CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Guinevere watched the tournament from her box, which was more crowded than usual thanks to her newly appointed women’s council. She would have them with her at every public event, to make certain their faces and their authority were as familiar to the city as the knights’. Lily sat beside Guinevere, periodically taking her hand, as if to reassure both of them Guinevere was still there.

The tournament ran smoothly this time, and Guinevere was not in the least surprised when Fina bested the first four knights she faced, losing only to Lancelot but still securing her spot as a knight. Nor when Lionel, sweet and gangly but showing great promise, miraculously defeated his father in combat to secure knighthood.

She cheered for them all, her council joining her, except Brangien, who sat with Isolde in the corner. Brangien sewed with deadly force while Isolde patiently endured the waves of her silent wrath.

“She will forgive us,” Isolde had comforted a distraught Guinevere when Brangien refused to greet her upon their return. “Let her finish feeling the anger she needs to.”

“And stop talking about her as though she cannot hear through this door!” Brangien had shouted, causing Guinevere and Isolde to bury their faces in Guinevere’s mattress to try to muffle their laughter. It was good to be home, and even better that it felt like home.

When the tournament was finished and the knighting ceremonies complete, Guinevere strolled with Dindrane and Lily back toward the castle. Arthur and Lancelot were close behind, escorting the new knights to the chapel, where they would spend the night in prayer. Guinevere wondered with amusement how Fina would handle that much boredom.

“A wedding tomorrow!” Dindrane said, breathless with happiness. “And so much to prepare! It is nicer to plan someone else’s wedding than one’s own. All the fun and none of the fear.”

Lily blushed, but she glowed with happiness and, more importantly, purpose. She had spent more time planning for Cameliard than she had for her wedding.

Guinevere embraced her sister outside the castle gate. “It is such an honor to know you.”

“I am so glad you came back,” Lily whispered, squeezing her. Then she joined Brangien and Isolde to go up to her rooms and prepare for her wedding. It would be a day of celebration and sorrow, a beginning of her time as a wife and leader and an ending of her time in Camelot.

There was one last task to accomplish, and only three people to see to it. The three people who knew the truth. Stories were already spreading, stories of how Merlin had defeated the Dark Queen, of how Arthur had defeated the Dark Queen with Merlin’s help, even several stories that Merlin was not dead but sleeping in case the island ever needed him again. None of the stories were correct. None of them included Guinevere, or the pain, or the before and after of it all.

Perhaps it was human nature to cling to simple stories. Stories of right triumphing over wrong, of wizards who were powerful and good, of kings who always saved their people. Stories that made sense, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Guinevere could not say whether the stories helped—inspiring and comforting the listeners—or hurt, leaving out the messy truths in favor of shining falsehoods. But they would continue to be told, she had no doubt.

Guinevere waited at the gate for Lancelot and Arthur to arrive. The three of them solemnly climbed the exterior stairs to the top of the castle, where it became mountain once more.

The pyre was waiting for them. Guinevere absentmindedly tried to call fire to her hands, but it was not hers anymore. She wondered when she would stop feeling loss every time she reached for magic that was no longer there. She suspected that day would never come.

Arthur lit a torch and touched it to the wood. They stood in front of the pyre, watching it burn bright against the night sky, consuming the body of Merlin. The wizard. The man who walked through time. The engineer of Arthur’s existence, the destroyer of Igraine and the first Guinevere, the creator of this Guinevere. More than a man and thus so much less.

It was the end of an era. The Ladies of the Lake, Morgana, the Dark Queen, and the wizard were gone. Magic and all the chaos, violence, beauty, and wonder it brought sunk into the earth or burned before their eyes. The path forward was unknown and unknowable.

Arthur took Guinevere’s hand. Guinevere reached out her other hand and took Lancelot’s. She startled, staring down at their intertwined fingers. Even though she was no longer magic, Lancelot’s hand in hers still felt right in a way that could not be denied. Guinevere looked up and met Lancelot’s eyes. Lancelot’s smile was surprisingly tentative, and as sparks rose and crackled around them, Guinevere felt a kindling of them in herself, as well.

Duty, passion, and love. She had known the first two with Arthur and Mordred. She could wait patiently to see what the third became.

She turned back to the flames, feeling the greedy heat of destruction and life on her face. A long path lay ahead of them, and they would journey it together, the three of them. She had been sent to Camelot as a lie, fought for it as a witch, abandoned it as a queen. Now she would make the choice to serve it for as long as she could, however she could, as the most powerful thing she could be.

A girl.