Her fingers clenched into fists. A blessing to have been Arthur’s wife in name only, then. “No.”
He sighed. “Just as well. I am not a patient man. I do not have months to spare. Do you see how I have not struck you, even though your answers were not what I was hoping? You told the truth. That is good.”
Maleagant sat across from her, leaning back on one arm and narrowing his eyes in thought. “I could sell you to the Picts. They are not as familiar with Arthur’s nobility as I am. They might think they could trade you for some advantage.” He tapped his fingers against his knee. “Or I could offer your death to the Picts in exchange for an alliance. They were not pleased when Arthur did not want any of their daughters. With you gone, he would be open to marriage again. Your father is too far south to cause me problems should I kill you.”
She had come to Camelot to protect Arthur. Not only had she failed to do that, but now she would be used against him. The river rushing somewhere outside surrounded her, whispered that she was never meant to be this. That she never could have been this. That she should have let the water claim her long ago.
She did not want to die. If this was a game of constantly moving pieces, she had to convince him that her moves were the better idea. “That is true. And my father has another daughter as well as sons, so it is not a terrible loss. I do not think you risk Arthur starting a war over my death, either. The cost would be too high for him to do it for revenge. But trading me to the Picts is a better option. Trick the Picts into thinking they can bargain with me and get your coin or your land that way. Though you risk their ire in the long run. You will have made enemies of Arthur and the Picts.”
If she was sent to the Picts, there would be journeys. Anything could happen then. She was not powerless, but she could not risk magic here. Not yet. If she revealed what she could do and got away, or was traded back to Camelot, word would spread. Arthur himself would suffer the backlash of being a Christian king married to a witch, which would serve Maleagant far better than her death.
She brushed the floor grit from her cheek and smoothed her skirts. “I do think I have more value alive than dead, but I assume most people feel the same about themselves.”
“Are you certain Arthur does not love you? You are a very unusual queen. I was wrong about how they bred them in the south.”
She stared at him and did not look away. She was supposed to be a queen. The chosen partner of Arthur, the greatest king alive. She could be strong. “Hold me at ransom for less than Camelot. Borderland. Horses. Silver. You may be able to wring those from Arthur.”
“Your problem is in thinking I will be happy with anything less than Camelot.”
Guinevere closed her eyes, then nodded. Magic, then. She tried to call the fire. She had only ever called it for cleansing, did not know if she could use it for anything else, did not even know if she wanted to. Could she use it as a weapon? Could she turn magic from something to protect those she loved, to something that devoured?
Merlin would do it.
She shuddered at the thought. It felt like a line that, once crossed, could not be undone. Far worse than the memory magic. But her dilemma was unnecessary. Surrounded by water, filled with fear, she did not have the strength to create so much as a spark. She had nothing to feed the fire. It failed her.
“One last question. Are you listening?”
Guinevere opened her eyes.
“My man has been at the Camelot docks for weeks now. And he had something interesting to report. On several occasions, the queen did not get into a boat, and yet arrived on the lakeshore. And many times the queen did not get off at the docks—the only docks in Camelot—and yet arrived at the castle! Are you magic?”
Guinevere laughed. She could not help it.
Fortunately, he took it as an answer in the negative. “Which means there is another way into the castle. Tell me what it is, and I will let you stay queen of Camelot.” He paused, and his dead-eyed smile extended her an offer along with his hand. “Under the new king.”
She imagined Maleagant creeping through the tunnel. Entering the castle before anyone knew he was there. Defeating Camelot from its heart. None of her silly door protections could keep his evil out. They protected Arthur from magic, but Maleagant was the most human of men. Magic darker and more powerful than any she could wield would need to be used against a man of such vicious, indomitable will.
She could be satisfied knowing he would never best Arthur. She would have to be satisfied with it, because she feared her life held very little more for her. This, then, was how she protected Arthur. Not with magic, not with power. With silence.
“I will never tell you,” she said.
“So there is a way.” He smiled, and finally it touched his eyes. The lines there told a history of violence, of cruelty. And promised a future of it, as well. He stood, grabbing her arm and yanking her up so roughly she yelped in pain. The men at the door opened it and Maleagant pushed her over the threshold. She teetered on the rocks there, staring down at a grasping, rushing river.
She scrambled to get back into the building, but Maleagant was behind her. He held both her arms, lifting her in front of himself. She dangled, helpless, over the river.
“Do you know what else my man at the docks told me? The pretty young queen of Camelot is terrified of water. Everyone remarked on it. You should do better to hide the ways to break you.” He shook her and she screamed, staring down.
The water. Dark and eternal, over her head. The light, so far above, but she could not get to it, could not—
And it was cold—
And there was a voice, calling to her—
Calling—
Not Guinevere. Calling who?
Maleagant shook her again. She held his hands, trying to grasp his wrists.
Mordred was a spark.
Arthur was steady, warm power.
Maleagant was cold.
She went limp, closing her eyes. She had always known water would be her death. Had she known what was coming for Merlin? Had it been coming for her, too? She wondered if Merlin himself had put the terror of water into her, the same way he had pushed in the knot magic. To keep her away from the Lady’s grasp. To keep her safe.
It had failed.
She tried to think of Arthur. Brangien, who would mourn her, but who would always have Isolde now. She would miss Lancelot’s knighting. And Mordred. Had he come back to find her missing? She remembered the spark, the fire of his lips on hers. It was dark and wild, unsteady, hungry. She caught onto it, pulling it deep inside, where Maleagant could not touch it. Arthur’s strength, too, she tried to recall. To hold against herself like a shield.
“A channel island,” Maleagant shouted, his mouth against her ear. “Surrounded by a rushing river. No prison could hold you better.” He let her hang for an eternity of seconds, and then at last pulled her back in. He threw her into the building. She landed hard on the floor, crawling toward the center. As far from the river as possible.
“Next time, I take you swimming. Think on that, and decide whether the king who does not love you enough to save you is worth it.” Maleagant turned to his men. “No one touches her,” he said. “Yet.” Then he left.
She curled around herself, shivering. She could find a way. She would have to. No one was coming for her.
One of her fingers pulsed, swollen from how hard her heart was beating. Swollen around the three hairs from Merlin’s beard. She unwound them, then pretended to fidget with her own hair, knotting her dreams to his. She was finally desperate enough to seek him out.
“Please,” she whispered, closing her eyes and trying to find sleep—her only hope of help.
She walks backward through time.
She trails through her stay in Camelot. Sees each person there who grew to mean so much to her. Slowly releases them to be strange
rs of her future. Dindrane. Lancelot. The knights. Arthur, bright, shining pillar, fades last. Once more he is simply a name, a belief, a hope. She walks back through the forest that ate the village. Back to her first meeting with the knights, with Brangien. With Mordred. The nuns and the convent pass in the blink of an eye, hardly worth noting.
She steps past her time as Guinevere, and finds…
Arthur has not faded. Not truly. If she is in her own past, how does Arthur stay so bright, like a beacon? Why does she feel such hope—such sadness?
Where is she?
She has left Guinevere behind to find Merlin. And instead, besides the dream of Arthur, she finds…
Nothing.
She stands suspended in a field of black, beneath a starless sky. Everything around her shimmers, moving gently and slowly. Her hair drifts around her. Blue amidst the black.
“What are you doing here?” Merlin asks.
She turns toward his voice. He struggles to get to her, moving his arms in a strange sweeping motion. His beard flows behind him, trailing like a silver river.
“You should not be here,” he says.
She knows. Now that she is here, she does not like it. She came here for a reason. She expected the cottage. The lessons. She had planned to interrupt Merlin during a lesson, to talk to him in her memories. But she cannot find them. Once she stepped out of the convent, this was all that remained.
“I need your help,” she says. Her voice is layered, infinite. Sweet and cold.
“You have to go back! She is not watching me because she thinks me trapped, asleep. But if she senses you here, you are in terrible danger.”
“I think I may already be in terrible danger.” She lifts her hand. Her arms are bare, pale and glowing. Something is missing. Her wound. The skin. Lancelot. The tournament. Arthur. She grasps hold of the threads of her future, clinging. “I have been kidnapped. Merlin, I have been kidnapped!” She laughs, delighted to finally remember. “I need help.”
“I cannot help you in the affairs of man. You know that.”
She shakes her head. “I know nothing. You told me lies. Arthur did not need me.”
“He does need you. More than either of you knows. He is the bridge; you must guard his way safely over the blackest waters. Be the queen. Fight as a queen, not as a witch. And remember, whatever else happens, that you chose this.”
She lowers her arms, and the future falls away again. “I am in a bad place. I do not want to go back to it. I will stay here.” She pushes Guinevere away from herself. “It is too hard, Merlin. Merlin.” She tilts her head, trying to find more truth here in the darkness. “Why do I not remember my mother? Why could I not find my way to my past?”
The world trembles. The blackness around them ripples, then swirls. She has left all fear in her future. She is not afraid. She feels…infinite.
But Merlin is afraid. “Go now, foolish creature! Do not look for me again, or she will find you!” He pushes against her forehead, sending her spinning head over feet, circling and circling as the black field blurs and then—
Guinevere gasped. Waves of dizziness crashed over her, as though she were still spinning in that black place, pushed away by Merlin. Instead, she was on a dirt floor in a damp, dimly lit stone room.
She reached up to her hair, terrified. Merlin’s beard hairs dissolved like starlight in the morning, fading as she watched. He had taken even that away from her. She was alone.
A guard spat noisily behind her. She was not alone.
Guinevere stood, brushing off her dress. She faced two guards. They sat on the floor, playing a game with several round, flat stones and a few small sticks. Interrupted, they turned and watched her with hooded eyes. They wore leather tunics as tightly as they wore meanness. They had wrapped themselves in it, armed with hatred and suspicion.
“If you help me, King Arthur will reward you.”
“Way I see it,” one of them said, wiping his nose along his arm, “King Arthur not likely to be king much longer, yeah? And even if he is, I trust Sir Maleagant’s sword more than I trust your king’s kindness.”
“Give Sir Maleagant what he wants,” the other guard said, shrugging impassively. “It is not going to go easy for you, whatever you do. But he likes the young ones. If you do what he wants, he might be nice to you. For a while.”
“For a while,” Guinevere repeated, letting the words trail away. “How can you serve a man like this?”
“Liked you better when you were asleep.” The first guard returned to the game, picking up the stones and sticks. “Never seen anyone sleep as long as you.”
“Downright lazy,” the second guard said. “Been sleeping nearly a day. Is that what fine ladies do?”
The first guard snorted. “You would not know a fine lady if she bit you in the ass.”
“I have paid fine ladies to bite me in the ass.”
They both laughed. The game was resumed, Guinevere summarily dismissed.
She had thought Sir Ector and Sir Kay unpleasant. She repented of that now, having seen what truly unpleasant men were like when given perfect freedom to be as wretched as their basest nature. After sliding down against the wall farthest from them, she sat still and quiet, considering it best not to draw their attention again.
How had she been asleep for a day? It had gained her nothing, and cost her precious time. She did not know when Maleagant would return. And she did not know what she would do when he did. Merlin’s abandonment stabbed her anew. Not even in dreams would he speak with her, help her. Guinevere closed her eyes, trying to remember the black place.
Merlin had been afraid that she would be found. By whom? All that time in Camelot she had feared attack. The only threat was the one who had come for Merlin. The one he had sent her away from.
The Lady of the Lake.
Guinevere’s fear of water, her refusal to so much as touch it—if her hands could sense the truth, perhaps they were saving her from what she would find there. An elemental force of unfathomable age and power, determined to end her in order to punish Merlin. She would have been used against Merlin the same way she was now being used against Arthur.
She would not stand for it. Merlin was gone. But she would not give Maleagant what he wanted. She would take the option away from him entirely. At the next opportunity, she would fling herself into the river. Let the Lady take her. Let herself be unmade. It was the least Merlin deserved. If he could see past and future, he had seen this and he had not helped her.
And this way she could never be made to hurt Arthur.
“What are you smiling about?” the first guard said. “You look creepy. Stop it.”
“Can I go for a walk about the island?”
“Yes, of course. I have packed a picnic! And would her ladyship like a bit of music to accompany her stroll?” The second guard doffed his hat, bowing. They did not move away from the door.
“I need to relieve myself.”
The guard kicked a chipped and cracked wooden bowl toward her. It skittered across the floor. “Have at it, queen.”
That ploy had failed. And, worse, she really did need to relieve herself. “You cannot expect me to do it with you in here.”
He pitched his voice high in imitation of her. “Then you cannot expect to do it at all.”
She picked up the bowl, retreating to the farthest edge of the building. It was heavily shadowed. The men snickered. But the second guard turned his back on her. “Come on, Ranulf,” he said. “Let the poor lost queen take her piss.”
The first guard, Ranulf, shrugged. “Speaking of, I need to go water the river before Sir Maleagant comes back and I have to stand at attention while he tortures his new pet.” He stepped out the door, closing it behind him.
Guinevere had never peed so fast in her life. She squatted over the bowl, keeping her skirts pooled around
her. When she was finished, she stood and refastened her drawers with her back to the door.
There was a shout from outside, and a large splash.
“What is—” the second guard said, standing.
Guinevere picked up the bowl and rushed across the room, throwing its contents in his face. He shouted in disgust, spluttering. She opened the door, ready to leap into the river—
And jumped right into the arms of a knight.
Beyond the edge of the island, Ranulf was being carried swiftly away, facedown. She only caught a glimpse of him as Lancelot swung her around and set her safely against the wall of the house. The second guard roared out of the door, squinting and half blind. Lancelot grabbed him around the waist, using his own momentum to toss him off the rocks and into the river.
He struggled to keep his head above the water. Lancelot picked up a large rock and threw with expert aim. It smashed into the guard’s head and his eyes rolled back. He dropped beneath the current and disappeared.
“When will Maleagant return?” Lancelot asked.
Guinevere shook her head, pressing her back as hard as she could against the stone building. She had been prepared to leap into the river to her death. But she did not want to anymore. Not for anything. “Soon, I think.”
“Come on.” Lancelot edged around the building, away from her.
“I cannot swim!” Guinevere cried.
“I will help you.”
“No, you do not understand!” Guinevere hurried past the door to catch up to Lancelot. She followed the knight around to find that Maleagant had tricked her, at least in part. Because the other side of the channel was broader, but sparkling and calm in the late afternoon light. It looked easy to cross.
Still a river, though.
“It came only to my thighs,” Lancelot said. “You will be fine. Hurry.” She stepped into the water and Guinevere shouted.
The Guinevere Deception Page 27
