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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 crouche
d 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.
