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“You should have. I woke her. You should have sacrificed me to end her.”
“I can fight her. I have done it before. But I could not lose you. Not again.”
He held her close. She rested her head against his chest, the closeness of Excalibur at her side a throbbing ache even sheathed. Arthur was an ending. But he was also a beginning. And she believed in him. Merlin had put his faith in men. She did not understand him, but she understood that, at least. They were capable of so much evil—and so much good. With Arthur, she knew the balance would tip toward the latter.
“How did you know to find us?” she asked. Brangien had told only Mordred.
“Merlin came to me in a dream. I am sorry that I did not get here sooner. And I am sorry that I did not come for you when Maleagant took you. I wanted to. I wanted to so desperately. To leave it all behind and save you. But…”
“But you have a nation to take care of.” Which was why he should have killed the Dark Queen, even if it meant killing Guinevere. The same mixture of devastation and happiness she had felt telling Maleagant that Arthur would never sacrifice his people for her she now experienced in reverse. She did not know which version was better.
The pain from Excalibur pulsed with her guilt. She had broken the darkness open, and they had no idea what the result would be. Mordred was right—Merlin had to have seen all of this. And still he sent her. She wished she could trust that the wizard knew what he was doing. She would try to trust herself instead.
Lancelot limped toward them and sat heavily on the ground. She whistled. She whistled again. And at last the gentle clop of hooves sounded. Her horse nudged her, and Lancelot wrapped her arms around her horse’s neck, nuzzling her face there.
“We lost,” Guinevere said. “The Dark Queen is still out there. Mordred is, too.”
Arthur looked grimly at the agonized corpse of Maleagant. Guinevere shuddered, turning away from it. She had done that. That was what Mordred wanted her to become. Powerful and terrible. When they were riding here, it had felt so important to kill Maleagant. So urgent. But now she wondered.
“There will always be another threat. Someone will fill the void Maleagant leaves behind. The Dark Queen will plot. Mordred—” Arthur paused, the name sticking in his throat. The betrayal was sharp and new. “Mordred will make his own decisions. Camelot is worth having, and that makes it worth taking.”
“We are still alive,” Lancelot said. “I count that as a win.”
Arthur reached out and squeezed Lancelot’s shoulder. “Thank you for being there for Guinevere when I could not.”
“It was my honor to serve my queen.”
Guinevere pulled away from Arthur. She shook her head. “But I am not anyone’s queen. We cannot pretend I am. Look at what I have done, what chaos I have set free. Arthur, I— Everything I am is a lie. Mordred knew it as soon as he met me. He knew I could be used against you. Maleagant did, too. I put you in danger.”
Arthur stood. He held out his hand to Guinevere. In it, he held the chain of silver and jewels he had given to his queen. “I have been in danger my whole life. I do not want to face it alone anymore. Please,” he said. “Please come home.”
Guinevere hesitated. She would not join Mordred and the Dark Queen. But she could slip away into the dark. Live in the wild. Become a hermit, a rumor.
She had been wrong about everything. But so had Merlin. She did not need protecting anymore. Arthur still did. Sealing herself and her magic away would do no one any good. Whatever Guinevere was, she would use it to defend him. She took the silver chain and refastened it against her forehead. And then she took Arthur’s hand.
It was not the spark and flame of Mordred’s touch, or even the instant connection of Lancelot’s. It was older, and stronger, like the mountain of Camelot. It was worth building on. She could accept that it might not be what she wanted it to be, that they would have to grow into each other to discover what they might be together. But she would not let go of it. “I have two conditions for remaining queen,” she said.
“Name them.”
“The Dark Queen is back. We know the threat now. I will be the first line of defense. I will not shrink from this fight, and you will not hold me back from it.”
Arthur nodded solemnly. “The second?”
“I get to choose my own knight. The queen’s protector. That way, you never have to worry about protecting me. It will not be your responsibility.”
Arthur flinched. “It will always be my responsibility.”
“No.” Guinevere’s voice was hard. “Never again, Arthur. If you face that choice again, you choose Camelot. You are not my knight.” She turned and held out her free hand to Lancelot. “She is.”
Lancelot froze. She did not step toward Guinevere. She looked at her king.
And her king smiled, nodding. “Sir Lancelot, do you accept your position as the queen’s protector?”
Lancelot dropped to her knee, bowing her head. “With everything I am.”
Arthur’s hand moved to Excalibur. Guinevere flinched and he stopped. “Sorry. Habit. We will knight you when we get back to Camelot,” he told Lancelot. “With a different sword.”
Lancelot stood. Then she laughed, wrapping her arms around Guinevere and lifting her, twirling her in a circle. “Thank you,” she whispered. She set down Guinevere and straightened, clearing her throat. “My lady,” she said, “allow me to help you onto your horse.”
