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CHAPTER 48

I’m slumped low in the boat and shaking with fever. Weakly, I plunge the oars into the water, nudging myself closer to the jagged rocks. The wind rakes at me, trying to drag me back toward Camelot, and waves slap against the sides, relentless.

It’s taken hours to get here. Ysolde’s magic only carried me halfway. The rest was slow, plodding. I threw up twice over the side of the boat. Not my finest moment, but I’m finally nearing the shore, and I paddle closer. At last, the boat scrapes against the rocky shore. I stumble into the shallow water, and the icy water bites through my leggings. I drag myself up the winding path toward the castle. I’m shivering and feverish, and an ache has settled in my bones. My skin hurts.

I reach the ruined castle doors and slump against the cold stone. I close my eyes for a moment, my teeth chattering.

A strong hand catches me, and I open my eyes to see Mordred peering down at me.

“Daughter.” I hear a note of panic in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Sick,” I rasp. “A Fey plague…the Pendragons. Not contagious, but I’m sick.”

He scoops me up and carries me inside to a high-backed chair at the banquet table. I slump over the arm like a discarded rag doll and hug myself tightly.

Candlelight glints off the ancient crystal glasses and porcelain plates.

“You shouldn’t have crossed the lake in your state,” he says.

“I didn’t have much choice.”

I take a sip from a glass of water—no idea how long it’s been there, but my throat is scorched. I’d drink poison if it were cold enough. “They found the moth you hid on me. That was all they needed to accuse me of treason. Thanks for that, Father.”

He folds his arms. “The Pendragons don’t need evidence. The moth only made it easier. They would have arrested you, anyway.”

I glare at him. “It would’ve been harder without proof, but it didn’t help that my mother recognized your portrait and told everyone about it.”

“Not ideal,” he mutters, “not ideal at all. You need sleep, don’t you? Give me a minute.”

He whirls and walks away, and I huddle in the chair. Wind howls through cracks in the walls, nipping at my skin.

My eyelids flutter closed, and I start to drift to sleep.

As I do, I hear Talan’s deep, sensual voice drifting through my thoughts.

I lie undone. My fingers graze her skin, pilgrims charting a sacred course across the water. She is warmth and shadow and the salt tinge on my lips. My desire stirs, then surges. Vast, ruinous. Deep as the sea…

I jolt awake, and Mordred is lifting me again, carrying me. I’m no longer sure if I was hearing Talan’s thoughts or merely dreamed them.

I rest my head against Mordred’s chest. He’s wearing a thick, dark fur that smells like a forest. “Where are we going?”

“I’ve arranged a bedroom for you upstairs. You need to rest.”

I’m half-conscious as he carries me up spiraling stairs and along dark stone corridors, torchlight flickering as we pass. He strides into a room with sharply peaked windows overlooking the lake and sets me down on a bed. Exhausted, I sit on top of the embroidered cloth and wool blankets, swaying a little. There’s no glass in the windows, only wind, but a fire roars in the hearth, and the room is blessedly warm.

“Rest,” he says.

He leaves, and I remove my boots and wet leggings and crawl beneath the covers.

I’m hot and cold at once. The shivering won’t stop, and neither will the thoughts.

Talan—his heartbreakingly perfect face, the raw, broken look in his eyes when he learned the truth.

Some of the people at Avalon Tower looked at me with the same sense of shock the moment they realized I’d been working with their greatest enemy.

I’ve been drowning in lies.

That’s what it means to be a spy: a wellspring of deception that never stops flowing. And when the first lie catches up with you, you spill another—a torrent of new lies to wash away the old ones.