The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  Laughing in pain, she hoped the deep hood itself was enough to hide her. She did not have enough left in her to redo the knot. She eased down the steps, walking as gingerly as an old woman. Her pace through Camelot was slower than leisurely as she navigated the maze of buildings to the very edge of the city.

  She settled into the ruined foundation of the crumbled building next to where she had lost the patchwork knight before. A spider crawled over her and she blew on it, bidding it go its merry way. From this vantage point, she would remain unseen but have a view of the patchwork knight when he removed his mask. And she knew—she knew—he would not be as he seemed. Arthur was wrong. Perhaps the fair folk had figured out how to create a knight immune to the biting power of iron. Whatever the secret was, Guinevere would discover it.

  She did not mind waiting in stillness as the sun drew lower and then began to set. Stillness suited her current physical state perfectly well. Though she did wish for one of Brangien’s warm cloth compresses.

  At last she heard the soft, sure steps of the patchwork knight. He paused right next to her. If he but turned to the left, he would see her in the shadows. Her patience was doubly rewarded. The woman in the shawl ran up, out of breath. “I almost missed you. Here. For the girls. Tell them—tell them our time will come.” She passed another bundle. The knight tucked it into his bag. The woman shuffled back toward town.

  As soon as she was gone, the knight pulled off his mask, shaking his wild black curls free. Disappointment skittered over Guinevere with far more menace than the spider.

  The patchwork knight had full lips and expressive eyes. High cheekbones. A dimpled chin. His tan face was bare of any hair, hinting that he was far more youthful than his skill indicated.

  But his face offered no proof he was fairy. It was entirely human. He slipped down the cliff, climbing as he had before.

  Guinevere hunched, cold and miserable. She had been so sure that the patchwork knight was not what he seemed. That she would return triumphant, having discovered a magical menace before he ever got close enough to hurt Arthur. She wanted the knight to be dangerous. She wanted him to be a problem only she could solve. In doing so, she would have proven her worth to Arthur.

  And to herself. She headed back toward the main street that would lead her to the castle. She was so caught in her misery that she did not see the woman until they collided.

  “Mind yourself!” the woman snapped, pushing Guinevere away.

  “You,” Guinevere whispered. It was the woman in the shawl. From close up, the woman was not so old as her walk had suggested. She was in her thirties, with a face shaped by sorrow. Before she could think better of it, Guinevere stumbled once again, pretending to lose her balance as she grasped at the woman.

  “Get home. You should not be out alone with that much drink in you. It is not safe.” The woman steadied her with a frown. “Do you need help?”

  “No, no,” Guinevere said, shaking her head and straightening. The woman sighed, then walked away.

  Guinevere smiled. In her hand, she had a rock. Stolen from the woman’s own bag.

  The patchwork knight had not been what she expected. But the rock sang to her in high, clear notes. Notes of wonder. Notes of magic. The knight was not a fairy, and neither was the woman. But they were meddling with magic.

  Guinevere hurried back to the edge of Camelot, staring down at where the knight had disappeared. Relief and triumph swelled in her breast. At last she understood why she had been sent. Why she was suited to this where Merlin was not.

  The magical threat to Arthur did not come from fairies, or from powerful creatures like Merlin. It came from ordinary humans. Humans who wanted to bring magic back, bring down Camelot from within. Who could move about in this city at will without being caught or suspected.

  Until now. Who better to hunt them than their own kind?

  Tucking the magic-touched rock into her tunic, she picked up an ordinary one and threw it over the side of the cliff. “I am coming for you!” she whispered.

  The stone spins through the air, falling, falling, until it hits the water. It rolls, slowly, pushed by currents until finally it leaves the lake and hits the river.

  And then it stops.

  Held in place, not sinking. The river churns, bubbling and frothing. Boats break free from their ropes, pulled toward the whirlpool that has formed where the stone is.

  Then the water releases the stone, dropping it to the riverbed. Everything becomes still. Silent.

  Except the form of a lady that moves swift and deadly down the river, through a stream, beneath the ground, flowing, flowing, flowing.

  The Lady will end him. Merlin will pay for what he has taken from the water.

  She begged another day of rest from Brangien. In truth, the last thing she wanted was to be in bed, but if she admitted she was well, she would have to play queen. As soon as Brangien had left to go to the market, Guinevere made her way outside. She stealthily checked every door.

  Odd. Each one had a small collection of dead spiders and moths outside. When she tried to pick them up, they crumbled to black dust in her fingers.

  But she could see nothing else. Troubled, she climbed to puzzle it out and clear her mind. Her body was still weak from the iron magic, but it felt good to use it. Up and up the outside of the castle she went, to the very top part of the treacherous stairs.

  The wind caressed her with greedy fingers, trying to pry her hood away from her face. She found shelter in an alcove buffered by a low wall. It was good she had not come when she was still so weak from blood loss. Even more recovered, she swayed and felt dizzy. The world unfurled beneath her. From this height, the lake was almost tolerable, one shining mass beyond the city. Surrounding that, the fields glowed golden and green. As long as she squinted out the lake, she had never seen a view so beautiful.

  She leaned against the back wall of the alcove and closed her eyes. Camelot was a wonder. And there were people inside who wanted to bring it down. She fiddled with the rock, which she had left hidden outside the castle so her own protections would not undo the magic before she figured out what it was.

  She knew a knot for seeing. Usually it was used to find an object or a person. She might be able to use it to discover the rock’s purpose. A bigger thought occurred to her. If she were up here, she might be able to look out over the city and find any concentrated pools of magic. That could lead her to the woman. It would dull her vision for hours, but—

  “Hello.”

  Guinevere startled and opened her eyes. Mordred stood in front of her. The sun was behind him, haloing his head but making it impossible to see his features. At least she had not started the knots yet! She would have been caught.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I have never run into anyone here before. I can go.”

  “No.” Guinevere shifted aside to allow him in. “I am the intruder. I wanted a quiet place to think.” It was good she was interrupted. Doing magic out in the open was a terrible idea. She could be patient. She had to be.

  “You found the best quiet place in the whole city.” He joined her, resting his hand against the alcove. She had been so distracted by the height and the view that she had failed to notice the alcove itself. It was carved with a thousand images. They had been smoothed and worn with age, but she saw hints of people, of suns, of moons. Of dragons and trees and beasts. There was an odd grace to them. Almost as though they formed themselves from the rock. If there ever were chisel marks, she found no evidence of them now.

  “I have tried to read it many times,” Mordred said, running his fingers along the carvings. “Tried to puzzle out why they made Camelot. But the past holds her secrets dear, and try as I may, I cannot coax them out of her.”

  Guinevere touched the alcove.

  For the briefest moment, she had a sense. Not the sense of the mountain, or the rocks. Bu
t the sense of the hands that had lovingly carved Camelot free from the stone. Purpose flowed through her, buoying her up. Determination. Promise.

  And then it was gone, faded as much as these carvings. It left her feeling deflated and sad. Whoever had created Camelot had done it for a reason. Long before Uther Pendragon took it. Long before Arthur took it from him.

  Whatever their purpose in making Camelot, it was lost to time.

  Mordred sat on the floor of the alcove, stretching his legs in front of him and leaning against the back wall. It was so easy and casual a position that Guinevere felt out of place. He pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle and revealed bread, cheese, and nuts.

  “Stay as long as you like,” he said. “I have only a little while before I have to be at the court.”

  “Why are you here?” Guinevere asked.

  Mordred looked up at her. “I told you. This is the best spot in the whole city.”

  “No, I mean, why are you in the city? I thought Arthur and all his men were out doing…” She trailed off. She did not know what they were doing. And it bothered her. She had been unconscious when he left, but should he not have figured out a way to inform her?

  Should he have, though?

  Yes. If he was out there, he was vulnerable to magical attack. It was her job to protect him, and she could not do that if she was left behind, unaware of his location. She would have to craft some protections he could take with him.

  “When my uncle king has to range wide afield, I am left in charge of the city. Everything cannot stop because he is gone.”

  “He trusts you.” Guinevere sat next to Mordred, trying to arrange her skirts and legs in the least awkward configuration. Women’s clothing was not made for sitting on the ground.

  “He does.” Mordred sounded unhappy about it.

  “But…,” Guinevere prodded.

  He leaned back, squinting at the sun. “But I do not like staying in the city. I would rather be out in the wilds, at my uncle king’s side. I know it is an honor, a tremendous responsibility. But it still feels like being left behind.”

  Guinevere understood. She reached over and took some of Mordred’s bread, breaking it into smaller pieces as she stared out over the landscape. “He did not even tell me where he is going.”

  “Do you want to know?” Mordred handed her cheese without being asked.

  What would a real queen answer? “I do not know what my role here is supposed to be. It would help if I knew what was expected of me.” She had a goal now. A target. But she still had to be queen in the meantime, and it was complicated.

  “You should speak to your husband about that.”

  “My husband is rarely here!” She snapped her lips shut against the unexpected force of her exclamation.

  Mordred laughed. “Perhaps if you dressed as a knight you could get more of his attention. Arthur is single-minded. It is what makes him a great king. And, I suspect, a challenging husband. If you are not a problem that needs to be solved or a battle that needs to be fought, it will be hard to keep his attention.”

  Guinevere did not want to be sad. She should do her best not to be a distraction. She was not Arthur’s wife, not really. But she was sad nonetheless. It was not easy, revolving around someone who did not revolve around her.

  She replaced her sadness with determination. If Arthur would not take her, she would figure out a way to send protection with him. And she would always be ready here, to defend Camelot. To defend Arthur. It had been Merlin’s calling, and now it was hers.

  “Come.” Mordred stood and brushed the crumbs from his legs. “I have to preside at today’s trials. It might be interesting for you to see some of how the city is run. And on our way down, I can tell you where your husband is. I do not think it is a secret.”

  Guinevere stood, too. She did need to know more about Camelot. And this would give her time to plan her attack against the patchwork knight and the mysterious woman. “Thank you.”

  Mordred paused, the wind running its invisible fingers through his black hair. She had the briefest impulse to fix it. He swept his arm out for her to leave the alcove first. “I am sorry that your husband is not what you were expecting him to be.”

  Guinevere stood at his side, her hand on the warm wall. No purpose was left to fill her. It was gone. “He is exactly what I was expecting him to be. It is myself that I worry will be found lacking.” She hurried down the steps, Mordred’s softer steps following.

  * * *

  Mordred explained that Arthur was away defending a conflicted border. There were several lords and kings whose land abutted the borders of Camelot’s country. It was often required that he ride out and resolve disputes—through reason, gold, or the sword. Mordred could not tell her which solution this one would require.

  “At least it is not Maleagant,” Mordred said as he escorted Guinevere into a building close to the castle. The ceilings were low, which should have felt confining, but they were carved with flowers and birds and the most delightful images, so their height felt like a gift. It was obviously one of the original buildings of Camelot, not an addition. She felt better in the old ones, for some reason.

  “Who is Maleagant?” she asked.

  “A thorn in the side of Camelot. Ah, Conrad, thank you. What is on the schedule for today?” Mordred looked over a carefully written scroll given him by a round, friendly-faced young man. There were benches lining the walls, and each bench was filled with people. Some wore the nice clothes of merchants, a couple the fine clothes of nobles. But most the rough, serviceable wear of farmers and peasants.

  In the front there was a cage made of iron. In it stood a woman, facing away from them. Her shoulders hunched, her head drooped. Guinevere did not understand what she was doing in there.

  Mordred gestured for Guinevere to sit on one of three padded chairs on a platform apart from the crowd. She regretted coming. She was on display, and she had not been prepared for it. She left her hood up, knowing her hair was beneath Brangien’s standards.

  She sat as still and regal as she could, hands folded primly in her lap. The first few matters were business-related. A man applying for space to sell horses in the next market. A woman petitioning to buy a shop on Market Street. When the woman tripped over saying Market Street, Guinevere smiled, remembering what Brangien had said about how hard it was to get rid of the old names. Next were several fieldworkers and their masters. The fieldworkers had filled their terms of service and were being given their own plots of land. Guinevere could see their pride. And their masters did not seem upset. Several of them embraced afterward, or clasped hands warmly. Everything felt prosperous, hopeful.

  Then Mordred turned to the woman in the cage. “What are the charges laid against Rhoslyn, daughter of Richard?”

  The woman raised her head. Guinevere stifled a gasp. It was the woman from before—the one passing magical items to the patchwork knight.

  Conrad bowed, pulling out another sheaf of paper. He cleared his throat, then read. “Witchcraft and magic, my lord.”

  “What evidence do we have?”

  The woman, Rhoslyn, stood straight, her voice high and clear except around the edges, where it wavered, betraying her nerves. “I meant no harm or mischief. My niece was sick. I knew I could help her. I—”

  “Her family is known to practice dark magic,” Conrad said. “Her sister was banished three months ago. Rhoslyn was found with items required for working spells.”

  Rhoslyn shook her head angrily. “Tools of a trade, the same as a butcher or smith would have for theirs!”

  Guinevere twitched, wishing she had some way to demand to see what Rhoslyn had been found with. If she could examine it, she might be able to tell what Rhoslyn had been planning to do. But she could not ask without admitting she would understand what she was seeing. And Arthur was not here to get the evidence for her.
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br />   Mordred’s voice was soft. “Rhoslyn. You know the laws. If we allow magic into Camelot, we allow chaos in. If we allow chaos, everything we have built threatens to unravel. Do you understand?”

  Rhoslyn clenched her jaw, her face white. But then something inside her relented, and she softened, nodding.

  “You do not deny the charges?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Very well. Because you were forthright and honest, your punishment is banishment.”

  Her mouth was set, a single harsh line, as she looked out over the crowd. There were murmurs and whispers. At first Guinevere thought people were upset with the severity of the sentence. Then she realized they were upset with Mordred’s leniency. She heard several hisses of Drown her.

  Mordred apparently heard them as well. “Punishment to be carried out immediately. Conrad, see that she is escorted to the borders of Camelot. Rhoslyn, you will never again be welcome in this kingdom. God have mercy on you. Go.”

  “My niece?”

  “She will be taken into the care of the castle. I promise you.”

  Rhoslyn nodded. Conrad and two liveried men retrieved her from the cage and hurried her out a back door. Guinevere stayed as still as a stone.

  If the rule of law was that any magic—no matter the intention—was grounds for banishment or death, she did not want to think about what would happen if they suspected the queen herself was a witch. She would have to be much, much more careful. But not right now. Right now, she had a conspiracy to unmask.

  She stood and walked as regally as she could manage from the room, hoping no one wondered why she chose that moment to leave.

  * * *

  Guinevere did not have time to return to the castle and change into Brangien’s clothing. She hurried down a side street, working her way into the more residential—and less wealthy—portion of the city. Hanging on a line to dry was a serviceable hooded cloak of sturdy brown cloth. With a twinge of guilt, she stole it. She could not leave her own in its place. And she doubted the owner would be able to afford to replace the cloak anytime soon.