Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

The room was still dim, and she wasn’t sure what woke her. Vera sat up and saw right away that someone was asleep in the chair across from her, next to the window. She thought for a minute that it was Arthur, like the days after Thomas when he wouldn’t leave her side. What a strange time to be nostalgic for. But it was Lancelot, and it became clear what had roused her. He was snoring. Loudly. Vera exhaled a laugh as she gathered a blanket in her arms and crept over to cover her friend.

Movement outside drew her to the window, where she saw Merlin in the courtyard, dismounting his horse and passing the reins to a stable hand. What on earth had he been doing at this hour?

Vera glanced back at Lancelot. If he was in here, did that mean he was on guard, and now no one stood outside the door? She went to check, timing the heavy lock’s scrape with a snore and managing not to wake him.

The corridor was empty.

She could go. Nothing stood between her and Merlin. Vera took a shuddering breath and slipped into the hall. She got to the door of his room as he did. He seemed relieved to see her there.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“There’ve been reports of sinister happenings in the neighboring town. It’s a short ride from here. Their steward got word that we were in the area, so I suppose our secret travel isn’t so secret anymore.” He offered a faint smile, an ineffective disguise for his concern. “They’re having an issue with plots of land dying like in Crayford. We went with the king to see what could be done. The others are still there.”

“Why aren’t you?”

He looked a little ashamed. “I was hoping to find you. They will be gone a few more hours. We have time to do the procedure if you’re willing.”

Vera’s breath was coming faster than normal. “We’re so close to the mages and—and I did remember Tristan. It’s coming back. I know it. Can we wait until after the mages?”

“Tristan …” He frowned. “I didn’t expect that. But you haven’t remembered anything else?”

She shook her head.

“He’s here, Guinevere,” Merlin said, his eyes trained on the end of the corridor as if Mordred might appear there. “The Saxon is on our soil, and he could be anywhere. We are out of time.”

“But couldn’t the mages help us? What does it hurt to wait one more day?”

“I have suspected for some time that Viviane was not working alone.” He spoke patiently, as if to a child. “I fear we are walking directly into a trap. And if we are, there may never be another opportunity.”

“You said I could go home.” Vera stared down at her feet. “I want to go home.”

“I know,” Merlin said. “And I hope you’ll be able to. I am confident you’ll fare better than Gawain expects.”

But even if she wouldn’t, she couldn’t keep being selfish. She could not stack the priority of seeing her father again above the entirety of Arthur’s kingdom. Of Arthur. This—remembering—was her entire purpose.

“I’ll go get dressed.” She could at least lose herself (or her life—whatever it came to) with the dignity of not being in a nightgown.

“Vera?” Merlin said as she started to walk away. He hadn’t called her that since Glastonbury. She glanced back, and he smiled sadly. “Thank you.”

She tried to be quiet. She even managed to get in the room and get changed before she stumbled into the bedside table, the sound of it stirring Lancelot.

He looked at her with groggy eyes. “Morning, Guinna,” he croaked. “Was I snoring?”

“A bit,” she said with an unbidden smile. Part of her was relieved she’d get to talk to him one last time, but it would make this harder. She needed to get him to leave. “What are you doing here?”

As he explained what Merlin had just told her about the nearby trouble, Vera feigned ignorance. “It’s just you and me until they return later this morning,” he added.

“I thought Tristan was my guard. You shouldn’t be the one babysitting me,” she said. “Go have a lie-in in your room where you can be comfortable.” Go. Please, go.

“Tristan is your guard.” Lancelot busied his hands, folding the blanket on his lap. “But he’s better at tracking, and I wanted to stay with you. Is that a problem?” He said it casually, but his eyes were dark. Vera knew her cheeks had gone red. She took the blanket from him and turned to toss it on her bed.

“I think this shit’s idiotic,” he said. “The whole ‘giving you space to decide if you want to take up with Tris’?” She whirled to face him, her eyes wide. “It’s fucking stupid.”

“You don’t need to be an ass about it,” Vera shot back to hide her shock that he knew. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Lancelot was relentless with his grim, knowing smile. “No, but you did bring him into your room last night.”

Shame threatened to smother her, but indignation was easier to sink her teeth into. “You’re one to talk.” She gestured at him. “Sleeping in here without my even knowing—”

“It’s different with you and me, and you know it’s different.”

“If you’re angry, be angry at Arthur,” Vera said.

Lancelot petulantly crossed his arms on his chest. “All of this would be a lot easier if you and Arthur could just admit you’re in love with each other.”

Hearing it was like swallowing a stone. “We aren’t,” she said weakly.

He scoffed. “I know you, and I know him even more. You’re in love.”

“Stop it,” Vera said. “We aren’t. Everything between us is false, and it isn’t fair to me or Arthur. He’s a good man and a good friend.” She stumbled on the words. Despite her anger, it was all true. “We’re both under the influence of some fucking potion and calling it love is cruel and humiliating.”

Lancelot leaned back in his seat with his legs splayed in front of him in an irksome display of easy confidence. “All right. Sure,” he said, rubbing wearily at his forehead.

Vera mechanically turned away from him. It would be easy to shuttle him out the door, but that smug disbelief left her hands shaking.

“Have you always meddled like this?” she said, turning back to him. “Acted like you know what’s best for everyone around you? Is that why I couldn’t stand you before?”

He stiffened. His brow furrowed slightly. Sensing the tender spot and fueled by his reaction, Vera pounced, just as she had with Arthur.

“Oh, that’s not it,” she said with saccharine sweetness. She hated herself right now. “So, what was it? Why is it that my only memory of you from before is looking at you and being disgusted?”

Lancelot recoiled like she’d slapped him. The line of his mouth went thin. He wasn’t going to answer.

“Un-fucking-believable!” Vera shouted, throwing her hands up in the air. “You’re still keeping secrets from me. This isn’t friendship! You don’t get to sit there high and mighty and try to tell me about who I am and who I love when you can’t even be honest about yourself. Too terrible to name, is it? What rotten thing did you do that you’d rather I forget forever?”

He trained his stare across the room, away from her, as red blotches bloomed on his neck. There was nothing Vera could dream up that might make her hate Lancelot, but her words struck a nerve, and she would not yield.

“If you can’t tell me the truth, then get the fuck out,” she said.

Vera’s brutal façade nearly broke at the hurt she found in his expression.

He rose and walked to the door. She only had to last a few more seconds, and then she could collapse into the puddle of her agony. But the sound of the door’s latch never came. She chanced a look. Lancelot’s hand was poised above the knob.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, swiftly turning to her. “I know what this is.”

There was that cocky sense of knowing. “Fuck off,” Vera said.

“No.” He shook his head and strode back to her. “I’m not going to fuck off.”

“Why? Want to come back for more insult hurling—”

“Shut up,” Lancelot said.

“Excuse me, did you just—”

“Yes, I did.” He came very close to her, so Vera had nowhere to look but at him as he said emphatically, “Shut. Up. You’re not going to push me away. You’re my best mate.”

Vera snorted. “Arthur’s your best mate.” It sounded childish.

“Shut up,” he said for the third time in half a minute. “I see what you’re doing—trying to make it easier when you’re gone, that it? Pushing us away to soften the blow? Make yourself less worthy of existing?” Vera clenched her teeth to keep from reacting. “Well, guess what, Guinna? You are fucking worthy.”

It broke her. Her breath hitched as the rage disrobed for what it truly was: fear. “I’m not. I betrayed him. I betrayed all of you. I was saved to remember so that I can make this right. If my life continuing is at the expense of all of you—”

“You don’t know that it will be!”

“I can’t risk that. I am not worth risking that! How can you not understand this? This is my purpose. Remembering is all that I’m good for.”

“No,” he said, taking her hands and holding them to his chest. “It is not.”

There was a knock at the door with barely time to register it had happened before Merlin’s muffled voice said, “Guinevere? Are you ready yet?”

Lancelot gaped at her. “You have got to be kidding.” He stalked over to the door and flung it open. “Fuck you, Merlin,” he said with the deepest, most ardent sincerity. He slammed the door shut and turned back to Vera. “I will not allow this.”

“It’s not your choice!” she said. She made for the door, but Lancelot stepped in front of her and blocked her way. Vera shoved him hard in the chest. It didn’t even cause him to stumble. The sound of the door opening drew her attention as Merlin entered.

Lancelot hadn’t looked away from her, hadn’t so much as blinked. “If you were in my place,” she said more gently, appealing to his sense of duty, “if the answer to all this suffering was in your mind, you would do it in a heartbeat.”

“No. I wouldn’t,” he said stubbornly.

A scornful laugh burst from Vera. “This is my life—my body. This is not your choice!”

“You’re right,” Merlin interjected. “And it is a courageous one that you are making.”

Lancelot gritted his teeth and breathed heavily through his nose. “Fine,” he said as he turned to face the mage. “And here’s my choice.” He drew his sword. “You want to do this? Fine. But not while there’s breath in my body.”

Oh fuck.

“Lancelot, don’t—” Vera grabbed his arm, but he shook her off, eyes fixed on Merlin.

“That is unwise,” Merlin said coolly.

Lancelot laughed far louder than was appropriate. “Unwise? You saved your queen’s life so that you could bend it for your own designs. And I’m unwise to stand in your way? And what would happen if Arthur comes back and finds his wife dead on the floor? Then what?”

“I don’t know.” Merlin’s calm slipped as he said it, a glimmer of loathing flashing in his eyes. “I was not there, nor was I responsible the last time he found his wife dead on the floor.”

What did that mean? Lancelot’s eyes darkened. He raised his sword and reached back to lay a protective hand on Vera.

Merlin’s mastery over himself collapsed. “I would end you without even taking a breath.”

Lancelot’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Ah. There it is,” he said. “You’ve been holding that in for a long time.”

“Stop it!” Vera cried.

Merlin blinked, his gaze flitting to her as if he only just remembered she was an important part of this conversation.

“I—I was wrong to say that,” he said. “I would never … Guinevere, he loves you. I can see that. I’m glad for it, but Lancelot does not understand what I do.”

Vera stepped forward, gently pushing Lancelot’s sword arm down. This time, he yielded and let her pass him without a word, only a plea in his eyes.

“He doesn’t understand that I gave you all the life I possibly could,” Merlin said. “There was a reason you were the last one I brought back. I wanted it to be one of the others so that you could go on and never bear this burden.” He tilted his head thoughtfully to the side. “I’ll forsake humility and tell you how proud I am that I chose Martin and Allison to be your parents. They were perfect. And you. You, child, were special. The way you persisted in finding beauty and light even in the limitations of your life … I gave you all I could.”

He had. He really had. Vera’d had more than she ever deserved. How many children had ever been so loved, had seen so many glorious sunrises with full bellies and safe arms to run to, had gotten to fill the shoes of a queen and live in a legend even for a short while?

“Guinna, please,” Lancelot moaned from behind her.

“I know you’ve had hard days,” Merlin continued as Vera took another step toward him. “And I didn’t leave you to suffer then, either. When I let Vincent remember you—”

“What?” Vera stopped.

“Yes,” he said with a benevolent smile. “An intentional lapse in the magic that kept you unnoticeable for—”

“You controlled who could remember me?”

The smile faltered. Vera saw Merlin begin to realize that what he had thought was shocked gratitude was nothing of the sort. Her world was spinning, but his words had turned a key, and pieces began clicking into place. In her former life, when she was Guinevere, she’d clearly suffered from depression. And with the two who came after, intent on their own destruction …

“You were afraid I’d end my life before I was ready to come back here, weren’t you?” Vera asked. Merlin inhaled sharply but did not speak. “So you gave me Vincent when I was at my most miserable.”

Had any of her life been her own?

It’s your choice. Merlin had first said it that evening in the pub in Glastonbury, right on the heels of telling her existence would crumble if she didn’t abide by his wishes.

That was how it had been every time. Every “choice” came after Merlin offered no other feasible option.

“You have never given me a choice. You painted me into corners. You controlled my entire life.” She only realized the breadth of her statement’s truth as she said it out loud.

“You exist because of my actions,” Merlin said, all softness gone. “The things that you carry within you are the entire reason you matter—”

“I am more than a vessel,” Vera said with such force that it silenced him. She’d voiced Merlin’s exact sentiment countless times, but the conviction of it as falsehood now reverberated in her bones.

And it wasn’t because Lancelot or Arthur said so, nor Matilda, or Gawain, or even her parents. Vera had breath in her body, a heart slamming against the inside of her chest, and a mind that, yes, might contain secrets, but that was hers, and she would not forfeit it. She’d spent her life wanting to matter to the people around her, to fill their empty spaces, expecting that would make her whole.

But it wasn’t about being whole. She was broken and messy and utterly, wondrously human, and the weight of that mattered. She mattered.

“I will do the procedure,” she said, breath heaving like she’d just finished running a marathon. Still, Vera’s voice was steady as she held Merlin’s stunned gaze. “But only after we go to the mages. And Gawain will perform it, not you.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” he said, stepping toward her. He foolishly believed the argument wasn’t over. “Gawain can’t see all of that. And he only thinks the procedure would destroy you because he’s probably not capable of safely performing it—”

“He already has.” She relished the way the revelation made Merlin gasp and stumble a step backward. “Gawain has been in my mind. He knows all about me.”

Fear flashed across his face. “That wasn’t yours to tell,” he said.

“Right. Because it’s only my choice when it benefits you?” She knew he wouldn’t answer, but she let the silence hang between them before she continued. “Go out and get the rest of our party. We’ll leave for the Magesary as soon as they’re back. You can tell Arthur what happened here, or you can wait and let me. I’ll leave that up to you.”

Merlin looked at her like she was mad. “I’m not leaving you here—”

“I am your queen,” Vera said, “and I command you to go.”

Merlin took a long, rattling inhale. He touched his fingers to his forehead, his eyes wrought with disbelief. “You will doom us all.”

He left without so much as a glance back.

Vera watched the closed door for a long moment before she looked at Lancelot. “Have I made a terrible mistake?”

“No,” he said adamantly. He swept her tightly to his chest and held her, kissing the top of her head. “I’m so proud of you.” She felt his body trembling.

Vera pulled back, really seeing him, taking in the depth of his panic, and hearing Merlin’s words echo in her mind. I was not responsible the last time he found his wife dead. At that moment, she understood, and her heart ached. “When Merlin brought Guinevere back, and she went mad, you were the one who killed her, weren’t you?”

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply before he quietly said, “Yes. A version of you died at my hands. I won’t let you die again.”

She took his hand and kissed his knuckles. “We’re all going to die someday.”

Lancelot opened his eyes and fixed her with a stern look. “You are not allowed to die.”

Vera laughed, and he smiled, too. “I promise not to die if you promise not to,” she said.

“Deal. No dying allowed.”

The rest of the travel party wouldn’t be gone much longer, but Vera buzzed with adrenaline. She felt … different. There was dread about her decision’s gravity, but there was elation, too.

“Do we have time to run?” she asked as she paced the room.

Lancelot had been nearly as eager for it as her, though he insisted that Vera wear her armor and sword. “We should have been doing this more. It’s good training.”

Vera groaned. She’d only run with her armor and the sword Randall made her once before. It was cumbersome how the sword, strapped to her back, clanged about and threatened to trip her every step when she didn’t actively think about its presence.

“All the more reason to do it now and get used to it,” Lancelot said. “Sort of the whole point of training, Guinna.”

She argued for no helmets or leg guards, just a chainmail shirt over her running clothes with her sword and shield strapped on her back. Lancelot, presumably softened from his close brush with losing her, rolled his eyes and relented.

Vera took the back stairs down past the kitchen, where she nearly ran head-on into a tank of a man hefting giant sacks of grain from the back of a cart into the inn’s kitchen.

“Morning!” she squeaked as she darted past him. His eyes landed on her, and they didn’t leave. She thought he might have recognized her, but then his expression went vacant and unreadable. It unnerved Vera, but she quickly forgot about it when she rounded the corner and found Lancelot waiting for her in his chainmail shirt with his much heavier sword strapped in a sheath on his back.

Lancelot reached into his pocket and pulled out what, at first glance, she thought was a rodent. She jumped back from the fuzzy grey ball dancing in his palm. But it wasn’t fur. Vera stepped closer. The baseball-sized lump was made of swirling grey smoke that whirled contentedly in his hand. It had no face nor any kind of features, yet somehow, it felt happy.

“I wanted you to know about this in case I bump my head on a branch and get knocked out or otherwise incapacitated. It’s another Gawain invention,” he said, his mouth lifting in a crooked smile. “He has one, and I have one. If shit goes sideways for them, his will come flying and find us—and then it can lead us back to his location. Likewise, if one of us gives this a good chuck, it’ll find Gawain.”

Vera poked the wisp and had the distinct sense that it giggled, though she heard no sound. “How is it … cute?”

Lancelot laughed. “I don’t know. Gawain is the most extraordinary weirdo,” he said fondly.

It only took ten minutes of running for days of mounting stress to feel lighter. Vera and Lancelot slid back into their usual banter. She teased him about how many times he’d told her to “shut up” earlier before they moved on to gossiping about whether Randall and Matilda had taken up together.

It was never to be more than a few miles out into the woods next to town before they turned around. They’d looped around a tree to head back and had run past a burly man with an axe just off the lane. After a few minutes, Lancelot went quiet. He only responded to Vera with one or two-word responses. Then his smile dropped, and his features went taut.

Vera’s skin prickled as she said, “What’s going—”

“Keep running.” Lancelot dove his hand into his pocket without breaking his stride and pulled out the friendly wisp, giving it a toss. It darted away from them through the trees at an impossible speed.

“We need to get out of the woods,” he whispered. Vera matched his faster gait. They didn’t have far to go until they cleared the trees into the expansive open field. She sighed and slowed when the morning sun hit her full-on in the face, but her sense of safety was short-lived. Lancelot grabbed her arm.

“Keep going.”

They were at least twenty minutes out from the inn or any building, for that matter. The road stretched before them, and when Vera followed it with her gaze, she saw it. Three figures—coming toward them.

“Shit,” Lancelot hissed. He glanced over his shoulder. Vera chanced a look, too. There were yet two more men behind them, slower under the bulk of sheer body size, but they were running. The shorter made up for his height in width—and the Viking axe in his hand. It was the man Vera had seen in the woods. Assuming he was a woodcutter, she hadn’t thought anything of him, but that was a battle axe. She didn’t know where the man at his side came from. He was taller, with an impressive beard and wild hair, and he ran with an unsheathed sword. The blade was so large Vera would have hardly been able to swing it once. He wielded it as easily as a plastic toy.

The other figures, the ones approaching from town, were much closer now. Three men, and not young either: two looked like grizzled farmers in their simple dirt-worn clothing, armed with swords and daggers. She nearly stumbled when she recognized the third as none other than the giant of a man she’d seen behind the inn.

Vera and Lancelot could have outrun the two behind them, but with three in front of them? They were trapped.

“They can’t be coming for us,” Vera said, a desperate plea. She knew the answer.

“I’ve fucked up.” Lancelot slowed to a stop. She followed his lead, stopping next to him as her eyes darted from one armed group to the other, far too close now. “I’m sorry,” he said as he drew his sword. “We’re going to pull off the road here, and if they follow, you’re going to have to fight, Guinna. Stay close. Keep your focus. I’ll get you through this.” He took her elbow and led Vera off the road so no one was behind them. All five men approached, making a beeline for them.

“Sword drawn, shield up,” Lancelot said hurriedly. “Now Guinna. Get your sword. Stay behind me.”

It was all he had time to say as the first two, the ones who’d followed them in the woods, reached them. The one with the enormous longsword came first. He fought with it in two hands. Lancelot held his sword one-handed, his shield in the other, giving him more reach but less power. It was all deliberate. He drew the man out, feigning vulnerability and enticing the attacker into swinging his sword with all his might. Lancelot raised his shield just in time to take a blow that was so powerful Vera was convinced it would crack the shield in two. She cried out on the impact, but Lancelot held strong and seized on the man’s vulnerable stance to slice deep into his belly and rip the blade free, entrails and blood following in its wake.

One down.

Vera pulled her gaping jaw shut and forced herself to breathe deeply. This was no time to panic. No time to process the horror she’d seen at her friend’s hands.

The wide man with the battle axe was already on Lancelot, and the other three were close behind. Lancelot was a great warrior, but four men were too many to fight on his own. Vera inched closer. She didn’t want to make it worse with her ineptitude, but she didn’t want to leave him stranded. Lancelot fought the man with the axe and the first farmer to join the fray from the other group, too. He was locked in with both when the giant from the inn lumbered in with a blow aimed at Lancelot’s vulnerable side. Vera lurched forward with her shield out and blocked him. The force of it sent her tumbling backward, feet over her head.

“Up, Guinna!” Lancelot shouted without breaking from his fight.

It was the first thing she’d learned in their training: to stay on her feet at all costs. She scrambled up, nearly slicing her leg with her own blade, and stumbled backward.

The giant fixed on her with ravenous eyes, his black pupils so large they filled his whole iris.

“Guard up!” Lancelot cried over his shoulder. She raised her shield, having not even realized she’d lowered it. The giant man skirted around Lancelot and the other two (soon to be three as the final farmer joined the fray). Lancelot tried to maneuver to stop him, but there was nothing for it. Vera had to fight.

When she used her shield to deflect his sword’s first swing, it rattled her, reverberating from the spot on her forearm behind the shield all the way to her teeth, clenched together in effort. Vera blocked blow after blow. The man was relentless—and gaining speed as he attacked. She knew she should counter-strike when he came off balance but was terrified to chance it. She channeled all her focus into one task: trying not to die.

Lancelot fought his three back enough to steal a second and rush to help Vera. With his sword, he stopped a swift swing aimed at Vera’s collarbone and yelled to her, “Run!”

She needed no more telling.

Sweat drenched her skin as she sprinted further into the field, Lancelot on her heels. This was different from distance running, though. It was a mad sprint following exhausting sword fighting. They couldn’t sustain it and used it only to gain better footing before their assailants caught up, and the fight resumed.

Vera couldn’t imagine holding off three attackers the way Lancelot did. Her arms drooped from trying to keep them up to block the nonstop attacks, and her breath came in rattling gasps. She wasn’t going to be able to carry on much longer.

“Stay in it, Guinna!” Lancelot called, sensing her weariness as he shot a hopeful look down the path toward town. No one was coming. Who knew how far away Gawain had been? Vera couldn’t keep taking the blows on her shield. The pain burned in her wrist. She reluctantly started parrying with her sword. She had to drop the shield to wield her weapon with two hands; she needed all her strength to steady her sword.

Her assailant leered as he scooped up the discarded shield. She tried to take advantage of his movement, swinging her sword hard, and he barely got the shield in place. Vera’s sword bit into the wooden shield and wedged there. It wouldn’t yank free. It had been the wrong choice. It left her too close to this man, his inky black eyes lapping at her soul.

This was bad. If she stayed close enough to try to leverage her sword free, he could swing up and stab her in the side. It was too high a risk. She let go of her sword and scrambled back. Vera grabbed a rock from the ground, the only thing near her feet remotely resembling a weapon. His advance was fast. How was he not exhausted? Vera swayed where she stood, fighting to stay alert with the rock cocked back, ready to throw.

Lancelot was fully entangled. He wouldn’t even know what happened to her. Vera stared defiantly up into the hateful face of her assailant and—

She heard the thunder of horse hooves growing steadily louder. She and the attacker looked up in its direction together, and the giant was promptly sliced into oblivion by a horsed warrior and his great upward-arcing swing. Vera staggered back.

The rider glanced back at her as he rode toward Lancelot. It was Arthur. Vera stomped on the discarded shield with one foot, wrenched her stuck sword free with aching arms, and ran behind him. Neither he nor his horse wore any armor. He swung down from his saddle and ran to join the fray as he yelled without turning back, “Ride, Vera!”

She didn’t want to leave them but knew she’d be no help fighting. Vera sprinted to Arthur’s horse.

“Where is Gawain?” she heard Lancelot shout.

Vera was struggling to get her foot in the stirrup when she looked back at the fight as Arthur reached the three remaining men. He had only reeled his arm back to swing when he faltered. For a split second, panic gripped her heart. Was he hurt?

And then she saw.

The oldest farmer in front of Arthur sprouted a gaping hole in the center of his chest. His skin, his organs—all that had once filled that space was removed in a perfect circle, evaporated into nothing. He crumbled to the earth before the light could leave his eyes. The same happened to the man in front of Lancelot, too. From where she stood, clutching the saddle of Arthur’s horse, foot suspended in the stirrup, Vera saw straight through the man’s body to the unstained grass beneath him. He didn’t even bleed. The third man jolted. His black pupils shrank in a flash. His eyes cleared and registered surprise as Lancelot delivered a clean and fatal blow.

Vera looked to the road like a magnet had drawn her attention.

Merlin, still horsed, had both hands raised before him. There was a fire in his eyes, and power pulsed from him. For all the times Vera had stood toe-to-toe with him and shouted him down, she’d never once thought to fear him.

Relief and exhaustion collided, and she dropped to her knees, panting and dizzy. Then, there were hands on her shoulders, and Arthur knelt in front of her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes searching over her for injury and settling on her face. Expectant foreboding etched his brow with lines.

Vera thought of how her body had forgotten how to draw breath after she killed Thomas. But that was different. She nodded.

“She was brilliant,” Lancelot said, panting with his hands on his knees. “Held her own better than I could have hoped.”

“I had to fight,” Vera said through heaving breaths. “I couldn’t—I’m so sorry.” She hoped he heard all that was unsaid behind her apology. But as he stroked her hair, she could see in his eyes that he understood.