The Book of Mordred (37 page)

She picked up the shirt, and had started to fold it before she realized it was much too big to be Mordred's. Her eyes reluctantly went back to the helmet she had moved to get at the shirt. Silver-colored, not black like Mordred's armor. And one side was caved in. She felt light-headed. Surely if the metal was so badly damaged, the skull it was supposed to have protected would have been ... She went to cover her mouth, thinking she might be sick, but she still had Gawain's shirt in her hand.

She felt someone loosen her fingers, take the shirt, and finally she focused on Mordred, who had stepped between her and the table strewn with Gawain's possessions. She saw him try to gauge how much she guessed, how much she needed to be told.

"I saw Gawain dead," she said.

His eyes widened slightly. He let go of her, putting his hand to his chest, clasping Nimue's ring, still on its strip of leather around his neck.

And she felt the cold gray mist swirl about her ankles. "I came to warn him," she said, her voice close to a whisper. Obviously she was too late. "I came to warn you."

He turned back, looked at her levelly.

Say something, do something,
she wanted to cry.
Let me know you feel something.
"You're in danger, Mordred, mortal danger." She was afraid that if she cried, it would weaken her argument, make her seem childish, but he did not look worried. He just gazed at her blandly.

"Yes," he finally said. "Nimue says so, too."

"Nimue?" This time her voice
was
a whisper.

Mordred's hand tightened on the enchantress's ring and his eyes seemed to look beyond her. "Yes. But she's so distant ... so unclear ... I can see her, but I cannot make out..." He looked directly at Kiera again. "Has she contacted you? Is that what you're saying?"

"No." Kiera wasn't sure she had spoken loud enough for him to hear. "No, it's these visions I've been having since before ... since ... all along. I ... Mordred,
don't
fight with Arthur."

Mordred raised his eyebrows. He started to say something, then cut himself off. He took another breath; but instead of speaking, he began to pace. "Nimue," he finally begun again, "Nimue..."

Kiera watched him, anxious because she had no idea what to expect. He was full of energy, but vague, flickering energy, like a flame; and something was wrong with his eyes, which wouldn't meet hers directly and reminded her of swirling mist.

He stopped in front of her. "Nimue has always been, first and foremost, Merlin's friend," he said.

Lover,
Kiera mentally corrected him. Everybody knew that.

And perhaps Mordred did, too, for he continued, "Nobody—nothing else—was as important." The intensity with which he had begun vanished. "She always took care to make that clear."

What?
she thought.
What are you trying to tell me?
"Yes?"

"Did you know that Merlin tried to have me killed? When I was a child? Gawain ... Gawain told me."

She had heard the stories. She couldn't get her voice to work, and simply nodded.

"Merlin said I was a danger to my father, that I would destroy him and the Round Table. Of course, that was before there was a Round Table, so it didn't make sense, but Arthur took him at his word. He always ... took him ... at his word." Once again, Mordred seemed to have been distracted by a thought midsentence.

What's wrong?
she wanted to ask him. Besides the obvious, of course. But she was a nobody, despite all his previous kindnesses, a hanger-on—and he was the King's son.

"Merlin," he continued, "Merlin was his teacher, his friend. He was a father to him, and he made him High King against the opposition of everyone—everyone—and helped him stay there. Can you imagine the power that gave him, the influence? And then he says, 'Mordred will destroy all this. Kill him.' I don't blame Arthur for believing him. But I
cannot
understand why Merlin said it. I could never have competed with
him.
Why did he say it?"

What? What answer did he want? She would give it to him if she only knew. All she could do was shake her head.

"Afterwards," Mordred said, "he kept trying to make it up to me. He said, 'Even the world's greatest wizard is entitled to be wrong once.' But it wasn't true. He didn't believe Merlin was wrong. He never trusted me. I'm not quite sure Nimue did either."

Don't ask,
Kiera mentally begged, remembering how shocked she had been.
With Mordred, it often is difficult to tell how much he has guessed,
Nimue had said. Could Mordred read that thought on her face?

He said, "She told me exactly what you just did: 'Don't fight with Arthur.' But whose interests does she hold: mine, or Arthur's, or Merlin's? But you're on my side, Kiera. I can trust you, can't I?"

She took his hand, tried to sound gentle and reasonable like her mother, despite his odd ramblings.
I'm not an adult,
she thought, though she had been protesting for the better part of a year that she was. "Of course I'm on your side, Mordred. But are you sure it is Nimue you have seen?"

She could see the question startled him. He dropped her hand. After all this time of his believing in her visions, here she was doubting his. It had to hurt. Still, she remembered the day she and Nimue had talked, and Nimue deprecated her own talent, insisting that she wasn't a powerful wizard.
Small healings,
she had said. That was a far cry from reaching out from the dead.

How long had Mordred been talking this way? That was probably why Arthur had abandoned the siege on Lancelot's castle. He had to have become worried enough about this odd fancy of Mordred's that he wanted to get him back to the safe, friendly confines of Camelot.

But then things seen and things unseen came back to her. The banners she had viewed from the hill—had any borne the winged dragon that was the emblem of the High King of England? And this pavilion, placed in the center of the encampment, the leaders position, should belong to Arthur. So why was it filled with Mordred's things? And why was Mordred engaged with two knights—neither of them from Camelot—in a war conference the. King did not attend?

The gray mist, which these past four days had never seemed farther away than swirling about her ankles, reached cold tendrils to her knees. "Mordred," she said very gently, "where is Arthur?"

"About a day's march inland."

"Then who,"—she tried to steady her voice—"who are all these people, if not Arthur's army?"

"Mine, My army."

She closed her eyes.

"Knights from the North Country, Scotland, Cornwall, People who were deposed, whose lands were confiscated for opposing Lancelot before it became fashionable to do so. The disenchanted." Mordred smiled wryly, as though still capable of seeing the irony of it. "They can't be trusted, of course; but for the moment they follow me."

"Oh, Mordred," she said. "What have you done?"

He looked at her coldly, and when he spoke it was with distant civility. "Kiera. It was very good of you to come to warn me. I thank you on behalf of Gawain and Nimue." He said it in a perfectly normal tone of voice, as though it were a perfectly normal thing to say. He took her arm, guiding her to the exit. "But this is not a safe place for you. I am afraid you must leave immediately, tonight. We can give you some provisions for your return trip, but I cannot spare any men to accompany you. Alayna will be frantic. You must ride Tempest as quickly as—"

"Bayard—"Kiera spoke loudly to get his attention, and was about to repeat the name, but Mordred had stopped instandy.

He spun her around, and put his finger to her lips. "
Shhh.
" He dropped to a crouch, pulling her with him, and held her in close. Again he motioned her to silence, though she had made no sound. "There is always somebody listening." Furtively, he peered outside as though to make sure no one was close enough to hear. "What about Bayard?" he finally whispered.

She spoke quietly. "Bayard knew those boys who attacked me. He
paid
them to attack me so that he could rescue me. And then he killed them." Had Mordred always gotten that vague and faraway look when he was thinking? She averted her own eyes. "What better way to get to my mother than through me?"

Mordred's attention snapped back to her and he turned her question on its head. "What better way to get to you than through your mother?"

For a moment she dismissed it as a play on words, as more of Mordred's disconcerting mood.

For a moment.

She tried to back away. "No." She thought of Bayard, always hugging, always laughing, his large hand resting easily on Alayna's arm as they walked together. Would he really have gotten rid of her, as readily as he had gotten rid of Eldred and Lowell? Would he have killed her, if she hadn't trusted him, because he had no real interest in
her
but only in her daughter?

But already Mordred was focused beyond her, no longer seeing her. "I will tend to Bayard," he said, hugging himself as though for warmth.

"Mordred..."

Again he put his finger to her lips. Then he helped her to her feet. "But you must leave. Arthur's men are moving. We have caught some of their advance spies already. The main force will be here to attack by dawn."

"Mordred! Arthur would never attack your people. He would never really fight you." The thought of how much ill Mordred's misguided suspicions could cause nearly took her breath away.

Mordred just looked at her.

"If it ever came to that—"

"It has already come to that." Now that Mordred had committed himself to her, he insisted on telling her all. "There has already been a battle," he said. "Not a foray or a skirmish, a battle. Do you understand? The fighting has begun. I had to give the order—make the first move—or he would have forced us into a corner. It has gone beyond anything that could be patched over and forgiven. I'm sorry that there is no time for you to rest, but you have to go now."

She threw her arms around his neck. What could she say:
Good luck against Arthur? I hope you win?
"Take care," she told him instead. She pulled away before he could answer, if he would have answered, and she stepped outside.

One of the knights who had been talking with Mordred, the one who had at least looked familiar, got up from the watchfire by which he had been sitting. He smoothed his mustache and said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "My Lady, may I accompany you to your mount?"

Kiera followed without a backwards glance to check if Mordred watched. Although the sunset still reddened the western sky, most in the camp were already bedded down for the night, and few bestirred themselves to see who passed.

Somebody had found a saddle for her, and Tempest was fidgety over it. This still wasn't a lady's saddle, but it would make staying on easier. "Tempest," she murmured, stroking his muzzle. "We're to go home."

Tempest shook himself, jingling the metal of his bridle.

"Mordred said for us to go home."

Tempest snorted, tossing his head.

"You are certain you can handle such a steed by yourself?" The knight's chubby, good-natured face peered at her skeptically.

She nodded and he gave her a boost onto Tempests back.

"I will see that you find your way."

Whistling tunelessly, he took the reins and led Tempest up the slope of the hill. They saw no one, though there was an occasional rattle of pebbles off to the side. Perimeter guards, she realized. Her escort, dressed in heavy armor, had begun to puff loudly at the exertion of the climb; but all the while he continued to whistle. Proof, she decided, that he was more for the benefit of the sentries than for any difficulty the path itself posed.

"Thank you," she said once the man stopped, well beyond the crest of the hill.

He had made the climb at Tempests pace and was still panting. He nodded. "Now, there is no need to rush in the dark. Just keep a steady pace for as long as you have light and you will be beyond any danger."

"Yes." She was reluctant to break this final contact, but saw that he took her hesitation as fear. "Thank you," she said, putting her heels to Tempests sides. "Farewell."

The first time she looked back, she saw him silhouetted against what was left of the sunset; but the next time she turned he was gone. She lifted her face to the quickly blackening sky. The moon would be in its first quarter, rising late and setting early. There would be several hours of total darkness before dawn, and she planned to stop before then, rather than risk Tempests breaking a leg in a rabbit hole or some such unseen hazard.

But they hadn't gone far when Kiera noticed that Tempests gait had stiffened, becoming self-consciously chary.

Despite his assurances that nothing was wrong, and despite her knowing that dismounting was easier than getting back on, she slipped off his back. "Did you step on something?" She lifted his right front leg without giving him a chance to answer. Nothing wrong with his hoof. She ran her hand down from forearm to fetlock. "You might have pulled a muscle." She glanced back the way they had come to gauge the distance, which—in truth—was not all that great. "Do you think you could go a bit farther if I walked, or should we stop here?"

Tempest also looked back. Kiera had explained that there was to be a battle, men fighting, and that was the thing for which Tempest had trained all his life. And Mordred was there, who had been Tempest's responsibility. He looked at her, his large dark eyes confused.

"We can't go back," she told him. "We can stay, or we can go on. But we cannot go back."

He nickered softly, pushing against her hair. Then he turned and faced the way home.

She twined her fingers into his mane and walked beside him until the moon disappeared under the horizon.