Chapter 11 #3
But that simply wasn’t an option, and Nyneve knew it, so she set her mind to more attainable victories.
Tying her hair back, she slipped out into the cottage’s front room, moving as quietly as possible to grab a pair of shears and a gathering basket.
Then she was through the door, blinking against the bright gleam of early morning sunshine.
Mist laced the gardens beyond the cottage, dew gleaming on damp leaves like little gems. She took a deep breath of the petrichor-heavy air, tinged by Camelot’s ever-present scent of metal, horses, and smoke, and tried to settle her racing mind.
She hoped the early spring storm hadn’t slowed Caedmon down too terribly. The Druids needed to know that the Elders’ suspicions were correct and the Fey were directly interfering in Arthur’s court. They needed to know how hard she was trying.
Nyneve let out a long sigh, digging her fingernails into the basket’s handle.
With Their long lives and seemingly limitless power, the Fey always seemed to be one step ahead, constantly conspiring in Their High Court.
Long before Camelot rose to enough prominence to warrant the Druids’ attention, the High Court had already granted one of its most central players magic—a rare thing, even in bargains, for the Fey to give mortals a taste of Their power.
A mortal she’d made a deal with. A mortal whose kiss she could still taste, all ambered honey and woodsmoke and ice-cold fury.
She dragged her hand across the back of her mouth, as if to wipe away the truth of what she’d felt in her body when their lips met.
She wished she tasted the blood of the binding’s fury instead.
Nyneve reached the chamomile plot a few moments later, her body still rife with ache.
The more widely used crops were all housed in the back of the physician’s garden, running up against the far edge of the wooded park.
Something gleamed, catching her eye, and she peered past the chamomile stalks, narrowing her gaze.
An arrow pierced one of the birches at the edge of the pleasure park. A simple enough thing, yet the cool chill of premonition—and the searing edge of fear—flared in her chest.
Nyneve left the basket and crept closer, sweeping her gaze around the surrounding area.
She saw no one. Perhaps some nobles were taking an early morning stroll in the park, but hunting there was strictly prohibited.
The tournament fields were on the other side of the citadel.
Her heart crept into her throat as she remembered the Fey arrow sailing through the feast hall.
When Nyneve reached the edge of the garden, her stomach plummeted and any hopes of a simple errant arrow evaporated. A falcon was pinned to the birch, its heart pierced. A familiar length of twine secured a small scroll of parchment to the bird’s leg.
“No,” Nyneve spat, breaking into a run despite the pain and exhaustion.
Her skirts tangled around her legs as she sprinted to the birch, tumbling to a halt.
Breathlessly, she ran her hands over the falcon’s cold body in a desperate search for life she knew she would not find.
Rage crackled in her chest as she pulled out the bird’s wing, looking for the tell-tale splotch of white on its inner feathers.
“Caedmon,” she confirmed to no one but herself.
Her hands shook with fury, her skin crawling beneath her linen garments.
She snapped the arrow and freed the falcon’s corpse, cradling Caedmon in her hands.
A quick, clean kill at least—otherwise he would have reverted to his human form, and she’d have a much more difficult task at hand.
Burying a falcon was easy. Burying the guilt wrapping its hands around her throat was another thing entirely.
She cupped Caedmon’s head in her hands, tracing the curve of his beak with her fingertips. She should’ve warned him. She should’ve told him about Mordred’s bargain-granted magic. But she’d been so exhausted, so wrung out by the day’s events.
Nyneve squeezed her eyes shut and sank to her knees, holding Caedmon’s falcon body against her chest. The sun climbed higher up the horizon, scattering golden light across her and the falcon corpse.
More proof that all she brought was death.
More proof that Uccu was right about her.
More proof that she’d never be able to handle her magic unbound.
She forced her eyes open, gaze drifting to the broken arrow shaft she’d dropped to the mossy ground.
With a heavy sigh, she turned toward it, though she knew there was little point in hoping for any other truth to present itself.
She’d known before she’d even reached the birch.
She’d known the moment she caught sight of the dark fletching glimmering in the early morning dew.
Nyneve swallowed, forcing herself to look at the arrow anyway. In the glorious sun, the blue-black crow feathers shimmered with iridescence, just like the ones she’d seen the page present to a black-armored knight at the tournament. She clenched her teeth.
“Mordred,” she spat into the dawn mist. “You’ll pay for this.”