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Arthur led them to his own horse, and they rode through the darkness until dawn illuminated Camelot in the distance, calling them home.
* * *
Guinevere rode in the boat across the lake. She remembered Maleagant’s spy. She would not risk more people noticing her comings and goings and discovering any weaknesses that could be exploited.
The water held dread for her still, but she could live with the dread. There were worse things than drowning. She had faced the Dark Queen. The Lady of the Lake would just have to wait her turn.
Word preceded them. Arthur lifted her from the boat, then climbed to the dock and stood next to her. Crowds were gathering in the streets, lining the pathway up the endless hill to the castle. They gasped. They cried. Arthur took Guinevere’s hand and raised it. “Our queen is home!”
The crowd cheered. Lancelot stood behind them, quiet. Arthur turned to her, holding out his arm. “Rescued by her champion. The queen’s protector and my newest knight, Sir Lancelot!”
This time the cheer was a bit more muddled and confused. But they would get used to it. And it was not their decision anyway. Lancelot, hand on the pommel of her sword, strode confidently beside Guinevere. She scanned the street as though expecting assassins in the heart of Camelot.
“Guinevere!” Brangien shot free from the crowd, throwing herself at Guinevere. They embraced, holding each other close.
“You found me,” Guinevere whispered. “Thank you.”
“You are my sister. I will always find you.” Brangien stepped away, fussing over Guinevere’s bloody and torn sleeves. She took off her own cape and draped it around Guinevere’s sho
ulders, pulling up the hood. “Where is Mordred?”
“Later,” Guinevere said. She knew Brangien would feel guilty for giving Mordred the information that helped him. But the guilt was only Guinevere’s.
Together, they began the long walk to the castle. Arthur waved to his cheering people, including an openly weeping Dindrane on the arm of Sir Bors, but Guinevere could see the strain in Arthur’s smile. How much it cost him to be their strength. She put her hand on his elbow and squeezed, bearing the burden with him. She had chosen Camelot.
A light mist of rain began to fall. Guinevere shrank from it. But then she tipped her head back, letting it fall on her face. Letting it wash away the blood and terror and regret. It was the first time she could remember water touching her skin. Each drop nourished her, replenishing some of what she had lost. She felt stronger. Powerful. Ready.
She was Guinevere, Queen of Camelot.
She was home.
Rain to face. Washing clean. Carrying away the sweat and the blood and the taste of her.
Droplets to droplets. Gathering, dripping, streaming. All the things that water knows rushing down the streets of Camelot, through the ditches, down the stones, down down down.
Down through the forsaken lake. River to stream to an older lake, a colder lake. The tiniest trace remains, but it is enough.
The water stirs. Forms. A face looks up from the depths, twisted with the longing and fury of an infinite being who had never before known loss.
Her lips curl around a single word.
Mine.
