Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

It must have been late in the morning for the way light streamed through the bars of her open window. Fresh white flowers adorned the table by the fire, which had burned down to smoldering embers. She liked that contrast when sleeping; a heated room with an open window to let a cold blast zip through when the wind saw fit.

And, as promised, she was not alone. Arthur sat in a chair next to her bed, reading. He looked different when he thought no one was paying attention to him. His brow pulled together slightly more than was natural as his eyes followed the page left to right and back quickly like a silent typewriter. There was one instance when his lips moved the slightest bit, half forming the words he read as the corners of his mouth ticked up. Whatever picture the passage painted must have pleased him.

She’d have liked to watch him longer, but his eyes flicked up to her. Arthur set the book down and leaned toward her. “How are you feeling?”

“Not nearly as poorly as I’d expect.” She scooted to prop herself in a seated position. Her voice was raspy, and Arthur passed her a cup of water from the bedside table.

He stretched his neck from side to side, failing to stifle a yawn.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“A little.” Before Vera could begin to feel bad about his discomfort of a night spent in a chair, he went on. “How do you feel about allowing Gawain to treat your wounds?”

The cup was halfway to Vera’s mouth when his words stopped her. “But—Merlin will know. Gawain will tell him, won’t he?”

“He might,” Arthur relented. “But not any time soon. Merlin’s already gone. I can tend a wound well enough on the battlefield, but it would be better for Gawain to examine and heal them. It might sound foolish, but Lancelot thinks he’s trustworthy, and that is enough for me.” He shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Speaking of, he’s eager to see you. When you’re ready.”

“Who is?” Vera sat up straighter. “Lancelot?”

Arthur nodded. “He doesn’t mind waiting until your wounds—”

“I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt badly,” Vera insisted. “I’m ready.” The last words she’d shared with Lancelot were horrid. She was eager to say new ones.

She assumed he would have to send for Lancelot, but Arthur had barely opened the door to their chamber before he charged right in.

“Were you sleeping in the corridor?” Vera asked through a disbelieving laugh.

He didn’t answer. He rushed to her side, pulled the chair Arthur had slept in as close to the bed as he could, and sank into it.

“Vera?” Arthur said, drawing her attention and causing her heart to somersault. “I’ll return soon.”

She nodded and held her breath as she watched him go, like she could hold in how it felt to hear him say her name.

“You’re … you’re still here,” Lancelot said. His eyes searched her face and landed on the bandage on her shoulder, peeking out from the neck of her nightgown. Trancelike, his hand drifted up to touch it—so gently. She could barely feel the brush of his fingertips through the bandaging.

“I’m here,” Vera reassured him.

“I—I was an ass yesterday morning. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop. You don’t even need to apologize—”

“Yes, Guinna,” he snapped back, grimacing, and she knew it was only at himself. “Yes, I do. You had endured a sort of torture I can only imagine—and that was before what happened last night.”

Unbidden, her eyes shifted to his throat, where his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. She knew the way it would look if he were stabbed in the neck, how it would heave and stutter. Knew the way blood spurted from an artery with force at each slowing beat of a heart. She met his eyes again. He’d seen the way her face changed. Two lines carved down the middle of his brow.

“I saw the chapel,” he said. “And the body.”

“I killed him.” It was the confession she’d been bearing like a leaden weight. She’d killed Thomas. It didn’t matter that it had been born of self-defense. All she could remember was the fear in his eyes as his life left him.

Lancelot lay a hand on her knee. “I know.”

The way he said it … like he understood in a way no human should. But it was the gentleness in his voice that undid her. Vera’s tears came quickly after that, tumbling into racking sobs that shook her sore body.

“Oh, love,” he whispered. Lancelot climbed onto the bed next to her and gingerly wrapped his arms around her. “I know. I know.”

Vera clung to his shirt and cried into his shoulder.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked.

She did. And when she tried to apologize for struggling to say it through tears, he hushed her, insisting she take all the time she needed. He held her closer as she explained how Thomas pulled her to the floor when she finally (stupidly, belatedly) tried to run away. He rubbed her arm as she finished the story with the bloodied knife in her hand.

“Why did he do it?” Vera asked as her breathing steadied. “Even if he was right about you and me, was that enough for him to try to kill me or control me or—I don’t understand. He was only ever kind to me before that. A friend, even.”

Lancelot’s chin had been atop her head. She pulled back and craned her neck to look up at him, hoping he could explain it. But he didn’t.

“I don’t know. People can be awful, and sometimes there’s no reason for it.”

Vera curled back into his shoulder, as comfortable with him as she’d ever been with anyone and absolutely certain that there was no intention in it beyond care. But she wasn’t a fool. She knew what even the appearance of their affections had wrought and was grateful for the privacy that allowed it now. For the privacy Arthur had given them. A mad huff of a chuckle escaped her.

“What?” Lancelot said.

“Last night, when Arthur told me about everything, he suggested I take up with you.”

“Did he now?” His pitch lifted with his amusement.

“Mmhmm. And when I insisted I wasn’t interested,” Lancelot scoffed in mock offense, “he suggested Gawain.”

He laughed loudly at that. “What an impeccable pairing.” He untangled his arms from Vera and got her settled, propped against her pillows. But he didn’t move to the chair. He nestled back to sit against the pillows beside her. “It will be interesting to see how Gawain handles the lead mage role while Merlin is away.”

Merlin. Shit. Vera regretted disappointing him the way she would her own parents, yet she couldn’t believe the pain he’d inflicted on her.

“Do you think Merlin regrets what he did?” she asked.

“I certainly hope so,” Lancelot said with a grimace. “I’ve never been his biggest admirer, but I admit he was very good to you—to Guinevere—before. He was her closest confidant, often the only one who could lift her from melancholy.”

“They were that close?” Vera asked. Though she’d felt the truth of it in Guinevere’s memory, it was hard to reckon with now.

“They were,” Lancelot said. “I think that’s part of the reason Arthur trusts him—because of how Merlin cared for her. He wants to fix things so badly …” He shook his head. “The mages are an especially fucked up bunch, usually with some savior complex. Have I ever told you that my mother was a mage?”

Vera’s eyebrows shot up. “No, you did not.”

He knew he hadn’t. She would remember that, and he would remember telling her.

“It’s a lonely life. I think that’s why I get under Merlin’s skin so much,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got his number better than most. When I was little, I always tried to get my mum to play some stupid games with me to divert her from her work and studies. I usually failed miserably, mind you, but when she’d play—Gods, she was so much fun. And she was creative and silly. She came up with the best stories. I wish she’d have used her gifts to be a great storyteller rather than …” he shook his head.

“Did she die?” Vera asked.

He smiled sadly. “Yes. Some time ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. I miss her.”

“What about your father?” Vera asked. “Is he alive?”

“No idea. Never met the man. I am fully a bastard. Most mages end up alone, I’m told. It was rather extraordinary for my mother to have a child at all. Tell me about your innkeeper parents,” he said much more brightly. And it was Vera’s turn to be uncomfortable.

“They’re … they’re the best. My mum, well, you’d have a difficult time finding anybody kinder than her. She’s the sort who’s never met a stranger. We have people who stayed at the hotel for two nights a decade ago who still call around Christmas. And Dad …” Vera laughed. “I don’t think the word ‘shame’ is a part of my father’s vocabulary. He’s never once worried about what somebody else thinks. Not for a second. He’d love you.”

Lancelot smiled wistfully with her. “I wish I could meet them. You must miss them.”

“I do. And,” her breath hitched, “my dad is quite ill, which makes it, er—” She didn’t know how to put it into words, but she didn’t need to.

“That makes it harder,” he said softly.

“I have deliberately avoided thinking about them as much as possible since I got here,” Vera said. “I thought I’d fall apart if I let myself dwell on them too much.” It wasn’t untrue. The sting of speaking a word of their stories and letting herself sink into their memory was immediate.

“You can fall apart with me.” He had a deep crease between his eyebrows as he watched her. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

“We’ve never talked about serious things.” Vera picked at the blanket’s seam, embarrassed to say the next bit. “I was afraid you’d decide I wasn’t any fun.”

“Not any fun?” He clicked his tongue. “I don’t love you because you’re fun. I love you because I love you.”

Her heart was so full that it felt on the edge of bursting. “It’s that simple, hm?”

“Yes,” he said. He leaned back into the pillows. “And for your power and clout, obviously.”

She snorted.

“But I did abandon you, Guinna.” Something minuscule shifted in his voice, and his eyes glazed as if his mind were someplace else before he shook himself from whatever memory had taken him. “You never should have been left alone last night. I’ll do whatever I must to keep you safe. I will be your personal bodyguard every minute of every day.”

Vera’s heart sank. “I know you’re trying to help, but that sounds horrible. Needing constant protection is the last thing I want.”

“I’m sorry.” His eyes searched her face. “What can I do?”

“I’d rather learn to protect myself.”

Lancelot’s lips quirked into a lopsided grin as he tipped his head to the side. “I can teach you that. I’m actually really good at that.”

“All right,” Vera said. “That settles it.”

She hadn’t meant for him to begin that very moment, but he launched into brainstorming aloud how he might structure Vera’s training plan with the king’s guard. That was how Arthur found them when he came in: sitting in bed, shoulder to shoulder, engrossed in conversation.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, sounding like he earnestly meant it. Even after last night’s revelations, Vera was astonished by how unfazed Arthur was at seeing them together. But the thought stumbled to a screeching halt as she saw Gawain trailing behind him.

“Goodness,” Lancelot said. “Someone should invite Percival and Matilda, and we’ll have ourselves a proper party!”

“Please refrain,” Gawain said. “I am here to heal the queen, which should be a private matter. I would prefer if you left as well.”

Lancelot grinned. “Understood. I should go join training, anyway.” He kissed the top of Vera’s head before he slid off the bed, nodded to Arthur, and clapped Gawain on the shoulder on his way out. The mage rolled his eyes, but Vera caught the start of his smile.

Arthur sat at the bedside with Gawain standing next to him, ready to start the healing at Vera’s thigh. But the moment Gawain’s hand touched her nightgown’s hem, she felt like she was on the chapel floor. She could see Thomas’s ravenous eyes, could hear the tearing of her dress from hem to waist, could smell his sweat as if he was on top of her.

“No.” She gasped the word as she pinned the nightgown down to her sides with shaking fingers. All at once, Vera’s throat tightened, and her heart pounded.

Gawain took a step back.

Her breath rattled in. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I—” She reached for Arthur, and he was there, taking her hand. “I was fine when Arthur bandaged them.”

“That’s understandable,” Gawain said in his deadpan way, though he spoke quieter. “The body’s memory is more powerful than the mind. Your body remembers His Majesty, even if your mind does not.”

She bit the inside of her cheeks and avoided looking at Arthur.

“I don’t have any other obligations,” Gawain said. “We need not hurry. Move your nightclothes how you need to, and His Majesty can help remove the bandages. Tell me when you’re ready.” He looked at her with something akin to softness before he turned his back and took a few steps away.

Arthur’s hands brought only comfort. He helped remove the bandage dressings, and his eyebrows shot up as he inspected her wounds. Both incision points were raw and open, but neither bled. “These aren’t as bad as I expected. I must have been more panicked last night than I realized.”

Vera called Gawain back.

“I’ll start at your thigh first and will need to touch the edges of your wound,” he said, waiting until she nodded to proceed. He did all of it that way, telling her precisely what he was doing as he went. She’d not expected his sensitive bedside manner. But it did help.

“The shoulder and leg are both stab wounds?” he asked as he ran his thumb over the open cut just under her collarbone.

“Yes,” Vera said.

“Hm.” Gawain frowned as he folded his hands in front of him and stared at a spot on the blanket next to Vera’s knee.

The silence lengthened. Vera and Arthur shared a glance. “Is there a problem?” Arthur said, but Gawain looked up at the same time.

“No. I can heal these.” He reached toward her thigh more slowly. “It will be uncomfortable, but it should not hurt.”

The healing itself was … strange. Gawain ran his fingers over the cut at her thigh, and then Vera felt very lightheaded. She thought he had said something. There was the sound of a breeze, and a prickling tingle rose on her neck.

As her head stopped swimming and her vision cleared, the skin at her thigh was whole, only a faint pink line remaining where the stab wound had been.

He moved on to next one at her shoulder and it was much the same. Finally, Gawain addressed the abrasion on the back of her head. She sat further forward so Gawain could easily touch the spot. This time, sweat beaded over the surface of Vera’s body as the energy of all the healing crackled under her skin. Her thoughts went sluggish like before. But this time, she was sure she heard a voice.

“What were those words?” she asked as if through the fog of sleep.

Arthur gave her a quizzical look. He obviously hadn’t heard anything.

“You—you heard words?” Gawain said.

She nodded. He took a step back to stare down at her, his brow furrowed and lips parted, but he didn’t address it again. “Your wounds were further in the healing process than they should have been. I’m not typically able to heal stab wounds.” He sank into the chair like the effort had drained him. “But yours had already begun to mend.”

“How?” Arthur asked. He sat on the bed next to Vera, and her stomach did an infuriating somersault.

Gawain was statue still with a vacant expression. He swallowed and gave one stiff nod as if he’d made a decision. “Before the procedure that did such damage the other day, you took a potion.”

Vera was too stunned to confirm or deny it. Had Arthur told Gawain about the procedure, too?

But Arthur’s bewildered face made clear he hadn’t.

Merlin, who’d emphasized the danger in others knowing the truth, wouldn’t have … would he?

“Since my arrival, I’ve been stocking the castle stores with healing potions. I would guess,” Gawain paused with a hard look at Vera, “that Merlin included that in your potion, anticipating the way his memory work might damage your mind. There’s no evidence that healing potions work when administered preemptively, but that is the only explanation—” He stayed silent a moment. “It’s the only feasible explanation I can think of.”

“Merlin told you about the procedure?” Arthur asked.

“He did not. I knew there were secrets, so I have been listening where I should not. I heard the procedure. I’ve heard a great deal more than that, too.” He fixed Vera with a meaningful stare. “There are some gaps in the story for me. But … I know.”

“You need to start explaining what you mean, and you’d best do it very quickly,” Arthur said quietly, which was somehow more unnerving than if he’d shouted.

Gawain sighed. He stood and crossed to the corner of the bed nearest the door, reached beneath it, and procured a thin wooden disk, smaller than his palm. He moved to Arthur’s side (a brave choice, Vera thought) and handed it to him. “This picks up sound, and this,” he pulled a wooden block from his pocket—the one Vera had seen him with before Yule that she’d thought looked like a phone, “is the receiver. The disk was hidden in our study before, and—I hid it here yesterday.”

“You did what?” Arthur all but growled at him.

To his credit, Gawain didn’t cower. But Vera’s mind was on the conversations—the ones during the procedure with Merlin about her time travel. And about Vincent. And here with Arthur about the two versions of Guinevere that came before her.

Vera’s mouth hung slack. “You know everything.”

“More or less,” Gawain said. “I won’t try to justify my actions. All I can do is assure you and show you, if you’ll let me, that I am worthy of your trust. I will not report this to the council of mages. I can help you.”

Arthur stood, and he rather towered over Gawain. “If you think—”

“Why?” Vera asked.

Arthur went silent. They both looked at her.

“Why should you trust me?” Gawain asked.

“No—well, yes. But … why do you want to help us?”

“I don’t want you to suffer,” he said bluntly, his sallow stare boring into Vera. It was not the first time he’d surprised her today. “And I do not want magic to die. You—both of you,” he amended as he turned to Arthur, “are the best chance we have. I know my demeanor does not inspire confidence, but I am loyal to my king. I am.” Gawain said it with such ardent fervor. Arthur held his gaze in silence before he exhaled a long breath and sat down.

“I have never known Merlin to have healing gifts,” Gawain continued, now addressing Vera. “Whatever he did to save you is a power he has concealed completely. There is no mechanism for magic that can restart someone’s life essence in the realm of known gifts. It’s unheard of. And when he entered your mind …” His breath shuddered. “Your Majesty, that you survived that is nothing short of miraculous. Whatever moved your healing along was powerful. You may even—” he took a deep breath and frowned. “All I can say is that your existence is a precarious balance and,” he shook his head in disbelief, “delicate. So terribly delicate. It’s far more shocking that you remain than it is that the other two perished. The commonality when the other two were lost was physical intimacy, correct?” He said it clinically, and Vera couldn’t decide whether that was worse.

“Yes,” Arthur said. His hand slid over the blanket to Vera’s.

“Before, with the original Guinevere, was there trauma with that experience?” Gawain asked.

Vera inhaled sharply. Arthur started, too.

“I—none.” He looked at Vera like he was being freshly crushed. “Not that you ever told me, at least. If … if I hurt you, you never told me.”

“Whatever it is, the body’s memory is deeper than the mind,” Gawain said, repeating the phrase he’d uttered only minutes ago. “There is something vitally important in your mind. And your intimacy may well trigger your memory to come back, but … I may be wrong, but I believe you’ve been wise to refrain from intercourse.” Dear God. There was the Gawain Vera expected, clueless that this made her want to melt into a puddle. “At least until we understand the magic playing into it. And you also should not engage in any more memory procedures.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Vera asked.

“If Merlin’s right—if it is a curse laid by Viviane, there is more than one way to break it. Magic work loses strength over time. Viviane’s curse would naturally weaken, especially after her death. We can hasten its end by fortifying the powers already in existence all around Camelot. One gift is good. Multiple gifts used together are better. People don’t tend to try combining gifts often. I can help the gifted of Camelot with that aspect.

“And you can build up the kingdom diplomatically. We must do everything we can to bolster the country—the people’s connection with you, with one another. Empower them; build the kingdom up to its fullest. That can break the curse if a curse is truly what’s at play.”

The “if” stayed with Vera. Because if it wasn’t a curse, then what in God’s name was it?