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Well. She knew some of it. She wished she knew less.
Arthur had his horse brought. He lifted her onto it, and then mounted behind her. She did not know how to respond to this startling intimacy; she was buzzing with awareness that every eye was on them. So she sat as primly as she could while Arthur waved and then spurred his horse forward.
He leaned his head close to her ear. “There is another way. It is known only to Mordred and me. I share it with you as a wedding gift, since I forgot to get you anything else.”
“Saving me from a boat is the kindest gift imaginable.” She tried to dampen how attuned she was to the feel of him behind her—his broad chest, the rise and fall of his breaths. She had had more direct physical contact with other people in the last two days than in all the years of her life combined. Brangien. Mordred. Now Arthur. Would she get used to it? She would have to.
They rode along the lakeshore. Mordred’s horse was pure white, almost glowing in the darkness beside them. The rush and roar of the nearest waterfall became deafening. She felt it through her body. Even knowing she did not have to go through the water did little to alleviate her panic at the nearness of it all.
Arthur dismounted and lifted her down as easily as if she were a child. He seemed so comfortable in her company. There was none of the proper distance his men had maintained. She had been instructed not to so much as touch a man’s hand—though she had broken that spectacularly on the way here. But Arthur did everything without pause. No lingering, like Mordred had done as he released her after their river crossing. Arthur wanted her off the horse, so he lifted her off the horse. It was as simple as that.
He took her hand and guided her through the dark. His steps were assured, his path known, though invisible to her. Her racing heart would not let her forget how close the lake was, how ravenous the waterfall right beside them. A fine coat of mist settled on her and she shuddered, holding his hand too tightly, pulling as much of her sense of Arthur into herself as she could. If her fear was like the water—pounding, rushing, coating everything—Arthur’s strength was like the rocks. Steady and immovable. No wonder he was the foundation on which a kingdom was built.
“Here,” he said, releasing her hand. With the loss of his touch, she felt diminished. He struck flint and a torch burned into life. Mordred drew a curtain of vines aside to reveal a cave. The smile Arthur shot back at her was pure boyi
sh delight, betraying his youth in a way his bearing and manners had not. “It was how I first entered Camelot. Merlin showed it to me.”
She felt a pang at Merlin’s name. It should be him here. He was so much better suited to this. Smarter. Stronger. But he was not exactly marriageable material for a young king.
“Uncle king, may I remind you not to speak the banished demon spawn’s name.”
Arthur sighed. “Thank you, Mordred. Yes.”
She hoped she had not reacted to Merlin’s name in any way that Mordred might have noticed. She could betray no connection to the wizard.
“Your soon-to-be queen knows, does she not?” Mordred asked. “Things might be different in the south.”
“Ah, yes.” Arthur cleared his throat. “We have banished all magic from Camelot.”
“Why?” Guinevere asked. Merlin had never been clear. He had referred to his banishment with a derisive but resigned puff of air from between his lips, and then talked to her at length about a type of frog that could change from male to female if a situation required it for survival.
Mordred answered. “We worked and fought to push the Dark Queen and her fairy forces back. But leaving any magic here was like sowing tares among the wheat. The tendrils grow and choke out what we are trying to do. And so it was decided that there would be no magic allowed inside Camelot. Which meant our resident wizard was no longer welcome, and cannot be referred to with anything other than the sternest dismissal.” Mordred turned so he was walking backward, facing them. “And any who are found to be practicing magic are banished from the kingdom. Or worse.” Mordred lingered as lightly as a spider’s touch on that last sentiment, then moved quickly on. “My uncle king rules with justice and order. He is bringing the kingdom forward from the chaos of its birth to the peace of its future.”
Arthur’s smile was tight. “Yes. Thank you, Mordred. There is no magic within our borders. It is an absolute rule.”
She shivered as the cave tunnel sealed them off from the night. The rock was black, slick with moisture. Arthur did not stumble or slip, but he walked more slowly than she suspected he could. She appreciated it. Mordred’s words lingered like the chill around them. Banishment. Or worse.
“I have never had a queen before. What shall I call you?” Arthur’s voice was soft, so the echoes surrounded only them, not reaching Mordred where he walked ahead. The way was narrow and close, forcing them into single file.
“Guinevere suits me very well, thank you.”
“Only Guinevere? Nothing else? I know the power of names.”
His words hit her with two meanings. Names that were titles gave power among men. True names gave power among the things that came before men. She focused on the torch to make her voice cheery, like it. “Guinevere, when spoken by you, has power enough.”
She would hold her true name to herself as a talisman. A secret. In the horrible inn, claustrophobic and desperate, she had whispered it to herself in the middle of the night. It did not feel real. She wondered if, with no one else to say it back to her, it would cease to exist. Guinevere, she whispered. The cave swallowed it whole, carrying it away toward Camelot.
Guinevere. Guinevere. Dead and buried. What had she been like? Who was she?
Me, she thought. Guinevere. She imagined stepping into the name as she had stepped into the clothing. Putting it on sound by sound, piece by piece. Draping it over herself, and then cinching it up tight so it would not slip away. It was a complicated name. So many pieces. She would have to be very complicated to fit it.
“Guinevere” followed Arthur through the cave.
They emerged into a cramped storage room filled with barrels. Arthur helped Mordred shift a large one to get them through. Mordred levered it back in place while Arthur produced a key and unlocked the door. When they had all stepped through, he locked the door behind them.
They were outside, on one of the walkways that twisted around the exterior of the castle. Guinevere stared up at the castle, dark and soaring above her. She put her hand to the stone, but it was old. So old it had forgotten what it was before it was a castle. Mordred put his hand next to hers. His fingers were long and finely shaped. They looked as soft as a new leaf. But perhaps a leaf with teeth, like the one in the forest.
“We did not build Camelot,” he said. “Neither did Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon. He did what men always do. He wanted it, and so he claimed it. And then we took it from him.”
