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But either way, it all came back to me. I was the poisoned source that had led Gawain to his death, whether through my dreams or through my father’s dark creations.

There was no way around it. Gawain would still be alive if I had made him stay behind.

Now I looked up at Guinevere and saw only death. Her death.

I turned away. “No matter what happens next, none of you are to touch the grail. Ever. Do you understand?”

Lancelet and Hawl had wandered back to the tents. Now Lancelet looked across at me.

“We understand,” she said quietly.

Hawl nodded. “You believe that contributed to Gawain’s...” The Bearkin cleared their throat loudly. “That he was bewitched somehow because of the cup?”

I nodded.

“Morgan believes he saw more than he was letting on when he touched the grail,” Draven said, coming to crouch beside me.

“But you’ve touched it before, haven’t you, Draven?” Lancelet pointed out. “And nothing terrible has happened.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I’m immune somehow. I’m bonded to Morgan. I’m not sure the cup recognizes I’m separate from her. In any case, it doesn’t seem interested in me.”

I thought it was something else. Draven was stronger than Gawain had ever been. Oh, not physically. But inside, mentally. If the grail had a pull, then Draven and I had never felt it. We were able to resist its lure.

“We’ll be leaving tomorrow at dawn then?” Lancelet said, changing the subject.

Draven nodded. “We’ll help to escort the refugees on the next leg of their journey.” He glanced at me. “At least, until we need to turn north.”

I stared straight ahead without speaking.

“I’m surprised they want our help,” Lancelet said quietly.

So was I.

“Madoc understands that we didn’t intend to...” Draven began. He stopped. “He understands. We did what we could to stop it. As soon as we had the chance.”

We had killed the wolves, Draven meant. We had killed Lorion and Tempest. But not before they had slain refugees.

“I don’t understand it either. They should want us gone,” I said bitterly. “We brought misfortune upon them.”

I had seen the looks some of the refugees were giving me. Their leader, Madoc, might be a liberal-minded man, but others were not so forgiving. I was sure they would be glad when we all parted ways.

“We’ll give them a little support and then leave them,” Draven said. “They know who you are, Morgan. Yes, terrible things befell them here. But it was not your fault. And you are doing what you can to make up for what’s happened.”

He meant by providing a letter.

Madoc and his wife, Amara, the healer, would carry it with them all the way to Pendrath. When they reached the border, they would give it to the first soldiers they found who would then escort them and the rest of the refugees to Camelot where they would be put in Dame Halyna’s capable hands.

The letter ensured they would not be turned away when they reached our border, that they would be accepted and provided for.

I owed them all that much.

Rising to my feet, I looked at Guinevere. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m turning in. If you’re sure...?”

She nodded quickly. “Please. Rest, Morgan. I can sleep tomorrow. Even on horseback if I need to.”

“It’s true. I can strap her on behind me if I have to.” Lancelet grinned at me, as if trying to urge me to smile. But I couldn’t do it.

I nodded and went towards the tent.