The lie felt wrong, especially when it came to Percival, who’d supported Arthur—and Vera, for that matter—with all his energy. But Gawain had been insistent. They couldn’t take a chance that word would get out and begin to unspool the story. One lie had born another. How had the queen healed so quickly from stab wounds that the mage shouldn’t have been able to heal?

Because she’d taken a preemptive healing potion.

Why had she taken it?

Because Merlin was doing dangerous magic on her mind.

Why?

Because she had no memory. Because of what Viviane had done.

One truth led to all the truths. They were too deeply entangled in lies.

Arthur hated it. “We should have trusted the people with the truth the day Viviane attacked,” he said, his face taut with regret as Percival headed back to the training field, having been told the latest fabrication.

“No,” Gawain said. “The high council of mages is suspicious of the queen’s entire story—as I was. Naiam is our leader, and she is well-known for being just, but the lower council listens to Ratamun more readily. I fear his lust for power would blind him. This magic is too tempting a force. For the council alone, you never could have been truthful.”

“Because they could learn to use that magic?” Vera turned to him.

He pursed his lips. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What does that mean?”

“There are some things about mages and magic that I could not tell you even if I wanted to.” He eyed her keenly. “You needn’t worry. Focus on your work with the king.”

Gawain was right. She and Arthur would continue what they’d started before Yule: being seen together through Camelot as a loving couple. This time, Vera was determined to do it right, determined to play the part of the proper queen. She would be serious at meals and reserve demure smiles only for when the men laughed. She wouldn’t make the mistake of avoiding conversation and appearing standoffish like before but would speak sparingly like a well-bred lady might. What she didn’t know about courtly customs, she’d learn. And she and Arthur would convince the people that they were soulmates. That the kingdom was everything the subjects dreamed of during the years of war, and the people could rest safe in their benevolent leader and his dutiful, loving queen.

It was the seventh century, and Vera had already allowed for too much selfish distraction. Her moment of clarity during Thomas’s attack rang true: she wasn’t just a vessel for Guinevere’s memories. Of course. She was a vessel for everyone else’s memory of Queen Guinevere as well.

She had to do better.

And she’d have her first opportunity later in the morning when she and Arthur were to meet in the town square and visit the market together. First, Lancelot was taking her to the armory to try out various swords and chain mail to ready her for training. He was rather giddy, but she couldn’t enjoy it for her laser focus on what was to come next.

It was at the forefront of her mind as he accompanied her back through Camelot, and a raucous cheer sliced through her anxious reverie. She and Lancelot simultaneously snapped their heads toward the sound: the keep-away pit, which was surrounded by the largest crowd Vera had seen there and was the source of the uproar.

“What in the Gods’ names … ?” Lancelot murmured. His feet seemed to drift of their own accord, the pit’s crowd drawing him in like a moth to the flame.

The crowd parted easily as he touched a shoulder here or gave his charming and crooked smile there, Vera merely riding his draft up to the front.

He laughed loudly as he reached the crowded wall. “I’ll be damned.”

Vera squeezed through a gap, edging around Lancelot’s shoulder so she could see what was happening. At first glance, nothing was strange aside from the considerable crowd. Then her eyes found him. How she could have missed his form, commanding and graceful, for even a second amongst the half-dozen players was beyond her. There were four men left in the game on one side of the pit, and on the other, there was a tiny girl who looked like she belonged in nursery school and who was hiding behind the last player.

Arthur.

“Has he ever played before?” Vera asked.

Lancelot smiled broadly without taking his eyes off Arthur. “Not to my knowledge.”

Arthur bodily shielded the girl, his arms spread, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and pants scuffed with dirt. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chilly morning. He was fighting tooth and nail to keep both himself and his little shadow in the game. She shouted orders from behind Arthur, to both his and the crowd’s delight.

“King, get him! Get HIM!” she shrieked, pointing at the man who’d pelted the ball in their direction. She addressed him that way every time. “Smack it, King!” or “Not like that, King. Kick it better.”

Arthur made a great effort to keep his face serious and focused, but his smile broke through frequently. The crowd roared with laughter as Arthur’s teammate chided him to play tougher.

Somehow, either by the other players laughing too hard to carry on or perhaps by their generosity, it was soon only Arthur and the child left. He crossed the pit to make space between them and turned to face her, the ball sitting directly between them. The girl’s eyes were the size of saucers.

“What do I do?” she asked Arthur.

“Kick it, Flora,” he said. “Go on—see if you can get me!”

Flora licked her lips and tossed her golden hair behind her shoulders. She ran her fastest at the ball and gave it a clumsy kick that Arthur made no effort to dodge. It bounced along the ground and rolled slowly into his foot. As soon as it made contact, he dropped to the dirt as if knocked unconscious. Flora screamed her glee while the crowd erupted. Arthur grinned from his place on the ground before he got to his feet and was all but tackled by Flora as she threw her arms around his neck, yelling, “We won! We won!”

“You won!” He gave her a jubilant spin, letting his gaze land on Vera. Arthur’s eyes glimmered as he spoke quietly to the child. She glanced at Vera, too, then gave a beaming smile before he set her on the ground.

Flora wasted no time in dashing over to Vera, pulling Arthur with her with one hand and grabbing Vera’s hand with the other. “Come on!” she said. “It’s your turn!”

Vera looked from Flora’s sweet face with her big, pleading eyes up to Arthur and the others preparing for the game.

“Go on.” Lancelot nudged her with his elbow.

“I—” This was not a part of Vera’s plan. “I shouldn’t …”

“I insist,” Arthur said. “Let’s play.”

So she played, and that was merely the beginning of it. As often as weather permitted, dinners with performers were moved into the town square. There was dancing, initiated by Arthur, no less, on more than one occasion. Vera didn’t have to become more formal because Arthur became less so, and all of Camelot seemed to fall in stride.

In the midst of it all, her training with the king’s guard had begun in earnest. It was grueling and absolutely humbling, but it was something of a treat, too. She often stayed after to watch their faster, much more intense sparring that left her slack-jawed at their prowess. But today, Randall was helping Percival into full, plated armor and helmet while Lancelot set up the strangest rig on the far end of the field, a pole with a wooden arm extending from it and a chest plate dangling beneath. He gave it a smack, and the arm spun about the pole. Lancelot caught it on its way back around and nodded, satisfied.

At the other end of the field, Percival was on horseback, and Randall passed him a hefty spear at least two meters long. Her jaw went slack. Surely not …

Percival tucked the lance beneath his arm and set his horse galloping toward the dangling chest plate. The tip of his lance slammed into it, sending the hinged arm spinning about the pole.