Biting down on the ruined sleeve of her once-beautiful gown to muffle the sound of her scream, Nyneve pulled herself to her knees. She would make herself powerful in Camelot’s court even without the full breadth of her magic. She would not let the bloodthirst of her power overcome her ever again. She would return to the Druids. She would be unbound. She wouldbelong. And she would ensure that no one would ever look at her and see a monster.
“Or I’ll fucking die trying,” she vowed.
“By the gods,” Nyneve spat as the blood spilled onto her hand, only remembering she needed to be quiet a moment later. She froze, straining her ears in thesilence of the physician’s cottage. When the rumble of Galen’s snores slipped through the tapestry divider, she let out a sigh of relief. Then she turned back to the curl of parchment in her hands, fingers still shaking from the effort it took to get herself back into Camelot’s walls. The dirt beneath her nails looked like dark crescent moons.
With an exhale, she dipped the quill into the little pot of her own blood—because she could not, after all, inscribe the truth of Sir Mordred Pendragon inink—and scraped off the excess before beginning to carefully compose her message to the Elders. The embers of the fire were barely enough to see by, but she didn’t dare relight the hearth. Not after the endless questions she’d faced down from a stern-faced Galen about her disappearance during the feast. She couldn’t blame him, especially considering there had been an attempt on the king’s life, but she also couldn’t tell him the truth.
So, instead, she spun a story about her monthlies coming on out of nowhere, of terrible cramps and so much blood—none of which she thought would ease the panic in the feast hall. It explained her terrible appearance and exhaustion, at least. She’d been forced to dig deep into her reserves for magic to mend the tears in her gown. Galen had finally relented, and they’d supped on potato and leek soup, Nyneve waiting anxiously the entire time for a chance to write her message once he’d fallen asleep.
She crouched closer to the hearth, her eyes bleary with exhaustion, and paused to read what she’d written so far. Her handwriting was a shaky mess, but hopefully still legible enough. Nyneve wasn’t going to divulge that she’d told Mordred she was a sorceress, not a mere apprentice, or that she might have killed him. She thought it unlikely; a simple drowning seemed beneath the faerie-bound knight. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the last few moments of their struggle in the forest. But instead of the knight slipping beneath the tides she’d calledforth, she saw him standing there, limned in moonlight, an impossible thing, ruinous in his beauty. Her breath caught.
“Stop it,” Nyneve whispered to herself, fingers curling tightly around the quill. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and read the cipher message one more time.
Sir Mordred Pendragon, who is deeply embedded in Arthur’s court, has bargained with an unknown Fey for magic. The nature and cost of his bargain is unclear at this time. Despite conflicting rumors, it is quite obvious he holds influence and power. His motives are also a mystery. Closer examination is warranted.
Her quill hovered above the parchment scrap. She should write about their altercation. She should tell the Elders about the deal she’d had no chance but to strike. At least the Fey-bound knight hadn’t demanded a bargain plait. Braiding the bargainers’ hair together was a common way of sealing a deal, and for good reason—it worked. But such plaits also created a power imbalance based on which of the bargainers held it in their possession, and could also give whomever Mordred had sold himself to some degree of power over Nyneve herself.
Besides, she didn’twantthis deal to be unbreakable. It served her better that there was leeway.
She stood, blowing gently on the parchment so the blood would dry. No—the Elders didn’t need to know any of that. “I can do better,” she swore beneath her breath to the quietly crackling embers. They already thought they might have permitted a wolf in sheep’s clothing into their midst. There was no use in admitting she’d stumbled so soon; Uccu would just use it against her.
And writing the truth down would just feel like confirmation of all her deepest fears.
So, instead, moving as quietly as possible, Nyneve wiped the quill and inkpot clean before placing both back into theiroriginal spot in Galen’s meticulously organized cabinet, grateful for the moonlight pouring in through the front windows. She would barely be able to see a damn thing if she only had the hearth’s embers to navigate by. Willing herself to stay alert and awake, she crept toward the door, holding the parchment scrap open to continue drying. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, wondering if she was wrong. If concealing the full truth only spoke to how twisted and horrible she was.
She gritted her teeth and looked at the blood again, which seemed to have dried. Making a decision, Nyneve rolled the parchment up loosely, grabbed a cloak off the nearby peg, and then, quiet as a mouse, slipped out the front door of the cottage. She glanced both ways, but Camelot’s winding pathways were empty. So she stole into the night, dragging herself to the wooded pleasure park where nobles strolled arm-in-arm during the day. There, in a small copse of birch trees, perched a falcon.
“Caedmon,” she called as loudly as she dared, stepping over a low stone wall to avoid the torchlight of the main path. Though the binding’s fury had quieted, her entire body still ached from the punishment. Even her throat felt sore.
In the moonshadow of the birch trees, the falcon stepped from its perch—and in its place stood a wiry young man with curly hair, naked as the day he was born. “Nyneve,” he greeted in a whisper.
“Can you make it back before dawn?” she asked, offering him the cloak before glancing over her shoulder. “I’ve discovered something. The Elders need to know immediately.”
Caedmon’s face paled in the moonlight as he settled the cloak around his shoulders. “Are you safe?” the shapechanger asked, his gaze searching her face—which was probably haggard—and then the darkness at her back.
Nyneve might’ve been touched by his concern if she weren’t well aware he was reporting on her to the Elders the sameway she was reporting on Arthur’s court. “I’m fine,” she said hurriedly, hoping he wouldn’t notice her distress. “It’s just important.”
“I can fly back tonight,” Caedmon said. “Do not worry. It’ll reach the Elders, I promise.”
Nyneve considered it for a moment: Caedmon bursting into the sacred grove, one of the Elders untying her message from his leg. She wondered if they would be surprised, or perhaps even impressed, or if they’d just do their best to remain as stoic as possible. She wondered if the highest council of Druids might soften toward her, just a little, when they read the parchment and saw that she was trying to atone.
“Nyneve?” came Caedmon’s voice, a little louder than she would’ve liked.
“Sorry,” she said, dragging her mind back to the present moment. “Sorry, I’m quite tired. Here, I’ll tie the message on whenever you’re ready.”
Caedmon nodded, pulling the cloak back off his shoulders and handing it to Nyneve. Before the nighttime chill could lay claim to his flesh, Caedmon changed from man to falcon in just a few heartbeats. Once he was perched on a sturdy branch, Nyneve pulled twine from her apron and affixed the message to his leg.
“Safe travels,” she whispered as the shapechanger took off into flight, the pale, speckled feathers of his belly the only light in the black of the wood. She watched the falcon until he disappeared, and then she turned and trudged back to the cottage.
Even once she changed into her bedclothes and snuggled up tightly into her linens, Nyneve couldn’t sleep. Despite the exhaustion, despite the fear, despite the way her body desperately craved rest, her mind relentlessly forged onward in its journeys. She wasn’t exactly surprised when it took her back to the clearing with that knight’s mouth on hers, her entirebody thrumming with a twisted kind of desire—strong and wild enough that she unleashed the binding on herself just to prove she could andwouldhurt him.
Nyneve squeezed her eyes shut and told herself to stop thinking about the past and about Sir Mordred Pendragon, but her heart galloped into her throat as the sweet, smoky sensation of his kiss barreled back into her mind, ending abruptly with a vivid image of Uccu’s son’s ruined body at her feet.
Nyneve rolled over with a huff. She wanted dark, dreamless sleep. She wanted to never see Mordred Pendragon again. She wanted to wake up in the middle of the night to his dagger at her throat, his long, hard frame against hers.
She wanted to see if maybe he was a monster, too.
Sunlight streamed through the window, dappling Nyneve’s bed linens. She sat up with a groan, rubbing her bleary eyes. The red tint of dawn still clung to the light, so she hoped she’d managed to wake ahead of Galen. She was supposed to harvest more chamomile before their rounds today—normally a task she enjoyed, but after the previous night, a few more hours of sleep would’ve been much preferred.
