“When I do not want to think about something that is bothering me, I replay sparring matches and fights in my memory, going over the movements, what I could have done better, what my opponent did well.”
“Which fight are you replaying?”
Lancelot paused so long Guinevere thought she would not answer, but when she did, Guinevere regretted having asked. “Mordred. Always Mordred. No matter how I go through it, he wins. He always wins.”
Guinevere wanted to redirect the topic. “So momentum is the key in fighting? I would have thought strength.”
“It does not hurt.” Lancelot smiled gently at Guinevere’s obvious topic change. “Momentum is also critical to climbing. People think climbing is also about strength, and it is, to a certain extent, but so much of it is confidence and movement. If you freeze, you use up precious energy that might be the difference between reaching the top and falling.”
Guinevere had seen Lancelot scale walls and cliffs she would have thought impossible. “Could you teach me? Not climbing. But fighting.”
Lancelot patted Guinevere’s hand. “Some basics. Self-defense. If you ever need more than that, I have failed at my job. But I have not failed at this one.”
“What one?”
“Distraction.” The ferry bumped against the dock. Lancelot escorted Guinevere off, and Guinevere took a moment to gather herself, to reclaim who she was when she was in Camelot. That cursed lake. It made her life so much more difficult. Being plunged into mortal terror every time she left or returned to the city was not good for maintaining a queenly presence.
Knowing that Merlin had placed the fear there to protect her from the vengeful Lady of the Lake made the fear less shameful, but no less terrifying. Wretched wizard. Wretched lake.
“My queen?” a young, eager voice asked.
Wretched Sir Gawain. Guinevere forced a pleasant expression, repenting of her mean thought. Sir Gawain was one of the youngest knights, her age—sixteen—but eager and accomplished with a sword. Unlike the older knights who kept with current styles, he wore his hair as short as he could to imitate Arthur. Combined with his round face, it made him look even younger than he was. According to Lancelot, all his spare time was spent in the chapel, praying or helping. He had taken to Christianity with the same fervor he had taken to Arthur.
Sir Gawain was tasked with helping Guinevere oversee the granaries within the city, which he also took to with extreme fervor. Guinevere had forgotten they were supposed to check one earlier this afternoon.
“Sir Gawain. My apologies. Our time afield took longer than expected.”
“No apologies required, my queen. I am ready to go now.”
The scent of smoke lingered in Guinevere’s hair. She wanted to shed her cloak and peel off her dress, to rest in her dim bedroom and confer with Brangien about her troubling dream. “Excellent,” she said, following Sir Gawain.
The lowest granary, in the southeast sector of the city, was a huge circular building. It had not always been a granary, but what its original purpose was, no one could say. The only opening was a hole at the very top, at least twenty feet up. Arthur’s masons had created a door, as well as several openings at various levels. When all the grain was harvested, the doors would be sealed and the grain poured in through the opening, which would then be covered against the weather.
The granary smelled musty and warm, the floor dusted with the memory of harvest seasons past. It held the promise of safety. The promise of a winter made as easy as possible.
Guinevere did not know what she was supposed to be doing. She walked the circumference, making a show of checking it. “Good. See that this is swept out more thoroughly and look for holes along the perimeter that vermin might get in.” It was not really necessary. This was one of the original buildings of Camelot, which meant that it had no seams, no visible cracks or places where it had been formed. The only flaws were the ones they had made to use it.
She should have been glad, but with last night’s dream tugging at her, Guinevere found the building unnerving. “Do we have anything else to check today?” she asked.
Sir Gawain shook his head. “No, my queen. The others are being prepared and we can look at them tomorrow.” The older knights mostly ignored Guinevere, but Sir Gawain always seemed a little flushed and wide-eyed when he spoke with her. Guinevere did not assume it was herself that created that effect, but rather her proximity to Arthur, whom Sir Gawain outright worshiped.
“Very good. You have done excellent work. I think we can expect a comfortable winter. I will tell King Arthur.”
He bowed, his ruddy skin even redder with pleasure at the compliment.
Guinevere exited the dim space back into the late shafts of golden sun piercing the street. Brangien was waiting for her. “I heard you had come back,” Brangien said. “Did everything go well?”
“It is in progress and under control.” Guinevere tried to sound clinical, not petulant. The important thing was that the threat was neutralized. It did not have to be her doing the fighting. Even if her pride wanted it to be.
“Good. We have so much to do.” Brangien took Guinevere’s arm and marched uphill toward the castle. “Dindrane has requested I come to her dress fitting, and if I have to go, you do, too, since it is your kindness that has created this waking nightmare for me.”
Guinevere laughed. “I thought you liked Dindrane.”
“I do not like her. She is my friend. One must no more like their friends than they must like their family. They are simply part of your life, and you tolerate them as best you can.”
Guinevere put a hand over her heart. “Brangien, are you saying you do not like me?”
Brangien wrinkled her nose impatiently. “I love you. You know that. And I often like you. But I do not like you today, because I have to sit through Dindrane’s infinite picking about her wedding wardrobe, as well as answer every single question about what you will be wearing so she can match.”
“She wants to match me? At her own wedding? I should wear something that does not draw attention.”
“Oh, no. Dindrane wants you to draw attention. She wants everyone at her father’s estate to see that the queen of Camelot is her closest friend and that you and she are basically the same, right down to your colors.”
The fact that Dindrane accompanied her brother, Sir Percival, to a new land rather than staying on her own estate with her father spoke to an unhappy arrangement. Camelot was a land of hopeful newcomers, though. Under Uther Pendragon there had been suffering and oppression, but under Arthur Camelot was growing every day. People were drawn to him and the kingdom he had cut free on the edge of Excalibur.
It felt odd, talking about granaries and weddings and dresses while somewhere Arthur was eradicating a fairy assault, perhaps even facing off against the Dark Queen herself. The constant dissonance of being both queen and witch, Guinevere and not-Guinevere, was disorienting. It would be so much simpler to be just one thing. But she was inside Camelot now, and when she was here, she was Queen Guinevere. She tried to focus.