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 faerieking 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. Ofcourseit 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!”
“This is precisely what Merlin told us we would find here on this night,” Bedwyr announced, the words echoing through the chamber. Nyneve froze in the doorway, locking eyes with Morgana. “He said you would corrupt the king’s wife into fornication after consorting with the Fair Folk to bring darkness into this city. Merlin saw your wickedness, Morgana. We are here to exact justice.”
The sorceress fought as if she did not know any other way to be, but Nyneve could see from across the room that she was not truly trying. She could burn these men to ash. She could command their hearts to stop beating. She could bring the winds wailing through the windows until no one could stand.
“Exact justice?” Guinevere demanded, yanking one of Morgana’s silk robes over her shift and striding after the monks barefoot. “Our king is absent! You cannot do this to his sister while he pursues our enemy. Besides, the people of Camelot are entitled to a trial!”
“The people of Camelot lay torn to pieces in the gutter and half-dead in the infirmary,” Bedwyr snarled, grabbing Morgana by her braid. Four other men, their hoods covering their faces, helped tie her wrists behind her back. Nyneve’s eyes went wide, terror flooding her veins.
“How dare you!” she shouted. “Unhand her at once.”
The monks utterly ignored her as they dragged the sorceress from her chambers, Guinevere and Nyneve following close behind. Shaking with fury, Nyneve unstitched her baneful magic, reaching for the men’s Threads.
“Nyneve,no,” Morgana called, clear as a bell. “Leave me.”
“Gag her,” Bedwyr commanded as Nyneve’s mind spun. The monks slowed their pace, shoving a stained handkerchief into Morgana’s mouth.
Nyneve did not know what to do. Her mentor, the woman she had one day hoped to become, had just told her not to use her magic to save her—in fact, to leave her behind. A strangled sob clawed up her throat as the knights began to move forward again, Nyneve’s body following of its own accord.
