This was a home. There was a fireplace in one corner. The chamber was simply but comfortably appointed, and just one chair sat near the bed. The book lying on it betrayed that Arthur had sat there beside her.
Arthur. Still alive. The joy that came was muted by the rising memory of the soldier’s lifeless stare, of Gawain missing, of all that was lost and ruined. Vera rubbed her face, trying to sweep together the mess of all that had happened.
She heard quiet voices and could not resist going to them. She didn’t want to be alone, but she couldn’t exactly walk out in the equivalent of an oversized T-shirt. Vera noticed a simple dark blue dress draped on the end of the bed and decided it must be for her.
She changed into it before she tiptoed barefoot to the door, opened it a crack, and listened.
“—not sure what you’re asking,” said the nearly familiar deep voice of a man.
“Do you know anything about the extent to which emotions can be manipulated by magic?” Vera closed her eyes, gratitude sweeping over her. That voice, she knew. Hearing Arthur speak easily, unencumbered by the strain of injury, lifted a weight she didn’t realize she carried. She slipped through the door and into the main room of a farmhouse.
There was a wooden table next to the hearth. Arthur sat nearest her, facing away. The man opposite him, facing her, was the stranger. His dark hair, streaked with grey, fell to his shoulders. He listened to Arthur with a furrowed brow, emphasizing natural lines of years and worry that wizened his face. But he saw Vera as she entered and smiled warmly. She recognized that smile. Arthur turned and had no sooner seen Vera than was out of his seat and rushing to her. He hugged her and then held her by both elbows, searching her face.
“I’m fine,” she said. And it was true, but the mystery of what happened in the space of an hour when she and Lancelot were on their run ate at her. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Arthur said. “I never quite fell back asleep when you left. Things went too quiet—no breeze nor crickets … nothing. I couldn’t even hear my own breathing, and I knew something wasn’t right.” He shook his head. “I should have gone out to check, but I thought I was just on edge. Then there was a blast that lit blue, and I knew it was magic. It was pitch dark and then so bright it was blinding. It was all focused on Gawain.
“I tried to help him, but when he saw me, he threw out a hand at the same time I was hit with a spike.” Arthur’s hand went to where the wound had been on his abdomen, touching the ghost of his fatal injury. “Gawain sent me flying backward with one hand, and he had his device in the other. I think he was trying to destroy it, but he was … bound right then. Wrapped up in a rope that looked like it was on fire. He yelled one word. Mordred.” Vera’s stomach churned. It was another chess piece sliding into play from the legend. How could this end well? “And the rope tightened of its own accord and—” Arthur grimaced. “God, he screamed like a tortured man.”
It ached to imagine their soft-souled Gawain in that sort of agony, and at the hands of a villain whose name would survive the next millennium. “Is Gawain dead?” she whispered.
“I don’t think so. They took him,” he said slowly. “Mordred and whoever helped him. No one came for me after that. They weren’t interested in me. It got very foggy for a while. And then you showed up.”
Arthur’s mouth lifted in a smile, his fingers rubbing the back of her neck. They hadn’t reckoned with the tenderness of what they thought would be his final moments, of the honest adoration that spilt from them before Vera … well, before Vera found her power.
But the way she’d pushed it so hard until there was nothing left to give … she suspected she’d scraped her depths and given it all to him, and that would have been fine. But as soon as the fear rose, she knew the gift was there, humming in her blood. Vera wouldn’t be able to use it right now, not on an injury like Arthur’s. She felt like she’d carried a heavy weight as far as she could before being forced to drop it. Her strength was sapped. She’d need more rest before she could use the gift again.
The sound of a chair’s leg scraping against the stone floor reminded Vera that there was someone else in the room, blocked by Arthur. She peeked around his shoulder at the man who was politely absorbed in whittling a palm-sized block of wood with a short knife.
Arthur turned to open the conversation with the man. “This is my father.”
“Otto,” the man supplied, rising to join them with that same warm smile. Of course, she’d recognized it. He’d passed that expression on to his son, a perfect match of effusiveness. Otto was a full head shorter than Arthur.
“I’m so glad to meet you. I’m …” She paused, unsure how to introduce herself. Should she say Vera or Guinevere?
“Vera, love, it’s my pleasure,” he said. Her eyes flashed to Arthur, who looked down as he smiled.
Vera defaulted to greeting Otto as she would have in the twenty-first century. She shook his hand and was already releasing it before she realized the gesture would be eccentric to him. But he wasn’t fazed. He smiled with crinkling eyes that reminded Vera of Martin.
“He knew Guinevere. He knew you before,” Arthur corrected himself. “I told him everything.”
“I owe you the world, Vera. You brought my son back to me.” She blushed at his kindness. “I was mighty worried when you lot showed up drenched in blood yesterday afternoon and you sleeping as soundly as the dead.”
That had all happened yesterday. “What time is it?” Vera asked.
“Midafternoon,” Arthur said. “You’ve been out for more than a day.”
As if on cue, her stomach growled.
“Let’s get you something to eat.” Otto turned back and pulled a seat out for her at the table. “You must be starving.”
She was. Arthur and Otto sat with her while she ate. She was on her second bowl of soup when Lancelot charged in, loudly complaining before his foot crossed the threshold.
“Do you know your barn door is half off its hinges?” He was sweaty enough that his shirt clung to him, and dirt streaked his arms and down his cheek. He knocked the dirt from his boots, completely at home here, and started to pull them off his feet. His eyes finally fell on Vera with a shoe half off. Lancelot forgot the bawdy show he’d been putting on as he was swept with relief.
“Oh, Guinna,” he said. He stumbled over and fell into the chair next to her, wrapping her in a sweaty hug that was much more than relief. She could feel the pain that he was barely keeping at bay. Her darling friend who was terrified, who was enraged, whose heart was shattered because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help the one he loved.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. They clutched one another, his face tucked into her neck. When he pulled away, he’d wrangled his expression to one of wonder. “You’ve got quite a power.”
It had been nagging at Vera, too. She could feel now that it wasn’t a new part of her, but had Guinevere known about it before? And …
“Do you think Viviane knew about my power?” She asked it aloud.
A drawn hesitance came over Lancelot’s expression.
“I think,” Arthur said, staring intently at Lancelot, “that we should ask her.”
“What?” Vera reeled back in her seat.
Lancelot nodded grimly. “How long have you known?”