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Her wolves had almost tasted her. They came so close to knowing what the queen-not-queen was hiding.
They failed.
But they had succeeded, too. The queen-not-queen spoke to fire, and fire listened. And that is worth knowing.
She brushes against the tree that cradled the queen-not-queen, feels the longing left behind in her wake. The queen-not-queen is not a creature of stones and walls, of rules and laws.
The queen-not-queen is chaos.
And Arthur brought her into his heart.
At last they left the forest behind and were delivered safely to the borders of Camelot. The rest of Arthur’s men were waiting for them there.
Arthur still had not spoken to Guinevere alone. Nerves and relief in equal measure seized her as he drew her away from the group. They stood together in the sun, out of earshot of anyone else. But Arthur’s face was clouded with an emotion Guinevere could not place.
Ready to burst, she spoke first. “You cannot be angry with me for saving him.”
Arthur sighed. “I can, and I am. And I am not. I am glad Sir Tristan is alive. He is very precious to me. But I cannot risk you.”
She threw her arms in the air, exasperated. “I am not a fragile princess! I am here to be risked!”
He opened his mouth to answer her, then deliberately drew his lips together and closed his eyes. He was holding something back, holding something in. She could see the strain of it on his face. Finally, he opened his eyes once more. “I have to go back out and see to the northern borders. We will speak more when I get back. Please do not do anything in my absence.” As though he could read her thoughts, he grabbed her hands in his. “Guinevere. Please. The banished woman will wait. When I get back, we will discuss it and come up with a plan. Together. Promise me you will wait for me.”
She wanted to be defiant, but it was not anger or command in his face. It was g
enuine worry pulling his features tight with strain. She sighed, the fight leaving her. “Oh, very well.”
“Thank you,” he said. Then, to her surprise, he pulled her close and brushed his warm lips against her cheek. The heat of him lingered as she watched him ride away once more.
* * *
The heat did not linger long enough to comfort her upon finding herself again on the barge to Camelot. Brangien held her as she cowered in the center. Even Mordred had gone with Arthur, so no one was there who could take her through the tunnel.
Sir Tristan had been left behind in Camelot to heal, and along with Sir Bors he was in charge of running the city in Arthur’s absence. Guinevere had nothing to do but be queen. Exhausted, she let Brangien fuss over her once they were back in the castle. Her burn she excused as a hazard of tending to the bonfire in the forest. But thanks to Mordred’s ministrations, it was no longer painful.
When it was finally time for bed, she planned to wait until Brangien fell asleep and then see to the magic-soaked rocks she had left hidden outside the alcove. They had given her an idea for something she could do during the intolerable wait. Instead, sleep fell as heavy and thick as a blanket over her.
* * *
The next three days were much the same. There was no Arthur, no Mordred. No patchwork knight to chase, no Rhoslyn-witch to conquer. Guinevere had made her own magic-bound rocks and placed them as sentinels throughout Camelot so any magic done within the city—not just the castle—would alert her. But as with the castle, all her knots were intact. Nothing had triggered an alarm.
For the time being, she was simply a queen. It was tediously busy. Now that she had made it known she was available, she had callers all day. She made an effort to walk in the afternoons with Brangien and a guard, to visit merchants and be seen about the city. She did not want to be an invisible queen in the castle. Arthur did not rule that way. And she wanted to be his match. His equal.
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.
