Chapter 17 #2
Guinevere waved a hand like something so important could not possibly matter.
“I would wager you already know,” she said, arching one dark brow.
“That is, however, not what I wish to discuss. I have searched high and low for methods that might alleviate my ailment. Nothing has worked, but I have not yet resorted to any of the deeper magics.”
Nyneve’s head swam, and she resisted the urge to lean forward over her knees.
There was no way to win—either she withheld information from the queen of Camelot, or she admitted to what she was.
Druidry and mortal magic were not outlawed in Arthur’s kingdom—Merlin was evidence enough of that—but it was a deeply sensitive issue.
The Fair Folk’s position in Camelot’s society had diminished from terrifying-but-occasionally-helpful allies to outright enemies, and the view of Druids, who associated closely with the Fey and even the High Court on occasion, was growing just as tense.
Only a few days ago, Galen had told Nyneve he thought the Roman religion’s amassing influence could lead to a gendered system of magic.
Men who wore the Resurrected God’s cross and attributed their power to him would be revered.
Men who did not would eventually come to understand where their gifts “truly” came from.
Women and the people who were neither gender might be permitted to work lower magics, to know about herbs and midwifery, but nothing more.
Nyneve had scoffed at such an idea. What did gender and magic have to do with each other, unless the one doing the working wished for there to be a relationship?
Galen had, she remembered quite vividly now, smiled at her sadly and changed the subject.
“The deeper magics,” Nyneve echoed, flattening her palms against her thighs, hoping her gown’s skirt might alleviate some of the clamminess.
Guinevere fixed her with a piercing stare that made Nyneve feel incredibly small.
“I understand the dangers for you, Nyneve, I do,” she said in a low voice.
“But the dangers are much greater if I cannot produce an heir and secure my influence. Those who preach the ways of the Resurrected God call for many things that would not suit either one of us.”
“I hail from a nunnery, Your Highness,” Nyneve replied, reminding herself she sat before Camelot’s queen, who certainly still held enough sway to destroy her.
“I find little in the writings themselves that call for such things, but yes, I fear you are correct. There are many men who seek to twist the words of Christ into a new way to dominate, and women who gleefully ride beside them for reasons I cannot fathom.”
Guinevere straightened, her mouth in a firm line, and somehow managed to look down at Nyneve even though they were both seated. Nyneve swallowed hard, realizing how stupid it was to speak to a queen like she just had, and awaited her admittedly well-earned admonishment.
But instead, Guinevere let out a long sigh, rubbing her temples.
“Nyneve, I intended to slowly earn your trust, and I have done nothing but guard this information about you carefully,” the queen said, imploring now.
She suddenly looked incredibly tired. “But there is no time. I know it seems like there should be. Christianity has been here, even in small numbers, for many years. The King’s Champion openly worships the Resurrected God.
Your friend, the healer Elaine, too, I believe.
But it is growing quickly in power, and I fear there are less people like Lancelot and Elaine who follow Christ’s teachings and more men like Merlin who might use it for darker ends.
” The queen drew a deep breath, sitting up straighter.
“He could undo everything I’ve worked ten long years for in a fortnight.
You are not from a nunnery, though I applaud you for being well-schooled in your supposed background.
And for what it’s worth, the nuns at the Abbey Cwmhir did not give you up. ”
Nyneve’s heart leapt into her throat as the queen paused, something a little wicked flashing in her gaze. “Not until I mentioned my fertility struggles and what my failure to produce an heir might mean for the kingdom. Then, your abbess became very talkative.”
Nyneve sighed, leaning back in her chair.
Her mind swam, and she wished desperately for something much stronger than the ale on the small table at her side.
But she still reached for it and took a long drink, stalling.
Guinevere’s words were likely not a bluff, and if she continued to deny the truth, the queen would only watch her more closely.
And, in all likelihood, she would send Mordred to do it, which would test Nyneve’s ability to control her magic even further.
The knight had a particular talent for provoking her.
At the mere thought of him, Nyneve slid one hand into her pocket, brushing the tiny hag-stone she’d spelled to illuminate Mordred’s location.
All she had to do was slip the columbine-petal-anointed stone into the knight’s pockets or saddlebags.
She had grown tired of the upper hand always belonging to him.
“Is this a threat, Your Highness?” Nyneve asked as casually as possible.
“No,” Guinevere replied immediately with a sharp shake of her head.
Then her entire body went still for a long moment.
When she moved again, it was to reach across the space between them and take Nyneve’s hand in her own.
“I am asking for help from the only person who I think might actually be able to fix me.”
Shocked that a queen would deign to touch her, Nyneve’s gaze shot to their hands—Guinevere’s fingers enclosed hers, soft but firm, with more calluses than she would’ve expected. When Nyneve finally forced herself to look up, the queen’s expression was open and full of desperate, imploring ache.
“It is dangerous, my queen,” Nyneve breathed, wondering how to explain.
“Life does not come from nothing. Yes, there are more basic workings to support your wellbeing that can improve birth outcomes.” She paused, staring into Guinevere’s eyes as the queen gripped her hand even tighter.
“But what you are asking for . . . it is a life for a life, Your Highness. I make no judgment, but I need you to understand that.”
Guinevere held her gaze unflinchingly as she drew a long breath. “I understand,” she said, releasing Nyneve’s hand to sit up straight again. But that open wound in her expression lingered, not dampened by the small, arch smile that crooked her lips. “Call me Guin, won’t you?”
“Your Highness?” Nyneve stuttered in shock, her mind racing.
The queen parted her mouth to reply, but then a sudden commotion in the hall drew her attention. The guards at the door shouted something, two of them turning on their heels to run toward Guinevere. Nyneve leapt to her feet instinctively, one hand sliding to her dagger.
“Stand down, Nyneve,” came the queen’s voice in her ear. She turned to find Guinevere at her side, the queen’s hand held out in front of her.
“Your Highness,” one of the guards said, his voice shattering any peace the atrium might’ve held. “We must get you to a safer location.”
In a sweep of heavy fabric and practiced grace, Guinevere straightened to her full height. “Not before you inform me of what is happening,” she replied, steel creeping into her tone.
The guards exchanged a glance as Nyneve held her breath, her heart beginning to race. “Raiders, it seems,” one of them replied, unsure. “We do not know for certain at this time, either.”
“This far from the coast?” the queen asked, crossing her arms.
“But why would they break the accord?” Nyneve found herself saying. To her surprise, Guinevere turned to hold her gaze, ignoring the guards entirely. “Your Highness, do you think . . .”
The queen’s mouth was a firm line as she considered. Outside, more guards, followed by a group of knights, raced down the hallway, the sounds of shouts and clanks of armor thrumming in Nyneve’s ears. “Yes, I fear I do,” the queen said in a sour tone. “The Fair Folk have made Their next play.”