CHAPTER TEN

Guinevere stared, frozen, at the sword hilt protruding from Mordred’s chest. Mordred, too, stared down at it. But less in horror and more in amusement.

“I missed you, too, Lancelot.”

Lancelot drew her sword free. It came out of Mordred’s chest gleaming silver. Mordred’s tunic was still a resplendent green, no blood or gashes.

Mordred brushed his hands down the tunic fussily. “You do know we are in Guinevere’s dream, right?”

Lancelot roared, swinging again. Mordred ducked, twisting and dancing and bending so that all Lancelot’s attempts missed. Then a sword was in Mordred’s hands, too, and he deflected a blow, the blades ringing off each other with a terrible noise.

“Do you want to know where Guinevere is?” Mordred leaned away from a strike intended to separate his head from his body.

“I want you to suffer!” Lancelot swung again.

Mordred blocked, but Lancelot had swung with so much force he stumbled back a few steps. His smile grew. “Someone has been thinking about our fight.”

Lancelot rushed him, and their blades clashed again.

“How are you here, Mordred?” Guinevere demanded.

“You talk in your sleep.”

“How would you know?” Lancelot lunged as a distraction, then kicked Mordred, catching his stomach so that he backed away.

Mordred’s face was infuriatingly innocent, which, for him, implied the opposite of innocence. “We are spending a lot of time together. Anyhow, I assumed Guinevere was meeting someone, based on her half of the conversations. I am the son of a sorceress and a fairy, so I invited myself in tonight, no knots necessary. I actually expected Brangien. Though I suppose she would have had a very similar reaction.” Mordred attacked this time, and Lancelot was driven back.

Guinevere did not know what to say or do. It was stressful for the first few minutes, watching their battle, but eventually she sat, idly braiding her hair. “Will you be finished soon?” she called.

“No!” Lancelot shouted.

“Watch your feet. Faster.” Mordred swept his blade toward her feet, and when Lancelot tripped to avoid the blow, he brought the hilt up and hit her in the forehead. “You are very strong, and very fast, but it is clear you never learned to dance.”

“I hate dancing,” Lancelot said through gritted teeth, launching herself at him once again.

“Nechtan has two hundred and thirty-seven soldiers.” Mordred blocked a thrust, then kicked Lancelot’s knee and skipped back, out of reach. “You do not use your legs enough. He had more, but there was an attack. It slowed us down. We are currently in the hilly lands one hundred leagues to the north.”

“That is not Nechtan’s territory!” Lancelot grabbed Mordred’s wrist, yanked him downward, and kneed him hard in the torso.

He coughed, then twisted his wrist to break her grasp and pantomimed running his sword along her stomach to disembowel her. “You stopped moving. Never stop moving. We are not in Nechtan’s territory. The Dark Queen hid herself as far north as she could. She wants to solidify power before going after Arthur. Though if Guinevere is her only prize, it would make more sense for a small group to get Guinevere there faster. The Dark Queen is insisting on all of Nechtan’s forces. I do not know why.”

“What do you mean before going after Arthur? She already has been. The trees, and the wolves.”

Mordred jabbed toward Lancelot, and when she parried, he spun around her. “Feints,” he said lightly. “To distract you.” He slapped Lancelot’s back with the flat of his blade.

“I am going to kill you,” she said, and swung her sword to emphasize the point.

“Not with that form, you are not.”

Lancelot rushed, throwing her shoulder low to tackle Mordred. He twisted, so she only grazed him, then shoved her so her own momentum carried her into a tree. She screamed, hacking at the tree with her sword, then turned to face him once more.

“Patience, Lancelot. Arthur is delayed. He is taking over the south, building an army. You will be waiting longer than you think.”

“How do you know that?” Lancelot demanded.

“We travel with a sorceress, remember?”

“They have women soldiers,” Guinevere blurted out, hating that Lancelot was interacting only with Mordred. She wanted to talk to Lancelot. To fix things between them. “There is no difference between men and women, at least among Nechtan’s forces.”

“What?” Lancelot stopped, staring at Guinevere.

“You would like Fina. She is Nechtan’s second daughter. She fights with an ax and several long knives.”

“I would not like her! She is my enemy. They are all my enemy.”

Guinevere did not know how to explain that Lancelot was right but also wrong. “The Dark Queen is our enemy.”

“He is our enemy!” Lancelot leveled her sword at Mordred’s throat.

“You can move faster than they can,” Mordred continued, ignoring Guinevere’s interruption. “I recommend coming straight up the coast, then cutting inland. My grandmother will be in the oldest forest. Ask for directions to the Green Man’s Chapel.”

“Your father? But he is dead. Unless you abused Guinevere to revive him, too.”

Mordred’s face darkened, whether with anger or shame it was hard to tell. “The Green Man, not the Green Knight. An ancient earth god. There is more magic in the world than Camelot can manage to remember, but anyone in the north will know it. In the meantime, I am looking for an opportunity to—”

Lancelot swung, and Mordred only parried. “Very good!” he said. “I am looking for an opportunity to get Guinevere out. If we manage it, I will head to the eastern coast and travel down it. Ideally, we will meet somewhere in the middle.”

“You are a liar.”

“I am, yes. But we have the same goal: keeping Guinevere away from my grandmother. You can trust that I am highly motivated, as are you. Now, come at me again.”

Baring her teeth, Lancelot did as instructed.

“How are you, Guinevere?” Guinevere muttered to herself. “You must be very lonely, very worried about your friends. Here is all the news.” She stood and wandered into the trees. “I am sure you feel wretched about what you did, and I would love to let you explain it, since I am the only person who truly knows you. I will understand, eventually. When I am not too busy playing with swords. What do you think of our plan to go east and then south? What? It is the most obvious plan, and therefore bad? Well, what do you suggest then, Guinevere?” What did she suggest? Nechtan’s forces would expect her to try to get back to Arthur along the quickest route possible. And if she had no way of letting her people know she was safe, it would make sense. But she had her own secret lines of communication.

When they were not too busy fighting Mordred in a dream, at least.

Regardless. She would free herself and head to the northwest. She would let Isolde or Lancelot know, to tell Arthur. And then she would gradually work her way back down the western coast and inland to Merlin’s cave. It would take longer, but as long as Arthur knew he did not need to attack the north, she would have time. Time to figure out who she was. Time to sort through how she felt about Arthur, now that she had been inside his head and seen how he really felt about her.

The sounds of fighting followed her like birdsong, calling her back toward the meadow. She refused. If Lancelot wanted to use Mordred to ignore her, very well. She would make it easy for them. The forest was as pleasant as ever, if a bit false. No forest would have this soft blanket of moss on the ground for her feet, or trails that seemed to open up only when needed, dappled and inviting.

A cottage in the woods, Guinevere remembered, and it would be enough for both of us. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one materialize. “No!” she exclaimed, turning sharply and walking in the other direction. She refused to look at the cottage, refused to acknowledge her brain putting it there.

Up ahead came a musical sound. It was not until she got close that she realized her mind had once again betrayed her. It was not music. It was a creek, babbling down into a still, silent pond. The pond was a perfect mirror, the trees and sky doubled.

“I am not afraid,” she whispered, tiptoeing closer. “Merlin made me afraid, and I refuse to be.”

She took another step and felt the same as when Excalibur was nearby. The cold, trembling terror of being unmade rippled through her. One more step and she would see her reflection. Clearer than she had ever seen it, on this crystal pond. She held out her hand and a pale, shaking hand mirrored her action. She took the last step.

There she was. Lying as still as death.

No. Actually dead. Because this was no reflection. Guinevere was standing, but the Guinevere in the pond was lying flat, eyes open but unseeing, lips the same blue as the sky. Guinevere could not breathe, could not look away.

Then the dead Guinevere twitched, fingers like claws, grasping upward.

Guinevere screamed and fell, scrambling away. Guided by the sounds of swords, Guinevere burst into the clearing. Mordred stopped immediately, lowering his sword in concern. “What happened?”

Lancelot stabbed him through the gut, shouting in triumph.

Mordred gave her a flat look. “You know that does not do anything, right?”

Lancelot took the hilt and drove the blade in even farther. “I know, but it still feels wonderful.”

Mordred ignored her, turning back to Guinevere. “You should not wander.”

Guinevere could not forget her face. Dead. Why would her mind show her that? “But this is my dreamspace.”

“Exactly. I would not dare explore mine. I do find it curious, though, that you bring us to a forest instead of your beloved Camelot.”

Lancelot twisted the sword.

“Honestly!” Mordred glared at Lancelot, then looked at Guinevere again. “I am only saying, you do not have a simple mind. There could be things lurking here you are not prepared to deal with. The knots of your dream magic do not contain or control this space. All they do is connect. Once you are in here, the landscape is as wild and dangerous as the dreamer.”

“I am not dangerous, I am—” Guinevere looked over her shoulder, half expecting pursuit. The water, or whatever it held, rushing inexorably toward her to claim her. She suppressed a shudder.

“When I escape, Lancelot,” she said, emphasizing the singular nature of her plan, “I will go northwest first. They will not expect that. Once I am certain I am not being pursued, then I will turn south along the western coast. I will let you know when I manage it.”

Lancelot left her sword embedded in Mordred. She did not quite meet Guinevere’s eyes. “I will be back tomorrow night.”

“I am glad,” Guinevere said, offering a sad smile.

Mordred gestured at the sword through his torso. “I am also looking forward to it. Work on your feet in the meantime.”

“How do we wake up?” Guinevere asked. She wanted to be far away from the pond and what it held. Part of her wanted to ask Lancelot not to use the knot magic tomorrow night. She did not want to return here. Not now that she knew that abhorrent mirror was waiting for her.

The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, and the forest rippled with frost. Something cracked nearby. A twig snapping from the cold? Or something approaching?

“Let go of my hand,” Mordred said.

Guinevere looked down. Her hand was empty. But…there was the sense of him, the spark she always felt at his touch. Her fingers twitched, and she felt his fingers between them, laced together. She straightened her fingers and pulled her hand away. Mordred disappeared, and she was alone again with Lancelot, who finally met her eyes for a single heartbeat. Guinevere woke up.

The pain in her knight’s gaze would haunt her as much as the body beneath the water.