CHAPTER SIX
On the first branch, Brangien.
“But which is it?” the kitchen maid Ailith, who had returned to Camelot instead of leaving with Rhoslyn’s camp, asked, trembling, her hands stuck in dough but not kneading. “The Dark Queen trapping us, or the Lady of the Lake protecting us?”
It did not require any extra awareness to know that Guinevere was inhabiting Brangien. She could have laughed at the surge of intense annoyance Brangien felt.
“I was not aware you required that knowledge to finish baking bread for the day’s meals. I will abandon all my many, many duties to rush down to the lake and get an answer for you, because that is my only priority for the day as I take care of an entire city.”
Ailith’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“No! And for your purposes, it could be the Lady of the Lake and the Dark Queen herself making passionate love to Merlin in the skies above Camelot, and it would not change the fact that the castle needs bread and you are the one responsible for making the bread. If you would like to give up that responsibility, I am certain there is someone in this city who would very much like your position and your bed in the castle and your coin. Someone who realizes that whatever is happening is a matter for kings and queens, and we need only busy ourselves with making sure this city runs in the meantime.”
Ailith began kneading with terrified vigor. Brangien eyed the rest of the kitchen. It was exceptionally quiet, every person now intensely invested in doing their individual tasks.
“And seeing as how the sky has not fallen on our heads and none of us have been unceremoniously slaughtered, it should be quite obvious that the barrier around the city is a protection, not a threat. Regardless, it does not change our jobs and how we do them.”
Brangien turned sharply on her heel and marched out of the kitchen. As soon as she was in the hallway, alone, she leaned against the wall, rubbed her face, and thought of her friends. Sir Tristan was in the south, fighting who knew what threats, and Guinevere was in the north, in the hands of Mordred and Morgana, and she herself was here, making kitchen maids cry. But someone had to keep this wretched city running while they waited for King Arthur to return and Guinevere to be rescued.
Brangien wished with a sudden, fierce longing that Isolde could do the knotting so she could speak with Guinevere, instead of having details relayed to her. Isolde was very good about describing Guinevere’s mental and emotional states. But it was still unfair. Taking care of Guinevere was her job, not Isolde’s.
Guinevere had given Brangien everything. A place in the castle, a friend, a safe space to be herself, and finally, most incredibly, Isolde. And Brangien had never let Guinevere know how much she cared about and valued her. Brangien hated that about herself, that she was good at snapping and criticizing, but kindness still felt like a muscle she had never used. She could manage kindness for Isolde, but that was easy because Isolde knew the ugliest things about her and still loved her.
When Guinevere came back, because she would come back, Brangien would work on being kind. Actually saying the nice things she thought. After she screamed at Guinevere and let her know how tremendously foolish her plan had been, and how livid Brangien was that she had not been consulted.
She straightened and marched up the stairs to Guinevere’s room. In the meantime, Guinevere had left her in charge of the stupid city, and she would take care of it so well it would never recover. The king and queen would return to Camelot in the best shape it had ever been, every servant, every soldier, every single living creature doing exactly what they should because Brangien would destroy them otherwise. The Dark Queen had nothing on her determination and fury.
She tidied Guinevere’s spotless room, then decided to do the same with King Arthur’s. Brangien did not usually take care of his things, but she needed something, anything, to do until Isolde returned from her errands. She strode into the king’s room and stopped cold.
The crown, in the center of the bed.
Guinevere’s crown.
No, no no no. Guinevere, you fool. Cursing her best friend, Brangien grabbed the crown and took it back to Guinevere’s room, setting it reverently on a table. She would protect her friend from herself. Whatever Guinevere’s plan had been when she left the city, surely it was different now. And Brangien would make certain that when Guinevere returned, she did not return to questions and demands and heartbreak. She would be able to make a better decision then. One not driven by panic.
But.
What if…what if Guinevere meant to go with Mordred?
Brangien sat heavily on the end of Guinevere’s bed. Had she been blind to what her friend needed? Guinevere had obviously wanted more with the king than the king was ready or able to give. Brangien had thought that, with time, they would figure it out. But she knew what it was to discover what you wanted, to damn every consequence, to abandon who you were and who you could have been in favor of what you could be with another.
And she was not a fool. She had seen the looks Mordred gave Guinevere, and the looks Guinevere had tried very hard not to give him.
Maybe if Brangien had been a better friend, she could have fixed this. Or, if she had been a better friend, she could have seen that it was not fixable, and helped Guinevere find her own way to happiness. But Camelot needed Guinevere. Arthur needed her. Brangien needed her.
There was a knock at the door. Brangien threw it open, scowling. “What?”
The page trembled, his voice squeaking. “There is a problem with the arena schedule, and I was told—we are supposed to—you are in charge?”
God help them all, she was. “Tell them I am on my way.” She slammed the door in his face, then fastened her cloak. Her eyes lingered on the crown. This city was not going to break on her watch. When Arthur returned, Brangien would make certain the idiot king did not let Guinevere go without a fight.
Guinevere was slipping away. Something was cracking, something leaking between the fissures.
But before she could be properly afraid, she was swept along to the second branch and her feelings were swept into Lily.
Lily’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much, but she kept her expression in place, waving at shopkeepers and cooing over babies and stopping to watch a ball game happening along one of the city’s only level streets. The more Princess Lily was seen enjoying Camelot, buying fabric for new dresses, cheering on competitors in the arena, and laughing at the plays, the more the people would realize they had nothing to fear.
Guinevere had accused Lily of only associating with important figures, and that had been true while Lily was fighting for her place here. But now that the king and queen were gone, Lily had stepped into their place. They were a king and queen of the people, so she spent as much time among the common folk as she could.
If Guinevere could come to Camelot and become brave, Lily could come to Camelot and become whatever she needed to be to make a difference. Camelot was a place of opportunity. Of change. She would let it change her for the better, too.
“Do you miss Sir Gawain?” Isolde asked as she and Lily walked to a bakery. Isolde was also skilled at smiling, and her radiantly beautiful face was good for people to see.
“Oh! Yes? Yes.” In truth, Lily had barely thought of him. It made her a little sad. She would love to be in love, to miss a brave knight and pray for his return, but…now that she did not have to marry to stay here, all the urgent affection she had built up for him had receded to passive fondness. It did not matter. Her father had been wrong. She was worth so much more as a person than becoming a wife and a mother.
At a bakery, she and Isolde bought every item, carrying the food out in baskets. “Good afternoon!” Lily called, handing out bread and honeyed buns to all they passed. The women clasped her hands, shining with gratitude, and she knew it was not for the bread. It was for the hope, the reassurance that Camelot was safe and everything would be all right.
It might not be. Lily was not a fool. She knew Guinevere had been taken by enemies, and that they had no idea when the king would return. Every morning when she awoke and remembered anew that her sister was gone yet again, she was equal parts devastated by fear and livid that she had been left behind.
But at the same time, she was confident. Proud. Guinevere had left her in charge. Guinevere trusted her. Believed in her. And Lily liked her work here. She loved spreading positive rumors, creating the lie that the Lady of the Lake was protecting them. She had no idea what the barrier was, but she could tell Brangien and Lancelot did.
Let them hold their secrets. It did not affect her job one way or another. Lily had a city to keep happy, and she was very, very good at it, and when Guinevere returned—because she had to return, Lily would not even think of the alternatives—her sister would be proud.
Guinevere wished she could let Lily know she already was proud, but then she was torn free, flung out, and she could feel pieces of herself falling away, dissolving into the darkness as she—
“Lady Dindrane!” Lionel, Sir Bors’s youngest son from his first marriage, bowed to her. He was a tall sapling of a boy, just turned fifteen, with broad shoulders and long limbs. “Are you well?”
“Did you come from training?” Dindrane asked.
Guinevere was not Dindrane. She tried to peel herself away, to hold on to where she ended and Dindrane began, but it made her feel as though she were being carved open.
Dindrane considered her stepson. Lionel would become a knight soon, sponsored by his father. He was a handsome youth. His dark complexion favored his mother’s, and he had a fine, straight nose and kind eyes. He had always been polite, he regularly attended church, and Dindrane had never heard him utter a sharp word to anyone.
And Sir Gawain was gone.
Surely Princess Lily was lonely. And how wonderful would it be to seal her bond with Guinevere by matching her stepson with Guinevere’s sister? And what a triumph for Sir Bors for his son to marry so well.
There had been a time not long ago that Dindrane still lived in fear that Guinevere would one day realize she had been a fool to look at Dindrane and see anything worthwhile.
No one else ever had, after all. Dindrane was small and mean because the world around her was small and mean, and she became so used to striking back however she could that she had eventually started striking first, lashing out with her tongue before she could be hurt.
Yet Guinevere had laughed, and clasped her hands, and declared they would be friends.
Guinevere had meant it, too. In Guinevere’s eyes, Dindrane was not small and mean, but clever and loyal. Being seen that way allowed her to see herself that way. She had grown. She was better because Guinevere loved her.
Guinevere would not stop loving Dindrane. But it never hurt to deepen alliances by gifting sweet Lily with an equally sweet boy.
“I have a task for you.” Dindrane took Lionel’s arm and turned him to walk with her. “Princess Lily is out in the city so much, without anyone to accompany or protect her. And since you are nearly a knight, it is only right that you should serve.”
“Princess Lily?” Lionel’s voice cracked ever so slightly, betraying a depth of excitement and emotion that did not surprise Dindrane but certainly encouraged her.
See how generous she could be?
Morgana tore her hand away, scowling in annoyance. “I did not need to see that ridiculous woman.”
At some point, Guinevere had fallen backward. Everything hurt, like her blood itself had been sunburned. She felt raw and exposed and scattered, trapped between dreaming and wakefulness, with a sudden fear that she would never wake all the way. That parts of her had been left behind in Brangien, Lily, Dindrane. Mordred.
“Are you dead?” Fina asked, concerned.
“No.” Guinevere tried to move, but her body had not quite caught up. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the tent, on the feeling of being in her own mind again.
“Fina, get Guinevere something to drink,” Morgana commanded.
Fina scowled down at Guinevere, worry creasing her brow. “I will, but not because you asked. Because she needs it.” Fina left the tent.
“Dindrane never changes,” Guinevere said with a rush of affection in spite of her disorientation. As awful as she felt now, she was glad for the few moments she had been able to spend with three women she loved. They were so strong, so smart. So complex and infinite and human.
“Release me, Mother.” Mordred’s voice was cold and sharp.
“Mmm.” Morgana was holding her forehead, eyes squeezed shut. Guinevere bore the brunt of the magic, but it did not appear to be easy for Morgana, either. “She does change, though. They all do and have because of you. And none of it helps us because none of them are Merlin. Where are you connected to him?”
Guinevere wanted to sit up, but she did not think she could manage it. There was a feeling like a hive of bees in the back of her head, buzzing and droning, and she sensed a headache waiting to descend with as much torrential force as the storm outside. “If I knew how I was connected to Merlin, I would not need you.” Guinevere’s stomach clenched, and at last the feeling of being stuck in a dream was cut through with fear. If it had been that destructive to be in the heads of normal people, how would she feel in Merlin’s?
Morgana sighed. “But you do need me, for more than this. I am not your enemy. We are allied against Merlin, whether you realize it or not.”
“You want to give me to the Dark Queen so she can defeat Arthur.”
“I want to find a new way of fighting Merlin. He used us all as unwilling tools in his quest to remake the world according to his desires. I—we—need to break the path he set us on.”
Guinevere managed to sit up. The bees in her head were swarming, making room for the approaching pain. “I hold no love for Merlin or his methods.” She thought of what had been done to Igraine, to Morgana, to herself. “But in fighting Merlin, you are also fighting Arthur, and I believe in Arthur. He has built something better in Camelot.”
Mordred scoffed, his tone bitter, “Better for some. Not for all.”
Guinevere could not deny that. Seeing Ailith in the kitchens with Brangien reminded her of it. But Rhoslyn and her camp had opted to reject Camelot, to cling to their traditions and their magic, and they had not been safe. Without Lancelot and Mordred, who knew what would have happened to them?
Arthur’s way was not perfect, but the world was a vicious, dangerous place, and anything that countered that was better than nothing. It had to be.
“All he wants is Camelot.”
Morgana lifted one eyebrow. “Really? How can you be sure? He wants what Merlin wants, and I promise you that monster is not satisfied with a single perfect city.”
Guinevere tried to shake her head, but the movement made everything spin. Arthur was not Merlin, and he never would be.
“Here is her drink!” Fina said, her voice loud as she reentered the tent and passed a canteen to Guinevere. Guinevere swayed, nearly falling again. Her eyes weren’t focusing.
Morgana pressed one hand against her own forehead. “Please be quiet, Fina.”
“Oh, did the terrible magic you used Guinevere for wear you out?” Fina’s voice grew even louder. “Does your head hurt? Does it hurt very much? How much would you say it hurts?”
“Hush, you wretched girl, or I will make all your hair fall out using my magic.”
“Try it and I will make all your blood fall out. Using my ax.”
“Enough.” Mordred tore away the roots on his arms, pulled out a knife, and began cutting his knees and ankles free.
Morgana snatched Guinevere’s wrist. Before anyone could stop her, she pushed on a vein and hissed, “Duty.”