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Guinevere sat with the story wrapped around her. “Why did you never tell me?” It hurt that Lancelot had kept this from her. As though Guinevere would judge a past tainted by a creature of
magic.
“Because you were so scared of her. Her actions at Merlin’s cave scared me, too. I had never seen that anger, that rage. It did not even seem like her. And I worried that if King Arthur knew about my connection to her, he would not let me serve as your knight.” Lancelot was quiet for a long time. When she spoke again, her voice was tentative. Searching. “May I still be your knight?”
Guinevere reached through the darkness for Lancelot’s hand and squeezed. “The first time we clasped hands, it felt right. Like we were meant to be in each other’s lives. Almost like we always had been. You will always be my knight.”
The Lady of the Lake and Merlin. Both of them had put Arthur and Guinevere and Lancelot on these paths. This collision course. But what did it mean that the Lady and Merlin—who had in one way or another created all three of them—were now enemies?
* * *
The next morning, Guinevere brought up the dream to Brangien.
Brangien combed and plaited Guinevere’s long black hair. “Your mind was not empty this time. You have your own dreams back.”
“Yes,” Guinevere said, toying with a selection of rings. She had three, all the real Guinevere’s. Normally she did not think twice about them, but she wondered if Guinevach recognized any of them. If any of them meant something to her, and therefore had meant something to the real Guinevere. “So our theory that something was pushing the dreams in since mine were empty is wrong. But now that we have Isolde, I suppose it does not matter.”
“Hmm.” Brangien frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think it is because you have been in the castle for so long? If what you saw is true, then the Lady of the Lake spent a lot of time with these stones. And your touch thing”—Brangien gestured vaguely toward Guinevere’s hands—“could be building up memories of her as you live and touch things here.”
That had not occurred to Guinevere. It was true that a few times as she touched the stones of the castle she had almost felt something. Perhaps when she was asleep, she was relaxed enough that the full memory of the stone could come through.
“That may very well be it.” That, and her connection to the Lady. It was Guinevere’s own magic, manifesting in an unexpected way. It was both comforting and worrisome. Her memories were a void. Could it be that it was not her dreams that were being filled, but her own mind? Was she absorbing a little of everyone and everything around her and using it unconsciously to rebuild what had been so damaged by Merlin?
It was yet another unknown, and there was no one she could ask about it. Certainly not the cruel and culpable wizard sealed away by the very Lady she had dreamed of, or the Lady herself. Guinevere would sooner have no answers at all than any delivered by water.
There was a knock. Lancelot had gone to bathe and change, promising to be back before Guinevere had to go anywhere. Brangien opened the door, angling herself in such a way that she blocked the view of the room. Isolde peeked in from the sitting room to see who it was.
“Yes?” Brangien said.
“I wondered if my sister wanted to go on a walk with me this morning before her meeting.” Guinevach sounded as hopeful and bright as a morning after rain.
Brangien did not glance back to check. She did not have to. “The queen is feeling indisposed this morning. She has to stay in and rest until her duties claim her.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. What time will she be attending the meeting? Perhaps I could assist her.”
“Do not trouble yourself. She would rather you go out and enjoy the city. The bakers on Piss—on Castle Street are quite good. I recommend honeyed buns if you can find any.” Brangien closed the door. They waited in silence for a few moments to give Guinevach time to wander away, then Brangien sat next to Guinevere.
Isolde had joined them and was sorting through Guinevere’s dress options for the day. “Guinevach is very earnest and sweet. She must be so excited to be here.”
“Yes, I am sure she is.” Brangien gave Guinevere a narrowed-eye look that made it quite obvious she was sure of no such thing.
“Oh, this is lovely!” Isolde held up one of Guinevere’s prettiest dresses, a flowing gown of pale green that Brangien usually paired with a blue cloak.
“It is. But I need something that conveys authority.” Guinevere was working on behalf of Arthur and needed to project the same assured strength. She could not carry a sword, which seemed to be the biggest indicator of power.
“Right. Yes. Of course.” Isolde went back to sorting. She held up a gray tunic dress whose bodice was embellished with red and blue threads that looked almost like chain mail in their pattern.
“That is perfect.”
Isolde beamed at the praise, then chose a sleeveless robe of deep blue.
“The matching gray hood,” Brangien said. “We can attach it. It looks like silver, and we will arrange it so it frames her face like a crown or a halo.”
“But she is not going outside today.” Isolde held up the hood. It was not connected to a cloak, but would lace on at Guinevere’s shoulders, holding it in place.
“We are not being practical. We are being purposeful. Guinevere cannot look like the king, but we can make certain no one forgets she is the queen.” Brangien put the hood in place, fussing with it and adjusting it until she was satisfied with how the stiff fabric surrounded Guinevere’s face without shadowing it. Then she took the two blue strips of the robe front and, instead of draping them straight down, crisscrossed them and pinned them in place on Guinevere’s shoulders so the swath of blue elegantly pooled above her chest and then fell behind her arms like a cloak or a cape.
“She looks like Camelot!” Isolde gasped. “The gray of the city, the blue of the lake, the twin waterfalls.”
