She knocked in the pattern Galen had devised. A few heartbeats, and then the door opened.
“Nyneve,” whispered Lysanor. “Come in.”
She slipped through the door, thanking the handmaiden. Two other women were seated in front of a silk screen, embroidering and mending. Nyneve nodded at them as she moved the screen slightly aside to enter the small room lit byonly one torch, bracketed to the wall. Elaine appeared to be fast asleep on the pallet. Palamedes stood in the shadows off to the side, mail glimmering in the low light.
“Her color looks better,” Nyneve whispered to the knight, leaning over her friend.
“It does,” Palamedes murmured back, smiling. Then his earnest eyes grew solemn. “We need to get her out of the citadel.”
“I know,” Nyneve sighed, switching out the compress on Elaine’s forehead. “We must get her fever down first. Packing the puncture saved her life, but all that grime on the scarf inflamed the wound.”
“Galen says she might be all right,” Palamedes said. “Was he just placating me?”
“That is not his style,” Nyneve replied softly. “He speaks his truth.”
Palamedes nodded and straightened, looking down at his feet. Nyneve smiled to herself, well aware of the friendship between the two. Their gods were related in some way, and both could happily speak about theology for hours.
For the next hour or so, Elaine slumbered, only awakening with a cry of pain when she tried to roll over in her sleep. Drowsiness pulled at the Druid girl, but she fought it off, holding tight to the protective glamour she’d already woven over Elaine’s bed. Some time later, she stood to change the compress on her friend’s forehead and check her bandages for blood. As she rose from her chair, a loud bang boomed from the door.
She exchanged a worried glance with Palamedes, who drew his sword. A man’s voice cut through the silence, commanding that the door be opened immediately.
“You will not state your name nor your purpose,” Lysanor called back, her voice clear and firm as it rang through the chamber. “I am under no obligation to obey. Her Royal Highnesswill certainly hear of your willingness to accost her handmaiden at such an inappropriate hour.”
Nyneve’s pulse fluttered in her throat. She slid her hand to her belt, fingers closing around her dagger just as a terrible splintering noise filled her ears.
“They’ve taken the door down,” Palamedes whispered, putting his back against the wall.
Nyneve nodded, pulling one of the blankets up over Elaine’s head and then drawing the heavy curtain around the bed. In the darkest corner, she waited with bated breath. A handmaiden—not Lysanor—screamed. Every instinct in her body shouted at her to run out past the silk screen, dagger raised high. But then she met Palamedes’ gaze, and the resolute look in his eyes reminded her of what everyone in this room had agreed to do.
“Run,” a voice growled. “Run, you stupid girls.”
She gripped the hilt of her dagger tighter, hoping that the handmaidens went like they were supposed to, running to alert Gawain, Morien, or Mordred. When she heard the sound of slippers and skirts against the stone floors, Nyneve breathed a small sigh of relief.
She turned to Palamedes, who had gone pale beneath his rich complexion. Neither one of them had any time to react before the silk screen imploded, splintered wood and tattered fabric flying into the air. Four monks appeared in the midst of the chaos, their knives already drawn.
“You are harboring a fugitive who raised her hand against a holy man in the square today,” one droned tonelessly. “Turn the woman over and you will be rewarded.”
“The code I swore to uphold prevents me from doing as you ask,” Palamedes said in his most princely voice, the one he rarely used within Camelot’s walls. Nyneve braced herself.
Three brown-cloaks went after Palamedes, trying to disarm the talented warrior. Another, the tallest one, came towardNyneve and then paused suddenly, as if examining her. Though she couldn’t see his face beneath his hood, she felt the searing weight of his gaze across her body.
“Run along with the other girls,” the monk jeered.
“No,” Nyneve said simply. And then she rushed him, because men—even these cloaked fiends—never seemed to expect that from someone like her.
The monk blocked at the last moment with his shortsword. She still managed to get under his guard and slam her elbow into his ribs. He grabbed her braid and tried to haul her around, but Nyneve had spent about six childhood summers specifically drilling on breaking those kinds of holds. Shehadbeen the daughter of a great house, once upon a time.
She let her muscles act instinctively, forcing the monk to release her. The man did, but then he stepped back and began to circle her. Her heart raced and the sound of clashing swords rang out so loudly it made her wince. Maneuvering to ensure her back was not against the wall, Nyneve glanced over the monk’s shoulder to find two more brown-cloaks entering the chamber. Dread seeped into her gut. Palamedes was a fantastic fighter, but he was a tall man with a sword—not the best for small quarters. She did not know how to protect her dear Elaine and keep herself alive at the same time.
The precise moment she had that thought, the monk lunged at her, preternaturally quick. She reacted instinctively, but he stepped on the hem of her skirts. Nyneve tripped, and he shoved her to the ground, his boot slamming into her back. Teeth gritted, she scrambled away, twisting to face the monk. But he was already looming over her, knocking the dagger from her hands with one well-aimed strike.
Desperately, she swept her gaze around the room, hoping she would find a familiar knight racing through the doorway. Instead, Nyneve found Palamedes trying to draw the monks outinto the wider part of the chamber, his left forearm bleeding badly.
The brown-cloak leaned down and grabbed her shoulders, painfully hauling her to her feet. To Nyneve’s horror, she spotted two of the other monks tearing at the bed curtains despite her glamour. Screaming, she swung her fist at the brown-cloak restraining her, but he only laughed. Palamedes shouted out in warning when the monks pulled down the linens covering Elaine. In the candlelit gloom, Nyneve could see the whites of her friend’s eyes flash in fear as she weakly raised her arms to defend herself.
The brown-cloak wrapped his hands around Nyneve’s neck, lifting her in the air. She fought to land a kick, but black spots began to cloud her vision. Out of options, she pulled on the Threads, trying to strengthen the working over Elaine. But she was too furious, and her bound magic howled, rattling her ribs and sending bone-deep pain rippling throughout her body.
More pain exploded in the back of her head as the brown-cloak slammed her into the wall. The glamour and protective charm blinked out of existence. Nyneve watched helplessly as one monk held Elaine down while the other raised his knife. With the man’s fingers wrapped around her neck, she could not even summon a scream as the monk stabbed Elaine repeatedly. She fought her attacker’s hold, but he only laughed again, leaning into her face and obscuring any view of her friend.
