The Camelot Betrayal (Camelot Rising 2)

Brangien turned to Lancelot. “We should go. The sooner we get the gold, the sooner we can finish this.”

“No.” Lancelot shifted into a fighting stance.

Brangien leaned close to Lancelot, whispering. Lancelot’s eyes roved the camp, doing mental calculations of how many men she would have to kill before getting to Guinevere.

Guinevere wished Lancelot would look at her. She needed Lancelot to understand. “Please. As your queen, I am commanding you. As your friend, I am begging you. Take Brangien and Isolde. Get the ransom. Go now.”

Lancelot finally met Guinevere’s gaze. Guinevere was shocked to see tears in her knight’s eyes. Lancelot did not sheathe her sword, but she backed up, gesturing for Brangien and Isolde to go to the horses. Sir Tristan moved so he was beside Lancelot, a united front, swords still raised.

“I will kill you,” Lancelot said, pointing her blade at Ramm.

“If he harms her?” Hild offered.

“No. I will kill him no matter what. I will kill you all if anyone harms her.” Lancelot clicked her tongue and her horse approached. She mounted, never sheathing her sword as she waited for Brangien and Isolde to get on their horses, Isolde taking Guinevere’s gray mare. Sir Tristan mounted last, grasping the reins of the extra horse.

Guinevere offered a smile as tight as her chest. “I will see you soon.”

Fury and devastation warred for prominence on Lancelot’s face, but she tapped her heels and her horse broke into a gallop. Guinevere watched as her protector and her friends rode away, hoping that they understood her meaning.

And that she would be capable of saving herself.

The door closed behind Guinevere, and she was alone. They had taken her to what could only be called a shack under the most generous of imaginative leaps. The single room was dark and smelled of mildew and wood rot, and the only furnishing was a pile of what might have been clothes, blankets, or even a ship’s sails in one corner. “Well then.” Guinevere sat on the packed-dirt floor. They had not bothered taking away her bag or searching it. After all, she was only a girl, even if she was a queen.

Guinevere pressed one eye to a gap in the wood slats of the shack. Men were trickling into the camp. Some were greeted warmly, others with cautious distance. Word was spreading fast about Ramm’s prize, and these men were taking no chances. They were forming an army. As near as Guinevere could guess, there were close to three dozen, with no telling if that was the lot of them or if more would come. She had to act before they did. Or worse, before Lancelot returned and risked her own life.

Guinevere emptied her bag onto the dirt and considered her options, dragon’s tooth in hand. Sleep knots would have worked if there had been only a handful of people, but she could not manage dozens. Knotting confusion into her own cloak would not let her walk past so many people intent on keeping her. It only worked if someone was not certain what—or whom—they were looking for.

All her knot magic was not enough. It was, by its very nature, limited. Contained. But she would not use her own touch magic as wildly as she had with King Mark. A part of her never wanted to use it again. It was like the rest of her mind: so much unknown that she could not say what would happen.

Besides which, she could not ask three dozen men to line up and wait their turn for her to disable them.

She had lit a fire at the castle to create a distraction. The buildings here were made of wood, too. Could she run fast enough to get free? Once in the woods she could leave confusion knots scattered to disrupt her trail.

She would only have one chance. She could not waste it. And she could not do it alone. The dragon’s tooth was smooth and warm in her hand. Maybe the dragon had always meant for her to use it if she needed it. And she had drawn the dragon all the way here already. Fate had set up this convergence. She pulled out a few hairs, then redid the same knot she had used before. She felt the connection immediately, even stronger than before. The dragon was nearby. She tugged the knot tighter, increasing the pull.

For a few minutes nothing happened. Guinevere strategized what she could do on her own, trying not to give in to despair. Perhaps her magic had not worked, or the dragon simply did not understand.

But then she felt the dragon. It shifted and stirred in the morning sun. This was its last autumn, and it had been luxuriating before winter came. After winter, Guinevere knew it would burrow deep into the earth and never come back out. She had made the deal with the dragon when she saved it from Sir Bors, granting it one last visit of the seasons.

She gripped the tooth. It warmed and so did she, with something like a fire kindling in her chest and getting hotter.

The door opened and Guinevere dropped the tooth into her bag.

Hild’s eyes were focused on the ground. “Too many men.” She gestured behind herself, her hand limp. “Too many ideas. Money! Fights! Make your king hire us! Kill your king and take Camelot!” She saw Guinevere’s alarm and held up her hands. “Stupid. No ports there. Bad fighters without ships. Ramm wants money.” Hild sagged against the doorframe, which made the whole shack lean slightly, as well.

“Do they really think King Arthur will simply hand over gold and leave them be?” Guinevere felt the tooth against her side, warm through the bag.

Hild shrugged. “Good ships. Good sailors. They can get away. King Arthur might still want them, too.” She gestured vaguely around herself to communicate expansion. “Faster moving, more wars won, more land.”

“But we could never trust you.”

Hild slid along the wall to the floor. Guinevere was still worried about how to get away, and more than a little scared of Ramm, but Hild seemed so sad about everything. Guinevere wanted to comfort her. Hild shook her head. “You can never trust anyone. Only trust yourself.”

“I trust a lot of people.”

“Yes. And you are here. Trust is bad.”

“You did not violate our trust. This is not your fault.”