Brangien was not finished complaining. “And why do we have to travel to her father’s lands for the wedding? Dindrane lives in Camelot. Sir Bors lives in Camelot. Most importantly, I live in Camelot and do not want to leave.”
“You are going to be even more cross with me.” Guinevere drew Brangien closer so they were side by side and she did not have to see the impending rage on her friend’s face. “That was my idea.”
“Your idea. Your idea that means not only do I have to prepare a queen for a week of festivities but I also have to figure out how to pack that week of festivities for a five-day journey?”
“Dindrane’s father is a southern lord. His lands are to the east, as well, which means he has increasing numbers of Saxon settlers around him. Arthur is wary of the Saxons marrying into these families and creating alliances that he has no knowledge of or connection to. I have learned about strategic social visits from you, so I suggested he go honor Dindrane’s father to make certain that bond is firm. And it will give him the chance to meet and speak with several other important men of that region, all without looking aggressive. He will be there for a celebration, not for a negotiation.” The southern part of the island was riddled with lords and kings, everyone staking out their claim to rulership. The east was being settled by Saxons who thought nothing of pushing out whoever initially lived there, and, when that failed, married into the families and took over that way. And the north was ruled by the Picts, with whom Arthur had an uneasy alliance. Guinevere had met them and their glowering bulk of a king, Nechtan. It had been a marginally pleasant dinner until Maleagant had shown up and complicated things. But the Picts and Arthur had settled into peace. They needed to turn their eyes to the south and the east.
Brangien huffed. “That was very clever of you. But I am still angry.”
“I understand. You are welcome to be angry for as much time as you need to be. As long as you still love me and occasionally like me.”
Brangien’s soft tone surprised Guinevere. “You are doing a good job.”
“Of having you love me?”
“Of being queen.”
One of the invisible knots in Guinevere’s chest—not a magic knot, but a worry knot—loosened ever so slightly. “Am I?”
“You are. I have always been proud to serve our king, and I am just as proud to serve you. He is lucky to have you. After all, think of the alternative. Dindrane could be our queen.” Brangien shuddered exaggeratedly.
Guinevere laughed. They turned a corner and Guinevere noticed a wall where the carvings were not quite as worn as they were elsewhere, sheltered against wind and rain by the angle of the street. It punctured the busy distraction she had allowed herself. She was back in the dream, rushing up these same streets.
“Brangien, we need to talk about the dream magic.”
Brangien’s hand drifted to the back of her hair, where a lock of Isolde’s copper hair was woven in with her own, allowing them to dream together. Every night Brangien was reunited with her lost love. “What about it?”
“It was probably nothing.” It was not nothing, but she could not tell Brangien the full truth about anything. Brangien knew that Guinevere did magic, and she knew that the Dark Queen had reemerged thanks to Mordred’s betrayal. But she did not know the truth: that Guinevere had been sent here by Merlin for her own protection against the Lady of the Lake, that Guinevere was the reason the Dark Queen was able to come back, and that Guinevere was not Guinevere at all, but a changeling.
Guinevere remembered Mordred’s confident assertion that Merlin was not her father. But if Merlin was not her father, who was? She shook it off, as she always did. Mordred was a liar. Mordred had manipulated her, had betrayed Arthur. Anything he told her—anything they had done—was a lie.
She found her fingers tracing her lips of their own accord and willfully put her hands down at her sides.
“What was probably nothing?” Brangien stopped, forcing Guinevere to face her.
“I…dreamed last night.”
“But that should not be possible. Should it?” By giving Brangien the ability to connect her dreams to Isolde’s, Guinevere had given up her own dreams. Every knot, every spell, every piece of magic had a cost. This was one of the few Guinevere had been more than happy to pay.
“No, it should not.”
“Could it be the fairy queen?” Brangien whipped around, like the Dark Queen would rise behind them, a shadow blurring out the sun.
“It did not feel like her. But it did not feel like me, either. It felt like someone else’s dream, tugging me along in its wake.”
“We will break the knot.” Brangien reached up to her hair, searching for Isolde’s strands.
“No! Then you will not be able to see Isolde!”
“But what if this magic creates an opening? Room for the Dark Queen to slip in? We cannot risk it.” Brangien let go of her hair and took Guinevere’s hands in her own. As always, Brangien’s touch was a cool reassurance, full of everything that made her who she was. But this time it was flooded with sadness. Brangien sighed and released Guinevere. “I will take one more night to tell Isolde, so she will not fear that something has happened. If that is all right.”
“Of course.” Guinevere leaned close. “You are my dearest friend. I want you to be happy, however you need to be. I will figure this out as quickly as possible.”
Brangien nodded, but there was distance in her expression. Her smile appeared, the old one. The one Brangien wore when she did not want to be seen. “We will sort this all out. We will defeat our foes. And we will survive the coming terrors.”
Guinevere was alarmed. She had not told Brangien the details of her dream. “Do you think it will be that bad?”
“Oh, I am not speaking of magical menaces. I am speaking of Dindrane’s wedding.”
Guinevere dissolved into relieved laughter, and Brangien feigned a stern voice. “I warned you from the beginning to avoid Dindrane. But you did not listen, and now look where we are. But back to the less immediate threat of the possible fairy attack of your mind. What should we do?”
Guinevere resumed walking. “If it does not happen again when I have my dreams back, we will know the knot was the opening and will have to figure out another way to connect you to Isolde. We will manage. We are the two cleverest women in Camelot, after all.” Guinevere tried to sound more confident than she felt.
“My queen!” Lancelot joined them with the slight metallic jingle of chain mail. Her dark brows were furrowed in anger.
“Yes?”
“I left you with Sir Gawain. But then he came to the training arena alone.”