“Yes.”
“No.”
They turned at the sound of Griffyn’s voice. For he first time since he he’d learned of her betrayal, he was looking at her, and he didn’t break his gaze, even when he said, “Leave us, fitzMiles. She’s not marrying you.”
Gwyn reached out. Her fingers brushed his arm. “Oh, but Griffyn, I must. They’ll hang you if they find out about Eustace.”
“There is nothing for you here, Marcus,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “There’s never been anything for you here. And fitzMiles,” he added, shifting his gaze to Marcus’s flushed face, “by this treason, you’ve forfeited the lands you hold of Everoot. I disseise t
hee.”
Marcus laughed hoarsely, a little wildly. “Henri fitzEmpress will simply grant me others.”
Griffyn’s face hadn’t changed during the entire interchange, but Gwyn saw the slightest ripple disturb it now. “That will not be my doing,” he said softly. “And I answer for my deeds alone.”
The mask settled back. His gaze swept to Alex. “If his men haven’t left the hills in twenty minutes, kill them all.”
He turned on his heel. Gwyn stared around her at the shocked, helmed faces, then took a step to follow him off the field.
But Marcus, master chef of intrigue, had one last sotelty to reveal, one last spectacular, complicated dish to add to this meal of madness Gwyn had helped him deliver to their doorstep.
“You’ll never get it open, Sauvage,” he called to Griffyn’s back. “I have one of the keys.”
Gwyn’s heart dropped, if possible, another yard. It would be through the gates of Hell soon, where it belonged.
Griffin turned. Marcus lifted a chain from around his neck and held it in the air. On it hung a steel key. Gwyn gasped. She almost leapt forward to snatch it.
Just then, Griffyn lifted a chain from around his own neck. “You mean this?” he said, no inflection in his voice. And from his chain dangled a key, too.
Two keys in fact, one black like iron, the other silver like steel. Marcus’s eyes flew wide, then narrowed. He whipped to his right, where de Louth stood, his captain. De Louth closed his eyes briefly.
“You bastard,” spat Marcus, the truth dawning in a low, audible hiss. “You had a copy made, when you picked up the chain.”
Griffyn met de Louth’s eyes. “Your daughter: you should send her to me now. Come yourself, if you choose. You have a livery here for life.”
Then he turned and walked off.
All around her, the huge Sauvage destriers started to move forward, pushing Marcus’s forces back up the hill.
She shivered and hurried to Griffyn’s side. “What is it? What does Marcus have?”
“A vessel,” he said tonelessly.
“No,” shouted Marcus to his back. “Guinevere is the Vessel. God’s truth, didn’t you know?” He gave a bark of mad laughter, and Griffyn drew to a halt. “At least my father taught me that much. The women who tend the roses are the Vessels. But that you don’t know that?” He laughed again. “That means you haven’t found the Hallows, yet, have you?”
Griffyn started walking.
Gwyn stared at Marcus’s unfolding fury and madness. He stood, boot atop his helm, one arm crossed over his chest, the opposite elbow resting on his wrist, fingers pressed into his unkempt beard. Motionless. Smiling. “What Hallows?” she demanded.
He grinned. “Your father’s little chest, Gwynnie? Remember that?”
Griffyn’s step hitched.
“Your Griffyn wants it, Gwyn,” Marcus called out, still grinning. “Badly.”
“Please, Griffyn,” she said, catching up to him again. “Let me go to him. ’Twill be madness if I stay. Every time you look at me, you’ll remember. Every word I say will be suspect. Let me go.”
He down looked at her from his cold, terrible heights. “No.”