One of her brows arched, her rose-petal mouth parting. He could hear her already, though he had barely known her a full season:“Why, pray tell, do you gaze upon me, Sir Mordred, when the greatest sorcerer that ever lived stands just paces from you?”
“Remember, he has no legitimate heir,” he said before she could speak, though he could not tear his gaze away from her, a thought taking root. Nyneve could be useful. If he were very careful and very clever, he might be able to fashion her into a dagger. One that might slide beneath Merlin’s thick hide and draw blood.
One that might even rival Caledfwlch’s power.
Her brow furrowed, genuine confusion crossing her expression. “He hasyou,” she said, the words coming from the back of her throat, heavy with meaning. Mordred watched with interest as her cheekbones flushed and she looked away, her jaw grinding.
“A bastard prophesied to end it all?” he whispered in response, leaning closer so she could hear. “Ah, what a boon.”
She crossed her arms and ignored him, keeping her gaze on the scene unfolding in the great hall. Mordred supposed that for Nyneve, it was preferable to admitting she had begrudgingly found something about him that was worthwhile. The pain settling into its usual thrum with Caledfwlch sheathed, he studied her as he pulled in a long breath. He could use her. The same way he had been used his entire life. He certainly knew the game.
He finally managed to drag his eyes away from Nyneve, watching the queen and king speak with Merlin. The monks at his back held perfectly still, more like knights awaiting their command than any holy men Mordred had met before.
The sight of the monks made him deeply uneasy. He needed to speak with Guinevere immediately, but the entry hall had filled with spectators and admirers, injured knights and healers’ assistants pressed in at his back, the space grown stifling. Eyeing the lines of the crowd, Mordred found no easy escape that might go unnoticed. So, he told himself to hold still, to block out the chatter and the bells now ringing from Camelot’s highest towers andthink.
He crossed his arms to avoid curling his fingers into fists. His usual delicate manipulations and complex maneuvering would not be enough. Not to topple the famed sorcerer’s influence and whatever alliances he had made to obtain such a powerful weapon. If not for the cursed bargain Merlin had made a hundred years ago with the High Court, Mordred would happilykill the man, but he was bound against such violence, same as any other member of the Gentry.
With frustration, Mordred realized his gaze had returned to Nyneve Or’Afon as Arthur linked his arm through Merlin’s and broke away from the monks, his guard creating a pathway deeper into the castle. The crowds began to dissipate, but Nyneve did not move, her gaze following Merlin with all the intensity of a hunting hound.
He clenched his jaw. Damn it all, heneededher. A nuisance to a novelty to a threat, all in a fortnight. And now, perhaps an ally, by the bloody gods. But she could slip into places he could not. Merlin had always been susceptible to a pretty face. Nyneve’s looks and her power would be like poison down the sorcerer’s throat. She could destroy him. Merlin would try to control her, of course. But Nyneve was strong enough to resist and, by Mordred’s estimations, wily enough to play that game.
“You are awfully interested in me, Sir Mordred,” Nyneve mused, pulling him out of his thoughts and into the present moment. She leaned back against the archway, her arms crossed in a mirroring of his own posture. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, but a few curls had sprung free, spiraling around her face. The apples of her freckled cheeks flushed prettily. Her eyes glittered with keen intelligence. The luscious curves of her body were apparent and undeniable, even beneath a heavy linen kirtle and apron.
Best of all, Nyneve Or’Afon wanted what anyone else did: power.
“Though it was for good reason, you nearly strangled one of the king’s men,” he replied coolly. “Forgive me for my foolish concern.” He paused, turning to face her. “Are you all right, Lady Nyneve?”
She peered up at him, and he swore he could see all the calculations twisting and turning in her meadow-greeneyes. He held still and let her see whatever she wanted to in his expression. “I am just fine,” she sniffed, brushing her impeccably clean apron with the flat of one hand. “Sir Oran, was it? Hardly the first. Unfortunately not the last, I am sure.”
Mordred examined her, ignoring the wave of rage he felt at the idea of anyone touching the Druid girl. Morgana was due to arrive at court in four more moons for her annual autumn stay. In addition to being capable of helping him devise a plan against Merlin, she would also be able to determine what spellcraft Nyneve was leveling against him. Surely there wassomething, even if his senses were not keen enough to unpick it from the weave of magic. Why else would it feel like the ground gave way beneath his feet every time their eyes met?
“Do let me know if anyone gives you trouble,” he said, surprising himself.
Her mouth moved into a half-smile that made his blood pound. “How chivalrous, Sir Mordred,” she purred. Unfolding her arms, she pushed off the wall, standing up straight. Despite the monks and the guards and the servants milling around them, he felt like it was only the two of them.
“Sir Mordred.” His name came from somewhere other than the Druid girl’s mouth. He startled, turning to find one of Guinevere’s ladies-in-waiting beside him, her face pinched. “The queen requests your presence.”
“Of course,” he replied. Then he glanced toward Nyneve with a bow of his head. “I meant what I said, Lady Nyneve,” Mordred added quietly before following the lady-in-waiting.
Striding into the entry hall, he passed the monks, who stood at attention like soldiers. Hastily, he eyed their crosses, the precious metals winking in the candlelight. Their loose robes could cover all manner of weapons. Their eyes were too keen, hard as flint.
Preciselywhohad Arthur just permitted into the heart of his kingdom?
“This is poor timing,” Guinevere snapped, beginning to pace the chamber. Mordred watched her, his own thoughts too thick to find the right words. Gawain sat on the velvet side chair, his limbs sprawled as usual, Palamedes standing by the window, arms crossed, heavy brow furrowed.
“There is a chance this talk of the Grail proves a good distraction,” Gawain said, flipping a dagger up into the air. “Hard to conquer more land for a united kingdom when there are mythic quests to be had.”
“Arthur tends to seek glory above all else these days,” Palamedes replied without turning away from the window.
No one had said anything about the sword. Presumably because, to them, it was just that: a sword. Mordred rolled his shoulders and glanced around the space, trying to shake off the wave of nausea that rose in him every time he so much as thought of Caledfwlch.
They were gathered in Guinevere’s favorite part of her chambers: one of the castle’s largest turrets, filled with hand-hewn tables and carefully arranged bookshelves. In the vestibule, her two most trusted ladies-in-waiting sat on lounge chairs, embroidering what would look like nothing more than the results of a bored noblewoman’s pastime to most people. But Guinevere leveraged the pervasive nature of such arts to send messages warning of dangerous men at court and receive information from her spies.
The queen said nothing, pacing back toward Mordred, heavy brocade skirts swishing in the tense quiet. When she reachedwhere he stood, his back leaning against the stone wall, she stopped and looked up at him, her gaze expectant.
“We have to know Merlin’s plans before we can decide our own,” he told her with a shrug. “One can presume from his grand entrance that he intends to return to his old position of prominence and power. But the dramatic shift from pursuing an artefact of the old religions to something from the Resurrected God’s scripture means something has changed.”
“Or nothing has changed,” the queen replied, crossing her arms. “And he’s just a snake who’s shed the old ways like a spent skin.”
