The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  He had decided to become the king his land needed.

  Merlin never walked a straight path. His choices often seemed to be absurd or wrong. But he saw through time, pierced it with the arrow of his magic, and always hit his target at the other end. It was reassuring. He might not have armed her with as much knowledge as she needed regarding the coming threat, but if he had sent her here, this was where she should be. Time would prove it.

  “Thank you, good sirs.” Guinevere stood, cutting them off mid-story about lighting pigs on fire to scare a charging band of thieves. “This has been most informative.”

  They hurried to stand. She inclined her head to them and they bowed. Brangien lifted her eyes in relief, packing up her sewing. Guinevere stepped into the now-blinding light of day, followed by their voices.

  “Breasts are rather small,” Sir Ector said.

  “Pretty enough face, though. He can always find big breasts elsewhere.”

  She repented of any kind thoughts she had had toward them. Merlin might have made the right decision, but that did not mean she had to like them. Ever.

  “I feel like livestock,” Guinevere hissed to Brangien as the tent flap closed behind her, sealing away Sir Ector and Sir Kay.

  “At least they are all talk and no hands.” Brangien glared at the tent. “With the exceptions of Sir Tristan and King Arthur, I could do without men entirely.”

  “You wound me, fair maid.” Mordred stood from where he was leaning against a stall. He held out two perfect plums.

  Brangien snatched her plum and aggressively bit a chunk out of it, turning her back on Mordred. Guinevere held hers, rubbing her fingers against the smooth skin. It had no stories to tell. She had had enough stories for the day, though.

  Mordred pointed their way. “We are meeting my uncle king at the smithies.”

  It was a relief that she would be able to get to work soon. Mordred led them through the crowds and stalls to the other end of the market. The smithies were kept at a distance because of the heat and smoke. Seeing Arthur waiting for them there, Guinevere felt her heart grow lighter. Everything she learned about him made her more sure she had made the right decision in coming here. Arthur was a protector, and it was a very fine thing to protect a protector. She smiled as she took his arm. The sun winked on his silver circlet crown, and the crowds gave him a respectful berth—aided, no doubt, by the knights orbiting around him.

  “Did you enjoy the market?” he asked.

  “It was…illuminating.”

  “You will never guess who we met,” Mordred said.

  “Who?” Arthur asked.

  “I will give you a hint: they evaluated your perfect bride by commenting on her teeth, her hair, and the size of her—”

  Arthur groaned, putting a hand over his face. “Sir Ector and Sir Kay are here.”

  Guinevere patted his arm. “It was informative.”

  “Please accept my apologies for anything they said, and anything they may say in the future. They mean well, but—” He paused. “Actually, I am not sure they mean well. But they are benign creatures. If they are not good, at least they are not bad.”

  Mordred tucked a handkerchief back into his vest. “Their smell, on the other hand…”

  Brangien laughed. Then she ducked her head modestly. Mordred met Guinevere’s eyes and grinned over the victory of making Brangien laugh. Guinevere matched his smile. She felt better now that she was back with Arthur and working on a problem she had a plan for.

  Heat radiated from the smiths’ shaded work areas. There were fewer people here—most could not afford what the smiths were offering. But Arthur and Mordred were both familiar with the best smiths, who had their spots closest to the main market.

  “My queen would like iron metal as fine as thread,” Arthur said to a smith with arms like tree trunks.

  “Why?” Mordred asked.

  “To weave through my hair,” Guinevere said. “I cannot wear jewels in it anymore now that I am married”—a rule she had not known until Brangien told her—“but I thought the metal would sparkle nicely. It has to be very thin and supple, though, so I can twist it how I want.”

  “I do not understand women’s fashions.” Mordred frowned, examining a selection of daggers and swords.

  The smith had no such qualms. He scratched his beard, his smoke-blackened face wrinkling in thought. His hair was cut as close to the scalp as Arthur’s. Now that Guinevere thought about it, most everyone at the market had close-cropped hair. Only the obviously wealthy men had longer hair.

  “I can do that,” the smith said. “Give me an hour.”

  They spent the time examining other wares. Arthur bought Guinevere a pretty iron dagger. When she touched it, it was as though there were a note playing just a fraction too low for her ears to hear. It was unnerving. She sheathed it and the sensation stopped.

  Brangien passed a bag to Arthur, then begged leave to pick up some supplies of her own, promising to meet up with them later.

  “Go,” Guinevere said. “Take the rest of the day for yourself. I will see you back at the castle.” That way, she would be free to use the tunnel instead of the ferry. With a grateful, excited smile, Brangien curtseyed, then hurried back to the main market.

  “Why not silver?” Mordred asked, testing the heft and balance of a sword. He might not join the knights in the arena, but there was no question he was skilled with a blade. It looked like an extension of his arm—deadly grace and ease in every movement.

  “Silver?” Guinevere looked up from the horseshoes she was pretending to examine instead of watching Mordred and his sword. Arthur was nearby, speaking with the smith about something. But Mordred had not abandoned his charge to remain with Guinevere.

  “For your hair. Silver shines better than iron.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well. I am not certain it will work. I want to try with a less precious metal before wasting King Arthur’s funds on silver. It is frivolous already.”

  Mordred gave her a twist of a smile. “I thought ladies were encouraged to be frivolous. That it was a duty of your rank.”

  “If you think so little of us, perhaps that is why you have yet to marry.”

  Mordred laughed. “Oh, I think very highly of women. Fearsome and wondrous, every one. You, in particular, I find most fascinating. You are a puzzle.”

  “I am no such thing.” Guinevere picked up a horseshoe as if she had any idea how to evaluate one for quality.

  “Unlike most in the city, I have been to the southern reaches of the island. And you do not have a southern accent.”

  Guinevere startled. “I— My time in the convent must have softened it.”

  “Mmm. I have also never seen a lady of your standing so delighted by a market, or so willing to smile and engage with a dirty chicken-maid waif.”

  She scowled defensively. “Arthur loves all his people.”

  “Yes, but Arthur was not raised a king. He was raised a servant. He sees the world as no nobleman ever could. And you, I think, see it as no princess would.” He raised his hands. “It is not a criticism. I am surprised, is all. You are nothing like what I expected.”

  She made her voice cold and low like the iron. “I am sorry for not meeting expectations, Sir Mordred.”

  He leaned close, picking up one of the horseshoes. She could feel the heat of him beside her. “I am not sorry, Lady Guinevere.”

  A bright burst of laughter drew her attention and she beamed with relief at the break from Mordred’s intensity. A group of children had a leather ball and were kicking it around an open space of ground in the middle of the smithies. Arthur had joined in, and was just then balancing the ball atop his head. A boy slammed into him, knocking it free. Everyone watching held their breath. The boy had hit the king.

  Arthur laughed even harder, grabbing the boy and lifting him in the air before
he could kick the ball.

  “Sometimes I forget how young he is,” Mordred said, his voice soft.

  “Guinevere!” Arthur called, setting down the boy and kicking the children’s ball so they would have to scurry after it. Guinevere hurried to his side, feeling oddly chilled once she moved away from Mordred. And grateful to escape the conversation and his inconvenient observations. She flashed Arthur a falsely bright smile.

  “Mordred pays a lot of attention to details.” Her eyes widened, trying to convey more than she was saying. “Like my manner of speech.”

  Arthur frowned, then shook his head. “You have nothing to fear there. If he speaks to me of it, I will divert his suspicions.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come, the iron should be ready.”

  She examined the thin strands, this time with the careful eye of someone who knew exactly what she needed. The thread fulfilled every requirement. She showered the smith with praise for his work. He bowed stiffly, his thick leather apron creaking. “It is my pleasure. Anything for the king, which means anything for his queen.”

  Her work that night would be exhausting and difficult. She wanted to get started as soon as possible. “Can we return?” she whispered to Arthur as they strolled back to the market. She searched the crowd for the mysterious woman or more signs of rocks being distributed, but saw nothing. “I have much to do. And I would like to take the tunnel, if we can.” She could not be as strong as she needed to be if she had to travel across water again. It made her feel foolish and weak, neither of which was a solid foundation for magic.

  “Yes, of course, let me—”

  “My lord king,” one of Arthur’s knights called, running up to them and bowing. She thought it was Sir Gawain, but she was not sure. He was young like Arthur, barely able to grow facial hair. “We have had another messenger.” He held out a sheaf of paper, sealed with black wax.

  “Sir Maleagant,” Arthur whispered.

  “What is it?” Guinevere asked.

  Arthur smiled at her, but he was too honest to maintain a false smile. His face cracked around it, worry creasing his brow. “I am not certain. But I must speak with these men.”

  “I can wait,” Guinevere said.

  “You should not have to wait on my business. Mordred?”

  Mordred moved closer from where he had been lingering on the edges of the group. “Yes, uncle king?”

  “Will you escort Guinevere back to the castle? She is fatigued. Take my private boat.”

  Mordred nodded in understanding. “I know exactly the boat the lady prefers. I will see her back and then return.”

  “Thank you.” Arthur grasped Mordred’s shoulder and squeezed. “I will want your advice on this.”

  Mordred bowed, then held out his hand to direct Guinevere. He did not offer his arm, which she was glad for. “Is this proper?” she asked as they walked away from the market to their horses. She did not know whether it was permitted for her to be alone with Mordred. And after the way Sir Ector and Sir Kay had discussed her, she worried about perceptions.

  “Surely if my uncle king trusts me to see you safely to the castle, you can as well.”

  “Oh, I do—that is not—I was not saying—”

  Mordred laughed. “I like the way you blush beneath your freckles. More ladies should try to get freckles. They are very charming.”

  Guinevere scowled and Mordred shifted his face to be innocently apologetic. “Of course you were not saying that. And usually a lady would be accompanied by her maid. But Brangien is lost to the market, and you seemed to have an urgent need to return to the castle. I am your husband’s nephew. If you cannot trust family, whom can you trust?”

  Guinevere had no answer. She mounted her horse awkwardly while Mordred retrieved his mare.

  “Tell me about your own family,” he said as they rode around the edge of the lake. With everyone at the market, they were quite alone. The shore of the lake was made up of smooth black rocks. They contrasted with the lively green of the grassy plain. Guinevere looked out over the plain instead of over the lake.

  “My father is King Leodegrance. My mother died several years ago. I have two half brothers and a sister. She is younger than I. We have not seen each other in three years, since I was sent to the convent to prepare to be a wife.”

  Did dead Guinevere’s family miss her? Did her father ever think of her? He had agreed to the marriage alliance without meeting Arthur. He had not even come to the convent to see his daughter safely delivered to her husband’s men.

  Somewhere out there, dead Guinevere’s sister still thought herself not alone. That was the cruelest part of the deception. Dead Guinevere had been a sister, a daughter. And those people had no idea the girl they had known, hopefully had loved, was gone. A changeling in her place.

  Guinevere did not feel sorry for the deception in Camelot. It was necessary. But she felt very sorry for the girl whose death had made it possible.

  “I apologize,” Mordred said. “It has made you sad, thinking about your family. I should not have brought it up.”

  “No, it is fine.” Guinevere hurried her horse so they were not level and he could not see her face with his eyes that saw too much, always. “I am happy here. I left nothing behind I long for.”

  Except the trees. The tiny cottage that she swept. And Merlin. It was odd, thinking of Guinevere’s father, wondering what he was like. She never thought of Merlin as her own father. He had been her mentor, her teacher. When she thought of him as a father, it was like a tunic that was too tight, straining and tugging at her.

  Merlin was not a man—not exactly. He was something between. She had never wondered what that might make her. It did not seem important when it was just the two of them. But now, surrounded by humanity, she felt herself separate. Was it because of the lies she robed herself in? Or was it because she had too much of Merlin in her to truly belong?

  But she had nothing of his powers. Hers were a trickle to his torrent. She was planted firmly in the current of time, while Merlin existed somewhere outside it. As much as he was the sole figure of her past, he remained an enigma.

  Perhaps that was another reason she felt so comfortable with Arthur. He was right—they both had complicated fathers. But she had by far the better.

  When they arrived at the hidden passageway, Mordred dismounted.

  “What about the horses?” Guinevere asked.

  “They know where to go.” He stroked his white mare’s neck. “She always knows where to go.” He whispered something to the horse, then held out a hand to Guinevere. She took it.

  A spark. A moment that felt like one of her cleansing flames, burning away everything unclean and leaving only the truth. She gasped, sliding down too fast in her surprise. Mordred caught her. His heart raced to the same beat as her own. For one breath, two breaths, two breaths too many, she stayed pressed against him.

  And then she backed away, bumping into her horse and fumbling to avoid stepping on its hoof or being stepped on.

  Mordred calmed the horse, whispering to it. Then both horses ambled away. “You really are tired,” he said. “You nearly fell.”

  “Yes. Tired.” She followed him silently through the tunnel, still feeling the lightning static of him in her hand. Had it been her sense? Or had it been…just Mordred?

  And why had Arthur’s hand never felt like that?

  * * *

  It was a relief in many ways to bid Mordred goodbye and seal herself in her rooms. She leaned against the door, trying to calm her heart. She had work to do. Nothing else mattered.

  A brief imagining of another day like today. A market, enjoyed without searching for threats. A visit to smithies for jewelry instead of weapons. A stolen moment behind a tent with—

  With whom?

  Nonsense and selfishness. She had no timeline on the threat. She coul
d not afford to be complacent or dreamy. The danger to Arthur could be nearly here, or it could be years away. She would prepare for everything. Starting with the castle and spreading outward, forming circle after circle of protection around her king.

  Arthur had been Merlin’s life calling since before Arthur existed. Guinevere would view her time here the same way. It would last as long as Arthur needed it to.

  She pulled the iron threads from the pouch she carried and went into Arthur’s room. The smith had done his job well. The iron thread was thin and malleable. She busied herself with the easy task of shaping the basic knots. She had gotten an exact count of every door into the castle from Arthur. The windows did not open, and the panes of glass were held in place with metal, so they were not essential to protect. Which was fortunate, because she did not have enough blood in her for that.

  Once the knots were all formed, she knelt on the floor and arranged the metal spells in a circle around herself. She held Arthur in her mind. Held the castle. Held everything that Camelot was. It was the hope of mankind. The promise of a future free from chaos, where humans could grow and learn and live as they should. She believed in Arthur. She believed in Camelot.

  She drew the dagger Arthur had given her and sliced her bottom lip.

  Bowing to the first iron knot, she pressed her bleeding lip to it and whispered what she was asking of the iron. The iron knot grew warm, and then the blood disappeared, accepted and sealed. She moved to the next. And the next. And the next. By the time the last iron knot glowed and sealed, she was light-headed and dizzy. She pulled out her kerchief and dabbed at her lip. The iron had asked for more blood than she had anticipated.

  The door opened. Guinevere stood to greet Arthur, then swayed and fell to the floor.

  He rushed to her side. “What happened?”