The magic tugs.
The dragon goes back to sleep.
Guinevere stood on an exterior walkway, her red cloak whipping in the wind, as Arthur and his knights walked up the long hill. He saw her there and lifted a hand in greeting. She matched his gesture.
She waited in his room for him. It was still several hours before he returned. The stone floors bore her pacing with ancient patience she could not feel herself. When Arthur came in, his armor was already left behind. He wore only a thin white tunic. He set Excalibur against the wall, then sat heavily on the end of his bed to remove his worn boots.
“It is good to be home,” he said. Then he moved straight back to their last conversation, not dancing around the questions and tension between them. “And I am sorry for how we left things. I have thought on it every free moment. I am glad Sir Tristan is alive. His loss would have been hard to bear. But please trust that when I make those decisions, I make them knowing the consequences on both ends. I have lost men. Good men, true men. Men who cannot be replaced. I never give up a life lightly.”
Guinevere was drawn to the sorrow in Arthur’s voice. She had been worried he would still be angry with her. But she saw how sad it made him to have to weigh the lives of those he loved against the burden of an entire kingdom. She had made it harder for him, forced him to protect her at the cost of Sir Tristan. How could he live with such decisions?
Though she had done a terrible thing to Sir Bors, changing his memories. She did not know if she would be able to look him in the eyes ever again. Being in power required sacrifices both physical and emotional. And being adjacent to that power did, as well. She did not want to understand why Merlin did what he did. But if her actions with Sir Bors were any indication, she might eventually get there.
There was good, and there was evil, but there was so much space between the two.
She shuddered and paced, tugging at her sleeves. She longed to have bare arms. To sit in the winking sunlight, watching as the rays filtered down to her. “There was a dragon.”
Arthur lay back on his bed, rubbing his face. His legs still hung over the side, his feet on the floor. “I heard. Sir Bors killed it.”
“Well. He—” She stopped. Arthur looked so tired. Her heart broke a little, seeing the wear of the last few days. Protecting him from magic was her job. He should not have to make those decisions, nor bear the cost. “Yes. The dragon is gone. Are you well?”
“Tired. But you have been waiting a long time here to speak with me. I am sorry I leave you alone so often. Tell me, what do you need? What can I do for you?”
Her voice betrayed her. She could say so many things. She wanted to move to his side. To rub his weary forehead for him. To curl into him. To tell him about the dragon and how lonely thinking of it made her feel.
She wanted to run her finger along the fullness of his lower lip. To feel his smile against her own. And that was dangerous. As dangerous as what she had done to Sir Tristan in the forest. Because if she lost herself in this pretending, how would she ever be able to protect him?
It hit her with the force of a blow. She sat heavily in a chair, winded. She had already created more problems for Arthur than she had solved. If she truly wanted to serve him, to protect Camelot, she could not do it as his queen.
Arthur could not go against a witch outside his borders. Neither could the queen. But the daughter of Merlin could.
It was time to follow the tendrils of darkness and see where they led. Arthur was safe in Camelot. Whatever was threatening him, it was not here. She would stop it before it arrived.
It would be dangerous and solitary, and now that it was time, she found she did not want to. She wanted to stay here with Arthur, with Brangien, with Mordred and Dindrane and Sir Tristan. She did not want to go back to her life in the forest, with only the animals and the increasingly unfamiliar Merlin. But once she left, there would be no returning. She had become Guinevere to protect Arthur; she would give up Guinevere to do the same.
Perhaps that was what the dragon had been trying to show her. It was time to be alone. Arthur always made the hard choices. She could, too. “I need you to get rid of me.”
Arthur sat up, alarmed. “Has something happened? Did someone see what you did for Sir Tristan?”
Only Mordred. He would not betray her. The thought of not seeing him again made something tight and painful clench in her chest. She shook her head. “I am no use in Camelot. My work threatens your rule. You said as much in the forest. I know where the threat is, who it is. I need to stop it. And I cannot do that as queen.”
Something shifted around Arthur’s warm brown eyes. Gone was the weariness, the sorrow, replaced with…hurt. “Do you want to leave?”
“No! No.” The thought of leaving Arthur behind made tears burn in her eyes. How quickly she had grown to be Guinevere!
Arthur crossed the room to her, kneeling in front of her chair and putting his hands on top of hers. “You are useful to me.”
“My strengths are a liability here. You know it is true.”
His hands tightened around hers. Her breath caught, waiting for what he would say next. “Merlin sent you here. That is reason enough to stay.”
“But—”
He pulled her suddenly close, wrapping his arms around her. Her chin was on his shoulder, the side of his face against hers. “Guinevere. Please. I want you in Camelot. Do not leave. Promise you will not leave.”
She closed her eyes. The heat of his cheek against hers, the slight roughness of his skin. It made her feel real. She had only just learned how to be Guinevere. She worried that alone in the forest, hunting, she would become something new. Darker. Maybe that was how Merlin could justify hurting others; when you lived your life apart, it was easy to forget how real other people were. He had done terrible things to create Arthur, to protect him. What would she be willing to do?
“What if the darkness comes here?” she asked.
“It will. It always does. It will come tomorrow or in a year or in fifty years.” He released her, slyness in his normally clear, direct eyes. He smiled. “And you will only know when it is here if you are still here, too. So you cannot leave. As king, I forbid it.” His tone had shifted from serious to teasing.
A part of her wilted in disappointment. She had wanted him to say something else. The hope lurked, nebulous and hungry. She wanted him to want her to stay because he wanted…her. She wanted to stay for him. Not for King Arthur. For her Arthur. It was why she should leave.
It was why she would not.
“I will stay for as long as you want me to,” Guinevere said. “But you must let me spy on Rhoslyn and the patchwork knight.”
She had not expected the sheer relief on his face as he nodded. “We will make plans. But not tonight. We are going on a hunt tomorrow, and you will accompany me.” He stopped, then smiled hopefully. In his tunic, in the dim light, without his crown and sword and armor, he was so young. Her heart gave a painful squeeze as he said, “If you want to come. I want you to.”
If she could only be herself around him, perhaps it was true that he could only be himself around her. And she suspected Arthur desperately needed to be an eighteen-year-old boy sometimes, instead of the hope of all Camelot. This was a different type of protection she could offer him. It was certainly not what Merlin had in mind. But, oh, she wanted it. Because if Arthur was eighteen, she was only sixteen. She was not a weary, ancient dragon, ready to fade, or a gnarled old wizard content to retreat to his forest shack and mutter inscrutable prophecies.
She wanted to live. She wanted to live here. She leaned forward, batting her eyelashes. “Will it be terribly dangerous?”
“Oh, very much so. You will have to talk to Sir Percival’s wife.”
“Save me!” She threw a hand over her forehead and pretended to swoon. He laughed, catching her against himself. He pre
ssed her to his chest and she felt and heard as his steady heart began to beat faster. Her own matched its pace. He stood, slowly, pulling her up with himself. “Guinevere,” he said, his voice as soft as the night around them. She wanted to touch his hand, to feel him. To feel if what was sparking in her like flint trying to catch a torch was also inside him.
They stumbled a bit as she rose, and she knocked into Excalibur leaning against the wall. Her fingers brushed the hilt and—
Oh
Oh
No
Darkness and void and nothing
Nothing, so much nothing she spun in it, she fell in it.
But falling is something falling has a destination falling stops and this this would never stop could never stop—
Her fingers left the sword. She ran from the room and into hers, emptying her stomach into the washbowl. Over and over, her body spasming, until at last her head stopped spinning and her heart stopped twitching. She ran her hands over her body. She was here. She was here. She was real.
“What is wrong?” Arthur asked, concern tightening his voice.
“I do not know,” Brangien answered. Guinevere had not even realized Brangien was there holding her hair back. “Maybe something she ate.”
Guinevere sank weakly to the floor. It had not been magic. She would have recognized a magical attack. This had been…the opposite of magic. If magic was chaos and life, this was a void.
And she had felt it when she touched Excalibur.
What was the sword?
* * *
Guinevere had imagined riding next to Arthur, her cloak streaming in the wind.
Instead, she rode beside the ladies. They did not even trot. Their horses plodded along at the same pace as the conversation. Guinevere kept Brangien by her side. She was still not feeling entirely herself after last night’s brush with Excalibur. When they had set out this morning, she could barely look at Arthur, knowing he carried the sword.
She remembered, now, how she had felt on his horse in the forest when he was wielding it. How throwing herself to the wolves had briefly seemed preferable. At the time, she had dismissed it as the panic of the moment. But now she knew it had been the sword.
Fortunately, the men—and the sword with them—were allowed to gallop. They quickly outpaced the women, riding ahead to set up the day’s camp. Around the women were several soldiers, and behind them, the carts with the supplies. A few carts and servants had been sent the night before so that they would not arrive to an empty field.
For a few sullen minutes she wished she had not promised Arthur she would stay. That she were riding away, alone, to do what needed to be done. She longed to prowl barefoot through the trees. Canopies and cushions and company were not something she required or wanted.
And maybe Arthur could meet her there, in the secret embrace of the forest. And maybe if they were not king and pretend-queen, maybe things would not be so complicated….
But he would leave. She could not keep him that way. She could not keep anyone. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the realness of her, her ribs and her breasts and her heart beneath it all. She did not want to be alone. She wanted to be real. And seeing herself reflected in the eyes of those she loved made her feel more real than anything.
“My lady?” Brangien asked.
Guinevere sat up straight. “Yes?”
“I said, are you feeling better?”
“Our queen was ill?” Dindrane perked up and shifted her horse closer so as not to miss any of the conversation. She was trimmed in scarlet and blue. Since Guinevere had worn the colors at the wedding, most of the women had begun wearing them with greater frequency. Guinevere wore green and brown. Her hood was yellow, shading her face from the sun. Brangien, next to her, wore all brown.
Dindrane was counting on her fingers. “You were wed on the evening of the festival, which was not three weeks ago, so—” Dindrane leaned past Brangien to see Guinevere. “Has she had her courses yet?”
“She thinks her courses are none of your concern!” Guinevere said, leaning forward to block Dindrane’s view.
Dindrane just laughed—a bright, brassy sound. “My sweet queen. Your courses are all of Camelot’s business. People are placing bets on how soon you will provide an heir. Most think within a year. But a few worry you are too delicate.”
Guinevere slumped, the weight of a nation on her shoulders. A queen should provide an heir. Arthur had said he did not care about alliances, did not need a queen for that. But what about for securing the future of Camelot? A kingdom without heirs was a kingdom without permanent stability. He had to know that. Had to see it. He was young, yes. But so many children died in infancy, and he himself was a warrior king. Nothing was certain.
He had chosen to marry her, though. And last night she had thought, hoped…She tried to imagine herself a mother. Instead, she remembered Elaine and her fate. Igraine, too. And her own mother. She had never known one. Merlin had never spoken of her. Who had she been? What had happened to her?
Was there not enough peril in the world already without the dangers of simply being a woman?
“I am sorry,” Dindrane said, her voice soft. “I did not think. I am so used to hearing constant talk of wombs that I forget myself.” Her own hand drifted to her waist. Her shoulders straightened and she lifted her chin, the picture of feminine strength. “I will stop anyone I hear speculating about you. It will be easy. I will tell them Blanchefleur sleeps in the nude and that will shift every thought away from you in an instant.”
Guinevere forced a laugh. “You are a fearsome friend.”
“Yes, I am.” Dindrane filled the rest of the hours of their ride with happy chatter. Guinevere was grateful. She had nothing she wished to say on any of the topics.
When they arrived at camp, they found the men testing spears, pulling back the strings on longbows, and in the case of a couple of the younger knights, wrestling. Arthur helped her dismount and sat close to her. She appreciated his quiet strength, as her own strength was still lacking.
They were in a meadow bordered by gnarled green-and-gray trees. It was far north of the dragon’s territory, which was a relief.
But it was not more than a few hours’ ride from where Merlin lived. Guinevere could sense it. She turned in that direction, longing to keep going. To demand to know how Merlin could do such terrible things and still live with himself. She had not yet tried to visit him in dreams, and she dreaded the confrontation. Already the Merlin she remembered was fading, twisting into something shadowy and unknown. What would be worse—to see him and have him revealed to be a monster, or to see him and have him revealed to be the same kindly, baffling old man who had taught her everything? How could she reconcile that?
“Sir Bors!” Dindrane called, sitting on a cushion in the shade of the canopies. “Tell us of the dragon! Tell us how you defeated it!”
As soon as Dindrane mentioned the dragon, Sir Bors’s face went pale and he physically recoiled. He cleared his throat. “It tried to kill me. I killed it instead.”
Guinevere did not want him to dwell on it, or others to press him to give more details. “Three cheers for Sir Bors, the dragonslayer!” she called. Everyone around her cheered and he seemed to relax, nodding and waving away their praise.
“I must see to the preparations. Will you be all right?” Arthur asked, his mouth close to her ear.
“Of course.”
He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. A thrill coursed through her. He could be doing it for show—obviously they were being watched in this setting—but it felt joyful, sincere.
He rejoined his men, jumping in on several wrestling matches. He truly loved his knights. Sir Tristan, in particular, seemed a favorite, reminding her yet again of how much Arthur was willing to sacrifice for his kingdom.
Mordred slipped into the shade
, finding a cushion near Guinevere and lying idly on his side. “Did you miss me?” His voice slid beneath the chatter so no one else heard.
“Were you gone?” Guinevere asked.
Mordred put his hands to his heart, feigning being pierced by an arrow. He fell onto his back and closed his eyes.
“Are you going to nap instead of hunt?” Brangien asked, cross.
“Yes.” Mordred shifted around until he got comfortable. Guinevere envied him. No woman could lie at ease on the ground without bringing censure and judgment down on herself.
Guinevere stood, pulling her hood back on. “What do the ladies do during the hunt?” She wanted to stay close to Arthur. She should be by his side whenever possible, especially outside of Camelot.
Dindrane held out a plate of fruit and cheese. “We do this.” She laughed as Guinevere’s face fell. “Did you want to prowl through the trees, hunting alongside the men?”
“No, not precisely that, but…could we not have sat more comfortably at Camelot?” Every time she left the city it was complicated. Until she could get over her damnable fear of water, Arthur had to make up some excuse as to why they could not ride on the barge like everyone else. It was humiliating and inconvenient. And she would worry the whole time he was in the forest. This one was tame, within the bounds of Camelot, but still. She should be with him.
The servants around the knights and the king loaded themselves with quivers and extra spears. Then one of the heralds blew a bright note from his instrument, and the men rode into the trees. Arthur waved to her, but he was surrounded by his men. His friends. His protectors who did not have to hide what they were.
“You seem upset.” Mordred cracked an eye open and stared at Guinevere. He alone of the knights had stayed behind. There were also a dozen servants and several armed guards.
Dindrane eyed Mordred appraisingly. “You seem unmarried.”
Mordred laughed. “My heart ever wants only what it cannot have.” But he did not look at Dindrane when he said it.
The Guinevere Deception Page 20
