Vera stayed near Lancelot and the soldiers. Even as she laughed along with the others, she looked ahead at Arthur and Matilda, noticing the ease of their conversation. Noticed that Matilda gazed at him with such love. Why hadn’t she seen it before? It had never occurred to her before this very moment that they might have found love together since Guinevere’s death. She couldn’t possibly fault them for it.

And still. It stung, a startling confirmation that she’d not only grown fond of Arthur. Vera had begun to long for him.

She cast about for something else to focus on and found Gawain riding farther back by himself, his head low and dark eyes staring vacantly, an especially sharp contrast with the enthusiasm in the rest of them. Vera was well acquainted with being the one left alone to witness the friendship of others.

She sighed and mumbled, “Dammit,” as she steered her horse close to Lancelot and casually took the jug of mystery liquor. They’d passed it around all morning, so he merely spared her a smile as he handed it over, not missing a beat in his conversation with the soldiers.

Vera pulled up on the reins and hung back until Gawain drew even with her. He looked up in surprise, which suited his face more pleasantly than his standard scowl. She offered the jug to him.

“What is this?” he asked, peeking skeptically in the mouth of the jug.

Vera shrugged. “Alcohol. It doesn’t taste half bad.”

“You drank this without knowing what it is?”

“Yes.” She laughed but prickled at the judgment in his tone. “Percival brought it. I trust him.”

Gawain continued to study the bottle. A green-tinted light, just a faint aura of a glow, started at the base. It spread from beneath his fingers across the jug’s surface. His eyes were closed in concentration, and his lips moved silently in the shapes of words that were nonsense to Vera. When the last wisp of green glow faded, Gawain opened his eyes.

“It’s safe.” He tipped the jug to his lips and took a deep slug. Then, abruptly, “I met your aunt, Cecily, on my way from the Magesary. She said your cousin’s wedding will be this spring.”

“Oh!” Vera said, playing along as had become her custom. “That’s wonderful news.” She mentally filed the new information about Guinevere’s family.

Gawain stared at her.

“What?” she said.

“You don’t have an aunt. At least, not to my knowledge. I made that up.” Vera’s chest tightened at the revelation and more at the way he looked at her. Like she was being measured and coming up short. “Merlin told me you had memory loss from the attack, but I thought you might be faking it.”

Vera tensed. “Why would I lie about that?”

“To avoid responsibility for your actions,” he said, as if it were obvious. “But you remember nothing.”

“I remember how to mount a horse.” A poor attempt at humor to skirt her discomfort, but Gawain cracked a condescending smile.

“That’s not much. All the same, you don’t have to pretend to remember in front of me. And if you have questions, I can be someone to answer them.”

It might have been a generous offer had it not been accompanied by the affectation of a concrete brick. He was the last person Vera wanted to share anything with. Her guard had been up before. This conversation fortified it.

“I was under the impression you didn’t like me much,” Vera said.

“You were correct,” he said bluntly. “But that was before I realized your mental deficiency.” Vera barked a laugh. Gawain looked at her and blinked. “But not remembering … perhaps that’s a gift. You get to start again.”

“I have to remember.” Merlin had told her the mages knew about Viviane’s betrayal. Gawain should understand better than anyone. “You know that I have to remember.”

He was silent for a stretch before he took another drink, wincing as he swallowed and passed the jug to Vera. “I’m not so sure. Magic’s been behaving peculiarly for some time now … since well before Viviane’s attack on you.”

Her mouth took on a strange taste and her head swam. “How long?” she asked, forgetting not to give him the satisfaction of her interest.

“Since before the wars,” he said. “I don’t have evidence to prove it, but I’d conjecture at least since the Massacre of Dorchester.”

Why did that sound familiar to Vera? And why did she see a descending mist in her mind’s eye as she thought of it? Descending mist, thunder, and a dancer … Then it hit her. It was the story the performers shared on one of her first nights here.

“When the whole town was massacred by a mage gone mad?”

Gawain gave her a slow, sidelong look. “It wasn’t the whole town. It was the efficient extermination of every non-magic person in Dorchester. A dark experiment on population. If people with the gift only bred with others who also had it, the hypothesis was that it would increase the number of magical births.”

“And … did it?”

“No,” Gawain said. “I doubt recovering your memories will make any difference.” He forged onward as if he’d not savagely taken a mallet to Vera’s one goal in her new existence. “By my census studies, the magical birth rate has been steadily dropping for nearly a decade. Its rate has simply increased enough recently that we’ve taken notice.”

Vera sat stiffly in her saddle. She clenched her muscles to shield the way fear descended on her. Oddly enough, that tickled Gawain. His eyes even briefly lit as he chuckled. “You’re wise to be mistrusting. You shouldn’t trust anyone.”

Vera was taken aback enough to find her voice. “What about the king? What about Merlin?”

Gawain merely shrugged. “Certainly not him.” He pointed at Lancelot. “He reeks of lies.”

Vera laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. Look, I really just wanted to apologize for being the reason you had to execute that man.” She’d not known she was going to say it before the words tumbled out of her.

“It’s my duty,” Gawain said.

“Yes, well, it’s not one you’ve ever had to officially perform, is it?”

He gave her another sidelong look. “Not officially. But it was not uncommon on the battlefield.”

He’d been so skilled and precise. It stood to reason that he’d performed that task before.

“How do mages train for such things?” she asked.

“How?” Gawain chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong questions, Your Majesty.” A loud laugh erupted from Lancelot and Percival’s clump of riders, and Vera glanced wistfully at them.

“You don’t want to talk to me anymore, do you?” he asked.

She was so startled by his blunt (and correct) assessment that she wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I’m done talking anyway,” he said. “I’d heard you were strange, but I like you better than I thought I would.”

And with that, Gawain pulled up on the reins of his horse to fall back and ride alone.

Still in shock, Vera caught up with Percival and Lancelot, now on their own, apart from the other soldiers.

“Been watching you back there. What was that about?” Percival asked.

“That guy’s a fucking weirdo,” Vera said.

This set Lancelot to howling, so she felt compelled to continue. “He said he was done talking to me and wanted to ride alone.”

Percival muttered a few choice insults under his breath.

“Ooh, I’ve never seen anyone get under your skin like that,” Lancelot said to him. “You like damn near everybody.”

“I’ve never met anyone with such disrespect for Arthur. And now for the queen, too. He’s an egregious, pompous—”

“All right, all right. Point taken,” Lancelot said. “Don’t you feel a tiny bit sorry for him? Off on his own in this rowdy crew?”

“No,” Percival said.

“Also,” Vera added, joining in Percival’s annoyance that Lancelot clearly didn’t get it. “He told me that you reek of lies and that I shouldn’t trust you.”

“Really?” Lancelot’s eyes glimmered with delight. “That’s fabulous. I’m going to go annoy the shit out of him. Cheers!” He made a soft clicking noise, and his horse was trotting off toward Gawain before either could attempt to stop him.