“Mordred, this is going to hurt,” Nyneve warned in her even, frank healer’s voice. “I have to clean and dry your wounds to know how to help you. I can’t use a charm for it. I need to see the extent of the damage first.”
He still didn’t speak, only offering her a terse nod. She took a deep breath and went to work as gently as she could, beginning to flush the lash marks with water. For the first time in the fewmoons they had known one another, she saw the faerie knight react to pain. He cursed softly when she patted his wounds dry, fingers curling into the back of the chair so hard his knuckles went white.
Nyneve did not know why it made her want to cry.
But she shoved her feelings away like any good physician would, stepping back to evaluate his injury. Fey or not, these wounds would take moons to heal. The slightest movement could disrupt any stitches she placed. Sleeping would be a nightmare. Keeping his entire back bandaged and clean posed an enormous challenge, any failure easily leading to infection. Even if she and Galen provided only the most excellent care, without magical intervention, Mordred would be incapacitated for some time—most certainly enough time to solidify her position as the Queen’s Sorceress without interference. She told herself to take the advantage.
Something in Nyneve’s chest pulled taut as she stepped around the chair to face Mordred. She opened her mouth, commanding herself to wield the severity of his injury against him like a broadsword. But no words came out, even as hot tears pricked her eyes.
Then he raised his head to meet her gaze, and any conviction she might have retained blinked out like a dead star.
“I am sorry, Nyneve,” he murmured, his breath labored. “I did not know where else to go.”
All the world seemed to hang still. She held her breath, ears ringing, as an aching melody from someone’s nighttime lute-playing slipped beneath the front door, its low, slinking notes looping around her throat. Fisting her hands into her skirts, Nyneve ordered herself to tell Mordred that he was one of Camelot’s knights and she one of its physicians. Of course he would come here, and of course it would mean nothing at all.
Instead, she lifted one hand and brushed the faerie knight’s damp hair away from his clammy skin. His eyes slid to hers, something gentle in his expression that she could not look directly at, lest it break her heart.
“Why didn’t you heal yourself?” Nyneve asked in a shaking whisper.
“You know why,” he murmured, a shiver wracking his body. “You saw it. When you set my rib. I had to let you in. I opened the door too wide.” He paused, swallowing hard. “There is nothing within me but death.”
Suddenly, the Druid girl had the strangest feeling that she was born to save this broken, beautiful changeling knight every godsdamn time Fate dared to lay Her hands upon him. For a long moment, she just stood there dumbly, her hand in his hair as her entire body trembled. Then she nodded—to him or herself, she could not be sure—and let her fingers slide out of his dark waves. The loss of her touch drew a low exhale from Mordred that made her lungs strain.
Trying to drown the confusing intensity of emotion tangled in her heart, Nyneve grabbed a stool and settled in front of the knight’s back. “I don’t know how long this will take,” she admitted. “Try to stay awake, if you can. If you absolutely can’t, tell me, so I can try to get you up on the table instead.”
He nodded, a ragged sigh escaping his mouth. Then the Druid girl fought to steady herself, holding out her hands so both palms hovered above his ruined back. She let her Threads reach for his and began to identify the precise nature of the damage, which was quite extensive.
Nyneve was not sure how long she worked into the night, weaving healing charms as she stitched the flayed flesh back together with her magic. More than once, she pulled on too much strength, coming up against the thorn-harsh edge of the binding, despite the benefic nature of her workings. But howevermuch pain it inflicted upon her, Nyneve knew it was nothing compared to what Mordred was feeling. And for reasons she could barely comprehend, that made her keep going.
Working from the deepest wounds to the more superficial ones, she poured out a considerable amount of power—more than she thought she’d ever offer to anyone, let alone Mordred Pendragon—until she was limp, sweat drenching her back even though the evening was cool and the fire had long since gone out.
When the final wound closed, she tried to stand and pitched hard to one side, barely managing to grab the edge of the table for support. Mordred moved so quickly it might have startled her if she’d had energy left, one hand catching her by the waist.
“Thank—” she breathed before she remembered, pulling a handkerchief from her apron to dab at her forehead. “I appreciate that you caught me.”
“I appreciateyou,” Mordred replied in a low voice. She didn’t dare look up at him. Not when he was so close that she could smell the woodsmoke and damp leaves on him, stupidly intoxicating.
“Who did this to you?” she wanted to know, staring down at the rough-hewn table. Her words came out flint-hard, promising some kind of retribution. She turned to look at him and regretted it, afraid he could see the sharp glint in her eye and mistakenly conclude that she cared about him.
Didshe care about Mordred Pendragon?
“It does not matter, Nyneve,” he sighed after a long moment. “Galen has one of the old Roman copper tubs, does he not?”
She resettled her weight, leaning against the table. “Yes. It’s behind the screen. We normally place it in front of the hearth.” She paused, turning to consider him. “Youarerather sweaty.”
He laughed, but the sound of it was more torn parchment than autumnal bell. “I meant for you.”
With a deep breath, Mordred stood up straight and stalked toward the area of the cottage Nyneve had indicated. Though fully healed, his movements lacked their usual grace. But as she was about to protest the effort it would take to heat and fill the tub—even with magic—she remembered that he was the last of the Tuatha de Danann. Mordred simply set the tub in front of the fire and lifted a few fingers. The hearth blazed to life. Nyneve blinked as steam rose from waters that appeared out of nowhere. She didn’t catch an invocation or charm, belatedly realizing it was because there hadn’t been one.
“That was kind of you,” she mumbled, trying not to think about what water sluicing down the muscular planes of his stomach might look like in the red-gold glow of the hearth.
He shrugged, clearly still exhausted, and stooped to pick up his ruined tunic. Nyneve let out a long breath, eyeing the lazy plumes of steam, desperate to feel the hot water close in around her body. Steadying herself, she pushed off the table and took one step toward the tub. Her knees buckled and she winced, preparing to hit the ground hard. But arms closed around her and Nyneve found herself pressed into Mordred’s bare chest.
“Will you allow me to help you?” the faerie knight asked.
“Trying to make sure you don’t owe a debt?” she had just enough energy to shoot back.
“Actually, yes,” Mordred admitted, his hands moving to her waist so he could step back and look at her. His expression was nothing like the softness she’d caught earlier, but there was no guile, no glint of mischief. She wagered he was just as tired as she was.
