The knight cried out in surprise, but she did not move. Guinevere pulled the purifying flames back before they could turn into devouring flames. It was easier than it had been with Sir Tristan, because she did not have to send it into the blood. Only the wound. The knight was sweating, her dark curls plastered to her forehead. She looked down in wonder. The wound was smaller. The blood on her side gone, consumed.
“One more step.” Guinevere tugged up a sleeve. She pulled out her knife—the women had not taken it, or anything else—and, cringing, took a slice of her own skin as though peeling the top layer of an apple. She used the blood welling on the wound to write a knot into the skin, commanding it to bind to another. Then she placed it over the knight’s wound. The skin stretched, grasping at its new body, finding the open edges and pulling them taut.
Where there had been a gaping hole, now there was a smooth patch of skin several shades lighter than the knight’s own.
“What are you?” the knight whispered.
Guinevere smiled wryly. “What are you?”
“I am a knight.”
“I am…” The daughter of Merlin? A forest witch? If the knight came to Camelot often enough, she would discover the truth anyway. “I am Guinevere. The queen.”
The knight hung her head, her face falling. “Then my hopes are over.”
“Why?”
“Because the truth of my body will keep me from being an aspirant.” The knight pulled her bloody tunic down over the sealed wound. “I have known—always known—that I am a knight. And with King Arthur, I had a chance. If I could get to the tournament, if I could defeat them all, if I could fight the greatest king in the world, he would see my value. He would knight me. And then it would be too late for them to forbid me.”
Guinevere sat and tucked her legs beneath her. The knight had saved her life from the boar, and then brought her to the only women who could save her from the spider’s bite. She owed her far more than a little patch of skin. “What does my being the queen have to do with any of that?”
The knight frowned at her. “You will tell them.”
“Why should I tell them? I have seen you fight. You fought for my life today. If you earn a place in Arthur’s court, then it is yours. You have me on your side. Provided you keep my secret as well.” She gestured toward the knight’s missing wound. “Keep it from Rhoslyn, too. No one can know.”
The knight’s smooth face shifted with wonder and hope. “You will let me continue?”
“I would drag you to the city myself and force you to.”
The knight bowed her head, closing her eyes. A smile parted her lips. She had dimples in her cheeks to match the permanent dimple in her chin. “Thank you. We have saved each other today, I think.” She stood, holding out her hand. “Come. I will see you safely back to your camp.”
Extended was the final test Guinevere needed of the knight’s honesty. Guinevere took the offered hand. It was calloused and rough like Arthur’s, but narrower. It seemed to fit hers much better. The sense she got of the knight was less a pulse or a spark, and more a…settling. Rightness. Belonging. The tight, anxious knot inside her that had grown since she arrived in Camelot seemed to loosen.
She let out a long, relieved breath. There was no malice, no lies.
Guinevere knew she should return to the camp. That Brangien would be frantic.
But there had been so much darkness in the boar, in the trees, in the spider. And she knew now her suspicions of Rhoslyn were wrong. Guinevere’s focus had been misplaced.
She could waste no more time. She was not enough to protect Arthur from whatever was coming if she had not even been able to withstand the spider’s poison. She no longer trusted Merlin, but she needed him. Arthur needed him. Maybe her role in protecting Arthur was always meant to create a way back to Camelot for Merlin.
She squeezed the knight’s hand. “Will you help me on a quest to fetch a wizard and save the kingdom?”
The knight’s eyes sparkled. She laughed, her low voice surprisingly sweet with happiness. “You could do me no greater kindness than to ask that. Let me get my armor and my horse. I will defend you to whatever end.” She paused, lowering her eyes. “Always, my queen. I will defend you forever.”
Guinevere felt a rush of pleasure, a warmth that suffused her. Was this how Arthur felt all the time, having the loyalty of worthy men?
She followed the knight out of the shack. Rhoslyn seemed surprised but pleased at the knight’s dramatic recovery. The small village was orderly. Several children were playing a game with sticks, laughing. Everywhere, Guinevere saw evidence of benign magic. Bundles of plants, knots at doorways, stones lining the borders. Thank goodness she had not sent Arthur’s men against Rhoslyn. The idea of knights riding in and terrorizing what Rhoslyn had built made Guinevere feel sick.
“We must go,” Guinevere said, offering no explanation. “You have my gratitude, and your aid will not be forgotten.” She would find a way to help these women however she could in the future. But looking at their clean, happy camp, she wondered if they would need help.
Rhoslyn bent over a pot bubbling above the fire pit. “Keep our location a secret, and that is payment enough. And please avoid spiders from now on.”
Guinevere firmly intended to. She had two tiny holes in her arm as a reminder not to let her guard down. The knight whistled and a chestnut horse ambled up to them. The knight’s armor was draped across the horse’s back, and she pulled it free to fasten it on. Guinevere lifted her hand to the horse, but stopped. The horse’s eyes were scarred white.
“Your horse is blind?” Guinevere asked, shocked.
The knight nodded. “Thieves do it so the horse cannot find its way back home. I found her wandering, lost and alone.” The knight reached up and stroked the horse. The horse huffed, nuzzling the knight. “We were alike that way. She is the best horse I have ever known. Do not worry.”
Guinevere stroked the horse’s neck. It shivered once, then lowered its head, stamping its front foot.
“She likes you. She is ready to go.” The knight boosted Guinevere onto the horse’s back, then climbed on behind her. They waved to the camp. A few women waved back, but most ignored them, as though a lady and a knight in need of magical intervention were nothing to be remarked upon.
Guinevere pointed out the direction that would take them to Merlin, and the knight guided the horse. It was early afternoon. If they made good time, they could get to Merlin by nightfall.
And so she rode away from Camelot, from Arthur and the others, knowing they would fear her lost or dead, but knowing that getting to Merlin was more important than she could ever be. It hurt her pride, but that was a small sacrifice for keeping Arthur safe. She had wanted to be the great protector. Instead, her role was errand girl. So be it.
She was glad not to be alone, though. “What is your name?” she asked the knight.
The knight deftly guided her blind horse around an obstacle, her legs pressing against Guinevere’s. “Lancelot, my queen.”
The dark queen waits for the beast to bring her prey.
And then her prey bests her beast.
But often the subtlest attacks are the most effective. Two tiny fangs in place of two great tusks. She senses her poison seeping in, spreading. She rushes toward it, needing to be close enough to understand what she is possessing, and then—
Gone. It is all gone.
She stops, the earth churning in rage. Someone has taken her poison and spread it so thin she cannot feel its borders. But she had a taste. This queen-not-queen is something different. Something new. Someone has changed the rules, and she knows only one who is capable of that.
Merlin.
She laughs and laughs, the trees around her trembling, the dark creeping things of the earth burrowing upward, drawn by the tremors of her rage and amusement. Because Merlin k
nows what is coming. And, fool that he is, it will still happen.
But there is work to be done now. She will have to put her trust not in beasts, but in man. There is so very little difference between the two, after all.
She knew the trees as they got closer. The trees knew her, too, the leaves trembling. Home was close, home was—
A pulse deep within her tugged from the north, like she had forgotten something.
Lancelot guided her horse, the animal as capable as promised, through the lowering light. No smoke drifted from the cottage. Guinevere slid down. Lancelot followed, tying the horse to a tree.
“Merlin?” Guinevere called. The cottage was cold. Not just cold. Abandoned. It looked as though no one had lived there in years. She reached for the broom she knew was by the door, but there was only a rotted length of wood. The door swung open, revealing a crumbling interior. How had she swept floors that no longer existed? How had she slept on a bedroll that was not there?
“Something is very wrong.” Guinevere backed away. Her stomach twisted, sick. What had happened?
A bird flitted to a nearby tree. Guinevere ripped out several strands of her hair, knotting and looping them. She threw the knot at the bird. The knot circled, then tightened. The bird chirped once in protest, then went still.
“Take me to Merlin,” Guinevere commanded. Her head throbbed where she had pulled out the hair, the pain disproportionate to the action. But taking the free will of another creature was a violent act, and violence always left pain in its wake.
The bird hopped dutifully into the air, flying from tree to tree. Guinevere hurried after it, Lancelot behind her. But there was something in her way. She pushed against the air as it thickened around her, preventing her from moving.
“What is this?” Lancelot asked.
Guinevere would not be deterred. She pulled out her iron dagger and carved a knot of unmaking into the air. It gave with a soundless pop that made her ears ache. At last she and Lancelot came to a cave. The opening yawned before them. It was black. Black with dread. Black with…
Guinevere had been to this cave. She knew she had. But she could not remember when, or why. She was so intent on the blackness of the cave, she did not even notice the wizened, bearded old man standing in its entrance.
He waved his arms frantically. “You cannot be here! You are not here. You were never here.”
Guinevere shook her head, tearing her eyes away from the blackness. “Merlin! Dark magic. I felt it. There was a boar, and—”
“You cannot be here,” Merlin repeated, still waving his spindly arms at her.
“Do not tell me what to do! You are a liar!” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm. Now was not the time for her personal grievances. “You sent me to Camelot to protect Arthur, but I cannot protect him against what I felt. It was—”
Merlin trembled, and then his shoulders stooped. He looked…old. So much older than she had remembered. “Please,” he said, but he was not speaking to her. “Please, Lancelot. If you love your queen, hide. Now.”
Lancelot grabbed her around the waist and dragged her away from the cave. She stumbled along, wanting to protest but infected by Merlin’s fear. They crouched down behind a jumble of rocks and boulders. Lancelot put herself behind Guinevere, shielding her. A scrubby bush hid them from view, but Guinevere could still see the cave entrance through a gap in the leaves.
“You know him?” Guinevere hissed.
“I have never met him before. I do not know how he knew my name.” Lancelot sounded as shaken as Guinevere felt.
A trickle of water rolled past them. Guinevere watched in horror as it grew from a trickle to a stream, to a narrow, rushing river. She cowered deeper into the rocks, pulling her feet up so none of the water would touch her. Lancelot climbed, peering over the top of their cover. Guinevere copied her, not wanting to be by the water alone.
The river stopped midair in front of Merlin. He waited patiently as the river fed itself, growing and growing until it formed into the shape of a woman. Her hair flowed down her back and into the river still behind her, her dress trailing into a pond at her feet. She shimmered and shifted, her form constantly changing. Now she was a woman terrible and tall. Now she was a young girl. Now she was neither and both. She lifted a hand and pointed it at Merlin.
“The Lady of the Lake,” Lancelot whispered, awed.
You should have kept your barriers up, betrayer. You let me in.
Guinevere put her hands over her mouth in horror. The barrier she had undone. She had let this thing in.
You have stolen from me, the water murmured. It was a soft sound, but it was everywhere, surrounding them. A babbling brook turned shouting waterfall. You have stolen from me.
Merlin nodded, his face solemn and sad. He tugged on his beard, several strands coming loose. He dropped them to the side, distracted. “Yes. I did.”
Why did you take something so precious? What have you done?
“I am sorry, Nynaeve, my love, my lady.”
I will unmake you.
“If you must.”
I will—
The water trembled, losing form, reforming, a hundred times so that Guinevere’s eyes ached as though she had been staring at the sun rippling on a lake.
Why? the water asked, and in the single word Guinevere felt the sorrow of the ageless, the sorrow of the infinite passing of days. The sorrow of change.
“Because it was time.”
I will reclaim what was mine. The boy cannot take everything. He does not deserve this.
The Lady of the Lake gave Excalibur to Arthur, after it had been dropped into her depths. Did she want it back now? Had Guinevere been lied to about this, as well? Maybe the Lady never gave them the sword. Maybe Merlin took it, the way he took so many other things.
“You are right,” Merlin said. “He does not deserve this. But he might someday. And that is not your decision to make. The decision has already been made.”
The water roared up behind the Lady, pushing her higher and higher until she towered over Merlin. I cannot end what should be eternal. I am not like you. But I cannot allow you to continue. You have betrayed me. You have betrayed us.
“I know.” Merlin turned once toward their rocks and wiggled his fingers in a silly wave. Guinevere’s throat tightened. This was her fault. Then Merlin backed slowly into the cave. “I am tired,” he said. “And I am not innocent. This is just. Until we meet again, my love, my Nynaeve.”
The water roared past the Lady, up the sides of the cave. A thousand years’ damage was done in seconds, eroding and eating, carving away.
The cave mouth collapsed, sealing the entrance shut. The water carried silt, working between each rock until it finally receded, leaving only solid stone where once had been a cave. Guinevere bit her thumb so she would not cry out in horror. Lancelot was still and silent beside her.
The water did not re-form into the woman. It flowed back the way it had come, with a noise like weeping.
* * *
Guinevere pounded at the rocks, but she could not shift so much as a pebble. The cave was sealed. Lancelot stared at the solid stone in wonder.
Guinevere turned and slid down, her back against the seal between herself and Merlin. Silver strands winked in the twilight to catch the very last rays of the sun. The hairs from Merlin’s beard, caught on a rock. She wrapped them around her fingers so tightly it hurt.
“What did she want?” Lancelot asked.
Guinevere hung her head. The Lady wanted what had been taken. What had been given to Arthur. Guinevere could think of only one thing that could be. “Excalibur.”
“But I thought she gave it to King Arthur!”
“Perhaps we have been misled.” Merlin had never given her the full story, the true story. And what she had felt when she touched Excalibur made her cer
tain it was far more than a sword. Maybe it could even threaten the Lady of the Lake. “How could Merlin let this happen?” Guinevere slammed her fists into the rock. She had undone the barrier herself. But if Merlin had ever been honest with her, even once, she would not have had to do this! She stood, determined.
“Take me to Arthur.” He had the sword. Guinevere had magic. Between the two of them, they would rescue Merlin. And then she would get answers.
* * *
It was the darkest part of the night by the time they reached the hunting grounds. But darkness mattered nothing to a blind horse, and Lancelot navigated confidently. Guinevere longed for wings, for speed.
They heard voices frantically shouting her name long before they saw anyone. Lancelot stiffened behind her. “I should—”
“Pull on your mask. Stay with me. They should know who saved me.”
Lancelot did as instructed. As soon as they got close, Guinevere shouted. “I am here! Here!”
This time the crashing through the trees was not beast, but beloved. Arthur rushed toward them. He grabbed Guinevere from the horse and crushed her to his chest. “We found your hood, your cloak. The boar. There were more tracks, more boar prints. We thought— I thought you were taken. Dead.”
Guinevere held on to him just as tightly. Something inside her broke and healed at the same time, as she felt how much she mattered to him by the strength of his embrace. She allowed herself one moment to cherish it. And then she spoke. “Arthur, it is Merlin. He has been attacked. He is trapped. We have to go help him.”
Arthur drew a breath, but it was not a sharp breath of surprise. It was a long, slow breath of reluctance and resignation. Several other bodies crashed through the trees, surrounding them. Sir Bors, Sir Tristan. Mordred, pale and drawn in the torchlight as he searched her face.
The Guinevere Deception Page 22