CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
-GUIN-
The Riddle of Blood Trial
As I stood in the Hall of Lineages, surrounded by the former Pendragon kings, panic surged, seizing me with its icy grip.
The hall was just as I'd seen it in my nightmare—that horrific dream that continued to plague me.
The dim light, the heavy expectant air, the numerous tombs of long-dead kings, and Arthur at the chamber's head—his presence commanding, undeniable.
Every detail rippled into reality from the depths of my nightmare—the nightmare in which the long-dead kings claimed me as a possession and then a sacrifice.
My fingers twitched. I felt the pull of my own throat tightening against a scream I refused to utter.
No, Guin. It was just a dream.
And dreams held no claim over the waking world. They could haunt, but they couldn't command.
I forced my breathing to even out, every exhale tearing apart the net of my fears.
Around me, knights murmured, their whispers filled with tension and anticipation.
The quiet rustle of armor and fabric was a reminder of their solid presence, their bodies creating a bulwark against the nightmare that played throughout my mind like a warning.
It wasn't going to happen. The nightmare was mine alone, trapped in the realm of sleep where it belonged. Here in the hall, I was Sir Lioran, knight among knights.
Calm. Steady. I am safe. There are no skeletons or corpses coming to life.
My mind cleared, and I inhaled deeply, forcing the nightmare and the fear to the dark recesses of my mind as I watched the seventh or so knight, Sir Leofric, approach the altar, and Mordred handed him the dagger.
After Sir Leofric completed the trial successfully, Galahad took his place.
His serene countenance remained untouched as the magic revealed his noble lineage.
To no one's surprise, there were no blemishes on Galahad's soul, no hidden lies, nothing that would mark him as anything other than flawless.
I couldn't deny my irritation. How was it possible to be so unwaveringly good?
Almost as if purity radiated from him like a relentless sun, he seemed superhuman, beyond the maze of human flaws—unreal, almost. Of course, he passed the trial. To no one's surprise.
Sir Gawain followed, his passage similar to Leofric's.
Admired by those who knew him, he was respected for his valor.
The exposure of his lineage revealed a legacy as commendable as his knightly career, seamless and mostly untarnished.
There were naughty deeds, desires, or thoughts here and there, but nothing that would impede his chance at the Round Table. Gawain was imperfection with grace.
Then came Sir Kay, and it seemed the room held its collective breath.
Everyone speculated a storm was coming—you could see as much in their expressions.
Kay’s well-known resentment toward Arthur was no secret.
I was certain everyone wondered what glimpses the trial might offer of Kay’s deepest dissatisfaction—the chaotic resentments bottled just beneath his surface.
Once he drew the dagger across his palm, his royal lineage was revealed—no surprises there. But then came the interesting part. As expected, the magic revealed Kay's jealousy of Arthur—mostly over his resentment of Excalibur's choice.
And that was it.
The reveal left me empty of satisfaction; it was all so mundane—something that everyone gathered had already known.
Nothing shocking, nothing novel. Nothing about all his hidden secrets, the way he used people, the horrible things I was sure he'd done.
Just the predictable dose of envy that everyone already knew existed in Kay.
Knights glanced at one another, expressions flat—we all were expecting something so much…
more. Even Arthur appeared somewhat surprised, muttering something under his breath as Mordred announced Kay's completion of the trial.
I wondered if Kay had somehow managed to cover his true secrets with some magical elixir, similar to the Caliope and the Veilwood.
It was conceivable with his plenitude of castle connections.
The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that such was exactly the case because I knew much uglier thoughts existed within his mind than had been revealed here.
Merlin's profile on Kay had been more damning than the Riddle of Blood.
My own time of reckoning loomed over me like a thunderhead—dark, oppressive, inevitable.
The Riddle of Blood would lay bare my essence: my lineage, my magic. And, of course, the secret I was fighting so fiercely to conceal. If this trial unearthed that truth, it wouldn’t just mean disgrace. It would mean death.
When it was my turn, I approached the altar and accepted the dagger. Every candidate before me had emerged with a story of triumph or failure, but those failures hadn't been catastrophic. Not yet, anyway. I could only pray mine wouldn’t end in ruin.
Hopefully, Elenora would prove trustworthy.
Yes, this was a reckoning—for me, for Camelot, and for Elenora, whose loyalty still hung in the balance.
After drinking the Veilwood Draught, I'd taken the Caliope potion she'd offered, swallowing its shimmering contents just before the trial. Now they both coursed through me, a lingering warmth that felt both soothing and treacherous. A gift, she’d said.
But I knew enough of court politics to recognize that all gifts come with teeth.
Beforehand, I'd reached out to Merlin to ask him for guidance—to tell him about Elenora's gift and to ask whether or not I should trust it.
But no matter how many times I'd tried to reach him, he hadn't responded.
After the fourth or so attempt, I'd had to swallow the realization that I would have to make up my own mind—that in this instance, I had only myself to rely on.
I scanned the chamber. Percival stood off to the side, his quiet strength grounding me.
Lance, across the circle, met my gaze with a small, almost imperceptible nod.
But I felt it as if he’d reached out and taken my hand.
His steadiness stirred something in me that felt too much like longing.
If my truth were revealed here and now—if I became Guinevere again, not Lioran—would he look at me the same way?
Of course not—he would look at you like the lie you are.
And what if my truth revealed the fact that I had feelings for him and for Arthur?
There were many sides to my lies—not just the fact that I was a spy in Arthur's court.
Not just that I was a woman in disguise as a man.
Those truths could remain hidden, and yet, I could still be found guilty of other unpalatable truths.
The dagger felt heavy in my hand as I glanced down at it and wondered: What would the altar reveal about me? Would Annwyn bleed through my skin, bright and damning? Would it reveal that I'd pulled the sword from the stone? Would it show the woman beneath the man's facade?
Depending on Elenora's goals, the Caliope might protect me, or it might backfire spectacularly. And what if it negated the effects of the Veilwood? Too many questions with no answers.
I stepped forward, forcing my breath to remain steady despite the dagger’s chill against my palm. The blade felt almost sentient, as though it sensed the lies beneath my skin. I focused on the altar. It stood silent and expectant.
"Brothers. Kings of old. Come and feast."
The memory of Arthur's voice from the nightmare suddenly gripped hold of my overwhelmed mind.
No. I thought, scrunching my eyes shut tightly against the images that were already overcoming my thoughts.
The sound of the lids of the crypts beginning to groan. That deep, guttural scraping. Then came the rattling of skeletal fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on tomb edges.
No. It isn't real!
"The dagger responds to your essence," Mordred said, his voice interrupting the panic suddenly overwhelming me.
I blinked my eyes open, only to find his gaze already on me. I felt my pulse stammer.
I gripped the dagger tighter, the blade catching the braziers’ firelight and fracturing it into a kaleidoscope of color across the altar’s surface. My hands were steady. My heart was not.
If this was to be my end, I would meet it without shame.
I swallowed hard, ignoring the tremor at the base of my spine. My pulse pounded in my throat as I raised the dagger and poised it over my palm.
The room fell silent.
One cut. One drop. And the truth would follow.
I drew the dagger across my palm.
Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate, but quickly drowned in warmth. Blood welled from the cut and slid toward the altar—not sluggish or reluctant, but eager. It shimmered faintly as it fell, then moved into the channels of the altar. It didn't merely pool—it raced, swift as a river in spring thaw.
My blood flowed like molten silver, carving through the altar’s runes. With every heartbeat, the magic surged outward from the stone and into the chamber. I could feel the altar drinking in my essence, sifting through it, tasting it, trying to decipher what existed within.
Mordred's gaze stayed locked on mine. He didn’t blink; his gaze didn’t waver.
From my peripheral vision, I could see Arthur taking a step forward, leaning in.
And Lance stood beside him, chest heaving with his increased breathing—he too was afraid that my secret was about to be unleashed, even though he didn't know the truth of its nature.
"Blood of my blood, power of my line..." The words came unbidden, as if summoned by instinct rather than memory. "Reveal what flows through me, what magic is mine. From roots to branches, from source to stream, show me the truth that lies between."
My blood reached the altar’s heart—and something shifted.
A column of light erupted from the center, swirling upward until it widened into a suspended oval—a mirror in midair, gleaming with an eerie, living sheen.