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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—
