“Enough!” Merlin slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair.

Gawain’s characteristic scowl was nothing to the wrath that marred his features. “What good would it do if she dies before she can tell us what happened? It’s prudent we go to the mages first and only push Guinevere’s mind as a last resort.”

Merlin began arguing, but Arthur held up a hand. “We’re going to the mages.”

It was decided. Merlin and Gawain, Arthur, Lancelot, Vera, and two other soldiers.

“I think we should also bring one more knight with Guinevere coming,” Lancelot said. “Percival would be best.”

“No. Percival will stay as king regent,” Arthur said. “We’ll bring Tristan.”

Lancelot nearly hid the glimmer of a scowl, but Vera saw it. “Why not Randall? Or Marian?”

Arthur shook his head. “I want them in Camelot. Tristan is the right choice.” He didn’t elaborate; it was not up for discussion. Lancelot stiffly crossed his arms over his chest, displeased.

They would leave this evening under the cover of darkness.

Arthur and Vera went straight to their quarters to pack. She shoved her running trainers and socks into a rucksack, deliberating what to say to him. The memories were right there. She’d had a real memory. The rest couldn’t be far behind. But that brought up another issue entirely that Vera hadn’t had time to reckon with: she truly was Guinevere.

Before she could work up the nerve to speak, Percival and Tristan were at the door. Percival dutifully reported the city’s status: calmer than before but fortifying itself in preparations for the barrage of refugees.

“They responded to Percival well,” Tristan added, clearly impressed. “Almost how they’d respond to you.”

Percival shrugged off the compliment. “What news from the mages?” he asked.

Arthur was honest. There was plenty he couldn’t say, which Percival readily accepted. He only balked when Arthur relayed their travel plans. “You’ll stay in Camelot,” he told the young knight. “I need you to serve as king regent.”

Percival drew back before his brow furrowed, making his scar the dominant feature of his handsome face. “The queen should be in charge,” he said.

Arthur shook his head. “She’s coming with us.”

“Why?” Percival asked. It was a fair question, and there were plenty of reasons. Because she wanted to, for one. Because Arthur knew the safest place would be with him and Lancelot. And because if something happened with her mind, they needed mages there.

Instead, Vera said, “I want to go,” at the same time that Arthur said, “I will not leave her.”

To her surprise, that was justification enough for Percival.

“Tristan,” Arthur looked to him, and he dutifully stepped forward, “I need you to come on the road as the queen’s guard.”

Vera jolted. She hadn’t realized that was the additional knight’s purpose.

“I’d be honored, Your Majesty,” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Arthur, I don’t know how to act as king,” Percival said.

“Of course you do.” Arthur crossed the room to the desk. He collected a stack of parchments and handed them to a stunned Percival before he paused thoughtfully. “I’ll show you a few things. Come on.” Vera began following him to the door. Arthur stopped her. His eyes flicked to Tristan for the length of a blink before resting on her. “Stay. Finish packing.”

“I—” she stammered. “All right.”

“Should Tristan—?” Percival began.

“No,” Arthur said. “He can stay.”

Their footsteps echoed down the hall, leaving her and Tristan alone. Unsure what else to do, she resumed packing while he wandered over to the window. Its shutter was latched open, and a pleasant breeze slipped through the rods. Tristan grabbed one of the bars and gave it a sturdy shake. Vera hadn’t realized she’d stopped, a travel cloak mid-fold between her hands, to watch him. There was something she was missing about Tristan. She was right on the edge of it and couldn’t break through, couldn’t clear the last cobweb obscuring the memory. Vera clamped her eyes shut in an effort to focus. She dropped to sit on the bed behind her.

“Gwen?” Tristan said warily. Vera let her eyes flutter open. He was already closing the space between them. “Are you frightened?”

“I’m—” She cast about for the right words, but her head spun. She was so close to it.

Tristan pulled a chair over and sat, facing her. He smiled grimly. “I know. It hasn’t felt like this since the wars. It’ll be all right.” He rubbed her arm above the elbow, and there it was.

Vera remembered.

There was no dramatic moment of recollection, no reliving the scenes like in the sensory tub. One second, she’d have never thought to touch this dusty corner of her mind, and the next, Tristan and so many things about him were just … there as if they always had been. There was a whole childhood of memories with the man in front of her. Their parents had one tutor who taught both of them. Tristan had shown Vera how to hang upside down from a tree branch by her knees, and she’d gotten him into a world of trouble when they started a midsummer bonfire that nearly set his neighbor’s barley field aflame. Between two lifetimes of growing up, Tristan was the dearest childhood friend she’d ever had.

So many years ago, on a rainy summer day in Tristan’s father’s barn, he had been her first kiss. Sour, salty, or sweet. It was a game they played when one’s eyes were closed, and the other was meant to surprise with a bite of food, and they’d laugh together when it shocked the tastebuds. They took it in turns, and it was Tristan’s turn to keep his eyes shut. Vera was fourteen, and the tension had been rising between them for months. Years, really. She had decided hours before that today would be the day. When Vera had filled his lips with her own rather than the sweet cake between her fingers, Tristan’s lips joined the dance.

But it didn’t end there. And their fathers’ plans that they should marry weren’t merely advantageous; they were kind. Tristan and Vera had been in love. The missing years she hadn’t been able to reach before flooded in. Flashes of joy, brushing hands beneath tablecloths at banquets, dances when he held her a little too tightly, stolen kisses when they thought they were being sneaky behind their parents’ or the servants’ backs, but everyone had known.

And she remembered the day it all ended when she met him in that same barn. This time, it was a perfect sunny day. The light found each chink and crack in the wood-slatted wall and lit Tristan and Vera in uneven stripes. She cried as she told him she’d chosen to marry the king. He’d begged her not to and painted the story of the life that Tristan and Guinevere could have together. It would have been a good life, a great one. She’d known what she was giving up, but she also knew it was best for the kingdom … that bringing her father’s lands and troops (Tristan among them) would make it all possible to build the new dream of a nation.

Tristan had even ridden with their party the whole journey to Camelot, not yet having given up that Guinevere might change her mind after she met Arthur and that he could whisk her away. But then he met Arthur, and Tristan came to her that night.

That time, it was him who told Vera through tears that she was right, because Tristan had seen the light in Arthur that everyone else saw, too.

He’d even traveled the distance from his home in the north after the wars. Arthur had sent for him when the original Guinevere was at her lowest, barely able to rise from the bed. Tristan sat by her side for days, but it made no difference to her.

“I regret ever leaving,” Tristan said. It brought Vera out of her remembering. His gaze darted to the window. “I left, and then you fell.” Sorrow marred his handsome face.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Vera said. That wasn’t what had happened to the Guinevere he’d known and loved. But she couldn’t tell him that.