Only when the sun began to drop toward the horizon did Morgan rouse himself to leave. Collecting his gelding, he rode to his next destination, the placid, silvery bowl of a shining lake surrounded by a peaceful forest. Dismounting, he walked to the edge of the shore and knelt on one knee. The most ancient Powers of the world were due such courtesies.

The surface of the lake remained untroubled and serene, but the air around him acquired a listening attitude.

He had come as a supplicant, so he bowed his head. He said, “I would seek justice in his name. Will you let me borrow it for a short while, my lady? For his sake?”

Silence greeted his request for so long, he almost gave up and left. Then, as the gloaming twilight stole over the scene, a graceful, powerful woman’s arm rose out of the darkening water.

In her hand, she held a long sword sheathed in a scabbard worked with jewels and incantations.

Morgan’s heart rose to his throat. He stood as the woman’s arm flexed and threw the sword. It sailed end over end to him.

Plucking it out of the air, he bowed to the Lady of the Lake, and promised, “Thank you, my lady. I will return it very soon.”

The arm sank down below the water’s surface, and after the ripples died down, the surface was smooth and as placid as before.

Morgan watched and waited until the last of the ripples had died down, paying due tribute to the Lady of the Lake. When he turned away, his purpose settled like a dark mantle across his shoulders. Fastening the belt of the scabbard around his waist, he mounted his horse.

Revenge and justice.

It had taken far too long, but now he would have them both.

The summer palace of the Light Fae Queen was a lighter, more elegant affair than her castle, a place meant for dalliances, art and music festivals held along the seashore, and evening regattas with golden witchlights on sailboats shining on midnight blue water.

The city surrounding the palace was larger than the town by the castle. Morgan left the gelding in a safe location, in a nearby clearing by a stream. Then he strode to the city gates.

They were closed and barred. Frightened faces looked out of the peepholes on either side. The captain of the watch called out to him. “We heard rumors you may have survived the calamity that befell the castle, my lord.”

Calamity was as good a word as any, he supposed.

He pointed at the gates. “Open them.”

“I-I have orders to k-keep them closed at all costs,” the captain stammered. “Please forgive me, my lord!”

The captain’s name was Bruin, Morgan knew. He had a wife and a child.

Morgan told him softly, “Run. Spread the word. Tell everyone to run while they can. I will not leave a single stone standing in this place. It’s more warning than any of you gave my people, and more mercy. Eventually you might rebuild again, but on this day, I will kill anybody who opposes me. Go.”

The captain hesitated, then his face disappeared from the peephole, and a moment later, the guards threw both gates wide open, abandoned their post, and ran.

Morgan strode down the main street into the city. Reaching deep for the earth magic, he caused the ground to shake. Terrified people raced past him, clutching babies, children, and random household goods. Buildings began to collapse around him.

When he reached the outside steps of the palace, more guards appeared.

These were higher in seniority than the guards at the gate, and a few were proficient magic users. Looking doomed, they threw spells at him—fiery morningstars and other offensive spells.

But Morgan wore his hate like a carapace, and he had forged it with magic. Their spells sizzled harmlessly against his shield. Conserving his personal energy, he used his array of weaponized jewels in return, throwing them in swift succession.

Spells of blindness hit the palace guard, along with death curses, flesh corrosion, morningstars, charms of confusion, and incantations of havoc that made them fight each other, until they were soon overcome.

Catching sight of a palace captain, Morgan cast a whip of magic around the other man’s throat and forced him to his knees. He asked, “Where is she?”

The man’s eyes bulged as he clawed uselessly at his own throat. “My lord, I don’t know. I swear it.”

“Oh, let him go,” Modred said from the top of the palace steps. “You were never one to take your anger out on battle fodder, anyway.”

Morgan looked up. Modred descended the steps at a leisurely pace. He wore his ensorcelled battle armor that shone bright silver in the sun. He looked heroic, handsome, and he held his drawn sword relaxed at his side.

Morgan’s entire focus narrowed. He had waited centuries, hoping he might get the chance for this one moment.

Releasing his hold on the palace captain’s throat, he told the man, “I will give you the same chance I gave the others. Go tell the palace servants and guard to run while they can.”

Coughing, the captain scrambled to his feet and raced up the stairs past Modred, who never bothered to watch him go.

As Modred reached the bottom of the steps, Morgan turned to face him. “Where is she?”

“Gone to a hiding place you know nothing about,” Modred replied. “She used you like a tool, but she never trusted you. She always knew better than that. She left me behind just in case.”

“Foolish of you not to go with her.” Morgan began to circle around the other man, leisurely stalking his prey.

“Well, what can you do.” Modred looked ironic, while he turned to keep facing Morgan. “When we heard rumors circulating that people had seen you leave the castle alive, neither of us believed it. She was, after all, the one who had stuck the knife in your heart, and I had watched her do it. The Hounds had deserted, but that was no surprise, since you weren’t around to keep them in control. So here we are. It’s been a long road getting here, hasn’t it?”

“You killed my boy.” The raw words burned Morgan’s mouth. “My good, kind, just king.”

“Of course I did, you fool,” Modred said. “What else did you expect? For Isabeau to truly solidify her hold on her new kingdom, she had to eradicate the humans who lived here in Avalon. As short-lived as you were, you multiplied like vermin. Besides, he wasn’t good enough to vanquish me. I was the better swordsman.”

“You’re not better than me.” Morgan drew the sword from its scabbard.

Modred’s gaze fixed on the blade and widened. He whispered, “Now, that’s a sight I had not expected to see again in my life.”