From deep within the trees, a lonely howl drifted on the air. Guinevere felt it on her skin and shuddered in spite of herself. She had faced wolves in a wood before. They nearly got her, and they almost killed Sir Tristan, as well. She was afraid, and she hated the fear more than anything else the Dark Queen had done here this day.
Arthur and Lancelot shared a look heavy with unspoken agreement. Guinevere’s fear transformed into nagging worry at what she would do if Arthur commanded her to leave. If Lancelot followed his command and forced her to.
She did not want Arthur to make her leave, and she did not know what Lancelot would do if placed between her queen and her king. And she did not want to find out.
“Very well. I will be nearby, if you need me.” Guinevere trudged toward where Brangien waited a safe distance away with their horses.
She did not want to be safe. She wanted to be useful. And she hated that the best thing she could do to defeat this threat was to get out of Excalibur’s way.
Guinevere watched as the forest burned.
Lancelot was equally agitated and anxious, stalking in a tight prowl back and forth, her eyes on the line of bright flame and dark smoke billowing up into the unassuming afternoon sky.
“You can join them,” Guinevere said. Excalibur would not make Lancelot sick, and Guinevere was perfectly safe in this tamed, lifeless field.
“No. My place is here.” Lancelot stopped, but it seemed to require some effort. Her gaze kept drifting to the blazing destruction the other knights were overseeing. Brangien had returned to Camelot. Guinevere wanted to stay in case she was needed.
A knight broke free from the line of men controlling the flames and rode toward them. Sir Tristan was squinting, a strip of cloth around his mouth and nose as protection against the smoke. He pulled it down when he reached them, bowing his head to Guinevere.
“My queen, King Arthur sent me to tell you that he has this under control and wishes you to go back to Camelot.”
Guinevere twitched against the command. She was the one who had found this. It was her job to fight magical threats. But if Arthur felt like this situation was under control, she had to trust him. At least in Camelot she could check her wards and make certain no additional threat had crept in while they were occupied here. It made sense.
It did not make her resent being sent home any less.
Without a word, Guinevere went to her horse. Lancelot helped her mount, and then they rode back toward the city, equally silent, equally determined not to look over their shoulders at the fight they should be part of. The ride was insultingly dull, the afternoon sullen with heat that plagued them until they reached the lake.
Guinevere wanted another chance to prove herself against the Dark Queen. But last time her presence had not only brought the fairy menace back but also prevented Arthur from wielding Excalibur to end the fight once and for all. She was angry and she was humiliated and she was on yet another ferry across the abominable stretch of water that separated her from the castle.
It might have been preferable to take her chances with Excalibur over this trip across the cold depths of the lake. The ferry dipped and she grabbed Lancelot’s arm, squeezing. “Tell me something,” she whispered, shutting her eyes.
“What should I tell you?”
“Anything.”
“It is more valuable to anticipate a blow than to avoid it. If I know which direction a blow is coming from, I can move with it instead of against it. I use their momentum against them, because they will be focused on following through with their strike while I am already moving into position with my next one. So by taking a blow, I can often end a fight sooner than if I expended as much energy and thought on avoiding being hit.”
Guinevere frowned, leaning her head against Lancelot’s shoulder. Lancelot was so steady. “Why are you thinking about that right now?”
“When I do not want to think about something that is bothering me, I replay sparring matches and fights in my memory, going over the movements, what I could have done better, what my opponent did well.”
“Which fight are you replaying?”
Lancelot paused so long Guinevere thought she would not answer, but when she did, Guinevere regretted having asked. “Mordred. Always Mordred. No matter how I go through it, he wins. He always wins.”
Guinevere wanted to redirect the topic. “So momentum is the key in fighting? I would have thought strength.”
“It does not hurt.” Lancelot smiled gently at Guinevere’s obvious topic change. “Momentum is also critical to climbing. People think climbing is also about strength, and it is, to a certain
extent, but so much of it is confidence and movement. If you freeze, you use up precious energy that might be the difference between reaching the top and falling.”
Guinevere had seen Lancelot scale walls and cliffs she would have thought impossible. “Could you teach me? Not climbing. But fighting.”
Lancelot patted Guinevere’s hand. “Some basics. Self-defense. If you ever need more than that, I have failed at my job. But I have not failed at this one.”
“What one?”
“Distraction.” The ferry bumped against the dock. Lancelot escorted Guinevere off, and Guinevere took a moment to gather herself, to reclaim who she was when she was in Camelot. That cursed lake. It made her life so much more difficult. Being plunged into mortal terror every time she left or returned to the city was not good for maintaining a queenly presence.