“Do come in,” called a cool, elegant voice—like a shaded stream in the steamy heat of August.
Nyneve pushed through the door, coming into an airy chamber with a large bay window and crackling hearth. A lavish canopied bed awaited beyond a silk screen that shimmered in the firelight, the embroidered swans looking as though they might take flight. A finely woven stole in an unusual shade of deep umber was thrown over the top, as though someone had hastily undressed.
A little wide-eyed at the beauty, Nyneve glanced about in search of somewhere to set down the tray. By the hearth, she spotted four elegantly carved chairs lounging around a lacquered table. Assuming the lady was bed-bound with her migraine, Nyneve set the tray atop the table.
“Would you like me to prepare a cup and bring it to your bedside, my lady?” she asked, trying not to speak too loudly for the sake of the woman’s headache.
“No, that is all right,” came that cool, rich voice—but this time, right at her elbow.
Nyneve jumped and turned on her heel, coming face to face with a startlingly beautiful woman. She was tall, gowned in dressing robes the color of seawater, her loose, near-black hair hanging like silken banners to her waist. Her skin was a perfect ivory, her mouth red as a rose, though Nyneve did not think she was even wearing rouge.
There was something about her that felt familiar. In a wild, childish surge of senseless hope, Nyneve wondered if she might be standing in front of Morgana de Bois of Tintagel, the greatest sorceress in the Isles—and the very person she had been meant to study alongside within Tintagel’s mist-wreathed towers, had her Fate not twisted into a mangled corpse and all this endless shame. She’d already squandered all those years of study and hard work to be one of the Deceangli Druids’ chosen few sent to apprentice with Morgana, and now her mind saw it fit to taunt her with these baseless imaginings.
Swallowing hard, Nyneve shoved the errant thoughts away, chiding herself for such foolishness. Morgana did not arrive until autumntide. She knew as much from Galen.
“Thank you for bringing this to me,” the noblewoman said as she reached out for the kettle, dragging Nyneve from her thoughts.
“My lady, I am happy to assist you if you are unwell,” the Druid girl said, trying to pick up the clay kettle before the noble lady could. Their fingers brushed, and the air suddenly felt charged, like right before lightning struck. Nyneve stumbled back a half-step before recovering herself.
“What is your name?” the noblewoman asked, her gaze falling onto Nyneve with alarming intensity.
“Lady Or’Afon, my lady,” Nyneve said with a lower curtsy than her station truly called for. “Lady Nyneve Or’Afon. I am a ward of Camelot.”
“Nyneve,” the woman said, one delicately arched eyebrow rising. Nyneve got the distinct feeling that this noblewoman already knew who she was, and she had never liked being at a disadvantage. “Well met.”
The heat from the fire seared Nyneve’s back, but compared to the nexus of magic pulsing from the raven-haired woman in front of her, it felt like almost nothing at all.
“I am sorry to say I am unsure who I am addressing,” Nyneve replied, drawing herself up. If this visiting noble knew who she was, then she could step out of the serving girl role, regardless of her stained work apron and untidy braid. Besides, this woman waspowerful, perhaps a Druid herself, or at the very least trained by one.
“I am Morgana de Bois of Tintagel,” the woman said, watching Nyneve’s face closely. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Her heart thrashed against her ribs, and for a moment, she did little more than gape at the infamous sorceress—King Arthur’s half-sister, daughter of the Fey-touched Igraine, the very person who had been meant to open her future like a door.
After a full three seconds of gaping, Nyneve finally composed herself. “Lady Morgana,” she greeted with a bow of her head. “I am honored to meet you. Please forgive my attire. It has been quite a day.”
“Worry not,” Morgana said, one of those thin brows arching again. She reached out for the kettle, her movements clearly schooled in the old ways of nobility. “I prefer the fuss around the king’s sorceress-sister to be as minimal as possible. Gods, ten-and-three years at court, and they act like it’s a scandal every time I arrive. It doesn’t help that Arthur apparently had an unexpected visitor last night.”
Nyneve’s skin prickled as Morgana poured her own cup. “What happened?” she asked, trying not to sound overly curious.
Morgana waved an elegant hand, sinking into a chair. “Something to do with the Fey,” she replied, gesturing for Nyneve to join her. “Sometimes this city makes quite a commotion about the people who were here long before us. I did not think adding my arrival to their worries was wise.” She paused, her gaze meeting Nyneve’s over the lip of her cup. “Oh, you see, the old noble lines think I’ll corrupt the king. Or seduce someone! How can I be trusted, well into my fourth decade and yet unmarried? Why can’t I be a good girl like my sister and marry some far-off warlord so Arthur can better annex his lands?”
Morgana rolled her eyes and took a long sip of the medicinal brew. The Druid girl held her breath, not even daring to hope for another friend in this dangerous court. Particularly not Mordred’s aunt. Who could not possibly be his real aunt, of course—but the noblewoman had clearly raised the changeling based on all the familiar body language. Of course a little Fey child would have to directly copy a mortal. Nyneve ached for parchment to scratch out all the details until everything became clearer.
“A wise choice to stay hidden,” Nyneve replied in an understanding tone. “Let the serving girls whisper about your arrival so the old men can prepare themselves before you’re announced in court. God forbid the men of Camelot have to learn about the arrival of a woman they cannot controlandfind the Fey still stubbornly continuing to exist on the same day.”
Morgana smiled sharply, though her eyes glittered with something Nyneve thought she liked. “Precisely, Lady Or’Afon,”the noblewoman agreed, setting her cup down. “Oh, how I wish you were still permitted to come to me for training. I knew I would enjoy you.”
Blood thrummed in Nyneve’s cheeks. She told herself it was because of the blazing fire. “I am honored you know of me,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.
Morgana scoffed, turning away from Nyneve to crook her arm on the back of the chair in a casual and alarmingly familiar movement.
“There is no need for false modesty in my chambers,” Morgana said, her chin tilted haughtily. “A girl like you arriving at court, riding through the gates on a stolen warhorse? I certainly would have heard your name then. But, of course, I’ve known of you long before you set foot here, cast out by the Ynys Môn Druids for... what was it, again? Being too powerful, too promising?”
Nyneve’s mouth went dry. “I admit it was a bit more complicated than that, my lady,” she sighed.
Morgana’s glittering gaze slid away and then returned, a self-assured smile on the sorceress’s face. “I asked Molly to send you,” she said, leaning forward like she was confiding a secret. “Guinevere has told me much about you.”
Nyneve’s thoughts went wild with a thousand connections to make when she could sit somewhere quiet and think. “I am honored to have the queen’s interest,” she said, holding back. Realistically, she did not know whether Morgana could be trusted, even though that lonely little girl inside her chest wanted to reach for the older woman with both hands.
