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Maleagant, revealed. She had liked him better blurred. She had liked him better with Arthur at her side.
Guinevere tucked her legs beneath her. Her clothes had not been disturbed, though somewhere her hood and the jewelry Arthur gave her had been lost. Movement caught her eye and she looked behind her to see two other men standing next to a heavy wooden door. The door was the only part of the structure that looked new.
Her voice as dull as the rocks. “Sir Maleagant.”
“No screaming or pleading. Good. I like southern ladies. You are always so well-bred. Like dogs, instructed from birth to serve your purpose. To obey your master.” He crouched so they were face to face. “I am your master now.” He slapped her. The impact snapped her he
ad to the side, setting it ringing again from the blow that had knocked her unconscious in the tent.
She was used to pain, thanks to the demands of magic. This hurt, but it was not unbearable.
He waited until she turned her face back toward him. “I have some questions for you. Answer truthfully.”
“I will answer truthfully or not at all,” Guinevere said.
“That is good.” He slapped her again. This time she fell to the ground. For a breath, she let herself rest against the grit. Then she pushed herself up. She was fiercely glad she was here in the real Guinevere’s place, taking this punishment. At least poor, dead Guinevere was not being hurt.
It was not rational. But it gave her something to hold on to. It made her feel stronger than she was.
“You did not ask me a question yet,” she said.
“I find it is best to punish dogs before they are disobedient. Preventative. Here is your question.” He leaned closer, studying her face. Then he ran his fingers down one of her now-loose braids. “Does Arthur love you?”
Guinevere could not think of a question she wanted to answer less. It had been the very question she had been about to find the answer to. Before they took her. Now she would never know. “He cares for me.”
He raised his hand and she braced herself. Then he nodded. “I believe you. Would Arthur sacrifice Camelot to have you returned safely?”
This was not a difficult question. Arthur would sacrifice anything to keep his people safe. Including her. She knew it was right, that he was king because of it. And she felt equal parts triumph and despair knowing she could not be used against Arthur. For a tiny moment, she let herself wish he loved her so much he would give up everything to save her. And then she let it go. She had once thought she would die for him. She had not intended to prove it to herself so quickly.
“I know he would not,” she said.
Maleagant rubbed his jaw. “That is unfortunate. I had hoped a pretty, fragile thing like you would play into his blind need to protect everything. My dear Elaine broke him, I fear.” He paused, tilting his head to the side and staring not at her face, but her torso. “Are you with child?”
Her fingers clenched into fists. A blessing to have been Arthur’s wife in name only, then. “No.”
He sighed. “Just as well. I am not a patient man. I do not have months to spare. Do you see how I have not struck you, even though your answers were not what I was hoping? You told the truth. That is good.”
Maleagant sat across from her, leaning back on one arm and narrowing his eyes in thought. “I could sell you to the Picts. They are not as familiar with Arthur’s nobility as I am. They might think they could trade you for some advantage.” He tapped his fingers against his knee. “Or I could offer your death to the Picts in exchange for an alliance. They were not pleased when Arthur did not want any of their daughters. With you gone, he would be open to marriage again. Your father is too far south to cause me problems should I kill you.”
She had come to Camelot to protect Arthur. Not only had she failed to do that, but now she would be used against him. The river rushing somewhere outside surrounded her, whispered that she was never meant to be this. That she never could have been this. That she should have let the water claim her long ago.
She did not want to die. If this was a game of constantly moving pieces, she had to convince him that her moves were the better idea. “That is true. And my father has another daughter as well as sons, so it is not a terrible loss. I do not think you risk Arthur starting a war over my death, either. The cost would be too high for him to do it for revenge. But trading me to the Picts is a better option. Trick the Picts into thinking they can bargain with me and get your coin or your land that way. Though you risk their ire in the long run. You will have made enemies of Arthur and the Picts.”
If she was sent to the Picts, there would be journeys. Anything could happen then. She was not powerless, but she could not risk magic here. Not yet. If she revealed what she could do and got away, or was traded back to Camelot, word would spread. Arthur himself would suffer the backlash of being a Christian king married to a witch, which would serve Maleagant far better than her death.
She brushed the floor grit from her cheek and smoothed her skirts. “I do think I have more value alive than dead, but I assume most people feel the same about themselves.”
“Are you certain Arthur does not love you? You are a very unusual queen. I was wrong about how they bred them in the south.”
She stared at him and did not look away. She was supposed to be a queen. The chosen partner of Arthur, the greatest king alive. She could be strong. “Hold me at ransom for less than Camelot. Borderland. Horses. Silver. You may be able to wring those from Arthur.”
“Your problem is in thinking I will be happy with anything less than Camelot.”
Guinevere closed her eyes, then nodded. Magic, then. She tried to call the fire. She had only ever called it for cleansing, did not know if she could use it for anything else, did not even know if she wanted to. Could she use it as a weapon? Could she turn magic from something to protect those she loved, to something that devoured?
Merlin would do it.
She shuddered at the thought. It felt like a line that, once crossed, could not be undone. Far worse than the memory magic. But her dilemma was unnecessary. Surrounded by water, filled with fear, she did not have the strength to create so much as a spark. She had nothing to feed the fire. It failed her.
