“Guinevere, would you join me on a walk?”
She nodded mutely, taking his offered elbow and letting him lead her out of the castle onto one of the walkways that circled the many levels. The wind nipped teasingly at them. It was nearly midsummer. She had meant to do some protective magic on the solstice, but it had never mattered anyway.
Arthur stopped. He sat on the edge of the walkway, his legs dangling over the side as he gazed down on his city. The lake bordered everything, impassable, guarding. Waiting. “I returned last night. I sent word. I hoped you would come to my room so we could speak.”
“I do not wish to waste your time, my lord.”
He flinched. “I am not your lord. Please do not call me that.”
Guinevere sat next to him. But she kept her legs tucked safely under her, staying back from the edge. “I have nothing to offer you. It would be selfish of me to demand any of your attention.”
“That is not selfish.”
“It is.” She shook her head. She had been thinking of it—thinking of little else. “Why did you marry me? If all Merlin asked was that I be safe in Camelot, why not declare me a distant cousin? Or, more fitting, a servant? If you did not need me to protect you, why make me queen?”
Arthur shifted so he was turned away from Camelot. Toward her. “You speak of selfishness. That was the root of my decision. Merlin wanted you by my side, and I leapt at the chance. I have been hounded since the day I took the crown, besieged not only by armies, but by politics. I did not lie when I said any marital alliance would only have made my life more difficult. If I married a Pict, my southern neighbors would feel threatened. If I married someone from Camelot, my knights would be insulted that I did not marry their sister or daughter or cousin. And after Elaine—” His voice broke; then he continued firmly. “After that, how could I trust anyone to love me for anything but my power? The idea of adding another complication to my life—another person to be treatied with, a stranger in my home who would treat me like a king—was so wearying I could not face it. Ever since I claimed Excalibur, I ceased being Arthur and became king. I love my men, but they are my men. Even my family is complicated. Sir Ector and Sir Kay. Mordred. I did not want a wife like that. Merlin has been the only constant in my life. And you are part of him. I hoped that if I brought you here and filled the role of queen so no one else could demand it, I would have peace. More than that…I would have a friend.” He dropped his head, staring down at his hands. “It was unfair to you. And I hated the deception. And I hated that you did not view yourself as my queen. Not really. Please…please do not go. Do not leave me.”
He finally looked up, his face now as familiar to her as Camelot. And she realized that Camelot was beloved to her. So was Arthur. She did not want to leave. And she did not have it in her to hurt him. She reached out and took his hand.
He squeezed her fingers, trailing his thumb down hers. His hope was almost palpable. Guinevere smiled, wiping at her face. She had not meant to let the tears escape. “I like it here.”
His face relaxed. His strong features held tension well, but when it was gone, the boy he had so recently been was revealed. His shoulders slouched, the sharp lines of his tunic suddenly a bit softer, too big for an unkingly posture. Something in her released, too. Arthur still wanted her. He still needed her. It was not the way she had been led to believe, but with nothing else in her future claiming her, she would cling to it.
It broke her heart, though. She had become someone new for him, but even those deceptions were lies. How could she explain to him how lost she was, still, without hurting him? How being his friend, even being his wife, was not enough to make her feel real?
She could not tell him. Maybe someday, when she had grown into whoever she would be next. Until then, she would stay. Because it was easy. Because it was safe. And because she wanted to be needed. Arthur needed a friend. She would be that friend.
How often had she wondered what life would be like if she could simply be his queen, or even just a girl? Now she had that, and she did not know what to do with it. But she would try.
“Do you want to know a secret?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Guinevere grinned wickedly. “Sir Bors did not kill the dragon.”
“What?”
Guinevere told Arthur the story. She left out how wrong it had felt to push out real memories in favor of false. How she had wanted to wash herself as she had filled Sir Bors’s clothes with rocks and then thrown them in the stream. She did not tell him how she had understood the dragon, how the weight and melancholy of loss clung to her still.
Instead, she gave the dragon words. Made the narrative funny, herself the hero. It sounded like a children’s story. Gone was the infinite sadness of the ending of great things. In its place, a knight, a dragon, and a clever maiden.
Arthur leaned back, laughing. His face was bathed in golden light by the lowering sun. She wanted to trace his profile, to rest her fingers on his throat and feel the way his laughter moved through it.
She understood why everyone loved Arthur. Why they looked to him. Why they always wanted more from him. How could they not?
How could she not?
* * *
They walked for hours. She told him the truth of the boar attack, how Lancelot had saved her, Rhoslyn’s village removed the poison, and then she and Lancelot went on their ill-fated visit to Merlin. But she did not tell him Lancelot’s secret. She had promised not to. Though she suspected Arthur would still let Lancelot compete in the tournament, she could not risk taking away that opportunity. Besides, it was not her secret to reveal.
“Why do you think the boar and the spider went after me? Do you think it was the Lady of the Lake? The wolves in the forest, too, attacked me over anyone else.”
Arthur frowned. “It does not seem like her magic. But it could be. Or it could be just the lingering remnants we are stamping out. They could not come for me, so they chose you. To be safe, we should keep you out of wild areas.”
Another loss. Guinevere changed the subject rather than dwell on it. “How are the border issues?”
“Maleagant is nibbling away to the northeast. I am afraid he is making deals with the Picts. Trading away rights he does not have.”
“Why not stop him?”
“If I go against him and he has made treaties with the Picts, they are obligated to come to his aid. Right now he is a nuisance, not a threat. But that could change at any moment.”
Arthur paused to run his fingers fondly along the image of a wolf carved into the stone. The exterior of the castle was covered with such details. Wolves, trees, dragons. Deer and fish and flowers. Whoever had dug the castle free from the mountain had not stopped there. They had spent an equal amount of time making it wondrous. Guinevere wanted to go up to the alcove, but that was Mordred’s private spot, and she was loath to take Arthur there. She felt it would be betraying Mordred.