Brangien nodded. She took away Guinevere’s empty plate and refilled the goblet, which she left on a table next to the bed. Then, after leaving more cloth should Guinevere need it, she slipped into Guinevere’s sitting room.
Guinevere stood on shaky legs. She padded her underclothes, her feelings as unsteady as her body, which had become a stranger. She pulled out Brangien’s dress and cloak, once against tugging a thread and knotting confusion into it. She would have to go slowly, which meant she needed to leave now to reach her destination in time.
As she slipped out the door to go outside, she gasped. The thread she had knotted popped and sizzled. The magic snapped back, slapping her and leaving her winded and stinging.
How could she have been so stupid? She had set up the magical barriers herself! The iron spell had done its work, dismantling her confusion knot as soon as it passed the threshold. At least she had evidence that her work had not been in vain. Any magic that tried to pass these doors would be undone. Even her own.
Laughing in pain, she hoped the deep hood itself was enough to hide her. She did not have enough left in her to redo the knot. She eased down the steps, walking as gingerly as an old woman. Her pace through Camelot was slower than leisurely as she navigated the maze of buildings to the very edge of the city.
She settled into the ruined foundation of the crumbled building next to where she had lost the patchwork knight before. A spider crawled over her and she blew on it, bidding it go its merry way. From this vantage point, she would remain unseen but have a view of the patchwork knight when he removed his mask. And she knew—she knew—he would not be as he seemed. Arthur was wrong. Perhaps the fair folk had figured out how to create a knight immune to the biting power of iron. Whatever the secret was, Guinevere would discover it.
She did not mind waiting in stillness as the sun drew lower and then began to set. Stillness suited her current physical state perfectly well. Though she did wish for one of Brangien’s warm cloth compresses.
At last she heard the soft, sure steps of the patchwork knight. He paused right next to her. If he but turned to the left, he would see her in the shadows. Her patience was doubly rewarded. The woman in the shawl ran up, out of breath. “I almost missed you. Here. For the girls. Tell them—tell them our time will come.” She passed another bundle. The knight tucked it into his bag. The woman shuffled back toward town.
As soon as she was gone, the knight pulled off his mask, shaking his wild black curls free. Disappointment skittered over Guinevere with far more menace than the spider.
The patchwork knight had full lips and expressive eyes. High cheekbones. A dimpled chin. His tan face was bare of any hair, hinting that he was far more youthful than his skill indicated.
But his face offered no proof he was fairy. It was entirely human. He slipped down the cliff, climbing as he had before.
Guinevere hunched, cold and miserable. She had been so sure that the patchwork knight was not what he seemed. That she would return triumphant, having discovered a magical menace before he ever got close enough to hurt Arthur. She wanted the knight to be dangerous. She wanted him to be a problem only she could solve. In doing so, she would have proven her worth to Arthur.
And to herself. She headed back toward the main street that would lead her to the castle. She was so caught in her misery that she did not see the woman until they collided.
“Mind yourself!” the woman snapped, pushing Guinevere away.
“You,” Guinevere whispered. It was the woman in the shawl. From close up, the woman was not so old as her walk had suggested. She was in her thirties, with a face shaped by sorrow. Before she could think better of it, Guinevere stumbled once again, pretending to lose her balance as she grasped at the woman.
“Get home. You should not be out alone with that much drink in you. It is not safe.” The woman steadied her with a frown. “Do you need help?”
“No, no,” Guinevere said, shaking her head and straightening. The woman sighed, then walked away.
Guinevere smiled. In her hand, she had a rock. Stolen from the woman’s own bag.
The patchwork knight had not been what she expected. But the rock sang to her in high, clear notes. Notes of wonder. Notes of magic. The knight was not a fairy, and neither was the woman. But they were meddling with magic.
Guinevere hurried back to the edge of Camelot, staring down at where the knight had disappeared. Relief and triumph swelled in her breast. At last she understood why she had been sent. Why she was suited to this where Merlin was not.
The magical threat to Arthur did not come from fairies, or from powerful creatures like Merlin. It came from ordinary humans. Humans who wanted to bring magic back, bring down Camelot from within. Who could move about in this city at will without being caught or suspected.
Until now. Who better to hunt them than their own kind?
Tucking the magic-touched rock into her tunic, she picked up an ordinary one and threw it over the side of the cliff. “I am coming for you!” she whispered.
The stone spins through the air, falling, falling, until it hits the water. It rolls, slowly, pushed by currents until finally it leaves the lake and hits the river.
And then it stops.
Held in place, not sinking. The river churns, bubbling and frothing. Boats break free from their ropes, pulled toward the whirlpool that has formed where the stone is.
Then the water releases the stone, dropping it to the riverbed. Everything becomes still. Silent.
Except the form of a lady that moves swift and deadly down the river, through a stream, beneath the ground, flowing, flowing, flowing.
The Lady will end him. Merlin will pay for what he has taken from the water.
She begged another day of rest from Brangien. In truth, the last thing she wanted was to be in bed, but if she admitted she was well, she would have to play queen. As soon as Brangien had left to go to the market, Guinevere made her way outside. She stealthily checked every door.