The Guinevere Deception (Camelot Rising 1)

Lancelot’s grin was a grim sight in the moonlight. “I can do that.”

Mordred sighed. “Do you know why I never lose?” He rushed forward, kicking Lancelot viciously in the stomach. He swept his sword through the air. Lancelot barely managed to block it with her own. Mordred pushed, shoving her away. “Every moment touching iron, every breath taken in well-ordered, stifling Camelot, every minute near Arthur and Excalibur is pain. My life is pain. What have I to fear from you?” He ducked a swing from Lancelot and kicked out at her knee.

Guinevere hurried to where the Dark Queen was emerging. She had two hands now, shoulders, a spine. Her head was bowed, still not lifted. She moved and shifted, made not of skin but thousands of crawling things, of dirt, of plants. They were rebuilding her. Reaching out a trembling hand, Guinevere placed it on the Dark Queen’s back.

Everything moved faster, the Dark Queen shivering and rising. Guinevere yanked her hands—still covered in blood—back.

She had felt—

Life. Predator and prey. Birth and death. Pleasure and pain. The Dark Queen was all of them. More than human, and less, as well. She was fairy. She was chaos. She would tear down everything Arthur had built. Throw men back centuries. Take away their cities and fields, give them only foraging, hunting, being hunted. Because then she would have dominion over them. She was coming to reclaim the Earth.

And Guinevere could not stop it. No knot she knew could bind the chaos of the Dark Queen. Even touching her fed her more power. Merlin had warned Guinevere to fight as a queen. She had not. And she had awoken something she could not put back to sleep.

She turned to find Mordred standing over Lancelot. Lancelot was on the ground, unmoving, her sword gone. Mordred had his sword raised.

“Stop!” Guinevere shouted.

Mordred lowered his sword. “I have no quarrel with Lancelot. I like her. She defies the boundaries of men. I could not let her strike the Dark Queen, though. She is still vulnerable until she is formed. But it will not be long now.” Mordred moved to the side as Guinevere rushed to Lancelot. Her knight was still breathing, though a gash on her head was bleeding freely.

“Lancelot,” Guinevere said, shaking her shoulder. Lancelot groaned, but did not open her eyes or move.

“We have a lot to talk about.” Mordred sheathed his sword. “I would say the Dark Queen will explain, but she is not big on explanations. Come, we should move Lancelot out of the meadow. I do not think it will go well for her once my grandmother rises. Lancelot will be safer in the trees. If we can find her horse, maybe it will carry her far enough away. This is not a place for humans. The Dark Queen will show no mercy.”

“Then I will die, too!”

“Guinevere.” Mordred grabbed Lancelot by both arms to drag her across the meadow. “Now you are being obtuse.”

Guinevere ran to the first tree, the oldest. She pushed her palm against it, reaching for the knot that commanded it to obey. She sensed the tree feeling it. And she sensed the tree disregarding it.

“No!” she shouted. She pushed again, harder. If she could get the trees under control, they could bind the Dark Queen. She sank through the bark, remembering how she had changed Sir Bors’s memories. She felt for the tree’s heart, for its memory. Maybe she could—

The tree pushed back. When she finally managed to open her eyes, she was on her back, staring up at Mordred.

“You are not their queen.” His voice was soft. “The forest is hers. It always has been.”

Guinevere crawled back to the tree. She smashed her hand against it. The tree shivered, more with annoyance than anything. She was the bird drilling in, not deadly, merely a pest.

Then a shudder ripped through the tree, through the grove. Fear Guinevere knew, fear she had held her whole life, gripped her. The dread of death. Worse than death. She looked up from the blackest depths, the light shimmering on the surface of the water above her. Remember, the tree pushed. Remember what it is to be unmade.

Guinevere felt a sick twist of nausea. She looked up to see Excalibur pierce the tree.

The cold gripped her; it was terrible and empty. She crawled away, hoping that the trees would go back to sleep. But something else was happening. The tree cracked, going gray. It died before her eyes—dried up and dried out. The leaves fell, crumbling into dust before they hit the forest floor.

Just as her blood had spread, so, too, did the poison of Excalibur. All around the meadow, the trees that had awoken were consumed.

The thing in them that gave them life, spirit, anger and joy and hunger, was gone. Arthur withdrew the s

word. It did not glow in the moonlight. Even the moon was devoured, no reflection along the smooth metal of the blade. Arthur turned.

“Quick, before she is formed!” Guinevere said. “She is still vulnera—” Guinevere felt metal under her chin, against her throat. Mordred lifted her to her feet, holding her against his chest. His arm around her waist. His blade at her neck. They stood between Arthur and the Dark Queen.

“Mordred,” Arthur said. “Release her.”

“I am not yours to command.”

“You cannot want this. You know what the Dark Queen will bring. You know how destructive the magic, how terrible the cost.”

“Who are you to tell magic it cannot exist? You, who exist because of magic! Magic of violence, magic of greed. Men have done worse things with magic than fairies ever dreamed of! You were born because of magic, and you rule because of a foolish wizard, because the Lady of the Lake gave you that hideous thing!”