Chapter 35 #2
Nyneve froze, but the wind blew the wrong way.
The faerie king tipped his head back, pulling in a long scent of the air.
The High King stood in the middle of the market square, though it was nearly unrecognizable now.
A gust of wind rattled the broken stands, tugging at the clothing of the bodies strewn about the cobblestones.
But then the smoke parted for a moment and Nyneve glimpsed the tall towers of the citadel at Ragrshydan’s back.
She gritted her teeth. She would have to find a way past the High King.
“You smell familiar,” Ragrshydan drawled, his pale eyes sweeping across the square.
Nyneve swallowed. She was exhausted and drenched in sweat, her magic pushed to its limits already.
But gods, she wanted to see this faerie king suffer.
Her darker magics thrashed against her ribs and Nyneve let the currents rise until she felt she might drown. When Ragrshydan’s eyes fell on her, sharp as the strike of a sword, she stepped out into the deadly quiet of the square.
“Ah,” the High King said, reining his mount toward her. “It is you. The girl who has infatuated the Nameless One. He is my weapon to wield, little mortal.” He drew his sword, his horse spreading tattered, bat-like wings.
“My name,” the Druid girl hissed, “is Nyneve Or’Afon.”
The ground rumbled beneath her feet, the cobblestones splitting down the center. The rush of her own blood filled her ears—no, Nyneve realized. The rush of currents. Of waters. Of the underground rivers far, far below, where the old things slept.
A chasm opened beneath Ragrshydan. His beast shrieked, flapping its wings so hard that the resulting gust of wind knocked Nyneve to the ground. Her knee hit a piece of rubble hard, the pain splitting her concentration in two. The roar of the waters quieted as the High King bore down on her.
But then something hit Ragrshydan hard from the side.
As Nyneve dragged herself to stand, she recognized the dull black-green coat and seaweed-like mane.
She smiled through the pain, tasting blood, watching Rook circle the High King for another go.
The black mail-covered knight upon the kelpie’s back called out her name.
“I’m all right!” Nyneve shouted, leaning against the alley’s wall, fighting to get her breath back. Ragrshydan’s beast hissed at Rook, who shrieked in return, rising into a half-rear and striking out with his massive hooves.
To Nyneve’s shock, the High King wheeled his mount around and took off down the same wide path she had walked up to meet her Fate, that very first day in Camelot.
Without another thought, she ran toward Mordred, Ragrshydan’s decision making a little more sense when she saw Arthur, Lancelot, Gawain, and Palamedes come galloping into the square.
There were more knights in the distance, Nyneve could see, their swords drawn.
Arthur did not pause, urging his destrier past Mordred and Rook, Lancelot close behind him. When Gawain galloped through the square on his horse, too, Mordred unmoving as his eyes met hers, she understood.
“Go!” Nyneve shouted, pointing in the direction Ragrshydan had gone.
“I love you,” Mordred called, his eyes wild in the gloom.
Emotion closed off Nyneve’s throat. She braced herself against the tears gathering in her eyes. “And I love you,” she replied, her throat stinging as she raised her voice. “But Mordred, you must go. End this.”
He looked at her sadly, as if there was something she did not understand. Then more knights streamed through the square, and when the dust cleared, he was gone.
Once safely inside the keep, Nyneve dragged herself to the infirmary.
The wide stone room was filled with the wounded and the dead, the iron-sharp scent of blood turning her stomach as she rose up on her tiptoes to look for Galen.
Screams battered her ears. She was not entirely sure if the sound was coming from within the infirmary or outside the keep, or perhaps both.
But then her mind went quiet when she spotted a tall man with wild hair.
She had no shame in running across the packed infirmary, her bloodied knee be damned, to throw her arms around Galen.
“Gods, Nyneve,” the physician said, holding her tightly. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
She leaned back, tilting her chin up to look into his eyes. “I was so worried,” she said.
His heavy eyebrows furrowed as he examined her. “Does that knee require attention first?” he asked.
“No, no,” Nyneve said with a firm shake of her head. Not with the depth of the need all around her. Not when she could heal herself with magic when no one was watching too closely.
“Good,” Galen sighed, turning back to his worktable, bloodied supplies and empty tins of salve strewn about.
Nyneve would’ve kept it better organized for him, had she been here earlier.
“Before an old man like me forgets, Morgana wants you to know she has three trunks in Mordred’s chamber.
Do not ask me why. She was insistent this morning after the bells went off. ”
Nyneve narrowed her eyes, trying to remember why this was important. She was so tired. It was very possible her mentor had mentioned something about this in the event of an invasion. Morgana often expected everyone else to have a memory as perfect as hers.
“You know Morgana,” she said with a shrug.
“That I do,” Galen said, rubbing the side of his head.
He suddenly looked very old and very tired.
Nyneve repressed the impulse to get him away from this place of so much pain and death that it seemed to cling to the stone beneath their feet.
“Right. It does not look like it, but we mostly have things under control here. I have a number of compound fractures and serious wounds to care for, though, and without Elaine . . .”
The physician paused, pressing his mouth in a firm line. Nyneve drew in a deep breath, trying to keep her own tears at bay.
“Without Elaine,” Galen continued, “I need you here, Nyneve. I know you might wish to be at a certain knight’s side during times like these. But I need you.”
Nyneve nodded. As much as she’d wanted to steal a horse from the yard and join Mordred in his pursuit of the High King, the thought of Galen and all the injured people had stopped her, no matter how much it hurt.
Galen handed her a basket filled with assorted bandages and salves. “We ran out of beds here hours ago, so Guinevere has four rather seriously injured servants in part of her chambers,” he said. “Go take care of them so an old man doesn’t have to climb up the stairs, won’t you?
She smiled and took the basket. “I’ll take care of it,” she said.
Despite the pain and exhaustion in her body, she had work to do, and in a strange way, that settled her.
She took three steps away from Galen and then turned around, dropped the basket on the table, and threw her arms around the physician.
“I love you, Galen,” she mumbled into his tunic.
He laughed in surprise and embraced her. “I am rather fond of you, too, Nyneve.”
When she pulled away, Nyneve was surprised to find his eyes filled with tears.
“Go on,” he said, flapping his hands at her. “There is something in my eye.”
She did as he instructed, climbing the servants’ stairs and heading to the royal suites. Though Guinevere was absent, Lysanor was there, thankfully unharmed. Together, they tended to the injured, working well through the day. When Nyneve was satisfied, it had to have been well past midnight.
“Go rest while you can,” Lysanor said, brushing her shoulder.
“No news?” Nyneve asked, willing herself not to cry.
“No news,” the handmaiden replied. “But the citadel is secured. The Host has fled. If anyone can hunt down a faerie king and come back unharmed, I think you and I both know it’s Mordred.”
All Nyneve could do was nod and slip out of the royal chambers.
Her eyes bleary with sleep, she closed the doors quietly, her feet beginning to automatically carry her back to the cottage.
Grief washed over her when she remembered it had likely gone up in flames during the attack.
She paused, leaning against the wall and willing herself not to cry.
She’d just about gotten herself composed enough to head down to the infirmary when one knight and five monks came barreling up the stairs, dressed in full mail as if they were headed into battle.
Instinctively, Nyneve pulled her dagger from her belt and craned her neck to see where they were headed.
She almost opened her mouth to ask what was going on, but then, to her horror, the men came to a halt outside Morgana’s door.
Pressing herself against the wall to avoid the torchlight, she watched the one in front bang his fist on the door, demanding the sorceress open at once.
Her stomach roiled at the voice. Of course it was Bedwyr.
There could be a hundred reasons why Arthur’s knight and Merlin’s monks were at Morgana’s door, particularly after a Fey attack. Perhaps she was being unreasonable. Perhaps they had been sent to protect the royals’ quarters.
Any lingering doubt disappeared when Nyneve watched the monks break down Morgana’s door.
She let out a shout, running down the hallway as the men rushed into the sorceress’s room.
Her heart pounded as loud as her footsteps on the ground as she pushed her exhausted body far past its limits.
She burst into Morgana’s chambers to find Guinevere in her nightclothes, screaming at the knights who were attempting to restrain the sorceress. Nyneve’s heart plummeted to the floor.
“Unhand her!” Guinevere shouted, her voice breaking. “I am your queen!”