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At this, Lancelot turned away. There was something evasive in the way she suddenly needed to resume scanning the horizon for threats. “Nothing is ever what we expect.”
That, at least, Guinevere understood.
* * *
The river was wide, white and foaming as it rushed around jagged rocks and tiny islands that reminded Guinevere too much of where Maleagant had kept her prisoner. She could almost smell the damp space, hear the sneering replies of the guards. They were all dead now.
Guinevere looked away from the hungry river, focusing instead on the trees around it. It had been a steady uphill ride to get here, and they were letting the horses rest.
Choosing a shady spot beneath a soaring oak, Guinevere pricked one finger and carefully knotted her blood onto the stone, connecting them. If something passed this way that was a threat to her—and therefore Camelot—she would feel it. She set the stone beneath the tree, then closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of green things and ancient, patient life.
How unfortunate that nature was both the most peaceful and the most dangerous place possible. But that was its duality. It gave life and it took it, provided and withheld, offered beauty and danger in equal measure. Camelot was safe and ordered and structured, so many things put in place to separate people from nature. Roofs and walls. Pipes for water. Swords with men to wield them. The separation was a protection but also a loss.
Still. Better to protect what they had built, and now she would have a warning of impending danger.
Was it enough to know that a threat was coming, though? Guinevere remembered the feeling of the trees lashing her arms. Her blood dripping to give life. To feed. To create a new form for terror and death.
Her eyes closed as revulsion flooded her. Not at the memory of what had been done to her in that hollow, but at the idea for a knot creeping across her mind. She did not want to think it through, but she owed it to Arthur, to Camelot. Knight or not, she was still a soldier in the fight to protect this kingdom.
She considered the potential knot with as much detachment as she could manage. If she added hunger, if she added her own fear, if she twisted them all together in exactly the right way…
She could see it coming together, the twists and loops of the knot re-forming. It would work.
It was the worst kind of knot. She wanted to open her eyes, to look away, to imagine anything else. But how many decisions did Arthur make that he wished he could look away from? That he could avoid?
If she had a way to protect Camelot, she owed it to Camelot to do so. And what was more valuable than a warning of danger? Something to end the threat before it ever arrived.
She pulled several hairs from her head and reopened the cut on her hand. Coating the hairs in blood, she knotted and tied them around the sentry stone. Ugly, harsh knots and hungry magic. If anything passed this stone with the intent to harm her, the hunger would be unleashed and the land itself would draw blood until all was drained.
The worst part was that it took almost nothing from her. All spells, all knots, all magic had a price to pay. But this one demanded the price of whoever triggered it. Guinevere stared numbly at the weapon in her hand. That was the nature of weapons. The person who wielded them never paid the cost. Only the victims.
“I can swim it,” Lancelot said, dropping out of a tree next to her.
Guinevere jumped, startled, and set the rock behind herself guiltily, as though Lancelot would be able to see what she had created. “Swim what? The river? No!”
“I will start upstream. The current will carry me down, but I can do it. And then I can place a rock on the other side, too. We can save ourselves the trip to secure the northern side of the river.”
Guinevere hated this plan as much as she hated what she had just knotted into the stone. “I do not mind coming back.”
Lancelot laughed. “You do not have to swim, or even watch. It will take me an hour at most. Besides, there is no real farmland to the northeast. An excuse for that trip will be harder to come by.”
Guinevere sighed. Lancelot was right. It was the smarter choice to get it all done now, and then they could journey to Dindrane’s family estate with more confidence. She would not leave Arthur’s kingdom unguarded.
“Could you get to one of the islands?” Guinevere did not want to tie another of those terrible knots. Water was a powerful force of magic. That was why she never used it. But with water connected to the island and both shores, placing the knot in the middle would encompass the whole region.
It would set a trip line of death across the land. Guinevere twitched. She should destroy these knots, but they would on
ly hurt those seeking to hurt her. Seeking to hurt Camelot, and Arthur. She shoved the rock into an oiled pouch and tied off the top. “Keep it dry, if you can.”
Lancelot took the pouch, not knowing what she carried. If Guinevere told her, would her knight—her noble knight—still do what she was asked? “I have to go upstream a ways. Give me an hour. Stay right here.”
Guinevere pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs. She watched Lancelot stride away with purpose. How did Arthur feel when he was about to go into battle? Dread? Guilt? Or determination?
She closed her eyes. The knot she had tied was branded on the darkness inside her eyelids, tying itself over and over. It was not the cost of the magic. It was the demand of her soul, forcing her to face what she had done, the choice she had made. She did not flinch. She watched and accepted. Minutes passed, and she could look at the knot without horror.
“For Camelot,” she said, opening her eyes, her voice steadier than expected. If anyone came this way with the intent to harm, all she was doing was defending herself and her city and her king.
And then a thought struck her. The enemies before had been faceless ideas. But there was one they knew. She imagined Mordred approaching from this direction, with his moss-green eyes, his clever lips, his promises and lies and spark and passion. Walking this way. Triggering the magic. Mordred cut down without a witness, without a mourner, without a chance to defend himself. Without Guinevere ever seeing him again, or even knowing that she had killed him.
