“I daresay,” the queen began, choosing the words carefully, “that we may get along very, very well.”
Hope fluttered beneath Nyneve’s breastbone as doubt squeezed her airway. Her hands shook as she raised her goblet. After glancing around the atrium and finding only the ladies-in-waiting Guinevere had identified as her most loyal, she offered the queen a small, inconspicuous toast. “To new partnerships, Your Highness.”
Though Guinevere had no goblet to raise, the sharpness of her smile was offering enough. “To the poor men,” the queen said, “who will never see us coming.”
Nyneve fought to hold on to the moment: the sun-cloaked atrium, the whisper of the leaves, the bubbling of the fountain, that delicate feeling in the very center of her being that she wasexactlywhere she was meant to be.
“There is something else I would like to discuss, Nyneve,” Guinevere said, leaning forward in her seat. Her eyes swept around the atrium yet again, and Nyneve suddenly wondered what the space normally looked like on a warm spring morning. Likely, she realized, quite busier than a few handmaidens working on embroidery in the far corner. Moving as if to stretch, Nyneve permitted herself a peek around the atrium, too. The lutist must have gone. The guards stood in the doorway, facing into the castle, well out of earshot.
“Yes, Your Highness?” Nyneve asked with a bow of her head.
“I am sure you’ve heard about my struggles with providing an heir for the kingdom,” the queen said evenly.
Nyneve took a sharp breath of surprise, grasping for the right words. “There are rumors, my lady,” she settled on.
Guinevere scoffed. “Come now, Lady Or’Afon,” she said with a sharp little smile, “you need not play coy with me. It is well-known, thanks to Merlin.” Nyneve watched one of the queen’s hands curl into her skirts as she spat out the sorcerer’s name. She wondered if Guinevere had meant to reveal that last part. She wondered if this queen ever revealed anything by accident.
“Yes,” Nyneve said, sitting up straighter. “Yes, I am aware of this struggle, my lady.”
Guinevere smoothed one of her long, intricate braids. “You are a Druid sorceress,” the queen said simply.
“What makes you say such a thing?” Nyneve asked, fighting to stay calm. A tide of anger rose from her chest and into her throat. Gods, she wanted to pummel Mordred’s skull.
Guinevere waved a hand like something so important could not possibly matter. “I would wager you already know,” she said, arching one dark brow. “That is, however, not what I wish to discuss. I have searched high and low for methods that might alleviate my ailment. Nothing has worked, but I have not yet resorted to any of the deeper magics.”
Nyneve’s head swam, and she resisted the urge to lean forward over her knees. There was no way to win—either she withheld information from the queen of Camelot, or she admitted to what she was. Druidry and mortal magic were not outlawed in Arthur’s kingdom—Merlin was evidence enough of that—but it was a deeply sensitive issue. The Fair Folk’s position in Camelot’s society had diminished from terrifying-but-occasionally-helpful allies to outright enemies, and the viewof Druids, who associated closely with the Fey and even the High Court on occasion, was growing just as tense.
Only a few days ago, Galen had told Nyneve he thought the Roman religion’s amassing influence could lead to a gendered system of magic. Men who wore the Resurrected God’s cross and attributed their power to him would be revered. Men who did not would eventually come to understand where their gifts “truly” came from. Women and the people who were neither gender might be permitted to work lower magics, to know about herbs and midwifery, but nothing more. Nyneve had scoffed at such an idea. What did gender and magic have to do with each other, unless the one doing the working wished for there to be a relationship? Galen had, she remembered quite vividly now, smiled at her sadly and changed the subject.
“The deeper magics,” Nyneve echoed, flattening her palms against her thighs, hoping her gown’s skirt might alleviate some of the clamminess.
Guinevere fixed her with a piercing stare that made Nyneve feel incredibly small. “I understand the dangers for you, Nyneve, I do,” she said in a low voice. “But the dangers are much greater if I cannot produce an heir and secure my influence. Those who preach the ways of the Resurrected God call for many things that would not suit either one of us.”
“I hail from a nunnery, Your Highness,” Nyneve replied, reminding herself she sat before Camelot’s queen, who certainly still held enough sway to destroy her. “I find little in the writings themselves that call for such things, but yes, I fear you are correct. There are many men who seek to twist the words of Christ into a new way to dominate, and women who gleefully ride beside them for reasons I cannot fathom.”
Guinevere straightened, her mouth in a firm line, and somehow managed to look down at Nyneve even though they were both seated. Nyneve swallowed hard, realizing how stupidit was to speak to a queen like she just had, and awaited her admittedly well-earned admonishment.
But instead, Guinevere let out a long sigh, rubbing her temples. “Nyneve, I intended to slowly earn your trust, and I have done nothing but guard this information about you carefully,” the queen said, imploring now. She suddenly looked incredibly tired. “But there is notime. I know it seems like there should be. Christianity has been here, even in small numbers, for many years. The King’s Champion openly worships the Resurrected God. Your friend, the healer Elaine, too, I believe. But it is growing quickly in power, and I fear there are less people like Lancelot and Elaine who follow Christ’s teachings and more men like Merlin who might use it for darker ends.” The queen drew a deep breath, sitting up straighter. “He could undo everything I’ve worked ten long years for in a fortnight. You are not from a nunnery, though I applaud you for being well-schooled in your supposed background. And for what it’s worth, the nuns at the Abbey Cwmhir did not give you up.”
Nyneve’s heart leapt into her throat as the queen paused, something a little wicked flashing in her gaze. “Not until I mentioned my fertility struggles and what my failure to produce an heir might mean for the kingdom. Then, your abbess became very talkative.”
Nyneve sighed, leaning back in her chair. Her mind swam, and she wished desperately for something much stronger than the ale on the small table at her side. But she still reached for it and took a long drink, stalling. Guinevere’s words were likely not a bluff, and if she continued to deny the truth, the queen would only watch her more closely. And, in all likelihood, she would send Mordred to do it, which would test Nyneve’s ability to control her magic even further. The knight had a particular talent for provoking her.
At the mere thought of him, Nyneve slid one hand into her pocket, brushing the tiny hag-stone she’d spelled to illuminate Mordred’s location. All she had to do was slip the columbine-petal-anointed stone into the knight’s pockets or saddlebags. She had grown tired of the upper hand always belonging to him.
“Is this a threat, Your Highness?” Nyneve asked as casually as possible.
“No,” Guinevere replied immediately with a sharp shake of her head. Then her entire body went still for a long moment. When she moved again, it was to reach across the space between them and take Nyneve’s hand in her own. “I am asking forhelpfrom the only person who I think might actually be able to fix me.”
Shocked that a queen would deign to touch her, Nyneve’s gaze shot to their hands—Guinevere’s fingers enclosed hers, soft but firm, with more calluses than she would’ve expected. When Nyneve finally forced herself to look up, the queen’s expression was open and full of desperate, imploring ache.
“It is dangerous, my queen,” Nyneve breathed, wondering how to explain. “Life does not come from nothing. Yes, there are more basic workings to support your wellbeing that can improve birth outcomes.” She paused, staring into Guinevere’s eyes as the queen gripped her hand even tighter. “But what you are asking for... it is a life for a life, Your Highness. I make no judgment, but I need you to understand that.”
Guinevere held her gaze unflinchingly as she drew a long breath. “I understand,” she said, releasing Nyneve’s hand to sit up straight again. But that open wound in her expression lingered, not dampened by the small, arch smile that crooked her lips. “Call me Guin, won’t you?”
“Your Highness?” Nyneve stuttered in shock, her mind racing.
The queen parted her mouth to reply, but then a sudden commotion in the hall drew her attention. The guards at the door shouted something, two of them turning on their heels to run toward Guinevere. Nyneve leapt to her feet instinctively, one hand sliding to her dagger.
