Normally Guinevere only took whatever the touch magic forced her to experience. But this time she actively used it, pushing out, searching. Brangien was there. All of her. Wit and cleverness, resourcefulness. A well of sorrow so deep and pure Guinevere gasped as she touched only the edge of it. Anger and fear, as well, but nowhere did she find malice or vengeance. Nowhere did she feel a threat. Only yearning.
Satisfied, she withdrew her hand. The absence of Brangien was a relief. Bearing another person’s emotions was overwhelming. Guinevere felt light-headed and distant from herself.
She sat heavily in the chair. Brangien was not malicious. And now they knew each other’s secrets. Or at least Brangien knew one of Guinevere’s. “Very well. Tell me what was worth risking everything for.”
/> “I am trying to find her. Isolde.” Brangien’s eyes brimmed with tears. “It has been so long. There were a few letters at first that she managed to smuggle out. But I have heard nothing of her and I am afraid—I am so afraid—” The tears spilled over. Guinevere wanted to comfort her, but that meant stepping close to the full bath, which she was not willing to do.
The tremendous sorrow. The overpowering yearning. “Sir Tristan is not the one who loves Isolde, is he?” Guinevere asked.
Sir Tristan shook his head slowly. “I would do anything to see her happy. Brangien, too. Both of them together.”
Isolde and Brangien. No wonder she had been banished along with Tristan.
Guinevere did not envy the pain on Brangien’s face. But how would it feel to love so deeply she could hurt that much? The overwhelming sorrow seemed precious, almost holy. Brangien carried that within herself always, a dedicated portion of her soul. And if the sorrow was that deep, how much deeper must be the love that formed it?
Envy stirred in Guinevere. She wanted that. And she wanted Brangien to have it back. “You are trying to see Isolde?”
Brangien nodded, warily hopeful.
“One hair,” Guinevere said. She had seen Merlin do this. She could not remember when or how, but she distinctly remembered looking up at Merlin as he peered into a tub of water and made a circle out of a hair, framing the water and guiding it toward what he wanted to see. “Take one hair, and make a circle on top of the water with it. Then reach through, holding on to Isolde in your mind. Pull your hand back up and you should have what you wish. Wait. No.” Guinevere was missing something. What was she missing? Blood fed iron magic. Fuel fed fire magic. What fed water magic? Why could she not remember?
Because she hated water. Forcing her mind to think of it felt like pushing against the barrier between sleeping and waking.
A face in the water. Bubbles. And then nothing.
Guinevere shuddered, angling her body in the chair so she could not see the bath at all. “I remember. You do not want to do what it takes to do water magic.”
“I do. I will do anything.”
“Water wants to fill. To take the shape of whatever it finds. To be able to do water magic requires a sacrifice up front. Once the water has breath as payment, it will do what you want. But you have to drown someone.”
Brangien sank to the floor, defeated. “Then she is lost to me.”
“No. I have another way. And this way, Isolde will see you, too.” Guinevere smiled, but her smile was forced around the discomfiting dread of the memory. Of Merlin and the water. When had that happened? Whom had he drowned? And why?
Why had she not thought of it until now?
They went back into the bedroom. Guinevere knew she should wait and investigate this further. But she desperately needed a distraction. Guinevere took Isolde’s hair and knotted it into Brangien’s. Brangien lay on her cot, and Guinevere checked over her work. She would sacrifice her own dreams for a week with this magic. But it was worth it. Her dreams had shown her nothing useful. She barely remembered them.
She placed Brangien’s own sleep knots on her chest, and Brangien’s mind was gone.
Guinevere sat back, satisfied. Sir Tristan shifted uncomfortably next to the door. He should not be there. If he were caught, he would be in tremendous trouble. They both would be.
Now she had not one but two more allies within Camelot, though. She did not know whether she would tell Arthur about them. Arthur had been so rigid about the rules in the forest, and she could not be certain he would let them stay.
Her secret for now, then. She waved for Sir Tristan to leave. “I will watch over her. Go and rest, good knight.”
He gratefully exited. Guinevere sat at Brangien’s side, hoping that the smile that flitted across Brangien’s dreaming face meant their magic had worked. Kindness through magic was not something she had been able to offer before. It did not solve her problems, but it felt nice, and she would take it.
“Who are you really, Merlin?” she whispered. She wished she could visit him, speak to him. Demand answers for all he had done.
And then she realized her answer was lying right in front of her. She cursed her lack of foresight in denying herself dreams for a week. Maybe she had done it on purpose. She knew she had been rushing to help instead of thinking things through. It was because she had not wanted to face the difficult questions. To risk getting answers.
No more. In seven nights, she would have her own dreams back. She would walk them to Merlin.
Guinevere was already awake when Brangien sat up. It was the first time she had managed to rise before Brangien in the morning. “Oh no,” Guinevere said, covering her mouth. Brangien’s eyes were filled with tears. “What happened?”
Brangien shook her head, beaming. “I saw her. We were together. Thank you. Thank you forever, my queen.” She burst from her cot and threw her arms around Guinevere. Guinevere was shocked at the contact—though Brangien dressed her, she had never been affectionate. Guinevere relaxed into the hug, appreciating it. She and Brangien shared the bond of secrets now. Slowly but surely Guinevere was carving out her place in Camelot. Brangien and Sir Tristan. Mordred. And Arthur, of course. It was nice to have more friends and allies than just Arthur.