Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Mordred
Mordred heaved a strangled breath that he desperately hoped Nyneve would not notice. His blood thundered like war drums.
Merlin was back.
And he had brought a cursed thing with him, thrumming with stolen Fey blood and rituals thought long-lost. Perhaps he was mistaken, but the power that rolled off Caledfwlch in waves of nauseating power felt like the work of an ancient god.
A god that Mordred’s people, long before his creation, had imprisoned beneath these very isles because the deity would not stop his crusade to hold the entire world between his fists.
Kronos. The Timekeeper.
Sickness boiled in his stomach, pain overtaking him until his vision went blurry.
A deep, ragged breath brought in the scent of river water and spring meadows.
Distantly, Mordred realized he was leaning into Nyneve Or’Afon for balance—and she leaned right back, the Druid girl nearly as affected by the wrongness of this ill-wrought blade as one of the Fair Folk.
With a look of wicked satisfaction, Arthur sheathed the blade.
In the same tide as Nyneve, Mordred drew in a long, grateful breath.
He was used to the pain of iron, of all the constraints of humanity, of the wardings Merlin had laid throughout Camelot specifically against his kind.
He had mastered the agony. But this blade, this Caledfwlch, was something entirely different, and so much worse.
His mind swam. He had little idea how to handle all of Nyneve’s plotting alongside Merlin’s return.
And now this horrific thing that should never have been forged.
He straightened, pulling his shoulder away from the Druid girl’s, just as Guinevere looked toward him. Arthur slid the blade onto his belt and moved forward to embrace Merlin. Mordred held the queen’s gaze, sure that the glimmering fear in her eyes was reflected in his.
Mordred’s mind reeled. He was an utter fool, so sure he would never have to contend with the sorcerer ever again. He squeezed his eyes shut. He would pay dearly, he knew, for his arrogant presumption.
Merlin had left Camelot on his great quest for Cerridwen’s mythic Cauldron not long after Guinevere and Arthur had been married.
When no heir was produced within a year, Merlin had privately sworn to restore Arthur’s virility, surely stolen from him by some wicked spell.
Publicly, of course, the sorcerer promised to seek a great relic that would heal the queen’s infertility, even though he knew as well as Galen that the fault lay with Arthur.
And the Fair Folk had led Merlin on a merry chase for the Cauldron, luring him in and out of the Otherlands, suspending time and changing form.
Mordred had been stupid enough to hope Merlin had forgotten himself, his king, and the citadel called Camelot that waited for him at the top of the old faerie hill.
But here he was, yet again offering Arthur a magical fix to produce an heir and a heinous weapon of untold power. A poisonous promise, Mordred thought as he fought to keep his breathing even, and yet it was Arthur’s only clear path toward the lasting legacy he knew the king craved.
“But neither the king nor the queen have ever sought the help of the Druids, have they?” Nyneve asked from beside him, her voice breathy and strained in a way that told him she already knew the answer.
“No,” Mordred replied, sounding more irritated than he had intended.
“None of the Druid-led clans will accept Arthur’s claim to the throne, so he would never seek their assistance for his lack of an heir.
Besides, he has Merlin. Why would he look elsewhere for magical solutions?
” He had not intended to say so much. Mordred pinched the bridge of his nose and turned toward the Druid girl, his mind tumbling with calculations, his body still rife with the pain of Caledfwlch’s nearness.
She met his gaze easily, not a stitch of fear in her lovely face, narrowing her eyes at him like she was about to tear into his throat with her bare teeth.
In truth, he hoped she would. If agony was his destiny, by the fucking gods, he would choose its source.
He would choose something in this life, in the narrow line of steps from which he could not stray.
One of her brows arched, her rose-petal mouth parting. He could hear her already, though he had barely known her a full season: “Why, pray tell, do you gaze upon me, Sir Mordred, when the greatest sorcerer that ever lived stands just paces from you?”
“Remember, he has no legitimate heir,” he said before she could speak, though he could not tear his gaze away from her, a thought taking root.
Nyneve could be useful. If he were very careful and very clever, he might be able to fashion her into a dagger.
One that might slide beneath Merlin’s thick hide and draw blood.
One that might even rival Caledfwlch’s power.
Her brow furrowed, genuine confusion crossing her expression. “He has you,” she said, the words coming from the back of her throat, heavy with meaning. Mordred watched with interest as her cheekbones flushed and she looked away, her jaw grinding.
“A bastard prophesied to end it all?” he whispered in response, leaning closer so she could hear. “Ah, what a boon.”
She crossed her arms and ignored him, keeping her gaze on the scene unfolding in the great hall.
Mordred supposed that for Nyneve, it was preferable to admitting she had begrudgingly found something about him that was worthwhile.
The pain settling into its usual thrum with Caledfwlch sheathed, he studied her as he pulled in a long breath.
He could use her. The same way he had been used his entire life. He certainly knew the game.
He finally managed to drag his eyes away from Nyneve, watching the queen and king speak with Merlin. The monks at his back held perfectly still, more like knights awaiting their command than any holy men Mordred had met before.
The sight of the monks made him deeply uneasy.
He needed to speak with Guinevere immediately, but the entry hall had filled with spectators and admirers, injured knights and healers’ assistants pressed in at his back, the space grown stifling.
Eyeing the lines of the crowd, Mordred found no easy escape that might go unnoticed.
So, he told himself to hold still, to block out the chatter and the bells now ringing from Camelot’s highest towers and think.
He crossed his arms to avoid curling his fingers into fists.
His usual delicate manipulations and complex maneuvering would not be enough.
Not to topple the famed sorcerer’s influence and whatever alliances he had made to obtain such a powerful weapon.
If not for the cursed bargain Merlin had made a hundred years ago with the High Court, Mordred would happily kill the man, but he was bound against such violence, same as any other member of the Gentry.
With frustration, Mordred realized his gaze had returned to Nyneve Or’Afon as Arthur linked his arm through Merlin’s and broke away from the monks, his guard creating a pathway deeper into the castle.
The crowds began to dissipate, but Nyneve did not move, her gaze following Merlin with all the intensity of a hunting hound.
He clenched his jaw. Damn it all, he needed her.
A nuisance to a novelty to a threat, all in a fortnight.
And now, perhaps an ally, by the bloody gods.
But she could slip into places he could not.
Merlin had always been susceptible to a pretty face.
Nyneve’s looks and her power would be like poison down the sorcerer’s throat.
She could destroy him. Merlin would try to control her, of course.
But Nyneve was strong enough to resist and, by Mordred’s estimations, wily enough to play that game.
“You are awfully interested in me, Sir Mordred,” Nyneve mused, pulling him out of his thoughts and into the present moment.
She leaned back against the archway, her arms crossed in a mirroring of his own posture.
Her hair was pulled back in a braid, but a few curls had sprung free, spiraling around her face.
The apples of her freckled cheeks flushed prettily.
Her eyes glittered with keen intelligence.
The luscious curves of her body were apparent and undeniable, even beneath a heavy linen kirtle and apron.
Best of all, Nyneve Or’Afon wanted what anyone else did: power.
“Though it was for good reason, you nearly strangled one of the king’s men,” he replied coolly. “Forgive me for my foolish concern.” He paused, turning to face her. “Are you all right, Lady Nyneve?”
She peered up at him, and he swore he could see all the calculations twisting and turning in her meadow-green eyes.
He held still and let her see whatever she wanted to in his expression.
“I am just fine,” she sniffed, brushing her impeccably clean apron with the flat of one hand.
“Sir Oran, was it? Hardly the first. Unfortunately not the last, I am sure.”
Mordred examined her, ignoring the wave of rage he felt at the idea of anyone touching the Druid girl.
Morgana was due to arrive at court in four more moons for her annual autumn stay.
In addition to being capable of helping him devise a plan against Merlin, she would also be able to determine what spellcraft Nyneve was leveling against him.
Surely there was something, even if his senses were not keen enough to unpick it from the weave of magic.
Why else would it feel like the ground gave way beneath his feet every time their eyes met?
“Do let me know if anyone gives you trouble,” he said, surprising himself.