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Ailith shouted a question and Rhoslyn turned away to answer her. Then she turned back to Guinevere. “You must have come here for a reason. What is it?”
“I—” It all felt so much less urgent in the face of what Rhoslyn and her people were going through. It was embarrassing to ask for help with a girl, so Guinevere chose the more obvious danger. “I wanted to ask if you have felt dark magic. The Dark Queen has physical form again.”
Rhoslyn brushed her hair back from her face before she grabbed another mat and rolled it. Guinevere did the same, trying to be useful. “We leave well enough alone when it comes to her. We ask nothing and offer nothing and hope her chaos looks the other way. And it has, so far.”
“But…” Guinevere gestured to the camp.
“This is not the chaos of nature’s violence. This is the chaos of man’s. They are very different things.”
Guinevere nodded. “So, you have not noticed anything?”
“Not here. But if she were to show up right now, I would welcome her. I think she would take our side.” Rhoslyn reached up to undo a hanging ornament made of glass shards tied to a string. It caught the light as it spun, creating flashes of beauty. A single tear traced down Rhoslyn’s face, and she wiped it away determinedly. “We made a home here. We will make another.”
“In the trees!” Lancelot shouted. “Movement!”
“Positions!” Rhoslyn commanded. The women dropped everything they were holding. One took the few children in the camp and ran into the nearest hut with them. The rest spread out along the borders, armed with bows and arrows.
Guinevere stood in the center, helpless and terrified. If she were Merlin, she could wield fire as a weapon, but she did not trust herself to be able to control it. Using it took tremendous focus and these were not ideal circumstances. She was as likely to set herself on fire as she was to set the whole forest ablaze, and neither would help these women. Maybe that was why Merlin had counseled her to fight as a queen, not as a witch. He had seen all this. He had seen what she did to King Mark. He knew she would lose control.
But he was not here.
She yanked several threads from her cloak and tied them into knots of confusion. Her head swam, but she had not done enough to incapacitate herself. She attached the knots to the hut where the children were hiding. If men did make it into the camp, they would bypass this hut, their eyes sliding right past it and finding nothing worth looking at.
“Stay in there,” she whispered to the woman inside. “No matter what happens. You will be safe inside.”
“Thank you,” the woman answered. There was a child-sized sniffle, but otherwise only silence in the dim interior.
Guinevere wished she had a weapon, but it would be useless. She had no skill with any of them. She wished she were the real Guinevere, if Guinevach’s claims about her sister’s bow skills were true. She hurried to where Rhoslyn crouched next to a hut, scanning the trees.
“When you run out of arrows, go to the hut with the children,” Guinevere told her. “It will be hard to find, so you will have to focus, but you will be safe there.”
Rhoslyn looked at her with a question in her eyes, but there was no time. Guinevere ran along the perimeter, passing the message to each woman. There were only a dozen of them. They could fit. Then she placed herself outside the hut to help them find it should the time come.
“Little birdies,” a man called from the trees in a mocking singsong, “we are here for you.”
There was the twang of a bowstring, the pounding of hooves, and a woman’s scream as all hell broke loose. Once the men drew closer, fighting with bows and arrows would not be enough. And if Ailith was any indication, these women were not trained for battle.
Guinevere clenched her fists, ready to call fire if she needed to. If she burned down the forest, or herself, at least she would take some of the men with her.
Gunild staggered past Guinevere, bleeding from one leg. She looked around, confused, unable to see where she was supposed to go. Guinevere shoved her into the hidden hut and then twirled, trying to keep track of where everyone was and what was happening. Lancelot charged into the trees, roaring, trying to draw the attackers to herself and away from the women.
“The hut!” Guinevere shouted. “Get to the hut!”
Eight, then nine women rushed toward her. Guinevere pushed them into the dark space. Her magic was holding. Even knowing where it was, the women could not focus on it.
Rhoslyn staggered into the center of the camp, wielding a knife and an ax.
“Get in,” Guinevere said, reaching for her.
“No. I will stand and defend them until my last breath.”
Guinevere could not argue with that. She picked up a heavy stick and coaxed sparks to the end of it. The torch would burn brighter and hotter than a normal fire, lighting anything it touched. “I will stand with you.”
Lancelot rode back toward them, breathing hard. Her sword was red and glistening. “I do not know how many there are,” she said, eyes searching even as she spoke. “I am afraid—”
Another horse pounded into the village, stopping just short of them. Guinevere stared up at the rider, shocked.
“You!” Lancelot shouted, lifting her sword toward Mordred.
