“Two thousand by my estimation,” Randall said. “They’re a day’s ride out, but one rode ahead. We’re apprehending him.”

Now, in the throne room, they waited for the messenger. Two thousand was small for an invasion, making that an unlikely explanation. Vera naively thought this was good news, that it saved them from the weight of dread closing in, but it did not ease the tensions. Two thousand was too large a force for anything that wasn’t sinister.

They were all gathered: the whole king’s guard, Matilda, and both of Camelot’s mages. Vera was frightened. They were all in hushed conversations with one another or staring at the door expectantly, except Tristan. Her eyes found his, and a memory bloomed in her mind.

Vera stood on a vast and smoldering field dotted with dirt hillocks for a crop she couldn’t guess at, smoke rising in curling tendrils in unnatural jewel colors, shades hinting at magic. It might have been beautiful if she’d not been able to taste the acrid odor of roasted flesh and something grossly metallic. The hillocks’ uneven spacing, the awkward sizes … her eyes focused through the smoke’s haze and the expanding light of sunrise. Bodies. Body parts, not dirt. The sharp slap of the smell of blood, the beginnings of decay, and the looming understanding that this was her doing.

Vera—Guinevere—Vera turned in place, her face a careful mask of calm. She was the architect of this bloodshed. All the lives wiped clean from existence on this battlefield were on her hands.

When she turned, she nearly bumped into Tristan at her shoulder, strong, muddied and bloodied. He wasn’t to be fooled by her façade. He saw the truth; Guinevere was destroyed. For a fraction of a second, his chin quivered. He gripped her elbow and surveyed the wreckage.

That was it.

Vera blinked the memory away.

Tristan offered a thin smile across the throne room that she couldn’t return. The gravity of what had just happened—a memory, a real memory—pressed down on her. That had been different. That wasn’t like Merlin’s memories or the things that felt like a dream in the sensory tub. Vera remembered. Her own memories. Did that mean that she—

The doors flung open. The messenger was rushed in, supported on either side by two of Camelot’s soldiers. He wasn’t bound nor flanked from behind by any additional guards. He wore no armor and was only held beneath the arms by the soldiers because he’d collapse on his own. Arthur was on his feet first. The guards got the man a chair as Lancelot brought water. Arthur knelt before the man, peering up into his face with intensity, an impressive amalgamation of scrutiny and compassion.

The man’s breaths came in ragged, unsteady heaves. He wouldn’t be ready to speak for some time. Arthur turned to the soldier at his right. The soldier cast about himself uncertainly and only spoke after Lancelot gave him a curt nod.

“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.”