Chapter Twelve

For a few moments, none of us moved. In the dying daylight, we stood like statues on a shore ruined by destruction. Leaves and branches littered the shore as though a powerful storm had blown through. The shoreline was in tatters thanks to the tidal wave and Lancelot and Malegant’s battle. Three bodies littered the ground. Across the water, the ruins of the tower were smoldering, sending plumes of smoke into the dusky sky. If anyone found this place in the next year or two, they might wonder what had taken place, but they would never guess the devastation was all from the rescue of the queen.

The fisherman stirred. “Please allow me to offer you shelter for the night.”

I eyed the man who was so much an older version of Lancelot with suspicion. “How do we know this isn’t a trap?”

“Because it isn’t,” Lancelot stated.

I turned to him. “How do you know?”

“Sobian and I spent many weeks with this man before putting my plan into action. Diarmad is no traitor to the crown.”

The fisherman bowed. “My queen.”

“You—you know who I am?”

“Indeed. I have pled my case before you many times. I have always found you and the high king to be both fair and wise. When this good knight sought my help in discovering your location, the least I could do was aid him in whatever way I could.”

But I wasn’t ready to trust him yet. “You are well-spoken for a common fisherman.”

“I am anything but common, my lady. But it is a tale best told with a cup in hand in front of a warming fire. Please, will you accept my hospitality?”

Lancelot regarded me pleadingly. “Guinevere, we need to remove the arrow from your shoulder. Be reasonable.”

He was right. My shoulder pulsed with pain, and all of us needed rest.

A short walk later, we approached a small round house fashioned of branches and mud, much like most of our ancestors would have used. From the shadows, a small brown goat bleated.

“That’s Ceana. She provides milk and cheese. She’s a sweet girl.” Diarmad petted the goat as one would a prized hound.

When we stepped inside, my eyes took a moment to adjust, but soon I found we were in a one-room hut with a hard-packed dirt floor. A large fire pit dominated the center of the room. Hanging over it from a long chain was a cauldron of something that smelled divine. On one side was a small oven, likely used for baking bread, while opposite was a small mattress and pillow. A few pegs in the wall held a cloak and three tunics. The only other items in the room were several fishing staffs and nets. He lived as simply as a Druid—or perhaps a Christian hermit.

I couldn’t help but wonder how a man of such simple means had found his way to Camelot’s court. And more importantly, how he’d become involved in rescuing me. I threw him a sidelong glance. Lancelot may have trusted him, but I didn’t.

We need to see to your wound, Imogen signed, as if I could forget the throbbing of an arrow in my shoulder.

“Diarmad, this is Imogen. She cannot speak, but I can understand her hand language and can translate for her.”

Diarmad gave Imogen a small bow and touched his thumb to his forehead, lips, and heart. “I know a priestess when I see one. I do not have much, but everything I have is yours.”

He laid out four blankets side by side and withdrew so I could undress.

I lay down on one and steeled myself for the painful procedure to come, draining the flagon of mead Diarmad placed by my side. “Lancelot, how did you come to know and trust this man?”

He stood over me. “I suppose that is a good tale to distract you. Brace yourself. This will hurt.” He began to draw out the arrow.

I cried out, grasping for something to squeeze. Sobian handed me a wadded-up cloth. I would have rather bitten on leather, but given the circumstances, this would have to do.

“The worst is yet to come, I’m afraid.” Something in Lancelot’s voice told me he’d done this many times on the battlefield. He knelt beside me.

Nothing could have prepared me for the searing pain that shot from my shoulder straight to my head as the arrow emerged. I screamed but heard my own voice as if from far away, white dots dancing like snowflakes before my eyes. All I wanted was to pass out. Maybe when I woke, the whole business would be over. But no, I was a warrior, a battle queen, some small voice insisted above the shrill ringing in my head. If I couldn’t be present for this, I did not deserve to lead others into the same peril.

I was just coming back to full consciousness when my shoulder exploded again, this time accompanied by a splash of something wet. Someone was blowing on the wound in an attempt to allay my pain.

“It’s wine,” Lancelot explained. “It will clean your wound before Imogen stitches you up.”

I was panting like a woman in labor. I turned my head to the side. “That story you were going to use to distract me?”

“Oh yes. It begins many years ago, when I was a young warrior just come from Brittany. I was a lone fighter for hire in those days, anxious to test my blade and build my reputation. I had fought my fair share of battles in order to secure passage to Britain but nothing like those I would face on this isle.”

I cried out as Imogen’s needle bit into my flesh. Sobian sat next to me and held my hand, while Diarmad busied himself at the cookfire.

“I made my way up north to the land of Angus in the southern Highlands. There I found much work among the warring chieftains. It was there I first met Diarmad.”

“You may not expect it, but many a nobleman in Bernicia—where I’m from—has interests up yon way,” Diarmad interjected.

“He was recruiting warriors for his army back here. I became one of them.”

“Only after you defeated half of the tribes—enough to earn the name Angus. Still hold lands up there, do ye?” Diarmad gestured with his bottle of brew.

I sucked air as Imogen drew the sutures tight. “May I have some of that, please?” I pointed at the bottle.

“Where are my manners?” Diarmad fussed around for another mug.

I gestured to him impatiently, and he came over. I took the bottle without asking and took one long swallow, then another, and one more for good measure. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I said, “Continue.”

Lancelot was so surprised by my unwomanly behavior that it took him a moment to find his train of thought. “After I joined Diarmad in Bernicia, people began noticing the resemblance between us. Quite by accident, we came to realize we were related through my mother’s line. I grew up in the sacred grove of the Forest of Broceliande—our version of Avalon—and was raised by the Lady of the Lake, so my parents were but shadows in my memory.”

Diarmad picked up the tale. “A woman came to court, claiming to know great things about my past and future. She said I would fall from the heights, never to rise, but that my most trusted man, one of my own blood, would rise higher than I could ever dream. I was intrigued for I knew of no relations still living. This seer wanted a hefty sum for the rest of her knowledge, so I sent her away, but she took a liking to Lancelot and promised him if he did a favor for her, she would reveal to him his true parentage.”

Diarmad’s voice was coming from far away now. I missed what the nature of the woman’s favor was as the pain and drink overtook me simultaneously and I passed out. Apparently neither man noticed, for Lancelot was still talking when I opened my eyes again.

“I followed her most willingly, and she led me to a modest holding where an old woman lay dying. Aoileann was her name, though most called her Eileen or Helen. ‘My son,’ she said as she embraced me. No one had ever called me that. She told me she was pleased to see me in the employ of my uncle—her brother—and knew I would forever be safe with him. I spent only one evening with her but was able to be present when she passed through the veil.” Lancelot cleared his throat then did not continue.

I twisted around and immediately regretted it as my pain flared anew. But I got a glance at the dark green poultice covering my wounded shoulder. “Imogen, what is that? It smells like a midden heap next to a latrine in the heat.”

She circled around so I could see her gestures. Priestess, you know the answer. It will speed your recovery and keep infection away. She helped me to my feet.

Leaning on her arm, I took a few unsteady steps toward a rug near the fire around which all the others sat.

“Eat,” Diarmad insisted, shoving a bowl of fish stew in my direction along with a mug of ale. “This is when the tale takes a dark turn. One day, a young man came to court asking for my strongest warrior. I thought he was going to challenge him to a duel, but he instead relayed a message from King Lot. Lot was planning to challenge Arthur for the throne and desired the strongest and most powerful warriors to join him. This boy here”—he clapped Lancelot’s shoulder—“had the sense to refuse. However, I did not. That is how I lost everything.”

I looked up from my bowl. That was it. That was why I knew the man’s face. I had seen it in my vision while I lay dying in Dyfed. As he explained the repercussions of his actions, my suspicions deepened. If he had committed treachery once, what was to stop him from doing it again, especially now that he had me in his grasp, weakened and nearly alone?

“Arthur condemned me along with Lot and Uriens. I fled Bernicia in shame and settled here because I had built up some measure of respect with Lord Malegant, who always promised he could get me back into court. I suppose he would have had his plans succeeded.”

My hackles rose. “So you knew what he was going to do?”

Diarmad was quick to defend his honor. “No, I speak only in hindsight. All I knew was he held this castle in the lake as one of his many fortresses. He mainly used it as a retreat, a place to hide mistresses. I supplied what he needed when he needed it. You see, when I lost my title and my wealth, I still retained many of my connections. I can get anyone just about anything they need.”

He cleared his throat noisily. “Last summer, on one of his journeys through the area, he advised me he would be wintering here with a few guests. I assumed he was spending the time with his wife and friends, so I didn’t question what he needed. I didn’t give the arrangement another thought until these two found me.” He gestured at Lancelot and Sobian. “When Lancelot told me his suspicions, my blood went cold. To abduct the queen was most serious indeed, and I was aiding him, albeit unknowingly.”

“How did you find each other?” I translated for Imogen, who was held rapt by the story.

Lancelot and Diarmad exchanged glances. “I think that a tale for another time. Our queen is injured and no doubt exhausted, so we should let her sleep.”

I hadn’t realized it until Lancelot said it, but I was bone weary. At his words, my entire body sagged. I put my half-eaten bowl aside and let Imogen guide me to the pallet. Two moments later, I was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke with a start, uncertain where I was and fearful of reprisal from Malegant. Then, slowly, the events of the previous day returned to me. They were not a dream. The biting pain in my shoulder was proof.

I stood slowly, my legs wobbly from all I had endured. As I moved, every joint hurt, every bruise cried out for attention, but it was nothing compared to what I had endured at Malegant’s hand. Imogen, who had been helping Sobian divide up their supplies for the journey home, helped me dress.

Before I could ask where Lancelot had gone, the steady clomp of hooves broke the silence, and I froze, fearing we had been discovered.

Peace, Imogen signed. ‘Tis only Lancelot.

“You’re up early,” I said by way of greeting as he entered.

“I wanted to be at the village before dawn in case any of Malegant’s spies remain. The last thing we need is to alert them of our plans or our method of travel.”

“Lancelot, I know you want to use this steed to carry me back to Camelot, but I cannot ask Imogen to walk that distance. I would like her and Sobian to go on ahead of us and be the messengers of good tidings to Arthur. We can follow.”

“But there is only one horse. Sobian sold hers in order to be able to stay in town while we formulated a plan to rescue you. You cannot expect to walk all that way. You are wounded and, forgive me, not in your strongest form.”

“That has never stopped me before. I will not ride while someone I owe my life to walks.”

Not long after, we were saddling the horse and giving Imogen instructions. She didn’t want to ride on ahead of us and was still protesting through a series of emphatic gestures, but we insisted.

“Arthur needs to be told we are well,” Lancelot insisted. “I set out with Arthur, Merlin, Kay, and Sobian after Merlin told us of his horrifying nightmare. We were split up during a storm, so the others likely don’t even know Sobian and I are alive, much less that we found Guinevere. She and I will be traveling slowly and resting frequently. The sooner Arthur can be made aware, the sooner he can send guards to accompany us the rest of the way.”

“Take this.” I slipped the gold-and-sapphire ring off my finger. “Arthur gave me this and will recognize it. It is my signal to him that I am alive and have truly sent you.”

But I cannot speak to him, she signed, her eyes huge with fear and anxiety. How will I pass on your message?

“I can understand you,” Sobian spoke up.

“You can?”

Sobian grinned. “I understand all manner of hand signals. I was a spy, remember? Do you think I never impersonated a priestess? I had to be authentic or risk being found out.”

I stared at her incredulously. Was there no end to this woman’s abilities?

“Well then,” I said to Imogen, “it sounds like Sobian will be your translator and guide.” I hugged her. “I know you are scared, and you have already done more for me than I could ever ask of a dozen people, but I need you to do this one last favor for me. When this is all over, I promise you can retire in any way you like. You are welcome at court if you choose, but if not, name your desire and we will fulfill it.”

She nodded. The journey will give me time to grieve my children in peace. I will do as you wish.

Lancelot secured her pack, which was loaded with all the provisions she would need should she somehow be separated from Sobian. “You know the directions?”

Imogen nodded.

“Good. May the gods guide your path.”

I squeezed Imogen’s hand. “Thank you for all you have done.”

She smiled. Don’t thank me yet. We both still have a long journey ahead.

After saying farewell to Diarmad, Lancelot and I headed east, our backs to the progress of the sun. It was about noon on a cold but pleasant day. We would not get far before nightfall, but at least it would put distance between us and the ruined tower. I wanted to be as far from there as quickly as possible.

Our first two days of travel passed without incident, the air growing colder as we neared higher ground. We were fortunate to find shelter in farmsteads, but soon we would not be so lucky. The snow-covered hills of Dartmoor had to be crossed before we reached the safety of the southern terminus of Fosse Way and the road back to Cadbury.

On the third day, we set out to conquer the passes. Had we been on horseback, the journey would only have taken two days at most, but on foot, we faced a trip of at least three times that length.

“What do you feel?” Lancelot asked.

Eyes closed, I searched the energy of the earth and sky. “Nothing. We will have good weather for at least the next two days. Beyond that, I cannot say.” I opened my eyes. “This isn’t an exact skill, you know.”

He laughed. “But a helpful one. I wish I’d had you on my past journeys. You would have saved me many cold, wet nights.”

We walked in silence for a while, the ground underfoot sloping steadily upward and the vegetation scarce. Soon there was no path, only wide crags and fissures in the rock, which Lancelot navigated as though he was following a map.

“How do you know this area so well?” I asked.

“I don’t. But I traveled it once before, looking for you.” He smiled. “Arthur has done everything in his power to try to find you. When you were discovered missing and Gareth was found dead—”

My hand flew to my mouth. “Gareth is dead?”

“Yes. I suppose you would not know. The Samhain revelers said he was stabbed in a fight, right in the middle of the crowd. But it was a mortal wound; no one could have saved him.”

“But Gareth was guarding me. There was no fight. Surely I would have known. Unless. . .” The words needed not be spoken. I was certain to the marrow of my bones that Malegant had done this. That was how he’d ensured I was alone and ripe for the picking.

Lancelot cleared his throat. “As soon as we realized you were gone, Arthur launched the biggest search party the country has ever seen. Men and women from all over Britain looked for you in every part of the country. We knew whoever had taken you couldn’t have gotten far, but we decided to search everywhere. Merchants and trading caravans had their wagons inspected at every major crossing, and every boat that sailed from our ports was searched before being allowed to weigh anchor. He really did all he could.”

I tried to fight the pain welling up inside me. All those resources, all those plans, and yet. . . my mind flashed through months of torment, submission, and pain. Tears overflowed before I could stop them. When I could speak, my voice was strained. “Why was this place so difficult to find? Why did it take so long?”

Why didn’t you find me sooner? Why didn’t Arthur come for me himself? Those were the questions I really wanted to ask.

Lancelot stopped. He picked up a stick and sketched a crude map in the snow. “Cadbury is that stone over there.” He pointed at a rock sticking out of the snow about three arms’ lengths away. “This area is open plain, and these are the mountains we are in now.” He gestured to each with his stick. “You were here.” He drew a circle surrounded by a wavy-lined lake and mountains like spear points. “We were not even aware this area was habitable. That is why no one looked there.”

He looked at me, his soft, caring blue eyes seeking forgiveness. I nodded, relieved to be able to genuinely give it.

He took my arm, and we continued walking as he spoke. “It was only after Merlin’s dream that we had specific guidance on where to look. He used some kind of crystal to guide us—until the storm. Worst storm I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been trapped in many. It was two nights after the eclipse. We had just made it through the narrowest pass in these hills when the sky darkened far too fast for a normal sunset. The air took on the tang of metal, and the wind blew fiercely then suddenly stopped. We knew we had to seek shelter and fast, but there was nowhere to hide. Before we could make a plan, the rain fell in large, heavy drops. We made it to the outskirts of the forest before the hail came too. Lightning flashed all around us, chasing us wherever we went. That’s when Sobian and I became separated from the rest.”

I thought back. Two days after the eclipse. What exactly had Aine’s dark power shown her? Was it possible she could have known? That she could have directed the storm to keep them away? She was certainly in control of powers that should only have belonged to a trained priestess. But if that was the case, then why had Malegant left me alone? Perhaps he had not known help was coming or Aine had not realized her plan was not completely successful.

The path became so slippery with ice Lancelot and I had to hold on to one another to stay upright.

After a while, he looked at the sky. “We should find a place to spend the night.”

Eventually, we came upon a cave. After ensuring it wasn’t currently occupied by a slumbering bear, Lancelot rousted the bats from its roof. I will never forget their squeaking and the ghostly shiver of their wings as they winged past me to find a new place to haunt. Warrior or no, I cowered in fear until I was certain they were gone. We spent the night slumbering amid our fur-lined cloaks with only a tiny fire to keep us warm. In the still, small hours of the night, Lancelot embraced me in his sleep, his touch igniting the wound in my shoulder. I recoiled, his touch and the sudden pain bringing back vivid memories of Malegant. A small cry escaped my lips as I scrambled to my feet, shaking and desperate to be more than an arm’s length away from him.

“What is it?” He looked up, still partially asleep, confused.

I couldn’t speak. I tried to catch my breath, which was coming in ragged gasps, but could not. I doubled over. My chest was caving in. I couldn’t breathe. It was as though fear was smothering me.

“Guinevere? Are you ill?”

I couldn’t stop shaking. My mind kept replaying the same memories—Malegant breaking my fingers, beating me, raping me, tearing my flesh to ribbons. Tears made hot rivers down my cheeks in the cold night air.

I must have looked to him like a feral beast because Lancelot spoke to me in the same soothing tone he used on unbroken colts. “Everything is fine. I mean you no harm. You are safe, Guinevere.”

My heart was pounding in my head, but at the sound of my name, the rushing thoughts slowed a little. I could understand where I was but not yet why.

He must have noticed the effect because he tried again. “Guinevere, look at me. No one will harm you.”

I met his eyes, and my heart began to slow.

“That’s it. It’s me, Lancelot—your champion. I am sworn to the Goddess in all her names to protect you, remember? I am here to take you home.”

Slowly, my chest muscles relaxed, and I gasped in a few deep breaths. I was beginning to remember who I was, where, and why.

Lancelot reached out his hand. “Come to me, Guinevere. You will be safe. I swear it.”

Hesitantly, I took a small step forward. My arm moved without conscious command to him. When our fingertips touched, I did not flinch but rather relaxed into his warmth.

Lancelot held my hand gently and slowly led me back to where we had bedded down. “I will not hurt you, but we will be warmer if we are close together. If you do not wish to touch, at least let us share our cloaks.”

I allowed him to cover us both, our bodies nearly touching. Soon my eyelids grew heavy again, and darkness descended to take all the memories away.

The next morning, we woke to a light snowfall. After breaking our fast on a brace of squirrels caught in Lancelot’s traps, we set out on what we hoped would be the last leg of our journey through the mountains. After that, we should have been able to take the Roman roads back to Cadbury. We walked in tense silence for a while, trying not to slip on the uneven, rocky terrain. Neither of us acknowledged what had taken place last night.

Finally, Lancelot said, “Guinevere, I know this is beyond the bounds of my role as your champion, but what did Male—”

I whirled on him. “Do not say his name. He is dead. It is over.”

“But Arthur must be told. Do you wish to tell him yourself what happened, or shall I relay it? Which would be easier for you?”

I stopped. “Why need he know? Is it not bad enough that one of us is haunted by the memories? Why should I so burden him?” I didn’t want to tell him anything, say anything. If I voiced my experiences, there would be no denying them. They would be real and irrefutable. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.

“You need to tell someone. You’ll never be free until you do. I swear on all the gods and the Lady of the Lake who raised me that I will repeat what you tell me only to the king.”

I fought him for a while, but eventually, as the sky grew lighter and the sun traversed the sky behind a bank of darkening clouds that began to shed tiny flakes, I told him everything, starting with caring for Camille and Llew all the way through learning Imogen’s identity and our plans to escape. As much as I wanted to edit my experience and keep the worst from him, I forced the words through my lips. By the time my story was complete, I could barely stand. Reliving it was nearly as bad as going through it the first time.

The snow was falling harder, piling up around our ankles and hampering our progress. On Lancelot’s advice, we had each taken a stout stick from a pine tree to use as a walking staff. I was grateful for the support.

We rounded a bend, and I gasped in wonder. Before us, the land plummeted to a deep chasm with only a small ledge hugging the eastern face of the foothills. The hills dropped off sharply to a void of rock and ice, small scrub trees growing defiantly here and there from fissures in its smooth face. Far below, a gray-and-white-capped river flowed, its roaring current only the slightest whisper to our ears. On the far side, the sun was beginning to set behind foothills identical to the ones we had just traversed, where trees promised to lead to level land if one only kept walking long enough. Directly ahead, across the gorge, the ledge widened to accommodate a small stand of fir trees and a tiny cabin.

“There.” Lancelot pointed at the house. “That is where we will rest this night.”

“Will we have to cross the chasm?” I asked tremulously, memories of the crude bridge at the tower still far too fresh in my mind.

“No, if we keep to the ledge, it should take us there.”

“Good.” My teeth chattered as much with fear as cold.

Lancelot led the way, testing each step with his staff before making it, clearly uncertain whether or not to trust his sight as to which parts of the snow-packed ground were solid and which were not. We were purposefully silent, knowing what the slightest noise could do at this elevation when the snows were heavy and their pack unreliable.

The cabin was in sight when the rumbling began. Instinctively, we looked up then at each other. We hadn’t made a sound. But someone had.

“Someone else is here,” I said, spine prickling, ears fully alert like a hound.

It came again—a regular crunch, crunch, crunch—growing steadily closer, but because of the echoes of the gorge, I couldn’t tell if it was in front of or behind us. I drew my sword.

The mountain grumbled again, shaking the ground beneath us.

Lancelot picked up a rock and threw it across the path ahead. It bounced off a tree trunk, clattering to the ground. Not a moment later, an arrow whizzed past us and lodged in the earth where the rock had fallen.

“It’s a trap,” I whispered.

Lancelot nodded, looking around. “There are likely men behind us, so we cannot turn back, but I don’t see a viable way around either.”

We charged forward, running at top speed to evade any additional archers, and narrowly missed a rope strung across the pass. Once over it, Lancelot tripped it as we hugged the trees on opposite sides of the trail. A net rose out of the snow, closing over nothing. Lancelot cut it down and slung the mesh over his shoulder.

The sound drew out our attackers. They emerged from the trees—the archer, another man, and a golden-haired woman—confident in their trap. Lancelot was able to dispatch the archer before the others assumed a defensive stance.

My mouth dropped open as I found myself facing Aine—who I’d thought was dead—and more surprisingly, Diarmad.

They took advantage of our shock by charging. Aine came at me as though to tackle me but then shoved me to the right, nearly sending me skittering over the ledge. Thanks be to the goddess Druantia I caught a bowed branch of pine in time to stop my slide. I scrambled to my feet, and Aine swung at my head with her wicked axe. I ducked and weaved so that I was behind her. She turned before I could land a blow, but I was now too close for her massive weapon to be of much use. She turned it and slammed the pole into my ribs, knocking me back, but I was inside her guard again before she could swing.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Lancelot struggling with Diarmad, each knowing the other’s fighting techniques, skills, and weaknesses.

I decided to try to distract Aine to break her concentration. “How did you get ahead of us, Aine? Why follow us all this way?”

She panted, “I know these mountains better than your knight. You killed my brother, so I will take your life. But not before ransoming you for all your puny hide is worth.”

So she didn’t plan to kill me, at least not yet. That certainly changed the tenor of this fight. I relaxed a little, working to disarm her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lancelot bring Diarmad to his knees and ensnare him in the net he had salvaged.

Aine must have seen it too, for she turned and, with a feral war cry, swung at Lancelot. He dove out of the way but not quite in time. Her axe bit into his thigh. Lancelot crumpled, momentarily defenseless. Struggling to regain his footing, he threw a handful of snow at Aine, hoping to blind her, but she avoided it and raised her axe to deliver the fatal blow.

I screamed and lunged for her, but Diarmad wriggled his way out of the net and came at Lancelot at the same time. In a split-second decision, I changed the arc of my blade and swung at Diarmad instead, ripping a hole in his gut. His blade too made deadly contact, but not with Lancelot. His final act was to save Lancelot by driving his sword into Aine’s throat. She gurgled in surprise, dropped her axe, and fell, her blood staining the snow a bright crimson.

Diarmad collapsed into Lancelot’s arms. Lancelot could only stare at him, shocked.

I ran to Diarmad’s side and knelt next to him. “Oh, Diarmad, I am so sorry. I thought you were going to kill Lancelot.”

He smiled ruefully. “I was. But when your blow landed, I knew I could not let that viper live.”

I held his wound, watching helplessly as life drained out of him.

Lancelot slowly recovered from his shock. “Why join with her, Diarmad?”

“She traced you to me. Said she would make it worth me turning on you. It was either die by her hand or yours, and after so many years of living on nothing, I’m afraid her promises of riches outweighed my loyalty, even to you.” He groaned. “I am so sorry, my friend. . .”

Lancelot bowed his head. “All things are forgiven in the end.” He looked at me.

I placed a hand on Diarmad’s brow. “May the Lady guide you home, and in her arms may you find rest. Drink from her cauldron and be reborn without sorrow or stain. Go in peace.”

Diarmad smiled and covered my hand, red now from his blood, with his own. “Forgive me.” He breathed one last time and closed his eyes, still for eternity.

The mountain rumbled again, and Lancelot looked up. “We will get no additional warning. Come. We must hurry or the avalanche will bury us along with our enemies.”

Cold, bloodied, and limping, we reached the cabin just before sundown. It must have been a hunting lodge for it was well stocked with preserves, blankets, and a store of firewood. Although what anyone would have hunted up here eluded me. We had seen signs of a few bears but were at too high an elevation for deer or boars. Squirrels and fox were everywhere, but there were easier places to lay traps for them.

But as the sun sank lower, the wolves began to howl, and I understood. I shivered as their mournful cries turned my blood to ice.

“They are the banshees of the animal world,” Lancelot said. “That’s the one thing I never got used to when traveling on the open roads. I know their habits, but that doesn’t stop something inside me from cringing when I hear them. But we’ll be safe in here.”

Lancelot insisted on examining me before allowing me to tend to him. He sewed a few new stitches in my shoulder blade and pronounced two of my ribs broken from the butt of Aine’s axe, but that was the extent of my injures.

Finally he let me see to his thigh, which was still trickling blood. He had removed his breeches out of necessity, and strangely, I was acutely aware that the hem of his tunic was the only thing preserving his modesty. Much to my horror, the thought made my cheeks burn as I bathed the wound. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and I blew on the gash, only too aware of the intimacy of the gesture.

“You never did tell me how you came to find Diarmad on this journey,” I prompted. “Perhaps telling me of it will help distract you from the pain.” And me from my embarrassment.

“Where did I leave off?” he asked as I repeated the procedure with water, seeking to see just how badly injured he was. “Ah yes, Sobian and I were separated from the rest of the group in unfamiliar land. We headed north because that’s what I’ve always done when I am lost. It’s something I remember the Lady of the Lake telling me. ‘Whenever you have lost your way, follow the North Star home.’”

He stopped talking and flinched as I probed his wound with my fingers. “It is not nearly as deep as it should be. Your movement must have taken some of the force out of her swing. Don’t walk for a while, and there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.” I met his eyes briefly, seeing relief in them, and poured honey into the wound to clean and bind it before stitching him up.

Lancelot continued through gritted teeth. “After walking for what felt like days, we came upon Diarmad’s house, much as you and I came upon this place. At first, he was wary of me. But once I recognized him and recounted our past history—something no one else could have known—he began to trust me. One day, Sobian returned from town with word of activity in the tower. We watched it for several weeks before we saw you. When Diarmad told us he was due to deliver supplies, Sobian saw our way in. It was her idea to have us switch places. I believe you know the rest.”

“She is a master of intrigue,” I credited, slathering the stitched skin with a liberal coating of Imogen’s stinky salve before I covered it with clean cloth. “This shows no signs of infection. But you need to lay off the heroics,” I joked with a wag of my finger.

He grabbed my finger and twisted. “Only if you promise not to get yourself kidnapped again.”

I writhed in mock pain and protest. When I looked up, our faces were less than a hand span apart. We froze, staring at one another for a long time. Finally, I dropped my eyes.

“We should sleep,” I muttered.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed.”

We retired to opposite sides of the bed, backs to one another. I sent my consciousness down into the earth, intent on thanking all the gods who had saved my life today. But I sensed something else, something looming and oppressive. I sat up suddenly.

“Lancelot?”

“Mmmm?” He was already partially asleep.

“We need to stay here. A snowstorm is coming.”

Large flakes fell from the sky for the next three days, and it was three more before we could leave the cabin. I was grateful for the extra time to rest and recover from our injuries.

But soon enough, the sun broke through the clouds, turning the forest into a wonderland of glittering snow and shining ice, a frozen paradise into which we ventured, full of hope that we would soon be home. Our progress was slow. Lancelot was still limping and leaning on a stripped pine branch for support. We took turns carrying the heavy pack of supplies, and I had to stop often to give both him and my shoulder a rest. Another two days passed before we finally came upon the old Roman road leading to Isca. We could follow it for the remainder of our journey.

“There is a village just up ahead,” Lancelot said, weariness in every aspect of his demeanor. His shoulders slumped, his eyes were heavy, and his gait was sluggish. “I know this area. We will be safe here.”

We must have looked like a couple of outlaws when we stumbled into the village. I combed my fingers through my hair, but it was hopelessly tangled. At least we’d been able to wash in an icy pond earlier in the morning, so I didn’t think we smelled worse than anyone else who’d been on the road. But our clothes were dirty and torn from multiple fights, and bruises blossomed all over our bodies.

I pulled the hood of my cloak farther down over my forehead as we passed a small Christian church, uncertain whether someone of my faith would be welcome in this town. I had heard stories of how well the missionaries were doing in the south, and I had no desire to suffer persecution on top of everything else. Just in case, I pulled a few withered juniper berries off a bush as we passed and squeezed them until I had just a few drops of juice on my fingers. I touched my forehead then wiped my fingertips on my skirt. This juice was nearly the same color as the ink in my tattoo, so touching it would enable me “smudge” the tattoo if needed, making it appear to be drawn on rather than permanent. It was a trick all priestesses of Avalon learned in case we ventured into unfriendly territory, but I hoped my precaution would prove unnecessary.

We stopped at the mouth of an alley where two buildings opposed each other and a wooden fence forced a dead end beyond them. The one to our right, if the sour smell was any indication, was a stable—and not a very clean one. To our left was what I could only guess was an inn. Music and raucous laughter flowed out of its open door while men and women played games of chance in the street, shouting over the din from inside. At the far end of the lane, a group of youths used the fence to practice knife throwing, a crude target having been drawn on its surface.

We pushed past patrons in various states of inebriation. All glared in response, but no one was bothered enough to make a scene. The air inside the inn was thick with wood smoke, scents of food—some new, some several days old—and strongest of all, stale ale. Men and women of all ages, shapes, and sizes crowded every table and corner, laughing, joking, or conducting business in hushed conversation. Serving women and children darted in and out of the crowd, providing mugs of thick dark brown ale or golden mead alongside loaves of bread, steaming bowls of stew, or joints of meat. In exchange, coins of all values, from gold and silver to the most meager metal, changed hands—and not just for food. At quite a few tables, men were buying companionship for the evening.

As one of the serving maids passed us, my stomach rumbled audibly. We found an empty place to sit at the end of a long table. The top was laden with burning lumps of candle wax. No one bothered to remove a candle when it burned out—they simply stacked a new one on top of the pool of wax made by the last one. The benches were covered in furs and hides, a welcome comfort after days on the road.

A burley man sidled up to us. “What will it be then?”

“Two mugs of ale and two joints of that boar on the spit. We would also like a room for the evening,” Lancelot requested.

The barkeep glared at Lancelot. “One room?” He looked from Lancelot to me. “It’s a shame, but our only private room is in use. You’ll have to sleep in the common room tonight or seek shelter somewhere else.”

He started to walk away, but Lancelot put a firm hand on the man’s arm. “Tell me, who is your distinguished guest? Unless it is the high king himself”—Lancelot surveyed the room—“and I doubt he would stay here, you will ask that person to remove himself from those quarters. Unless you would like me to remove him myself.”

“Who are you to demand such things?”

“Lancelot du Lac, High King Arthur’s Master of the Horse and member of the Combrogi.”

The innkeeper snorted. “And I’m the queen.”

I turned to him. “Actually, I am.”

The innkeeper scowled at me but inspected me closely. Then he roared with laughter. “Tonight the queen, tomorrow the unruly slave girl, isn’t that how it goes for your lot?”

I smiled inwardly at his assumption that I was a prostitute playing a role to satisfy the fantasy of my customer. It was probably safer than admitting my true identity as we were still in Malegant’s lands. If he wished to believe it, then I would not correct him. Playing along, I merely dropped my eyes to the floor.

The innkeeper cackled again. “Hey, boys, you have to come see this one.” He motioned to two young men who were obviously his sons. “And bring them two wet ones and a piece of the piggy.”

“Why did you not tell him who you are?” Lancelot whispered to me once the innkeeper had gone.

“We can’t have them know who I am, can we?” I looked around, but no one was paying us any heed. “You are safe because everyone knows Arthur’s knights go where they please. But the same is not true for me. Until we’re back in Cadbury, I trust no one. Neither should you. Pretend to be my customer. They are entertained by it. The more enthralled they are, the less likely they are to be suspicious.”

“You are a devious one, you know that?”

I gave him a coy smile. “I’ve been around Sobian too long.”

The innkeeper’s boys arrived. They were tall like their father but not yet fully grown. They kept a close watch on us while they set down our trenchers and the rest of our meal.

“Look,” the older one said, “she even has the queen’s marque.” He pointed at my forehead.

“The marque is fake,” I said in a sultry whisper only he and his brother could hear, looking up at then through my eyelashes. “This man told me he wanted to be with the queen, so I’ve done my best to fulfill his wish.”

I curled myself around Lancelot, hip touching him suggestively, one arm around him while running my other hand inside the collar of his shirt and playing with his chest hair. I expected the surprised look on his face, but I wasn’t prepared for the shock of pleasure that ran up my arm from my fingertips. I did my best to recover by aiming the smoldering I felt Lancelot’s way.

“If you say I’m the queen, I am the queen,” I purred. “As long as the price is right, I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”

When I looked back at the boys, both of their mouths were hanging open.

I fixed them with a longing stare, dropping my voice once again. “Are you boys interested in tomorrow night?”

They both stuttered, their words incomprehensible.

The older one recovered first. “But the marque—if it’s not real, how did you get it?”

“Like this.” I brought my thumb to my lips and licked it seductively, sucking just enough to hold their attention. I brought it to my forehead and down in an arc. The “ink” of my tattoo smeared just as I’d hoped it would. Thank the gods for juniper berry juice.

“Oh.” The younger boy sounded disappointed. “Well then, we’ll leave you to your meal.”

“But I may be back around later to ask about your price,” the older added quietly.

I winked at him.

As soon as they were lost in the crowd, I breathed a sigh of relief.

“You know you’re going to have to keep up the ruse of being a whore for the rest of the evening, right?”

I gave Lancelot a lingering sidelong glance. “Does that make you uncomfortable, my noble knight?” I couldn’t be sure if it was the play of the light from the fire pits or if he blushed.

Before I had a chance to tuck in to my meal, the innkeeper returned. “Your room will be ready shortly, sir.”

From somewhere above, a racket rose above the din. It sounded like a herd of bulls were running through the upstairs rooms. A few moments later, the barkeep’s sons emerged, each carrying one end of an unruly minor noble. The younger had him under the arms and his brother was fending off kicking feet.

“I will not be treated in this manner. I am a descendant of a Damnonii chieftain as well as a Roman general. I will not stand for this.”

“No, but you’ll lie down for it,” someone in the crowd yelled, garnering raucous laughter.

“If you have a problem with our treatment of you, take it up with the member of the Combrogi who is in our midst.”

Lancelot waved at the indignant upstart. He leaned over to me. “Sometimes I’m so glad I accepted this position.”

“But not when a crazed noble’s half sister is aiming a sword at your gut.”

“You jest. That is the best part.”

I found myself unable to look away from his smile. Even with the bruises discoloring his right eye and the cut across his other cheek, his looks and charm were enough to make any woman melt. I tore into the hunk of meat in front of me and continued to watch him. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

He swallowed a mouthful of food. “It’s not often I get to spend the evening with a woman of questionable virtue.”

“Then you must not spend much time at court.”

He laughed. “Point taken.”

We finished the rest of our meal while making idle conversation with the patrons around us. A toothless old woman was trying to keep up, but her poor hearing made her repeat nearly every word.

“Cadbury, did you say? Have you met the king’s new wife?” she asked a rugged, road-weary man who appeared to be a merchant of some sort. “They say she’s a beauty, striking as one of the fey.”

My heart froze.

“No. She did not accompany him into town.”

The woman’s reply was lost in the din of voices.

I grabbed Lancelot’s hand to get his attention. “What did she mean ‘the king’s new wife’? Surely the old crone was mistaken.”

Lancelot’s face clouded. “I wish she were. This is something best discussed in private. Follow me, and don’t forget your role.”

“Oh, I haven’t,” I said, sliding a hand around his waist as he rose. I was surprised at how comfortable I was playing the harlot with him.

Lancelot tossed a handful of coins to the innkeeper as we passed. He acknowledged the largess with a nod to Lancelot and a knowing grin at me. I smiled back and slid my hand down to Lancelot’s backside as we ascended the stairs. A few muted hoots floated up from the more observant patrons.

I collapsed on the bed almost immediately once we were alone, exhausted from keeping up the pretense and hollow from the possibility of Arthur’s betrayal. New wife? What could that possibly mean? I glanced at Lancelot, both hoping and dreading he would pick up the thread of our conversation, but he was busy rummaging in our bag for the supplies he’d need to clean his leg.

I stood and busied myself by fetching a ewer of water and a basin, which I placed on the floor next to him. I curled up on his other side, tucking my legs into my skirt and hugging them. A cold weight had settled in my chest, like at the onset of catarrh, but this was no illness. It was the weight of betrayal.

“The old woman wasn’t wrong,” Lancelot said in low voice, as if loath to speak the words. He peeled back his bandage as he continued. “After six moons of searching with only your golden comb to tell us you were taken via the main road into town, the other lords and some of the Combrogi were ready to declare you dead. Arthur did not wish to give up the search, but in the face of your disappearance and the arguments that even if you did return, you would not bear him any heirs, he invoked the ancient laws allowing him to take a second wife. She has no title beyond royal wife and will never be equal to you in stature, but she has already brought him one son, sired before you and he were wed.”

I turned around so quickly the stitches in my shoulder pulled. I grimaced. “How does he—how does anyone know the child is his?”

Lancelot chuckled darkly. “One look at him and there is no denying his paternity.”

Kneeling, I took the pot of salve from Lancelot, suddenly needing to occupy my hands. “Arthur did mention having another life planned before he became king.” My hands trembled as I spread the thick ointment on his thigh. “I suppose now he has everything he ever wanted.” Despite my best efforts to breathe and appear calm, my voice betrayed me, shaking with every word.

Lancelot stopped me by placing a hand on mine, which was perilously close to his manhood. “You do not need to continue to act the part here. Not when it is only us. Unless”—his voice grew husky—“unless you wish to do so.”

I looked up at him, realizing only then how my hands had transgressed. For a moment, I considered his offer but quickly rejected it. It would be a long time before I could lie with a man after what Malegant had done. Besides, I would not betray Arthur even if he had done so to me.

Laughter bubbled out of me from some deep, hidden place, quickly turning to sobs as the full weight of what Lancelot had said hit me. I laid my head on his knees and wept. With one hand, he stroked my hair as I cried; with the other, he finished bandaging his wound. As soon as he was finished, he slipped an arm under my knees and carried me to the bed.

I clung to him, feeling awash and adrift. He was the rock keeping me from drowning in the darkness. When finally no more tears would come, I curled up in a ball within the warmth of his arms.

“What am I now?” I asked in a voice that sounded small and fragile even to my own ears.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from my face. “You are who you’ve always been—our queen. She is nothing to you.”

“But he has pledged himself to me. What of that?”

“So have I. No matter what, I will not leave you.” Lancelot kissed me gently on the forehead, as a mother does her child. It was oddly reassuring. “I cannot lessen the sting of betrayal you must feel, but know this: no one—and I mean no one—will deny you your true role now that you are safe. If they do, they will have to face me.”

I smiled into his chest, mood lightened by degrees despite the overwhelming heaviness threatening to engulf me. This man had not only rescued me from my tormentor and defended my life, now he was promising to help me through a terrible transition back to my life with Arthur. Merlin’s fears be damned. Choosing Lancelot as my champion was the wisest thing I had ever done.

The sun was setting two nights later when we approached Cadbury. The fortress could be seen from a long way off, silhouetted against a red sky. After six months of fearing I’d never see home again, I practically ran toward the gatehouse, heedless of the steep climb up the terraced side of the hill. At some point my energy would give out and I would collapse, that much was certain, but right now, all I wanted was to be within its sheltering walls and see Arthur again.

Lancelot struggled to keep pace with me as we ascended the hill. “Guinevere, slow down. You will injure yourself even more.”

“I don’t care. I’m home. I’m free. It’s over!”

“There is one thing you should know before—”

Lancelot never got to finish his sentence. The guards in the towers spotted us and raised the cry, “Lancelot has returned with the queen.”

Soon the cry was taken up by the other guards and the townspeople. Before we knew it, we were being ushered inside on a wave of people, some of whom I recognized, others who were strangers, but all were equally joyful. I smiled and waved to them all, so relived to be home, to be safe.

“Make way for the queen,” they cried one after another until the doors of the great hall opened.

I was prepared to run into Arthur’s arms, but what I saw stopped me cold. Morgan stood next to Arthur, her sly, catlike smile in full effect. Her hands rested on the shoulders of a boy of about four years who was watching me curiously. Arthur was sitting in his usual place, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

“Morgan—I—you are the last person I expected to welcome me home.” My voice sounded false even to my own ears.

“Welcome to our home,” she corrected, looking up at Arthur with affection.

It took me a moment to process this. Morgan was in the place of the queen—in my place. What had Lancelot said? Arthur had married someone he’d known before he met me. But that woman couldn’t possibly be Morgan. She had been in Avalon—at least until the incident with the poison. . . then I remembered the vision I’d had as I looked into Merlin’s eyes at Corbenic when he told me of Morgan’s fate. It was this exact scene. Morgan had been standing with her hand on her son’s—their son’s—shoulder.

Arthur finally stood, arms outstretched, and came to meet me. “Guinevere! The gods be praised. I thought we would never see you again.”

As he embraced me, I was wooden, unable to return his affection in such an odd situation.

It was Morgan who finally drew us apart. “Nor did I.” Her voice was tinged with regret. “We are blessed beyond measure. Is not that right, husband?”

Years of living with her had attuned me to the subtle sarcasm Arthur probably missed. Her use of the word husband, the one which should have been rightfully only mine, stunned me more than if she had delivered a swift blow to my head. Suddenly, it all made sense. He had married Morgan. He had known her before, perhaps during the time she went missing after her banishment from Avalon.

I looked at the boy. It was as Lancelot had said. No one who saw him could deny he was a younger version of the king right down to that particular shade of straw-blond hair and the cleft in his chin. He had Morgan’s bright blue eyes, watchful and unnerving. He smiled at me innocently.

My heart and mind shattered. Here in front of me was the life I had always wished to live. Arthur with his heir, a handsome boy who favored him so strongly, but the woman playing the role of wife and mother was my worst enemy. Suddenly I recalled the day in Argante’s hut when she had quizzed Morgan and me on elements of the law. A man takes a second wife, she had said. She’d known even back then when we were merely girls this day would come to pass. The world tilted. I grabbed Lancelot for support to steady myself.

“Guinevere?” Arthur asked, holding out a hand to me. “Are you unwell?”

I stepped back and began to cry uncontrollably, rage tinting the edges of my vision red. “How dare you ask me that? You have no idea what misery I have felt! Now I return to find you married to her.”

“Calm down,” Arthur said. “I can explain. I did not know about Mordred”—he indicated the boy—“but Morgan was pregnant before you and I wed.”

My whole body was shaking. “Of course. If you had known, you wouldn’t have married me.” It was a statement, not a question.

In a flash, the sight showed me an alternate life, one in which I thought I was marrying Aggrivane but was given to Malegant instead. One in which Morgan was queen and I lived the life of a slave only to die at Malegant’s hand. When my sight cleared, I looked at the family in front of me.

I wheeled on Morgan. “I suppose I am to be grateful to you for consoling my husband in my absence or for saving me from my captor, the murderer who was to be my husband.”

Morgan looked at Arthur, forehead wrinkled. “I do not understand what she is saying. Do you?”

Arthur shook his head and took my hand. “You have had a great shock. Perhaps you should lie down, then we can discuss this.”

My heartbeat quickened into a deafening pounding, and my eyes clouded over with black and white spots as anger overtook me. “No. I do not want to lie down or be calm.” I jerked my hand out of his grasp. “I want to hear you say it, Arthur Pendragon! I am your wife, not her. You chose me, remember?”

Arthur regarded me warily, as if I were a beast about to strike. “Yes, you are my wife. But so is Morgan now. I assure you we can sort this all out later.”

“I don’t want to talk about it later.” I flexed my fingers, itching to attack. “You!” I yelled at Morgan. “You are nothing but a manipulative, backstabbing whore. You always do what you can to ruin my happiness. I will kill you for this.”

I lunged at her and knocked her to the ground, intent on tearing at her eyes. Morgan fought me, but she was no match for a woman who had been tormented as I had. I was about to punch her in the face when Lancelot pulled me off and wrenched my arms behind me.

Arthur helped a stunned, bleeding Morgan to her feet. “What has happened to make her this way?” he asked Lancelot. “This is not the woman I married.”

“She has been through a great deal—” Lancelot began.

“I am your wife,” I yelled amid hiccupping tears. “Do not speak of me as though I am not here in front of you. You wish to know what has happened to me? I will tell you. I was kidnapped, raped repeatedly, and beaten nearly to death by one of your men while you faithlessly took this woman to your bed. Lancelot and Sobian saved me. But now I see I may have been better off dying at Malegant’s hand.”

I wrenched free of Lancelot’s grip to scratch wildly at my own skin, which suddenly pricked painfully. I fell to my knees as my sight clouded with memories of Malegant, and my time in his tower mingled with Morgan’s triumphant expression at Arthur’s side. I held my head and screamed. It was all too much.

From somewhere far away, Arthur called for Grainne and ordered her to take me to Avalon—now.

As Lancelot dragged me from the room, I looked at Arthur through strands of wild, tangled hair. “What did I do to deserve this?” My voice was small now, all the fight gone out of me.

“Nothing,” he answered, concerned.

“And everything,” Morgan added.

The last thing I remembered was hearing Mordred ask in a small, scared voice, “What is wrong with that lady?”

“She is ill,” Arthur answered kindly.

“She is a madwoman,” Morgan clarified.

When the darkness came, I welcomed it.