Guinevere’s head pounded ferociously, probably due to an aftereffect of the potion. Lily led her up the stairs and opened the door to the sixth floor.
A man stood in the hallway. He wore the livery of a page, but it fit him poorly. Though there was only one torch lit, there was something familiar about him. His fists clenched. They were bright red and splotchy, but not from spreading rushes, as Guinevere had assumed when she saw him earlier. They were burns, not yet healed. Something about his shape made her positive he had been the one to bump into them earlier, as well.
She stepped forward, putting an arm out to block Lily. She pushed Lily back toward the door. “I think we are in the wrong place.”
The man did not smile. Now that she really studied him, she knew his face. It had been obscured by a beard before, but it was familiar. “Your sister?” He nodded toward Lily.
“No, my lady’s maid. Can I help you?”
He shook his head, pointing one shiny, burned finger at Lily. “Your sister. I heard. I had sister. Hild. I no longer have sister. You no longer have sister.”
Guinevere could not catch her breath from the blow of pain his words delivered. Hild. Hild was dead. She had killed poor Hild, who had just been trying to help her brothers. Who had never done her harm. Guinevere had saved herself and flung out damage and death in her wake. “I am—I am so sorry. I never meant for her to be hurt.”
The man clenched his fists again and stalked toward them.
“Run!” Guinevere pushed Lily. Lily, panicked, turned right instead of left, going farther up the stairs. Before Guinevere could correct her, Hild’s brother was behind them, blocking their retreat to the fifth floor, where a guard was waiting. Just out of reach.
Lily lifted her skirts, taking the stairs two at a time. Their ascent was too swift, dangerous even during the day and doubly so in the dark. Guinevere knew they did not stand a chance if they faced him. She doubted she could even use magic fast enough to prevent him from hurting Lily.
Her choices had destroyed Hild; now they might kill Lily, too. She had taken this man’s sister, and still he had not made enough of an impression on her for her to remember his name.
“Right!” she shouted. Lily pivoted toward a branching set of stairs. These floors were unguarded. Every servant in the castle was at the festival. There was no help. There was only a hope—a desperate hope—that Guinevere knew something about the castle this man did not. That even she herself did not know, except for the time she saw it in a dream. “Left!”
Lily was breathing hard, and so was Guinevere. She could hear the man’s steady progress behind them. Hild’s brother did not need to rush. There were only so many flights of stairs left, only a handful of doors they could use. There was nowhere to hide.
They passed Mordred’s alcove and went around a sharp corner. This flight of stairs led only to a series of decorative columns. Guinevere glanced over her shoulder. The corner had cut them off from their pursuer’s view, but not for long. The end of the delicately columned platform dropped off into empty air. The last column, carved like a tree, jutted over the edge.
“Behind there!” Guinevere pointed to the edge.
“What?” Lily looked at her, confused and terrified.
“There is a secret chamber. Be careful! Do not fall in!” She grabbed Lily’s hand and half threw her around the column. Lily scrambled for a grip, and Guinevere had a moment of horror that she was wrong. That her dream had been wrong. That it had been just a dream after all, and there was nothing back there but more rock. Lily would die.
And then Lily disappeared. “Come on!” she whispered. “We can both fit!”
“Stay silent!” Guinevere walked back to the middle of the platform and stood, the wind whipping her hair and cloak. In their scramble she had lost her crown.
Hild’s brother rounded the corner. He was barely out of breath. He looked at Guinevere, then leaned to see past her. “Where?” he growled.
“Not here. She took another stairway.”
He glanced over his shoulder, frowning doubtfully.
“I am sorry,” Guinevere said. “Truly, I am so sorry. I never wanted Hild to get hurt.”
“You are a witch. You brought a demon. All our homes, gone. Hild, gone.”
Guinevere felt the impulse to argue. To remind him the reason she had called the dragon was that he had decided to ignore his sister and help Ramm hold Guinevere ransom instead. But whatever the reason, whatever the justification, the result was the same. Guinevere was alive, and Hild was dead.
“No help tonight,” the man spat. “I killed your dragon.”
Guinevere staggered in shock and devastation. The dragon had not escaped. She had called it, used it, and sent it away. And they had hunted it down and killed it. Everything she had done to Sir Bors to protect the dragon, undone by her own actions. A piece of true wonder, of magic, was gone from the world. Not by choice, burrowing into the earth to go to sleep. But by violence. Violence Guinevere had triggered. If she had known the dragon would die, Hild would die, she would never have done it. She would never have done any of it.
Merlin had always known. He had known the cost of his actions, and he had done them anyway. Morgana’s story clung to her, whipping around her like her hair, obscuring her vision and making everything sting. Merlin had sown death and destruction and absolute heartbreak, and then he had simply sealed himself away from the world. Left them all to pick up his pieces. To keep moving along the paths he set for them, doing his will and suffering the consequences.
Or to watch as their loved ones suffered the consequences. Guinevere would not let Lily suffer for this.
Hild’s brother took another step forward. His face was as still as stone, but his cheeks were wet. “You must pay.”
Guinevere met his gaze. “I agree. But you cannot hurt my sister.”
He closed the distance between them, one hand raised toward Guinevere’s neck, his eyes dead save the tears streaming from them. And then he gasped as the tip of a blade appeared from the middle of his stomach. It disappeared, and Hild’s brother stumbled to the side, falling off the edge of the platform and down the mountain.
“Guinevere,” Lancelot breathed, bloodied sword in one hand and Guinevere’s crown in the other.
Lancelot’s sword was black in the moonlight. Guinevere could not look away from the terrible length of it as Lancelot whirled, searching for more threats. “I saw him on the stairs. I ran as fast as I could to catch you. I should never have let you out of my sight. Did Morgan le Fay send him?”
“No. It was me.”
“What?”
“I made it happen. It is my fault.” Guinevere tore her eyes from the blade and stared out into the night sky pressing in around them. The night sky that had swallowed Hild’s brother. She still could not remember his name. And he was another person dead because of her. Because she was queen.
“Where is Lily?” Lancelot edged toward the drop-off, her expression terrified.
Guinevere went to the last column and extended her hand. “He is gone.”
Lily grasped Guinevere’s hand. She clung to the column and eased one foot around until it was on solid ground, then swung the rest of the way into Guinevere’s arms. “Are we safe?” she asked.
Guinevere could not answer honestly. How could she ever tell anyone they were safe? She had destroyed King Mark’s mind and thrown his kingdom into upheaval. She had killed Ramm. She had killed Hild. She had killed the dragon. She had killed Hild’s brother. She had killed Maleagant and his men, and then her choices had brought the Dark Queen back to physical form. She had brought Morgan le Fay to the castle simply by being here. And who could say what the Lady of the Lake would do if she ever found her?
No one was safe around her. She was not a protector. She was a curse.
She patted Lily’s back, then shifted her
toward Lancelot and swung herself around the column, her foot barely reaching the other side. She scrambled inside. The space was exactly as she knew it would be. Whatever Morgana had said, whatever face Guinevere wore, Guinevere had known about things only the Lady of the Lake had. Her back to the stone wall, she shuffled around the dark circle. Far beneath her she could hear greedy, eternal water. Darkness beneath darkness. She stared into the hole and wondered.
In the dream, everything that drew her here had also pushed her in. Guinevere had been terrified when she woke up, but in the dream there had been no fear. Only assurance. Purpose. Determination.
If she jumped, would she find those things again?
“Guinevere!” A strong hand grasped her arm. One of her feet slipped over the edge and Lancelot yanked her back, pressing her against her own chest. “What are you doing?”
“I do not know,” Guinevere whispered. “I do not know.”
“Come on.” Lancelot maneuvered both of them along the tiny ledge around the hole and then back onto the walkway. Lily was waiting, her eyes so wide the moon caught white all around her irises.
Lancelot escorted them back down. She instructed the guard outside Guinevere’s rooms to take Lily and check all her rooms before standing watch outside. Then she knocked on Guinevere’s door. When Brangien opened it, her expression shifted from curiosity to fear. “What happened?”
Lancelot shook her head. “Go with Lily. Stay with her tonight.” She took Guinevere into Arthur’s room and made her sit down. Lancelot handed her a cup of wine and watched, waiting until Guinevere drank the whole thing.
“Who was he?” Lancelot asked. “I did not see his face.”
“Hild’s brother. Hild died. And it was my fault.”
Lancelot looked stricken at the news but also angry. “They took you. They were holding you ransom. What do you think they would have done if King Arthur had not paid? Any violence that happened was violence they brought on their own heads.”
“She did not deserve to die.” Guinevere was not even certain Hild’s brother deserved to, either. Maybe no one ever deserved to die. Was there any greater arrogance or evil in the world than deciding life and death was a choice that could be made by a single person?
“I am sorry Hild is dead, I am, but I will not see you suffer because her people decided they would rather kidnap and steal than work.”
The door burst open and Arthur entered like a summer storm, sudden and overwhelming. “We lost her.” He knelt by Guinevere’s chair, taking her hands. “Did she hurt you?”
It took Guinevere a few confused moments to realize he was talking about Morgana. Lancelot bowed and moved toward the door.
“No, stay,” Guinevere said. “We have no secrets, we three. Or at least, no secrets that I have not kept from both of you. Hild’s brother was here tonight, too. He tried to kill me. Hild died because of me.”
Lancelot shook her head. “That is not your—”
“I summoned a dragon to the village so I could rescue myself. It came because it loved me, and then they hunted it down and killed it.” Guinevere stared at the floor. “I might have been hunted and killed, as well, had Mordred not found me in the forest and lit the signal fire for Lancelot.”
“What?” Arthur and Lancelot said at the same time and with the same amount of shocked vehemence.
“You saw him before Rhoslyn’s village?” Lancelot demanded.
“You saw him in Rhoslyn’s village?” Arthur looked at Lancelot, livid. “And you did not tell me? Or bring him back here?”
“Once before, as well,” Guinevere answered. “He said he was trying to save the wolves from the Dark Queen’s possession. And then he left. At Rhoslyn’s village, he saved the women. He was not there for us. Though we were meant to meet, but not by his design. By Morgana’s.”
Arthur sat back. He was still on the floor, his long legs at angles. He rubbed his face, unbuckled his sword belt, and tossed it to the side. “Tell me everything.”
Guinevere did, as best as she could piece it together. Morgana had gone to Cameliard right after Guinevere raised the Dark Queen and Mordred fled. She had found a place with Lily and encouraged her to come to Camelot instead of going to a convent. And then she had waited, wanting to get to know Guinevere and maybe Arthur. She had not made Mordred cross paths with Guinevere after Hild—though Mordred had been looking for an island based on Morgana’s directions. Who could say how much she had seen with her power of vision? She had certainly maneuvered them at Rhoslyn’s village.
“This whole time, Morgan le Fay was right here.” Arthur shook his head, confusion wrinkling his strong brow. “What did she want?”
“She told me a story.” Guinevere repeated it from start to finish. It was not difficult to remember. It was seared into her mind, written as though in the flames Merlin was so adept at controlling.
“She is a liar.” Arthur wrapped his arms around his legs and drew them closer. It made him look younger. “Obviously she was lying. It is all a trick. They are conspiring.”
“Was she lying?”
“How can you wonder? She is Morgan le Fay! Everyone knows she is a sorceress. And she is Mordred’s mother. Mordred, who betrayed us.”
“Did he, though?”
Arthur released his legs and stood, anger propelling him. “What do you mean, ‘did he’? Were we three not there in the meadow? Did he not trick you into raising the Dark Queen with your own blood?” Just as Lancelot had done, he pulled the ends of Guinevere’s sleeves up, revealing the thin white lines of the scars along her forearms where the trees had cut her to make her bleed more freely. “And then he held your life between Excalibur and the Dark Queen!”
Guinevere nodded, this time not replacing her sleeves. “He did. He did all those things. But…you killed his father. You destroyed his grandmother. He fixed what he could. And then he left. He has not hurt us again, nor even tried to. The Dark Queen’s attacks have been all her, no help from Mordred or from Morgana. Maybe they are not threats at all.”
“No.” Arthur’s voice had the same razor edge as his terrible sword. Guinevere rarely heard him speak as a king, but she was hearing it now. He was not talking to her; he was commanding her. “They are with her. On her side. You have seen with your own eyes what she does. The chaos. The violence. There is no room for the Dark Queen in this world if men are to survive and thrive. And there can be no forgiveness for those who help her.”
Guinevere put her face in her hands. That was true. She knew it was true. But there had been so many things she knew to be true that had turned out to be lies, or something far more nebulous and complicated than true or false, good or evil.
“Merlin sent you here to—”
“We do not know why he sent me here.” Guinevere looked up, certain of this, at least. “To protect me, to protect you, to protect his precious legacy. We do not know and we will never know. I do not trust him.”
“You trust Morgan le Fay and Mordred over Merlin?” Arthur stared at her, incredulous.
“They have lied to me less than he did!”
“And what did Mordred say to you when he found you alone in the woods?” Arthur’s voice was cold, his expression stone hard.
“Very little.”
“But Morgan le Fay tells you a story and you take her side over Merlin’s? Merlin, who helped raise us both? Clearly, Mordred and his mother were working together this whole time to use you. To manipulate you. They want you confused.”
“It is not hard to confuse me! I do not even know who I am! I dream of the Lady of the Lake. I know secrets of Camelot that only she could reveal. But Morgana is convinced I am actually Guinevere. And Lily recognized me.”
Lancelot broke in, her voice gentle. “They could have used magic on her.”
“It would have broken when she came into the castle. I do not know how, or why
, but Lily sees her sister when she looks at me. How can I be Guinevere? I know I am not. There is nothing of her in my memories. Which makes me feel like my mind is not my own.” The dreams of the Lady felt more vivid than any of Guinevere’s own memories. And they were real, whatever else they were, however they had come to her. Tonight had proved that.
Guinevere touched her forehead, wishing she could push into her own mind, pull apart what Merlin had put there, but she was terrified of what might happen. “I do not know what Merlin did to me, or why, and the more I try to fix things or claim who I am, to be queen or to wield magic as a protector, the more people get hurt. Where will it stop?”
Arthur walked toward her from where he had been pacing. He knelt before her and took her hands in his. For once she did not want to cling to the assurance and strength she always felt in his touch. She did not want to feel anything that was not her own.
“That is what it means to have power,” he said. “You make the best choices you can, and there are consequences. There are always consequences. And usually you are not the one to suffer them. Other people do. You have to accept it, and live with it, and continue to move forward trying to do the most good for the most people.”
“I did that. I did. But my actions killed innocents, Arthur. And I do not know how to accept it, or how to move forward, or even how to do the most good. I am not sure that being here, being queen, is the most good for the most people.”
Arthur squeezed her hands. “It is. Merlin would not have sent you otherwise. We may not always understand it, but everything he has done has been for Camelot. For our people.”
That was not true. Merlin did not care about people at all. He cared about Arthur, and Arthur’s path to power, and about his own plans. But even if Morgana had been lying, Guinevere still knew enough to know that Merlin cared nothing for the good of individuals if they got in the way of his plans. If he wanted Guinevere here, he would not care what happened around her, or who suffered, or who died.
The Camelot Betrayal Page 30