Most of the court already hated or envied him for his power, and so when Mordred rose to his feet, clammy with sweat but conscious, he was fairly certain it did not improve such tensions. Wide eyes watched without a word as he pulled his tunic back over his head, the pain so incredible he nearly blacked out, and then grabbed his aketon from the ground.
“Are we finished here?” Mordred asked, raising his eyes to Ragrshydan’s burning gaze.
“I cannot fathom what purpose you serve,” the king said angrily, his knuckles white on the arms of the throne. “There was no need for a vessel. The Morrigan could have given all that power to me. I was the court’s best warrior.”
Mordred shrugged, spitting out blood. “Evidently, She found you lacking.”
He turned and walked away from the dais. No one stopped him. Fingers tightened around hilts, and Eyes shifted their weight, but no one was actually fool enough to step into his path. So, Mordred made his way through the empty corridors, his vision hazy around the edges. If the courier said anything to him when he walked back out through the door, he could not recall it by the time he reached Rook, who awaited him in the woods.
The kelpie watched him approach silently, curved ears pricked. Then he cursed in the native tongue of his people and ran to Mordred. With uncharacteristic generosity, Rook lowered himself to the ground on one knee. Mordred grabbed ahold of his long mane and hauled himself onto the kelpie’s back with a strangled groan.
“What do I even do with you?” Rook muttered, mostly to himself, it seemed.
“Or’Afon,” Mordred murmured into the kelpie’s mane, so quietly he never thought Rook might hear him. “Take me to Nyneve.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nyneve
Asoft knock sounded at the front door of the cottage. Nyneve cracked one eye open, hoping that it was just the wind so she wouldn’t have to leave the cozy cot she’d set up in the front room.
Despite the ungodly hour, the knock came again, more insistent this time. She let out a groan and threw off the blanket. It had been kind of Galen to tell her to take the evening for herself; he’d taken one look at her after she’d returned from Morgana’s corridors and told her that she was about to drop dead on her feet if she didn’t actually rest. He’d even posted a parchment on the door directing people seeking care to the castle’s infirmary. But she’d barely managed to get a wink of sleep, humming with too much excitement over the upcoming ceremony naming her the Queen’s Sorceress and Morgana’s offer of tutelage. It felt like she was somehow—despiteeverything—still going to get all she’d ever wanted.
Nyneve grumbled to herself as she pulled on her boots. Already fully dressed, she shoved a few stray curls out of her eyes and made her way to the door, reaching for the handle. Her mind was too sleepy to even make any assumptions aboutwhat she might find as she swung the door open, but never in a thousand years could she have thought up the reality before her.
A tall, powerful body she would recognize anywhere leaned against the doorframe, hunched over, forehead resting upon one raised arm. In the torchlight, she could see his ragged breathing and dark waves of hair clinging to sweat-slick skin.
“Mordred,” Nyneve stammered.
“Nyneve,” he returned in a strained voice.
“What in the name of the Morrigan are you doing here?” she demanded, taking a step back.
“I...” he said, the single word an immense effort. Then he lifted his head, one hand gripping the doorframe, and turned to show her.
Nyneve gasped, hands flying to her mouth. His tunic was plastered to the tattered flesh of his back. Multiple lashes dealt by a cruel whip made a battlefield of his moonlight skin. Her usually iron-clad stomach turned when she saw how deep one wound went, exposing wet, gleaming fibers of muscle.
“Gods’ blood,” Nyneve cursed, reaching out to take him by the forearms. Steadying his large body was no easy task, but together, they slowly hobbled into the cottage. Nyneve kicked the door closed behind her and guided him to the large table in the front room.
“Put your weight against it,” she instructed, slowly taking her hands away. His head still hanging to his chest, Mordred gave her a quick nod to say he was stable. Not wanting to waste a single moment, Nyneve dove for the supply chest, gathering clean linen, bandages, scissors, yarrow paste, needle and thread, and then finally the water pail beside the hearth. Because Galen was in the infirmary, she could safely raise her hand and conjure a witchlight overhead instead of relying on weak candlelight.
“Just one more moment,” Nyneve promised, stretching one of the linens across a nearby chair. Hesitating for a heartbeatlonger than she would with anyone else, she tilted his chin up with one hand, looking into his eyes. No dilation, only a glassy sheen. Good.
“Mordred,” she said, her tone grave. “Any enchantments or poisons? Particularly on the whip itself?”
“No,” he grunted, eyes sliding away from hers. “Not anything relevant.”
She tightened her grip on his chin. “Mordred.”
“Enchanted for maximum pain,” he admitted, his breath shuddering through his chest.
“Great goddesses,” Nyneve breathed, releasing him. When she wiped her hands off on her apron, she found her fingers were shaking. She took a deep breath, not understanding why black spots swarmed her vision, as though this were her first time attending to severe wounds. “I need to get your tunic off, all right? I’m going to cut it so you don’t need to move.”
Mordred nodded his permission, and Nyneve grabbed the scissors, cutting the garment down the center of his chest. The blood and sweat soaked into the cloth made her throat close off even as she dropped it to her feet.
“Can you get to that chair?” Nyneve asked, her hands wrapping around his forearms.
Gritting his teeth, Mordred nodded. Carefully, she guided him to sit in it backward so she could access his entire back. Beneath the witchlight, the wounds looked so, so much worse. A complicated tangle of feelings churned in her chest.
