Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Vera collapsed gratefully on the bed and would have fallen asleep sitting up if Arthur had not taken her hand. She blinked at him through her stupor.

“Can you stay awake a bit longer?” he whispered.

She nodded, intrigued enough that her brain roused from its fog. Arthur led her through a door opposite the one they’d used to enter the chamber and into a modest chapel. Vera stumbled over her own feet. “Our room backs up to a chapel?” she said.

It was a small space: two benches in front of a wooden altar. Arthur sat on the front bench, so Vera followed suit, waiting for an explanation.

She turned at the main door opening behind her. Lancelot came first, followed by Gawain.

“We only have a few minutes,” Lancelot said.

Arthur nodded at Gawain to begin. So this was why they were here, but why so secretive?

“I believe that the Saxon mage who terrorized Crayford is the same as the one who committed the massacre in Dorchester,” Gawain said. Arthur, Lancelot, and Vera all shared expressions of shock. “The way their messenger described those deaths, both by magic and traditional violence, that’s how it was there.”

Arthur leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “In Dorchester, it was all those without magic who were killed. This time, he slaughtered everyone with a gift. That doesn’t make sense.”

Lancelot was looking at Gawain with a strange, drawn expression. “You were there? In Dorchester?”

“Yes,” Gawain said to the air between Vera and Arthur rather than facing Lancelot. Nonetheless, Lancelot’s hand flinched as if to reach out in comfort. He balled it into a fist on his own thigh instead.

“I was born there,” Gawain continued. “My family was killed in the attack. Merlin was the first mage to respond after the massacre. He offered me a place at the Magesary. He’s the closest person to family that I have.”

Vera hadn’t realized. It brought a surge of affection for Merlin, complicated by his actions of late. “Do you trust him?” she asked.

Gawain hesitated before saying, “I do. I always have.”

“Then why are we having a secret meeting?” she said.

“Because of the real reason that we must see the mages.” Gawain took a deep breath. “I believe they can help with the Saxon, but there is another aspect to magic’s dwindling that needs to be addressed with the mages. Merlin would stop me if he knew.”

“Why would he do that?” Arthur asked.

“Because it has to do with how the mages expand our powers.”

Vera sat up straighter. She’d long wondered about that. It had been lodged in the back of her mind since the day Gawain told her that most mages start with only one power. “How do mages amass more gifts?”

Lancelot answered automatically, “Study and innovation.”

Arthur nodded along with him.

Gawain held Vera’s stare.

She leaned toward him and asked again. “How?”

He licked his top lip and swallowed heavily.

“You can’t say,” she breathed.

“Now you are asking the right question.” Gawain said, smiling weakly at her. He turned to Arthur. “Mages can speak freely only at the Magesary during a convened council gathering. After you have asked the mages for help, you must stay in the room. They will ask you to leave. They will pressure you to leave. As the ruler of this kingdom and thus of the mages, it is your right to stay. Tell them that. Do not leave that room.” His voice was stern. He rubbed anxiously at his temple with his thumb, his hand trembling. Whatever he meant for Arthur to understand, it frightened him.

“I won’t,” Arthur said.

“What did the mage in Dorchester look like?” Lancelot asked.

“He was obscured by magic like a shadow made flesh. Horrible and somehow unseeable.”

Vera shivered. Something … there was something else. It flitted around the edges of her thoughts, evading her. She kept coming back to the stories of Arthurian legend from her future. Vera tried to swat it out of her thoughts, but she could not stop its buzz.

Le Morte d’Arthur.

The tome’s name rose up in her mind, and she froze. The Death of Arthur.

She remembered a character from the legends that she had yet to meet. He had to be fiction. And yet … so many other pieces had come to fruition. A jolt of fear seared through her.

“Did the mage have a name?” she asked, hopeful that the truth would free her from her dread.

It did not.

Gawain nodded. “He called himself Mordred.”

Arthur and Lancelot had no reaction to hearing the name Mordred. Arthur asked another question, but Vera couldn’t hear it. She heard only a muted ringing inside her head.

Gawain didn’t answer Arthur’s question and kept his gaze steadily on Vera. “You’re familiar with that name,” he said. It was not a question.

There were names from the legend of King Arthur that she recognized, but she wasn’t sure of their role in the story. Not Mordred. She knew that name, and in any snippet of the myth Vera had heard, Mordred was the one who killed Arthur.

“He’s—a villain in our stories,” she said.

She had no more words. She couldn’t even follow the conversation that continued in murmurs around her. Her thoughts were dominated by fear and, above all, the determination to make sure that version of events never came to fruition. She went back and forth at war with herself over what to do with this information until she landed on a decision: she would tell Arthur when they got to their room. There would be no secrets between them. She had to tell him everything—including about Tristan.

By the time they went their separate ways from the chapel, Vera was itching to say it. She launched in as soon as the door closed behind them.

“Arthur, something happened earlier.” She anxiously twisted her fingers as she sat on the foot of the bed. “I looked across the throne room and saw Tristan, and then I—”

Arthur came and sat next to her, stilling her fingers by covering them with the comfort of his own. Vera’s heart raced, but this time, trepidation and not attraction drove it.

“I remembered him,” she blurted. “A whole childhood of friendship and, erm, growing up together.” She wouldn’t breathe aloud the feelings that came with those memories, but they weren’t the point anyway. “They were my memories. My childhood, even though it feels like they’re from so long ago. I—I am Guinevere. I’m sure of it.”

His face remained determinedly passive. “Do you remember what happened with Viviane?” he asked in a quiet way that raised goosebumps on Vera’s neck.

“No.”

He nodded, and she saw the muscle in his jaw begin its flex-relax cycle.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. This was what she needed to say most, the part that had her stomach in knots. “This means that I am the one who betrayed you. That was me. I did it.”

“It’s all right,” Arthur said half a moment too quickly. “I don’t blame you for any of it.” His face was the mask again, and it made her want to cry.

“Do you mean that?” she managed to ask without her voice quaking.

“Yes.” He gave her hand a squeeze before he stood and crossed to his bag. “And we both need sleep.”

They were fine. She decided to trust his word because soon, mere minutes from now, she could crawl into bed with him and rest in the solace of his arms for a blessed few hours.

But Arthur wasn’t fishing in his bag for a change of clothes. He’d picked up his saddle bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“Are you going somewhere?” she asked.

“There’s an open room at the end of the corridor. I’m going to sleep there.”

Her heart plummeted. “Arthur—”

“Gawain told me about the potion we’ve both been receiving. I think …” He pushed his jaw forward and addressed Vera’s shoulder, not meeting her eye. “We’ve been fooling ourselves into wanting what’s between us to be more than magic, but it wasn’t like this before she was—you were—gone.”

Vera gaped at him, the only expression she could manage that didn’t involve yielding to the prickling ache of tears and the rising lump in her throat.

“Tristan can stay with you if you want,” Arthur said. “I’m fairly certain he’s still in love with you.”

At first, his words landed as gibberish. “What?”

“You like him. I can tell.” Arthur shrugged. How was he saying this so casually, as if talking to her about the weather? “Those feelings are untouched by magic. You haven’t remembered with me—”

“I remembered the dance steps,” Vera interrupted, knowing she was grasping at straws. “And during the procedure—”

“The procedure was magical intervention,” he said. “And the other was body memory. Not conscious. You remember Tristan. Real memories.”

His determined, even voice incensed her. “Let me get this straight. You don’t want me to feel cornered with you. But it’s all right for me to be cornered into having sex with Tristan?”

It stung him as she’d intended. He avoided looking at her. “You don’t have to, but you can. You’ll be leaving soon, so you’re running out of opportunities. You’ve always liked him. Maybe loved him.” She heard the underbelly of bitterness. “Do whatever you want. And if that includes being with Tristan, all the better. You might remember. I’d sure as hell love to know what drove you to betray our people.”

And there it was.

“You’ve been biting that one back for a long time, haven’t you?” Vera said.

Arthur grimaced. “That was unfair. I’m sorry. I’m tired. I’m going to go.”

“No. Go on. Say it. Say all of it. Tell me what you think of what I did.”

“Vera,” he said with forced patience. “You didn’t do anything—”

“I did. I’m her. I did all of it, whether I remember it or not. Say it.”

He stared at her with that cold mask from their early days together. It stoked her fearful rage to erupt.

“Say it!” she demanded.

Arthur breathed heavily through his nose. He was almost there. She could tell. One good shove …

“What kind of a king shares his bed with a woman who tried to destroy his kingdom? I was meant to be the one who killed you. And you knew that before Yule. Merlin told you that. What do you want, Arthur? What’s the fucking end game here? To let me finish the job?”

Arthur’s breath came faster. “I had no idea how much you hated me. The depths of betrayal that you went to are unthinkable. To bring war on our people? To give up the secrets of our security? How could you do this? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

Vera laughed. It was thick with scorn. “Talk to you! You think you could have fixed that kind of broken through conversation? Imagine how well that would have gone if you’d given me the same statue-faced bullshit you pull with everyone else. Do you wish it had been like this? Screaming at each other?”

The control of his face shattered into unbridled fury. “It was never once at all like this.” He spat each word like it was venom. She hadn’t expected that to be what enraged him the most. “I would have done anything to make it better for you. I was ready to let another man take my place in our bed, and it wasn’t enough for you!”

“Then nothing’s changed,” Vera said savagely. Oh, God. Why was she doing this? It was pouring poison on the pain of his rejection. It soothed at the moment to hurl words she knew would hurt but would rot her later. Shocked, Arthur took a step back. “You’re still putting my comfort ahead of your kingdom. You’re still the fool sending another man to your wife. That’s what you’re doing right now, isn’t it?”

“Jesus, Vera,” Arthur said. “Nice.” He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time, and he’d found an enemy. She’d done it. She’d effectively severed whatever affection he had for her.

“I thought you were leaving. Go on, then. Glad it’s at the other end of the hall. Don’t want to hear him fucking me, do you?”

His eyes went wide. For a moment, it seemed he might pull the mask back into place, but he stared at her with abject, open disgust.

“What is wrong with you?” he snarled as he crossed the room and ripped the door open.

Vera threw her hands in the air, a mad laugh jumping from her lips. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” she shouted as Arthur slammed the door behind him.

She stared at the door, waiting for him to come back for a full minute before she crumbled to the floor, landing hard on her knees. She’d have wailed if she wasn’t afraid that Arthur might be in the corridor to hear it. Vera sobbed; her mouth contorted in the shape of a scream with no sound. He was done with her, and it was probably best. Arthur was right. She remembered more with Tristan in a few days than she had with anyone in nearly half a year. Maybe she should go find him.

But not tonight. It was the last thing Vera wanted.

When she was out of tears and felt like an empty shell on the floor, she dragged herself into the bed and slept fitfully until there was a hand gently shaking her shoulder after far too few hours. She forgot not to hope it was Arthur waking her. It was Lancelot. If he knew what had transpired between Arthur and Vera, he didn’t let on.

The morning was young as they set out. They’d only stayed to sleep for four hours. It worked in Vera’s favor; no one was especially talkative, so the stiff silence between Vera and Arthur fit right in. She actively avoided him, riding on the opposite side of their travel party, opting to stay near Gawain, who didn’t expect any conversation from her.

As they settled into the steady rhythm of bouncing along in their saddles, Vera hissed at the harsh rub of leather against her sore thighs. She wasn’t used to riding all day and then hopping back on to ride some more. Gawain reached one hand in her direction and mumbled quiet words. Then, Vera’s saddle felt like it was covered with an invisible soft blanket. She blinked up at him. He offered a flash of a smile and rode ahead.

Tristan found Vera around lunch when they were all more awake. She cast furtive glances toward Arthur. When their eyes met once, they both quickly looked away. She tried not to think about him because the longer she spent in Tristan’s company, the more she realized Arthur had been right about more than just her memories.

She did like Tristan. He had an easy way about him and a levity of spirit that distracted her from the overwhelming obstacles ahead. Vera shivered as the rain began to fall. Gawain and Merlin could shield them from getting drenched with an invisible cover traveling above them, but the air went unseasonably cold. She couldn’t easily get to her cloak, so Tristan unfastened his and passed it over to her without pausing his story. He didn’t mean for it to be a noble act worthy of praise, simply a gesture a decent knight guarding his queen might do, which made it that much more endearing.

And he loved making her laugh. She could tell by the giddy way his eyes glimmered and his smile broadened when she found his comments particularly funny. Lancelot, oddly enough, spent most of the day sequestered at the rear with Merlin. A pity, as Vera was hoping to get a word with the older mage.

She had her chance when they stopped midafternoon to water the horses. It seemed he’d been waiting for the opportune moment as well. When Arthur and Lancelot bent their heads close in conversation, Merlin sidled beside Vera at the river’s edge.

“In the end, it is your choice, Guinevere,” he said, moving his lips so little that she wasn’t sure he’d spoken. When she looked at him with surprise, he went on. “If you’re willing, I will try the procedure.” He studied a nearby tree as if he and Guinevere were talking about a bird perched on its branches and not a dangerous magical procedure.

Vera smiled idly at the tree, though her heart gave a flutter. “Can you do it on the road? If I meet you tonight … ?”

Merlin nodded. He let his casual pretense drop enough to meet Vera’s gaze with heavy, sorrowful gratitude.

She thought of nothing else for the rest of the day. If there was any chance that Mordred was going to kill Arthur, Vera had to stop it. It was better that they weren’t speaking and that he’d drawn the line of distance from her. If she disappeared into nothing, being on poor terms would make it easier.

They bunked down at an inn in Faringdon, not far from Oxford. After a few hours’ ride in the morning, the journey would be done. Arthur had separate quarters again, and Vera’s decision was made. She would not wait. She had noted the location of Merlin’s room as they entered, and, as soon as she was sure everyone was asleep, she rose from her bed, took two quick shots for liquid courage from a bottle Percival had given her a while back, and tiptoed to the door, determined not to lose her nerve—for she was afraid.

Vera dragged the metal bolt free from its lock. There was no quieting the rake of steel against wood, though she did try. She waited in the following silence for a breath and, hearing nothing, opened the door enough to slip out. Instead, she saw the unmistakable glow of two eyes and the dark, hulking shape of a man not three steps from her. Vera gasped and stumbled backward.

“It’s me! It’s all right!” Tristan rushed into her room after her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Jesus!” Vera lay a steadying hand on his arm. “What were you doing out there?”

“I’m on guard,” he said. “What were you doing?”

“Oh …” Vera thought quickly. He didn’t know about the memory situation. “I, er, wanted to speak with Merlin about tomorrow. And get a potion to help me sleep. I’m … anxious,” she said and was struck with an idea, albeit a weak one. “You could walk me, and then no need to stand guard because I’ll be with a mage. I’m sure you’d like to get some uninterrupted sleep.”

Tristan shifted. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?” Vera asked, eyes narrowing.

He scrunched his face awkwardly. It might have made her laugh another time. “You’re going to be angry. I’m—not allowed to let you leave your room. It’s an order,” he added, as if that made it any better. He at least had the decency to look embarrassed as he told her.

“Fucking Lancelot,” Vera growled. It was exactly the sort of overprotective bullshit he would pull. “Go get him. I’m going to throttle him with a fire poker.”

“It wasn’t him.”

She stared blankly at Tristan, though she knew who that left.

“The king told me directly,” he said.

Vera was tired. She was already furious with Arthur and more hurt than she could put into words. Her ass hurt from riding in a saddle all day. Her plan to help was thwarted, and now the liquor for bravery left her aimlessly tipsy. Otherwise, she might not have let out the profanity-laced string of insults that followed. They began at a mumble, but as her anger rose, her voice did, too. Tristan, his eyes wide and hands rising defensively, hurriedly shut the door as he shushed Vera.

“Did you shush me?” She ripped her elbow from his attempt to soothe her.

“Do you want me to go get him?” he asked, eager to divert her fury.

Vera huffed. “No.”

“Why, er,” Tristan began warily, “why isn’t he with you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Why did he know you’d try to see the mage? And why doesn’t he want you to?”

“You’re full of questions.” Vera turned abruptly back to the bottle of liquor on her bedside table. “I have one. Do you want a drink? Is that allowed?” she added with no small measure of disdain, already pouring one for him.

When she turned back to him, Tristan’s face stopped her mid-step. It wasn’t the hopeless horror she’d seen from Arthur the night after her broken memory, but it was in that family.

“Why did you want to see Merlin?” Tristan asked more pointedly.

“I can’t tell you that,” Vera said, the only honest answer she was prepared to give.

Tristan sighed and sat down on the foot of her bed. He fidgeted to get his sword situated beside him, got frustrated, and took his sword belt off in a huff. Vera sat beside him and passed him a cup half filled with liquor.

“Were you about to do something self-destructive?” he asked quietly.

Vera started. It took her a second to cover the flash of guilt at how close to the mark it hit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Having not missed any shadow of her expression, Tristan nodded. He turned his goblet in his fingers as Vera threw hers back like a shot and let it sting down her throat.

“You tend to do that,” he said. “I don’t know how many times you took the blame for things we did as children. Falling on the sword has taken on higher stakes as queen, though.”

“Well, in this case,” Vera murmured, her words running together at the edges, “I forged the sword that will destroy all of you. Do you think someone else should fall on it?”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Tristan shook his head and downed his shot, too. “I hope you know I would give my life for Arthur a hundred times over,” he said. “I don’t think there’s a better ruler in the world, and I’ve met a fair few, but … he’s a fucking idiot when it comes to you.” He set his goblet aside, and as he put his hand back down, he laid it on Vera’s thigh.

Her eyes shot to his face. Tristan stared straight ahead while he traced circles on her leg with his thumb. He turned to her, eyes filled with longing. He tentatively reached up and stroked her hair. His throat bobbed as he swallowed heavily. Tristan’s smooth face, less lined with the weight of years and responsibility than his king’s, was a perfect mixture of trepidation and yearning.

Maybe this was best. Maybe Arthur was right, and this was what was needed. Vera’s heart was so broken—by Arthur’s rejection, and by the choices she’d made in the life she hardly remembered that put those she now loved in peril. With disaster looming, it might be best to put an end to this magically driven obsession with Arthur once and for all. And maybe being with Tristan could achieve that. Maybe it could help her avoid this procedure that was probably—likely—going to destroy her.

“I love you, Gwen,” he said. Vera held her breath as he leaned toward her, his eyes fixed on her mouth.

She had loved him once.

But not anymore.

Vera turned from him with a sharp inhale before his lips could find hers.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

Tristan closed his eyes and pulled away.

“Understood,” he said. Without another word, he rose and left the room. He didn’t storm away or slam the door. That might have been easier to bear.

Fuck. Poor Tristan was the one who suffered in all this.

Vera nearly tripped over his sword when she got up. She scooped it up and hurried to the door, expecting he’d be halfway down the hallway. She wouldn’t have blamed him for bailing on his guard duty, and at least then her plan to find Merlin could progress. But Tristan stood just outside the door, his hand instinctively moving to where his sword should have been at the sound.

“Here.” Vera thrust it toward him. He silently took it, and her stomach fell. “I’m sorry, Tristan. I’m so—”

“Stop it,” he said. She clamped her mouth closed, and his face softened at her reaction. “Are you going to be all right?”

She was about to respond when a noise down the hall caused them both to start. It sounded like a door closing. They both looked, but it was too dark to see more than shadows. Well. If anyone saw this, Vera in her nightgown as Tristan refastened his belt … it looked worse than she and Lancelot stretching in a field after their run.

But all stayed quiet. Tristan fixed Vera with an appraising stare.

“Do you see what Arthur’s doing?” he asked in a scornful whisper. “He’s so convinced he can’t love you well enough that he is trying to let you go.”

He was wrong. She knew so many parts to it that he was missing.

“That’s not what it is,” she managed to say.

“Then what is it?” Tristan asked skeptically. When she didn’t answer, he scoffed. “I admire everything about him except that he has you, and he keeps fucking it up. This one massive thing. It’s a laugh to love the man who stole my future and is making a mess of it.”

“I’m sorry.” There was nothing more to say.

“Me, too.” Tristan sighed. He swept a stray hair back behind her ear. She knew he wanted to kiss her. Instead, he said, “If you change your mind …” He grimaced self-consciously and shook his head. “Get some sleep, Your Majesty.”