“My lady,” said the younger knight, meeting her gaze. “Hide in the stablemaster’s quarters. They are coming.”
Nyneve smiled, the wind tugging at her hair as she drew both daggers. “So we shall meet Them,” she said.
The Druid girl squashed the sticky fear unfolding in the pit of stomach, turned in the direction Lancelot had gone, and broke back into a run. She told herself she was going to the keep, where she might be the safest, where the infirmary would surely be filled to the brim with broken bodies, where every citizen ofCamelot was trained to go should something precisely like this happen.
But Nyneve knew she was going toward Mordred. She wondered if all she had ever done was go toward the faerie knight without even realizing it, Fatesongs looping like the tail of a snake.
Tightening her fingers around her daggers, Nyneve tried to empty her mind of such thoughts, creeping along the edge of the stable. From there, the citadel opened up before her, narrow houses lining the streets that wound up to the castle. On any other day, the lanes would be filled with playing children and bartering townsfolk and patrolling guards.
Today, the streets held nothing but terror and blood.
Without her baneful magic freed, Nyneve would never have stood a chance. Not when she stopped to help an elderly woman and a Fey warrior tried to pounce on her from a neighboring roof. Not when a pack of faerie hounds caught up with her, their jaws wide and saliva-slick. Certainly not when she rounded a corner only to find High King Ragrshydan astride a winged horse-like creature, his copper armor blackened with the blood of his victims.
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. “Itisyou. 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 tomeet 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 runningacross 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.”
