Though one side of the hall looked as though it went on forever, the other end held a dais with a massive throne. On the steps, naked bodies writhed against one another, just a few paces from where a mortal man, his throat slit, bled out. The earthen floors soaked up the violence with all the greed of a ravenous beast. The High King was nowhere to be seen, his throne empty, though a few of the Sunken still wandered aimlessly about the space, goblets and pitchers in their hands.
The sight of the mortals who had stayed too long beneath the hill made Mordred clutch the sorceress closer to him. She looked at him quizzically, but he avoided her gaze. The idea of Nyneve Or’Afon meeting that cruel fate disturbed him; all the fury drained out of her, that sharp tongue withered up in her skull, never again to fling insults his way. The mortal bleeding to death on the stairs had been lucky, in his opinion.
Mordred tore his gaze away from the Sunken, forced himself to stop thinking about the sorceress in his arms, and instead became the cruel, charming changeling knight this Court thought him to be. Most days, though, he wondered if it was even a mask at all.
“Sir Mordred!” called a towering satyr.
“Merry tidings, Lord Changeling,” murmured a river nymph clad in mail.
“Finally permitting yourself a bit of fun, Sir Knight?” asked a dark-skinned Fey with flowing silver hair coaxed into the shape of a horned hennin.
“So good to see you beneath the hill!” bellowed one of the warriors who had trained Mordred as a youth, clapping him on the shoulder.
Mordred slipped into that cold, calm place, returning every greeting and exchanging pleasantries. Most Fey acted as though Nyneve was not there, almost as if They could not see her at all, but the occasional hungry glance did not go unnoticed. He was grateful when a footman appeared and led him through the hall, passing by the deserted dais and entering a small vestibule. Tall, narrow doors adorned with bone were set into the wall at the far end, marking the entrance to Ragrshydan’s space for private gatherings.
Other than a long, high-backed bench draped in lush furs and a low table, the room was empty. Mordred lowered Nyneve onto the bench, bracing himself when he pulled away. He did not trust her to be even remotely reasonable. But to his surprise, the Druid girl simply sat up straight and glowered at him. Still, he waved a few of his fingers, binding her ankles together.
He leaned over her, checking the restraints on her wrists, which were settled in her lap. As he thought, they were thinning, the sorceress no doubt using all of her magical effort to break them. With a sigh, Mordred brushed the bindings with his fingertips, restoring the working. She lunged at him, trying to bite him, even though she had to realize such a thing was hopeless.
As he straightened, Nyneve drew in a deep, furious breath, her breasts straining against the laces of her kirtle. When he had thrown her over his shoulder, her garments must have shifted, because the neckline of her kirtle was significantly lower than it had been in the forest. Mordred averted his gaze. He didnot sit, but stood beside Nyneve, his arms crossed. One of the Sunken shuffled in from the main hall, offering a goblet of what appeared to be mortal wine. Wisely, the sorceress declined.
“What are they?” she asked, clearly rattled as she watched the broken thing shamble out of the room.
“Mortals that have remained here for too long,” Mordred replied. “There are old, cruel workings set into our hills.”
“So if you left me behind...” She drew the words out slowly, eyes wide as she looked up at him.
“Yes,” Mordred replied, watching her swallow hard. For possibly the first time since they had met, the sorceress looked genuinely afraid.
She reached out, grasping the bottom of his aketon with her bound hands. “Do not let that happen to me,” she implored, her fingers shaking.
An errant desire bloomed in him: to take her face between his hands and promise that as long as there was air in his lungs, he would never let such a thing come to pass.
Instead, Mordred set his jaw and leaned closer to her. “Do as I ask,” he replied, “and you will be safe.”
Mordred was grateful when an Eye appeared, preventing her from saying anything further. The faerie guard set a large, empty tray down on the table.
“Weapons,” the Eye commanded, the many pupils on her antlers shimmering in the light of the candles that lined the earthen alcove above the bench.
Mordred nodded, unbuckling his sword and setting it on the tray before leaning down to pull the dagger from his boot. Then he turned to Nyneve and gestured expectantly toward the tray.
“I don’t have any weapons on me,” she replied in a surprised, breathy tone, as if suggesting she had anything but flowers and honey on her person was insane.
Mordred pinched the bridge of his nose. “I sincerely doubt that,” he said.
Her gaze slid to meet his, nothing of that doe-eyed look remaining. “Well, then I suppose you’ll have to search me, Sir Knight,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and raising her bound hands in a way that made her breasts press together.
Mordred glanced back at the Eye, who shrugged. “The mortal is your guest,” she said. “You know I cannot touch her.”
He ground his teeth so hard that his jaw cracked. “Fine,” he spat, kneeling beside Nyneve. As he expected, the moment he leaned forward to check her boots, she tried to slam her heel into his face. He dodged, catching her by the ankles. Searching the shafts of her boots yielded two small knives, which he set onto the tray. He looked up at the Eye, not willing to admit that searching the entirety of Nyneve’s thick, plush legs might actually kill him.
“Keep going,” the Eye said, irritated. “The High King will be done with his present engagement soon.”
Mordred let out a long breath, avoiding Nyneve’s gaze as he ran his hands up her left leg. She tried to knee him in the jaw, but he had seen it coming and blocked the blow with his forearm. Bracing himself, he opened his hand on the fullness of her thigh, reaching beneath her skirts. He fiercely told himself he had imagined Nyneve’s breath hitching.
“Modron’s sake,” the Eye said when Mordred pulled a wicked dagger from a leather strap on Nyneve’s thigh and set it on the tray. “Where did you find this one?”
“She found me, actually,” Mordred muttered, pinning the Druid girl in place with the weight of his upper body as he searched up her other leg, finding what appeared to be a poisoned blade.
