“To stay with your father would have ruined my life. And it would have ruined your life too,” said Guinevere. “Arthur may have been a wonderful king to his people, a loving father to you, and a faithful husband to me . . . but I loved someone else, Tedros. I’d always loved someone else. And if you found out I’d clung to an unhappy marriage for your sake, you would carry that weight forever. You would know that your mother chose to disavow her own happiness on your behalf. And as much as I wanted to give up my life and stay by your side, I couldn’t make that choice for you. Not for a boy with as much courage and compassion as you. Part of your journey was to come to see your mother for who she truly was, not who she pretended to be. Most children would never get past the resentment and wither from the pain. But Merlin knew you were different. He said my leaving wasn’t just necessary for my own fate, it was the essential seed of your fate too. It would make you look closer and find real love. It would make you the king you needed to be. And even though leaving would strike us both with an indelible wound . . . one day, you would find a way to forgive me.”

Tedros was a mess of tears. “You were my mother. . . . You were my whole life. . . . I wanted to die when you left—”

“But you didn’t,” said Guinevere. “And I didn’t either, even if I thought I would. For months, I pounded at the moors and screamed at the sky, begging the Lady of the Lake to take me back to you. But Merlin had forbidden her. He came every Sunday that first year to soothe me and tell me stories of what you were up to: how you’d sit in on the advisers’ meetings and ask them questions about the kingdom; how you’d hide your vegetables under your rice so the nursemaid wouldn’t notice; how you’d sit with Arthur every night after I’d left, even if he wouldn’t say a word to you . . . and how you cursed me for days and weeks after he died. I’d make Merlin tell me every detail again and again until I cried myself to sleep.”

She smiled wistfully. “He came less and less as the years went on and soon only on Christmas. But on that one day, I’d feel like a child again, listening to the tale of my own son growing bolder and stronger, his mother’s absence fueling his desire to make something of himself. And soon I began to feel bold and strong too, knowing I finally had an honest love instead of a love forced by duty. It didn’t matter if Lancelot and I would be alone for the rest of our lives; it didn’t matter if we were cast out in disgrace . . . because we’d found real Good, instead of a lie, and honored the truth of our stories. Listening to Merlin speak of you, year after year, I started to feel I was living with you, even if I wasn’t there, growing younger and younger in spirit while you grew older and older—until here we are, humbled by the blessings of Good, our two stories connected once more. Only now I see Merlin was right. Just as your father made you strong and responsible, my leaving Camelot also made you the man you are. It made you sensitive, independent, and resilient and led you to your perfect queen. Naturally, it also made you a bit raw and bullheaded—”