“Not a risk,” Merlin corrected. “An inevitability.” He directed the next at Arthur. “Ratamun is one among us who believes in the great gifts. Immortality and invincibility are the two most sought-after. He, and others for that matter, would want nothing more than the ability to sense and track those gifts. And take them, no matter the cost: enemy, friend, family …”

Vera could imagine the danger of such a power, but not in Gawain’s hands. He would never use the gift that way.

“Why is that a problem?” she said, eager to pull them all away from fear and back into the hope they’d felt mere minutes ago. “The device is made with your magic, Gawain. They can’t use it without you. Isn’t it your living magic that powers it?”

Merlin’s frown deepened.

Lancelot sat with knees spread wide and elbows on his thighs, leaning forward to listen. It wasn’t a strange posture for him, and he looked at ease, except for his hands, clasped tightly. “That puts you at risk, doesn’t it? They’d need the device, and they’d need you to be able to use it.”

Gawain’s eyes were full of a thousand words he didn’t say as he met Lancelot’s gaze.

“Or they’d want him dead,” Merlin said, dropping into the seat next to Vera. “All of this is precisely why no one can know the truth about you, Guinevere. The draw of the power I used—time travel, restarting a human life—is irresistible. Some would stop at nothing for it, and if they couldn’t have it, they’d want to be sure no one did.”

Vera blinked. She turned to Gawain, who smiled sadly at her.

“Goddammit, Gawain,” Lancelot mumbled at the floor. “You altruistic son of a—”

“Look!” Arthur cut him off, his voice hushed with awe. He held the instrument up for them to see. A paper-thin swirl of silvery liquid covered the base of the glass bulb. It hadn’t been there before.

Gawain nearly knocked over his chair, scrambling to Arthur to take the instrument. His mouth went slack, and his eyes glimmered as he stared at the tiny pool with reverence.

“A child was just born,” he said, hardly more than a whisper, “and one of my gifts is now theirs.”

No one slept well that night. They already knew the experiment’s outcome. Vera’s chamber was the most spacious, so the knights dragged extra mattresses from nearby rooms. While the others took turns standing guard, Vera and Gawain attempted to sleep—but mostly, they watched the instrument. Watched as magic was born into brandnew souls.

By the time they gathered at the Magesary, only the visible signs of two gifts remained in the tube. The visual of it was powerful. Even the mages who had expressed doubt the evening prior, Naiam included, were transfixed by the pool gathered in the bulb, filling it past the halfway point. It didn’t hurt that, as they looked on, the instrument vibrated in Arthur’s hands, and one more bit from the tube bubbled into the larger dome.

Before their eyes, magic transferred. Phoebe, the quiet mage, blushed, and her eyes clouded with tears. That had been one of her gifts. Gawain explained that to Vera last night. He could feel it when a transferred gift had been his. Evidently, so could the others. Ratamun’s conceited smile fell. His gifts had been reassigned, too.

Merlin did most of the talking. He convinced the council that the liquid in Gawain’s instrument had been accidentally discovered. There was no formula for it, no replicating it. And that the instrument itself would only work one time. It would be useless after this.

Gawain had argued against this tactic, afraid that without the instrument to hold them accountable, the work of releasing a considerable number of gifts wouldn’t be done.

“But you will have the instrument,” Merlin reasoned, “and plenty of ability to monitor it. We can address logistics later. For now, we need to get you safely back to Camelot, and that means they have to believe that it can’t be replicated.”

The mages had ever presented themselves as a religious order seeking peace and the protection of magic. The nature of their powers was disconcerting. Arthur was especially dismayed that the threat within the mages’ own ranks was so dire. The council had transformed from a shining beacon of hope for the kingdom to its biggest liability over-night—and they knew it.

Vera was sure it was a driving factor as the mages charted a road map for proceeding with this new information. Their immediate priority was to track Mordred and either kill him or, preferably, bring him in to face justice. Naiam assigned ten pockets of mages, one from the council with five lesser mages, to go on the hunt for him. And on the matter of magic, each mage on the council was asked to release ten gifts. Gawain would have preferred a more aggressive approach, plainly written in his furrowed brow, but Merlin silenced him with a sharp glare.

They were on the right track.

Naiam officially adjourned the mages, and Arthur’s party did not linger. Their horses were ready just outside. They bid polite but terse farewells and made for the road, even though it was nearly dark when they set out. Neither Merlin nor Gawain wanted to linger in Oxford for questions that might get closer to the truth. They’d travel ten miles to stay within the Mages’ Cloak of Oxford, where Naiam arranged for a secure camp with extra magical protection.

Vera steered her horse next to Gawain’s. “Did Viviane know about this?” she asked him as they rode west, chasing the setting sun toward Camelot.

He frowned. “If anyone could have figured it out, it would have been her. She was the most brilliant mage I ever met.” It shook Vera that his voice shone with admiration for Viviane. “She didn’t have to lay any curse on the kingdom—just steal enough magic and convince us to do the same until it all began to run dry,” he mused. “We cursed ourselves into vulnerability.”

“How did you know?”

“I wouldn’t have without Mordred’s last attack. I suppose that’s the silver lining to it. There was no other way we could have seen a concentration of magic theft and its immediate impacts on the earth. He did us a favor in that way.”

“And that was what I knew?” Vera asked.

Gawain pursed his lips. He shook his head like he didn’t believe it, though he said, “It must have been.”

It was over. Gawain had figured it out, and her memories weren’t even needed.

Her memories weren’t even needed.

Merlin need not have saved her. Lancelot need not have some broken version of Guinevere’s blood on his hands. Arthur need not have witnessed Guinevere die three times over. She turned her head to watch Arthur riding behind them.

She’d known she loved him since the day of her jousting bout, but Lancelot’s saying the words aloud had uncaged her feelings. And in the tumult since then, it had become an inner roar. Vera was and would remain completely and entirely Arthur’s.

His feelings, on the other hand, did not reach so deep. He was a loyal man. He’d promised to be Vera’s friend, and he’d honor that, but it was magic and magic alone that enchanted him to desire her. The sooner she could accept their feelings’ disparity and start dismantling her own, the better.

Gawain lay his hand on Vera’s shoulder, pulling her from the spiral she’d tumbled into. “When we get back to Camelot, I’ll focus on figuring out this hold magic has on you. We’ll get the barrier dismantled, and we can take our time.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Will you go back to your other home after that?”

“I—Yes.” That was another piece she hadn’t been able to process. This meant she could go home and be with her parents. She could help her father get better, and she did want that. But … she was Guinevere. She didn’t belong in the future. But Vera didn’t exactly belong here, either.