The Iron Wyrm Affair

“Who?”

The first Prussian screamed.

After that, the gryphons feasted. But Clare gratefully closed his eyes, finally able to cease deducing. The inside of his skull felt scraped clean and queerly open. For once, he did not want to see.

The sounds were bad enough.

Chapter Forty The Need Was Dire

Britannia’s vessel halted a fair distance away. “Emma?” Abruptly, Victrix sounded very young. Perhaps it was all the dust in the air. Or perhaps it was the ringing in Emma’s ears.

She suspected she would pay for this episode very soon, and in bloody coin.

The gryphons pressed forward. They had made short work of the brown-coated mercenaries, and in the courtyard was a vast wreck of metal and glass she had only indirectly glimpsed as she struggled to keep the brain- stabbed gryphon in the air. It seemed Clare and company had endured their own travails.

“Your Majesty.” She swayed, and suddenly Mikal was at her side. His fingers closed around her arm, and she leaned into that support, too exhausted to be grateful. She felt nothing but a vast drowning weariness. “I murdered one of your steeds, Britannia. You may punish me as you see fit. However, before you do, I beg leave to report that the Earl of Sellwyth is dead and Vortigern still sleeps. Your steeds had most of the stopping of Lord Sellwyth. I did not serve them well.”

The body of the black gryphon – the knife, driven with exactitude into the tiny space between the back of the skull and the top vertebrae – bubbled as it rotted swiftly, the stresses endured by its physical fabric as she forced it to fly for Londinium with its fellows in hot pursuit unravelling it.

The gryphons would not be able to eat their brother, and that was the worst that could befall one of their number.

They would not forgive her for this.

“Lord Sellwyth.” The Queen’s face was bruised, but granite-hard. Britannia settled fully into Her vessel and regarded Emma with bright eyes, glowing dust over a river of ancient power. “He sought to awaken Vortigern.”

I am not certain he was the only one who sought to do so. I do know he almost succeeded. “I caught him at Dinas Emrys. Which is, I believe, part of his family’s ancestral holdings.” She fought to stay conscious, heard the queer flatness of her tone. Eli appeared on her other side, looking sadly the worse for wear. “I beg your pardon for the method of my return, but the need was dire.”

Where is Clare? She glanced at Mikal, who stared at Britannia, a muscle flicking in his jaw. I do not like that I cannot see him. And Ludovico, where is he? The knife in her right hand dangled; she could not make her fingers unlock from the hilt.

A Word to steal the gryphon’s breath, another Word to snap iron bands about its wings, and she had driven the knife into its brain and uttered the third Word, the most terrible and scorching one of all, expending so much of her stored sorcerous force she almost lost consciousness, holding grimly on to one single thought. Londinium. Find the Queen.

And the dead body had obeyed the Endor in her. It had flown.

“So it was. We shall inform you of any punishment later.” The Queen nodded, slowly. “We do not think it will be too severe.”

“Blasphemy!” one of the gryphons howled. They rustled, pressing close, and Mikal tensed next to Emma. She leaned into him even further, for her legs were failing her and even the dim, dust-choked light in the Hall was too scorch-bright for her sensitised eyes. “She robbed the dead! ”

I did so much more than that. The beasts will not forgive this, and their memory is long. “Mikal.” Her heart stuttered, her body finally rebelling against the demands she had placed upon it. “Mikal.”

He bent his head slightly, his eyes never leaving the Queen. “Emma.”

He would kill Britannia Herself, did he judge Her a threat to me. The realisation, quiet but thunderous, loosed the last shackle of her will.

“I have been cruel to you.” The whisper was so faint, she doubted he heard her. “I should not have … Forgive me.”

“There is no—” he began, but darkness swallowed Emma whole.

Chapter Forty-One Amenable to Control

“And this is the killer of that gigantic thing.” Victrix inclined her head. “We are grateful, Mr Valentinelli. You performed a great service to Britannia.”

The Neapolitan swept a painful, creaky bow. Both his eyes were swollen nearly shut, half his hair singed off, and his face was such a mass of cuts and welts it was difficult to see the pox scars. His clothes were in ribbons, and one of his boots was nothing more than a band of leather about his ankle and calf, the rest of it cut away and the stocking underneath filthy and draggled. “It is nothing, maestra. Valentinelli is at your service.”

Clare’s neck ached. The tension would not leave him. “Cecil Throckmorton. He was mad, Your Majesty, but he was also used.”

“Used by whom?” The Queen half turned, pacing away, and Clare forced his legs to work. He and Sigmund held each other like a pair of drunks.

The smaller gryphons took wing, their shadows pouring over the glass- and rubble-strewn floor. The sound was immense, a vault filled with brushing feathers. The dust was settling.

Clare suppressed a sigh. But this was important; he must make the Queen understand. “There were three parts to this conspiracy. Miss Bannon dealt with those who wished Britannia and the Isle erased from existence; she judged that the larger threat. One part of the conspiracy simply wished Britannia inconvenienced, however they could effect that – I would look to the Prussian ambassador, who will no doubt deny everything, since they were mercenaries and, by very dint of that, expendable. The third part of the conspiracy troubles me most, Your Majesty. It wished you, personally, Britannia’s current vessel, under control.”

“Control.” Victrix paused for a moment. Her shoulders came up, and she stalked for the high-backed Throne, the Stone of Scorn underneath its front northern leg shimmering soft silver as she approached. The Throne itself, undamaged, gleamed with precious stones.

It looked, Clare decided, dashed uncomfortable. But Victrix climbed the seven steps, turned sharply so her dust-laden skirts swirled, and sat. Sigmund might have gone up the steps as well, but Clare dug his heels in, and was strong enough to make him stop.

Victrix propped one elbow on the Throne’s northern arm, rested her chin upon her hand. The Guards searching through the rubble for wounded compatriots were hushed, muttering among themselves. Men moaned in pain or shock. The Queen closed her eyes, and Clare could have sworn he felt the entire Isle shiver once as Britannia, enthroned, turned Her attention inward.

“And do you think,” the Queen finally said, “that Britannia is amenable to control? ”

“Not Britannia,” he corrected, a trifle pedantic. “Victrix, Your Majesty. Wounded, frightened, faced with three conspiracies working in tandem? Your Majesty might well rely on … improper advice.”