Mordred could not deny the comfort in having her at his side. Warmth bloomed in that cold place within his chest.
“So let us go,” Nyneve breathed, meeting Guinevere’s gaze.
The queen nodded and turned down the hallway, her stride purposeful. Lysanor followed, picking up the hem of Guinevere’s gown, Mordred and Nyneve trailing behind. As they entered the great hall, Mordred caught sight of Molly across the vast space. Her gaze was set on the closed doors of the throne room, her arms crossed.
During the invasions, Mordred had seen Molly kill a spy in the kitchen tent with a butcher knife. She had wiped the blade off on her apron, turned back to the table, and continued to chop vegetables as if nothing had happened.
But now, for the first time in all the years he had known her, far from the fields of war, Molly looked afraid.
Unease clamped down on Mordred’s stomach. Was this how it began? Had he confessed his feelings for Nyneve just for the end to be nigh? Gods, he was a selfish creature. He clenched his jaw, coming to a halt behind Guinevere when they reached the throne room’s antechamber, its entry guarded by Bedwyr and Lancelot.
“I will find you later,” Nyneve whispered in his ear. She gave his hand a single squeeze and then followed Lysanor to gather in the great hall with the rest of Camelot’s court. Mordred felt cold and empty in her absence. Perhaps that was a good thing, considering what he was about to face.
Lancelot stepped aside at the sight of his queen and Mordred, but Bedwyr hesitated, only moving out of the way when Guinevere glowered at him. Mordred numbly followed the queen down the short, dark corridor into the antechamber, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw Merlin was not in the room.
Arthur was alone, dressed in his formal burgundy aketon, scanning a parchment that Mordred could not read from across the room. Gray light poured in from the windows, the stonefloors dappled by the shadows of trees swaying in the wind outside. The hearth was unlit, though candles sputtered on the mantel, the smell of beeswax filling the room. The king looked up as they entered, his gaze finding Mordred first. He smiled grimly at the knight, his eyes filled with a defiant warmth. The cold pit of ice in Mordred’s chest cracked.
It was the exact expression Arthur wore every time they found each other at the end of a battle, exhausted and mud-splattered, as the king wrapped his arms around Mordred and thanked the gods they had both survived.
And perhaps that was why for a foolish, stupid moment, the faerie knight thought everything might be all right in the end.
“What are you doing?” Guinevere demanded, striding over to where Arthur stood by the window. “We have not discussed the results of this inquiry, and yet you have ordered the entire court to gather.”
Some of the warmth left Arthur’s eyes. He looked between his queen and the changeling who had taken his son’s place, unspeaking. A great and terrible sadness settled onto his brow. Reaching out to brush Guinevere’s shoulder, the king drew a deep breath.
“Please trust me,” Arthur said imploringly. “I cannot say anything more. But please. I beg you. Trust me.”
Mordred watched with trepidation as the queen’s hands curled into fists at her sides. It was a difficult thing to anger Guinevere, but once enraged, her fury was mighty. “Trust you?” the queen scoffed, shoving his hand away from her shoulder. “How can you ask such a thing? Iwantto trust you. But ever since Merlin came back?—”
“I know, Guin,” the king said. Undeterred by her anger, Arthur put both hands on her shoulders and lowered his brow to the queen’s. She did not pull away this time. “Everything is goingto be all right,” Arthur said, pausing before he straightened, meeting Mordred’s eyes. “I promise.”
Before Mordred could string together a single thought from the tangled mess of his mind, the hidden door that led into the throne room opened.
“Everyone is gathered,” Sir Ector called, displeasure creasing his features when he noticed that Arthur was no longer alone. “Come, my liege.”
Arthur nodded, adjusting his thin metal circlet and then holding his hand out to Guinevere. She studied him, her body rigid, but she knew she had no choice. The queen took his hand, and the pair swept out into the throne room. Ector led Mordred through the same door, bringing him to the back of the dais.
“The king no longer has need of you,” Ector sneered, pointing toward the gathering crowd. Mordred did not even look the knight’s way, his gaze trained on Guinevere’s back.
“Go, Mordred,” the queen said over her shoulder in a choked voice.
Mordred hesitated, his mind still a thicket of anxiety and confusion, but then he obeyed his queen, staying hidden behind the Pendragon banners until he reached the edge of the room. Spotting Nyneve, Palamedes, and Gawain in the crowd, he made his way toward them. Time slowed to a quarter-pace, and he felt as though he had just awoken from a great sleep, unsure of what century it might be or if anyone he knew was still alive.
Nyneve watched him carefully, not saying a word, but Palamedes and Gawain immediately asked if Arthur had consulted anyone. All Mordred managed was a grim shake of his head before the king strode out from behind the banners and onto the dais. Mordred threw a desperate glance around the room, searching for Morgana. She appeared to be absent, which did not make him feel any better. Despite the high, vaulted ceilings, the amount of bodies gathered in the chamber made thesummer heat even worse. The heavy, stifling air pressed down on him.
“Mordred,” Nyneve breathed, her hand brushing his. “I have a terrible feeling.”
“As do I,” he replied, opening his Fey senses just a bit more than he normally would within the citadel. Nyneve was not alone in her experience; the sharp scent of fear permeated the room. A hundred racing hearts boomed in his ears.
“Thank you for gathering on such short notice,” Arthur said as he stood at the front of the dais, unrolling a length of parchment. “I have received the results of the inquiry into the death of Elaine of Astolat. I know how much this incident has troubled our citadel, and I wanted to share this information with all of you as soon as possible.”
Mordred had to fight to keep his face neutral. Elaine’s community needed to know, not the nobles who happened to be at court. People were mourning her in the citadel, of course, but the vast majority of her loved ones were down the hill in the villages and working the fields.
“The results are upsetting,” Arthur continued, looking out at the court. “I am so sad to inform all of you that Elaine was a witch.”
Hushed whispers of confusion filled the room; witchcraft was no crime in Camelot, not since the end of Uther’s reign.
Mordred turned toward Nyneve just as she went utterly still at his side. He saw the gleam in her eye and reached for her arm, but he was too late.
