“Do you understand?” the queen asked in a strained voice. She refused to meet Nyneve’s eyes.
“I think I do,” the Druid girl said. “She is powerful. Far more experienced than me in both magic and court politics.”
“And?” Guinevere asked, still not meeting Nyneve’s gaze, her face stony.
“And Merlin wants Morgana,” she said.
“First rule of court politics,” the queen said. “If you know what people want, you can always weaken them. Most of the time, you do that by taking what they want most away from them.”
One of the queen’s handmaidens approached, gathering up the hem of Guinevere’s gown to depart the throne room. It was then that Guinevere finally turned to look at Nyneve, her dark eyes holding no emotion.
“But sometimes,” the queen murmured, “you give it to them.”
Chapter Thirty
Mordred
TWO WEEKS LATER
It was the hottest summer solstice anyone could remember. Mordred was already in a violent mood before Oryane had summoned him to court. Now that he was here, seated at a table overflowing with food when Camelot’s commonfolk had but the barest of rations thanks to the drought, he only felt more furious.
“You seem unusually distracted,” Oryane observed, placing a small, globe-like fruit between her teeth. She looked like she could have stepped from one of the silk tapestries adorning the walls at her back, all excess and glamour and death.
“Does this court have anything to do with the drought?” Mordred asked, fixing the King’s Councilor with a hard stare. “You already sent a courier into Arthur’s bedchambers.”
Oryane placed one hand on her chest in genteel shock. “Do you believe your High King would even have the foresight to use a natural-appearing disaster to weaken Camelot?” she asked sweetly.
Mordred clenched his teeth. “No, but you certainly would.”
She held up both ring-festooned hands, her wide sleeves rippling. At least it was cooler beneath the hill. “Mordred, you know the dynasty I come from,” she said. “My ancestors chose to stay with the Morrigan, to remain in these lands and live beside mortals. It should go without saying I fought Ragrshydan on his decision to send the courier. But he is the king. I am not.”
Mordred crossed his arms, holding her gaze. He said nothing. Oryane glanced at the Eyes guarding the door, who had their backs to the changeling and the advisor. Then the guile slipped from her face, leaving something more honest in its stead. Startlingly, it reminded him of Morgana.
“No,” she said quietly. “No, Mordred. Arthur’s bloody sorcerer awakes with a godsdamn belly ache and wants to blame us. I would move much slower. Use their short lives and even shorter memories against them.”
Mordred sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His instincts told him to believe her, but the times were too dangerous to make such a snap judgment. “Why am I here?” he asked instead.
“Oh, come now, child,” Oryane replied, rolling her pale eyes. “Morgana has returned. She has been in Camelot for barely two weeks, and already we can feel her magic.”
“If Morgana wanted to destroy the High Court, I imagine she would have damn well figured out how by now,” Mordred replied bitingly. He raked a hand through his hair as the advisor leaned forward onto the table, watching him. “She is here because she hates Merlin just as much as we do.”
“We?” Oryane echoed.
He took a deep inhale instead of punching her. “You. Me. The Fair Folk,” he said. “It is exhausting to do as you are told, day in and day out, often to your own detriment, and then be constantly subject to such suspicions.”
“If you were not doing very well, I would not be suspicious,” Oryane said, her mouth curving into a smile. It did not meet her eyes. She made a noncommittal gesture with one hand. “Morgana hates Merlin, yes, but she also hates the High Court.”
“Can you blame her?” Mordred scoffed.
Her eyes crept back to his. For a long moment, she did not speak. And then she let out an exhale, steepling her hands. “No,” Oryane finally said. “No. I suppose I cannot. It is a marvel she agreed to raise you at all.”
“It is only because the Morrigan asked her,” he retorted.
“I require regular insights into Morgana’s movements, particularly as they clash or align with Merlin’s,” Oryane announced instead of replying to what he had said. “There are two mortals powerful enough to pose a true existential threat to our people. And now they are both just beyond our door, sleeping within the walls ofourold seat of power.”
“Fine,” Mordred replied, confident that Morgana already knew the High Court would make such a demand. It would pain her, isolate her, but she would obscure her movements from him. “Do recall that she hates the man who took that seat of power from you.”
Oryane’s mouth twisted. She wrapped her fingers around the stem of her goblet but did not take a sip. “Uther was not special,” she said after a few too many beats. “He was a brute in the right place at the right time, and with iron, no less.”
