“Ah,” Mordred said, arching one dark brow. “So now you understand.”
Before Nyneve could open her mouth, a herald announced the knight’s name, shattering her thoughts. There had only been darkness beyond the doors to the throne room a few moments ago, but now a long, narrow chamber with impossibly high ceilings appeared, its walls lined with more antlered Fey. Mordred strode forward, pulling her along with him, until they stood at the foot of a dais that appeared to be made entirely out of shimmering stone, strange shapes moving deep beneath the surface.
She fell into a curtsy to match Mordred’s low bow. She didn’t dare to raise her head, though she heard the heavy footfalls of the High King stepping down from his throne to stand before Mordred.
“Bring me tidings of Camelot,” the High King Ragrshydan commanded. “Did my little threat push them in the right direction?”
Her head still bowed, Nyneve watched as pale, battered boots with a strange stitching pattern came into her view. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she understood the High King of the Fair Folk was wearing shoes made of human skin. How dramatic. A bit excessive, if she were honest.
“Quite the opposite,” Mordred told the king, surprising Nyneve with the edge in his tone. “To make matters worse, Merlin is back.”
“Merlin,” Ragrshydan echoed. “Merlinis back?”
“I am afraid so,” Mordred replied as Nyneve stood there, mute as a dolly. She only looked up when Ragrshydan paced away, glancing at Mordred in confusion. Then she watched as the High King grabbed one of those broken humans, like the one who had offered her wine, and threw them to the ground, stabbing them repeatedly and shouting like a madman all the while. Shock made her muscles go utterly still, her heart pounding so loud the sound of it filled her ears. Onlybarely turning his head, Mordred’s gaze slid to hers. To her surprise, there was sadness there—a deep well of sorrow that she recognized too easily.
Gritting her teeth, Nyneve cast her gaze back to the ground as Ragrshydan straightened his now-bloodied coat and stalked back toward Mordred.
“I should have sent more than an arrow,” the High King bellowed. Mordred did not flinch. “I should have sent the entire Host to ride down on them and tear that citadel limb from limb. But now I cannot, because Merlin has returned.”
“Our Court lived beside mortals for a millennium,” Mordred said, holding out his hands.
“They did not haveiron!” Ragrshydan exclaimed, stabbing a long finger into Mordred’s chest. She felt the faerie knight’s weight shift as he straightened. “They did not seek to make inroads into our lands, driving us beneath the ground in places they wanted to inhabit, taking our hills for their own.”
“I know,” Mordred replied, his tone softer now.
“You do not,” the High King spat, turning away from them again, the tails of his long coat trailing through the blood that spilled from the mortal’s body.
Rage swelled in Nyneve, but she shoved it back down as soon as it raised its head. Beyond the wards pressing down on her like a trap about to snap closed, this was a terrible place for anyone to think there might be something behind her ribs worth harvesting.
“Will he leave the northwestern reaches?” Ragrshydan asked.
“He claims there are mortal kings who have agreed to join him,” Mordred replied, crossing his arms. “It is not untrue, but they are allies he sent to make incursions into those lands. The native mortals, the Cymraeg, remain aligned with your court for now.”
Ragrshydan let out a horrible laugh, beginning to pace in front of them. “Arthur Pendragon must leave the Reaches,” the High King said, “or it will be war. It is different now with iron, yes. But I still haveyou.”
Nyneve’s head almost snapped up in response to the Fey’s words, curiosity getting the best of her, as always. Beside her, Mordred drew in a deep breath, but before he could speak, Ragrshydan snapped, “Do not bring up the godsdamned prophecy to me again.”
“Regardless of the prophecy,” Mordred said with a surprising amount of restraint, “you can simply wait Arthur out. He has no heir. The kingdom will fall apart when he is gone. Perhaps it will not even take that long. The men of these Isles will not continue to unite under a common banner without Arthur.”
“More reason to be rid of him,” Ragrshydan growled.
“You will make a martyr of him,” Mordred warned, his tone gone soft and deadly. “Wait it out, my liege.”
“The problem, Mordred, is that you do your job so well, I never truly know whose side you are on,” Ragrshydan murmured.
Then there were fingers on her chin, tilting her face up to meet the High King’s.
He was, of course, beautiful. Deep auburn hair hung like a metallic curtain around his face. He had the same tall frame and angular features as Mordred, but his muscle was somehow bulky against the latter’s litheness. His hands, strangely, were nowhere near as enticing as the faerie knight’s. Behind him, higher up the dais, sat an array of cruel-mouthed Fey beings.
“What mortal from Arthur’s little court did you bring me?” the High King asked, smiling—a cruel expression.
“A ward of the king, daughter of Uther Pendragon’s beloved advisor,” Mordred replied, his tone steady. At the soundof Uther’s name, the entire throne room howled with rage. Nyneve’s heart beat wildly against her sternum.
Once the horrible sound quieted, Mordred added, “Soon to be named the Queen’s Sorceress.”
The faerie king’s fingers closed around her jaw to the point of pain, but Nyneve refused to make a sound. “She would last at least a few nights beneath the hill,” Ragrshydan mused, to her horror. “Powerful. For a mortal, of course.” He released her, beginning to pace again.
Nyneve had known she was collateral of some kind, certainly a prisoner. But she had been foolish enough to think she was not anoffering. She tipped her head back to look up at Mordred, but he refused to meet her gaze, his arms clasped behind his back. The sour tang of fear filled her mouth.
