“Ladies, it is time for the feast,” he said gravely, as though he were escorting them to the gallows.
“Perfect timing,” Elaine said, reserved once again as she pinned a pearl-studded veil the queen had gifted Nyneve into her curls. “Are they still having it out-of-doors with all this rain?”
“The rain stopped some time ago,” Galen replied, peering out the window. “Perhaps Merlin sent the clouds away.” The physician’s tone was dry and humorless, making Nyneve recall that Galen, too, of course, had a history in this place. All of them, so rooted here in Camelot. Regardless of her feelings about thecitadel, it reminded Nyneve of how she had no real home of her own.
Elaine and Galen chatted about someone she didn’t know as she stood and pulled on her beaded goatskin slippers, another of Guinevere’s gifts. Then the three of them headed out into the twilight. On their walk to the feast, Galen made a fuss over Nyneve’s work on Elaine’s hair, and then the Druid girl’s sapphire gown.
Its neckline dipped as low as current fashions dared, the bodice molded close to her waist. Embroidery framed her bust and neck like a precious painting, the sleeves just barely clinging to her shoulders before flowing down to her wrists in wide trumpets, delicate as a butterfly’s wing.
She could admit it was a beautiful thing to behold, but as Nyneve entered the Queen’s Courtyard—a north-facing, centrally located pavilion surrounded by crumbling stone walls—she wished it drew less attention. Despite being at Galen’s side and entering once the festivities had already begun, a number of gazes swung her way, many of them lingering more than she’d like. In a hot flash of frustration, she regretted wearing her hair down, the crown of her head covered with a pearl-studded veil also gifted by the queen. She’d meant to honor Guinevere with her choices, draw the queen’s eye, remind her that Nyneve could be useful.
But she couldn’t find the queen through the crowd, the pavilion lit only by a number of beeswax pillars flickering atop the moss-gowned walls. Elaine had stepped away to help Molly in the kitchens, so Nyneve stayed at Galen’s side, politely greeting noblemen. The physician helpfully cleared his throat every time one of them began to speak to Nyneve’s chest instead of her face.
“At the south end,” Galen said to her when they were disengaged, handing her a goblet of mead, “there is a pathway that leads into the Queen’s Green.”
She sipped slowly, her tired mind tumbling as she tried to understand why Galen wanted to bestow this random fact upon her. “Oh,” Nyneve said suddenly, straightening. “Are you sure?”
“Without a doubt, if it will prevent you from spitting at someone like a cat or going for that dagger you probably have hidden in your skirts,” he replied with a wicked little smile. Then his features softened. “It is a lot to become accustomed to, the intricacies of court. Go, Nyneve. There is a lovely willow tree with a stone bench you would enjoy.”
She hesitated only a moment, holding his gaze, but Galen nodded again. So Nyneve went, slipping along the courtyard’s ancient stone wall, unwilling to dive directly through the feast’s throng. She kept her eyes to the ground in front of her feet, searching for the relief of the gardens Galen promised, hoping with everything she had that no dark-haired knight with moonlight skin crossed her path.
As Nyneve drew even with the beating heart of the gathering, one thing did grab her attention: King Arthur with a raised goblet, his garments shimmering with layered, complex, protective magic. He wore that terrible sword at his waist. It made Nyneve’s teeth hurt. She hurried along, her soft leather slippers quiet on the stone terrace.
“To Merlin’s return!” the king shouted, making her jump. She glanced over, nearly past the enormous feast table and the knights with richly clad women hanging from their arms like silk pennants.
“To Merlin!” roared the crowd.
Among the court gathered at the king’s feet was a dark-haired knight with moonlight skin who stood a head above the rest. As Nyneve reached the courtyard’s south side and slippedthrough the garden gate, she couldn’t help but notice that Mordred Pendragon was the only member of King Arthur’s court who did not raise his goblet in the name of the land’s most powerful sorcerer.
Chapter Sixteen
Mordred
“Pull that kind of fucking horseshit again,” Bedwyr said in Mordred’s ear, deathly calm, “and it’ll be your pretty aunt in her tower who pays the price.”
The threat lodged a hot prick of alarm in Mordred’s chest. No mortal man was a match for Morgana of Tintagel, no, but he did not like that his affection was so apparent. Furthermore, he did not like that he feltanythingfor the mortal woman who had raised him in the first place.
“Threatening the king’s sister?” Mordred asked coolly, taking a long swig of mead. “An interesting choice, Bedwyr, even for you.”
“Half-sister,” the older knight replied, leaning toward Mordred. For all the talk of Lancelot and his prowess, Bedwyr was a mountain of a man with a cold, methodical proficiency that had always put Mordred on edge. “Their bitch mother a filthy Druid before Uther’s kindly interventions, nonetheless.”
Mordred took another sip of mead and sighed. “You do understand, Bedwyr,” he began, watching Merlin settle into the empty throne at Arthur’s side with another twinge of alarm,“that you harbor a baseless hatred inherited from distant ancestors who abandoned your bloodline on this island, yes?”
“Baseless,” the powerfully built man snorted, following Mordred’s gaze. Whatever his opinion of Merlin, Bedwyr did not display it on his heavy, slab-like features. “They consult with the Fair Folk. They refute the salvation of the true religion our forefathers brought to these shores. They refuse to acknowledgeyourking’s dominion over these lands.”
At this, Mordred finally turned to look at Bedwyr, interested despite himself. Though he had suspected the older, respected knight—one of the first members of the Round Table—held such opinions, Bedwyr was normally far too cunning to spout them so willingly. He glanced back at the royal dais. Merlin lounged across the throne that had been brought out for the queen, the jeweled cross about his neck winking in the candlelight. The sorcerer’s return reignited many things. Mordred found he did not enjoy any of them.
The last time Merlin had been at court, Mordred had been barely out of boyhood, but he was sure there had been no cross about the sorcerer’s neck. Merlin hadstudiedwith Druids. Some people even thought him a member of the Briton clans’ educated upper echelons who held what remained of the old ways, anything not snuffed out by the Roman-delivered apocalypse.
Mortal beliefs would be fascinating were they not so dangerous.
“Lovely talk, Bedwyr,” Mordred said, tilting his goblet toward the knight. “Enjoy the feast.”
“Where do you think—” Bedwyr began, but another cheer from the crowd cut him off.
Mordred slipped away, pulling the shadows around him like a cloak to conceal his exit—magic so subtle not even the power-hungry sorcerer would feel it, not amidst all the loud and overly complex enchantments Merlin had strewn about the courtyard.At least no Fey arrow would shatter this evening’s feast, he supposed. A small comfort. In truth, another baseless aggression from the High King Ragrshydan might be easier to contend with than the command Guinevere had issued.
Mordred could handle the politics of his court and his people. But he was not sure if he had the strength to face Nyneve Or’Afon again and offer her another deal, this one from the queen of Camelot.
