CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Guinevere did not remember falling asleep. All she knew was that one moment she was curled around herself in abject misery, and the next, Brangien was yelling at her.

“You leave me for a few days and the entire world falls apart!” Brangien stormed around the black depths of the cave, glaring at the darkness. “This place is absurd. You can do better than this. At least give us a fire, or something nice to eat.”

“Brangien?” Guinevere could not understand what her friend was doing here. “Where is Lancelot?”

“Lancelot is in chains. Give me a chair.”

Guinevere was too stunned to protest. Two chairs and a table appeared. Apparently Brangien could enforce her will even on someone else’s dreamspace. She sat with a scowl, gesturing to the other chair. Guinevere took it, and only then did Brangien explain.

“After the king spoke with Lancelot, he left commands with the captain of the guard. Commands that should Lancelot try to leave the city, she was to be locked in a cell until Arthur’s return. At least she had the sense to cut the knots from her hair, lest the charge of witchcraft was added to that of treason, or whatever it is they will charge her with after catching her in the secret tunnel. It took a dozen men to bring her in.”

Guinevere shook her head, stunned. “But I told her to stay.”

“Yes, well, according to her you have lost your mind and are in immediate danger.”

“What else did she tell you?” Guinevere was unable to look Brangien in the eye.

“Something about Merlin and the Lady of the Lake and magic making you decide you have no right to exist.”

Guinevere stared at the cave floor. “This is Guinevere’s body. She was real. They bound Nimue into it and I am the result, an infection, a plague, and—”

Brangien huffed and folded her arms crossly. “And you are just as innocent as that other girl, because you did not choose to have this done to you. It was forced on you as well.”

“But part of me is the Lady of the Lake! And I benefited from what she did!”

“Oh, yes, your life is wonderful! What a dream, to be married to a bullheaded, intractable king, to have to run a city, to be constantly threatened and manipulated and outright abducted as a pawn in stupid men’s wars. You have certainly benefited.”

Guinevere finally looked up. Brangien was furiously embroidering a piece of cloth. She did not understand. Guinevere had to make her understand. “Brangien, I am an abomination.”

“You are a girl. Just because violence shaped you does not make your very existence an act of violence.”

“But—”

Brangien stabbed her needle into the cloth with more force than was necessary, but her tone was gentle. “I am sorry for the other Guinevere. I am. It breaks my heart. But it does not make you less real, less deserving of life.”

“It does, though. I should never have been here.”

“And the world would have been poorer for your absence! That other Guinevere never would have married Arthur. Merlin would not have chosen her. Arthur would have had some other queen, someone who was raised to be queen, someone cold and delicate, insulated from life and pain and suffering. Someone who would never look twice at a lady’s maid, much less protect her and care about her and rescue her dearest love. Someone who would have let Sir Tristan die because she would never have been able to heal his fever. Someone who would have never fought for Lancelot to take her rightful place as a knight. Someone who would have never known or cared about Lily, dooming that poor girl to Cameliard and to her father. Someone who would have looked on Dindrane with disdain instead of compassion, leaving her to a life of misery at the hands of Blanchefleur and Percival. Someone who would be unable to guide and direct our king toward compassion and unable to help him see the nuance and complexity of life because she herself had been raised to be blind to it all. And someone who would doubtless require a lot more of me, forcing me to poison her and be executed for murder.”

Guinevere did not know how to respond.

Brangien reached across the table and took Guinevere’s hands in hers. “I do not care how you got here. That was not your doing. But I can tell you what you have done, and what you do, and who you are. You look at people, and you see what they can become. You reflect the best versions of themselves, and, in doing so, you allow them to grow into what they could have been but never would have without you. You are not an abomination. You are a miracle, in my life and in the lives of everyone who has been fortunate enough to know you.”

“Not everyone,” Guinevere whispered, remembering the dragon, Hild, Hild’s brother, King Mark, the innocents and the guilty who had suffered and died because they crossed paths with her.

“Such is the cost of living. Such is the cost of moving through the world and rejecting apathy. Such is the cost of being human, which you are. You are the most human person I have ever known, and I will not hear you say otherwise.” Brangien sniffled, wiping roughly under her eyes with her embroidery, which dissolved as soon as she no longer needed it. “And I will nag and harass you until you agree with me, because I am always right and you should know that by now.”

The table between them disappeared, and Guinevere knelt at Brangien’s feet, resting her head on her friend’s lap. Brangien stroked her hair, far more gently than she had ever combed it in real life.

“I have to try,” Guinevere whispered. “I have to try to make it right.”

“I know you do, because you are an idiot, and I hate you for it. But please do not forget that if every life has value, yours does, too. I cannot tell you what to do, but please, please take care of my best friend.”

Guinevere nodded, closing her eyes. “I have missed you terribly.”

“Of course you have. I am wonderful company.”

Guinevere allowed herself to exist in silence with her dear Brangien for a while. She dreaded the thought that Mordred might appear and she would have to tell him the unspeakable truth. That he was, once again, alone. As long as she could avoid talking to him, he would go on believing he still had a mother. However complicated his and Morgana’s relationship had been, Guinevere was certain Morgana had loved him.

She wished Morgana had been able to finish her request. What was Guinevere to tell Mordred? That his mother wanted vengeance? Demand that he take up her mantle in the fight against Merlin? Or was she simply leaving this world with love for her son?

Guinevere would lie. She would tell Mordred that Morgana had died saying she loved him. It was the only kindness she could offer.

“Are you safe at least?” Brangien asked.

“I am with Arthur. But I will try to get away and to the cave. Only Merlin can undo this now.”

Brangien’s fingers tightened in Guinevere’s hair, tugging it, before she let go. “Merlin has never helped anyone but himself.”

Guinevere knew that was true. She had tried to seek help from the Dark Queen, had trusted that the fairy would do something because it was the right thing. Instead, Guinevere had shown her how to do the same harm that had been done to the real Guinevere. “If I do not come back, or if I come back as someone else, help Lancelot. Tell Arthur I bewitched her, or Morgana did, or whatever you have to. She must be free. I need to know she will be free.”

“If I have to help her fight her way out with nothing but my needle and thread, I swear, Lancelot will be free. But I will not have to do that, because I refuse to believe you will not come back and do it yourself.”

“Will you braid my hair?” Guinevere asked, because she could not answer or make promises. For once, Brangien, showing a grace Guinevere had not known she possessed, did not argue.