Merlin was gone.
Arthur caught Nimue by the arm before she slid off Egypt’s saddle. On instinct, she pulled her arm away.
“You fell asleep,” he said.
“No, I didn’t,” Nimue mumbled as she righted herself and weakly gripped Arthur’s tunic. Yet within moments, her forehead thumped against his back and her body went slack.
Arthur elbowed her.
“Knock it off,” she growled.
“You did it again.”
“I’m fine.”
“I should let you fall off and be done with you.”
That Nimue couldn’t muster the strength to retort was a sure sign she’d reached her limit. They would soon have to make camp. Their pace was a crawl. They had ridden south for hours, toward the mountains and the Trident Peaks, deeper into the territory of the Red Paladins, rather than away. Egypt would push on until she collapsed, but Arthur felt her strain. Her lips were flecked with foam. The terrain would worsen from here and the roads would get more dangerous. Only now in the quiet blue darkness before dawn had the enormity of the night’s events begun to settle on Arthur’s shoulders.
Where can I leave her? he kept thinking.
Who in the Nine Hells is this girl?
What was he supposed to do with her?
He thought the convent at Yvoire might take her, but she was Fey Kind and hunted by Red Paladins.
And she cut off Bors’s hand!
Arthur was no stranger to bounties, gang wars and blood feuds. He could usually slip his way out of trouble, but this was different. His thoughts raced as he imagined Bors’s next move. There were two likely scenarios. First, an immediate pursuit, in which case they would be overtaken within the hour. Bors and his sell-swords were all strong riders and their horses fit, and though Egypt was a superior animal, she was carrying two riders and hadn’t had a good rest in over a day. Or, and this was his prayer, Bors’s wound would require a surgeon, and that would slow him by hours at least. The cut was clean. In a hundred swings, Arthur wasn’t sure he could match it. There was a chance Bors had bled out right there on the street, though Arthur suspected he wouldn’t be that lucky. Trysten could make a decent field dressing, and Bors was a hard fellow indeed. He would never forget this. He would never forget Arthur’s betrayal, and worse, that a farm girl had taken his sword hand. That tale would fill tavern halls with laughter from here to the North Sea.
Arthur shook his head. He should’ve left well enough alone. This girl’s problems weren’t his problems.
Bors’s hand flew thirty feet.
Need to get another look at that sword.
Nimue lurched left again and Arthur reached behind to catch her by the cloak. She murmured a protest and tried to sit up.
An hour later, a small fire did its best against the cold mist. Arthur had put a copse of trees between them and the road and prayed their fire was small enough to avoid attention. Nimue slept against a tree, curled up like a child, using her balled-up cloak as a pillow. Arthur bit off some hard cheese and eyed the sword. He rose, careful not to wake her, and eased the frayed cloth sling over her sleeping head.
He drew the blade and turned it in the firelight. A weapon of art, soft, yielding, yet the blade’s tip was weighted with a perfect balance of iron and steel for a lethal thrusting strike.
But more than that, the sword hummed in Arthur’s fist. His heart quickened. He swung it slowly in the air and crouched to block an invisible blow. He turned faster and the blade whistled past his ear. Arthur studied the nicks in the blackened blade. This sword was a veteran of ancient battles. The strange rune on the pommel, the silver engraving: he’d never seen the like. A royal sword? A ceremonial sword? He did not recognize it as Germanic or Mongol. It wasn’t Roman or Genoan. Didn’t matter, it was a weapon that would command respect. A weapon of inestimable value.
Arthur glanced at Nimue.
This sword would get him onto trade ships and safely to distant shores. This sword could negotiate with Viking lords, either cutting deals or cutting throats. This sword could buy him his own sell-swords, quality fighters, not dungeon spillovers, and audiences in the courts of barons for respectable work.
Were he to claim it, this sword could return his honor.
Nimue stirred. She turned to Arthur and saw the sword in his hands. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing—I was—”
“Give it back!” Nimue was on her feet. She wrested the sword from Arthur’s hand and thrust it into its scabbard, slinging it back over her shoulder, which pulled the peasant shirt down around her shoulder, exposing her back.
“I was just looking at it—”
“Your ‘looking’ looks a lot like ‘stealing.’ ”
“Are you mad? Do you even know who your friends are?”
“What friends?”
“The friend who just hung out his neck to save your hide!”
“Was it me you saved or the sword?”
Nimue turned her back to him and flopped down by the tree. She wrapped her arms around her knees.
“You’re hurt,” he said, walking toward her.
Nimue turned around. “What? No, I’m not.”
He sees the scars. Nimue’s cheeks flushed as she glanced to her exposed shoulder and quickly pulled up the shirt to cover the wounds. “It’s nothing.” She could barely think for the throbbing of her pulled tooth.
“It’s not nothing. You’re wounded.”
“I’m fine!”
Arthur softened his tone. “I can try to dress them. I have some wine left. Some wrapping. If a rot sets in, you’re done for.”
Nimue was silent for a long time. “They’re not fresh. They just look that way.”
“What does that mean?” Arthur sat down by the fire.
“They’re just scars. Old scars.”
“Scars that never heal?”
Nimue nodded.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does”—Nimue hesitated—“if the wound is caused by dark magic.” She saw unease wash over his face, and it annoyed her.
“Because you’re a—you’re um, a—?”
“A what? A witch?” Nimue finished sharply.
“No, I’m just, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think—”
“No, you don’t think, do you? What does that mean to you? That word?”
“Look, forget it.”
“I am Sky Folk. My clan was born in the first light. Our ancient queens were summoning the rain, harnessing the sun, and giving life to the harvest while your kind were playing with rocks.”
Arthur held up his hands. “I yield.”
Nimue rolled her eyes at him and returned to a principled sulk. Ignorant man blood, she thought. But the embarrassment ran deeper. She could never escape them. The scars. She was forever marked and forever an outcast. Her own clan feared her. Why shouldn’t Arthur? She could see it in his eyes. He wants to be rid of me. I don’t blame him.
Arthur turned some embers with a stick. After a few uncomfortable moments, he said, “Just looked like it hurt.”
“Well, it doesn’t,” Nimue said quickly. “Most of the time it doesn’t.” She looked up at him. Their eyes met across the fire.