Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“A little more pressure,” Vera managed to gasp, anxious he might mistake her direction for displeasure.

But he obliged. “Like this?”

Vera reeled backward. “Yes,” she gasped.

Reality narrowed to only this bed, her body writhing and Arthur’s mouth exploring her. Vera’s muscles tightened with the building ecstasy. Her elbows gave out beneath her, and she gripped the blankets in clenched fists as the sensation pulsed at her base, building until even sound dulled in her ears, and the frenzy peaked in the most sensational pinnacle of physical joy. All her tensed muscles released.

“Oh my God,” she panted, covering her face with her hand. Arthur climbed up to lay next to her and kissed her hand. She rolled onto her side to face him, ready to reciprocate, tracing her fingers down his torso, finding the ties of his waistband—but he caught her fingers.

“No,” he said. “It’s not a transaction.” He kissed her softly on the lips, and Vera’s every insecurity melted away.

They fell asleep, enfolded together in bliss. She heard the ethereal words; this time, they were the drumbeat of her dreams through the whole night. One perfect and quiet night.

Vera nestled against Arthur’s side, relishing the heat of his skin through her nightgown. Though he’d held her through the dark hours of many nights before, this was different. This time, there’d been no pretense, no tension or wondering. She felt his steady breath on her neck and knew he was still sleeping.

She carefully slid out of bed and changed into her running clothes in the dark as she had so many mornings. She was three steps from the door when he called out in a groggy voice, “Where are you going?”

She glanced back. He was propped up on an elbow with bleary, halfawake eyes.

She went back and sat on the bed beside him, smoothing the hair away from his forehead.

“Running with Lancelot,” she whispered, pausing to kiss his brow. A hum of contentment rumbled low from his throat. “Keep sleeping.”

He laid back down, and she stayed there, admiring his handsome features freely: the sharp line of his jaw and his perfect lips, eyelashes splayed delicately onto his cheeks. She stroked his hair, and he opened one eye, accompanied by a raised brow.

“Having second thoughts?” he murmured.

She was. She’d loved the hours lying next to him. But Vera laughed as she stood and threw a pillow on his face. Arthur smiled and hugged it to his chest as he rolled back over.

There was only a faint hint of a glow on the horizon’s easternmost point. Lancelot hadn’t yet emerged from Gawain’s tent, so Vera sat on the ground and stretched, debating whether or not she should wake him. She didn’t want to disturb Gawain, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to let Lancelot keep sleeping. This run had been his idea.

He came out not a minute later. She started getting up to go to him, but Gawain followed. She had no place in this moment.

Vera couldn’t hear what Gawain said. She only heard Lancelot’s laugh in reply, an uninhibited sound as he turned back to Gawain and lay a hand on his cheek, gazing tenderly at him. Lancelot tipped his forehead to rest on Gawain’s and then kissed him. It was as natural as if they’d shared such a kiss hundreds of times before—because they certainly had.

But it wasn’t for her to see. She wished she could sink into the earth. Hiding wasn’t an option. If she got up, the movement would only draw attention to her. Gawain went back into the tent. He hadn’t seen her.

As Lancelot turned toward the soldiers’ tent, his eyes landed directly on Vera. She froze. The easy joy melted from his features. His shoulders slumped as he tucked his chin to his chest and ducked into the tent.

Vera scrambled to her feet. She was still trying to decide what to say when he reemerged. His hard, blank expression stopped her. He didn’t look at her as he said coolly, “Ready?” sounding nothing like himself.

They ran in stiff silence. Vera let it simmer for a few miles until they reached a grassy hill, and her steps stuttered to a stop. Lancelot ran a few paces further and reluctantly stopped, turning to face her.

“Let’s take a break.” She didn’t wait for him to agree. She stepped off the path and plopped down on the ground. For a minute, it seemed Lancelot would stand there, staring into the distance by himself. But he dropped to the ground next to her, leaving more space between them than he usually would.

She couldn’t let this stand. “Can I just say that you are both a great and a good man?” Vera said. “Has anyone told you that lately?”

His eyes were cast determinedly at the ground between his feet. “There’s something wrong with me.”

“Huh.” Vera shook her head. “There are so many things about this time that aren’t as I thought they’d be … but of all the things to be exactly as backward as I expected, this has to be the one.” She sighed. “I disagree. I don’t think there’s a damn thing wrong with you.”

Lancelot looked at her, a glimmer of hope in his eyes that snuffed itself out within a heartbeat. “Well, you are in the minority.”

“It won’t always be this way, you know. In a lot of the world in my time, it’s not this way. You get to be who you are. You could get married if you wanted.”

He scoffed at that. After a stretch of quiet, he abruptly said, “Do you think Arthur will hate me if he finds out?”

Vera inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring at the idea that knowing this about Lancelot could impact how Arthur felt about him.

“I love you,” Vera said firmly. “I don’t love who you’re supposed to be, or some idea of you. I love you. And if Arthur doesn’t or can’t, then I’m sorry, but he’s the one who’s broken and doesn’t deserve your friendship. Not the other way around.”

Lancelot’s chin quivered ever so slightly as a tear fell from the corner of his eye that he hurriedly wiped away. Vera felt a surge of loyalty.

“I wouldn’t want to have a thing to do with him, either,” she added.

She was surprised when that comment cracked the shell of Lancelot’s pain. He chuckled. “Those are harsh words from the woman who loves him.”

She crossed her arms stubbornly across her raised knees. “Well, I very much mean it.”

Lancelot reached to affectionately squeeze her ankle. Then her words sank in, and he jolted, his mouth falling slightly open in a lopsided grin as his whole posture perked up. “You didn’t deny it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So, you do love him?” Even in this vulnerable moment, Lancelot’s eyes twinkled. Vera thought he might have been relieved that the focus had moved away from him.

She sighed, and he wiggled his shoulders with a gleeful giggle.

“You don’t have to be so fucking smug about it,” Vera said, but she laughed, too.

The sun had broken the horizon. Lancelot reached out his hand to call in his orb, hanging readily over their heads. It zipped into his hand.

Vera nodded toward the pocket where he tucked it. “Why the bloody hell don’t you want Merlin to know what your light does? Wasn’t he the one who made it for you?”

“Ah, erm. No. Sorry.” Lancelot grimaced. “I lied before. I didn’t ever anticipate telling you my mother was a mage when we met in Glastonbury. She made my light. And she was rather cleverer than Merlin, not unlike our Sir-Mage Gawain.” Lancelot looked off into the distance toward their campsite with love in his eyes. It wasn’t just a casual fling between them.

His brow furrowed, and he stiffened.

“What is it?” Vera asked.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Something. Something’s wrong.”

She looked, too. Back toward camp, though it was too far to see the tents. Vera wasn’t sure what they were looking for.

“It’s just a feeling, and I’m probably being paranoid.” Lancelot tried to shake it off. “I—”

A flash brighter than the newly born sun on the horizon mushroomed from their camp. If there was any doubt that it was an explosion, the sound of the blast that followed, carried slower on the wind than the light, confirmed it.

Vera and Lancelot sprang to their feet. They were running before either acknowledged out loud what they’d seen. Vera felt ill. The creeping nausea of instinct whispered quietly that this would end her world. She saw Arthur’s peaceful, barely awake face in her mind. She could almost feel the surprising softness of his cheek, the sensation of her fingers twining in his hair. That interaction this morning could have been their last.

Arthur might already be gone. The thought rose, unbidden, and Vera stamped it out. They were in the Mages’ Cloak. Merlin was there. Gawain was there. Maybe … maybe it was an accident, and everything was fine. It could have been nothing.

Vera was lying to herself.

She and Lancelot ran harder than they’d ever run. He was a few steps ahead of her, constantly glancing over his shoulder. She was holding him back. “I can’t keep up with you,” Vera said between ragged breaths.

“Do you want me to slow—”

“No!” she cried. “Go! Go as fast as you can.”

“I can’t leave you,” he said.

“I’m fine. Just get there!”

Lancelot slowed to look at her. He hesitated for two breaths, calculating the risk. With one last glance at Vera, he took off at nearly double their pace. Good. He’d get there. He had to get there. And if he was there, it would all be okay.

Vera ran as fast as she could. These would be the fastest miles of her life if she’d been timing them, but they were also the longest. Her mind was a cloud of fear and dread, only worsening as she got closer.

It hadn’t just been one smoldering explosion. Fires burned in its wake. She was close enough to see flames consuming two of the tents, lapping at the silk now blackened by heat. The other three were already reduced to rubble. She couldn’t make out distinct faces from this distance, but through the smoke and her tears, she was nearly certain that some of the lumps on the ground were bodies. Vera’s world spun. Her feet pounded the ground so hard and fast that her lungs screamed for relief. She couldn’t stop, though.

She expected battle cries, sounds of clashing swords and commands being shouted … even wails of pain from the injured. But there was nothing, and it drove the spike of fear deeper into Vera’s heart. The crackle of fire might have been the merry sound of Bonfire Night, but today it was accompanied by the distinct stink of charred flesh. The air of camp was so clouded with dark plumes of smoke that she tripped and landed splayed out on her front, sucking in air. Her skin scorched, and some distant and reasonable part of her mind told her to move, that she must have landed on some debris that had burned down to hot coals. Vera rolled over. It was only grass next to her, but her skin blazed. In a daze, she lifted her head to see what she’d tripped over, and her heart stopped.

It was a body.

Her mind demanded precious seconds to determine that the face didn’t belong to Arthur, nor Merlin or Gawain. It was one of the soldiers, the younger of the two. His vacant and unseeing eyes stared back at her.

She was ashamed that relief flooded her first—that it wasn’t one of her friends. She’d never even learned his name. And now, he was gone. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

This was a nightmare.

Oh God. Where was Lancelot? At the thought of him, her adrenaline surged. And where was Arthur?

The other soldier (why had she never even learned their names?) was dead in the grass not ten feet away. She didn’t see Lancelot or Gawain, but there was Merlin, standing and surveying the wreckage, blood up to his elbows on both arms, smeared across his cheek, dripping from a gash on his forehead, and splashed across the bottom half of his robe. A sword hung limply from one shaking hand as his mortified gaze fell on Vera.

“Where’s Arthur?” she demanded.

“Guinevere.” Merlin stumbled toward her. His hand shook as he bent to touch the soldier’s head, swallowing heavily. “I—he—”

“Where is he?” She screamed it.

Then she heard Lancelot. “Guinna!”

She spun around. Across what remained of their camp, Lancelot knelt on the ground next to another lump, another body. But it couldn’t be. It could not be Arthur. She tore toward him, forgetting to be frightened if enemies were among them because the impossible was materializing before her eyes.

Arthur, on his back on the ground. Lancelot pressed a cloth against his abdomen. Next to him, there was a pile of red fabric—Vera realized in horror that those hadn’t started red. They were used compresses. So many. So much blood.

Arthur’s eyes were only half-open.

“He’s—he’s asking for you,” Lancelot said, his face pale and shell-shocked.

Vera dropped to her knees. They flanked Arthur now, Lancelot on one side, Vera on his other.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she said, smoothing his hair back from his face. For the briefest moment, she was relieved to touch him and feel the force of his life humming through him. But it was short-lived, because this was very bad.

Arthur revived some at her touch and her voice, blinking up at her.

“It’s all right,” she soothed. “I’m here.”

He turned his face into her hand, and she thought he tried to kiss her palm, but he only had the energy to press his lips to her skin. Vera wept quietly. “It’s—it’s fine. It’s going to be fine.”

She looked up at Lancelot. He held the compress in place, but his face was awash with defeat. He met Vera’s hopeful, pleading gaze and shook his head minutely. Uneven trails streaked through the dirt and ash covering his face. He was crying, too, and Vera crumbled.

She heard Merlin approach from behind, frantically explaining. “It had to be—it couldn’t have been anyone else. It had to be a mage. I can’t believe they would—”

“Where’s Gawain?” Vera demanded, not a question. He could help. His healing could help.

“I—I don’t know.” Merlin’s eyes were wild. He was terrified.

Vera’s heart jumped. Merlin could fix Arthur. He’d fixed her, hadn’t he? “Save him,” she cried.

He stared at her blankly. “I can’t.”

Why didn’t he understand? “Do what you did to me.” She scrambled to her feet, grabbing at Merlin’s arms. “Save his essence. Do whatever you have to do!”

Merlin stumbled as if struck. “Guinevere!” He grabbed her wrists. “I cannot do it.”

“What do you mean? You did it to me. You saved me!”

“I didn’t!” he said. “It is not my power!”

Vera reeled back. What the fuck? He meant it. She wailed wordlessly, ripping her hands free and slamming her fists against his chest. “What are you good for!” she screamed. “Go back to the mages. Get someone who can help.” Her voice faltered into desperation. “Please!” she begged through a sob.

Merlin reached out a hand to comfort her, but she saw the pity in his eyes and wrenched away. “Go!” she screamed.

Vera didn’t watch to make sure he’d gone, but she heard the thunder of hooves fading as she spun back to Arthur and dropped down at his side. She was dizzy, nauseous, and in such physical agony from the pulsing fire on her skin.

Lancelot clutched Arthur’s hand and knelt with his face close to his.

“Get Vera to safety,” Arthur said in a strangled voice. “If you can get her home, do it. If you can’t—just …” He sucked in shallow breaths from the effort.

“I will,” Lancelot assured him through tears. “You know I will.”

Lancelot gripped Vera’s arm over Arthur’s chest, binding himself to her. She clung to him, too. Vera cupped Arthur’s face with her other hand like if she held it just right, his life wouldn’t slip away … water between her fingers.

She wanted to beg him not to die and let all the pain and burning and fear explode from her in desperate screams, but those could not be the last sounds Arthur heard. Vera wondered if he was afraid as he struggled to breathe and fought against the pain, his beautiful face drawn and clenching when the waves of it hit. She wanted him to know he was surrounded and loved.

It was all she could give him.

“You’re going to be okay,” Vera said. A lie and a prayer. She didn’t know what she was going to say until it was already out of her mouth. “We’ll go back to my Glastonbury together. I want you to meet my parents. My dad will love you.” Lancelot let out a strangled sob. She squeezed his arm more tightly. Tears streamed down her face.

Vera imagined cradling Arthur in her words, and his eyes fixed on her, held by her voice. “We’ll read the Lord of the Rings together at night, and we can run the Tor at sunrise if you want. Or walk.” Arthur’s lips turned up at the corners, and Vera managed a strangled laugh before her tears choked her. She’d painted the life she dreamed of because this one was ending, and she wanted to keep it from being a nightmare for him.

Arthur blinked his eyes clear and took great effort to lift his hand to Vera’s cheek. It shook. He couldn’t hold it up, so she held it there for him. The blood from his wound soaked all of his body, even his hands, running down his fingers in delicate rivers on the current of Vera’s tears.

“Vera,” he said, more a breath. “You have given me everything.” His fingertips trembled violently against her cheek. He smiled faintly and with extraordinary effort. Blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth. Arthur was about to die. This couldn’t be real. “I wouldn’t trade the time with you for any long life. I love—”

His voice failed as blood gurgled in his throat.

“No,” Vera said forcefully.

Lancelot launched forward, trying to clear Arthur’s airway with his fingers.

Arthur was about to say he loved her. She somehow knew that meant it was done, and he would be gone. Yet Vera could hardly keep her eyes on him through the screaming pain in her skin. She was uninjured and unblemished, but she would have sworn that she was burning alive, about to explode from a pent-up force with nowhere to go.

Ishau mar domibaru.

It echoed within her from someplace untouchable.

And she knew.

Vera had a certainty that she didn’t understand, and it came through foreign words that her tongue craved to cry.

“You need to move,” she hurriedly said to Lancelot. Now that she knew the words, it took all her effort to keep from saying them.

“What?” He looked at her like she was insane. But she couldn’t explain, and they were running out of time.

“MOVE!” Vera bellowed with a voice that would carry for acres.

Lancelot scrambled to his feet and stumbled backward.

Vera rose to the full height of her knees, and the words tumbled off her tongue. “Ishau mar domibaru.”

There was power in her voice that she didn’t recognize. And she knew what to do next. A deep inhale and exhale, the name of the origin of all things, the breath of life itself. As the last wisp of breath parted from her lips, an unnatural silence filled her ears for microseconds. Then a surge of power rocked through Vera, up from her toes and down from the top of her head, meeting and exploding at her chest, down her arms and out her palms, too. It was a light so bright, radiating out from her with a blinding blast.

Instantly after, there was something alive inside Vera. She knew it like her oldest friend. Now that it was here, she understood that it always had been. She and Lancelot shared one wide-eyed look.

“Go,” he breathed.

Vera dropped back down and pressed her hands to Arthur’s wound. The effect was immediate. Please don’t let it be too late, she silently pleaded. Let it be enough.

His skin started to knit itself together at her touch. As the force flowed through her hands and into his body, Vera began to learn more. Closing the wound wasn’t enough. She could sense the blood loss and instinctively regenerated his blood supply. She knew the organs that had been pierced even though she didn’t know their names. Vera bound them shut.

He would not die on this patch of earth today. His life force intensified. The closer he came to wholeness, the weaker Vera became. Her fears of whether she could give him enough renewed. She kept at it, pushing the power from her, drawing from what felt like the bottom of the well of her gift until every wound in his body had been healed and his blood was restored. Vera was terrified to release the grip of her power, but there was nothing more she could do.

She fell back, panting and terrified.

His eyes were open, and the haze was gone. Arthur sat up and tore back his blood-soaked tunic, revealing a mess of blood on his skin.

But there was no wound.

“You’re still alive,” Vera said in disbelief.

“Yes I am.” Arthur’s voice was thick with awe. One of the burning tents collapsed in on itself with a crash, jolting them from their reverie. He blinked and surveyed the wreckage. From somewhere not far off, a horse’s whinny cut through the quiet.

“We can’t stay here.” He looked to Lancelot. “Are you all right?”

Lancelot nodded. He was, and he wasn’t.

Oh God. “Where’s Gawain?” Vera asked. She was afraid of the answer.

“He’s gone. There’s no sign of him.” Lancelot’s jaw jutted forward as he shook his head. “I’ll find the horses.”

“Can you stand?” Vera asked Arthur, offering her hand and helping him up. He was fine. He was healed.

But Vera’s vision swam in front of her. She grabbed Arthur’s arm to steady herself. “I don’t feel good,” she mumbled before promptly doubling over and vomiting.

She stood back up and swayed. Arthur held her upright. The world spun around her. “I think I’m about to lose consciousness,” she mused. It was her last waking thought.

As she faded, she felt Arthur’s arms around her. She heard his and Lancelot’s voices, but they sounded far off. Vera felt the bump of movement and vaguely recognized that she was on a horse with Arthur’s arms holding her fast, but she did not know where they were going.