With a tired yawn, she sat on the edge of her bed to lace up her boots. The bargain kiss she’d shared with Mordred haunted her dreams and now seemed to slink into her waking hours, her belly still warm and tight with all thatwant. If she were back home, she would take the knight by the hand and have her way with him. She’d always been like that, her interest hard and fast and all at once, and then utterly spent by the morning. Pity she could not just get Mordred Pendragon out of her head the wayshe’d done with everyone else who’d posed a distraction to her ambition.
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 wastrying.
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 againstthe 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.”
Chapter Twelve
Mordred
“AFey arrow nearly killed Arthur,” Guinevere said with a dangerous kind of calm, one hand shading her eyes from the sun. Despite her even tone, Mordred could see that her fingers shook. “And yet you bring menothing.”
He set his jaw. Rook danced beneath him restlessly, throwing his head up, frustrated by the group’s stillness. At Mordred’s left, Gawain cleared his throat and looked meaningfully in his direction. Palamedes sat astride his pearly Iberian stallion Qila, his expression drawn and troubled.
“My three best knights,” Guinevere continued, still as a statue, words hollow. “If you cannot bring me the assailant, how do you plan to fix this?”
“My queen,” Palamedes said, reining Qila to a halt beside Guinevere and her gray mare. “At this point, should we not negotiate with the Fey directly?”
From astride his chestnut mare, Gawain let out a grunt of displeasure. “Them, Palamedes,” the red-haired knight muttered, his gaze darting about the grassy meadow on Camelot’s southern side. “How many times do I have to tell younot to refer to Them by Their name aloud?” Before anyone could speak, Gawain continued. “But I do think it’s about time we bring the fight to Their doorstep. They threatened our king.”
“Is that wise?” Palamedes asked as a breeze tumbled up the hill, ruffling his dark curls. “To respond so aggressively?”
“No,” Guinevere said, only her lips moving. “No, we would be starting a fight we cannot win.” She let out a long sigh, one hand stroking Awen’s mane. “Besides, if They truly wanted to kill Arthur...” The queen trailed off, looking directly at Mordred.
He swallowed. “Then the arrow would have landed true,” Mordred confirmed, narrowing his eyes to peer into the sun-soaked horizon line. It did not matter that he had altered the path of the arrow; Ragrshydan would have anticipated such a thing. “If the High Court wanted to destroy Camelot and its king, They would simply do it.” That was not true—at least, not any longer. Perhaps ten-and-five years ago. But not now. Not anymore. Not with the iron the mortals had learned how to forge. Not with their advances in weaponry and their increasing capability in magic.
“Precisely,” Palamedes said, growing more animated with his excitement. “So send me as an emissary.”
Guinevere glanced over her shoulder. Mordred mirrored her movement instinctively, finding that the heavily armored group of knights Arthur had insisted upon was encroaching, nearly within earshot. Without a word, the queen closed her legs around Awen, sending the mare into a rambling walk.
“The message was clear,” Palamedes continued, Qila trotting forward a few steps to fall in line so the four could ride abreast. The late spring sun prickled Mordred’s shoulders unpleasantly. “The High Court doesn’t want Arthur advancing on the northwestern lands. But uniting the kingdom is Arthur’s foremost goal, and many of the leaders there have already elected to join us. It is clear we need to negotiate with Them.”
Mordred loosened Rook’s reins, and the massive destrier stretched out his neck, shaking his head, sending his braids flying. The knight glanced over at the queen and opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again.
