The sword had been prepared for him, but no one knew where the city came from. It had always been there. The Romans had used it, as had Uther Pendragon. Guinevere wondered whether Merlin knew who first built it, but Camelot was far more ancient than he was.
She suppressed a shudder, remembering her dream about the city when it was new, which triggered thoughts of the Lady of the Lake. She did not have time to dwell on those questions. Arthur would not fail his quest because he was thinking about impermanent castles and ancient cities. She tried remembering Sir Tristan’
s instructions, but without being able to retrace her steps to her starting point, they were worthless. She had no idea where she was or how to get to where she was supposed to go. No wonder Arthur always opted for the straightforward method of battles and sword fights.
“Excuse me?” A young man in King Mark’s livery—black, with what was either a red spear or an odd tree in the center—put out an arm to stop her. She was in a long, dim hall. There were no windows to help orient herself. Her eyes watered from the smoke of something cooking nearby, the smell hanging heavy all around them. “What are you doing here?”
Guinevere had sworn to Lancelot that no one would notice her or question what she was doing. Panic served no purpose, so she set it aside. She could not control having been seen, but she could control how she was seen. If she could convince an entire city that she was a queen, she could certainly convince one round-faced young man she was a lady’s maid.
She immediately burst into tears.
The young man’s eyes widened in alarm. They were muddy brown with thick eyelashes. His teeth were crooked where he bit his lip before speaking. “What—what is wrong?”
“I only arrived last night, and my father had to trade ever so many favors to get me a spot in the castle, and he was so proud and he told everyone, including my aunt, and she hates me, she is always telling me I am a useless, stupid thing, and how my father would have been better off having no children at all than only having a daughter like me, and she is right because I was supposed to fetch some wine from the kitchen but I got lost on the way and my father will be so disappointed in me when I am sent home.” She stopped, sniffling, letting her lower lip tremble. “Do you think they will even send me home, or will they lock me up for failing?”
The young man’s face turned red as he tried to hold back laughter. “Well, it is your lucky day. I know where the kitchen is. And you can dry your tears. No one will notice you this evening. They are going to burn the queen.” He offered his elbow and she took it, grateful the movement covered her shocked horror. Tonight! Isolde was to be executed that very evening. She had not a moment to lose.
“Thank you! My aunt told me I would find no kindness in the castle, not one drop, but she was wrong. What time is the—what time is the—the bonfire?” Guinevere stumbled over the atrocity of saying bonfire in relation to Isolde, but she did not know what else to call it.
He turned them toward the kitchen. “At sunset. Did you miss the whole trial? It was very sad. The queen wept and the king raged. So, nothing unusual there.” He laughed good-naturedly. “But it is too bad she is a witch. She was always nice to us. My sister thinks it has more to do with King Mark wanting an heir than any witchcraft, but I think she must have been up to something, always locked in her rooms, sleeping all hours.”
“Is she in a cell? I hate to think I am in the same castle as a witch.” Guinevere shuddered. It was not hard to fake. She already felt sick with dread at how little time she had and how complicated her task had become. She had promised Lancelot she would come back.
She was going to break that promise.
“At sunset, you will never have to worry about her again.” He made a whooshing noise and waved his fingers through the air in a gruesomely cheerful imitation of fire. “Kitchen is there.” He pointed to a door. Guinevere could have followed the smell of smoke and burning grease quite easily on her own. “I have to go now. It is my shift to be outside the king’s door.” His chest puffed with pride.
“Thank you. My hero.” She smiled as he turned away, then her smile fell away like a curtain being drawn. If she could not find Isolde, she could find the man who knew where she was. She followed the young man and tore several threads free from her tunic as she walked, knotting them viciously into confusion. It made her vision swim and her steps unsteady, but it also made anyone who might stop her or ask questions simply slide right past without noticing her.
After a narrow flight of stairs and in another dim hallway he paused to spit at a door before continuing on.
It was a gamble. Follow him to the king, or examine the door that triggered his derision? Guinevere paused. The door was bolted from the outside. She could find the king after, if she needed to. She slid the bolt free, then considered the lock. Inside her pouch she carefully moved aside the potion and examined her options. She had thread. Bits of cloth. The tooth from the battered dragon, which certainly would not help. She had none of her iron thread, which was unfortunate. That would have done the trick quite nicely.
With a sigh, she reached into her boot and withdrew the iron dagger Arthur had gifted her. She did not like this magic, either its tolls or the way it felt. She cut the tip of one finger and pressed it against the lock, tracing a simple knot for age. Then she let her blood drip into the keyhole. There was nothing dramatic or showy. After a few seconds, the lock simply fell open, a fine dusting of rust sprinkling out of it. If anyone looked closely, they would think the lock had succumbed to age and the ocean-damp air.
Guinevere leaned against the door, resting her head there. Blood magic asked more than any other type did. She did not know the exact cost of this one. She suspected she had just given up several days of her own life to concentrate the passage of time on this one tiny object. Magic always had a price, paid now or paid later.
She opened the door. The room was dim, its single window shuttered. A cot was in one corner with neatly folded blankets. There were no paintings, no carpets. Sitting on a plain wooden chair near the wall was a woman.
“Who are you?” a voice as soft as a spring bloom asked. Guinevere stepped inside. The woman’s hair was long and full. Her eyes were wide set over a small nose and lips like a budding rose, her cheeks full, her hands dimpled, her generous curves swathed in green cloth. It was impossible not to be a little breathless when faced with such beauty.
“Who are you?” Isolde repeated. “What is happening?” She stood, alarm on her face as she tried to focus on Guinevere but could not manage it because of the confusion knot. “Who are you?” Her voice was rising. She would get them discovered. Guinevere pulled her tunic to her mouth and bit off the threads of the knot, releasing the magic. Her head cleared, like the pressure before a sneeze is released. Isolde took a step back, blinking rapidly as her eyes finally settled on Guinevere.
Guinevere pulled out the purple thistle. “I am here on Brangien’s behalf.”
Isolde’s face drained of blood as she reached out a trembling hand. “Brangien’s flower. Beautiful not in spite of its spiky nature but because of it.” She held the thistle against her chest. “Who are you?”
“Guinevere.”
“The queen?” Isolde’s expressive eyebrows raised nearly as high as her hairline. “Brangien sent King Arthur’s queen to me?”
“Well, it is a group effort. I am here to set you free.”
“And Brangien?” Isolde’s voice shook.
“Brangien is waiting to help. There will be a place for you at Camelot if you want.”
“I could not.” Isolde put her hands over her heart, shaking her head. “It would put everyone there at risk. Brangien and I will have to run. We will have to run forever.”