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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.
They could not speak of Merlin now.
“Good sir,” Arthur said, looking up at Lancelot, who was still on her horse. “How did you come upon our queen?”
