CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“But is Fina our prisoner?” Lily asked, leaning close to Guinevere. They were walking along Market Street toward the arena. Fina strode confidently ahead of them, and Sir Gawain was struggling to keep pace with her. “No one knows whether they should invite her to dine with them or shun her, or something in between.”
Guinevere shook her head. “Arthur brought her here as leverage against her sister, Nectudad. So in a sense, she is a prisoner. But she pledged loyalty and vowed to become a knight. Our goal is to support that, and encourage everyone else to support it, as well. I am treating it as an alliance in the hopes that someday it can turn into that. Regardless, I love her very much and want her to be happy here, if she can be.”
“You certainly do like to collect the odd ones,” Lily said, wrinkling her nose with a laugh. “No one can figure you out.”
Guinevere’s smile was tight and false. “There is very little to figure out.” There was so little to her, after all. How many months had she existed? Each of them taken from someone else. “Thank you for your suggestions for the women’s council, by the way. You have such good judgment.”
Lily beamed and drew Guinevere closer so that they walked arm in arm. “Really, all we need is Brangien. She has been training her entire life to judge everyone who crosses her path.”
Guinevere laughed. “Her skills are unparalleled.”
“Will you tell me?” Lily asked, her voice suddenly soft. “Before you try. So I know. Every time I see you, I am afraid that you will be different.”
“I will try soon,” Guinevere said. “I am sorry I cannot be more specific than that. I have to be careful, because Arthur and Brangien would try to stop me.”
Lily nodded. “I understand.”
Brangien was waiting for them up ahead, cutting off their conversation. She and Arthur had teamed up to make sure Guinevere was never alone. But there was no chance of being alone at the arena.
Fina practically skipped inside. Sir Gawain was going to show her how the combat was structured. Though she had been in many battles already in her young life, this type of fighting was different. Guinevere did not want to leave Fina’s success to chance. Fortunately, neither did Sir Gawain.
Brangien and Lily began discussing wedding plans as they settled into the booth overlooking the arena floor but soon left to buy fabric, with several reassurances from Guinevere that she would not leave the arena alone.
Guinevere watched Fina training. Axes could be used, but knives could not, so Gawain was helping her with swordplay. Fina was a quick study and always managed to look like she was having fun down in the dirt flinging weapons around. Her turn was up quickly, though. The arena floor was on a carefully scheduled rotation. During Camelot’s brief time sealed away from the world, young men had needed something to do, and the next tournament would be filled with a record number of aspirants.
Fina loped up to the box to join Guinevere. She snorted with laughter as she watched the new group. “Nectudad would whip them silly, posturing like that instead of focusing on the actual attack.”
“How are you doing?”
Fina shrugged, rolling out her shoulders and neck. “It is a different style than I am used to, but I like learning it. And I am confident I can beat at least three knights. Especially if Gawain is one of them. He is quite in love with me.”
“Who can blame him?”
Fina smiled slyly. “Certainly not me. I am very desirable.”
“But how are you really doing? With everything?” Guinevere turned so they were facing each other, not the arena floor.
“It is…a lot.” Fina’s smile dropped away, her gaze turning inward. “When it is too much, I imagine I am where I want to be and who I want to be with. It gives me strength. Here, try it with me.” She reached out and took Guinevere’s hands, then closed her eyes.
Guinevere did the same.
“You can be anywhere you want,” Fina said, her voice soft and dreamy. “Look around. Where are you? Who are you with?”
The where was nebulous. Guinevere could not settle on a place. Camelot, a forest, a golden field, all blurred together. But when she turned, the person her mind gave her was both a shock and no surprise at all.
“Is it Arthur or Mordred?” Fina whispered mischievously.
Guinevere opened her eyes and lost the image of Lancelot standing in front of her. She was the person whom Guinevere longed to be with, the one she did not want to leave behind. She had been able to walk away from both Arthur and Mordred, but giving up herself without one last moment with Lancelot? Guinevere could barely breathe, thinking about it.
“Neither,” she said with a sad smile.
“Really.” Fina leaned back, a puzzled look on her face. “Was it me? Because I do not like you that way, but I understand my allure.”
Guinevere laughed. “It was not you.”
Fina nodded. “Well, I am sorry for both Arthur and Mordred. But there are all different types of love. Some burn so hot and bright they devour themselves. Some flare and then settle into friendship. Some build for years, becoming the foundation of a life. My parents had that. I think that is what broke my father, losing my mother. It turned him hard and brittle, and the Dark Queen seeped into the cracks.”
Guinevere nodded. What she had had with Mordred was real and wonderful, but even then she had known she could not build a life around being with him. He had known it, too, she suspected. And while she still loved Arthur and cared about him, she realized now that she had been trying to form an identity based on her belief in him. It was wrong, and it hurt them both.
When she had been in the north, Lancelot was the one person she could not bear to be apart from forever. Maybe because Lancelot had always seen her and accepted her. There had been no expectations of what Guinevere would be to her, no demands other than that Guinevere be the best version of herself. The one most deserving of a knight like hers.
Mordred had not held her here. Arthur would not, either. But the more Guinevere thought about leaving Lancelot, the more she wanted to stay. To keep this body and life forever.
“Are you crying?” Fina asked, worried.
Guinevere wiped beneath her eyes. If it were possible to expel the Lady of the Lake by crying her out, surely that would have happened by now.
Guinevere had to try Excalibur tonight, or she never would.
One last time she slipped through the secret passage between her room and Arthur’s. She ran her fingers along the stone, thinking of the Lady who carved it all. Thinking of the girl who stood in this same passage on her first night in Camelot, so certain of herself and her purpose. The girl who gave her name to the candle’s flame and blew it out.
It did not matter what that name had been. It had never been hers.
She hated the Lady and she pitied that nameless girl, and tonight she would end both of them.
Arthur’s room was dim, the fire burned down to flickering embers. Guinevere could see his dark shape in the bed, the broad span of his shoulders, the trim waist. She knew how it would feel to curl up next to him, to revel in closeness, to hope for more. She really would miss him. But she had done everything she could for now. She dared not risk more delay.
I am sorry, Lancelot, she thought.
Excalibur was propped against the wall, where it would be easy for Arthur to spring up and grab it. He never hung it, never displayed it. It was odd, now that she thought of it, how little he showcased his wondrous sword.
Taking a deep breath, Guinevere sat on the cold floor and set the sheathed sword on her lap. If she fell when the magic was undone, this way it would not injure the real Guinevere’s body. Guinevere had not been the most careful steward, and she regretted that. But oh, she had loved life. She gathered her memories close to her heart, trying to live one last moment in them.
The first time she saw Arthur.
The look on Mordred’s face as he danced backward up the hill, teasing her.
The sense of rightness that had flooded her when she took Lancelot’s hand.
Laughing with Brangien. Watching Isolde and Brangien in quiet moments. Making Lily smile. Dindrane’s joy during her wedding. Fina’s horse-startling laugh.
Kisses both stolen and freely given.
She wished she had been able to get word to Lily that tonight was the night. She selfishly wished Lily were here with her now, so she did not have to do this alone. But she was not alone, not with all her memories held so tightly.
She filled her heart with Camelot and who she had been here, and drew the sword.
Nausea overwhelmed her instantly and she fell backward, clutching the sword, trying not to vomit and wake Arthur. She held on to consciousness, fighting against the swirling dread and numbness that radiated from the blade. But she was still herself. There was no sense of loosening, of being pushed out by the real Guinevere, of plunging toward nothingness.
The hateful sword was not doing its job.
Guinevere gritted her teeth. The Lady had made this wretched thing, and Guinevere would use it to rid this body of the Lady and her magic.
She slid her hand along the blade, letting it bite into her skin. A terrible cold flooded her. It was not the same as the Lady flooding into the real Guinevere, washing her away and replacing her with something else. Or even the poison of the Dark Queen, or the possession of Morgana. It was the cold of a void, the finality of death.
Guinevere had made a mistake.
She fell into darkness.