The tremendous sorrow. The overpowering yearning. “Sir Tristan is not the one who loves Isolde, is he?” Guinevere asked.
Sir Tristan shook his head slowly. “I would do anything to see her happy. Brangien, too. Both of them together.”
Isolde and Brangien. No wonder she had been banished along with Tristan.
Guinevere did not envy the pain on Brangien’s face. But how would it feel to love so deeply she could hurt that much? The overwhelming sorrow seemed precious, almost holy. Brangien carried that within herself always, a dedicated portion of her soul. And if the sorrow was that deep, how much deeper must be the love that formed it?
Envy stirred in Guinevere. She wanted that. And she wanted Brangien to have it back. “You are trying to see Isolde?”
Brangien nodded, warily hopeful.
“One hair,” Guinevere said. She had seen Merlin do this. She could not remember when or how, but she distinctly remembered looking up at Merlin as he peered into a tub of water and made a circle out of a hair, framing the water and guiding it toward what he wanted to see. “Take one hair, and make a circle on top of the water with it. Then reach through, holding on to Isolde in your mind. Pull your hand back up and you should have what you wish. Wait. No.” Guinevere was missing something. What was she missing? Blood fed iron magic. Fuel fed fire magic. What fed water magic? Why could she not remember?
Because she hated water. Forcing her mind to think of it felt like pushing against the barrier between sleeping and waking.
A face in the water. Bubbles. And then nothing.
Guinevere shuddered, angling her body in the chair so she could not see the bath at all. “I remember. You do not want to do what it takes to do water magic.”
“I do. I will do anything.”
“Water wants to fill. To take the shape of whatever it finds. To be able to do water magic requires a sacrifice up front. Once the water has breath as payment, it will do what you want. But you have to drown someone.”
Brangien sank to the floor, defeated. “Then she is lost to me.”
“No. I have another way. And this way, Isolde will see you, too.” Guinevere smiled, but her smile was forced around the discomfiting dread of the memory. Of Merlin and the water. When had that happened? Whom had he drowned? And why?
Why had she not thought of it until now?
They went back into the bedroom. Guinevere knew she should wait and investigate this further. But she desperately needed a distraction. Guinevere took Isolde’s hair and knotted it into Brangien’s. Brangien lay on her cot, and Guinevere checked over her work. She would sacrifice her own dreams for a week with this magic. But it was worth it. Her dreams had shown her nothing useful. She barely remembered them.
She placed Brangien’s own sleep knots on her chest, and Brangien’s mind was gone.
Guinevere sat back, satisfied. Sir Tristan shifted uncomfortably next to the door. He should not be there. If he were caught, he would be in tremendous trouble. They both would be.
Now she had not one but two more allies within Camelot, though. She did not know whether she would tell Arthur about them. Arthur had been so rigid about the rules in the forest, and she could not be certain he would let them stay.
Her secret for now, then. She waved for Sir Tristan to leave. “I will watch over her. Go and rest, good knight.”
He gratefully exited. Guinevere sat at Brangien’s side, hoping that the smile that flitted across Brangien’s dreaming face meant their magic had worked. Kindness through magic was not something she had been able to offer before. It did not solve her problems, but it felt nice, and she would take it.
“Who are you really, Merlin?” she whispered. She wished she could visit him, speak to him. Demand answers for all he had done.
And then she realized her answer was lying right in front of her. She cursed her lack of foresight in denying herself dreams for a week. Maybe she had done it on purpose. She knew she had been rushing to help instead of thinking things through. It was because she had not wanted to face the difficult questions. To risk getting answers.
No more. In seven nights, she would have her own dreams back. She would walk them to Merlin.
Guinevere was already awake when Brangien sat up. It was the first time she had managed to rise before Brangien in the morning. “Oh no,” Guinevere said, covering her mouth. Brangien’s eyes were filled with tears. “What happened?”
Brangien shook her head, beaming. “I saw her. We were together. Thank you. Thank you forever, my queen.” She burst from her cot and threw her arms around Guinevere. Guinevere was shocked at the contact—though Brangien dressed her, she had never been affectionate. Guinevere relaxed into the hug, appreciating it. She and Brangien shared the bond of secrets now. Slowly but surely Guinevere was carving out her place in Camelot. Brangien and Sir Tristan. Mordred. And Arthur, of course. It was nice to have more friends and allies than just Arthur.
But it was also dangerous. The more people who knew some of her secrets, the more likely it was that they would discover too many of them.
Brangien released her, then went bustling about her morning chores and chatting happily about her dream time with Isolde. Guinevere released some of the worries and fears she kept clutched in her own chest. This act had done nothing to protect Arthur, but she had made Brangien happy. With all the darkness swirling around what she knew of Merlin now, it was a comfort knowing her own magic could be used for gentleness, kindness, love.
“Will you come to the market today?” Brangien asked, laying out clothing options.
Guinevere recoiled from the idea. With both Arthur and Mordred gone, she would have to do the lake passage twice. She had no desire to, and no need for the market. “I would like a day of rest. But you go. Besides, I am to walk this afternoon with Dindrane, and this way you are spared.”
“Kindnesses upon kindnesses, my queen.” Brangien laughed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Guinevere had never seen her so happy, and it was a balm to her own soul. Doubtless it would disappoint Brangien when, in a week, Guinevere would need to reclaim her ability to dream, but in the meantime her happiness was contagious.
“Get some thread. I want you to teach me the knots you know.”
Brangien nodded. “My mother taught me. Where did you learn?”
“My—” Guinevere caught herself. Only some truth with Brangien, not all. “My nurse. It is not so uncommon in the south. But we must be careful.” Guinevere wanted to defeat Rhoslyn. Not join her in banishment.
“Of course. Always.” With a pretty curtsey, Brangien left.
Guinevere considered taking a leisurely morning, lying abed, but she was itching with impatience and boredom. She should have gone to the market, after all. The alcove was empty save for the rocks she had brought in, and they kept their silence. No matter how she poked and prodded them, she could not determine their purpose. She was probably best off taking them and dropping them over the side of Camelot into the lake. But then she would always wonder what she had missed.