Chapter 29 #2
The queen’s mouth twisted, and Nyneve felt the weight of Guinevere’s sorrow in her own chest. It is a heavy thing for one’s world to come apart at its seams, Nyneve knew. A heavy, terrible, and often necessary thing.
“It is all right to grieve the future you thought you had,” the Druid girl said softly, reaching out to touch the hem of Guinevere’s gown. “That does not make you selfish.”
Guinevere let out a quiet gasp, brushing away tears with the back of her hand. “What makes the ordinary person selfish,” she whispered, “makes a queen monstrous. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
Nyneve said nothing, because she did not know how to tell the queen that perhaps she should be a monster.
Instead, she watched Mordred hold a hand out to Guinevere.
The queen took it, her fingers gripping the knight’s palm hard.
Rolling her shoulders, Nyneve released some of the anger that had been rattling around in her chest. Guinevere was not her enemy.
“I think of peace differently now,” the queen said as she stared off into the distance, the candlelight turning her teardrops into strange jewels.
“I think you cannot have peace if you do not have justice. Justice for the poor and the ailing. For the people who grow our food. For the men crippled by our wars. For the women widowed by our taste for violence. Justice for them all, or there is justice for none.”
Nyneve looked up at Guinevere from her seat at her feet, their skirts pooling together on the stone floor, and wondered if, for the first time in her life, she had found someone she would follow into battle.
Tentatively, she opened her mouth to speak, but then a knock at the door made all three of them jump.
“Milady?” a handmaiden called. “Are you still in there?”
“Yes, Lysanor,” Guinevere replied, getting to her feet. Mordred immediately rose to stand as well, offering a hand to Nyneve to help her up. She accepted it and immediately regretted the choice, her body lighting up like an equinox bonfire.
“The king is looking for you,” the handmaiden said from the other side of the door. “The court is gathered and ready for the Queen’s Sorceress to receive her title.”
Nyneve took another sip of her cider, sweeping her gaze around the throne room.
She’d seen two knightings during her time at Camelot, both before Merlin’s return, and she couldn’t help but notice the lack of festivity.
No bunting draped the walls. No lively music of bells and pipes.
No one had made speeches about Morgana’s strength and loyalty or cracked a few jokes about her less-than-chivalrous qualities.
“Do you think tonight is so different because it’s for a woman?” Mordred asked in her ear. “Or because of Merlin? Perhaps both?”
Nyneve looked up at him, startled that he had been thinking precisely the same thing. “His monks seem to take personal offense at anyone being happy,” she observed sourly. “But it’s hard to imagine Morgana’s womanhood has no impact.”
Mordred hummed in agreement, the sound coming from deep within his chest. She was suddenly aware of how close they stood to one another—as any betrothed couple might—and how drenched she felt in his scent of woodsmoke and damp stone.
Gritting her teeth, she held her goblet higher, letting the rich aroma of fermented apples fill her nose instead.
A nobleman she did not know stopped to congratulate them on their pairing, shaking Mordred’s hand very hard and barely glancing at Nyneve.
“Are you still upset with Guinevere and Morgana?” the knight asked once the noblemen had departed, keeping his voice low even though the majority of guests were gathered near the dais centered in the wide, barreled room.
“Why do you care about my feelings?” Nyneve asked stiffly, taking a long sip of her cider. She did not want to talk about her thoughts and feelings with Mordred. What if she couldn’t stop herself from admitting the depths of her longing for him?
“We are betrothed,” he replied, seemingly amused at her prickliness instead of taking offense.
Nyneve turned toward him, trying to decide what she needed to say that would drive Mordred away from her, when Morgana broke from the crowd and headed toward them.
At first, she thought the newly announced Queen’s Sorceress wanted to see the changeling she’d raised—Nyneve still had a lot of questions about all of that—but instead, her eyes fell on the Druid girl.
“Nyneve,” Morgana said, looking impossibly powerful with her ceremonial scepter and ermine-trimmed cloak. “All of this has transpired in ways I would not have chosen. Might we speak?”
“Now?” Nyneve asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. Less than an hour ago, Morgana had been up on the dais receiving a considerable amount of power, and yet, apparently, she wanted to speak with her.
“If you please,” Morgana replied, her gaze slipping to Mordred. “It’s important to me.”
“Of course,” Nyneve agreed, handing her goblet to Mordred.
Morgana smiled brightly and led them a little farther away from the commotion at the center of the throne room, coming to a stop near the doors.
Two tapestries depicting ferocious dragons hung on either side of the archway.
Though standing so close to them made Nyneve feel as though she were being watched by their large, reptilian eyes, the night breeze tumbling through the doorway was a welcome relief.
Midsummer was still a moon away, but the heat had come on quickly and mercilessly this year, the farmers already declaring a drought.
She was glad she had worn her linen kirtle and had no idea how Morgana was managing in her garments.
“You may choose whether or not you believe me,” Morgana said, her deep blue eyes holding Nyneve’s, “but I did not actively conspire to take your position from you.”