“We must go,” Guinevere said, offering no explanation. “You have my gratitude, and your aid will not be forgotten.” She would find a way to help these women however she could in the future. But looking at their clean, happy camp, she wondered if they would need help.
Rhoslyn bent over a pot bubbling above the fire pit. “Keep our location a secret, and that is payment enough. And please avoid spiders from now on.”
Guinevere firmly intended to. She had two tiny holes in her arm as a reminder not to let her guard down. The knight whistled and a chestnut horse ambled up to them. The knight’s armor was draped across the horse’s back, and she pulled it free to fasten it on. Guinevere lifted her hand to the horse, but stopped. The horse’s eyes were scarred white.
“Your horse is blind?” Guinevere asked, shocked.
The knight nodded. “Thieves do it so the horse cannot find its way back home. I found her wandering, lost and alone.” The knight reached up and stroked the horse. The horse huffed, nuzzling the knight. “We were alike that way. She is the best horse I have ever known. Do not worry.”
Guinevere stroked the horse’s neck. It shivered once, then lowered its head, stamping its front foot.
“She likes you. She is ready to go.” The knight boosted Guinevere onto the horse’s back, then climbed on behind her. They waved to the camp. A few women waved back, but most ignored them, as though a lady and a knight in need of magical intervention were nothing to be remarked upon.
Guinevere pointed out the direction that would take them to Merlin, and the knight guided the horse. It was early afternoon. If they made good time, they could get to Merlin by nightfall.
And so she rode away from Camelot, from Arthur and the others, knowing they would fear her lost or dead, but knowing that getting to Merlin was more important than she could ever be. It hurt her pride, but that was a small sacrifice for keeping Arthur safe. She had wanted to be the great protector. Instead, her role was errand girl. So be it.
She was glad not to be alone, though. “What is your name?” she asked the knight.
The knight deftly guided her blind horse around an obstacle, her legs pressing against Guinevere’s. “Lancelot, my queen.”
The dark queen waits for the beast to bring her prey.
And then her prey bests her beast.
But often the subtlest attacks are the most effective. Two tiny fangs in place of two great tusks. She senses her poison seeping in, spreading. She rushes toward it, needing to be close enough to understand what she is possessing, and then—
Gone. It is all gone.
She stops, the earth churning in rage. Someone has taken her poison and spread it so thin she cannot feel its borders. But she had a taste. This queen-not-queen is something different. Something new. Someone has changed the rules, and she knows only one who is capable of that.
Merlin.
She laughs and laughs, the trees around her trembling, the dark creeping things of the earth burrowing upward, drawn by the tremors of her rage and amusement. Because Merlin knows what is coming. And, fool that he is, it will still happen.
But there is work to be done now. She will have to put her trust not in beasts, but in man. There is so very little difference between the two, after all.
She knew the trees as they got closer. The trees knew her, too, the leaves trembling. Home was close, home was—
A pulse deep within her tugged from the north, like she had forgotten something.
Lancelot guided her horse, the animal as capable as promised, through the lowering light. No smoke drifted from the cottage. Guinevere slid down. Lancelot followed, tying the horse to a tree.
“Merlin?” Guinevere called. The cottage was cold. Not just cold. Abandoned. It looked as though no one had lived there in years. She reached for the broom she knew was by the door, but there was only a rotted length of wood. The door swung open, revealing a crumbling interior. How had she swept floors that no longer existed? How had she slept on a bedroll that was not there?
“Something is very wrong.” Guinevere backed away. Her stomach twisted, sick. What had happened?
A bird flitted to a nearby tree. Guinevere ripped out several strands of her hair, knotting and looping them. She threw the knot at the bird. The knot circled, then tightened. The bird chirped once in protest, then went still.
“Take me to Merlin,” Guinevere commanded. Her head throbbed where she had pulled out the hair, the pain disproportionate to the action. But taking the free will of another creature was a violent act, and violence always left pain in its wake.
The bird hopped dutifully into the air, flying from tree to tree. Guinevere hurried after it, Lancelot behind her. But there was something in her way. She pushed against the air as it thickened around her, preventing her from moving.
“What is this?” Lancelot asked.
Guinevere would not be deterred. She pulled out her iron dagger and carved a knot of unmaking into the air. It gave with a soundless pop that made her ears ache. At last she and Lancelot came to a cave. The opening yawned before them. It was black. Black with dread. Black with…
Guinevere had been to this cave. She knew she had. But she could not remember when, or why. She was so intent on the blackness of the cave, she did not even notice the wizened, bearded old man standing in its entrance.
He waved his arms frantically. “You cannot be here! You are not here. You were never here.”
Guinevere shook her head, tearing her eyes away from the blackness. “Merlin! Dark magic. I felt it. There was a boar, and—”
“You cannot be here,” Merlin repeated, still waving his spindly arms at her.
“Do not tell me what to do! You are a liar!” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm. Now was not the time for her personal grievances. “You sent me to Camelot to protect Arthur, but I cannot protect him against what I felt. It was—”
Merlin trembled, and then his shoulders stooped. He looked…old. So much older than she had remembered. “Please,” he said, but he was not speaking to her. “Please, Lancelot. If you love your queen, hide. Now.”
Lancelot grabbed her around the waist and dragged her away from the cave. She stumbled along, wanting to protest but infected by Merlin’s fear. They crouched down behind a jumble of rocks and boulders. Lancelot put herself behind Guinevere, shielding her. A scrubby bush hid them from view, but Guinevere could still see the cave entrance through a gap in the leaves.
“You know him?” Guinevere hissed.
“I have never met him before. I do not know how he knew my name.” Lancelot sounded as shaken as Guinevere felt.