Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Mordred
“AFey arrow nearly killed Arthur,” Guinevere said with a dangerous kind of calm, one hand shading her eyes from the sun. Despite her even tone, Mordred could see that her fingers shook. “And yet you bring me nothing.”
He set his jaw. Rook danced beneath him restlessly, throwing his head up, frustrated by the group’s stillness. At Mordred’s left, Gawain cleared his throat and looked meaningfully in his direction. Palamedes sat astride his pearly Iberian stallion Qila, his expression drawn and troubled.
“My three best knights,” Guinevere continued, still as a statue, words hollow. “If you cannot bring me the assailant, how do you plan to fix this?”
“My queen,” Palamedes said, reining Qila to a halt beside Guinevere and her gray mare. “At this point, should we not negotiate with the Fey directly?”
From astride his chestnut mare, Gawain let out a grunt of displeasure.
“Them, Palamedes,” the red-haired knight muttered, his gaze darting about the grassy meadow on Camelot’s southern side.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to refer to Them by Their name aloud?” Before anyone could speak, Gawain continued.
“But I do think it’s about time we bring the fight to Their doorstep. They threatened our king.”
“Is that wise?” Palamedes asked as a breeze tumbled up the hill, ruffling his dark curls. “To respond so aggressively?”
“No,” Guinevere said, only her lips moving. “No, we would be starting a fight we cannot win.” She let out a long sigh, one hand stroking Awen’s mane. “Besides, if They truly wanted to kill Arthur . . .” The queen trailed off, looking directly at Mordred.
He swallowed. “Then the arrow would have landed true,” Mordred confirmed, narrowing his eyes to peer into the sun-soaked horizon line.
It did not matter that he had altered the path of the arrow; Ragrshydan would have anticipated such a thing.
“If the High Court wanted to destroy Camelot and its king, They would simply do it.” That was not true—at least, not any longer.
Perhaps ten-and-five years ago. But not now.
Not anymore. Not with the iron the mortals had learned how to forge.
Not with their advances in weaponry and their increasing capability in magic.
“Precisely,” Palamedes said, growing more animated with his excitement. “So send me as an emissary.”
Guinevere glanced over her shoulder. Mordred mirrored her movement instinctively, finding that the heavily armored group of knights Arthur had insisted upon was encroaching, nearly within earshot. Without a word, the queen closed her legs around Awen, sending the mare into a rambling walk.
“The message was clear,” Palamedes continued, Qila trotting forward a few steps to fall in line so the four could ride abreast. The late spring sun prickled Mordred’s shoulders unpleasantly.
“The High Court doesn’t want Arthur advancing on the northwestern lands.
But uniting the kingdom is Arthur’s foremost goal, and many of the leaders there have already elected to join us.
It is clear we need to negotiate with Them. ”
Mordred loosened Rook’s reins, and the massive destrier stretched out his neck, shaking his head, sending his braids flying. The knight glanced over at the queen and opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again.
“No, no,” Guinevere replied with an arch of her brow.
She was dressed in the plain riding habit she preferred, her hair in a simple braid that trailed down her back, only a small circlet about her brow.
She looked the most herself, Mordred had always thought, when she dressed like this: polished but practical, and ready for absolutely anything. “Speak, Mordred.”
He suppressed a smile; this mortal queen was entirely too astute. “A Druid girl making claim to a great house appears from the woods,” he said, “and then barely a fortnight later, a Fey arrow pierces Camelot’s wardings. They are old, certainly, but they were set by Merlin.”
Guinevere’s expression soured at the name of the sorcerer. Mordred did not disagree, but Merlin was another topic entirely.
“Aye, precisely, Mordred,” Gawain joined in, his expression fierce. “The timing of this Or’Afon worries me, my queen.”
Mordred stroked Rook’s neck, trying to hide his pleasure. How wonderful it would be for Nyneve to become someone else’s problem entirely. Perhaps then he would finally stop tasting storm-swollen river water and summer-green meadow on his tongue.
“Send me to the High Court,” Palamedes repeated, breaking Mordred’s thoughts. “I have great skill in negotiation, and if I can be frank with you, Your Highness, I am deeply interested in the Fe—Fair Folk of these Isles.”
Mordred winced. He knew the noble-blooded prince had traveled so far from his home in Al-Andalus in pursuit of the rumors about the High Court’s grand libraries.
But the Fey had not permitted him access, nor any other mortal.
Not since Morgana de Bois of Tintagel. Mordred smiled into the sunlight at the thought of his guardian’s deft, clever wit, teaching herself Old Feyrish just to spite the High Court.
All at once, he wished fervently that she were here. She would know what to do.
“I worry you would seek their libraries more than the restoration of our truce,” Guinevere said, amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Let us trot, I think.”
Palamedes and Qila shot forward into a big, ground-devouring trot with glee. At Guinevere’s urging, Awen quickly matched pace, and the four of them struck out farther into the meadows that ringed the citadel like the setting of a crown’s jewels.
“I think it is best to send Mordred,” Guinevere said some time later, breaking the surprisingly easy silence that had descended.
“Palamedes, you must understand that with Them, you must always grovel first.” She slowed Awen to a walk, and the three of them followed suit, always staying just a step or two behind the queen.
“Mordred’s aunt caused Them a great offense once.
Sending her beloved nephew, whom she raised almost as a son, into Their clutches is a tactical move.
They will be expecting Camelot to grovel, and Mordred will.
At first. But he has entreated the Folk before, and he knows how to find common ground.
And he will discover whether the Or’Afon girl is a wolf in sheep’s clothing or simply a victim of bad timing. ”
Mordred avoided looking at Palamedes, knowing that the knight would be disappointed.
Guinevere’s diplomacy was, as always, clever.
She could not tell Palamedes that Mordred must be the one to handle the High Court because he was a changeling.
A creature made, not born, crafted from a wound torn in the midnight sky by the goddesses Nyx and the Morrigan, less a person and more a weapon.
Because Guinevere was the only soul in this citadel who knew the truth.
Who knew that the Fey, and the goddesses who favored Them, had bargained with the powers of Fate and Destiny to create him on a day that was not a day, in a time that was outside of time, in a place that was not a place.
He was permitted to serve his purpose, but because his creation flouted the rules of life and death, he would not receive the eternal lifeline of the Fey.
When the end of days came to Camelot, his blood would feed the battlefield. He would not rise again.
“Is it a good idea for one of our best warriors to leave at a time like this?” Gawain asked, dragging a hand through his curls, the same way he always did when he was nervous. His mare, simply called Horse, took the opportunity to snatch a mouthful of grass.
“When the famed Gawain, nephew of the king, and one of the most fearsome fighters I have ever seen, still sits at the Round Table and defends this citadel?” Palamedes asked, his long, dark eyelashes dipping low as he glanced over at Gawain. “I think we will do just fine.”
Gawain’s face turned an interesting shade of red. Guinevere laughed, turning Awen onto a narrow path that wound through a wood of birch trees. “Mordred, ride beside me. Let us discuss.”
With a stifled sigh, he did as he was commanded, Palamedes and Gawain falling back.
He had spent his evening treading water for hours while he dismantled the admittedly impressive spellwork of the Druid maiden—no, the sorceress, apparently.
His legs were still sore, reminding him of Nyneve every time he cued Rook or rebalanced his weight.
“We could still tell Arthur what you are,” Guinevere suggested in a hushed voice, gazing up at the sky through the silvery birch branches.
Mordred heaved a deep breath, bringing the scent of sun-warmed loam and wet leaves to his nose.
It made him think of Nyneve, and frustration spiked in his chest. “That we have one of Them in our midst, on our side. It would make your negotiations official. You could be the link between the rival courts, Mordred. You could stop this war that we both know is coming.”
He stiffened, hands tightening around Rook’s reins. The destrier tossed his head in annoyance. “No, Guin,” Mordred said, trying to keep his voice steady. “He will focus more on my deceit—and yours, need I mention—than on any potential advantages. You know this.”
The queen ground her jaw in silence. Only the sound of the horses’ hooves on the packed dirt met Mordred’s ears. Perhaps it might be peaceful under any other circumstance. Distantly, he heard Gawain and Palamedes’ laughter flutter through the slim birch trees and flowering shrubbery.
“I think it is worth the risk,” Guinevere said, her tone sharpening as she looked over at him, brows drawn together. “And I am your queen, after all.”