The Camelot Betrayal (Camelot Rising 2)

“We are protecting Camelot.”

“Yes, I know.” Lancelot looked annoyed. “You have said as much. You have not told me how.”

“We are going to form a barrier. No one will enter or leave. A little like the magic we did over the river, only stronger.” If the river magic had been an attack, this was a defense. No more deaths at her hands.

Lancelot stopped walking. “But we cannot let the people know you use magic. You would be banished, or worse.”

“No one will see who does it. They will only see the result. For all they know, it is a threat, not a protection. When Arthur returns and unmakes it with Excalibur, he has once again saved the city from her.”

“He will be the hero.” Lancelot narrowed her eyes, troubled.

“He is always the hero. Camelot needs him to be the hero.” Guinevere knew it, and Lancelot did, too. Lancelot had tried to be Camelot’s hero, and the Lady of the Lake herself had stopped it.

“But it is more complicated than that.”

“It always is.” Guinevere kept moving. They had no time to waste. She was not entirely certain her plan would work, and if it did not, then she would have to figure something else out. The southern waterfall pounded next to them, a fine mist in the air creating rainbows where it caught the light. She could not hear their steps anymore by the time they reached the hidden entrance to the cave. Guinevere pulled aside the draping vines.

“Has this always been here?” Lancelot shouted to be heard over the waterfall’s roar.

“Yes. But only a handful know about it. Merlin. Arthur. Mordred. And now you. It will take you directly to the castle, into an unused storeroom.”

“We are here to block it, then?” Lancelot examined the entrance. “Maybe if we climbed up the side of the mountain and somehow diverted the waterfall?” She eyed the cliff appraisingly.

“No. We need it open.” Guinevere had been right about her plans. That water—the river split at the top before falling down on either side of Camelot in the twin waterfalls and becoming the lake—and this rock of the mountain that Camelot itself was carved out of were the two borders of the city. Rock and water and iron and blood. It would work.

Instead of feeling elated, Guinevere was terrified. This was it. Her last chance to make a different decision. To wait and see what happened. To do something vicious and dangerous like she had done at the river, or to King Mark, or to Ramm. To risk hurting innocents in the cross fire. Arthur would meet the threat head on, the way he met everything, because he knew who and what he was and how to fight for what he believed in.

Lancelot looked at her, face open and expectant. Behind Lancelot, through the tunnel, was the castle that held almost everyone Guinevere cared about. And out there, somewhere, was Arthur, riding after certain heartbreak. Guinevere did not think he had a son. It was a cruel trick, the cruelest imaginable.

Guinevere had sworn to protect Camelot. She would not break that promise, whatever else she broke today.

“Give me your hand,” Guinevere said.

Lancelot held her hand out, unquestioning even when Guinevere pulled out the knife. She sliced a line down Lancelot’s palm and one down her own. Then she clasped their hands together. The blood pooled and dripped down the sides of their joined hands.

She walked, Lancelot following, connected to her. From the other side of the cave opening, with Lancelot’s back to the mountain and Guinevere’s back to the open land behind them, Guinevere let their blood fall on the rock, pressing their hands against it. Then she guided Lancelot, drawing an unbroken line of blood from the face of the mountain beyond the passageway, down the pebbles of the beach, and, finally, to the water just beyond the waterfall.

Guinevere moved their hands together, keeping the line continuous and dripping a single knot. A knot she knew in her soul, though she had never used it before. A knot of binding. It was complex, intricate, a knot that could not be undone by any means she had access to. And then, to finish it, she extended the line of blood to the edge of the water. When it hit, it spread, fast—faster than it should have. A flash of blue rose between Guinevere and Lancelot like a line of flames. Guinevere released Lancelot’s hand, jumping back just in time. They watched the blue burn up, racing across the surface of the lake and the mountain behind them, until the two lines met in the sky and formed a shimmering dome nearly invisible to the naked eye. They had connected the stone to the water and everything between them was unreachable now.

“What is it?” Lancelot shouted.

Arthur had a sword for Camelot’s protection. Guinevere had given them a shield.

A black moth fluttered from the sky, landing on Guinevere’s sleeve like a smudge of ash. She brushed it away. Lancelot took a step toward Guinevere, but Guinevere held up her hands. “No! You cannot cross the line. The magic is anchored to our blood. If you cross the threshold, it will break. Go back through the passageway.”

“Come on.” Lancelot held out one hand, careful not to extend it past the line of the magic.

Guinevere took a step back. It hurt far more than slicing her palm had. It hurt more than anything she had ever done, and the look in Lancelot’s eyes was the deepest cut of all. “I am the other anchor. If I cross, it breaks. I have to be on this side.”

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sp; Arthur had asked her to make a decision. And she had just sealed herself off from Camelot.

Lancelot shook her head, trying to reason away what Guinevere was doing. To fix it. “So you are going to camp here until Arthur returns?”

Guinevere’s heart was racing, the full reality of what she had done, what she was going to do, shimmering around her like the magic. Sealing her off from who she had tried to be. What she had tried to be. “I promised I would protect Camelot. And I have. But I cannot—I cannot stay. I keep hurting people. I keep hurting myself. And until I know who I truly am, I do not think I can be Guinevere anymore. Not the Guinevere Lily needs, or Arthur needs, or Camelot needs.”

“What about the Guinevere I need?” Lancelot’s dark eyes were filled with tears. Guinevere had never seen her cry, had never seen her anything other than strong or brave or supportive. Nothing had ever broken Lancelot. Not the loss and tragedies of her childhood, not the battles she had to fight every day of her life to attain her place, not the constant work she had to do to maintain it. Nothing until Guinevere.