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“And Camelot did? We deserve to have cursed wolves descend on us? How could you?”
Mordred shook his head. “I am here to—”
“Do not lie to me.” The pain in his face gave her vicious pleasure. She wanted to hurt him.
“I was trying to save them. The wolves.” Mordred tipped the pitcher. The liquid that streamed from it was milky and strangely luminous. It pooled on the forest floor and quickly disappeared. “I am sorry you got there first. Sorry for both the wolves and for you.”
“Save your apologies. You should run. I have men coming.” She had only Lancelot, and Lancelot could not best Mordred in a sword fight. They had already learned this.
“You are hurt.” Mordred took a step forward and Guinevere let out a sharp cry.
“Stop! You will die.” Guinevere drew a line through the air with one hand. “If you come closer—if any of you come closer, if she comes closer, if any of her tortured familiars come closer and try to attack Camelot from above, you will die. Anyone who crosses this line with intent to harm me will be ended.”
Mordred had stopped, frozen in movement as though he would take another step at any moment. “Then why warn me?” His voice was soft, the familiar playful tones completely gone, replaced with an earnestness that was far worse. “You left me in the forest. You made your choice. I betrayed your beloved king. And—and I hurt you.”
“You did.” Guinevere put her hands over either wrist, covering the dozens of thin white scars that marked where the trees had drawn her blood to renew the Dark Queen. Mordred’s grandmother. Mordred’s plan.
“So bid me cross the threshold.”
“I do not want to watch you die!” Guinevere turned her back on him, away from the intensity in his eyes, the clear focus there. Mordred had always seen her in a way she longed to be seen. She had trusted him, and he had betrayed her. But he had also stopped short of killing Lancelot, even dragging her unconscious body into the trees so she would be safe from the newly rising Dark Queen. And though Mordred had ample opportunity, he never tried to kill Arthur.
She did not understand him, and she wanted to, and she hated that she wanted to. “Go,” she commanded.
“Guinevere.” A hand rested on her shoulder and she spun, heart racing, hand over her mouth. She was about to watch Mordred die. Mordred stood close to her, over the border of the magic. There was no pain in his expression. Only anguish.
“I do not wish to harm you. I am so sorry for the hurt I have caused. You have my vow I will never do it again.”
Guinevere stumbled backward, away from him. Relief that she was not about to watch him die warred with panic. Either her magic did not work or Mordred genuinely wished her no harm. She did not know which was worse. “Get away from me,” she choked out.
There was nothing of the eel in his expression, nothing secretive or slippery. Only sad resignat
ion as he bowed his head, turned, and walked back the way he had come.
* * *
Lancelot rejoined her, nearly dry. “I know you hate water, so I stayed in the sun to— Guinevere, what happened?”
Guinevere shrugged, picking at the burned sleeves that barely covered her shoulders. She was sitting on the forest floor, utterly spent. “There were wolves. There are not wolves anymore.” She should mention Mordred, but she could not bring herself to do it.
He had crossed the threshold. He could lie to her, but he could not lie to the magic. He meant her no harm. What did it mean?
Nothing. It meant nothing. He had used her. He had betrayed them all. Whether or not he believed he meant her harm, everything he was threatened them all.
“I should never have left you.” Lancelot fell to her knees, her head bowed.
“You were doing your part. I did mine.” Guinevere stood and held out her hand to Lancelot. “We have a long ride back to Camelot, and then we leave for Dindrane’s estate tonight.”
“Tonight?” Lancelot frowned in confusion, accepting Guinevere’s hand and standing.
“Yes, Arthur and I are leaving early. He did not tell you?”
“No.”
“It must have slipped his mind. Can you be ready in time?”
“I always have a bag ready.” Lancelot walked at Guinevere’s side, sword drawn, protective glare in place as her eyes swept the trees. Guinevere suspected she half hoped more wolves would come so she could protect Guinevere this time, but there would be no more threats. Not from this direction.
Guinevere herself half hoped Mordred would appear and challenge her knight. A simple, clean fight. No questions of loyalty, no magical tests. Sword against sword. Perhaps that was how Arthur did what he did. There was no wrong or right in a sword battle. Only victor and loser.
