She drew a deep breath, the smell of death and rain barreling into her nose, and shoved a damp curl away from her face. All at once, the air changed. The coolness of the rain faded and the breath in her lungs turned as dry as parchment. Nyneve coughed, nearly choking, and found that her next inhale brought little reprieve. Eyes watering, she dropped behind the stone wall, movement catching her eye.
Onto the ramparts strode Merlin, six monks trailing behind him. He held his arms aloft, long, dark cloak buffeted by the wind. His eyes shone with something that Nyneve didn’t think was unfair to equate to madness. Around his neck hung a large golden cross, heavily encrusted with what looked like garnets. As he reached the edge of the ramparts, he pressed his hands together in the gesture of Christian prayer. The archers held their fire, confused, while Nyneve desperately tried to look like she was not choking. His magic was just as wrong as the Northmen—twisted and corpse-like, desiccated, and yet somehow still scuttling across her skin.
“It is good I have returned,” Merlin boomed, his voice carrying unnaturally far, worming its way into Nyneve’s ears. She flinched, resisting the urge to clamp her palms to either sideof her head—but at least she found she could finally breathe again. “Dark tides are rising. Camelot needs me.”
On the hill below, some of the knights turned to look up at Merlin, though the Northmen fought on with the same unrelenting determination. Arthur appeared from the gloom of the archway, marching onto the rampart walls. Three knights followed him, appearing terrified and baffled at once—probably because they’d unsuccessfully tried to stop their regent from walking into the danger of an active raid.
“Lower your bows,” Arthur called. Nyneve’s mind swam. As the king came closer, she noticed a small golden cross on a chain around his neck. Her stomach flipped, gaze tracking back to Merlin. “We have all the power we need.”
On cue, as if this were some play or pageant, not a real raid where knights sworn to Camelot were bleeding on the ground below, Merlin raised his arms again. He brought them above his head in a completely unnecessary gesture to work any kind of magic Nyneve was acquainted with—which were many—and spoke a single word, loud as a thunderclap.
On the southernmost hill that spilled out like a green quilt at the base of the rampart walls, every single Northman still standing fell to the ground. Nyneve leaned over the wall, clutching the bow against her chest, eyes wildly searching for any real kind of answer.
But all she found was Sir Mordred Pendragon astride that massive destrier, his gaze locked on Merlin. Nyneve tilted her head, taking in his expression.
Hatred. Rage, too, but the cold, long-simmering kind—no white-hot coals or impulsive strikes.
“There,” Merlin said with a shrug, turning away from the wall. “No need for all this fuss. All we must do is call upon the one true god.” He paused, scanning the archers, his eyes lingering on Nyneve for too long. “I’ll require a few men to assistwith the wounded.” And then, without another word, he turned and strode toward Arthur. He bowed to the king with a flourish. Arthur clapped the sorcerer on the shoulder, commanding Merlin to rise, before beginning to walk with him back into the keep.
Nyneve’s mind raced madly, but her instinct was bright as the sun. Now, she supposed, was as good a time as any. Dropping the bow, she broke into a run, following Merlin and the king. Without thinking about what she’d do next, Nyneve dodged between two monks and grabbed hold of Merlin’s sleeve.
The sorcerer turned, one brow arched, looking at her expectantly, as if he knew this would happen.
“My lord,” Nyneve breathed, letting her bust strain against the laces of her kirtle. “How... how did you do such a great thing?”
She closed down her aura, making herself as small as possible, as Merlin paused to take her in. Even Arthur halted, but his eyes were on the sorcerer.
“The power of the Resurrected God, of course,” Merlin told her as though he were speaking to a child. His long, spindly fingers brushed the garnet-encrusted cross about his neck. “What is a lovely little thing like you doing out on the ramparts during an attack?”
Her skin hot despite the rain, Nyneve pretended to act flustered, though she also permitted just a bit of her power to seep through her defenses. With glee, she watched Merlin’s attention become sharper, like he’d found a rare gem hidden within unremarkable ore.
“Yes, Lady Or’Afon,” Arthur interrupted, coming to stand beside Merlin. “Whatareyou doing out here? You are a ward of Camelot, and it is my duty to keep you safe.”
“My liege, I—well, I...” she stammered. She hardly had a good answer anyway, so she might as well play a pretty idiot.
“Perhaps you did not understand the danger,” Arthur said, taking Nyneve by the elbow and beginning to guide her back into the keep. “We are very lucky to have Merlin.”
Nyneve began to walk when the king applied light pressure—because she had no real choice—but she moved sluggishly, tripping over her own feet. Merlin caught her other arm. She nearly cried aloud at his touch, which felt like a hot branding iron on her bare skin. The sensation of insects swarming over her flesh with a thousand tiny legs returned. When Nyneve swayed, it was not entirely feigned.
“A ward, you say?” Merlin asked, looking toward Arthur. “No family, I presume? What a shame.” He rubbed Nyneve’s back, and she suppressed another whimper of pain. “But a brave girl, quite clearly. Perhaps she only needs her curiosity to be guided.”
They passed under the archway, back into the keep, which thrummed with energy. One of their escorts jogged ahead to inform a stern-looking man that the threat had passed but the wounded needed help. Another knight asked Arthur a question, pulling the king’s attention away from Merlin and Nyneve.
“Would your husband permit such a thing, do you think?” Merlin asked Nyneve, his tall form stooping over her in a way she did not like. “To assist the kingdom’s sorcerer in his work?”
“Oh,” Nyneve breathed, leaning one shoulder against the wall. She had expected coolness with the rain, but even the castle itself seemed to have taken on the odd, dry heat of Merlin, and she only found more discomfort. “I am unmarried, my lord.”
She raised the back of one hand to her forehead and let out a long, unsteady breath, waiting for Merlin’s attention to sharpen. In all truth, she had not expected this part to be so easy. Surely many women were vying for Merlin’s attention—that was one way to power, after all. But instead, the sorcerer’s eyes dulled, like some spark had gone out. At the same moment, Arthur turned back to them, a strange look on his face.
“Lady Or’Afon is already Galen’s apprentice, and her hands are quite full,” the king said with withering authority, clearly having overheard. “Guinevere is providing structure and direction for the girl, though I appreciate your offer.”
Nyneve schooled her face into a mask despite the odd dynamics of the conversation. Why would Arthur deny his beloved sorcerer anything? After all, Merlin had put Arthur on the godsdamned throne in the first place.
“I must investigate the southern hill for any traces of this nefarious magic,” the sorcerer said, turning away from Nyneve in the same way someone might turn their nose up at a disgusting food.
“Yes, of course,” Arthur replied, his gaze slipping to Nyneve. “Lady Or’Afon, why don’t you change into something dry? It’s a long walk to your cottage, but Guinevere’s chambers are just around the corner. Her handmaidens would be happy to assist you.”
A kind dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless, so she curtsied. “Yes, Your Highness,” she said, trying not to watch Merlin disappear down the corridor. “Thank you.”
