The Cynosbythrae roared behind his ribs, rage sweeping through his body like a current. It was not safe with so many people near him, but he let the ink-black Threads wrap around the monk’s wrist, halting the man’s next blow. He pushed through the crowds toward the woman, fighting with the dark power that desperately wanted to tear the monk apart.
“You have harmed one of Camelot’s people!” Mordred roared, kneeling beside the woman. Someone cradled her head in their lap, another villager packing the deeper wound with a scarf. He looked down into her face, and his stomach dropped.
“Elaine?” he murmured.
“Mordred,” the healer sputtered, blood spilling from her mouth. “Get me... Galen.”
The villager packing her wound pulled back, looking at the knight. “Mordred,” they exhaled. “Thank the goddesses you’re here. Take her to Galen, fast as you can.”
The knight nodded as shouts broke out around him, the people screaming “Shame!” at the monks. With the villager’s help, he gathered the healer up in his arms. Someone else removed their belt once Elaine was off the ground, wrapping it around her abdomen to apply more pressure to the wounds.
“She means so much to us,” the villager said, gripping Mordred’s forearm. “Please.”
“I will do everything I can,” Mordred promised, shielding Elaine’s head from another rush of the crowd. “Nyneve is not...”
“No,” the villager replied. “Not today.”
He nodded shakily and then, looking for a safe way out, noticed three knights breaking through the crowd on the other side of the square and let out a small sigh of relief. Though he did not recognize the men from this distance, they should have no issue arresting a single monk.
Instead, the knights positioned themselves in front of the monks’ battle line, pointing their spearsatthe villagers. More knights pushed through the opening that the first three had created, taking up the same position.
“What are you doing?” Mordred screamed, holding Elaine tightly to his chest. “Protect the people! That is your fucking oath!”
But from their vantage, he was just another dust-covered, sweat-slicked commoner shouting at them. Rage and horror twisting in his stomach, he managed to break through to the side of the crowd, only to find a spear leveled at his throat.
“Do you not see the injured woman in my arms?” he snarled, batting the spear away. “Cease this utter disgrace. A monk stabbed a healer. I need to make way for the citadel.”
The knight slid their helm up to reveal Lancelot’s reddened face, his blond curls plastered to his head. Mordred bit downon his tongue. Of course it could not have been Gawain or Palamedes.
“Mordred,” Lancelot called. “Bedwyr is in command. Why are we protecting Merlin’s monks?” He paused, his eyes widening as he looked at the woman in Mordred’s arms. “Mordred, in the name of God, is thatElaine? They stabbed Elaine?”
Someone jostled his shoulder hard. Rebalancing himself, Mordred took a deep breath. “Yes, that is why Elaine bleeds out in my arms while you demand a conversation, Lancelot,” he replied through his teeth.
“This cannot be right,” Lancelot called back. But the monks were already retreating, protected by the line of destriers and knights in mail.
Clenching his jaw, Mordred strummed a quiet song on his Threads, reaching out to mark the monk who had stabbed Elaine. His dark, hungry magic latched its teeth onto the man, forming an inky black tether. The crowd surged forward, pebbles beginning to ping off mail and barding.
“What should I do?” Lancelot asked, sounding panicked. The knight’s eyes were locked on Elaine. He looked as though he might be ill.
“Give me your fucking horse,” Mordred shouted, watching the group of brown-cloaks retreat with five knights bringing up the rear. “And then take off your helm. They know you. The little ones joust in the streets, pretending to be you. Keep them safe.”
Absolutely baffled at having just entrusted such a thing to Lancelot, Mordred watched as he dismounted and held out his arms for Elaine. With chaos raging around the two knights on all sides, Mordred settled the woman carefully into Lancelot’s arms so he could mount. After Lancelot handed her up to him with a surprising amount of gentleness, he pulled off his helm, justas Mordred had suggested, and raised his voice to speak to the crowd.
Mordred did not stay to see what happened next. He gathered up the reins and closed his legs around the destrier, grateful that Lancelot at least had good taste in horses. They galloped up the hill, taking a shortcut through the dried-up marshes. It would be dangerous, Mordred knew, for the monks to discover that Elaine was still alive in his arms, albeit barely. A dead healer was a senseless tragedy. A seriously injured one who could recount what had happened to the king and point her finger at Merlin?Thatwas a liability.
The archers at the gate recognized him, thank the goddesses, and Mordred thundered through, shouting for everyone to clear the path. He did not so much as slow his pace until he arrived at the physician’s cottage. Galen, having heard the hoofbeats, came running.
“It’s Elaine. Riot in the village,” Mordred explained as he carried the injured woman inside. “Stab wound from one of the monks. The wound is field-dressed. I did not examine it myself.”
Galen paused for only a moment, a great and terrible sorrow on his expression. Then he just nodded and laid a fresh length of linen across the large table in the front room. “Here,” he said hurriedly. “I will move her immediately to a more fortified location if she’s stable enough for it.” The physician paused, meeting Mordred’s gaze. “I imagine Merlin would prefer that the respected and noble-blooded Elaine of Astolat did not go to Arthur with her version of events. Perhaps I am being . . . overly cynical?”
“No,” Mordred said, letting out a long breath. “No, I am afraid of the very same thing, Galen. I can keep watch. I do not know which knights were in the square beyond Lancelot, who... whohelpedus.”
Galen’s expressive eyes swept toward Mordred’s for a brief second, contemplative but not at all surprised. Then his attention returned to the injured healer, who was now gently settled on the table. “Do you wager I can count on the usual lot of you?” the physician asked, gesturing wordlessly for Mordred to grab his supplies from the trunk.
“Palamedes, Gawain, Morien, Peredur,” he rattled off, snatching up Galen’s kit and placing it next to him on the table.
Elaine moaned and opened her eyes. “Large knife,” she stammered. “I’m... I’m bleeding out fast. Probably...” Her eyelids fluttered.
