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“One last question. Are you listening?”
Guinevere opened her eyes.
“My man has been at the Camelot docks for weeks now. And he had something interesting to report. On several occasions, the queen did not get into a boat, and yet arrived on the lakeshore. And many times the queen did not get off at the docks—the only docks in Camelot—and yet arrived at the castle! Are you magic?”
Guinevere laughed. She could not help it.
Fortunately, he took it as an answer in the negative. “Which means there is another way into the castle. Tell me what it is, and I will let you stay queen of Camelot.” He paused, and his dead-eyed smile extended her an offer along with his hand. “Under the new king.”
She imagined Maleagant creeping through the tunnel. Entering the castle before anyone knew he was there. Defeating Camelot from its heart. None of her silly door protections could keep his evil out. They protected Arthur from magic, but Maleagant was the most human of men. Magic darker and more powerful than any she could wield would need to be used against a man of such vicious, indomitable will.
She could be satisfied knowing he would never best Arthur. She would have to be satisfied with it, because she feared her life held very little more for her. This, then, was how she protected Arthur. Not with magic, not with power. With silence.
“I will never tell you,” she said.
“So there is a way.” He smiled, and finally it touched his eyes. The lines there told a history of violence, of cruelty. And promised a future of it, as well. He stood, grabbing her arm and yanking her up so roughly she yelped in pain. The men at the door opened it and Maleagant pushed her over the threshold. She teetered on the rocks there, staring down at a grasping, rushing river.
She scrambled to get back into the building, but Maleagant was behind her. He held both her arms, lifting her in front of himself. She dangled, helpless, over the river.
“Do you know what else my man at the docks told me? The pretty young queen of Camelot is terrified of water. Everyone remarked on it. You should do better to hide the ways to break you.” He shook her and she screamed, staring down.
The water. Dark and eternal, over her head. The light, so far above, but she could not get to it, could not—
And it was cold—
And there was a voice, calling to her—
Calling—
Not Guinevere. Calling who?
Maleagant shook her again. She held his hands, trying to grasp his wrists.
Mordred was a spark.
Arthur was steady, warm power.
Maleagant was cold.
She went limp, closing her eyes. She had always known water would be her death. Had she known what was coming for Merlin? Had it been coming for her, too? She wondered if Merlin himself had put the terror of water into her, the same way he had pushed in the knot magic. To keep her away from the Lady’s grasp. To keep her safe.
It had failed.
She tried to think of Arthur. Brangien, who would mourn her, but who would always have Isolde now. She would miss Lancelot’s knighting. And Mordred. Had he come back to find her missing? She remembered the spark, the fire of his lips on hers. It was dark and wild, unsteady, hungry. She caught onto it, pulling it deep inside, where Maleagant could not touch it. Arthur’s strength, too, she tried to recall. To hold against herself like a shield.
“A channel island,” Maleagant shouted, his mouth against her ear. “Surrounded by a rushing river. No prison could hold you better.” He let her hang for an eternity of seconds, and then at last pulled her back in. He threw her into the building. She landed hard on the floor, crawling toward the center. As far from the river as possible.
“Next time, I take you swimming. Think on that, and decide whether the king who does not love you enough to save you is worth it.” Maleagant turned to his men. “No one touches her,” he said. “Yet.” Then he left.
She curled around herself, shivering. She could find a way. She would have to. No one was coming for her.
One of her fingers pulsed, swollen from how hard her heart was beating. Swollen around the three hairs from Merlin’s beard. She unwound them, then pretended to fidget with her own hair, knotting her dreams to his. She was finally desperate enough to seek him out.
“Please,” she whispered, closing her eyes and trying to find sleep—her only hope of help.
She walks backward through time.
She trails through her stay in Camelot. Sees each person there who grew to mean so much to her. Slowly releases them to be strange
