But it was also dangerous. The more people who knew some of her secrets, the more likely it was that they would discover too many of them.
Brangien released her, then went bustling about her morning chores and chatting happily about her dream time with Isolde. Guinevere released some of the worries and fears she kept clutched in her own chest. This act had done nothing to protect Arthur, but she had made Brangien happy. With all the darkness swirling around what she knew of Merlin now, it was a comfort knowing her own magic could be used for gentleness, kindness, love.
“Will you come to the market today?” Brangien asked, laying out clothing options.
Guinevere recoiled from the idea. With both Arthur and Mordred gone, she would have to do the lake passage twice. She had no desire to, and no need for the market. “I would like a day of rest. But you go. Besides, I am to walk this afternoon with Dindrane, and this way you are spared.”
“Kindnesses upon kindnesses, my queen.” Brangien laughed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Guinevere had never seen her so happy, and it was a balm to her own soul. Doubtless it would disappoint Brangien when, in a week, Guinevere would need to reclaim her ability to dream, but in the meantime her happiness was contagious.
“Get some thread. I want you to teach me the knots you know.”
Brangien nodded. “My mother taught me. Where did you learn?”
“My—” Guinevere caught herself. Only some truth with Brangien, not all. “My nurse. It is not so uncommon in the south. But we must be careful.” Guinevere wanted to defeat Rhoslyn. Not join her in banishment.
“Of course. Always.” With a pretty curtsey, Brangien left.
Guinevere considered taking a leisurely morning, lying abed, but she was itching with impatience and boredom. She should have gone to the market, after all. The alcove was empty save for the rocks she had brought in, and they kept their silence. No matter how she poked and prodded them, she could not determine their purpose. She was probably best off taking them and dropping them over the side of Camelot into the lake. But then she would always wonder what she had missed.
She put one in a pouch and carried it with her to meet Dindrane that afternoon. As they strolled the streets of Camelot—one guard accompanying them in Brangien’s absence—Guinevere idly toyed with the rock. Dindrane gossiped cheerily, though she remarked several times how disappointing it was that the city was so empty with most of the citizens at the market. Dindrane liked being seen with Guinevere. It was social currency, and Dindrane had had precious little to spend before gaining the favor of the queen.
For her part,
Guinevere found Dindrane relaxing. There was never any pressure to speak or risk of saying the wrong thing. Dindrane steered the conversation the way an expert rider guided a horse.
They turned down a side street and walked toward a merchant’s shop Dindrane wanted to look at. In Guinevere’s hand, the rock was as warm as the day around them.
The rock grew warmer.
Guinevere stopped, the rock clutched in her hand.
“Is something the matter?” Dindrane asked.
“No. Nothing.” As they walked farther in that direction, the rock grew warmer and warmer. They passed several homes and shops. And then the rock began to cool.
“I saw something I wanted to look at,” Guinevere said, abruptly turning around. She worked her way back, Dindrane grumbling, until the rock was once again almost too hot to hold. She was standing in front of an unremarkable home.
“Who lives here?” Guinevere asked.
“How should I know?” Dindrane looked longingly toward the shop she had wanted to visit.
The guard surprised Guinevere by speaking up. “We caught a witch here not a week ago.”
“Really?” Guinevere clutched the rock. Rhoslyn. This was Rhoslyn’s home. And the rock had led her straight here.
The rocks were guides, allowing those who knew about magic to find each other. But now they led only to an empty house. Fortunately, Guinevere already knew where Rhoslyn was. And now she knew that Rhoslyn had been organizing others within Camelot.
Flush with triumph, Guinevere let Dindrane drag her back to the shop, and then to another, and then another. When they got to the main street leading to the castle, Brangien rushed up to meet them from the direction of the docks. Sir Tristan followed respectfully behind. He nodded to Guinevere’s guard, who left them, with a bow.
“Sir Bors is hunting a dragon!” Brangien said, out of breath from the climb. “A dragon! Not four hours’ ride from here!”
Guinevere frowned. “There has not been a dragon in a hundred years.”
“And yet! Sir Bors is determined to kill it, if it exists.”
“Sir Bors is a canny hunter,” Dindrane said. “My brother could never do such a thing.”
“What proof does Sir Bors have that the creature exists?” Guinevere asked.