“He’s certainly a snake,” Gawain agreed, turning the point of his dagger toward Guinevere to underscore her words.
Though the marital affairs of a king and queen were always ripe for gossip, it was a rare thing for anyone to publicly accuse Guinevere in the way Merlin had. A queen incapable of bearing heirs had little use in the mortal world. It put her in a precarious position, even though Arthur, aware of the truth, had not opted to dissolve their marriage. Mordred knew Guinevere hated Merlin for what he had done. He did not blame her.
“I only know of Merlin from the tales that reached Al-Andalus,” Palamedes said, turning from the window and making his way toward where the three of them were gathered. His full mouth pressed into a firm line. “But I fear I have learned all I need to know from the way he chose to announce his return.”
Guinevere, Gawain, and Palamedes’ gazes turned toward Mordred then. He sighed. Of course they expected his tenure in Camelot to bring some ground-shattering insight.
“Merlin has never liked me nor confided in me,” Mordred said, spreading his hands. “I can only tell you I do not trust him, and that I believe he has always been using Arthur for his own ends.”
“He’ll never let any of us close enough to discover the truth,” Guinevere said. Mordred wished he could tell the queen she was wrong.
“What about your ladies?” Gawain asked, gesturing toward the front room.
The queen shrugged. “Perhaps,” she replied slowly. “But I would be asking them to put themselves in grave danger, unlike anything they have dealt with before. Besides, will a mortal woman even hold any interest for someone like Merlin?” The moment she spoke the words aloud, Guinevere’s attention snapped back to Mordred. “The Or’Afon girl,” she mused, her expression shifting.
“I thought the same,” Mordred said, even though a strange nausea crowded the back of his throat. “She is uncommonly adept. Merlin has always collected such mortals.”
Palamedes frowned, leaning on the back of Gawain’s chair. “But do we have anything she wants? I don’t think we can ask her to do this without offering something in return.”
Guinevere laughed. “Of course we do,” she said. “She’s an unmarried, fatherless noblewoman without land or coin. She wants power. Freedom.”
Mordred glanced toward the floor, not wanting to voice that none of them truly had power or freedom for themselves, let alone any to offer. Whatever scraps they might possess were certainly not enough to share with Nyneve Or’Afon.
“Mordred, surely you can change the tone of the rivalry between the two of you into something more... conducive to results?” Palamedes asked, tapping his fingers against his jaw in thought. Mordred did not ask how or when Palamedes noticed their “rivalry,” though he was frustrated with himself that someone had.
Gawain snorted. “Just take her to bed, Mordred,” he laughed. “Surely she’ll fall under your spell like everyone else.”
To his absolute fury, he felt his face heat at the mere idea: those auburn curls wrapped around his fingers, her body moving against his, all that rage and flame devouring him whole, leaving nothing for wars or battlefields or cursed blades to claim.
“We need Arthur focused on improving the lives of our people here and now,” Guinevere said, for which he was thankful. “Not on the Romans’ leftover religion or the visions of a madman. Legacy is built day by day, year by year, not in some grand moment of battle or conquest.”
One of Guinevere’s ladies-in-waiting appeared in the archway. “The rains have stopped, Your Highness,” she said to the queen. “The tournament is to resume in honor of Merlin’s return.” Her gaze drifted to the knights. “I believe the three of you have matches today.”
Palamedes got to his feet with a grumble. He hated tourneys even more than Mordred did. “Surely it could wait until tomorrow,” he muttered, though he shuffled toward the chamber’s front room all the same. “Let the fields dry out.”
“Ah, but it’s not every day the most famed sorcerer in the history of the Isles returns,” Gawain mocked, clapping Palamedes on the shoulder. The two knights trudged through the vestibule, their laughter leaking past the hallway. Mordred turned to look at Guinevere.
“Nyneve is useful,” the queen said carefully, “but Arthur approved her wardship. As much as we’d like to use her, wearealso duty-bound to protect her.”
Mordred did not know how to explain that if he were truly duty-bound to protect the Druid girl, he might burn the entire world for her. The humanity he wore like a feeble mask faltered. “Duty,” he echoed, striding past the queen, “is meaningless to a monster like me.”
Guinevere’s hand shot out, catching him by the forearm. She peered up at him, gaze serious. “I wish you did not speak of yourself in such a way,” she said with a frown.
He scoffed. “And I wish I had not been made this way.”
With that, he pulled his arm from her grasp and turned, moving through the vestibule and then into the hallway, doing his best to clear his mind. Untangling the knots of running the kingdom, safely tucked away in Guinevere’s chambers, was one thing. But if he was about to peer down an enemy’s weapon, he needed a silent mind.
Mordred had almost achieved exactly that by the time he arrived at the stables. Despite the loud, busy atmosphere of pages and grooms bustling about, he held on to the quiet ease of a placid lake; never mind what lurked beneath the surface. He entered Rook’s stall, the stallion nickering hello, and checked the warhorse over in his usual routine. Taking time he knew he did not really have, Mordred pressed his face into Rook’s neck.
His jaw worked as he fought to keep all the mayhem and tension from overtaking him. For so many years, he had fought for a sort of equilibrium. And now, within less than a single phase of the moon, the High Court had broken its truce with Camelot. A strange and powerful Druid girl had mysteriously arrived at court. Merlin was back, this time with the Christian god’s name on his tongue and an unspeakably dangerous weapon in his hands, somehow enchanted by a deity who had been imprisoned a thousand years ago.
The scraps of peace that he and Guinevere had fought so hard for were gone. His hand tightened in Rook’s mane, and the horse turned his head around to bump Mordred with his nose.
“Apologies,” he said, his voice rough. “Everything feels like it is coming apart, friend.”
With a deep breath, Mordred forced himself back into that cold, unfeeling space within his mind, tacking Rook up withpracticed, mindless movements. And then he was back on the tourney field, swinging onto Rook’s back, his mail glistening in the mist. He was just a weapon. Nothing more. Perhaps it had been a mistake to grow close to Guinevere. To think he had any ability to change the violent whims of the High Court or his own bleak fate.
Mordred gathered up Rook’s reins in one hand and sent him through the gate into the tournament field, which was still a mess with muddy ruts and deep puddles. He frowned, peering through the gray light to find Merlin beside Arthur beneath the king’s awning. A spike of sickness and pain told him that Arthur wore Caledfwlch. Alarm slipped into his blood, pulling him from the waters of that placid lake. Perhaps it was only the shadow of the heavy canvas awning, but he could not see Guinevere. He would at least expect to find her on Arthur’s opposite side, fighting for influence. Because she never gave up, not even when it was hopeless. Not even when sheshould.
