Isabeau angled out her jaw as she turned in a circle, looking at each piece of the scene.

“What is going on here?” she hissed. Her eyes were sharper, more clearly focused. Modred had brought her back on point.

Striding over to Morgan, she tore open his shirt and yanked off his bandages. The site of the wound, with the dark thick scab turning to scar and the black lines radiating outward, made her pause.

Behind her, Sidonie’s eyes widened with horrified compassion. He had never let her see what lay underneath the bandages.

And all the while Modred took everything in with a sharp gaze that missed nothing. His attention snagged on Sidonie’s expression and lingered.

Every muscle in Morgan’s body tightened, straining with the need to kill Modred, to switch off that bright, unrelenting mind forever. His Power built while the geas held him locked in place. His body heated, and sweat trickled down his spine.

“Start asking him, Izzy,” Modred urged, rubbing the edge of his mouth as his gaze remained on Sidonie. “Let’s see what he has to say. Be sure to make him tell the complete truth. I feel certain the tale must be fascinating.”

“Do as he said,” Isabeau snapped at Morgan. “Tell me what you’ve done since I last ordered you away. Don’t lie. Don’t prevaricate, and don’t try to misdirect me. Tell me everything.”

Everything.

Everything would reveal how he had healed Sidonie when she had been held in prison, and how Sidonie had worked with him and Robin to break him free of the geas so they could escape.

If he told Isabeau everything, Isabeau would kill her. Morgan’s life held some value for Isabeau, but as much as she liked Sidonie’s music, Sidonie wasn’t indispensable.

Finally he came to the end of a very long and lonely road. There was no further turn to take, and no way to go back.

The tale that told everything came down to just one thing.

I fell in love, he thought, and smiled. It was a miracle, and despite everything he had been through, he felt blessed with having been given such a fortune.

As he remained silent, Isabeau’s face distorted with rage. Flying at him, she hit him over and over. “Tell me! Tell me what you’ve done!”

He grew hotter, his Power grinding against the geas, and blood thundered in his ears.

Gritting his teeth, he said, “No.”

“You have to!” she shouted, hitting and slapping his face, his chest. “You have to tell me!”

He barely felt the blows. The pressure built in his chest. It felt like a heart attack, radiating out his left arm, while the geas pounded in his brain. As it forced his mouth open, his Power rose to meet it, and he stopped the flood of words from flowing.

“No,” he gasped.

Dimly he was aware of Sidonie shouting. At some point Modred had grabbed her again, and she struggled against his hold. “Stop it—you’re killing him!”

He had fought before against the geas, many times, and lost. This time he couldn’t afford to lose. The geas tried to wrench the words out, and he clenched down harder. Desperately, as he reached for anything he could pull strength from, he connected to the earth magic.

Digging deep, he drew hard on it. Something shifted down below, and with a great, yawning noise the floor in the great hall cracked.

“You have to do what I say. I command you.” Isabeau’s face had purpled, and blood vessels burst in the corners of her eyes from the force of her scream. “Otherwise what has been the point of this whole bloody nightmare! I’ll make you tell me!”

He was blinded to almost everything from the forces tearing him apart, except for Isabeau.

With a wrenching cry, she dragged Azrael’s Athame from the scabbard and then fell to her knees, as if she had tried to lift an unimaginable weight. Hunching over, she dragged herself to her feet.

Tears spilled over. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was being crushed from within.

Still he managed to whisper, “No.”

His final act would be one of his own free will.

“Then what use are you anymore?” she cried.

Baring her teeth from the effort, Isabeau thrust the knife into his heart.

* * *

The black blade hit home.

There was no mistaking it for anything but a mortal blow. Morgan’s expression changed; it was obvious he knew it too. Isabeau froze, staring at what she’d done.

Sidonie heard herself scream as if from a long distance away. She felt like her heart was being cut out of her chest.

Then Morgan’s face sharped with such ferocity, he no longer looked human. Grasping Isabeau’s hands as she gripped the hilt, he bared his teeth and roared at her. Light shone out from the entry wound in his chest, and a blast of boiling heat blew out across the room. Struggling against his grip, Isabeau shrieked in agony.

Gradually the light and heat faded. As they dimmed, all expression faded from Morgan’s features, until he almost looked peaceful. He fell in a sprawl.

Still howling, Isabeau stumbled back, holding up her shaking hands. They were withered and blackened like claws.

Modred abandoned his grip on Sidonie and raced to the Queen. Scooping her into his arms, he ran from the hall.

Sid barely noticed. All her attention was on Morgan.

He lay so still. She knew he was dead.

Despite that, she ran to him, fell to her knees, and clawed at the knife protruding from his chest. It was wrong, so wrong, and she had to get it out of his body. Someone was sobbing. Wait, that was still her.

As she pulled out the knife, everything around her shifted and darkened. It was the heaviest thing she had ever held, both icy and burning at once.

The hall darkened further, and she looked up.

She still knelt over Morgan’s body, but they were no longer in the great hall of the castle in Avalon.

They were in another hall altogether. It seemed to go on forever. The floor was made of black and white marble, and there were rows of black marble pillars. Between the pillars, tall black marble stands held huge vases of onyx filled with bloodred roses.

Sidonie’s breath scraped in her raw throat. It was the only sound she heard. Utter silence filled the hall. There wasn’t even the sound of a breeze.

Then she heard quiet, measured footsteps approaching.

A tall, straight figure walked into view. He wore plain, elegant clothes, and his eyes were green like summer leaves.

His face. She saw his face.

His face was the answer to a question she didn’t know how to ask.