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Panicked screams accompanied their passage. Several took up the call that the queen was dead. She also heard some exclamations about witchcraft and, inexplicably, several about a dragon. What if they thought the dragon had done this? It would be in line with all the other damage she had done if this led to a dragon hunt and put her friend at risk.
But she could not very well interrupt those cries with “Only witchcraft, no dragons at all!” She could not draw any more attention. She cut away from the guards carrying the king, breaking off to a side hall where several servants were fleeing. Guinevere used the chaos to tumble out a door with a couple of maids and then sneak to her right, following the side of the castle around to the back.
It was not difficult to find the tree she had left Isolde in. It was framed by brilliant orange as that whole wing of the building was consumed by flames. “Isolde!” Guinevere shouted. Isolde was still clinging to the tree, keeping the trunk between herself and the intense heat. The dry leaves were curling, some beginning to smoke. “Come on!”
Isolde clambered awkwardly to the ground, dropping the last few feet and landing in a tangle of skirts.
Guinevere helped her up. “Are you hurt?”
Isolde shook her head, eyes wide. “What happened in there?”
“We have to go. Now. They think you are dead.” Guinevere took her hand and they ran. They did need to run, but she also did not want to tell Isolde what had happened. She did not want to tell anyone. She never wanted to think about it again.
The evening was blessedly dim and cool once they escaped the reach of the flames, but it was difficult to navigate the rocky cliffside terrain in the growing dark. Guinevere had a moment of terror that she would not be able to find the meeting place. That she would be stuck here forever, her guilt a beacon as smoke billowed into the sky. But after a few strained minutes, she recognized the particular jutting rocks.
“It is us!” she tried to call, but her throat was too damaged from King Mark’s violence, the shouting, and the smoke. It came out a tortured croak.
A figure emerged from behind the rocks. Isolde let out a cry like a wounded animal, racing past Guinevere and throwing herself into Brangien’s arms. They collapsed onto the ground, cocooned in quiet cries and murmured words that belonged only to the two of them.
Lancelot and Sir Tristan stepped out, as well. Guinevere was grateful it was dark, that they could not see her expression. She felt removed from herself, as though the whole nightmare was something she had heard about instead of seen and done. A story told by someone else. Guinevere and the Wicked King.
She did not like the story.
“What happened?” Lancelot demanded, staring at Isolde, who should have been sleeping as though dead at this point in their plan.
Guinevere was freezing. She shivered, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Complications.”
“Why are you talking like that?” Lancelot leaned close.
The night was a shield, protecting Guinevere from revealing the truth. “Smoke. Had to set the castle on fire.”
“You had to set the castle on fire?”
“They think she is dead. We are finished here.” Guinevere brushed past Lancelot and began walking toward where they had hidden the horses. She forced herself not to look back. Part of her wanted to return to the castle, to make sure everyone got out alive. She honestly could not decide which would haunt her more: knowing people had died because of her, or spending the rest of her days afraid they had.
She suspected she deserved to be haunted.
As they rode away from the fire, Guinevere tore out several strands of hair and knotted them around the dragon’s tooth in a spell for connection. She could not go back to make certain no other people were hurt, but she could at least protect this one creature. As soon as the magic was in place, a sense of awareness of another mind settled around her. For once the cost of the magic was a comfort. She was not alone.
If all went according to plan—which was not a given, especially not this night—the dragon would feel the pull of her knot and trail their ship up the coast. She would undo the knot when they were in an uninhabited place. Though those were harder and harder to come by.
It made her think again of the wolves she had faced behind Camelot. The dragon had felt the call of the Dark Queen and had resisted. Would the wolves have rejected her if they had the safety of a dark wooded retreat with free range to pursue their natural prey? With no refuge, was it any wonder they had succumbed to her magic?
Guinevere rubbed her eyes. They were red and raw from the smoke; closing them offered little relief. There were too many other images she did not wish to see, clamoring for her mind when it was unfocused. So she would focus. Once they were back at the ship, she could sleep. Oblivion had never been so tantalizing.
Though they had brought an extra horse for Isolde, she and Brangien rode together, Brangien in front and Isolde’s arms around her waist, head resting against her back. If they spoke, Guinevere could not hear it, and she was glad. This reunion belonged to them. Lancelot rode close to Guinevere and several times looked as though she would ask for more details, so several times Guinevere hurried her horse forward to leave Lancelot behind.
Finally, as they were drawing near to the ship—a merry campfire burning in the darkness like a beacon from Hild—Lancelot maneuvered in front of Guinevere, forcing her to stop.
“Before we get back to Hild, we need to decide how we will explain Isolde. Both to Hild and to Camelot. And you need to tell us what happened.”
“She will be my cousin,” Brangien said. “A new maid, brought on through my recommendation.” Isolde peered at their party over Brangien’s shoulder. Sir Tristan had ridden near them, close enough for companionship but far enough to give them privacy. Guinevere could see his smile in the darkness, could feel the happiness radiating off him. He had completed a quest. He had saved the woman he could not before and reunited his best friends. His joy seemed the simplest. Brangien’s and Isolde’s would doubtless be tempered by the pain Isolde had endured to get to this point. And Guinevere could feel no joy at all, happy as she was for her friend.
“Is that what you want, Isolde?” Guinevere had gone from a forest witch to a queen. She had enough struggles with that. She did not assume going from a queen to a lady’s maid would be any easier. The first night of this trip without Brangien had taught her how easy it was to become accustomed to having others help her with the most basic things.
“It is more than all right. It is so generous.” Isolde sounded sincere. And Brangien’s stories had made it clear Isolde was not opposed to work. She had often done it to ease the loads of those in her own home. At least in this new home, she would have something she had never had before: true freedom.
Sir Tristan was as cheery as the night was dark. “We can say Brangien wrote ahead and Isolde met us on the road. It is normal for a queen to have more than one lady’s maid. No one will question it.”
