Nothing had directly attacked Arthur yet, though. How long would she wait? How long could she wait without letting her guard slowly slip? Without becoming more queen than witch?
“I will teach you,” Brangien said. “I used to specialize in draughts. Sleeping. Love. Confusion. My mother was a witch. My father loved her for it, since he did not carry the prejudices of Camelot or Christianity. Did your mother practice any magic?”
How had she never asked Merlin about her mother? In the forest, life was simply what it was. She had never thought to ask. But who had she been with while Merlin was helping Arthur all those years? Why could she not remember?
A terrible realization gripped her. As she had pushed Sir Bors’s memories out and replaced them, she had felt some of her own slipping away.
Had she forgotten so much because that was not the first time she had done that magic? Who else had she hurt?
Another possibility struck her. Merlin had pushed the knowledge of knot magic straight into her mind. Perhaps he had carelessly pushed other things out. He only ever sought results, never worrying about the things lost along the way.
Or maybe he had pushed things out on purpose. Maybe the things she was learning about Merlin were things she had once known. Things that had been taken from her so she would trust him. So she would do as he asked.
“Guinevere?”
“I remember nothing about my mother.”
Brangien dropped the subject. She went from treasure to treasure, pulling them deeper into the forest. They moved at an angle, though, away from where the men had entered. Neither particularly relished the thought of a spear in her back. Guinevere paused beneath a soaring oak and put her hand against it.
“Brangien,” she said, staring up at the tree. “Brangien, come feel this.”
Brangien joined her, resting her hand on the trunk. “Feel what?”
“Can you not feel it?”
Brangien shook her head. Guinevere had hoped that maybe Brangien, too, had the touch sense. But she was alone.
And she was not alone, because the tree was there. Merlin had sent the trees into a deep sleep, past where the Dark Queen could call to them. Guinevere could feel the sleep, her sense pushed straight down into the roots, the soil.
But it was not a peaceful sleep. It shivered beneath her hand, dreaming. The dream had fire. The dream had teeth. And beneath the roots, darkness. Guinevere yanked her hand away, shaking it to free it from the sensation.
“What is it?” Brangien asked.
“Something—something is trying to wake the trees.”
“Are you sure?” Brangien backed away, staring up in fear.
“No. I am not sure.” Guinevere rubbed her eyes. “But something is giving the trees nightmares. And I have felt it elsewhere.” In the other forest, with the wolves. She should never have left Rhoslyn to her own devices. This felt far bigger than the stones in Camelot. They had underestimated the woman terribly.
“We should go back.” Brangien was already stepping in the direction they had come.
A crashing noise from deeper in the woods startled them. Guinevere turned, expecting to see the knights. She opened her mouth to shout a warning that she and Brangien were there.
But it was no knight.
A boar as high as her shoulders, tusks jagged, eyes red—not with frenzy but with terrifying focus—charged straight toward her.
“Run!” Guinevere screamed. Brangien held up her skirts, sprinting. Guinevere followed. She veered to the right, avoiding a fallen log. The boar copied her.
She moved farther to the right, still running as fast as she could. She was changing her course from Brangien’s. The boar followed.
If Guinevere chased Brangien, the boar would, too. But if she led it away, Brangien would get out.
Guinevere turned sharply away from Brangien and the camp, drawing the beast after her. She ran with all her might. She ran with the strength of a forest girl. Her hood fell as she leapt over roots. Her trailing cape caught on a branch and she tore it off, hair streaming behind her as she pushed herself faster than she ever knew she could go.
The boar did not stop, did not even slow. Her own breathing was so heavy and sharp in her ears she could barely hear the beast tearing through the forest behind her. She weaved through the trees, looking for an escape. Any escape. No trees had branches low enough for her to grab. The boar was too close for her to take the time to climb a tree. She could only run. And soon she would not be able to run much longer.
There was movement ahead. Her heart squeezed, fearing she would see another boar. But no. It was—
“Duck!” a voice shouted. Guinevere dropped to the forest floor. A spear flew over her, meeting its target with a sickening thud. But she could still hear the beast behind her. She pushed up, running to the man. Stunned as she recognized the face of the patchwork knight, she hurried past him. He crouched low, a sword in his hand. She could run no farther. Turning, she watched with horror as the boar, a spear jutting from its chest, stamped determinedly forward.
The patchwork knight angled to the side, trying to draw the boar away. The boar never so much as looked at him. It stared only at Guinevere.
The patchwork knight rushed it. Finally, the boar reacted, lunging its head and great tusks toward the knight. The knight leapt over the blow, rolling once on the ground before jumping to his feet and plunging his sword into the boar’s neck. It let out a horrible squealing scream, then swiped its tusks against the patchwork knight, throwing him.
Its focus was immediately back on Guinevere. It no longer ran. It stepped purposefully and measuredly toward her. It moved not like a beast, but like a hunter.
Like a person.
“Who are you?” Guinevere asked.
The boar lifted its head, turning so it could fix one red eye firmly on her. And then it stopped as the knight’s sword drove straight through its neck, severing the connection between head and body. The gleaming red light in its eye dimmed, and the boar fell, twitching. Then it went still.
The patchwork knight yanked his sword from the creature.
Guinevere stumbled backward, tripping on a root and sitting down hard on the ground. She stayed there, staring at the dead creature. Not wanting to touch it. Needing to touch it. She crawled to it, resting a hand on its now-still flank.
Berries. Mushrooms. Sunlight. Mates. Wary avoidance of predators. But then—there—something older. Something darker.
Something foreign.
She felt it curling beneath what the boar had been, seeping through it, poisoning it. Taking control. It was the same thing that had nearly killed Sir Tristan. And then it turned, focusing, toward—