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Mordred stopped, placing his vambrace down on the bench, his heart sinking. For a moment he concentrates completely on his armour, how could he answer such a question? Telling her would mean her life and the lives of those whom called Camelot home. An impossible predicament.
The young knight turns to face her, his fingers brushing lightly against the metal of his armour. “I’m not hiding anything” he tells her simply.
“Your sword is too heavy for me, my lord. And you will need it.” She summons all her courage, everything she has left, but cannot find a smile for him. Instead she squares her shoulders and takes a step, and another step. Away from him.
Away.
She doesn’t know where she’s going. She was already lost before they captured her, and for all she knows they’re in Caerleon by now, or Mercia. Ismere. It doesn’t matter. Just one foot in front of the other.
Reluctantly he drew the sword back, placing it carefully at his hip. “Camelot is that way,” he tells her, pointing to East of where he stood. Truth was he didn’t need it, he had magic, he could use that. But then again she had magic and she could use it too. “Be careful.”
Summer can feel Mordred, feel the other men, receding behind her. The little part of her mind that isn’t numb wonders how he will manage to extricate himself from the bandits — Ragnor is still there, and now he knows that Mordred knows her — things could go very badly.
But she’s so tired. As before, she doesn’t know how long she walks; it’s just one foot in front of the other, until darkness overtakes her. She curls up in a ball in between the roots of a tree and shivers herself to sleep.
Firelight in her eyes wakes her. Robed figures stand in a semi-circle around her, a few torches illuminating their figures, and the first faint light of dawn behind them. Fear starts in her eyes, but her magic tells her, safe. Someone’s hands are about her shoulders, helping her uncurl. They don’t speak, but another offers her a waterskin, presses a chunk of bread into her hand.
A cloak is wrapped around her body, and the figures guide her to a cave, not far away, where there is warmth, and blankets, and a cup of hot soup. She drowses for a while, physical needs soothed, until someone — a woman, hood back — sits down next her.
“You are well, now?”
Summer looks at her hands, all the emotion welling back up. It’s like ripping the cap off a deep well. But she screws herself up, and lies. “I am well.”
The woman’s hand closes over hers, the edge of her sleeve riding back to show a triskelion mark. “It is hard to be caught in the mill of another’s fate. Be at peace. We will take you to Camelot.”