The Camelot Betrayal (Camelot Rising 2)

He smiled and patted her shoulder. “No need to thank me.” Every woman here looked at Mordred with shining gratitude. It was clear they all knew him, trusted him, and even loved him. He had been the one to banish women, but he had done that instead of having them killed. Maybe he had also helped them form and protect this little village. But why?

“Mordred, can we speak?” Guinevere gestured toward the trees. Lancelot’s brow descended, her eyes flashing like the moment before a storm. “We will stay in sight,” Guinevere told her.

Mordred followed her the few steps to the trees. “How is your shoulder?”

“Nearly healed. Thank you for that. I do not understand it. And I do not understand this.” She gestured toward the camp.

“That is how I noticed your fire before. I was making certain my mother’s vision of the island was true. Her visions are not always accurate. Though I suspect you are following me now. This is three times. Having regrets?”

Guinevere gave him a flat look, and he continued. “These women have always been kind to me. I help out where I can. I am glad you were here today. Lancelot especially, though please do not tell her.” Mordred waggled his fingers mockingly toward where Lancelot stood watching them, her legs braced and her sword half-raised, ready to charge at the slightest provocation.

“But what are you doing out here? You were with the wolves, but not on their side. And then you helped me and just…left. And now you are, what, escorting these women to a new home?”

“I am doing exactly what I told you I would be doing.” Mordred reached up and plucked a golden leaf free from where it dangled above their heads. He twisted it by the stem, watching it flutter and dance in his hand. He sounded less defiant than he did sad. “I am living. I am free. I am doing what I choose, when I choose, how I choose.”

“But your grandmother. I thought—well, I thought you would be plotting with her.”

Mordred shook his head. “Not being on Arthur’s side is not the same as being evil. I wanted my grandmother to be whole. To reclaim some of the magic that was taken from the world. When she was unmade, she went mad. Her spirit and her power were uncontained, uncontainable. I hoped that, by restoring her body, she could be whole again. I could not do it for my father, but I could do it for her.” He paused, a shadow flitting across his face. “She has not forgiven Arthur. I cannot blame her for that. But I do not serve her, or anyone. I am genuinely sorry for using you. For not being honest. I think if I had told you the truth—if I had been open—I think you would have chosen to help me.”

“I would never have.”

Mordred smiled, holding out the leaf. Guinevere did not take it. He let it drop to the ground. “We cannot know now, can we. But using you the way I did is the only thing I regret.”

Mordred had betrayed Arthur. His own blood. His own king. He had helped build Camelot, and then he had defied them all and walked away. “The only thing? Really?”

“Well.” Mordred shifted, leaning closer. “That, and that you did not come with me. I regret that every single moment of every single day. But that was not my choice to make.” His eyes were the greenest thing in the forest, like the shade beneath an ancient tree, cool and secret and inviting. She did not have to wonder if his lips were as soft as they looked. She knew.

“Tell me,” he said, “how did Arthur react when you told him I proved I mean you no harm, and when he found out I helped you in the forest?”

Guinevere flinched and Mordred’s eyes widened, then narrowed slyly. “Ah. Tell me why you did not tell him.”

She turned her back on him.

“If you will not tell me that, then tell me: What were you talking about when I found you before? Something about your dreams?”

Grateful she had already turned so he could not see her furious blush, Guinevere stomped back to the cart and the women. Lancelot was immediately at her side, eyes only on Mordred.

Ailith moved toward Guinevere. “Can you—can you really get me back into Camelot, like you told Rhoslyn? I want—there is a—”

Gunild joined Ailith, pulling her in for a fierce hug. “There is a stupid brother of mine that needs a woman foolish enough to love him. Are you sure?” They had all left lives behind in Camelot. And apparently some of them felt the loss more keenly than others.

Ailith nodded, the tears spilling down her face. “I was a child when I was banished. It was because of my mother, not because of me. I do not think anyone would recognize me or have reason to suspect me.”

“Are you certain?” Rhoslyn said. “You know what you are giving up.”

“I know.” Ailith undid a necklace of smooth rocks knotted lovingly together. She passed it to Rhoslyn, pressing it into the older woman’s hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

Rhoslyn kissed Ailith’s forehead. “Take care of yourself.”

Gunild sniffled. “And take care of my stupid brother, and have lots of fat babies and name one after me. Name them all after me.”

“Time to go,” Mordred said. The camp had a few other horses, and they loaded the children into the cart and onto the horses where they could.

“Good luck,” Guinevere said to Rhoslyn. She had not said goodbye to Mordred. She would not.

Rhoslyn smiled, the lines around her eyes both weary and kind. “And to you, too.” She turned and walked into the trees. Mordred was the last to go. He shared one last, long look with Guinevere. Almost as though he was waiting for something.

And part of her was tempted to run after him.