The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  “No, I need nothing,” Guinevere said, the day still brilliant in gold and blue all around her, everything a part of that, everything belonging.

  She looked down. She was wearing green.

  * * *

  Guinevere nodded in approval of the placement of Arthur’s sun crest flag. The flags had been staked around the perimeter of the festival, a reminder of whose leadership made both this record harvest and the festival to celebrate it possible.

  “You have been very involved this time,” Brangien said, arm in arm with Isolde. Isolde would return to the castle before the festival began—she had no desire to be in a crowd—but she was enjoying walking around in the pre-bustle. Preparations had begun before dawn and would go until late afternoon, when the festival started. The celebration would last all night and into the next day.

  “What do you mean?” Guinevere asked.

  “Planning Lancelot’s tournament seemed like torture for you. But I have barely seen you, you have been so busy with this. And you were willing to make the trip across the lake twice in one day to be here this morning before returning in the afternoon!”

  “It has to be perfect.” Guinevere squinted down the line of booths and rising tents. The air was filled with the sounds of hammers and shouting and laughter, nothing compared with how loud it would become.

  “It has to have food and drink and no one will complain.” Brangien eyed a cart trundling past filled with apples and dried fruit. “You should declare that we have to sample all the food before it can be approved….”

  Isolde laughed and Guinevere joined in, just a second too late. It was true that she had thrown herself into planning the festival, filling every hour of the past two weeks with the details, meeting with merchants and farmers, helping direct the filling of the silos and granaries, and otherwise making certain that there was never any space in her mind for quiet.

  For thinking.

  For doubting.

  She hated to take any of Merlin’s advice, but in their last conversation in that blank dreamspace where she had met him, he had told her to fight like a queen.

  She had forced herself to remain as a nebulous in-between. Not queen, not not-queen. She could not keep standing in both worlds. Her life since returning from Maleagant and the Dark Queen had been nothing but waiting, suspecting, searching. Hurting. She had to choose what she had already chosen. It did not seem fair that a choice would demand she keep choosing it, over and over. But she would. She had to be the Guinevere she claimed to be. The Guinevere whose life she had claimed. She owed it to everyone.

  She glanced back at where Lancelot stood, giving them a polite distance. No longer right at her side. It hurt. But it was for the best.

  “Guinevere!” Lily rushed toward her, golden braids streaming behind her. She wore blue and pink and the ring Guinevere had given her. The ring that should always have been hers. “There will be jugglers and actors! Plays all evening! We got the same players from the theater in Camelot. Oh, they are wonderful. It will be hard to go anywhere else. But I am excited to see Sir Gawain try to catch a chicken.” She giggled, wrinkling her nose. That had been one of her ideas: setting cross chickens loose in a pen with knights competing against chicken maids to see who could catch the most chickens the fastest.

  A man with light hair and the thick, powerful build of someone who had labored all his life stopped near them. His hands were an angry, splotchy red, perhaps from the work he was doing spreading rushes on the ground where it was muddiest. The rushes would help, though the entire festival was hardly tidy. There was so much activity. With the harvest complete, all the extra workers who had hired themselves to landowners were here for one last job before returning to the various places they had come from or settling in Camelot for the winter.

  “I am glad you are here,” Guinevere said.

  “Me too!” Lily embraced her, kissing her cheek. “I love having my sister back.”

  Guinevere could not bring herself to answer. Fortunately, Brangien saved her by tugging on her arm. “Come, we need enough time to prepare you.”

  Guinevere almost relished the terror of the lake crossing. It was nice to be overwhelmed by something so contained, so specific, so familiar. She understood the contours of that fear, her physical reaction to it. Brangien held one hand and Isolde the other. They were not as comforting as Lancelot or Arthur, but it was enough.

  At the dock someone called Guinevere’s name. She turned to see Ailith, arm in arm with a young man who had the same stocky build as Gunild. Ailith beamed and waved, and Guinevere smiled in return. She had not done everything wrong these past few weeks. She wondered if, somewhere, Mordred was arm in arm with Gunild. The thought made something curdle in her stomach. Which made her angry that she would feel that way.

  She would focus on the festival. The festival, and then whatever came next for Queen Guinevere.

  At the castle Isolde and Brangien combed and plaited her hair, weaving it with bright-yellow thread. Guinevere’s dress was yellow, with Arthur’s sun, gorgeously embroidered in silver by Isolde, in the center. The evenings were chilly now, so she wore a pale-blue cloak. Brangien pulled out several small pots.

  “Lily taught me a few new things.” Brangien frowned in concentration as she spread a reddish substance on Guinevere’s cheeks and lips and then an ashy black powder along her top and bottom eyelashes. Guinevere blinked back tears of irritation, but after a few moments it passed.

  Isolde gasped, putting a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my queen. You look beautiful.”

  Guinevere smiled ruefully. “Well, if I am anywhere near as pretty as my two lady’s maids, I am pleased.” She had something for Lily, as well: two smooth rocks that Guinevere had used blood magic to knot a spell of connection. Because it was Guinevere’s own blood that had fed the iron knots at the doorway, this blood magic should last past the thresholds. If she had one rock and Lily the other, she would always be able to sense how close Lily was. She would not be able to explain the gift to Lily, of course, other than pretending they were pretty rocks, but it was a small protection. A way of making up for what she had done.

  All that was left to do was put on the jeweled circlet Arthur had given her before Lancelot’s tournament. But something about it did not feel quite right. Whether Guinevere associated it with that night and everything that had happened between Mordred kissing her and Maleagant abducting her, or whether it was simply too ornate and decorative compared with what the king wore, she could not say. She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the piece.

  There was a knock at the door. Brangien opened it and then bowed. Arthur stood there with his hands behind his back, resplendent in a blue tunic over a white shirt. His cloak, pushed back from his broad shoulders, was yellow, an inversion of the colors Guinevere wore. Guinevere glanced at Brangien, and Brangien’s satisfied smile was enough to prove that she had planned the coordination herself.

  He really was handsome, this king of hers. Like a hand as steady and patient as the Lady of the Lake’s had carved him in addition to Camelot. Every line of his face was precise, every angle strong, except his eyes, which were always kind.

  “Almost ready,” Guinevere said.

  “I have just what you need.” Arthur pulled his hands from behind his back, presenting something shiny with a flourish. Guinevere stared at the silver crown. It was a better match to his, though hers was more elegant. Instead of a simple circle, it had delicate points at precise intervals. But it was still crafted in the same spirit as his. Direct. Strong. Unadorned save the metal itself.

  “May I?” he asked. She tipped her head and he slipped the crown into place. It fit perfectly on the circle of braids Brangien had plaited around Guinevere’s head.

  “How do I look?” Guinevere asked, surprised at how nervous she both sounded and felt. She wished she could see herself, wished she could tell whether or not t
he crown looked like she deserved it.

  “Like my Guinevere,” Arthur said, reminding her of their conversation. If she did not know who she was, at least Arthur knew who she was to him. And he saw it when he looked at her.

  He offered his elbow and she took it. With the first step, the crown slipped slightly to the left. Brangien commanded them to stop and pinned it in place.

  Not quite a perfect fit after all.

  Guinevere shrieked, ducking as a burst of flame scorched the air around them.

  Lily laughed and clapped. The man bowed, sweeping his small torch to the side with flair. How he managed to breathe fire, Guinevere did not know, but it reminded her with a pang of the dragon. She hoped it had found somewhere beautiful to rest before burrowing into the earth alone.

  “Come on.” She tugged Lily’s arm. They passed a juggler throwing knives, minstrels singing a song about plowing and planting that Guinevere was pretty sure was actually about something else entirely, and a puppet show. That one made her pause. There had been a puppet show telling the story of Arthur’s life the day she first met him. It had left out so much, in part because it tried to edit out the role of magic but also because Guinevere suspected most people did not know much of anything that had really happened. They never did.

  “Come, I do not want to miss Sir Gawain!” Lily pulled her along. There were so many people at the festival that not even Guinevere’s crown could cut a path for them. The noise was unrelenting, shrieks and laughter and talking. The scent of roasted meat clung to everything, along with a dozen other smells. It was even bigger than the tournament celebration had been, twice as large as any market day. Wine and food and happy faces wherever Guinevere turned.

  So many faces. Lancelot followed closely, keeping a watchful eye. She would take no chances this time. While Maleagant was gone forever, Guinevere had had more than enough of being abducted for an entire lifetime. But she had checked the night before, pushing out and sensing for magic nearby, and had found nothing. Tonight, there was only Camelot.

  And Camelot was happy. And Camelot was drunk.

  Guinevere turned to look at Lancelot. “Will you participate in any of the games?”

  “If my queen wishes it.” Lancelot’s tone was cold.

  Guinevere tried to stop, but the momentum of the crowd pulled them along. She wanted to speak with Lancelot, to tell Lancelot that she missed their closeness. But she owed to it Lancelot to be strong. To give her the space to be the knight she was. The best knight in the land.

  They arrived at what would have been the field for a tournament. It had been divided into sections. Nearest them was a line of cows. Women were filling buckets with such speed Guinevere could not believe it. Lily pulled her right along, though Guinevere would have liked to stay and pat the cows on their sweet noses. The sound of wood being chopped echoed around the space, along with that of a crowd cheering on various contenders.

  “There he is!” Lily squealed, and rushed forward. In a fenced section a chicken was running madly, chased by Sir Gawain.

  “Go for the legs!” Lily shouted. Sir Gawain dove, narrowly missing the legs and getting a face full of feathers for his efforts. He laughed and tried again, with Lily giving useless advice. Guinevere doubted Lily had ever so much as touched a chicken, but it made her happy to see the girl so involved and delighted.

  Guinevere had not had a chance to give Lily her gift. It was probably better to wait until they could speak someplace calm and quiet. Guinevere turned her back on Lily and Sir Gawain and looked for Arthur. They had been separated early on when Lily wanted to explore.

  Sir Tristan was watching the woodcutting competition. Guinevere waved to him, but he did not notice, all his attention on the competitors. A man in the center of the contestants had taken off his shirt. His back rippled with his efficient, powerful motions. Guinevere felt a flutter low in her stomach watching him. There was something she loved about the broad span of his shoulders and the trim point of his waist.

  “Oh, that is Arthur,” she said, putting a hand against her stomach and the giddy surge she had felt there. She felt almost guilty for being attracted to him before she had known it was him. But she did not stop watching him.

  Lily turned to see what Guinevere was watching, and her cheeks pinkened as she realized what she was seeing. “He is almost naked.”

  “Yes.” It was the most undressed Guinevere had ever seen him. And the rest of the kingdom was seeing it, as well, which felt unfair. Would she always have to share him? Her crown slipped and she reached up to push it back in place.

  Anna weaved her way through the crowd, holding two cups. She handed one to Lily and the other to Guinevere. “Spiced wine!” she shouted over the noise. “I hate everything here except this.”

  Guinevere laughed, grateful for the distraction. She glanced at Lily, but Lily was not going to abandon Sir Gawain. It looked like he would be chasing that chicken for a long time.

  “Come, I know a quieter spot where we can rest for a bit,” Guinevere said. She did not want to keep watching Arthur. Or she did, but not in public. And she did not like the idea of being watched as she watched him. She sipped her drink as they walked. It was not hot, but something in the wine made warmth travel all the way down her throat and into her stomach. It was odd, but not unpleasant.

  Behind the field and past several rows of market stalls was a space where farmers could bring extra produce for sale. Behind that was a section for showing animals for purchase or trade. Anna found a bench of rough-hewn wood and they sat. Anna, always busy, pulled some sewing out of the pouch she wore at her waist. It was a far larger pouch than the discreet one Guinevere had tucked under her belt.

  Lancelot stayed several paces away, out of earshot. Guinevere drained her cup. She wished she were running through the festival, drinking and dancing and laughing, with Lancelot on one side and Arthur on the other. That their roles were not so set. She knew it was necessary, but it was also unfair.

  “You seem unhappy.” Anna set down her sewing and turned her full attention to Guinevere.

  “No, I am very happy.”

  “Yes, people who are very happy always insist they are very happy with a tone that aggressive.”

  Guinevere tried to laugh, but ended up sighing. “I have been thinking, and—”

  “My queen!” Ailith bounded toward her, happiness in every step. “I bought a chicken!” She held up the creature by its ankles. It seemed resigned to its upside-down state, staring at Guinevere with round, blank eyes.

  “So you did! Congratulations!” Guinevere’s whole body felt warm, as though she had bathed in the wine. But that made no sense. She would never bathe, and certainly not in wine. She cleaned herself with fire like a civilized person. Like a civilized witch. She was neither of those things. She squinted as her thoughts became as round and unblinking as the eyes of that chicken.

  “Thank you! I— Oh, hello, Morgana! I did not know you were in Camelot now, too! The queen is very forgiving.” Ailith beamed at Guinevere, then waved goodbye, running toward Gunild’s waiting brother.

  “Morgana?” Guinevere turned toward Anna. “Why did she call you—”

  Anna had a knife pressed against Guinevere’s side. It was hidden by the angle of their bodies so that Lancelot could not see it when she glanced at them. “I prefer it to Morgan le Fay, but I have so many names these days. I did not expect to see one of Rhoslyn’s girls here. No matter. I am nearly finished with Camelot anyway.”

  “You are—you are bad.” Guinevere’s tongue felt thick and unwieldy.

  “Am I? Hmm. Tell me, dear, what are you really?”

  “Changeling,” Guinevere said, then frowned. She wiped her mouth as though that would take away what she had said.

  With her free hand, Anna patted Guinevere’s knee in a comforting gesture. “I made your wine special. Mordred tells me you w
ork mostly with knots. I prefer potions myself. What do you mean, a changeling?”

  “I am not Guinevere. She died. Poor Guinevere. Do you think she would have liked it here?” Guinevere tried to be concerned about what she was saying, or about the fact that she was saying it to Morgan le Fay, but everything was so warm and sleepy in a way that made it impossible to care too much. The patch of dirt in front of them looked as inviting as her bed. She could imagine curling up in it, going to sleep.

  “You are not Guinevere?”

  “No. Why am I telling you this? Merlin is my father. Or he is not. It seems like he is not, but I remember that he is? Or he told me he is. I have maybe four memories of him as my father?” Guinevere held up her fingers, squinting at them, trying to count whether she was in fact holding up four. “The cabin. Sweeping. The falcon who brought us food. And…three? Is it only three? Lessons! That is four. Do I really remember any of them, though? I think the Lady of the Lake is my mother, though. I have dreams. About her. But I am also frightened of her. And water. Water.” Guinevere shuddered.

  “What has he done to you, you poor child?” Anna took Guinevere by the chin, turning her head so they were face to face and so Lancelot could not see Guinevere’s expressions. “Listen to me. You are Guinevere.”

  “No. I lived in the forest before this. I like the forest.”

  “Yes, the forest is nice, but that was not your home. I searched Guinevach for any evidence of magic. No one has touched her or her mind. And she loves her sister more than anything. She would never be fooled by a changeling. Whoever else you are—whatever else you are—you are Guinevere. Or you were.”

  “I am not.” Guinevere wished Morgan le Fay would stop saying that. It was mean. “I had another name. I gave it away to the fire so I would not say it. Did you send me to see Mordred on purpose? In the forest?”