“No,” Mordred replied a few beats too late, loosening the reins so the kelpie could better navigate the rocky terrain.
“They will be happy Merlin has left Camelot, even temporarily,” Rook observed, his hooves sending pebbles scattering. “How was the vigil?”
Mordred ground his jaw. How had Elaine’s vigil been, held in Camelot’s inner square, all the villagers invited? How was Arthur’s speech, a variation of the same thing Mordred had heard recited so many times over all of Camelot’s endless dead? How had it been when Nyneve reached for his hand and held ittightly? To see Lancelot, wracked with some kind of grief that Mordred did not comprehend, tearfully place a lily on Elaine’s coffin? To watch the commonfolk gather, the square drenched in the palpable sense that they would rightfully revolt if Arthur did not say the correct thing?
“It was fine,” Mordred replied as the kelpie moved into a ground-eating trot at the bottom of the hill. “I think there would have been a riot had Arthur not ordered Merlin and his monks out of the citadel for a full inquiry into Elaine’s death. They will be staying in the eastern outpost. Not far from here, actually.”
Rook said nothing, likely due to the heat. Mordred could see the sweat gathering beneath his barding and tack. Not having the sun beating down on them was a gift, but he felt as though he had wandered into the castle’s kitchens instead of the open moors. He was glad he had only worn mail over light linen clothing, though he was still overheated and exhausted.
“It is a bit farther out,” Mordred said, watching vultures circle overhead, “but should we have a look at that outpost?”
Rook glanced back at the knight, one curved ear swiveled toward him. “You do not trust the king’s word?” the kelpie asked.
Mordred sighed. Though he had not spoken privately with Arthur about Elaine, he felt that the king was doing all the right things. Saying all the right things. But Merlin’s presence beside Arthur was constant, a dark specter on the king’s shoulder.
“I do not know anymore, Rook,” Mordred said, grateful for the feeling of air rushing past him as the kelpie moved into a canter.
“You have tried to save both mortals and Fey,” Rook observed, unusually contemplative. “Perhaps it is time to choose.”
Mordred let out a harsh bark of laughter, sitting back in the saddle as the kelpie approached a riverbank. They were headed east along the moors, about to cross a shallow sectionof the River Avon. Typically, the waterway marked the edge of Mordred’s route, but the outpost lay farther east. Rook was wisely approaching from the thickest part of the King’s Wood, which stood out like a dark cloud on the horizon. Around the river, though, it was all wide plains and dried-out marshes. The wind blew in again, this time with the scent of woodsmoke, the willows bowing against its power.
“I have been trying to savemyself,” Mordred replied.
“So you say,” Rook scoffed, his hooves pounding on the dried-out riverbank. He plunged through the little water remaining, stagnant and dark. “You have come to care for the mortals, but they are not your kin.”
Mordred’s hands tightened on the reins. “How can I choose a High Court ruled by Ragrshydan?” he asked.
Rook thundered up the other side of the riverbank, slowing when they passed under the trees and entered the farthest reaches of the King’s Wood. They were not too far from where Mordred had met Nyneve that fateful morning.
“Changeling,” Rook said, coming to a halt. He stood tall and powerful, not quite a destrier, though not quite a kelpie, either. Something in between, which Mordred understood very well. “My people want you to take the throne. The nymphs do as well. The piskys, who rarely care about anything at all, also say your name. The coblynau would put down their axes and picks if you asked.”
Surprise skittered through him. “What do they know of me to make such a choice?” he demanded.
The kelpie swung his massive head around, his muscled neck curving. “They know the Morrigan made you,” Rook said. “They know Ragrshydan cannot break you. They know you lead mortal scouting parties away from the Lower Courts like a will-o’-the-wisp. They know you are one of the most powerful creatures that walk this land, and yet you do not seek the throne.” The kelpiebegan to walk forward again, large hooves silent on the forest floor.
“Rook, both the prophecy and the conditions of my making are quite clear,” Mordred replied, not daring to let himself believe otherwise for even a moment. “No, I do not want this war. But I am tired of denying the inevitability of it all.”
He had never said those words aloud: that he was tired of fighting. He could feel the world fighting to twist out of the grasp of progress and turn back to the darker thing it had been. Fine, then. Mordred would meet it with all the horrid darkness in his chest. Perhaps something better would rise out of the ash. Perhaps not. It would no longer matter to him.
Rook sighed and shook his head. “Twenty-some years and you are already tired of fighting?” the kelpie asked. “Child, I have fought for this world for nearly three centuries. Did you truly believe a struggle starts and ends so neatly?”
Mordred fidgeted with the reins. “I believe I am a thing made in defiance of Time and Fate,” he replied slowly. “I believe those forces will tire of the way I flaunt their rules, whether there is war between Man and Fey or not.”
“You Gentry are so consumed by your stupid rules,” the kelpie grumbled.
Before Mordred could answer, the forest opened into a meadow. The outpost, a Roman relic, crouched on the far end, a stout stone structure covered in lichen. The kelpie halted in the shadow of the trees, ears pricked forward.
No woodsmoke curled from the kitchen chimneys. No horses grazed in the field. The parched grass was undisturbed, looking nothing like a hundred-odd men had marched across it and settled into their new lodgings.
“Mordred,” the kelpie murmured, drawing out his name in alarm.
“Last night,” the knight said. “They were supposed to have moved out of the city and into the outpost last night.” He paused, his hand sliding to the hilt of his sword. “Closer, Rook. Stick to the tree line.”
The kelpie obliged, moving in that strange way of his kind, fleet as the currents, feeling nothing at all like a creature of hide and hoof. In only moments, Mordred found himself peering at the front of the outpost. The dirt path had no boot-prints on it. No flag flew to indicate the king’s men were in residence. He supposed Merlin might have concealed their presence, so Mordred reached for the Threads, strumming the tapestry around him in search of an enchantment.
“Do not waste your time,” Rook said, cutting into his concentration. “There is no one here. I am sure of it.”
Mordred’s heart climbed into his throat. With a press of his calf, he turned Rook to face the wide, open moors. The wind sang a lonely song, dragging its hot, dry fingers across the gorse. There was not another soul in sight.
