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And now, from his memories, I know how to guide Tarasque.

I lean sideways, touching the back of her neckjust soto let her know that she needs to veer left.

We sweep back around, heading for Mordred’s castle.

At last, we land in the water with a splash, and I let out a long, shaking sigh.

Inside a castle bedroom,Mordred helps me lay Talan on one of the beds.

He glares at him, his golden eyes burning. “Just like always, dragging in your broken things. Two soldier corpses last time. A usurper prince this time. When I was young and I’d visit Queen Morgan, I’d bring her flowers and mead. But this is better. Much better. Like a cat, my vicious princess keeps bringing me gifts with blood on her claws.”

My stomach tightens. “No, that’s not what’s happening here. He’s not dead, and he’s not agift. He’s my husband. He’s the one who’s going to help us tear Auberon off the throne and put him in the grave. I need you to heal him. He’s been cut with iron. Can you heal him? You told me you knew how.”

He glares at me like he thinks I’ve lost my mind. “Savehim? Surely nature should take its course.”

“He was injured saving me,” I say, my voice cracking.

“Was he, now?” He sounds deeply unimpressed.

“Mordred!” I shout, flustered. “He also killed Wrythe Pendragon. He drove a sword through his heart.”

Sunlight streams into the room, flaring off his sharply spiked crown. He thinks for a moment, then one of his dark eyebrows rises. “I’m listening.”

“We did what you wanted. We killed Wrythe and his nephew, and at least several other Pendragons.”

“Several?Can you be more specific? I want them all dead.”

“I don’t know the numbers yet, but it didn’t look good for them. Their great weapon against the Fey is disabled. And the usurper, as you call him? That’s Auberon. Not the prince. If you help me heal Talan, that usurper king is our next target. And Talan is going to make an excellent guest at the banquet, I promise.”

Slowly, he nods. “I know how to treat this. Nimuë taught me just the other day. I doubt she gave the knowledge to those usurpers in Brocéliande.”

I swallow hard at the mention of Nimuë. “I don’t think she did.”

“Take off his shirt and clean his wound. There are clean cloths in the closet over there. I’ll set some water to boil on the hearth.”

He places a caldron on the fire and stalks out of the room. I unsheathe my knife and use it to cut Talan’s already shredded shirt. It clings to his bloodstained skin, and I peel it off him in strips. The wound is long and ragged, the skin around it swollen and red.

I rush to the closet and yank it open. It’s packed with silks, some glittering with gemstones, each one probably worth morethan a house. Made with magic, no doubt, for the fabric to survive thousands of years and still look this perfect.

I grab a blue robe, its texture smooth and cold, and dip it in boiling water to sanitize it, then set it aside to cool. When the cloth is cool enough, I carry it over to Talan and gently dab at his wound. It takes me several trips back and forth from the cauldron to properly clean the injury, then I get a clean piece of cloth, soak it with water, and dab his forehead.

He looks so still right now, peaceful in a way that makes my chest tighten. His dark lashes rest against sharp cheekbones, his beautiful lips parted just slightly. He doesn’t look like a warrior or a Dream Stalker, a killer or a prince. He just looks…breakable. If it weren’t for his blinding beauty, he’d almost seem human right now.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper. “You’re in good hands. We’ve got Nimuë’s healing knowledge. I won’t lose you. I absolutely fucking refuse.”

“Nia?” he asks, his voice hoarse, eyes half shut.

“I’m here.”

“Where?”

“We’re somewhere safe.”

His eyes snap open. “The plague?”

“It’s gone, love. We burned it.”

He relaxes again, his eyes closing.