face it, you wouldn't like any light in this guy's eyes.
“You are here at the invitation of one far greater than I.”

“Can we skip the riddles? It's been a long journey...and some dick set the Sluagh on me before we set off.”

Iago's smile shifted and became nasty. “I love riddles, but I see you are not blessed with a similar sense of humor. As I'm sure you have surmised, you are here at the invitation of my grandmother, the greatest sorceress ever known.” He looked at each of them in turn, speaking the next words with a dramatic flourish. “Morgan le Fay.”

Jethro remained unimpressed. “No doubt she will explain the reason for her invitation when you take me to meet her.”

“I expect she will. She is not here at present, however.”

Jethro's brows drew together in annoyance. More games? “We've been summoned here by someone we've never met, for an unspecified reason. And she can't make the effort to be here to meet us?”

“You should be groveling in delight at the prospect of meeting her, no matter how long you must wait.”

“You'll excuse me if I manage to contain my delight.”

Iago's eyes narrowed and Jethro sensed him battling to get his temper under control. For a moment the outcome hung in the balance. Then Iago burst out laughing. Clapping Jethro on the back—
do that again and you'll lose that hand, you trickster bastard
—Iago became the genial host once more. “My instructions are to make you welcome. You are my honored guests until my grandmother's return. Rest assured, you are safe here on Avalon...until she decrees otherwise.”

Chapter 15

I
t was like stepping back in time, Jethro couldn't help thinking. As if the centuries between King Arthur's rule and the modern day had never passed. Avalon remained suspended in another era. Iago's two companions were servants clad in doublet and hose. They led them to a group of horses and helped them to mount.

“We lead a simpler life here,” Iago explained as they rode through cobbled lanes and past quaint, thatched cottages. “The earth-born would scoff and try to tell you their life today is preferable. They would cite modern medicine and advances in technology. But such arguments ignore the truth. Times were happier when magic was accepted as reality. When the barrier between Otherworld and the mortal realm was nonexistent and the cure for illness and unhappiness rested in the hands of the fae. The Seelie and Unseelie courts decided the fate of the earth-born, even in the time of Camelot.”

The road they followed wound up above the fishing village and toward the castle they had seen from the ocean. Aydan's voice was low as he spoke to Jethro. “I don't know enough about Morgan le Fay. Was she faerie or witch?”

“I don't think anyone knows for sure if she was either or both. Morgan was the daughter of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall and his wife, Igraine. Her sister was Niniane, the infamous Lady of the Lake. When Uther Pendragon fell in love with Igraine, Merlin—as Cal was known in those days—used his magic powers to disguise Uther as Gorlois. In his disguise, Uther seduced Igraine and Arthur was conceived. Uther went on to kill Gorlois, marry Igraine and hand Arthur over to Merlin to be raised as the future king of the Britons and founder of Camelot.”

Aydan gave him a sidelong glance. “Is it just me, or does Cal not come out of that story well?”

Jethro laughed. “It was another time, another place. The mortal realm needed a strong leader. Cal was given the task of ensuring it got him. Cal doesn't speak of it, but I think he did what he had to do to make sure King Arthur was born and, more importantly, that he had the right parents.”

“The right parents?” Aydan looked surprised. “If King Arthur was to be brought up by Merlin, did it matter who his parents were?”

“Unless Cal decides to reveal all, I'm just guessing, but I believe Igraine must have had some strong magical powers of her own. Both her daughters were incredibly powerful sorceresses. There has never been any suggestion Arthur had magical powers, but his ability to draw others to him was legendary. Who knows whether that was something more than mortal charisma? On his father's side, he inherited Uther's strength. Uther was a king, a brave and noble warrior, a man who was prepared to fight for what he held to be right. No, I think Cal chose Arthur's parents carefully.”

“You know a lot about the story of King Arthur.” Aydan lowered his voice again. They were approaching the castle itself now and Iago glanced over his shoulder as though inviting their admiration.

Jethro grinned, feeling somewhat sheepish as he disclosed the truth. “I've always been fascinated by the legends surrounding Camelot. I have to confess I was starstruck when I first met Cal. Dare I admit that, even though I know him so well now, I'm in awe of the great Merlin Caledonius? And, although I've heard all the warnings about Avalon, a tiny part of me, the part that was a boy reading the stories of Arthur's life under my bedclothes by flashlight, is thrilled to be here.”

“This is not what I expected.” Vashti, who had been riding behind them in silence, listening to their conversation, spoke up suddenly. Jethro shifted slightly in the saddle so he could look at her. Vashti's eyes were fixed on the vast walls of the castle.

“What did you expect?” Jethro moved his horse closer to hers.

“I don't know. Darkness and danger, I suppose. Not beauty and light. Everything I have ever heard about Avalon led me to believe it would be a hateful, evil place.” Vashti indicated the beautiful, whitewashed castle. “It's not.”

“It's almost as if the noble court of Camelot has been recreated here on Avalon.” Aydan's words resonated deep inside Jethro, striking a new note, something he didn't recognize but that was achingly familiar. Like a memory of the unknown or homesickness for a place he had never been.

“Perhaps that's true.” Their little cavalcade was pausing now at the castle gates. “Although Morgan spent many years fighting against Arthur, there had been a fondness between them once. They weren't raised together. When they met as adults, they fell deeply in love. They had a relationship and a son together. Some stories say Morgan knew of their relationship while Arthur, who was much younger, did not. When he discovered the truth, he was devastated and refused to have anything more to do with her. They became sworn enemies from then on and Morgan was banished from Camelot.”

Jethro looked up at the iron portcullis that was being slowly raised so they could enter. A cold finger of dread tracked its way down his spine and he would have given anything in that moment to have been able to grab Vashti's hand and walk away from that place. Forget walking. If he could, he'd have run as though the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels. Yet that eagerness he'd spoken of was still there, drawing him onward. He'd never felt so conflicted. It was as if he was being pulled apart by opposing forces and neither of which was what he wanted. “Tintagel, the Cornish castle that was Gorlois's stronghold, later became the court of Camelot. It was the place where Morgan and Niniane were raised. I suppose she has tried to recreate her childhood home here on Avalon.”

Lisbet, who had been trailing behind the group, urged her horse forward now so she could ride alongside Jethro. It meant they rode into the courtyard first with Vashti and Aydan bringing up the rear. Jethro recalled Vashti's comments about Lisbet's obsession with him. He wondered if Vashti would see Lisbet's action as deliberate, as though it had some sort of symbolism. Might Vashti be annoyed at being relegated into second place? She was a princess, after all, although she never flaunted her royal status.

“You look almost exultant,” Lisbet commented. “Is your interest in King Arthur really so strong?”

Jethro looked around him as they entered the castle courtyard, sensing Morgan le Fay would have left nothing to chance. This is how Camelot would have looked and felt. Down to the last detail. He knew it was true. Exultant? It wasn't the first word that came into his mind, but maybe a tiny part of him felt it. “I suppose it must be.”

“Yet this is where he died. It is the home of the evil sorceress who did her best to destroy him.” Her eyes, those strange, dark eyes, challenged him and he wondered, not for the first time, what Aydan saw in her. Lisbet was high-maintenance, while Aydan was pleasant and easygoing. They were an oddly matched couple. Her words seemed to have a hidden meaning and he couldn't fathom what response she was trying to elicit from him. Was it her version of flirting?

“She also tried to save him. He was brought here to Avalon because, if anyone could heal him, it was Morgan. By all the accounts that were written, she was distraught and really did try, but the blow Mordred dealt him during the battle proved fatal.” Was he defending Morgan le Fay?

“So King Arthur died in the arms of his half sister, the only woman who ever truly loved him.”

“I think I've read just about everything there is on the subject, but I never read that he died in her arms.”

“Ah, you are not the only one who knows your Arthurian legends.” Lisbet's smile was teasing. “Admit it. It makes for an almost happy ending. A remorseful Morgan, unable to save King Arthur's life, cradles her dying brother to her breast as his life slips away. Desperate to preserve him, she casts a spell that keeps him suspended in an enchanted sleep until she is able to find a cure. Then she buries him here on the Isle of Avalon, swearing she will one day discover a way to bring him back to life.”

“You are being somewhat creative with the truth. Legend states only that Arthur
may
lie here, ready to rise again when the world needs him. No one knows for sure.”

“Nevertheless, I prefer my version,” Lisbet teased, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “So much more romantic, don't you think?”

In the style of all great medieval dwellings, this was a castle within a castle. Inside the outer walls there was a luxurious, fortified keep, the home of the most noble family. Iago was dismounting in front of the entrance to this residence. Gesturing for his guests to do the same, he waited, a little smile dancing on his lips. Jethro was glad to move away from Lisbet. He always got the feeling he was missing some double meaning to her conversation, as if she was having a private joke at his expense. Or had Vashti made him paranoid with her comments about necromancer groupies?

“It is my pleasure to escort you into my home.” Iago bowed low. “Welcome to Camelot.”

* * *

Vashti faced Iago sometime later, unable to hide her belligerence. “What if I don't wish to follow your decree?”

Iago had sent a maid to wait on her and, out of the corner of her eye, Vashti saw the young woman wince and make an attempt to sidle away from the forthcoming confrontation.

Iago smiled. It was a pleasant enough expression, but his eyes remained hard. “It is not
my
decree. These are the orders of Morgan le Fay, ruler of this island. If they are not to your liking, you may leave now.”

Jethro, who could clearly sense the storm of defiance building in Vashti, placed a hand on her arm and answered for her. “We will wear what you wish.” Vashti muttered a furious protest. Pulling her closer to him, Jethro turned her away from the others so he could whisper to her and not be heard. “We need to choose our battles wisely while we are here.”

“I intend to.” She raised solemn eyes to his face. “I haven't forgotten what Iago did to you. I remember what we owe him.”

“So do I. He has told us we are safe until Morgan returns. I still don't trust him, but let's see where this leads us.”

His eyes reassured her he wasn't backing down from the fight. Their expression calmed her outrage at Iago's determination to control her, even down to the details of her wardrobe. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Very well.” She raised her voice enough to ensure the words carried across to Iago.

The trickster allowed himself a genuine smile this time. “I am so glad you have agreed. I chose your dresses myself with your perfect coloring in mind.” He indicated the gowns the maidservant held draped over her arm.

Resisting the impulse to shudder, Vashti pinned a smile on her face. “Let's get on with it.”

They were standing in the grand hall of the castle. It was a vast chamber, dominated by the inevitable, symbolic round table. The walls were hung with bright silks embroidered in the colors of different knights, presumably those of King Arthur's court. A huge number of people had congregated in the space. Although they all seemed interested in the new arrivals, a curious hush hung over the crowded room as though no one dared speak.

As she turned to follow the maidservant up a wide, central staircase, Vashti was conscious of dozens of pairs of eyes upon her. It wasn't exactly a new sensation. She was the daughter of the most notorious and attention-seeking man in Otherworld. She wasn't exactly an unknown herself. Yet this felt different. She instinctively knew she wasn't being watched for any reason that was about her. These people were observing her because someone else had plans for her. The thought unnerved her. Had Iago and Morgan shared their intentions with every other person on Avalon?
If we tried to escape, would each of these dumbstruck serfs carry out their masters' instructions and prevent us?
The weight of those silent gazes bored into her back as she reached the top and turned onto the gallery. Trusting Jethro's instincts, she continued along an unknown passage.

The maidservant, whose name was Ilsa, led her to a small but comfortable bedchamber. She placed a number of rich gowns on the bed. They were all in shades of blue ranging from deepest indigo through brilliant sapphire to palest powder. Their slippery silks and velvets were trimmed with brocade and lace and, in spite of her annoyance, Vashti ran her hand over the rich cloth in admiration.

“Why are there so many people in the hall?” She asked the words diffidently, pretending not to watch the girl's face closely as Ilsa hung the dresses in a huge oak closet that occupied most of one wall.

“They are here for the banquet, my lady.”

“What banquet would that be?”

“The banquet to celebrate your arrival.” Ilsa finished her task and turned to Vashti with a shy smile. “There has not been so much excitement here on Avalon for—” she frowned as if in an effort to remember, then she laughed “—I do not think there has ever been this much excitement here!”

“Why is that?”

Ilsa had a pleasant, open face and her smile was without guile. “We lead very simple lives.”

“No, I mean why should
our
arrival be the cause of such excitement?”

“Because you are such honored guests.” It had the rhythm of a rehearsed speech.

Vashti sighed. She had a feeling interrogating Ilsa would prove frustrating and fruitless. “I'd better get into one of those dresses.” She regarded the rich array of gowns with dislike. “Which one do you think I should wear for this banquet?”

Ilsa's eyes shone with pleasure. “I know exactly the one.”

Some considerable time later, having submitted to Ilsa's ministrations, Vashti descended the staircase once more. She was clad in a full-length velvet tunic in a brilliant shade of turquoise blue. The low-cut, square neckline and long, tight sleeves were edged with jewels and the waist was clinched with a matching jeweled belt. The wide skirts swept the floor as she walked.

Ilsa had pursed her lips over Vashti's hair. “It is the fashion to wear waist-length plaits.”