The Guinevere Deception

by Kiersten White

  His partner.

  She could no longer deny it. She wanted to be more than a protector to him.

  A small part of her feared she had agreed to his delay so that she could draw out her time here. Because if she was right, and Rhoslyn was the reason Guinevere had been sent here, what did that mean after? What purpose could she serve once her mission had been accomplished?

  The idea of going back to the shack in the woods filled her with that same nagging emptiness she felt when trying to find so many of her memories.

  Arthur still had not returned. It worried at her. For three nights, she had intended to stay up and try some small magic to locate him. And each night, sleep claimed her with brutal efficiency. When she awoke the fourth morning, her bed curtains drawn closed again though she had not done it, she knew something was amiss. She would have awoken to Brangien drawing her curtains. She checked all the doors, even put knots on the windows again, but nothing had gotten through.

  That night, before she slipped into bed, she tied a knot in her hair and placed it over her eyes. After a few minutes, she felt the weight of magic push down on her, trying to slip past her own guard. Someone had been forcing her to sleep! She pretended it had worked, keeping her breathing even and deep. But no foe appeared. She was alone in her bedroom. What was the attack? What was the point of forcing her into enchanted sleep if Arthur was gone? She had been unprepared to be a target herself.

  And the attack had to have come from within the room. Any magic would have been undone passing the threshold.

  Her heart broke. Brangien.

  She heard soft voices from her sitting room and sat up. A piece of cloth fell from where it had been dropped on her chest. She knew that red thread. The embroidery Brangien was always fiddling with. How had Guinevere not seen it? Brangien knew knot magic. And she had used it on Guinevere.

  Surely her maid would not risk being banished or executed just to steal a few nights with a lover. Brangien seemed too smart, too practical for that. The sitting room was always empty at night. Brangien could have snuck in a man under cover of darkness.

  There had to be something sinister at play. It made Guinevere sick. Brangien had been her guide. Her friend. And she had been blind to magic being done right under her own nose. What if Brangien had struck? What if she had hurt Arthur?

  Guinevere was a fool for trusting anyone. Everything about herself was a lie; she should assume the same of everyone around her.

  The sitting room door was open just a crack. Guinevere put her eye to it and peered through. Brangien was inside with…Sir Tristan. Guinevere had risked everything to save him. Was he, too, against her and the king?

  Brangien was in his arms. Maybe it really was that simple. A maid and a knight in a relationship that would be gossiped about. Brangien was not socially inferior to Sir Tristan, though. And Guinevere and Arthur both would have celebrated it.

  The way her shoulders were moving. She was not being embraced with amorous intentions. She was being held as she wept. The bath was full, nearly brimming over with water. Guinevere watched as Brangien pulled herself together, sniffling.

  “I will try again. You are right. We cannot give up.”

  She leaned over the bath and pulled a lock of hair from her bag. She dipped it into the water, using it to create ripples and movement. Brangien was scrying—looking for something or someone through the water.

  “You are doing it wrong,” Guinevere said, stepping into the room. She held the dagger Arthur had given her. There was a killing knot—a simple, brutal movement—that she could tie on skin with the point of the metal. Far more effective than a stabbing Sir Tristan might survive. Her stomach turned, but her resolve tightened. She would do it. If she had to.

  Brangien cried out in fear and dropped the hair on the floor. Sir Tristan spun, hand on the pommel of his sword. Then his eyes widened in surprise, and he bowed. “My queen. I am sorry. We were—”

  “You were scrying.”

  Brangien picked up the hair and clutched it to her chest. “Please, my lady, let me explain.”

  “Explain why you were using magic to force me to sleep?”

  Brangien hung her head in shame. “Please, I beg mercy. Banishment, not death. If I have done anything to help you, anything to—”

  “It was well done. The knot magic, I mean. I have not seen those patterns before, but they make sense. You combined sleep with…” Guinevere waited. Neither had moved toward her. The promise of violence made the dagger feel heavier than it should.

  Flinching, Brangien filled in the details. “Weight. It holds the sleeper down so nothing disturbs their rest. I used it once before when you were so tired but your sleep was restless. I wanted you to get better. And it worked so well, I thought…I thought I could use it so we would have enough time to scry without being caught.” Brangien lifted her chin, strong and defiant. “Sir Tristan did not use magic. He does not know how. I bewitched him.”

  “Brangien,” he said, shaking his head.

  “See? He is still under my control.”

  Guinevere had planned on the same lie should she be caught and Arthur implicated. “Not if he has been through the doors in the castle in the last few days. Any spell would be broken.”

  “That was you?” Brangien gasped. “I had to redo my work so many times! I thought I was losing my skills!”

  “You do not seem surprised I know magic, though.”

  Brangien shook her head, wringing her hands nervously, the hair still clutched there. “I saw the knots in your hair. A few other things. I know things are different in the south. I thought— Well, I thought you might understand.”

  Brangien had been revealed, but Guinevere had, as well. She could see the realization dawning on Sir Tristan. His hand drifted to his arm, the wound still wrapped but healing nicely. “Did you—”

  “I was not about to lose such a good man. I thought you were a good man. I need you to be, still. Brangien, you are my only friend here. I have never felt a threat from you.” She would have known. Surely she would have known. She would have felt it in Brangien’s touch. This was a betrayal, but perhaps not as dangerous as Guinevere had feared. “Both of you, tell me truthfully: Are you a threat to Arthur?”

  “No!” Sir Tristan exclaimed. He dropped to one knee and shook his head, his beautiful brown eyes hurt at the very suggestion. “I would die for my king.”

  “And for your queen.” Guinevere had not forgotten, would never forget. Sir Tristan had not hesitated to put himself between her and the wolf. That was not the action of a man who was conspiring against them.

  “I believe in everything King Arthur is doing here,” Brangien said. “Surely in our time together you have seen that. I believe in Camelot. I would never harm the king.”

  Guinevere noticed the way Brangien held the hair, how unconsciously she stroked it. It was not Arthur’s hair, which was always cut short. Or Guinevere’s, for that matter. It was rich auburn in the candlelight, long and soft.

  “Give me your hand,” Guinevere said. Brangien complied, raising one trembling hand to Guinevere’s.

  Normally Guinevere only took whatever the touch magic forced her to experience. But this time she actively used it, pushing out, searching. Brangien was there. All of her. Wit and cleverness, resourcefulness. A well of sorrow so deep and pure Guinevere gasped as she touched only the edge of it. Anger and fear, as well, but nowhere did she find malice or vengeance. Nowhere did she feel a threat. Only yearning.

  Satisfied, she withdrew her hand. The absence of Brangien was a relief. Bearing another person’s emotions was overwhelming. Guinevere felt light-headed and distant from herself.

  She sat heavily in the chair. Brangien was not malicious. And now they knew each other’s secrets. Or at least Brangien knew one of Guinevere’s. “Very well. Tell me what was worth risking everything for.”

/>   “I am trying to find her. Isolde.” Brangien’s eyes brimmed with tears. “It has been so long. There were a few letters at first that she managed to smuggle out. But I have heard nothing of her and I am afraid—I am so afraid—” The tears spilled over. Guinevere wanted to comfort her, but that meant stepping close to the full bath, which she was not willing to do.

  The tremendous sorrow. The overpowering yearning. “Sir Tristan is not the one who loves Isolde, is he?” Guinevere asked.

  Sir Tristan shook his head slowly. “I would do anything to see her happy. Brangien, too. Both of them together.”

  Isolde and Brangien. No wonder she had been banished along with Tristan.

  Guinevere did not envy the pain on Brangien’s face. But how would it feel to love so deeply she could hurt that much? The overwhelming sorrow seemed precious, almost holy. Brangien carried that within herself always, a dedicated portion of her soul. And if the sorrow was that deep, how much deeper must be the love that formed it?

  Envy stirred in Guinevere. She wanted that. And she wanted Brangien to have it back. “You are trying to see Isolde?”

  Brangien nodded, warily hopeful.

  “One hair,” Guinevere said. She had seen Merlin do this. She could not remember when or how, but she distinctly remembered looking up at Merlin as he peered into a tub of water and made a circle out of a hair, framing the water and guiding it toward what he wanted to see. “Take one hair, and make a circle on top of the water with it. Then reach through, holding on to Isolde in your mind. Pull your hand back up and you should have what you wish. Wait. No.” Guinevere was missing something. What was she missing? Blood fed iron magic. Fuel fed fire magic. What fed water magic? Why could she not remember?

  Because she hated water. Forcing her mind to think of it felt like pushing against the barrier between sleeping and waking.

  A face in the water. Bubbles. And then nothing.

  Guinevere shuddered, angling her body in the chair so she could not see the bath at all. “I remember. You do not want to do what it takes to do water magic.”

  “I do. I will do anything.”

  “Water wants to fill. To take the shape of whatever it finds. To be able to do water magic requires a sacrifice up front. Once the water has breath as payment, it will do what you want. But you have to drown someone.”

  Brangien sank to the floor, defeated. “Then she is lost to me.”

  “No. I have another way. And this way, Isolde will see you, too.” Guinevere smiled, but her smile was forced around the discomfiting dread of the memory. Of Merlin and the water. When had that happened? Whom had he drowned? And why?

  Why had she not thought of it until now?

  They went back into the bedroom. Guinevere knew she should wait and investigate this further. But she desperately needed a distraction. Guinevere took Isolde’s hair and knotted it into Brangien’s. Brangien lay on her cot, and Guinevere checked over her work. She would sacrifice her own dreams for a week with this magic. But it was worth it. Her dreams had shown her nothing useful. She barely remembered them.

  She placed Brangien’s own sleep knots on her chest, and Brangien’s mind was gone.

  Guinevere sat back, satisfied. Sir Tristan shifted uncomfortably next to the door. He should not be there. If he were caught, he would be in tremendous trouble. They both would be.

  Now she had not one but two more allies within Camelot, though. She did not know whether she would tell Arthur about them. Arthur had been so rigid about the rules in the forest, and she could not be certain he would let them stay.

  Her secret for now, then. She waved for Sir Tristan to leave. “I will watch over her. Go and rest, good knight.”

  He gratefully exited. Guinevere sat at Brangien’s side, hoping that the smile that flitted across Brangien’s dreaming face meant their magic had worked. Kindness through magic was not something she had been able to offer before. It did not solve her problems, but it felt nice, and she would take it.

  “Who are you really, Merlin?” she whispered. She wished she could visit him, speak to him. Demand answers for all he had done.

  And then she realized her answer was lying right in front of her. She cursed her lack of foresight in denying herself dreams for a week. Maybe she had done it on purpose. She knew she had been rushing to help instead of thinking things through. It was because she had not wanted to face the difficult questions. To risk getting answers.

  No more. In seven nights, she would have her own dreams back. She would walk them to Merlin.

  Guinevere was already awake when Brangien sat up. It was the first time she had managed to rise before Brangien in the morning. “Oh no,” Guinevere said, covering her mouth. Brangien’s eyes were filled with tears. “What happened?”

  Brangien shook her head, beaming. “I saw her. We were together. Thank you. Thank you forever, my queen.” She burst from her cot and threw her arms around Guinevere. Guinevere was shocked at the contact—though Brangien dressed her, she had never been affectionate. Guinevere relaxed into the hug, appreciating it. She and Brangien shared the bond of secrets now. Slowly but surely Guinevere was carving out her place in Camelot. Brangien and Sir Tristan. Mordred. And Arthur, of course. It was nice to have more friends and allies than just Arthur.

  But it was also dangerous. The more people who knew some of her secrets, the more likely it was that they would discover too many of them.

  Brangien released her, then went bustling about her morning chores and chatting happily about her dream time with Isolde. Guinevere released some of the worries and fears she kept clutched in her own chest. This act had done nothing to protect Arthur, but she had made Brangien happy. With all the darkness swirling around what she knew of Merlin now, it was a comfort knowing her own magic could be used for gentleness, kindness, love.

  “Will you come to the market today?” Brangien asked, laying out clothing options.

  Guinevere recoiled from the idea. With both Arthur and Mordred gone, she would have to do the lake passage twice. She had no desire to, and no need for the market. “I would like a day of rest. But you go. Besides, I am to walk this afternoon with Dindrane, and this way you are spared.”

  “Kindnesses upon kindnesses, my queen.” Brangien laughed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Guinevere had never seen her so happy, and it was a balm to her own soul. Doubtless it would disappoint Brangien when, in a week, Guinevere would need to reclaim her ability to dream, but in the meantime her happiness was contagious.

  “Get some thread. I want you to teach me the knots you know.”

  Brangien nodded. “My mother taught me. Where did you learn?”

  “My—” Guinevere caught herself. Only some truth with Brangien, not all. “My nurse. It is not so uncommon in the south. But we must be careful.” Guinevere wanted to defeat Rhoslyn. Not join her in banishment.

  “Of course. Always.” With a pretty curtsey, Brangien left.

  Guinevere considered taking a leisurely morning, lying abed, but she was itching with impatience and boredom. She should have gone to the market, after all. The alcove was empty save for the rocks she had brought in, and they kept their silence. No matter how she poked and prodded them, she could not determine their purpose. She was probably best off taking them and dropping them over the side of Camelot into the lake. But then she would always wonder what she had missed.

  She put one in a pouch and carried it with her to meet Dindrane that afternoon. As they strolled the streets of Camelot—one guard accompanying them in Brangien’s absence—Guinevere idly toyed with the rock. Dindrane gossiped cheerily, though she remarked several times how disappointing it was that the city was so empty with most of the citizens at the market. Dindrane liked being seen with Guinevere. It was social currency, and Dindrane had had precious little to spend before gaining the favor of the queen.

  For her part,
Guinevere found Dindrane relaxing. There was never any pressure to speak or risk of saying the wrong thing. Dindrane steered the conversation the way an expert rider guided a horse.

  They turned down a side street and walked toward a merchant’s shop Dindrane wanted to look at. In Guinevere’s hand, the rock was as warm as the day around them.

  The rock grew warmer.

  Guinevere stopped, the rock clutched in her hand.

  “Is something the matter?” Dindrane asked.

  “No. Nothing.” As they walked farther in that direction, the rock grew warmer and warmer. They passed several homes and shops. And then the rock began to cool.

  “I saw something I wanted to look at,” Guinevere said, abruptly turning around. She worked her way back, Dindrane grumbling, until the rock was once again almost too hot to hold. She was standing in front of an unremarkable home.

  “Who lives here?” Guinevere asked.

  “How should I know?” Dindrane looked longingly toward the shop she had wanted to visit.

  The guard surprised Guinevere by speaking up. “We caught a witch here not a week ago.”

  “Really?” Guinevere clutched the rock. Rhoslyn. This was Rhoslyn’s home. And the rock had led her straight here.

  The rocks were guides, allowing those who knew about magic to find each other. But now they led only to an empty house. Fortunately, Guinevere already knew where Rhoslyn was. And now she knew that Rhoslyn had been organizing others within Camelot.

  Flush with triumph, Guinevere let Dindrane drag her back to the shop, and then to another, and then another. When they got to the main street leading to the castle, Brangien rushed up to meet them from the direction of the docks. Sir Tristan followed respectfully behind. He nodded to Guinevere’s guard, who left them, with a bow.

  “Sir Bors is hunting a dragon!” Brangien said, out of breath from the climb. “A dragon! Not four hours’ ride from here!”

  Guinevere frowned. “There has not been a dragon in a hundred years.”