Guinevere knew it was true. She would not survive if Excalibur could reach her. It was not hunger radiating from the blade. It was the absence of hunger. It would devour magic and never be sated, never be full. It did not eat to survive. It ate to end.
But the Dark Queen would truly be dead. The chaos she nurtured forever over. The people of Camelot would be allowed to grow and learn and live and die on their own terms, subject only to each other, not to magic they could not understand or control. She looked into Arthur’s warm eyes. The boy king. He carried the weight of a kingdom.
She nodded. “Do it.”
Arthur held her gaze. And then the king disappeared, leaving only her friend. Her Arthur.
He sheathed the sword.
She is free.
For so long, she has had a thousand eyes, a thousand legs and bodies. And now she is formed, she is real. But she is not safe. She can feel that horrible tool, the unmaking of her, the unmaking of magic.
Her beautiful boy is nearby. And so is the queen-not-queen. Her savior. There is a mystery in her blood, her sweet blood. The dark queen, the true queen, swirls with happiness. She has form, she has a mystery, she has a goal. Before, she tried to defeat men in battle. Now, she will destroy them from within. She will rot them, decay them, grow new life from their corpses feeding the forest.
But for now, she has an enemy still too dangerous to face. Too much has been taken from the land. She tries to draw from the trees, but they are dead. Worse than dead. They have been erased. It is horrible. She cannot make a stand here.
Follow me, she whispers with the buzzing drone of a thousand black flies bringing plague in the wet heat of summer. Bring her.
Guinevere heard the Dark Queen slithering away, into the trees. Faster than shadow. Faster than flight. She was risen, and she was gone, and both were Guinevere’s fault.
Mordred laughed, backing away from Arthur. He dragged Guinevere along. She was too weak from the loss of blood and the sickness of Excalibur to fight him.
“Leave her,” Arthur commanded.
“Come after us and you will have to fight me. That ends with one of us dying. I am ready to kill or die. Are you?”
Arthur dropped his head, shoulders slumped. Defeated. Whatever Mordred had done, he was still Arthur’s family. Guinevere knew, as Mordred did, that Arthur was not willing to kill him.
Mordred picked up speed. Guinevere dragged her heels, pulled against him, but he did not slow. One of Maleagant’s horses wandered by. Mordred whistled and the horse trotted to them. Mordred threw Guinevere up onto it, then mounted behind her. He kicked at the horse’s flanks, sending them deeper into the forest.
“Whatever they have told you,” Mordred said, his arm tight against her waist, his mouth at her ear, “they have lied.”
“Merlin—”
“Merlin is the worst liar of them all. You think he cares about you? The man who walks through time? He would have seen this. He would have known it was coming. And is he here?” Mordred gestured to the darkness around them. “No. He is not.”
“He is my—my father.”
“You cannot even say it without tripping over the word. Your heart and your tongue know a lie when they feel it, even if your brain tells you it is true. Merlin is no more your father than Arthur is your husband. They trapped you in the prison of Camelot, bound you in dresses, stripped away everything that was real and created their queen. They molded you into a form that suited them. Because you are terrifying. You are more powerful than any of them. Do you know what Excalibur is? What it does?”
Guinevere shook her head, closing her eyes.
“People think it is magic. It is the opposite of magic. It is the end of magic. Magic is life. Excalibur is an executioner. That is why you cannot stand to be around the sword. Your core is magic, your veins flow with it, your heart beats with it. Your soul knows that Excalibur is not your defender. It is your enemy.” Mordred’s grip was now not holding her captive so much as holding her up. He rested his cheek against her head. “Merlin has always forced his will on the world. Through magic, through violence, through deception. And now that he has decided magic must end, he has made you complicit. He made you a prisoner of his plans. Did he tell you anything true?”
She wanted to answer. She could not. Had she known everything, what might she have done differently? What might she have chosen? Merlin insisted she chose this, but she had a head full of things he put there and so very little else.
“You deserve to be free,” Mordred said. “You deserve to be wild. You are not a queen. Camelot will never feed your soul. It will drain you as surely as Excalibur. Give in to the magic at the heart of you. Leave them behind.” He put his hand over hers, the spark and the fire stronger than ever.
Something inside her recognized something inside him, rose to meet it, yearned for it. Mordred had not killed Lancelot. He had not killed Arthur. He had fought only to reawaken the magic, to reclaim the things that had been driven into the earth. The things that were part of himself.
The things that she could no longer deny were part of her.
“What will she do, now that she is free?” she asked.
“I do not know. I only know that she is as natural a creature as the birds, the deer, the rabbits.”
“The snakes. The wolves. The spiders.”
He laughed gently. “Yes, she has more of those in her, it is true. But have they not a right to live as any other creature does?”
“She will hurt people.”
“Maleagant hurt people, and Arthur did not stop him.”
“He was trying. It was complicated.”
“My grandmother is not complicated. Look at the dance of men, the treaties and borders and rules. Look at how little good it does anyone. They all still fight and bleed and suffer and die. And their souls die long before their bodies ever do. Tell me you would rather be in Camelot than out here.”
“But to ally with darkness!”
“We do not have to join the Dark Queen. She will not care, and neither do I. We do not have to do anything unless we wish it. There are no laws, no borders, no rules here. Let me untie the knots that Merlin has bound you with. That Arthur has tightened.”
Merlin had lied to her. He had kept her from the truth in ways she feared she would never know. And Arthur had let her believe it. But when she thought of cutting all the lines of memory and experience and love that tied her to Arthur—things Merlin never pushed into her head, things deeper and older than magic—she felt only sadness.
She had not started on this path with the truth. Now she had it all. Now she could choose, fully and completely. Sacrifice herself to Camelot, or walk away.
It was going to hurt. She smiled sadly. At least she knew pain. Pain would not kill her. Pain would not unmake her. It might reshape her, but she could accept now that whatever knots she tied around herself would always fray. In coming undone, they gave her the space to become something new.
“Be with me,” Mordred whispered, “and be free. Be with me and be loved.”
She turned her face to his. His lips brushed hers and the fire flared, stronger and brighter and hungrier than any she could ever conjure on her own. Fire was against her nature, but it was the core of Mordred’s, and he passed it from his lips to hers.
She gathered it, relishing it, knowing she could have a lifetime burning this bright, this hot, this true.
Then she channeled the fire into her hands, igniting them. She grabbed Mordred’s hands. He shouted in shock and pain, jerking away from her touch. She shoved, and his momentum carried him off the horse, sent him tumbling to the ground.
She took the reins, urging the horse back toward the meadow.
“You will never be happy with him!” Mordred shouted, his voice raw with anguish. “He is the end of our kind!”
Tears streamed down he
r face. She knew Mordred was right. That, in choosing Arthur, she was choosing to sacrifice magic, to end wonder, to tame and cultivate the wild heart of the land. To kill that own part of herself.
She was choosing Arthur, again. She did not know how, or when, but she had made this exact choice before. She knew it as suddenly and surely as she knew that Mordred had told the truth when he said Merlin and Arthur had lied about everything.
* * *
Arthur was on his knees in the center of the meadow, defeated. Excalibur was sheathed, lying abandoned on the forest floor beside him.
Guinevere slipped from the horse and ran to him, then knelt.
“I am sorry,” she said.
He looked up, eyes shining. He grasped her, pulling her to him. “I thought I lost you.”
“You should have. I woke her. You should have sacrificed me to end her.”
“I can fight her. I have done it before. But I could not lose you. Not again.”
He held her close. She rested her head against his chest, the closeness of Excalibur at her side a throbbing ache even sheathed. Arthur was an ending. But he was also a beginning. And she believed in him. Merlin had put his faith in men. She did not understand him, but she understood that, at least. They were capable of so much evil—and so much good. With Arthur, she knew the balance would tip toward the latter.
“How did you know to find us?” she asked. Brangien had told only Mordred.
“Merlin came to me in a dream. I am sorry that I did not get here sooner. And I am sorry that I did not come for you when Maleagant took you. I wanted to. I wanted to so desperately. To leave it all behind and save you. But…”
“But you have a nation to take care of.” Which was why he should have killed the Dark Queen, even if it meant killing Guinevere. The same mixture of devastation and happiness she had felt telling Maleagant that Arthur would never sacrifice his people for her she now experienced in reverse. She did not know which version was better.
The pain from Excalibur pulsed with her guilt. She had broken the darkness open, and they had no idea what the result would be. Mordred was right—Merlin had to have seen all of this. And still he sent her. She wished she could trust that the wizard knew what he was doing. She would try to trust herself instead.
Lancelot limped toward them and sat heavily on the ground. She whistled. She whistled again. And at last the gentle clop of hooves sounded. Her horse nudged her, and Lancelot wrapped her arms around her horse’s neck, nuzzling her face there.
“We lost,” Guinevere said. “The Dark Queen is still out there. Mordred is, too.”
Arthur looked grimly at the agonized corpse of Maleagant. Guinevere shuddered, turning away from it. She had done that. That was what Mordred wanted her to become. Powerful and terrible. When they were riding here, it had felt so important to kill Maleagant. So urgent. But now she wondered.
“There will always be another threat. Someone will fill the void Maleagant leaves behind. The Dark Queen will plot. Mordred—” Arthur paused, the name sticking in his throat. The betrayal was sharp and new. “Mordred will make his own decisions. Camelot is worth having, and that makes it worth taking.”
“We are still alive,” Lancelot said. “I count that as a win.”
Arthur reached out and squeezed Lancelot’s shoulder. “Thank you for being there for Guinevere when I could not.”
“It was my honor to serve my queen.”
Guinevere pulled away from Arthur. She shook her head. “But I am not anyone’s queen. We cannot pretend I am. Look at what I have done, what chaos I have set free. Arthur, I— Everything I am is a lie. Mordred knew it as soon as he met me. He knew I could be used against you. Maleagant did, too. I put you in danger.”
Arthur stood. He held out his hand to Guinevere. In it, he held the chain of silver and jewels he had given to his queen. “I have been in danger my whole life. I do not want to face it alone anymore. Please,” he said. “Please come home.”
Guinevere hesitated. She would not join Mordred and the Dark Queen. But she could slip away into the dark. Live in the wild. Become a hermit, a rumor.
She had been wrong about everything. But so had Merlin. She did not need protecting anymore. Arthur still did. Sealing herself and her magic away would do no one any good. Whatever Guinevere was, she would use it to defend him. She took the silver chain and refastened it against her forehead. And then she took Arthur’s hand.
It was not the spark and flame of Mordred’s touch, or even the instant connection of Lancelot’s. It was older, and stronger, like the mountain of Camelot. It was worth building on. She could accept that it might not be what she wanted it to be, that they would have to grow into each other to discover what they might be together. But she would not let go of it. “I have two conditions for remaining queen,” she said.
“Name them.”
“The Dark Queen is back. We know the threat now. I will be the first line of defense. I will not shrink from this fight, and you will not hold me back from it.”
Arthur nodded solemnly. “The second?”
“I get to choose my own knight. The queen’s protector. That way, you never have to worry about protecting me. It will not be your responsibility.”
Arthur flinched. “It will always be my responsibility.”
“No.” Guinevere’s voice was hard. “Never again, Arthur. If you face that choice again, you choose Camelot. You are not my knight.” She turned and held out her free hand to Lancelot. “She is.”
Lancelot froze. She did not step toward Guinevere. She looked at her king.
And her king smiled, nodding. “Sir Lancelot, do you accept your position as the queen’s protector?”
Lancelot dropped to her knee, bowing her head. “With everything I am.”
Arthur’s hand moved to Excalibur. Guinevere flinched and he stopped. “Sorry. Habit. We will knight you when we get back to Camelot,” he told Lancelot. “With a different sword.”
Lancelot stood. Then she laughed, wrapping her arms around Guinevere and lifting her, twirling her in a circle. “Thank you,” she whispered. She set down Guinevere and straightened, clearing her throat. “My lady,” she said, “allow me to help you onto your horse.”
Arthur led them to his own horse, and they rode through the darkness until dawn illuminated Camelot in the distance, calling them home.
* * *
Guinevere rode in the boat across the lake. She remembered Maleagant’s spy. She would not risk more people noticing her comings and goings and discovering any weaknesses that could be exploited.
The water held dread for her still, but she could live with the dread. There were worse things than drowning. She had faced the Dark Queen. The Lady of the Lake would just have to wait her turn.
Word preceded them. Arthur lifted her from the boat, then climbed to the dock and stood next to her. Crowds were gathering in the streets, lining the pathway up the endless hill to the castle. They gasped. They cried. Arthur took Guinevere’s hand and raised it. “Our queen is home!”
The crowd cheered. Lancelot stood behind them, quiet. Arthur turned to her, holding out his arm. “Rescued by her champion. The queen’s protector and my newest knight, Sir Lancelot!”
This time the cheer was a bit more muddled and confused. But they would get used to it. And it was not their decision anyway. Lancelot, hand on the pommel of her sword, strode confidently beside Guinevere. She scanned the street as though expecting assassins in the heart of Camelot.
“Guinevere!” Brangien shot free from the crowd, throwing herself at Guinevere. They embraced, holding each other close.
“You found me,” Guinevere whispered. “Thank you.”
“You are my sister. I will always find you.” Brangien stepped away, fussing over Guinevere’s bloody and torn sleeves. She took off her own cape and draped it around Guinevere’s sho
ulders, pulling up the hood. “Where is Mordred?”
“Later,” Guinevere said. She knew Brangien would feel guilty for giving Mordred the information that helped him. But the guilt was only Guinevere’s.
Together, they began the long walk to the castle. Arthur waved to his cheering people, including an openly weeping Dindrane on the arm of Sir Bors, but Guinevere could see the strain in Arthur’s smile. How much it cost him to be their strength. She put her hand on his elbow and squeezed, bearing the burden with him. She had chosen Camelot.
A light mist of rain began to fall. Guinevere shrank from it. But then she tipped her head back, letting it fall on her face. Letting it wash away the blood and terror and regret. It was the first time she could remember water touching her skin. Each drop nourished her, replenishing some of what she had lost. She felt stronger. Powerful. Ready.
She was Guinevere, Queen of Camelot.
She was home.
Rain to face. Washing clean. Carrying away the sweat and the blood and the taste of her.
Droplets to droplets. Gathering, dripping, streaming. All the things that water knows rushing down the streets of Camelot, through the ditches, down the stones, down down down.
Down through the forsaken lake. River to stream to an older lake, a colder lake. The tiniest trace remains, but it is enough.
The water stirs. Forms. A face looks up from the depths, twisted with the longing and fury of an infinite being who had never before known loss.
Her lips curl around a single word.
Mine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special gratitude to Sir Thomas Malory, T. H. White, Geoffrey of Monmouth, and an endless series of movies and television specials for planting the Arthurian legends deep in my brain.
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