Chapter 12 #2
Mordred turned to meet her gaze, letting his glamour slip just a little: the cheekbones sharpening, the shoulders broadening, the planes of his face ancient and feral.
“I know what you want, mortal queen,” he murmured, the forest stirring around them in response to his presence.
“By revealing myself to Arthur, you seek my unfettered loyalty to Camelot. You cannot have it. It is not mine to give. My loyalty is to the battle that will claim my life, to the purpose I was made to serve.”
She flinched, but not at his tone or even the reminder of his true features. She flinched at the inevitability of his fate. The place where his heart should have been twinged, but then Mordred steeled himself.
“In the meantime, I will do everything I can to avoid unnecessary bloodshed,” he said.
He meant it. “I believe my people and mortals can live alongside one another. Furthermore, I do not wish to die upon a battlefield before my thirtieth summer. So I ask that you either expel me from your citadel or continue with the friendship and common ground we have found. Perhaps we can alter destiny, but you cannot change the Threads of my Fate.”
Guinevere’s shoulders drooped, and she turned to look ahead, letting Awen pick her way along the path.
“I know,” is all the queen said, looking worn-out.
“Go to the High Court. See if we can restore our peace.” She paused, glancing back at him, her mask firmly in place.
“I will not be so foolish as to forget where we stand, Sir Mordred.”
With that, she sent Arwen into a trot. Mordred clenched his jaw, feeling immeasurably ancient and simultaneously far too young for all the weight on his shoulders.
He let Rook trot, Palamedes and Gawain catching up a few moments later.
They were gleefully gossiping about Founding Day feast happenings and, apparently, an affair between a nobleman and a blacksmith.
He tried to pay closer attention, but the moment he let his mind wander, Nyneve possessed his thoughts. Not the difficulties he faced. Not the impossible line he walked every day. But the godsdamn Druid girl.
He wondered if she had found her messenger yet.
He wondered what she would do to him once she had.
He wondered why the mere thought of Nyneve Or’Afon’s ire excited him.
Why the rain-damp meadow and summer-dew smell of her lingered on his tongue, and why he could still feel her soft curves pressed against his body whenever he closed his eyes.
He let out a long breath, stroking Rook’s glossy, muscled neck with his fingertips.
He had needed this morning ride desperately and was glad Arthur still permitted it despite last night’s attack.
The birdsong, the gentle thud of hoofbeats, the wind in the trees.
All of it soothed him, centered him, helped pull him farther and farther from Nyneve’s tide.
Mordred refused to consider that some tiny sliver of him was still swimming in her waters and would likely never make it ashore. He rolled his shoulders, chasing away the traitorous thought.
They had almost reached the edge of the forest, where the land opened up into a flat meadow perfect for a good gallop, when a different kind of unease prickled Mordred’s spine.
He glanced sharply around the woods but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Still, he had learned long ago not to discount his Fey senses, so he drew his sword a heartbeat later, urging Rook into a faster gait to reach the queen.
The joviality and balminess of the morning disappeared in an instant, cold creeping into the forest. Mordred tightened his grip on his blade, gaze carefully sweeping their surroundings.
“Mordred?” Guinevere asked, just as a figure stepped out onto the trail ahead. He reined Rook to a halt at her side. When he looked over his shoulder, Palamedes and Gawain were nowhere to be found. Dread curled in his gut.
“We mean the mortal queen no harm,” came a slinking, self-amused voice.
Mordred’s heart thudded thickly just once, and then the distant figure suddenly stood only a few paces in front of him.
Tall and willowy, draped in fine midnight-blue silks dappled with embroidery that looked less like thread and more like starlight, they held up an impossibly thin piece of parchment, glassine as a beetle’s wing.
Only a courier, but Mordred refused to let himself feel any relief. Instead, he closed his legs around Rook, asking the warhorse to step forward. The destrier obliged, but he could feel Rook’s muscles bunch and coil, ready to strike with a single command.
“Your presence is requested in three days’ time,” the courier said, sweeping into a low, mocking bow, “at the Nos Galan Haf Fete.” Mordred examined the courier’s angular features, wide black eyes, and fine silvery hair as they extended a slim hand with a flourish, the parchment held between two long fingers. Mordred did not dare dismount.
“I cannot accept,” he replied, keeping his voice even. “Not when the High Court tests the peace I brokered with arrows.”
The courier glanced up, black eyes meeting Mordred’s. “And that is precisely why you must accept, changeling,” they said, baring sharp teeth. “Or the High Court fears the future holds far worse things than a single arrow.”
Mordred clenched his jaw, hands closing tightly around Rook’s reins.
His mind raced to the message that had been attached to last night’s arrow, warning against Arthur’s intended advancements into the northwest—long a stronghold of the Fair Folk and the Cymry people, who lived mostly peaceably alongside each other.
To his horror, Guinevere’s voice broke the silence. “The Court gives Camelot little time to reply to its demands,” the queen said, her tone icy. “And now you demand the attendance of the Queen’s Champion, nonetheless.”
The courier’s fathomless gaze turned to Guinevere, cruel amusement creasing their features. “The Queen’s Champion,” they repeated in a snarl, “was the High Court’s knight first. As such, he is bound to our rules. His presence is requested.”
Before Guinevere could speak, Mordred cocked a brow, flipping his hold on his blade’s hilt. “Strange,” he said in a low, dangerous tone. “This does not much feel like a request.”
But the courier held strong, baring their teeth in an awful smile. Their gaze flicked to Guinevere. “Perhaps the mortal queen might like to attend as well?”