Guinevere was unsurprised when the summons came. The guards wore dark grey like all the others, their faces smooth and pitiless as stone, their eyes full black and lidless.

She masked her fear and rose from her seat by the window.

“The lady Morgause wishes an audience with you,” the taller guard spoke, and his voice sent a shiver through her: it was deep and harsh and cold like nothing human.

“Very well. There shall be no need for violence, I come willingly,” she swept forward, head held high. You are a daughter of the sea, of those who live in Avalon’s light. You shall not be afraid.

One sentinel opened the door for her to pass, as graceful as any nobleman gesturing for his lady. Somehow it made him even more terrifying.

The hallways were silent, lined with more grey-clad watchers. Here and there she spotted a stain of blood, the shred of a crimson Knight’s cloak. But there were no bodies, no evidence of the massacre from two days ago.

They had come in the night, sweeping down upon the sleeping city. Some said they flew over the walls on raven wings, but touched earth as men. Others said their blood was black feathers, and that they felt no pain. They had cut and burned their way through the lower towns, slaughtering the startled garrisons, and finally storming the citadel with torches of unholy fire.

As she approached the Great Hall, Guinevere wandered if Arthur was safe, if he was alive. The thought of him lying dead was a slowly tightening noose about her heart, darkening her every breath with despair.

He can’t be dead! He’s alive, I know he is. If he is gone from the world, I would have felt it.

Now more than ever their stolen night in the meadow seemed a fading dream.

She recalled the morning he had left with his cadre of Knights, the morning after they made love for the first time.

She had arisen early, knowing they would leave at first light. Reluctant to wake Bernadette, she had hastily washed her face and pulled on her dress from the night before. The laces evaded her impatient fingers, and so instead she merely put on Arthur’s riding coat that he’d wrapped around her on the ride back. The sleeves hung well past her arms, but she had been too blissfully happy to care about such things.

The Knights were gathered in the courtyard when she edged cautiously out. Gwen spotted Arthur at once, moving lightly about the horses. She saw him clap Percival laughingly on the shoulder, before he caught sight of her and leapt lightly up the stairs.

“Nice coat,” he remarked casually, with a half-cocked smile, the early light glancing easily off his hair.

Suddenly she felt her face grow warm, remembering how she had bucked and writhed in his arms just a few hours ago, moaning his name beneath unblinking stars. Surely it was written all over her.

She lowered her eyes but Arthur tilted her chin gently, and she smiled up at him shyly, her prince, her lover, and the lines of his strong, handsome face that were stamped upon her heart.

“I’ll return before the new moon,” he said softly, “And we can announce our betrothal with a feast.”

Gwen had felt a joy so deep it trembled with something like fear. Could it really be? Would fate finally concede them this, after all the years and criss-crossed chances?

“Be careful, Arthur,” she put a hand on his arm, barely feeling the hard swell of muscle beneath jerkin and chainmail. She prayed to the gods that every link would hold firm in his protection.

He had kissed her then, full on the mouth, and she forgot they stood in view of the courtyard, dressed in his coat with her hair barely braided while the crown Prince of Camelot embraced her before his Knights. Arthur parted her lips and a longing sigh slipped from her unbidden.

When they parted she thought she heard someone mutter, “No wonder he’s been so cheerful all morning.” Probably Gwaine.

Arthur brushed a curl from her face, “Don’t let yourself be betrothed off while I’m gone,” he teased.

“Don’t be gone too long then, milord,” she returned, smiling too.

He had laughed and kissed her on the temple. A husbandly gesture.

And then he was off, riding into the dawn with the Knights streaming behind like wisps of crimson flame.

The hall was lined with torches, and their eerie red light bathed the room, turning every movement into a whisper of shadows. The unblinking sentries were everywhere, their unsheathed swords dancing with firelight.

Guinevere straightened her shoulders as she approached the throne. Two cold heavy hands pushed on her shoulders, forcing her to kneel.

“Rise.”

The golden witch stood on the dais, her red silk dress glimmering like blood, her face as cold and beautiful as new forged steel.

Morgana sat on the throne, clad in deep purple satin that pooled beside her feet, her ears and throat and wrists encrusted with emeralds green as her eyes. Beside her stood the child, except he was taller than Guinevere remembered, closer to twelve years old, and his wide grey eyes drank the red light, watching, waiting, never blinking.

The Three…an unholy alliance of powers that would threaten the power of Avalon with destruction. Gaius’ words came back faintly.

Morgause approached her slowly, “ So we finally meet, Guinevere of Eirinn. You should be dead, yet my sister has an unfortunate weakness for you. She imagines you a friend.”

“I am her friend,” she said quietly.

Morgause’s eyes flashed gold, “No slave of Avalon is a friend to us, especially those who align themselves with the Pendragons.”

“Do you deny your enmity to our cause?” she prodded when Gwen remained silent.

“I oppose any who seek to darken Avalon’s light.”

Morgause sighed, almost as though disappointed, “You might have been a Queen, a consort for our brother Melwas. The Shadow Flame would have burned from Camelot to the shores of Eirinn, and our power reigned across the seas. You could have sat at that table, Guinevere of Eirinn. You can sit there still.”

Guinevere forced her voice not to tremble, “You have no claim to Camelot until Arthur is dead.”

Please gods don’t let him be dead. Please please please let him be alive…let me see him again…

Morgause’s smile was cold, “Oh he will be, foolish girl. When Mordred opens his heart on the Great Cusp, and the blood of Avalon washes the courtyard stones, yes he will die. And with his death, a new age will awaken, when we overthrow the tyranny of Uther and the feeble light of your dying Isle, and powers of Flame and Shadow shall walk the world in flesh once more.”

He’s alive! I knew it. Merlin will protect him. Merlin knows of the Three…

But could Merlin aid Arthur without revealing his own powers?

She affected a calm she did not feel, “If I am so useless to you, why am I still alive?”

In a rustle of skirts Morgana swept off the throne and stood beside her, “Gwen, this is your chance. Forget Arthur, forget Merlin, join us and we can be sisters united, as we always were.”

Gwen looked in the face of the woman she loved as a sister, and then at the unblinking boy with his red-grey eyes. Revulsion mixed with pity and anger coursed through her veins.

If I defy them now, they’ll kill me. To join them is unthinkable…but if I lived long enough for Arthur to save Camelot…there’s hope yet. Merlin’s magic is strong, Gaius said so himself.

She forced a smile, “ Sisters. I have always been loyal to you, Morgana, you know that.” There was a challenge in her voice, and uncertainty flickered for the briefest moment in Morgana’s eyes. Then it was gone, and she smiled brilliantly.

“Oh, this is wonderful Gwen” she embraced her,  “And on the eve of my coronation. Nothing could be more perfect.”

Coronation?

“Where is the King?”

Morgause gestured meaningfully towards the balcony, “Come with us, Guinevere. “

There were more guards by the railings, and a dark-haired warlord whom Gwen didn’t know. Morgause slid a knowing hand down his arm as the sentries moved aside, murmuring in his ear.

“Cendred, at your service,” he mock bowed to Guinevere. His voice was slick as honey. A dangerous man, she thought. Dangerous and deceptive.

“I’m afraid his men are what drew your prince away from the kingdom at such a vulnerable time,” Morgause informed her, indicating the unblinking sentries, “Aren’t they charming? Cendred has many uses, as did Melwas.”

Another brother of the Triple Morrigan then.

But there was something in the middle of the courtyard. Morgause urged her forward, and Guinevere gasped. A pyre had been built, higher than any she had seen, and tied to the centre, crownless, bare-headed in a stained nightshirt, was Uther Pendragon, Lord and Sovereign of Camelot.

And Guinevere understood what the nature of Morgana’s coronation would be. She looked on the King, his face oddly still; his eyes unseeing, and she tried to feel anger, to feel righteous rage. She thought of all the men and women and children he had put to the torch, the endless villages dispersed, families broken.

“Don’t you think it fitting?” Morgana leaned over, while two sentries led a pale Geoffrey of Monmouth forward with a crown of purple jewels, “Ever since I was a girl, he made me stand here and watch while innocent people died at his command. I still hear them screaming at night, their faces haunt my dreams.”

Guinevere tried to feel Morgana’s anger, the righteous rage so she could prepare herself for what was coming. But all she felt was pity, pity and a heart-sick sorrow.

“He is your father, Morgana,” she said simply, “ His face will haunt you too.”

Morgause glanced sharply at her, but Morgana only smiled, “And I shall sleep better than I have slept all those years under his roof.”

She turned to the courtyard and Mordred walked up beside her.

“Begin,” he called out. His voice was a whisper of ice, low and dark as a shadow.

More grey-clad guards approached the pyre with their red torches, and Geoffrey was bidden to raise the crown above Morgana’s head. At her nod the pyre was lit, a cry of despair went up among the captive Knights and guards herded into the courtyard.

Smoke rose from the wood, and the flames roared to life, until Uther was a small lonely speck among an island of fire. A terrible charred smell rose, wrapped in grey smoke.

He started screaming then, and Guinevere turned her head, “For god’s sake Morgana…”

But the face that stared down at the pyre was not the face Guinevere knew from her girlhood, the face of a young girl frightened but brave, the face of a young woman tender but stubborn. This was a Queen as still as marble, as pure as ice, as implacable as fire.

The screaming had become howls of animal pain, guttural and inhuman, and the fire roared mercilessly as the crown was set upon Morgana’s head.

Spirits of the Light, I beg you! Protect Arthur and guide Merlin.

Guinevere closed her eyes tight and stopped her ears, but those terrible sounds bled though.