The Camelot Betrayal

by Kiersten White

  “Go,” she said, closing her eyes. “Bring him home.”

  The next morning she met Lancelot and Brangien in the alcove. They were supposed to discuss what needed to be done in Arthur’s absence, but Guinevere had no desire to meet with officials in the great hall. She would have to do plenty of that in the days—or even weeks—to come. Arthur and his men were traveling to the southwestern end of the island, and who knew what they would find when they got there. If Maleagant had controlled the household where the child was left, there was a good chance they would not willingly give up Arthur’s son. And if winter storms came early, the roads would get bad, delaying either their journey there or back. Guinevere steeled herself against the possibility that it could be as long as a month or even two before Arthur returned.

  “Does this mean you are a stepmother?” Brangien asked.

  Guinevere sat on the floor of the alcove. Lancelot leaned against the outer wall, looking across the city and the fields, always keeping watch.

  “I suppose it does.”

  “But this is good. It puts less pressure on you. Arthur has an heir now. A bastard heir, but still, a son.”

  Guinevere had not even thought about that. Part of what she had feared about her relationship with Arthur was that it denied him heirs, which threatened the stability of his rule. When Arthur brought his son back, Camelot had an heir. Which meant it was even more Guinevere’s choice what she and Arthur became. The last true outside pressure was gone.

  “I will not watch him,” Brangien said. “I hate children. They are messy and loud and never do as they are told.”

  Guinevere laughed, grateful for the respite from her thoughts. “You are a lady’s maid, not a nurse.”

  “Sticky! They are also sticky. Always. Isolde loves them, though. Maybe she can help.”

  “I am certain we will find a nurse.” Guinevere hoped so, at least. She was happy for Arthur—truly—but she did not want to be a mother. Not yet. And not to Elaine’s child, as petty as that was. She would be kind to the boy. But she did not want to claim him as her own in any emotional way.

  How would Arthur be as a father? Did that change things between them yet again? Arthur barely had enough time to be a husband. With one more demand on his attention, and a genuinely important one at that, how would things shift? Would he decide he was not ready for them to be husband and wife after all? That it was easier to remain as they were?

  And what did Guinevere want? Why could she not decide?

  Lancelot did not stop her watch or turn toward them, but Guinevere could hear the thoughtful frown in her voice. “Did you know he had a son?”

  “Yes. Or at least, I knew what he knew, that Elaine and the baby both died in childbirth.”

  “I had never heard about it.”

  “It was a secret. Both the affair and the aftermath. Elaine was Maleagant’s sister.”

  “Oh,” Brangien said, drawing out the word.

  “Yes. Precisely. The only people who knew about the baby were Arthur, Elaine, and Maleagant. It was why Arthur banished Maleagant instead of killing him.” Guinevere stopped, a terrible realization gripping her. “They were not the only people.” She stood, her heart racing. “They were not the only people who knew. Mordred knew.”

  At this, Lancelot finally turned around. Her face mirrored Guinevere’s horror. “Mordred knew about the baby?”

  “Yes. He told Arthur to kill Maleagant, not banish him. He knew about Elaine. Which means Mordred knows that if he sent a letter to Arthur about a son miraculously alive, hidden these past few years, Arthur would leave Camelot without hesitation. And take Excalibur, too.”

  Brangien whipped around to look at the fields as though expecting them to be crawling with enemies already. “But we can hold the castle, right? Even with the missing knights, we have all the soldiers and trained men.”

  “We can hold the castle.” Lancelot had her hand around the pommel of her sword. “It will not fall.”

  They could hold the castle, yes, but at what cost? And why had Mordred waited until now to deploy this trick? Guinevere stared down at the familiar lines of the city. The houses. The arena. The church. The silos.

  The silos.

  “This timing is no accident,” Guinevere said. “The castle does not have to fall for them to destroy Camelot. All the granaries and silos are full. If they can get to those, if they can destroy our food supply, we will starve this winter. People will die, or flee to try to find food elsewhere. Arthur’s rule will be over.”

  Lancelot stepped aside. “Brangien, send out every page to find Arthur. We do not know the exact route he will take, so they will have to search widely.”

  “But are we certain? That this is the plan, the attack?” Brangien frowned, worried.

  It was a carefully laid plan, expertly deployed. Cunning. Clever. “Yes,” Guinevere said.

  Brangien lifted her skirts and sprinted down the stairs.

  “We cannot count on the messengers finding Arthur in time.” Guinevere paced. “Mordred will not delay. Not if he is smart, and he is.” How could he do this? After everything? How had she once again trusted that he did not have malicious intent? Morgana had pretended she was here to speak to Guinevere. But she had been all over the city with Lily. Between Morgana and Mordred, they knew where all the food was stored. And Mordred knew the city—and the secret passage in and out of the castle—better than anyone.

  “It is up to us,” Guinevere said. “Call everyone into the city. Set soldiers to guard this side of the shore. Prepare arrows and pitch to light boats on fire. I will need you with me.” At least she knew no attack could come from over the mountain, thanks to her magic.

  Lancelot looked torn. “I am the only knight left. I should manage the defense of the city.”

  “That is exactly what we will do. Once all the citizens are across the lake, we will seal it. Everything. No one will be able to get in once we are done.” Not over the lake, and not through a secret passage. If Mordred wanted Camelot, he was going to be disappointed, and Guinevere was going to be the one to thwart him.

  “How?”

  Guinevere looked at her hands. Fight as a queen, Merlin counseled her once again in her memory. She clenched her hands into fists. She was not a queen. She was not Guinevere. She did not know who she was. But she knew what she was, and what she could do. This time, she would do something that only protected. No one would suffer.

  “Magic.”

  * * *

  Fortunately, most of the citizens of Camelot were already in the city proper or had been camping on the field by the lake after the end of the festival. By the end of the day they had everyone in who was coming in. It was difficult to convey urgency without communicating panic, but Guinevere issued it as a decree for protection while King Arthur was away. There were enough empty buildings in Camelot to house most of the farmers and laborers, and the rest they put in the rooms of the castle that were not full.

  Soldiers gathered along the bottom of the city, ready to attack any boats that made the journey. The secret passageway had been sealed on the castle end. Guinevere had three men unsealing it at that moment, clearing the rocks and wood barriers. If they could do it, so could Mordred, and she would need the way clear for her own purposes.

  Guinevere moved Lily down to her rooms. Lily sat on her bed while Guinevere searched through her trunks, looking for anything that would help with the task ahead. She had an idea of how to do it, but it was bigger and more complex than any spell she had attempted. It went far beyond knots.

  “Guinevere, what is really happening? I am scared.”

  Guinevere stopped to look Lily in the eye. “Something is coming. With Arthur gone, Camelot is vulnerable. I am going to make sure nothing gets through. But—listen. If it comes to it, you and Brangien and Lancelot can run the city. I know you can. You are smart and c
apable and better at being a princess than I ever could have been.”

  Lily slid off the bed, joining Guinevere on the floor. “What do you think will happen?”

  Guinevere shook her head. “Arthur left me in charge. I will do whatever it takes to keep Camelot safe. I need you and Brangien to take over my duties in the meantime.”

  “But you are not a knight or a soldier! Lancelot can do all that!”

  Guinevere’s hands closed around the iron dagger Arthur had given her. Rock and water and iron and blood. That was it. She knew what she needed to do. And what the cost would be. This time, she would pay it. No one else.

  “You are different,” Lily said. “You are—you are so much braver than you were. How did you get braver?”

  She had no answers. “Lily, listen to me. You are not my shadow. You are a princess. You defied your father. You claimed the life you wanted as your own. Use that same strength for Camelot now. And trust that, whatever happens, I am glad you came and I am glad to know you.”

  Lily’s lip trembled, but she nodded, then lifted her chin. “I will do whatever I need to.”

  “We all will.” Guinevere pulled her into a hug. “Tell Brangien—” Her voice cracked. She waited a moment until she could sound strong. She released Lily, then stood. “Tell Brangien what I said. The three of you. And if you need help managing anything—officials or knights’ wives or anyone—get Dindrane. She can handle anyone.”

  Brangien would never forgive Guinevere for leaving her out of this plan, but Brangien had to be here for Isolde. Guinevere would not ask her to choose between them.

  Leaving Lily behind before she could change her mind, Guinevere pulled on a red cloak, stuck the dagger in her belt, and walked out of her rooms. She went through Arthur’s door. His rooms did not feel empty. There was a sense of him there, like at any moment he would come in. Laugh at something she said. Pull her close in that warm comfort he radiated.

  But then he would leave again.

  She took off her crown and set it gently in the center of his bed.

  * * *

  Lancelot strode at her side as they walked down the main street. The city was crowded, the atmosphere crackling with nervous anticipation. At the dock, Guinevere climbed into a small boat and squeezed her eyes shut. Lancelot followed, doing her best not to rock it, then rowed them a safe distance from where the southern waterfall pounded with relentless strength. When they were near the shore, Lancelot jumped out of the boat and dragged it the rest of the way up onto the pebbled beach. Guinevere got out.

  “What exactly are we doing?” Lancelot asked.

  “We are protecting Camelot.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lancelot looked annoyed. “You have said as much. You have not told me how.”

  “We are going to form a barrier. No one will enter or leave. A little like the magic we did over the river, only stronger.” If the river magic had been an attack, this was a defense. No more deaths at her hands.

  Lancelot stopped walking. “But we cannot let the people know you use magic. You would be banished, or worse.”

  “No one will see who does it. They will only see the result. For all they know, it is a threat, not a protection. When Arthur returns and unmakes it with Excalibur, he has once again saved the city from her.”

  “He will be the hero.” Lancelot narrowed her eyes, troubled.

  “He is always the hero. Camelot needs him to be the hero.” Guinevere knew it, and Lancelot did, too. Lancelot had tried to be Camelot’s hero, and the Lady of the Lake herself had stopped it.

  “But it is more complicated than that.”

  “It always is.” Guinevere kept moving. They had no time to waste. She was not entirely certain her plan would work, and if it did not, then she would have to figure something else out. The southern waterfall pounded next to them, a fine mist in the air creating rainbows where it caught the light. She could not hear their steps anymore by the time they reached the hidden entrance to the cave. Guinevere pulled aside the draping vines.

  “Has this always been here?” Lancelot shouted to be heard over the waterfall’s roar.

  “Yes. But only a handful know about it. Merlin. Arthur. Mordred. And now you. It will take you directly to the castle, into an unused storeroom.”

  “We are here to block it, then?” Lancelot examined the entrance. “Maybe if we climbed up the side of the mountain and somehow diverted the waterfall?” She eyed the cliff appraisingly.

  “No. We need it open.” Guinevere had been right about her plans. That water—the river split at the top before falling down on either side of Camelot in the twin waterfalls and becoming the lake—and this rock of the mountain that Camelot itself was carved out of were the two borders of the city. Rock and water and iron and blood. It would work.

  Instead of feeling elated, Guinevere was terrified. This was it. Her last chance to make a different decision. To wait and see what happened. To do something vicious and dangerous like she had done at the river, or to King Mark, or to Ramm. To risk hurting innocents in the cross fire. Arthur would meet the threat head on, the way he met everything, because he knew who and what he was and how to fight for what he believed in.

  Lancelot looked at her, face open and expectant. Behind Lancelot, through the tunnel, was the castle that held almost everyone Guinevere cared about. And out there, somewhere, was Arthur, riding after certain heartbreak. Guinevere did not think he had a son. It was a cruel trick, the cruelest imaginable.

  Guinevere had sworn to protect Camelot. She would not break that promise, whatever else she broke today.

  “Give me your hand,” Guinevere said.

  Lancelot held her hand out, unquestioning even when Guinevere pulled out the knife. She sliced a line down Lancelot’s palm and one down her own. Then she clasped their hands together. The blood pooled and dripped down the sides of their joined hands.

  She walked, Lancelot following, connected to her. From the other side of the cave opening, with Lancelot’s back to the mountain and Guinevere’s back to the open land behind them, Guinevere let their blood fall on the rock, pressing their hands against it. Then she guided Lancelot, drawing an unbroken line of blood from the face of the mountain beyond the passageway, down the pebbles of the beach, and, finally, to the water just beyond the waterfall.

  Guinevere moved their hands together, keeping the line continuous and dripping a single knot. A knot she knew in her soul, though she had never used it before. A knot of binding. It was complex, intricate, a knot that could not be undone by any means she had access to. And then, to finish it, she extended the line of blood to the edge of the water. When it hit, it spread, fast—faster than it should have. A flash of blue rose between Guinevere and Lancelot like a line of flames. Guinevere released Lancelot’s hand, jumping back just in time. They watched the blue burn up, racing across the surface of the lake and the mountain behind them, until the two lines met in the sky and formed a shimmering dome nearly invisible to the naked eye. They had connected the stone to the water and everything between them was unreachable now.

  “What is it?” Lancelot shouted.

  Arthur had a sword for Camelot’s protection. Guinevere had given them a shield.

  A black moth fluttered from the sky, landing on Guinevere’s sleeve like a smudge of ash. She brushed it away. Lancelot took a step toward Guinevere, but Guinevere held up her hands. “No! You cannot cross the line. The magic is anchored to our blood. If you cross the threshold, it will break. Go back through the passageway.”

  “Come on.” Lancelot held out one hand, careful not to extend it past the line of the magic.

  Guinevere took a step back. It hurt far more than slicing her palm had. It hurt more than anything she had ever done, and the look in Lancelot’s eyes was the deepest cut of all. “I am the other anchor. If I cross, it breaks. I have to be on this side.”

&nb
sp; Arthur had asked her to make a decision. And she had just sealed herself off from Camelot.

  Lancelot shook her head, trying to reason away what Guinevere was doing. To fix it. “So you are going to camp here until Arthur returns?”

  Guinevere’s heart was racing, the full reality of what she had done, what she was going to do, shimmering around her like the magic. Sealing her off from who she had tried to be. What she had tried to be. “I promised I would protect Camelot. And I have. But I cannot—I cannot stay. I keep hurting people. I keep hurting myself. And until I know who I truly am, I do not think I can be Guinevere anymore. Not the Guinevere Lily needs, or Arthur needs, or Camelot needs.”

  “What about the Guinevere I need?” Lancelot’s dark eyes were filled with tears. Guinevere had never seen her cry, had never seen her anything other than strong or brave or supportive. Nothing had ever broken Lancelot. Not the loss and tragedies of her childhood, not the battles she had to fight every day of her life to attain her place, not the constant work she had to do to maintain it. Nothing until Guinevere.

  “You are my knight. I am commanding you to protect Camelot until King Arthur returns.”

  “Where will you go?” Lancelot paced along the edge of their magic. She ran her hands through her wild curls. Guinevere could see how much it was costing her not to cross the barrier. She prayed that she had not overestimated Lancelot’s devotion to Camelot.

  “I am going to free Merlin. To get the truth. To reclaim my past so I can choose my future.” She put the dagger back in her bag, alongside her thread and supplies and the warm rock connecting her to Morgana.

  The warm rock. Another black moth alighted on her arm. And then another. And another. She looked up. Lancelot met her eyes. Lancelot had been in the meadow that night. She had seen the cloud of black moths that erupted from the ground, that heralded the Dark Queen’s return.