Mistress of Legend

Chapter 6-3

Once the walls around me were no longer alight, I kicked in the charred remains of Arthur’s door. Mordred had changed the room little since moving in when he ascended power. Here and there he had made it his own—the tusk of the boar he’d killed on the day he became a man hung on one wall, and the remains of his tunics dripped from their place inside a ruined wardrobe—but for the most part, it was as I remembered.

I ventured farther in, turning, seeking anything out of place. My gaze swept over the far side of the room, and I started. A large, black, man-shaped figure loomed from the shadows, and I swallowed down a rush of bile. If the perpetrator had been caught in here, he wouldn’t have made it out alive. I took a few cautious steps closer and breathed a sigh of relief. The bulbous shape I had taken for a head was only the charred remains of a sheep’s bladder attached to a wooden sparring dummy. I squinted. Around its neck was Arthur’s torc, now melted into the wood, and the fabric draped over the form was the tattered remains of the ceremonial cape Morgan had gifted to Mordred when Arthur acknowledged him as his son.

My hand flew to my mouth. This thing had been dressed as Mordred and set ablaze. The fire was no accident then. This was a deliberate move against the acting king. Mordred’s life was in danger. He had to be notified.

I stumbled down the stairs, drained from the shock and the effort of calling the rain. My shield from the fire had slowly slipped away, but I was out of danger.

When I emerged, a furious Mordred greeted me, water pouring from his cloak. “Are you mad? Who runs into a raging fire? What were you thinking?”

I smiled at him tiredly, leaning against one wall of the archway. “I am a priestess. I was in no danger.”

“Are you sure?” Mordred brushed soot off of one of my cheeks and held up a burned strand of my hair. “Gods, Guinevere, I’ve already saved you from one fire.”

I gestured to the scars on my face, arm, and leg. “Which is why I was unafraid of this one.”

Mordred sighed heavily. “Sometimes I question the logic of Avalon in teaching you those tricks.” He shook his head. “But I guess I should be grateful. It appears the worst is over.” He gestured around us at the rain. “Will you please make this stop?”

I closed my eyes and thanked the gods and the elements for their aid. Then I commanded the rain to cease and swept my arms out in front of me, willing the clouds to disperse. The sky cleared.

“Mordred, you need to know something about the fire.” He looked at me expectantly, so I hurried on. “It was not an accident. I found—I found an effigy of you in your quarters. It appears to be the source of the blaze.”

Mordred stared at me, dumbfounded. “You’re saying someone went through the trouble of building my likeness and setting it on fire in the very room where I sleep?” His voice rose in volume and tightness with each word.

I hadn’t had time to consider the intimacy of the location. It meant that the person who did this was no stranger, but rather someone who had access to our innermost circle. Memories coursed through me of another time at Camelot, when someone had left a series of increasingly threatening notes addressed to me in private places, forcing me to live in fear. I fought back a wave of dizziness and nausea. This was different, but the feeling of violation was the same.

“Yes,” I answered, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry. But I thought you should be warned to be on your guard.”

We left the volunteers to keep watch for any smoldering areas, and Mordred returned to the hall where nobles and other dignitaries were once again assembled. I slipped past, taking one of the side halls into the garden. When the door shut behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief before dashing to the stone bench beneath the apple tree at the center of the labyrinth. I collapsed upon it, finally letting go of the fear, tension, and anger that had fueled my fight against the flames.

Though my body gave in to exhaustion within the silent lullaby of this sacred place, my mind whirled, thoughts tripping over one another like water rushing over rapids. That had been far too close a call. Someone could have been hurt or even killed. Was that the point? Was this an assassination attempt gone awry? It certainly wouldn’t be the first I had experienced, though I prayed it was the last. We were lucky that no one had been in that part of the tower when the fire began. Or had it been planned that way? It was no secret we were meeting with the Saxon leaders today. Perhaps this was more of a warning. Otherwise wouldn’t they have attacked the hall?

Soon my spiraling thoughts eased, melted into oblivion by the morning light that filtered through the leaves of the apple tree, warming my face and slowly replenishing the well of strength within me. I dozed beneath its strong branches, grateful once again for Arthur’s thoughtful gift of a protected place where I could gather myself in times such as these.

As I slipped in and out of sleep, I was vaguely aware of the birdsong around me. Perhaps that was why I dreamed a crow and a dove were fighting on the windowsill outside my room. But it was not the larger crow who was the aggressor. The cooing mourning dove aggressively raced at the crow, pecking at its chest, feet, anywhere it could reach. The crow cried out and I woke with a start.

I sat up from my slumped position and looked around. Something wasn’t right. At first I thought I must still be dreaming, because the air around me was silent. Far too silent. Even the birds, whose coos and caws I had been enjoying only moments before, now refused to sing. I rubbed my arms as the tiny hairs stood at attention. Slowly, I scanned the space in front of me, ears attuned to even the slightest sound. I peered through branches and into shadows, but as far as I could tell, I was alone.

A shiver ran through me from neck to feet. It was time to return to the hall.

I had just emerged from beneath the canopy of the tree when a shadow moved on the outer wall. Someone was there. I could make out the silhouette of a man but did not dare move closer for a better look. A brief spark of light illuminated his face. It was one of the deacons from the Grail Castle. Before I could call out to him, he threw something toward me. It landed with the crash of shattering clay within the boughs of the apple tree. The upper branches burst into flames. Stifling a scream, I raced for the door leading into the castle.

“Run! There is another fire in the garden,” I called to those inside. Following them toward the main entrance, I met up with Sobian. “Find Grainne and Morgan. I am too weak yet to douse this fire myself. They will be able to help.”

She nodded and scurried off, but help never came. Eventually, word reached me that Grainne was still in Carlisle and no one could locate Morgan. By the time they did, it was too late. We had prevented the fire from spreading, but the labyrinth and gardens were destroyed.

As dusk fell, Mordred took me out on the walls to watch as a group of people in chains were herded into the courtyard below.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Those responsible for today’s fires.”

“How do you know?”

“They admitted as much when my men found them. Christians to a one, they rejoiced, shouting that Camelot’s last bastion of hell—your pagan labyrinth—was destroyed.” He reached into a pouch at his waist and produced a broken piece of clay that looked like the neck of a bottle. “We found this among the ashes. It appears to be part of a bottle that was filled with oil. They stoppered it with an alcohol-soaked rag, which was lit on fire. When it broke against the trunk of the tree, it spread flaming oil everywhere.”

From below, voices raised in protest as the guards led the perpetrators into the cells.

“You cannot arrest us for doing the Lord’s work,” yelled a bearded man I assumed was the rabble’s leader. “We act in the name of King Arthur!”

“How can they claim to be working for Arthur when they have destroyed part of his capital and his home?” I asked.

Mordred rubbed the back of his neck. “They are also, apparently, organized against me. They don’t like that I am a pagan. If they are the same group that burned that dummy, they don’t like that I live either.”

As if on cue, a woman yelled, “For Saint Marius!”

“Pray for us, patron saint of Britain,” answered a man behind her.

So that was what Camelot had come to—arson, incendiary weapons, and canonizing a monster. Please, Goddess, let Arthur return to us soon.

We had little time to grieve our losses or even to rescue the remnants from the ashes before the fighting escalated. The following night, Mordred’s supporters struck back, burning homes and buildings owned by known supporters of the absent king. But they didn’t stop there. Fanning out into the countryside, they torched farms, slaughtered livestock, and destroyed crops, heedless of the consequences their depravity would have on all of Camelot’s citizens. Come winter, we would all pay for their madness with shriveled bellies.

By dawn, the survivors were on our doorstep, their need turning the partially burned castle into a makeshift hostel. We set up beds in the great hall and sent the kitchens into festival-level day and night shifts of cooking. I split my time between helping Mordred and Morgan manage the chaos and providing healing to those injured in the attacks, as well as to others who normally did not have access to a healer. They were eager to tell their stories, to unburden their minds and hearts of the horrors of that night, telling detailed tales of cruelty and hatred directed against Arthur and his supporters.

“They will go any lengths to prevent him from ever sitting on his throne again,” one man told me.

Outside, the whole town was buzzing, mobs forming in the sodden, blackened streets. The fortress guards had their hands full trying to contain the crowds and keep violence from breaking out among rival factions. Their chants and demands reached us in Camelot’s council chambers, where we were trying to sort through the mess Arthur’s capital had become.

“This is not the way of Camelot,” I said to the assembly. “Arthur and I founded this town on the ideas of peace and mercy, uniting our tribes, not fighting amongst ourselves.” Though I was no longer officially part of the council, Mordred had asked me to join him in this meeting.

“Pretty words. But what do you propose we do to stop them?” Bors asked.

I glared at him but directed my words to Mordred. “Arthur left you king in his stead. You must make a public statement. The people riot because they are wondering whether the rumors are true. You must tell them once and for all whether or not you seek the throne.”

“It is not a wise move, my lord, to turn against Arthur,” Owain said. “I am told whatever message or bribery the bishop sent to Brittany before his death did its job. The war there is ending. Your father, the king, will return soon.”

“Then we make our announcement now, gather what strength we can while Arthur is across the sea. That way we will be ready for him when he comes,” Accolon said with conviction.

“Are you seeking the throne?” I asked Mordred. He had never been clear on that, preferring to let speculation play out.

Mordred was seated in Arthur’s place of honor. Morgan sat in the throne of High Queen, a title which she had not been awarded, but she wore the mantle of power all the same.

“I have made certain alliances my father would deem foolish,” Mordred said, choosing his words carefully. “We have at our disposal the armies of two powerful factions, should we choose to use them.”