Nyneve ground her teeth. She wasn’t prepared for the queen; the Druid Elders had chosen today for her arrival specifically because it was the single day each month when Camelot’s kingaccepted petitions from anyone. And the man had decided he needed to go out and kill something instead.
“Of course,” she replied, swallowing back a grunt of pain as the path’s incline increased. She tried to rehearse her story in her head, but her stomach roiled. Instead, she looked around, taking in the houses. They were crowded too close together and of varying heights, reminding her of broken teeth lining a jaw. The fluttering pennants of the market stalls were dyed in nauseatingly bright colors, and the smell of greasy, roasting meats made her stomach turn. This far into the citadel, any rays of spring sunlight were devoured by the castle’s shadow, its gloom stretching as far as Nyneve could see.
“I’ll summon the physician, of course, for your injury,” the guard told her. “But the queen needs to approve of you being here first, you understand.”
Nyneve hummed in response, nodding her head, her mind swimming with pain and anxiety. Should she try to run, she wondered? Yank her arm from the guards and sprint back through the gates toward the only home she’d ever really known? Throw herself at her priestess’s feet and yet again beg to take her leave for Tintagel? Promise she’d pay for her mistake some other way?
“The paths of Fate are often meandering,” Eirys had told her, blackberry-stained lips pressed into a firm line. The smell of woodsmoke and burnt herbs and crisp moonlight crept onto the edge of Nyneve’s senses. For a moment, Camelot’s bustle slipped away entirely, leaving her adrift in memories of the night that had changed everything.
She startled, pulled back into the present moment as two knights came trotting down the hill—on significantly less impressive destriers than Sir Mordred’s, she couldn’t help but notice. Their chainmail glimmered in the low light, the sight making her uneasy. She’d spent most of her life avoidingknights-errant and the king’s men, sinking deeper into the wood whenever the warning bells rang or the air changed, and now here she was, walking deeper and deeper into the very thick of the hornets’ nest.
When they finally reached the top of the hill, Nyneve wanted nothing more than to reach into her rucksack and pull out the jar of dried willow leaves. But she wasn’t sure how that would look—a wild-haired girl in homespun garments, seeking an audience with the queen, chewing on leaves like a heathen.
Nynevewasa heathen, but that was beside the point.
“Here we are,” the guard said, as if she wouldn’t notice the giant mouth of the castle. A cluster of knights stood at the towering stone archway that led into the keep’s organs, their spears crossed over its dark maw. The castle’s gloom seemed even heavier here, like a low-lying fog, thick enough to choke on. Nyneve swallowed hard.
It wouldn’t do to lose her nerve now. The Druids wouldn’t take her back, she knew. Not until she proved herself.
That was the thing about being an outsider. She’d thought she’d grown accustomed to it, but as she limped into the shadow of Camelot’s castle, that old wound stung, fresh as the day the truth of the world had cut into her flesh and tasted her blood for the first time.
Nyneve Or’Afon did not have the luxury of failing.
Chapter Three
Nyneve
The guard ushered Nyneve into a large antechamber, its ceiling like the underbelly of some great stone creature that could devour her at any moment. She’d been delighted to leave the suffocating bustle of the entry hall behind, but the austere hush of the antechamber proved equally disconcerting. Tapestries of conquests hung from the walls: boars with knives buried in their throats, wolves with flanks torn to tatters by spears, a bleeding dragon pinned to the ground by a knight’s armored foot. Her stomach twisted.
At least there were other peasants here—an elderly couple who looked like farmers, a young woman with a small child on her lap, his leg in a splint—and a few men she thought might be merchants based on their fine-but-not-extravagant clothing. She settled into one of the sturdy wooden chairs that lined the walls, folding her hands in her lap. The air smelled faintly of polished steel, cold stone, and nervous sweat.
“Shouldn’t be too long of a wait, my lady,” the guard told her with a brief bow. “Many folks have chosen to wait until the next moon, when the king and his men hear petitions.”
She thanked the guard, holding her tongue. But when the man turned away and disappeared back into the stone hallway from which they’d come, Nyneve let herself sneer at the ground. Of course this hall would be full of petitioners if it were the king or his men they’d be meeting with—but the queen? How fascinating that interest waned so dramatically when they’d have to beg at awoman’sfeet.
Nyneve let out a long breath, shuttering the flame of anger curling around her intestines. Instead, she tried to recall what she knew of Guinevere. The frost queen, some people called her, despite her father’s homeland of Al-Andalus. The barren queen, she’d heard as well. The Druid girl smoothed her skirts, the discomfort of her twisted ankle louder now with fewer distractions. The anxiety thundering through her blood only beckoned her mind closer to the pain. Biting down on her lip, she considered that the queen’s rumored infertility could be a useful angle. Failure to produce a pregnancy was often due to issues with the male partner, Nyneve knew, but in cultures like Camelot’s, the woman was always blamed.
And the Druids had ways of promoting fertility that she doubted were accepted here in the citadel. She picked at her nails, watching as the young mother and small child were ushered through massive double doors lined with guards. Outing herself as a Druid to Camelot’s throne was a risk, but well worth winning over a queen.
Nyneve slipped one hand into her rucksack, which sat on her lap, fingers brushing the jar of willow bark. Agony sang out in her ankle, clambering up her leg with sharp claws. She shoved the willow bark farther into her bag and pulled her hand out, crossing her arms instead. Perhaps the pain would sharpen her. It would certainly make her seem more sympathetic.
When the herald finally called for Nyneve, she accepted the help of another guard to limp into the throne room. Thephysician wasn’t available at the moment, she was told, which she knew meant no one wanted to expend resources on a girl who hadn’t proved her claimed noble bloodline yet.
So Nyneve set her jaw and limped into the throne room. The enormous chamber was the heart of the castle, nestled deep within its winding walls and towering ramparts. White banners stained with woodsmoke hung like dead doves from the rafters. Blood-red dragons reared on each one, their jaws open and ready. Knights in full mail, helms obscuring their faces, ringed a wide dais in a half-moon. Two thrones crowned the raised platform, both made of some kind of gilded wood. The unoccupied one—much larger, its carved back reaching toward the distant ceiling—sat in the center, with its smaller counterpart settled off to the side.
Upon the smaller throne sat Guinevere. Gwenhwyfar ferch Gruffydd by birth, Nyneve knew, but women gave up everything in marriage, even their names. So Gwenhwyfar became Guinevere, made more romantic for courtly intrigue with a Frankish spelling. By Nyneve’s estimation, Camelot’s queen fit in perfectly with its storied court.
Tall and regal, Guinevere sat perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap. A pale green surcoat with cream trimmings highlighted the rich brown of her skin and dainty freckles dappling the bridge of her nose. Her gaze was dark, appraising, and dangerously keen—far too keen. The queen pinned Nyneve to the stone floor with that sharp gaze, and suddenly all the Druid girl’s preparations for this crucial moment felt utterly insufficient.
“Your Highness,” Nyneve murmured, sweeping into a curtsy, gripping the guard’s forearm so hard that her fingers trembled. Her mind raced desperately for what she should say next, sweat prickling her lower back.
“You are injured,” Guinevere called, rising from her throne. “There is no need for formalities.”
Nyneve straightened, trying to hide her surprise as Guinevere descended from the dais, coming to a halt within mere paces of where she stood clinging to the guardsman. The queen’s gaze went to the guard, her face a mask of hard intensity. Ignoring the violent drum of her heart, Nyneve took a deep breath and reminded herself of what failure would cost.
“Has she been seen by a physician?” the queen demanded before Nyneve could speak, one of her ebony eyebrows lifted, her mouth in a severe line.
“No, Your Highness,” the guard said, his eyes cast toward the ground. “We thought it best for her to petition first.”
