Mordred hummed in agreement, the sound coming from deep within his chest. She was suddenly aware of how close they stood to one another—as any betrothed couple might—and how drenched she felt in his scent of woodsmoke and damp stone. Gritting her teeth, she held her goblet higher, letting the rich aroma of fermented apples fill her nose instead. A nobleman she did not know stopped to congratulate them on their pairing, shaking Mordred’s hand very hard and barely glancing at Nyneve.
“Are you still upset with Guinevere and Morgana?” the knight asked once the noblemen had departed, keeping his voice low even though the majority of guests were gathered near the dais centered in the wide, barreled room.
“Why do you care about my feelings?” Nyneve asked stiffly, taking a long sip of her cider. She did not want to talk about herthoughts and feelings with Mordred. What if she couldn’t stop herself from admitting the depths of her longing for him?
“Wearebetrothed,” he replied, seemingly amused at her prickliness instead of taking offense.
Nyneve turned toward him, trying to decide what she needed to say that would drive Mordred away from her, when Morgana broke from the crowd and headed toward them. At first, she thought the newly announced Queen’s Sorceress wanted to see the changeling she’d raised—Nyneve still had a lot of questions about all of that—but instead, her eyes fell on the Druid girl.
“Nyneve,” Morgana said, looking impossibly powerful with her ceremonial scepter and ermine-trimmed cloak. “All of this has transpired in ways I would not have chosen. Might we speak?”
“Now?” Nyneve asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. Less than an hour ago, Morgana had been up on the dais receiving a considerable amount of power, and yet, apparently, she wanted to speak withher.
“If you please,” Morgana replied, her gaze slipping to Mordred. “It’s important to me.”
“Of course,” Nyneve agreed, handing her goblet to Mordred.
Morgana smiled brightly and led them a little farther away from the commotion at the center of the throne room, coming to a stop near the doors. Two tapestries depicting ferocious dragons hung on either side of the archway. Though standing so close to them made Nyneve feel as though she were being watched by their large, reptilian eyes, the night breeze tumbling through the doorway was a welcome relief. Midsummer was still a moon away, but the heat had come on quickly and mercilessly this year, the farmers already declaring a drought. She was glad she had worn her linen kirtle and had no idea how Morgana was managing in her garments.
“You may choose whether or not you believe me,” Morgana said, her deep blue eyes holding Nyneve’s, “but I did not actively conspire to take your position from you.”
Nyneve arched her brow, folded her hands, and silently waited for Morgana to tell her the same thing Guinevere had, or some other rehearsed excuse. It was usually how people behaved in these situations, more concerned about soothing their own guilt than actually repairing the harm. Nyneve knew this because it was precisely what she’d done when she’d killed Uccu’s son.
Instead, Morgana reached for Nyneve’s hand with one of her slim, pale ones. The Druid girl was too startled to do anything but let the noblewoman grasp her palm.
“Why did you seek this position?” Morgana wanted to know, lowering her voice. The weight of her full attention, much like Mordred’s, was intense and unrelenting. Distantly, Nyneve understood why both of them had the tendency to look bored. The other option, it seemed, was this potent scrutiny from a cunning, nimble mind.
“Power,” Nyneve found herself saying.
Morgana nodded, her expression unchanging. “ Why?”
Nyneve looked away, wondering how to possibly sum it all up, but then Morgana squeezed her hand, and she felt braver. “Because what other option is there for women like us in a world like this?”
At that, the noblewoman smiled, a dangerous expression on her beautiful face. “I will tell you something, Nyneve,” she said conspiratorially. “What people like us truly need in this world is power, yes, but also to embrace the way we are underestimated.”
Nyneve narrowed her eyes, feeling her hackles go up. It might have been what she would have said to a younger woman whose place she had stolen. She moved to shift her weight away from Morgana, but the sorceress held fast to her hand.
“I didn’t learn that lesson until I was at least ten years older than you,” she said, leaning close, the smell of ambergris and violet washing over Nyneve. “Do not be foolish like I was and desire for your power to be recognized, lauded, exalted. It is much better to let everyone believe a sweet little thing like you wouldneverbe capable of bringing down a king. An army. Perhaps even a god, one day.”
Nyneve said nothing for a long moment. Disbelief sat on her tongue, but something deep in her bones stirred. “A god?” she laughed. “You need not flatter me. I do not dare to imagine I would want nor needthatmuch power.”
“Oh, darling,” Morgana said in a ragged voice, reaching out and brushing one of Nyneve’s curls away from her face. “I’m afraid that you most certainly will.”
For a moment, Nyneve swore that the woman’s lips quivered, as though she were holding back a sob. Then Morgana straightened, and there was nothing but flashing, feline-like eyes and endless guile.
“I have only taken temporary pupils, the ones your people send me. Never an apprentice,” she said. “No one was worth my time. Not until you.”
Nyneve’s head spun. She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly parchment-dry. Morgana said nothing, but those stormy eyes held hers, and Nyneve was afraid of precisely how much they could see. The Elder’s binding was so deep in Nyneve’s Threads that no one should be able to see it unless she invited them deep within her magical body—much farther than she ever had any intention or reason to ever permit someone.
“Before you ask,” the sorceress said, closing both hands around Nyneve’s, “yes, it will make you a monster.”
Nyneve felt like a lightning bolt had struck her body, every strand of hair standing on end, every nerve tingling. “What?” she rasped.
“Nyneve,” Morgana said with a faint smile. “Take the godsdamn power. You’ve already paid for it.”
Before Nyneve could manage any other words, Morgana pulled her hand away, turning to look over her shoulder as if expecting someone. A few moments later, Merlin appeared, his eyes hungry as he sighted Morgana. He approached, offering an elegant bow, showering the older sorceress in compliments and demanding to know why she’d never taken him up on his offer to study under him. With a smile that Nyneve did not like, he offered Morgana his arm, and she took it.
Nyneve watched the two most powerful magic-wielders in her lands depart the throne room. The soft sweep of skirts on stone alerted her to someone’s presence. She turned, feeling as though she were underwater, to find Guinevere.
