She could not afford to be. She would take care of it alone. She would fortify Camelot, and, when she got the opportunity, she would do what Arthur could not and would not.
Was this how Merlin made his decision? She cringed at the thought.
“Did you hurt your hands?” Arthur asked.
“Oh.” She looked down where she had been unconsciously kneading them, trying to counterbalance the fierce ache. “No. Well, yes. But for a good cause. Magic always has a price.”
Arthur took her right hand between his. His hands were big and calloused, but his fingers worked with precision as he began massaging her palm in circles. Guinevere stifled a small gasp.
Arthur froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, it feels—it feels nice.” It felt more than nice.
Arthur tugged her hand, gently guiding her to his side. She leaned against him and he worked the numbness and pain out of both her hands. His skin on hers was like magic.
She wondered what the price would be.
“It is such a relief to be able to touch you,” Arthur said, startling Guinevere from where she had almost dozed off against his shoulder. “I have to be so careful with women. There are a lot of rules. And people are always watching.”
“Yes, I have noticed that. And I have missed you. Every day is filled with lying about my very self. When I am with you, I do not have to.”
Arthur’s motions paused, then became softer as he massaged down each of her delicate fingers. “Keeping secrets is like a thorn beneath the skin. You can get used to it, but it is always there, festering.”
She opened her mouth to ask him about Merlin, about what he had done to Igraine. But she did not want to bring that much darkness and violence into this fragile, safe space they had.
Besides, it was Merlin who had kept the truth from her. Arthur had no blame in this.
With the pain in her hands lessened, Guinevere felt heavy and dull with exhaustion. She wanted to curl up right here. “Where should I— Where am I sleeping?”
Arthur sat up straight, dislodging her from his shoulder. “I am sorry. I have kept you too long. You could—” He paused, and she leaned forward, wanting him to invite her to stay. But something closed off in his face and he cleared his throat. “Tonight there is a tent for you and Brangien.”
She had half thought—perhaps even half hoped—that she would be sharing Arthur’s tent. But she needed to rest. And so did Arthur, of course. The price of the magic of his touch was revealed: it left her wanting more, craving something she had not known she needed until she had it.
He stood. “Brangien can help you tonight and tomorrow morning, but she cannot accompany us past this point. I will not risk her.”
Guinevere smiled that she herself was not considered something to be risked—she was a strength, not a weakness. “I can manage fine on my own. I am not so spoiled that I cannot live without a maid.”
Arthur laughed. “You may yet get there.” He led her to the tent next to his. Brangien was already inside, bustling about. Guinevere entered and Arthur closed the flap.
Unfortunately, the tent was not thick enough to block out several low laughs and whistles, and one shout of “How was your reunion with your queen?”
“Get some sleep,” Arthur shouted back. “That is a command!” But he did not sound angry or upset. He sounded playful. He was not going to discourage them from thinking that he had a normal relationship with his wife. After all, the legality of their union depended on it. She shoved away the dangerous thought that she would have preferred to stay in Arthur’s tent, and not just to bolster their ruse.
She was curious, was all. Increasingly so.
Brangien scowled. “They are distasteful and stupid. Obviously nothing happened because Arthur could not have done your laces back up by himself. Idiots.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” Guinevere rushed to cover up her embarrassment at both the men’s assumption and Brangien’s insight. “Can you teach me how to do it on this dress? You are not coming with us tomorrow.”
“What? Why?”
“Arthur is afraid it will be dangerous.”
Brangien scoffed. “No more dangerous than riding across the entire country with these fools.”
“I could not live with myself if something happened to you.”
“But it is my job to serve you.”
Guinevere turned, interrupting Brangien’s progress and forcing her to meet her gaze. “But you are also my friend. If Arthur thinks it is too dangerous to bring you, I trust him. He takes care of his people. I will be fine. Better than fine, because I will know you are safe.”
Brangien’s eyes lowered. A flash of some emotion Guinevere could not place went over her maid’s face. Then Brangien got back to work, unlacing Guinevere’s sleeves and helping her remove her outer clothes. “Very well. But if you mess up your plaits by riding too fast, I will not be there to fix them, and all the Picts will blame me for your state. My reputation will be ruined.”
Guinevere dutifully turned around so Brangien could undo her braids and comb out the decidedly unmagical knots. “I promise I will do right by you.”
“And stay safe,” Brangien whispered.
“And stay safe,” Guinevere agreed. She hoped it was a promise she could keep.
There is nothing to hold on to in Camelot. Wings flutter, legs skitter, but the little bodies have nothing to pull them, no source of light to be drawn toward.
Magic has left Camelot.
She will have to wait until it returns. But she is hungry. And more than hungry, she is bored. A child has wandered from her parents. The dark queen winks with insects, flashes butterfly wings. Lures the child deeper and deeper into the woods.
Devours.
Never sated but not starving, she moves on. She ripples through the earth, nudging against the borders of Camelot. Trying to find a weak spot. Trying to find a place that will allow her, make room for her, feed her.
A river stops her. It is not any normal river, eternal, rushing, uncaring.
This river is livid.
She forgets her hunger. She forgets her boredom. A hundred bats flap into the sky, a colony of darkness against the blue, and if anyone were looking, it would look like a smile. With very sharp teeth.
Arthur rode with his knights. At the front, at the back, ranging to the outer reaches of their company. He was everywhere except at Guinevere’s side. Even Mordred did not talk to her. No one did. Not as a rejection of her, but as a response to their new situation.