Guinevere touched her forehead, wishing she could push into her own mind, pull apart what Merlin had put there, but she was terrified of what might happen. “I do not know what Merlin did to me, or why, and the more I try to fix things or claim who I am, to be queen or to wield magic as a protector, the more people get hurt. Where will it stop?”
Arthur walked toward her from where he had been pacing. He knelt before her and took her hands in his. For once she did not want to cling to the assurance and strength she always felt in his touch. She did not want to feel anything that was not her own.
“That is what it means to have power,” he said. “You make the best choices you can, and there are consequences. There are always consequences. And usually you are not the one to suffer them. Other people do. You have to accept it, and live with it, and continue to move forward trying to do the most good for the most people.”
“I did that. I did. But my actions killed innocents, Arthur. And I do not know how to accept it, or how to move forward, or even how to do the most good. I am not sure that being here, being queen, is the most good for the most people.”
Arthur squeezed her hands. “It is. Merlin would not have sent you otherwise. We may not always understand it, but everything he has done has been for Camelot. For our people.”
That was not true. Merlin did not care about people at all. He cared about Arthur, and Arthur’s path to power, and about his own plans. But even if Morgana had been lying, Guinevere still knew enough to know that Merlin cared nothing for the good of individuals if they got in the way of his plans. If he wanted Guinevere here, he would not care what happened around her, or who suffered, or who died.
But she could not argue this with Arthur. He worked so hard. And he was good. He deserved to be king. In spite of everything else, she believed that. Camelot was better than anything else she had seen out in the world. Whatever consequences Arthur’s choices caused, he considered them all. He weighed them all. And he did what he could, wherever he could, to make every life better. If Arthur needed to believe in Merlin to continue as king, Guinevere would not take that from him. But she could not do the same.
Guinevere gently pushed his hands away and stood. “I am tired. You should return to the festival. Keep Excalibur with you, but Morgana is gone. I will know if she gets near again.”
“I can stay.”
“No.” Guinevere put a hand on his cheek. Who would he have been if Morgana had gotten to him first? What would have happened to Uther Pendragon? To Camelot? Would Lancelot have been allowed to kill that tyrant, setting Camelot free? Or would another tyrant have come in, someone like Maleagant? What had she done in King Mark’s land when she removed him from power? Would they get their own Arthur now, or someone just as bad as King Mark?
If Arthur could go back and make every choice for himself, without interference, what would he do differently? She could not imagine him as anything other than what he was.
“Go,” she said. “Be with your people. Celebrate, and let them see you celebrating. Be where you are supposed to be and who you are supposed to be.”
“I do not want to leave you alone.”
Guinevere turned to Lancelot. She had been so unfair to her knight. Lancelot would never be like the other knights, not truly. Guinevere had taken the choice from her, had determined what their relationship should be. She would not do that again. “I have Lancelot.”
“Always,” Lancelot said, her dark eyes intent, as powerful as any of her strikes, as determined as any of her fighting.
Guinevere looked back up at Arthur and caught a flicker of something—anger, or concern, she could not say which—before he bent over and retrieved his sword.
“Very well. We will speak more, once you have rested.” Holding his sword out to the side so it would not brush against Guinevere even in its sheath, Arthur bent down. The kiss he pressed against her lips felt deliberate in a way she could not quite explain. Then he left.
Lancelot and Guinevere went back to her room. Brangien had already prepared it for sleep. Guinevere wished Brangien and Isolde were still here to help her undress. It was difficult to unlace the sleeves from her dress, and she could not undo the ties in the back on her own. She did not want to sleep in the dress and risk ruining it after all Isolde’s work.
“Can you—can you help me?” Guinevere had unlaced the sleeves but could not reach the back of her dress.
Lancelot nodded.
Guinevere turned her back and Lancelot began tugging on the strings. “I am sorry,” Guinevere whispered. “I wanted to protect you. I wanted you to be a real knight. No different from the rest of them.”
“I want to be different from the rest of them,” Lancelot said, her voice as soft as the callused fingers pulling the laces free one by one.
“But you wanted to be King Arthur’s knight.”
“No. I want to be Queen Guinevere’s knight. But also—” She cut herself off, then continued, hesitant. “But also your friend.”
She had finished with the laces. Guinevere turned around. “You are my friend.” Lancelot knew the truth about her. Had known for longer than anyone but Arthur. And in so many ways, Lancelot knew her better than Arthur did. They spent more time together. Lancelot trusted her and treated her as a queen but also did not hesitate to disagree when she thought Guinevere was wrong. Which made her support all the more valuable. Guinevere realized with a start that what she missed most about Mordred was the sense that he saw her. In every room, in every situation, he had seen her first and foremost.
But she had not lost that when he left. She still had it in Lancelot. And perhaps it was even better, because Lancelot did not look at her with any ulterior motives or any deception. Lancelot was always herself, and she was always true. Much the way Arthur was, the difference being Lancelot was always there.
Lancelot smiled, something shy in her expression as she stared at the stone floor. “It is harder to find a good friend than a queen, I think.”
Guinevere laughed. “It is hard to be either one. But I will try to be both the friend and the queen you deserve.” She pulled off her dress, then removed her stockings and boots. Lancelot sat in a chair near the door as Guinevere climbed into bed.
Guinevere closed her eyes. But she kept seeing the sword point appearing in the stomach of Hild’s brother. Watching him fall. Hearing Morgana tell a different story and rewrite the past. And, most of all, she kept seeing the terrible promise of that hole and the water beneath. Wondering what would have happened if she had jumped. Tempted in a despairing way to climb up and do just that.
“Lancelot,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.