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Oh, no.
“I have to stop him.” She tried to stand up. She couldn’t even get upright. Every time she tried to move, her body just noped right out, and she fell back against the mattress. Letting out a frustrated growl, she tried again and again to no avail. “I have to—” Now she really felt like she had a fever. She was shivering, and her stomach lurched.
“Stop.” Doc sat on the edge of the bed next to her. He picked up a washcloth from a basin next to the bed and, wringing it out, put it on her forehead. “There’s really nothing you can do. Not right now. Wait until you feel better. Wait until he…” He trailed off.
“Will he talk to me?” There was the other bit that she was afraid of. Mordred knew the truth now. All of it. Did he hate her? Was she only back in the keep so he could put her on trial and kill her?
Was the relationship between them over, now that he’d learned what she was keeping from him?
Doc sighed. “Yeah. He’s angrier than a kicked hornets’ nest. Give him some time to cool down. And you some time to heal, missy.” He poked the end of her nose. “Doctor’s orders.” The lopsided grin he gave her was almost adorable.
“Why’re you in here?”
“I told Mordred that you’re mortal and injured, and I know how to help you. Hard to argue with that. Besides—he knows my type are generally neutral. Not to say he trusts me any farther than he can throw me.” Doc paused. “I should use a different phrase for that. He could probably chuck me pretty far.”
She’d have laughed if she didn’t feel like she wanted to puke. Shutting her eyes, she let out a wavering breath, feeling utterly exhausted all of a sudden. “This is all my fault.”
“No. It isn’t.” He paused again. “I mean, you made things a lot worse, but—”
She glared at him.
“What? You said it, not me!” He grumbled as he dunked the washcloth in the water again, wrung it out, and put it back on her forehead. “People always getting mad at me for shittheysay.”
“At least you’re better than listening to Grinn yell at me.” She shut her eyes again. The cool compress did make her feel a lot better, she had to admit. “Barely.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Anytime.” She smiled, but it didn’t last. She wasn’t in the mood.
“Get some rest, Gwendolyn. You still have a long road ahead of you.” The wizard patted her arm. She felt the mattress shift as he stood and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
At least she was too tired to cry. At least there was that.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mordred sat in the iron chair that was positioned at the circular table in his study. It had once been his war room, and now it had taken that purpose once again. Five other chairs sat around the large surface with the inlaid metallic map. Five, where there should have been six.
Gold, Copper, Tin, Cobalt, and Nickel.
But Silver was missing.
And in those five chairs sat five knights. Whose expressions were as grim and serious as the occasion required. Tristan, in particular, looked almost defeated, staring down at the surface in front of him with a level of grief that Mordred knew the others felt, but did not display.
“First, the matter of Lancelot,” Mordred began. “He shall be buried with full honors beside Arthur in the ruins of Camelot.”
A look of relief crossed Galahad’s wizened features. Percival looked more than a little perturbed.
“He died in battle, fighting for a cause he believed in. And for that, he deserves our respect. Galahad, Tristan—see that it is done.” Mordred shut his eyes.
“Yes, my lord,” Galahad replied.
“We are gathering to go to war against the demon. We shall seek him out.” Despite all his wishes, Mordred did not see a better way forward. “We must corner him—flush him out before he can fully heal and destroy him.”
“He could be anywhere,” Tristan interjected. It was not meant to argue, it was simply the “young” man expressing his dismay at the considerable nature of what was before them. Mordred did not hold it against him.
“We shall sweep out from here. He cannot hide forever.” Mordred tapped his claws against the arm of the chair in a methodical progression.
“And what of the elementals we encounter?” Gawain arched an eyebrow. The Knight in Cobalt had chin-length, wavy black hair, a thick mustache that was often fixed into a frown, and equally thick and disapproving eyebrows. He was wary in all situations.
