Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Mordred
“She is what?” Mordred spat, the blood beginning to pound in his ears.
“The Queen’s Sorceress,” Guinevere replied without a stitch of guile on her face, innocently repeating herself as if his hearing were the problem.
“The king has one,” Nyneve said with a shrug. “Why shouldn’t Her Highness?”
Mordred leaned both elbows onto the table and buried his face in his hands, shoulders sagging. For Modron’s sake—the bloody Druid girl coming to court might prove worse than Merlin’s return.
“Do you take such issue with equity, Sir Mordred?” came Nyneve’s voice, sharp as a dagger between his ribs.
“That is hardly the issue,” he said, not daring to look up at the two women. “Which both of you know.”
“I can smooth it over with Arthur,” Guinevere promised, as if there was nothing simpler in the entire world. “Nyneve is young and new to court. I plan to make the position dedicated to my fertility.”
At that, Mordred lifted his head, considering.
“That may actually work,” he said, turning it over in his mind, eyes drifting to Nyneve.
She smiled at him from across the table, pleased as a cat with a cornered mouse.
“Guin, it is imperative you play this correctly. Arthur is no fool—not in this regard—and Merlin is even wilier.”
“I appreciate your counsel, Mordred,” Guinevere replied, which was what the queen always said when she planned to utterly disregard someone’s statement.
He heaved a sigh, rubbing his temples.
“And it’s another distraction from Kronos,” Nyneve added. “I heard the same whispers, too, back with my clan. But not even Merlin could free the Timekeeper. The Morrigan lent Her strength to his imprisonment, didn’t She?”
Mordred noted distantly that Nyneve spoke of the Morrigan with a degree of awe in her voice.
He wondered what she might say if she knew that he himself was made by the Morrigan’s hand, much in the same way as Kronos’s prison.
Perhaps then she would look at him with the same sort of reverence, like he was a miracle instead of an abomination.
“She did,” Guinevere said slowly, looking toward him, clearly surprised he did not answer the question; it was certainly more his purview than hers.
“Yes,” Mordred said, forcing himself to sit up straighter.
“Nyx helped as well, traveling from the western lands across the waters. But I am unwilling to so blithely put anything at all past Merlin. He seeks power. He will take it where he can find it, whether that be with the Christian god or the one locked away beneath our feet.”
Nyneve’s mouth twitched as she considered.
“I’m a good distraction,” she said, spreading her hands as she looked between him and the queen.
Heat rose to his face, and he violently shoved away the voice in his mind that whispered yes, you most certainly are.
“He’ll be offended that the queen has appointed her own court magician, but because of the fertility framing, he won’t be able to actually protest it without looking like a fool meddling in women’s matters. ”
Mordred said nothing because the Druid girl was right, but he certainly did not like giving Nyneve Or’Afon a stronger foothold in this court.
“Do we need to be more active about Kronos, Mordred?” Guinevere asked, looking toward him sharply. Across the table, Nyneve timidly plucked a few pieces of apple, which had been elegantly sliced and drizzled with honey.
He shrugged. “It cannot hurt,” he replied.
Exhaustion pulled at him. In addition to all the unexpected fighting he had done this morning, keeping the Cynosbythrae caged after he’d permitted it to wake up was incredibly draining.
“I can work with the High Court. Might as well get more out of Them, if I am to venture beneath the hill.”
In his peripheral vision, Mordred watched Nyneve abruptly stop chewing, all her attention falling on him. It felt like a wildfire licking across his skin.
“You are going beneath the hill?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“The queen knows of my bargain,” he told her with an arched brow before she fashioned the situation into yet another weapon in her arsenal. “That is why Her Highness has me engage with Them.”
“They shot an arrow into Arthur’s feast,” Nyneve said flatly, the line of her shoulders looking far too much like a challenge.
“And I will determine the reason for Their discontent,” he replied with a shrug, turning to look at Guinevere. “Or at the very least, I will do my best.”
With a regal nod, the queen got to her feet.
Mordred wearily prepared himself to stand, too.
“I will arrange for a formal ceremony to name Nyneve as the Queen’s Sorceress,” she said, meeting the Druid girl’s gaze.
“I cannot imagine that Merlin will not approach you that very evening. He will seek to control you. Let him think he does.”
Guinevere adjusted the plain circlet about her brow, smoothing her dark braids. Then she strode toward the door, only to stop right at the threshold. She turned to glance over her shoulder, the firelight outlining her strong profile.
“Mordred, I need you to help Nyneve understand Merlin,” the queen commanded. And then she slipped into the shadowy hallway waiting beyond her chambers, leaving him alone with the Druid sorceress who made his blood burn.
Nyneve smiled at him. With the queen gone, her demeanor shifted.
“What do I need to know?” she asked in a flat, bored tone, reaching for a full apple instead of the delicate, paper-thin slices.
In an instant, Nyneve produced a dagger from somewhere on her person, even though he could see her kirtle and belt drying by the hearth, and began to cut into the fruit’s flesh. Juice ran down her fingers.
Mordred set his jaw and swallowed hard. “The Queen’s Sorceress,” he spat, narrowing his eyes at her. “That is not the deal I offered you.”
Nyneve glanced up from the apple, hearthlight gilding her still-damp curls.
And then she laughed at him, baring her teeth.
“You didn’t offer me a deal at all,” she snarled in response.
“You were nothing more than a messenger.” She brought a thick apple slice to her mouth on the flat of the blade. “The queen and I negotiated further.”
Frustration surged through Mordred, and he shot to his feet, slamming both palms onto the table. Nyneve startled, but only ever so slightly, like she had been expecting such a response. The silverware rattled on the table, echoing through the round stone chamber.
“This is an unspeakably terrible idea,” he said.
Nyneve shrugged, her soft, pink lips closing around the edge of her dagger. “The queen did not think so,” she replied. She glanced up, her eyes sliding to meet his gaze. “I hardly think anyone else’s opinion matters.”
He resisted the urge to drop his glamour and bare his teeth at her. “Merlin is wildly powerful, but his ego is incredibly fragile,” he cautioned.
Nyneve faked a shocked look, pressing a hand to her blanket-draped breast. “A powerful man with a fragile ego?” she echoed, glaring at him. “What a novel combination! Whatever shall I do?”
Mordred wanted to reach across the table and grab her by the throat. Or perhaps graze his teeth across the swell of exposed skin on her bust to see if he could taste her pounding heart just beneath.
Instead, he swallowed, letting out a long breath.
“My implication is not that Merlin is novel in this way, nor that you are not accustomed to such men,” he replied, fighting to keep his tone level.
“I only mean that not only are you a newcomer to this court and its rules, but it is also safe to assume Merlin is tenfold more powerful than any other man you have ever met. He has done heinous things, Nyneve.”
That made her finally stop slicing away at the apple and look up at him.
Her eyes reflected the firelight at his back.
“Why do you care?” she hissed, placing the half-eaten apple down on the table, though she still gripped the dagger with experienced fingers.
“I seem to be quite a thorn in your side. What’s the worst that could happen?
Merlin kills me? Hardly seems like you’ll mind. ”
For reasons Mordred could not begin to understand, the beast caged inside his chest thrashed at the thought of Merlin taking Nyneve’s life.
He bit down on his tongue, feeling faint and exhausted.
“Forgive me for giving a damn,” he muttered, turning away and clasping his hands behind his back.
His mind reeled like a gull in the headwinds.
“You’re forgiven,” Nyneve purred. “But you shouldn’t expend so much energy on my account, Sir Mordred. That arrow this morning wasn’t intended to help you. Your gods must have been paying close attention.”
His blood sang in his veins, some old, wordless hymn he had never heard before but understood perfectly.
With a rough exhale, Mordred turned back to face Nyneve.
She had the tip of the dagger pointed down into the surface of the table, her shoulders held straight, all her attention leveled at him like a sword.
“It would not be difficult to influence Merlin into destroying you,” he replied in a similar tone, slinking with heat and not-so-veiled violence.
Without thinking better of it, he prowled toward Nyneve, skirting the length of the table.
He watched her visibly fight her instincts to run, holding fast to her position, like it was some sort of test or game.
“Oh?” she breathed, one brow arching. Her chest hitched with a sharp inhale, pulling the muslin away from her shoulders. The damp curls against her pale skin reminded him of pressed flowers. He took a deep breath, instantly regretting it, for damp river stone and summer meadow invaded his senses.