The Camelot Betrayal (Camelot Rising 2)

“I will guard your sleep tonight.”

Guinevere patted Brangien’s hand distractedly. They were nearly to the castle gate. Guinevere debated entering through the gate and climbing the narrow, claustrophobic internal stairs, or cutting to the side and taking the exterior stairs that soared and swept along the outside of the castle. Too confining, or not confining enough always seemed to be her options these days.

“Guinevere!”

Guinevere turned. A girl was running toward them from the gate. She had long golden hair that streamed behind her with all the luster of a field ripe for harvest. Her wide-set eyes were almost the same honey color, and she had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her dress and cloak were lovely, all in pinks. Guinevere had never seen her before.

She looked at Brangien in confusion, but Brangien seemed equally puzzled.

The girl stopped before them. “Sister!”

“Sister?” Guinevere nearly laughed in confusion. She did not have a sister. And then her stomach dropped in horror. She did not have a sister. But Guinevere—the real Guinevere, dead Guinevere—did. Her name was Guinevach, if memory served. Was this…Guinevach? Here to visit a sister she no longer had?

Guinevere could barely think through her panic. This would be the end of everything. All they had fought for, all she had chosen, ruined because of a girl deciding to visit her sister. The deception had worked because no one in Camelot or the surrounding regions had ever met the southern princess Guinevere. No one had known what she looked like. But no amount of jewelry or fine cloaks would convince Guinevach she was seeing her own sister.

Guinevere braced herself. But it did not matter. Nothing could have prepared her for what Guinevach did next.

Guinevere stood perfectly still, arms pinned to her sides by Guinevach’s hug. “I am so happy to see you again!” Guinevach laughed, then drew back a few inches. “And look! We are the same height now. When you left I only came up to your freckled nose.” She wrinkled her own freckled nose in delight. “Do you remember how our nurse would make us sit side by side in front of the fire as she brushed our hair and lectured us for letting the sun ruin our complexions?”

“I—” Guinevere did not remember. Of course she did not remember. And she could not wrap her head around this development. Guinevach was fourteen, perhaps fifteen now, which meant she had been eleven when her sister—the real, dead Guinevere—had left for the convent. But surely even a child could tell the difference between her own flesh and blood and an imposter. Though Guinevach’s embrace was loose, Guinevere could not breathe. She did not know what to say. What expression to put on her face. What to think of any of this. She stepped away. “I am so sorry, I am not well. Brangien?” Guinevere turned toward her maid.

Brangien, who knew nothing of Guinevere’s false identity, swooped in to the rescue regardless. “The queen needs rest. We will schedule some time with you when she is well.” Brangien stepped between Guinevach and Guinevere, took Guinevere’s arm, and led her into the castle. Guinevere risked one glance over her shoulder. Two women were hurrying to catch up to Guinevach, whose face was carefully set in a neutral expression with only the slightest narrowing of her eyes.

* * *

“Get me Lancelot, or King Arthur. Both. Whoever you can find first.” Guinevere paced the length of her room, hands over her stomach. She had not lied: indeed, she felt quite sick. Brangien did not ask for more details and hurried out of the room. Guinevere longed to tell Brangien the truth of her identity, but this was a secret too dangerous to inflict on anyone who did not already know.

Guinevere leaned out the door and called after Brangien. “And if you see my sister, do not speak to her. If she speaks to you, tell her I am ill!”

She felt like she was trampling through her own mind, trying to dig around for crucial details. What did she know of the real Guinevere’s sister? She was two years younger. Her name was Guinevach. Their father, King Leodegrance, ruled over a small kingdom named Cameliard. And…that was all. The extent of her preparation on that front.

“Thank you, Merlin,” she muttered through gritted teeth. Yet another way in which the wizard who saw all of time had failed spectacularly to prepare her for any of it. For many reasons, she hated him for allowing himself to be sealed in that cave by the Lady of the Lake. Being unable to shout at him for this was added to the very long list.

It made her sad to think about Merlin, though, and everything he had not—and had—done. But she had other things to worry about now. She touched her nose, the freckles undetectable to her fingers. She had never let herself wonder what the real Guinevere had looked like. What she had been like. It was too sad, too uncomfortable.

The door burst open and Lancelot strode in. Her sword was already half-drawn, as though she expected a battle. “Brangien said you needed me.” Though Lancelot no longer wore her familiar patchwork leather and metal armor, her hair remained wild, dark curls, worn plain without any of the braids or ornamentation that were the style for women.

Guinevere sat, then stood. The flock of birds always living in her chest these days had been startled. They flung themselves against the confines of her ribs, beating and flapping in a frenzy inside of her.

“What is the threat?” Lancelot stood in a fighter’s stance, feet apart, perfectly balanced.

“Not one you can fight with a sword. Guinevere’s sister is here.”

Lancelot frowned and then looked appropriately alarmed. “Wait. Guinevere—the princess you are supposed to be—was a real person?” Lancelot had never asked for more details about where Guinevere had come from. She had guessed that Merlin was her father, but beyond that, had merely accepted Guinevere as Guinevere had accepted her.

Guinevere nodded and resumed pacing. Where was Arthur? “She died, and I took her place. She really was from Cameliard, and she had—has—a younger sister. Who is here now.” It was hard, speaking and thinking about the real Guinevere, having gotten so used to being Guinevere herself. The confusion was more than verbal.

“That is…not good.”

Guinevere answered with a high-pitched laugh. “No. It is not good. I just met her.”

“Did she—”

They were interrupted by the door opening. Arthur strode in.

“Guinevere! What is wrong?” He took her by the shoulders, peering into her face as though looking for some hurt there.

“My sister is here.”