Guinevere began to inspect the edge of the forest. Several smooth white stones were nestled in her bag—it was not a light bag—and she dropped them every few feet so they could be certain the trees were not advancing. But before they got far, the sound of thundering hooves approached. Guinevere turned, squinting against the sun.
Sir Tristan had found Arthur. He was galloping toward them, flanked by five knights and at least twenty soldiers. Guinevere hastily dropped the stone she was holding and used her handkerchief to wipe the dirt from her hands.
Arthur closed the distance between them in a mad gallop, leaping from his horse almost before it had finished moving. “Are you safe?”
Guinevere nodded. “I stopped the advance. The trees are halted, but I have not decided how to finish it.”
Arthur squeezed the pommel of Excalibur, fingers twitching in protest at not being allowed to draw it. “I can take care of it. But not with you here.”
Guinevere had seen Excalibur drain the life from a tree possessed by magic. In a way that she could not explain, it made her almost as sad as remembering the horse that had been devoured. And Arthur was right: she could not stay once he began to wield the sword. “I can help. We will go in opposite directions.”
“I will not have you wandering in a Dark Queen–infested forest alone. We know she is interested in you.”
“I can defend myself.”
Lancelot shifted uncomfortably. Guinevere shot her a look, but Lancelot did not meet her eyes. Her chin was lifted, her body at rigid attention as her king spoke.
“I know you can.” Arthur put a finger against Guinevere’s cut lip, troubled. “But in this case, you do not have to. You found this threat, and you warned us. I am here now.”
“How are you going to finish it?” It would take weeks to cut back the trees that had moved forward, and she did not like the idea of Arthur riding into the woods, searching for the Dark Queen. Excalibur or not, he would be vulnerable and she would not be at his side. “How will you find her, if she is here?”
“Simple. We will burn the forest.”
“Burn it?” Guinevere spun toward the trees. “But that will ruin the whole forest! These trees did not ask to be possessed by dark magic.”
Arthur gave her a puzzled look. “They are trees. They do not ask for anything.”
“There has to be another solution. Burning everything seems excessive. Can we not just find the Dark Queen, or the source of her infection here, and get rid of that?”
“It would be like cutting off the shoots of a weed. The roots are still there, and the weed will come back in the same spot, or in a new, unexpected one. We have to remove everything. She is in there or she is not, but her magic cannot linger in trees that are burned.”
“I can go in. I can trace the lines of the magic, find—”
From deep within the trees, a lonely howl drifted on the air. Guinevere felt it on her skin and shuddered in spite of herself. She had faced wolves in a wood before. They nearly got her, and they almost killed Sir Tristan, as well. She was afraid, and she hated the fear more than anything else the Dark Queen had done here this day.
Arthur and Lancelot shared a look heavy with unspoken agreement. Guinevere’s fear transformed into nagging worry at what she would do if Arthur commanded her to leave. If Lancelot followed his command and forced her to.
She did not want Arthur to make her leave, and she did not know what Lancelot would do if placed between her queen and her king. And she did not want to find out.
“Very well. I will be nearby, if you need me.” Guinevere trudged toward where Brangien waited a safe distance away with their horses.
She did not want to be safe. She wanted to be useful. And she hated that the best thing she could do to defeat this threat was to get out of Excalibur’s way.
Guinevere watched as the forest burned.
Lancelot was equally agitated and anxious, stalking in a tight prowl back and forth, her eyes on the line of bright flame and dark smoke billowing up into the unassuming afternoon sky.
“You can join them,” Guinevere said. Excalibur would not make Lancelot sick, and Guinevere was perfectly safe in this tamed, lifeless field.
“No. My place is here.” Lancelot stopped, but it seemed to require some effort. Her gaze kept drifting to the blazing destruction the other knights were overseeing. Brangien had returned to Camelot. Guinevere wanted to stay in case she was needed.
A knight broke free from the line of men controlling the flames and rode toward them. Sir Tristan was squinting, a strip of cloth around his mouth and nose as protection against the smoke. He pulled it down when he reached them, bowing his head to Guinevere.
“My queen, King Arthur sent me to tell you that he has this under control and wishes you to go back to Camelot.”
Guinevere twitched against the command. She was the one who had found this. It was her job to fight magical threats. But if Arthur felt like this situation was under control, she had to trust him. At least in Camelot she could check her wards and make certain no additional threat had crept in while they were occupied here. It made sense.
It did not make her resent being sent home any less.
Without a word, Guinevere went to her horse. Lancelot helped her mount, and then they rode back toward the city, equally silent, equally determined not to look over their shoulders at the fight they should be part of. The ride was insultingly dull, the afternoon sullen with heat that plagued them until they reached the lake.
Guinevere wanted another chance to prove herself against the Dark Queen. But last time her presence had not only brought the fairy menace back but also prevented Arthur from wielding Excalibur to end the fight once and for all. She was angry and she was humiliated and she was on yet another ferry across the abominable stretch of water that separated her from the castle.
It might have been preferable to take her chances with Excalibur over this trip across the cold depths of the lake. The ferry dipped and she grabbed Lancelot’s arm, squeezing. “Tell me something,” she whispered, shutting her eyes.
“What should I tell you?”
“Anything.”
“It is more valuable to anticipate a blow than to avoid it. If I know which direction a blow is coming from, I can move with it instead of against it. I use their momentum against them, because they will be focused on following through with their strike while I am already moving into position with my next one. So by taking a blow, I can often end a fight sooner than if I expended as much energy and thought on avoiding being hit.”
Guinevere frowned, leaning her head against Lancelot’s shoulder. Lancelot was so steady. “Why are you thinking about that right now?”