All the world held still, save for Fate’s fingers on Nyneve’s Threads, strumming a low chord of warning.
Then Merlin turned toward his half-ring of monks. Soundlessly, one stepped forward. Next to her, Mordred went stiff. She didn’t dare take her eyes away from the monk and the long, narrow object he held in his hands, shrouded in cloth, but Nyneve swore a strangled curse left the knight’s mouth.
With a flourish, Merlin pulled the fabric away, revealing a sword. Its scabbard was made of dark leather, inlaid with jeweled crosses. Even sheathed, Nyneve could feel the thrum of the weapon. It was no ordinary blade, no sword crafted in even the finest of blacksmith’s forges.
No—this weapon, whatever it was, hummed with a twisted kind of magic that made Nyneve’s stomach lurch. She stole a glance at Mordred to find he had gone green beneath his pale skin, clearly biting down on the inside of his cheek, his fists balled at his sides. A sheen broke out on his brow, and his eyes were glassy.
As she glanced back at the sword, another wave of sickness roiled in her own stomach. The hall had fallen further into a hush, everyone looking more like figures in a painting of the Isles’ most historic moment than living creatures. The air around her suddenly went dry, making Nyneve’s throat tickle. Then Merlin offered Arthur the blade, hilt-first.
The king held the sorcerer’s gaze for a long moment before he reached forward, wrapping his fingers around the hilt. The great hall suddenly seemed too small, its grand ceilings drooping low, as if Destiny had settled its great weight atop the roof. Desperately, Nyneve reached behind her, placing one palm flat against the stone wall, which had gone warm, trying to balance herself. Beside her, Mordred’s balance pitched, and she foundthe knight’s bulk pressed against her. Setting her jaw, Nyneve wanted to hate it, wanted to shove him and spit at him—but her own head spun and she felt terribly unsteady. She leaned into him, too, hoping the faerie-bound knight might keep her standing. If she fainted with all this commotion, it might be forgiven—a long-lost noblewoman new to court, barely out of girlhood.
But one of the king’s best knights? He would be accused of many horrible things, some of them probably true.
Nyneve had no idea why she cared, but the weight of the air grew heavier, the sensation of a thousand tiny creatures crawling across her skin making her shudder. Perhaps in this moment, she needed Mordred as much as he needed her. Both of them drew in a long, ragged gasp as Arthur closed his fingers around the sword and pulled the blade free.
The magic—something terribly ancient and utterly unknown to the Druid girl—slammed against the stone walls, though only she and the faerie-bound knight seemed to notice. The king held the blade in front of him, its wicked edge pointed toward the ceiling, examining its fine, sharp edge.
Nyneve had no idea what wretched rituals had gone into creating this weapon, but it waswrong. An abomination. Mordred’s shoulder pressed harder into hers as he tried to disguise his retch as a mere cough. No one noticed; every gaze was fixed firmly upon the king and the sorcerer and the sword. It was like watching an old folk story happen in real time, Nyneve recognized distantly.
“Its name,” Merlin said in a grave tone to the king, gesturing to the sword, “is Caledfwlch. With it in your hands, Arthur Pendragon, you will lead us to glory and the Grail. With this sword, our liege will ink his name into the annals of history.”
The sorcerer paused, looking around the hall as if it were his audience.
“The once and future king.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mordred
Mordred heaved a strangled breath that he desperately hoped Nyneve would not notice. His blood thundered like war drums.
Merlin was back.
And he had brought a cursed thing with him, thrumming with stolen Fey blood and rituals thought long-lost. Perhaps he was mistaken, but the power that rolled off Caledfwlch in waves of nauseating power felt like the work of an ancient god.
A god that Mordred’s people, long before his creation, had imprisoned beneath these very isles because the deity would not stop his crusade to hold the entire world between his fists.
Kronos. The Timekeeper.
Sickness boiled in his stomach, pain overtaking him until his vision went blurry. A deep, ragged breath brought in the scent of river water and spring meadows. Distantly, Mordred realized he was leaning into Nyneve Or’Afon for balance—and she leaned right back, the Druid girl nearly as affected by the wrongness of this ill-wrought blade as one of the Fair Folk.
With a look of wicked satisfaction, Arthur sheathed the blade. In the same tide as Nyneve, Mordred drew in along, grateful breath. He was used to the pain of iron, of all the constraints of humanity, of the wardings Merlin had laid throughout Camelot specifically against his kind. He had mastered the agony. But this blade, this Caledfwlch, was something entirely different, and so much worse. His mind swam. He had little idea how to handle all of Nyneve’s plotting alongside Merlin’s return. And now this horrific thing that should never have been forged.
He straightened, pulling his shoulder away from the Druid girl’s, just as Guinevere looked toward him. Arthur slid the blade onto his belt and moved forward to embrace Merlin. Mordred held the queen’s gaze, sure that the glimmering fear in her eyes was reflected in his.
Mordred’s mind reeled. He was an utter fool, so sure he would never have to contend with the sorcerer ever again. He squeezed his eyes shut. He would pay dearly, he knew, for his arrogant presumption.
Merlin had left Camelot on his great quest for Cerridwen’s mythic Cauldron not long after Guinevere and Arthur had been married. When no heir was produced within a year, Merlin had privately sworn to restore Arthur’s virility, surely stolen from him by some wicked spell. Publicly, of course, the sorcerer promised to seek a great relic that would heal the queen’s infertility, even though he knew as well as Galen that the fault lay with Arthur.
And the Fair Folk had led Merlin on a merry chase for the Cauldron, luring him in and out of the Otherlands, suspending time and changing form. Mordred had been stupid enough to hope Merlin had forgotten himself, his king, and the citadel called Camelot that waited for him at the top of the old faerie hill.
But here he was, yet again offering Arthur a magical fix to produce an heiranda heinous weapon of untold power. Apoisonous promise, Mordred thought as he fought to keep his breathing even, and yet it was Arthur’s only clear path toward the lasting legacy he knew the king craved.
“But neither the king nor the queen have ever sought the help of the Druids, have they?” Nyneve asked from beside him, her voice breathy and strained in a way that told him she already knew the answer.
“No,” Mordred replied, sounding more irritated than he had intended. “None of the Druid-led clans will accept Arthur’s claim to the throne, so he would never seek their assistance for his lack of an heir. Besides, he has Merlin. Why would he look elsewhere for magical solutions?” He had not intended to say so much. Mordred pinched the bridge of his nose and turned toward the Druid girl, his mind tumbling with calculations, his body still rife with the pain of Caledfwlch’s nearness.
She met his gaze easily, not a stitch of fear in her lovely face, narrowing her eyes at him like she was about to tear into his throat with her bare teeth. In truth, he hoped she would. If agony was his destiny, by the fucking gods, he would choose its source. He would choosesomethingin this life, in the narrow line of steps from which he could not stray.
