“It—it was a Saxon invasion on Crayford, sire. The ones to come are refugees. Survivors. The entire city’s been destroyed. This is Robert, their town steward.”
It set the room humming with murmurs. There’d been no invasions since the final battle of the wars. When the exhausted messenger from Crayford began to speak, his voice was so quiet that Vera almost didn’t hear him at first. Arthur leaned closer to him.
“Quiet,” Lancelot barked as he sat down next to Vera.
“Every person with a gift was killed.” Robert’s voice broke, but he valiantly continued after a pause. “There was a light, bright and fierce. Everyone with a gift in the reach of the light fell immediately. The gifted who escaped its reach were tracked down and slaughtered—” He cleared his throat heavily. “Impaled by spikes the size of my arm.”
“How did they know who had gifts?” Gawain asked, his face markedly emotionless.
“We celebrate our gifted more than any other city in this kingdom,” the man said, his eyes pleading with the mage for a forgiveness and peace that no one could give. “Their names are on a celebrated roll. We paraded them. It was no secret.”
“How many were among the Saxon force?” Arthur asked.
Robert recoiled, his surprise enough to stave off his grief. “You misunderstand me, Your Majesty. It wasn’t an army. It was one Saxon.”
“One man did this?” Merlin said sharply.
“Yes. A king. A mage. There is nothing left of Crayford.”
“The village was burned?” Arthur asked.
“No. Most homes and shops are fine.” Robert shook his head, and his eyes drifted out of focus, back to Crayford. “The land. The land has died. Every blade of grass. Not burned.” His voice rose, nearing hysterics. “Dead. The life was sucked out of it.”
Robert gave in to the heaving sobs. Arthur lay a hand on his shuddering shoulder as he spoke to the soldiers. “Take him to rest.”
“I need to ask you all to leave while I speak to our mages,” Arthur said as he stood, his eyes following Robert and the soldiers out the door. “Percival, tell the people what we know, and then come find me. Anyone from the festival who wants to stay in the safety of Camelot may do so. Tristan, go with him. The rest of you, we need to ready the troops and send word to prepare the kingdom’s forces. Pray they won’t be needed.”
They left without question. Lancelot didn’t move.
“Should I go?” Vera whispered.
“You stay,” he said. “You always stay.” Evidently, so did he.
The second the room was clear, Arthur turned to Merlin. “Do you think this is the leader Viviane had in mind?”
“I believe it is,” Merlin said gravely.
Oh my God. Vera’s heart sank. They’d waited too long. They’d played it too slowly. What were they thinking?
Merlin’s next words were a life preserver, the one escape from the disaster she’d thrown them into. “We need to get Guinevere’s memories back. The procedure will work, and we must do it now. I would not suggest it if it were not necessary. I’ll be as careful as I can.”
He was right. Of course. How could she have ever put herself above this kingdom? It was so much more real now, with an entire town’s gifted exterminated. How many would that be? If there were two thousand remaining, what did that mean? Five hundred dead? Five hundred lives traded for Vera’s life, for her comfort and happiness.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
Arthur’s face had gone pale. He knew they were out of options.
“We should not push the queen’s mind,” Gawain said. Merlin went unnaturally still. “Your Majesty, we must go to the council of mages. Viviane has been in the grave for nearly two years. The Saxon mage brought the doom. It wasn’t a curse of magic fading. It was a deliberate act perpetrated by a dark mage and an aggressor against this kingdom. He destroyed the magic in that village and corrupted the land. We don’t know what else he has done, and we can’t afford to wait to seek help.”
“We also don’t know where he is,” Merlin bit back. “Traveling with a large enough party to stay protected makes us a target, and it makes us vulnerable. What if this dark mage kills us all, Gawain? What then?”
Lancelot sat up straighter. “Then let’s not travel with a large party.”
They all looked at him.
“It need not be public information,” he explained, seeming to build on the idea as he said it. “We travel small, and we move quickly.”
Merlin shifted in his seat. “Your Majesty, you must consider the uncertainties. The mages may not be able to help. We can retrieve Guinevere’s memories.”
“If you don’t kill her first,” Lancelot spat. And he didn’t even know what Gawain and Vera knew, that there was no outcome where she emerged unscathed.
“It doesn’t make sense to start with the queen. The risk is high. It’s far too high.” Gawain appealed directly to Arthur. “There is the likelihood, perhaps the certainty—”
“Gawain,” Merlin warned.
Gawain didn’t stop. He spoke louder. “That further intervention will cause her mind to break. She might survive but wouldn’t have enough brain function left to swallow food.”
“Enough!” Merlin slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair.
Gawain’s characteristic scowl was nothing to the wrath that marred his features. “What good would it do if she dies before she can tell us what happened? It’s prudent we go to the mages first and only push Guinevere’s mind as a last resort.”
Merlin began arguing, but Arthur held up a hand. “We’re going to the mages.”
It was decided. Merlin and Gawain, Arthur, Lancelot, Vera, and two other soldiers.
“I think we should also bring one more knight with Guinevere coming,” Lancelot said. “Percival would be best.”
“No. Percival will stay as king regent,” Arthur said. “We’ll bring Tristan.”
Lancelot nearly hid the glimmer of a scowl, but Vera saw it. “Why not Randall? Or Marian?”
Arthur shook his head. “I want them in Camelot. Tristan is the right choice.” He didn’t elaborate; it was not up for discussion. Lancelot stiffly crossed his arms over his chest, displeased.
They would leave this evening under the cover of darkness.
Arthur and Vera went straight to their quarters to pack. She shoved her running trainers and socks into a rucksack, deliberating what to say to him. The memories were right there. She’d had a real memory. The rest couldn’t be far behind. But that brought up another issue entirely that Vera hadn’t had time to reckon with: she truly was Guinevere.
Before she could work up the nerve to speak, Percival and Tristan were at the door. Percival dutifully reported the city’s status: calmer than before but fortifying itself in preparations for the barrage of refugees.
“They responded to Percival well,” Tristan added, clearly impressed. “Almost how they’d respond to you.”
Percival shrugged off the compliment. “What news from the mages?” he asked.
Arthur was honest. There was plenty he couldn’t say, which Percival readily accepted. He only balked when Arthur relayed their travel plans. “You’ll stay in Camelot,” he told the young knight. “I need you to serve as king regent.”
Percival drew back before his brow furrowed, making his scar the dominant feature of his handsome face. “The queen should be in charge,” he said.
Arthur shook his head. “She’s coming with us.”
“Why?” Percival asked. It was a fair question, and there were plenty of reasons. Because she wanted to, for one. Because Arthur knew the safest place would be with him and Lancelot. And because if something happened with her mind, they needed mages there.