“I do not like water,” she whispered. Her throat closed around how inadequately that phrase captured the soul-deep terror she felt. A memory—heavy black water over her head, around her, pressing in everywhere, filling her—surfaced, and she pushed it away with all her strength, pulling her mind from it as fast as she would her hand from a burning brand.
“Then I am afraid you will not find your new home to your liking.”
“What do you mean?”
Mordred sounded apologetic, but she could not see his features well enough to know whether his face matched his tone. “No one has told you?”
“Told me what?”
“I would hate to ruin the surprise.” His tone was a lie, then. He hated her. She felt it. And she did not know what she had done already in their two days together to earn his ire.
The rush of the river drove every other consideration away, its only competition the beating of her heart and her panicked breaths, trapped by her veil in a humid cloud of panic. Sir Bors helped her dismount and she stood next to Brangien, who was lost in a world of her own, distracted and distant.
“My lady?” Sir Bors said.
She realized it was not the first time he had addressed her. “Yes?”
“The ferry is ready.”
She tried to
step toward it. She could not make her body move. The terror was so intense, so overwhelming, she could not even lean in that direction.
Brangien, finally realizing something was wrong, moved in front of her. She leaned close, her features sharpening beyond the veil. “You are frightened,” she said, surprised. Then her voice softened, and for the first time she sounded like she was talking to a person instead of a title. “I can hold your hand, if you would like. I can swim, too. Do not tell anyone. But I promise I will see you safely to the other side.” Brangien’s hand found hers, squeezing tightly.
She took it gratefully, clung to it as though she were already drowning and this hand was all that stood between her and oblivion.
And she had not yet taken even a step toward the river! This would all fail before she reached the king, because she could not get over this absurd fear. She hated herself, and she hated every choice that had brought her here.
“Come along.” Sir Bors’s words were clipped with impatience. “We are expected before nightfall. We must keep moving.”
Brangien tugged gently. One step, then another, then another.
The raft beneath her feet dipped and swayed. She turned to run back to the bank, but the men were there. They moved forward, a sea of broad chests and unyielding leather and metal. She stumbled, clinging to Brangien.
A sob escaped her. She was too afraid to be ashamed.
Brangien, the only solid thing in a world of turmoil and movement, held her. If she fell in, she knew—she knew—she would be unmade. The water would claim her. She would cease to exist. Sealed in her fear, the passage could have lasted minutes or hours. It was infinite.
“Help me,” Brangien said. “I cannot move, she clings so. I think she is insensible.”
“It is not right for us to touch her,” Sir Bors grumbled.
“God above,” Mordred said, “I will do it. If he wants to kill me for touching his bride, he is welcome to, so long as I get to sleep in my own bed one last time.” Arms lifted her, reaching beneath her knees and cradling her like a child. She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the scents of leather and cloth. Never had she been more grateful for something solid. For something real.
“My lady.” Mordred’s voice was as soft as his hair, which her fingers were tangled in like claws. “I deliver you safely to dry land. So brave in the forest—what is a stream to you?”
He set her down, hands lingering at her waist. She stumbled. Now that the threat was past, shame claimed her. How could she be strong, how could she complete her mission, if she could not so much as cross a river?
An apology bloomed on her lips. She plucked it and discarded it. Be what they expect.
She straightened carefully. Regally. “I do not like water.” She delivered it as a fact, not an apology. Then she accepted Brangien’s hand and remounted her horse. “Shall we move along?”
* * *
On her way to the convent she had seen castles of wood that grew from the ground like a perversion of a forest. Even one castle of stone. It was a squat, cross-looking building.
Nothing had prepared her for Camelot.