The Cursed Blood, стр. 81

“The Warlock,” King Efferieal Rain answered softly, “did much damage before she escaped Camelot. Many have died. Quite horribly.”

“They deserved it,” I hissed before I was taken with a fit of coughing. Fresh memories like open wounds being salted flared raw in me welling up a bitterness and anger the likes of which I’d never felt before as each racking cough sent what felt like seeping lava through my back, leaving me breathless.

“Some did, yes… Others, did not,” King Efferieal Rain answered, a troubled and sad expression on his face as he studied me from over his shoulder. “The damage to your flesh, it is nothing to the damage done your soul should you think that all deserved the girl’s wrath. Now there is no excuse. She was untethered and still did great evil. It is why her kind are hunted as babes. Well before they have the power to unleash hellish denizens onto the mortal plains.”

“You’re no better than the worst of Darklings and Vraad and every other detestable cretin of the Races, Darkborn or not if you truly think that. Besides, I’d say a lifetime of torture, magical slavery, and imprisonment by one of your own kind has lent the girl some leeway, would you not agree?” Fazool retorted icily, his words causing a great warm spring of affection and appreciation to well up in my heart as the Wizard gave the Halfling Witch a cold, scathing look.

Surprisingly, after a moment of consideration, a thoughtful, pensive expression slipped over him and he nodded. “Perhaps,” he tentatively agreed, his silver eyes flashed, and he smiled gloomily. “That will not, however, protect her from the Darklings, Fey, or my brother Wizards who will now hunt her to the ends of Feydom.”

“Let them come,” I growled, and again I felt a cold settle over me as anger swelled and added its heat to the hurt, humiliation, and terror I’d suffered in Camelot’s dungeons. “I will hunt them. I will hunt them all if they lay a finger on her.”

Something very close to fear slipped over the Wizard’s demeanor as he wearily studied me, but the ghost of emotion slipped away and left him merely haunted and for a moment, silent. “There is another way. One that will not cause more blood to be spilled.” He eyed me a second more, then his expression softened, and he smiled almost warmly.

“You need time to heal. We will discuss it later. However, in the meantime I promise you this. She will not be harmed and shall enjoy my protection until we next speak. Then all will come down to you, young Benjamin Von Bright.” That said he turned and with swishing swirls of billowing silken robes, slipped from the room.

“I truly detest that Elf. He could make drinking poison sound delightful and harmless. Like adding honey to a nice cup of tea.” Aunt Milly glared after him and Fazool nodded in agreement.

Gramps just stood there, arms folded over his red and black flannelled chest and looked at me as though he had thought he had lost me forever before adding his own input. “I fear the highfalutin High King of Elves has plans for you, Ben. Plans you won’t easily escape with that promise you made him when you first met.”

I snorted, and sighed. What else was knew? Not only had I attached myself to a wizardly High King, but everyone else seemed to think that just me breathing gave them some right to dictate and demand things of my future that I had no interest in doing.

“What promise?” Aunt Milly asked uneasily. Gramps’ answer as I lay there silently with a sick feeling seeping over me left the Witch both pale and trembling. She stared at me when he was done, sobbed, and stalked out of the room most unsteadily.

“Where’s White Owl?” I finally asked in a croak. Gramps’ face screwed up, and Fazool wondered over to the woven wicker chair by my dresser and hopped on, his shiny black shoes with large polished silver buckles dangling a good four inches off the floor.

“He’s scouting after my son and his entourage that fled Camelot when Morgan escaped and loosed her powers on the city keep.” He shook his head angrily, a deeply troubled and disgusted look lining his face that looked like the last few days had aged him. “It was an ugly business. Evidently, there was a significant cache of Fiendfire hidden away and stored beneath the keep, likely somewhere in the dungeons. When Morgan attacked, the unstable stuff ignited. From what I’m told the damage is horrific. And my sons’ cowardice in running has left him disgraced and likely, dethroned. The whole mess is an international Feydom legal nightmare.”

“He escaped?” I asked, fear and anger bunching into my heart at the notion that the dangerous, unhinged man was alive and free.

“Oh yes,” Gramps spat bitterly. “The worm ran before she could get to him. Though there’s a strong possibility she still could catch up to him before we do. That is unless he hides behind his Wizard’s skirts in his tower in Chicago.” He seemed disappointed by both these possibilities, and I couldn’t begrudge him that in the least.

“How bad was it?” I asked apprehensively.

“Your Warlock girlfriend burned the keep to cinders and ash,” Gramps stated derisively, then looked thoughtful before adding, “Though I suppose given the circumstances we’re lucky she didn’t level the whole damned city while she was at it.” I had mixed emotions about this. I thought of the squires and servants, then I thought of our torture and my heart hardened.

“I’m just happy she’s alive,” I admitted.

“For now, you are perhaps,” Gramps advised sadly. “When she reaches her full powers, you may yet learn to regret feeling that way. When Merlin died, Morgana—the greatest of the Warlocks and who I admit was much like you—went mad and her power did great damage and evil in her quest