Chapter 34 #2
Mordred watched with trepidation as the queen’s hands curled into fists at her sides.
It was a difficult thing to anger Guinevere, but once enraged, her fury was mighty.
“Trust you?” the queen scoffed, shoving his hand away from her shoulder.
“How can you ask such a thing? I want to trust you. But ever since Merlin came back—”
“I know, Guin,” the king said. Undeterred by her anger, Arthur put both hands on her shoulders and lowered his brow to the queen’s. She did not pull away this time. “Everything is going to be all right,” Arthur said, pausing before he straightened, meeting Mordred’s eyes. “I promise.”
Before Mordred could string together a single thought from the tangled mess of his mind, the hidden door that led into the throne room opened.
“Everyone is gathered,” Sir Ector called, displeasure creasing his features when he noticed that Arthur was no longer alone. “Come, my liege.”
Arthur nodded, adjusting his thin metal circlet and then holding his hand out to Guinevere.
She studied him, her body rigid, but she knew she had no choice.
The queen took his hand, and the pair swept out into the throne room.
Ector led Mordred through the same door, bringing him to the back of the dais.
“The king no longer has need of you,” Ector sneered, pointing toward the gathering crowd. Mordred did not even look the knight’s way, his gaze trained on Guinevere’s back.
“Go, Mordred,” the queen said over her shoulder in a choked voice.
Mordred hesitated, his mind still a thicket of anxiety and confusion, but then he obeyed his queen, staying hidden behind the Pendragon banners until he reached the edge of the room.
Spotting Nyneve, Palamedes, and Gawain in the crowd, he made his way toward them.
Time slowed to a quarter-pace, and he felt as though he had just awoken from a great sleep, unsure of what century it might be or if anyone he knew was still alive.
Nyneve watched him carefully, not saying a word, but Palamedes and Gawain immediately asked if Arthur had consulted anyone.
All Mordred managed was a grim shake of his head before the king strode out from behind the banners and onto the dais.
Mordred threw a desperate glance around the room, searching for Morgana.
She appeared to be absent, which did not make him feel any better.
Despite the high, vaulted ceilings, the amount of bodies gathered in the chamber made the summer heat even worse.
The heavy, stifling air pressed down on him.
“Mordred,” Nyneve breathed, her hand brushing his. “I have a terrible feeling.”
“As do I,” he replied, opening his Fey senses just a bit more than he normally would within the citadel. Nyneve was not alone in her experience; the sharp scent of fear permeated the room. A hundred racing hearts boomed in his ears.
“Thank you for gathering on such short notice,” Arthur said as he stood at the front of the dais, unrolling a length of parchment.
“I have received the results of the inquiry into the death of Elaine of Astolat. I know how much this incident has troubled our citadel, and I wanted to share this information with all of you as soon as possible.”
Mordred had to fight to keep his face neutral. Elaine’s community needed to know, not the nobles who happened to be at court. People were mourning her in the citadel, of course, but the vast majority of her loved ones were down the hill in the villages and working the fields.
“The results are upsetting,” Arthur continued, looking out at the court. “I am so sad to inform all of you that Elaine was a witch.”
Hushed whispers of confusion filled the room; witchcraft was no crime in Camelot, not since the end of Uther’s reign.
Mordred turned toward Nyneve just as she went utterly still at his side. He saw the gleam in her eye and reached for her arm, but he was too late.
“So am I,” the Druid girl called out, her voice ringing against the stone. “My lord, when has this citadel shunned witches?”
Mordred slid his hand to his sword. In that moment, he knew without a single doubt that he would kill anyone who came near her. He would tear this entire citadel apart until it was a smoking heap of rubble. He would turn the skies to black and the fields to stone, just as the prophecy had claimed.
Oracle Octavia Alethia’s words cut through his mind: “The thricefold spilling of maiden-blood . . .”
“I, too, am a witch,” called a familiar voice from the entrance to the chamber, breaking the tense silence and the chaotic racing of Mordred’s thoughts.
Morgana stood framed within the enormous doorway, arriving with eerie timing, as she had a habit of doing.
She strode down the center aisle, her pale blue surcoat trailing behind her.
“And also your Queen’s Sorceress, not to mention your sister,” she said, her voice carrying.
Arthur cleared his throat and tried to speak, but more voices filled the room: handmaidens and cooks, minor nobility and servants, all inspired by Nyneve’s act of incredible bravery and abject foolishness.
Mordred found himself studying the king, trying to understand. Why was Guinevere just sitting on her throne at the back of the dais, mute? Arthur looked out across the crowd, letting the people have their voice. And then their eyes met.
The king tucked two fingers into the front pocket of his aketon. Mordred’s head spun. It was not something he had seen the king do in many moons, a symbol they had devised when forging dangerous alliances, a way of saying, “I understand I appear to have lost my mind. Trust me.”
But Mordred did not know how much longer he could extend his trust. Arthur was standing in front of Camelot’s entire court, accusing Elaine—a known follower of Christ—of being a witch. It made no sense.
“Camelot has no state religion,” Arthur said when people began to quiet down, their uneasy attention turning back to their king.
“That has not changed. I am sad to tell you that Elaine of Astolat was not just any witch, making brews for upset stomachs or offering love charms.” He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, like what he was about to say next made him nauseous.
“She bargained with the Fey. For what, we know not, and being familiar with Elaine myself, it is hard to imagine she was left with much choice.”
Mordred’s blood ran cold. The throne room went utterly quiet then, as if he had clapped his hands over his ears. Thankfully, Nyneve said nothing this time, despite her own bargaining with the Fair Folk.
“We have been corrupted from the inside,” Arthur continued, handing the parchment to Bedwyr, who stood off to the side.
“The drought. The unrest. The raiders. The High Court saw that we had found peace and prosperity, and They corrupted one of our own. A pillar of our community, as I said at her vigil. I am afraid that is precisely why They targeted her.”
The throne room pulsed with a tension that Mordred had only ever felt before on the fields of battle. He kept his hand on the hilt of his blade, glancing over to find Palamedes and Gawain had done the same, Nyneve’s fingers closing around the dagger she kept on her belt.
Guinevere rose from her throne and strode to stand beside her husband. Mordred gritted his teeth and pleaded with every god that might listen that she not do what he knew she was most certainly going to do.
“My lord, might you share more about the origin of this inquiry?” she asked, turning to face him. No bow, no curtsy. Mordred swallowed.
“Of course,” Arthur said, making the knight wonder if he had known exactly how his wife would react, and perhaps even planned on it. He turned toward the far side of the dais, where a few knights were clustered, and gestured to someone.
Merlin stepped up onto the dais, making sure to stop and kiss Arthur’s seal ring.
Guinevere looked absolutely murderous. Mordred could feel Nyneve’s fury radiating from her body.
He glanced across the room to where the queen’s handmaidens were gathered to find that even Lysanor’s calm had broken, her mouth twisted.
“Merlin completed a rigorous inquiry into these unfortunate happenings,” Arthur said. “I am grateful for his willingness to put his own men through such discomfort in order to keep our citadel safe.”
“Merlin completed the inquiry into himself?” Nyneve sputtered at Mordred’s side.
“Kind and gracious court of Camelot,” Merlin called, stepping down from the dais to address the gathered mortals.
“I am sorry for all the fear and upset the Fey have caused us. I am sorry for the drastic measures we had to take with the Astolat girl. It is only because of the severity of the drought, you see.” He clasped his hands behind his back and walked down the center aisle, his expression more suited to a feast day than whatever was happening here.
“And now, I know you must be wondering . . . ‘But Merlin, did you not once consort with the Fey as well as the Druids?’ Yes, I did. And in my time away from these lands, I traveled east across the waters, and I saw the error of my ways.”
In his life, Mordred had only ever been able to identify significant moments in hindsight. But now, as Merlin spoke, he felt everything splinter: a bridge giving way to a storm surge, a warhorse cut down beneath him, an unavoidable swing of the ax.
“I have seen the horrors of what witchcraft is becoming,” Merlin continued, sweeping his gaze across the crowd.
“I have seen what happens when the Fey and other dark creatures corrupt these sacred ways. Cities burn and bodies rot. To protect all of you, I have repented, and I have been reborn in the eyes of the Resurrected God.”