Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nyneve
Asoft knock sounded at the front door of the cottage. Nyneve cracked one eye open, hoping that it was just the wind so she wouldn’t have to leave the cozy cot she’d set up in the front room.
Despite the ungodly hour, the knock came again, more insistent this time.
She let out a groan and threw off the blanket.
It had been kind of Galen to tell her to take the evening for herself; he’d taken one look at her after she’d returned from Morgana’s corridors and told her that she was about to drop dead on her feet if she didn’t actually rest. He’d even posted a parchment on the door directing people seeking care to the castle’s infirmary.
But she’d barely managed to get a wink of sleep, humming with too much excitement over the upcoming ceremony naming her the Queen’s Sorceress and Morgana’s offer of tutelage.
It felt like she was somehow—despite everything—still going to get all she’d ever wanted.
Nyneve grumbled to herself as she pulled on her boots.
Already fully dressed, she shoved a few stray curls out of her eyes and made her way to the door, reaching for the handle.
Her mind was too sleepy to even make any assumptions about what she might find as she swung the door open, but never in a thousand years could she have thought up the reality before her.
A tall, powerful body she would recognize anywhere leaned against the doorframe, hunched over, forehead resting upon one raised arm. In the torchlight, she could see his ragged breathing and dark waves of hair clinging to sweat-slick skin.
“Mordred,” Nyneve stammered.
“Nyneve,” he returned in a strained voice.
“What in the name of the Morrigan are you doing here?” she demanded, taking a step back.
“I . . .” he said, the single word an immense effort. Then he lifted his head, one hand gripping the doorframe, and turned to show her.
Nyneve gasped, hands flying to her mouth. His tunic was plastered to the tattered flesh of his back. Multiple lashes dealt by a cruel whip made a battlefield of his moonlight skin. Her usually iron-clad stomach turned when she saw how deep one wound went, exposing wet, gleaming fibers of muscle.
“Gods’ blood,” Nyneve cursed, reaching out to take him by the forearms. Steadying his large body was no easy task, but together, they slowly hobbled into the cottage. Nyneve kicked the door closed behind her and guided him to the large table in the front room.
“Put your weight against it,” she instructed, slowly taking her hands away.
His head still hanging to his chest, Mordred gave her a quick nod to say he was stable.
Not wanting to waste a single moment, Nyneve dove for the supply chest, gathering clean linen, bandages, scissors, yarrow paste, needle and thread, and then finally the water pail beside the hearth.
Because Galen was in the infirmary, she could safely raise her hand and conjure a witchlight overhead instead of relying on weak candlelight.
“Just one more moment,” Nyneve promised, stretching one of the linens across a nearby chair. Hesitating for a heartbeat longer than she would with anyone else, she tilted his chin up with one hand, looking into his eyes. No dilation, only a glassy sheen. Good.
“Mordred,” she said, her tone grave. “Any enchantments or poisons? Particularly on the whip itself?”
“No,” he grunted, eyes sliding away from hers. “Not anything relevant.”
She tightened her grip on his chin. “Mordred.”
“Enchanted for maximum pain,” he admitted, his breath shuddering through his chest.
“Great goddesses,” Nyneve breathed, releasing him.
When she wiped her hands off on her apron, she found her fingers were shaking.
She took a deep breath, not understanding why black spots swarmed her vision, as though this were her first time attending to severe wounds.
“I need to get your tunic off, all right? I’m going to cut it so you don’t need to move. ”
Mordred nodded his permission, and Nyneve grabbed the scissors, cutting the garment down the center of his chest. The blood and sweat soaked into the cloth made her throat close off even as she dropped it to her feet.
“Can you get to that chair?” Nyneve asked, her hands wrapping around his forearms.
Gritting his teeth, Mordred nodded. Carefully, she guided him to sit in it backward so she could access his entire back. Beneath the witchlight, the wounds looked so, so much worse. A complicated tangle of feelings churned in her chest.
“Mordred, this is going to hurt,” Nyneve warned in her even, frank healer’s voice. “I have to clean and dry your wounds to know how to help you. I can’t use a charm for it. I need to see the extent of the damage first.”
He still didn’t speak, only offering her a terse nod.
She took a deep breath and went to work as gently as she could, beginning to flush the lash marks with water.
For the first time in the few moons they had known one another, she saw the faerie knight react to pain.
He cursed softly when she patted his wounds dry, fingers curling into the back of the chair so hard his knuckles went white.
Nyneve did not know why it made her want to cry.
But she shoved her feelings away like any good physician would, stepping back to evaluate his injury.
Fey or not, these wounds would take moons to heal.
The slightest movement could disrupt any stitches she placed.
Sleeping would be a nightmare. Keeping his entire back bandaged and clean posed an enormous challenge, any failure easily leading to infection.
Even if she and Galen provided only the most excellent care, without magical intervention, Mordred would be incapacitated for some time—most certainly enough time to solidify her position as the Queen’s Sorceress without interference. She told herself to take the advantage.
Something in Nyneve’s chest pulled taut as she stepped around the chair to face Mordred. She opened her mouth, commanding herself to wield the severity of his injury against him like a broadsword. But no words came out, even as hot tears pricked her eyes.
Then he raised his head to meet her gaze, and any conviction she might have retained blinked out like a dead star.
“I am sorry, Nyneve,” he murmured, his breath labored. “I did not know where else to go.”
All the world seemed to hang still. She held her breath, ears ringing, as an aching melody from someone’s nighttime lute-playing slipped beneath the front door, its low, slinking notes looping around her throat.
Fisting her hands into her skirts, Nyneve ordered herself to tell Mordred that he was one of Camelot’s knights and she one of its physicians.
Of course he would come here, and of course it would mean nothing at all.
Instead, she lifted one hand and brushed the faerie knight’s damp hair away from his clammy skin. His eyes slid to hers, something gentle in his expression that she could not look directly at, lest it break her heart.
“Why didn’t you heal yourself?” Nyneve asked in a shaking whisper.
“You know why,” he murmured, a shiver wracking his body. “You saw it. When you set my rib. I had to let you in. I opened the door too wide.” He paused, swallowing hard. “There is nothing within me but death.”
Suddenly, the Druid girl had the strangest feeling that she was born to save this broken, beautiful changeling knight every godsdamn time Fate dared to lay Her hands upon him.
For a long moment, she just stood there dumbly, her hand in his hair as her entire body trembled.
Then she nodded—to him or herself, she could not be sure—and let her fingers slide out of his dark waves.
The loss of her touch drew a low exhale from Mordred that made her lungs strain.
Trying to drown the confusing intensity of emotion tangled in her heart, Nyneve grabbed a stool and settled in front of the knight’s back.
“I don’t know how long this will take,” she admitted.
“Try to stay awake, if you can. If you absolutely can’t, tell me, so I can try to get you up on the table instead. ”
He nodded, a ragged sigh escaping his mouth. Then the Druid girl fought to steady herself, holding out her hands so both palms hovered above his ruined back. She let her Threads reach for his and began to identify the precise nature of the damage, which was quite extensive.
Nyneve was not sure how long she worked into the night, weaving healing charms as she stitched the flayed flesh back together with her magic.
More than once, she pulled on too much strength, coming up against the thorn-harsh edge of the binding, despite the benefic nature of her workings.
But however much pain it inflicted upon her, Nyneve knew it was nothing compared to what Mordred was feeling.
And for reasons she could barely comprehend, that made her keep going.
Working from the deepest wounds to the more superficial ones, she poured out a considerable amount of power—more than she thought she’d ever offer to anyone, let alone Mordred Pendragon—until she was limp, sweat drenching her back even though the evening was cool and the fire had long since gone out.
When the final wound closed, she tried to stand and pitched hard to one side, barely managing to grab the edge of the table for support. Mordred moved so quickly it might have startled her if she’d had energy left, one hand catching her by the waist.
“Thank—” she breathed before she remembered, pulling a handkerchief from her apron to dab at her forehead. “I appreciate that you caught me.”
“I appreciate you,” Mordred replied in a low voice. She didn’t dare look up at him. Not when he was so close that she could smell the woodsmoke and damp leaves on him, stupidly intoxicating.