Chapter One
The hounds bayed, closer now, and the Druid girl shrank back against a towering oak tree. The hunting dogs seemed preternaturally aware of her presence, as though her strange, spiky wildness stood out plainly within this forest that had been tamed by a mortal king.
Settled into the oak’s embrace, she drew her arms around herself, closed her eyes, and let out a long exhale. An inhale next: damp moss, newly budded leaf, rain-drenched fern. And then, farther away but still terribly distinct:
Blood.
Another howl sounded. She opened her eyes, dragging her gaze across the meadow. Avoiding the jaws of the hunting party had cost the Druid girl her sense of direction. Even though the morning light barely penetrated the thick canopy of trees and she desperately needed a moment to tend to the merciless throbbing of her twisted ankle, she knew she couldn't risk staying out in the open.
“Gods’ blood,” she hissed, slipping back into the thicker underbrush, careful not to snap any twigs that might mark her path. As she took a deep breath, trying to get her bearings, the Druid girl caught a hint of woodsmoke and wheat in the air. Shemust still be headed in the right direction, then—toward the city called Camelot, where the fate of everything sat in the hands of a man who had made himself king.
The Druid girl hefted her knapsack up one shoulder, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch, keeping her weight off her right ankle. The scent of warm hearths and baked bread grew stronger, loosening some of the tension in her chest. She never imagined feeling saferwithina citadel’s walls instead of outside, but this forest was untrustworthy, like it only wore the guise of her beloved oak and fern.
The thought made panic flare in her chest, and she rushed forward, sliding on a lichen-covered stone, still damp with rain. She slipped, her injured ankle failing to hold any weight, the worn leather soles of her boots proving useless. Her feet went out from underneath her.
At the last moment, she just barely managed to grab onto the trunk of a slim white birch and steady herself. She bit down on her tongue and fought to slow her racing heart. It’d been too long since she’d slept properly, since she’d eaten more than the hard, dry bread and pickled vegetables in her travel bag.
But the Druid girl forged ahead, realizing she’d skirted up against a small clearing. She peered past the tree line, moving silently through the underbrush despite her injury. In the clearing stood a horse. Fully tacked, the silver buckles on its bridle and saddle winking in the morning sunlight, and entirely unattended.
“Oh,” she breathed, her heart pounding in her throat. She slunk just a little closer, peering about the meadow, eyes sharp for the knight the animal surely belonged to. But she found no one. She strained her ears, holding her breath. She heard only birdsong, finally returning after the hunting party had crashed through the underbrush.
The Druid girl looked back at the horse. It was a war destrier, no doubt—massive and powerfully built with a thick, arched neck. Its shining midnight coat was so dark that it seemed to swallow the light. The horse’s heavy, flowing mane had been plaited into a single braid that followed the line of its neck, accenting its musculature. No shield hung from its saddle, though she had already thought it obvious such a creature could only belong to a knight-errant. Dangerous men, knights-errant—bound to no lord, no code, and no consequences, wandering the lands in search of glory. And, often, victims.
The Druid girl knew the war-courser in the meadow was no mount for a fine lady. She had little doubt the monstrous thing had seen warfare, torn flesh with its teeth and crushed skulls with those enormous hooves. A well-bred woman with any sense wouldn’t even dare to approach such an animal, let alone try to climb astride it.
The Druid girl was technically noble by birth, but any of those finer instincts had been lost years ago when her own father cast her out of his home on account of the magic she couldn’t control—and, notably, the death of the mother who’d always defended her. So, the girl had tumbled from the soft bed and thatched roof of her childhood and into the arms of the Druids, where she’d known little since but strange magics and star-studded skies and woodsmoke braided into her hair like ribbons. Lucky, some might say—for her father had died when the Anglo-Saxons raided his lands only a few months later. Her childhood home was little more than rubble now, her father’s bones lodged somewhere beneath the blackened rock.
She banished thoughts of the past and took a deep breath, glancing around the meadow again, eyes keen for any glint of armor in the dark cover of the woods. But she still found nothing. So, the Druid girl braced herself for the pain and then walked out into the open, trying her best not to look injured.
It was no surprise when the horse’s head snapped up, the lush grass forgotten, dark eyes meeting hers in an instant. It seemed to appraise her, watching carefully, but it was not afraid.
“Greetings,” she murmured, studying the horse’s body language for any sign in the ears or eyes that it might lash out at her. “I am terribly sorry to bother you, but my ankle hurts quite badly, and I would love your assistance to reach Camelot’s gates.”
Moving slowly, the Druid girl reached into her knapsack for the apple she’d taken from an orchard just the day before. Strange that she hadn’t eaten it already, but some instinct had pressed cold, knowing hands onto her skin and bidden her to wait.
She held the apple out. The horse blew from its nostrils and took one step closer.
“An offering,” the Druid girl whispered, stopping just beyond the destrier’s reach.
She noticed that despite the animal’s impressive size, its bridle was simple, unrestrictive, lacking the typical metal bar between the teeth. For a moment, she wondered what absolute madman would ride a creature this powerful with just a few straps of leather. But the moment the Druid girl’s mind wandered, the destrier grew unsure, its ears flicking back flat against its skull.
“My apologies,” she murmured, extending the apple again. Of course there couldn’t be some lady’s palfrey grazing in a meadow, or even a simple mule. No—the gods might intervene on her behalf, but always precisely likethis. A twisted ankle? Worry not, here’s the most terrifying destrier in these lands. A loveless father? What a shame, but the Druids will surely feed and clothe you—if you display talent with magic and perform every single task they set you to.
Like using her noble birth to infiltrate Camelot’s court, for one.
The not-quite-Druid girl swallowed hard, reminding herself to take things one step at a time. The destrier, doubt still shimmering in its eyes, stretched its neck forward and took the apple from her.
“Good,” she murmured, patting the horse’s neck gently. It allowed the touch, the tension in its face relaxing.
She looked around the clearing and found a large rock at one end—possibly tall enough for her to scramble onto the courser’s back. With a deep breath, the girl reached forward and took the horse’s reins, which were draped over its neck and tied off to ensure the animal wouldn’t entangle itself. It chewed contentedly, raising its massive head to look her in the eye.
“Please?” she asked, her ankle throbbing as she took a step toward the rock. The destrier considered and then acquiesced, turning on its haunches, impressively nimble considering its size. Well-trained, she noted, hoping she’d even be able to get the creature to do as she wished. But the war horse seemed to understand her desires, lining itself up with the rock. The Druid girl took a deep breath, preparing to scramble to the top.
At that precise movement, something in the air behind her changed—the slightest of disturbances, like an exhale in a quiet chamber. Her hand went to her knife, and despite the pain burning in her ankle, she whirled around in half a heartbeat.
Unerringly, her blade found flesh—a neck, it seemed—her arm braced against a broad, armored chest. She blinked, pulling in a deep breath. Where there had only been empty air, a knight now stood: tall, broad-shouldered, his helm removed to reveal wavy dark hair.
Everything held still for a long moment, stretched taut as a drum. She wasn’t breathing. The knight didn’t seem to be, either.
