Chapter 8 #2
“Perhaps one day, they might yet accept our invitation to come to court,” Mordred said after too long a pause.
Just as Arthur knew him, Mordred knew Arthur.
He had ridden into battle at the Pendragon’s side a hundred times, seen him lead his men with honesty and bravery, watched him become a regent that might just manage to shape this world for the better.
But as of late, there were uncomfortable moments like this one where Mordred worried that perhaps he did not truly understand the king at all.
Arthur harrumphed, draining the last of his spiced wine. “To accept would be to acknowledge my rule,” he muttered. “And the Druids will do no such thing.”
“I fear not, my lord,” Mordred replied distantly, watching the stone floors clear as the musicians returned to their instruments. From the dais, Guinevere’s searching eyes found them. The queen waved Arthur over. “Go, dance with your wife.”
“So I shall,” Arthur replied with a smile, handing his now-empty goblet to a passing servant.
“Thank you, Mordred. And do as your queen asked. Continue to keep an eye on the Or’Afon girl.
” He took a step or two away before glancing over his shoulder, his light eyes filled with mischief. “Perhaps even dance with her tonight.”
Mordred arched a brow. “Perhaps.”
And then Arthur was gone, striding toward the dais to take his queen’s hand and begin the night’s dancing.
Mordred slumped back against the wall, appreciating the feel of steadiness at his back in a time when everything felt distinctly unsteady.
As pleasant music filled the soaring space, he tried to relax into the merriment of the evening.
But Mordred found he could not. He sighed into his goblet.
He missed faerie music. Faerie wine. Faerie fetes.
Though he had been kept apart from his culture for much of his life, Morgana had never settled on only teaching him the ways of the mortal court.
She ensured he had known his own people, too, even though it was always on Their terms and always with some degree of distaste.
A changeling in two worlds, belonging to neither.
He drained the rest of his goblet, for mortal brews had little to no impact on him, and watched Arthur and Guinevere dance.
A complicated relationship in every possible way.
Guinevere had always been adamant the king be kept unaware that her romantic interests extended only to women.
Mordred had found no reason to deny her request.
But as they glided across the floor, Arthur’s hand on Guinevere’s waist, her dark eyes looking up at him with what might be genuine admiration, he found it hard to imagine Arthur did not already know. There was little that escaped a Pendragon’s notice, particularly one as cunning as the Bear.
Movement stirred to his left, and the faerie knight glanced over, finding a nobleman heading straight toward him, daughters in tow.
He scowled. He had little patience for such things tonight.
Mordred pushed off the wall, unfolding to his full height, and scanned the nearby feast-goers, seeking any possible escape.
To his deep irritation, just a few steps away, at the edge of the dancing couples, stood the physician Galen with his apprentice.
She wore the same gown she had on the jousting field, though she had since sponged dust from the hem.
Her long curls were plaited and wound around her head like a crown, a few escaped ringlets dangling prettily around her face. His scowl deepened.
Mordred set his jaw, glancing between the approaching nobleman and Nyneve Or’Afon. With a sigh, he stepped toward the maiden.
“Lady Nyneve,” he said, offering a courtly bow.
He made no effort to sweeten his tone, the words hard as granite, barbed with derision.
“I do believe your token gave me the luck I needed for my match on the tilt earlier. Would you do me the honor of a dance, and perhaps bring even more luck my way?”
Mordred had approached many maidens for a dance in his life.
Usually for information. Occasionally for appearances.
Sometimes for pleasure. But his heart had never thrummed in the hollow of his throat like this before.
And certainly, no maiden had ever turned to face him with the expression Nyneve had on her face: eyes narrowed suspiciously, her rosebud mouth slightly parted, one brow arched, her features dripping with disdain.
The beast curled beneath his breastbone flexed its claws.
“Sir Mordred,” Nyneve replied, the syllables drawn out. Could she bewitch him with nothing more than his own name? Impossible, he told himself. “I fear I am presently engaged in conversation with Galen about a complicated case.”
For a moment, his mind went utterly blank. He was unaccustomed to being refused. Without waiting for him to reply, Nyneve turned away, dismissing him. Of all things, heat uncurled low in his belly.
“Oh, Nyneve, don’t be silly,” Galen said to his apprentice. “Go dance, if you wish.” The physician looked over his shoulder, meeting Mordred’s gaze. “Though perhaps you might seek a tamer partner.”
Mordred’s mouth moved with amusement. “Good evening to you, too, Galen,” he replied.
He begrudgingly liked the physician, who had put him back together quite a few times after Arthur or Guinevere had sent him out on very questionable errands.
But Galen had never asked questions, just set bones and closed wounds.
Nyneve’s gaze dipped back toward Mordred, her eyes glinting in the candlelight like the edge of a knife. “Fine,” she sighed as if there were no greater crucible, gathering up her skirts. “One dance, Sir Knight.”
He tilted his head to the side, deeply curious about this maiden. Dangerously curious, if he was honest. The kind of curiosity that could distract him from what he was here to do and the impossibly narrow path he walked every day.
“One dance,” he agreed in a low murmur, holding out his hand. Nyneve settled her much smaller palm into his. A current rippled through him, like a pebble thrown into a perfectly still pond. He set his jaw and led her out of the crowd.
When he slipped his hand around her waist, she blushed, which should not have pleased him as much as it did.
“How are you finding Camelot?” he asked, fighting for focus. For control. For purpose. And yet Mordred still found himself utterly unmoored by the maiden in his arms.
She smelled of deep summer meadows and poisonous petals, but with a richness to it all, like damp soil after a good, hard rain.
Lady Nyneve Or’Afon fit against him, a sword in its custom-made scabbard.
Holding her felt the same as riding Rook into the fray of battle: terrifying, chaotic, dangerous, and intoxicatingly perfect.
“I rather enjoy the citadel,” Nyneve replied, peering up at him, a predator watching its prey from the shadowed tree line.
Mordred’s feet moved of their own accord in the dance, the movements long beaten into him.
Mortal dances were regimented, each step dictated.
They created good enough music, in his opinion, but then confined it to a series of specified movements.
As if each partner were not a different beast, as if each strum of the lute or pluck of the harp string were one and the same.