The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  Morgan le Fay smiled. “Well, I certainly pushed you in that direction. I was surprised you did not put it together. I was hardly subtle in my advice to make you visit Rhoslyn. He misses you. I thought—I hoped—it would have a different outcome. But you have changed the subject. What was your other name?”

  “I do not have it anymore.” Guinevere shook her head. “It is very sad. I am sad. Are you here to kill Arthur?” She should signal to Lancelot, but Lancelot was so far away and the knife was still pressed against her side and none of it felt urgent at all. Something bleated mournfully nearby. She liked things that bleated.

  “Why would I kill him?” Morgan le Fay asked.

  “You tried to when he was a baby.”

  “Ah, yes. That story. That is what happens when men tell your stories. Would you like to hear the real story?”

  Guinevere shook her head. “The real stories are always worse.”

  “Yes. They are. I am going to tell you anyway.” Morgan le Fay leaned close, her voice low and melodic as she rewrote everything Guinevere knew.

  The Enchantress Morgan le Fay

  Morgana was not married. It was a problem, and an increasingly hard-to-hide one, as her stomach swelled with the life inside.

  Lady Igraine asked who the father was, but Morgana could not answer. Not because she did not wish to, but because she physically could not. When she thought of him—her love, her only—he was moonlight and the new green of budding leaves. He was the scent of crushed grass beneath two bodies. He was the first warm breeze after the icy grip of winter.

  He was fairy, and things of fairy could not be named or explained in a way that would reassure a mother her daughter was not ruined forever.

  Igraine loved her daughter as fiercely and loyally as she loved her husband. She knew what their world would do to her, to the baby. And so, out of love, she sent Morgana away. Up to the north, where no one knew her, where a baby could be born in secrecy and eventually brought back with a story of a foreign husband and fresh widowhood. It was the only way Igraine could protect her child and her grandchild, and so she wept as she watched Morgana ride away.

  But Morgana did not go where she was supposed to. She went into the woods, the deepest woods, the darkest woods, the ones without men and their rules and their judgments. And her love found her there and held her. And the fairy queen who created him found them there and watched, curious, as Morgana gave birth to a beautiful baby boy who was almost human.

  One mother protected Morgana until she gave birth, and the other protected her after. The Dark Queen loved this wild and determined young woman, even if she did not understand her. She had little use for humans—when she noticed them, it was usually bad for them—but Morgana and the baby amused her. And her creation, the one men would come to call the Green Knight, loved Morgana and his son in the only ways he could. Fits and starts, lavishing of attention and wonder and then forgetful stretches where they did not see or hear from him for months at a time, nearly starving in their shelter in the woods. The joy of spring and summer followed by the slow decline of autumn and the cruel indifference of winter.

  Morgana could have stayed there forever but for the child. Mordred was a sweet infant who grew into a clever child. If he was going to be as smart and strong as he needed to be, he would have to learn about their enemies. About how to survive in a dangerous place filled with death and treachery. He would need to know humans.

  Morgana knew her mother would take them back. And Morgana’s lover would always be with her on the scent of spring, in the lazy droning of insects on infinite summer afternoons, winking at her with butterfly wings.

  The Dark Queen met them at the borders of the forest. Where are you going? she said in her voice that was not a voice so much as a dream experienced while waking.

  Morgana told the truth. They were returning to her mother so that Mordred could be raised as a human.

  You are too late.

  Morgana had not idled away her time among the fairies. She had given birth to a boy partly of their world, eaten their food, sampled their wine. She had been opened to magic in a way no human before her was. Seized with terror at the Dark Queen’s words, Morgana used her newfound power to pierce time and distance. To see what had happened, and what was to come. She saw it all. She wished she had not.

  Merlin plotting with Uther Pendragon. Her mother, her beautiful mother, her kind mother who loved fiercely, tricked. Used. There would be a baby. Her own half brother. And then she saw—

  The wizard.

  The wizard.

  The wizard.

  Morgana could not see past the wizard. Everywhere she searched for her mother’s future, for the coming baby’s future, she saw only Merlin. She screamed, unable to stop seeing him, realizing she could not find her mother, Igraine, in the future, because there was no future for her beyond this. Sobbing, tearing at her face, she looked instead for the baby. For her half brother.

  And still she saw Merlin. He was like a fog, settling over everything. She could not pierce it.

  She would not allow the wizard to have that baby. Not after everything else he had taken. Morgana ripped power from the fairy world around her. Even the Dark Queen shied from the rage she wore like a crown as she left the forest, a child on her hip and a baby her goal.

  But Morgana was too late. By the time she arrived home, her mother was dead and the baby had been stolen. She tried everything to find him, but the wizard blocked every attempt, as she had already seen that he would. He had taken her mother, and then taken everything that was left behind.

  The wizard had brought Arthur into being and then made certain he had only one path to choose from. One destiny, predetermined. No family to protect him, to let him grow as he chose, to let him find his own way in the world.

  Morgana looked at her own precious child and wept, holding him close, swearing to him that he could be whoever he wished. That he would be raised among both humans and fairies, live a life of whatever wonder he could find.

  But even that was a lie. Because Merlin chose Arthur’s path, and Arthur’s path led him to Mordred. Mordred had seen how his mother mourned and suffered. How ephemeral and fickle the affections of his father and grandmother were. He wanted to know his human family, to see if there was a way for him to save Arthur from the wizard’s rule, to alter his course. And so Mordred had to watch as Arthur unmade the Green Knight. He had to watch as they chased down the body of the Dark Queen and hacked it into pieces. He had to watch as Arthur systematically hunted and destroyed the magical things in the world that had led to both of their births.

  And Morgana had seen it all. Had always known what was coming, and had always been unable to prevent any of it. She had not even been able to choose her own part in the story. Merlin had written it for her, creating her as a villain for her own half brother so that she could never bridge their divide and offer him what Merlin had stolen:

  A family.

  And that was the great tragedy of Morgana, Morgan le Fay, the sorceress. Magic and power and vision, and still she was unable to save her mother, her lover, her brother, or her son from the destinies Merlin decided they would have. Nothing she saw or did changed Merlin’s plans.

  Until a girl arrived in Camelot with secrets knotted into her very being.

  “But—but that is not—it cannot be true.” Guinevere’s fingers were cold and her toes beginning to tingle. Some part of her was coming back, starting to raise the alarm that should always have been there with a knife at her side and Morgana murmuring in her ear.

  “Has the wizard ever told you the truth?”

  Guinevere could not say that he had.

  Morgana sighed. “I really did like helping your sister. I am glad she is out of your father’s clutches and safe here. But mostly I wanted to meet you. To see for myself the girl who brou
ght back the Dark Queen and undid Merlin’s destruction. Mordred thinks you are something special. Something new.” Morgana frowned, pressing her forehead against Guinevere’s in an embrace. “But we are always special. We are always new. Until they manage to destroy us.”

  Guinevere’s hands had enough sense to reach into the small pouch at her waist, pull out the rock intended for Lily, and slip it into Morgana’s own pouch.

  Unaware of what had happened, Morgana moved the knife from Guinevere and stood. She clasped Guinevere’s hand, her grip as tight as a chain. “Poor Arthur never had another choice but to become this. I can save you still. Come, we will—” She froze, then shifted so her back was to Lancelot. Guinevere glanced in that direction. Arthur was striding toward them, smiling easily, his hand on the hilt of Excalibur. Morgana leaned down and whispered, her voice harsh with haste. “Do not let the wizard erase every other Guinevere you could have been. If you want to learn the truth, I might be able to help. The offer will be there, whenever you are ready.” She turned, then paused at the sight of Guinevere’s stricken expression. “My sweet, foolish boys. My stolen brother and my tragic son. You may yet be the death of them both.”

  With a whisper of skirts, Morgana walked away into the soft purple of evening, vanishing between tents.

  Arthur was still talking to Lancelot. Guinevere wanted to call out to him. To warn him. But Morgana was heading in the other direction. And if what she had said was true—if any of it was true—did Guinevere want Arthur to catch her? He was convinced she was Morgan le Fay, the villain out of Merlin’s stories. Would he listen to her?

  Should he listen to her?

  Dazed, Guinevere did not know how much time had passed before Arthur reached the bench and crouched in front of her. “That was the most fun I have— Guinevere? What is wrong?”

  She had to tell him. This was not Mordred in a faraway forest. This was a sorceress in Camelot. “Morgana,” Guinevere gasped, still not in full control of her body or her mind. “That was Morgana. She was here.”

  Arthur stood, his happy ease replaced with steel-like tension and resolve. “Sir Lancelot!” Arthur pointed at Guinevere and then sprinted in the direction Morgana had disappeared. Guinevere did not want him to go alone, but he had Excalibur. He was better off without her.

  Lancelot rushed to Guinevere’s side, hand on her sword, staring after Arthur in confusion.

  “Get the other knights,” Guinevere said. “Follow him. Anna is Morgan le Fay. I will light anyone on fire who touches me. Your king needs you right now.”

  After only a moment’s hesitation, Lancelot ran. Guinevere did not know how long she stayed frozen on that bench, but night had fully settled around her before someone broke her horrified reverie.

  “There you are!” Dindrane and Lily approached, arm in arm, laughing. Dindrane sat next to her. “You found the worst-smelling place in the entire festival to rest. But I am happy to see you managed to keep yourself from being captured by enemies this time.”

  Guinevere burst into tears.

  Dindrane looked at Lily, at a loss for why Guinevere had reacted the way she did. “I—I am sorry, it was a joke. I said it in jest. I did not mean—”

  “It is not that,” Guinevere squeezed out, her throat tight with pain and sorrow. She imagined Arthur catching up to Morgana. Drawing his sword. Killing her. She imagined Morgana, vengeance and fire in her eyes as the sorceress Morgan le Fay, killing him.

  But if Morgana had wanted Arthur dead, he already would be. They all would be. She had been living in the castle for weeks now. There was poison. A dagger in the side. A quick push off the soaring stairways. All that time Guinevere had suspected Lily when the real threat was sitting in the corner, quietly helping.

  None of it made sense. Or maybe it was as simple as Morgana had told her. A woman, plagued by loss, hopeful that someone else could break the cycle created by Merlin.

  She pulled her own rock out of the pouch and clutched it. If Morgana were still near, it would have been hot. Instead, it was cooling. Morgana was getting farther away, and quickly.

  Lancelot rejoined them, barely out of breath. “They are all with Arthur.” She did not have to say who was, or why she was not. “We should get you back to the castle.”

  “What is wrong?” Lily asked.

  “Nothing,” Guinevere said, before Lancelot could answer. “I am tired is all. I want to go to bed.”

  Dindrane curtsied and bade them good-night, unwilling to abandon the party, but Lily stayed.

  “I will escort you.” Lily grasped Guinevere’s hand, helping her up and drawing her close, an arm around Guinevere’s waist both for support and comfort. There was something familiar and practiced about the movement that made Guinevere think Lily had done the same thing with her sister many times before.

  It was a full moon, and with the cloudless night it was bright enough to cast shadows. The revelries had not calmed down; if anything, they were ramping up. Thankfully, Lancelot skirted the edges of the festival, keeping them out of the crowds. All the things Morgana had told Guinevere spun in her mind as they walked. Could she believe any of what Morgana had said? Should she believe all of it? Where was Arthur? What was he doing? The rock continued to cool. Guinevere clutched it so hard her fingers ached.

  Lily looked around crossly. “Anna was supposed to stay with you.”

  “She is gone. She left.”

  “Back to the castle?”

  “I hope not.” But if so, Guinevere would feel it as they got closer. She did not know how to explain it to Lily. And she was afraid this new loss would hurt her poor sister. Whatever Morgana was, Anna had been a loyal companion and protector to Lily. “Anna was not—she is not—if you see her again, tell me or a knight immediately.”

  “Why?”

  “It is complicated. I will explain later. She is not allowed to be in Camelot.”

  Lily sighed. “It is the magic, right?”

  “You knew she was doing magic?”

  “Well, there was a bit of it, here and there.” Lily shrugged. “I never told Father because I knew he would make her leave. And when we found out Camelot had banished all magic, I did not tell you because I did not want her to go. I will miss her. But she said she would have to go home sooner or later. I had hoped for later.”

  “Did she ever tell you about herself?”

  “Only that she was a widow and had a son a few years older than me. She worried about him a lot.”

  Lancelot led them through the night. Even in the darkness Guinevere could feel the intensity of Lancelot’s watchfulness as she scoured the night for a sorceress. But Guinevere did not think Morgana was anywhere near. Even Morgana would not want to face Excalibur.

  Was it wrong that she hoped Morgana got away?

  “Oh!” Lily stumbled, bouncing off a man who had appeared in their path. “Pardon me!”

  The man stood there, a looming bulk in the darkness. Then he tipped his head and stepped out of their way. Lancelot spun toward him, but the man did not move or do anything threatening. Everything felt menacing now, though. They walked on toward the ferry, which was packed, mostly with families trying to get back to their homes for the evening. Children were crying or screaming in tantrums or already asleep in their parents’ arms. Guinevere and Lily were pushed into the middle, Lancelot at Guinevere’s side.

  Guinevere leaned close, grabbing Lancelot’s arm so she would bend her head. “You will have to alert the guard as soon as we arrive, and lead a search of the castle, to be safe. I think Morgana is gone, but we have to be certain she does not get back in.” The rock was cold to the touch and not warming as they neared the city.

  Lancelot’s voice trembled with rage. “I was standing right there.”

  “I am sorry. I could not call to you. She had a knife, and I was under—”

  “I am not angry with
you.” But her tone still made Guinevere flinch. They reached the docks at Camelot and rushed off the ferry in the midst of the press of people. Lily kept Guinevere close as they trekked up the long hill toward the castle.

  Lancelot may as well have prowled in circles around them, her unease and desperation to do something about what she had learned palpable.

  The rock was cold. Still, Lancelot held up one hand to keep Guinevere and Lily there until she had spoken with the guards at the gate to make certain that Morgana had not been back. Only when they confirmed it—as well as confirming that a guard was already on duty outside Guinevere’s rooms—did Lancelot allow Guinevere and Lily by. She stayed at the gate, giving instructions for the castle search and waiting for pages, who would convey the message about Anna to every guard in the castle and run it back to the festival.

  Guinevere and Lily took one of the side stairways that wound around the outside of the castle, since it was a more direct route to their floors. The moon was so bright they could see each step clearly. Everything was cold light or black shadow. They paused on the landing that led to Guinevere’s and Arthur’s rooms. Guinevere was not ready to be alone, though. Or to be with Brangien and Isolde, breaking up whatever private time they were having by bringing her problems with her.

  Although Morgan le Fay showing up was everyone’s problem, it felt personal in a way that was hard to articulate. If Morgana was to be believed, her masquerade as Anna had been about Guinevere alone. It was Guinevere she had spoken to, Guinevere she had been intending to leave with. Anna had never made an effort to speak to Arthur. Guinevere could not recall a single conversation between them, or Anna reacting oddly or intensely when Arthur was around. Her focus had always been on getting close to Guinevere.

  “Guinevere?” Lily prodded. They had stopped, but Guinevere made no move toward the door.

  “Can we go to your rooms?” Guinevere turned toward another set of stairs that wound behind a curve and up to the next flight. She wished she had not blocked the interior stairway between their rooms, but she would have that undone tomorrow. Though in retrospect, knowing who Anna was, it had probably been wise.