The Camelot Betrayal (Camelot Rising 2)

“I will wait until tomorrow.”

Guinevere accepted the bread put in her hand and ate it ravenously. Her stomach was uncertain, but now that she had her wits about her, she refused to take longer than needed to recover. Even though she was on dry land, the dregs of panic were still draining from her. She could swear the solid earth beneath her had the slightest pitch and roll. Reaching into her pouch, she clutched the dragon’s tooth, rubbing her thumb along it. It grew warm to the touch.

A sense of an intelligence somewhere nearby tickled the edge of her consciousness. Was it her touch magic, or something from the dragon? She dropped the tooth and it disappeared. Then she picked it up again and the sense returned. The dragon was nearby. It must have ventured south, following the sun before winter fell.

It did not matter. She needed to focus.

Sir Tristan crouched nearby while Lancelot got the horses ready. He spoke quickly, filling her in on the plans she had missed. “King Mark is not a sentimental man. When his previous three wives died, they were entombed within hours. No ceremony. Brangien will sneak into the castle and deliver the potion, and then we will wait near the cliff tombs for Isolde to be placed there.”

“Is the potion ready?” Lancelot asked.

Brangien crumpled something to dust between her fingers and sprinkled it into a leather canteen. “It will be by the time we get there.”

“No.” Guinevere shook her aching head. “Brangien might be recognized. King Mark has seen her, and many of his men have, as well.”

“I could—” Lancelot’s voice was strained. She cleared her throat and continued more purposefully. “I could dress as a woman.” They had spoken of it before. Lancelot was herself in armor; wearing women’s clothing felt like lying.

“You stand out.” Guinevere gestured. “You are tall and strong and you do not carry yourself like a servant. I do not know if you could convince anyone. I will do it.”

“No,” all three said at once, but Guinevere stood. It took everything in her not to sway or tremble, but she managed.

“I am best suited to the task, and you all know it. I can imitate a maid and draw no attention, and even if I do, I have plenty of tricks that will give me enough time to escape. But those will not be necessary because I will do such a good job of walking with exasperated purpose through the castle that no one will dare stop me. And when I find Isolde and explain who I am—”

Brangien interrupted. “She will know who you are. We have spoken of you.”

Guinevere was touched that Brangien took her into the dreamspace and shared that part of her life with Isolde. “Good. Then she will know she can trust me when I give her poison and tell her to drink it and die.”

“But what if she is in a cell?” Lancelot asked. “What if you cannot find her?”

“Then I will improvise. I am good at it.” Guinevere gave Lancelot a meaningful look. She had been improvising since the day Arthur’s men retrieved her from the convent. She mounted her horse, accepting Lancelot’s help as though it were appreciated but not necessary, though she doubted she could have gotten up on her own. Hopefully she would be fully recovered by the time they arrived at the city.

* * *

Brangien finished her potion as they rode, then passed the leather canteen to Guinevere. Lancelot eyed the exchange warily. Guinevere was careful not to make eye contact or look anything other than ready and confident. She was certain Lancelot would change her mind about this plan at the slightest indication of danger or hesitation, and Guinevere would not let that happen.

“Right, left, through the hallway, up the back stairs, second door, right, last door.” Guinevere repeated the instructions to herself. Sir Tristan had explained the castle’s layout to her and given her directions to the royal chambers. And Lancelot had made her swear that if Isolde was not there, she would come right back out.

Sir Tristan led them along the shoreline, avoiding the city. But even from this distance Guinevere could smell it. Woodsmoke, animals, a tannery. It was wretched. So bad that Guinevere would have preferred even the smell of the sea over it. She was awash with gratitude to Arthur for having so much foresight in how he took care of Camelot. It was not enough to have a city that functioned. Arthur made certain his city was pleasant for everyone who lived there.

This castle, too, was less than impressive. Guinevere could not see details from this far, but it was a squat, inelegant building with only two stories. The foundation was stone, but the rest was wood and vulnerable to fire. It was built along a cliff overlooking the water, so at least it had a natural defense on one side.

Sir Tristan led them to a rocky outcropping. They dismounted, tied up the horses, and climbed until they reached a good vantage point. Sir Tristan pointed to a cove where there was a cave halfway up the cliff. “Those are the tombs. When you have done your part, meet us here.”

Brangien tucked a small purple thistle behind Guinevere’s ear. “I have told Isolde about you in our dreams, of course, but this will prove who you are and that you come on my behalf.”

“Guinevere,” Lancelot said, her voice low but commanding.

“I will come back at the slightest hint of danger,” Guinevere said, quickly clambering down the rocks before Lancelot could say anything else.

Squaring her shoulders and lowering her cloak’s hood—no one working inside a castle would wear a hood—Guinevere walked with purpose, keeping well away from the edge of the cliff, her eyes on the ground. She entered the castle through a side door and then followed Sir Tristan’s directions like she knew exactly where she was going.

And she did. She was going to rescue a damsel in distress. Arthur was not the only hero in Camelot.

Guinevere had not accounted for the fact that she was really only used to one castle, and was rarely alone in it. The castle at Camelot was shallow but with many stories, so no single one was that complex. Some had only a handful of rooms, and she did not even know what many of the areas held because she never had reason to visit them.

Not ten minutes inside King Mark’s castle and she was lost. It was a squat labyrinth, a lifeless, breathless forest. And it all felt so fragile. So temporary. Half the floors she walked across were rushes, crunching beneath her feet. A few sparks and the entire castle—and with it, King Mark’s authority—would be gone.

No wonder Arthur was succeeding. Camelot itself lent him credit and status. The permanence, the order, the beauty. Arthur was young, yes, but how could anyone not be inspired by his city? Of course everyone who came to him wanted to be part of it. Between that and the sword that had waited for him in the heart of Camelot, it was as though someone had lovingly prepared it all for him.