“What in the name of Danu is happening?” he demanded, surprised by the edge in his own voice. “You two orchestrated tonight’s sensational announcement. Nobles and warlords and merchants from across the realm are gathered. And yet here you are, arguing in a closet.”
“It’s a library,” Guinevere hissed.
“Yes, wedidorchestrate all of this together,” Nyneve snapped, turning her rage on Mordred. “And yet just now, I was unceremoniously informed that I am no longer to be the Queen’s Sorceress.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nyneve
Nyneve had thought her evening couldn’t get any worse when Guinevere had delivered the news, but now Mordred was here with his stupid jawline and beautiful mouth that had brought her such exquisite pleasure. Balling her hands into fists, she turned back to the queen, unable to look at Mordred for another godsdamn second.
“Morgana is more powerful and more seasoned than you, is she not?” Guinevere asked for the tenth time, mistaking her silence for calmness. “Why else would you be training with her?”
“You cannot say the same things to me over and over again,” Nyneve replied from between her teeth. “It’s not that I don’t understand you. I understand you perfectly. I just don’tagreewith you.”
Mordred walked past them without a word and sank into one of the chairs by the little hearth, setting his elbows on his knees and then burying his face in his hands. “You are making Morgana your titled sorceress instead of Nyneve, yes?” he asked wearily, his voice muffled.
Nyneve found herself unable to focus on anything but those large hands tangled in his dark waves of hair, the candleslining the hearth’s mantel pulling out threads of gold. Suddenly and furiously, she wanted to stride over to him and run her own fingers through those silken strands. Startled by the errant desire, she swallowed hard and pressed her lips together.
The queen nodded in response to Mordred’s question, sinking into the chair at his side. “As I have been trying to explain to Nyneve, it is a complicated situation,” Guinevere said, folding her hands in her lap.
“Terribly complicated,” Nyneve snapped before she could rein in her anger. Between Mordred’s closeness and her frustration, she felt as though her entire body was little more than a column of flame. “You promised me something and then went back on your word.”
“She is the queen of Camelot,” Mordred replied, raising his gaze to meet hers, a warning in his dark eyes, all that exhaustion disappearing in an instant. “You shall not speak to her in such a familiar tone.”
Nyneve laughed harshly and walked four paces to stand in front of him, relishing that she didn’t have to look up at him for once. “Do not command me, Sir Mordred,” she warned. “You have no such authority.”
“Would you two please just bed one another and be done with all this?” the queen asked, slumped back in her chair, her gaze directed at the ceiling. “I am fond of you both, but this is growing tiresome.”
Nyneve choked out a few incoherent words, her face growing hot when she noticed the flush creeping across Mordred’s pale skin.
Guinevere sat up with a start, looking between the two of them.
“Youdid,” the queen exclaimed, genuinely delighted. “Well, do it a few more times. You are both still annoying.”
Mordred mumbled something that Nyneve did not catch. Her head spun. She felt far too hot in her gown and far too distracted by the faerie knight. Letting out a long, measured breath, she leaned against the shelf at her back, desperately needing something steady.
“Here is the part I did not get to tell you yet on account of all the yelling,” Guinevere continued, looking pointedly at Nyneve. “When I originally conceived of this scheme, it was before you had even arrived in Camelot. I wrote to Morgana, being as she is the only sorceress I know, and asked her to take up this yoke.” Guinevere paused, an emotion Nyneve couldn’t quite read passing over her expression as she gripped her pretty umber shawl closer, though the room hardly lacked heat. “She refused.”
“Of course she did,” Mordred said, looking sideways at the queen. “She dislikes being at court.” They exchanged a long glance, something passing between them.
“You two are terribly obvious when you do this whole thing, you know,” Nyneve pointed out, gesturing between the queen and the knight. “This is why the tales about a romance between you keep spinning.”
Guinevere waved her hand dismissively at the same moment Mordred sighed. “We know,” he said. “Gods, remember how many noble ladies I courted that one summer just to try to get the rumors to stop?”
Guinevere laughed, some of the stress in her face easing. “Oh, you were miserable,” she smiled, looking fondly at the knight. “You came away even angrier about the way this culture raises our young girls.”
It had taken Nyneve a few weeks to feel confident that those rumors held no weight, though it would have been a great bit of leverage if they had. She thought it quite possible the queen was only interested in women, or maybe no one at all. Either way, Guinevere was certainly not in love with her husband. AndMordred—well, the knight shared many people’s beds with no clear preference, but the consensus was that his interest waned quickly.
Except when it came to her, apparently.
By the fire, the knight said something else, his gaze flicking to Nyneve’s for a moment. Guinevere laughed again—her real laugh, rich and throaty—but all Nyneve could hear was Mordred’s voice urging her to shatter for him. She made the mistake of closing her eyes, and then she saw the terrible, fierce expression he’d made at the faerie fete, shoulders straining beneath his aketon, those powerful, vascular hands closing into fists.“No one will touch you against your wishes, neither beneath this hill nor above, not as long as I breathe.”
Something low in her belly went taut. Nyneve gathered her curls up off her neck, trying to clear her mind. Perhaps it was this thought of romance that made her realize where she’d seen the queen’s unusual umber shawl before: tossed over the silk screen in Morgana’s chambers.
“Oh,” Nyneve said, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, gods. I’m an idiot.”
Mordred and Guinevere both turned to look at her. The queen understood immediately, but the knight had to follow Nyneve’s eyes to Guinevere’s shawl before realization dawned on his face.
