Chapter 13 #3
“We do not need the Cauldron of some female goddess,” Merlin said, his eyes—a bizarre shade of violet-gray, she noticed—glittering with what could be excitement as easily as madness. “A forgotten relic of this land’s past, not its future.”
Nyneve’s heart thudded against her throat, something sour stirring low in her gut.
“No, my lord,” Merlin continued, shaking his head.
In a flash of understanding, she realized the sorcerer was performing.
Not just for Arthur but for everyone who had gathered in the castle’s mouth for this moment.
She had a sudden and terrible knowledge that this moment might be remembered for a very, very long time.
“No goddess’s cauldron will bring you the rightful heir you so desperately seek,” the sorcerer said, one hand skimming over the front of the book that the monk held. “That you deserve.”
Nyneve caught Guinevere’s eyes skipping toward Mordred a moment before her own gaze did. He did not even possess the humanity to flinch at such an insult. His mask held steady—hard, angular, cold.
“Instead of a cauldron, my lord,” Merlin said, his voice raised as if he were speaking divine, immortal words, “we must seek the Grail. And I have brought you a mighty weapon worthy of such a quest.”
All the world held still, save for Fate’s fingers on Nyneve’s Threads, strumming a low chord of warning.
Then Merlin turned toward his half-ring of monks. Soundlessly, one stepped forward. Next to her, Mordred went stiff. She didn’t dare take her eyes away from the monk and the long, narrow object he held in his hands, shrouded in cloth, but Nyneve swore a strangled curse left the knight’s mouth.
With a flourish, Merlin pulled the fabric away, revealing a sword. Its scabbard was made of dark leather, inlaid with jeweled crosses. Even sheathed, Nyneve could feel the thrum of the weapon. It was no ordinary blade, no sword crafted in even the finest of blacksmith’s forges.
No—this weapon, whatever it was, hummed with a twisted kind of magic that made Nyneve’s stomach lurch.
She stole a glance at Mordred to find he had gone green beneath his pale skin, clearly biting down on the inside of his cheek, his fists balled at his sides.
A sheen broke out on his brow, and his eyes were glassy.
As she glanced back at the sword, another wave of sickness roiled in her own stomach.
The hall had fallen further into a hush, everyone looking more like figures in a painting of the Isles’ most historic moment than living creatures.
The air around her suddenly went dry, making Nyneve’s throat tickle.
Then Merlin offered Arthur the blade, hilt-first.
The king held the sorcerer’s gaze for a long moment before he reached forward, wrapping his fingers around the hilt.
The great hall suddenly seemed too small, its grand ceilings drooping low, as if Destiny had settled its great weight atop the roof.
Desperately, Nyneve reached behind her, placing one palm flat against the stone wall, which had gone warm, trying to balance herself.
Beside her, Mordred’s balance pitched, and she found the knight’s bulk pressed against her.
Setting her jaw, Nyneve wanted to hate it, wanted to shove him and spit at him—but her own head spun and she felt terribly unsteady.
She leaned into him, too, hoping the faerie-bound knight might keep her standing.
If she fainted with all this commotion, it might be forgiven—a long-lost noblewoman new to court, barely out of girlhood.
But one of the king’s best knights? He would be accused of many horrible things, some of them probably true.
Nyneve had no idea why she cared, but the weight of the air grew heavier, the sensation of a thousand tiny creatures crawling across her skin making her shudder.
Perhaps in this moment, she needed Mordred as much as he needed her.
Both of them drew in a long, ragged gasp as Arthur closed his fingers around the sword and pulled the blade free.
The magic—something terribly ancient and utterly unknown to the Druid girl—slammed against the stone walls, though only she and the faerie-bound knight seemed to notice. The king held the blade in front of him, its wicked edge pointed toward the ceiling, examining its fine, sharp edge.
Nyneve had no idea what wretched rituals had gone into creating this weapon, but it was wrong.
An abomination. Mordred’s shoulder pressed harder into hers as he tried to disguise his retch as a mere cough.
No one noticed; every gaze was fixed firmly upon the king and the sorcerer and the sword.
It was like watching an old folk story happen in real time, Nyneve recognized distantly.
“Its name,” Merlin said in a grave tone to the king, gesturing to the sword, “is Caledfwlch. With it in your hands, Arthur Pendragon, you will lead us to glory and the Grail. With this sword, our liege will ink his name into the annals of history.”
The sorcerer paused, looking around the hall as if it were his audience.
“The once and future king.”