Текст книги "The once and future queen"

Автор книги: Paula Laferty

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

There were two people standing outside beneath the tower looking on in horror—close enough to see but dumbstruck as Arthur rushed by them. He got to her, ready to check for her pulse, ready to carry her to Merlin, ready to try to save her—

But she was unmoving, and her eyes were open, a tear still clinging to her cheek. She’d landed on her side where blood pooled around her head—she’d hit a rock. He tried not to notice that her head was misshapen, slightly caved in on that side.

He scooped her into his arms and cradled her body close. This was the third time that he’d witnessed her die (well, all but die), and it was the first time he’d been able to hold her body. He sobbed as he clumsily ran with her to Merlin’s tower. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her hair all the way.

Maybe she wasn’t so far gone. Maybe. Maybe Merlin could fix it.

He could not.

This time, like the last with Lancelot, she was not far gone, she was dead. But there’d been three lumps of goo that first day. And there was one more Guinevere to be retrieved. Merlin laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “The next one will work,” he’d said.

“No.” Arthur’s voice came out in a broken croak. “Leave her be.” This was doomed.

Merlin had argued, but Arthur wouldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear it. He just kept saying, “No” over and over again.

Merlin finally ended it with a defeated, “We’ll talk later.”

Arthur left the study. Shivering, which was strange. It wasn’t cold. He started up the stairs to their chamber—his chamber—his body quaking so much he found he couldn’t move another step forward.

He let his knees fall to the stone beneath him and dropped his hands and head on the stair in front of him. The sound careening from his throat was the keening wail of absolute self-loathing.

They’d all followed him—everyone, all the tribes—into war, into peace, into this kingdom. Being their king had never felt normal even though it had, bafflingly, felt right. He’d led them to becoming a nation. He’d protected people he would never meet.

But he could not protect her, and in his desperation, he’d fled to Merlin once more.

He would regret that decision forever. He should have let those onlookers by the tower see that she was dead. He should have let them know that Guinevere was gone.

If he had, this final version of her could have stayed right where she was and lived a life free from all of this, free from him. Instead, Merlin left this morning and by the time Arthur knew the mage had gone, it was all in motion and entirely unstoppable. He’d had his first cup of wine in his chamber then.

Merlin was retrieving this girl from her life in the future at the last moment before time travel would become impossible again for nearly six months. There’d be no stopping her arrival, and Arthur was to meet them—Merlin and her—in Glastonbury.

Hands trembling, he’d made his way to the Great Hall. Lancelot was there waiting for him (bless him) in his riding clothes.

“Ready?” Lancelot said.

But Arthur couldn’t do it. Lancelot went instead, and Arthur stayed in the hall, not in his throne on the dais but on one of the long benches by the lower tables, where he’d drunk more wine than he meant to and kept drinking it out of shame and nerves and defeat. With each cup, the edges dulled, more like being crushed by a smooth boulder than a jagged one. He very rarely drank to excess but found it was birthing a physical ache, a dull sick in his gut—physical pain felt like one tiny morsel of punishment for all he’d set in motion. And physical pain was better than the terror. Horror. Fury. Sorrow of what he knew was coming: he would take her life, too.

She’d be the same as the others.

He should have expressly forbid Merlin from retrieving her rather than what he’d done: perpetually saying, “not yet,” leaving a window for exactly what happened today. Having not done that, he should have gone with Lancelot to retrieve her. Arthur was surprised that magic’s call on him as king had not fled his blood this past year. None of this was noble kingly behavior.

He reached for the pitcher of wine and filled his goblet again.

Now, it was nearly midnight. Merlin had come back to chide Arthur for staying behind, which devolved to an all-out shouting match, and (once cooler heads prevailed) the mage explained that Guinevere and Lancelot would be along shortly after.

That had been three hours ago. There was no good reason for them to be delayed this much. Arthur’s mind shot to worst-case scenarios. Was she already dead? Had she lost her mind straightaway? Had Lancelot been forced to kill her again?

He took another swig from his cup as the door on the far end of the hall opened.

Merlin came in the room, and even with the whole hall’s length between them, Arthur instantly saw the relief splayed across the mage’s features.

“Fuck,” Arthur murmured into his cup, certain this meant she’d arrived. “Is that it, then?” he asked when Merlin was close enough to not require shouting. “Is she here?”

“She is,” Merlin said. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t give Arthur an option to discuss it, just turned on his heel and strode away.

Arthur took a long, slow breath before he stood and followed Merlin, his heart raging against the inside of his chest.

He deliberately stared at the floor as he rounded the corner into the entry hall, but he could see the two of them standing there in his periphery. Lancelot.

And her.

When he could avoid looking at her no longer and tipped his eyes up to meet her gaze, Arthur saw that she was afraid, saw the way his harshness landed. It was easy to keep his face contorted in a scowl because all of this was wrong.

It was made worse because … because there was some … brightness there in her. Some spark shining from her that wasn’t there before—or that hadn’t been allowed to be there before. What would her life be if she could just have it elsewhere?

Merlin’s voice pierced through Arthur’s thoughts. “It’s not unreasonable that remembering His Majesty will take time.”

Arthur turned his sights on the mage, heat racing up his spine. Yes, it would take time, time enough for her to lose all the life in her.

“That’s not her,” he said.

Not her burden. Not her fate to suffer and … the last, a plea: that’s not the ailing woman whose fate is doomed.

Please. Please, God, please.

Arthur turned and left.

Lancelot found him in the great hall—with the wine again. The knight ignored the available bench and dragged a chair over, poured himself a goblet of wine, and sat down. Then, elbows on his knees, holding the cup between them, he stared at Arthur.

Arthur hoped Lancelot would tell him about her. Despite all his misgivings, he was curious. He didn’t want to own that. He didn’t want to have any interest in her, and Lancelot knew that.

“I’m not going to do this again,” Arthur said after a long stretch of silence.

Lancelot watched him and let the quiet have another moment before he broke it with a heavy sigh as he leaned back in his chair. “She’s very different. Good different.”

Arthur bristled. He resented the notion there’d been something deficient in her before. She’d been hurting. But she’d also taken on more than anyone should. And she’d endured more. He’d seen awful deaths in battle, yes, but she’d seen her share of trauma, too. She’d watched her own mother die.

“Well, father says I was there, but I don’t remember it. You can’t be hurt by something you don’t remember,” she’d told him. And she’d smiled when she said it, which was the final tell that it was something that made her very sad to say. And he was quite certain she was wrong too. He was quite certain her wounds were so deep she’d convinced herself they didn’t exist.

But.

Different. Good different. This time, he couldn’t resist the temptation. “How so?”

Lancelot’s lips tilted nearly imperceptibly up, and Arthur knew he was pleased that he’d gotten what he hoped for: enough interest from Arthur to continue the conversation. “She likes me, for one.” Lancelot’s smile broadened.

“Really?” Arthur colored his tone with disbelief and quirked an eyebrow, surprising himself by indulging the levity, but more so that Lancelot’s instinct to show up for Guinevere had been a good one. Maybe, in a turn none of them could have guessed, Lancelot had been what she needed all along.

“She does,” Lancelot said proudly. “And she’d just left her whole world behind. Everything, Arthur. And she still seemed happy. Not thrilled by the circumstances, obviously. But different from the others. It’s not just wishful thinking, I know it. I just … I know it.”

Arthur’s muscles had relaxed. He realized he was no longer clenching his jaw. But this woman being different didn’t fix anything. “That’s all the more reason I should stay away.”

Lancelot sighed. “She’s going to need your help, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur said. He’d never gotten used to hearing the formal title from his oldest friend, and it landed heavy, especially now. “I tried to help the others. It ended poorly.”

“I know.” This, his friend offered more gently. “So maybe you do it different this time. Maybe you tell her.”

“Tell her?”

“Yes.” Lancelot’s eyes lit as he took a long drink, emptying his cup. “Tell her about the others. Tell her all of it.”

Everything in Arthur jolted like he’d been knocked sideways. “Are you mad? That’s the surest way to damn her. Merlin said—”

“I know what he said. It doesn’t mean he’s right.” He turned the cup in his hands, seeming to study it for a long moment. “She’s going to need you.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. Lancelot’s instincts were unmatched, and Arthur trusted him implicitly—but in this matter, Arthur could not trust himself. “I can’t help her.”

Lancelot scoffed. “What is she supposed to do? She’ll need someone who isn’t Merlin. He’ll be gone half the time anyway.”

“She’ll have you. I’ll stay as far from her as I can.”

Lancelot shook his head as he released a long breath through his nostrils. “It’s a mistake, Your Majesty.”

“Stop calling me that.” Arthur drained his own cup and set it down on the table harder than he meant to. Nearly slammed it, really.

“You’re still king, Arthur,” Lancelot said softly. “Even when you’re feeling ashamed. And when you’re three sheets to the wind. You’re still my king. You’re still her king.” He took the pitcher and refilled Arthur’s cup and then his own. “If you think staying away will protect her, I’ll try it. Nothing else has worked.”

He wasn’t sure of anything, but Lancelot had gotten her safely here. Lancelot had been a friend to her and—Arthur blinked. “Did you just leave her out there?”

“Yes.” Lancelot rolled his eyes. “Shut up. So did you.” He wasn’t wrong. “Merlin’s out there. She’s fine. She knows how to hold her own.” He gave a lopsided grin, and his eyes glimmered.

“You really like her,” Arthur said.

“Very much. And you will too.”

Arthur’s insides lurched, but he nodded.

“I’m going to bed. You should too.” Lancelot took one last swig from his cup before he stood. “You don’t sleep enough.”

Arthur huffed. “I’m not the one running through the woods before daybreak.”

Lancelot grinned, tilting his head to the side. He looked like he swallowed something he’d thought to say and started to leave.

But Arthur couldn’t resist. “What?”

Lancelot turned back quickly and sat back down in his chair. “She runs, mate. Brought shoes with her—snuck them in her bag. She laughs really easily.” He raised his eyebrows with a chuckle. “And she curses rather a lot.”

Arthur smiled at that. “Curses? Well. That’s not Guinevere.”

“Maybe not.” Lancelot clicked his tongue. “Maybe that’s a good thing. But I like her, and I trust her.”

Arthur liked the sound of all that. And he had a mission: Stay away. Keep this woman alive. Get her back home, so she could live her life. “We’ve got to get her through six months without …”

Without me destroying her.

Lancelot nodded. “And the memories?”

“If Merlin can help her recover them, fine. Otherwise, sod it. This is our mess, not hers. We’re on our own.” Arthur raised his cup to Lancelot. “And you’ll take care of her?”

Lancelot tapped his drink against his king’s. “With my life, Arthur.”

Arthur had climbed the stairs and entered his chamber without even thinking that she would be there. He’d grown so used to coming to this room alone, and his mind was still foggy from the wine. But as he turned into the room after locking the door, he saw her right away—in the center of his field of vision, seated on the foot of the bed. Fuck. Of course she was there. Where else would she be?

She stood up quickly, her eyes wide and desperate and fingers pressing hard into the book she held. He’d seen expressions so like this one on Guinevere’s face, and the panic that rose stole Arthur’s breath. All he could manage to do was set his jaw and stare at the wardrobe.

Just get there. Get to the wardrobe. Get clothing. Leave her be.

But when he stepped in her direction, she flinched away. He wanted her to stay away from him—not fear for her bodily safety in his presence. He needed her to know that he she need not fear … assault from him.

Fuck. This was awful.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He had to force his vocal cords to function.

He skirted a deliberate and wide path around her. As he dug through the wardrobe for the clothing he’d wear in the morning, he was certain he could feel her eyes on his back as goosebumps rose along his spine. Maybe he imagined that.

He wanted to turn around. He wanted desperately to talk to her, to ask her questions, to see what Lancelot had seen. Feel the assurance that she was living this happier life, but all of that was selfish, and he would not yield to it.

God. There was no way he’d sleep tonight. All right. He’d stop at the desk and grab The Hobbit. Something to read would inevitably help. What better than a grand adventure written for children?

But when he got to the desk, it wasn’t there. Maybe he’d left it somewhere, but … wait. She’d had a book in her hands, hadn’t she?

He turned, eyes darting to the tome. Now that he was looking, he recognized it as The Hobbit. Something warmed in him that it was the book she’d selected, and an alarming jolt of affection rushed through him. Almost instantly, she’d clocked his eyes on the book and offered it to him. A pang rattled in Arthur’s gut. She didn’t understand.

“They’re yours,” he said. “Merlin brought them. He thought they might comfort you.” Her eyes still shone with fear, but they searched him with curiosity too, that spark breaking through … No. Not good. He shifted his gaze to her shoulder. He wanted to stare at her, to know her. Don’t do that.

If she came to him, afraid and seeking comfort, he’d want to give it. He’d want to be there for her. He’d want to help her.

And it would all come to the same end. This woman who’d somehow found a way to claim the vibrance that had thwarted Guinevere would die like the rest.

No. He turned to the door to the side chamber. He was leaving. He. Was. Leaving.

But then she said one word. “Arthur?” Her voice, Guinevere’s voice, said his name. It disgusted him that he took pleasure in that.

Then she asked the questions he should have thought to answer. Could she drink the water? How would she turn off the light?

What would his mother say about what a cad he’d been?

The least he could do was provide some simple instructions about how she might be comfortable. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t offer anything extra. He adopted the focused demeaner of negotiating a peace treaty and kept his face carefully blank.

And then he lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling, except when they darted to the crack beneath the door. Her light was still lit.

An hour passed.

It was still lit.

Two hours. Three.

Shit.

Fuck. Maybe Lancelot was right. Maybe this was worse, and he should talk to her. He’d never been this riddled with uncertainty in all his life.

He opened the door as quietly as he could. “Guinevere?” It was barely loud enough to be a whisper.

Silence answered. The panic that she was dead was immediate– irrational, but not—and he rushed to her side. She lay still, lifeless. He knelt, ready to give her a frantic shake, but he made himself wait and watch with his hand poised over her shoulder.

Her chest rose and fell steadily.

Then Arthur realized—she was sleeping on the side he always used to sleep on. The others hadn’t done that either. Her fingers still rested in the book, marking her page. Her arms and legs were both curled in close.

She was cold.

Very carefully, he slid the book from beneath her fingers and, not wanting to lose her page, found a scrap of parchment from his desk to tuck into it before he closed it on the table. She was on top of the blankets on the bed, so he went to the chest and drew out another and laid that over her, gingerly pulling it up to her shoulders.

Before he had a moment to think better of it, Arthur reached down and tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. She did not stir. Her breath did not change. But her furrowed brow smoothed and for one fleeting moment, a soft smile rose on her lips.

Arthur was so stunned that he sunk down on one knee to be at eye level with her sleeping face. It had been so quick, but she had smiled. He was sure of it. And the crease between her brows had not returned.

His lips tugged up at the corners as he watched her because, just now, she did look a little bit … happy.

He decided right there, kneeling on the floor at her side: this was what he would do. Arthur would care for her in every quiet, invisible way he could find. He’d watch what brought her delight and silently deliver it. He’d notice what released the tension from her shoulders and shift castle life to bring that peace.

He rose, went to the opposite side of the bed, and lowered the light before he retreated to his room. Though he knew better than to think it anything other than a coincidence, he could not shake the whisper of hope that she had smiled at his touch.

Or perhaps it was merely wishful thinking.

Acknowledgments

This book exists because of a long line of support, care, and magic.

I could lay out pages of gratitude, but I’ll do my best to rein it in. From the bottom of my heart, thank you—to Mike, who didn’t know he taught me how to build the muscle of persistence necessary to write a book, and to Lochlyn, who is the smartest and most creative person I know and who inspires me with stories every single day.

To my family, especially Dad & Deb, Erin & Kyle (and the boys!), and Mom, who watched my starry-eyed delusions and said, “Go!”

To a wide crew of beloved friends: The Twelve and their endless alpha reading, proofing, and encouragement, The MoonBass crew, the Saturday Coffee Club, The Beavers, the staff and community of Peace Church KC, and The Incomparables. To Melissa Reynolds, who taught me how to try, succeed, and fail at scary things. To Larry Ivy, who brought me as an intern on the great adventure that planted the seed for this book.

To Ceva Jill Story & Michael Moore for being my ride or dies.

To the big Guinevere team: the artists who made this book beautiful—Niall Grant, Aftyn Shah, Chaim Holtjer, and Paige Dainty, to Andrew and the Merrick Books community, Mackenzie Walton, Taryn Fagerness, who did the most in getting this book out in the wide world, Julia Whelan, who saw me on the internet, took a chance on my manuscript, and leant Vera her voice, Geof Prysirr, whose artistic precision in audio editing is even more impressive than his grilling prowess (which is saying quite a lot), the Hodderscape team, and finally to Alex Sunshine (the editor with the single greatest name) and the many good folks at Kensington for inviting Vera’s story and me into a whole new world of opportunities.

To so many authors who lowered ladders and pulled me up, and last, but certainly not least: to the remarkable book communities of Instagram and TikTok, who gave me the courage to take wild leaps.

Discussion Questions

These suggested questions are to spark conversation and enhance your reading of The Once and Future Queen.

1.Before reading, how familiar were you with stories of Camelot and Arthurian lore? Have your feelings about the legend changed? What would you like to learn more about?

2.Many locations in the book are real places: the Tor, The White Spring Temple, and the George and Pilgrims Hotel. If you were to visit one of these places, which would it be, and why?

3.Vera manages to smuggle some items to the past that make 7th century life a bit more comfortable. If you had five minutes and an Indiana Jones-style satchel, what would you bring to the 7th century?

4.Throughout the novel, new magical gifts manifest in BIG ways, surprising the characters who receive them as much as everyone who bears witness. If you could have any magical gift, what would you pick? What would you do with that power?

5.Many of our central characters have endured recent trauma, and each of them responds differently: Vera tries to fix everything on her own, Lancelot tries to protect everyone, and Arthur retreats into himself. Why do you think each reacts that way? Who do you relate to the most?

6.Historically, Queen Guinevere—and her affair with Lancelot—was often portrayed unfavorably. How does Vera’s character reinforce or challenge prominent versions of the legend? How do you think Guinevere and Lancelot’s friendship in this retelling has impacted the story?

7.Arthur and Vera find a quiet connection reading The Hobbit together. What do you think it is about reading out loud together that creates a sense of connection? How do you think stories help us better understand ourselves?

8.Vera doesn’t feel like she has much to offer, but her friends in the book would certainly disagree. What does Vera bring to her relationships in Camelot? Why do you think seeing herself as an asset is such a challenge for Vera, and how do you relate to her experience?

9.When Vera is asked to give up her life for a chance to save magic, she goes back and forth on what the right choice is. What would you have done in her shoes, and why?

10.The Once and Future Queen is the first book in a trilogy, and many questions are left unanswered. What is the biggest question you’d like answered immediately? What are your theories about what will happen next?