“What is the meeting?”
“Something with the Picts. Arthur has been active on the northern borders. He will have to play nice and reassure them he is not expanding, merely maintaining.”
“Why does he need me, then?” This sounded like politics and military issues, not magical threats. She wanted to help Arthur however he needed, but if she was not essential, she was wasting her time and risking Arthur’s safety. She could almost feel Rhoslyn getting farther and farther away. Having more time to plot wickedness with the patchwork knight.
“What better way to show peaceful intentions than to bring his new bride? It demonstrates that he trusts them and is treating this as a pleasant meeting between friendly allies.”
“So I am a decoration?” Her heart sank, and she gritted her teeth.
“You are a vital piece in a complicated game.”
“Mmm.”
“You do not sound happy with that answer.”
“I am happy to help the king in whatever way I can.” But her face would not give up its frown. Maybe there was more to it. There could be something magic in play, and Arthur was bringing her under false pretenses.
“Well,” Mordred said, “I am afraid your disobedient horse is about to break into a gallop again and I will have to follow. It may be a while before we can get the horse to slow down.”
Her horse was walking calmly. Mordred’s mossy-green eyes twinkled expectantly. She clicked her tongue and tapped the horse’s sides. It broke into a gallop, the wind greeting her once more.
* * *
After a tongue-lashing from Brangien—who apparently felt freer outside the walls, as well, and had no qualms about shouting at the queen for risking her neck and riding too fast—Guinevere was forced to keep her horse at a reasonable walk.
To further emphasize her point, Brangien planted her horse twenty feet ahead of Guinevere’s and kept it there. Mordred grew ever more focused on their surroundings.
The countryside offered no threats, though. In their daylong ride, they passed field after field. The vista of green and gold was broken only by the occasional small town or hamlet. There were not many people in the towns—they were out in the fields, working. But a few children were around, playing happily or watching the mounted procession with open curiosity. Horses were not a common sight out here.
As afternoon stretched out warm and content like a cat, they passed through another small village. A woman and her son sold them fresh bread. It reminded Guinevere of what Brangien had said about the little boy in the village claimed by the forest. When the whitewashed cob houses faded in the distance, Guinevere turned to Mordred.
“Have any forests grown here? Do you have to fight them back often?”
“No.” Mordred looked past her. On the far horizon there was a dark smudge, but that was the only evidence of forestland she could see. Her hand-knotted magic had not reached that far north—she had focused it all in Rhoslyn’s direction. “Magic thrives on blood and wonder and chaos. Camelot is so well ordered, so structured, that magic can find no hold. Arthur strangled it, starved it, and cut it out. He allows no seeds within his borders.”
Well. Except her. But what Mordred said made her curious. Maybe Arthur had done something to the lake, and that was why it was so dead. She would have to ask him. “And that is why he banished Merlin, even though Merlin had always helped.”
Mordred ran his fingers along his jaw, where dark stubble was beginning to peer through his pale skin. “Not all of us agreed that was necessary. But yes. Merlin himself is chaos in mortal form.”
Guinevere snorted. Then she tried to cover it with a cough. Chaotic was an excellent way to describe Merlin. Was it any wonder her memories were confusing jumbles of images and lessons, with gaping holes between?
She closed her eyes at the sudden flare of discomfort, the suspicion that there was more to her missing memories than she was allowing herself to see.
She had to focus, though. She was not here for herself. She was here for Arthur and Camelot. Merlin was a risk to associate with, certainly. But surely Camelot could understand the necessity of keeping certain weapons. Most of the city was stone, but the inhabitants still kept barrels of water everywhere in case of fire. They did not want fire, did not set it, but they were prepared to fight it the only way they could. Magic was the same. Keeping someone capable of recognizing and combating it was not the same as inviting magic to take hold within the city.
Was it?
“What if someone attacks using magic?” she asked, keeping her tone as light and innocent as possible. “Who will defend you with Merlin gone?”
“Keeping Merlin in the city was too risky. Like calls to like.” He glanced over at her, then looked quickly away. “Besides, people did not trust the wizard.”
“Why not? He always fought for Arthur.”
“In his own ways, when he chose to, how he chose to. He was bound by no laws, not even Arthur’s. And then there was the matter of Arthur’s birth.”
She wanted Mordred to keep talking, but she had to be careful what she revealed. How much would the real Guinevere have known? “I have heard the rumors. That Uther Pendragon used a wizard to trick Igraine so he could lie with her.” Guinevere shuddered. It was a violent, terrible magic. It could breed only evil. How had it produced Arthur? “I can understand why they would not want another wizard in Camelot.”
“Another wizard? What do you mean?”
Guinevere turned her face to him. “What do you mean?”
“It was Merlin.”
“No.” Guinevere shook her head. The information did not fit. It could not fit. Her chest squeezed, like she had been laced too tightly. “No, it was a dark sorcerer.”
Mordred’s smile was as soft and blue as the twilight falling around them. “Yes. Merlin. That is the nature of magic. When you bend the world to your will, when you twist nature around yourself, where does the power stop? Who tells you to stop?”
Had Guinevere not been on a horse, she would have stopped in shock. As it was, she was grateful for the cloak of evening to hide the horror claiming her. Merlin. Merlin had done that. It was the most violent act possible, the taking of someone’s will. She would never have made knots for it, would never have participated in such a deception. Such depravity. But Merlin—her protector, her teacher, her father—had. “How could he?” she whispered.
“Merlin saw that the world needed a new kind of king. So he made it happen.” Mordred sighed, patting his horse’s neck. “I do not agree with what he did. It was my grandmother who was violated by a man she thought was her husband. But without it, Arthur would not be here.” He held out his arms to the peaceful, rolling countryside. “We cannot deny the end result. Merlin saw what Camelot demanded, and he created the means for it. He engineered his own banishment, in a way. The wizard is a puzzle. But Camelot is a success.”