“No, no,” Guinevere replied with an arch of her brow. She was dressed in the plain riding habit she preferred, her hair in a simple braid that trailed down her back, only a small circlet about her brow. She looked the most herself, Mordred had always thought, when she dressed like this: polished but practical, and ready for absolutely anything. “Speak, Mordred.”
He suppressed a smile; this mortal queen was entirely too astute. “A Druid girl making claim to a great house appears from the woods,” he said, “and then barely a fortnight later, a Fey arrow pierces Camelot’s wardings. They are old, certainly, but they were set byMerlin.”
Guinevere’s expression soured at the name of the sorcerer. Mordred did not disagree, but Merlin was another topic entirely.
“Aye, precisely, Mordred,” Gawain joined in, his expression fierce. “The timing of this Or’Afon worries me, my queen.”
Mordred stroked Rook’s neck, trying to hide his pleasure. How wonderful it would be for Nyneve to become someone else’s problem entirely. Perhaps then he would finally stop tasting storm-swollen river water and summer-green meadow on his tongue.
“Send me to the High Court,” Palamedes repeated, breaking Mordred’s thoughts. “I have great skill in negotiation, and if I can be frank with you, Your Highness, I am deeply interested in the Fe—Fair Folk of these Isles.”
Mordred winced. He knew the noble-blooded prince had traveled so far from his home in Al-Andalus in pursuit of the rumors about the High Court’s grand libraries. But the Fey had not permitted him access, nor any other mortal. Not since Morgana de Bois of Tintagel. Mordred smiled into the sunlightat the thought of his guardian’s deft, clever wit, teaching herself Old Feyrish just to spite the High Court. All at once, he wished fervently that she were here. She would know what to do.
“I worry you would seek their libraries more than the restoration of our truce,” Guinevere said, amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Let us trot, I think.”
Palamedes and Qila shot forward into a big, ground-devouring trot with glee. At Guinevere’s urging, Awen quickly matched pace, and the four of them struck out farther into the meadows that ringed the citadel like the setting of a crown’s jewels.
“I think it is best to send Mordred,” Guinevere said some time later, breaking the surprisingly easy silence that had descended. “Palamedes, you must understand that with Them, you must always grovel first.” She slowed Awen to a walk, and the three of them followed suit, always staying just a step or two behind the queen. “Mordred’s aunt caused Them a great offense once. Sending her beloved nephew, whom she raised almost as a son, into Their clutches is a tactical move. They will be expecting Camelot to grovel, and Mordred will. At first. But he has entreated the Folk before, and he knows how to find common ground. And he will discover whether the Or’Afon girl is a wolf in sheep’s clothing or simply a victim of bad timing.”
Mordred avoided looking at Palamedes, knowing that the knight would be disappointed. Guinevere’s diplomacy was, as always, clever. She could not tell Palamedes that Mordred must be the one to handle the High Court because he was a changeling. A creature made, not born, crafted from a wound torn in the midnight sky by the goddesses Nyx and the Morrigan, less a person and more a weapon.
Because Guinevere was the only soul in this citadel who knew the truth. Who knew that the Fey, and the goddesses who favored Them, had bargained with the powers of Fate andDestiny to create him on a day that was not a day, in a time that was outside of time, in a place that was not a place. He was permitted to serve his purpose, but because his creation flouted the rules of life and death, he would not receive the eternal lifeline of the Fey. When the end of days came to Camelot, his blood would feed the battlefield. He would not rise again.
“Is it a good idea for one of our best warriors to leave at a time like this?” Gawain asked, dragging a hand through his curls, the same way he always did when he was nervous. His mare, simply called Horse, took the opportunity to snatch a mouthful of grass.
“When the famed Gawain, nephew of the king, and one of the most fearsome fighters I have ever seen, still sits at the Round Table and defends this citadel?” Palamedes asked, his long, dark eyelashes dipping low as he glanced over at Gawain. “I think we will do just fine.”
Gawain’s face turned an interesting shade of red. Guinevere laughed, turning Awen onto a narrow path that wound through a wood of birch trees. “Mordred, ride beside me. Let us discuss.”
With a stifled sigh, he did as he was commanded, Palamedes and Gawain falling back. He had spent his evening treading water for hours while he dismantled the admittedly impressive spellwork of the Druid maiden—no, thesorceress, apparently. His legs were still sore, reminding him of Nyneve every time he cued Rook or rebalanced his weight.
“We could still tell Arthur what you are,” Guinevere suggested in a hushed voice, gazing up at the sky through the silvery birch branches. Mordred heaved a deep breath, bringing the scent of sun-warmed loam and wet leaves to his nose. It made him think of Nyneve, and frustration spiked in his chest. “That we have one of Them in our midst, on our side. It would make your negotiations official. You could be the link betweenthe rival courts, Mordred. You could stop this war that we both know is coming.”
He stiffened, hands tightening around Rook’s reins. The destrier tossed his head in annoyance. “No, Guin,” Mordred said, trying to keep his voice steady. “He will focus more on my deceit—andyours, need I mention—than on any potential advantages. You know this.”
The queen ground her jaw in silence. Only the sound of the horses’ hooves on the packed dirt met Mordred’s ears. Perhaps it might be peaceful under any other circumstance. Distantly, he heard Gawain and Palamedes’ laughter flutter through the slim birch trees and flowering shrubbery.
“I think it is worth the risk,” Guinevere said, her tone sharpening as she looked over at him, brows drawn together. “And I am your queen, after all.”
Mordred turned to meet her gaze, letting his glamour slip just a little: the cheekbones sharpening, the shoulders broadening, the planes of his face ancient and feral. “I know what you want, mortal queen,” he murmured, the forest stirring around them in response to his presence. “By revealing myself to Arthur, you seek my unfettered loyalty to Camelot. You cannot have it. It is not mine to give. My loyalty is to the battle that will claim my life, to the purpose I was made to serve.”
She flinched, but not at his tone or even the reminder of his true features. She flinched at the inevitability of his fate. The place where his heart should have been twinged, but then Mordred steeled himself.
“In the meantime, I will do everything I can to avoid unnecessary bloodshed,” he said. He meant it. “I believe my people and mortals can live alongside one another. Furthermore, I do not wish to die upon a battlefield before my thirtieth summer. So I ask that you either expel me from your citadel or continue with the friendship and common ground wehave found. Perhaps we can alter destiny, but you cannot change the Threads of my Fate.”
Guinevere’s shoulders drooped, and she turned to look ahead, letting Awen pick her way along the path. “I know,” is all the queen said, looking worn-out. “Go to the High Court. See if we can restore our peace.” She paused, glancing back at him, her mask firmly in place. “I will not be so foolish as to forget where we stand, Sir Mordred.”
With that, she sent Arwen into a trot. Mordred clenched his jaw, feeling immeasurably ancient and simultaneously far too young for all the weight on his shoulders. He let Rook trot, Palamedes and Gawain catching up a few moments later. They were gleefully gossiping about Founding Day feast happenings and, apparently, an affair between a nobleman and a blacksmith.
He tried to pay closer attention, but the moment he let his mind wander, Nyneve possessed his thoughts. Not the difficulties he faced. Not the impossible line he walked every day. But the godsdamnDruid girl.
He wondered if she had found her messenger yet. He wondered what she would do to him once she had. He wondered why the mere thought of Nyneve Or’Afon’s ire excited him. Why the rain-damp meadow and summer-dew smell of her lingered on his tongue, and why he could still feel her soft curves pressed against his body whenever he closed his eyes.
He let out a long breath, stroking Rook’s glossy, muscled neck with his fingertips. He had needed this morning ride desperately and was glad Arthur still permitted it despite last night’s attack. The birdsong, the gentle thud of hoofbeats, the wind in the trees. All of it soothed him, centered him, helped pull him farther and farther from Nyneve’s tide.
Mordred refused to consider that some tiny sliver of him was still swimming in her waters and would likely never makeit ashore. He rolled his shoulders, chasing away the traitorous thought.
They had almost reached the edge of the forest, where the land opened up into a flat meadow perfect for a good gallop, when a different kind of unease prickled Mordred’s spine. He glanced sharply around the woods but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he had learned long ago not to discount his Fey senses, so he drew his sword a heartbeat later, urging Rook into a faster gait to reach the queen. The joviality and balminess of the morning disappeared in an instant, cold creeping into the forest. Mordred tightened his grip on his blade, gaze carefully sweeping their surroundings.
