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“We had a plan. It was a good plan. But the timetable is more complicated now that you are due to be burned at sunset.” Guinevere tugged on the window shutters. They were nailed shut. The room was on the second story, and they could probably manage to climb down. But could they do so without being seen? Guinevere was afraid if she used the false-death potion on Isolde now that she had been found guilty of witchcraft, they would simply burn her body instead of interring it in the cave tombs.
Guinevere reopened her finger wound and used up precious time on several of the nails until she managed to pry the shutters open. It was nearly twilight. The execution loomed. She thought she could smell woodsmoke; it was probably a constant scent, but it hung like a promise of death. Luck was finally on their side, though. A tree was near enough to the window that they could reach it and climb down. It would also shield their descent from being observed.
“Come on. We will run, and then we will figure it out.” It was not the right plan, but it was better than being burned at a stake. Guinevere held out her hand and Isolde took it.
In the time she had spent asleep, Guinevere’s sense of touch had restored itself. She was privy to the year of torment and terror this gentle woman had experienced at the hands of her husband. Isolde carried the pain just beneath the surface, so much that it took Guinevere’s breath away. And somehow under the pain and around it was hope and goodness and light. All the little ways Isolde had found to give kindness in a life that denied it to her. And the bright burning core of love that Guinevere knew was for Brangien. Doubtless, that core had sustained Isolde.
“Maybe when we get down we could burn this castle to the ground,” Guinevere said, gritting her teeth against the pain still washing over her. She helped Isolde onto the windowsill.
The door burst open, revealing a man in a crown.
Guinevere was face to face with King Mark, the man they had created this entire plan to avoid. Everything was ruined. Guinevere was surprised at how calm she was. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong; all she could do now was respond to whatever he did. She shifted so she was between Isolde and the king.
King Mark surprised her, though. He closed the door behind him, sealing them off from the rest of the castle. “Who sent you?” he asked. She had imagined him looking like Maleagant, a hard man with a hard face. Instead, King Mark’s face was puffy, bloated. Veins webbed out from his nose, and there was something deeply unpleasant about his wet and swollen lips.
Guinevere was well aware of what this man was capable of. She had only brushed Isolde’s skin, but what that woman had endured…King Mark was a monster. But Guinevere had meant it when she said that she and Brangien were formidable. In place of fear was fury.
Guinevere allowed a half smile that did not touch her eyes. “You know who sent me.”
“If my brother thinks he can win the throne by taking what is mine, he is sorely mistaken. I will burn him to the ground,” King Mark growled. “But first, I will burn two witches tonight.” He grabbed Guinevere’s wrist. Thankfully the cloth there blocked his skin, as she had no desire to feel what this man was like. She did not need to.
Isolde stayed perfectly still on the windowsill, like a deer frozen in terror.
There were options. King Mark had not called the guards because he did not think Guinevere was enough of a threat that he could not deal with her himself. If she could somehow force him to drink Brangien’s potion, his “death” would cause enough upheaval to cover their escape. And she relished the idea of him waking up in a tomb. But how to do it?
“He should not have sent a woman,” King Mark said, eyeing her. “Not even big enough to keep around for fun. Tell me, Wife, did you really think you could get away?”
Isolde let out a small whimper.
“Get down, now, or I will hurt her and make you watch.”
“Climb out,” Guinevere said. “He cannot hurt me. Go. She is waiting.” Guinevere turned, forcing Isolde to look at her instead of at King Mark. “Trust me.”
Isolde hesitated only a moment, then leapt for the tree.
“Insolent witch!”
Guinevere was ready to make her move as soon as King Mark ran for the window or the door. She could tie a sleeping knot and then—
She gasped, caught off guard as King Mark put his hands around her throat and squeezed. She had no weapons, no tools, no way to make him swallow the potion. He was hurting her—
Spots danced—
He was going to kill her—
No air, there was no air, everything was dark and all that was left of her were the bubbles fleeing upward toward the blackness above, the water waiting to rush in and—
Not again.
She touched her fingers to his forehead, gathered her power in a desperate rush, and pushed. It was an act of panic, animal in its intensity. She had lost sense of who she was, where she was. All she knew was that this thing, this creature in front of her, was hurting her. Killing her. And she would not let it happen.
Guinevere flooded through King Mark’s mind like a river overflowing its banks, destroying indiscriminately. Her vision blurred with his hands still around her neck, and her will surged even stronger.
Only when King Mark fell did she come back to herself. Out of breath, with agonizing pain in her throat, she stood over him, tensed for another attack. He stared at the ceiling, glassy and unfocused, breathing in shallow, automatic gasps.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. She had lashed out with magic. Not the careful, contained knot magic, but a wild and ferocious power she did not understand. Only once before had she used her touch magic on a mind, forcing Sir Bors to think he had killed the dragon so the dragon could go free. But she had been careful then. Cautious and precise. Even that had felt like too much, like an act of violence.
