The Guinevere Deception (Camelot Rising 1)

She bit off the tangled thread from Brangien’s hood, then carefully replaced the clothing she had taken. She pulled on a fur-lined robe. It was difficult not to touch the fur with her fingers. It was not that she did not want to feel what the animal had felt. Rather, the opposite. The brief spark of life and freedom made the walls unbearable. She would have to ask Arthur for some clothing without fur.

And then she realized—if she could not follow the patchwork knight, she could take something of his!

Merlin had not taught her touch magic. He did not seem to understand it—but in truth, she did not, either. It was unlike the knots, or the fire, or any of the other tricks in the handful she had at her disposal. For those, she had to concentrate. She had to perform them deliberately, and in certain ways.

The touch magic simply happened. Most often with people, though it was hard to interpret. A person was constantly changing, even their skin always shedding and renewing itself.

She did not like it. When it had been only her and Merlin, everything was familiar. It had been jarring in the convent, all the new sensations and feelings and people flooding her. Objects were less confusing. Like the fur, they usually held something of their origins. A sense of what they were, or what they could be. It was not always clear which she was feeling. However, if an object was important, it almost always whispered to her. And if she pushed, she could get more than a fleeting sensation. Though it felt intrusive and wrong to do so with people. She had tried it on one of the nuns and was met with a well of sadness and compassion so deep she could scarcely catch her breath.

She did not understand the borders or the purpose of the touch magic, and that made her nervous. She liked the security of the knots. Still, she might be able to arrange a way to touch something of the patchwork knight’s. Most preferably his mask, which she sensed was more vital to the knight than his sword or his armor. Anything with a purpose to obscure could not help but reveal in equal measure.

And she would try to find the woman from the alley, as well. Something about the exchange she had seen nagged at her.

Arthur was back, though. Her eagerness to see him surprised her. It had been only a day since she met him, but he was the center of her life here already. She slipped past the tapestry and through the passageway to Arthur’s room. She knocked lightly on the door, waiting in the frigid space between stone wall and mountain rock. The cold radiated with an intensity that felt personal. She put her hand against the mountain, but it was too old and too immovable to react to her. It feared only—

Water. It did not like water. She could feel it in the stone. It cared nothing for the men who crawled on it, nothing for the castle carved into its surface. But the water, the constant, relentless water, would someday unmake it. She felt how it had diverted the river, forced the water to split when it wanted to remain whole. How many more thousands of years the mountain would survive because of it. But not forever. It would be worn down and would disappear. The coldness mourned the future. Even mountains do not want to be unmade.

“I understand,” she whispered, patting the stone.

The stone pulsed back with—sullen recognition? She yanked her hand away, surprised and unnerved. She was about to return to her rooms when the door opened.

“Come in.” Arthur stepped aside and held the tapestry so she would not have to duck. “I was hoping you would visit. I am not sure what Brangien would think if I came into your rooms.”

“Whatever she thinks, I doubt she would criticize you. She is very fond of you.”

“She is a good girl. Sir Tristan thinks highly of her.” He sat and she followed suit, trying not to show how amused she was at Arthur calling Brangien a girl. Brangien was the same age as he. But Arthur wore the weight of a nation on his shoulders. Perhaps he had earned the right to feel older than those around him.

“Are you well?” he asked, leaning closer.

She had not intended to bring it up, but her body had slumped into an arc of exhaustion, betraying her. “The next few days will be difficult. But once I have the foundations of the protections in place, maintaining them will require less of me.”

“Please let me know if there is anything I can do.”

She appreciated the offer, but if Arthur could do this for himself, she would not be here. Arthur had always needed magical protection. He ruled Camelot, but she had skills he never could have.

“I have a few thoughts,” she said, reinvigorated by her confidence. She was no Merlin, but she had Merlin’s trust. And Arthur’s, too. “First, tell your guards at the gates that women can be threats as easily as men, and they should check everyone who comes in.”

Arthur frowned as if it had never occurred to him. Even though he himself had fought a queen of tremendous power. He nodded. “I will instruct them. Though, will that not make your tasks harder?”

“All my efforts will be for naught if an assassin in women’s clothes can walk right through the front gate.”

He poured two glasses of watered wine and passed one to her. “I would like you to tell me if you are leaving the castle, though. What if something had happened to you? I would not know where to look.”

Guinevere raised an eyebrow. “You forget your place, my king. You are not to worry about me, I am to worry about you.”

“Ah.” Arthur’s brow darkened, and he took a sip from his glass. “What else?”

“What do you know of the patchwork knight?”

Arthur’s whole demeanor shifted as he gestured with so much animation he nearly spilled his drink. “Did you see him fight? Oh, he is magnificent. I have longed to declare a tournament for him, but the problem with rule of law is that you have to abide by your own silly ideas. If I made an exception for him, the knights who earned their places would be resentful, and those who were not given the same accommodation would be angry. Every day I hope there will be fewer aspirants so we can finally set the tournament. I did not expect the opportunity to fight for me to be quite so popular.”

“Arthur. You are the greatest king in generations. Of course men want to fight for you. For what you are building here.”

He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. There must be a reason you mentioned him specifically.”

She did not want to dampen his enthusiasm, but it had to be addressed. “He might not be human.”

“What?”