CHAPTER TWO

Fina would not stop talking as she carefully bound Guinevere’s hands together with strips of cloth. Her touch was as confident as everything else about her. In a lot of ways, she seemed like Arthur, but the sense Guinevere got of her was wilder, sharper, and…happier. If Fina were not currently binding Guinevere’s hands to prevent her from tying any knots, and if Fina were not the daughter of the man who had stolen her to present her to the Dark Queen, and if Fina were not the sister of Nectudad, who had only an hour ago calmly threatened to break many of Guinevere’s bones, Guinevere would like her quite a bit.

“…unfair. They can just slide off a horse, untie their breeches, and piss away. We have to find somewhere to crouch. I complained to my father about it, but he told me even a king cannot change the way men and women pee. I thought we ought to make their breeches harder to untie to make it fairer. Nectudad banned me from the counsel for a week after that. Can you feel your fingers?”

Guinevere nodded.

Fina bound Guinevere’s wrists together, tight enough that she could not free them, but not so tight that it would hurt. Then she pulled a leather pouch over Guinevere’s hands and tugged it shut, tying it with such a complicated knot there was no way Guinevere could work it undone with her teeth before someone noticed. “What do they think you are going to do with your fingers that is so dangerous?”

“Shadow puppets,” Guinevere said.

Fina frowned in confusion, then let out that horse-startling laugh. “I like you. I thought you would probably cry a lot. Or maybe faint. Actually, I placed a wager that you would faint. I am going to lose silver on you.”

The tent flap opened, letting in a piercing shaft of light. Mordred ducked inside. “Hello, Fina.”

“He did not kill you then.” Fina sighed. “More coin lost. I need to stop gambling.”

Mordred’s eyes widened. “Was there a chance your father was going to kill me?”

Fina shrugged. “You were not supposed to be here. He did not like that you told him not to attack the city. And he does not know whether you support her.” Fina waved vaguely. For a moment Guinevere thought Fina was talking about whether Mordred supported her, but then she realized Fina was mimicking a moth’s flight. The Dark Queen.

Mordred scoffed. “She is my grandmother.”

“That makes no difference. Nectudad killed our grandmother in combat.”

“She what?” Guinevere could not help but be drawn into the conversation.

“Oh, yes. Our grandmother was supporting our uncle to supplant Father. She did not like that Father had no sons, only us. There was a war. We won. Barely.”

Mordred apparently did not find this story remarkable. He moved away from the entrance, gesturing to it. “Speaking of Nectudad, she was looking for you. I can wait with Guinevere until my mother comes.”

“Fina,” Guinevere said. The other woman paused on the tent threshold. “If you tell me what your wagers are, I can help you win them.”

Fina beamed. “Oh, you are dangerous, Slip. Fingers or not.” She left, the flap falling back down and cocooning Guinevere and Mordred in the tent’s dim interior.

They had been alone in a tent before.

Guinevere braced herself for whatever Mordred was going to try. He insisted he had come to Camelot to warn her, begged her to have faith in him, but how could she?

He had helped her once, in the forest after she was injured. He had proved he meant her no harm by crossing her magic line of defense. And he had gone out of his way to help Rhoslyn and her village escape the men who would have hurt them. But Guinevere’s wrists still bore the scars of the trees he had tricked her into waking. And they were going to meet the Dark Queen, who Mordred had manipulated Guinevere into giving physical form once more.

He had held Guinevere between Excalibur and the Dark Queen, daring Arthur to end them or let them free. Arthur’s fear—that she would be used against him, that he would be forced to choose between Camelot and Guinevere—had been realized by Mordred.

And now the Dark Queen was mounting some new threat, some new attack, and was it not Guinevere’s fault, for being someone Arthur would choose to save instead of ending his most terrible foe? For being someone who needed to be saved?

It was her fault. But it was Mordred’s fault more. She would not forget.

Mordred crouched, his ease gone. His posture was tense, his tone quiet but urgent. “Do not tell my mother anything. Do not tell anyone anything, but especially not her.”

It was not what Guinevere had expected. She grasped for a response, but it was like walking down steps in the dark and missing the last one. Everything was a disorienting rush. If anything, she expected Mordred to be in league with his mother. To insist that Guinevere could trust only them.

“But—”

“Be patient. I beg you.” There was a voice outside the tent. Mordred changed position, lying on his side, one leg bent, his head propped on his hand. “And do not go to sleep,” he hissed before a playful mask descended over his face just as the flap opened and Morgana entered.

“Mordred,” she said, sitting in a swirl of skirts. “That was close.”

He waved one hand dismissively. “I do not understand why Nechtan was upset. I made it so much easier for everyone. No fight, no lives lost, the queen delivered.”

“Mmm.” Morgana adjusted her dress, sitting as straight as a woman carved from stone. “I think he hoped for an excuse to attack Camelot. He might be under the sway of your grandmother, but he is still a warrior king. Now.” She pulled out Guinevere’s pouch, dumping its contents onto the floor of the tent. Guinevere looked longingly at her iron thread, her dagger, all her supplies. Her handkerchief, embroidered with Arthur’s sun, mocked her with its bright, hopeful colors.

Morgana swept her hand over Guinevere’s belongings. “Where, exactly, were you off to? And tell me how Camelot was sealed. I am most curious.” It was fascinating, how different Morgana was now that she was no longer pretending to be Anna, the lady’s maid. Her identities were like distorted reflections of each other, Anna’s practicality and warmth and Morgana’s imperious forcefulness.

“Arthur did something with the sword.” Guinevere could not let them know the truth: that if she crossed the magical shield she had placed over Camelot, it would break. All they had to do was take her home, and Camelot would fall.

Morgana sighed, slowly reaching into her own bag for something. “Liar. That accursed sword cannot create, only destroy. Who sealed the city?”

Guinevere’s breath caught, waiting to see what Morgana would pull out of her bag. She had once given Guinevere a potion that made her tell the truth. If that happened again, they would know how to break the shield. How to get to Camelot before Arthur returned to protect it.

“Do not hurt me. It was Merlin,” Guinevere blurted. If Morgana underestimated her and thought her incapable of such magic alone, she would play along.

“What?” Morgana’s face paled. “I thought he was sealed away. She said he was sealed away.”

“I thought so, too. That is where I was going. To find Merlin.” The truth, or close to it. “I was the only person who could pass through the barrier. I assumed it meant he wanted me to leave.”

“If Merlin is free, that means everything is at risk.” Morgana stood, trembling with rage. “And it means I can still kill him. Come. Now. We have other purposes.” She held out her hand. Guinevere nearly stood, too, until three dark shapes fluttered free from her back and went to Morgana’s hand.

Moths. She had not even noticed them alight on her in the dimness of the tent, but she breathed easier as the weight of the Dark Queen left her.

Morgana stormed out, the air almost crackling in her wake. Guinevere could not forget that this was not Anna. This was Morgan le Fay, the sorceress. She had ripped power from the fairy world and imbued herself with it to fight Merlin. She was as single-minded as the wizard. Everything evil he did was to protect Arthur. And everything Morgana did was to fight Merlin.

Mordred sat up, rubbing his face. It was as though he rubbed away the easy mask he wore, replacing it with strain. “That was well played. I am surprised she assumed someone else made the shield. She should know better. What really happened? Where were you going?”

Guinevere gazed coolly at him. “I was recently advised to tell no one anything.”

He let out a dry exhalation almost like a laugh. “You only listen when you want to. Do you know what I think?” He leaned back against one of the poles holding the tent up and considered her with tired, sad eyes. “I think you were running away. I think if I had gotten there before Nechtan, you would have let me join you.”

“You are wrong.”

“Am I? I saw the shield go up, Lancelot on one side, you on the other. If I were a very brave knight, I would have made certain my queen was on the inside and I was on the outside. Unless that queen planned it deliberately so no one could stop her from leaving.”

Guinevere looked away. Mordred always saw too much.

“Guinevere, I—”

The tent flap opened again. “Your mother is scary,” Fina said, ducking inside and flopping onto her back before kicking off her boots. “And you cannot be in here alone with Slip, because no one is allowed to touch her unless she wants them to, in which case she will undoubtedly choose me. I am a vigorously generous lover. Sleep time.”

Guinevere remained sitting, her body and soul sore. Mordred did not move, either. The only things between them were their history of hurt and betrayal and the gentle snores of a Pictish princess.

---

Guinevere jerked her head up, forcing her eyes open. Thick clouds obscured the waning moon. The sounds of horses and soldiers were all around them, but she could not make out any details.

She had sat awake in the tent all day, hands bound, Fina sleeping sprawled out and Mordred sleeping—or pretending to sleep, she could not be sure—sitting with his back against the tent pole. Morgana had not returned. Nechtan had not appeared. No one else had disturbed them. The camp itself had been mostly quiet, everyone resting while they could. And then, in the late afternoon, the tents had come down as quickly as they went up, the horses were loaded with supplies and soldiers, and Guinevere was once again riding with Mordred. They had only unbound her hands for her to eat and relieve herself.

She wriggled her fingers as best she could, wishing she could pinch herself. Her spine ached where she kept it rigidly straight to avoid leaning back against Mordred’s chest. She would touch him as little as possible. How long had it been since she had slept? She had stayed up to watch over the city when Arthur left to chase the letter that promised a son Guinevere was certain did not exist. Thoughts of Arthur made her heart ache far more fiercely than her spine. He was going to be devastated, and she would not be there to help him through it.

What was Arthur doing right now? Had the messengers found him in time to get him to turn back? Maybe he had already used Excalibur to undo Guinevere’s magical shield around the city. Arthur and Lancelot—oh, Lancelot, Guinevere could not think of her knight without a stab of pain and regret—would be planning, ready to take action. And Brangien, Dindrane, Lily? What would they do? Lily would be so sad to hear her lady’s maid “Anna” was responsible for all this. All those embroidered lilies left behind. Sashes. Belts. Pillows. Pillows.

Pillows.

Guinevere startled upright again. She was so tired she felt like she was losing her mind. No thread. No dagger. Morgana had taken all her things. And no one would let her use her hands. She could light her hands on fire. Burn away the bindings. Burn her way out.

Hild had died in a fire that was Guinevere’s fault, for calling the dragon for help. And now the dragon was dead, too, and no one could come to her aid, and that was for the best. No fire. Not yet. Lull them into trusting her, thinking she was helpless, and then after she lulled them…

“Guinevere,” Mordred said, his tone exasperated as she startled awake so hard he had to catch her from slipping off the horse. “Just go to sleep.”

“Do not tell me what to do!” She tried to elbow him, but the knots at her wrists prevented her from doing more than nudging his torso. “You were the one who told me not to sleep!”

“All the Dark Queen’s moths are chasing down your clever lie, so she cannot crawl inside your mind when your defenses are down. It is safe.”

“Nothing here is safe.”

Mordred sighed. “I know. But it is safe for you to sleep now. I will not let you fall.”

She wanted to resist. To prove her point. But if she did not sleep soon, Morgana would not need a potion to addle Guinevere’s brains; her brains would be perfectly addled and vulnerable on their own. If she was going to find a way out, she needed to be ready. And that meant being rested.

“I am not sleeping because you told me to,” she whispered, finally relaxing. Mordred’s arms moved securely around her waist. She tipped her head back so it hit his shoulder, and before she could think of something mean to say to make certain he knew she hated this, she was asleep.

Or so she thought, until her eyes opened again.

“Guinevere!” Isolde shouted, running toward her and embracing her. “We thought you were dead!”