“Angmar,” Mordred said in a voice like ice as he pulled on his boots, “stay here.” The dragon hissed in protest, his tail writing in his distress so that the boy could hear it colliding with the walls of the chamber below his feet. He was silenced with a look, colder still, and withdrew his head from the trapdoor to sulk atop his treasure pile. His great blue eyes, with pupils like slits staring up reproachfully at his faerie’s feet. Tugging on the buckles, Mordred ignored him, blocking out the remaining ghosts of protests, before he got to his feet and closed the wooden hatch. Silence. He looked every inch the royal baron clad in supple leather and rich cloth, wearing it with an effortless casual kind of grace. Grabbing his bag from the bed, he hoisted it onto his shoulder, checking his reflection briefly in the mirror, before leaving his suit of rooms and making for the nearest staircase. The soft soles of his boots allowed him to move down the spiralling staircase silently, his long fingers caressing the wood of the banister rail as he went. He had waited so long to meet Gwythr, his maker, the God who lived in the nightmares of so many, dangerous and now, trapped. It would be a test, to stand before him with a mask in place, but Mordred was sure that it was one he was more than prepared to meet.
He came to a halt at the top of the stairs that lead away from the door and down into the courtyard, his blue eyes settling first on the figure in black by the railings. Mallos was as enigmatic as ever. The girl received Mordred’s attention only briefly. He moved again, taking the steps in his fluid gait until his boots crunched against the pebbled floor. As he closed the gap between himself and the two original faeries he seemed hesitant and a little nervous, though he managed to return his father’s smile well enough with a small one of his own. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied, “wasn’t exactly how I imagined spending my afternoon.” The smile transformed subtly, changing from one of amusement into one tinged with bitterness. It was not that he resented having to take the journey, his mouth said silently, it was the man who waited for him at the other end. How else was a boy to feel when he was told he was to meet his mother’s rapist? The man who had deprived him of the golden childhood he should have had and condemned him to years with a mocking, unloving mother? There was a tightness to his shoulders too, a most unusual heaviness to him limbs, and when he made eye contact with Mallos again, it was with eyes widened in their pursuit for reassurance. In truth, the Spaniard was as much of a test as Gwythr, if not more so. He was one of the few people living who had seen Mordred make a mistake.
He took a step closer to Mallos, and took a deep breath, as if to steady himself and calm his nerves. “Thank you,” he said shyly, shuffling his feet, “for coming with me.”
|
|