Slowly, my hands moved the stones until I had twice played out the likely outcome, once with Arthur’s current army, and again if I was able to help him. Both situations were dire, and oddly, each ended in a stalemate where the two queens and their kings remained, but there was no way for either side to claim victory.
The outcome vexed me so much my bowels rumbled, but there was nothing more I could do, at least not with the divination tool before me. I used the glowing taper to relight the others with shaking hands and hid the plate and stones so Mayda would not find anything amiss upon her return and suspect my very unchristian activity. With trembling fingers, I took up the stylus and composed a letter to Owain’s wife, who was loyal to Arthur and the only one within range to augment Arthur’s army while her husband fought at his side.
Not long after I sealed the letter, a knock broke my concentration and Mayda appeared in my doorway. I looked up, trying to appear as though nothing had changed from when she left me.
“How was your visit?” I asked brightly.
“It went well, thank you.” Mayda’s face grew solemn. “They brought news of Arthur.”
I bit my lip and smoothed my skirt, trying to delay the inevitable news in case what I had seen was wrong, a product of wishful thinking. When I looked at her, my face was passive, though it took all my might to school it so. “And?”
“He lives. What is left of his army continues north, but to where we do not know.”
“I may.” I glanced at the letter on the desk. “How quickly can your messengers deliver this?”
Mayda picked it up. “Two days, four at most.” Her expression betrayed concern and not a little apprehension, but she asked no questions.
“That will have to be fast enough. Please see that it is on its way as soon as possible.”
I may not have been able to fight next to Arthur in the clash that was to come, but I could do everything in my power to assure he was as prepared as possible.
A week later, the church was dark and silent, black-veiled sisters watching in vigil like wraiths at a tomb. In many ways, the day’s rituals were more arcane than our native rites of Samhain. Both feasts mourned the death of a god who would come again, but this Christian tradition focused on the brutality of his death. Long Friday, as they called it, was the most solemn day of the year, with rites beginning in the middle of the night and lasting half the day.
Mayda came forward, crowned in thorns in imitation of her Savior. She and Sister Magdalena, her attendant, veiled the empty altar in black cloth. Mayda then held up a skull, to which all present genuflected. The archbishop said a brief prayer in Latin, and the sisters chanted as Mayda gently placed the skull on the altar. Two sisters set heavy wooden chests on either side of the altar. Mayda had explained earlier that they contained bones of the sisters who had passed away since the convent was founded so that all might be present at this most solemn vigil.
The Latin chant was intoned so low that I could not make out the words, but the haunting melody seemed to transcend time and space, opening the veil between worlds so that the souls of those who witnessed this man-god’s crucifixion could rise from their graves to recount the deeds of that terrible day, lest it ever be forgotten.
The sisters swayed as the chant lulled them into a trance, and I found myself slipping into the Otherworld with them. Mayda and the bishop prostrated themselves before the altar, and my vision blurred. For a few frightening moments, blackness engulfed me. Then the clang of metal and grunts of exertion and pain reached my ears.
My sight cleared and I found myself in a mist-filled valley near one of the forts on Emperor Hadrian’s wall, a place called Camlann I had been many times with Arthur, looking for any signs that the lowland tribes were stirring. Now the fort was crumbling, a shell of its former greatness.
Around me, battle raged, Briton against Briton, Saxon and Pict allied against them all. Owain’s men were among the warriors, so my letter had made it to its destination in time to help Arthur. Thanks to the extra troops, this battle was less of a slaughter than the previous two had been, both sides holding their own in a tiring stalemate.
Mordred stood well back from the main engagement, watching and issuing commands from atop the wall. He didn’t seem to notice as Arthur approached him from behind, flanked by Kay and Bedivere.
But before Arthur could attack, Mordred whirled, blade drawn, ready to strike. “I took you for many things, Father, but a coward is not among them. Would you really stab your own son in the back?”
Accolon and Bors stepped out of the mist, holding Arthur’s companions at bay several steps behind.
“It is only what you deserve after setting upon me and my army unawares.” Arthur raised his own blade. “But this does not concern them. It has always been our fight. Our time has come.”
Mordred smiled darkly. “Indeed it has. If you are of the mind to die, lay on.”
Arthur struck out, and their blades met with a deafening clash.
The force of the strike vibrated through me as though my own weapon had been hit. Dizzy, my sight faltered, pulling me into an in-between world where the keening of the sisters’ chant made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but I was not fully in my body either. Vaguely, I heard the priest intone the words of Jesus, who had descended into hell to condemn the devil and liberate the souls therein, including the first man and woman. To Adam, he commanded, “Repent of your sin and be freed by my blood.”
Instead of an answer, Arthur’s grunt of pain reached me as Mordred swung his shield, connecting squarely with Arthur’s left cheek. Arthur stumbled back on the rocky, wet ground, doubled over, but he managed to block Mordred’s stab, swatting away Mordred’s sword before spitting a mouthful of blood onto the stones.
When Arthur stood upright again, he was less steady, turning his whole head to locate his opponent, which made me think he’d lost the sight in his left eye. He recovered quickly and lunged at Mordred. Despite the sucking mire underfoot, they parried and thrust with exhausting speed, as though they were in a hurry to kill one another.
Mordred lost his weapon first. He took one of Arthur’s blows on the edge rather than the flat of the blade, and it broke, making Mordred lose his grip. The remnants of his sword sank in the mud. Momentarily stunned, Mordred left himself open to Arthur’s fury but managed to avoid injury. He grabbed a low-hanging branch from a silver birch, partially broken in a storm, and wrenched it free, wielding it alternately like a club and a staff. Arthur advanced with confidence but never took the killing blow. I suspected he was trying to tire Mordred, to force him to yield the fight, and hence, the kingship.
But his son was too persistent and too clever for that. Fighting with the tough branch, he resembled the Oak King seeking to overthrow the Holly King. Mordred held his own, eventually disarming Arthur with a crack to the wrist of his sword arm that made my teeth twinge, even in the spirit world.
Soon the two were locked in a skirmish that more resembled the brute force contention of horned goats than the engagement of two highly trained warriors. They wrestled one another to the sodden ground, Arthur’s bulk easily overpowering his lithe son.
“Call a halt,” Arthur demanded as battle raged all around them.
“Never,” Mordred declared.
Arthur fumbled at his belt. “I will give you one more chance,” he said, holding a dagger to his son’s stomach. “If you yield to me, you will live.”
Arthur was so busy watching his son’s reaction, he couldn’t see Mordred’s right hand creeping along the ground toward his broken sword.
“And if not?” Mordred’s hand closed around the jagged blade, freeing it from the mud.
“Then I am afraid I will have to kill you.”
“Please, Father. Don’t.”
His pleading gave Arthur pause, just long enough for Mordred to raise the sword and smash the hilt into Arthur’s h
ead. The force of his blow hammered Arthur’s body downward. Mordred yelled, his eyes going wide. He scrabbled backward like a crab. As Arthur’s unconscious body fell away from Mordred, it revealed Arthur’s dagger protruding from Mordred’s stomach.
Time stood still.
Or at least that was how it felt. Realization hit me with the force of a gale sweeping down a canyon face, pulling me inexorably to my own death.
A bloodcurdling scream fell from my lips, echoed by another that held even more pain.
Morgan.
As my spirit body pushed through the thick of battle toward my husband, she dashed to her son’s side, flying across the field like a banshee. Of course. She would have been having visions of her own while nearby with the other camp women.
“Get them out of here! Get them to safety,” Kay yelled as he, Bedivere, and some of the others fought through the crushing mass of bodies to shelter their king and his heir from further harm.
They took them into the remains of the fort, its skeletal walls casting odd shadows in the half light and affording us some measure of dryness and privacy.
In this odd place between worlds, I could touch them. I sank to the floor at Arthur’s side and cradled his head in my lap, begging him to open his eyes. His pulse was faint and fluttering under my fingertips, so he lived—for now.
I inspected his wound even as Kay tried to bind it to stop the copious bleeding. Mordred’s blow had been powerful, smashing Arthur’s helmet and rending the side of his head with a deep, angry gash. At the rate his blood coated my hands, I feared a small artery had ruptured on impact. Even if that were not the case, the blow would cause severe swelling that could lead to host of problems, should he survive long enough to experience them. He needed help beyond what battlefield medics could provide.
Morgan gathered her son’s body onto her lap, weeping so hard she could find no voice. He stroked her cheek. “Mother.”
“Stay strong, my son,” she answered as though hope still remained.
But the only outcome for him was death. No other ending could be read in the pool of blood gathering black around him.
His gaze flicked to me. “Guinevere.” He smiled. “I am so sorry.”
I swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the tears streaming down my face. That he could see my spirit-self meant he was close to passing through the veil. “All is forgiven, Mordred. The Goddess knows. She will have mercy.”
His features smoothed as his breathing slowed, the lines of hatred and anger that had marred them over the last year disappearing until he resembled the boy who had welcomed me upon my return to Camelot from captivity, rather than the bitter monster he had recently become.
In my lap, Arthur groaned. His eyelashes fluttered and he opened his good eye, squinting at me. “I knew you’d come.”
“I would be nowhere else.” I squeezed his hand, ignoring the twinge in my gut that told me his seeing me meant he was near death as well. “Arthur, I love you. If you remember nothing else, let it be those words.”
He shifted, turning his head to have a better view of me. “And I you.” He caught sight of his son, slumped in Morgan’s arms. “Son?” His voice was thick with confusion.
He did not know what he had done. Mordred’s blow must have rendered him unconscious before his blade pierced his son’s flesh. Now was not the time to tell him.
At least Morgan seemed to feel the same. Still crying, she grasped Arthur’s other hand. “He died in battle. Is that not what you have always wished for him?”
Arthur gave a small bark of a laugh. “A hero? Yes. Death? No.” He drawled the last word like a drunkard. The darkness was about to claim him.
I patted his cheeks, gently at first then harder when he did not respond. “Arthur, do you not wish to say farewell to your son?”
“My boy,” was all Arthur managed before he fell into unconsciousness again.
I shook his shoulders. “Arthur! Arthur, no!”
As his breathing slowed, I sobbed harder, glancing over his shoulder at Morgan. She was weeping so hard her whole body shook as she clasped her son to her breast, his hands flapping limply at his side, the bloody dagger at her feet. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, her red lips twisted into a silent scream of anguish.
Kay stood, shaking his head while tears rolled silently down his cheeks.
Mordred was dead. For all intents and purposes, so was Arthur. That was the news Kay emerged from the fort to tell their men. I lay Arthur gently on the floor and went to the window to watch the armies react. As word spread, men ceased fighting and turned to face the fort. To a one, every Briton fell to one knee in honor of their fallen leaders.
Only the gods knew how things would have been different if everyone on the battlefield had shared their allegiance. While most saw the ceasing of hostility as a sign of respect, others used it to their advantage. The rumbling of horse’s hooves shattered the silence as a Pict on horseback raced through the crowd. Swinging his axe like a scythe, he removed the heads of eight kneeling Britons before anyone could react. The Saxons followed suit, stabbing another dozen with their javelins as they mourned their kings.
“Raise your arms, men. Defend your fallen kings with your life. This is your final tribute to them,” Kay yelled before disappearing into the fray with Bedivere.
Morgan and I were alone with the bodies of our beloved men. She reluctantly laid Mordred on the floor, passing her hand over his eyes. She crossed his arms over his breast, hands forever laced with the pommel of his damaged sword, before she bent over him.
“Goodbye, my son,” she whispered and kissed his forehead.
Arthur’s heart beat lightly beneath my hand, the sensation carrying with it a thousand memories—the first time his gaze met mine at the tournament, his expression of adoration when I told him I was pregnant, even his grief when he thought me dead, his joy at my return after my exile with Malegant, the wonder and regret in his eyes as he traced my scarred face when we met again after the fire. All those things and more tumbled over one another in my mind as I contemplated what must come next.
I knelt, pressing his hand to my lips, grateful for this last moment with him, for I knew it for what it was. “For all that we were, all that we dared to dream, I love you. In this life and the next.” I turned to Morgan. “He’s yours.”
She was still staring at the lifeless body of her son. She’d barely heard me. “What?”
I walked over to her and took her shoulders, forcing her unfocused eyes to me. With exaggerated volume, I repeated myself. “I said, ‘He’s yours.’”
She blinked at me as though I spoke a foreign language.
“Arthur is not dead, not yet, and I know the only place that can heal him.” I shook her lightly to get her attention. “Morgan, listen to me. You are the only one who can help Arthur now. I concede the last of his life to you. Get him to Avalon and summon Helene in case she needs to say goodbye to her father. She will be safer there than with Owain and Accolon in the days to come.”
The mention of her daughter’s name brought Morgan out of her grief-stricken trance. She blinked at me again, shook her head, then came to life. “You are not really here. But I am. I can save him.” A wicked grin spread across her face. She stuck her head out of the back of the fort. “You!” she called to a woman standing nearby. “Find Grainne and Mona and tell them to bring the Grail.” She turned to the man guarding Arthur. “Get him to a horse. We must away to Avalon.”
“Not a horse, lady. It will be faster to take him by water,” one of the women said. “I will take you.” She was one of Sobian’s girls, one of a handful who’d stayed to fight with Arthur even when their leader refused. She would do everything she could to ensure he made it in time to be healed.
They took him from my arms, and all of my strength bled out as though I were the one with a mortal wound. Arthur was in the hands of the God
dess now, and those of Morgan as her representative and his wife. My vision blurred. Gray tendrils of smoke rolled in from its edges until I could see nothing more. I was vaguely aware of rejoining my body in my cold, small cell. But I did not care. I embraced the darkness with all the passion of a lover.
After twenty-four years, it was over. Camelot was no more.
I woke to the bright light of Easter morning and the joyful song of “Alleluia” wafting in from the open window overlooking the chapel. For a few moments, I floated on this optimism, my spirit buoyant and free, my mind clear of all but the light and song.
But when I sat up, my head throbbed and memories returned in flashes—Aggrivane fallen among his brethren; then Arthur senseless on the ground, a bloody gash to his head; Mordred clutching his abdomen; the grief-stricken face of Morgan. Her voice rang in my head, “We must away to Avalon.”
Was I meant to follow her? For the third time in less than two years, I had nowhere to go. Avalon was a logical choice. I would be safe and welcome there. But yet, as comforting as that idea was, it didn’t feel quite right. There was something else I was yet meant to do, and Avalon wasn’t where it would happen.
I shuffled mindlessly as I gathered my few belongings, rolling robes and cloaks into a pack for my departure. I may not have a destination, but I could not stay here. I had troubled the poor sisters enough. They had shown me more kindness than I could ever ask. I could not turn around and ask them to harbor me in what would likely be dark days ahead.
Now that Arthur was at the very least severely incapacitated and his heir dead, there would be a fight for the throne of High King. Just as in the days following Uther’s death, men with any claim and none at all would turn against one another in the quest for power. If my whereabouts were known, I would be a target for everything from assassination attempts—lest I make my own bid for the throne, which I had no intention of doing—to insurrections in my name, or even yet another abduction by one who sought to use my sovereignty to bolster his claim. I would be a danger to everyone I came in contact with.
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