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That was more terrifying than the attack had been. “Come on,” she said, turning abruptly. “We have to go home.”
* * *
Guinevere and Lancelot dropped Ailith off at the dock. The girl hurried into the city to find Gunild’s brother, with a promise to ch
eck in and let Guinevere know when she was settled and safe. Guinevere could find her work in the castle kitchens.
“Perhaps we should leave Mordred out of our accounting of today’s activities,” Guinevere said.
Lancelot slowed, her emotional hesitation mirrored physically. “It seems like something the king should know.”
“That Mordred helped you? Protected a bunch of women who are not citizens of Camelot, outside the boundaries of Camelot? Is leaving to some island far away? We do not even know if he plans on returning.” Guinevere’s heart sank as she said it. She had not considered it before. Had that been goodbye forever? She did not want it to be. She hated that she did not want it to be, but she could not deny it. “And we do not know where the island is, so if Arthur wanted to hunt him down, he would have no more idea of Mordred’s location than he does right now.”
“Are you protecting him?” Lancelot sounded hurt.
“He protected us!”
“I protected us!”
Guinevere stopped. They were near the castle gates. “Mordred is—complicated. It is all complicated. And if we tell Arthur, it will be even more complicated. There is no threat there. Mordred is gone. I do not think Arthur needs to know.”
“How is it complicated?” Lancelot took one of Guinevere’s hands and turned it palm up, then tugged Guinevere’s sleeve, revealing the delicate white tracings of scars the trees had left. “He hurt you.”
Guinevere yanked her hand back and pulled her sleeve down. “He did. And I have not forgotten, and will not forget. But there is more to it than that.”
“There really is not, my queen.” Lancelot motioned for the castle gate to be opened, then bowed stiffly. “Please alert me if you decide to leave the castle again today.” Then she turned away and walked inside.
Frustrated and guilty for upsetting Lancelot, Guinevere slowly made her way up too many flights of stairs to her rooms. She could not stop thinking about what Mordred had told her. He had betrayed them, and hurt her. That much could never be taken back. But he also seemed convinced that if he had been honest with her, she would have chosen to help him.
She did not think so. But she did think she could have understood him. Maybe she could even have convinced him not to pursue that course. It made her sad, thinking that there was a sequence of events, of choices, that would have meant Mordred had stayed here. With her.
But with the memory of his kiss tingling on her lips whenever she thought of their few moments alone, she wondered if maybe that would have been the most disastrous path of all.
Rhoslyn had given her no answers to her Guinevach problem, but in a way, Mordred had.
Guinevere stopped only to speak with a page. She explained her plan to Brangien, who finagled a reason to make Isolde leave for the next two hours, then hid in the sitting room, ready. At last Guinevere had a plan. A knock on the door signaled the beginning of it.
“Come in,” Guinevere said.
Guinevach stepped inside. She looked nervous. “You sent for me?”
“I did. Please, sit.” Guinevere gestured to the chair across from her own. Guinevach settled into it, her pale-pink skirts draping around her like her beloved lilies. Guinevere pulled out the iron dagger that King Arthur had given her. She hated it, the way it seemed to trigger a ringing just outside her hearing. Guinevach’s eyes widened and she stared in horror at the blade.
Guinevere held it tight. If Mordred had been honest, everything would have been different. Guinevere would be honest, and would drag honesty from Guinevach, too. She held out her free hand. “Give me your hand.” Guinevach complied. “Now. It is time for only truth between us. Tell me: Why did you really come here, and why are you pretending to know me?”
Guinevach slumped in the chair, her perfect posture wilting like a lily in the summer heat. “Why am I pretending to know you? Because I do not know you.”
Guinevere gripped the knife, triumphant, until Guinevach continued. “Not anymore. You are like a stranger to me now, and it breaks my heart.” Guinevach dropped her head. Her voice trembled like her shoulders. Guinevere felt it all, the emotions that could not be lied, could not be faked. And she regretted everything.
“It is like—it is like our childhood never happened. I ran away to find you. I bribed the guards who brought me here with every last piece of my jewelry.” She gestured to her crown of braids, her dress unadorned except for the elaborate lilies she had put there herself. “And when I got here, you left. Again. Just like before, when you got to leave and I had to stay in that castle, with him.” Her voice turned to a snarl and when she looked up, her teary eyes were filled with rage. “You were always sad. You would cry and cry, and sometimes it was like you disappeared inside yourself. I felt so alone when that happened, but it was better than when you left. I begged father to send me to the convent after you, but he refused. I was his spare. I was the one he could keep around for decoration, because you were too precious. Too fragile. Too valuable. One daughter is a commodity. Two are just wasteful excess.”
Guinevach leaned toward Guinevere, ignoring the knife, her jaw jutting out angrily as she chewed each word. “I hate you. You got away, and you did not take me with you, and you never came back for me. And when I got here, you told me to go home. Back to that place, back to our father. You swore—you swore you would come for me. Why did you break your promise?”
Guinevere let go of the knife and of Guinevach’s hand. She had not been prepared for this. Not for any of this. There were no lies in this girl. Only incredible pain and hurt and desperate determination. “I—I could not.”
“You could not? You married a king and still you could not? You left me there. Living in your shadow. Compared constantly with your beauty and your poise. To them, I am nothing but a pale imitation of you. Right down to my name: Guinevach.” She cut the end of it off with a hard, sneering sound. “I thought you would be happy to see me. I thought you would explain why you never came back for me. And instead you treated me like a stranger, told me to leave. So I decided to prove to you that I am better than you, that I belong here, that the little sister you did not think was worth rescuing can be every bit the princess of that shithole Cameliard that you were. I thought if I was useful and clever and smart, if I planned your silly harvest festival, if I made your life better, that you would see I belonged. But you still did not care. So now I have been trying everything possible to get one of these knights to fall in love with me so I can marry and stay here.”
“Guinevach, I—”
