not lead directly into the castle. She pulled an extra thread of iron from her pouch, pricked her lip with it, and then fashioned it into a knot that would pull apart at the slightest tug. She inserted it into the keyhole, then pulled, releasing the unlocking magic.
The door swung open. Relieved and only slightly dizzy, she hurried inside and closed the door behind her. The barrel was a bigger problem, quite literally. It took her nearly ten minutes to shift it enough that she could squeeze through.
She hurried through the dark, slick tunnel. When she came out the other side, she rushed to the horses’ pen. To her surprise, it was not only Sir Tristan, mounted, waiting for her.
“What are you doing here?” Guinevere asked Brangien, who was holding the reins of two other horses.
“No lady’s maid would allow her lady to go on an unaccompanied trip with a knight!”
“But they would allow their lady to seek a dragon?” Guinevere mounted her horse, laughing.
“Well, no. But I can only control one of those things.” Brangien stuck out her tongue at Guinevere.
Sir Tristan led the way, and they pushed the horses as fast as they dared. If Sir Bors killed the dragon before she arrived, she would not be able to determine if it was under the sway of the dark magic. The dragon problem would be solved, but no answers would be obtained. As they rode, Guinevere asked Brangien to show her the knotting method she used. It was a good distraction.
They were heading in the same general direction as the forest where she had seen Rhoslyn’s magic sparking. What if Rhoslyn had figured out a way to control the dragon? Arthur had made Guinevere promise not to go against the witch, but she had not promised not to go against a dragon. And if she found a link between the two, she would break her promise.
The lush and well-tended fields gave way to scraggly trees, and then to dense and gnarled old growth clinging to a low mountain. Rhoslyn’s location was farther south, but that did not mean she and the patchwork knight were not involved.
Sir Tristan rode with one hand on the pommel of his sword and a wary eye on their surroundings. “The dragon is supposed to be in this region. But it could be hours—or even days—before we find anything. Sir Bors is the tracker.”
They did not have time for that. She had to be back in Camelot before nightfall. “Then we need to find Sir Bors.” Guinevere frowned. An idea took shape. “Brangien, do you have cloth, a needle, and thread?”
“Yes.” Brangien sounded wary, but handed the supplies over. Guinevere tugged several eyelashes free, then sewed them onto a strip of cloth. How clever of Brangien to anchor the knot magic! It made everything so much easier to manage. It would have been a nightmare trying to knot the eyelashes with only thread.
She held the cloth up to her right eye, peering through.
“How can she see anything through that?” Sir Tristan asked.
“Hush,” Brangien chided.
Guinevere’s eye pierced the knot, went through cloth, tree, stone. She fought the wash of spinning disorientation as her sight left her and found her target. Sir Bors was paused next to a stream, refilling his leather canteen.
“He is by water,” she said. “A stream. And—oh, he is standing. Smoke! He sees smoke!”
“There.” Sir Tristan pointed. “Where the trees are thickest. That is where the stream will be.” It was around a curving hill. When they got closer, Guinevere looked up and she, too, saw the smoke. Though only with her left eye. Her right eye she had to keep closed against the blinding aftereffects of the magic.
“Wait here,” she said.
“My queen.” Sir Tristan drew his sword, staring at the smoke. “I can do no such thing.”
“I am your queen, and I command you both to wait here. I will be perfectly safe.” Guinevere turned, having delivered her lie with enough cold confidence that she hoped they believed it. Then she hurried her horse in the direction of the smoke. A maiden desperately hoping to run into a dragon—that had to be a first.
She did not have long to search. The sounds of battle between man and beast were terrible. Guinevere jumped from her spooked horse, tied it to a tree, then ran over to a low ridge.
Down in the stream valley, Sir Bors had the dragon cornered against a boulder and a thick stand of trees. The