The lowest granary, in the southeast sector of the city, was a huge circular building. It had not always been a granary, but what its original purpose was, no one could say. The only opening was a hole at the very top, at least twenty feet up. Arthur’s masons had created a door, as well as several openings at various levels. When all the grain was harvested, the doors would be sealed and the grain poured in through the opening, which would then be covered against the weather.
The granary smelled musty and warm, the floor dusted with the memory of harvest seasons past. It held the promise of safety. The promise of a winter made as easy as possible.
Guinevere did not know what she was supposed to be doing. She walked the circumference, making a show of checking it. “Good. See that this is swept out more thoroughly and look for holes along the perimeter that vermin might get in.” It was not really necessary. This was one of the original buildings of Camelot, which meant that it had no seams, no visible cracks or places where it had been formed. The only flaws were the ones they had made to use it.
She should have been glad, but with last night’s dream tugging at her, Guinevere found the building unnerving. “Do we have anything else to check today?” she asked.
Sir Gawain shook his head. “No, my queen. The others are being prepared and we can look at them tomorrow.” The older knights mostly ignored Guinevere, but Sir Gawain always seemed a little flushed and wide-eyed when he spoke with her. Guinevere did not assume it was herself that created that effect, but rather her proximity to Arthur, whom Sir Gawain outright worshiped.
“Very good. You have done excellent work. I think we can expect a comfortable winter. I will tell King Arthur.”
He bowed, his ruddy skin even redder with pleasure at the compliment.
Guinevere exited the dim space back into the late shafts of golden sun piercing the street. Brangien was waiting for her. “I heard you had come back,” Brangien said. “Did everything go well?”
“It is in progress and under control.” Guinevere tried to sound clinical, not petulant. The important thing was that the threat was neutralized. It did not have to be her doing the fighting. Even if her pride wanted it to be.
“Good. We have so much to do.” Brangien took Guinevere’s arm and marched uphill toward the castle. “Dindrane has requested I come to her dress fitting, and if I have to go, you do, too, since it is your kindness that has created this waking nightmare for me.”
Guinevere laughed. “I thought you liked Dindrane.”
“I do not like her. She is my friend. One must no more like their friends than they must like their family. They are simply part of your life, and you tolerate them as best you can.”
Guinevere put a hand over her heart. “Brangien, are you saying you do not like me?”
Brangien wrinkled her nose impatiently. “I love you. You know that. And I often like you. But I do not like you today, because I have to sit through Dindrane’s infinite picking about her wedding wardrobe, as well as answer every single question about what you will be wearing so she can match.”
“She wants to match me? At her own wedding? I should wear something that does not draw attention.”
“Oh, no. Dindrane wants you to draw attention. She wants everyone at her father’s estate to see that the queen of Camelot is her closest friend and that you and she are basically the same, right down to your colors.”
The fact that Dindrane accompanied her brother, Sir Percival, to a new land rather than staying on her own estate with her father spoke to an unhappy arrangement. Camelot was a land of hopeful newcomers, though. Under Uther Pendragon there had been suffering and oppression, but under Arthur Camelot was growing every day. People were drawn to him and the kingdom he had cut free on the edge of Excalibur.
It felt odd, talking about granaries and weddings and dresses while somewhere Arthur was eradicating a fairy assault, perhaps even facing off against the Dark Queen herself. The constant dissonance of being both queen and witch, Guinevere and not-Guinevere, was disorienting. It would be so much simpler to be just one thing. But she was inside Camelot now, and when she was here, she was Queen Guinevere. She tried to focus.
Brangien was not finished complaining. “And why do we have to travel to her father’s lands for the wedding? Dindrane lives in Camelot. Sir Bors lives in Camelot. Most importantly, I live in Camelot and do not want to leave.”
“You are going to be even more cross with me.” Guinevere drew Brangien closer so they were side by side and she did not have to see the impending rage on her friend’s face. “That was my idea.”
“Your idea. Your idea that means not only do I have to prepare a queen for a week of festivities but I also have to figure out how to pack that week of festivities for a five-day journey?”
“Dindrane’s father is a southern lord. His lands are to the east, as well, which means he has increasing numbers of Saxon settlers around him. Arthur is wary of the Saxons marrying into these families and creating alliances that he has no knowledge of or connection to. I have learned about strategic social visits from you, so I suggested he go honor Dindrane’s father to make certain that bond is firm. And it will give him the chance to meet and speak with several other important men of that region, all without looking aggressive. He will be there for a celebration, not for a negotiation.” The southern part of the island was riddled with lords and kings, everyone staking out their claim to rulership. The east was being settled by Saxons who thought nothing of pushing out whoever initially lived there, and, when that failed, married into the families and took over that way. And the north was ruled by the Picts, with whom Arthur had an uneasy alliance. Guinevere had met them and their glowering bulk of a king, Nechtan. It had been a marginally pleasant dinner until Maleagant had shown up and complicated things. But the Picts and Arthur had settled into peace. They needed to turn their eyes to the south and the east.
Brangien huffed. “That was very clever of you. But I am still angry.”
“I understand. You are welcome to be angry for as much time as you need to be. As long as you still love me and occasionally like me.”
Brangien’s soft tone surprised Guinevere. “You are doing a good job.”
“Of having you love me?”
“Of being queen.”
One of the invisible knots in Guinevere’s chest—not a magic knot, but a worry knot—loosened ever so slightly. “Am I?”
“You are. I have always been proud to serve our king, and I am just as proud to serve you. He is lucky to have you. After all, think of the alternative. Dindrane could be our queen.” Brangien shuddered exaggeratedly.
Guinevere laughed. They turned a corner and Guinevere noticed a wall where the carvings were not quite as worn as they were elsewhere, sheltered against wind and rain by the angle of the street. It punctured the busy distraction she had allowed herself. She was back in the dream, rushing up these same streets.
“Brangien, we need to talk about the dream magic.”
Brangien’s hand drifted to the back of her hair, where a lock of Isolde’s copper hair was woven in with her own, allowing them to dream together. Every night Brangien was reunited with her lost love. “What about it?”
“It was probably nothing.” It was not nothing, but she could not tell Brangien the full truth about anything. Brangien knew that Guinevere did magic, and she knew that the Dark Queen had reemerged thanks to Mordred’s betrayal. But she did not know the truth: that Guinevere had been sent here by Merlin for her own protection against the Lady of the Lake, that Guinevere was the reason the Dark Queen was able to come back, and that Guinevere was not Guinevere at all, but a changeling.
Guinevere remembered Mordred’s confident assertion that Merlin was not her father. But if Merlin was not her father, who was? She shook it off, as she always did. Mordred was a liar. Mordred had manipulated her, had betrayed Arthur. Anything he t
old her—anything they had done—was a lie.
She found her fingers tracing her lips of their own accord and willfully put her hands down at her sides.
“What was probably nothing?” Brangien stopped, forcing Guinevere to face her.
“I…dreamed last night.”
“But that should not be possible. Should it?” By giving Brangien the ability to connect her dreams to Isolde’s, Guinevere had given up her own dreams. Every knot, every spell, every piece of magic had a cost. This was one of the few Guinevere had been more than happy to pay.
“No, it should not.”
“Could it be the fairy queen?” Brangien whipped around, like the Dark Queen would rise behind them, a shadow blurring out the sun.
“It did not feel like her. But it did not feel like me, either. It felt like someone else’s dream, tugging me along in its wake.”
“We will break the knot.” Brangien reached up to her hair, searching for Isolde’s strands.
“No! Then you will not be able to see Isolde!”
“But what if this magic creates an opening? Room for the Dark Queen to slip in? We cannot risk it.” Brangien let go of her hair and took Guinevere’s hands in her own. As always, Brangien’s touch was a cool reassurance, full of everything that made her who she was. But this time it was flooded with sadness. Brangien sighed and released Guinevere. “I will take one more night to tell Isolde, so she will not fear that something has happened. If that is all right.”
“Of course.” Guinevere leaned close. “You are my dearest friend. I want you to be happy, however you need to be. I will figure this out as quickly as possible.”
Brangien nodded, but there was distance in her expression. Her smile appeared, the old one. The one Brangien wore when she did not want to be seen. “We will sort this all out. We will defeat our foes. And we will survive the coming terrors.”
Guinevere was alarmed. She had not told Brangien the details of her dream. “Do you think it will be that bad?”
“Oh, I am not speaking of magical menaces. I am speaking of Dindrane’s wedding.”
Guinevere dissolved into relieved laughter, and Brangien feigned a stern voice. “I warned you from the beginning to avoid Dindrane. But you did not listen, and now look where we are. But back to the less immediate threat of the possible fairy attack of your mind. What should we do?”
Guinevere resumed walking. “If it does not happen again when I have my dreams back, we will know the knot was the opening and will have to figure out another way to connect you to Isolde. We will manage. We are the two cleverest women in Camelot, after all.” Guinevere tried to sound more confident than she felt.
“My queen!” Lancelot joined them with the slight metallic jingle of chain mail. Her dark brows were furrowed in anger.
“Yes?”
“I left you with Sir Gawain. But then he came to the training arena alone.”
“Yes, we finished our work.”
Lancelot looked at her with an intensity that implied Guinevere was missing something important. “And now you are alone.”
“No, Brangien and I are going to Dindrane’s.”
“And on the way there, who is protecting you?” Lancelot’s hand was on the pommel of her sword. Even as she spoke, her eyes swept every street and window, searching for threats.
“I hardly think I’m in danger walking in Camelot.”
“You were taken in Camelot.”
Guinevere flinched at the memory. She still got headaches she suspected were from the blow that knocked her unconscious so Maleagant’s man could abduct her. Her answer came out sullen. “On the field during the chaos of the tournament!”
“Because no one was paying attention. That will never happen again.” Lancelot’s fierce tone was informed by her own experiences rescuing Guinevere. Lancelot had been willing to sacrifice everything, even before she was a knight.
Guinevere softened and put her hand on Lancelot’s arm. “I know.”
“But I can only guard you as well as you allow me to, and if I do not have the correct information, I cannot do my job.” Lancelot seemed angrier than the situation called for. Guinevere wondered if the fight they had been forced to leave to others was nagging at her valiant knight.
“You will regret finding us,” Brangien said. “We are going to visit Dindrane and sit for hours as she examines cloth.”
Lancelot did not so much as blanch, a credit to her noble devotion to duty over personal comfort.
Guinevere stopped on the walkway outside the steps to Dindrane’s room. The young woman’s voice already drifted toward them with a litany of demands. The room was too small for even one woman, much less five of them plus all the materials, and it was situated on the side of her brother’s house that got the most direct afternoon sunlight. With autumn still warm, it would be sweltering. “Maybe Sir Lancelot could rescue us?” Guinevere asked.
Finally, Lancelot broke, a smile claiming her lips. “I am afraid even I cannot protect my queen from this.”
Guinevere sighed. She imagined herself in a forest, fighting evil side by side with Arthur, wielding magic with all the confidence and earth-shaking power of Merlin. But she was not in a forest, wild with power. She was in Camelot; she was queen. She could not fight like Merlin, and she did not want to. Not really.
She took a deep breath and drew strength from her friends on either side. Brangien was right. They would face whatever was to come, whatever horrors awaited them. Starting with Dindrane’s wedding plans.
After being trapped in Dindrane’s room until the impending curfew finally gave them an excuse to leave, Guinevere wanted to be anywhere but the castle. No, that was not true. She wanted to be only one other place. At Arthur’s side, fighting the Dark Queen. She paced nervously along the outer walkways, but the forest was too distant to be seen. A few reports had been sent back—nothing that caused alarm. Still, she would not feel settled until Arthur returned. She should have insisted on staying. At least if she could not help, she could bear witness. Could be nearby should something terrible happen.
Cross and anxious as the sun set and night brought no answers, Guinevere tried to distract herself with her own small problems. She had dreams to attend to. Brangien was somber and distant as Guinevere helped her prepare for bed. She combed Brangien’s straight, thick, nearly black hair, careful to avoid the section with Isolde’s knotted auburn strands. They would remove them in the morning.
“How did you meet Isolde?” Guinevere asked, wanting something new to think about. Then she hurriedly added, “We do not have to speak about it if you do not wish to.”
“No, it…it would be nice to speak openly about her. I held her as a secret for so long, it became instinctive.” Brangien released a breath and some of the tension in her shoulders disappeared. Guinevere continued combing, the soft rhythm of it soothing them both. Normally Brangien was the one to prepare Guinevere for bed, but Guinevere wanted to offer this kindness and was grateful that Brangien accepted.
“I hated her when we first met. My father worked hard to get me placed in a good house as a lady’s maid, but I had been spoiled by my mother and resented that I would now have to perform all these minor tasks for someone my own age. And Isolde—” Brangien laughed. “It is funny to think of it now. All the things about her I hated that eventually would become so dear. Isolde was dreamy. Forgetful. She would leave tasks half-finished. I was constantly picking up her sewing throughout the castle, left in the oddest places. I would find Isolde curled up in a window, asleep there like a cat in the sun. I thought she was the laziest girl I had ever met. What did she need to sleep so much for? After a month of finding her napping in odd places, as though she was hiding from me, I decided to stay up all night in secret and watch her. Perhaps she was not sleeping well. I had tricks for that, you know. And I had potions, as well. I do not do those here. They
cannot be hidden like my sewing.
“That night I pretended to sleep on my cot in the corner as usual. After an hour, Isolde slipped out of the room. If she were going to visit someone—a guard, perhaps—and she fell pregnant, I would be blamed. I followed her. When she went to the kitchen, I assumed she was there to eat. I watched through a crack in the door as Isolde tiptoed around her ancient nurse. The woman had been moved to the kitchens when I came on as Isolde’s maid, and she was fast asleep in the corner. Isolde made dough and set it to rising, tended the fires, then cleaned and scoured and prepared everything for the morning so that when her nurse awoke, all her duties would be done. It took Isolde nearly four hours to complete everything. When I could see that she was almost finished, I stole back to our room. Everything I thought I knew about her was wrong. She was not lazy or dreamy. She was constantly leaving her tasks undone because she saw that her nurse needed help, or that a page was lost, or that a maid was being berated for her work and needed help. Isolde was the kindest, most generous person I had ever seen.
“After that, I tried to emulate her. I found ways to make her life easier, the way she did for others. And she noticed, and did the same for me wherever she could. We would work together, and she sang or told me stories. We were no longer lady and maid. We were best friends. And then one day, laughing as we cleaned out the fireplace and sneezed on ashes…we were more. It was as natural as breathing.” Brangien stopped, and Guinevere paused her combing. Doubtless Brangien was thinking of their parting. But Guinevere wanted Brangien to fall asleep with the memory of love, not loss, foremost in her mind.
“How, though? How did you know you were more than what you had been?”
“When I looked at her, everything felt right. And her hand in mine…” Brangien looked down at her hand, her fingers curling over something that was no longer there.
“It felt safe?”
The Camelot Betrayal Page 3
