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She stood, sick. “Lancelot!” she shouted, rushing through the trees toward where Lancelot had disappeared. How long had it been? Would Lancelot already be in the water?
“Lancelot!” She pushed through the undergrowth, dodged around trees. She ran until she was out of breath. Lancelot could not have gone this far. Guinevere turned to double back. Maybe she could catch Lancelot swimming. A twig snapped behind her and she let out a cry of relief as she spun. It was not too late. It was—
A wolf, black and mangy, growled as its hackles raised, making it grow in size until it blocked out everything else. Its eyes glowed a familiar red, just like the possessed wolves she had encountered before. The growl doubled, then tripled, then became an entire chorus of death as six other wolves prowled in and out of the dappled shadows of the quiet trees above them.
This time she had no knights. No Excalibur.
Only herself.
The wolves’ jaws parted, yellowed teeth revealed in twisted imitations of a smile.
The triumph of guessing right about the possibility of a fairy queen attack from over the mountain would hardly comfort Guinevere when she was dead, torn apart by a pack of wolves.
She could run. If she could get far enough fast enough, she might overtake Lancelot in the river, triggering the magic and killing the wolves. But she was wearing long skirts and delicate boots, and they were wolves. She did not like her odds.
“Go tell your queen she is not welcome here,” Guinevere said, steeling her trembling voice. She had told Arthur she was dangerous. Now was her chance to prove it.
The wolves took a step toward her. Guinevere lit her hands on fire.
Fire magic did not come easily to her. It was a struggle to control the flames, to command them. She had the easiest time extinguishing them. Having hands that were still numb did not help the situation, but at least if she was burning herself, she would not feel it.
The wolves hesitated. Even in their magic-controlled state, they knew to fear fire and what it could do.
“Please.” Guinevere locked eyes with the lead wolf. She bore wolves no ill will. They were beautiful creatures, predatory by nature but not out of viciousness. This radiating malice did not belong to them. “Do not make me hurt you.”
The wolf snarled and leapt. Guinevere raised a hand, releasing the fire. It jumped from her to the wolf, hitting it midair. A natural fire would take time to catch. This was a magical fire, though. It consumed the wolf in a brilliant blaze of heat and fury. Guinevere cried out in dismay.
Even worse, the wolf had given the flames a taste and a target. Guinevere had guided the strike, but now released, the fire would follow its chosen path. A spark drifted in the air, then shot toward the nearest wolf. The creature went up in a blaze.
“Run!” Guinevere shouted, but the other wolves did not or could not understand.
A flare of pain alerted her to the fire spreading up her arms, burning her sleeves. She had taken her attention away from controlling it. She swatted at the flames before having the presence of mind to command them. Her power rushed forward, channeled in a wild and free way, the opposite of her binding knots and nothing like the struggle of controlling the fire. This was a deluge of cool, cleansing magic, running down her arms and extinguishing the fire, leaving behind only her unharmed skin and the charred remains of her sleeves.
When she looked up, seven piles of smoldering ashes greeted her, tiny fires spreading along the forest floor. The wolves were gone, the fight won.
Guinevere wept as she put out each lingering fire.
She mourned for the animals, and she simmered with hatred for her true enemy. If the Dark Queen had not stolen their will, these wolves would be alive. Free to roam the forests, hunting.
But there was so little forest left in this region. Perhaps the Dark Queen had found all the wolves left, clumped and crowded and starving, driven from the fields that were slowly overtaking the land.
Guinevere wiped her eyes. She had been given no choice but to protect herself. Still, the smell of smoke and ash clung to her like guilt, permeating her to her core. Even if she had not burned the wolves, they would have died once they crossed the threshold of her protection knots. Was it worse to end lives that had already been stolen? Cruelty upon cruelty.
Guinevere trudged back toward where she would meet Lancelot. Halfway there, a sensation like walking through a spider’s web blanketed her and then was gone. She knew her own touch. The killing magic was in place.
“Guinevere?”
She whipped around, fists raised.
Mordred was bisected by darkness, half in the shadow of a tree, half revealed by the early-afternoon sun. “What happened?” He pointed at her ruined sleeves and soot-stained dress, worry in his voice.
“The wolves are dead.” Her voice was cold, raw from crying.
“All of them?” Mordred’s face fell, and he lowered his hand. He held a clay pitcher. His clothes were not the brilliant-colored fine fabrics he had worn in Camelot, but simple browns and greens. Somehow he looked equally regal. His hair curled against his shoulders, darker than the shadows. She knew how soft it was. And she hated him for the knowledge.
“Your plan will not work.”
“No, not if they are dead.” He stared down at the pitcher. There were bruised hollows beneath his eyes as though he had not slept, but it could have been the shade playing tricks. “I thought I could get here in time. They did not deserve this.”
