“No.”
She shrank from his voice. This was the first time he had spoken to her not as Arthur, but as a king. The power and weight of his command had a physical aspect to it that left her cowed.
“I have to keep you safe,” he whispered, Arthur once again.
“King Arthur!” one of the knights shouted. “Wolf!”
“Form a circle around the clearing!” Arthur strode away, picking up his sword from the ground and unsheathing it. Guinevere shuddered. “Face out! Let nothing through!”
Mist was curling around the clearing, sending tendrils in as though probing for weaknesses. There was no howling, no noise. Which made it worse, in a way. Then Sir Gawain shouted, and there was a snarling yelp. Guinevere could do nothing.
But…no one was watching her. They were all occupied with staying alive.
She hurried to the fire and took a single twig from the edge. The tip of it glowed with a spark. Back at Sir Tristan’s side, she knelt and closed her eyes. She needed to change the way the magic flowed, change what she wanted it to do. She risked the fire taking control and burning Sir Tristan from the inside out. Either way she would be responsible for his death. She would not let it happen without a fight.
She put her finger against the spark, let it jump to her. Fed it her breath. Then she held it in front of Sir Tristan’s mouth and let it taste his breath. She brought it to his wound and coaxed it from her finger to his skin. Sir Tristan flinched, but did not wake up.
“Burn all that is not him,” she whispered, focusing on the flame, focusing on bending it to her will. It danced, a shimmering light, along the marks of the wolf’s teeth. And then it disappeared.
Sir Tristan twitched. Sweat broke out on his skin and then evaporated as quickly as it appeared. She kept her hand on his arm, kept herself attuned to the spark running through him. It was greedy, starving. She commanded it to only feed on what was not Sir Tristan. There was so much there. She could feel the infection, a creeping darkness trying to take him. It felt menacing and angry and…sentient.
She pushed the fire harder. It ate, and ate, and just when she thought it would not work fast enough to save Sir Tristan, the fire paused. There was nothing left for it. Nothing that it had been commanded to eat. It turned outward, ready to devour Sir Tristan.
She called it back. It hesitated. She was going to lose control. Panic flared, but she met it with determination and instinctive desperation.
She would not lose him.
Something inside her, something unknown in the midst of all the knots and spells, surrounded the fire, drawing it back. Chasing it and channeling it away from Sir Tristan. It rushed back to her hand, burning her. She cried out in pain, smothering the flames with her hood. Her fingers were blistered. But the fire was out.
She looked up to search for a canteen but froze like a deer before a hunter. Mordred was watching her. He was half-turned to the forest, but his eyes, ever attuned to her, had seen everything.
She was caught.
It was over.
Then Mordred looked back toward the forest without a word.
Shaking, her hand in searing pain, she grabbed a canteen and helped Sir Tristan drink. His skin had lost the killing heat of the infection. His eyelids fluttered open. “My queen?” he asked.
“Rest.” She cradled his head in her lap. She tipped the water into his mouth, little by little, too frightened to look up lest the wolves of men descend on her for her transgression.
* * *
They battled the pack all night. When morning finally pushed back the darkness, the knights were weary, but none bloodied.
“The way they moved,” Sir Bors said. “It was as though they were drunk. They could never figure out where we were. God has protected us.”
“Yes,” Arthur said, his voice firm and bright. “God has protected us.”
Guinevere said nothing. Her knots had done their work. She had felt it as each one wore out, her vision finally back to normal. Her eyes ached and stung, but the pain was nothing compared to that of her burned hand.
Sir Tristan was checking the horses. Arthur embraced him quickly. “You are well?”
Sir Tristan flexed his arm, looking down at it. “It is sore, but the fever has passed.”
Arthur clasped his shoulder. “You scared us.”
Sir Tristan smiled, his full lips blooming like a spring flower. “I shall endeavor to never scare my king again.”
“See that you do,” Arthur said with a laugh. But when he turned and caught Guinevere’s eyes, his smile disappeared and his face darkened. He knew what she had done.
He did not speak to her. Neither, for that matter, did Mordred. Now that things were calmer, she stood, tense and ready for the accusations. But all the knights prepared their horses with efficient and practiced focus.
“Guinevere needs a horse,” Mordred said.
“She can ride with me, if that is acceptable to my king,” Sir Tristan said. “I cannot wield a sword well on horseback with this wound, but I can protect her.”
“Thank you.” Arthur inclined his head, giving permission. She wanted to speak with him, but there was no privacy, no opportunity.
Guinevere joined Sir Tristan on his horse. They rode for hours, their passage swift but cautious. There was no sign of the wolves. No hint of pursuit. The nature of the forest changed, as well. The trees loomed less, the air cleared out. It was still a wild and untamed place, but it felt less threatening.
Late afternoon, they broke to rest. A creek babbled nearby, and the men led the horses there to refill their canteens. Guinevere walked in the opposite direction. She kept everyone in sight, but her head ached with the strain of the night before coupled with the stress and fear of discovery. She wished Arthur would join her so they could talk about what she had done, but he remained with his men.
Sir Tristan walked among them. Healthy. Alive. She had done that. And she did not regret it. Even if she had been caught, she could not have regretted it. It had been the right thing to do.
Arthur had told her once that he would never put anything above Camelot. Remembering this, she cringed, guilty. She had put Sir Tristan above Camelot. If she had been caught, it could very well have threatened Arthur’s rule. She understood why he had forbidden her. But she could not bring herself to accept that Sir Tristan should have died to keep her secret safe. She would have lied, said she was sent to trick Arthur. Said she had bewitched him and he never knew. Done whatever she had to in order to protect him.
She rested between the roots of a massive tree. A hand against its bark revealed no bite, no malice. Just the deep, peaceful slumber of soil and sun and water. She closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of the sun on her. A brief, silly wish for leaves and roots filled her. How peaceful to be a tree! Trees had only to grow. Trees had no hearts to confuse and complicate things. Trees could not love kings and still disobey them.