Chapter 23 #2
“Will he leave the northwestern reaches?” Ragrshydan asked.
“He claims there are mortal kings who have agreed to join him,” Mordred replied, crossing his arms. “It is not untrue, but they are allies he sent to make incursions into those lands. The native mortals, the Cymraeg, remain aligned with your court for now.”
Ragrshydan let out a horrible laugh, beginning to pace in front of them. “Arthur Pendragon must leave the Reaches,” the High King said, “or it will be war. It is different now with iron, yes. But I still have you.”
Nyneve’s head almost snapped up in response to the Fey’s words, curiosity getting the best of her, as always. Beside her, Mordred drew in a deep breath, but before he could speak, Ragrshydan snapped, “Do not bring up the godsdamned prophecy to me again.”
“Regardless of the prophecy,” Mordred said with a surprising amount of restraint, “you can simply wait Arthur out. He has no heir. The kingdom will fall apart when he is gone. Perhaps it will not even take that long. The men of these Isles will not continue to unite under a common banner without Arthur.”
“More reason to be rid of him,” Ragrshydan growled.
“You will make a martyr of him,” Mordred warned, his tone gone soft and deadly. “Wait it out, my liege.”
“The problem, Mordred, is that you do your job so well, I never truly know whose side you are on,” Ragrshydan murmured.
Then there were fingers on her chin, tilting her face up to meet the High King’s.
He was, of course, beautiful. Deep auburn hair hung like a metallic curtain around his face.
He had the same tall frame and angular features as Mordred, but his muscle was somehow bulky against the latter’s litheness.
His hands, strangely, were nowhere near as enticing as the faerie knight’s.
Behind him, higher up the dais, sat an array of cruel-mouthed Fey beings.
“What mortal from Arthur’s little court did you bring me?” the High King asked, smiling—a cruel expression.
“A ward of the king, daughter of Uther Pendragon’s beloved advisor,” Mordred replied, his tone steady. At the sound of Uther’s name, the entire throne room howled with rage. Nyneve’s heart beat wildly against her sternum.
Once the horrible sound quieted, Mordred added, “Soon to be named the Queen’s Sorceress.”
The faerie king’s fingers closed around her jaw to the point of pain, but Nyneve refused to make a sound. “She would last at least a few nights beneath the hill,” Ragrshydan mused, to her horror. “Powerful. For a mortal, of course.” He released her, beginning to pace again.
Nyneve had known she was collateral of some kind, certainly a prisoner. But she had been foolish enough to think she was not an offering. She tipped her head back to look up at Mordred, but he refused to meet her gaze, his arms clasped behind his back. The sour tang of fear filled her mouth.
“Arthur has Merlin again,” Ragrshydan said, looking up at the ceiling far above their heads.
“If Arthur fails, Merlin will put another on the throne, and then another and another, and one day, the Cauldron will fall into his hands.” He paused.
Silence filled the throne room, and Nyneve worried her heartbeat was the only audible sound.
“And we are barred from raising a finger against him. Oryane has looked over his bargain a thousand times. Only Fey can rival his power, and no Fey can harm him.”
“Merlin grows bored with kingmaking,” Mordred replied, so casually that Nyneve wanted to scream. “He will tire of it once more.”
Ragrshydan paused in front of them again. She turned her head just enough to see him standing face-to-face with Mordred. The sleeve of his finely embroidered coat was damp with blood, candlelight turning it to liquid gold.
“I am pleasantly surprised you brought her to me,” the High King said, his eyes darting toward Nyneve. “You could not bring the queen, I know. Too messy. But you brought me something valuable that I don’t have to return if I break it too badly.”
Nyneve’s bound power surged inside of her, filling her chest cavity like seawater. She could barely breathe. Angry tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She had been a fool to follow Mordred. She had been a fool to think he would not destroy her down here, all that violence hidden beneath the hill.
“That was my intention, my lord,” Mordred replied with a bow. “Do you wish to speak more of Camelot?”
Ragrshydan shook his head, snapping his fingers at one of the twisted beings hardly recognizable as humans, their eyes empty, limbs gone gaunt, loose skin dangling from crooked bones.
He took a goblet from the poor mortal’s tray.
“No, we shall speak more tomorrow,” he said.
“I want to enjoy the fete. And I want to reward you.” The High King’s gaze dropped to Nyneve.
“Take one of the grand chambers. I’ll let you play with her first.”
Mordred did not react. Nyneve schooled her face into something calm, even though her entire body was screaming at her to release her power. Better the binding kill her than this heinous Fey king.
“While I deeply appreciate your gesture, I cannot accept,” Mordred replied in a stately tone, pressing one hand to his chest.
Ragrshydan and his attendants laughed, echoing beneath the faerie hill like a pack of wolves rejoicing over a kill. “My dear changeling,” the High King said with a knife-like grin, “I fear I insist.”
As the door closed, Mordred turned to Nyneve and held up both hands.
“I am not going to touch you,” he said, suspiciously sincere.
She stared at him, the hearth crackling in the background.
After the howls and cackles of the Fey court, this chamber seemed almost too quiet, every sound absorbed by the sumptuous velvet bedding and jewel-toned woolens.
She was not surprised when the familiar slyness returned to Mordred’s expression. “Unless you beg, of course.”
Slick heat gathered between her legs even as fear raced through her body. “I did not know I was an offering, Mordred,” Nyneve spat. She wished for any of her weapons. She wished the Elders had just let her be a monster, a beast, a bloodthirsty thing. At least she would be able to defend herself.
“You are not,” he sighed, sitting down on a chair in the corner, a pretty thing made of bent willow.
The flickering candelabra at his side sent shadows dancing across his face.
“I had to bring someone, or my loyalty would have been questioned. Ragrshydan is terrible, yes, but he will get drunk and forget you exist. In the morning, we will leave.”
She spun on him, her hands curling to fists at her sides.
“And I am just supposed to trust you?” she demanded, desperately wanting to punch him.
“Are you absolutely fucking mad? Did you hear what he said? What he wants to do to me?” Nyneve had been hoping that under the Fey’s strange rules, only Mordred was permitted to touch her, but she had a sinking feeling that those permissions extended to the High King as well.
At that, Mordred’s head snapped up, his expression a storm. “No one will touch you against your wishes, neither beneath this hill nor above, not as long as I breathe,” he snarled, the space around him darkening like a cloud had passed over the sun.
Nyneve reeled at the fierceness of his statement. “For a moment, I almost believed you,” she returned unsteadily, because in truth, she was not sure if she had stopped believing him just yet.
The faerie knight said nothing, that dark gaze capturing hers, so she backed up and sat down on the edge of the lavish raised pallet. Despite the warmth of the hearth, it was covered in embroidered linens and luxurious furs from animals she was fairly sure she’d never seen in her life.
Nyneve closed her eyes. At least they were alone, and as far as either of their magic could sense, not being watched, either.
She supposed Mordred knew his High King.
She supposed the beautiful changeling could be telling the truth for once in his life.
Her fingernails biting half-moons into her palms, she opened her mouth to speak, but then the horrible awareness of a scrying spell skittered across her skin.
“They cannot hear us,” Mordred said firmly, rising from his chair. His gaze met hers, his mouth parted with a question he didn’t seem willing to speak.
Nyneve let out a long breath, peeling back the Threads of the spell as far as she could.
She smelled spilled wine and damp wool, festering rot and expensive perfume.
An oppressive weight settled onto her chest. Ragrshydan’s working.
She’d bet her life on it. And she had a feeling she knew precisely what he wanted to see.
“Wait,” Mordred said, though he took another step toward her and began to unbutton his aketon with one hand. Her entire body tingled. “See if he finds other amusements.”
The High King’s working pushed down harder until Nyneve struggled to pull in a deep breath. She met Mordred’s gaze, her heart racing. “It’s fine,” she said, because she saw no other choice. “Mordred, it’s fine.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting away from hers for a moment. “You cannot actually consent under these—”
“Do you really think fucking you is worse than whatever Ragrshydan plans to do if we don’t obey?” Nyneve spat. “That is depressing, even for you.”
Mordred seemed to accept that, because he strode toward her and slipped out of his aketon.
Her heart crept into her throat as he laid it on the edge of the pallet and then reached for the hem of his tunic, pulling it over his head.
Heat rose to Nyneve’s face as she took in the muscled plane of his abdomen, the white scars that glimmered in the candlelight, the silken dusting of dark hair that drew her gaze to his chest, and then lower, lower, lower.
“He is not listening,” Mordred reminded her. “But I fear he is testing me. I did not think he would. I miscalculated. I am sorry.”