Chapter 19 #2
“Would your husband permit such a thing, do you think?” Merlin asked Nyneve, his tall form stooping over her in a way she did not like. “To assist the kingdom’s sorcerer in his work?”
“Oh,” Nyneve breathed, leaning one shoulder against the wall. She had expected coolness with the rain, but even the castle itself seemed to have taken on the odd, dry heat of Merlin, and she only found more discomfort. “I am unmarried, my lord.”
She raised the back of one hand to her forehead and let out a long, unsteady breath, waiting for Merlin’s attention to sharpen.
In all truth, she had not expected this part to be so easy.
Surely many women were vying for Merlin’s attention—that was one way to power, after all.
But instead, the sorcerer’s eyes dulled, like some spark had gone out.
At the same moment, Arthur turned back to them, a strange look on his face.
“Lady Or’Afon is already Galen’s apprentice, and her hands are quite full,” the king said with withering authority, clearly having overheard. “Guinevere is providing structure and direction for the girl, though I appreciate your offer.”
Nyneve schooled her face into a mask despite the odd dynamics of the conversation. Why would Arthur deny his beloved sorcerer anything? After all, Merlin had put Arthur on the godsdamned throne in the first place.
“I must investigate the southern hill for any traces of this nefarious magic,” the sorcerer said, turning away from Nyneve in the same way someone might turn their nose up at a disgusting food.
“Yes, of course,” Arthur replied, his gaze slipping to Nyneve. “Lady Or’Afon, why don’t you change into something dry? It’s a long walk to your cottage, but Guinevere’s chambers are just around the corner. Her handmaidens would be happy to assist you.”
A kind dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless, so she curtsied. “Yes, Your Highness,” she said, trying not to watch Merlin disappear down the corridor. “Thank you.”
Then Nyneve turned, accepting a guard’s help even though she did not need it. As she made her way to the queen’s chambers in silence, she dissected Merlin’s reaction in her head, not understanding.
Until she did.
Plenty of men, she knew, were only interested in taking things that already belonged to someone else.
“Iinsist,” Queen Guinevere said firmly, pressing her lips together and gesturing again at the long, narrow table laden with food and hot cider. “Sit, Nyneve. You’ll be useless to Galen if you catch a chill.”
The Druid girl wrung one more long, curling length of her hair out into the washbasin that the queen’s handmaidens had brought.
They’d also stripped Nyneve of her damp kirtle, leaving her in just her chemise—thankfully dry—and bundling her into two cuts of muslin topped with a wool blanket.
She was happy for the fire burning in the queen’s chambers, her kirtle laid out before it to dry, though she was sure Guinevere herself had to be sweltering.
“I did not realize you were here, Your Highness,” Nyneve protested. “The king seemed to think only your handmaidens were present, or I am sure he would not have sent me here. Besides, I must get to the infirmary.”
At the head of the table, Guinevere paused, one brow arched, like she didn’t quite believe Arthur would’ve behaved any differently either way. The door to her chambers clicked shut behind the small entourage of serving girls and handmaidens, leaving Nyneve alone with Guinevere.
The queen narrowed her eyes at Nyneve, plucking a jam-filled roll from a linen-lined basket.
“The injured can wait a few moments, unless you find your mentor and friends incapable of their duties?” Guinevere arched a brow at Nyneve, who sighed and shook her head.
“Then eat. And tell me what you saw. You were on the ramparts.”
Nyneve shivered and wrapped the blanket tighter, trying to contort her mind into a semblance of cunning. Incongruently, her stomach rumbled. “Honestly, Your Highness, I am not sure,” she admitted, reaching for a plain hunk of bread. “But it . . . concerns me, that much I know.”
Guinevere smiled that sharp little smile of hers, sipping from her goblet of mead—the strongest drink Nyneve had seen the queen take. “Despite my generally poor opinion of Merlin,” she said with a sigh, “I never thought he would escalate this quickly.”
Nyneve chewed the salted bread, watching the queen all the while, wondering if she dared say the words clinging to the back of her throat: that the entire attack had been theatre.
Reaching for the cup of hot cider, grateful for the warmth, she took a long sip, thinking about the things she knew were true.
For one, Merlin’s magic was unfamiliar to her.
It was not unusual for a working to conjure faint scents or even mild sensations in another magic-user nearby.
But when Merlin pulled on his Threads, Nyneve felt suffocated by hot, parched air, trapped by a thousand insects crawling all over her body.
It made a shiver tremble down her spine just to think of it, despite being tucked away in Guinevere’s warm chambers.
“I know you did not see it, my queen,” Nyneve began, setting the mug down and meeting Guinevere’s eyes, “but what opinions have you formed of this morning’s events?”
The queen’s dark eyebrow rose, something flashing deep in her gaze. “As you said, I did not see it,” she replied, folding her hands. “I asked about the opinions you have formed, Lady Or’Afon.”
Before Nyneve could stumble toward an answer, a soft knock rang out at the chamber’s door.
She barely disguised her sigh of relief.
Guinevere’s gaze slipped away, falling on the serving girl who poked her head through the doorway.
“Your Highness,” the girl called. “Sir Mordred has answered your summons.”
Any sense of relief fled her, and Nyneve swallowed hard, her stomach twisting into knots. The queen raised her hand to wave the knight inside, but then she paused, looking at Nyneve. “Is that all right?”
She blinked at the queen in confusion. “I daresay you may choose the company you keep in your own chambers, Your Highness,” she said slowly.
Guinevere stifled a smile. “Yes,” she replied, glancing back toward the cracked door. “I daresay as queen of this citadel, that is my right. However, I wanted to be sure you were comfortable with a man entering while you are unclothed.”
“Oh. Of course,” Nyneve mumbled, looking down at herself. “Well, I’m quite covered with all these blankets, am I not?”
Guinevere shrugged, letting out a short laugh that made Nyneve feel warmer. “You are indeed,” the queen agreed. “All right. Send him in, Enid.”
Heat pricked Nyneve’s skin as Mordred’s frame filled the archway, the torchlight outlining his broad shoulders. He entered the space without a sound, looking a bit worse for wear, though very much lacking an arrow in his skull. After an informal bow to Guinevere, he took the seat opposite Nyneve.
“I was just speaking with Lady Or’Afon about what transpired this morning,” Guinevere explained, looking between the two of them and evidently finding something that made the corners of her mouth quirk up in amusement.
Mordred’s dark gaze swept to Nyneve. He came alive all at once, taking her in the same way a stablemaster might evaluate a new destrier.
“And?” he asked, his eyes never leaving Nyneve’s, a challenge in the curve of his sculpted mouth.
“Take your time. This morning was filled with such fascinating events.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the cup. She wanted to scream that she’d had no intention of saving his life—and that he was already making her fucking regret it.
“Quite obvious Merlin orchestrated the whole thing, is it not?” she found herself blurting out.
The chamber went silent.
Nyneve pulled in a sharp breath and set the cider back onto the table. Her jaw smarted from how hard she was grinding her teeth together.
Mordred’s head canted to one side, the appraising expression on his face intensifying for a long moment.
Then he smiled, a dangerous thing, turning to look at Guinevere.
The queen met his gaze, one brow ever-so-slightly raised.
Nyneve watched, growing even more infuriated as the two clearly communicated without a single word.
For the Morrigan’s sake, what did Guinevere even see in him—all sideways smiles, double meanings, and far too much cunning?
“Yes,” the queen finally said, straightening the heavy sleeves of her gown.
Mordred threw one arm over the back of his chair, not a care in the world.
“I did not see much of it myself, but I cannot find the reasoning to disagree with you. Anything else?” Guinevere took a delicate bite of her roll, waiting.
Well, Nyneve should’ve bloody well expected to be tested—how else could the queen ensure their alliance was worthwhile?
So, the Druid girl took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts.
The weight of Mordred’s attention made her skin flush.
She almost shrugged off the wool blanket before remembering she wore nothing but her chemise.
“I think,” Nyneve began, “that Merlin wants someone to accuse him of having planned the entire thing.”
A delighted smile split Guinevere’s face. Despite herself, it pleased Nyneve, like she was some cat desperate to be praised for capturing another mouse. She looked down at her hands, her heart thundering against her chest. Then Nyneve made a mistake: she glanced up at Mordred.
His head was cocked to the side again, but this time his mouth was parted slightly, brows drawn together. Interest glimmered in the depths of his eyes as he leaned forward, resting one forearm on the table. The intensity of his scrutiny made her feel giddy and light-headed, which she detested.
“See?” Guinevere asked, gesturing to Nyneve, though she addressed Mordred alone.